The Equation, Chapter 3
Ooooh, the plot thickens
Sherlock is owned by the BBC and the geniuses of Doyle, Moffat, etc. I don't many any money from this, I just adore it.
Chapter 3; I'll Play
John
The agony of his body seemed all he was aware of. His shoulder, grinding like broken glass under a boot heel, his legs trembling, then seizing as the hours passed.
He could forgive all of that, forgo most of it, if it weren't for what was directly in front of him, what he was seeing on a small screen. Slightly to the left was a pressure valve, and each time he stepped off it rose a bit.
And it never fell back.
He'd been trying for hours now to dislodge the gag at least, trying to communicate with Sherlock in a more effective way.
Moriarty's henchmen were efficient if nothing else, but John Watson was a very stubborn man.
Moriarty's words echoed in his head, taunting Sherlock and John tried to keep unwanted memories at bay.
Don't make people into heroes John, heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.
Ah, I've disappointed you?
Consulting criminal, brilliant…
I think he wants to be distracted.
A game, only a game, all a game to him, to Moriarty……all of us just pawns…..NO!
John shook his head violently despite the avalanche of pain that descended down his arms.
He didn't want those memories, tainted from his pain and Sherlock's desperation. He didn't want the memory of how he'd ended up here either, but it still came.~
John, shaking from anger and, if he was honest with himself, pain, stomped down the steps of 221b Baker Street.
His laptop was slippery in his grasp and he swore unimaginatively. Several pedestrians turned to stare but he ignored him. For all he knew they could just be more of Mycroft's extras.
He was tired.
Tired of being batted back and forth between the Holmes brothers, tired of being Sherlock's verbal punching bag, tired of being hungry, exhausted, constantly on the look out for someone who saw him as something on the bottom of his shoe.
Something beneath him. Something that disgusted him.
John stopped and caught his breath, unaware that he was gasping now. Hollowness opened up inside of him.
He'd always tried to believe the best in people, his sister, his brothers in arms,
Sherlock, hell….even Mycroft at times.
And now he was jumping to the orders of a man who kidnapped him regularly for kicks.
He'd been shot and dumped off like the damaged piece of, equipment, that he was, pretty well forgotten.
And Sherlock….
John knew he was feeling uncharacteristically sorry for himself but he couldn't seem to stop.
Sherlock saw him as…
"Dr. Watson?"
Finally, here it was. John turned, suddenly aware of how dark it was where he was standing. No other street traffic besides.
Definitely Mycroft's style then.
But, yet, something prickled at the back of John's neck. He'd been a soldier, then in Sherlock's company too long not to recognize, no, see John, see and observe.
Not a gorgeous woman typing away apathetically at her Blackberry. A man, check that, three men.
John took a step backward.
"Now, now Johnny boy, no need for alarm. We just need to put you on a leash, legalities you know."
Moriarty's oily voice sounded right behind his ear and John swung without thinking.
Shockingly, the small, impeccably dressed man caught it easily and twisted John's arm painfully behind his back.
He was stronger than he looked.
He clamped a hand down over John's nose and mouth.
"Come on, the mutt needs to be muzzled my _friends_"
John struggled but he was outnumbered.
He was thrown into the back of, a cab?, Moriarty really needed to look up other means of transportation, and his hands and feet tied painfully with plastic ties.
He tried kicking out and got a swift but painful jab to the stomach for his efforts.
The only comfort he had, small though it might be, before a needle was jabbed into his neck, was that the two CCTV cameras closest to the vehicle had never turned off. And both had turned towards the escaping cab.
John didn't know what the cameras indicated, if Mycroft was watching and unwilling to get involved or just trying to let Sherlock know what had happened.
Either way, Moriarty had planned on him being caught unawares and Sherlock's reaction towards his brother was apparent even to him.
Sherlock. John squeezed his eyes shut. The doubts of less than 12 hours before seemed so frivolous now.
When he'd woken up, it had been to agony in his wrists. How Moriarty's henchmen had gotten his hands there was a mystery he himself didn't know how to solve right now.
Worse, John could see that the handcuffs were welded shut, as tight as they could be even against his smaller wrists.
He'd been able to breathe all right for the first few hours, but as his arms began to shake and his legs betrayed him, he felt a terrible tightness growing in his chest.
Moriarty, just before starting his disgusting little 'show', had said something that chilled John's blood, even before the twisted game, before addressing those watching at Scotland Yard. This was a game Sherlock couldn't win, the main, though not the only reason he'd gotten John involved.
And the screen in front of him. Another cramp, this one worse and John lost his balance. His breathing, after Moriarty's little bonus, was like trying to suck oxygen from mud.
The valve's needle jostled again, just a little closer to the red zone.
John's fingers continued their dance, he didn't dare keep it up continually, but please, someone, Sherlock please, figure it out.
And soon.
Sherlock
Sherlock paced incessantly but no one had the heart to tell him to stop. No one could bear watching the screen where John was slowly suffocating and hearing it was out of the question.
As long as John couldn't communicate with them, listening to him suffer was just making everyone, especially one consulting detective, that much more, distracted.
No, devastated.
Sherlock held John's phone up, then his, then pulled that infernal pink monstrosity out, checking each non-stop.
Finally, finally one beeped, signaling a text had arrived.
Lestrade's.
He looked at it and frowned deeply.
"What, what is it?" Sherlock practically ripped the phone from his hands.
"Sherlock! I, I can't, remember! His instructions…."
"Technically I haven't broken any laws yet so give me the damn phone, Lestrade."
Everyone backed away from the venom in the younger man's voice, they could all hear the undercurrent beneath it. Sherlock's terror.
For a man supposedly above emotions he wasn't controlling his very well. No one was too surprised, however.
Three names showed up, that was all.
Sherlock shook his head. Whatever game Moriarty had started he obviously wouldn't make it easy and the detective, still and he practically hated himself for it, felt that odd thrill of anticipation.
John's phone, (barely charged) rang. Everyone jumped.
Another hissing, like a recording.
"Hi there my dear! Miss me? I do hope your good, pals, at the Yard aren't giving you any help."
Lestrade tucked his phone away, paling.
"I need you to do something for me, Sherlock, and I'm not asking nicely as you're well aware. I've become fond of threes lately, no use asking why. Maybe it's our little love triangle, you, me and the lapdog."
"Bastard." Sherlock hissed.
Everyone within earshot, even Sherlock, actually jumped when Moriarty responded.
"Language, Sherlock, truly."
"How is he doing that?" Donovan whispered but Sherlock shook his head. Not important.
Only John mattered.
"In three places, where there are adorable innocents you and I cherish so much, there will be something happening in three hours."
"More bombs Jim?" Sherlock sneered. "Yet you said _I _ lacked originality."
"Not bombs sweet, something extra special I've been keeping in the woodwork. Each little surprise will happen at exactly the same time, or perhaps not. It all depends on you."
Sherlock grit his teeth. "And if we find these places you're referring to?"
"You won't, and it doesn't matter anyway. And there is no 'we' in this equation silly, for you there probably won't be a 'we' for a very long time."
Sherlock felt a surge of complete hatred.
"The places are equally far apart, you could reach one in your time limit, but not all three. And to make it more fun, the control for my grand experiment is in another place entirely."
"And that's where I have to go." Sherlock said tonelessly.
"Very good, such a smart boy. Oh, and because you should know at least some of your, variables, your little Johnny boy will be dead in three hours. The venom that's paralyzing his lungs will have taken full effect then. Couldn't take any chances now, could I?"
Sherlock stared at a point high above everyone's head and willed himself to remain calm, to think.
"And stopping your 'control' is the only way to get the anti-venom to him?" He spat out.
"Ah, ah, two kindred minds should think alike. There's only one way to save him,
Sherlock, if even that. You don't stop my little control, you check that all three accidents will happen at the same time."
"Then, you make sure that they do."
Lestrade
How was he going to do this? How could he stop Sherlock, or simply not get involved (not an option, Moriarty was very specific) when now not just John's but who knew who many other lives..*children, the sick….he's targeting children*
He'd done it before, but still Lestrade couldn't imagine a mind that evil and cruel.
Even Sherlock at his worst, when they all (and Donovan voiced them) had their doubts about his quicksilver mind and lack of morals, he was no Jim Moriarty.
Except Moriarty was trying to change that.
Either way, he'd succeed. If Sherlock followed through with his twisted experiment, then, oh gods, John's reaction. Everyone in their odd little family, and yes even a hardened DI saw it like that, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even himself, would suffer, then shatter.
But to lose John. To have to witness John Watson, a good man, good friend, slowly being strangled. That would shatter something else that Sherlock swore he didn't have.
Sherlock stared down John's phone as though he could will it to give him answers.
Moriarty was moving slower this time, three hours notwithstanding. He was savoring it.
Finally, a text. Sherlock gave a strangled gasp and threw the phone as hard as he could across the room.
He ignored the shocked looks on everyone's faces, ignored everything and continued pacing. He was muttering under his breath.
He was absolutely infuriated.
"Uh, Sherlock…."
"No, NO….He's the cause of this. No, he's the same, on the same level, he…"
"Really, Sherlock. Had I anticipated any of this happening, do you honestly think that I wouldn't have tried to prevent it?"
Lestrade gaped as Mycroft Holmes strolled in. He looked as cool and poised as ever, but his eyes betrayed some concern.
Sherlock stared him down and Lestrade honestly saw murder in the detective's light blue eyes.
"You, you with your bloody eyes and ears, you saw Moriarty take him, didn't you. DIDN'T YOU!" Sherlock bellowed.
"It was too late, Sherlock. Too late, believe me. He planned it, planned on the location, the darkness. After you called, the moment something wrong was realized, he sent John's laptop to me."
"_You_ sent it here!" Lestrade was incredulous.
"I had no choice, his instructions."
"Why, why, you getting involved, with everything?" Sherlock yanked at his dark curls. "Why?"
"Footage of course. It's your, clue." Mycroft paused on the last word and Lestrade honestly thought Sherlock was going to tackle him.
"As for why, the monster responsible for this required that I ask you." Mycroft pulled something out of his suit pocket. A card. Ace.
"It came with the laptop."
"Mocking….of course, just to mock me." Sherlock looked defeated, pale and worn. On a case he was usually all movement and deductions, never stopping, almost giddy with excitement.
Now, and Lestrade never thought he'd believed it, things seemed to be happening too fast for the detective.
Suddenly Sherlock bounded over to his brother, getting up in the other's face. "If you have the footage, show me, let me solve this, then get. Out."
"I can't do that, Sherlock."
"You-"
"Why not, My, er, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade couldn't call the starch stiff man in front of him by his first name.
"Because of you, Detective Inspector."
"Me?"
"I'm aware of this, Moriarty's, instructions and your own dilemma. As my dear brother would never accept any assistance from me rather than the bare necessities, even if his doctor's at stake." An eyebrow lifted towards Sherlock.
"Yes." Lestrade moved in between the brothers just in time.
Mycroft sighed deeply and for a moment he looked older, tired. "Sherlock, no matter I say I know you will not believe me but putting Dr. Watson in harm's way, that…" He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock glowered.
"Detective Lestrade, I'm going to use all of my resources."
"British government." Sherlock muttered.
"All of _my_ resources, to stop you and your team."
"What?" Lestrade was baffled. "_Stop_ us?"
"Those are Mr. Moriarty's instructions, for you to delay Sherlock yes?"
A nod.
"And John will be in the crossfire if you do not. Therefore, I'm insisting that you allow me to distract and delay myself."
*For John's sake.* It hung in the air, unsaid. It didn't need to be said.
Even Sherlock nodded.
"Good, now as for the names." Lestrade just surrendered his phone, not even bothering asking how the elder Holmes knew.
Mycroft handed the phone over to his assistant who Lestrade hadn't even seen come in.
Her expression was still detached, bored even as she typed then handed the phone back to Lestrade.
"Well?" Sherlock grumbled. "I could have deduced the names on my own, Mycroft."
Lestrade would have laughed if it weren't for the seriousness of the situation. Sherlock sounded like an angsty teenager dealing with an older brother.
"All three were veterans." Anthea said. Mycroft took out his own phone.
"Were?"
"Were, dear brother. They all died almost a hundred years ago, in the first world war."
"From?"
"Asphyxiation. Ghastly way to die from the sound of it."
Lestrade closed his eyes. *John*
And with a sudden lurch, Sherlock thought he understood just what kind of surprises Moriarty had planned.
AN; I hope Sherlock wasn't too out of character here. Poor detective, he's been hit with a lot. He'll be doing his pure Sherlock thing next chapter, I promise.
Oooh, plot thickens. This is almost too much fun to write, I think it says something about my psyche.
Chapter 4; Breathing is Boring…..
Sherlock is owned by the BBC and the geniuses of Doyle, Moffat, etc. I don't many any money from this, I just adore it.
Chapter 3; I'll Play
John
The agony of his body seemed all he was aware of. His shoulder, grinding like broken glass under a boot heel, his legs trembling, then seizing as the hours passed.
He could forgive all of that, forgo most of it, if it weren't for what was directly in front of him, what he was seeing on a small screen. Slightly to the left was a pressure valve, and each time he stepped off it rose a bit.
And it never fell back.
He'd been trying for hours now to dislodge the gag at least, trying to communicate with Sherlock in a more effective way.
Moriarty's henchmen were efficient if nothing else, but John Watson was a very stubborn man.
Moriarty's words echoed in his head, taunting Sherlock and John tried to keep unwanted memories at bay.
Don't make people into heroes John, heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.
Ah, I've disappointed you?
Consulting criminal, brilliant…
I think he wants to be distracted.
A game, only a game, all a game to him, to Moriarty……all of us just pawns…..NO!
John shook his head violently despite the avalanche of pain that descended down his arms.
He didn't want those memories, tainted from his pain and Sherlock's desperation. He didn't want the memory of how he'd ended up here either, but it still came.~
John, shaking from anger and, if he was honest with himself, pain, stomped down the steps of 221b Baker Street.
His laptop was slippery in his grasp and he swore unimaginatively. Several pedestrians turned to stare but he ignored him. For all he knew they could just be more of Mycroft's extras.
He was tired.
Tired of being batted back and forth between the Holmes brothers, tired of being Sherlock's verbal punching bag, tired of being hungry, exhausted, constantly on the look out for someone who saw him as something on the bottom of his shoe.
Something beneath him. Something that disgusted him.
John stopped and caught his breath, unaware that he was gasping now. Hollowness opened up inside of him.
He'd always tried to believe the best in people, his sister, his brothers in arms,
Sherlock, hell….even Mycroft at times.
And now he was jumping to the orders of a man who kidnapped him regularly for kicks.
He'd been shot and dumped off like the damaged piece of, equipment, that he was, pretty well forgotten.
And Sherlock….
John knew he was feeling uncharacteristically sorry for himself but he couldn't seem to stop.
Sherlock saw him as…
"Dr. Watson?"
Finally, here it was. John turned, suddenly aware of how dark it was where he was standing. No other street traffic besides.
Definitely Mycroft's style then.
But, yet, something prickled at the back of John's neck. He'd been a soldier, then in Sherlock's company too long not to recognize, no, see John, see and observe.
Not a gorgeous woman typing away apathetically at her Blackberry. A man, check that, three men.
John took a step backward.
"Now, now Johnny boy, no need for alarm. We just need to put you on a leash, legalities you know."
Moriarty's oily voice sounded right behind his ear and John swung without thinking.
Shockingly, the small, impeccably dressed man caught it easily and twisted John's arm painfully behind his back.
He was stronger than he looked.
He clamped a hand down over John's nose and mouth.
"Come on, the mutt needs to be muzzled my _friends_"
John struggled but he was outnumbered.
He was thrown into the back of, a cab?, Moriarty really needed to look up other means of transportation, and his hands and feet tied painfully with plastic ties.
He tried kicking out and got a swift but painful jab to the stomach for his efforts.
The only comfort he had, small though it might be, before a needle was jabbed into his neck, was that the two CCTV cameras closest to the vehicle had never turned off. And both had turned towards the escaping cab.
John didn't know what the cameras indicated, if Mycroft was watching and unwilling to get involved or just trying to let Sherlock know what had happened.
Either way, Moriarty had planned on him being caught unawares and Sherlock's reaction towards his brother was apparent even to him.
Sherlock. John squeezed his eyes shut. The doubts of less than 12 hours before seemed so frivolous now.
When he'd woken up, it had been to agony in his wrists. How Moriarty's henchmen had gotten his hands there was a mystery he himself didn't know how to solve right now.
Worse, John could see that the handcuffs were welded shut, as tight as they could be even against his smaller wrists.
He'd been able to breathe all right for the first few hours, but as his arms began to shake and his legs betrayed him, he felt a terrible tightness growing in his chest.
Moriarty, just before starting his disgusting little 'show', had said something that chilled John's blood, even before the twisted game, before addressing those watching at Scotland Yard. This was a game Sherlock couldn't win, the main, though not the only reason he'd gotten John involved.
And the screen in front of him. Another cramp, this one worse and John lost his balance. His breathing, after Moriarty's little bonus, was like trying to suck oxygen from mud.
The valve's needle jostled again, just a little closer to the red zone.
John's fingers continued their dance, he didn't dare keep it up continually, but please, someone, Sherlock please, figure it out.
And soon.
Sherlock
Sherlock paced incessantly but no one had the heart to tell him to stop. No one could bear watching the screen where John was slowly suffocating and hearing it was out of the question.
As long as John couldn't communicate with them, listening to him suffer was just making everyone, especially one consulting detective, that much more, distracted.
No, devastated.
Sherlock held John's phone up, then his, then pulled that infernal pink monstrosity out, checking each non-stop.
Finally, finally one beeped, signaling a text had arrived.
Lestrade's.
He looked at it and frowned deeply.
"What, what is it?" Sherlock practically ripped the phone from his hands.
"Sherlock! I, I can't, remember! His instructions…."
"Technically I haven't broken any laws yet so give me the damn phone, Lestrade."
Everyone backed away from the venom in the younger man's voice, they could all hear the undercurrent beneath it. Sherlock's terror.
For a man supposedly above emotions he wasn't controlling his very well. No one was too surprised, however.
Three names showed up, that was all.
Sherlock shook his head. Whatever game Moriarty had started he obviously wouldn't make it easy and the detective, still and he practically hated himself for it, felt that odd thrill of anticipation.
John's phone, (barely charged) rang. Everyone jumped.
Another hissing, like a recording.
"Hi there my dear! Miss me? I do hope your good, pals, at the Yard aren't giving you any help."
Lestrade tucked his phone away, paling.
"I need you to do something for me, Sherlock, and I'm not asking nicely as you're well aware. I've become fond of threes lately, no use asking why. Maybe it's our little love triangle, you, me and the lapdog."
"Bastard." Sherlock hissed.
Everyone within earshot, even Sherlock, actually jumped when Moriarty responded.
"Language, Sherlock, truly."
"How is he doing that?" Donovan whispered but Sherlock shook his head. Not important.
Only John mattered.
"In three places, where there are adorable innocents you and I cherish so much, there will be something happening in three hours."
"More bombs Jim?" Sherlock sneered. "Yet you said _I _ lacked originality."
"Not bombs sweet, something extra special I've been keeping in the woodwork. Each little surprise will happen at exactly the same time, or perhaps not. It all depends on you."
Sherlock grit his teeth. "And if we find these places you're referring to?"
"You won't, and it doesn't matter anyway. And there is no 'we' in this equation silly, for you there probably won't be a 'we' for a very long time."
Sherlock felt a surge of complete hatred.
"The places are equally far apart, you could reach one in your time limit, but not all three. And to make it more fun, the control for my grand experiment is in another place entirely."
"And that's where I have to go." Sherlock said tonelessly.
"Very good, such a smart boy. Oh, and because you should know at least some of your, variables, your little Johnny boy will be dead in three hours. The venom that's paralyzing his lungs will have taken full effect then. Couldn't take any chances now, could I?"
Sherlock stared at a point high above everyone's head and willed himself to remain calm, to think.
"And stopping your 'control' is the only way to get the anti-venom to him?" He spat out.
"Ah, ah, two kindred minds should think alike. There's only one way to save him,
Sherlock, if even that. You don't stop my little control, you check that all three accidents will happen at the same time."
"Then, you make sure that they do."
Lestrade
How was he going to do this? How could he stop Sherlock, or simply not get involved (not an option, Moriarty was very specific) when now not just John's but who knew who many other lives..*children, the sick….he's targeting children*
He'd done it before, but still Lestrade couldn't imagine a mind that evil and cruel.
Even Sherlock at his worst, when they all (and Donovan voiced them) had their doubts about his quicksilver mind and lack of morals, he was no Jim Moriarty.
Except Moriarty was trying to change that.
Either way, he'd succeed. If Sherlock followed through with his twisted experiment, then, oh gods, John's reaction. Everyone in their odd little family, and yes even a hardened DI saw it like that, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even himself, would suffer, then shatter.
But to lose John. To have to witness John Watson, a good man, good friend, slowly being strangled. That would shatter something else that Sherlock swore he didn't have.
Sherlock stared down John's phone as though he could will it to give him answers.
Moriarty was moving slower this time, three hours notwithstanding. He was savoring it.
Finally, a text. Sherlock gave a strangled gasp and threw the phone as hard as he could across the room.
He ignored the shocked looks on everyone's faces, ignored everything and continued pacing. He was muttering under his breath.
He was absolutely infuriated.
"Uh, Sherlock…."
"No, NO….He's the cause of this. No, he's the same, on the same level, he…"
"Really, Sherlock. Had I anticipated any of this happening, do you honestly think that I wouldn't have tried to prevent it?"
Lestrade gaped as Mycroft Holmes strolled in. He looked as cool and poised as ever, but his eyes betrayed some concern.
Sherlock stared him down and Lestrade honestly saw murder in the detective's light blue eyes.
"You, you with your bloody eyes and ears, you saw Moriarty take him, didn't you. DIDN'T YOU!" Sherlock bellowed.
"It was too late, Sherlock. Too late, believe me. He planned it, planned on the location, the darkness. After you called, the moment something wrong was realized, he sent John's laptop to me."
"_You_ sent it here!" Lestrade was incredulous.
"I had no choice, his instructions."
"Why, why, you getting involved, with everything?" Sherlock yanked at his dark curls. "Why?"
"Footage of course. It's your, clue." Mycroft paused on the last word and Lestrade honestly thought Sherlock was going to tackle him.
"As for why, the monster responsible for this required that I ask you." Mycroft pulled something out of his suit pocket. A card. Ace.
"It came with the laptop."
"Mocking….of course, just to mock me." Sherlock looked defeated, pale and worn. On a case he was usually all movement and deductions, never stopping, almost giddy with excitement.
Now, and Lestrade never thought he'd believed it, things seemed to be happening too fast for the detective.
Suddenly Sherlock bounded over to his brother, getting up in the other's face. "If you have the footage, show me, let me solve this, then get. Out."
"I can't do that, Sherlock."
"You-"
"Why not, My, er, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade couldn't call the starch stiff man in front of him by his first name.
"Because of you, Detective Inspector."
"Me?"
"I'm aware of this, Moriarty's, instructions and your own dilemma. As my dear brother would never accept any assistance from me rather than the bare necessities, even if his doctor's at stake." An eyebrow lifted towards Sherlock.
"Yes." Lestrade moved in between the brothers just in time.
Mycroft sighed deeply and for a moment he looked older, tired. "Sherlock, no matter I say I know you will not believe me but putting Dr. Watson in harm's way, that…" He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock glowered.
"Detective Lestrade, I'm going to use all of my resources."
"British government." Sherlock muttered.
"All of _my_ resources, to stop you and your team."
"What?" Lestrade was baffled. "_Stop_ us?"
"Those are Mr. Moriarty's instructions, for you to delay Sherlock yes?"
A nod.
"And John will be in the crossfire if you do not. Therefore, I'm insisting that you allow me to distract and delay myself."
*For John's sake.* It hung in the air, unsaid. It didn't need to be said.
Even Sherlock nodded.
"Good, now as for the names." Lestrade just surrendered his phone, not even bothering asking how the elder Holmes knew.
Mycroft handed the phone over to his assistant who Lestrade hadn't even seen come in.
Her expression was still detached, bored even as she typed then handed the phone back to Lestrade.
"Well?" Sherlock grumbled. "I could have deduced the names on my own, Mycroft."
Lestrade would have laughed if it weren't for the seriousness of the situation. Sherlock sounded like an angsty teenager dealing with an older brother.
"All three were veterans." Anthea said. Mycroft took out his own phone.
"Were?"
"Were, dear brother. They all died almost a hundred years ago, in the first world war."
"From?"
"Asphyxiation. Ghastly way to die from the sound of it."
Lestrade closed his eyes. *John*
And with a sudden lurch, Sherlock thought he understood just what kind of surprises Moriarty had planned.
AN; I hope Sherlock wasn't too out of character here. Poor detective, he's been hit with a lot. He'll be doing his pure Sherlock thing next chapter, I promise.
Oooh, plot thickens. This is almost too much fun to write, I think it says something about my psyche.
Chapter 4; Breathing is Boring…..