"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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Wednesday 25/08/2010, 07:15 p.m.
His first theory hadn't even been in the ballpark. In the hours since Magnussen left, Sherlock had chased after every possibility in the teeming womb of the unconscious and unpacked his turbulent thoughts. Having weeded out the impossible, he managed to fit a theory to the facts, settling on the only conclusion of the case that seemed logical in conjunction with other factors. It wasn't perfect but it had to do. For now. Moriarty had his fingers in so many pies that it was beyond possible to keep track of every single one of his movements.
It wasn't until late into the evening that Moriarty arrived. The recumbent light of eventide spilt into the homey living room of 221B Baker Street, a million scarlet blooms bleeding into the wooden floor and igniting it ablaze. The sunset in the window was like a blush of majestic hearth that Sherlock marvelled at, admiring the way it danced on the edge of the rooftops that were like a turning page catching the tangerine fire. It was beautiful.
The front door downstairs creaked open. Sherlock's pulse went from 60 to 80 bpm in an instant. He ended up at the intersection of excitement and nervousness when his ears picked up the slow-moving yet rhythmic footfalls coming up the protesting wood-stairs. He was here. The vicious devil. The bloodthirsty monster. The bug-eyed spider. He was physically here with him in this flat. Not his voice, not his ghost, not his messages. Him.
The consulting criminal appeared in the doorframe quietly like a cat. Sherlock felt his cold presence on his skin like a black hole of warmth, pulling his soul into the strong suction. An icy chill washed over him as though he'd walked into a cold shower. So many things had changed since their first meeting three days ago - had it really been just three days, why did it feel longer? After encountering Magnussen today, he was almost happy to reunite with his archenemy.
"It's polite to knock," Sherlock greeted neutrally, not betraying any of his feelings. His eyes slid shut and then reopened, a faint breeze of air escaping through the gap between his dry lips. He quickly wetted them with his tongue.
"If you don't want me in your apartment, lock your door better," a sinfully familiar, melodious voice sang in a silky-smooth Irish brogue. The same voice that whispered to Sherlock almost every day and night.
"As if that would stop you," Sherlock muttered and turned anxiously around to crown the bitterness of his words, implying that the criminal had been the one to fix the lock in the first place. But he had done a surprisingly good job, Sherlock would give him that.
James Moriarty was leaning against the doorframe in a relaxed way, hands in his pockets, chewing a piece of gum on the right side of his mouth. He was dressed in a squeaky-clean, light-grey Westwood suit with a smart white button-up shirt under it and a pair of black dress shoes, looking elegant and handsome as always.
