Hello, everyone, I've edited the grammar of this fic since its original publication, so hopefully it's new and improved. I wrote this in between seasons one and two, but now it just looks really good considering the language Moriarty's been using season two. I don't know if that's understandable, but read it and find out, I guess.
Quick disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Light smoke lifted gently from the barrel of the pistol, a now empty glock that lie in the debris of an unspeakably gruesome crime. Next to it remained shards of a ceramic mug, still warm tea spilling all over the tile. Further to the left lay broken glass and drywall, and even further, two mangled bodies. A physical fight was made obvious by all of these elements, with the addition of the knocked over table, the snapped cane, the chap-less skull lying near the fireplace.
The victor stood opposite the skull, opposite the bodies, close to the door. His hands were shaking, his breathing hard. Stress made his eyes dart madly, and he bounced on the balls of his feet, as if standing in the cold, waiting for a ride. And he was waiting. Waiting for his reassurance, waiting for the calming of his conscience now that his task was completed.
The silence, previously only broken by the man's rough breathing and twitching body, was now interrupted by footsteps. They came from below, on the lower floor, and climbed the stairs. They were heavy and greatly interspersed, and after a moment the shaking man realized these were the footsteps of someone hopping, hopping merrily up the steps to witness one of the most brutal attacks in London. He knew who owned these footsteps, and shuttered with fear and hatred as the awful man entered the room. The newcomer smiled broadly and sang out:
"Good evening, Lestrade."
He tensed as the man looked around the room, at the knife in the couch and the shard of glass from a window pane that was now bloody, obviously used as a method of self defense. An icy feeling stabbed at his throat when the man laughed. The scene was horrific, and here this man cackled. But this wasn't something to focus on, not now, there was a problem of far greater importance.
"My wife. My children." He was disgusted to hear how much his voice shook.
"Yes, yes, clever sons you have." the man had edged closer, and was peering down at the bodies, pale-faced with blood soaked clothing. "Younger's got a smart mouth."
The previous disgust Lestrade held previously for himself spread, latched onto the crime, the blood spatter, the man behind it.
"Moriarty." his voice was stronger, he was commanding again, if only for a moment. His future as a detective-inspector was uncertain, his sanity even more so. "Where is my family."
Moriarty turned to him, beaming, and waggled his eyebrows. "Relax, deary." he purred, and Lestrade did anything but, "you did your job nicely. We returned them. Tied up in your dining room."
Lestrade was again on edge, and, without waiting for the younger's permission, rushed to the door with need to confirm the good news with his own eyes, to see his wife and boys and hold them forever.
"Now, now, Gregory," Moriarty tutted, and the nervous man turned slowly around.
"Don't go around screaming bloody murder just yet. Want to see your angels first, yeah?" his eyebrows moved sharply once again. Lestrade nodded uneasily, then made a motion as if to speak, holding it back at the last moment. Moriarty noticed.
"Don't hold back now, love. Got something to say, say it." he sounded cheeky, but an air of forcefulness hung around them. Lestrade had one leg at the threshold, and one still inside the apartment, and he lifted his chin and said the last bold thing he would ever say.
"I hope they die quickly." he motioned towards the two unfortunate victims on the ground. "Hell won't be as bad as a few minutes alone with you."
They both looked down at the bodies, at the faint movements in their chests, at the two pairs of eyes staring up at their killers. Lestrade nodded towards them, out of some sort of heartbroken respect, and turned, running out the door without another word. Moriarty smiled darkly, going to the window to watch the panicked husband and father run down the dark street, praying for the safety of his wife and two boys. The man ran from the building, and Moriarty smiled at the glistening barely visible on his distant cheeks before turning back to them.
He skipped over, a sick grin plastered onto his face as he observed the damage. They were both covered in blood and dust, shards of glass and splinters caught in their clothing. They lay beside each other, as though defending themselves together, side by side in battle. Sherlock's hand was weakly holding John's. Moriarty noticed and chuckled.
"Why hello, boys. How are we tonight?" he was almost singing. "Had a small...altercation?" he gave a playful wink. Sherlock grabbed John's hand tighter. The two were aware of Moriarty, and of each other, and of how dire the situation was, but nothing else.
Moriarty, motivated by their silence, moved forward, and placed an expensive Italian shoe on their hands, just resting. His cheer was not diminished, still present in his voice as he continued. "Shame about all this, eh? Poor Detective-Inspector getting his hands dirty with all this...racket. You'd think the landlady would hear, wouldn't you?" He bent over and locked eyes with Sherlock, a rush of evil glee filling him. "But somehow her 'herbal soothers' became...tainted." He drew out the word, and a poisonous hatred crossed Sherlock's face. He shook from anger and made an attempt to move his hands, legs, anything that could hurt the man leaning over him, foot resting on his only link to his doctor. He only succeeded in lifting his head.
Moriarty smirked. "This turned out way better than I expected." His voice was lower, menacing. He put a slight pressure on their fingers. "Look how slow this will be. Look how slowly you'll die here." every word was drawn out, taking months, years to complete, when the two men on the ground only had seconds. "So. Slow." He hissed.
For a moment there was only silence, and then, in the distance, a large boom. It sounded as though someone had dropped a heavy book in the other room, but Moriarty's excitement showed otherwise. His eyes gleamed and he lifted his head to look out the window, to see bright light outside. Flames and debris could be seen several blocks away, more noise erupting as the remains of a building crumbled down.
Moriarty stepped harder on their hands, and several cracks added to the noise of the far away din. He stood straighter and smiled. "Looks like our Lestrade won't be seeing his little angels, now will he?" he pressed harder on their battered fingers, then tilted his head in sudden curiosity. "Do you boys think..." He became cheery, as he was before. "Do you boys think he deserved it? I mean, he did hurt the two of you, you are going to die here."
He received no answer. The men only looked at him, drained. He looked out the window, as if it were a fireworks display outside, and nodded to himself before continuing. "I really like how this all played out. Almost ironic, really, you two have just been so worried about the baddies, you forgot what these supposed heroes can do." He glanced at John, then stepped harder on the fingers still beneath his shoe.
"Really glad I threw you off there, though, with someone you trusted so much killing you. Loving, by the way, the emotional aspect. You two must be breaking." He emphasized the word, and another crack sounded from the fingers, the two men not distinguishing who sustained the injury. For the first time, John attempted movement, expression strained.
"Sherlock..." his voice was raspy, sore from yelling, from the dust of the paint and dry wood in his throat. "I'll..." And Moriarty, all a grim smile, stepped on the fingers, hard. Three cracks interrupted John and he sucked in, trying to breathe, fighting the pain away, but his face quickly relaxed, his eyes glazing over, and the air gently escaped him.
There was a heavy silence as Moriarty's sinister grin stretched across his face, watching confusion pool behind Sherlock's dazed eyes. "John." Sherlock's voice was strained, and the name had an air of searching, like calling out in the darkness in need of a friend.
Moriarty only looked out the window, at the subsiding flames, and then continued, sick grin ever-present.
"I must admit, I do like how relaxed this was, getting dear Lestrade to do this for me." His eyes circled the room, noting the broken picture frames and snapped legs on the coffee table. "Entertaining, as well. Like watching a movie." He glanced down at Sherlock, who was struggling again to speak. Moriarty leaned in slightly to hear it.
"John." Again, confused, again, searching, not having realized what had become of his great companion. Moriarty's huge grin reduced to just a small smile, and he responded with a tone of annoyance.
"Oh, do stop. Clearly your expertise has gone a bit sour in the end. He won't answer you." The man he leaned over struggled again, weakly attempting to process the information given. Everything, in those moments, was difficult to process.
"Jo-" It started off the same, confused, searching, but he was cut off by a now angry voice.
"Johnny can't hear you." Came the menacing hiss. "Johnny can't feel you." He pressed as hard as he could on those hurting fingers. "Take the last of your energy, Sherlock, the little bit you have, and crane your useless neck." His voice was louder, still angry, almost yelling. "Go ahead, look at your only friend."
The yelling seemed to go through to the breaking man. He, almost paralyzed with pain, somehow craned his neck to the right, and stared at the white face, the glazed eyes. He saw his friend, broken in every way. His view was quickly blurred with unexpected tears. Moriarty noticed, and his anger faded, replaced by his former glee. He removed his foot from the destroyed hands, then swung proudly around and walked to the opposite wall, smiling at the yellow graffiti that resided there.
"So glad..." He said, small grin flashing. "So glad I got you on what you thought you lacked...emotion. Trust. Love." He turned back to the consulting detective, expecting a final retort, a weak comeback or maybe a desperate plea for life. He instead found blank eyes looking at not him, but the partner, unseeing. The body was still, the dust settling in utter silence.
Moriarty smirks, then looks, of all places, at the ceiling. He saw a cracked plastic circle, and confirmed that Lestrade had completed the request of knocking out the fire alarm as well. He removed from his pocket a matchbox, lit one, and flicked it at the shoes of a dead army doctor. He took a final sweeping gaze, nodding respectfully at the destroyed apartment, then exited, the last person to walk through the door at 221b Baker Street.
...
A great many people attended the service. People they helped, worked with, served with. It was a little field outside London, and the ashes were spread together, neither family wanting them separated. The bodies were found charred, almost only skeletons, twisted fingers melting together.
Harry, for once, was sober. Mycroft, however, was the complete opposite. He would later be whispered about, how he ruined the funeral with his drunken screams, his admittance of guilt, finding himself at fault, his angry threats to Moriarty and the world, eventually having to be pulled away by his assistant, but the whispers were undeserving, the service not ruined by the people attending, but its very existence. Lestrade didn't show, for obvious reasons.
Several days later, Mycroft was perfectly cool and collected at his next funeral. He stopped by out of respect for the family, quietly giving words of condolence. Shame, he'd say, how the smoke got her. Lucky she didn't feel a thing, he'd say. They didn't need to know of her herbal soothers.
It would be a very upsetting period of mourning for Mycroft, but he would soon move on, driven by anger in search of the man responsible for the three dead that night. But that man responsible saw only a game, in which his opposition were all weak players, and he'd outgrown them. He would hop around the world, skidding from one crime to the next, never caught, never receiving the punishment for the death of an elderly land lady, an army doctor, and a sociopath. Just as the game usually goes.
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