Warnings: PG13 (maybe PG14 if you're squeamish)
Previously:
Another wall slammed up behind them, trapping them in the passage. Sherlock jumped into the air, but something crackled and Sherlock jerked about before falling to the ground again. An invisible fence. No….John narrowed his eyes.
An electric net.
Bloody great. Just what they needed right now.
John hurried over to the quivering form on the ground and checked his pulse.
"Whoops! Sorry. I'm sooo changeable." Moriarty purred. "This is the second part, Sherly. You gotta choose which one you want to live.
The dogs were scratching on the other side of the wall on their left.
"Kill the other and then I'll open the wall. Your choice, Sherly. But remember…" Moriarty laughed. "Time's a-runnin' away."
"No!" Sherlock screamed. His dark wings spread out violently, black tips brushing against the walls. John almost feared he might try and jump for the electric net again, and stepped forward to grab him from doing such an idiotic thing. Which, of course, was when Lestrade decided to nab Sherlock's arm – the older man probably thought their young companion might hurt himself too. Needless to say, that didn't go over well.
Sherlock yanked his arm back, while using his left wing to launch Lestrade into the wall.
Self-defensive move, nothing else. John had seen it a hundred times with war prisoners. Couldn't stand to have anyone touch them, especially not during one of their meltdowns. Stupid, stupid. He had a medical degree, for heaven's sake! He knew this stuff. Why did his mind decide, now, to forget it all?
Crunch!
Lestrade's head connected with the stone. Snapped back and slammed into it. And then the man slide to the ground in a messy heap. A small trail of blood followed him down on the wall, leaving a crimson smear on the brutal concrete.
John throat constricted.
No. Came to mind first. Followed quickly by: Greg.
Sherlock froze, wings snapping in tight, and stared with wide, wide eyes. "G-Greg?"
"Ooooo! Sherly!" Moriarty sang over the speakers. "You made your choice so quickly."
John's legs unlocked. "Greg!"
He rushed over, as best his injured ribs would let him, and fell to his knees beside Lestrade. White light flashed across his eyes, his hearing went thin, burning pain ran all up his sides at the too-sudden motion. When the high-pitched ringing stopped and his sight came back, John pushed that all aside and felt Greg's neck with two fingers.
Please, please….Yes! A strong, though jumpy, heartbeat throbbed against his fingers tips. John closed his eyes. Thank God….
"He's…" John stopped. Moriarty wanted one of them dead. Demanded it, waited in anticipation for it really. John couldn't know if those hidden cameras were high-def., but on the off chance they weren't. Right. Time to put those grade school acting lessons to the test.
John took his fingers off and slumped his shoulders. "He's dead."
"Greg?" Sherlock whispered.
And, bloody Nora, John couldn't tell whether the brilliant, young man truly believed the lie, or only acted that way for the cameras.
Either way, Moriarty loved it.
"You did it, Sherly! You chose." The proud grin practically seeped through the speakers. "I didn't know if you had it in you, but…didn't I tell you, Bastion? He adapts. Just like I taught him."
John's breath hitched as his side flared up. The ringing came back, and he almost missed Moriarty's next words.
"But that was over so quickly. I feel somehow cheated, Sherly."
Great.
Just brilliant.
The man wanted more angst.
"Let's ramp things up a bit."
Of course he'd say that. Why not? Things had been a bit boring, as of late. Dogs secured behind the wall, Sherlock breaking, John hurt, and Greg unconscious. Why, all they were missing was some martinis. John grit his teeth until his jaw hurt. What he wouldn't give to get his hands around Moriarty's throat right about now.
That would 'ramp things up a bit'.
Sadly though:
"What say you? Should I let the dogs back in?"
Sherlock's upper lip curled and he snarled at the right corner of the room. Had to be where the camera was hidden. Of course, Sherlock knew where the bloody things was. Probably always had. A snap brought John back and he watched in fascination as Sherlock launched another, broken cement piece at the corner.
A tiny shower of sparks spat out of the upper corner.
"Really, Sherly? We're going to do this now?"
Sherlock growled, a low, bestial thing that promised so much pain.
Moriarty sighed. "Fine. But only because I feel it's in your best interests to learn something else today. How to lose. It's key, Sherly."
Oh, that was rich, coming from this man. John doubted he knew how to lose on his best days. He rolled his eyes.
"That wasn't very mature, John. Please stop scandalizing Sherly. Some of your stupid might rub off on him."
But how did he…? The camera's gone! Sherlock destroyed it. So, how did he…?
"Please, John, your actions are as predictable as America's butchering of the English language. I know your every move, before you make it. Besides, sarcasm is your defense mechanism. Or did you forget, we've spent some lovely hours together?"
As if he could forget. That time would be forever seared into John's memories.
John shoved that fear away. Not relevant now. He couldn't let Moriarty mess with his head, any more than he already had. This mad man would not win! So what if he could predict certain moves? He wasn't God, he didn't know everything. He didn't know Sherlock and John, thinking together. Moriarty relied only on himself to come up with things, and then sent people out to die.
That, John could use against him.
"Sherlock," John said, signaling the winged man over.
Sherlock inched over, almost as if he expected John to lash out at him. John stifled a sigh and loosened his stance. He had to keep in mind that Sherlock didn't deal well with anger, either directed at him or not – small wonder why.
"Sherlock, come here."
"Oooo! I'd be careful, Sherly. He's being nice. You know how well that always ends."
Sherlock froze and eyed John anew.
Safe. John signed with his fingers. You're safe.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes.
Greg, alive.
Sherlock jerked back a step, sucking in a sharp breath. His eyes darted to Greg's still form. John let him scan, let that big head of his do the math. It didn't take long. A feral grin, much like a sharks, spread across the thin face. John mirrored it.
Yes, that's right, he thought. We've got the upper hand now.
Plan? Sherlock signed, long fingers dancing.
Yes.
What?
Mental breakdown.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but a quick glance at Greg had him nodding in agreement. And this is where things got crazy…well, crazier. A fine line had to tread now. Make Moriarty believe Sherlock had snapped, while also getting them all out.
Piece of cake.
"Sherrrrly!" Moriarty sang. "You're being awfully quiet down there. Planning something with dear, old Johnny? You shouldn't have….wait, what do you mean he's here!"
John flinched at the raw anger in that tone.
"No, no, no! He wasn't supposed to find out yet. This isn't…no, wait…of course!"
And then silence.
Which couldn't be good for them.
Just what had happened?
"Sherlock?" John turned to the younger man. "Any idea what that might be about?"
"The Man."
"Ohhhkay than, that explains everything. Thanks."
Sherlock glared. Not safe.
Who? The Man or Moriarty?
Sherlock's feathers bristled.
Ah. He didn't know. Not for sure. Which…actually, made things harder. John couldn't plan on which party to go after now. This new one, or Moriarty.
Who was the bigger threat?
Maybe…
Bigger threat.
Sherlock hunched down, black wings folding in closer around him, and closed his eyes. John bit back a groan. Not again. He might not come out of this for hours. They didn't have hours! They might not have minutes.
But he's not coming out until he wants to, so let's be useful, shall we, John?
John scooted over to Lestrade's side again. The small rise and fall of the older man's chest confirmed him alive. A quick check of his pulse showed it steadier, but a bit jumpy. Not unusual for a concussion.
Be better if they could keep him awake.
No point in musing over that though. Move on, fix what you can, that's what John's TO had always said. Sound advice, that. John applied it now.
Right.
The list, as it was now.
Lestrade: Unconscious. Abrasion to the back of the head. Possible concussion then. Pulse steady now.
Sherlock: Thinking over their problem.
Moriarty: Off, presumably dealing with this 'Man'.
John, himself: Several ribs broken, needing a wrap….like that would happen anytime soon.
So, in short, they were royally in trouble this time.
So sorry this didn't come out in October, as I promised. I did have it done, but then life got in the way. I hope it still lives up to expectations.
Ten points if you can guess who "The Man" is.
Next update, should be near the end of December, maybe early January. *hides*