The Dragon
PenPatronus
Chapter 9 of 10
Full Circle
Sherlock calculated that he had fifteen seconds before the poison went into effect. The countdown started in his head:
15
Sherlock sprinted towards the pool. He shoved Moriarty aside (and snatched a foldup knife out of his pocket in the process) and dove into the water.
14
Knife between his teeth. Eyes wide open. The closest body was Mary.
13
He caught up with her with two kicks of his long legs.
12
She twisted onto her back as she sank – her bound arms outstretched and parted just wide enough…
11
…for Sherlock to squeeze his head through. He was able to swim with both legs and both arms while she hung around his neck.
10
Kick – kick – kick.
9
They surfaced, both gasping. Sherlock reached the edge of the pool.
8
He took her wrists in one hand – swung them up over his head – braced his other hand under her butt and pushed.
7
Two-thirds of Mary was over the rim. Sherlock spit out the pocket knife and shoved it between her fingers.
6
Deep breath – push off the wall – dive back down.
5
Bubbles – chlorine stinging – a shadow at the bottom of the pool.
4
With each kick he thought his friend's name. John – kick – John – kick – John! Coils of rope drifted to the left and right. John had managed to free his wrists, but he couldn't swim far without his legs.
3
Hand grabbed hand. Sherlock's shoes touched the bottom and with the mightiest leap he could muster he propelled them both towards the surface.
2
They swam – a bizarre creature made of three arms and one pair of legs. John spit out a mouthful of water. They both saw Mary pulling the rest of her body over the edge of the pool.
1
Sherlock's fingertips touched the wall. He pushed himself straight down, arranged his right shoulder against the backs of John's knees, his right hand braced against the small of John's back.
0
He lifted John half way out of the water and hoped-prayed that he was able to grip something and pull himself the rest of the—
A memory of Redbeard popped into his mind. His mother was always so careful to cut his nails, but she must have forgotten because they were wrestling and Redbeard clawed Sherlock's eye. It bled and throbbed and when he cried, the salt made it sting. That pain, multiplied by a thousand, suddenly erupted in Sherlock's stomach. It felt like animal claws were scratching every inch of his guts. His legs went numb and limp, useless. Elbows, shoulders, fingers stiffened, seized, burned. As he started to sink he considered the irony – with Molly's help he'd built up a tolerance to Moriarty's poison – it would incapacitate him, but not kill him – but that didn't matter, didn't matter at all because he was going to drown. He was still going to drown.
John…
A jolt of blinding agony shot through him like lightning. He couldn't feel anything anymore. Not the pain, not the water filling his lungs, not the iron grip of a hand suddenly around his wrist. Slowly – like he was being pulled through quicksand instead of water – Sherlock was lifted to the surface. Mary acted like a counterweight with her body on top of John's feet. She kept him from falling back into the water as he used every last bit of strength in his arms to pull his best friend onto the dry floor. The paralyzed Sherlock could only watch, curious, and as if from a long distance, as his body left the water and curled up, trembling between John and Mary.
"Sherlock!" John was shouting. He must have already diagnosed the symptoms because he tried to get him to vomit up the poison. Sherlock's body wouldn't cooperate.
"Too late—" Sherlock told him with numb lips and a tongue like a ship's anchor. "Ok… It's ok, John. Im-Immune…"
John leaned closer. Water dripped from his nose onto Sherlock's. "What?" he asked. "What are you saying, Sherlock?"
"He's trying to explain to you that he's built up a tolerance."
Moriarty. The son of a bitch was still standing there ten feet away – a calm, amused audience watching the show.
"If he hadn't he'd be dead by now." Moriarty sighed. He scratched the back of his head with the barrel of his gun. "You three are really making all this difficult for me. I didn't want to have to shoot you. Makes such a mess. I'd hate to inconvenience the janitorial staff here."
John was at the end of his rope in every way. Sherlock knew that look on his friend's face. That "just-shoot-us-already" look. The three of them were going to die, so there was just one last question to ask. John didn't muster a poker face, didn't try to sound tough or intimidating, didn't hold back his tears. "Don't hurt my daughter," he pleaded. "I don't care what happens to anyone else just – please – my baby, don't hurt her."
Moriarty blinked. "All right."
Sherlock wondered if he and Molly missed a symptom when they analyzed the effects of the poison, because he had to be hallucinating. Was Moriarty being… merciful?
"All right." Moriarty shrugged. "Your Detective Inspector and friends have probably found her by now, anyway. If they accurately analyzed the clue I left for Mycroft then they're busting into every ghost station in London. Your baby is in one of them. But, unfortunately, so is the HOUND toxin."
"What?"
It was Moriarty's favorite part: the reveal. The pleasure of unveiling his plan. "You remember, Doctor. Remember in Baskerville? The gas you inhaled that made you hallucinate? When Lestrade's men enter those ghost stations they'll trigger explosions that will unleash that toxin. Everyone in London will be effected and this city will fall into chaos."
Sherlock tried to calculate which ghost stations it would be – which ones were strategic. He had to tell Lestrade. He had to figure it out and tell Lestrade…
His mind had turned to fog. It would be a miracle if he stayed conscious for five more minutes.
"You should thank me." Moriarty cocked his gun and pointed it at them. "You should thank me for killing you. Trust me, death is far favorable to chaos."
Sherlock's eyesight was blurring, so he didn't see the door behind Moriarty open. He heard it, though. Heard a boot kick through brass hinges. Footsteps. More guns cocking. Someone – Lestrade? – shouting his name. Moriarty's face had never looked more determined, more wolf-like. He aimed his weapon at John and fired. At the same time, Mary reared up onto her knees and threw the pocketknife. Sherlock watched – fascinated – his sharp eyes seeing everything – as the bullet and the knife passed each other in mid-air. The bullet was no more than a millimeter above John's head. It traveled through his hair like a harpist's fingertips plucking strings. The cement wall behind them caught it. Mary had better aim. The knife pierced the soft spot of Moriarty's neck – just below his Adam's apple, just above his collarbone. Shocked, he mouthed the word "Bitch!" at her, then toppled forward to land facedown and frozen still in the water.
Sherlock wasn't sure how long he lay there staring at Moriarty's dead body. It was long enough for the deep end of the pool to turn red. Long enough for him to wonder at the fact that Moriarty had died in the same place his first victim, Carl Powers, had. Long enough for an ambulance to arrive and strange hands to lift him onto a stretcher. And he was conscious long enough to see Molly Hooper walk into the room carrying a bundle of blankets in her arms. Mary burst into tears when Molly handed the bundle to John and John, grinning, kissed his infant daughter on the cheek.
To Be Continued
Author's Notes: One more chapter to go! Have you reviewed? Have you told your friends about this story? Do both!