A/N I am taking liberties with scientific fact regarding gunshot wounds and how long someone would stay awake/alive with one point blank to their shoulder. Suspend reality and pretend that Watson is as bad ass as I want him to be. Yes.

Chapter Two: Aria de Dolente

By: Sophie Quinn

Twitter: Quinnzical_

Sherlock was rarely surprised at anything, and less so was he ever caught off guard. He could see plans and plots coming a mile away with no significant warning, and would give himself ample time to prepare, react, and respond. How peculiar then, in that moment, that a simple text message would leave him standing shocked into a state of dumbfounded inactivity.

Dinner Tonight? 5 Glentworth St. 8PM. Dress Nice. JM.

The digital read out of the time on his phone gave him little more than twenty three minutes before the time he was to meet with Moriarty. The address specified was a fifteen minute drive by cabbie from his present location, and he certainly had no intentions of returning to Baker Street to dress nice. That gave him eight minutes, give or take, to think of something.

He turned his phone on its side and flipped open the keyboard, quickly pressing buttons as he pulled up various pages of information from the internet. A map of the area, a few links to city planning blue prints and then finally, his messaging program. He typed quickly before slipping the phone back within his pocket, his coat flipping out behind him as he made his way rapidly from the concert hall.

Four minutes.

….

5 Glentworth Street was the address of a fairly well known Chinese restaurant. Catering to couples seeking a romantic meal, or tourists looking for a fancy place to dine, it held back nothing when it came to décor, atmosphere and quality of the plates served. Sherlock arrived outside of its doors with a minute to spare and gave a cursory glance to his cellphone before he made his way inside. The lack of messages sent in response to his own caused a soft click of his tongue against his teeth, the only sign of his building anxiety.

"Sherlock." Moriarty nearly sung his name, drawing the detectives attentions away from the swarm of thoughts in his head as he found himself waved over to a quiet corner booth. A singular candle was lit in the middle, the soft glow sending sharp little shadows dancing about the walls. "So glad you could come."

Sherlock remained standing, a cautionary glance around at the other patrons of the dining hall. Though Moriarty had a flair for the dramatic, he made it painfully obvious that he didn't care for an audience. There were enough of them, lost in their trite conversations, to prevent any scene from occurring. Ever so quietly, radiating calm, Holmes turned his attentions back to the man sitting before him. "Where is he."

"Hm?" He raised a brow, taking a moment to sip from his wine glass. He savored the rich flavor, letting it warm against his tongue as he made a silent attempt at guessing the differing tastes. "In due time, Sherlock. Please, have a seat?"

"Where is Watson?"

"Sit. Down." Moriarty's gaze shifted from playful to full of malice in an instant, flicking back to boyish delight as Holmes hesitated for just a moment and then slid to sit across from him at the table. They remained silent, then, simply staring at each other. Mentally cataloging everything they could as the minutes ticked by.

"I've been a fan of yours for years, Sherlock. I've watched you grow, so to speak. All this time, perfecting your little gift. Catching bad guys, unraveling twisted strings and sliding the pieces of life's great puzzle into place." He took a moment to pour a second glass of wine, sliding it across the table. Sherlock merely dropped a glance to it, acknowledging it's presence before ignoring it completely.

"How many of your cases, the ones that give you that delightful little shiver after you've solved it, do you think were completely random?"

There was a pause and neither man moved as the waiter arrived to set a plate of cuisine in front the mad man. "None of them, Sherlock. Tokens of my adoration for you. My gifts, as they were, and I know you liked them. I know how much you enjoy figuring out the hints, the clues, working it all out in that beautiful head of yours. And that's all I really want, Sherlock. I just want to see you happy."

He grinned, motioning to the prepared meal. "I would have ordered you something, but I know how you don't like to eat when you're on a case. Digestion slows you down."

"Where..is Watson."

Moriarty frowned slightly, setting his fork down against the plate with such a startling clatter that a few patrons around them turned to glare. "Are you even listening?"

The surrounding conversations faded slightly, and both men paused to glance around. People were staring, people were listening. In the growing quiet, Moriarty let a heavy sigh fall from his lips before he retrieved his fork and gave it a light tap against the wine goblet. The ting of metal on glass echoed through the restaurant and Sherlock could do little more than raise a brow as every single person, both patron and employee, stood and silently walked out.

"There. That is better." Moriarty pulled in a slow breath, taking a moment to enjoy a rather savory piece of chicken. He left Sherlock to sit in uncomfortable silence while he ate, giving him no more than a casual glance as he reached for his wine and took a long, slow sip. "We are perfect for each other, Sherlock, and I think you realize it. Every one else is so dull."

"You're not my type." Sherlock mused, radiating disinterest from every pore of his body as he fought the urge to simply stand and walk out with the rest of the crowd.

"Hmm.. no, I'm not, am I. You like them a bit stockier, military trained, loyal." His lips curved with delight and malice, the wine glass lingering a breath away. "Bleeding to death."

Sherlock's cold exterior faltered slightly, his gaze snapping to Moriarty's own as the psychopath continued to eat his dinner in relative silence. His steely eyes shifted rapidly over the other man's clothing, searching for any specks of red, any splashes of crimson that would verify the statement.

"Where is Watson?" He demanded one last time, finding the lack of any response to be unnerving more so than the grin that stayed firmly curled at Moriarty's lips.

"Come now, Sherlock. We both know that you've already figured that bit out. You could tell the moment you saw me as to where I have been, and I have no doubt that you've used your extensive knowledge of the city to calculate locations I could have had him taken, both within radius to the concert hall and this restaurant." He shook his head, almost disappointed that Sherlock had chosen to feign ignorance. "Truly, the only question you should be asking is, if you've known this entire time... why have you been sitting here with me instead of rushing off to save the dying pet."

A singular tone sounded from the depths of Sherlock's jacket pocket. The sound echoing to the detectives ears like the heralding of angels. What worry flickered over his features faded, the half cocked grin on his lips reappearing as he flicked out the cellphone and glanced at the screen.

It contained a seemingly innocuous string of numbers, but it was what he had been waiting for. An address. THE address where John Watson had been taken and was waiting for Sherlock to come to his rescue.

"Why, indeed." Sherlock muttered, giving the vaguest of nods in Moriarty's direction as he turned to leave. "We are not finished, Moriarty. I will stop you."

"No, I don't believe you will." He shifted his napkin off of his lap, lightly brushing it at his lips. "You need me, Sherlock. You want me out there... giving you puzzles, making your life electric!"

The words faded as Holmes left the restaurant and Jim Moriarty behind him. His footfalls steady and swift as he began running down the streets of London. There was no time for a cabbie, the moments ticking by as he thought of one thing and one thing only.

Out there, John Watson was dying, and he simply had to save him.

…

There were moments when the burning fire of pain in his shoulder gave way to nothing. He could feel his body sagging against the wires at his wrists and throat, the thin metal cutting a little further as consciousness faded. He would jerk awake, some small part of his brain commanding him to continue the fight, some small voice demanding that he stay focused, stay awake, stay alive long enough for Sherlock to find him.

Sherlock.

The genius idiot. So brilliant and so daft, that every moment spent in close proximity had Watson wondering how he went about his life before being drawn into the gravity that was Detective Holmes.

Why now. Why now, at a time like this, am I thinking of him.

John pulled a ragged breath past his lips; fighting the cold, fighting the dark. He needed something to focus on, something to draw his attention away from how he felt and the fear that was bubbling up along his spine. He tried to focus his gaze on the room around him, trying desperately to force away the blur so he could count spots on the wall, or cracks in the floor.

What would Sherlock be thinking about if he was in this situation? Sherlock wouldn't be in this situation. Too smart, too clever to get himself kidnapped, wired to a post and shot.

Sherlock, Sherlock. Sherlock.

"Watson!" It came faint, distant and whispered at the cusp of unconsciousness. His name, shouted through empty hallways and vacant rooms. Yelled, in desperation, twinged with fear. He wanted to call out, to respond, to plead and beg to be found. He wanted to scream out Sherlock! and delight at being rescued at just the right moment when the seconds of his declining state made everything so perfectly dramatic.

But his voice was gone, his vision fading and the sound of someone yelling his name all too far away.

Sherlock.

….

He could smell the blood in the air, nearly taste it on his tongue as he ran through abandoned hallways, yelling for John Watson. Cold and empty rooms, every door slammed open revealed nothing but forgotten furniture and years of dust. He called out again, his own voice sounding foreign as it shook with uncertainty, breaking as the ticking seconds left him fearful.

There was one door left, one door at the end of a long hallway where the tang of copper permeated the air like a thick fog. The door beckoned him, screamed to him in the silence and Sherlock responded in kind by running all the faster. His heart leaping as his hand reached out to shove the door aside, John's name falling just short of a whisper as he rushed into the room and found himself lacking the ability to breathe.

The room, nearly painted with the brilliant red of blood, was empty.

Watson...