John felt paralysed, his limbs had gone numb with instant shock. John wanted to scream. He internally released a shrill cry of desperation. Sherlock was gone. Just. Like. That.
Gone.
Shaking like a leaf, he reached for his phone, hands glitching from left to right, up and down. He called back the number, nervousness gnawed at his brain as it began to ring out.
The voice down the line chirped. "Hello, Moriarty speaking, how can I help?" John finally lost it. It was the spider. John could almost feel his blood-curdling smile as he spoke.
"Yes, I'd like to know if you'd give me back something?" John asked
"Like, what?" Moriarty speaking like nothing interesting was occurring.
"Oh, I dunno, my FUCKING BOYFRIEND!" John spat.
"Ohhh right, calm down John, it doesn't do anything good for your skin." Moriarty pouted.
"Meet me on the rooftop. St. Bart's. 20mins with 'him'." John formally spoke, immediately prodding 'end call'. God, he loathed spiders. John stormed to the hospital, crinkled face, balled up fists. But before he left his bedroom, he grabbed a small pen knife, just for... defence. John smirked to himself. Why would he need defence? He'd be the one playing offence here. Closing the door quietly, he then pursued the building, it was tall. Dull. And ugly. The old letters engraved on the side of the building were chipped, the letters almost unreadable. As John started climbing the steps to the roof, he felt a wave of anxiety flood over him. What was he dealing with here? Had he been too bold? Too cocky? He wasn't sure. A growing nag in his stomach unleashed butterflies and made his tummy somersault several times. But John pressed on. Every step was adding to his mounting nervousness. The clang of metal-on-trainers was even more nail biting. John heart rate was pumping faster than his ability to think. His mind dashing and darting in a million places in less than a second. He reached the top. Both men stood in front of him. Moriarty. Sherlock. An old rustic table separating them from each other.
"Why so late?" Moriarty cracking his neck but rotating it in a menacing manor. John briefly glanced at his watch: 21 minutes since they agreed to meet. Shit.
"Oh I do apologise, I really, really do." John slowly mimicking the spider's Irish accent. Sherlock said nothing; his eyes glued to a cold spot on the floor. After a few seconds of silence, Moriarty shattered it like glass.
"Wanna play a game, John?" Dragging the word 'game'.
"No." His voice stern and harsh.
"Well too bad!"
"Fine, what are we playing?"
"Weeeeell, I've thought of a Russian roulette kind-of-game, except instead of guns." John was puzzled by this. "How are you supposed to play it without guns?"
"The rules are simple. 2 cards. Get the king, you're safe. Get the ace, then it's bye bye to Sherly." His smile curled continuously, denting spirals in his cheeks. John felt a sudden shake, his body threatening to reduce him to an utter wreck. Sobs racked his body inside, John choking his tears back. Sherlock could die. Sherlock could fall from St. Bart's and die.
"What if they're both aces?" John folded his arms.
Moriarty gestured to the cards. "See for yourself." John gingerly strode to the metal table. His shaky hands grabbing the edges of the cards to flip them over. One ace, one king. Just like the spider said.
"See? I don't like unfair games." Moriarty snatched the cards and shuffled them behind his back so John couldn't see. He then placed them neatly side by side on the table again. John expected Moriarty to speak but it was Sherlock. His voice was sharp and bitter.
"Choose."
