An evil smirk pulled at Jim Moriarty's features, causing him to mutter a brief 'hmph' somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
"Sir?" Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man, glanced over at his boss.
Jim's smirk grew as an idea formed in his head. "Seb, I need you to run an errand for me." A spark of ferocity ignited in his black eyes, striking fear into Sebastian's soul –if he even had one…
"Yes, sir. What kind of errand?" Moran stood from his chair and began to suit up in his stealth gear, making sure all his weapons were fully-loaded with ammo. He slung the assault rifle behind his back and placed his loaded .32 caliber pistol in its holster around his waist.
"A pick-up." Moriarty grinned sadistically.
"Location?"
"Sing Sing Prison." Moriarty tossed a folder over to his novice and waited for the man to study it.
Moran scanned the folder full of information and photos about a certain prisoner. "My pick-up is a woman?" He asked skeptically. Moran squinted at the photo of the blonde with confusion. The woman looked as though she were a nobody, just a housewife that snapped. What could Moriarty want with her?
Moriarty could sense Moran's skepticism from across the room. "Her name is Irene Adler. She was the one the female form of John spoke of. She said that this woman was Moriarty."
"She sure doesn't look it." Moran's gaze traveled down to the blonde's convictions. "A murder charge…actually, multiple murder charges…" Moran turned the page and then another, then another. "This woman has a record three inches thick!"
"Precisely why I need you to obtain her for me." Moriarty's murderous smirk returned, the ferocious spark intensifying. "With her by my side, we could take over this whole state, maybe even the whole damned country."
"What about me?" Moran knew immediately that he shouldn't have asked that.
Moriarty glared at him. "If you bring her here, maybe, just maybe, I'll let you keep your job." He smiled at Moran's fear. "But if you fail me…"
Moran gulped and nodded. "I will not fail you, sir. Consider the task done." With that, he strode out of the room, leaving a murderous Moriarty behind.
Moriarty stared after his pet. "Do not fail me, Seb, it would not be wise."
…
"What did you just say?"
"My name is Joan Watson, just like you're John Watson." Joan explained.
John grasped for rationalities to explain their shared surname. "Well, that's not uncommon…we could share relatives…"
"Look at me; do you really think we share any family, whatsoever?" Joan motioned to her skin color.
John's mouth opened and shut a few times before producing another theory. "It –um…it –we could, um, it could, uh, just be a coincidence…I mean, I know a couple people with no relation and they share a last name too…" John stumbled with his words. "Just a coincidence, is all."
Joan was about to reply before Sherlock barged into the room and headed towards her form, still perched on the edge of John's hospital bed.
"Joan," He put his hand on her shoulder and checked her limbs for injuries, "I heard you were attacked. Are you alright?"
"It's okay…I'm fine, it's all fine." Joan smiled, her attention on Sherlock for the moment.
John's brain exploded with another painful memory of life in London with his best friend. His hands found his skull and pressed inward, trying to relieve the sharp pain. A scream ripped from his throat as the memory replayed itself.
The duo is positioned in a table by the window, watching for their suspect in the pink lady's murder.
The manager comes over to the table. "Sherlock," He greets, "whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and your date." He smiles knowingly at the two men.
Sherlock speaks to John. "You ought to eat."
John does a double take. "I'm not his date."
The manager ignores John's remark. "This man got me off a murder charge." He smiles at Sherlock.
Sherlock nods toward the street. "Anything happening opposite?"
John looks up at the manager and hears him say "Nothing." The manager speaks to John. "But if not for this man, I'd had gone to prison."
"You did go to prison." Sherlock corrects him.
The manager disregards his comment and looks back at John. "I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic.
"I'm not his date!" He repeats.
Sherlock slaps the menu down on the other side of the table. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."
The manager sets the candle down and John rolls his eyes. "Thanks." He mutters.
He looks at his menu for a few moments before taking a sideways glance at the detective. He gives up on eating and decides to make it his goal to learn something about this strange man who he is about to have a flat-share with.
"People don't have arch-enemies…" He starts.
Sherlock turns from staring out the window and furrows his brow. "I'm sorry?"
"In real life," John continues, "there are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen."
Sherlock returns to staring out the window. "Doesn't it?" He pauses. "Sounds a bit dull."
John watches him. "So, who did I meet?"
Sherlock doesn't answer, instead he asks another question, one to make John think. "Then what do real people have in their real lives?"
John thinks. "Friends." He nods to himself. "People they know, people they like, people they don't like… He continues, tearing his gaze away and staring at the table, "Girlfriends, boyfriends." He says more quietly.
Sherlock talks over him slightly. "Well, as I was saying, dull." He continues to watch for the suspect across the street.
John continues prying information from this man. "You don't have a girlfriend then?"
"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock answers.
John nods and then it clicks. "Oh, right…Do you have a boyfriend?"
Sherlock whips his head around to stare at John.
"Which is fine, by the way-"
"I know its fine." Sherlock cuts him off, staring him down.
John smiles, trying to make the situation less uncomfortable. "So you've got a boyfriend."
"No." Sherlock remarks, not missing a beat.
"Right, okay." John laughs softly. "You're unattached…just like me…" He looks down. He sucks in a breath, "Fine." He clears his throat. "Good."
An uncomfortable silence settles between them as Sherlock turns his attention towards the window and John eats the appetizer left by one of the workers. Suddenly, it occurs to Sherlock why John was acting so strangely. He looks over at him and tries to find the right words to let him down easily.
"John, um…I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and though I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for anything." Sherlock gets cut off by John.
John immediately corrects Sherlock's statement. "No, no, I'm not asking…no. I'm just saying, it's all fine…"
"John!" Joan yelled, trying to make John wake up.
John opened his eyes once more and winced. "Holy fuck…My head hurts like Hell."
Joan smiled. "Thank God you're awake. Are you alright? What happened?"
John tries to think. "You said something…It triggered a memory…"
Joan's smile disappeared. "I'm sorry."
John quickly jumped up and grasped her hand. "No, no. I'm fine now, really. You didn't know it would happen, you couldn't have known."
Joan relaxed. "I think the concussion may be making whatever you keep experiencing worse."
"I had it before the concussion, though."
"Then maybe the death of your friend is what this is stemming from…" Joan stopped herself. "Oh, my…I'm sorry…I shouldn't have said anything about your friend."
"It's okay, it's okay." John soothed her worries.
A ringing interrupted the two Watson's conversation.
Sherlock picked up the phone and answered. "Yes, Captain?...What?!...Yes, we'll be right there." He hung up the phone and motioned for Joan to come with him. "That was Gregson. Moriarty is out of prison. Someone broke her out."
"What do you mean 'someone'?" Joan asked.
"A man, already identified to be a part of the military judging by his sharp-shooting."
"Moriarty's minion." John mumbled.
"What?" Sherlock asked the man in the hospital bed.
"Jim Moriarty –my Moriarty- has a minion that will do anything Moriarty asks of him." John answered.
"Oh…" Sherlock was stupefied. He was usually the one with all the answers. He directed his attention to Joan. "Looks like your boyfriend is smarter than I originally thought…He'll be useful to us." He motioned for John to get up.
John stumbled out of the bed, covering himself up. He gathered his clothes and tied the hospital gown behind him, covering his backside.
"Sherlock, he has a concussion. He has to stay hospitalized."
John felt his hand tighten into a fist. "What did you just call him?"
Sherlock realized that this man had no idea who he was. "Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective for the NYPD." He introduced, extending a hand toward Joan's date.
John felt his heart break. He swung his fist and it connected with 'Sherlock's' jaw. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
Sherlock regained his composure. "What the bloody hell was that for?"
"John!" Joan screamed at him. "What did you do that for?"
"This is sick. Just plain sick. Who put you up to this? Anderson? Donovan? Moriarty?" He went in for another punch. This time it hit him in the chest. "If you think this is funny, you are absolutely repulsive! This is a cruel joke!" He glared at Joan and felt his heart shatter even more. "You-you played me. I liked you…Hell, I may have even started to love you!" He took hostile steps towards her. "How could you? Playing with my emotions like that? I almost killed myself when Sherlock died! Is that what they want? Me to break even further and finally off myself? Huh? Is that what you want?!"
Joan had started to cry. "John…I don't know what you're talking about…"
John blew up in her face. "Don't even! You have no right to even try to tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. You know damn well what I'm talking about! You're telling me this," He motioned to Sherlock, "this is Sherlock Holmes?"
Joan nodded, tears leaving water-tracks down her cheeks. "John…"
"No! Sherlock is dead! I watched him die! He jumped off St. Bart's rooftop and hit the ground. I saw him die! I checked his pulse! He was dead…he was definitely dead." John felt himself crying. "I thought you cared about me, Joan."
John took off running, not caring where he would end up, or even if he'd make it there alive. Every doctor knew it was unwise to do strenuous activity with a concussion, but he didn't care. He just had to get out.
His chest was tight, both from the shortness of breath caused by running and his, now broken, heart beating extremely fast.
He made it to the streets, ignoring civilians disapproving stares at his indecency in public, and tried hailing a cab.
No cabs would stop so he gave up and began to sprint wherever his feet took him. As he ran, he felt numb. The cold nipped at his naked body beneath the gown and he started to shake uncontrollably. He stumbled along a long path and hit the ground. His knees hit the ground with a thud and he could feel the skin being peeled off. He cried out in pain and tried to regain his footing. He groped for something to help himself up with and his hand met cold metal. He pulled himself up and his grip tightened on the metal bars. He looked up at the metal bars and he jumped back. A familiar iron gate was in front of him…where had he seen this gate before? Then it came to him…it was the cemetery where he met Joan…
He jumped back and tripped over his feet, causing him to fall into the street. He laid there, on his back, letting the cold night air envelope him.
A sound caught his attention. He turned his head and blinked at the two lights headed for him at high-speed…
He identified it immediately.
A cab was headed straight toward him at fifty miles an hour…
John turned his head back up to the sky and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and waited for death.
THANKS FOR READING! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER…SO MUCH ANGST! HAHA.
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