“Sherlock. Holmes,” Moriarty repeated slowly, as if he was savoring the words on his tongue. “Yes you want him, but the real question is just how much you want him back.”
John stared into the wide eyes of Moriarty, with a creeping sensation of dread. It was instinctual for anyone around Moriarty, but John had felt something similar while in Afghanistan. He saw it in the eyes of a few of his comrades and the enemy during the heat of battle; it was the need to destroy anything and everything.
The boom of the gunshot echoed through the hallway. The bullet, the small, deadly piece of metal, moved faster than any of them could see but Moran shifted unflinchingly to the left, as if he knew where it was. Everyone held their breath until the crack of impact when the bullet hit the wall, fracturing it. The only other physical evidence of it’s existence was the line of blood forming across Moran’s right cheek. He wiped the blood away with his hand, staring at the red liquid smeared on his palm. He gazed back at John, his gun still pointed at Moran’s head.
Sebastian Moran liked to think he was a sane guy. A sane guy who liked working with the most infamous criminal mastermind the world has ever seen. A sane guy who committed crimes for fun. A sane guy who murdered people. But a sane guy nevertheless.
John prodded the large man in the back with the barrel of his gun to keep him moving. John’s face was hardened, the lines more prominent to match his worn and angry expression. They walked back streets to stay out of the public eye, the only down side was that the air reeked of garbage and wet fur. The hitman, nervous and sweating, led the way through the city until he stopped outside of an old and seemingly abandoned building.
The first thing Sherlock felt as he drifted back to consciousness was that his arms were numb. Now if this was because of the rope tying them together rather tightly behind his back cutting off circulation, or because the room was bitterly cold, he had no idea. Sherlock had a feeling it was a bit of both. Somewhere to his right water was dripping, but other than that, whatever building he was in now was quiet. This didn’t mean no one was there though. Sherlock cautiously opened his eyes. From his uncomfortable position on the floor, laying on his stomach with his head turned to the left, all he could see was the blank expanse of a cracked and dirty looking wall.
John quickly sized up his opponent. To him, height and size made no difference, it was all about skill and tactic. He elbowed the large man in the gut which made him stumble but didn’t do any actual damage. While he was distracted with regaining balance, John slipped behind him and kicked him hard in the back of the knees. He fell forward onto his knees, disoriented and in pain. John made use of the time and ran to the kitchen drawers, searching them for his gun.
A young man dressed in a maid costume stood paralyzed in fear as Moriarty yelled at him. “No, no, no! What did I say? The knife goes on the right, next to the soup spoon. The forks go on the left, all three of them, with the fish fork on the far left! What’s your name? Oh wait that’s right, I don’t care. You’re expendable.” He snapped his fingers and a tall but heavyset man emerged from the shadows to drag the young man out. Moriarty sighed. Good help was so hard to find these days. Especially ones that looked good in those maid uniforms. He shook his head. People just don’t bother to learn the basics anymore. Moriarty needed everything perfect for this little dinner party he was planning.
Sherlock wandered the streets of London, not aimlessly but he had exhausted most of his options. The homeless network didn’t know anything and the police still didn’t know anything. He even tried his drug dealer, a highly intelligent Oxford drop-out, and he didn’t know anything either. It seemed like Moriarty had disappeared. He hadn’t, Sherlock knew, because he wanted revenge and he would never leave until he had it.
He slunk into an alley, feeling a little defeated, and rested against a wall to think. It was a situation that had to be taken care of quickly but that would be impossible if couldn’t find Moriarty. He violently ran his hands through his hair as if it would make the answers come to him. When it didn’t work he left the alley.
Moriarty scowled angrily as he continued to work on his freeze ray. The sooner he had this finished the better. Then he could sit in his gorgeous mansion and gaze lovingly upon his new Sherlock and John statues without care in the world. Moriarty then realized how boring that sounded. He shrugged. When the time came, he would figure out what to do next. It was much more fun to make up his plans of evil doing as he went. He pulled out a new roll of duct tape to attach the transfixor tube to the wonderflonium compartment. He had gone through six rolls already.
There was only silence on the other end of the line for a few moments, not even the sound of breathing.
“No,” Moriarty said finally. “I wouldn’t care to share.”
“Not even just a little bit?” Sherlock coaxed.
“You lost all of my respect when you ruined my party,” he snapped. “Goodbye, Sherlock!”
