Chapter 2
"There's nothing here!", Sherlock shouted and overthrew a table, "That can't be it! He must have left clues, something to go by! He wants me to find him so why can't I find anything?!"
He was pacing about a table, nervous, aggressive, scared. It was terrible to see him like this, and terrible to have the others see him like this, too.
"Maybe he was just lucky?", Lestrade suggested.
While Sherlock had rushed downstairs again to examine the crime scene, I had called an ambulance for Mrs. Hudson, the police had received several calls by anxious neighbours who had heard the explosion.
"No, no, no. He wouldn't leave this to chance... the clue is that he didn't leave anything, except for the writing on the wall, the bomb, the pillows that saved Mrs. Hudson... of course! He wants the focus dragged towards those things, and he wants me to know that he is rigorous enough not to leave hints that shouldn't be there. A professional, not a starter, a planner. Somebody that knows exactly what he's doing when positioning a bomb, somebody who is patient enough to follow us all the time to be able to recreate our daily routine, our reactions, our characters. Somebody who likes to play mindgames. Somebody who is thrilled to see me go mad..."
"As if you weren't already!", I heard Anderson say from behind. I had to take a deep breath to control myself. A right placed hit would have been the right medicine for that guy, but I know I couldn't do that. Still, what was he even doing here? What was his use? Mocking Sherlock? He was examaning some part of the floor that surely was irrelevant, Sherlock would have done so minutes ago otherwise. So how did that ignorant piece of... how did he dare insult him?!
~Sherlock's point of view~
I didn't comment on what Anderson said this time, I didn't even really listen. Anderson: Boring. The case: VERY exciting! So many questions I couldn't answer yet, so many clues yet to find, so many riddles to solve.
I looked out of the window again. Those words. Just words. Not interesting. The kind of writing... I was sure that I had seen it somewhere already, but that I didn't remember where made the thing extrememly conspicious. And no matter how hard I tried to concentrate, I couldn't remember. The colour, I had to focus on the colour, forget about the past. For some reason I might have deleted the handwriting. So: The colour.
Garnet red, premium manifacture, obtained by the carmine scale, imported from southern Mexico, not keen. Painted on there while John and I had been distracted, like 15 minutes to get to the walls and let everything that had helped reaching the place disappear. Ladder? Too small. From out of the windows? Too complicated. Aerial ladder? Possible. Eye-catching? Definately. Asking people on the street if they had seen somebody? Not really my area...
"Oh Sherlock, is this too difficult for you? I knew you couldn't solve it."
Moriarty?! I turned around, looked around. He stood there, right next to John. No. No! How...? I took a step back.
"Go away from him!", I shouted at him.
He had a knife in his hand. No! Not John!
"Since when do you need other people to solve the case for you? Aren't you smart enough anymore? I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."
„Stay back! You're not going to hurt him!", I shouted in rage. I was really fierce now. He did all this to me and now he wouldn't even let John get out of this?! He could take away my everything, kill me, if it did please him, but he would keep his dirty fingers from my John!
"Am I not? Let's make this more interesting, shall we? You solve the case, I let him go. Doesn't that sound fair?"
I wanted to wipe that grin out of his face, beat him, make him stop. He held the knife on John's throat, his carotid artery.
"Sh..rlock, wh..s g..ng ..n?", I heard John's voice. He moved, he looked at me, his face was pale. He seemed far, far away.
"Tell me where to find the man that painted the words on the wall!", Moriarty shouted and I stumbled slightly backwards, I wavered, with pain in my head like a lightning that striked into it.
"He cleared off from the rooftop", I murmured with my fingertips pressed against the sides of my head, trying to focus, "Because I described Moriarty as a spider. It's a show, symbols always please the fans. So he cleared off like some spider, to put the words on the wall."
"You know me so well, honey", Moriarty smiled, still holding the knife against John's throat, but they had made some steps towards me, "Continue, if it pleases you."
"For that he had to be quite thin, a person with too much weight would have needed more time, a professional, probably from a climbing club, going to a centre often, practicing, so he has a membership. There are 23 climbing gyms in london, 3 exclusive ones, which he can afford going by the price he must have paid for the paint. Going by the kind of climbing that was necessary, it must have been "Wallwards climbing"."
I was about to break down, I could almost feel it, the room was turning around.
"Lestrade, hand me that newspaper", I pointed to my table.
"Are you sure? Maybe you should..."
"Hand me the newspaper! Now!", I shouted, barely able to keep standing, my balance getting worse and worse.
He gave it to me, I could see Moriarty grinning, I browsed through the pages.
"We're looking for the best of climbers. The one that wouldn't fail the job. It's him."
Gareth Skinner, he had just been interviewed for his new record, he had made it to climb a certain range in a new best time.
"Well done!", Moriarty smiled as he slowly vanished, "See how a little pressure can help? Now don't disappoint me again, I don't want to meet you among the dead."
I collapsed to the floor and could only see John rushing towards me. He was safe. That was all that mattered. John. Moriarty was gone. John was here, talking to me, I couldn't understand what he was saying. John. Taking care of me in some way, I didn't really understand what he was doing.
"Stay with me! For god's sake, Sherlock! Stay with me!"
I fought the darkness that wanted to swallow me, that I wanted to give in to and sleep. I stayed with John.