Detective on Baker Street

Fourteenth: Dummies

"I decided to knock out two birds with one stone," Moriarty responds, staring hungrily down at Sherlock's unconscious body. "Maybe this time I'll actually get to put someone in the graves I took so long to dig." He stares back up at me with a blank expression.

All I do is shake my head. "You don't have to knock me out; just tell me what you want."

"It's too late," he tells me with a casual shrug. "You no longer deserve answers. Now, I'd be upset if I had to leave here with more than what I came for. That extra dead weight would be quite a strain on my back." His eyes flicker to Rickey momentarily, and my jaw clenches.

"She's not going without me," Rickey says, straightening his posture. I look over to him on my left, sighing.

"Don't do this. I can take care of myself."

"But you don't have to," he says, squeezing my hand.

"Yes, I do," I say harshly as I jerk my hand from his grasp. "I'm sorry... I- Go finish up your dinner; put my plate in the microwave for later."

I then walk closer to Moriarty, trying to resist looking back at Rickey. Moriarty gazes over my shoulder, makes a face like "you better do what she said", and after a moment I hear the door to my flat open and close somberly.

"It's not as fun when one of your hostages is conscious, but it'll have to do. Come on," Moriarty says before picking up Sherlock over his shoulder and going out onto the street. The gears in my brain turn quickly, and I start to feel my heartbeat in the base of my throat.

+

We're back at the field with the graves. A full moon conveniently hangs in the sky bright enough to cast light across the dirt mounds and create an ominous shadow on Sherlock's pale face. He lays on the ground between his grave and mine, both hands clasped over his torso.

Moriarty didn't bring any extra help, which struck me as odd, so I sweep a keen eye everywhere the moonlight touches.

"I thought you were still in jail," I remark, resting my eyes on his calm profile. He's facing the graves with a look of satisfied relief - and some pride, I think.

His chuckle startles me, but I keep my composure. "I was never in jail, Mickey. I was hiding away in that cute little building you turned down." He joins his hands behind his back casually, turning his head to look down at me. "There are a lot of dummies in this world, you know... you overestimate the human race," his head turns back to the graves, "which can be good. It doesn't help me, though, that's why I did the honor of digging your grave. Your compassion conceals all of your mischievous traits; it's sad, really."

"Are you going to do the honor of killing me, too?"

"Later," he responds wistfully. "I need to take care of Sherlock first. Help me bury him, will you? It's a lot of work.

"No," I declare, almost shouting it. "Kill me first."

His gaze drills a hole through my head where I imagine a bullet going. "Alright, then, princess."

Moriarty reaches under the back of his suit jacket, and I can't seem to hear anything over my heartbeat. This is ridiculous. He wasn't supposed to do what I said; I thought I was buying myself time. Why isn't he negotiating with me to help or delivering a lengthy monologue that conveniently has all of the answers I need? I start hyperventilating, shuffling backwards a bit but otherwise basically frozen in place. He stares me down angrily and raises the gun to my head.

I let out a scream as the shot fires, squeezing my eyes shut. I'm still screaming when the sound's over.

My tear filled eyes open to see a blurred Moriarty lying at my feet, blood darkening his hairline. Sniffling, I kick his gun across the grass in case he isn't really dead. I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, looking around. Sherlock is still knocked out on the ground, and I don't see any movement in the darkness. The bullet hole in Moriarty's head makes it look like the shooter shot over my bad shoulder, but the only thing in that direction is the run down building.

Obviously, I'm in shock. I shake my head at myself, blinking away more tears before covering the 10 yards between the building and me. I check behind it, my eyes following the moss and vines up the brick to the second floor window. Nobody's in there, and nobody's on the roof or behind the building itself.

I trip over something - probably my own feet - as I walk towards the graffiti'd piece of wood that fits perfectly where a back door should. It doesn't budge when I kick it a few times. After walking around the perimeter for another entrance (the front "door" wouldn't move either), I stand at the back of the building again and sigh. The light from the moon seems a bit dimmer, and I suddenly feel rushed. I need Sherlock.

He lays very still on the ground, but his chest still rises and falls slightly. I begin shaking him, causing his head to bob from side to side.

"Sherlock," I say in a normal tone, "Sherlock, wake up." His eyes don't move. "Sherlock," I try again, shaking him still.

It takes him another 10 minutes or so to respond to my constant flicking, shaking, and tugging on his earlobe. By now I'm sure whoever saved my life is gone, but that doesn't mean we can't figure out who it is... does it matter?

"Yes," I accidentally whisper aloud to myself, scowling down at Sherlock. His eyes move behind his eyelids a bit, and I clench my jaw. "Welcome back," I greet him, moving my legs so I sit like a pretzel beside him. I had to drag his body away from the graves in case someone lost their balance or something.

Sherlock sits up quickly, staring around; he seems wide awake. "What is this? Where's Mor-" He stops and looks a couple yards behind me at Moriarty's dead body. "Burn it," he mutters, rising to his feet, "Find some matches."

I watch him walk over to the body and inspect it for a moment before picking it up and tossing it in the grave meant for himself. He looks at me and rolls his eyes, walking over reluctantly. "Who did it? Are you still in shock?"

"I guess so."

"You don't know who did it." I shake my head in response.

"It was John," he says evenly, glancing over at the building nearby. "Is he still in there?"

"Um, I couldn't see anyone, and I couldn't get in," I say, finally standing and brushing myself off.

Sherlock marches over to the back of the building, and I trail behind in a daze. He kicks the wood in half easily, tossing the pieces aside to create an opening big enough - what a show off.