One More Miracle

The Madman Resurrected

Chapter 8: Sherlock's POV

One more hour. 

Sixty more minutes. 

Three hundred and sixty more seconds. 

Then we would be together again. 

Or so I had thought. 

I was making last-minute checks, looking for any sign of Moran before I made my return. As far as I knew, that idiot still thought John wasn't living at 221B Baker Street. Still thought my flatmate was grief-stricken and unable to face the life he once had. But he was wrong. John knew I was alive; he was back to Baker Street. And as soon as I was done looking, I would be, too. 

I saw the car on the second side street I checked. I watched the cab stop. I saw the shapes of people moving inside, saw the door shudder as the passenger threw his entire weight against the door. I saw the familiar military posture, saw the short figure outlined in the back window. John. I saw the driver lunge at him, saw the army doctor put up one last fight before slumping forward in his seat, his body lifeless. 

He's not dead. He's just unconscious. I told myself this over and over again as I followed the cab. I had no cab of my own--bringing innocent people into this would only add to the chaos that was unfolding before me. This was between me and whoever had my blogger, though I already knew who it was. Moran. Hatred burned in my veins as I thought of his name, of him, of what he had done. It scared me, but it propelled me forward; it kept me running. 

I chased the car down several twisting roads, through several side streets, and thankfully Moran didn't seem to see me. I would duck behind dumpsters and press myself against walls whenever I saw the driver look into the rear-view mirror. I kept fairly decent track of where we were, but I had no idea of our exact location. We were on the outskirts of London, that was for certain, and I guessed we were close to John's old flat. 

By the time the car stopped, I was running on pure adrenaline. I knew the second it wore off I would collapse, but I had a while before the energy faded. After all, I did get off on this kind of stuff, no matter how much I denied it. Risking my life, jumping headfirst into danger. It got my blood flowing. Also, it had been incredibly boring this past half year, as I hadn't really had a single case. All I had done is look for Moriarty's men, and even that got boring after some time. But this, this was new. And as much as I was scared for both my life and that of my best friend, I was excited. 

I saw the car stop, saw a shadowy figure that was most definitely Sebastian Moran drag an unconscious John Watson from the back of the car. I watched them enter a building right across the street from John's old flat. Sticking to the shadows that came with the night, I crept around the side of the building, located the nearest window, and looked in. The room was empty. I continued to snake my way along the wall until I found the next window, and when I looked in, what I saw made my blood turn to ice. 

In the middle of the room sat a lone chair. A lightbulb dangled over it, swinging back and forth on a wire. It looked like something out of a classic horror movie, but the setting wasn't the scariest part. The scariest part was the man sitting in the chair. Westwood suit perfectly tailored, hair neatly combed, he sat there, inspecting his flawlessly manicured fingernails. 

Moriarty. 

I ducked down underneath the window, careful to block even the slightest bit of me from the consulting criminal's line of sight. I breathed harder than was necessary, but I didn't care. He was still alive. Part of me had known it all along, but that part was shot down by fear. For the umpteenth time, I cursed myself for letting my emotions get in the way of logic. 

But I had watched him shoot himself. I had seen the blood flow from his head and pool around him. I had seen his lifeless eyes stare at the sky above, still triumphant, even in death. But then I remembered something else. I hadn't seen the flow of blood start until he hit the ground. Normally, a spray of blood would shoot from the head of whomever had been shot right after the bullet opened up a hole in their head. But in my defense, I had been too startled to notice anything other than the man lying "dead" on the ground, unable to think of anything else other than the fact that now I had no choice but to jump. Jump and leave everyone I cared about behind. 

And here he was again, alive and well. The madman resurrected. My worst nightmare come true. He was still alive. He had John. And he was going to kill him, that was for certain. Just as this thought crossed my mind, I heard scuffling and looked up into the window again. I saw Moran drag the still-unconscious army doctor behind him. John looked so small, so powerless. I saw Moriarty rise from the chair, though it wasn't empty for long. Right after Moriarty vacated it, I saw Moran tie John's hands together behind the chair, and I ducked back down again. 

Though I couldn't see what was happening inside the room, the walls were thin enough that I could hear quite well. I heard a dragging sound, like one of the conscious men, probably Moran, was  pulling a bucket towards the center of the room, where John sat slumped forward in the chair. The bucket must have been full of water, because I heard a loud splash followed by coughing and spluttering. 

"Oh, good, you're awake," Moriarty said in his fake sweet voice. I heard John let loose a string of swear words in response, calling the consulting criminal some rather nasty names. At least he was well enough to do that. "Well that wasn't the reunion I was expecting. Didn't you miss me, John?" Moriarty's signature singsong voice sent a fresh shot of adrenaline mixed with pure hatred running through my blood, fueling me with a rage that I had to clench my fists to contain. 

"What do you want? You're supposed to be dead," John responded, and it sounded as though he said the words through gritted teeth. 

"Yes, well supposed to be dead and actually dead are two completely different things," said Moriarty. "Now, as to why you're here, I think you and I both know the answer to that." 

I heard the click that meant a gun was being loaded, the cartridge sliding into place. I took a deep breath, and I heard John do the same, his breathing in sync with mine, which was fitting because right now we were one person. If he died, I died, too. 

"So you're going to kill me now?" John asked. 

"Naturally," a gruff voice responded. Moran. 

"Why? I'm no threat to you," John said. 

"Oh, but you are," Moriarty spoke again. "As long as the slightest piece of Sherlock Holmes remains, he remains. And you, Doctor Watson, are the biggest piece left." 

"Wrong," I whispered to myself. "I am the biggest piece left of me." Right then, I knew what I needed to do. Just as I was about to stand up and reveal myself to my enemy, which would hopefully distract him from John, I heard it.

The gunshot.