Sherlock didn't address Moriarty or in any other way gave a sign of being present in the room. He just stared as his nemesis, the man who both fascinated and appalled him, slowly came to his senses - brushed off the haze brought upon him by the drugs now wearing off. As the level of Moriarty's consciousness rose, he went through the same steps Sherlock himself had - the almost violent blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the almost bright, piercing light, unfocused stare that followed as they had, and then the general disorientation of time and place - and inevitably, as reality started to gain a firm grip again from the brain that had been out of its reach for so long - the confusion, astonishment, anger - in that order - cast their shadow on the face of Jim Moriarty.
Moriarty lied still, his eyes now closed again, but from the sound of his breath Sherlock was able to tell he was awake. Still keeping his quiet Sherlock observed as the svelte man slowly lifted both of his hands as much as the straps allowed him to. As the leather hugging his wrists put a stop to the motion, Moriarty spread his long, thin fingers in a gesture that seemed to ask "what the fuck?"
"Don't bother." Sherlock's deep voice violated the silence of the room and made Moriarty flinch - just a tiny bit, but enough for Sherlock to spot it. An involuntary reaction caused by an utter surprise, veiled as quickly as it had been triggered.
Jim let his hands drop back to the bed and inhaled strongly through his nose; it sounded like he would have been bracing himself for something.
A battle, perhaps.
Still, Moriarty didn't open his eyes even if his eyelids quivered. The light from the window played on his face, making him look younger than his years. When he opened his mouth to talk his voice was like silk; there was no rasp in it.
"Soo..." One word, not a question but an acknowledgement that trailed off and immersed into the white walls.
Sherlock stayed quiet. The seconds dragged on.
A few more moments of silence followed; Sherlock could almost hear Moriarty thinking. He used this rare occasion he had been given to observe his opponent; it was interesting how frail Moriarty actually seemed. He had lost a bit of weight since that last time Sherlock had seen him; his bones jotted out through the thin fabric covering his body. The hollows in his face were deeper than they had been, and all in all he didn't look that menacing at all; but by now, of course, Sherlock knew better than to let those boyish features that trick him.
Sherlock also knew that Moriarty knew he was watching him. Even so, under the piercing stare of the man he so obsessed over, Moriarty's body was completely still; only the slight movement of his chest proved him to be alive. Like he would have enjoyed the situation he basked in Sherlock's stare, it was a game of a cat and a mouse but which one was which remained unclear to both of them.
After a while Moriarty spoke again, letting the words roll from his tongue like drops of water breaking the even surface of a still lake. "Well, this is interesting." His voice was smooth and his word over-articulated. He sounded light, almost amused.
"Rather, yes." Sherlock's voice was neutral. He heard his own heartbeat in his ear that was pressed against the pillow. He wondered if Moriarty heard it too.
Moriarty turned his face to Sherlock, keeping his eyes still closed. When his position was mirrored from Sherlock's, the brown eyes flew open and suddenly he was there, very present, those bottomless dark eyes pointed directly to Sherlock, straight into his mind. The look in Moriarty's eyes was as clear and focused and intense as ever; there was none of the haziness of the drugs in them. It was Jim alright and he was, by the looks of it, doing better than ever.
"Hello, love." Moriarty's voice had glee in it; it was in a strange contrast to the its softness. A wry, wicked grin spread on his face. "Finally just the two of us."
Sherlock stared back into the depth that was Moriarty's eyes, not blinking. "It would appear so." He didn't sound exactly pleased about it.
"This, of course," Moriarty yanked his hand a bit but never let his stare break away from Sherlock's eyes, "Is a bit, should I say, restricting." Slight annoyance coloured his voice and made his eyes darken.
Sherlock sneered. "Disappointed?"
Moriarty's eyes flashed and the grin melted into a menacing smile. "Sweetheart, I've fantasized about you and straps, but not exactly like this." The volume of his smooth voice had dropped down almost to a whisper.
Sherlock didn't turn his face away, just met Moriarty's stare with an equal strength. "Spare me the details, if you will."
Moriarty frowned, faking disappointment. "So dull." He then sighed in an exaggerated manner, turned his face away and glanced around the room as if mapping his surroundings. "This is interesting." He did sound truly intrigued.
"Yes, you said that already." Sherlock's voice was dry.
"Who's behind this? Oh no, let me guess, it's some game, it's a trick, its.."
Sherlock cut in before Moriarty had time to continue with his ranting. "Molly Hooper."
"Ooooh...! Molly." Moriarty closed his mouth with a snap. "Well, that's a surprise."
Sherlock couldn't help himself from grimacing a bit. "If there ever was one." It was still a mystery to him, how he had been so off in terms of Molly Hooper - and judging by Moriarty's reaction, the surprise had been at least of an equivalent scale.
Moriarty composed himself quickly. "And where is she? I would love to catch up." The way he extended the word 'love' together with the tone of his voice almost made the hair in Sherlock's neck stand up; there was genuine viciousness, evil if you will, in the man a few feet from him; and for the second time Sherlock had to wonder what it was that Jim had done to Molly.
None of the thoughts in his head were present in Sherlock's voice. "I'm afraid that has to wait, she left not long ago. Don't know where."
"Pity..." Jim's voice traveled off in a way that would have indicated genuine regret had it been any other human being. Coming from the mouth of Jim Moriarty it conveyed everything but.
The two man stayed silent for a while.
Moriarty broke the silence by clicking his tongue. Then he spoke, and his voice was almost merry. "So, Sherlock Holmes, whats the plan?"
Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "The plan?" It annoyed him that he was forced to play this game; he knew what the madman would say next.
Moriarty rolled his eyes, and even if Sherlock didn't see it, he knew it. "Surely you have a plan. With all your genius." The mock was more than apparent in the otherwise nonchalant tone.
Sherlock felt a flush of unexplained anger. Before he had time to reply, Moriarty continued.
"Oh you don't have a plan. I should have guessed." He sounded bored now, and for reasons Sherlock couldn't quite fathom it made him even more angry.
He hid his anger - it wouldn't do to be distracted. Keeping his tone very formal he then said, "I know there is a plan for you."
Moriarty glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Is there now? Pray tell."
"Any minute now, I would imagine." Sherlock stretched is tone, making his reply sound almost poetic.
Moriarty was visibly annoyed now, and he sounded impatient. "Any minute now what? Don't be such a bitch."
A wry smile made a quick flicker on Sherlock's face. The scale of Moriarty's mood swings was enormous; to trigger them was almost too easy.
He was about to reply when he was cut off by the door slamming open - just as Sherlock had predicted - and in stormed three men. They were about 30 to 40 years of age, heavily built, dressed plain but tidy, and all of them had the aura of a man you really don't want to mess with. The tallest of them had to be over 6 feet tall and had the word boxer written all over him- by the shape of his nose it was quite apparent he had taken a hit or two in it during his life. The man who looked the youngest had a striking scar across his face; a pale red line cut from the outer corner of his right eye across the cheek down to the lower lip which had been slit in two and sown together by not so skillful stitches - the bad repair work had left it somewhat deformed and gave his face a look of sadness as the lower lip hung a bit, him not being able to a thing about it. The third man didn't have any features that would have stuck out; but he had a terrible stillness in him, a one that immediately indicated that he was the one in charge of the group. All of them, Sherlock saw, were armed.
The men came by the beds and stopped there. They stared at Sherlock and Moriarty and Sherlock and Moriarty stared back; nobody said a word. Judging by the expressions on their faces and the way their eyes moved between the two men laying in the beds, they were surprised to find two men instead of one.
Then the mad Sherlock had categorized as the leader of the pack, spoke. He had a pleasant voice, deep and low, but his tone was firm and the type that leaves little room for argument. "Which one of you is Moriarty?"
The question took both Sherlock and Moriarty aback; and in the exact same time they recovered from it, resulting in a simultaneous answer: "He is."
Sherlock looked at Moriarty and saw his own expression - which was surprise - faked on Moriarty's face.
The man who had presented the question crossed his arms on his chest. He looked slightly apprehensive. "Right. Lads, I don't have time for this. Which one?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock nodded towards Moriarty. "And he is Jim Moriarty." He sounded very convincing but the man did not seem convinced.
From the other bed, Moriarty protested. "No, listen. I am Sherlock Holmes. He is Moriarty." It must be said that Jim managed to sound equally convincing; the gift of a madman.
The man shook his head. "All right." He then turned to the two other man. "Take them both."
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After John had forced Molly into the car using a considerable amount of strength and with the persuasive power of his gun he had had in the glove department convinced her to start driving towards her house, the realization of the situation started to properly sink in on him. Sherlock was alive; the thought was so overwhelming, so unbelievable; it filled him with such relief and gratitude he did not know to be possible. And yet at the same time he was enraged; furious to this woman sitting next to her, driving the car with a sullen, blank expression on her face. John had to fight the urge to shout at her, express his hatred, make her feel all the pain she had put him through.
But he did no such thing. With the self-control achieved through years of military training he pushed all of it behind the surface, stored the possibly destructive emotions for later. What was important now was to get to Sherlock.
John glared at silent Molly. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line and she seemed to have recovered her balance previously shaken by John's attack on her. She had not spoken a word since they had got into the car, but John didn't intend to keep it that way.
"Is he OK?" The anger still colored John's voice; but there was also worry in it. He couldn't help it.
Molly's expression didn't change; in no way did she convey that she had even heard him. There was an eerie aura on her; she didn't seem at all like the person John has met before. She was so still, so motionless; somehow hollow and empty.
"I asked you a question, Molly. Is Sherlock OK?" The demand in John's voice was more than obvious and accompanied by a small gesture by his hand holding the gun.
Molly sneered. Oh come on, it's not like you're going to shoot me, now are you?" Her voice was annoyed.
John's eyes flashed. "Trust me when I say I wouldn't feel sad about it."
"Of course you wouldn't. I stole your precious Sherlock from you." Molly was ridiculing him, and it took some effort from John to control himself.
John took a deep breath. "Is he OK?" The words were pushed through the teeth pressed together and his voice had muffled anger in it.
Molly rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, yes, he is fine. Sherlock Holmes is just fine."
John observed her, not being sure if what she was saying was true. Then, deciding this is what he had to go with now, he leaned back on his seat and turned his eyes away from Molly to the street ahead. "I hope he is, for your sake." The message was clear in his voice - were Sherlock not OK, Molly wouldn't be either.
They drove in silence for a while. Then John spoke again. "What was the point? What on earth were you hoping to achieve?" He really did want to know.
Molly's expression tightened a bit, or maybe it was just the way the light played on her face. She didn't reply at first; just as John thought she wouldn't at all, she suddenly spoke. "I wanted him. Have him." She turned her face to John for a few seconds, and the expression on her face was so horridly blank that it seemed to drain the life out from John as well. There was no sign of empathy in her expressionless eyes; they were as cold and empty as a barren winter day. "I love him." The words were in such a contrast with her demeanor it actually convince John that she was, quite frankly, out of her mind, and whatever obsession she had for Sherlock Holmes had completely distorted her view of reality. For it was not love what John saw in her; it was a desire to own, to control, to meet a need that could not be met, a one sparked by a sick mind and grown in a contaminated heart.
John didn't have words to reply; he just stared as she turned her eyes back to the road and continued driving towards the house.
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They arrived to their destination some 20 minutes later. John ushered Molly out of the car and into the house; the impatience and anxiousness to get to Sherlock burnt his chest and made his heart beat like crazy. The thought of being mere minutes away from seeing Sherlock again, to be able to touch him, talk to him, was overwhelming, and it made time to almost stand still for John. It felt as if he was in a slow-motion film, and every second that passed felt like a lifetime.
Molly led him through the house, John getting some slight assistance in persuading her to do so from the gun pressed against the back of her head. On the surface it seemed like she would have given up resistance and accepted her faith, but John, as impatient as he was to get to Sherlock, didn't let her meekness fool him - he had seen the viciousness in her and knew know what she was capable of. He was not going to let his guard down, no matter what.
They were walking down a narrow corridor at the back of the house when Molly suddenly stopped, causing John almost to bump into her.
"What?" His voice was harsh and he tightened his hold of the gun.
"It's open." Molly's voice had gee in it and it was a bit too loud.
John reached to see over her shoulder and saw what she meant, there was a door on the right-hand side of the corridor some meters ahead, and it was ajar. Bad feeling crept all over John's body. He grabbed Molly's left shoulder and pushed her forward towards the door. "Open it."
As she did, a smallish room with two beds revealed itself. The sheets in them were ruffled, and John noticed immediately the straps that were attached to the sides of the beds. What he also noticed was that the beds were empty; there was no one in the room.
Molly started laughing, a manic, uncontrollable laughter that shook her whole body. It sounded awful, a gawking burst of pure ill will; it made John's stomach turn. "Shut up!" He pushed her into the room which didn't reveal anything new; there was no sign of Sherlock. "Where is he?" John was angry now, and disappointed; he grabbed Molly and practically shouted the words into her face.
Molly's laughter died as fast as it had emerged but the menace was still there, all over her features and shining in her eyes. "Looks like you're too late to save your man, John. They've taken them."
He shook her now, harder than would have been necessary. "Them? What do you mean? Where is he?"
"Jim and Sherlock."
John stood back in astonishment. "Jim? Jim Moriarty was here as well?"
Molly straightened her clothes, ruffled by John's handling. Her eyes looked dark and vicious as she looked at him, and when she replied there was a horrible, sly smile on her face. "Yes. And as for where they are now-" She spat the word out from her mouth, " I have no idea."
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please share your thoughts on this, am a bit unsure of how it turned out.. thankyou! and again, any mistakes with the language i apologize.