"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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Monday 23/08/2010,04:46 p.m.
Moriarty made a grab for the memory stick Sherlock was offering and brought it up to his lips enclosed by patches of end-of-day stubble in order to plant a kiss on it. His intense gaze dropped down to the missile plans before wandering back up to the detective, lashes wrapping around his frosty eyes in the darkest of black. "Boooriiing," Moriarty sing-sang with a slight shake of his head, filling the void that was once silence. "I could have got them anywhere." With that being said, he nonchalantly tossed the memory stick into the gentle slap of blues dancing in the swimming pool.
Taking the matter into his own hands, John suddenly raced forward to slam himself against Moriarty's back and enfolded his torso with a pair of strong arms. "Sherlock, RUN!" John hollered. Sherlock stepped back in surprise, his heart stilling at that moment. For all his powers of deduction, he hadn't seen this coming. But he would never leave John. Never. It was stupid of John to even think that he would ever consider leaving him at the mercy of this calculating, quirky and callous criminal.
"Good! Very good!" Moriarty chuckled maniacally, almost elatedly, while putting up a half-hearted show of wriggling in John's tight grip, the bomb now sandwiched between the two. The amount of insanity this man possessed was inconceivable. What made Moriarty so dangerous wasn't so much his contributions to disorder and criminality as being a psychopath lacking any redeeming qualities, hanging on the cusp of boredom.
"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up," John spit-whispered with unadulterated savagery next to Moriarty's ear. His soldier's nature was showing; the usually even-tempered doctorlooked like an apostle of malice yearning to tear his enemy into pieces. But Sherlock could pick the smell of fear that radiated off of his friend out of the cool air. More often than not, John's fright beckoned his anger, whereas Sherlock had a habit of blocking all distractions out.
"Isn't he sweet?" Moriarty noted to Sherlock, no emotion written in his countenance, relaxed because every single winning card was in his hand. "I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets..." Moriarty tossed his head to the side to shoot a scornful glance at John. "They're so touchingly loyal - but OOPS!"After delivering the last word in an immaturely moronic trill,Moriarty quit wiggling, leaning his back against John with newfound ease. An edge of cruel laughter was hidden behind his next words. "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr Watson."
Judging by John and Moriarty's expressions, one horror-struck and one smug, Sherlock understood the red laser point was now on him. He shook his head anxiously at John who released Moriarty, backing up a few steps with his hands in the air. Sherlock felt bad for him. He never intended to put John in harm's way and drag him into Moriarty's twisted little games where he seemed to have no other role than a pawn - Moriarty deemed ordinary peoplecompletely undeserving of any and all consideration, finding no value in their lives. Well, any life, including his own, seemed to correspond to a pawn on a chessboard. His games were bigger than life.
