(Untitled)

[notapsychopath]

There is a finger, freshly severed, Sherlock’s pocket, and if he were normal he would be a lot more worried about that, but of course he’s not. No, he’s got better things to worry about (worse thing to worry about?) than body-parts. After all, it’s carefully wrapped in an airtight bag. No danger of leakage, no damage to his trousers, no smell

Comments

[mollyhooper]

Molly likes making Sherlock wait. Who wouldn't? It eats at him like nothing else, and that's the very purpose of this particular game. Make Sherlock suffer.

Quarter of an hour after the moment set for their meeting, a small, nervous looking man in his late thirties starts looking around the station, clearly trying to find someone. Of course, lots of people are in the same situation, but this man is nervous. For very good reason. He's a fair photo-fit match for Dr. John Watson.

He approaches Sherlock warily, his heart racing, his breathing highly elevated, and extends his hand. It trembles.

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock knows, of course, as soon as he sees him. Feels sick to his stomach- and hideously admiring.

The man who is not John gets a cold, false smile and Sherlock shakes his hand because playing fair is important if he wants John back in one piece. He doesn’t feel like it’s about being sporting anymore, or the thrill of getting something right, or doing things properly. It’s just practical.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The smile drops from his face in an instant. “Go.”

It’s a moment later that he realises he should feel sorry for this man- but it’s easier to avoid that idea, stare at a point at the not-John’s forehead with a detached look. He doesn’t look that similar. No. There are little details that are wrong and Sherlock lives on little details. He can do this.

[mollyhooper]

"You have something for me," the man who is not John says, a slight sheen of sweat coating his skin. His shake is firm if clammy, an overcompensation.

"Give me a nice big hug and slip it into my pocket."

[notapsychopath]

Ugh. He doesn’t want to touch anybody- not when he’s already fighting for control of the situation- and of course Moriarty knows that.

He wraps his arms around the stranger (he smells and feels nothing like John, and Sherlock feels an irrational anger about that which he swallows down with every other bitter pill Moriarty has been feeding him today) and the finger is dropped into his pocket. John, at this point- probably before- would be worried about the man. Puppet. Impostor. Maybe he’d try to reassure him. Save him.

Sherlock can only think that it must have taken Moriarty a while to find this look-alike. This has been in the works for some time. He pulls back as swiftly as he possibly can. “Tell me.”