So, everyone has their take on "The Great Game." Well, here's mine! I thought of it before season 2 came out, but of course never got around to finishing it until recently.
The first part of the story is from the episode, specifically the dialogue. I needed it to set up some things. However, there's a lot of Sherlock's thoughts and observations, so hopefully you guys won't be bored. ^^;
Don't own Sherlock. I am, however, allowed to dedicate this to the friend who got me addicted to the show. :D
Enjoy!
The temperature of the air was warm. It wasn't unbearable, but Sherlock could not get rid of the feeling of his clothes dampening in the humidity. The lighting was decent for the actual pool area while the balcony that surrounded it from above was bathed in shadows. The hint of lights originating from within the water managed to send a little of the darkness back. The water itself was disturbed by some sort of motion that was set off about
(wave height low range whole pool)
an hour beforehand, at most. The red and blue colors of the curtains that circled the pool, hiding whatever they could in the small pockets of space, shown with brilliant vibrancy.
His steps were careful, even, and deliberate. The sound of the echoes they made filled the walls. They became softer as his hands contained their movement to simply holding each other behind his back. The ladder out of the pool was just within his reach before he turned his back to the room.
(one last chance
need to know identity
too little to go on find out now)
"Brought you a little 'get to know you present.'" Sherlock's arm shot out, his hand holding the precious memory stick that had recently cost a life. His foot pivoted his body around so he was able to see the rest of the room again. "That's what it's all been for, isn't it?"
There was a small pause in his words. A vague hope within the consultant detective believed that pride would finally get the best of Moriarty. That brief trip-up would give Sherlock not only an identity but a chance to win once and for all. But it was a hope at best, as Sherlock knew that a man who created all of the challenges would not simply fall apart with the goal in view.
"All your little puzzles-" He couldn't help but emphasize the word. He knew that they both thought of the challenges as a game, the lives at stake nothing more but timepieces and wagers. "-making me dance. All to distract me from this."
In truth, Sherlock didn't really believe that Moriarty wanted the plans. Andrew West was not the only man to have a copy of the work. There were easier, more efficient ways to obtain the plan that would have gone unnoticed for months, if at all. Even if his death was a mistake by another's actions, Moriarty would have been able to swoop in and make his presence invisible. There was no need to create such a diversion for something that could have gone unnoticed.
Sherlock turned back to the wall again, waiting. It was becoming a nuisance to keep up with the other's theatrics. The detective was not known for his patience. But he kept his movements steady, caring to note his settings
(paint peeling off moisture fifteen twenty years budget low passing years)
before boredom took control of his actions.
The light coming from the doorway and reflecting off of the wall came before the noise of the metal lock pierced the growing silence. Sherlock's gray eyes quickly brought his attention to the location of the source. The sight of the parka emerging from the obscuring wall never got a chance to be analyzed
(slightly worn old worn hadn't used for few years)
fully before he saw the face.
(John)
Sherlock could feel his frame stiffen at the sight of his flatmate. John had a blank expression while staring back at him.
(no
would have noticed doesn't add up how could I miss
no)
"Evenin'." The greeting lacked any emotion beyond the bare minimal that was needed to say it. The doctor's face seemed hardened by the serious nature of their meeting, his mouth resting as a thin line. The gaze that looked at Sherlock was steady, unwavering-
(daring?)
"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" The words were still emotionless. Sherlock's mind couldn't help but note the lack hatred and superiority that he was expecting.
"John?" The question slipped from his lips before he realized what he was saying. "What the hell-"
"Bet you never saw this coming." It was a side to John that Sherlock had never thought existed. Somehow, it didn't make sense to have such an expression overtaking the doctor as if it belonged. The detective couldn't understand the solemn mask, even if John was
(impossible)
Moriarty.
Sherlock took a few careful steps forward. There was something
(glee why John?)
in the doctor's eyes that seemed to dance, despite the bad lighting. It took the detective a moment to force himself to concentrate on the other man. There were emotions
(anger betrayal fear curiosity excitement)
bubbling within the pool of his mind, distracting him from the analytical side that was pushing to find an answer. It took all of his willpower to contain himself. His allowed his movements to be confined within the few short steps he took. It was too much.
(ear bud going around from back
thank God)
John's hands, which had taken to occupying a pocket of the parka each, shifted and took their end of the coat with them. A hint of the bomb revealed itself through the space between the two parts of the zipper that had been left open. Gloved hands came out of the pockets to move the parka away fully. There were six bulging items attached to the black vest that John was wearing, and Sherlock assured himself that even an idiot like Anderson could tell that it was a bomb. A red dot flickered onto the older man's chest. It was another thing that didn't take much for Sherlock to understand. He made a silent note on how Moriarty managed to keep his victims from moving about.
"What. Would you like me. To make him say. Next." The wording did not flow well. Obviously, Moriarty had taken his time in making the sentence, and John had repeated it in the same manner he had received it. It did make the man's work sloppy, but did not manage to deter the fact that he was incredibly efficient.
Sherlock took more steps forward. This time he didn't care for the size or noise, reverting to his usual walking pattern. His head turned to the right, searching through the darkness for another form. He swung his head the other way when it proved to be fruitless.
"Gottle o' gear," John parroted. Within another few seconds, he repeated himself.
It was at the beginning of the third repetition of the phrase when Sherlock interrupted him. By then, he was walking backwards while examining the door and wall that was previously behind him. "Stop it." He let out a slight sigh before continuing to walk towards John. Knowing that the silence he brought upon could only last a second or two at most, he forced himself to focus upon their settings. The weight of John's gun was pulling on him. Whether there were enough bullets
(thirteen rounds)
to take out John's captors
(Moriarty has more guards not stupid wants to win)
was another weight carried by the metal. Sherlock tried not to think about it.
"Nice touch, this. The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him." John paused, his head titling at an angle as his features scrunched. Sherlock waited for the unpleasant words, guessing what the criminal on the other side of the microphone was saying. "I can stop John Watson too." The doctor cast a glance at his chest, his eyes focusing on the red dot of light. "I can stop his heart-"
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, turning around as he did so. His patience had depleted with each of the sentences his flatmate was forced to say. There was never enough focus upon the mouthpieces of the puzzles simply because Sherlock knew there was no information to be gained studying them. Moriarty cared only for the puzzle, after all. But it wasn't the same with John. The man was
(friend)
a puppet, reduced to parroting what the grand mastermind was telling him. The veteran was fully aware of it too, forced to allow himself to prostitute his voice in repayment for his life.
The metallic screech of another door, positioned farther down the pool, contaminated the air before a voice got through. "I gave you my number!"
(him)
The sentence filled the consultant detective's mind and began to tug at bits of information. A memory managed to follow. He could hear his own voice explaining to John how the detective only stored information he deemed as important in his mind. What was never said came afterwards: there was little that Sherlock ever deemed as "unimportant." Even the fact that the Earth goes around the sun
(bloody useless)
was stored, although it was hidden behind more pressing issues. Information about what he recalled of the man that Molly brought into the lab filtered into his mind so well it almost filled his senses of that day. There had been a distinct smell of the chemicals and remains of the dead that always sat in the room. There were few deviations of the monotonic color scheme, including what the man
(Jim)
wore. The high pitch clatter of the metal tray slipping to the ground was a nuisance, yet well placed.
(was able to hide quite well
well played Moriarty)
"I thought you might call." The last word was drawn out in the ridiculous tone, begging Sherlock to react to the mocking. The detective was proud that he was able to keep some level of patience within him. He had thought that his patience was gone, but the revealing of a man possibly as smart as he was
(good challenge puzzles the like keep me occupied keep away boredom
game's up)
had renewed his interest.
The detective's gray eyes searched the source of the voice. It landed upon Jim, the supposed technician from Scotland Yard, as he walked into view along one of the sides of the pool. He was wearing a suit
(Westwood very pricy obviously well off bombs cost quite a bit cares for his appearance still possibly gay
not worn but has more comfort in them than casual clothing
face contorted angry hurt
pain?
too far away to tell accurately)
and had graced his face with features contorted slightly to his mood. There was something about what people would call his "aura." It wasn't… right.
"Is that a British Army Browning L-nine-A-one in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" Moriarty asked, his voice dripping in a triumphant smile. It brought Sherlock's hand to the gun, the cold metal greeting his touch. It felt natural to bring it out and aim at the man.
"Both." Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, the detective saw John's eyes widen at the action. The man had obviously thought that Sherlock had come to the meeting without any forms of protection. It was an understandable assumption, but a wrong one nonetheless.
A silence settled back into the room for only a few seconds. It soaked in the heightened atmosphere, granting the detective the knowledge that the other man was enjoying the wait. It didn't take too long for the criminal mastermind to provide a response.
"Jim Moriarty." After a moment, he added a pitch to his voice and said, "Hi!"
There was another moment of silence that filled the room with only the sounds of the water against the sides of the pool. It was pure interest that kept Sherlock from pulling the trigger. There was more incentive to keep John alive.
Moriarty began to walk. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" It sounded as if he was talking to
(not unlike me)
himself. Sherlock's left hand shot up to steady his aim, the barrel of the gun following Moriarty's movements as he came closer. "Huh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But I suppose, that was rather the point."
John moved for the first time since he stopped being Moriarty's mouthpiece. His eyes cast a glance at Sherlock, which the taller of the two returned with a jerk of his head. There was nothing that needed to be said; somewhere within the time they had spent together, they had developed a code between them. The younger had thought it was one-sided, as he was able to understand the body language of the other with ease. The doctor, however, was left to well-timed guesses to understand Sherlock. John had yet to correct him on those thoughts.
Moriarty mistook the look as one of confusion. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands… dirty."
The pause told Sherlock a lot. Despite his supposed high intellectual level, the fact that the Moriarty had to pause to find the right word showed that not everything was completely planned. But there was something else about the moment that struck Sherlock as
(doesn't fit even with all the information makes no logical sense)
odd.
"And someone's hands are going to get dirty very quickly if you don't put that gun down, Mr. Holmes." He pulled a hand out of the pockets of his coat and waved uncaringly towards John. "My people are very good shots. I would prefer that they miss the bomb, but I'm willing to risk the small chance of them missing just his heart."
Sherlock knew that Moriarty's sniper had little chance of getting a simple shot to John's heart if they had hoped to avoid part of the bomb that rested over his heart. That didn't lessen his worries of the doctor's life. "Am I-"
"Supposed to trust me? I'm afraid so. I could just have the doctor's heart stop right now." The taunt was coming out full force, begging Sherlock to pick the other answer. The consulting detective had underestimated the amount of space that John had taken up in his nonexistent heart.
Gray eyes stayed upon Moriarty as his form lowered slowly, his hands dropping to release the metal weapon to the ground. He took extra caution not to let the gun simply clatter to the ground.
(last thing needed gun going off scaring sniper kill John
must save John)
"Good. You finally-" The rest of Moriarty's words were washed out by Sherlock's own thoughts. The other man had closed the distance between them to the point where the lighting was offering him more details than hiding.
(stance isn't strong doesn't agree with the motives completely
fear in eyes actor very practiced shouldn't have something in eyes
the pause
not him)
"You're not Moriarty."
The accusation staled the air. Sherlock could see the way the light played against the walls, dancing as if nothing else was going on within the room. The blue tint to the shading added to the emotion stirring, although Sherlock was not quite sure how it worked. Part of his mind labeled it as an experiment for another day when the residents of a particular flat owned by Ms. Hudson were not under threat of death.
"What-"
"The real Moriarty is using you as another one of his mouthpieces. It could be either through hiring you or threatening your life- and here I'm inclined to say the latter- in order to distance himself from the range of the bomb." The statement came with a nod towards John, who had gone back to staying frozen in the exchange. Only his emotions leaked through to his face. Sherlock assumed that the rest had been washed away by years in the army. "You're an actor, have been training for a few years beyond your job, but never had a big role. That is how Moriarty- the real Moriarty that had killed all those people- got you to play along in his scheme at first."
There was a tremble in the other man's left hand as the facts were said. It increased as Sherlock was speaking, indicating that the detective had hit upon most of the truth with his deductions. There was some pity in the detective. It was obvious to see that Jim Moriarty was being used just as John
(John)
was. His first impression of the technician had been correct in identifying him as ordinary. He could have been like John, but the chances were highly unlikely. If it was possible to find someone who possessed the interesting qualities that kept John close to his heart, probability told Sherlock that he should have met them already.
"No."
The word was barely a whisper as it slipped out of Jim's mouth. A panic had set into his eyes accompanied by both of his arms trembling. The man was using every bit of his skills in acting
(standing slight shake fighting against
going to die)
to remain standing. He was now on the same situation as Sherlock and John were in: at the mercy of the mastermind criminal's whim.
(not good enough need to know Moriarty's identity
save John
stop Moriarty
save-)
"Turn around Sherlock."
He had not been expecting the doctor's voice to be the next one to speak. Even with the twists that made up the case, there was too much of a leap for John to be the one speaking next.
"There's a gun aimed at you, Sherlock. Turn around," John hissed.
(that explains)
It was only when he had pivoted on his left foot, hands raised in the air, that the detective realized
(still there
no
why? makes no sense why would he
why?)
that John had not lost the unnatural edge in his voice.
"John?" His mind has registered the red dot that was now wavering over his own heart, yet found his focus drawing onto the fact that it had disappeared from the doctor's chest. The fleeting panic that had graced him earlier
(good God
no)
returned.
The realization had managed to slip into Sherlock's expression, despite his attempts to cover his shock. He should have been prepared. At the very least, he should have been able to keep a stoic face before rattling off facts that he should have seen to deduce John's true identity. But he couldn't. There was no denying that John was different from everyone else that Sherlock had encountered in life. The doctor had broken rules that had been set in stone for the rest of the normal world. Simply put, John Watson was not mundane. John may have the appearance, but Sherlock had learned that even his deductions could not capture everything about a person.
When John's brown eyes flickered upon him, there was no change beyond the softening of his features. "Give me a moment, Sherlock. There's something I have to take care of first."
John turned towards the third man within the visible part of the room, his motion drawing Sherlock's head along. Jim was still shaking in one spot, the fear having overtaken him since Sherlock's deductions. His lips were moving silently. Whether in prayer or a bout of shock-induced insanity, the detective could only guess.
(reasoning himself comfort
going to die)
"We had a deal, Jim Moriarty." There was a commanding tone in the voice, something that Sherlock could easily identify with people from the military. It demanded attention, even from the likes of the underworld. It begged to be listened to. It begged to have whatever command to be followed.
"No-"
"No, I'm pretty sure that we did." There was now a hint of amusement in John's voice. It was
(same kind gave me though my experiment disaster still put up
don't understand)
familiar in many ways. Yet instead of leaving comfort within Sherlock's heart, the detective was instead faced with a terror that he never knew existed in himself. "You did sign a contract."
"You're going to kill me." Jim's voice was stronger this time, if only because he believed that John would spare the man's life.
"Well, that was the agreement." John brought his fingers to the bottom of his mouth, drumming against his bottom lip. His eyes
(looking up left must be thinking)
held his running thoughts as he went through the possibilities. "I'm not the type of man to back down on his promises, Jim. It's… well, it's not good for business."
"You…" Rage flew through the technician, moving his body with great shakes before providing enough force for him to shout at the doctor. "You put something in me! You think that I don't know! But I-"
"It doesn't matter." John rolled his eyes. His head followed the movement, rolling on his neck slightly. Sherlock tried to remember how many times John did the same motions. It was too informal for a murderer to use that action often, yet his flatmate was obviously used to it. It spoke less of the killer and more of the
(John)
man he portrayed. "You're body's going to disappear sometime between today and tomorrow. If they ever do find you- and I assure you, they won't- even Sherlock here won't be able to tell much about your life."
"You-"
"Well, goodbye Jim. It was a nice run." There was a fake pleasantness in the doctor's voice. The smile on his lips was fake as well. What did manage to reach the man's blue eyes was a form of glee, but it was something
(bright widened see slightly around the iris)
that only serial killers
(more than one experienced knows hidden so well using me any friendship questionable
any
even me?)
managed to achieve in their facial expressions. It told Sherlock too much.
It took Sherlock over five seconds to realize that Jim had begun to seize. The detective followed his flatmate's gaze and watched as another one of the doctor's victims fell to the ground, clawing at something unseen. His hands quickly turned upon himself, pulling against the fabric of his shirt harshly as they tried to reach for his heart. The pain contorted his face, pulling and creating harsh angles. His breathing was erratic. His form rose and fell at awkward angles, only being humanly capable with the mind tuning out the distress it would cause him. The technician's eyes ran through the room, filled with the begging of a man who was hoping for nothing short of a miracle.
(probably knows there's no hope
unless doctor saves him
maybe
John doesn't care
John)
Even Sherlock understood that bluntly telling the man there was no hope was too harsh.
John, on the other hand, proved that he held no concern over the dying technician. As the last few jagged breaths left Jim's
(even doctor cannot save now)
lips, the blond turned around to face the consulting detective. "Well, now that that unpleasant little thing is out of the way-"
"You just killed a man." The statement rang clear in the room. The tone of the statement betrayed the consulting detective: the curiosity that he had hoped to conceal managed to slip out with the words. His gray eyes kept their attention on the blue pair, which appeared just as they would if the two men were at the flat. It was unnerving to think that the doctor had thrown the same glance upon Sherlock when calling the taller man brilliant.
It was no surprise that his flatmate was able to catch the curiosity. "Well, I'm not a very nice man. And without leaving a physical mark on the skin! Quite proud of myself for that. It leaves a bit of an impression on people." He paused for a second, trying to bring his arms around his back before realizing that the parka got in the way. "Oh! Right, how I did it and all. Dormant pacemaker is what I call it. Only activate it when I want someone dead. Makes the heart beat faster and then they're dead. Poor blokes have no chance of stopping it. Quite sad, really."
"You did surgery on him."
"Gave him a few things, knocked him out for a bit. Not that hard." The coat slipped off of his shoulders, exposing the contraptions of the vest to the chlorine-filled air. "I've done that to about ten people so far. The first few were only test subjects, though. Didn't go off so well." The casual tone barely echoed in the room. "It's messy, but it does stave off the boredom."
"What- Boredom?" The idea was startling. The moments of the two spending time together in their flat spoke nothing of the killer that stood before him. The doctor
(turned to crap telly opened or book find something mundane online something NICE SOMETHING PAINLESS HARMLESS CARED
stupid stupid stupid
went out)
did not fit any sort of image of a serial killer or criminal mastermind. "Moriarty," however, was a side of the doctor that Sherlock had yet to observe fully. It would be too hasty for the consulting detective to draw conclusions at the moment, despite the pressing matter that was threatening to kill him.
"That's how it all started. I was young and incredibly bored. They weren't ready to ship me out just yet, so instead they left me to help out some locals. Nothing that should have been too big for the new recruit. But there was this one bloke there. Well, more of a kid than a bloke."
The name fell upon Sherlock's tongue without thought. "Carl Powers."
"The first thing that he told me was to go fuck myself. There was nothing I did that warranted such a response. Just handing him his medication. He laughed at me too. I was young and incredibly bored. And then I wondered…" His hands, which were proceeding to discard the parka and the vest, paused. "I wanted revenge, and it kept the boredom away. It wasn't too hard."
"You put the poison into his medication."
"Wasn't hard," John repeated. "I followed him one day. Maybe he could have convinced me that I shouldn't kill him. But then I saw him." The outer layer of his clothing fell to the ground, failing to retain its shape. "And you."
The silence enveloped the room as the echo died down.
"I figured that you were bullied. Look at Sebastian." The doctor's hands undid the straps of the vest, careless in many ways. It wasn't a far stretch of ideas to deduce that the bomb was fake. "But I didn't really know why he was bullying, so I just kept my first impression that he was an ass. You know what happened next."
"You killed him." Sherlock's gray eyes narrowed, his head cocking slightly to the side as if the change of angle would reveal something new. He wasn't actually expecting anything to change. When the faint image of the doctor in his youth came out of his mind, the detective managed to school his features. "You came to the competition that day."
"So did you."
(suspect)
"I'm surprised that Lestrade never found out about that. The police never suspected anyone- Powers drowned, after all- but for them to miss that detail… Well, it worked out for me. I was never caught." The vest was tossed farther away than the parka. It clattered to the ground with little grace, sliding slightly before resting near the edge of the pool. "That was just the beginning of it all.
"I went off to war while establishing my empire. I never had a lot of free time between the two, but I managed." John paused, reading what little information he could off of Sherlock's face. The blue eyes sparked with something that, until that moment, the detective had only seen in himself. "No, Sherlock, I did not get myself shot on purpose. I was hoping to end my military career on something nicer, but I preferred this to being sent back in a box.
"I made a lot of contacts while overseas. I know you wouldn't be surprised at the numbers, being you and all. But there was a lot. Being a consultant criminal worked out well. Money got passed around, chaos everywhere…" The words trailed off. At the very edge of his vision, Sherlock could see the water still bobbing in the pool. John's gaze seemed to follow the gray eyes. The doctor turned his head, the reflection of water dancing on his face.
(calculating distraction doesn't know what to say
bored)
"You were still bored." Sherlock glanced once more at his flatmate before turning his attention to the pool. "The thrill of it didn't last. You constantly had to work to get that high." As an afterthought, he added, "Drugs would have been cheaper."
It was John's laughter that filled the room first, followed by Sherlock's chuckles only seconds afterwards. It took over a minute to die down. John's voice followed the silence. "For God's sake, I'm a doctor Sherlock!"
"Oh, yes, I forgot. I should have deduced that you were a doctor as well as a criminal mastermind." The last words
(criminal mastermind)
flowed out of his lips before he could stop them. It held a weight upon Sherlock's tongue. The more pressing issue, however, was that the words fitted his friend so well. The first impression of the doctor had nothing that spoke of the darker intentions that swirled beneath his brain. It did not do any justice at all, really. It had failed to speak of the loyalty that allowed him to kill the cabbie or of the limitless patience that helped the man deal with the consulting detective. It had said nothing about murderous intent. "Did you know about me beforehand?"
"No, actually." The words brought John's head into a turn so that the blue eyes could focus on Sherlock. "I was keeping up appearances. I had no idea who Mike was bringing me to meet at the time. I looked you up afterwards, of course."
"You were planning on killing whoever your flatmate was."
"Until I met you, yes. There had been little else that kept me occupied at the time. I was bored and I wanted excitement. The cabbie wasn't enough." The doctor's eyes dropped slightly, focusing upon the tiled floor. "Nothing was enough."
There was a compliment within the statement, although it was well hidden within the context. Sherlock had avoided a fate of death because he wasn't boring. The fact that the detective knew he wasn't boring was entirely different from someone confirming the fact. No one had offered him words beyond "Piss off" and "Freak." John had been the first to say "Amazing," and really mean it.
"I watched you unravel the truth about that cabbie. I had hoped that he would make things interesting in London. It didn't work out well, so I was just waiting for him to die. But you… You made it interesting." A hand was brought up to the doctor's face, attempting to wipe away any of the confusion that made its way into his features. "I've never thought that it was possible. But you're Sherlock Holmes."
"You killed the cabbie," Sherlock pointed out, his voice soft enough to avoid being echoed.
"Yes I did. Between the two of you, I rather have you alive." There was a slight shrug that accompanied the words. "Then the 'Blind Banker' incident happened. I wasn't expecting that the Black Lotus was idiotic enough to mistake me for you. I had General Shan killed for that. Hope you didn't mind.
"Anyways, I thought I found something to ease away the boredom forever. But then there were no cases. The consulting villain made the world go round, but there was nothing else."
Neither of the two said anything for a moment. The silence slipped in naturally, gliding along the edge of the water as if nothing else was expected to happen. It was only the red dot that hovered over Sherlock's heart that brought the man to talk. "You set up this game for me."
"We were both bored. I had a list of people who've gotten on my nerves. Sent some of my people after them, strapped on some bombs, and gave you some puzzles."
"I chased away the boredom."
(for both of us)
"You did." A beat of silence passed between them. "Thank you."
("thank you")
"Did…" The words were sent into a frenzy within his mind. Something told him that he was asking the wrong question. It might have been the beginning of the question that Sherlock needed answer. It probably was the one that he wished to know before allowing himself to be killed. But it never passed his lips. "What are you going to do now?"
"I really have no idea. I was torn between killing you and keeping you as a pet. Except, well, killing you would make the world boring again and I really don't think that you would like being a pet." John's left hand twitched as the last of the sentence left his mouth. "Not to mention that this game between us is what's keeping me out of boredom."
"You sound like you're prepared to die." Sherlock could feel something tightened against his heart as he spoke. "Was that your plan? To go out with- With what? A bang?" His hands flailed wildly in the air at the thought of the possible fate of John "Moriarty" Watson. There was something about the idea that merged the two together: John Watson was addicted to adrenaline and "Moriarty" wanted to show off. A choice of path, no matter what the method of death was waiting for him, would certainly do well for either personality.
"Well, that's the fun bit. Winner chooses."
It took a second for Sherlock to process the words. "John…?"
"I don't really care about my life anymore, Sherlock. I had a therapist because sometimes my mates in the army thought I was suicidal. But I'm just bored. There's nothing more to do in life.
"I would love to play against you forever. But some things aren't meant to be. You work with the 'angels' and all. A bloke like me can appreciate the quirks of his archenemy. So go turn me in and get all the glory you don't want." John's gaze turned down to the floor, his shoe kicking imaginary dirt into the soft waves of the pool. "I always wanted to see Donovan's face if she ever found out who I truly was. She warned me about you, you know. Told me you were going to eventually be the one who will kill someone. I hoped that it would have happened before we got to this, but things just didn't work out."
Hints of what should have been a rush of triumph fell to the overwhelming wave of
(sorrow destruction sadness win lose)
confusion that filtered into his mind. There were quite a few things that made some sense in the twisted words and truths that the consultant criminal said. Everyone, at one point or another, questioned Sherlock's mind. He was a sociopath in many ways. The misunderstanding that made people think psychopath was something beyond what he could fix, with each repetition of the phrase in reference to him digging deeper. Sherlock enjoyed his experiments, but he only went far enough that there was no lasting damage on the living. While some had left unintended imprints on his subjects, there was never one that he purposely meant to kill.
In truth, he was scared of crossing the line and becoming a psychopath.
A slight shake of the head was all he did to rid himself of the thoughts. It wasn't a good time to worry about his own state of mind while John
(John "Moriarty" Watson John "Moriarty" Watson)
was waiting for a response.
"She'll be sorely disappointed if she continues to wait, then." The words were calm, none of them forced out as he spoke. "I don't intend to become a killer."
"And for all you know, the bullet that took the cabbie was intended for you." John paused before shaking his head slightly. Sherlock could see the words repeat in the man's mind, but whatever thoughts that resulted from it were kept away from the detective. "Well, ignoring the fact that I did tell you I like your company better."
(avoiding the question)
"John, I-"
The ringtone filled the air with a song that Sherlock was sure he had heard at some point of his life, but never registered consciously. The upbeat notes gave the high pitch voice that pierced through the air a surreal quality. It was followed by the voice screaming the lyrics, "Staying alive, staying alive!"
John's mouth was pulled between amusement and embarrassment. As the consulting detective raised an eyebrow, a hasty explanation rushed out of the doctor. "Business matters. Being a consulting criminal and, well, you get the idea." After another moment, he made a slightly jerky gesture to his pocket where his cellphone was. His cheeks were becoming slightly pink from the embarrassment. "Um, do you mind...?"
Sherlock's gray eyes, in turn, fell to the red dot of light still sitting on his chest. It wavered slightly. Whether it was from growing tired or a need to remind the detective where he stood in the situation, he could only guess. When the ringtone continued to play throughout the room, rocking faster than the waves, he said, "Oh, no, no. It's not like we have an appointment with death or anything."
The sarcasm appeared lost to the older man. He muttered his thanks while fumbling in his pocket for his phone. It was different that his day-to-day phone that his sister had given him: it was new with few hints of being used, yet sat warmly in John's hand with a sense of familiarity, indicating that it was important enough. It didn't take much thought to realize what the phone's purpose was.
"Hello?" There was a slight pause which John took advantage of to meet Sherlock's gaze. The detective was unable to read the emotion and thoughts that were taking place in the doctor's mind. It remained that way as John mouthed, "Sorry."
Sherlock found himself mouthing back, "No, it's okay." He made sure that his features were exaggerated, although he knew that it would be lost upon the doctor. There was too much awaiting John on the other end of the phone call. Even if he didn't have much of a will to live, he accepted business before the end.
(bored of me?)
His gray eyes looked back down upon his chest. The red dot was bleeding against his white shirt, setting a scowl upon his lips. It was only a quiet thought
(can sniper see?)
that sent his head alight with calculations.
(circular retaining shape not at an extreme angle
clear shot needed not too far
first row bleachers)
He looked up.
(stupid stupid stupid
of course I can't-)
"What did you say?"
John's words echoed with a sense of doom attached to them. Sherlock had to admit that it was interesting to hear his flatmate yell with such anger: he had never raised his voice to such a pitch with anyone before. Not even the detective could anger John so much.
(more Moriarty)
"I want you to repeat everything you just said. Do not leave out a single detail. And if you are lying to me, you will be dead very, very soon." The doctor's face was contorted from the burst of emotion, his blue eyes tracing his own thoughts in his head. Sherlock could tell that John was simply buying a bit of time to work out whatever plans consulting criminals gave their clients. They had an advantage over consulting detectives as they had all the pieces at the beginning of their case. Every now and then, Sherlock could see the look of registration in the doctor's eyes as he actually listened to something that the person on the other side of the phone said. "If you're telling me the truth, I can make you very rich. If you're lying, I will skin you."
Sherlock's gray eyes widen at the words. There had been an overtone of seriousness in the doctor's voice, leaving no room for questioning the threat. Even if Sherlock could only see the man as John Watson
(not John "Moriarty" Watson)
he would not doubt the possibility of the threat becoming real. It was a scary thought.
"Yeah, listen. Let me finish some business first. Give me a minute and then we'll get you set up." The blonde's arm fell down as the phone was removed from his ear. A casual press of a button placed the call on hold, suddenly bringing Sherlock a rush of realization about his situation. He was supposed to be confronting Moriarty. He was supposed to win their little game and put a stop to the madness.
(John said I won
did he mean it?
does it matter?)
"Well, this is a bad day to end games, it seems." John's voice was casual, yet some of the malice from his previous conversation spilled into his tone. "I really would love it if we had wrapped this up, but now… Here." John fished a business card out of his pocket with his free hand. He flipped it over once, his blue eyes registering his own information, before turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Even Mycroft couldn't get me fast enough. So there's no harm in giving you my contact information."
The doctor took a few steps forward, coming close enough that Sherlock could hear the calm breaths of the shorter man. John's hand came up, his eyes dancing slightly as he saw the red dot. Carefully, he placed the card into the pocket of the detective's suit jacket. The press of the card against the cloth only served as a reminder of the weight of the choice.
"I guess I should also mention that getting to me can't stop the whole web," John said casually as he backed away. "In some ways, you've won a battle but lost the war. I always made sure that my most loyal are brilliant. Only true geniuses and all that. You'll never get bored with them."
"Is…"
(is this it?)
"For us? 'Fraid so." The doctor offered a shrug. "You've won, and therefore you've gotten bored of me. I know how you work, Sherlock."
The automatic reaction that filled the detective was to argue
(no untrue so much to be found)
against the idea. It only took his mind a second to process what had been said. John was right, in some ways. There had always been times when a case he solved comes back to light, trying to grab his attention. But it had lost all of its interesting points after the first time. Mycroft, after any one of the past cases tried to resurface, had said that the consulting detective only liked "new toys." There were very few things, if any, that could continuously capture Sherlock's attention.
(John's different)
"Just try and visit me every once in a while. Tell me stories about your cases. That's all I ask for keeping you entertained with this little game." John raised a hand, waving slightly, as he walked away.
The blond doctor was just about to leave
(all alone only man to care my worst enemy
my best enemy)
when Sherlock managed to say words that he never expected. "I don't have friends. I only got one."
The smile slipped onto John's face. It was slow, as if the thought took a full moment to be recognized. But it was genuine. "Thanks, Sherlock. That means a lot to me."
The doctor disappeared as the words lingered in the air.
Sherlock counted the seconds off in his head. It took three seconds before the bright red dot disappeared from his chest. There was no sign that the sniper left the room, although Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised that the marksman had managed to sneak out. Knowing what he did about John "Moriarty" Watson, it would come as no surprise to the consulting detective that the sniper was specially trained.
The small, white business card was still weighing in his pocket. Sherlock took it out and brought it up towards his face, his eyes quickly examining what they could in the dim pool lighting. The ink on the paper was black
(printed barely two days ago specially made font simple elegant pricy)
and stood out without any enhancements. The information that John had promised was on the card: his name was printed above a phone number. It was as simple as when Jim left him the phone number.
(he wants to be caught wants me to end the boredom send him to prison get killed
die of boredom there too easy to get bored there
he's my friend isn't he John is my friend Moriarty is my enemy)
Sherlock's free hand went into his pocket. It only took a second for his hands to grasp the small mechanical box. The cool touch greeting his fingers was almost welcoming. It reminded him of the world outside of his own. It was a world that made him small and reminded him just how little he actually was to the world.
(this is right right?)
He pulled the phone out of his pocket, fingers ready to type away the number stored in his head.
6 months later
Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was pacing in his flat. The papers around him had either flown away at his impending steps or were being crushed over and over again. The sounds of the crunching pages were all that filled the room as thoughts exploded in his head. His mind palace, while being as close to perfect as he could get it to be, was not yet at the level where he could solve all of his problems. Sometimes, he had to rely upon pacing to bring enough oxygen to his brain to work at full capacity.
(it can never be the same again)
The thoughts were jumping, but none of them connected in the one way that was right. There were millions of possibilities that would bring two separate facts together. The current case limited the number to somewhere in the thousands, but it was nowhere near enough to form a solid connection.
(easier always easier with John)
The detective frowned at the name. While there were no particular bad feelings associated with it, his presence would have been appreciated.
(can't do anything about it too late)
He went over the facts again.
(fairy tales candy eluding to Hansel and Gretel what does it mean what does it mean
hungry starving not children must be bound to something must be starving must
dirt he picked up dirt went to watch without being seen
stupid stupid stupid)
Sherlock's phone was already calling Lestrade when he became aware of his surroundings once again.
"Sherlock?" The voice on the other end of the phone was hesitant. The stress of the case was pressing against the inspector. This was not the first time the older man had felt that particular sense of urgency. But this time it was different. The name of the villain behind the scheme was well known to the men and women of Scotland Yard. The crimes were random at best, and managed to put all of the parties involved in a headlock. It was with little pride that the consulting detective had the highest success rate.
(but I like it I like winning)
"It's an abandoned candy factory. By a river, most likely with all sorts of wild plant life growing by it."
"Can you be a little more specific?"
Sherlock looked over to the doorway. There was no one in sight, but the man was not willing to take the risk. "I'm afraid not, Lestrade. Things are getting terribly busy. Have to find Bluebell!"
"What?"
"Bluebell the rabbit, Lestrade! My biggest case yet!"
"What? Sher-"
The detective cut off the connection before the other could finish calling the name. The noise that his phone made to indicate the call had ended seemed to echo throughout the room. The acoustics, which were not ideal for the man's experiments, told him nothing of what he wanted to hear. It had become a game for the detective during the last few months. The score was often tied despite the numerous attempts to keep it in his favor. However, there was always something about the other player of the silent game that kept the score even. The facts really shouldn't have surprised Sherlock, but they managed to do so anyways.
A chuckle escaped his mouth. "Brilliant. Brilliant, yes. Oh, how clever you are!"
"Thank you." John "Moriarty" Watson's voice filled the room. It took the detective only a second to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. "…you are talking about the puzzle I left you, right?"
"Of course, John. What else?" Sherlock waved away the air as if he were tossing away the silly notions that filled John's head. "Brilliant."
"Thank you." There was a genuine smile lighting up the doctor's face. Sherlock has always saw them as the rare treasures that they were; between his job at the surgery, accompanying Sherlock to solve crimes, and everything else that he did, John's happiness and patience wore out very fast.
Sherlock allowed gravity to pull him into the armchair. His fingertips touched, signaling that the man was entering into deep thought about matters he had once believed only he could understand. Despite the revelation of the truth months ago, it was a habit that he never was able to break. It had become a part of him. When the detective told that to the criminal of the flat, the other had smiled gently and continued on as if he were not surprised at all.
Whatever peace that Sherlock was hoping for, however, was lost as the sound of the refrigerator door opening came from the kitchen. It was followed by John's voice, anger tainting the words. "Sherlock, what did I say about keeping severed heads next to the food?"
(still cares could just easily kill me still cares)
"I hope you bought more tea, John. We just ran out."
"Sherlock, I'm not your-"
The cell phone sitting on the armrest of the chair suddenly flared with life. The sound was enough to pull both men away from their respective tasks. To accompany the ringing that filled the flat, the device flashed the name of the person on the other end of the line. Sherlock barely registered the name
(Lestrade what development what)
before he answered the call. "What is it now?"
John's disapproving glare could be felt as the detective focused on the words coming to him. "Sherlock, the clue didn't say anything about a bomb, right?"
"Are you forgetful as well as blind? The evidence points to-"
"There's been a bomb. Just went off near one of the factories."
(no why he would have said no this is fun for him but why would he ruin his own game why)
"Sherlock?"
"I'll call you back." His voice was calm and flat. The path that deduction and logic were leading him through were very narrow; there was no point in wasting time of second guessing the identity of the man behind it. It only became a matter of why such a crime was performed.
"Sher-"
The call was ended and the phone was slipped back into Sherlock's pocket. His mind had already started to flash through probabilities and scenarios, looking for the best one out of them. It wouldn't matter in the long run, but the man had been learning how to handle the situation.
John's voice filled the flat once again, accompanied by the groceries being put away. "What did Lestrade want, Sherlock?"
"Who was the victim?"
"Excuse me?"
Sherlock kept his voice leveled. There was no need to feel fear or regret over the loss of one life. Whether it was something that he could not logically process or a skill he acquired a long time ago, the end result stayed the same: Sherlock didn't care. "Who was the victim, John?"
"Oh." The sound of items being placed away in the cabinets resumed. "Kitty… something. I honestly don't remember the name."
"You blew her up."
"Yes, I did."
"I won that round, John." He kept the tone neutral. It was an unspoken rule the held between the two of them in their game. When they had met up again after the pool incident, they had set out the rules of the game that would continue between them. Very little time had been spent dwelling on that one particular rule. "I won."
"I know that Sherlock. But she was… a problem."
"There are remarkably few people in this world that you consider to be a problem, Moriarty. It must be someone that could be outside your pocket range." His fingertips found their respective other once again as the man settled into the chair. "But there are very few people who are not. And those who are not in your pockets can easily be threatened, usually by way of family. So, this 'Kitty' obviously does not have family that she is attached to or they are all dead. But even if they were all dead, there would be friends, so obviously she must not be attached to anyone. So, singular life style, must be devoted to work. Those types usually only have that one focus-"
"You should know that very well, shouldn't you?"
Sherlock ignored the quip. The deductions were flying through his head, leaving his mouth struggling to keep up. "Now, who would challenge authority like yours? There are members of the government- specifically those under my brother- but not likely. So, someone with a job that would naturally challenge anything set forth before them? Well, there are a few. But then we must remember that they must have something that has access to the public. You can contain, but once you cannot you're out of control. So I would have to deduce that this 'Kitty' is part of the media- most likely an investigating reporter of some sorts- and that she was going to die no matter what because she had discovered something about your operations."
Silence filled the space as Sherlock brought his hands down. The echoes of goods being placed away had disappeared sometime during the deductions. What little that did fill the air was the quiet sounds of the traffic below, oblivious that the two greatest minds of Britain were trapped within the flat and their game.
Finally, after a moment, John spoke. "You didn't get everything right."
"What?" A frown pulled at the lips of the detective. "I wasn't expecting everything right, but you make it sound all so cynical."
"Well, to start, there have been a fair amount of people who turned away from my bribery on morals alone. Threatening them doesn't keep them silent forever." The doctor approached the living room at a normal pace. Any pressure that other criminals would have felt after being caught in their own game seemed to be nonexistent on him. "You'll be surprised at the number."
"Morals are not that strong."
"You'll be surprised," John repeated. "Kitty is just a really desperate reporter, I guess you could say. She goes all or nothing because there really is nothing else for her. She's rude, brash, and can easily be replaced unless she makes herself noticed soon. Even if it means coming up with lies."
"Lies?" Sherlock shot up, puzzled. "Why would she need to lie? Any shred of truth she finds out about you and your operations would easily take up the front of a newspaper and then some. No matter what the police find out afterwards, it'll all be credited back to her for making the initial discovery. What is so mundane that she would have to lie?"
Amusement tainted John's voice. "I never said it was about me."
(not about him then)
"Me. She was going to slander me."
"She was. The problem with this one was that the lies were backed by some kind of proof. I'm pretty sure it is all faked, but someone had embedded it quite well. Killing her just saved time." The mirth in the man's voice was tolerable, as if he had made a passing joke. There was no guilt left in his voice for the woman. Sherlock couldn't understand why he was expecting it; the doctor never felt bad about his kills.
"Oh." Sherlock allowed a look of puzzlement to overtake his features. "I believe that I am supposed to thank you at this time?"
"Generally, yes."
The consulting detective thought the words over for a bit. "Too boring. Did you get the tea?"
It was John's laughter that filled the flat first before Sherlock added his own. If either man had felt anything for the charred remains that Lestrade's team were picking at, the emotions were already long gone. The incident at the pool had not managed to change the basic components of their relationship.
(is it right?
does it matter?)
Sherlock took a sip of the warm tea now resting in the cup caught between his hands, patiently waiting for the next game John would provide.
John as Moriarty would have been such an epic twist for the show... But that's a moot point. Hope you all enjoyed!