Good Old Fashioned Nightmare

Part 8

    “You!” Sherlock said narrowing his eyes at their unwelcome visitor then turned his attention to John.  “All right?” he asked with real concern.

     “Yeah, just got a gun to my head,” John returned trying to keep his voice calm.  The second he heard Sherlock’s footfalls on the stairs, his head had begun to buzz.  The overwhelming stress of the last few moments had sent waves of adrenaline through his system.  He assessed his chances of being able to twist the gun out of Moriarty’s grasp before he could pull the trigger and decided against it when he shifted his eyes to the left and saw the man’s white knuckled grip.  He’d wait just a bit then.

     Sherlock seemed to reach a decision, shifted his face into a neutral mask, and entered the sitting room.  He walked to his violin case, stroked along the edge and opened the case nonchalantly as if he’d intended to do that very activity all along. “Tea, I see?” he said taking out the instrument and plucking at the strings. 

     “I can make you some, if you’d like,” John offered hoping to get out from in front of a loaded gun.   

     “Yes, I’d love some,” Sherlock said as if they were all gathered there to simply pass the time.

     Moriarty, for a wonder, nodded in agreement.  “Go ahead, Johnny boy.  Sherlock and I have business to discuss.  Don’t do anything rash, just tea.”

     John stood, picked up the tea tray and walked toward the kitchen.  On his way, he passed by Sherlock and the man locked eyes with him.  There was an expression he couldn’t read there almost resignation mixed with fierce protectiveness. 

     John had no idea what outcome to expect from this showdown.  He shook his head and went back to the kettle.  He could measure his life in cups of hot, brown liquid.  His trap sat mocking him.  What good would it do him to set it off now?  He had not one, but two smarmy bastards who wanted to control him.  This was his life in yin-yang stereo, one good, one evil. 

     “I love what you’ve done with John,” Moriarty began.  “He’s so compliant.  And that collar suits him.”

     “Don’t talk about John.  The collar’s your fault,” Sherlock said coming up close, almost brushing noses with his enemy.  He held his violin up at an angle almost as if he intended to brain the man.

     “Oh!”  he cooed.  “My fault.  Okay, your lover’s spat is all my fault.  You know, I could take him off your hands, Sherlock.  I do see some potential there…”

      Sherlock growled, “Leave him out of this…”

     John stopped listening to the two idiots in the sitting room.  The buzzing in his head had grown louder as he fixed the new cups of tea and placed them on the tray.  He suddenly saw a chance to set his trap.  The moment of truth had come.  Once he did this however, his comfortable life with Sherlock would never be the same.  Could he give it all up?  He decided he could.

     Tea.  The ubiquitous liquid of his life offered the answer.  He would simply have to put the tin in the middle of the tea things on the tray, and cover the little bulb-bellows with a paper napkin.  He’d push down on the napkin and a bright-hot flash of fire might be enough to surprise Moriarty so John could knock the gun from his hand.  Both of these men had counted him out of the equation.  Good old John, forever making tea, thinking only non-threatening submissive thoughts….Well his time had come to take his life back. 

       Swiftly he pulled open the drawers with the candles and matches.  He found a short stubby candle and held the bottom to the hot base of the electric kettle for a moment.  The wax softened.  He pulled the lid off the tea tin and squished the melted butt of the candle into the bottom.  While the two masterminds continued their titanic struggle in the living room, he grabbed the bag of flour from the cupboard, reached in and grabbed a large handful.