Hello there reader! Thank you for clicking on this story, I promise you will not be disappointed. As you have probably already noticed, this is the sequel to 'Immortal Evil Trilogy Part 1: Back From The Dead.' It is imperative that you read that first, or you will not understand a thing! I have decided to make this into a trilogy, hope you like it!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock in any shape or form (although Benedict Cumberbatch would be nice!) and I make no profits from writing this, purely for fun!
Warnings: None.
REVIEW! Please?
Immortal Evil Trilogy Part 2:
Dance With Devil
by
Blackcurrant Bonbons
Sherlock awoke suddenly, cold, clammy sweat dripping of his forehead. He gripped the hospitals sheets, panting. Something was inherently wrong. The sinking feeling in Sherlock's gut confirmed his worse fears as he turned over to face John's bed.
It was vacant.
In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet and scrambling over to the bed, damn his wound, it seemed insignificant now.
John was gone. His John was gone.
Several possibilities raced through his mind, and as much as Sherlock tried to consider each one as equally as possible, 'Moriarty' flashed in neon lights in his mind, and he suppressed the overwhelming urge to wretch. He did not even bother to consider any other of the possibilities.
He knew Moriarty was to blame.
Hauling himself up from his knees, he bounded towards the door and barrelled out into the corridor. By some grace it was empty. Sherlock slinked through the corridors silently.
A painful mixture of guilt and worry churned in his stomach. How had he slept through that? Distracted, he stumbled over his own feet, but straightened himself in a moment. In fact, all things considered, he had felt rather woozy since awakening.
They had drugged him. The thought offered a little relief to ease his guilt, but then he cursed himself for allowing his defences to be so easily let down. He was left as miserable as before.
He looked down in disdain at his meagre mandatory hospital gown. He would get some clothes.
Several minutes later, Sherlock slipped through the hospital doors, miraculously passing the security guards. Of course he couldn't escape the CCTV, but by the time he was gone they could do nothing.
Patting the back pockets of his newly acquired trousers, Sherlock suppressed a grin as he came across the car keys. It had been pure luck that he had encountered the cleaner on his departure, but he had felt no remorse when he knocked the man out, dragged him into an unused cupboard and swapped clothes.
Pressing the unlock button on the key, Sherlock surveyed the virtually empty car park, looking for the expected flash. The wail of distant ambulance sirens filled the night. Sure enough, Sherlock spotted the car in question, a small Fiat. He couldn't complain, what had been expecting, a Ferrari? At the least, it was small and would go at a reasonable speed.
Sprinting under the cover of darkness, Sherlock jumped into the car and was gone like a flash of lightning. His wound ached, and Sherlock knew that if he was too reckless it would reopen.
But since when had Sherlock cared about his health?
Speeding onto the road, completely ignoring the speed limits, Sherlock spotted a black van with no number plate speeding ahead, and Sherlock could virtually feel the tug pulling him towards John.
What would he do now? He couldn't start a full out gunfire, he was only one man, after all. Instead he kept his pace steady, never losing sight of the car. If he could follow behind discretely, he might have a chance. He knew that there was little hope, but he was delusional with worry for John.
If only he had realised that that would be his downfall.
A ringing came from his coat pocket.
What the hell was that? Sherlock pulled out the mysterious phone, intent on hanging up. But something drove him to press the green button. What the hell are you doing Sherlock? You don't even know who this phone belongs to! They could be tracking you! Sherlock ignored the little voice in his head.
"Who is this?"
The sound of a familiar cackle hissed through the speakers, and a shudder flew up Sherlock's spine. Moriarty. How had he got the number?
"Hello Sherlock! Long time no see! Have you missed me?"
"Moriarty," Sherlock hissed.
"Now Sherlock, I want you to do everything that I say, or I will do something you'll regret."
"What, kill me? Is that the best you can do?"
"Oh no, no Sherlock. Of course, I'm going to kill you eventually. No, I will kill Johnny, as he likes to call himself.
Sherlock froze, and remained silent.
"There's a good boy. Now, I want you to follow all the directions I'm going to tell you, like a good boy."
Sherlock growled, but refrained from speaking, an image of John's bloody body serving as a remainder to remain quiet.
As Moriarty whispered directions into his ear, Sherlock panicked. He had no weapons to speak of, and he was about to walk into Moriarty' web unarmed. This was an absolute disaster.
Sherlock pulled the little car up beside what he presumed to be a warehouse. He looked around frantically for a weapon in the car. Suddenly, something caught his eye on the back seat floor of the car. A tool kit. Sherlock didn't asked why there was tool kit in the car, there was no time for questions. Ripping on the lid, a large spanner glinted into his sight. Not perfect, but it would do for what he wanted to accomplish.
As if on cue, a muscled hand dragged him out of the car, but he span around as best as possible and sent the spanner smashing down onto the man's skull. He crumpled and Sherlock wasted no time in ransacking his body for weapons. Sure enough he came across a small handgun in the back pocket. He dragged the dead weight body onto the front seat, locking the car behind him. At least that was one less to take care of.
Keeping close to the overshadowed, towering wall of the warehouse, Sherlock began his trip to the entrance.
He knew Moriarty was inside, and when he found him, he was going to kill him.
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