It had only taken a day.
A day to realise they were not quite safe.
A day for the truth to emerge from the shadows.
A day for them to realise they were royally screwed.
"Sherlock..." John bends down and picks up a sheet of paper, eyes wide and popping. "I think you want to see this."
"Already have," Sherlock says, his voice wavering slightly. He holds a replica of the paper John's holding, and both boys swallow thickly. "How many..." Turning, they face out of the room and gaze down the corridor.
And the walls and floors are plastered with pictures of them making out.
"Shit," John curses, balling the sheet in his fist. "Shit, oh crap. What is... what is this?"
"It appears someone took a picture of us kissing."
John snorts. "No shit, Sherlock." His expression falls back into one of horror. "You don't think that this continues into the main building, do you?"
"I think that the perpetrator isn't that stupid. It would be futile to not showcase this where people can see it." Sherlock pales slightly, clutching his files. "It's in the canteen."
"What is?" John eyes him dubiously, shaking off the chill from the eerily empty corridor. "Sherlock? What's in the canteen?"
"The performance. His artwork, his move. It's a game, see. He wants to break me, and this is the first step." Sherlock massages him temple, still nursing a hangover. "It's in the canteen, his move."
"Who's move? Who would do this?" John runs his hands through his hair, pacing. "Who's been... stalking us?"
"We'll soon find out, won't we?"
"You said him." John stops, facing Sherlock and jabbing him in the chest. "You know who it is. Or at least, you have your suspicions."
"Correct." He nods shakily, scratching unconsciously at his English folder. "I spent long enough with James Moriarty to tell there was something dark about him." John's eyes widen, and he drops his hand to his side.
"Oh. Jim, yeah, I can see that." He places his hands under his armpits, chewing his lip nervously. "So, Mary and Irene know, don't they. That's the plan. I don't get a chance to explain to Mary, oh no, she has to find out in a bloody showdown!" John huffs, pacing again. "Right. Okay. Let's go." He takes off down the corridor, marching in a military like fashion.
"Wait! John, what are you doing?" Sherlock runs to catch up with him, careful to avert his eyes from the many sheets painting the hall- which is quite a task, mind you. "Where are you going?"
"The canteen. We need to finish this."
"Don't be ridiculous, you can't just finish this. It isn't how it works."
"Tell me how it works then!"
"We need a plan, we need to establish our move." He positions his hands under his chin and closes his eyes, sighing dramatically. John grits his teeth, struggling to keep it together.
"Screw this, I can't deal with your mind palace crap," he snaps, spinning on his heel again and locking his fingers over Sherlock's wrist. "This ends now."
"John-" the shorter boy shoots him a cold look over his shoulder, and Sherlock keeps his mouth sealed shut. They hurtle down the corridor with two very different expressions- one of fury and panic, and the other of assumed serenity, with a hint of silent fear.
When they finally reach the canteen doors, Sherlock doesn't have time to brace himself before John angrily slams into the wood and storms into the dining hall.
The eruption of laughter is instantaneous.
John listens to the hundreds of students cackle, his face expressionless. He regards them cooly, and Sherlock follows his example. John squeezes his hand reassuringly when the chants begin: "Faggots, dirty ball-sucking fags!" "You're going straight to hell!" "Just go kill yourself!" Sherlock flinches at the last one, feeling the strong urge to cut again. But he wouldn't do it, he promised John.
They endure this for several minutes, when John spots Irene and Mary clinging to each other near the other exit. Nodding to Sherlock, they head over, pushing them outside into the metal balcony and letting the wind bite into their faces.
As soon as the door swings shut, Irene's pained-victim facade falls to reveal a victorious smirk. Mary blinks at her, confused, as several tears slip from under her eyelashes.
"Sherlock, John, glad you could make it," Irene purrs, using her red fingernails to stroke Sherlock's cheek. Then, she raises her palm and strikes him hard across the cheekbones.
Sherlock, expression indifferent and uncaring, slowly rotates his head to face Irene again.
"Oh Irene, give it a rest. We know that you've known for a while, we have evidence."
"Evidence?" She taunts, jutting one of her hips forward flirtatiously. "Of I course I knew, Sherlock. I was very upset when Moriarty showed me the picture, mind you. The picture of you kissing, the one from several days ago."
"So this has been going on for a while?" Mary sniffs, facing John. "The whole time?"
"No Mary, please-"
"Do have a domestic later," Sherlock remarks, glancing breifly at John before turning back to Irene. "So he showed you the picture. I did think so. And of course, you were quite upset, as in love with me as you were."
"Don't be silly, Sherlock. I was never in love with you. It was all a game."
"No, Irene. I took your pulse." Sherlock smirks triumphantly when Irene pales. "You were distraught. And so Moriarty wrapped you around his little finger, drew you into an elaborate plan. You acted dumb, locked me underground and stole my virginity. You think I didn't see you take the pictures? I was on to you the whole time."
"On to me? Oh please," Irene snorts, waving her hand dismissively. "You had no idea how it would end. No one could foresee your make out session with Watson."
"Except Moriarty, it seems. Why don't you come out, Jim. I think credit is overdue."
The entire party turns to watch the mischievous Irishman jump from his perch on the roof. He slides down gracefully, hands automatically behind his back and gait naturally cat-like.
"Well well. Here we are then." His accent is thick as he drawls, each vowel long and arduous. "Give up?"
"I don't think so, Jim." Sherlock matches his posture, and John gets chills. "We both know this is just the beginning."
"Too right you are, Sherly boy. Something much bigger is coming."
"I'm sure."
Moriarty circles the four of them, as if sides were now irrelevant. "Go on, Irene dear. Do assist Sherlock in explaining to the-" he glances at John and Mary "-simpletons. How did we manage it?"
Irene's mouth curls into a snide grin. "Well, of course, when my hot boyfriend betrayed me," she begins, running her manicured fingers through Sherlock's curls, "I was offered something much more enticing. It was suggested I join a network, a web that's been around for years, for generations. Quiet intellectual Irish men has always been the key."
"They've been lying in waiting for a long time," Sherlock continues, hands clasped. "Plotting. The network was dormant for several decades, for the O'Connell household was discovered and extracted for Britain. You've come a long way, Jim. All the way from the USA, I'd say. Been hiding there, have we?"
"Quite right," Moriarty confirms, nodding in approval. "But I was tired of waiting, you see. I set my family up, had them shot. Used a fresh cadaver to represent my own body. Quite easy, really, to convince the government we were wiped out." Jim circles the group once more, licking his lips. "Changed my name and went back to Dublin for a month or two. Moriarty is much sexier, don't you think?"
Sherlock refuses to respond.
"I have networks everywhere, you see, Mr Watson." Jim lifts his hand to John, nodding along with his words. "In almost every school in Britain. But this one has been expanding in my absence, so I chose this place. It's a beautiful board for a game, wouldn't you say?"
John gulps, beyond terrified. Mary had instinctively shrunk into him, and John squeezes her shoulder reassuringly.
"But then I heard about you, Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty leans in so close that he abandons the concept of personal space and just breathes on Sherlock's jaw. "And the game became so much sweeter."
"So you got Irene to shag me in a shelter, so you could piss John off. You joined in yourself to satisfy your sexual drive, and then watched as John revealed his true feelings to my drunken self." Sherlock smirks as the information rolls off his tongue. "You couldn't foresee who would initiate it- I'm sure John's outburst came as a surprise."
"True, true. I did think you would be the one to stumble into the sentimental trap, with your intoxicated state."
"You thought those comments from the other students would hurt."
"Did they?"
"Of course not."
"You lie." Moriarty grins again, and it sickens Sherlock. "If Daddy found out, would it hurt then?"
Sherlock pales considerably, which John doesn't fail to notice. "How could you p-possibly know about..." Sherlock trails off, dazed. Even John didn't know about Mr. Holmes. "You won't get away with this. Or whatever you're planning."
"Won't I?" Moriarty teases, leaning against the railings. "Why ever not?"
"Because we have evidence," Sherlock says, brandishing John's phone.
"Oh evidence," Jim tusks, swiping at his phone and holding it to Sherlock's face.
The image showed Sherlock and Irene during intercourse, and was tagged 'For Headmaster'. The one underneath was of Sherlock and John kissing, and was tagged 'For Daddy'.
"Your evidence may be solid," Moriarty drawls, eyes glinting. "But our evidence is just plain scandalous."