Confusing but Delightful Win Fic: Public Service
So I, the person who ranted and railed against darkfic and then genre's leanings toward gratuitous violence, out-of-character-ness, and bad emo hair, have somehow taken second place in the Games' darkfic challenge. Huh. Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that my head bouncing off walls ended up paying off with a not-so-bad product. So, yes. Here it is. Not much in the way of warnings except for brief but extreme violence.
Title: Public Service
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: PG-13 for brief, but intense violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not in any way. I don't make any money off this effort, and am only paid in comments.
There is a penumbral haze of dust and powdered concrete hanging in the air, and Lestrade’s feet crunch with unnatural loudness. It’s strange to realize how silent an area can be after the explosion. It’s strange to feel so numb.
There are girders hanging, making navigation difficult. He picks his way along the pool line, and scans the area carefully. He only has the vaguest idea of what he’s looking for, but he will find it. Find him. John told him the bastard was still inside before he’d been wheeled to the ambulance after Sherlock. Sherlock, who’s being taken to A&E.
Lestrade has to climb over a fallen section of wall and lockers halfway down. He isn’t as agile as he was in his youth, and he’s breathing hard when he reaches the other side. How the hell did the paramedics find John and Sherlock?
Thank God for Sally’s trust in him. She’s keeping the others back while he ‘looks for other survivors’. He doesn’t know whether or not she believes him. It doesn’t matter. She’s letting him do what needs to be done while he’s numb enough to see it through.
Lestrade finds Moriarty near the corner. He’s pinned under a girder. There is blood at the corner of his mouth. He looks like a kid, but everyone under forty looks like a kid to Lestrade these days. This man is no child. Lestrade feels for a pulse.
Moriarty’s eyes fly open, and he grins. “He did it,” he breathes. “He really did it. I didn’t think he had it in him.” He starts laughing. The numbness Lestrade has felt since the explosion becomes ice. He stares down into that laughing face, blood pooling in the laugh-lines.
“You’re under arrest.” His voice echoes in his ears.
“Oooo, look at that. Sherlock’s loyal lapdog in the Yard’s come to clean up his mess. Are you going to cuff me, Inspector? Take me to jail?” Moriarty’s eyes go hard and his smile vanishes. “I’ll be out in a day.”
Lestrade doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself. His body and his mind are moving at different paces, and there is something in between them he can’t define. He believes what Moriarty has said. He hates it. He hates this man. The hate is cold.
Moriarty’s smile mirrors Lestrade’s own chill. “So, what are you going to do about it? What can you do, with your hands all tied up in police tape? Is this why you hate your job, Inspector? Because you know I’ll win? What will you do?”
Lestrade sees himself as if from a distance. He wonders who the stranger is, rising over Moriarty. He wonders who the stranger is, picking up the heaviest chunk of concrete he can lift. He wonders who the stranger is, staggering to stand over Moriarty. They look at one another. Moriarty is excited.
“What will you do?” he asks again, his voice soft.
Lestrade heaves the block higher and then throws it down as hard as he can. Moriarty’s head makes a horrid, wet crunch. Blood sprays like a sunburst. It’s almost beautiful in the light of a broken bulb.
“A public service,” he whispers. He wonders if anyone hears. He wonders if that matters at all.
Lestrade walks out on steady legs. He tells Sally he found the bomber. He tells her that he was killed in the blast. She looks at him, and then she nods. “Good,” she says. “I’m glad.”
He thinks she just gave him her blessing. Isn’t it strange how that, of all things, makes him feel ill?
He goes home. He takes off his clothes and takes a shower. He’s halfway through when he stumbles out and throws up everything he’s eaten. He staggers upright and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He wonders again who that man is, with his gray face and his dead eyes. What happened to his devotion to the job?
He is startled from his reverie by the beeping of his phone. He runs over to his bed and fumbles through his trouser pocket. It might be Donovan. It might be John. It needs to be something to break him from this fugue state.
He opens the text message. The actions are so familiar that he can almost imagine it’s from Sherlock.
It’s not.
Lestrade’s knuckles turn white.
‘Knight takes pawn,’ it says. ‘Welcome to the game, Inspector.’
It’s signed, ‘James Moriarty.’
Title: Public Service
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: PG-13 for brief, but intense violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not in any way. I don't make any money off this effort, and am only paid in comments.
There is a penumbral haze of dust and powdered concrete hanging in the air, and Lestrade’s feet crunch with unnatural loudness. It’s strange to realize how silent an area can be after the explosion. It’s strange to feel so numb.
There are girders hanging, making navigation difficult. He picks his way along the pool line, and scans the area carefully. He only has the vaguest idea of what he’s looking for, but he will find it. Find him. John told him the bastard was still inside before he’d been wheeled to the ambulance after Sherlock. Sherlock, who’s being taken to A&E.
Lestrade has to climb over a fallen section of wall and lockers halfway down. He isn’t as agile as he was in his youth, and he’s breathing hard when he reaches the other side. How the hell did the paramedics find John and Sherlock?
Thank God for Sally’s trust in him. She’s keeping the others back while he ‘looks for other survivors’. He doesn’t know whether or not she believes him. It doesn’t matter. She’s letting him do what needs to be done while he’s numb enough to see it through.
Lestrade finds Moriarty near the corner. He’s pinned under a girder. There is blood at the corner of his mouth. He looks like a kid, but everyone under forty looks like a kid to Lestrade these days. This man is no child. Lestrade feels for a pulse.
Moriarty’s eyes fly open, and he grins. “He did it,” he breathes. “He really did it. I didn’t think he had it in him.” He starts laughing. The numbness Lestrade has felt since the explosion becomes ice. He stares down into that laughing face, blood pooling in the laugh-lines.
“You’re under arrest.” His voice echoes in his ears.
“Oooo, look at that. Sherlock’s loyal lapdog in the Yard’s come to clean up his mess. Are you going to cuff me, Inspector? Take me to jail?” Moriarty’s eyes go hard and his smile vanishes. “I’ll be out in a day.”
Lestrade doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself. His body and his mind are moving at different paces, and there is something in between them he can’t define. He believes what Moriarty has said. He hates it. He hates this man. The hate is cold.
Moriarty’s smile mirrors Lestrade’s own chill. “So, what are you going to do about it? What can you do, with your hands all tied up in police tape? Is this why you hate your job, Inspector? Because you know I’ll win? What will you do?”
Lestrade sees himself as if from a distance. He wonders who the stranger is, rising over Moriarty. He wonders who the stranger is, picking up the heaviest chunk of concrete he can lift. He wonders who the stranger is, staggering to stand over Moriarty. They look at one another. Moriarty is excited.
“What will you do?” he asks again, his voice soft.
Lestrade heaves the block higher and then throws it down as hard as he can. Moriarty’s head makes a horrid, wet crunch. Blood sprays like a sunburst. It’s almost beautiful in the light of a broken bulb.
“A public service,” he whispers. He wonders if anyone hears. He wonders if that matters at all.
Lestrade walks out on steady legs. He tells Sally he found the bomber. He tells her that he was killed in the blast. She looks at him, and then she nods. “Good,” she says. “I’m glad.”
He thinks she just gave him her blessing. Isn’t it strange how that, of all things, makes him feel ill?
He goes home. He takes off his clothes and takes a shower. He’s halfway through when he stumbles out and throws up everything he’s eaten. He staggers upright and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He wonders again who that man is, with his gray face and his dead eyes. What happened to his devotion to the job?
He is startled from his reverie by the beeping of his phone. He runs over to his bed and fumbles through his trouser pocket. It might be Donovan. It might be John. It needs to be something to break him from this fugue state.
He opens the text message. The actions are so familiar that he can almost imagine it’s from Sherlock.
It’s not.
Lestrade’s knuckles turn white.
‘Knight takes pawn,’ it says. ‘Welcome to the game, Inspector.’
It’s signed, ‘James Moriarty.’