Hey, guys! This is officially the longest story I've ever written now, woo! *balloons cascade from the sky* school's back on now, and I've got one hell of a rehearsal schedule so I will be even less regular than I usually am :P ah well, I'm really enjoying this now, so hopefully I won't rest until it's finished! Finally getting to the crux of the story, so, hehehe, I'm going to really enjoy writing these next few chapters xD got a couple of ideas for another Sherlock fic (maybe using this little universe, not too sure yet!) so watch out for that sometime soon! Feel free to read and review, just so I can know what you think :D
Btw Disclaimer: I own nothing! Maybe Moffat and Gatiss will just allow me Moriarty, they killed him off and obviously don't want him anymore, I'll take him off there hands... :)
Enjoy xxx
Sherlock rushed down the dark alleyways, working harder than usual to keep up with the figure darting through the shadows just ahead of him. John was long gone, he never could go quite as fast, but Sherlock didn't have time to worry about that now. The distance between the two of them was closing, with every stride Sherlock was getting closer. The man would have to tire soon, sometime soon.
Sherlock could hardly see his target now, just a silhouette in the fast fading light as he turned a sharp right. Dead end. The man had stopped, facing the wall. It was over.
Sherlock strolled forward, grabbing the man and turning him around, "So, what have you got to say for yourse-"
He stopped.
This was of course, a perfectly ordinary looking man, no disfigurements, not overly good looking, not overly ugly either. He was wearing dark jeans with a black hooded jumper, concealing a blue baseball cap. The face, however, was that of none other than James Moriarty.
Moriarty grinned at the detective, who had immediately stopped in his tracks. He replied "Boo." Before edging around Sherlock, getting closer to his escape, but showing no signs of leaving. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You had nothing to do with this, why are you here?" He asked, stepping forward, having recovered from the initial shock. Moriarty just shrugged. "For kicks?" He offered, the scoffed at the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh, come on! Consulting Criminal here Sherly! You think I wouldn't be involved in serial murder?" he chuckled.
Sherlock had winced at the word "Sherly" but took a breath, and tried to ignore it. "Well, you're here instead of the one we're after-"
"His name's Daniel."
"Thank you. So you're here and Daniel is...?" Sherlock invited Moriarty to continue. The criminal took the chance. "No idea," He dragged out each syllable. "He's probably where you left him. I heard you gained a new one, by the way."
Sherlock stared at Moriarty, feigning ignorance. "A new one?"
"Yes, a little ordinary person to follow you around all day."
"Ah yes. She's very nice, you two would get on."
"I imagine so."
Moriarty took a few paces away from Sherlock. "Anyway, she's probably tucked up in bed by now. Good thing too, with a crazy murderer roaming the streets." He cocked his head, and shrugged, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. His pale lips curled with glee.
"Speaking of ordinary people; how's John? Haven't seen him for," The smaller man looked around and over Sherlock's shoulder. "Well, quite some time now. I do hope he's all right."
Sherlock's face changed. He looked horror-stricken. He realised while he was having a battle of wits with Moriarty, he'd left his friend alone with a madman who knew exactly how to lurk in these shadows. "What did you do?" He asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking. Moriarty seemed to relish in the sound of Sherlock's voice for a moment, before losing all emotion completely. "I said I wanted kicks earlier. Thanks for that, go find your pet now." He gestured in an effort to 'Shoo' Sherlock away.
Sherlock snapped.
He grabbed hold of Moriarty by the front of his jumper, and pulled him up close. They were nose to nose. "Now you listen. Firstly, you better have made sure you were specific to that Daniel. If he hurts John, he deserves to know who is coming." Moriarty raised an eyebrow at this point. "Ooh, a bit cocky, aren't we?"
"You know what I could do."
"And you know what I could do."
Sherlock shook Moriarty for a moment, bringing his attention back. "Secondly, if what you say is true, you should know you're not only hurting John and me tonight. You've set a crazed murderer on a little girl who lives with no one but her father. I hope you're happy."
Something flashed in Moriarty's eyes. Sherlock couldn't fully recognise it as it left as quickly as it appeared. His mask was repaired. The consulting detective and the consulting criminal both moved away from each other at the same time, brushing themselves off. Moriarty sneered.
"Until next time then, love. Go save your little boring people."
And with that Sherlock was alone.
(O_O)
John heard a soft buzz coming from his pocket; he took out his phone, squinting as the sudden light hurt his eyes. 'Louise Chase' read the caller ID. He pressed the little green button and quietly listened, whilst heading back the way he came to find her.
"I'd start by destroying your body."
John could hear everything their suspect said. He seemed mad, John picked up the pace, but his leg had started to play up recently, and he wasn't as agile as normal. Not that he was agile anyway. As long as Louise could keep him distracted for just a few minutes, he'd be able to get to her. What would he do then, though? He had his gun, but when he reached into his pocket, the only thing he could find was a tissue. It must have been pick-pocketed, but when? The only plausible explanation was the tube, but –
Sherlock Holmes.
John made a mental note to take vengeance later, maybe through hiding all his cigarettes, or just throwing the skull at him. The one time he actually needed his gun, Sherlock had taken it off him. John realised in his anger he had completely ignored what was happening on the other end of the phone line.
"You tricked me!"
Right, time's up. John started to run, as much as his leg would allow him. He knew it wasn't real, but it still somehow managed to get to him. He could hear Louise's screams just ahead. 'Please let me get there in time,' He thought, turning corners and fighting his way through the darkness. At last he saw her. Louise had seemed to have shrunk to half her size, curled up against the brick wall. The backs of her clothes were ripped, her hair was knotted and bruises were forming on her wrists. The cause of these injuries was nowhere to be seen. Louise looked up at John, and almost smiled, relief spreading across her face. John helped her up, and held onto her tight, John maybe have been short, but Louise was miniscule by comparison. She buried her face into his chest, and they just stayed there for a moment.
When Louise seemed ready, John moved away from her, he'd seen these injuries before. On women in Afghanistan, after they'd been found by his regiment, and-
"Did he..?" He asked, internally begging for a good answer. She shook her head, "No," She said, "But he can't have gone far. We need to find Sherlock, before anyone else does." Even when attacked like this, she still could make sense of some things. John shook his head, "Correction, I need to find Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital. Before anything else happens." She looked up at him, her brown eyes bursting from the dirt and blood smeared across her face. "Not yet," She said, "you think after that, I'm really going to wander the streets by myself?"
For a minor who had decided to wander off in the middle of the night into a different part of the city with two men she barely knew, John had to admit she did have a lick of sense about her. Sometimes. "Fair point," He said, detaching himself from her. "If I put you in a cab which goes straight to St. Bart's, then will you be all right?"
Louise took a breath, and looked away for a moment, and murmured:
"I suppose so."
"Good. Come here, we'll get you back safe, I can call your dad if you want-"
"No!" Louise exclaimed, quickly before regaining her composure. "I can do that once I'm there. Go on, I hope you find him."
John hailed a cab, and with a fleeting smile, Louise was gone. Safe.
John turned away from the busy street, straightened up, and strode back into the darkness to find his friend.
Where their new friend was waiting
("")
Sherlock had been retracing his steps for a good ten minutes now, and he still seemed no closer to wherever John was. He'd noticed about halfway through a missed call from Louise.
That was when the detective broke into a sprint.
He had to get back. He needed to find his friends before anyone else could get to them.
Hmm. Friends. Sherlock had never really thought with that word before. He knew John was a friend. His only one, in fact. Yet Louise had come along so suddenly, yet she was so easy to trust. He'd always found other people tediously boring, and yet...
Sherlock shook away the thought before it could go any further. He managed to find just about where he and John had split off. He looked around for his blogger, who was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock stood in utter silence for a moment, taking everything in. The bin had been moved slightly since his last visit, a small animal, probably a cat, had clawed away at some massacred rodent in the corner, which was now left to rot. No sign of John or Louise.
Then the stench came. A cold, but warm, metallic scent filled the air. You can't solve murders for a living and not learn the smell of blood.
Oh no. Oh no no no no. Sherlock started to panic, and searched. Round the other side of the bin he found it. Reasonably fresh, but already drying, staining the wall and floor. A pattern of drip marks had fallen to the floor, indicating smaller cuts. A full stab wound would have left spatters of blood pressed up against the wall. This had to be a good thing. The wound wouldn't be fatal.
But where was the wounded?
A foot scratched against the floor. A careless slip, which gave Sherlock the exact location of whoever had made the sound. He turned sharply to his left and rushed down a smaller alleyway, to the left of the first one he took earlier on.
The stench came again. It was stronger, too strong in fact, to be somewhat safe. Sherlock followed his nose until he found the source, and his heart fell through his stomach.
John Watson was lying before him, barely conscious, trying to stop the bleeding.