Chapter Seven - The Final Problem Revisited

Sherlock knew it was a trap. He knew he was putting himself into Moriarty's hands. He knew he probably wouldn't come out alive. He went anyway.

Standing on the corner of Regents and Glasshouse, Sherlock watched the traffic flow past. Rage at the thoughts of what Moriarty had done to Molly seethed through him. He forced his emotions to the side. He needed to be cold and clear-headed when he faced Moriarty.

The dark car stopped and the back door opened. Sherlock quickly slid into the seat, his face an emotionless mask. He was not surprised when the needle punctured the skin of his neck. His last coherent thought was that he hoped he would be able to face Moriarty one last time before he died.

Φ

"What do you mean you lost him?" John shouted. "With all the CCTV cameras in London, you actually lost him?"

The man reporting to Mycroft glared at John, "Not every street has CCTV. Most do, but this driver seemed to have a knack for finding the few that didn't."

He turned his gaze back to his boss. "By the time the car pulled into the fourth side street without cameras, it was too late. We pulled the car over but there is no telling on which street the switch was made. We'll interrogate the driver of course, but it will take time."

Mycroft nodded. His people were very good. It rankled that the mistake had been made. "Go back over the film and watch vehicles exiting uncontrolled streets after Sherlock's car. Maybe if we are lucky we will be able to tell which car they switched him into." The man nodded and hurried away.

"Time," Mycroft said softly, "we need time." He looked at John, worry creasing his face. "I'm afraid Sherlock is on his own for now."

Φ

Sherlock awoke and found himself shackled spread eagle to a metal table that was firmly bolted to the floor. He could lift his head somewhat but his wrists and ankles were firmly bound.

The room was small with a high ceiling. A countertop and cabinets lined one wall. Two walls were bare. Opposing the cabinets, the fourth wall was taken up mostly with a thick pane of glass under which was a small sliding metal drawer and a speaker. It was not unlike a drive-through bank window.

Isolation chamber, Sherlock thought, the kind used to work with toxic substances. The condition of the room suggested it had not been in use for some time. Abandoned research facility of some kind then.

He looked above him. Close to the ceiling was a convoluted collection of various tubes, glass containers, wires and gears arranged in a Rube Goldberg style contraption that ended in a pipette several feet above his bare chest. Sherlock studied the progression of the objects deducing their purpose. He eyed a large container of yellowish liquid cautiously. Definitely not good, he concluded.

Lights the other side of the glass panel flared on revealing a room empty except for a chair facing the glass window of Sherlock's prison. The door opened and Moriarty appeared behind the glass holding a subdued Molly in front of him, a knife at her neck gleaming in the harsh light. Molly saw Sherlock and made a slight move to speak.

"Ah-ah-ah, not a good idea Molly," Moriarty crooned as his knife pressed deeper and the point dug into her skin. Molly gasped as a small trickle of blood seeped from the cut and slid down her neck.

"I grew up in my father's butcher shop in Dublin," he told her, "I could filet you alive." Another small dig and a fresh rivulet of blood, slightly larger began to cascade downward as Molly whimpered.

"How would you feel about that Sherlock? It's amazing how long a person can remain conscious while being skinned alive. Would you enjoy watching Molly suffer as much I would?" He cocked his head to the side as if considering and then shook his head.

"As much fun as that might be . . ." Moriarty stopped talking and with his free hand gathered some of Molly's blood on a fingertip. He locked eyes with Sherlock and slowly placed the blood covered finger in his mouth sucking with an expression of enjoyment. Inside the isolation room Sherlock vainly thrashed against his bonds, a snarl of rage escaping his throat.

". . . as much fun as that might be," Moriarty continued, "I have something else planned for both of you today." His face grimaced. A manic look flickered in his eyes before turning expressionless.

"You and I have an old score to settle Sherlock," he said stonily. "You were supposed to die that day on the rooftop. Your career was in ruins, your reputation trashed. Why couldn't you have just died and finished it? You ruined everything!" he screamed.

"Let Molly go," Sherlock said calmly, "I'm the one you want. Let her go and I'll do what you want."

"No Sherlock!" Molly sobbed and earned a fresh cut for her effort.

"You'll do what I want no matter what," Moriarty snarled, "you are not in a position to bargain."

He shoved Molly over to the door, kicked it open and thrust her roughly inside, slamming the door behind her. She immediately rushed to Sherlock's side and vainly attempted to undo the shackles holding him to the table.

"They're too well made. You would need a hacksaw to free me," Sherlock told her calmly.

Frantically, Molly searched the drawers and cabinets in the small room, looking for anything that could be used as a tool to free Sherlock. There was nothing.

"You don't think I would leave anything to help you escape do you Molly?" Moriarty scoffed from behind the window. "How can you stand to be around such stupidity Sherlock? What did you ever see in her? John I can understand, after all he is quite good looking. But this," he pointed at Molly, "this is so disappointingly dull."

With her back to the glass, Molly placed her shaking hands on the countertop and forced herself to calm down. She needed to get control, she needed to think. Molly forced herself to focus on being calm. She turned and quietly crossed over to stand beside Sherlock, determined to not do anything to irritate Moriarty further.

"So . . . here we are." Moriarty continued. You and I, faced with the problem, our real final problem, all over again. To put it simply," Jim Moriarty took a swaggering step forward arms bent akimbo, hands at his hips as if about to draw a gun, "this town ain't big enough for the both of us pardner. One of us has to die and it sure ain't gonna be me," he said in a rough gravely voice.

He pointed his gun shaped fingers at Sherlock and made a fake gunshot sound, pretending to blow smoke away as he holstered the make-believe weapon.

With lightning speed his voice and demeanor changed into a sophisticated tone. Moriarty smiled. "I still owe you, Sherlock. I once made a promise to you; I said I would 'burn the heart out of you.' I intend to keep that promise today."

Moriarty seated himself in the chair facing the window.

"Shall we begin?," he asked as he steepled his hands in front of him and glanced at the apparatus above Sherlock's chest.

"I do hope you will appreciate the time and thought that has gone into my little experiment. Observe carefully if you please. At a push of this button," he held a remote up for them to see, "a timer will begin. Precisely three minutes later a concentrated amount of sulfuric acid will begin to drip from the pipette over your chest in fifteen second intervals. The acid will begin to burn its way through your skin eventually reaching your heart. Clever, don't you think? Oh, and to make it more interesting, the gears connected to the pipette will cause it to move five centimeters in a clockwise direction with each drop."

Moriarty looked over at Molly, pity in his eyes. "That means it extends the time for him to suffer," he said as if talking to a particularly dim-witted child.

"I don't intend to leave you out of the fun, my dear Molly." He pointed to the largest glass container in the apparatus. "That glass container of sulfuric acid will be broken by a metal hammer ten minutes after the process begins. At that point Sherlock is toast. As for you, even if you go to the corner of the room, the fumes will enter your lungs. Not a pleasant way to go, but I fear we all must die somehow."

Pausing he cracked his neck to the left, then to the right and looked back at Sherlock and Molly.

"I think it will be more fun if this little experiment includes some participation from our test subjects. Some Intelligence is required however, so you may be on your own Sherlock."

Molly saw Sherlock's jaws clench. She placed a hand on his arm. "It's okay," she said gently. "He's trying to upset you."

Sherlock looked into Molly's eyes and said. "I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this mess."

"I'm not." she said simply. "I can't think of anyone I would rather be in a mess with." She smiled and felt Sherlock's arm relax.

"Oh, how touching," Moriarty sneered. "Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I have a small task you must perform for this experiment to be complete." He pulled out a large ring of keys from his pocket.

"Five of these keys are not like the others. Five of these keys are just not the same . . ." he crooned in a sing-song voice.

"There are one hundred fifty keys on this ring," he explained. "Four of them will unlock the shackles, one will unlock the door. It's really simple Molly; even you should be able to figure it out. Find the keys, free Sherlock."

Molly turned and walked past Sherlock and leaned into the glass looking Moriarty in the eye. "If we get out of here I will make you pay. That's a promise."

"Oooh! Sticks and stones my dear! You don't have enough brains to get out of that room let alone get to me." Moriarty stood up and placed the keys in the metal drawer under the window. Glancing at his watch, he said, "You have three minutes to say goodbye before the process begins." He pushed the button on the remote control and there was an ominous click of a relay slamming closed in the contraption on the ceiling.

"Beep...beep...beep..." a timer announced the countdown had begun.