Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 18- Bored~JM x

Millie's POV

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My head hurts.

I blink drowsily.

Why am I so sleepy? 

I look around. I don't recognise this room. I try and force myself to wake up faster, but something is making sleep stick, and and it coats me,dragging me down. I look down, the room swaying softly, and I see the needle in my arm.

Oh.

I try to think back to last night. I remember leaving the apartment... Sherlock was too infatuated with various chemicals to react. John had been with me. I remember a struggle. Pain. And then my memory cuts off.

I turn my head and see other people. I can make out John, strapped into a chair, his head nodding as he presumably tries to fight off the drugs that are rampaging through his system. I see unfamiliar faces too; a woman, perhaps in her thirties, an old man, and a business man, still in his suit and tie.

A dull prick of panic threatens to split my sweet, drug-induced calm.

I blink, and this time, the room comes into focus.

I hear someone laugh. A very distinctive, almost forced, slightly broken laugh.

"Millie-is that you? Where...where..are we?" John slurs, coming round.

"Took you long enough. I was starting to think they dosed you to your deathbed, John," says Moriarty, clapping his hands together and walking around the room with an exaggerated spring in his step.

"Moriarty..?" John says, confused.

"The one and only."

"What are you-" John begins, before retching, and being violently sick.

Moriarty looks down at John, an air of distaste about his person, and he steps away slightly, taking precautions not to dirty his suit.

The other people in the room start to stir, occasionally interjecting the silence with moans or sobs.

"We seem to be missing an important guest, Jim. I'm disappointed. Your party planning skills are normally faultless," I say, straining at the restraints, testing them. 

"Hm? Sherlock? He'll be joining us soon, Millie, don't you worry. I took the liberty of texting him myself," he says lightly, taking out his phone and holding it in front of me:

Bored~JM x

"How considerate of you."

He laughs again. "He'll work it out. I'm counting on it."

We sit in silence for a while, Moriarty occasionally humming under his breath. The other people start to speak, or shout, crying for husbands or children, begging him to let them go, threatening him, bribing him.

Their voices are starting to merge into one continuous, pleading protest, when Moriarty sighs in irritation and massages his temple with one finger, while, with the other hand, pulling out a silver revolver. Without opening his eyes, shoots the woman in the head.

Silence.

He then continues humming, inspecting his gun in the light, as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

Suddenly, we hear frantic footsteps outside, and the door swings open. We all look up, except for Moriarty, and John, who has just about finished vomiting, audibly breathes a sigh of relief. Sherlock walks into the room, and looks at us all, his mouth hanging open a fraction indicating surprise but not shock. He pulls out his own gun, and fixes it on Moriarty.

Moriarty groans, and puts his hands into his pockets, saying: "Not this again, Sherlock. Your losing your touch. I'd like to think ingenuity is a priority."

He walks over, grinning broadly, and if I didn't know that he was a a highly unstable genius with murderous tendencies, I would have believed that he was truly happy to see Sherlock again.

"Who are they?" Sherlock asks, ignoring him, gesturing with his gun to the two remaining people and the bloodied body of the woman.

"Doesn't matter," he shrugs, "To be honest with you, I have no idea. I just found them on the streets. Wrong place, wrong time."

"Why?"

"Questions don't suit you, my dear," he says, a little more sharply this time. "There's no reason for these people being here today. Really. I brought them here because I could. A reminder, if you will."

"Showing off," Sherlock murmurs, not taking his eyes off of Moriarty, who is now looking down at the woman, his hands still in his pockets, admiring his handiwork.

"You could say that, yes."

"What do you want me to do this time? There's nowhere to jump," says Sherlock without smiling.

"Well since you're dead, and I'm dead, there's not much point in trying to get you to kill yourself." He gestures behind him, to us- "Who would you like to take home? Millie or John? I'll look after the other one, don't worry. I've always wanted a pet."

"And what if I don't choose?"

"I don't know." he shrugs, only half-smiling, "What if you don't choose?"

Sherlock studies him for a moment, before lowering his gun.

"Why are you doing this?"

"You still don't get it, do you? I'm bored," he shouts, viciously volatile. Then: "Look at me Sherlock Holmes. I don't want to have to tell you these things. I want you to work them out."

Sherlock's hand tightens on the gun.

"No? No answer? You're not as good as before," Moriarty sighs, sounding thoroughly disheartened. He brings out his silver gun again, and says- "You know I don't like getting my hands dirty, Sherlock."

And, looking vaguely disinterested, he casually flips the gun round, and shoots the old man, then the man in the suit, before either have time to protest.

"I'd forgotten how messy this was," he says, stepping neatly away from the growing pool of scarlet. He looks up at Sherlock and blows gently on his revolver, before putting it back in his pocket, waiting for a reaction.

Sherlock is trying to look as unaffected as Moriarty, but it is clear, like John and I, he is fighting back a combination of horror and disbelief at Moriarty's randomly nonchalant killings.

And then he looks at both of us, still tied in place, his knuckles white on the handle of the gun, his lips pressed tightly together. 

We wait a minute or two, me still and silent, calculating, John breathing rapidly, and Moriarty humming again, rocking back and forth slightly on his heels.

Sherlock opens his mouth, and what he says next, shocks every one of us in the room.

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