Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.

19. A Gentlemen's disagreement

"Ah, Sherlock!" Moriarty greeted with much enthusiasm and warmth. "You came! I was beginning to fear you wouldn't…"

The detective closed the door behind him and walked out onto the rooftop. A cold wind passed him as he shrugged his flowing coat closer to his tall, lean shape. Seeing his nemesis stand so close to the ledge now brought back memories of the past for Sherlock. The mental image of Moriarty putting a gun in his mouth played over and over in his head as Sherlock slowly moved towards his destiny. His own leap off the roof as well as John's terrified shouts also reminded him of a time he rather wished not to remember. If all went according to plan, their rendez-vouz on the roof would end differently this time.

"Sorry for my appearance…" Moriarty apologized as the other man remained silent, and indicated three, short scratchmarks on his right cheek. They seemed to be the only flaws on his otherwise flawless facade, and thus like a thorn in the criminal's eyes. "I would have been impeccable, as usual, if your girlfriend hadn't lost her temper."

Sherlock's shoes clicked against the ground as he dully commented, "You probably deserved it."

"I did, Sherlock. I did…" his voice was dark and tantalizing. The criminal seemed rather proud of his accomplishments, as it was, and the detective rather dreaded the reason why.

After the events right outside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had momentarily been dazed and hadn't known how to proceed. That had passed swiftly, though, as he had recalled the only clue he had received; the voice message on Irene's phone which had hinted of a meeting upon the hospital roof. Half an hour after John's abduction, the man was now grateful the mad enemy hadn't left that recording to lead him on a wild goose chase.

Though the tall man had not yet fully collect his scattered thoughts, his mind ran almost flawlessly. Anxiety pumped in his weakened heart, mixed with hatred directed at the criminal mastermind - but his mind palace remained balanced and high functioning.

The detective had already made a deal with himself not to leave this rooftop without securing the safety for both John and Irene. After all the wrongs he had done so far, that was the least he could do for them. It was time to ignore his heart - as he had always feared, it had led him mightily astray thus far - and let his intellect lead him to victory.

"Where are they?" the detective managed in a low, demanding voice as he stopped a few feet from the other coat clad man and the ledge.

Moriarty grimaced and a look of disappointment flashed in his dark eyes. "Now, now… Is that how we great our enemies? Calm, Sherlock. I thought we could spend some time alone. We never do anymore…"

The teasing note to Jim's voice nearly sent Sherlock tumbling into a blind fury. He wanted nothing more than to wring the man's neck but pushed his hands deep into his pockets to withstand all impulses. He had to remain impassive if he was to get any information out of his enemy tonight, and save his friend and lover.

"I'm not here to play," Sherlock spoke in a determined voice.

Moriarty's disappointed look ten-folded as he continued to play with his nemesis, much as a cat plays with its food. "Oh, come now. Everything I've done.. It's how I show my love for you, Sherlock..."

"What do you want from me?" the taller man growled.

"Hm?"

"What do I have to do for you to free them?" Sherlock asked and knew in that moment he was prepared to give Moriarty anything to settle this once and for all.

"Oh! That," The criminal breathed and pretended to consider the question in great depth. "You see, we've done this before. And I haven't succeeded in wounding you permanently yet. So, I think… this time, I'm playing by other rules. I don't want you to go jump off a roof or anything. There's nothing you can do…"

Sherlock stepped closer into Jim's personal space and glared down at him with relentless eyes. "Then tell me about the game."

"Patience, dear," Moriarty patted the detective's shoulder. "All in good time…"

"If you're not here to tell me of the game… why are you here?" Sherlock questioned and read the dark eyes before him. "You want to see something… You want to know something. Something about me."

"I do… You have figured it out already, haven't you?" the criminal asked and seemed rejected for a second as he awaited the response.

The consultant detective didn't need to be told just what the mad man was insinuating. He managed a slight, aloof smirk at the corner of his lips. "What? That you used Irene as a pawn in your ingenious plan to get to me and that she was never truly evil? Please. Don't mock me."

Moriarty sighed deeply as if this realization wasn't a pleasant one and he took a few steps around Sherlock. "Oh dear, oh dear…"

The detective followed the criminal's movement from the corner of his eyes and frowned at the strangeness of the situation. "What have you done to her?"

"Oh dear," Moriarty repeated and grimaced as if having been caught red-handed with his hand in the cookie jar. He slowly turned back to Sherlock and his wicked eyes sparkled in the evening. "This is rather awkward... I thought you dismissing her meant that we were done with her… so I disposed of Ms Adler. She's dead, Sherlock."

The detective felt his throat dry up like a desert and words momentarily failed him. He knew all his thoughts vanished in a blinding flash of shock and he felt incapable of forming new ones. Even breathing grew harder as the simple word filled his mind palace. Dead. Not alive. Killed. Murdered. Lies? Gone... Dead.

The devilish grin spread across Moriarty's lips as he saw the slight shift in the other's face. "Something the matter?"

Sherlock wet his lips. "You're lying. Your message on her phone-"

"I know…" the man shrugged and did a flawless impression of a remorseful man. "Suppose I just got carried away. That reminds me, there's one more thing…!"

The sleek criminal dug through his pockets and pulled a small object from it. He threw it through the air and Sherlock deftly caught it in one hand. "I thought you'd might want it back… Since Ms Adler won't be needing it anymore."

Sherlock's eyes were transfixed on the golden chain in his hand. It was the necklace he had given to The woman. He slowly turned the small spy glass – there was a droplet of glaring blood on the glass - around in his palm as he focused on not letting any of his emotions shine through his impassiveness. He could feel Moriarty's gaze reading every single move and emotion that flickered across his features.

"Well… It's time I go. See how my guest is feeling. Don't try and follow me, Sherlock. I'll have John killed, too. As for the game… I'll be in touch with directions."

Moriarty winked up at the detective before he stepped around him and over towards the door. The good man felt opportunity slip through his fingers like water, and panic rose up in his chest.

"Wait!" He ordered and turned around to face the man who had his hand on the door handle already. "Do you want to settle this once and for all? I'll give you your final game right now."

The man with the slicked back hair slowly turned. The criminal squinted his eyes and shook his head slowly. "…Tempting. But I'd rather stick to the game plan, if that's alright with you. I went through the trouble of kidnapping John from you, after all… Again. I don't want that to have been for nothing for poor Watson. You don't get to finish this now. Sorry!"

Sherlock shrugged as if this meant little to him. "That's fine. No matter. I'll end you soon enough."

Moriarty's crooked grin was the last he saw as the mad man swung about and opened the door. As he moved inside, his tantalizing, sing-song voice echoed in the deep dark. "No, you won't!"

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson's voice reached the detective's ears as he ascended the stairs to his flat two steps at a time. He didn't much wish to see the elder woman at the moment, but rather be left alone to focus all his brilliance into figuring out how to beat Moriarty at the final game that lay ahead. It didn't help that he felt his cell phone vibrate frantically in his pocket: Mary had evidently heard the news.

As the man entered the living room, he closed his eyes tight and tried to ignore the sound of Mrs Hudson's feet on the steps.

"You didn't find them…" her low voice was sad as she realized he had returned home alone. Sherlock exhaled deeply but kept his back to his elderly land lady. He had no wish to see her disappoint and fear. "I have every confidence you will, deary."

"I have every confidence, too. If I'm not distracted, I'll find them sooner."

"Of course…" the lady's voice was understanding and Sherlock heard her feet move back towards the stairs without any further objection.

The stairs creaked painfully as she descended and then the world around him was silent once more. He re-focused his mind on what had to be done, and be done quickly. He gazed down at the bloodstained necklace in his palm and couldn't prevent his emotional frown.

This was not the first time these last couple of days that Sherlock's existence had been turned on its head. All he had thought he knew of his own cold, balanced mind had already been shattered into the eastern wind. His mind had proven it could be affected by his heart, just like ordinary people's hearts.

He now knew that letting people into his heart, such as John and Irene, had opened up a distracting venue to his otherwise trained and organized mind palace. Still, though the thought hurt his pride to admit, he was aware he would never wish either of them to leave. Even less he wished them dead, despite what flaws or problems they caused on his brilliance.

If Moriarty truly had killed the woman, there would have to be time for mourning later. Having made up his mind, the man switched off his emotions and pocketed the necklace, out of sight and out of mind. If he succumbed to those dark thoughts now, he wouldn't think clear enough to save his best friend from meeting the same cruel fate.

The detective loathed this particular game more than all others, for Moriarty was taking his time to mentally torture Sherlock now. Patience had never been one of the dark-haired man's strong sides (though he had many other) and the criminal was taking great advantage of this knowledge. It was as if he heard every slow tick of the clocks in the entire flat haunt him minute by minute.

With a desperate growl, the man sank into his armchair and closed his eyes tight. He told his mind to leave everything else behind as he stepped into his mind palace and focused on the criminal mastermind and the game plan that undoubtedly waited ahead.

"The devil is is in the details…" Sherlock muttered to himself as he sank further and further into his sanctuary.

By the following evening, Sherlock's restlessness had him basically climbing the walls from a lack of instructions. It was a known fact that time was of the essence in 9 out of 10 cases, and so the more time Moriarty had to prepare, the less time the detective would have to save his friend.

In John's old armchair, Mary sat and her pale eyes danced with worry from the fireplace beside her as she stared deep into the flames. One of her hands caressed the growing bulge on her stomach and Sherlock knew there was nothing he could say to help ease her mind. He'd tried, but that had only ended with the fair woman bursting into tears. Hormones.

Sherlock watched the setting sun outside while one of his feet impatiently stomped the ground. A soft drizzle caressed his window and made the outside world appear like a grey kaleidoscope.

Pling.

The man flew to his phone and once and heard Mary's sharp intake of breath behind him as he opened the new text eagerly.

"I've made the basement more cozy for us. Won't you join us? – Jim."

"The game is on, Mary," he explained shortly and whirled around as he buttoned his dress jacket. Before he could move past her, the woman rose from her seat with impressive agility for her current size and held up her trembling hands.

"Please, let me come with you. I want to help."

"John would never forgive me if I brought his pregnant wife to the scene of a mad criminal's final game in which he is targeted as a possible victim," Sherlock frowned. "... I would never forgive myself, either. Now, if you excuse me... This is wasting time."

With those words he gently patted her shoulder before he pushed bast and rushed from Baker Street.

As the detective returned to the peculiar cellar for the third time in just a couple of months, he wondered what would meet him behind the door this time. It was almost like a lottery not even he could foresee: always a new, horrifying shock that awaited in the mysterious shadows.

He held his breath as he turned the handle and entered the battle field.

As he stepped inside, he quickly took in the changes to the area. This time, the concrete basement was lit up by cold lamps along the brick walls. Before he walked further into the room, his hand checked in his coat pocket for his gun..

At the very center of the cellar stood Moriarty, dressed as always in a timeless suit, hair sleeked back and a smug smirk upon his face. On either side of the criminal mastermind hung two huge, black curtains and Sherlock eyed them suspiciously. He couldn't see what they hid, but figured he would find out soon enough.

"That's close enough," the mad man spoke and the detective followed order without hesitation. As he halted, he turned from the coming surprise to greet his opponent, who simply rocked back and forth on his feet in barely concealed joy.

"I'm so glad you came, Sherlock."

"I couldn't keep you waiting."

"Now, first things first…" the criminal began and tilted his head to the right. "I did promise I'd find you a new nickname, since the old one was rendered obsolete... Oh! You wouldn't happen to have a special name for me, would you?"

The criminal's childlike enthusiasm didn't fool Sherlock who raised his chin and tightly grinned back. "The sore loser."

Moriarty grimaced and put a hand to his heart as if the suggestion wounded him. He sniffled once and then commented, "Ouch... That hurts, Sherlock. And here I thought I was the evil one."

The detective shrugged his eyebrows. "What's my new name then?"

"I'm hoping that by the end of the night, I can just call you dead," Jim's eyes sparkled in a dark shade of oceans deep as his smirk widened.

"To the point but not very inventive," Sherlock chastised.

"...I know. Do you know how hard it is to think up new nicknames for people when under a lot of stress?" Moriarty sighed and a cloud passed his features before disappearing in a flash. In its stead shone an undeniable enthusiasm for what was to come next. "Shall we begin? You'll love this game, Sherlock."

"I never love your games, Jim."

Moriarty's slowly nodded. "Yeah, you do, Sherlock. Even if you won't admit it. Now listen carefully: 'Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice'..."

The taller man frowned as he easily recognized the poem. "Robert Frost."

"Yes. I couldn't personally choose which method I preferred, so I decided on both! 'From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire'," as he spoke he moved closer to the curtain on his right and Sherlock now glanced towards it as the man and tugged on the fabric. The vast curtain fell dramatically to the ground and as it revealed what hid behind, the detective faltered.

"John!" he gasped in fright as he saw his dearest friend upon a small pedestal with what appeared to be an intricate bomb stuck to his chest. A chain went from the bomb down to the stone pedestal, keeping the doctor firmly in place. Sherlock's eyes swiftly looked his friend over. The short man stood on wobbly legs and a piece of silver tape was stuck over his mouth, but there was clarity in his wide, frightened eyes that met the detective's now. John was fine. Sherlock nodded once to reassure him all would be well soon enough.

The detective understood Moriarty's challenge immediately. If he didn't stop the bomb, the former army doctor would be blown up and most likely everyone else in the room. Once more, Moriarty's love to come full circle made itself aware as it was a clear echo of what had transpired in the swimming hall that first time of their acquaintance.

"Keep your eyes on me, John!" the curly-haired man said loudly as he noticed his friend's gaze drift down to the bomb on his chest.

The criminal's fury made its first entrance of the night as he shouted so loud the words echoed in the deep recesses of the basement, "Sch! It's rude to interrupt, Sherlock! I'm not done yet!" he calmed as swiftly as he had flared, and continued as if nothing had ever been amiss with the world, "…'But if I had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate…"

Sherlock frowned as the man walked over to the second curtain and yanked on it, too. As it fell to the ground, a glass tank was revealed, reminiscent of a magician's glass box, where it stood about 7 feet tall before him now. In the box, sat a clearly disoriented and drugged woman who blinked up at the detective. As the fog in her pale eyes cleared slowly but surely, they shone up at the man with great remorse and ache.

"… 'to say that for destruction ice is also great, and would suffice'."

The detective's gaze met the woman's and he managed a low, "...Irene."

"Yes," Moriarty gazed down at the brunette in the box. He tapped the solid glass a couple of times as if she was a monkey at a zoo and not a human being in mortal peril. "I didn't kill her… Though I did relish in seeing you believe I had. And, well… the night's not over yet. In fact, the fun is just about to begin."

Sherlock focused on breathing and glanced from John to Irene. He wanted nothing more than to pull out his gun and just shoot Moriarty, but knew the criminal came prepared this night. Not only did he most likely have his henchmen ready already, but the trigger in John's bomb would most likely go off before the detective could pull the trigger. The only choice to save his friends, would be to play along.

"What do you think of my game, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked as he backed up slowly, but still kept the upper hand and control in the palm of his maniacal hand. The criminal glanced from John to Irene and then smirked over at his nemesis. It was evident he thought he had already won. "Before we begin, let me explain the rules…"

"Rules?" the detective mocked. "You spoil me, Jim."

"You'll have five minutes in total to save them: half the time for one and half for the other. You must work one trap at a time and know that they are wired together. Meaning when you're halfway through - and thus also at the end of your first attempt- " Moriarty began and glanced up at his nemesis. Sherlock inclined his head to acknowledge he was still keeping up with the information.

"Go on."

"-the other trap will automatically be set off. You choose which order they'll die. …Oh, I'm sorry. I mean; which order you'll attempt to save them. As soon as you start a song will begin to keep the time. If you haven't saved them by the end of it… they'll both be dead. In fact, if you don't run and leave them to their faiths within five minutes: you'll be dead, too. ... I'm sure you've already done the calculations. There's most likely only time to save one of them. I know, I know... It's a nail-biter, but it's also a crowd pleaser! Do you understand my rules? Then let's play!"

To be continued.