Author's Note: Hello again! Eternal thanks to Icecat62, Hikiaka, and viieen for following and favorite-ing (a word I just coined) my story, and thank you, xcvokout and the-art-of-escape, for following it! And even more thanks to Hikiaka and the-art-of-escape for reviewing my story (God bless you!)! You guys make writing so much more fun!
It's great getting feedback. Some of the things I didn't think would work did, and some things I thought would be great weren't so much, so it's great to be able to adjust based on others' opinions, not just my own. :)
I had a little trouble with transferring these scenes (with the beautiful, beautiful acting found only in Benedict, Martin, Loo, and Andrew!) into story, so if anyone has any tips or ideas for me, I'd love to hear them.
Chapter Four:
Sherlock
Carl Powers. Finally, a mastermind who can play.
I gaze into my microscope, looking for the tiny, near-invisible specks that can change whether an organism is identified as deadly or lifesaving. I see the oddity almost faster than the computer does, and give my exclamation of grim triumph as the computer tells me SEARCH COMPLETE. Even the computer's an idiot.
Molly Hooper is there, acting nervous, shy, and happy-go-lucky all at the same time, as is her custom. "Any luck?"
I give her a sour smile, trying desperately to forget how she sassed me so elegantly. "Oh, yes."
The door suddenly opens, and Molly turns. Her face lights up, and I can hear in her voice what a stroke of good fortune this is for her, and how surprised she is that something actually went her way, for once. "Jim! Hi! Come in, come in."
"Jim" is . . . oh, for God's sake. Gay. Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay. Why can't people just see? Why can't people, namely Molly, foolish, trusting, affectionate Molly, just open their eyes and see?
Tinted eyelashes, makeup touching up the frown lines, underwear, observable above the waist—I know that brand. And the hair product! Even John doesn't put in that much, and he spends more time on his hair than Molly does.
She's still parted it to the side. Molly's hair, I mean. It does look better that way, but she never wears it down. Probably some foolish, unjustified insecurity thing, but I think it would look . . . really quite nice, actually.
Wait. What?
"Jim," Molly says, in the air of a little girl showing off her prized doll to a new friend, "this is Sherlock Holmes."
By the longing in her voice as she spoke my name, I can tell she's not into this guy at all. "And, um . . ." Molly hesitates, looking at John with apologetic question in her eyes. I resist the urge to laugh. "Sorry, um . . . ."
John sighs. "John Watson, hi," he says to Molly's "boyfriend", obviously put off that the pretty (and more importantly: female) doctor couldn't remember his name, but for the first time, Molly doesn't seem to notice. She's too caught up in Jim—and me. Obviously.
"So you're Sherlock Holmes," Jim seems a little nervous, but just as excited. Wait . . . is he interested in me? "Are you on one of your cases?"
Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away.
"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Molly giggles lightheartedly, but her message is clear: See? I don't need you. I have a boyfriend of my own.
That did it. "Gay," I say, my voice flat and monotonous.
Molly's face falls faster than gravity could possibly take it. "Sorry, what."
Uh, oh. The edge to her dangerously calm tone and that spark of fury in her eyes makes me regret my words. "Nothing . . . um, hey."
Jim nods, uncomfortable. "Hey. Oop!"
The tray clatters loudly and obnoxiously, only adding to the strained tension. "Sorry." Molly's "boyfriend" picks up the tray and sets it back on the table, with—oh, Molly.
His number. "Jim from IT", the bragged-about Jim, the "great" boyfriend Jim, had slipped his number under the tray for me to find.
Well. This was good, right? Wasn't it better for Molly to find out now, instead of later, when she was more emotionally invested?
John's behind me, looking edgy and out of place. I can tell he's upset—wait, did I do something wrong? What could I have possibly done wrong?
Molly's eyes are on the floor, and I can tell she's struggling to compose herself. Well, this is good. It would've been even more difficult for her later, right?
"Well, I'd better be off." Jim-from-IT breaks the awkwardness and moves to go out the door. "I'll see you at the Fox—about sixish?"
Molly musters enough courage for a smile and a nod. "Yeah!"
"Bye," Jim's looking at me, but Molly answers. "Bye."
Jim ignores her. "It was nice to meet you." To no avail.
This proves to be even more injurious to Molly, and she looks down again. Why? Because she thought he was talking to her, but he was just paying attention to me? Is that it? I will never understand feminine impulses.
As my own special form of punishment, I disregard him again. It takes John to say, "You too," and get the manipulative bastard out of the room.
Molly's forced smile breaks once her now-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's out of the room, and she takes a little shaky breath. For some reason, a warm feeling rises inside of me. She can be herself around me.
She takes a breath and acts like she wasn't affected by my brutally honest words. "What do you mean gay?" She almost laughs at the ludicrosity. "We're together!"
I sigh. Yes, and John will finally find a girlfriend who is worth my time to remember. Suddenly angry at her devotion to this scheming moron, I say (controlling my vexation as I always do), "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly, you've gained three pounds since I last saw you."
Tone flat and dull, she tries, "Two and a half."
Not even. "Mmh . . . three."
I hear John clear his throat testily, indication that I've gone too far. "Sherlock . . ."
As if encouraged by John, all of Molly's rage suddenly bubbles up. "He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil . . ." I will be highly amused if she stamps her foot in frustration. As fond—if you can call it that—as I am of Molly, I will burst out laughing. "He's not."
I scoff. "Please. With that level of personal grooming?"
John intervenes. Was he trying to make it easier for Molly? It wasn't bad, was it? It wasn't serious with this Jim guy, right?
Was it?
"Because he puts a little product in my hair? I put product in my hair."
Again, I resist laughing. A little product in his hair? John goes through two bottles a week.
I shake my head, just for the sake of contradicting him. "You wash your hair. There's a difference. No-no – tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."
Molly swallows. "His underwear?" I know right, Molly. I can find fault in every tiny thing about everybody. Or . . . are you jealous because I've seen your boyfriend's underwear and you haven't?
Or has she?
I rush into it, distracting myself with deductions. "Visible above the waistline—very visible, very particular brand."
Should I tell her about the phone number? Will it hurt her too much?
No. She needs to break it off, now.
"That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish here . . ." I flash the card at Molly's very surprised—and rather hurt, I observe—face and give her a steely smile, one that says, Now do you believe me?
"I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."
Molly pauses, and I can see the minuscule movement of lower lips, and the subtle watering of her eyes. Oh. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. I didn't mean to do that.
What have I done?
She runs from the room, the door banging behind her with a loud sense of finality.
As I walk into the dark pool house, the olfactory sign of over-chlorinated water hits my nostrils unpleasantly. The water gurgles ominously, and I look around, wary and taking in everything, my shoes echoing loudly off the inhospitable walls.
"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," I say suddenly, trying to catch him off guard, thrusting the flash drive in the air and waving it around the room, wondering desperately where he might be. The fact that I haven't the faintest is both frustrating and thrilling, and my mind goes to that dangerous overdrive it visits every time I have a case.
"That's what it's all been for, isn't it," I continue, just to make noise, to draw him out of hiding, my eyes still scanning every inch of the room, "All your little puzzles, making me dance." I spit out the word, bitter that I was confined in his power just by the morals of wanting to save someone's life. "All to distract me from this."
Suddenly, the door opens, and—oh my God.
John steps out.
He looks the same. Jeans, nice haircut, oversize coat, steady eyes. But there's something different, there has to be.
My best friend is a criminal mastermind.
Of course, I always knew he didn't consider me his best friend. But I thought—I thought he was doing more than just using me.
I should've known. Who else would want to talk to me, much less live with me?
For the first time since I was very small, I feel a lump start to rise in my throat. How could I have believed I could acquire a friend so quickly?
Maybe it's for the best. Emotions? Emotions, I have no idea how to handle. A battle of wits? That I can do.
My futile attempts to convince myself do no good.
"Evening." John stares at me lacklusterly, so different from the John Watson I thought I knew. I can't speak. I just can't.
"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John stands motionless, still talking in that same dull voice. And finally I can speak.
"John. What the hell . . ?" My tone tells him so much more than any words ever could, my fear and my sorrow and, most of all, the shocking and gut-wrenching feeling of being betrayed.
"Bet you never saw this coming." John doesn't look at all like before—so strange, so different, I can't stop a forlorn, hopeful thought from occurring.
Maybe . . . just maybe . . ?
John lets out a little breath, and opens his jacket. "What—would you like me—to make him say—next?"
Explosives. He's completely strapped with explosives, with a little, neat, seemingly-harmless red dot on his chest. Yes, of course. Relief swoops in to slow my descent into the darkness betrayal and loneliness. I haven't been betrayed. I still have a friend.
I'm shocked at how I was affected I was, thinking I was without John. I felt so alone, so betrayed, and it physically hurt. Do I . . . love him? Was John a stand-in for the brother I never got in Mycroft?
But he was still here. And he was going to die if I didn't do something.
I whip around, searching desperately for whoever was speaking through John, but not even spotting the source of the omnipresent little red dot.
"Gottle o'gear. Gottle o' gear. Gottle o'—"
"Stop it!" I blurt, screaming, unable to take it, hatred burning through me for he who controlled John's mouth.
John continues, just as monotonously. "Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John squeezes his eyes and takes a shaky breath, and terror clutches my heart as I anticipate his next words. "I can stop John Watson, too." John looks down at his chest, where a bullet may soon follow the little red dot. "Stop his heart."
You just try. "Who are you?!" I yell, furious at my hapless position, and even more angry because I know Moriarty knows of it.
A squeak of a door comes at the far end of the pool, and a high, nasally voice to accompany it: "I gave you my number." I whirl. I know that voice. "I thought you might call."
Jim. Molly's Jim. Molly's idiot, no-good, son-of-a-gun Jim. Ha! I knew getting rid of him was good for Molly!
Focus. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket," Moriarty continues smugly, walking towards me, the goofy grin from before gone, "Or are you just pleased to see me?"
I pull it out. "Both."
The gun aimed at his head doesn't seem to faze him. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"
This guy's a psychopath, the instinctive, emotional, terrified side of my brain says.
How do you know he's not a high functioning sociopath? the ironic side answers bitterly.
"'Jim?'" Moriarty continues, impersonating me just to get my goat, "'Jim from the hospital?'" I steady my gun, not making a sound. Moriarty looks disappointed. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression?" Then he smiles, conceding to, "But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."
My eyes flick to the little red dot on John's chest, and, as if reading my thoughts (which really ticks me off, because I usually do that to other people) Moriarty gives what could pass as a snort. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle." He looks at my gun deprecatingly. "I don't like getting my hands dirty."
"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world." Moriarty shakes his head, somehow combining both "deathly amused" and "obscenely patronizing" into a single, distinctive look. "I'm a specialist, you see." He flashes me a cocky smile. "Like you."
My stomach tightens at being compared so closely to the madman.
Because, of course, I see now what he is. "Dear Jim," I say, comprehension and understanding shown through my voice, "please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"
Moriarty looks embarrassed, as if I were publicly complimenting him. "Just so," he says in a funny accent; then he giggles girlishly, as if he were exceedingly witty.
"Consulting criminal," I say, aghast and wildly impressed at the same time. "Brilliant."
"Isn't it?" Moriarty smiles a deranged smile. I glance at John, and the look in his eyes reminds that he does not approve of our little games—not if his life is one of them.
"No one ever gets to me." Moriarty stares me down. "And no one ever will."
I cock my gun, still aimed at his head. I won't miss. I never miss. "I did."
"You've come the closest," he allows. "And now you're in my way." Great. As if that song wasn't already stuck in my head. Maybe this is another one of his torture techniques.
"Thank you," I say, feeling rather flattered.
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
Nice try. "Yes, you did."
"Yeah, okay, I did," he relents, shrugging.
"But the flirting's over, Sherlock, daddy's had enough now!" Moriarty sings, still in that creepy, arrogant way of his. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play." He glares at me, as if I should be more appreciative of his sacrifices. "So take this as a friendly warning . . . my dear." His eyes suddenly turn cold. "Back off." He looks at me coquettishly, admitting, "Although I have loved this. This little game of ours." I know, it's so exciting. You kidnapping all those people, and manipulating Molly, and now John. "Playing 'Jim from IT'. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"
He doesn't get it. I didn't get it, before that fateful day where I met both the memorable pathologist and my bold flatmate, but being with John has helped me to realize so many things, not least of all the value of human life. "People have died."
He starts off singsongy, toying with me. "That's what people—" And suddenly his whole visage changes from a playful, foolish look to a sneering, red-hot one, and fire alights in his eyes. "—do!"
Moriarty's last word echoes around the pool.
I set my lips, determined. "I will stop you."
He shakes his head, as if I were being silly and juvenile. "No, you won't."
I can't stand it. I look to John, "Are you alright?"
John purses his lips, unable to answer me, and my blood boils. Moriarty creeps up behind him, putting his lips to John's ear and startling the hell out of him. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."
Nope. Not now. John stares at me, rebellious, and I save him. "Take it." I thrust the drive at Moriarty.
He looks intrigued. "Hmm? Oh! That! The missile plans . . ." He grins at me coyly, steps forward to take it, kisses it, and promptly tosses it into the pool. "Boring! I could've got them anywhere."
And John springs into action, taking advantage of Moriarty's back to him and seizing his neck. "Run, Sherlock!"
I take a second the recover from my shock. What does John think he's doing?! He realizes he's trying to sacrifice himself for me, right? Doesn't he know I won't even consider moving a step?
Moriarty, rather than being dismayed, seems to be enjoying this, which doesn't improve my mood. He laughs, "Oh! Good, very good."
"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, we both go down." I've never seen John like this, with that wild craze in his eyes—except perhaps when he shot the cabbie, in such similar situation as this—to save my life— in our first case together.
My heart thumps. We are at a standstill. Like the cabbie from what seems like so long ago said, this is chess, and it's Moriarty's move.
He takes his time at it. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around; but then people do get so sentimental about their pets."
John growls, rather like the dog Moriarty was referring to. I would pay good money to see a fight between him and Moriarty.
I thought we were on top. I thought we were going to win.
But then Moriarty made his move.
He continues, "They're so touchingly loyal. But oops!"
I can't see it, but by the astonished, terrified look in John's eye, I can tell there's a little red dot dancing on my forehead. I resist the urge to sigh as Moriarty, winning for the time being, sings, "Gotcha!"
John knows when he is beaten. He releases Moriarty and backs up with his hands raised, but I can tell he wanted to do far more.
Moriarty brushes off his clean, beautiful suit, looking at me with mock indignation. "Westwood!" He makes the same brushing motion, his eyes saying, Amirite?
I ignore him.
"Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?" Moriarty looks like he genuinely wants to know. I roll my eyes. "Oh, let me guess, I get killed." I think I put more sarcasm into those seven words than I've put into any other phrase I've uttered in my lifetime combined.
"Kill you?" Moriarty almost looks like he wants to laugh, but winces, like I just said something very stupid, and carries his expression into his tone. "Well, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonnakill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm just saving it up for something special." His voice indicates we were talking about returning borrowed books, not my life, and I marvel at how little other living, breathing humans being mean to him.
"No, no, no, no, no." His voice looses its jovial manner as he says, "If you don't stop prying . . . I'll burn you." He stares at me with those cold, dark eyes, flashing a warning that I daren't look any further, or I'll find hideous, gruesome things I don't want to see. "I'll burn . . . the heart out of you."
Images fly in front of my eyes, blinding me from everything else and suffocating me. Images of John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft . . . Molly.
Why Molly?
A wave of sorrow, one I have been able to easily surf all my life, suddenly overwhelms me and I wipe out.
If anything happens to the few people I hold dear purely because of me . . . no.
For one can ever be truly alone.
"I have been reliably informed I don't have one," I say smoothly, realizing with a pang that what people think isn't at all close to the truth.
Moriarty gives me a knowing smile. "But we both know that's not quite true."
It's awfully sad to think that a psychotic criminal mastermind knows me better than my own friends do.
"Well," Moriarty looks around, all Oh, goodness! Look at the time! I must be going. "I'd better be off. It's so nice that we've had a proper chat." He acts like this has been a causal get-together, making fun of the danger John and I are in, but underlying it all is a cruel mocking of our situation.
"What if I were to shoot you now, right now?" I ask, knowing the answer but unable to resist asking the question. Moriarty sighs, looking just like me when I have to deal with tedious, dull, boring, ordinary people annoying me. "Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face—" he imitates a dramatic look of shock—"'cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit . . . disappointed."
I am tempted to really shoot him, sick as I am of his clever little mind games, playing to the angle of which I am so ignorant—sentiment.
He smiles coyly. "And of course you would've be able to cherish it for very long." It would so be worth it, you asshole.
"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." I keep my gun trained on him as he walks towards the door. "Catch . . . you . . . later."
He's out the door before he answers in high singsong, "No you won't!"
The door creates a barrier between us and the lunatic with a conclusive thud.
I leap into operation. "Alright?" I demand of John, unstrapping the explosives as he lets out all his air and forces it back in again, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Sherlock . . ." I don't stop there, wanting to be done, finished, over with this horrible ordeal, stimulating as it was. I rip off his coat, the hideous weapon of his potential destruction, and fling it across the room, needing it out of my sight.
I'll burn it later.
I hurry to check the doors and windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rifleman and knowing I won't, as John recovers, stumbling down to lean against the locker, the shock and post-adrenaline crash setting in. I have no use for such impotent hormones, so I try to ignore them, marching up and down the tile.
"Are you okay?" John asks me, and I'm surprised. I wasn't the one who was kidnapped and strapped with explosives, okay?! "Me? Yeah, fine, fine," I say shortly, scratching my head with my gun while trying to think of how to thank him.
I couldn't quite compose my words—I had never really expressed gratitude before, but such a noble act as John's for such an unsavory soul as I couldn't go unacknowledged.
"That, that thing you, uh, did—offered to do—that was, that was, um . . . good," I manage, gesturing with my gun, and at a better time, I know John would've rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm glad no one saw that," he groaned, and I peer at him. "Hmm?" What? Was he ashamed to have tried to save me? Was I really that undesirable?
"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool—people might talk."
I grin at him, finally understanding. "People do little else."
He smiles back, and the relief that this situation is over is palpable. He tries to get up, but then—oh my God. The little red dot is back, and this time, he brought friends.
"Sorry, boys! I'm sooooo changeable!" I can hear how much Moriarty's enjoying this in his voice as he says, "It is a weakness of mine but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness.
"You can't be allowed to continue," Moriarty shakes his head, almost ruefully. "You just can't. I would try to convince you—" A laugh—"but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"
There's only one solution. I have the gun. I look at John, and he gives me a little nod. I steel myself, and turn to face Moriarty. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." I level my gun, and take perfect aim at his grinning face, wanting to pull the trigger so badly, but barely restraining myself. Slowly, meticulously, I lower the firearm to point at John's abandoned, explosive coat.
Author's Note: Wow! My chapters just get longer and longer!
I know this cliffhanger is cruel, but at least I don't make you wait two years for the next one (MOFFATISS!)! Plus, you knew it would happen, so . . . . anyway . . . I'll post the next chapter soon.
I know this one was kind of boring because it was all canon, but the next one will be entirely original. Do you guys want more John+Sherlock brotp? Because I totally friend-ship them.
Review! :)
