Author's Note: Boy did I access my inner Moffat for this one. Took several days to figure out what Moriarty would do! Please review.

The Dragon

PenPatronus

Chapter 8 of 10

The Fire

It was the music that woke him up. Familiar violin music. His personal recording of John and Mary's waltz was playing out of a nearby speaker. Sharp scents stung Sherlock's nostrils. Chlorine, soap, water, disinfectant. He willed himself not to sneeze, not to scratch his nose. He willed his breathing to stay even, as if in sleep. Eyelids parted a miniscule amount, and Sherlock saw that he was propped up in a metal folding chair against a wall. He was back at the pool – the same pool where Carl Powers died and where Moriarty nearly murdered Sherlock and John.

They'd come full circle.

Two figures stood in front of him with their backs turned and their toes on the edge of the pool – the deep end of it. They were gagged, and their bodies were hogtied top to bottom with thick cords. It was John on Sherlock's right and on his left, was Mary. Her knees trembled and she shifted her weight constantly to keep from falling into the deep water. She hadn't had the baby yet. Her stomach was still swollen with child. All things considered, she looked unharmed. John, on the other hand, was filthy from the bomb they'd narrowly escaped. Most of his weight was on his right foot. A steady trickle of blood leaked from his left pant leg and from his right shoulder. Sherlock took inventory of his own body and identified a throb on the back of his head. His right knee was numb and, he noticed, swollen to twice its size. His stomach growled from hunger and his throat stung from thirst.

Suddenly something grabbed his chin and lifted his face. Sherlock couldn't help but open his eyes from the shock of it. The bomb had effected his ears, so he also failed to hear the man approach. Mary's shoulders shook. She must have been crying, but he couldn't hear her.

Moriarty grinned at Sherlock. "Did you miss me?" he asked.

Sherlock sat up straight. "No," he said, his voice raspy and quiet. "No, I really didn't."

Moriarty patted his cheek. "I missed you. I've had a lot of fun the past few years, sure, but not as much fun as I have with you, Sherlock." Moriarty reached into his vest pocket and took out a short, round bottle with a capsule inside it. "Remember this?"

Sherlock glared at the pill. "Vaguely. 'A Study in Pink' was a relatively boring case, actually." Sherlock could tell by Moriarty's smile that he knew he was lying. "Is that how you plan to kill me?"

The waltz finished its last verse and then started up again.

Moriarty's faux wounded look crossed his face. "Still so obvious, Sherlock. You still fail to appreciate my creativity." The throbbing in Sherlock's head reached the back of his eye and he winced. "Do you remember when we had our first talk here?" Moriarty asked. "Our first proper chat, I mean. Do you remember what I told you I would do to you?"

"Burn my heart out." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And they say I'm a drama queen."

Moriarty smacked Sherlock across the face so hard that his neck cracked when it turned. Sherlock coughed and spit onto the floor.

"Your heart," Moriarty murmured. He backed up a few steps until he stood between John and Mary. "Three years ago your heart was your reputation. Your integrity. Your desperate, foolish need for people to take your word as gospel. Your need to be right." The criminal mastermind slid closer to John, his black shoes squeaking in a puddle of water. "And your friends, too." Moriarty nudged John's elbow. The doctor swayed, grunted through his gag, but managed to right himself before he toppled into the water. "This is a bit cartoony…" he muttered. "Might as well have tied you to the train tracks, Johnny-boy."

Sherlock stood up. Moriarty immediately unsheathed his gun and pointed it at John's head. If his hands had been free, Sherlock would have raised them in surrender. Moriarty kept talking, unfazed. "Nowadays your heart is still your friends, yes. What you said in your toast at the wedding about John saving you was truly moving."

For the first time since he woke up, Sherlock started to sweat. The extra moisture made sawing through his bonds with his fingernails all the more complicated.

Moriarty wiped away a fake tear. "Truly moving. But it was the vow you made that really got my attention, Sherlock. You were serious about that. So determined. That vow – your first, only and last – is your heart."

"Can we get on with it?" Sherlock suddenly snapped. "I know what you want me to do."

Moriarty cocked his head to the side. "Oh?"

"That pill isn't meant for me. You want me to choose who to poison: Mary or John. And if I don't choose you'll shoot them both."

"No," said Moriarty. "If you don't choose I'll shoot all three of you, actually." He shrugged.

"I've decided," Sherlock said. To enunciate his words he ripped his bonds the rest of the way and tossed them aside. He held his hand, palm up, for the pill.

Moriarty stepped towards him with his gun in one hand and the bottle in the other. "Which one?" he asked. "I'm curious. Which one are you going to kill?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. He willed his voice to remain steady. "John is the logical choice. If I kill Mary then I kill the baby, too."

The last thing Sherlock expected Moriarty to do was to bounce gleefully on the balls of his feet. "Would it change your mind if I told you that Mary is no longer pregnant?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted over her. "Clearly she is."

Moriarty showed every tooth with his smile. With the drama and pizazz of a circus ringmaster he skipped over to Mary and reached under the back of her shirt. Sherlock heard something click, and then the sound of something sliding over skin. He and John watched, their mouths agape, as a something rubbery slid out of the front of Mary's shirt and splashed into the water.

It was a fat suit. A fat suit that made her appear pregnant.

The baby was gone.

"Oh, your faces!" Moriarty said gleefully. "Should have brought my camera."

John swayed and groaned. Mary's shoulders shook harder. Sherlock's tongue went dry from his mouth hanging open so long.

"The C-section went smoothly," said Moriarty. "I was there the whole time. Had my own top-notch physicians handle it. Poor Mary probably needs some more pain medication by now…"

Sherlock's hands started to shake. He couldn't still them, no matter how hard he tried. "Where is she?" Sherlock whispered. That whisper crescendoed into a yell. "Where is she?"

Moriarty's face went passive and stone cold. He marched over to Sherlock and held out the pill. "Break your vow," he told Sherlock. "Break your vow and I'll have her returned."

Sherlock didn't realize that there were tears in his eyes until one suddenly plopped onto his cheek. His fingers trembled so hard that he could barely grip the capsule. He did, though. Moriarty stepped backwards towards John and Mary and watched, waited, for Sherlock to step forward and reveal his victim. John made a noise that might have been Sherlock's name.

And then, with a triumphant smirk, Sherlock did what he'd planned to all along.

He popped the pill into his own mouth and swallowed it.

Moriarty's grin didn't deflate. "Knew you'd do that," he whispered. And then he pushed the hogtied John and Mary into the water.

To Be Continued