"Moriarty," Sherlock said under his breath,"John...H-He's fine." Sherlock's worry for John intensified. His heart began to huff and puff. Soon his mind palace will crumple from his heart's breath. A sick feeling began to bubble inside Sherlock.
"Oh, don't worry. I, or more like you, haven't done anything to your precious little pet. Well, not yet, anyways."Moriarty replied. A smile grew on his face.
Or more like you. The sick feeling did not leave Sherlock. Not at all.
Moriarty began to walk around the room and his shoes disturbed the stillness of the blood pool. His head cocked side to side as he talked.
"People care so much, don't they? The ordinary people, the boring people. Caring is letting others stab poison into you, and even as you're watching them, you let them. John is your poison. It's ironic, isn't it?"
Sherlock's eyes flickered as he watched Moriarty, smiling back at Sherlock like a freak. Moriarty's grin broadened.
Sherlock finally spoke. "John has saved me in ways you will never understand." He stared at his reflection on blood at his feet. He saved me from self destruction, he thought, It was him. Blurred memories rushed through his mind. It was John. He shook his head. He shrugged and looked back at Moriarty.
"Yeah, ironic.
"No, Sherlock. He's killing you. Killing you right now. You've risked your life several times for him. Threw yourself into a bonfire, risked getting shot by a Chinese smuggler, you would willingly take a bullet from one of my snipers for John! Even faked your death, for goodness sake! Don't you see, Sherlock?"
Moriarty turned to face Sherlock. The blood on the floor held its breath.
"You're dying."
"For John."
"And if he's goes.."
"I'll tag along."
Silence. Encasing them both in its web. Time stood still like a boulder on the edge of a cliff. Moriarty continued walking, moving the blood out of his way. Slowly, he reached into his pockets.
"Oh, Sherlock. Look at all these ordinary people. Bruised, cut up, bleeding, dead. They had loved ones; children, parents, siblings, brothers." Moriarty glared at him, and sighed. "During each of their deaths, you could see it in their eyes. The flashbacks, the memories of the poison being injected. Pathetic, right? Stupid, in fact."
Sherlock noticed how Moriarty reached his pocket. A weapon was most likely in there. A knife, perhaps. But this was most unusual. Moriarty would normally have someone else do the dirty work. But Moriarty is ever changing.
Moriarty began to unsheath his dagger discreetly. A silver name was engraved into it.
"You know, one way to get rid of all that annoying poison is cut the wound."
Moriarty swiftly took Sherlock's arm from behind and slashed his wrist with the dagger. Straight down his veins. Blood spilled everywhere. As if there wasn't enough already.
Sherlock yelled in agony, but before he could fully face Moriarty, he was stabbed right in the middle of his back.
"GAHH!", cried Sherlock. His breath was suspended. His heart was beating and beating hard against his chest, even Moriarty could hear.
"Looks like you do have a heart. Oh, well. John already poisoned that, too." Moriarty said in mock surprise. A psychotic smiled spread over his face.
Sherlock fell forward. Time slowed to watch. Vision blurred to stop and see. Old blood spattered and seeped into Sherlock's body, a terrible replacement to what blood he loss. The bouncing, rapid thoughts in Sherlock's mind stopped and settled to a dark red haze. Then black.
"Oh wait, you haven't said good-bye to John yet! What a terrible surprise! Here, your dying, that'll be your farewell. Your last farewell," Moriarty distant voice happily said."Well good-bye. Don't worry, I break the news to John. Oh how heartbroken the toy soldier will be."
Sherlock saw a blurry figure open the door. Moriarty had left the room. Sherlock was abandoned and was left to die the way he lived, the way he always was: alone. And he would.
Before Sherlock fell, he had caught a glimpse of the thin dagger. A silver name sat quietly on it.
It was John.