Sherlock let out a yawn as he finished buttoning up his suit, "Are we ready to go?"
No response. At all.
The curly-headed man frowned ever so slightly and turned to look at Moriarty, "Are we ready to go?"
Sherlock's' eyes dropped to James' pants and he smirked, "You should probably do your zipper up first though."
James snapped out of thoughts, barely hiding a blush. "Ah, uh, yes." He did them quickly and turned away.
Sherlock wasn't entirely familiar with the world of relationships, but the looks that Moriarty kept shooting him weren't what he'd call business expressions. Unless the business one were part of was the AV industry. Or at least that was what Sherlock could only guess at.
He hadn't been entirely lying when he'd said there'd been a select few people he'd had relations with. The select few had been, in fact, a select one and it had been the only person who managed to work their way into Sherlock's mind. John. The only person that Sherlock would've ever willingly...
Sherlock swallowed back thoughts of a past he no longer had a claim on and he ran his fingers through his hair, meeting Jim's gaze, "Well, are we ready to go?"
"Yes, we are." He turned back, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Yes, he'd finally gotten his poker face back on, he didn't intend to take it off for a while.
"You lead, I follow," Sherlock replied, nodding in the direction of the door.
The words felt foreign on his lips and they stuck on his tongue as he spoke. He never expected to say those words. He was used to being in charge, all-knowing and used to understanding. But things change, Sherlock reprimanded himself, And I should change with it.
After the long sleep, Sherlock found his mind working correctly again. He began noting down details. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have an active mind. His mind-palace still refused him entry to anything... related to things of the past, but it was no hindrance on gathering new information.
He wondered just how much he had truly missed whilst he'd been exhausted. Evidently, too much. Sherlock suppressed the need to face-palm himself and instead took in his surroundings in more depth. Had he been blind to the comings and goings of Moran? Surely not... but, he had.
How had he managed to lapse so far behind in being... well, a genius? Sherlock licked his bottom lip as he thought. Was this perhaps a con of being a criminal? So far, he'd only found pros, so maybe... It was possible. And he wasn't going to rule it out. There was so much he didn't know. And he was stumped that he'd almost forgotten that he liked finding things out.
James grinned and added a little skip to his step. "Off we go~." He left the room, Moran unlocking the main door for him. He pressed the button for the elevator and waited, patiently, humming a tune.
Now that he'd gotten his wits about him again, it was time to rethink the situation. As of now, Sherlock hadn't been TOO much of a bother. If things went well, he might even help them out. Not with in anything James couldn't do himself of course. As bright as Sherlock was, James would definitely not think the man higher than before. Just another... toy. Perhaps one that could challenge his intellect, but a toy nonetheless.
His thoughts drifted away from Sherlock, onto their next destination. Gambling was all fun and games until you actually lost some money. Not that that had ever happened to James, but it definitely was funny watching ordinary men yell and blame the unsuspecting men next to him.
The elevator came up with a little ding! and in stepped Moriarty.
Sherlock, lips twitching in irritation as he realised what he was doing, followed the man into the elevator. After a few seconds, the doors closed on their own accord, leaving Sherlock and James in silence for a long ride.
It was a good thing there were mirrors on the sides of the elevator, gifting Sherlock the ability to study Moriarty with deep scrutiny without being caught glaring at him. So, he stared. It was obvious that James had gotten enough sleep; he didn't look at all tired. In fact, he looked very bright for a criminal.
Even though Sherlock was sure that the man hadn't applied any perfume or deodorant, a scent coming from Jim hung in the air. It wasn't unpleasant, but Sherlock, for the death of him, couldn't identify it exactly. Curious.
The suit Moriarty wore was expensive, no doubt, as well as Sherlock's. Armani, it looked like. Sherlock didn't make a habit of standing out, but James obviously did. It made the ex-detective rather morose. As they stood in silence, Sherlock's mind wandered, bored with filing details about Jim.
He drifted into memories of countless other elevator rides. Some much less interesting, some much more. But most of them alone. Except for the ones with... Sherlock's mouth went dry and, despite himself, he grit his teeth.
John was old news. There was nothing more for him at home. Sherlock groaned mentally. He still thought of Baker Street as home. This would do no good. He would have to force himself to change further. Maybe he should-
"I'd like to volunteer my services for the next person we kill," Sherlock spoke, breaking the heavy silence, eyes still staring into the mirror. Dead, Sherlock reminded himself, I'm dead. I have no heart. I don't want a heart.
Jim looked at Sherlock, through the mirror, eyeing him up and down. Hmm, he didn't look he'd slept well at all, actually. He'd gotten dressed rather scruffily, and had bags under his eyes. He inwardly sighed. This just would do.
He turned to Sherlock, muttering about scruffiness and started 'tidying' him up a bit. He smoothened out the creases on his jacket, and oh, he got on his tippy toes just to fix Sherlock's hair. With his fingers. It was a rather good thing he still wasn't tall enough to look him eye to eye.
He gave him a broad grin. "Can't have you lookin' like a tramp, can we? And sure. Tonight is Moran's night off anyway."
James could only imagine just how seasons of 'Real Housewives' his bodyguard would watch tonight. He'd never really understood what he found so fascinating about American television, but of course, to each their own.
The elevator doors opened, and James stepped out first. The lobby was brightly lit, with glass chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. There were several rounded staircases to the sides, with busboys smiling at the bottom of each.
Moriarty's hand had taken him off guard and it took him awhile to regain his composure. The gesture was entirely too familiar and too accurately painful for him to react quickly. After a few moments to catch his breath, Sherlock followed James out, nodding at the busboys.
"I don't understand what you enjoy so much about rich places," Sherlock commented idly, as he pocketed his hands in his pants and strutted forward.
"It seems almost gaudish," he continued to say, "What are going to do today?"
"Oh well, we're going to Venezia. I've got business there." He calmly walked past the other guests, still humming a slight tune. The automatic doors opened, and he took a deep breath. It was a bit humid outside, and the street lights were far too bright.
He raised his hand into the air, and a taxi slowed to a stop in front of them.
Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the taxi, gaze narrowing in on the driver who looked to be smiling... oddly. All at once, Sherlock knew something wrong was occurring. As the taxi came nearer, it's speed began to accelerate.
"Not again," Sherlock muttered under his breath as the vehicle sped towards them at a deathly speed.
The smell of rubber burning on asphalt filled the air and in less than the blink of the eye it was almost too close. Without taking a moment to think, Sherlock threw his arms out.
They would've been nothing more than bloody stains on the footpath if Sherlock had not dived at precisely the right time. The car screeched away into the distance. Sherlock grit his teeth together as he realised he was directly on top of Moriarty.
"More friends of yours?" Sherlock asked down to him.
"Probably." He blushed and shoved the taller man off of him. Several hotel security guards rushed over, talking too much and helping too little. Sweet fuck, this is why he hated giving Sebastian days off. Stupid television shows.
His head was hurting horribly - oh yes, perfect way to start the evening. Nonetheless, he got up and forced a calm smile onto his face. He turned to see that one of the guards had been kind enough to get a proper taxi for them.
"You're very popular," Sherlock smirked as the hotel assistants opened the car door for them.
Moriarty squeezed in, followed by Sherlock. There was silence again.
"To Venezia, please." He told the taxi driver awkwardly. Again, the awkward silence settled. This... was not how he had planned the evening. Nothing ever went according to plan if it meant involving Sherlock Holmes. Bastard.
The taxi driver looked at them in the rear view mirror. "You two are new round here, eh? Tell you what-" He gave them a broad grin, "I know this great place. Pretty sweet for a night out."
James would take any chance he got right now if that meant no awkwardness. This really wasn't a situation he knew how to deal with. "Sure."
"What," was Sherlock's deadpan reply as his gaze dropped to Moriarty's, "What?"
Was this man really that innocent? "Whore house, Sherlock. Whore house."
"I'm aware of what he was suggesting, James. I am still unaware of why you agreed we'd go," Sherlock responded, his lips slowly annunciating the sounds of his words.
"Because you've never fucked a woman, obviously."
In all honesty, it really was quite obvious. How was James supposed to teach Sherlock about anything if he didn't even know what proper sex was like? Besides, what was that saying again? Oh pish, he'd remember it later.
"Has it occurred to you that I DON'T want to?" Sherlock ground his teeth, his lips drawn into a thin line of frustration.
Honestly. Honestly, this man... Sherlock resisted the urge to hurt him in some way.
James clutched his heart dramatically. "Ah, such heterophobia simply will not do Sherlock!"
The cabbie snickered for a bit at that.
"I don't particularly care for fucking, not at all, regardless of gender, Jim," was Sherlock's restrained reply.
"Nonetheless, we're heading there anyway." If James had learned anything since the last time he'd been to a slut-house, it was that ladies spoke too much about things they'd heard.
"Fine, whatever, just don't expect me to appreciate this experience."
"Not at all, Sherly." He remained silent for the rest of the ride (though it was not very long).
"I don't like being told nothing. Why are we going to a whorehouse?" Sherlock asked, as the car stopped outside of what Sherlock could only guess was their destination.
"Information." He paid the cabbie, leaving a small tip, before heading into the familiar building. Sherlock asked far too many questions - but then again, that was a rather nice aspect of the man.
Sherlock sighed, "Fine."
He stepped inside, calmly walking over to the receptionist. The lobby was furnished luxuriously, taking on a more tropical theme. Most of the women walking around or serving customers were dressing in rather small gold bikinis, with outrageous head dresses on.
He gave the receptionist a smile. "I'd like to rent someone for me and my friend here tonight."
The lady, one of the few that weren't dressed scantily looked up at him. "Would you like men or women, sir?"
"Women, please. Specifically, I'd like Rosetta, Rosetta Vergara."
The lady smiled. "You're lucky she's free tonight. Now, Alice here will escort you up to Rosetta's room."
"Don't I get a say in all this?" Sherlock asked as they followed the extremely well-toned Alice up some stairs.
"Do you have anything to say?" Alice stopped in front of a door, before bowing her head and scurrying off. James raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and rested his hand on the knob.
"Yes," Sherlock narrowed his eyes in frustration at the two of them, "What exactly are we here to learn, Jim?"
"Oh, I'm just here to get some lovely bits of information. See the little lady in there," he nudged his head at the door, "she works for me. Does a bit of snooping. She's me' information broker of sorts."
"Ah," Sherlock nodded, finally giving in, "Well, what are we waiting for? Carry on!"
Jim gave a little grin and opened the door. Inside was a 'little' woman, dressed rather conservatively for such a place. She gave a frown, "You're five minutes late."
It seem that Jim had quite literally meant 'little lady'. She was a dwarf.
Sherlock didn't so much as bat an eyelash at her appearance, instead jutting his head in Moriarty's direction, signifying him to start the questioning.
James gave her a cheery smile. "Been a little bit busy. Black Lotus s' been on my tail for the past four months. Can't even get a break." He sits down on the bed and stretched his arms above his head.
Rosetta leaned over to the bedside drawer and pulled out a small USB. "Its got information about their latest standings around the world." She presses it into Jim's hand. "I heard their base in Afghanistan got destroyed by a bomb."
Sherlock remained impassive, but cocked his head slightly to the side, "Sounds like a bit of a problem, I'd say."
James slipped the device into his jacket. "Pleasure doing business with ya' miss." He gave her a little salute, and she gave a half-minded glare, before lighting a cigarette. "Now get yer' asses outta here before I have to call security."
James got up and opened the window sticking his head out.
"What, per se, are you doing?" Sherlock asked as he narrowed his eyes at the consulting criminal, "Please, don't tell me you want us to leave out that way."
Jim stuck his head back in. "In case you've been a little late in noticing, I'm an criminal that been here more than once. Figure it out, Sherly-boy."
Cautiously, Jim climbed out onto the window sill and held on to a drain pipe, carefully resting his feet on the top of a lower window.
"You have fun doing that. I think I'll just walk down the stairs," Sherlock stated as a matter of fact, heading out the door before there could be any response.
He was quickly surrounded by scantily clad women all vying for his attention. Barging his way through the thick of twirling bodies, he found the stairs and all but fled down them. Finally safe at the entrance, he strolled pass the counter and gave a quick nod to Alice who had returned to wait.
"My friend will be down in a second to pay," he forced a smile as he spoke.
Then he was out of the brothel and damn well happy to be. All those cloying bodies... Sherlock shivered and then looked up. There was Moriarty, clinging to the outside wall, resting precariously on the sill.
He cupped his hands around his mouth and called up, "Enjoying the view?"
"Oh yes, its actually quite nice!" He called back cheekily.
Very slowly, he started climbing down. Ah, wait, down put your foot there, it was a loose brick last time he checked. He managed to get down rather quickly, jumping down at the last five feet or so.
He fixed up his suit and brushed the dust of his sleeves. "Now, lets get going then. This place hates cause I never pay."
"I think they hate you on general principle," Sherlock replied, stalking after him.
He rolled his eyes, taking a random path as he strolled along.
"Where are we even going?" the curly-haired man frowned.
"Gambling. Ever played poker?"
"I don't spend my time throwing away money."
James tsked. "You didn't answer me' question Sherly."
"If I didn't know how to play poker, how would I know that you lose money?" Sherlock responded, "Aren't you meant to be intelligent?"
"You can lose money in other ways at a casino." James called over a cab.
"That may be true, but you specifically mentioned poker. Besides, is there any reason why we're doing this?" Sherlock asked, not expecting any actual clear answer.
"You thought I spend this much money to visit a whore abroad?" He scoffed. Sherlock was being awfully... regular, and somehow it made him angry. He wanted to walk with Sherlock, not a regular bloke.
Sherlock sighed, "No. I'm asking because I haven't the foggiest why we need information about the government unless we're up against them, which I highly doubt, because your network is harder to find and get away from than the Bermuda triangle."
"Well, little Sherly," There was a bit of edge in his voice, "for the past three years, about say, 80% of my 'loyal followers' have moved onto other folks, and the remainder still don't trust me because of that stunt I pulled back in London."
He stopped walking and sighed. Guess no cab would stop for them tonight. "The governments not the only people I work against. Rebuilding a criminal empire from scratch is much harder than you'd think."
He wasn't expecting much from Sherlock, he really wasn't. Maybe a bit of company, half a joke here and there, but not much. But all he'd gotten was disappointment. Did he go wrong somewhere?
"Can I recommend a place?" Sherlock spoke into the silence that surrounded them as they walked. People seemed to dodge them.
"We've got a bit of time to waste before my next meeting." He looked at his watch, a little curious. They both knew Sherlock had never been here before, so where did he want to go?
"Where to?"
"The Bellagio," Sherlock almost appeared to smile back. Perhaps with the words there came pleasant memories, perhaps not.
That was on the other side of the city. Jim twitched, not bothered to hide his irritation. "We'll need a cabbie for that."
"Well then, get one," Sherlock replied, equally not hiding his annoyance.
James pouted angrily, rather like a child. "I tried to earlier, but it didn't stop for me."
"Head of the biggest criminal network in the world and he can't even hail a taxi," Sherlock sighed, twisting his gaze to the road beside him. He flicked out a hand and almost instantly a cab, seemingly from nowhere, slowed to a stop next to them.
Sherlock shot Jim a smug expression and slipped into the vehicle.
Now that was just cruel. Seems like God fancied taking a piss on him that evening, since it starting raining just before he got into the cab, leaving damp and Sherlock perfectly dry.
"The Bellagio, please." He said, completely disheartened.
Sherlock sat in silence. He had learned from previous car trips with Moriarty that he was likely to indulge the man with discussion he didn't even allow himself. So, he kept his quiet.
James sighed. "So what do you want at the Bellagio?"
"Nothing business," Sherlock responded, irritated by Jim's attempt of conversation.
A good enough answer. He turned around, frowning. What the hell was poking him in the back? If it was a used dildo like the last time he was suing-
It was an injection. He looked up at the driver, who was looking at him in the rear view mirror slyly.
A little trickle of blood slipped past his lips.
The silence was as eerie as anything that might've spouted from Jim's lips could've been. Curious about the lack of a follow up witty remark, Sherlock swapped his attention from their moving surroundings, to the man sitting less than a metre away.
The stark red against his lips was what Sherlock saw first. Blood. He would never forget the feel, the taste, the look of real blood. The ex-consulting detective's mind whirred. The only person who could've done this was the taxi driver. A brief thought crossed his mind, What is it with taxi drivers these days? Are they all just murderers?
And as they slowed to a stop at the red-light, Sherlock made his move. The curly-haired man was not an athlete, far from it - he considered himself more scholarly than anything more - but that did not stop him from flinging open the taxi door, scooping Moriarty into his arms and throwing them both out of the escape window.
He held onto Moriarty tightly as they tumbled from the vehicle, rolling against the tarmac road. Sherlock was sure he smelt the particular scent of cloth burning from the friction against the ground. He was relatively certain he was not coming out of this situation unscathed, but he was sure as hell better than Jim was looking.
Sherlock gave him a quick overlook as he regained his bearings, remembering which way was up and which way was down seemed to be the most important thing after all that painful rolling.
Moriarty's lips were now a stark contrast to the red dripping down them - they were ghastly white bordering on blue and his eyes had begun to droop. Sherlock resisted the urge to growl.
"It's becoming a habit, you understand. Me saving your life," Sherlock whispered, lifting the man up and raising one arm around his shoulder so he could allow Moriarty a shallow hobble to lessen the weight he put upon the ex-detective.
"I don't know why I do it," Sherlock continued, half-walking half-dragging Jimmy to a prospective hiding spot, "I think it may be left-overs from my previous partnership. Ha, previous. Makes it sound like it's over. Makes it sound like there's nothing to look back on. Hilarious. Past-tense is actually quite painful, you understand?"
He knew he was rambling, but he couldn't stop. Jim had began to cough up blood now and Sherlock was entirely sure the cabbie had stopped the taxi and had begun to follow them on foot. A hiding spot first, then fix the criminal, then... Sherlock, for once, couldn't think past the second step for worry begun gnawing at him more than he cared to remember or cared to compare with concern for another person.
"You do realise, you can't die?" Sherlock continued, looking about desperately, his eyes carefully examining each apartment, each door, each building until... finally! A suitable nondescript house and Sherlock could tell from all the small details (dust undisturbed, windowsill plants dead, "HOME SWEET HOME" mat slightly disheveled, curtains completely closed) that the home hadn't been inhabited for awhile, but had been left in a hurry.
Perfect.
All but trudging now, Sherlock kicked the mat away to reveal a spare key. So predictable, Sherlock almost groaned, but instead bent down, picked it up and slid it into the lock, twisted and then swung the door open with reckless abandon.
He gazed around. All furniture still in place.
Brilliant.
Carefully, he threw Moriarty onto the couch, laying him out to avoid himself swallowing his own tongue and choking on it, as well as to allow maximum unpressured breathing, before returning to the door and shutting it with a soft click. He slid the curtains apart a bit and squinted through. Cabbie was right outside, stalking the street, looking for them. Sherlock rolled his eyes at how stupid the general humanity was and went back to Moriarty's side.
"Alright, explain your symptoms, Jimmy," Sherlock murmured under his breath, testing the man's pulse as he spoke. Normal beat, but a bit weak. Sherlock frowned, placing the back of his hand against Jim's forehead and comparing the temperature to his own. Comparatively hotter, but then again Sherlock had always run a little colder than the average human.
"What are you feeling?" Sherlock repeated, continuing the same checks again and again, seeing if the results were similar or if there were a trend in their change. He was a scientist above all and there was nothing more reassuring than data when one is desperate and a scientist.
James could barely speak. His throat felt as if it collapsing in on itself. He made a strangled noise, attempting words, but only more blood spilled from his mouth, thick and heavy. He felt like gagging and puking.
His gut felt like it was on fire, churning and turning and holy hell, it burned. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the pain away, but it just wouldn't go. He could feel knives ripping through his skin, even when he knew there weren't anyway.
He opened his eyes, just a bit, to see Sherlock's face. His eyes looked so worried; so strange. He can't remember if he's ever seen Sherlock worried. Just a bit of contempt filled his mind, but it was quickly replaced by pain. Pain. Pain.
Sherlock was worried about him, and not that stupid fucking bloke he used to be with. How long had he been waiting for the moment that Sherlock would start thinking about him and no one else? Past tense was painful. Past tense was making his mind cloud over. Quickly, he brought his hand up to his lips and bit.
The pain made him remember who he was, who he's with, where they were. It didn't work for long, but it did the trick. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, so weakly, his hand nearly fell off.
"Water." He begged.
Sherlock nodded, and scrambled to the sink, finding a cup (with the luck only Sherlock somehow managed to conjure) and filling it to the brim. He quickly returned to Moriarty's side.
"Here, water," he mumbled as he held the brim to Jim's lips and cradled the man's head with his other arm so that he wouldn't spill it everywhere, "I can't exactly assure you of it's quality, but it'll be better than nothing."
Couldn't give a damn about the 'quality' of the water, as long as it was cold and wet, he'd drink it. His throat felt cleared, if only for a few moments. Trickles of water dribbled down his chin and made a mess on his suit, but he couldn't care less. His hands fumbled clumsily, trying to find his phone. Perhaps Sebastian would be able to help.
He dropped his mobile, snarling half-heartedly. He suddenly felt very cold, and started shivering. None the less, he still attempted to reach his phone. There was no way he would die here, not in an abandoned apartment in an ugly suit.
Sherlock snatched the phone up and furrowed his brows, "You want to call Moran?"
Jim managed a nod through his shivering and almost in the blink of the eye, Sherlock was calling the sniper, the phone next to his ear. A few rings, then, "Hello?"
"Jim's been poisoned, we're two streets away from the Bellagio. Some street starting with S and the type of terrace. He's shivering, pulse has weakened, not sweating, a bit on the hot side, is extremely thirsty, looks to have internal convulsions. Do you recognise this?"
Silence, then: "Fuck, Sherlock, he'll be lucky to live another five minutes with that in his system. Keep him warm. I'll be there with help as soon as I can."
"Will do... And Moran?"
"Yes?"
"Hurry."
The line went dead and Sherlock returned his gaze to the shaking man on the couch. Keep him warm? What was the warmest thing Sherlock had on him? The answer was so obvious he could've slapped himself in the face.
Himself.
All the heat of humans the world over was more than the warmth that the entire sun created.
Stripping his suit off, he rolled Moriarty over a bit and squeezed beside him, wrapping his arms around the shivering criminal. Carefully, he threw his suit over the top of him, rubbing the man's back to generate friction warmth.
For a second, he almost stopped, trying to work out just why he was doing this. No answer popped up, nothing he could deeply think about - absolutely no reason beyond the repeating thought of "I cannot let this happen". So, he merely continued.
It took him a few minutes to realise that his bottom lip was trembling and he immediately stopped this ridiculous display of what couldn't possibly be emotion. He was just... just getting cold as well. That was it.
Jim couldn't think properly. He was starting to haze over, head lolling back, eyes drooping. His lips parted ever so slightly, little gasps of air slipping in and out. His nose has started bleeding, and the droplets slipped over the side of face.
He turned, unconsciously burying his head in Sherlock shoulder. Accidently, he bit his tongue, and his eyes shot open. He tried thinking again but it was too hard. He pressed himself harder against Sherlock. God, he was so warm.
The man had stopped convulsing as much, but it concerned Sherlock all the greater. It's always when one stops shivering that one has to start to worry. Shivering is the body's way of warming itself up. If it stops... it means that the body has given up or doesn't have enough strength to go on.
Sherlock leant back a bit, trying to get a better view of Jim's face, and oh god, oh god, he looked all too peaceful. Sherlock began to hyperventilate, his eyes wide, as he began to talk to the criminal in his embrace, "You better not go to sleep. I've had enough of your antics, Jim. Enough. If you go to sleep, I swear... I'll never talk to you again."
It was childish. It was immature. It was infantile. But it was the only thing he could think to say. The only thing which allowed him to bite back the dryness in his mouth, the stings behind his eyelids, the only words which allowed him to breathe.
Somehow, James heard those words. He heard Sherlock's frantic breathing. He felt his pulse. Weakly he opened his eyes, staring into Sherlock's own. "No."
He felt weak beyond comparison, but this, this was not something he could let slip by him. Sherlock, Sherlock - he was the only he could call equal. The only one he could talk to on equal manners. The only one that understood what it was like to stare out a window everyday, watching people. Watching them go on with their boring, boring lives, concerning themselves with boring things. The only one who understood what it meant to go out and become one of them. It was like dying, and everyday, Jim had died.
But then he found Sherlock. A strange man, but one he grew to cherish. His company was more than welcome in this dying world. Only with Sherlock did he ever feel alive, did he ever feel his pulse race, did he feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. And he felt it now, with his sight dimming, swirling and circling. The only thing he could even see properly was Sherlock's face.
Everything else turned strange. The walls disappeared, leaving purple trees and gum-ball fruits in their wake. He could see mountains, black, towering mountains, and yet he couldn't even see them at all. Sherlock's face was disappearing, disappearing behind a red sky, dripping its crimson rain on his skin.
He fell back, trapped in his own nightmares.
Moran kicking down the door was a blur to Sherlock. The doctor practically prying him off Jim's body was nothing to him. For awhile, Sherlock refused to be separated from him. Even as they lifted him onto the wheeled-bed and hoisted him in, the ex-consulting detective gripped tightly onto Moriarty's hand. He dared not ever admit it to himself, but he was terrified that if he let it go he'd never see the man again.
The private ambulance ride, even with alarms blaring, was absolutely silent to Sherlock, his mind concentrating on one thing and one thing only; the soft and barely existent pulse in the wrist of James' arm. Once he thought it stopped and for that second he realised he could not breathe, could not see, could not think, until the next beat came again.
They were at the private hospital bay in a matter of minutes, but to Sherlock they felt like centuries and he was almost certain that Jim was almost too far gone. Sherlock was not a man who felt emotion. He did not feel sentiment. He told himself he'd stop that. That was what this partnership was about. That was what he had told himself. What he still wanted to tell himself.
As he stared at the near motionless man, that they'd begun to wheel away with him, Sherlock knew it wasn't true. It had never been true. He knew what he'd been looking for the entire time. But he still didn't want to admit it to himself. It was too much of a raw thought, much too primitive for him to even suggest to himself. And yet, as they tried to tear Moriarty's hand from his and explained to him that they needed to perform immediate dialysis of his system, Sherlock might've torn the eyes out of the doctor's skull, refusing to let go.
He hissed and he swore, and he struggled and fought to stay by the criminal's side, but eventually - with the help of Moran and several other guards - they managed to break Sherlock's hold. As the heat of Jim disappeared from his palm, he watched as they quickly exited the room and left Sherlock on the floor, gazing at the space where Moriarty had been only seconds ago.
Sherlock had only cried twice in his life. But they say things come in threes. And thus they did come. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt absolutely useless and helpless to give aid. If he were any other person, he might've prayed to God, but no - he was Sherlock. And Sherlock's did not pray. After a brief moment, he blinked away the tears and a new determined look formed in his eyes.
Something hard and cold. Shiver-worthy and chilling. Whoever had done this would pay.
Oh, would they pay.
...
Moran stared quietly at the man. A cold shiver ran down his spine, and sweat broke out on his forehead. Conversation. Conversation would break the horrible silence. He cleared his throat anxiously. "James was infected with a makeshift poison."
Yes, talking about a person dying is a good way to start a conversation.
"The doctor doesn't have a clue yet, but regarding his symptoms, it might a mixture of chemicals alcohol and methamphetamine. Taking any sort of drugs and alcohol at the same time is deadly." He looked at Sherlock, who still had the frightening look on his face.
"N-not that you hadn't already figured it out." The mixture being injected into his blood would have easily quickened the process, Sebastian thought with a grim frown.
Sherlock smiled. There was no warmth in that smile. No. Something so frozen and broken was what that smile conveyed. Something almost beyond fixing.
Sherlock had snapped. He'd lost someone close to him from his foolishness before, but this time. This time, he could do whatever he wanted. And people beyond himself and Moriarty no longer mattered. They didn't matter at all.
Flies. Bugs. Ants beneath his feet. And how he felt like setting their nests on fire.
But first, he'd need the right equipment. He focused on Moran and smiled, this time with a harsh intent, a glint in his eyes promising pain - oh so much pain - , "We're going to need to go shopping."
Moran had a strange feeling that he knew exactly what Sherlock meant. "I only have a suitcase here, but I've got a whole arsenal in New York. That's a four hour flight."
The black market for guns wasn't nearly as extensive here as it was in Brooklyn. Perhaps going there would be best.
"I don't need an arsenal. Just some... select items. What do you expect, Moran? I've torn apart so many of Jim's traps that I've come to be quite familiar with the best methods," Sherlock replied, entwining his fingers and placing them over his lips.
A glimmer of excitement shot through him. This feeling that he'd thought he'd lost. It was back. And it felt great.
Moran was speechless. And down right terrified. He opened his mouth to say something, but his jaw hung like an open fish', not a sound coming out.
...
James woke up. His eyes fluttered open and he exhaled softly. He knew what had happened. It took only a moment for the head ache to set in. Gods, where was his medicine? Where was Moran?
And more importantly, where was Sherlock?
...
Sherlock snuffed a sneeze, blinking his eyes. Why he felt such an irritation all of the sudden was beyond him, but he had no time to dwell on the fact. The trap was in place and everything had already come to the point of no return. Things were in motion that he no longer had fine control over, but he'd mapped everything out to perfection; the trap had a flawlessness that Sherlock had never been able to muster before he'd met Jim.
And the most irritating thing to the past-Sherlock was that it had only taken three days.
Three days of excruciating planning, plotting, manipulating and analysing. But, oh, would the fruits of his labour be worth it. The intense exhilaration that thrummed through his veins and coursed at a thousand thoughts per second in his mind was almost numbingly sweet.
He felt like a man in a desert who'd stumbled upon an oasis. Taking it slowly was more important. But he could feel the hammering of excitement inside his chest. The suspense made everything all the more... fun.
He watched the monitor, keeping a careful eye on the men approaching the ambush point. First, he had to allow for them to start tripping up. Get them to stop looking at things analytically and start panicking. Allow their own training to trick them.
The group of men snuck into the house and Sherlock watched. Oh, they thought there were so smart. They thought they'd found Moriarty while he was still sick and were coming in to finish the job. Good little soldiers just doing their jobs.
If Sherlock could, he'd would've reached through the screen and strangled them all right then and there. There was something writhing in the pit of the man's stomach. Something entirely new, but not altogether unwelcome.
Rage. Absolutely unrelenting anger.
He wasn't entirely sure about what, perhaps it was the audacity of his opponents, thinking they could steal something that belonged to him. Belonged to him? Sherlock did not follow where this train of thought was heading and returned his attention to the screen.
They'd finally broken through the first line of defense. The automatic metal lock door, which they had sliced right through with a water-pressure laser which the back end of the group took hold of and carried between them. Sherlock had to applaud them on their preparation thus far. But this was only the beginning.
He pressed the 'Ok' button on his cheap mobile, sending off an SMS to his co-conspirators waiting in the house. If you had blinked, you would've missed the importance of the few seconds that followed.
In little more than the time it took for the foremost men to take three steps, Sherlock's hired hitmen had taken out the back men and substituted themselves in flawlessly. The pressure-laser barely fell a centimetre once dropped from the hold of the former soldiers and caught again by their replacements. Sherlock didn't even try to reel in the grin that stretched over his lips. It was almost like he were a puppeteer and everyone else was merely a puppet.
The men at front carried on unknowing, but skittish and then the automatic doors starting sliding shut between the soldiers. Sherlock had pre-programmed the way in which they closed. First, the back men - his men - were cut off with the pressure-laser in hand, but one plant had hurried ahead and was with the front men.
The real soldiers had no chance of escape now. It gave Sherlock an inane sense of satisfaction that formed as goosebumps on his arms. And now the mind games. Sherlock's new favourite part. He pushed in his earphones and listened in to the hushed mutterings of the men and their panic, it was pretty bad quality, but at the very least he could make out what they were saying.
"What's going on? This was meant to be a simple snuff mission. Break in, execute and then leave," whispered Sherlock's single hired help with the acting conviction of a top-notch celebrity.
The other men gazed at him, shifty eyes darting about the room, before the very foremost man answered, "I told them this wouldn't go down so simply. They hired me for my expertise on M, but they didn't even listen. Should've never left home."
Hired-help nodded, but his eyes narrowed on one of the soldiers next to him. His brows furrowed and he gestured to the leader to talk to him on the side. The expert on M, followed him and, from what Sherlock could tell, raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?" the leader asked.
"I don't remember that man's face. Black hair, blue eyes. He wasn't with us when we came in," hissed the hired-help under his breath.
Sherlock watched, intrigued, wondering if everything would turn out well.
"I thought our numbers had increased," replied the leader before promptly raising his gun and shooting Sherlock's helper straight between the eyes. He didn't even cringe. The man's body fell to the floor with a thud. Sherlock didn't blink - he didn't have to pay that man anymore.
The other men began to become frantic, believing their leader had betrayed them, aiming at him, their laser targeting system forming a laser light show on his bulletproof vest. The leader almost looked to sigh. Sherlock was fascinated. He hadn't calculated this, but then again people were always extremely hard to predict. It didn't change the way he was going to continue.
The leader dropped his gun, letting it hang loosely on the strap over his shoulder, he placed his hands up in surrender in the air, "Wait a second, you don't believe that I'm working with M. For God's sake, he killed my-"
One of the front men was sniped in the head, blood exploding onto the walls of the room. Shots broke out. Three more men fell. Screams, cries. It was a blood-bath. Sherlock watched on, wondering who would live. He didn't really care that much. He just needed an informant. This entire thing had been just to entertain him and get a bit of the blood-lust he felt off his chest, before he began murdering random people on the street.
Sherlock blinked. He'd never thought of doing things like that until only a few days ago. He wondered where he'd went wrong... or maybe right. Definitions like that mattered little to him, they never meant much anyway, but now they meant even less. Sherlock returned his mind to the carnage of the screen before him.
The leader had drew his weapon again and was shooting left, right and centre trying to defend his own life. He killed more men that Sherlock's snipers did. This man was truly something. Nerves of steel and a steady shot. Extremely acclimatized to violence. Sherlock continued his analysis. The leader didn't even fire until he was sure he was in immediate danger. Strong moral principle and definite extensive experience serving before this.
When everyone was breathing their last breath, the leader was checking his men, and - at times - ending their lives. Sherlock mused, Medical experience. Knows when a man is going to pull through and when he's a lost cause. A strange feeling, not anger, began to stir in his gut. He frowned. Everything had went exactly as planned, but why was he feeling... like this?
And then he texted his men once more, telling them to disarm the leader and bring them to him.
It took only a few minutes. The leader took out four of his men. They dragged him, bloodied and bruised, pushed him to his knees and held the guns to his head. His helmet shattered to the floor - the only sound in the room.
Sherlock had his back to the leader, his chair facing the screens set up on the desk. He carefully watched as the last soldier in the room died. It gave him the smallest amount of glee. He let out a small chuckle, trying to calm the bubbles of dread forming in his stomach. And then he turned around.
"Oh," was the only word which slipped from his mouth as he felt every memory he'd bottle up suddenly come flooding back with more intensity than he thought was possible.
The leader peered up at him with a black eye and squinted through the light to the man who now held him captured. The whisper that fogged through his lips was no higher than a few decibels, the coarseness of his voice conveying disbelief in every single syllable, a sense of hope and desperation cloying to the man's questioning single word, "Sherlock?"
And then suddenly his vocabulary was back, along with his sense, but the pain - oh, please let the pain stop, please - was there humming in every single cell in his body, "I suppose to coin a phrase you're familiar with - this is a bit not good."
"Am I dead?" were the next few words the man said.
"No, but you're going to wish you were," Sherlock replied quietly, eyeing the man he had once - still? - no, don't think of that. Business. All business.
"You're alive?" he asked, always blind to the oblivious, the complete mood of absolute awe shining in his eyes.
"In a matter of speaking. But not legally. I think we're going to have to talk, about a few things," Sherlock continued, trying to not let his voice break, trying to not let this man tear away the frost he'd covered himself in.
Trying to not let John Watson back into his heart and his mind.