"When angels can no longer fly, they fall to their deaths..."
Four months after their first confrontation in the swimming hall, bored Sherlock Holmes is recontacted by none other than Jim Moriarty and forced into offering his consultations on a rath...
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Sunday 15/08/2010, 02:35 a.m.
"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" Moriarty's serious voice rubbed against Sherlock's eardrum before fleeing into the silence that was many decibels too low to feel comfortable. Sherlock had a Sig Sauer P226 trained on Moriarty's four inches shorter trunk and an invisible sniper was aiming at John, trapped in a Semtex bomb vest, from above - a deadlock. A million blues were playing carelessly upon the rectangular swimming pool, inviting full immersion into its depths and somewhere amidst it all lay a discarded memory stick of missile plans.
"Oh, let me guess: I get killed," Sherlock replied in the most indifferent tone he could muster despite the fact that all the heat had run to his core to shelter and hoard any warmth that remained; Jim Moriarty was a cold breeze that stole every speck of comfort around him. If Sherlock was to win the game, he had to steel himself, be prepared to do anything.
The shorter man grimaced as if the mere prospect of finishing him so fast tasted lemons. "Kill you? N-no, don't be obvious... I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway someday. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no," Moriarty said and shook his head slightly, big eyes glistering with a silhouette of malicious intent. "If you don't stop prying... I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." He punctuated the last few words with a vivid repertoire of countenances, each carefully selected word woven into the fabric of his multilayered voice.
Sherlock's cadet blue eyes didn't leave Moriarty's brown ones even for a fracture of a second, giving his next words more gravity. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," he said with a voice merely above a whisper.
"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty stated, one corner of his mouth twitching up into a joyless half-smile. Suddenly, it looked like an idea dawned on him because he glanced over his shoulder, looking out of place for a second, torn between the options of leaving and staying. "Well, I'd better be off... So nice to have a proper chat."
But Sherlock wasn't done talking. "What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?" he asked, dying to know the answer while readjusting the direction of his gun. He tried to wrap his head around the madness of the man in front of him who was standing at gunpoint with absolute nonchalance.He wasn't an open book to skim through, no, more like a cryptic cypher left up for his interpretation. A distraction. An obstacle. A problem.
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty said with an imitation of shock baked into his handsome visage. The silly demonstration was followed by a white, teeth-revealing slice of a crazed smile that caused Sherlock to clutch his pistol so hard his knuckles whitened. Everything in this man - the way he talked, walked and smiled - both fascinated and irritated him.
