Notes: THIS UPDATE IS COMING FROM LUCERNE, SWITZERLAND! :D I worked on this on the plane so therefore here's an earlier update than I originally planned.
To clarify a few details about the story: all ships in here are cannon. There's suggestive Johnlock and Sherolly, but even BCC does that. Expect some good ol' whump to start soon. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 2
Déjà vu. The sensation filled every of Sherlock's senses while climbing the stairs towards the hospital rooftop. Hand poised on the handle, he hesitated stepping onto the roof. This time there were no carefully calculated plans, no keywords, no brother or homeless network informed. If Moriarty was waiting, it would be a battle of raw wits.
His first step after opening the door surprised him.
Moriarty was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't on the ledge playing some iconic 70's song; he wasn't in the middle with a gun waiting on his tongue; he wasn't on the ledge ready to jump. There was only one object of interest. A package, sitting atop a portion of bloodstained concrete, where Moriarty had originally "shot himself."
Stupid, stupid! Sherlock mentally slapped himself. A replaying of events would be dull and pointless to soothe Moriarty's boredom.
No, he had thought of something new. Something fresh.
He tiptoed towards the package. He's a bomber, remember? John's voice from years ago echoed in his head and he hesitated for half a step.
There was nothing written on the envelope. But as soon as he picked it up, he knew what was inside. The weight, the shape.
He ripped the flap.
Inside was an outdated iPhone 4 with a bulky pink case.
He waited. But a call or five pips never came.
There was no pass code on the phone and he slid his thumb towards the right. With a click, it revealed a picture of John Watson in someplace dark. Even with the picture's poor quality, Sherlock could make out bindings on John's wrists and a gag in his mouth. There was blood on his face and arms from unknown origins. Ignoring the subject of the photograph, Sherlock searched the background for clues. But the picture was too blurry to zoom in on anything.
He rushed downstairs. With his equipment, he might be able to find fingerprints.
Molly started when Sherlock Holmes dramatically darted through the hallway so late at night, coat flailing.
"Sherlock!"
He ignored her, slamming the door to the lab behind him.
Although she was on her way out, clocking out for the night, she decided to see what Sherlock was urgently attending to. She knocked quietly on the door to no avail. Entering, she found Sherlock analyzing a woman's phone with a handheld microscope. The phone was familiar…
"Shut up," Sherlock's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Pardon?" she stepped closer.
"Oh. Molly. Not you," he glanced up.
"Whose phone is that?"
"I don't know."
"Is it for a case?"
"More a… chase."
"Is everything alright?"
Sherlock stared at Molly. Gentle eyes, thick hair braided to the side, a worried visage. She truly was beautiful, and in the past acted as a friend when even John wasn't there.
"It's Moriarty, Molly. He's back," Sherlock sighed.
"Yes, I saw him on TV. Not pleasant, really."
"He has John."
"What do you mean?"
"He's abducted him. He left this on the rooftop," Sherlock motioned to the phone.
"Any fingerprints? Dirt?"
"No. I didn't really expect any. Excuse me. I have to make a call," Sherlock pulled out his phone and strode to the other side of the room.
While Sherlock was busy, Molly sent a text to Lestrade. Did you know John's missing? Sherlock's distraught. Molly Hooper
She waited for a reply, listening to Sherlock's voice on the line. She couldn't make out specific words, really, just the tone. Cheerful. Sherlock was acting.
Her phone dinged.
Yes, Mary contacted me last night. I had been with John at a bar until 10, I guess he never made it home. I can't put out a missings person alert until 2 days of no one seeing or hearing of him but I'll try to pull some strings. Tell Sherlock police are searching.
Molly didn't. If this was really Moriarty, the police would be completely and utterly useless. Sherlock already knew that.
"GREENWICH!" Sherlock suddenly exploded.
"What?"
"John's in Greenwich!"
Molly was flabbergasted. "How?"
Sherlock paused, considering if he had the time to explain. Not really, but this was Molly, and he will always be in debt to Molly. He took a deep breath and ranted, "One of the first things I did with the phone was take it out of the case. Apple phones always have a serial number engraved on the back, this one not being different. The phone is brand new judging by the condition, bought specifically for this job no doubt. The picture on it," he flashed her the picture of John. Mary barely had time to wince before Sherlock continued. "is poor quality. Signature of iPhones dating before 2014. So, the picture was taken on this specific phone. They've only had John for a couple of hours, meaning the picture had to be taken recently, probably just after receiving the phone before one of Moriarty's men dropped it off here. Moriarty wouldn't have done this himself. No he's too high up on his throne for busy work. So he told one of his goons to get an iPhone 4. How to acquire one? The Internet would be the obvious choice, but he doesn't have time for shipping. And if he bought it online, it wouldn't have a carrier. This one did, but the sim card was removed. He could steal it, but it would take time to hack and reset and not many people in London carry such an outdated model. Which means he had to acquire it through his personal mobile carrier. What's the largest carrier in Europe? EE. I called EE posing as the concerned brother of a mentally disturbed sister who ordered an iPhone 4 and was supposed to pick it up today. She didn't know of one but called nearby stores and got a hit in Greenwich. A phone matching this serial number was picked up today at 7 p.m. at a EE store in Greenwich. Leading to the point, Greenwich is currently the closest clue we have to John's location at the moment."
Molly gave a sad smile, admiring his deduction. "Then go. Go find your doctor. Do you need me to do anything?"
Sherlock's foot was halfway out the door, mechanically tying his navy scarf around his neck.
"Stay safe."
And he was gone.
/
"Johnny-boy. Wakey wakey."
An irritating voice pulled John Watson from sweet sleep. The first thing that hit him was the pain. A throbbing pounded in his skull and there was a searing sharpness in his left shoulder. His hands were caught. He twisted and pulled. Then hazily opened his eyes and looked down. They were confined to the arms of a wooden chair by zip ties. Bloody classic, John thought. Underneath him was rough concrete; the walls weren't different. They were dirty and uninviting, and some red parts looked distinctly like old, dried blood.
"Johnny-boyyyy," the voice sang.
Raising his head, he came face to face with Jim Moriarty.
John tried to shout, but was constricted by a strip of cloth in his mouth.
"There there, Johnny-boy don't get too excited. There's no bombs this time, anyways. Well, that's not entirely true. There will be bombs, lots of bombs. So many bombs. But not as a specific gift for you."
John squirmed. Moriarty chuckled.
"I'm sorry, I just have to ask… one little question… DID YOU MISS ME?!"
The outburst shocked John, and he jumped despite his bindings.
"Sorry, sorry, that was rude," Moriarty gave the impression of a scolded child. "Besides, I've been working on my manners. Those Holmes brothers have such good manners, it's really inspired me."
John finally stilled, giving into his incapacitation.
"Don't they inspire you, Johnny-boy? Angles, the both of them. Do you want me to tell you what Sherlock said on that roof that day?"
Before he could stop it, an image of Sherlock lying lifeless on a sidewalk, face splattered with scarlett, entered John's mind. He struggled again.
"I said 'Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels.' And he had said," Jim paused to laugh unnaturally, "'Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.'"
Moriarty continued his sadistic laugh.
"But Sherlock has to be an angel. He came back to life, didn't he? But then again, so did I. You don't think I'm an angel, do you? That makes me the demon. Every fairytale has to have a good, old-fashioned villain."
/
"Greenwich, please," Sherlock spoke sharply; he possessed neither the patience or time for an argument. The taxi cab door gave a metallic crash as Sherlock slammed it shut.
"Wanna be a little more specific, mate?" the driver asked while the car began to roll.
"Nope, anywhere in Greenwich is good. Now keep your mouth shut and step on it," Sherlock passed a twenty pound note up front.
"You've got it."
The ride was silent, but not as fast as Sherlock hoped. However, it was out of the driver's control. The bars just closed, resulted in extra taxis and chaotic drivers. Traffic on this route probably meant a forty minute or more drive to Greenwich. Sherlock cursed under his breath.
A plethora of scenarios had already passed through the ingenious mind palace of the detective. The only reason Moriarty had captured John was to get to him. John's boring to him otherwise, except to mock him as Sherlock's pet. It was the first move to a game of chess. Moriarty had shifted around pawns, to take a direct strike at Sherlock's queen. The white queen was taken by a black rook, hidden out of sight before sinking its teeth into its prey. Too preoccupied with the black king, the white king hadn't been focusing on protecting his most valuable piece. Careless. Selfish. Stupid. There was only one weakness the black king held; he possessed more pawns than anything. A lack of loyal rooks, bishops, and Knights would harm him in the end. Moriarty was wealthy, his money spreading across Europe, Asia, and parts of the Middle East. That kind of power bought you protection. Cheap protection, though. Sherlock was richer with John, Lestrade, Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and his homeless network as his fortress. But there was trick in this board that not even endless hours of chess could prepare him for. Chess was supposed to end when a player's king was captured by his opponent.
Except in this case, both kings were ghosts.
/
"I liked Magnussen's touch," Moriarty said. He had yet to shut up. "He was a good asset. Smart, but not brilliant. He remembered facts. High schoolers do that. One action of his I particularly enjoyed was when he flicked you on the cheek."
Recalling the embarrassment, John flinched.
"It's amazing what Sherlock did for you. For your wife. Even after she shot him. It's like a chain-reaction. Shoot Sherlock, he shoots Magnussen. Aren't you surrounded by trouble makers. Maybe you'll pull the trigger next," Moriarty smiled. "Picture that. John Watson, the murderer. You'd kill for Sherlock, for Mary, for Sheryl."
Pure fire flashed in John's eyes. Nothing can happen to Sheryl. And nothing ever will, if John possessed any power in the manner.
He knew he didn't stand a chance against Moriarty. Not in brains. Brawn, definitely. The protective instincts of a father and husband had the power to strengthen muscles in a superhuman way. Hysterical strength, John recalled from his medical university days. When caught in a crisis, the human body concerts fear into adrenaline which results in ordinary people being able to perform extraordinary tasks such as lifting cars. If Moriarty so much as looked at Sheryl, John Watson would rip his head off - literally. John smiled.
"Why are you doing that… that smirk," Moriarty's eyes narrowed. "Something I said? Oh, I see, you're thinking of my death. One problem however, I don't stay dead," his words were venomous. "And you won't kill me. Your tiny, normal brain," he flicked John's cheek, "can't fathom my plans. For example, where do you think your beloved detective is right now?"
Oh no.
"On the way to rescue his lost puppy. It'll be a hell of a show. And if you don't comply with my lead, your family will face… results. Babies are so cute. I would hate anything to happen to that bitty, witty, little face.
"Sherlock and I are a package deal, John Watson. What good is a hero without something to overcome? We must stay together, 'till death does us part. But we all know how well that worked out the last time. The truth is, if I live, he lives. If I die, he dies. If I resurrect, he resurrects. One can't survive if he's not complete. Did you know that? Sherlock Holmes completes me. And this living is getting awfully boring. I owed him a fall, and I gave it to him. The only problem? We didn't land. Now I owe Sherlock an execution."
When he stood, James Moriarty emptied of all madness. He seemed more like a gentlemen than ever before, just another London business man pacing in a suit. When his voice filled the dank room once more, it sounded tired. "Do you remember our first encounter? The first time we met? You were rather preoccupied by being a detonator, I guess. During our little talk I promised Sherlock that I was going to burn the heart out of him."
He paused.
"What gives Sherlock his heart anyways? He's barely human, like me. Not caring about the nonsense emotions of petty people living their petty lives. It's the thrill of the chase that keeps him going. But that's his mind, not his heart."
Another pause.
"The answer is you, Johnny-boy. John Watson gives Sherlock Holmes a heart. So to burn the angel's heart, that means I'll have to burn you."