HARDEST CHAPTER EVER! BUT IT'S HERE! I WILL POST THE NEXT ONE IN A FEW HOURS BECAUSE THIS WAS TOO LONG TO POST AS ONE PART. SO I CUT IT, AND I'M CURRENTLY WRITING THE SECOND WHICH DEFINITLY WON'T BE AS LONG!
ENJOY! WATSON'S POV IN CASE YOU'RE WANDERING IS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER!
Rescue IIIIIII
Watson strolled back over to Mycroft and Simza with the stern look on his face. I still don't know why he had apologised. I just don't understand that man sometime... maybe more so than often.
He stopped once he reached them and only nodded at first; both of them seemed to get his unsaid message at once, as unreadable looks washed onto the pair's faces and features. He whispered what he and Holme's had discovered and revealed to Simza in her ear as Mycroft stopped paying attention and turned, and for once Watson knew- even if only for a second- that a grave expression swept over him.
He continued to tell Simza what shocking information had been found, and watched at the corner of her eye at how she lowered the large and rather fancy wine glass she had been drinking and clutched it in a death grip in her right dark gloved hand.
Her mouth fell a little further ajar as the doctor told her what Holme's planned to do and what they themselves had to do in order for the plan to go accordingly.
Watson glanced around and saw none other than professor James Moriarty receive a note- undeniably the once Sherlock had given the guard and so kindly asked him to pass onto the older bearded man. He watched as Moriarty unfolded the note which had unquestionably carried Sherlock's neat yet messy script, ordering the empty meet place.
He looked away and sighed.
Holmes would be fine.
Holmes HAD to be fine.
He cleansed his thoughts and figured it would be rather helpful if they were to return to the extremely significant job at hand.
"Shall we go to work?" he asked Simza, who simply nodded and pulled herself together so to look and certainly feel a little less dazed and surprised.
Suddenly, there was a loud voice over the microphone ordering everyone, or as spoken 'ladies and gentlemen', to gather around for the photo.
It must be thirty-eight minutes later then... well then; I suppose this is our cue.
The snow outside fell like soft, melting rain. It descended at a fair and entirely comfortable rate, plummeting in a seemingly never ending fashion. Sherlock stood with his pure bright gloved hands folded together behind his back and resting on his fancy tailcoat. His eyes watched the calm plunging of the snowflakes, each heading in his direction yet not quiet reaching him in the confines of the balcony. He placed a hand on the edge of the short wall in front of him, keeping him secured and insuring that if he slipped, its presence would not allow him to fall into the raging waters below.
What must be done MUST be done, and I am the only one to do it... I suppose there is no point in trying to avoid the inevitable, even though the inevitable might just seem so undeniably and horrifyingly crude. I certainly do hope Simza and Watson stop Renée and help save all of Western Civilisation. As for my brother... I do hope he doesn't mind that I have burrowed his ... strange contraption. Sherlock thought, his hand moving in an absent minded manner to his 'secret' inner dress pocket where he kept the strange mechanism. And I... surely, positively and indefinitely hope that John finds happiness within his marriage and Mary... oh look at me, I am thinking to myself as if it is my final night...
Then again, perhaps it is.
He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again and placing his mask on tightly and fixatedly. He's here.
"I'm sorry" Moriarty said in fake sincere voice, "is this a bad time?" he however didn't stop. Holmes could tell he was getting closer by the increasingly louder echo of his footsteps but ignored the feeling of nervousness in the deep pit of his stomach and answered,
"Never better" he stopped for a moment and turned to face the professor, "would you bring that clock?" he asked him in a casual tone as h e pointed to a nearby clock on a small table.
Moriarty walked forward slowly and placed the miniature clock on a fair sized yet slightly small table where a vintage style old fashion wooden chessboard lay, with both the white and the black pieces laid out perfectly.
"So we get to play this game after all"
They both moved to either side of the desk and met each other's gazes. Both were hard, strong and greatly willed. Each believed that they had to do what they had to do on their parts, either and both completely understanding that if they were to make a single wrong move, a single not so quite right turn, a single accidently twisting spin that the other would surely and so wholly without a doubt win. The pair both mutually understood that if one or the other were to treat the opponent any less than an equal that the underestimated man would of course win, leaving the unthoughtful challenger definitely regretful and most likely dead.
And that was undoubtedly an advantage that neither could afford to lose.
Holding their positions, both their stances were held high and strong. None of the two wavered or showed a flicker of uncertainty or insecurity in their sights or glances.
"Here we are..." Moriarty broke his stare with Holmes and moved to get something from another table nearby, but the other only had his suspicions as to what it was. Sherlock just simply sat down in a chair that was to his side and face the table, and patiently- and as calmly as he could- waited for the older professor to come back. In a sudden moment, he felt something fall on his shoulders. His muscles tensed slightly, only to relax a second after when he heard his opponent speak,
"There we are. Don't want you catching a cold now", he patted both his shoulders, after placing a fur coat onto them, making Sherlock inwardly flinch however expertly not showing it. Holmes only turned a little toward him, but otherwise ignored- or attempted to ignore- the gesture.
"A five minute game" Holmes suggested, offering a short lived smile of his own.
"If you think you can manage it" the older man flung his own rich midnight toned pure fur coat on his broad shoulders and for the next time that evening, met Sherlock's fiery eyes. Moriarty sat- his pupils still in contact with his younger opponent's.
Holmes just smiled at his retort and received a smile back, both being obviously terribly and entirely one thing, and that one thing was fake.
Their beams disappeared as they each eyed the twin clock designed for this certain type of chess game and readied themselves. The unmistakable tick-tocking sound of the clock currently echoing through their eardrums like it was the loudest object on earth, more of like it was the loudest object in the universe. Their full concentration was at play. Their utmost and obviously highest attention to the chess game board before the pair of them. And their minds ran miles as they stared at each other for confirmation to begin their not-to-little facade.
It was time. They began. The professor's move first followed by Sherlock's own. They did not start slow and they certainly got far...
The game is afoot.
Watson hurried though the crowd, with Simza clearly in tow. They quickly stalked through the mass of chatting nobles, higher-ups and superiors, heading over to somewhere near the corner yet close the centre where they were sure it would be too loud to overhear them.
"We both have two bishops... I maybe outside of the room- but my methods are not" they continued to play, yet move as fast and invigorating as the last, yet somehow completely calm and certain.
There was a short pause before Moriarty spoke,
"You can't mean Doctor Watson... surely..." he played his moves. His intense and- and Sherlock was just so sure about it- to some extent uncertain glare matched the detective's own, except Holmes had rather replaced the uncertainty with conviction. "That doesn't seem fair..." he trailed off, the clock still ticking seemingly to some point a little faster one way or another...
"Right, the surgery would have left scars" Watson stated once they were in the exact correct location and position. Both he and Simza glared around at the ambassadors, trying their best to figure out just who may be the assassin, just who maybe Renée. "Only four of them have the hairline to hide them..." he concludes. Staring off intensely in the nobles' directions.
"The ambassador that you replaced with Renée, is he still alive?" Holmes wandered. It was an honest question which had truly plagued his mind for quite some time.
Their moves quickened a little more, but still remained completely and utterly fixated and controlled. Their sights not meeting once since they had the very few times in the utmost beginning of the chess game.
Moriarty did not answer, however replied to the question with a question of his own, "Would you like me to recommend you're next move?" his rough yet relaxed voice rang through Sherlock's ears who simply paused for a short split second.
But continued on none the less, clearing his throat quietly, not loud enough for the professor to hear, but loud enough for Holmes to regain his senses.
"They're all my brother's height..." Simza trailed off. Her eyes were still darting between the four dangerous suspects. He was not sure, uncertain, and doubtful but most of all just scared...
What if I make a mistake? I'll be practically starting the war myself...but I cannot doubt myself now. I am passed that and it is definitely and unquestionably not an option anymore. I must find the assassin, I MUST find Renée.
She hesitated but took another look. "Right built...but- the eyes!" she whispered excitedly to Watson. He turned to her gladly waiting for more information. "The eyes are wrong... Renée has blue eyes" she scanned the four secondary leader's eyes once more along with the doctor beside her.
"He could be wearing glass lenses to change the colour..." Watson offered his thought. Perfect. This should help... but we must be cautious. Take down the wrong man and we're technically ruining Western civilisation and starting the darned war ourselves... "In which case his eyes will be hurting..." someone who is blinking rapidly in obvious-or not so much- discomfort.
"Renée is left handed" they both inspected the most likely ambassadors, both setting their eyes on one whom often turned his glass from right to left out of habit, and whom blink quiet often rather hurriedly as if there were something in his eyes...
"Perhaps the assassin would take measures to insure that he doesn't give himself away" Holmes spoke. His hand quickly reaching toward his chosen piece and moving his to its chosen location before pulling down the lever of the old and aging clock. "Like a gambler concealing a tell"
Time was running out and soon...
It would.
"I think... it might be him" Simza pointedly stared at a man in fancy attire. It was the exact same man which she and John had met eyes on and agreed he looked and acted somewhat peculiar just earlier before. He often switched his drink from hand to hand, as if not used to carrying one in only a single palm. He often blinked in a strange and odd manner, yet it would go unnoticed by many... it might be him... it might be Renée but that's only a MIGHT.
"You think?" The doctor hesitated and paused. It could very well be him- but I just hope she's sure. Please just don't be wrong... "You have to be sure"
"You're clock is ticking" Moriarty spoke crisply as he watched Holmes lay his hands by his sides and not make a single move. "May I remind you that this is Blitz Chess? A single miscalculation could cost you the game"
The clock ticked. Time slowed. One move would decide it all.
Time moved faster. The minutes were racing and the second vanishing. It was now or never.
She nodded; it's him... its Renée- it has to be. Her eyes continued to stare at the 'fake' ambassador. Her pupils never once wavering. Just like her words, she was sure. It had to be her brother. It had to be Renée. There was no one else, was there? She couldn't doubt in her better judgement now, because if she got this right, she would certainly help in saving a lot of lives. If she got it wrong, however, she would have to live- though she was sure not for long- knowing that she had failed. Knowing that she had not recognised her own dear brother to save only oh so many innocent lives...
Watson took a deep breath, "If I tackle the wrong man to the ground I could start a war" they both watched 'Renée's' movements, not daring to look away even if only for a single, individual split second.
"Maybe it's less obvious. A nervous tick. A flutter of anxiety." Holmes shifted in his chair, whether comfortably and ready or uncomfortably and not ready, neither knew. He bit down on his tongue with his tooth then released...
"I expect everyone has a reason to be nervous tonight..." Moriarty replied rather cheerfully yet not quite smiling, sending unnoticeable and inaudible shivers done Sherlock's very being.
If they were right they would save a lot of lives that did not deserve to become deceased. If they were wrong, they would take them away from the land of the living and cast chaos even sooner.
Watson inhaled. The moment of truth. He readied his stance and glanced at Simza, who still seemed just as unready and unsure as she had been a few single moments ago. He searched her eyes for a straight honest easy and most of all confident answer, but found not what he had been looking nor hoping for,
"I don't know...
"So perhaps it's the opposite" Sherlock spoke, his voice steady and unwavering. "Failure depraved naturally. An episode consumed with his performance that the one characteristic he cannot accommodate is spontaneous reaction" he finished smoothly, crisp clear confidence rolling of the tip of his tongue and biting of the edge of every single one of his words.
Watson quickly moved forward, we have to be sure, his hand 'accidently' hit the waiter's tray and brought glasses of the finest and richest champagne crumbled down to the floor and breaking with the force of the strong hit. It created the very well needed reaction-
Some of the four ambassadors had not moved an inch, though one was so shaken it brought his vintage crispy cigarette rattle to the floor and landing at his feet.
It's him.
It's Renée.
Watson nodded to her as she glanced at him, searching for a go or not. Her thoughts were wiped as she begged for her feet to take her faster. And at this moment, she would have sworn to herself that if she didn't mind the attention that she would have taken his expensive, tall dark black heels of and ran.
She caught up with him and immediately, just as their eyes met, she knew she had found him, she knew she had found her brother.
"Brother! I implore you!" she said to him, her voice radiating with worry and fear, her eyes searching for the right answer.
"Sister, forgive me"
And with that, he pushed her of him roughly, his eyes artificially tone eyes simply begging for her forgiveness and asking her to understand. It all just seemed to happen in such a fast motion, one minute she was clutching to him, and the next she was thrown lightly, struggling to keep her balance and footing whilst staring wide eyed as Renée reached into his coat pocket, pulled out what couldn't be mistaken as none other than a hand pistol, and fired.
The shot missed and rang to the ceiling as the assassin was tackled to the floor by Doctor Watson, whom lay on top of the dangerous and armed man, keeping his wrist in place so that it could not move- and neither could the weapon within his hold.
There was loud commotion as Simza watched in both aw and horror as her brother attempted to fire again, thankfully missing quite miserably.
"Everybody will pay! Mark my words!" he yelled loudly, his eyes shining with anger and despair, his words blasting of his lips as venom or acid alike.
He was apprehended as Watson moved off him and whom he thought to be Mycroft knelt down beside him, stepped on his fingers as to remove the weapon, and finally shook the firearm free of the perilous person.
He continued to struggle as the guards took a strong hold of him and continued to move him away of the nobles. Even though there was little or no way could he in any method be dangerous at this point, their hands gripped his forearms most strongly and painfully. He continued to struggle, but Simza could no longer watch.
It over...
"That doesn't bode well, does it?" Holme's decisive, crisp voice cut through the air like a knife through butter. Their game was moving along, their movements ever relaxed and calm whilst their aura and thoughts were the complete opposite. The contrast of their impressions had created the most intimidating and tension filled atmosphere, however neither of the two seemed even a little affected by it.
"Things will better put some benefit..." they locked their stares, neither moving. "After all..."
"The game is still young" Holmes added. Moriarty was getting to him, but he would not- could not let that happen. He would not lose. Nor would he give up.
"Actually, it's in its adolescence"
"SOMEBODY WILL PAY!" He yelled.
Watson still held Simza tightly. His gloved hand both on her head and her back, careful not to hurt her. Her arms were around him just as much, holding him fixatedly and not wanting to let go for the moment. She only needed one thing right now and they both knew what that was.
Comfort
Easier spoken than not. The kind doctor could feel her tears staining the back of his dark rich tailcoat, but he did not care. Nor would he ever. Inside, Watson just wanted this to be over just as much as she... he wanted to be on his honeymoon with his beautiful and charming wife, relaxed, calm and peaceful. But then again, to get to your reward you'd have to present your result. It wouldn't be long before Simza would have her life back with her bonded family, nor would it be long for Holmes to be back at Baker street riddling through seemingly impossible cases and playing off violin tunes at three in the morning whilst poisoning Gladstone. Watson closed his eyes for a moment and blocked everything out,
It wouldn't be long.
They both watched as Renée was 'escorted' rather roughly and unceremoniously through the court whilst struggle with immense rage.
Watson saw it in the corner of his eye... it was so sudden, yet it was there. Renée had just come crumbled down to the floor, as if knocked unconscious – or worst- by some invisible force... her raced forth through the gathering crowd before yelling,
"I'm a doctor! A doctor!" kneeling beside Renée his arm automatically shifted and his hand subconsciously raced toward the man's neck, checking at how his pulse felt. It was rapid, light and threaded between his fingers but it would without a doubt disappear very soon. Renée seemed to be choking, shaking and convulsing all over, as if having some sort of hazardous deadly seizure.
He examined the trembling figure only to find some sort of dart embedded within his flesh.
Murder...
His frown deepened as his eyes slightly widened even though he knew he shouldn't have expected anything less. He shouldn't and couldn't have expected anything less at all.
There were more loud confused yells as Simza rushed her way through the crowd of sceptical higher-ups, her covered fingers grasping her long dashing dress as she continued forth, the loud echoing sound of her heels against the tiled ground inevitable.
"You found him!" she paused, her hand positioned over his chest as her eyes were large and just purely and utterly nothing but afraid for the said man's life. "What's wrong with him!"
"Poison" Watson said simply. No more needed to be spoken. They met gazes for a second which seemed to last all eternity before she set her eyes on her dying brother once more. Watson touched the tip of the dart and brought his finger to his tongue. It's too late. We're too late.
"Do something!" he afraid and frightened words snapped through him like steel. I cannot... she began feverishly speaking in her own native tongue to her brother, "Do something Doctor!" she yelled again. He was there, the murderer. And Watson saw him. He recognised him from the forest as one of Moriarty's henchmen...
He's been playing us this entire time...
He gave her one last apologetic glare after checking her brother's pulse... nothing. He stood up and rushed off to Holme's direction.
He's one step ahead of us. He been one step ahead of us all the damned time!
"I think you've just lost your most valuable piece" Moriarty focused on the Blitz chess board, a light dark and twisted smile tugging at his lips.
"A winning strategy sometimes necessitates sacrifice" Sherlock replied just as sharply, his tone still lacking uncertainty. Both the younger and older man's eyes locked in a something which symbolised not fear, but quite the opposite.
"You see hidden within the unconscious is an insatiable desire for conflict. So you're not fighting me, so much as you are the human condition" Those few words, those few lines are what wavered Holmes. Delivered with so much calmness and firmness, they had the power to overwhelm and overshadow any threat, for no words held so much truth the twisted professor.
He believes he's doing us a favour... those who trust that by inflicting such drastic and twisted events that they are truly and honestly helping humanity are the ones whom should feared most...
The intense brief and fleeting silence that had passed spoke louder than any words either or neither of them had actually spoken.
"All I want to do is own the bullets and bandages"
This must end the younger thought, and it must end NOW.
This must be finalised, the sooner the better the elder collected. Both their eyes stared upon each other, both pairs searching for anything even though expecting to find nothing at all.
"War on an industrious scale is inevitable. They'll do it themselves within a few years" Moriarty paused, "All I have to do is wait" he smiled, "I like Switzerland. They accept a man's privacy here" Holmes leaned back slightly, his eyes concentrated deeply on the chessboard or his opponent. "Particularly if he has a fortune..." the silence lingered until Moriarty stood, pulling the coat off his strong shoulders and returning it.
"Bishop takes night, check"
Check. Almost there.
"The game is over" James interrupted, his tone only very extremely and honestly slightly unsure. "You should get that shoulder looked at"
Holmes froze. But continued to talk, "About that fortune of yours, I believe it's just insubstantially reduced" he watched as Moriarty walked to the opposite side, and then stopped.
"King to rook two"
Where is Holmes getting with this? He has lost. This is over...
Moriarty doesn't understand his flaw. This is so very far from over...
"I attended several of your lectures." They both recalled the lessons at the collage. Each through a very and entirely yet completely parallel sort of light. "It was in... Oslo when I first got a glimpse of your little notebook." He spoke calmly. He could see Moriarty's shoulder's tense in the dim light. "Red leather bound from smite on the street. Rook to king's rook three. Check" Holme's hand was on his forehead and he appeared not to be paying attention to the other man, but his eyes were following him and his every move through their corners.
Moriarty's hand moved to his coat pocket where he felt for his book, and was satisfied as he ran a finger down its spin through the expensive material.
"Bishop to rook three"
It was there. Or at least it felt like it was through the rich fine fabric.
"Its importance was not fully apparent to me until I observed your hobby for feeding the pigeons. Then it occurred, with an empire so enormous, even you must keep record of it somewhere"
Moriarty began flicking through the pages of his small notebook. His eyes widened considerable and his jaw slackened before he rather hurriedly clenched it.
"Bishop takes bishop"
"Rook to bishop four"
"I then only required the notebook itself..." his tone was only a little light and proud, yet he was fortunate that Moriarty did note sense or hear it. "You didn't make it easy" he recalled the said events. "I would need to endure a considerable amount of pain" he flinched slightly at the unwanted memories of the torture. "But the notebook was undoubtedly been coded so how then did I break the code?"
"Rook takes rook"
"Pawn takes rook"
"Bishop to bishop seven" Sherlock had moved now, and was walking toward James Moriarty.
"Queen takes knight pawn" Moriarty turned, and did the same. They were taking slow steady steps toward one another, their stares locked, their movements mimicked and mimicking.
"Does the art of domestic horticulture mean anything to you? How could a man as meticulous as you own such a book and completely neglect the flowers in his own window box? Irony bounds... never mind it is safe, in London" he said as Moriarty's hand shot out and grasped around a book of the same size and feel, however...
"Where my colleagues are making good use of it. The most formidable criminal mind in Europe just had all this money stolen by perhaps the most inept inspector in the history of Scotland Yard" he smiled, unable to hide his smug feeling.
Miss Mary is there I'm sure, working with Lestrade and his officers. I must say Watson chose a rather competent woman. He could image her and the rest of Scotland Yard sitting around and attempting to solve it, getting through slowly but getting through none-the-less page by page.
When he pulled it out, it looked like it always had. The exceptional crimson leather was there as was the soft bound, but once he hurriedly opened it...
Pictures were drawn, and once flicked though- they made a scene. A cartoonish scene of a fishermen fishing for a fish too big and capable for him to handle, then being eaten by it himself.
"He will be making an anonymous donation to the widows and orphans of war fund"
In the very end, there was the large fish with a rather large speech-bubble drawn on top of it reading:
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU FISH FOR!
Moriarty's demeanour slowly began to change however he had forced himself to keep calm, Holmes however noticed this and smiled through the dark knowing very well that the professor wouldn't realise.
Holmes turned around as Moriarty raised his head and glared at him with hateful yet still and deathly dark orbs, whilst his mouth stuck itself in a firm line, his lips turning white.
"Bishop to bishop eight, discover Jack"
"And incidentally mate"
Moriarty took a few steps, walking around him until he came to a still halt behind Holmes whom couldn't help but feel slightly unnerved. He then moved again and stood beside him inside, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face whilst Sherlock never leaving the balcony's edge. Holmes turned around, so that the edge short fence of the balcony was behind him, as Moriarty was in front, an unamused look on his face. Holmes flinch at the closed distance between the two but kept talking,
"I see I've injured my shoulder, would you mind?" he asked casually, holding up a lighter for Moriarty to flick to life for his cigar.
They continued to stare at each other, unnerving each other greatly whilst just attempting to plan oh so many steps ahead of one another.
"Be my pleasure" he grabbed onto the lighter and for a moment, they both held one, staring into each other's deep intimidating orbs and just wandering how this night will end. "Once we've concluded our business here" he snatched the lighter from Holmes fingers as Sherlock let them slide to his side, "it's important you know I shall endeavour to find the most creative of endings for the Doctor" Holme's eyes were wide now and he knew it.
Not so soon. Now, now Professor, no one likes an arrogant scoundrel.
Holmes wouldn't admit it- at least for now- but the man before him intimidated him. But he refused to let that be a disadvantage. He wouldn't let it hinder him, not now, not ever.
"And his wife"
His eyes were wider than wide, though he should have expected it.
Holmes-
His advantage: my injury.
Damn it Holmes, not now. He will not get to Watson nor will he get to Mary. Calm your mind. If you will not win this, then neither will he.
My advantage: his rage.
The fire continued to illuminate light from in between them. It danced and fluttered to an absolutely inaudible tune, yet both men knew it was there. Another moment, more analysing, calculating and taking course.
In coming assault. Moriarty lights his cigar then swiftly swings his arm to punch him. Feral, but experienced. The blow would hit his stomach if he does not block. He does- his injured arm quickly blocks in defence and pushes Moriarty's away. Use his momentum, he swings his fist as hits Moriarty hard on the right cheekbone, to counter. Moriarty swings another punch but is blocked again. Then revives quickly and before Holmes had known it, a fist was swinging and hits him on his cheekbone, fracturing most likely. He stumbles back and his lower back meets with the hard edge of the balcony concrete stopper, then another fist slides down and pounds his stomach. He is momentarily taken aback. He manages to stop another blow from the right fist, however not from the left. It rocks in an upward motion and hits him with much force straight to the nose- which becomes most likely broken. He thwarts the hand back once more before it finishes and moves both fist to block another attack from below, then uses his left arm to punch his opponent square in the stomach.
Moriarty-
Come now. Holmes fist meets his face once more as his clenched hand collides with the detectives too. You really think you're the only one who can play this game?
Trap arm. Target weakness. Follow with hit-maker. And he does so. Trapping his opponent's injured arm, pounding his with a fist then following with a personalised hit created to cause maximum damage.
Holmes-
Ahh, there we find the boxing champion of Cambridge. His arm is locked and trapped. He finds himself in more pain than imaginable but still attempts to free himself. He is swung as his lower back meets with the opposite lower concrete edge.
Moriarty-
Competent, but predictable. His opponent is hurt and damaged. His cannot wait. He moves his arm quickly in the aim of a punch but is blocked for the other, whilst he dodges the next. Now, allow me to reply. More hits are thrown, however none reaching their intended target.
Holmes-
Arsenal running dry. Adjust strategy. He blocks Moriarty's fist for a moment and tries to thrown one himself. He is block by the professor's other hand and thrown back. His opponent's arms reach for his neck and began to strange him. His arms act out of instinct and attempt to pry the fingers of his neck before he dies of strangulation or loss of oxygen. He is thrown several against the wall as the other acts.
Moriarty-
Wound taking its toll. The detective moves and stomps on the adversary's foot, breaking or fracturing a toe or two.
Holmes-
As I feared. Injury makes defence untenable. He throws a fist but receives two in return, in both his stomach and upper head. His shoulder pains immensely, he realises he could not go on very long. He swings another swift blow but misses, as the other man takes it to his advantage.
Moriarty-
He pulls him close then adds immense pressure on the wound, no doubt causing seemingly undying pain. He shoves the detective down so he has a grip on the wounded man. With that he swings another blow to his back, bringing the man in his hold almost crumbling down and out of breath.
Holmes-
Prognoses- increasingly negative. A strong large knee meets his stomach. He is then pulls swiftly and rather painfully to the edge of the upper tier where a blow hits his face in rage, and he is elbowed and in great suffering pain. He is then pushed of, undeniable death awaiting him.
"Let's not waste any of each other's time. We both know how this ends"
Conclusion: inevitable.
They were brought back to the world of the living both still staring at one another. A light laugh and smile fluttered on the evil professor's lips.
Unless...
The professor's smile and laughter dies and is replaced with shock as he sees that Holmes had come to a different conclusion. A large grin graced his face and his large eyes lit up.
I must be mad.
There was a rustling sound on the other side, but both geniuses. Holme's cigarette was still being lit, the flame of the lighter still clear and so very there. In one swift and unthoughtful movement, Sherlock blew on the fire and watched quickly as small burning fire crystals were blown onto Moriarty's face. His eyes flew shut tightly and that very split second of vulnerability was all that the detective needed. He hurriedly planted both his arms around the twisted man's neck and raced backwards...
His back met the edge. This would all come to an end. Just one more step... when-
The door of the balcony swung open.
Before Holmes stood Watson.
He met his eyes. One pair conveyed sincerity and sincerity whilst the other was wide with obvious fear.
NO HOLMES!
I'm sorry old chap, forgive me.
And with that, Sherlock Holmes the greatest detective in all of London fell into what most likely his very death.
Longest chapter I've written yet! Did you enjoy?
Working on the next part, hopefully will post in a few hours depending on reviews!
And how early I have to get up tomorrow!
X. Rose