The cell was empty. Completely empty, there wasn't any trace that anyone had been in here at all for months, apart from the absence of dust. Nobody knew how Sherlock had escaped, not even John who they called in the middle of the night after one of the guards had noticed Sherlock's absence.
They had previously thought John would have helped him, but right now John wasn't sure he wanted to see Sherlock ever again.
He was still in some kind of shock. He had accepted that Harry was dead, that wasn't the problem. Of course he was sad, of course he was grieving, but him and Harry hadn't got on – he did feel a bit guilty about the slight lack of mourning but they hadn't seen each other for quiet long and it hadn't bothered either of them.
While he was sorting out the funeral and everything though, they were two things which kept coming up in his thoughts: The absolute panic in Harry's eyes and the fact that Sherlock was her killer. It still seemed unreal – he expected the detective to saunter in and explain who had done it and why in mere seconds and then scold him for all his worry and stupidity.
Mycroft didn't react to any attempts of contact. He just didn't seem to care, even though he had been the one who claimed to care. He didn't stop the police in any way with finding Sherlock, but he didn't stop them either – another very weird fact.
After a day, John did start to worry though. If Sherlock had disappeared, especially when he obviously had a concussion – which John did decidedly not feel guilty about – and when something was wrong with him besides that he usually would have waited until he felt more or less comfortable again – he did have troubles keeping his balance in the beginning according to Donovan. And whenever he broke out of hospitals he usually went to 221B.
John couldn't really sleep that night. He was furious with Sherlock, the bastard had killed his sister, but he had a reason for everything he did. Besides, while Moriarty's mind had been about creating puzzles and challenging another great mind, Sherlock's was more about unravelling the truth. He rarely made puzzles himself, he found it dull and not very interesting.
Mrs Lestrade struggled weakly in his arms when Sherlock carried her from the stolen car into the warehouse. It was strange that she kept the name; while the DI obviously still cared about her, she didn't care about him. Since the divorce two months ago they hadn't had any contact, but she had slept with at least three different men. No, she certainly wasn't sad about the broken marriage.
The warehouse had a different lay-out to the one he had shot Harry in, but it only took a moment to get his bearings. The blue-prints weren't new, there were some changes, but Moriarty's cold, high voice led him to his destination.
"Sherly! Come on. I'm waiting, I don't have all day, you know?" He laughed his disturbing laugh, but Sherlock fought hard to keep his face blank. The cold weight of the knife against his hip was oddly reassuring, even if Moriarty had someone with him, he'd be the last person Sherlock killed. Even if it was the last thing he did.
"Hurry, Sherly, I'm getting bored, a little jumpy maybe..."
This caused Sherlock to speed up. He didn't care if Moriarty was bored, but he feared the consequences – Harry's death couldn't be for nothing.
Moriarty was standing in the middle of the huge space, it was mostly dark, only some light filtered through the dirty windows. There wasn't anyone else visible, but Sherlock didn't trust this vulnerability – the consulting criminal was nothing if not thorough.
"Hello Jim, I've got her here." The calm baritone stood in strange contrast to the mad giggle of the psychopath, very different but somehow strangely alike.
"See Sherly, this is what you could be. What you can be, if you choose to. The freedom of the own will, the power to do everything – isn't that something you'd enjoy?"
"Certainly. It's becoming tedious very quickly – there is no puzzle in infinity, nothing to set my mind to – Mycroft is far too boring to engage in any kind of games." There was some truth in his words, Sherlock realised. He had anchors now, people tethering him to the side of the angels, but only a few years ago, he nearly wrecked havoc. It was scary how close he was now; should Moriarty be able to press the trigger, should most of London blow up, there'd be nothing keeping him away from insanity. Not even Moriarty would stand a chance.
"You wanted to watch, Jim, it will be over afterwards?" It would never be over. Not as long as Moriarty lived, he would always be just a puppet in his hands. Maybe anchor was the wrong metaphor for his friends. Fishing-rods were better, they had him all hooked, but now they were in the criminal's power. He was the fisherman, now.
