Author's Note: Okay, last chapter! If you haven't read 'Watch Him Dance', I'd recommend it, so you can enjoy all the parallels :)
I know this fandom loves deduction, so please go crazy about the symbolism.
*screams from the rooftop (of St Bart's)* Moriarty is so much fun to write!
Er, enough from me... Enjoy the conclusion!
John awoke to a text, and Sherlock to what he guessed was a nightmare. Both became equally confused.
Sherlock brushed both hands over his face and kept his eyes shut.
He was content in feeling the syringe in his hand, hovering over its mark. He imagined the belt, clenched tight between bleeding teeth, and suffocating his forearm. Both John and Moriarty stood in front of him, eyes wide and glossy. They competed for attention, waving and demanding the needle be dropped. He ran to the uppermost room of his Palace, slammed the door shut, and locked himself inside. He would ignore them both; he continued grinning at his arm as it swelled. The keys jangled in Moriarty's hand. One slithered into the door just as the needle punctured Sherlock's skin…
John re-read the message and hoped it was composed in code; he couldn't understand it, otherwise. He was cautious of Sherlock's recovery, then reminded himself how thrilled the detective would be to decipher a message, instead of sit in his bed all day.
He found Sherlock, as he expected, leaning against the bed-post, fingers folded and perfectly aligned.
"I'm not supposed to have nightmares, John." said Sherlock, staring past him, "They solve nothing."
John looked at him with quirked brows.
"Nightmares?" he reached for his shoulder, and counted the stitches.
"Yes. Average minds produce nightmares." Sherlock spat. He folded his arms and fell back to his heap of pillows, "I am becoming average, John. It's all getting worse."
"Your arm looks better," led John, gently, "Did y—"
"I know it does."
He considered the phone, still buzzing in his pocket:
"Did, er, did your brother text you just now?"
Even though Sherlock kept his eyes shut, John knew he rolled them, as his eyebrows enthusiastically followed along, and his lips curled.
"Well, he texted me, and it… it's gotta be a code or something. Do you know what it means?"
Sherlock offered one open eye as John leaned over to showcase the message:
I should hope you keep a loaded gun, Dr Watson.
MH
Sherlock remained silent, and rubbed habitually at his bandaged arm. His fingernails clawed beneath it, scratching the raw wounds and longing to refresh the poison, rather than the wrap. John tugged his hand away, and dropped it over the edge of the bed. Then John read the text aloud, in case Sherlock had ignored him.
"A valid question." said Sherlock flatly, "I am not capable of defending myself, according to Mycroft."
"Defending yourself from what?" John's words were slow and scared. Sherlock's were neither:
"I've told Mycroft to turn off his cameras. I've told him a dozen times."
"That doesn't answer my question, now does it?" John stared at Sherlock until his eyes flashed open. They scanned the room, ignited by new colours.
Sherlock began with frightening sincerity, quickly poisoned by annoyance:
"Sorry. It's so obvious. You haven't brought me a code, John, or a case. Moriarty has. Oh, clever, clever. Brilliant!"
"Sorry?"
"Yes, you heard me perfectly w—"
"Not that," John ran his hands nervously through his hair, and sat on the foot of the bed, "You said 'Moriarty.'"
"Yes."
"As in, we need to protect you from Moriarty?"
"We? Mycroft only texted you."
At this moment, Sherlock stood. His phone, abandoned on the bedside table, began vibrating. John, who never bothered to change out of his clothes the previous evening, noticed a similar vibration in his trouser-pocket.
They looked at each other, then at their mobile phones. When compared, they found identical messages:
Is it loaded?
The number withheld its identity, and no signature was present.
"Moriarty," they breathed together.
At least I entertain myself, Moriarty thought, as he paced in the foyer of his lavish house. He consulted his phone, a laptop, and a series of monitoring screens.
He proclaimed each frame as 'dull', as they flickered over the monitors. His phone buzzed:
[1] New message from Baaaby:
Of course.
SH
He chuckled, having forgotten the name he assigned to Sherlock's mobile number, and continued the conversation:
It's a date.
XOXO
Tonight?
SH
Don't be boring.
When?
SH
Be patient.
Daddy always takes good care of you.
Incredulously, John shook his head. Sherlock sat on the bed, legs and arms folded up, typing enthusiastically.
"That's it? You're just texting him?"
Sherlock continued doing so.
"He's coming here?"
"Is this really so difficult? Sit down and write out the equation, if you must, D—."
"Not now, Sherlock." John tried to sound as if he was speaking to a child, or a well-intentioned dog.
Sherlock shrugged.
"Why would he ask if my gun's loaded?" John continued, irritated by the silence, "Does he want me to shoot him? I will, the second he steps onto Baker Street. Would've done already…"
"The question," hummed Sherlock, "Was for me."
"About my gun?"
"I know exactly what it's about." Sherlock turned harshly toward the door, "Breakfast?"
John decided to save his questions, so Sherlock could answer them all at once. He also declared this was the last day he would make Sherlock's breakfast, as he was healing so nicely. Sherlock noticed the trap, but gladly fell into it, and argued he was far too weak and average.
"Average, normal people make their own food, Sherlock. Every day."
The detective, in a fantastically childish display of sulking, shoved John into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. John tried out several snide responses, while standing up on his toes to reach the coffee-canister.
Several days later, Moriarty sat and sipped his coffee at Speedy's. An extra cup, filled with weak tea, waited across from him.
That Molly Hooper, He shook his head and clicked his tongue, Smarter than I hoped she'd be…
He glanced back and forth between his phone and his laptop, screen dim and barely open. He watched grainy video flicker over the screen, and turned to smile and wave out the window. When his image passed the screen, only delayed by a few seconds, he was content. This was celebrated with the purchase of an extra pastry.
For Irene, I guess. Since Molly's stood me up. He pouted as he stood. Moriarty left a substantial stack of pound-notes on the table, and refused to accept the change. Before he left, though, he checked one final angle of the camera. He could see Sherlock, just barely, facing his bedroom window, fingers shaking.
The detective grappled with his phone, and attempted to compose a text:
Come and play.
SH
What he actually typed, though, was a string of random numbers and letters. The message was never sent.
He peered vacantly through the window, scratching his arms and wiping his sweaty face.
Is it loaded? His thoughts echoed this repeatedly, until the words sickened him. The answer was found when he tore open his drawer, crumpled up the index-page, and dug feverishly for his leather case.
In its place, he found a single needle. He considered John, peacefully asleep in the room above him, and already began begging for forgiveness. His eyes were raw, dry, and red, as he tipped the syringe on its side and considered its capacity.
Enough, he decided, not too much.
His twitching fingers were not capable of following this advice; the syringe was emptied entirely. The solution was sticky, and slow in seeping through his skin. When it entered his blood, he felt it. His eyes grew dark and desperate.
"John!" the word choked him, and refused to leave his lips. It was replaced by unsettling saliva, dribbling from both sides of his mouth. He reached to wipe his face, but every muscle in his arm burned.
He heard nothing. His throat inflated, and his ears rang sharply. He stumbled over the border of unconsciousness, as Moriarty skulked into the room.
The puppeteer reached for the violin-bow Sherlock kept on his bed-side table. He looked crookedly at the strings before replacing it.
"Left your present downstairs." Moriarty grinned and let the words slip through his teeth.
Sherlock's head fell to his shoulder. His eyes were open in vain; his vision was cloudy and not remedied by blinking.
"Shh," said Moriarty, brushing one finger quickly across Sherlock's lips. He wiped his hand angrily on his trousers, "You won't remember. You'll feel fine in the morning, as long as you don't fall asleep."
Sherlock attempted an affirmative nod.
"You'll smile for the camera, won't you?" He took his phone from his inner coat-pocket, "Mine and Mycroft's…"
He stepped back, in order to capture the whole bedroom in the image. Sherlock held up his crossed wrists, watching the warmth in his veins.
"Perfect," said Moriarty, looking fondly at the finished picture. He dropped his phone into its home, "It wears off quickly, I'm afraid. I'd best be going. Those are the rules of the game."
The detective squeezed his forearm, hoping he could extract the poison. He forced his mouth crookedly over the wound, but Moriarty ran to redirect him.
"No cheating." He said, "You just need to stay awake, and John needs to stay asleep. Rules."
John? Sherlock's eyes begged. His skin was pale and hollow, Is it loaded?
"Not permanently," said Moriarty, successfully reading Sherlock's pained expression, "An owner should be there to comfort his dying pet."
Sherlock, in absence of the belt, tugged nervously at his watch.
"No need to be dramatic. There's no one here to impress. Except me, I guess. But, here's a secret… I'm not impressed by you. I'm not afraid of you. And I'm not going to lose to you, Sherlock. No, no."
He loomed in the doorway while Sherlock slumped back in silent pain.
"You'll feel fine in the morning." he sang, turning to leave. He called over his shoulder, "That's when the game begins."