Instead of Sebastian’s hands going to Sherlock’s arms to pry him away, they opened his jacket and snaked inside, grasping for something in his breast pocket. ”Bad move, Holmes,” he gurgled, the words bubbling up bloody from his lips. His arm swung upward and his fist met hard with the detective’s neck.
On the sofa, Moriarty’s mouth twisted into a devilish grin.
A sharp, hot pain jolted through Sherlock from the point of impact. Sebastian hadn’t been carrying a weapon in his jacket, he’d been absolutely sure of it. So what had he overlooked? With one arm still firm around the sniper’s neck, he used the other to reach up to probe around the fist which still held tight to him. His long fingers fumbled up over the knuckles, and as the thumb depressed, a familiar, warm pressure beginning to fill him, he knew what it was.
A syringe.
Sebastian was laughing.
Poison? No, poison was cowardly; Moriarty would never go to the trouble of coming here to just end it right now. A sedative, then. Judging by the dosage — easy to tell by how long it took the plunger to fully depress — he knew he didn’t have more than a minute before he would be out cold.
Sherlock’s head was already swimming, heavy and fuzzy with the drug. The flat appeared to be moving before his very eyes, everything liquid and flowing. He slid from Sebastian’s broad shoulders and stumbled across the undulating floor to his mobile on the kitchen table. His limbs felt impossibly weighty, and traversing the ten feet to get to his destination seemed to take ages in his bizarre, bullet-time state of mind.
He had to warn John not to come home.
Shakily, he began to tap out a message.
Source: theonly-consultingcriminal
“Dear me, Holmes. Dear me. What have we here?” He laughed, never once taking his gaze away from the man who sat across from him.
“She’s trapped. Enduring various tests that I’ve decided to put her through. I wonder how she’ll appreciate hearing multiple gunshots, the sounds of war…. All while locked in a dark secluded room. Sounds quite peachy, don’t you think?” With a raise of an eyebrow, he continued.
“Do you honestly want to threaten me? You know you’d never make it out of here alive. I’ve done what I’ve wanted thus far and you have no right to tell me otherwise. If I want to bring her to her knees, so be it. I won’t harm her. I’ll take everything she is away. I’ll strip her down until nothing remains of her soul. She’ll be a mindless idiot when I’m through. But that’s what you’d prefer, isn’t it?”
“You would be much happier without her. Working alone. You thrive off of it, or do you prefer an audience? Oh dear, look at you. The greatest mind the world might know at the moment and here you are. Caring for a woman that doesn’t deserve you. You could work with me, we’d have it all. And you’re wasting your time running around with this pet of yours that deserves none of your affection.”
With a laugh, he paused long enough to take a sip of tea, setting the delicate cup back down onto the saucer.
“And who’s next, hm? What about Miss Hooper? Always troublesome, flirting with you and trying to get something that’s forever out of her reach. Tell me, what if I went after her next? Would you care?”
“Up high on your pedestal where no-one can touch you, you can’t even begin to fathom what it’s like for me and her, so I won’t expend my energy attempting to explain my actions. Being alone isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” he bit out, but in truth, he had trouble rationalising it, himself.
Sherlock Holmes, the lone wolf, the solitary man. He’d always preferred it that way. It was good, until one day it wasn’t. Suddenly he loathed coming home to his cold, empty flat; detested the skull who was his only companion; hated his brother who worried over him. It ate at him, slowly at first, then became a burning gnaw right through the centre of him. Emptiness. He was a puzzle missing its pieces. For years he filled the void with his games, then with drugs when those ceased to help dull the ache.
One day, in the gloom of one of his black moods, he met a woman; one just as lost and as broken as he. He didn’t need help paying the rent — he could have afforded Downing Street if he wished — didn’t need an assistant for his cases — but he would do what he had to to keep her. In the end, they filled the void in each other, completed the other. The puzzle was made whole again.
How could someone like Moriarty possibly understand?
Sherlock snapped out of his daze and the small smile brought upon him by his reverie faded into a snarl. ”You’ll never break her, because she knows I’m coming for her; knows I always will. Tell me, what do you think you have that she lacks, and that I would choose you over her for it?”
Source: shadesingreyshadowsofblack
Q:Hi honey, have you missed me? I bet London has been absolutely dreadful without me around to spice things up ;-)
And here I thought I’d never hear from you again. So much for wishful thinking.
SH
Moriarty practically grinned like a cheshire cat, turning into a slight smirk that just wouldn’t leave. When the lovely lady had brought them their tea, he sighed. Why did all the nice ones have to tremble so? He was just using her for his own gain, it’s not as though he’d kill her. Yet.
Taking his seat as a king might his throne, he continued. “You ask me why you’re here? You’re quite right in that deduction. I did call you here for more than just evening tea. My dear, you’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book. And even I thought you were better than that.” He folded his hands, his eyes lit up in a way that spoke more than what he’d let on thus far. Pausing long enough to take a sip of tea, he then continued.
“I knew better than to ask you for your companion to not follow. Now while you may drag me to hell, I’ll put your pet through it first. As we speak, my men have already taken her hostage. And what will follow? Well, why don’t we save that for dessert? Just know this. That bitch is going to get what she deserves.” He said the word with such disdain, as though he would never foul the air with such language. He really couldn’t care less about Jen, his only goal was wonderful Consulting Detective in front of him, and he knew the feeling was mutual.
Surely any moment now, the poor Watson would take up arms and come to save her precious Sherlock, only to meet resistance with Moriarty’s men. Only this time, he was in for more than a simple kill.
Sherlock frowned as he brought the cup to his lips again. “You think I didn’t know it was a trap? Not even a cleverly disguised one, at that. I’m hurt you think so little of me.”
The way he said it, one would think he actually was.
As Moriarty continued to speak, the upper hand Sherlock felt he had on the situation started to falter until the ultimate reason for their meeting was revealed. At this revalation, his whole body seemed to tense up. Jaw set hard, neck muscles twitching with the effort, brows drawn together and transforming his usually elegant features into a visage that would terrify an average man. Everything about him seemed darker somehow. “If you’ve harmed her,” he snarled through clenched teeth, “I will end you, I swear it.”
Source: shadesingreyshadowsofblack
He had been counting the minutes, with nothing else better to do it seemed, until there he stood. The man he had so eagerly been waiting for. In the middle of the room, there he sat like a king. For a split-second, he wondered how it would be if he wore a cape and crown, but leaving such silly ideas to the side, he stood, keeping the man clearly within his sights.
“Ah, Mr. Holmes. How quaint for you to show up. And for once you listened. Without your… dog, we’re allowed to speak freely. Wouldn’t want the dear getting all caught up in this, now would we? Poor thing would worry about you. Although she already is, isn’t she?” He grinned, dark eyes revealing nothing more than shadowed pits into oblivion. “Come. Join me. Although it’s not as you have much of a choice, is it?” He glanced down to his wrists, adjusting his jacket as if they were speaking calmly of the weather.
Being nice enough to move from the table, walking halfway until he could reach Sherlock, he paused long enough to flick his wrist in the direction of the attendee that had shown Sherlock into the room. “Over here. Take his coat. I’d hate for the good consulting detective to be uncomfortable.”
“Shall we finally speak of matters at hand? I’m quite interested in seeing just what makes you tick. It drives me up a wall, you see. Why else would I go to all this effort just to make you come out and play? And trust me,” He leans in, whispering softly. “This isn’t as far as I’d go.”
Pulling back as quickly as he leaned in, he spared a glance to the stage that remained as silent as the rest of the building. “I would’ve had them play for us, I’m sure they would’ve, but I found their ‘music’ to be quite…. distracting.”
The nervous man practically sprinted to obey Moriarty’s words. He raised a crooked arm over which Sherlock was meant to sling his coat, and the slight upward shift was more than enough for Sherlock’s perceptive sights; barely just peeking out from under the man’s uniform vest was the edge of a wire, likely one of many snaking around his torso. An explosive vest. Not one of Moriarty’s loyal hands, then — just an unwilling servant and a hostage if things got hairy.
He handed over his coat and scarf and sat down at the table Moriarty had risen from in the cushy chair opposite. A second indocile servant, a woman, immediately rushed to pour tea for the two men, unsteady hands rattling the teaware so much Sherlock feared it may be in danger of breaking. She flashed him a simply helpless, pleading look as she leaned to fill his cup. After they were served, she and the man with Sherlock’s affects disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two men alone.
The clink of the spoon against the teacup seemed to echo in the vast emptiness of the great hall as the detective calmly stirred sugar into the dark liquid. He was confident it was safe to consume. Poison was boring, and boring just wasn’t Moriarty’s style. As if demonstrating his point, he brought the cup to his lips and drank deeply, letting out a quiet, satisfied ‘ahh’; always delightful, tea, even when it was served to you by a criminal mastermind.
Sherlock returned the cup to its saucer and looked pointedly at his host across the table. “Well?” he asked expectantly. “I gather you summoned me for more than a nice spot of tea.”
Source: shadesingreyshadowsofblack
“…What. Are you… You’re bloody kidding me. Aren’t you?” Jen pauses in her tracks, the tea ware and tray still in her hands. “You can’t go alone, he’ll trap you….”
The reality of what he’d said hit her, and she clams up, storming to the kitchen. She forces herself to set the tray down gently, breaking anything wouldn’t help. “That idiot… going to get himself killed…”
Sitting in one of the chairs with a clear spot on the table, she rests her elbows on the surface, leaning into her hands. She rubs her face in frustration, wondering how to get around him.
Letting him go alone was the last thing she’d ever do, whether he liked it, or knew about it, or not. She was a soldier, as well as a doctor. He didn’t want to admit he /needed/ her.
Sherlock set aside his book and steepled his fingers as he wont to, letting his keen eyes follow her to the kitchen. He was all too familiar with the barely pent-up frustration he saw there. Rising to don his usual outerwear, he chose his next words carefully. “It isn’t logical for both of us to be in harm’s way. It’s…” He paused and thought for a moment. “…safer for me to go alone.”
He’d almost said ‘better’, but of course that wasn’t correct. Had he the choice, he would have his partner and friend at his side always, but tonight the decision had been made for him and he would not risk the consequences going against that would bring.
As he fastened the buttons of his greatcoat and secured the scarf around his neck, he caught Jen’s eye for a moment and let his lingering gaze hopefully convey the regret he felt but would never voice at having to leave her behind, then disappeared down the stairs and out into the cold evening air.
There was already a cab waiting at the curb. He could see no others prowling the street for customers; Moriarty was taking no chances that he might try to stop off somewhere else first and ruin things. In fact, Sherlock noted as he climbed inside and shut the door, there didn’t seem to be anyone around at all — no couples enjoying the clear night sky, no joggers, no shoppers, no-one even getting drinks at the very popular pub down the street. It was all rather admittedly eerie, and how the criminal had managed it he’d likely never tell.
Without any interference on the road, the ride took almost no time at all despite the destination being on the other side of the city. They’d stopped in front of a hideously overpriced 5-star restaurant at which Sherlock vauguely recalled once begrudgingly dining with Mycroft. He left the terrified-looking cabbie and disappeared inside.
As soon as Sherlock was in the door he knew this was wrong; there was no roar of conversation, no swarm of waiters bustling by with trays of fine cuisine, no swell of music from the classical quartet he knew performed here. As he passed by, he saw the reservation book had only one entry written in a fine, curled script.
An extremely fidgety attendee positively pouring sweat down his brow showed the detective to the dining hall, lavishly decorated in reds and golds. Sitting solitarily in the sea of empty tables and chairs was the professor himself.
Source: jen-watson-md
Just… sigh, clean up when you’re done. Jesus, it isn’t even worth the energy to argue with you anymore.
So you have actually learned something. I was beginning to worry.
Isn’t there always? I tolerate your severed body parts in the fridge (God knows why), but I draw the line at animal carcasses strung up in my shower.
You simply fail to grasp the importance of this experiment, John.
Source: toysoldierjohn
Anyone want to trade flatmates? I don’t know if my heart can take this anymore.
Problem?
Source: toysoldierjohn
The Catacombs of Paris
Paris has a deeper and stranger connection to its underground than almost any city, and that underground is one of the richest. The arteries and intestines of Paris, the hundreds of miles of tunnels that make up some of the oldest and densest subway and sewer networks in the world, are just the start of it. Under Paris there are spaces of all kinds: canals and reservoirs, crypts and bank vaults, wine cellars transformed into nightclubs and galleries. Most surprising of all are the carrières—the old stone quarries that fan out in a deep and intricate web under many neighborhoods, mostly in the southern part of the metropolis.
These sections of caverns and tunnels have been transformed into underground ossuaries, holding the remains of about 6 million people. Opened in the late 18th century, the underground cemetery became a tourist attraction on a small scale from the early 19th century, and has been open to the public on a regular basis from 1874.
The official name for these subterranean veins is l’Ossuaire Municipal. Although the cemetery portion covers only a small section of underground tunnels comprising “les carrières de Paris”, Parisians today often refer to the entire tunnel network as “The Catacombs.”
(via serialkillerfetish)
Source: cmfcknw
