SO, so sorry for the long wait guys! I'm an inch from graduating so school has been full and busy. I'm actually surprised I got this chapter out in one sitting. But, hey, one of our most beloved characters is finally here! I hope it was worth the wait, if it's not, I apologize. If so, then please enjoy!
And thanks again to all who reviewed, faved, or put this story on their alerts in that time between posts. All of you are wonderful, wonderful people!
This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Companion story collection.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, any form of it. I would write something clever and fun, but I have to get up for an 8am class in a few hours so insert clever saying...thing...here.
Sherlock's footsteps echoed ominously against the floor around the pool. The building was silent but for the lapping of the water against the pool's edges. The humidity in the air was stifling to Sherlock, and he was glad he left his coat at the entrance of the building.
This was it. Moriarty. He was here, Sherlock just knew it. He knew it the moment he sent his message to the psychotic criminal. Oh and how Sherlock loved every minute of the man's mind-bending puzzles.
It started hardly three days ago, when John had suddenly started barking his head off and scratching at the window of their flat. It took Sherlock merely seconds to realize what the dog was going on about before he dashed to the window and pulled the mutt away before the flat across from them exploded.
What came after was simply an intense mess of looking for clues, tag-team fights, and case solving.
Sherlock had called Lestrade, and after a talking to the man behind it all, Moriarty, the game started. The two of them found the shoes of Carl Powers, who died decades ago in a tragic accident. Of course it wasn't really an accident, as Sherlock proved with the toxin that coating the boy's shoes.
Next was the tale of Janus Cars, a case Sherlock felt was so easy it actually disappointed him to an extent. Surely Moriarty didn't think him that stupid.
And third was the murder of the celebrity Mrs. Hudson liked so much. Also simple, once Molly pointed out the botox injections and unlikeliness of tetanus being the killer. It was the brother's secret lover, he found that out the minute he laid eyes on him while interviewing the brother. John was most unhelpful there, obsessed with smelling the household cat for some reason or another.
Fourth was the murder of the art museum's security guard. Which led to all sorts of fun including a fight against the Golem (although he wasn't sure if he'd be alive if John hadn't bitten the large man's ankle to save him), and the discovery that the museum's 'long lost painting' was indeed a fake.
They'd just finished up the murder of Andrew West, former owner of the Bruce-Partington plans he so carelessly held in his hand. It was light, expendable, a sharp contrast to the handgun he had hidden on his person. Just in case.
The game was entering its final round. Sherlock had won the first five, but that didn't mean Moriarty couldn't still emerge victorious here. That's why he had left John at the flat. It was pointless taking him along. This would be a battle of wits, of words and threats, and not something a police dog could fight with.
After he left the message for Moriarty on his blog, the detective had locked the napping mutt in their home and had gone for a bit of a walk, thinking though every situation, predicting ever move that could appear at the end of this game he'd been playing. He'd watched this game progress carefully through the past few days. He had to prepare himself for anything this man might throw at him if he wanted to leave with his head held higher than his opponent's. It had been an hour and a half since he left the flat, and the detective was ready to face his challenger.
Sherlock held the missile plans the air, presenting the offering to his unseen peer.
"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this."
He gazed around the pool, not seeing anyone but knowing they lay just out of sight, lurking like sharks in the building's shadows.
A door opened, and there was the clinking of metal, Sherlock turned his head and froze.
His dog entered warily, but wasn't able to wander far. He was hooked to a chain tethered to the concrete wall just around the corner. A choke collar, Sherlock fumed inwardly when he recognized it as a pronged one, kept him from pulling it taunt.
The dog whined from behind a muzzle, but his tail wagged at the sight of his owner.
"John? What the hell-" Sherlock took a step forward, but BANG.
A bullet skipped across the floor in front of him, and stopped Sherlock from moving any further.
John barked frantically through what little room he had to open his mouth.
Sherlock stood still, quietly shocked. John was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in his flat, sleeping next to the hearth, where Sherlock left him. The flat had been locked, hadn't it? They purposefully went in and stole his dog? And put that...that thing around his neck?
"Evening," a light voice echoed around the building, "Oh, this is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"
John stopped barking and Sherlock circled, looking for a face to put with the voice.
"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson his poor little doggie heart."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glaring at the opening that John had come from. There. That's where the voice was from.
"Who are you?" Sherlock said warily.
There was the clack of expensive shoes against the concrete, and a short, lithe man appeared. He smiled, his lofty demeanor amplified by the well tailored suit he wore. What was more intriguing though, Sherlock recognized him.
"I gave you my number," the trill of an Irish accent floated from him, "Thought you might call."
It was Jim, Molly's now ex-boyfriend, except not. This was not the shaky, shy man that had "accidentally" knocked over his petri-dish the other day. There was no trace of the anxiousness and humility; instead there was grandeur and a sinister showmanship about him.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw John lower to the ground, tail slowly tucking under his belly.
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"
Sherlock shifted his gaze to the man, brought the pistol out, and aimed it at the man, "Both."
The man wasn't fazed by the weapon, "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"
Finally, Sherlock thought.
Moriarty stepped back, as if shocked by his own statement, "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Did I make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."
Sherlock swallowed thickly, and looked over to John again. The mutt was eying Moriarty warily, and looked torn between inching away from the man or staying perfectly still.
Jim let out a soft scoff, "You need to train him better. Don't worry, I got a head start for you."
He went over and unhooked the short chain from the wall, yanking it to get the dog to stand closer to him.
John was reluctant, his hackles raised, and growled lowly.
"Ah, ah!" Moriarty said sharply. He knelt down to John's level, and spoke like he was admonishing a child, "You see, buddy, this is why you have the muzzle. If you'd behave I'd take it off. Now shut it."
A jerky movement from Moriarty caught Sherlock's eyes, and his eyes flashed quickly to the man's ankles. One held slightly more weight than the other. Sherlock realized that was the reason why John sported a muzzle.
Sherlock clenched his teeth, but said nothing.
Moriarty stood back up, one hand with the chain wrapped around it, the other in his pant's pocket.
"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."
It dawned on Sherlock, and he would berate himself later for taking so long to figure it out, that what Jim said was true.
"'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'" Moriarty grinned at Sherlock's words, "'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"
The criminal shrugged, "Just so."
Sherlock had to smirk. Oh the cleverness of Jim Moriarty was simply fascinating, "Consulting criminal. Brilliant."
Moriarty rocked on his feet, smiling proudly, "Isn't it? No one gets me, and no one ever will."
Sherlock cocked the pistol in his hand, holding it level with Moriarty's eyes, "I did."
"Well, you've come the closest. Now you're in my way."
"Thank you."
Moriarty's smile disappeared. He didn't miss a beat in retorting, "I didn't mean that as a compliment."
"Yes you did," Sherlock bantered back at the criminal just as effortlessly.
"Yeah, okay, I did!" The smile was back. Sherlock was having trouble keeping up with the man's quick-shifting emotions. He hadn't had this much fun in ages.
"But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" he said in a loud, sing-song voice.
The change in tone set off a precariously stressed John, who let out a guttural snarl and thrashed the front of his body, trying to dislodge the collar from his neck. Sherlock tensed at the act, wanting to help but not wanting to risk his friend's safety even more.
"Whoa, hold it there Johnny Boy, the grown ups are talking!" Moriarty gave a sharp kick to John's shoulder. His bad shoulder. John didn't yelp, but he did stop moving. The mutt looked crazed, wide eyed, like a coyote whose leg was caught in a foothold trap. Moriarty pulled the chain taunt, asserting some form of dominance that Sherlock did not want to see.
"Stop it," Sherlock's voice was hard as he tried not to show just how much Moriarty's actions were getting to him.
Jim Moirarty smiled, and Sherlock realized he already knew,"You know, I admire your brain so much. But you've changed Sherlock. And for what? A puppy? If I didn't see it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it! I shot an underling of mine when he told me you'd gotten a pet, because it was just so...so...ludicrous! I said to myself 'A pet? Sherlock couldn't have fallen to such a ridiculous, normal sentiment!'. But...here we all are."
For once, Sherlock didn't know how to respond. Even to him, it sounded nothing like him. The old him would have never cared about any other person, much less an animal. However, thinking about what it had been like those past months: having someone to talk out loud to, someone who wouldn't brush off his deductions, someone who didn't scoff at him for what he said or how he acted, not feeling the jarring loneliness he never realized he had been submerged in his whole life. He never realized he needed, dare he say it, a friend. It has always just been him and his intellect. When, finally, someone had come along who had accepted it all. And it was, of all things, a dog.
The corner of his mouth tilted up, "Here we are."
Moriarty laughed, reaching out to roughly pat John's head, "Although, I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. Especially Johnny Boy here! You might want to keep a closer eye on him. I have a lot of fingers in a lot of black-market pies, and there's a dog-fighting ring that would absolutely love to have him-"
Sherlock held out the flash drive, wanting to halt the man's rant, "Take it."
It broke Moriarty's attention from John, "Huh? Oh, that! The missile plans."
He strolled casually up to Sherlock and took the memory stick, placing a kiss onto the plastic. He lowered it slowly, eyeing Sherlock, "Bo-ring! I could have gotten them anywhere."
With a flick of his hand, the missile plans sunk thirteen feet to the bottom of the pool.
"Now," Moriarty moved closer and closer, tugging John along, until he was a foot away from Sherlock, "Do you know what happens if you do leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"
"Oh, let me guess: I get killed."
Jim's eyes widened in shock "Kill you?" he grimaced, and his eyes flash in an almost embarrassed way, "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you, some day anyway. I don't want to rush it though, I'm saving it for something special. No, no, if you don't stop prying..."
He leaned in slowly, the air seemed to thicken around him. His voice darkened, "I will burn you."
He let the words sink. They echoed around Sherlock's ears.
"I will burn the heart out of you."
Sherlock's grip on the gun tightened until his knuckles were white, "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not true," He held his hand out, offering John's chain to Sherlock. The detective watched Moriarty's face for a hint, any hint, that he shouldn't take it. He didn't find any, of which he was relieved. Sherlock reached out and took the lead, gripping it tightly. John noticed the change of ownership over him and quickly curled himself around Sherlock's legs. His upper lip twitched in animalistic frustration, flashing white fangs at Moriarty in a repeated warning.
Moriarty stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have a proper chat."
"What if I were to shoot you right now?" Sherlock threatened. With John at his side, he felt much more confident in not letting Moriarty leave without at least getting some headway in their continuing game.
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he widened his eyes and mouth in over exaggeration, "'Cause I'd be surprise Sherlock, really, and perhaps a bit...disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for long."
He pointedly looked up at the windows near the ceiling as if to reiterate his point before looking Sherlock in the eye. He backed away to the nearest exit, "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock kept his gun trained on him, "Catch you...later."
"No you won't!
And with that, Jim Moriarty left building.
Sherlock waited until he heard the door slam shut before he dared to move. But once the resounding bang had faded, he was on his knees, undoing the muzzle's buckle from John's head. The mutt flinched and let out a startled bark before he realized who was next to him and what was happening.
"All right?" Sherlock muttered at the dog as he threw the muzzle across the floor. The poor dog looked shaken and tense. Who wouldn't be after being taken from their home and put in the care of a man like that?
Sherlock loosened the choke collar, relieved that the dog's thick fur stopped the prongs from doing much damage. The harness John usually wore was missing, most likely thrown out in a dumpster somewhere, and seeing his dog without it unnerved the detective much more than it should have. He frantically balled up the collar and chain, and he chucked the metal mess into the pool. Breathing too fast, hyperventilating some would say, Sherlock knelt back down and assessed his dog for injuries. He was fine, not a scratch, not a hint of blood, but it didn't put him at ease. Sherlock muttered things at his dog, repeating "that a boy"s and "you're fine"s over and over. As he brushed John's fur straight with his hands, both John and Sherlock himself began to calm down.
John recovered first and pawed at Sherlock's arm, trying to get his owner to stop the instinctive, stress-induced fussing. Usually a vocal dog, John sat uncharacteristically silent in front of Sherlock with alert ears and eyes, keeping vigil like a temple guardian while Sherlock gathered himself.
Sherlock thought back to the way Moriarty kept his weight unbalanced. He looked at his dog and, in a more controlled voice than before said, "You bit him didn't you?"
John looked at him, huffed, and went back to scrutinizing the area.
Sherlock let out a chuckle, which turned into a laugh, a uncontrollable, loud, Christ-I-can't-believe-we're-alive laugh, "Good job, but I would rather you not antagonize a murderer next time. People might accuse me of being irresponsible."
John looked at Sherlock, and opened his mouth, panting heavily.
Sherlock hummed, "You're right, people do little else."