John followed Sherlock without question out of the theatre, ignoring the few photographers. Thankfully they hadn't yet caught wind of Sherlock pulling out. Tilly was still by them, anger and annoyance passing over her face.
"What the hell is going on?" she demanded angrily as Sherlock hailed a cab.
He turned to her, the lingering traces of fear still on his face.
He looked different, the street lamp casting shadows onto his face, giving him an eerie look.
His eyes fixed on her.
"I never entered this because of the dancing. That was just a downside to the whole thing. I did this to catch a consulting criminal. It was foolish, and I'm pulling out." he said calmly.
"But... Your scor-"
"I'm not interested in that." Sherlock repeated.
Tilly shot John a desperate look, but he shook his head.
"What was the text about?" she tried last.
"It was from the criminal mastermind. Now please excuse us."
John almost felt sorry for the girl as Sherlock practically dived into a cab, leaving her bewildered and alone. John climbed in after him, and the cab started off, leaving the building, dancing and press behind. Sadly not the fears however, and they sat in a tense silence for the whole trip.
"I was wrong." Sherlock said quietly.
"Mycroft was. Anyway, you've brought him back into action. Isn't that what you wanted?" John asked, slight bitterness tingeing his voice.
Sherlock made no reply, simply staring out into the darkness as the cab glided through London. The silence stretched on endlessly, until finally they stopped outside 221B.
Sherlock was faffing around on the doorstep, and it took at least two minutes to get into the flat. John ignored his muttering, stomping straight upstairs.
It hadn't been a great day. So far, his friend had pulled out of the nationally huge competition, a criminal genius had texted them, and said friend was in a bad mood, because he was trying and failing to take down said criminal genius.
He shoved the door open, freezing on the spot when he heard the all too familiar, chill-inducing voice.
"Why hello." Moriarty said, from his position on Sherlock's chair.
Immediately the detective was behind him, easily seeing over John's shoulder. There was deathly silence. A silence that had never been more oppressive, stifling and suffocating.
Moriarty was comfortably seated in the chair, though it had been turned to face the doorway. The TV was on behind him, showing the dancing show. But his cold, black eyes were focused on Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, absolutely nothing in his voice.
No fear. No coldness, anger or excitement.
"Why, darling! I thought you'd like to see me again. We didn't really leave on the best of terms, did we now?" that irritating, singsong voice chirped, sending shudders down John's back.
"I'm not interested in your games, Moriarty." Sherlock told him, pushing past John.
"Jim, please," Moriarty smirked. "And I wouldn't try making a break for it. Either of you. I have a sniper on the door."
Sherlock snorted softly, glancing round the room.
"It was stupid, incredibly stupid to enter that competition, Sherlock." Moriarty stated, voice serious.
There was no reply from the detective. John could see very little past him. Just Moriarty, and a tiny corner of the room.
"But where are my manners? Please come in." Moriarty snickered.
Sherlock didn't move for a second, then slowly entered the room, shrugging his coat off. John followed him, and they sat down on the sofa, Sherlock folding the coat over his knees. Moriarty's eyes narrowed for a moment, before he spun the chair to face them fully.
"Did you really think that would fool me, Sherlock? Did you really think dancing would catch me?"
No answer again. Sherlock was mute, hands 'absently' fiddling with his coat. John could see them moving closer and closer to his pocket, Moriarty not noticing as his eyes were clashing with Sherlock's.
"And you ruined my plan. If only you'd continued to run round London with your little pet. We'd have had so much fun. I believe there are several threats I have to carry out." Moriarty shifted, bringing a gun from underneath his leg.
Sherlock's only reaction was a quirk of the lips, though John could feel his own pulse speed up slightly as the weapon wavered between the two of them. Sherlock's fingers were now inside his pocket, and moving in a barely noticeable pattern.
"And I'd really hoped you'd be interesting Sherlock. I thought we were alike. But it seems not."
"Upon what evidence do you base this?" Sherlock asked.
"Really, do I need to answer that? You were stupid enough to listen to your brother. Stupid enough to think that I would take the bait."
"It seems you have." Sherlock replied, his fingers stopping, curling in his pocket.
"Only a teensy problem Sherlock. It seems I have the upper hand, wouldn't you say?" Moriarty replied.
There were three beats of silence.
"Maybe."
"Ooh, you begin to intrigue me. Does your pet have a plan?"
Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance, in which every movement was telling him to get ready.
His hand withdrew from his pocket, no lack of speed hiding the movement.
"What's that?" Moriarty demanded, uncertainty coating his voice.
"A little something from yours truly." Sherlock replied, tapping John's ankle.
The next eight events happened in a matter of seconds. It would be almost impossible to put them in order, as they happened almost at exactly the same time.
Sherlock drew his hand back, and at the very same time, Moriarty stood, gun still clutched in his hand. John readied himself as Sherlock threw his phone, jumping after it, and sending up a prayer that Moriarty wouldn't shoot him. The phone and John collided against Moriarty at almost the same time, toppling him.
While John was wrestling with Moriarty, several pieces of furniture toppling in the struggle. Then the window shattered, and things became even more hectic for an instant.
There was blood everywhere. And it wasn't from the smashed glass scattering all over the room. It was from the things that had smashed them. Police sirens were wailing. Somebody was shouting, and there was screaming too. All John could feel was pain. All he could see was blood. Blood covering the face of a consulting criminal, blood covering his hands. Blood covering the floor.
Right, I am hugely sorry for the even huger update! I was just a lazy git :p Now, I am sorry that this is getting a bit rushed, but there will only be one more chapter, as writer's block isn't making this easy. So, apologies again. If you've got the time, review.