𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 || 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ⵊV

'*•.¸♡ Riddles ♡¸.•*'
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

You lay in your bed, tossing a Rubik's cube up and down, deep in thought. Was the enigmatic Moriarty, your brother's nemesis, flirting with you or taunting your brother? This man's mind worked in ways you can't properly understand. The 'Great Game ', a complex web of intrigue and manipulation, is an overthought chess game. Moriarty a king with Sherlock as the other. John seemed to be Sherlock's 'queen,' leaving Moriarty without one... The cube sitz still in your grasp before a mobile began ringing, the sudden noise startling you.

You crawl out of bed, following the ring. You push through your pile of books that has collected on the floor to find a burner phone. You snatch the mobile before pressing the answer button. Your breath hitches as you heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots, each one echoing through the receiver, making your heart race. Fear grips you, its icy fingers tightening around your heart.

"Tell me, Y/n," he pauses as two more shots were fired. "How are you liking your newfound freedom?" You stay silent, the small phone shaking in your grasp. "Darling, I know it's you... your shaky breaths are the same from the warehouse~ Answer me." His voice, a chilling whisper, carries a hint of something more, something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"The definition of freedom is 'the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without restraint or hindrance,' and I most certainly don't have that."

The line is silent for a minute or so before the sulky voice speaks. "Would you like to?"

Would you like to? Escape the Holmes' grasp to live an authentic life. You most definitely would, but making a deal with this man seems to be making a deal with the devil. Your mind races, torn between the desire for freedom and the fear of the unknown. "Go on," you mumble into the phone, your voice barely audible.

"Your infuriating brother is about to enter your room. More on this later~ Ciao!"

Silence. Seconds later, Sherlock barges into the room. "What are you doing?"

"Going to bed. What's it look like, genius?" you apjt, quickly shoving the mobile under your f/c comforter. The thought of Sherlock discovering your secret conversation with Moriarty fills you with dread. You've seen the destruction their battles had caused, and you don't want to be caught in the crossfire. "I'd appreciate it if you'd knock... I could've been naked."

Sherlock stands stone-faced in your doorway. "Goodnight." You mumble a quick 'night' as Sherlock left, shutting your door behind him.

Thankfully, you are still in Pjs, so your story was somewhat believable. You rush to the edge of your bed, sliding the phone out of its hiding place. Only one number had been set in the phone: Moriarty.

You hold the mobile, debating whether to text the rumoured psychopath.

'What are the rules?'

The phone hasn't moved a centimetre in three minutes, so you decide to get some sleep. You roll over just to have the phone vibrating seconds later.

'Rules?'

You snatch the phone, scoffing at his response. 'To the game, genius,' you reply, hoping your tone dripped with sarcasm. You know he is trying to get under your skin, to provoke a reaction. But you are determined not to let him see how much he affects you. You are determined to shield your fear.

'Watch your tone.' A few moments pass before another message is sent. 'Who said anything about a game?'

You groan. You knwo this man was being like this to aggravate you, and hell was it working. His refusal to give a straight answer, to play by the rules, is infuriating. But you also know that is part of his charm, part of what made him so dangerous. 'I'm not daft, and neither are you. You know exactly what I'm talking about.'

'I enjoy your rage.'

You grit your teeth, trying not to snap the phone in half right then. This man is igniting a fire inside of you. 'What are the rules?' you demand, hoping your tone filled with a mix of anger and curiosity will translate through text as your fingers slam against the screen. You are determined to understand the game he was playing to gain an upper hand.

'Games are no fun if played by the rules...'

This man is going to make you lose it. Your fingers are unknowingly ruffling your hair as you text Moriarty. 'What is my 'purpose' in your grand scheme?'

Nothing. Not a single text in 15 minutes. Then, a sharp ding breaks the silence.

'I hurt the most when lost, yet also when not had at all. I'm sometimes the hardest to express but the easiest to ignore. I can be given too many or just once. What am I?' Moments later, another message pops up.'Find the answer, then we'll talk.'

Of course, it's a riddle. You stare at the flickering screen for an hour, trying to decipher the most likely simple riddle but coming up short.

Why are you even doing what Moriarty wanted?

Why do you feel the need to impress him, to flaunt your skills?

Why do you crave the attention you received from this psychopath?

Why are you slowly becoming entranced by Moriarty's words?

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*