the king's crown | j. moriarty (18+)

thirty six

SHERLOCK'S EYES BURNT through her, causing the hairs on Elizabeth's body to lift under his gaze.

"How did you know?" He repeated. She had ignored him the first time he asked it, following Mary and John while he growled beneath his breath at her. Elizabeth looked his face over, scoffing at the sentence trying to force an answer out of her as she cowered beneath his stare. She saw Jim in him for the smallest second, and walked away immediately.

"I didn't." Sherlock made a noise as he let out a mouthful of air.

"How did you know?" Elizabeth sighed, looking around at the contempt faces swaying with the music playing in the background. She pressed her fingers around the glass in her hands, and squeezed against the cool material beneath her fingertips.

"You said it, Sherlock. I did nothing that you hadn't already." This was not the answer Sherlock Holmes had wanted, but with his ego fuelled and a case solved, his composure seemed to slacken. He stayed quiet. "The invisible man with the invisible knife," She quoted, the sentence had been on a loop for so long now that it wasn't enjoyable to say. "A guardsman who died with no time to be killed, a victim who didn't know he was dead."

Sherlock watched her deflated response and couldn't place the emotion within him, so he let her continue, with his hands held together behind his back, and watched her scrutinisingly. "You said it all, I merely highlighted it when you were under pressure." Elizabeth looked at the glass again and squinted; she didn't want it, but she felt she should be drinking it.

"You have a certain modesty about you, don't you? I'm sure Moriarty made it impossible to take credit for anything in his...crimes." His tongue dragged out the last word tormentingly and Elizabeth clutched the glass she was about to place down. She said nothing.

"Do you miss him?"

Silence. Elizabeth had to physically move her eyes back to the piercing blue trying to unravel her from the inside out.

"Yes."

"I know he's alive. He has to be." It's like it wasn't even directed at Elizabeth at all, and with a heavy sigh, she placed her glass on a counter behind her.

"Then I hope you find what you're looking for, Sherlock Holmes." A razors edge flicked from her tongue and Elizabeth had to gulp back her temper, shaking it a way with a shiver.

"You're a brilliant actress, Elizabeth. I'll say that much." Elizabeth nodded in thanks and smiled at him.

"I could say the same for you, Sherlock." The puzzled look on his face was obvious as it travelled over his features, and the female chuckled, casting her eyes over to Mary and John.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mm. As the best man, shouldn't you be out there, anyway Sherlock? Dancing?" Sherlock's expression tightened more if that were possible, and he looked behind him and back to Elizabeth.

"As a guest, shouldn't you?"

"Stop being difficult." She sounded like his mother and Sherlock frowned at the idea of it. Elizabeth's shoulders suddenly slumped - she didn't realise how tired she had become. "Go be the best man, do your stuff. You did great today Sherlock, and you saved someone's life. I'm sorry I can't give you whatever it is you want."

"You're leaving." He realised, his hands moving to his sides.

"Well-I, Yes."

"You're not supposed to leave yet, it doesn't end for another three hours." Elizabeth visually grimaced, stealing another look at the married couple slow dancing metres away.

"But I can't stay." That was the end of their conversation, and Sherlock watched her squirm at the idea of staying much longer than she already had. He recognised the awkward smiles and forced conversation she would offer in the most bubbly of ways, no one would notice it was difficult for her. But Sherlock finally saw it, and as he watched her walk away, pulling the coat she had brought round her shoulders, he realised they weren't that different. He could nearly feel something close to approval. Nearly.

♔

As Elizabeth made her exit, departing the heavenly location the Watson's had picked for their special day, and smiling as she made her way past the flower arrangements she believed were nothing less than perfection, she heard the aggravated shouts of Greg Lestrade. His stern voice was barking orders at the stranger they must have labelled the 'murderer' of the evening, and he stood pressing him down against front of his car with its lights flashing blue and red but no siren to accompany it.

Elizabeth made her way past, stopping among the commotion and debating whether to offer a helping hand. She presumed he wouldn't want her assistance; she was not a police offer, she had no experience making it worth his while, and no real reason to help him besides their vague past and the fact he had brought the FBI to her home. Greg pulls at the jingling metal handcuffs falling out of his pocket while trying to maintain his grip on the photographer squirming beneath him.

She watches the young male, possibly mid-twenties, with his hair now rung with sweat, twist and curse as Greg shouts above him. Brown curls stuck to his forehead, his jacket hung lopsided from one shoulder and his shirt was crinkled from his resistance. In a deep, intimidating hiss Greg repeated the words of arrest, but the man he held seemed physically affected his voice. He began convulsing at the sound of Greg's speech and twisting in one last effort to escape. That was at least until he slowed suddenly, and he was turning, with a glint of silver in his hand.

Using his elbow to smack Greg in the mouth, Elizabeth watched the metal between his fingers come away from his pocket, and closer to D.I Lestrade's left side. Elizabeth then heard a crack as his knuckles connected with Greg's jaw and the blade as thin as wire was aimed and ready to pierce through the detectives clothing. Elizabeth thought she'd make a noise, scream for his attention, but like someone else was controlling her movements and a strange numbness separated her from her actions, she  took hold of the gun hanging from Lestrade's right. It hung from a belt he'd added to his waist since the last time she saw him, and felt heavier than she had anticipated. But there was no time for her to fully contemplate the details of it, because she shot the man in the head and he fell dead against the car's bonnet.

Author's note
Dun dun dunnn...