Dead Is the New Sexy

CHAPTER 6

"Moriarty made a mistake, leaving you with me," Idiot A threatened.

Moriarty was as cold and calculating as Sherlock. "I doubt he makes many mistakes," John completed his thoughts out loud.

"Today he did," Idiot B rounded in John's vision.

John was pretty sick of Idiot A, B, and C, and their stupidness.

Because of Sherlock destroying the majority of Moriarty's web, James was short on skilled hitters. They were effective in hurting John - not even the doctor could deny that with his shattered knee, broken ribs, injured shoulder, and pounding skull. He was thankful in a way for their lack of talent, or else he probably would've screamed more by now. What really got on his nerves was every word that escaped their lips proved a very, very, low IQ.

Idiot B picked up the same pipe from earlier, but Idiot C stopped him and pulled him over for a hushed conversation. When they returned, nothing was in their hands except tension. Rock-like fists swung at their sides, giving the appearance of dull cavemen.

Approaching incapacitated John, Idiot A nodded to Idiot B to untie the army doctor. John suppressed a sigh of relief when tight bonds loosened from his bruised and bleeding wrists, freeing him from the wooden chair. However, after smacking face first on the concrete as a result, the wooden chair didn't seem so bad. The buzzing in his head intensified to the point where everything mushed together into an incoherent jumble of light and sounds. Not capable of supporting his own weight, or even an attempt to raise his head, rough hands rolled him over so his stomach was exposed. Then it began. The beating John had been dreading.

It came softer at first, only one pair of steel-toed boots at a time. Then another pair joined, and the remaining Idiot lowered himself to his knees and punched. For being cheap guns-for-hire, they were educated in pressure points. At first John shouted, then whittled down to gasping, his brain unable to process all the screaming nerves imploding under his skin. Eyes scrunched tight, his consciousness faded.

A startling, icy plunge woke him minutes later. Dripping ice water covered John head to toe, paralyzing any action. His eyes opened to blazing light, cutting a hole through his head like a chainsaw. Concussion, no doubt about it.

It was through this haze John saw a familiar, slender figure in the doorway. Without his Belstaff and scarf, John could barely trust his vision that the person in question was indeed Sherlock Holmes.

At first he expected a squad of heavily armed police officers to file out behind him, red dots dancing on Idiots A, B, and C, ready to blow the world to smithereens. To his dismay, only one person stepped out from behind Sherlock, handgun pressed to the detective's temple.

Moriarty had his prize.

Part of John was overjoyed to see Sherlock, the rescue. Part of him wanted to scream for Sherlock to run, and not do this. Whatever "this" was. Did Sherlock even have a plan? Could Lestrade be tailing them? Of course he had a plan. This was Sherlock, he had to have a plan.

Yet something in those azul eyes told John differently.

"Doctor Watson, it seems our fun has come to a close. WELLLL, almost," Moriarty sang.

Sherlock's gaze went from scrutinizing John to burning fire at James.

"You should've learned the first time we met: I'm soooooooo unpredictable."

"You let John Watson go, that was our deal," Sherlock looked ready to burn the western world into ashes, despite the gun to his temple and handcuffs on his wrists.

"Deal, schmeal."

"You let John Watson go, you get to break me," Sherlock's voice had a dangerous tone, more dangerous than any John every heard.

"Ah, but ain't that the catch, love," Moriarty dismissed the Idiots with the wave of his hand. They scuttled from the room. "To break you, I first need to break John Watson. Here, have a seat."

He forcefully shoved Sherlock into a metal chair hidden in the shadows, then pushed him into the light. John was beside himself. The Idiots were gone. Sherlock wasn't outnumbered. He was twice as tall as Jim it seemed; so why wasn't he fighting?

Then John realized. You can't outrun a bullet. Moriarty still possessed the gun. And it was fixed on his skull. Sherlock wouldn't try anything reckless if it put John in more danger. At this point, John reasoned, a bullet wouldn't be too much more damage.

For a second his eyes matched Sherlock. Sherlock was unreadable. He mouthed, "Run."

Sherlock focused his gaze back on Moriarty. Moriarty, whom was giving the psychopath speech. Neither of them were listening.

"... I won't kill you. No. There's a difference between a broken man and a dead one, after all," Moriarty smiled at Sherlock.

"Let John go," Sherlock commanded.

"OH SHUT UP!"

Moriarty fired the gun. At Sherlock.

The bullet passed through and through Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock gasped, staring down at the wound in shock, before bound hands clasped down on to it to add pressure. John wished nothing more to contain the energy to climb over there and help.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Things are really getting out of hand." Moriarty seemed shocked as well.

Sherlock watched the blood ooze down his leg, then glared up at Jim defiantly.

"Let. John. Go."

"New game. Every time you request that, I shoot you. For example," Moriarty's hazel eyes gleamed with madness as he pulled the trigger, aiming for Sherlock's shoulder.

The little scarlet hole contrasted deeply against the starch white shirt of Sherlock. With the handcuffs, he couldn't apply pressure to this one.

John was in horrid shock. Never would he of dreamed Moriarty would shoot Sherlock. Twice, at that.

Sherlock appeared stoic as always, except for the occasional twitch of pain betrayed in facial features.

"I-I," John coughed, raspy voice returning, "thought you didn't," a breath, "want to kill him."

"I don't," Moriarty stared at John as if the doctor was the crazy one.

"What he's implying is that I'll bleed out," Sherlock's baritone hid the pain. John was impressed, but he knew it was a faŅ«ade.

"Oops. Can't have that," he shook his head. "JOHNSON!" Moriarty shouted into the hallway.

Idiot A appeared almost immediately. "Sir?"

"Go get some First Aid supplies. And we'll have Dr. Watson here treat his patient."

Idiot A nodded and returned to the hallway.

John gave an apologetic glance towards Sherlock. This wasn't going to end well.

/

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THEY'RE BOTH GONE?" Lestrade exploded at Dollivan delivering the news of Mrs. Hudson's call of gunshots and missing Sherlock.

"She said, she woke up to a gunshot and shouting and when she went up to check no one was there," Dollivan repeated.

"Has anyone tried calling Sherlock?" Lestrade pulled out his mobile and dialed the number by heart.

/

The mobile phone in the Belstaff buzzed and rang to no one in the apartment. Except for Irene Adler, who stayed in 221. It was technically vacant, after all.

She pulled out the phone to see Lestrade on the screen. Not familiar with the name, she answered the call.

"Hello?"
"Who's this? Where's Sherlock?"

"Sorry dear, he's not here. Can I take a message?"

"Where is he?" the voice of Lestrade commanded gruffly.

"Out on business, I presume."

"This is a detective from Scotland Yard. I demand you tell me who you are and where you last saw Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, the detective with the funny hat? Last time I saw him was in the papers. When he died. I guess that'll be the next time you'll see him too."

She disconnected. Playing with the police always entertained her. However, they were probably headed to 221B soon, no doubt.

Time to get dressed, then.

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