I expect a piercing pain in my skull or a splatter of blood from my forehead or some kind of sign that I'd been shot and killed, but I only feel a small headache from where my eyebrows furrowed. Fearfully, I let out a trembling breath and slowly open my eyes. The woman in front of me laughs cynically, and a frown deepens on my face. I open my mouth to say something, but she seductively brings her finger to her lips, moaning a cunning and melodious shhhhh, as her finger catches on her lip, pulling it down until it bounces back.
She lets out a breath as well and brings the gun back towards her, tapping it on the back of her hand, her eyes thoughtfully staring off into space. "Why do I love Sherlock Holmes?" she says, pronouncing each word slowly and precisely. She sticks her finger in through the trigger and spins it around. "He's witty," she explains with high eyebrows and pouty lips. She'd be beautiful if I didn't feel an undying compulsion to hate her. "He's…. clever, and he knows me." Her eyebrows crease. "But that's insignificant, because he knows everybody." One eyebrow heightens, and a wicked grin strikes her face. "He knows me sexually." Her grin turns into a smile when she notices my discomfort. I try not to make eye contact, but I realize that's what she wants—my distressed and tortured expression. I stare her down with a bitter hatred plastered on my face.
She continues. "He's absolutely gorgeous. Oh, but you know that. His curls, his figure, his arms, his skin—and, my, those cheekbones." She drops the gun on the floor and sashays over to the darkest corner in the dim-lit room. Her arm reaches into the blackness and retrieves a coat, slipping it over her nude body. I think nothing of it at first (only giving God my thanks) but then I sense the familiarity of the coat: the rough fabric, the wrinkles forming at the elbow, and how the collar stuck up to make her seem cool. I realize whose coat it is.
Sherlock's.
Rage ignites in my chest, and I begin to thrash about, though it's hopeless because the rope burns against my skin. "What have you done to him?" I growl protectively. "Tell me, have you hurt him?"
Her head cocks to the side as she ties a belt around her waist to display her figure. "Oh, no, sweet darling, no," she coos, her voice pitying and mockingly appeasing. "Piece it together—what does Sherlock always say? Deduce. Deduce, my lovely John Watson." She waits for a moments and sighs. "You won't get it. You're obviously dafter than I thought." She puts her hands behind her back and paces back and forth, her gazes sharp like a phoenix's beak. "I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes. I have his coat. I captured you, and I mean to kill you. You've been to enough crime scenes to figure this out—what's the one thing that would make this murder more appealing?"
I concentrate for a moment—think, think, think, John, think—and I gasp at the realization, my eyes widening, my throat going dry. "Have him watch me die," I choke out.
"Ooh," she murmurs. "Maybe you're not as stupid as I thought."
"Where is he?" I shout. "Tell me, damn it, where is he?!" Her eyes narrow, and the most odious smirk of pleasure appeared on her face. Flames of fury grow harsher as if someone tossed an entire gallon of gasoline on top of it. "Where is he?" I roar.
Amused, she treks back to the darkened corner and pulls out a human being with pale skin and vacant eyes.
My heart clamors in my ribcage at the sight of him.
His mouth remains unsmiling, and his eyes contain no humor and, seemingly, no life. His purple, silk shirt is tight against his torso, folding over itself as he moves, fitting comfortably and exhibiting his thin but muscular body well. I feel the urge to run to him and never let him go, and I yearn for him, for him to feel the same way.
"Sherlock," I whimper, struggling once again, the burning crisp on my wrists. "Sherlock, tell me this isn't serious. You're kidding, you're just bored, this is a trick to get back at me for throwing out your experiment the other week, isn't it?" His pale, blue eyes lower to the ground, and I shove tears back. "Isn't it?"
His lips part, and the woman beside him looks up at him expectantly. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice hoarse and severe. He clears his throat, and his voice is abysmal and thick as he says my name: "John."
My heart collides with my stomach, and I feel as though I'm going to be sick.
The woman grins, her lips looking soft. "Sherlock," she commands with a sharp tone. Immediately, he responds by picking up the gun, his movements mechanical and robotic. He slaps the gun to her palm, her fingers briskly wrapping around it, and he avoids my gaze.
"My name is Lilith Isles," she announces, "and I will be the murderer of John Watson."
Before I can close my eyes or count to five, a gunshot fires, and darkness encompasses my entire being. I take a breath, and I am sure it is my last.