14-2

Sherlock turned another street corner, still not slowing, still determined. He would not let Moriarty get away with this any longer. He refused to tire, and refused to give up on his chase, he would find him sooner or later, either that or Moriarty would end up finding him. He didn't care either way, as long as this madness was dealt with. His fury with the criminal had burned intensely since this package he received, and the voicemail taunting John was absolutely the last straw. He would bring this man into his life, surround him by a whirlwind of crime-solving and passion, and have him murdered by his own hand.

He stopped at a crossroads, hopelessly turning around in circles, trying to rack his brain, searching for locations where he could find Moriarty. He kept reliving the voicemail in his head, placing the clues, he had come to the conclusion the criminal had called from an Asian restaurant somewhere in the city somewhere near a main road. He had been to seven in the past three hours all around the city, desperately scouring nearby streets for any clues. He felt hopeless as he stood on the corner of Bow Street racking his brains.

Never before had he been so frustrated, he wanted to roar his heart out and rip out his hair. A thought occurred to him, a fleeting idea. Just off the Strand just an incredibly small Thai restaurant, too small to be popular with tourists, but friendly enough to be a good enough haunt for the Thai community of London. He began to run in a southern direction, pushing tourists and the like out of his way as he went. He knew it was a long shot, the eight one he had taken today, but he had to try, he had to find a way to stop the madness. When the whole thing started, he saw it as a game, as a piece of entertainment, he didn't even think about the lives that were being lost while Moriarty and he played with each other. But after the pool, after John's life and his were threatened, it stopped being exciting and started to actually scare Sherlock. He didn't want to die and he would make sure it definitely wasn't at the hands of Jim Moriarty. He was a genius; some low life consulting criminal would most definitely not be the one to stop him.

Growing more frustrated with the sea of pedestrians he had to fight with he turned off onto a back-street. He was glad he knew London like the back of his hand, it meant he could navigate through the city a lot easier than most. He was only two streets away now, and he ran quicker, hoping and praying his enemy would still be there, or at the very least left some clues.

Just as he reached the edge of an alleyway, a burly fellow stepped from around the corner and stood blocking Sherlock's exit. He had no time for this, he turned on his heel to do a double take on himself, but again, found himself faced with a muscular man. He raised his eyebrow, taking a step and a glance back to assess the situation. Both men were of similar stature to him, a few inches shorter in height than him, but both were definitely much more muscular than him. Both looked mid-thirties, badly aged, manual labourers by the look of their shabby attire. A few things stood out though. The first was the look on the men's faces; the look of fear. He was sure it wasn't him causing such a reaction; there was nothing about him to threaten them. The rest of the clues made it obvious what was going on. Both men were wearing earpieces, along with large parka coats, with wires protruding out of the middle. Both had red dots pointing at their chests. Both were Moriarty's pawns.

"Don't be a coward, face me yourself," Sherlock shouted to the skies with a voice of steel.

It was the man in front of him who spoke, his voice quivering as he did so.

"Take my warnings. Stay away from me. People will die if you don't. People will burn."

Sherlock reached into his pocket, a vain attempt to grab his pistol. The second he moved his arm nearer to his coat, his legs were kicked from under him by the man behind. He was then dealt a swift blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of him. The man in front spoke again.

"This is a lesson. This is my game and you will stay away until I say so. Take this warning, detective and learn from it."

Both mean began to deliver blows to him, clearly instructed to do so if they wanted to save their own lives. Sherlock struggled, attempted to fight back, but he was no match to the men, becoming weaker with every hit. Every part of his body was being beaten, and he struggled to stay conscious as pain washed over him with every blow.

As soon as they had began, the two men stood up and walked away in opposite directions, leaving Sherlock lying face down on the cold pavement, spitting blood. He struggled to pull himself up onto his knees, falling more than a few times as he tried to do so. His body felt ruined, he knew his face looked a mess and several bones were broken. That's not what concerned him though, what bothered him most was that again Moriarty had bested him and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He gritted his teeth against the searing pain, and began to slowly limp towards the nearest road, with the intention of returning back to the flat for much needed medical attention.