“Johnny,” wheedled Moriarty. The doctor swore it was as though the consulting criminal knew when John was thinking about him. “What will you do-hoo-hoo now? You can't make it out of this alive, even if you do get ahold of that knifey-wifey.
You're going to DIE, Johnny boy, and Sherlock Holmes is watching every minute of it.”
Ice flooded into his veins. That confirmed his suspicions: there was a video feed being broadcast to Sherlock, somehow. Sherlock, who right about now would be absolutely devastated if he wasn't able to deduce John's location. John could only imagine what a significant blow to Sherlock's pride this particular event must be. Three days was practically a century by the mad Holmses' definition.
Would Sherlock miss him?
What a bloody ridiculous question, of course he'll miss me! I'm his blogger. Who else will tolerate his insufferable attitude and chronicle that razor mind?
John found himself moderately heartened by thoughts of his mad flatmate. He breathed out from his nose. He let the calm slip over him once more. The noise of the tiger snuffling at the knife quieted in his mind. His hand ceased trembling.
He heard Moriarty stand up. He ignored it.
How the hell am I supposed to get the bloody knife while he's standing so close to it?
The tiger made that decision for him by losing interest in the military-grade heavy bowie knife. A rope of gluey saliva spilled from its loose lower lip, a sign of stress, as it turned around and without warning charged at John.
Stupid stupid stupi-
John tried to fall sideways but his evasive luck had run out. Gleaming fangs lurched near and the blond had to make a split-second decision; lose his arm, or be disemboweled. The arm, then. John thrust the only barrier he could find on such short notice in front of his body. The tiger's jaw skidded on his forearm and John heard an inhuman scream of pain sound out.
Did I make that noise?
John's right forearm felt like white-hot magma was being poured into the points of contact where the teeth punctured. Everything from the elbow down felt as though it was submerged in boiling water. John flashed back to the moment he was shot in Afghanistan. John twisted his arm, feeling his own skin rip and pushing past the pain, and hauled his arm out of the tiger's mouth in a slippery rush of blood and the animal's drool.
Hot dry desert. A comparable burning pain of intrusion, deeper than the teeth.
Re: Due to some absurd game of Moriarty's, John has to kill a tiger with his bare hands.
You're going to DIE, Johnny boy, and Sherlock Holmes is watching every minute of it.”
Ice flooded into his veins. That confirmed his suspicions: there was a video feed being broadcast to Sherlock, somehow. Sherlock, who right about now would be absolutely devastated if he wasn't able to deduce John's location. John could only imagine what a significant blow to Sherlock's pride this particular event must be. Three days was practically a century by the mad Holmses' definition.
Would Sherlock miss him?
What a bloody ridiculous question, of course he'll miss me! I'm his blogger. Who else will tolerate his insufferable attitude and chronicle that razor mind?
John found himself moderately heartened by thoughts of his mad flatmate. He breathed out from his nose. He let the calm slip over him once more. The noise of the tiger snuffling at the knife quieted in his mind. His hand ceased trembling.
He heard Moriarty stand up. He ignored it.
How the hell am I supposed to get the bloody knife while he's standing so close to it?
The tiger made that decision for him by losing interest in the military-grade heavy bowie knife. A rope of gluey saliva spilled from its loose lower lip, a sign of stress, as it turned around and without warning charged at John.
Stupid stupid stupi-
John tried to fall sideways but his evasive luck had run out. Gleaming fangs lurched near and the blond had to make a split-second decision; lose his arm, or be disemboweled. The arm, then. John thrust the only barrier he could find on such short notice in front of his body. The tiger's jaw skidded on his forearm and John heard an inhuman scream of pain sound out.
Did I make that noise?
John's right forearm felt like white-hot magma was being poured into the points of contact where the teeth punctured. Everything from the elbow down felt as though it was submerged in boiling water. John flashed back to the moment he was shot in Afghanistan. John twisted his arm, feeling his own skin rip and pushing past the pain, and hauled his arm out of the tiger's mouth in a slippery rush of blood and the animal's drool.
Hot dry desert. A comparable burning pain of intrusion, deeper than the teeth.
Not down for the count yet.