As the sun set behind the tall buildings of the city, the group got out of their cabs a few streets away from the hotel. The sky was darkening, the first stars appearing on the dark velvet, bright shades of red and pink blazing behind the glass buildings in the distance. They approached the Dumort carefully, scanning the streets for signs of trouble. It seemed empty. Sherlock picked the lock to the side entrance, letting them in through the employee's entrance. Inside the hotel, the air was stale and dusty, blotchy wallpapers hanging from the walls in pieces, windows covered in a layer of dirt, turning the light from outside to a dusty brown. They followed the Detective into the main hall, were a glittering chandelier reflected the dim light, making tiny spots dance on the worn carpet. Here, the walls were black with ash, the furniture charred and the bitter stench of burned wood still lay in the air. A narrow staircase led them to the third floor, were the fire had also destroyed the elegant wallpaper and expensive décor, leaving only a dark corridor filled with ashes and dust. "Could this be any more cliché?" John asked, eyeing the charred walls with a disappointed expression. "At least Moriarty was more original with meetings." Sherlock grinned. He opened the third door on the right, as instructed by the note, revealing what had probably once been a luxurious suite. It was clear that it had been used for meetings before, the remains of burned furniture had been moved aside, the windows were covered up with old newspaper and a metal desk with fold-in chairs now stood in the centre, much newer than anything else in the deserted building. Aside from the improvised office, nothing else showed traces of a living soul having entered the room since it's destruction.
"Let's see, we need somewhere to watch the room without being discovered and with an escape route in case of emergency." Sherlock said, looking around the room. He opened a walk-in closet, inspecting the walls. "Ah, very good, it's got a small door for the cleaning service to enter, Mycroft, I think you and Greg will fit in here just well. Shouldn't be the first time you're hiding in the closet." Mycroft rolled his eyes and John chuckled. "How long have you been waiting to make that very terrible, very cliché joke?" His partner shrugged and inspected the remaining rooms.
He opened the bedroom door, were more furniture had been stacked up. "John and I can stay here. The window leads to the fire escape, that's good enough." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "The game is on!" John rolled his eyes.
The tight space and the stale air made Mycroft's head buzz and he regretted his decision to join his little brother on his quests. He certainly had never before taken this much interest in a case, not even as Moriarty threatened Sherlock's life. But something had changed in the dark rooms of Sherrinford and if Moran had anything to do with it, then Mycroft would make him pay. A nice side effect was, of course, that he was spending more time with Greg than ever before. The DI stared through the air slits in the door, eyes alert, his silhouette just barely visible in the darkness of their hiding place.
Mycroft wasn't sure if it was hours or just a few long minutes, but as his limbs began to ache and his head was heavy with drowsiness, footsteps echoed through the hallway and the door to the suite opened. He felt Greg tense, hand hovering over the gun in his holster. They held their breath, watching the newcomer as he stood in the room, arms crossed nervously, looking around the room in suspicion. The man was in his forties, though his face was lined with age, his graying hair unkempt and his eyes nervously darting between the door and the windows, as if he was planning a quick escape. With a dramatic creaking, the door opened again and in came an elegantly dressed man, swinging a walking cane in one hand, opening his arms in a mockingly friendly gesture. "Reginald, old friend!" He laughed, smiling broadly although his eyes were cold and hard. Musgrave glared at him with a mixture of fury and fear. "I am no friend of yours, Moran. Keith was my friend!" He growled. "I know it was you, you and your men. I saw the pictures on the news." A flicker of grief crossed over his features. "you that wasn't necessary, he wouldn't have told anyone! Keith was loyal! This is over! Whatever you are planning for that Holmes and his friends, I will have no part in it." The man's eyes blazed with rage, but as he was shouting, he took careful steps towards the window. Sebastian Moran smiled calmly, twisting the cane in his hands. "Oh my dear, I know he wouldn't have talked, the cops had him in for a couple of times and he was as loyal as a pup." He shrugged carelessly. "You have to understand, it was nothing personal. I had already disposed of the girl and it was all a bit messy so I had to start over. Your poor friend just happened to be there and frankly, I had no use for him anymore." His opponent hissed furiously, his face twisted with pain and anger. "You are a monster, colonel." Moran laughed softly. "Well, this has been fun but I have more pressing matters at hand. You have been quite useful to me but I'm afraid it's time to part ways." He moved aside in swift, dancing motion and the air was split by a deafening crash as the window shattered and a flower of dark crimson spread on Reginald Musgrave's chest. The body dropped face first on the floor, a pool of blood slowly soaking through the burned carpet. Moving as proud and elegant as a performer on stage, Colonel Moran danced over the corpse and opened the bedroom door. "I assume I don't have to explain the situation to you, Mr Holmes?"
Mycroft tensed, fear tightening his chest, his heart leaping against his ribs in pure panic as he watched his brother and John slowly leave their hiding place, their head and chest covered in steady red dots. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder and could roughly make out his partner gesturing him to stay quite.
Moran laughed merrily, spinning around in a dancing motion. "Oh what a déjà vu, isn't it?" He cocked his head to the side. "Don't you remember? Oh, well it's been quite a while and then again, of course you didn't see me but I was there, at the pool!" His voice was gleeful and excited, like a little child playing with his toys. "Mind you, I would have shot you on the spot. But Jim did like his games…" Sherlock stared at him, brows knitted together in confusion. Icy fear spread through his stomach, he forced himself to remain calm, struggling to keep his features set, trying very hard not to look at John. "You can have your revenge, Moran. Shoot me, torture me, I am at your mercy." He said, moving slightly to the window, trying to shield John from the snipers outside, his heart beating hard and fast. "Oh Sherloock" the colonel shook his head "that is adorable! No, no, no, I don't want to kill you, that's so boooring." The Detective squinted his eyes, trying to understand. He had been there before but he had known Moriarty, thought like him, been able to anticipate his actions. This man was strange and unpredictable. A different kind of madness.
Something changed in Sebastian Moran's eyes as he looked at John, who was staring at him with the courageous pokerface of a soldier. Raw pain flashed across the villain's face, followed by white hot anger. The dangerously calm performance was broken and he roared angrily. "You will suffer, Sherlock Holmes, I will rip your heart out and crush it to pieces!" He raised his cane, pointing it at John. "Can you imagine what it's like? The one person you love more than anyone else, more than yourself, the centre of your universe, gone." He spat bitterly and swung his weapon, breaking the glass behind the two men. Red dots continued dancing over their heads. Sherlock's chest tightened painfully, he took another step towards the window behind John, looking at Moran with cold, angry eyes. "I did not kill Jim Moriarty. He-" "I know what happened on the roof! I was there!" Moran hissed, "I was there, watching helplessly, doing as I was told. I was there, hoping and praying the plan would work out. I was there, watching him point the gun at his own head! It was you who should have died, your death not his!" Rage twisted the handsome features, the man seemed to be shaking with emotions and Sherlock noticed that his eyes were glistening with tears. "I loved him and he loved me and I was always there and then he was gone and there was nothing I could do. Nothing but watch." He gasped. "And after all that suffering, you came back and he didn't." Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy and immediately despised himself for it. Yet there was something about the honest emotions in his opponent's words that was both pitiful and terrifying in about it. John found his compassion to be stronger than his fear and anger. Memories of nights spend in terrible pain and loneliness washed over him. "Colonel Moran, I am so sorry for your loss," he said carefully, "Believe me, I understand-" "Don't you dare!" Moran shouted. "don't you dare pretend that you understand. Your feelings for him mean nothing! I watched you, John Watson, I watched you pretend to care and then marry the next available girl who happened to cross your path. You are pathetic!" "That is not true!" John said darkly, clenching his fists angrily. "You don't know the first thing about my feelings-" "SILENCE" The colonel screamed with such dangerous tone that the room seemed to freeze. He took a deep breath and smiled viciously, the eerie calm returning to his posture and voice. "I will kill you, Sherlock Holmes, and it will be slow and painful, watching your loved ones die before your eyes, and there is nothing you can do." In a sudden, unexpected movement he slashed the metal foot of his cane across John's face, Sherlock moved instinctively, wrapping his body around his partner protectively. Sebastian Moran left the room, walking slowly, swinging the now bloodied cane. "See you in hell."
John pulled his hands away from his face, cursing through clenched teeth, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm fine, it's okay." He gasped, getting to his feet. Sherlock glanced at him, eyes round with worry, examining the wound. A long gash ran over his cheek, the skin was torn and bruised but it wasn't deep and neither eyes nor nose or mouth were affected. The detective guessed it wasn't luck. Moran wanted to play this game by his own rules, letting them know it was him who decided their fate and there was nothing they could do. He kissed John's forehead softly, closing his eyes for a moment in a pained expression.
The red dots disappeared, telling them the snipers had gone and so had their attacker. For the moment, the danger had passed. "You can come out." Sherlock said hoarsely, looking at the closet door. Nothing happened. Silence fell over the hotel room. Nothing but Sherlock and John's tense breathing. "Mycroft?" Panic rising in his chest, he dashed forward and tore open the door. In the back of the room, light flooded through the servant's backdoor, now wide open. Greg was lying spread-eagled on the floor. John bent down, examining the DI's body as his partner dashed out on the hallway, calling frantically for his brother, footsteps echoing through the abandoned building as he ran up and down. The hopelessness in his voice hit John worse than any weapon could have done.
Sherlock's eyes were staring blankly ahead, his face pale and strangely empty. John sat next to him in the ambulance, holding his hand, a large white bandage covering his cheek. Due to his partner's state of shock and his own injury, the paramedics had insisted to have someone pick them up and make sure they got home safely. He felt guilty for not staying with Greg as he was taken to the hospital to make sure he woke up safely, but Sherlock was in a terrible state and he would always be John's first priority. Sergeant Donovan had been on the police squad sent to investigate the hotel scene and had agreed to stay with her co-worker instead. For the first time ever, she had looked at the Consulting Detective with compassion and kindness.
Wheels screeching, the flaming red car of their landlady pulled up in the driveway, causing the police officers to jump out of the way with angry shouts. Ignoring their protests, Mrs Hudson pushed them aside and threw her arms around Sherlock and John. "Oh Sherlock" She cried, "! I am so sorry! We will find him and we will make them pay!" A paramedic pushed the officer away from them, demanding space and rest for his patients. "Ma'am, you have come to pick them up?" Her arms wrapped around Sherlock protectively, Mrs Hudson nodded. "Yes, I will get them home if you don't mind." Without waiting for a reply, she gently pulled Sherlock towards her car, speaking softly. "Come on now, get some rest. I will make you a nice cup of tea and then we will all come up with a plan! Get in the car, dear, please. There you go." Stroking the tangle of black curls gently, she positioned him on the back seat, her face clouded with worry.