It makes Sherlock feel sick and it also feels good, like a perfectly balanced chemical equation or like a completed puzzle- except the finished product of the equation is some kind of poison, and the picture on the puzzle is grotesque and unsettling.
But oh, God, is he impressed. Molly. Molly. It doesn't stop him raising John's gun, pointed square at her. For a split second, some part of him thinks yes and there's a brief, distracting, dark thought that involves a spatter of crimson and then blessed silence.
It vanishes quickly. "Well done," he says, and he means it. He's never meant it so sincerely in his life. Typical of him that the only person to impress him so much would end up on the wrong end of a gun in his hand, but it doesn't worry him. Not now. Maybe not ever, because it feels- right. Just another chemical in the equation, reacting and changing and balancing out. Pure mathematical simplicity.
A bullet through her head would remove her from the whole thing. Crass, brutish, indelicate, unscientific, wrong, imperfect, messy. In any case, Sherlock is almost sure she has some protection- she's not stupid. God only knows she's not stupid. He doesn't lower the gun.
"You had to have known," she almost whispers, the thrill of it running over her skin like an oil spill. She knows he hadn't. Sees it written over his face as clearly as if the surprise was burned in letters of fire a hundred feet high.
Her eyes are locked on his, dark and unwavering as she takes two measured steps forwards. She's bright, dazzlingly bright in the mirror of Sherlock's undivided attention; all the shadows and hidden places in him would be illuminated in the blaze of hers, if he'll only let her get close enough to set him alight. She smiles, and quotes:
Molly's whisper is loud, hissing off the walls, the water. He closes his eyes briefly in sheer frustration at himself. Stupid. So stupid. It was so obvious. They open again after only a second, meeting her gaze evenly.
Her eyes are dark and burning. Intense. Black holes. Constantly consuming and drawing in and doing strange things to time, because it feels like he stares at her for half a century when it's only a few seconds.
The gun doesn't waver, not a millimetre.
"Who indeed." Not a question, because they both know the answer. "So what's your next move, Molly? Or are we quite finished playing?"
"Always in such a hurry," she admonishes him gently, her mouth curving into a tiny, knowing smile. Another step forward. Her reflection shudders on the surface of the water, broken and distorted as it shimmers under halogen light. It floats in the corner of her eye as she moves still closer, smooth and silent as a spectre.
"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You invited me. Here I am. It's your move, isn't it?"
"Can't you keep up?" He knows she can. It unnerves him and excites him in equal measure. His fingers, wrapped around the USB stick, tighten. He holds it out. "You haven't mentioned this."
And he knows what that means, really. I like to watch you dance. Disgust and sick fascination vie for dominance in his mind, coming to a stalemate, tinged with something akin to triumph that he doesn't want to call delight.
She stops, eyes flickering to the USB stick for a moment before sliding back, slowly but surely, to focus on the pale blue-clear of Sherlock's gaze. Her ghost waits in the water beside her, flickering with potentiality.
"For me? You're so sweet. I wish I'd brought you something, now," she says, her tone bright and playful, turning quickly sorrowful as she takes another step forward. Regretful, perhaps. "One more puzzle. You like those. I know you do."
Sherlock's eyes flash. Hungry. More. Yes, more. Another dance, another dice with death, another split-second conclusion, another taste of perfection like a razor- sharp and painful. She's right. He likes the puzzles a lot. But her tone of voice-
"The plans," she says, clear as cut glass, the smile dropping from her face in an instant. "You came here to give them to me, didn't you?"
There's precisely two and a half metres between them, now. The distance is a living, tangible thing, trembling in the air like it knows what's going to happen. Sherlock knows, too- he has to, now. She's seen the need, the desire, the hunger. She's blinded him. He'll never be satisfied with anything else, ever again. She'll be the light that casts every single shadow he sees from this moment on.
"I had thought that that was the way to win." The sentence carries two implications that hang heavy and obvious in the somehow heated air, as loud as they are unspoken.
Firstly, it's still about winning and losing. They're still on opposite sides of this chessboard. Secondly, he had thought that. Past tense. He doesn't move the hand that holds the USB out to her. It's still an open offer, but it's also an empty gesture. It's not what she wants, not really. He knows that.
She smiles, and holds out her hand. "Of course you did. You played very well, Sherlock. Better than I'd hoped, actually. I was impressed."
Past tense is so ominous, isn't it? It suits them, here in the abandoned swimming pool where Sherlock began. Where he was born, really. Transformed and focused. She appreciates the gesture of being invited here, the endgame coming full circle.
The thing about emotions is that they never quite do what they say on the tin, do they? By all accounts, hate and admiration aren't supposed to go hand in hand. Fascination shouldn't be in there either, especially not with revulsion twisting around in the mixture, dark and black and ominous, as fleeting and uncertain as their reflections in the pool- one minute overpowering every other feeling and the next almost ignorable, nothing more than a dull, weak reluctance to go near her, easily trumped by desperation to work her out.
He drops the USB stick into her hand, just to see what she'll do.
She almost is disappointed. She would have been, if she hadn't seen the realisation dawn on his face the minute she opened that creaking door, a lifetime ago. Of course it was never about the plans. What to do with them, then? Throwing them in the water appeals, but it's what Sherlock's expecting, now. She smiles, pockets the memory stick and watches him for a long, hungry moment. She'll keep it, as a memento. A trophy. Thirty million pounds of triumph, cased in plastic.
"I'm going to miss this. This was fun, wasn't it? You, bored, unmatchable genius, fighting to keep up with a mysterious name no-one dares speak, me- dull, uninteresting, infatuated Molly Hooper, hanging on your every word... I can't remember the last time I had this much fun..."
Sherlock's almost annoyed by that. Stop pretending you care about it, about the money or the missiles or anything else aside from-
-if he ends that thought with the word me it's an admittance he likes her undivided attention, and that he likes knowing that someone else plays this game for the reasons he does. If he ends it with anything else, it would be untrue. He halts his train of thought in its tracks instead and concentrates on other things.
The gun moves, then, until the barrel is right over Molly's heart. "You're right. It has been fun." More past tense.
"I don't imagine you're unarmed, even if you don't want to kill me. Nor will this end unless we both die, and I don't think you're too keen on letting that happen." He has the insolence to sound bored. Well, when does he lack the insolence to do anything? "All in all, an unstoppable force has met an immovable object."
Eye-contact. A spark. Something in the air. Connection. "And I suppose that makes it your move."
Molly lifts her hands in a gesture of surrender and pushes forwards in a smooth, relentless glide until the gun presses hard against her chest and her body is inches from Sherlock's own. Looking up at him, her dark eyes glint brightly with something hidden. Something secret.
"My move," she breathes, her voice little more than a whisper. "Well, here I am. You know the tiniest part of what I can do. You know how dangerous I could be. Are you going to take me in, Sherlock? Hand me over?"
If he shoots her, he'll never understand her. On the downside, if he doesn't shoot her, she'll get to the bottom of him. More balance.
"You're still talking to me as if I started out with the intention of stopping you." Sherlock's voice is soft, deep, dark. Louder than Molly's, but not so loud as to truly disturb the silence that presses down around them relentlessly as ever. "Wake up. That's only ever been a by-product of winning."
There. Cards on the table. Well, some of them, anyway, and a few weren't dealt to him honestly. His voice is almost irritable. Doesn't she get it? He'd thought she got it. He wants to her to.
"If that's what you're playing for, Sherlock, we could be at this for a very, very long time."
She smiles. The prospect is as pleasing to her as she knows it is to him. Leading him on a merry chase across London until it can't contain them, watching him open up before her like a flower. Puzzle after puzzle, petal after delicate, gossamer petal. She'll burn through him until there's nothing left.
"I don't think you need the gun any more, do you? We both know you're not going to use it. I'm not sure why you even brought it."
It all makes sense.
It makes Sherlock feel sick and it also feels good, like a perfectly balanced chemical equation or like a completed puzzle- except the finished product of the equation is some kind of poison, and the picture on the puzzle is grotesque and unsettling.
But oh, God, is he impressed. Molly. Molly. It doesn't stop him raising John's gun, pointed square at her. For a split second, some part of him thinks yes and there's a brief, distracting, dark thought that involves a spatter of crimson and then blessed silence.
It vanishes quickly. "Well done," he says, and he means it. He's never meant it so sincerely in his life. Typical of him that the only person to impress him so much would end up on the wrong end of a gun in his hand, but it doesn't worry him. Not now. Maybe not ever, because it feels- right. Just another chemical in the equation, reacting and changing and balancing out. Pure mathematical simplicity.
A bullet through her head would remove her from the whole thing. Crass, brutish, indelicate, unscientific, wrong, imperfect, messy. In any case, Sherlock is almost sure she has some protection- she's not stupid. God only knows she's not stupid. He doesn't lower the gun.
Reply
Her eyes are locked on his, dark and unwavering as she takes two measured steps forwards. She's bright, dazzlingly bright in the mirror of Sherlock's undivided attention; all the shadows and hidden places in him would be illuminated in the blaze of hers, if he'll only let her get close enough to set him alight. She smiles, and quotes:
"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?"
Reply
Her eyes are dark and burning. Intense. Black holes. Constantly consuming and drawing in and doing strange things to time, because it feels like he stares at her for half a century when it's only a few seconds.
The gun doesn't waver, not a millimetre.
"Who indeed." Not a question, because they both know the answer. "So what's your next move, Molly? Or are we quite finished playing?"
Reply
"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You invited me. Here I am. It's your move, isn't it?"
Reply
And he knows what that means, really. I like to watch you dance. Disgust and sick fascination vie for dominance in his mind, coming to a stalemate, tinged with something akin to triumph that he doesn't want to call delight.
Someone else in the world gets bored after all.
Reply
"For me? You're so sweet. I wish I'd brought you something, now," she says, her tone bright and playful, turning quickly sorrowful as she takes another step forward. Regretful, perhaps. "One more puzzle. You like those. I know you do."
Reply
"Tell me."
Reply
There's precisely two and a half metres between them, now. The distance is a living, tangible thing, trembling in the air like it knows what's going to happen. Sherlock knows, too- he has to, now. She's seen the need, the desire, the hunger. She's blinded him. He'll never be satisfied with anything else, ever again. She'll be the light that casts every single shadow he sees from this moment on.
Reply
Firstly, it's still about winning and losing. They're still on opposite sides of this chessboard. Secondly, he had thought that. Past tense. He doesn't move the hand that holds the USB out to her. It's still an open offer, but it's also an empty gesture. It's not what she wants, not really. He knows that.
Reply
Past tense is so ominous, isn't it? It suits them, here in the abandoned swimming pool where Sherlock began. Where he was born, really. Transformed and focused. She appreciates the gesture of being invited here, the endgame coming full circle.
Reply
He drops the USB stick into her hand, just to see what she'll do.
Reply
She almost is disappointed. She would have been, if she hadn't seen the realisation dawn on his face the minute she opened that creaking door, a lifetime ago. Of course it was never about the plans. What to do with them, then? Throwing them in the water appeals, but it's what Sherlock's expecting, now. She smiles, pockets the memory stick and watches him for a long, hungry moment. She'll keep it, as a memento. A trophy. Thirty million pounds of triumph, cased in plastic.
"I'm going to miss this. This was fun, wasn't it? You, bored, unmatchable genius, fighting to keep up with a mysterious name no-one dares speak, me- dull, uninteresting, infatuated Molly Hooper, hanging on your every word... I can't remember the last time I had this much fun..."
Reply
-if he ends that thought with the word me it's an admittance he likes her undivided attention, and that he likes knowing that someone else plays this game for the reasons he does. If he ends it with anything else, it would be untrue. He halts his train of thought in its tracks instead and concentrates on other things.
The gun moves, then, until the barrel is right over Molly's heart. "You're right. It has been fun." More past tense.
"I don't imagine you're unarmed, even if you don't want to kill me. Nor will this end unless we both die, and I don't think you're too keen on letting that happen." He has the insolence to sound bored. Well, when does he lack the insolence to do anything? "All in all, an unstoppable force has met an immovable object."
Eye-contact. A spark. Something in the air. Connection. "And I suppose that makes it your move."
Reply
"My move," she breathes, her voice little more than a whisper. "Well, here I am. You know the tiniest part of what I can do. You know how dangerous I could be. Are you going to take me in, Sherlock? Hand me over?"
Reply
"You're still talking to me as if I started out with the intention of stopping you." Sherlock's voice is soft, deep, dark. Louder than Molly's, but not so loud as to truly disturb the silence that presses down around them relentlessly as ever. "Wake up. That's only ever been a by-product of winning."
There. Cards on the table. Well, some of them, anyway, and a few weren't dealt to him honestly. His voice is almost irritable. Doesn't she get it? He'd thought she got it. He wants to her to.
Reply
She smiles. The prospect is as pleasing to her as she knows it is to him. Leading him on a merry chase across London until it can't contain them, watching him open up before her like a flower. Puzzle after puzzle, petal after delicate, gossamer petal. She'll burn through him until there's nothing left.
"I don't think you need the gun any more, do you? We both know you're not going to use it. I'm not sure why you even brought it."
Reply
Leave a comment