Just a quick preface: this is an extremely long chapter, the longest single piece of fiction I've ever written (okay, its just over 6.5k words, but STILL, that's 17 pages).
This is the Great Game.
This chapter changes this greatly going forward. So prepare yourself.
A shot rang out.
Another.
Two in a row now.
Two figures ran frantically into the living room – one from the stairs below, and one from the bathroom – where a third figure was lying on the couch in his pajamas, firing a gun aimlessly at the wall.
Soph groaned. "Seriously! Are you insane? I was in the shower and I thought we were in the middle of a fucking massacre!" It was only now that she became really aware of her wet hair, still with shampoo bubbles, and the raggedy, threadbare towel that was the only thing between her skin and the outside world.
She adjusted it tighter around her. "What, was there a murderer hiding in our walls or something?"
"Bored!"
"Buh- John, you can handle this," she muttered in defeat, padding back down the hall and into the steamy bathroom.
She quickly rinsed out the remaining soap, patted herself down and hurriedly slipped into her wool-knit dress and black leggings.
When she got back out, hair wrung out and pinned back, a spat had already broken out between the two men.
"…'What's incredible is how completely ignorant he is about some things,'" Sherlock recited.
Sophie dumped herself down in the armchair. "Who said that about you Sherlock?"
"John did, if you can be-" He paused. "What made you think it was written about me?"
She gave him a condescending grin.
"Anyway," John butted in, "I didn't mean it like that."
"Oh, you meant 'completely ignorant' in a nice way? Look, it doesn't matter who's Prime Minister, or who's walked on the Moon, or what season it is-"
"Or that the Earth goes round the Sun," John offered up.
"Or that the Allies won the war, or that you should shake someone's hand when you meet them, or that-"
Sherlock interrupted with a dramatic huff. "Shut up, Sophie, those things aren't important!"
"I quite enjoyed that game, actually," she countered. "And those are all basic general knowledge things, it's a bit ridiculous that you don't know them."
"Well, if I did, I've deleted them." John questioned this. "Listen, this is my hard-drive," gesturing emphatically at his own head, "and it only makes sense to keep things in there that are useful, really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of nonsense and rubbish, and it makes it harder to get to the stuff that matters, do you see?"
"Sherlock," Soph asked with a curious smile on her face, "what do you get when you mix blue and yellow?"
He gave her a withering look, but didn't respond.
She hooted. "I love this game!"
"Well, go ahead and enjoy your petty games. All I care about is my work; without it my brain rots." He ruffled his hair with two hands for emphasis. "Stop putting rubbish on your blog, John, or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"
And with that, he flung his dressing gown over him and turned his back to John and Sophie.
She cleared her throat. "They make green."
An angry exclamation from Sherlock was the last straw for John, who stood up and began putting on his coat.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock had turned around with a pout on his face, which rather completed the childish aura he had already cultivated.
"I'm going out! I need some air."
As John left, Mrs. Hudson arrived, calling out and knocking on the already-open door.
"Have you three had a little domestic?" She set some bags down on the counter and tutted. "It's freezing out there; he should've wrapped up a little more."
Sherlock stood at the window and watched John leave. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Peaceful. Calm. Isn't it hateful?"
"Oh, I'm sure something will happen. A nice murder, that'll cheer you up!"
"Maybe if you're a good boy, Santa will make it a serial killer," Soph droned. She blinked when instead of retorting or glaring, Sherlock nodded and smiled dreamily. She tilted her head. Did he seriously believe in Santa Claus, or was he not even listening to her? Most likely Option B.
"Hey!" Mrs. Hudson had spotted the bullet holes riddling the flat. "What have you done to my walls?" He simply grinned at her. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man," she called out as she walked back down the stairs.
"I reckon you could get away with some cleverly placed duct tape," she remarked.
He opened his mouth to reply, and the windows burst behind him, the rush of smoke and fire launching them across the room.
"Sherlock! Sherlock?" John came bounding up the stairs, pausing in his tracks when he saw the aforementioned man calmly plucking at his violin.
Soph, stationed at the windows – well, open holes covered by old sheets – checked outside to see if the mess outside was cleared up yet.
It was still crawling with police, firefighters and journalists alike. She sighed and turned around.
Mycroft Holmes was sitting in her usual seat, which was why she was still standing, and every now and then he would look over at her in thought. They both had a pretty strong inkling who did this.
She was certain he'd figure out the connection between Moriarty and Sherlock soon enough. It was only a matter of time before she'd be on the chopping block again. She flashed him a small smile and he broke eye contact.
Sherlock and Mycroft had been discussing a potential case; one the detective didn't want to do.
"Anyway, John, how was the lilo?"
Mycroft gave John a once-over. "It was the sofa. Baker Street has been quite busy now that you've become…pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."
And once again Sophie had been deleted from the conversation. She quickly snuck away to the kitchen; although, she could've easily stomped the whole way and gotten no notice.
A ding broke through the sound of the slowly boiling kettle.
Kaboom.
She rolled her eyes. Maybe she was becoming desensitized to the danger, but the more she was around the Holmes brothers and Moriarty, the more childish they seemed. Children with motives and guns, of course, but still children.
Not a very impressive one.
The kettle whistled, and she absentmindedly made herself a cup of hot chocolate. Half boiling water, half milk, about a pound of chocolate powder.
I'll try harder next time.
She frowned. Next time.
Her fingers toyed over the screen.
She shouldn't be doing this; couldn't guarantee he'd tell her the truth.
How's Molly?
…
Does she know I miss her?
She hastily deleted the last sentence, but sent the rest, anxiously biting the inside of her lip.
It's always difficult being dumped out of the blue. She has a good support system.
She scoffed, slamming her phone down.
Fuck him. Fuck Moriarty.
Fuck Mycroft, who had done nothing about him for two weeks now.
Fuck Sherlock, who was somehow so interesting he had ruined her life indirectly.
She tipped the drink down the sink, changing her mind.
"I'm going out," she called, but of course the three men in the living room were too busy discussing something-West to pay her any mind.
Soph knocked on the door.
She was answered and ushered in quite quickly. As she sat down in the living room on a pristine white couch, Irene Adler entered the room.
"I'm surprised you're still alive."
"So am I."
"Well, you're in luck. I have a free morning. 9am, 10am and 11am are all open for booking. Which one would you like?"
Sophie felt sick. "I don't think I'll live to see the end of the day," she murmured.
Irene tilted her head. "All three, then?"
Her eyes flickered up to meet Irene's and she grinned.
Sophie didn't last three hours. In fact, she was less than halfway done when she burst hopelessly into tears.
Irene, in an uncharacteristic show of kindness, dropped the act of dominatrix and sat down with her to talk.
Being threatened by the same man did wonders for bonding, it seemed.
Once she had calmed down enough to talk, she walked Irene through the series of events that had led to the Baker Street bombing.
"And this Mycroft, he promised to keep you safe?"
"He's very high up in the government, I guess. Has a lot of pull. I'm sure he could help you too, you know."
She smiled, and her eyes flickered to a mirror above the fireplace. "Don't worry about me, my dear, I have my own protection." She looked back at Sophie. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems you don't have an out. My advice: go out with style. If you know he's going to kill you, you might as well kill him a little too." Soph smiled sadly.
In that instant, with Irene's arm around her, she made up her mind. "I'd better go tell Sherlock, then. It's not too late for him yet."
She got up off the couch, and headed for the door.
Irene called out to her, and she turned. "Sophie, when you die I shall be inconsolable," she exclaimed.
"I pay you enough," Soph countered.
After texting Sherlock and finding out where he was, she caught a taxi to St Bart's, waiting impatiently for the lift that would take her down to the morgue in the basement levels.
But when she burst through the swing doors, Sherlock wasn't alone. Of course there was John, and naturally Molly – although it twisted her heart to see her – but Moriarty was there as well, a la Jim from I.T.
Molly looked up in surprise, then her face crumpled into hurt. "I'm working, Sophie."
Sherlock looked up from his microscope, and now all four people in the room had their eyes on her.
"Sophie's our assistant, Molly," John offered. "Is there a problem?"
Molly's mouth tightened. "The problem is you left half your stuff at my flat and it's taking up all the space."
Sherlock blinked in shock. "You're the girlfriend?" He asked incredulously.
"No, I'm not." Her voice was harsh when addressing Sophie, but softened up as she turned back to the evil man in a V-neck t-shirt. "Jim needs some more space in my flat, don't you?"
He grinned at her, wandering in between John and Sherlock, who was still looking at Soph with an unreadable expression on his face. He pretended to knock over a metal disk, apologizing awkwardly. "Sorry, sorry, I'll see myself out." He glanced over at her. "Sophie, was it? Could you show me to the bathrooms, please?"
"I'm not the one that works here, Jim."
He lifted his hands up in mock surrender, backing out of the doors.
"Well," Sherlock said, "domestic bliss must suit you, Molly, you've put on five pounds."
"Sherlock!" Sophie scolded him but Molly shot her a look.
"Actually, Sherlock, it's four and a half, and it's not from domestic bliss, it's from eating away my feelings."
Soph turned her head to the side. She tried to ignore the death glares she was receving. "Sherlock, I need to speak with you, privately."
He sighed, turning back to Molly. "Anyway, your boyfriend's gay. Tinted eyebrows, product in his hair, those tired clubbers eyes. His underwear, clearly visible with a very particular brand. I suggest you save yourself the trouble and break it off."
"Why do you have to spoil- He's not gay!" Molly stormed out, shoving past Sophie.
"Just being kind," Sherlock murmured.
John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, that wasn't kind."
"Why do you need to speak to me in private?" Sherlock turned the full, harsh glare of his attention upon Sophie, who defensively crossed her arms over her chest.
"I don't think you've been…paying enough attention to what's been going on around you."
He furrowed his brows. "You broke Molly's heart, so she hooked up with a gay man just so she wasn't alone at night. What did I miss?"
A disbelieving gasp game from Sophie.
He ignored her. She felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
Don't do something I wouldn't do.
"Look, I can't explain fully. He's going to kill me anyway. So please, just listen to me. Moriarty set off those bombs. I know you're looking for him, trying to play his games, work out who he is. Sherlock, you've already met him."
Sherlock's head lifted up sharply.
Her phone again.
Whoops.
"Go ahead and solve the puzzles. I'm afraid I have to give you my resignation, because I doubt I'll still be here for long."
She had her hand on the door when John called out to her. "Wait! Don't just…give up like that. Stick with us; we can protect you."
She let her hand fall. "Fine. There's not really anything to lose, is there?" She turned back to the two men. "So what's with those sneakers?"
Later that evening, after Soph had miraculously made it back to the Baker Street flat in one piece. John was off on his own case; Mycroft had a USB of missile plans that needed retrieving, and Sherlock was too busy obsessing over a pair of children's shoes.
She had originally tried to help, but after contributing nothing of use, she accepted her fate of sullenly sitting on the couch, staring at Sherlock – who didn't seem to mind an audience – stare at his microscope, and not much else.
Finally, John arrived back from his reconnaissance mission, just in time for a breakthrough.
"Botulin toxin!"
He rushed over to Sophie, explaining his deductions all the while, and snatched the laptop out of her hands. She huffed, but he simply pulled up his blog, posting a few lines of text about the sneakers.
She shot him a questioning glance.
"Get the bomber's attention," he explained, "Stop the clock." He turned to Sophie. "You weren't lying before about knowing that Moriarty's behind these bombings. All the evidence points in that direction; the Baker Street bomb, the shoes being placed in 221C. But you're wrong about Molly's boyfriend. A man like him isn't smart enough to be the mastermind behind this."
"I don't know how you expect me to prove it to you." She shrugged. "What do you expect me to say?"
He turned his back to her, pacing impatiently in front of the pink cellphone on the mantelpiece. "Jealousy does strange things to people," he muttered, barely loud enough for Sophie to hear.
She fell hopelessly back onto the couch just as the phone began to ring.
Sherlock leaped over to answer it.
"Well…done, you. Come and…get me." The voice on the other end was female, thick with tears. She rattled off an address, which Sherlock texted to Lestrade.
The next day, while at the police station, Sherlock had received four pips on the pink phone, and a message delivered by another teary citizen.
The night before, Soph curled herself up in a blanket on the couch, trying to avoid the windows and waiting for death to strike at any moment.
It did weird things to one's psyche, being under such duress for so long. She would go through cycles of thought – if he hasn't killed me yet, he probably won't; he's just taking his time so I have to suffer; he cares more about Sherlock and his game than he does about me; he knows I tried to end the game myself.
But the thought that there was a reason, any reason, he hadn't killed her already was sewn into her mind. She couldn't escape it. So maybe she could use it.
She pulled out her phone.
I think it's time I joined the game.
Back at the station, Soph still hadn't gotten a reply, which was unusual. To be fair, she was still alive, which was a good sign.
Sherlock had just gotten off the phone.
Lestrade was taking down the address of the place the car had been found in, now considered a crime scene.
It didn't take them long to get there. Sherlock had been content to sit in terse silence but eventually John got him to explain the contents of the phone call.
The area they arrived at was a large and empty lot, concrete gleaming with rain. The car in question was parked in the very middle, with men in blue plastic suits flurrying around it.
"Car was rented by a Mister Ian Monkford; rich city boy, paid in cash, had been scheduled to go on a business trip and never arrived." Lestrade read off a clipboard and led them to the car.
Inside, it was almost drenched in viscous blood. Lestrade confirmed the DNA tests read positive for Mr. Monkford, but there wasn't a body found yet.
To the side of the scene, Sherlock was talking to the wife. He seemed to be more distressed than she was. "…only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world!"
"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months."
"Odd that he hired a car, isn't it. Bit suspicious." The interrogator in Sherlock had come out yet a single tear slid down his face.
Soph caught eyes with John, and gently jerked her head to the side. He seemed confused, but followed her.
They walked slightly away from the pair still talking, just out of earshot.
Sophie kept her voice down anyway. "These games, the five pips then four. Do you reckon that means there'll be three more to come?"
He shrugged. "Don't ask me, Mr. Grief over there is the one who got the pink phone."
She frowned. "I think there will be. Look, Moriarty is smart. He's getting other people to speak for him, he's orchestrating these elaborate puzzles. I don't know why he cares so much but he's clearly obsessed with Sherlock."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Sherlock had left the lady now, hastily wiping his eyes.
She dropped her voice down to a whisper, rushing to get it out before he joined them. "If we aren't careful, we're going to get in the way. You have to watch your back, now. He's certainly watching ours."
She broke off and looked up at Sherlock, falling beside him as he kept on walking.
"Past tense," he declared.
"Sorry?"
"I spoke about Ian in past tense, she joined in. Bit premature," he ripped off his gloves and adjusted his scarf.
John frowned. "What, you think she killed him?"
"Definitely not."
"I see." John went silent. "No, actually, I don't see. What do I see?"
"Janus Cars." Sherlock handed him a business card. "Found it in the glovebox."
By the time they arrived at Janus Cars, they only had six hours left.
The owner had been prattling away about Mazdas and sunbeds for about ten minutes, Sherlock paying attention to what he did; John focusing on what he was saying.
Together, the two men – after leaving the office, of course – worked out that the boss was clearly lying.
The three of them returned to the lab room in the morgues, luckily with an absence of Molly, and as Sherlock fiddled around with different samples and solutions, John and Soph bantered back and forth with possible answers to the problem.
"Janus Cars is a money-laundering scheme and Monkford accidentally found out when they left top-secret information in one of the rentals!"
John let out a soft 'ooh'. He considered. "Nice one, but why would they hide the body? Maybe the wife found out that Ian was in on it. They faked his death as a warning to her, so she wouldn't snoop anymore."
"Interesting, interesting." They pretended to ponder the matter a while longer, before collapsing into laughter.
It was Sherlock's problem, he had to solve it, but they could always try and inspire him.
The smile was wiped off her face when her phone went off.
The clue is in the name. Janus Cars.
"Everything alright?" She nodded, absentmindedly.
Awful nice of you to give us a clue.
His reply was immediate.
I'm bored. Sherlock and I are made for each other, you see, but he doesn't seem to be trying very hard.
She rolled her eyes.
Give me the date and time and I'll happily officiate.
She slipped her phone away, giving a reassuring smile to John, who was still eyeing her with concern.
"Janus Cars," she said to Sherlock. "What does Janus even mean?"
He thought for a moment, then grinned.
Sherlock had lead the group without explanation to the police holdings, where the car was being analyzed properly.
"How much blood was there in the car?"
Lestrade shrugged. "About a pint."
"Not about, exactly. Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. This blood is Monkford's, but there's evidence of it being frozen. I think he gave blood a while ago for this very reason. Janus Cars. Sophie is right; the clue is in the name."
"The god with two faces?"
Sherlock nodded at John. "Janus Cars provides a very special service. If you need to disappear, they…"
Sherlock kept speaking, but Sophie tuned it out. That tiny sliver of credit, and it wasn't even her own original thought. She turned away from the scene, and typed something out quickly.
When I said I wanted to play the game, I didn't mean a pawn. I won't be your messenger.
There wasn't a reply, so she continued on.
If you and Sherlock are the Kings, and John is the trusty steed, what does that make me?
She went to put her phone away, but this time he responded straight away.
Oh, honey, you're the board.
"I am on fire!"
Sophie glanced up to see both John and Sherlock rushing down the halls.
She went to catch up, but was held back by a gentle yet firm grip on her arm. Lestrade.
"I'm going to need to speak with you back at the station, young lady."
She blinked. Sherlock and John were out the door now, neither of them sparing her a second glance. "How come?"
The grip tightened. "I think you know."
The room was cramped, but over-lit. The glare of the naked bulb glinted of the mirrors and bounced off the polished metal table.
Her elbows were resting awkwardly on the edge of the table. The cuffs didn't have a very long chain, and it hurt her wrists to have the metal links pull taught.
The familiar feel of dread rose up in her, but about a million times stronger. That fear before you go through airport security that you somehow have drugs in your suitcase. Being called to the principal's office. Breaking a vase and knowing your mother would be home in twenty minutes.
They had left her there, alone, for almost an hour.
Maybe they were watching her through the two-way mirror. Perhaps it was just their lunch break.
Either way, by the time Lestrade came in and sat down across from her, her fingers were raw from biting at the skin, and her shirt sleeve was crusty from wiping away teary snot.
A relieved sob left her. "I don't know why I'm here, you haven't said why I'm here!"
She had never been to jail before. Never even got detention once at school.
And now this friendly face was hardened and all that anger was directed at her.
"I noticed you were on your phone an awful lot. Of course, that's not what made me bring you here, but texting away every time Sherlock got a call from our psycho bomber is a little suspicious."
She moaned. "It's not me, if you just read those texts-"
"Of course we read them." He pulled out a thick stack of paper stapled together. He flicked through, reading out some highlighted lines. "Blocked number: 'Kaboom'. You: 'Not a very impressive one'. Blocked number: 'I'll try harder next time'."
"Look, you don't understand, I-"
"You: 'I think it's time I joined the game'. We aren't charging you as a bomber, Sophie Elizabeth Walters. We're charging you as an accomplice."
She sniffed loudly, burying her face in her hands and shaking her head hopelessly.
"And to think we let you on the fucking crime scenes. Sherlock had you living in his flat. What did you do to Molly, Sophie?" He snorted in disgust. "Do you have anything to say for yourself."
She was the board. She shook her head. The players would scheme and play atop her and she just had to sit there and take it.
Dead would've been worse than a record of bombings and assault.
What would Sherlock and John th-.
She looked up.
"He's gonna keep calling. It doesn't stop because you got me. If I was in on it, I would tell you everything I knew. He wouldn't keep going. Call Sherlock; ask if there's been another one."
He gave her a long, unreadable stare. "Sherlock!"
The man in question must've been waiting at the door. He was in in a flash, pulling up a chair beside Lestrade; analyzing, deducing.
"Sherlock," her voice was weak and croaky, "I didn't do this, I swear to God, it's all him, you know it is. He's messing with you."
Lestrade ignored her. "Have you had another call?"
"Yes." Soph let out a sigh of relief. "A blind old lady this time."
"See! I'm not-"
"Oh, so you're telling me it takes two to wrap a poor blind woman in Semtex and put her on the phone?" Lestrade scoffed.
"Connie Prince," Sherlock said. "Our bomber has given us twelve hours to work out the murder of Connie Prince."
Lestrade stood up to leave, turning back to Sophie as the guards unlocked the door. "If you help us out now, tell us all you know, we might go easy on you."
"I swear to God, I've never heard of that person in my life!"
"Well," Sherlock drawled, not looking at her. "We never said you were the mastermind."
And Soph was alone again.
She got one phone call. The only two people she could think to call were a psychotic murderer and a man with a minor position in the British government, whose number was on a business card tucked underneath her phone case, which had now been taken into evidence.
There was only one number she ever really put in the effort to memorize. And though it didn't make sense, she dialed it.
"Hello, who is this?"
"It's Sophie, no- please don't hang up, just give me second. Please!"
"Where are you calling from?"
She shut her eyes and banged her lightly gently against the wall. "The police station."
"What, you want me to bail you out?"
"No, there's- there's no point. Molly, stay in tonight. Keep the door locked; windows shut. And don't text Jim. He's not who he says he is."
Silence.
"Look, there's going to be news spread about me, awful news, and I just want you to know that none of it is true." She gripped the phone tightly, willing her voice to last just another minute. "Molly, what I did was wrong. I was blackmailed, and I didn't mean it, and I love you."
Silence.
"Molly, you're scaring me."
"It's too late, Sophie." Molly's voice was uncharacteristically dull. Monotone. "The news has spread faster than you think, Sophie. I know what you did. It's sick."
"Molly, I-"
But she had hung up.
According to the clock on the wall in the corridor, which she passed as she was escorted back down to the temporary holding cells, she had been here for well over twenty four hours.
She wasn't sure exactly when she got taken in to custody, but it had been three in the afternoon when she had been transferred from the interrogation suite to an empty cell.
Guards would walk past every now and again; she had been given water and food on two occasions, but for the most part she had been left alone, with nothing to do.
Night was fast approaching, but she had already slept once. The clock in the corridor had told her it was around seven thirty.
Although they hadn't changed her into a jumpsuit, they had confiscated anything bulky that could conceal a weapon, which meant she was in that freezing cell wearing only a long-sleeved top and jeans.
They even took her boots, and she could fell the frigid concrete through her socks.
When you have nothing to do, pretty soon your body decides unconsciousness is better to boredom. So although she hadn't even eaten any more prison sludge for dinner, she curled up under a square meter of itchy blanket and tried to get some sleep.
"Giving up so soon?"
She jolted up, heart racing. On the other side of the bars was a familiar face.
"I've come to pick you up, loyal accomplice." He had a lazy grin on his face but his eyes were alive and scheming.
"Where are all the guards?"
"I think you'll find they're much nicer when they're dead."
He jingled a metal ring laden with keys.
"I'm not going with you."
"What are you afraid of? The death sentence was outlawed ages ago."
She huffed. "Maybe it's the fact that I have a one-way ticket to prison, but I just don't care what you say to me anymore."
His eyes gleamed. "I think John Watson would prefer you did."
In the end, she had put on the bombs and wires willingly. If anything, the big trench coat she wore to hide it was a welcome warmth.
The pool was a short drive away, so they had hours to kill before Sherlock's meeting at midnight.
Moriarty had tried to scare her. Manipulate her, freak her out with his threats and promises.
But the thick layer of explosives spoke for itself, and she wasn't exactly going to be trying to leave anytime soon.
"You're not so fun tonight. If you'd like, I could always give you the vivid details of Molly and I's first night together," he raised his eyebrows suggestively.
A fire lit up within her, but she kept her expression blank. "If I go up right now, so do you. Keep talking. See where it fucking gets you."
"Ooh, tetchy. Someone's had a rough day." His eyes flickered as the woosh of a door sounded. "Showtime."
Sherlock and John stood side by side on the pool tiles.
"Just brought a getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock held up a USB stick. "Oh, it's what this has all been for, isn't it? The puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from this."
Sophie left the changing rooms and walked over to the pair. "Nice of you to bring a getting to know me present, considering you already know me. Or was it just late?"
John swore under his breath, giving her a disappointed shake of the head.
Sherlock slowly paced closer.
"Bet you feel real clever," she recited, "working out who I really was all this time."
Silence.
"Only," she opened the coat, "you weren't clever."
He took a startled step back.
From the shadows of the mezzanine floor, a single red line of light shone directly at her, making her squint as it danced over her face.
"Nice touch, the pool," she droned, dropping the effort now that they both knew. "The place where Carl Powers died. Where I stopped him laughing." She rolled her eyes at the voice in her ear. "I can stop dear Sophie, too. Stop her heart."
"I gave you my number," an Irish lilt called out from the shadows. "I thought you might call."
"Jim from I.T.," Sherlock breathed, eyes darting over to Sophie.
She glared back at him. "Jim from fucking I.T." She flinched as the light flared in her eyes again. She put her hands up in surrender until it slid back down to her chest.
"Is that a British Army Browning A90l in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"
Sherlock pulled out the gun. "Both."
Sophie rolled her eyes. The thick layer of Semtex tied to her was seriously heavy, and here these two idiots were, flirting.
"Jim Moriarty. Hi," he sang. "D'you like my assistant? She's not very helpful, is she? In fact, I didn't even know she was helping me with the bombings until she was arrested." He approached her from behind, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting. He tutted. "Funny how those things go."
Sherlock's gaze wandered back over to the red dot on Sophie's chest.
Jim's hands were in his pockets. "Don't be silly. I'm not holding the rifle. Don't like getting my hands dirty."
There was no reply from the detective, and John had resolved to just send disapproving looks towards the criminal across from them.
"I've given you a look, just a teensy glimpse, of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you!"
"Brilliant," Sherlock exclaimed. "A consulting criminal."
He nodded. "No one ever gets to me. Not even you." Sherlock cocked the gun. "Well, you've come the closest, but now you're in my way."
"Thank you."
"I didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes, you did."
Sophie huffed. "Get a room, you two."
"And then there's Miss Sophie Walters," right behind her now, he placed his hands on her shoulders. She tried to wriggle out, but his grin was iron. "One of the only people I've ever asked for help, and she goes against me for you. It's not fair; I found her first."
"Yes, how did you two meet?" Sherlock's gun-arm faltered as Moriarty leaned in closer to Sophie.
Although she couldn't see him, she practically felt the shark's grin on his face. "Should we tell them, Sophie? About our mutual friend?" His arms came over her shoulders and crossed over her throat. "See, Sherlock, she was naughty long before I got to her. I don't want to spoil it, though."
She sucked in a breath as he took his arms back and stepped away.
"The flirting's over, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now!" His steps echoed, but all Sophie could tell of his movements was the tracking of Sherlock's pistol. "All those little problems, those puzzles… It took me thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So, now that you're here. Back off."
Moriarty kept talking about the game, but Sophie had tuned it out.
She tried to widen her eyes until she caught Sherlock's gaze, but he was dead focused on Moriarty. John noticed, though.
He doesn't want the USB, she mouthed. He frowned, and she mouthed it again, over-enunciating the words.
She felt the air rush against her left cheek less than a second before she heard the high pitched whistle.
Behind her, a bullet cracked into the pool tiles.
Sophie shrunk away, legs barely holding up, and put her hands up again.
"My, my," Moriarty murmured, moving out beside her. She turned slightly to glare defiantly at him. "If you have something to say, please, share it with the group."
She took a deep breath. Sherlock's attention was on her, at least. "He doesn't want the USB." She held herself. No second bullet came.
Moriarty hummed. "Interesting take. You don't even know what's on it. Sherlock?"
"Missile plans," Sherlock said simply.
"So, dear Sophie, why don't I want this USB? Do your best consulting detective impression. Make me proud."
He had taken the USB off Sherlock now, flicking it around his fingers.
"Because you prefer blowing up your victims one at a fucking time?"
He chuckled. "Now, now, you may be right but that wasn't the answer I was going for." He chucked the flash drive into the pool. "They're boring. I could've got those anywhere."
Sophie was sick of this back-and-forth leading nowhere.
"You know what?"
Moriarty played along. "What?"
Sophie smirked at him. "You're not going to blow me up."
"And why is that?"
"If this suits blows up, you do too. Plus, the sniper can just as easily kill me." She slipped off the coat and began undoing the knot that kept the suit wrapped around her.
Nobody moved.
She gently dropped it onto the tiles, and shoved it away with her foot. She rolled her shoulders, appreciating the heavy burden that had been relieved. "Frankly, that was overkill."
Moriarty was giving her a curious look.
"What?"
"Bullets apparently move slower in the water. Now that you're limbered up, shall we test that theory?"
She held up her hands in front of her as he moved towards her. But he was much stronger than her, and one shove sent her flailing into the deep end.
A single firing line of bullets shot around her as she desperately tried to gather her bearings, water all frothed up by activity.
Somehow, she reached the metal ladder in one piece, and heaved herself up and onto the tiles on the edge of the pool, panting. The red dot settled back on her chest, waiting for instruction.
She glared at Moriarty, who smiled placidly back.
"Fuck you."
He pouted in mock offense.
She shook her head. "No, fuck you, thinking you've got power over everyone. Your grand mistake, Jim, is that I've already spent a night in jail and decided I don't fucking like it." In sopping wet clothes and no shoes, she tried her best to look powerful and defiant as she walked directly to the entrance. "So go ahead, shoot me. Have fun playing chess without a fucking board."
He tilted his head, and the calm in his eyes caused her to pause in her stride for a second.
Slowly, she became aware of two dots; one on Sherlock's forehead, the other on John's.
"Well, you've certainly showed your hand there, Sophie."
Blinking through the water dripping in her eyes, she simply stared at him.
"You've joined the side of the angels now; that's fine. But I'll tell you what happens if you three don't stop snooping."
"A painful death, I suppose?" Sophie was starting to catch a chill, so she attempted to make her crossing her arms look defiant rather than an effort to conserve body heat.
He scrunched his face up. "No, not kill you. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
Moriarty smiled. "Not you, silly. I wasn't very impressed with your antics these past few days. You've let me down." He turned his gaze onto Sophie. "It's time to change the game." The unreadable focus on her disappeared. "Well! I better be off. Sherlock, it was so nice to have a proper chat, but that will be all."
Sherlock re-adjusted his grip on the gun. "What if I was to shoot you right now?"
"Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he demonstrated, "'cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. I really would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. Do you know what I think? I think I've given you a sneak peek into what obsession truly looks like, and you wouldn't want to take that away, now would you?"
Sherlock tensed, but didn't make a move.
Moriarty glanced one last time at Sophie, who's lips were slowly going blue, and turned to leave. "Ciao, Sherlock."
The gun was kept on him as he walked away. "Catch…you…later," Sherlock murmured.
The reply came from inside the changing rooms, and it echoed off the walls. "No, you won't!"
Silence.
"God, are you alright?" John questioned, finally relaxing now that the imminent threat was gone.
Sophie nodded numbly. Before she could lose her nerve, she set off in the direction Moriarty left in.
Ignoring the shouts from the men behind her, she stormed down to the other end of the pools, not noticing a red dot following her.
Just as she was about to round the corner, a shot rang out, this time landing less than a meter in front of where she stood. Where she would've been standing in a second.
"Sorry, darling!" She groaned. "I'm so changeable!"
Moriarty stepped out, arms out at his sides.
He gave her a sweet smile. "Those friends of yours can't be allowed to continue. They just can't."
She swiveled around to see both John and Sherlock with multiple red lights shining on their chests.
She ran back over to them and looked back at Moriarty in anger.
"You see. You're still picking the boring side, even now. Jealousy has never been a weakness of mine, but possessiveness? Absolutely."
"The boring side?" Sherlock lowered his gun at the pile of explosives on the tile floor near Moriarty. "Then I'm sure this move has already crossed your mind."
Moriarty sighed, and waited for Sherlock to make a move.
Sophie, in a flash decision, reached up for the gun. Not expecting it, Sherlock let it get taken away from him.
She threw it into the pool, all three men turning to watch it sink. "No outs," she spat. "No more bombs, no more snipers. The game's no fun if you kill all the other players before it's even started."
Sherlock and John were glaring disbelievingly at her, but Moriarty just placed his hands in his pockets and grinned.
The red dots cut off. Sophie smirked. "Checkmate."
.
And that's it! Phew!
I totally forgot before I rewatched the ep as I wrote, that it ends in the middle of the pool scene! You'll have to wait til next time to see out the end of it unfortunately :).
Please give me a quick review! It doesn't have to be long, correctly spelled, in English, or even legible at all. Anything really means a lot to me.
I'm going back to uni tomorrow so the writing holiday dreamtime is over and I won't be updating three chapters in three days like I have now, but hopefully I can be making some time to get it out once a week, twice maybe.