Hello at last, dear readers! I'm sorry about my long silence, but I've got a little breathing space now and am taking advantage! Thanks are due to Garnet Dark (don't be too scared!) Panther Fire and Nonimouse for their reviews (yes, Nonimouse, I am very cruel, mwahaha!) And thanks to all of you who have stuck with my story so far. I've just realised that it's been a full year since I began posting chapters! I guess I don't believe in starting small. But to celebrate, it's a nice long chapter, and it's also back to Team Sherlock, who are taking on Moriarty and Moran. So without further ado...
Warnings: still trying to keep it dark and scary. People start dying in this chapter, so be cautious if this bothers you.
From her perch atop the roof of the mansion, Raghnaid surveyed the grounds in queenly fashion. Griffins generally didn't bother learning to count above ten, so she had only a hazy notion of how many opponents she was up against. But she could tell she was facing far more than the seven she had killed during the first invasion of the mansion and its grounds.
Outnumbered – that was her main disadvantage. Her advantages were that, thanks to her darling John, she could fly, thus enabling her to reconnoitre the enemy and their positions and to pick them off from above. Also, she was vastly more intelligent than any of those imbecilic, twisted creatures. Outwitting them would be easy enough. And finally, Raghnaid was fighting for her family. Both of them – she would avenge her old family, her parents and brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces, and she would protect her new family. Her dear Sherlock and John, her beloved Mrs Hudson and funny little Ulysses.
Her sharp eyes picked out one of the dark creatures almost directly below her, snuffling around the walls of the mansion. Like a peregrine diving to snatch its prey from the air, she leapt from the roof, right onto the monster and crunch! The creature was dead. It had never even seen her coming.
Raghnaid's eyes gleamed with the thrill of the hunt. Silently she took wing, and swooped off in search of her next victim.
Martha Hudson made her way silently through the secret passages that riddled the mansion's walls. No-one, not even Sherlock, knew this great house better than Mrs Hudson. And certainly no-one could defend it as she could. She knew that Sherlock and Mycroft had dismissed and often disdained her magic, centred as it was on small and simple things. Cooking and cleaning and birds and plants and so on; the magic of a henwife. What they had never understood was that her magic also dwelt in such things as home and hearth and family. Deep, abiding, powerful things.
Moriarty was in the mansion, his creatures out in the grounds – and he must have brought reinforcements. Some of his minions would be here to run interference and to provide back-up if that horrible man needed it. Well, Martha Hudson wasn't going to stand for it! She would eliminate every single one of Moriarty's forces and the man himself if she had to, for the sake of her dear boys and Raghnaid, her dear girl. There was nothing she wouldn't do to protect her boys. She would maim, kill, curse, die…
Anything.
She recalled the plans for the defence of the mansion she and John had been working on and made her way to the first of the places he had cited as a 'key infiltration point.' John had had a hunch that Moriarty would dispense his minions to certain areas of the mansion, the better to gain control of the grounds and the building. First stop; back to the landing in the main hall. The two huge passages branching off from it led to every room and corridor in the mansion. Men would be stationed there to cut off any escape attempts and to control access to the rest of the house.
Mrs Hudson made her way to the hall and found the little peephole hidden in a painting of the countryside. The candles had been extinguished and the hall was in darkness. For an absurd moment she recalled that first, fateful night when John and his companions had come to the mansion seeking shelter, and she had stood alongside them all without being seen. Poor John had been so confused!
Then movement in the hall brought her back to the here and now. She looked intently through the peephole. Two men – both of them carrying big nasty rifles, wearing night-vision goggles, one facing the main doors and the other facing the stairs. They were very still, other than occasionally shifting their weight from one foot to the other.
Martha paused for a moment, working out her plan of attack. Her invisibility had all but worn off, so there would be no sneaking up on them as she had done with John et al. And she didn't have the fighting skills of John and Sherlock.
What she did have was power over this mansion and everything it contained. Everything – carpets, curtains, furniture, ornaments, the lights, the doors, even the wallpaper if necessary. And her birch tree out in the grounds, and the little birds that gathered about the kitchen windows to gather up the crumbs she scattered for them, and her knowledge of medicinal herbs and flowers…
And last but not least, her summoning charms.
Mrs Hudson grinned wickedly. She closed her eyes and had a short telepathic conversation with her birch tree out in the grounds. The trees of the woods and the mansion gardens had all been keeping watch on behalf of her and John, and the tree told her what she needed to know. Twelve men had been brought to assist Moriarty in storming the mansion – including that dreadful second-in-command, Sebastian Moran. And at least twice as many of the dark creatures that roamed the woods, but Raghnaid was taking care of them.
Mrs Hudson opened her eyes and pursed her lips. She let out a long, piercing whistle.
The men in the hall jumped and turned in circles, trying to pinpoint the noise – useless, it came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Eleven times Mrs Hudson whistled, one for each of Moriarty's lesser minions. Moran she was going to leave for Sherlock to deal with – her dear boy had insisted on that. Then she waited patiently, for her enemies to appear, unwilling captives to her spell, in the hall.
The two men already in the hall found themselves dragged to the very centre of the room, shouting and protesting all the way. Chuckling, Mrs Hudson extracted several lengths of thread from her pocket, and began working her knot magic, working so swiftly and deftly that even Sherlock would have been impressed.
Mrs Hudson worked fast. The sooner she got this rotten lot dealt with, the sooner she could go and help her dear boys and girl.
Another minion came walking down the stairs, trying to halt his progress and shouting a stream of swear words that would have blistered a battleship. Mrs Hudson huffed in offence – such language! She would have to gag the lot of them if this kept up. Her curtains were all in shreds where Moriarty had forced his way out of them – but the carpet had survived, and there were lots more in the mansion, all perfectly intact and nice and thick…
My, this was getting to be rather enjoyable. She hoped her dear boys were staying safe and managing to have a little fun too.
'Fuck!' Sherlock shouted, grabbing John's hand and dragging him out of the way just as a bullet screamed past their heads and embedded itself in the panelling behind them. They ducked back behind the corner they had just come around, John cursing as the mocking laugh of Sebastian Moran sounded in their ears.
'I see you both!' Moran called out mockingly, voice harsh and grating. 'I see where you're both hiding! And you're holding hands too – how sweet!'
'What the –' John sputtered incredulously, sparing a glance for his and Sherlock's interlinked hands. 'We weren't holding hands just then! How does he know?'
Sherlock risked a glance around the corner. Moran was wearing sunglasses, he perceived in an instant – but there was an unearthly, sickly silver glow about the rims of the glasses, concentrated around Moran's eyes, the eyes Sherlock had destroyed. Sherlock jerked himself back around the corner just in time as Moran let off another, scarily accurate round, and laughing scornfully as he did so.
'Damnation. He's got some sort of magic involving his eyes,' Sherlock muttered wrathfully. 'I can't tell what. He must be able to see through walls and other solid objects, though. Powerful stuff.'
John groaned. 'So what can we do? I don't have my gun with me, I left it back with Greg and the others –' Actually, John wasn't entirely sure what had happened to his gun – he had never claimed it back off Greg after the other man had retrieved him from the mansion. Perhaps Lestrade still had it, though John wasn't sure how much ammunition he was in possession of.
'Follow me, I have a plan,' Sherlock whispered to him, before raising his voice. 'Moran, if you want us, you'll have to come and get us! Come on you fat slug, let's see if you can keep up!'
John sighed in exasperation but tore off gamely alongside Sherlock. They made their rapid way through the shadowy corridors of the mansion, Moran in close pursuit and making a heck of a racket doing it.
'He…sounds…like…a…rhino,' John managed to gasp out as they ran, causing Sherlock to snort with laughter even in the midst of their danger. It was true – Moran was crashing clumsily through the mansion, heedless of anything that got in his way. John winced as some furniture was flung aside with a crunch of splintering wood. Mrs Hudson was going to have a fit when she saw the devastation.
They reached a narrow set of stairs well ahead of Moran, hurtled down them, through a short passageway, out through an unlocked door (which they barely remembered to stop and open) and into the gardens. Sherlock did not hesitate, but dragged John along towards the maze, slowly slightly to allow Moran to catch a glimpse of them and their destination… but only slightly. Given their enemy could apparently see through walls and other solid objects, there was no need to give him the advantage by falling right into his clutches.
'What…the…hell…are you plotting?' John demanded as they entered the maze and dodged right.
'We must – must… get to the centre of the maze,' Sherlock wheezed as they ducked through the various twists and turns of the convoluted yew hedgerows. Curse his lack of stamina! Had John not been with him Sherlock would have assumed beast form and covered the distance in seconds, but he wasn't going to leave John's side until Moriarty was obliterated from the face of the earth.
'There's… a… specialdenfensivespellatthecentre,' he got out in a rush before he fell silent and concentrated on running. Happily, he knew the quickest route to the heart of the maze intimately, despite the fact that the hedges had been known to shift themselves around and change the pathways from time to time, and a second or two later he and John arrived at their destination.
They halted – and an iota later Sherlock cried out in shock and pain as a bullet grazed his arm. John swore and flung himself on the ground, dragging Sherlock with him. From the depths of the maze Moran's mocking laughter sounded like knuckles rapping on deadwood.
'I see you, boys!' he called to them.
'Damn, he can as well,' Sherlock muttered. 'Ow, that hurts –'
'Hold still!' John hissed, placing his hand on the wound, the tingling warmth of healing magic already gathering in his fingers and across Sherlock's injured arm. A few moments later his arm and shirt, ripped by the bullet, were as good as new. 'There, sorted. Now whatever you're planning, get the hell on with it Sherlock!'
Sherlock rolled his eyes and crawled forward with painful slowness to the very centre of the maze. John sighed and leopard-crawled, army-fashion, to join him, moving with much more speed and assurance than Sherlock, who was grubbing at the grass in the central void of the maze with crazed intent.
'Mycroft planted a special defensive spell here,' Sherlock whispered to him. 'Not long after my – after our mother and aunt died. One of his first great magic workings, and very powerful. It's a great illusion, a terrible trap to spring against our enemy. It's designed to protect whoever spills their blood on this ground – not to worry John, it will only require a drop or two.'
'An illusion?' John whispered back worriedly, listening to Moran's yells of fury as he took a wrong turning. 'But Moran's had something done to his eyes that lets him see through solid objects – won't he be able to see through the illusion as well?'
'Oh – fuck!' Sherlock cursed, as the sounds of Moran making his way through the maze began to increase in volume. 'I don't know, maybe – but if Moran's got his eyes mended by the Erl King, then he might well be able to perceive every illusion I throw at him!' He looked at John frantically, seemingly at a loss.
John hesitated for an instant, and then made his mind up. 'Just do it, Sherlock. If it works, it works, if it doesn't, we'll improvise.'
Sherlock nodded, and extracted what he'd been scrabbling in the grass and dirt for. It was a medium sized lump of smoky quartz crystal, its planes and angles polished till they were smooth and gleaming.
'Crystal is very easy to imbue with magical properties,' Sherlock whispered in an aside to John. 'Now, what was that spell? Ah yes…'
He uttered a long sentence in what was recognisably Latin, though John could only distinguish a word here and there. Noctem, bellator, lucis… And though the crystal's external appearance did not alter, though it remained smooth and dark and shiny, John could feel the energy pulsing off it, pressing against his skin and sweeping over his frame.
The sounds of Moran's frenzied pursuit were very close now. He would be upon them at any moment.
Without warning, Sherlock grabbed his hand and jabbed him in the palm with something sharp – it looked like a scalpel. John briefly wondered why the hell Sherlock would happen to have a scalpel on him, then decided it didn't matter as Sherlock sliced his own finger and guided their respective hands to hover over the crystal, allowing a few drops of blood from both of them to land on it.
Sherlock would reflect later that the spell was a remarkably subtle one for a drama queen such as Mycroft. No explosions, no fireworks, no bangs, no sparkles… One moment it was just John and Sherlock, lying still and tense and the next they found themselves staring at two pairs of feet, one clad in a scruffy pair of slightly oversize trainers and the other wearing smart patent leather brogues.
They raised their eyes to find their mirror images looking down at them. Identical in every respect, down to John's borrowed garments and exasperated expression and Sherlock's pallor and messy curls. The Sherlock-mirage looked cool and contemptuous; the John-mirage looked rather quizzical. The illusion spell had recreated them exactly, to the minutest detail.
'Gods, I had no idea I had such a large nose,' John murmured, impressed. 'My hair looks okay, though.'
'Oh, Mycroft,' Sherlock breathed, pushing himself to his knees and regarding his duplicate with an awed expression. 'I'll never call you fat again. Well, I will but I definitely won't do it as often as I used to.'
The Sherlock-mirage rolled its eyes in a perfect imitation of the true Sherlock and grabbed for the John-mirage's hand, before looking back down at Sherlock, evidently waiting for directions. Sherlock tugged John upright, before pausing to ascertain where Moran was – only a couple of hedgerows away now – and then whispering his instructions.
'Go. Run. Distract him!' Sherlock hissed, and the Sherlock-mirage led the John-mirage away, disappearing round the nearest yew hedge with alacrity. A moment later Sherlock and John, still crouched in the very centre of the maze, heard a triumphant yell from Moran and the sounds of his pursuit, at last, began to fade as he moved in a contrary direction. Sherlock stood, pulled John to his feet, then whispered 'keep low!' and led him off in a contrary direction, following the twisty-turning paths of the maze with utter surety.
They emerged from the maze to the sound of gunshots.
'Quick!' Sherlock murmured urgently, and together they ran towards John's oak tree. They made it and ducked behind the thick trunk, the tree rustling its leaves in welcome. John laid a hand against his friend, smiling as the tree's feelings made themselves known to him. Anxiety on behalf of him and Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, determination to thwart the dark magicks threatening them, excitement at the unusual goings-on, perturbation at the beasts roaming the grounds…
Suddenly alarmed, John glanced round for any sign of Moriarty's monstrous minions, but this section of the mansion gardens was still and quiet. He hoped Raghnaid was keeping them occupied successfully and that the fight wasn't too difficult for her on her own.
'There he is!' Sherlock whispered to him, drawing John's mind back to the here and now. John peered carefully round the trunk to see their duplicates running across the lawn in serpentine fashion, Moran following in hot pursuit. He had doffed his sunglasses and John saw with horrified fascination that his ruined eyes had been gouged out and replaced with what looked like silver balls, soldered into his head. They were large and round and gleamed with sickly shiny light, reflecting all that Moran saw in twisted, warped fashion.
'Ugh,' John winced. 'He looks awful.'
'My reaction exactly,' Sherlock answered, pulling a face. 'Those new eyes were presumably gifted to him by the Erl King. No wonder they can see through solid objects – they were created by darkest magic.'
'So why has he been fooled by the illusions?' John asked curiously. Sherlock grinned wickedly.
'The blood – for that spell to work, it requires a few drops of blood from those it is meant to protect,' Sherlock informed him. 'Mycroft did not tell me the exact nature of the spell, presumably the illusion varies depending on the threat being faced down. But the blood gives life and substance to the chimera – Moran can't tell the difference between them and us, because they have life. Only a very little – they won't last for longer than a few minutes, half-an-hour at most. But enough time to let us get the better of him.' This last statement was made with a wolfish smile, and John felt its echo stretching across his own features.
'So what now?' he asked eagerly. Sherlock looked thoughtful, running through a mental review of what spells and magicks could be employed against Moran. What wouldn't the vicious brute be expecting, what would he be unprepared for?
Small and simple magicks, his mind informed him smugly. Knots and weather and trees and birds, the things your mother taught you, the things Mrs Hudson knows about, the things John understands.
'I'm going to call in the cavalry,' Sherlock whispered to John. 'I've been learning bird-speak off Mrs Hudson and Ulysses, and I know how to ask the birds for help. Specifically, the owls.' He took tight hold of John's hand and squeezed. 'John, get ready to act as bait. You'll be safe, don't worry, Moran won't risk hurting you and incurring Moriarty's wrath. Just step out and allow him to see you, and then hold steady.'
John sighed. One of these days he'd be able to do more in a magical fight than just act as a lure for psychopathic ex-soldiers.
'All right, Sherlock, just tell me when,' he said dutifully. Sherlock gave him a brief nod, and then took a deep breath.
The sounds that Sherlock made then could not possibly have come from a human throat, John realised dazedly as he listened to them. They were the hoots and screeches of an owl, alternately low and high-pitched, frantic and fast. And to his utter astonishment he could make out a few sounds that he recognised – words like speed, prey and hunt. Concepts an owl could understand.
Sherlock finished his call for help, and immediately answering hoots and whistles came from every shadow and every tree – there were even a few cries from directly overhead as owls responded as they flew noiselessly about the mansion gardens. Understanding the owls' replies was harder than comprehending Sherlock's words, but nonetheless John could tell they were answering in the affirmative. The owls were going to help them.
He nearly missed Sherlock's instructions to him, spoken as they were in plain English. 'Right, John – go now!'
John bolted across the lawn, his own ordinary human eyes seeking out his and Sherlock's doubles, or better yet, Moran himself. It took only seconds for him to spy the ex-soldier, his warped face sharp and intent as he pursued the false lure created for him.
'Oi, moron!' John yelled. 'Over here!'
Moran's head spun round so fast he ran the risk of whiplash. The look on his face – what it was capable of, now his eyes were gone – was absolutely priceless and John felt a ridiculous grin stretching across his features.
'Yeah, that's right, we fooled you!' he shouted to Moran. 'Well, if you want me, come and get me!'
Moran stared in utter shock at the mirages, who had come to a halt nearby with shit-eating grins on their illusory faces. The Sherlock-mirage glanced briefly in John's direction and dropped him a wink – and then they both simply faded from existence, just like smoke blown away by the wind.
John snickered. Moran spared him one contemptuous glare before baring his teeth in a snarl and charging off in his direction. John ran once more, heading instinctively towards the mansion. He managed to reach a small patio outside a set of double glass doors before a bullet whizzed past his ear and shattered one of the panes. He recognised the shot as a warning and came to an abrupt halt, spinning on his heel to confront Moran.
Moran was grinding his teeth in frustration, but John knew that the other man would not allow his anger to get the better of him – there was no point in trying to provoke him, as Sherlock had done with Moriarty. Moran was too professional for such high-jinks. John hoped Sherlock and the owls he had asked for help knew what they were doing.
'Freeze, Watson!' Moran barked. 'Hands in the air, where I can see them! Right, good boy. Now, where's Holmes?'
'I'm not sure,' John answered with perfect honesty. Moran scowled, and then, to John's horrified amazement, those round silver eyes swivelled in their eye sockets to look through the sides and the back of his head in an attempt to perceive where Sherlock was lurking. His search must have been unsuccessful because after a moment or two he fixed his metallic unnatural gaze back on John.
'I'm not to kill you,' he said, voice as cold as frost, as the silver that formed his new eyes. 'But that's all the instruction I've been given. You're going to be begging for me to end you, by the time I'm done. Soldier or not, no man can withstand as much pain as you're going to be in very shortly.'
'Have at it, then,' John answered him boldly.
The coldest of anticipatory smiles snaked its way over Moran's features. John gulped despite himself.
It was then that the first soft twit-twoo sounded nearby.
John looked up, mouth falling open in shock.
Owls gazed down upon them from the window ledges of the mansion, from the branches of a nearby clutch of rowan trees, from the stone balustrades of the patio. There were barn owls, tawny owls, little owls, long-eared owls, and tawny owls. One tawny owl winked impishly at John, and his heart gave a little leap of gladness as he recognised Ulysses in amongst the masses.
John tore his gaze away from the owls and back towards Moran. His enemy had all but forgotten John's presence, and was staring at the owls in foreboding.
'What the fuck?' he said, very quietly. The owls glared at him, their eyes as sharp and gleaming as Moran's metal eyeballs. One or two of them hissed threateningly. John shivered, able to sense the bloodlust gathering and building amongst them.
Moran flicked his rolling metal eyes from side to side, reconnoitring the enemy. Whatever he perceived, it must have frightened him, because, almost of his own volition, Moran ceased to aim the gun at John. He flicked the safety back on, and crouched to lower the weapon to the ground at his feet. Then he straightened, holding his arms out to the side, hands open wide and empty.
'Look,' he said almost beseechingly to their wise, solemn audience. 'I'm not going to hurt him, right? I won't touch him. You can all go now. There's no need for this to turn nasty. He's yours.'
Ulysses spoke then, the tweets and hoots forming themselves into words in John's intently listening ears. Yes. He is ours.
Then a great barn owl whistled once – just once.
It was a signal. As one, the owls spread their wings and launched themselves towards Moran. Swiftly and silently they stretched out their claws to grip him, landing on his head and arms and body and legs. Within seconds, Moran was entirely covered with owls, not a patch of skin or clothing visible through the cloaking feathers. And for an iota, nothing moved, nothing made the merest susurration of sound. John stood motionless, gazing at the feathered outline of a man, standing there with arms outstretched.
And then, with a flurrying flutter of wings, the owls dispersed and flew off into the night – save Ulysses, who flew to land on the stone balustrade near John.
And where Moran had stood only seconds previous, there was nothing. Nothing at all. Just the harsh clinking of his silver eyes falling to the paving stones, bouncing, rolling, and coming to rest. Moran was gone, and not a scrap of flesh or clothing or equipment remained of him. Only the metal eyeballs, rolling wildly where they lay on the stone flags.
John stared. And then he began shivering, and could not stop. He stood there, in the grip of a great coldness, sensing darkness and ferocity and a great anguish lurking out there in the night, in the shadowy secret places of the world, waiting, waiting, for it had all the time in world, indeed it had all that was left of eternity, waiting for its next victim.
And then he felt Sherlock's arms around him, holding him, comforting him.
'Good work, Ulysses,' Sherlock said to his familiar. Then: 'It's all right now, John,' Sherlock murmured to him, one warm hand coming up to caress John's face, which was as cold as though it had been coated with hoarfrost. 'Moran's gone. He cannot hurt you.'
That was true – but John still shuddered. He shot a look at Ulysses, who gazed back unblinkingly. Suddenly, John recalled stories he'd read or heard, about how in many cultures owls were harbingers of misfortune, that they were familiars to dark witches or were human souls returned from the realms of the dead, about how the owl that calls upon the night speaks the unbeliever's fright.
'They didn't just kill him,' he said to Sherlock, still staring at Ulysses. 'They tore his soul apart. I could sense what happened to him, what was waiting in the shadows for him, a great darkness and coldness.'
Startled, Sherlock turned his head to gaze at Ulysses himself. The owl shuffled his feet a little, but gazed back unabashed.
Sherlock began to shiver a little himself. He had not considered the fate of Moran's soul – he had only requested that the owls avail themselves of a choice morsel of prey, a malevolent, overgrown rat that was threatening the home of generations of magicians, many of them friends and companions to owls. But the owls, sentinels, messengers and hunters, apparently could do far, far more than simply kill.
To believe such things are but small and simple magicks… What fools we Holmeses are, Sherlock thought, pulling John closer to him and trying to transfer his own warmth into John's frozen frame. And how wise Mama and Aunt Cerridwen and Mrs Hudson and John are. Small and simple things, so humble and yet so powerful…
A savage howl from one of Moriarty's twisted beasts alerted Sherlock to the danger they were in. Cursing, he released John and scooped up the metal eyeballs that were still rolling about the patio and tucked them into his pocket, before righting himself –
'Sherlock.'
He righted himself and turned to face John. No, not just John.
Moriarty stood next to his beloved, one hand on John's shoulder, the other outstretched towards Sherlock. John, sensing his danger, was standing absolutely still, wary of provoking the madman. Ulysses hissed and spat in anger, but did not attack.
'Very good, my dear,' Moriarty told Sherlock, and despite his mocking words his face was sombre, his voice serious. He was unnerved by Moran's swift and unexpected death; Sherlock could deduce that much. 'Most impressive. You've grown very powerful. But the flirting's over, Sherlock; daddy's had enough now!'
'Let him go,' was all Sherlock said. But the look in his eyes was such that for an unsettling moment, he bore more than a passing resemblance to Ulysses, to the other owls, to the Lorelei, had Moriarty but known it. He wanted, with a purity of intent unknown to most of humanity, to see Moriarty dead at his feet.
Moriarty did not falter outwardly, but the merest scraps of his remaining humanity, lurking somewhere in the dregs of his being, felt some of the fear that had tormented him in the presence of the Erl King. But he carried on, because he had come too far and lost and sacrificed too much to stop now.
'Never!' he crowed manically. 'It's time for the big showdown, Sherlock! Let's doooooo it! Catch us if you can, darling!'
And with that, he snapped his fingers and he and John disappeared in a puff of thick theatrical smoke. Silence reigned, leaving Sherlock and Ulysses standing stunned and bewildered and more than a little frightened.
'John? John!' Sherlock cried, whirling round futilely, scanning the dark for his nemesis and his love. On the balustrade, Ulysses was doing the same, head swivelling like a top as he searched for them both. But they were vanished, gone.
The world began to crack apart for Sherlock. Sherlock had lost his one true love, lost John to the most horrible fate –
'Ouch!' Moriarty yelled from somewhere near the copse of oak trees. 'You little sod! That hurt!'
'I'll break your other kneecap in a minute!' John shouted back. 'Sherlock, you stupid bastard! Get over here and help me with him!'
The world un-cracked itself. John was putting up quite a fight, from the sound of things. He must have taken Moriarty by surprise.
Unbreakable indeed. And so, with a wry grin, Sherlock did as he was ordered.
Author's Notes: Well, that's Moran down, but what about Moriarty? You'll have to wait to find out, sadly...
'The owl that calls upon the night/ speaks the unbeliever's fright' is from William Blake's Auguries of Innocence.
Credit where it's due - and this contains a SPOILER: I was watching a film with my little cousin (the same one that sparked this crazy story off in my head!) called We're Back! A Dinosaur's Story, which is a bit daft... but which had a truly bone-chilling demise for it's villain. Needless to say, that's where Moran's death is taken from. Sorry for spoiling the film for anyone!
Till next time, dear readers!
