When Sherlock finally finds the damned place, the warehouse building looks deserted, save for masks upon masks piled up on thousands of shelves going from the floor up to the ceiling. It looks like a dead-end, with shelving occupying every nook and cranny.
Some of the masks are twisted in ugly grimaces, frozen in time in the middle of a groan, a scream. Others are otherworldly, Venetian one. Hollow eyes with pouty, clasped shut lips, full eyepieces shielding the expression from the outside world and yet leaving the mouth free to speak. White, red, blue, black. Checkered. Plain. New and old.
Where are they, where are they, where-
It is an eerie sight, as if a mute theatre audience, politely disinterested, was following his every move, eagerly awaiting the next line to be spoken. Looking forward to the great decisive epiphany. With carefully refined apathy, with emptiness welcoming the questioning gaze of Sherlock. It feels like school, like a botched school rehearsal.
One shelf- second shelf- reinforced shelving- industrial make- up to 1000kg weight capacity- narrow corridor- no use trying to find a side door- only way forward- He tries to focus, one- two- three- looking around in a circle, scanning the walls for any vulnerability, any way forward. Rehearsal- costumes- stage- coordination- main stage-
If you cannot foresee the next action, it still can be either good or bad – there is some place for choice. Improvisation. The crowd looks on, silent, when Sherlock kicks at the ricketiest looking shelving unit – it crumples, uncovering an unlocked door. Plastic creaks under his feet, glitter clinging to his coat when he goes through, some of the fallen masks cracking under his weight.
He keeps running through corridors full of dusty unused costumes, manikins and paper crafts, clown faces sneering in their make-up down at him from another set of shelves. There are small pieces of old broken toys and gizmos scattered around, slippery under his boots. The building turns out to be a disused warehouse complex of some sort, combined halls mixing up and constantly leading him back to square one. He slams his fist onto the wall when he finds himself for the third time beside the same disrobed masculine dummy, its wooden faceless form turned towards him as if in mockery.
Suddenly, there is a flicker of bright light on his left, somewhere in a backstage doorway. Sherlock begins creeping along the wall, his breath hitched, eyes focused and determined.
Something cool gets pressed against his ribs the next second and Sherlock swears aloud, of course, a knife. He turns around slowly.
Into view comes a full-face mask, much like the ones he has seen earlier. It's blue and white, with painted on full black smiling lips and deep set, slanted eyelids. Atop jiggle little golden jester's bells. Under the fluorescent light which initially lured in Sherlock two fat black tears glisten while running down both cheeks. The face is cocked at him, and the knife slides to a stop.
Sherlock curls a fist against his side, calculating.
Middle height and built- more on the skinny than muscular side- unstable stance, the leg is bent at an awkward angle- time- time – not much time-
"So glad you finally made it, darling."
Within the corner of his eye, he catches Moriarty standing behind the masked assailant, cupping a pistol in his hand. There are slivers and flicks of dispersed light on his face and suit, as if the corridor was a giant kaleidoscope. Sherlock's mouth goes dry, the plan abandoned.
Moriarty stretches lazily, his silhouette splayed against another pair of side doors Sherlock has not noticed before. With a crooked smile, he glances at his watch and tsks, "You dress yourself awfully long, you know. Nice colours though, the shirt does bring out your eyes."
His laughter is hollow, pitched. It makes Sherlock's ears ring.
"You must be quite wary after running around for so long, oh dear," Moriarty drawls, taking in the sweat on Sherlock's forehead. "Perhaps you'd do a... How does your little pet call it? Ah. A cuppa. He's such a sweetheart, you know, no wonder you insist on keeping him around."
"What do you want?" Sherlock asks, facing him. The blade of the knife digs into his side but it's bearable. He grimaces at the blue mask, focusing solely on Moriarty. "Where's John?"
Jim, Jim, Jim. Silly little gay Jim.
"Ah, so nervous. So much anger in that body!" He swaggers up to Sherlock, his smile only growing wider. "Really, dear, you should've already learnt that acting out on emotions is a bad thing, especially for people like us."
Westwood- fine tailoring- different tie- good posture- more sleep and more time to plan- well prepared- relaxed and knowledgeable of his surroundings- bored, bored, bored-
Moriarty takes out a silver cigarette case out of his suit pocket. It shimmers in the rainbow afterglow of the lamp. He takes his time to fish out a long thin slim.
Feminine- light on tar- expensive make- looks like menthol and double filtered-
He cradles it against his lips for a long moment, lower lip caught between his teeth. "And Johnny boy is lovely. Really, I wonder why I haven't spotted him sooner."
The lighter looks heavy, ornamental. He lights the cigarette and takes a deep breath, obviously savoring the first drag. "Keeps talking gibberish all the time, though." He plays with the lighter between his fingers, eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "Don't know, maybe you haven't accustomed him to drugs after all."
It feels as if the earth is splitting itself in half. Sherlock breathes in the cigarette smoke, trying to control the taste of bile rising from within the back of his throat. He tries to back away from Moriarty, but the knife gets pressed further in, along his ribcage and shirt.
He hates the way he stutters out, hates the way words tumble out, "W-what did you say?"
Moriarty puffs the smoke upwards. "Your little lap dog really doesn't do drugs with you?" He takes another deep drag, eyes closing in obvious pleasure. There is a rasp to his voice when he puts a closed fist against his hip in mock disapproval. "Such a pity! I'd have had so much more fun with him if he had already known the feeling. Bad, bad Sherlock!
But well, he'll just have to start enjoying it as much as you do, huh?"
Sherlock wants to lunge himself at Moriarty's throat but before he can twist away from the knife – both the masked meat-for-hire and Moriarty are long gone. There is smoke filling the space, milky mist that makes it hard to breathe and he needs to get away as soon as possible.
As crazy as it might sound, it smells distinctly familiar, like John's perfume.