Notes: Once again I've been traveling, and therefore didn't have time to work on this. I've been working on a new story too, one about Sherlock and Mycroft having a sister. I don't know when I'll post that one. Anyways, sorry for the late update.
By the way, this fanfic has a trailer on YouTube (paste into url bar and remove spaces):
(youtube) /watch?v=Msim65lmvSA
Yes, I know this is a really short update for me and I apologize, but I felt this part needed to stand alone.
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 5
Sherlock answered the call.
"Let's have dinner." Her voice. Her sexy, enticing, velvet voice. The request she'd asked him 54 times.
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock's voice rang slow across the room. Lestrade gave him a flabbergasted stare.
"Fine. Then let's make a deal."
"I'm listening."
"Trade yourself for your beloved doctor."
"Dinner it is then," Sherlock straightened more; Lestrade didn't think that was possible. "Where?"
"221B Baker Street. Lovely little place. Ever heard of it?"
A click, and the call disconnected.
"Who the hell was that?" said Lestrade in a concerned tone.
"The Woman," Sherlock responded distantly.
He headed towards the door, but a force yanked him still. Lestrade had his fist around Sherlock's skinny bicep. "Sherlock. We'll find John. I promise."
"Text me if you get a case opened," Sherlock stepped away from the DI's grasp and headed down the stairs.
Back to Baker Street, then.
/
The gun left Irene's temple when Moriarty disconnected the call.
It was very strange. Moriarty in 221B. The setting didn't fit somehow. Because to her, 221B Baker Street was a place of safety. The place where she had run when any other hope and safety ran out. Where she could be protected by Sherlock Holmes.
Irene could smell him. Almost taste him. The apartment reeked of him. Every paper scattered on the floor contained his touch. Every mug touched his lips. His presence was undeniable as she sat in his chair. In the great chair of Sherlock Holmes. Except this time it wasn't in his clothes, her hair wet from his shower, his shampoo, his conditioner. Now a parasite infected the whole place, crawling into every quivering fiber.
James Moriarty lazily picked up an apple from the desk and turned it over in his fingers.
"Not a bad performance," he commented. Something about the apple seemed to amuse him.
"Did you expect any less?" she tucked her legs underneath her, pretending to seem relaxed. Unafraid. Because as much as Moriarty didn't intimidate her, the act of dying terrified her. And Moriarty was just as much as a murderer as any. But dogs could sense fear; it made them more defensive. Moriarty was a tensed mutt, and one little thing that annoyed him would set him off. Set off the gun, really, with a bullet aimed straight for her skull.
There is a type of ceasing in the universe when someone is forced to wait in a tense situation. When every second lengthens into an hour, when no matter how much you scream, wail, and kick, the thing you're waiting for doesn't come fast enough. When every cell in your body is in strict equilibrium, and the weight of time is so heavy you can hardly move. This is how Irene Adler felt, staring at that damn entrance, waiting for the great consulting detective to burst through the door and pull one more trick out of the sleeve of that great Belstaff coat of his.
A door creaked. A man ran up the stairs. And appeared in the doorway, Sherlock Holmes himself.
Now in the apartment were three very different people, who shared the same attributes. The pale skin and dark hair, related their figures. The figurative blood on their hands, the cunning minds, the mutual understanding of importance to one another shared inside. All sociopaths. None were innocent. All had made deals with the devil.
And now, it was time for one more.
The Woman, the Consulting Detective, and the Consulting Criminal.
Which one is the devil, decide for yourself.
"Hello, sexy," the Woman purred.
The Consulting Detective ignored her. For some reason, she expected him to rush to her side, breaking zip-ties from her wrist, and wistfully move the hair from her face. No. His focus was on the Consulting Criminal.
They stared at each other. Mastermind to mastermind. Enemy to enemy.
Skeleton to skeleton.
"You died," Sherlock's baritone had a sharp edge. Like a parent finally run out of patience for the child stealing cookies.
"So did you. Death's boring, isn't it?" Moriarty was still twirling the fruit.
"Death is another world, one adventure that can't be explored until you enter it. I'm surprised you don't feel the same," Sherlock entered in slow steps, reaching the side of John's chair. He didn't sit. It was John's chair. He wasn't allowed to sit in it.
"Look where that adventure led us," Moriarty spat, entering his twisted, sadistic mood. "Back to this. CIRCLES, Sherlock. You and I, going in CIRCLES! Here I am, gun in my hand, threatening to kill someone you call a friend."
"If you're referring to Miss Adler, I wouldn't say friend was the right adjective," his monotone voice and stoic expression displayed no emotion.
"Psh, Adler is bait. You know who I have."
"You wouldn't kill him."
"I killed myself, I killed you, I had a gun trained on him, what makes you think I won't kill your boring doctor friend?"
"You need him for leverage."
"Why would I need leverage?"
"For me. For once, leave the games out of it. The toying, the playing, the twisting of others. This is between you and me. You've always just wanted me. From the day you put your number under that dish."
Moriarty twitched. Sherlock smiled. There were different kinds of smiles. A smile of joy, of sadness, of longing, of laughter, of friendship; just to name a few. This was the smile of a madman.
The smile of a fallen angel.
"I told you to get used to riddles."
"They sicken me."
"You sicken me," Moriarty threw the apple up in the air, and shot up it. The thunder of the gun rang throughout the apartment. Poor Mrs. Hudson. Having to answer to the neighbors.
Neither Sherlock or Irene flinched. A lunatic with a gun in his hand was likely to fire it at some time. It was like putting the steak in front of the dog and expecting him not to wolf it down.
"You, Sherlock, have become so unbearably predictable," Moriarty sighed. The apple had exploded on impact, staining the walls. "Always have to be the hero, swooping in to save the day. John Watson has tamed you. Turned you into a boring, pathetic lump of emotions. John Watson has given you a HEART!" he screamed the last word. Neighbors be damned.
Sherlock didn't react. Let the moments fade away. Finally, he returned, "Would you like to play a game? Something to catch your interest?"
Moriarty considered him. This was new. This was exciting. He was proud of Sherlock. Finally turning the tables.
"Humour me," answered Jim, a sickening smile creeping onto his visage.
"You let John go, in return for me. And you can try to break me."
"You want me to kill you?" Moriarty's eyebrows furrowed.
"There's a difference between a broken man, and a dead one. Surely you know that."
Irene couldn't believe what she was hearing. There wasn't a trick up the ol' sleeve after all. Just a stupid, reckless plan to lead Sherlock into a slow and miserable death, no doubt. Sherlock was engraving his own gravestone.
Moriarty didn't respond, so Sherlock continued his monologue. "These games are what are useless. Us dancing around the point. I want you to let John Watson go, this isn't about him."
"So just yooouuu and me, Sherlock," Moriarty sang. "One on one. You're offering me the chance to burn your heart."
"Most say I don't have one."
"Well, that isn't quite true. But I'll make do. Would you like to tie youself up or shall I?"
Very controlled, Sherlock stripped of his scarf and extravagant coat. He laid them lovingly on John's chair, then held out his hands. "Be my guest."
Moriarty eyed his prize like a breeder would a racehorse. This isn't what he expected, but that meant it wasn't boring. This was fun. Proud of Sherlock, indeed.
He pulled two zip ties from his breast pocket, left over from Adler. He stroked Sherlock's cold hands before applying them. A violinist's hands. Delicate hands. Hands that could be snapped.
He paused after securing the zip ties, thumb resting on the pulse. The beating pulse. The proof of a heart.
Leaving the Woman behind, the Consulting Criminal followed the Consulting Detective down the worn steps of 221.
The devil had chains on his fallen angel, and was finally dragging him down to the gates of hell.
/
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