It was time. John was safely away, with Mrs. Hudson. Molly was ready. The plan was as secure as he could make it. So many variables he couldn't control, so many risks, and John's life as a forfeit if he failed, if he failed...
No, this would work. It must work. Likely his preparations wouldn't all be necessary, if he could force Moriarty to call off his dogs--and he could be...persuasive when necessary.
He took a deep breath and walked out onto the rooftop, elaborately casual. There was a click of a gun behind him and Sherlock turned casually, refusing to hurry despite the instinctive and inconvenient jump in his gut. "Moriarty. Hardly your usual technique, a gun. I can't imagine you want to do anything so tedious as shoot me."
Moriarty grinned manically, wild and much, much too confident. "Oh, not at all, Sherlock. I'm going to do much more than shoot you." He giggled, high and mad. "But if you try anything stupid, I suppose I'll have to settle. Kneel down, hands behind your head."
This was not good. This was very not good, this was not remotely what he was expecting. Brute force wasn't Moriarty's style, he was a genius, he had to be clever, he had to prove he was clever. Fragility of genius, needs an audience. He felt the man beside him, the gun to his temple. No way to make a move without dying. "What's your game, Jim?"
Instead of answering him, Moriarty spoke, as if to empty air--though a wire, obviously. "Bring him up."
There was a few minutes of silence, and then a tall, thin man with an angular face--
(Former military, going by bearing, out at least five years, going by the tone of his teeth--doxycycline--not his choice of clothes, moves slightly uncomfortably in them as if ill at ease, trained killer, assesses the situation on coming in but has no emotional connection...)
With a knife in the small of John Watson's back. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily before he controlled himself, feigning a disinterested look. John shouldn't be here, this is meant to be between him and Moriarty.
"You lost your pet again. Not a very responsible owner, are you?" Moriarty taunted.
"We've watched this film before, Jim. Sign of a dull mind, repeating yourself."
Moran brought John out onto the roof, well away from where anyone would see. Cuffed as well, though he'd put up a fight, based on the bruises he could see on Moriarty's man. And he knew it was soundproof up here, only a maintenance area below, no one would hear unless shots were fired.
"Not exactly," Moriarty laughed. "No. Not this time. You see, I wanted to make you kill yourself, but you had a plan--oh, I know you had a plan, you're like me. You always have a plan. No."
"You see, I wanted to end the world, but I’ll settle for ending yours." And with a brutal, rattlesnake strike, the soldier plunged the knife into John's side.
Not Worth the Wound, 1/?
No, this would work. It must work. Likely his preparations wouldn't all be necessary, if he could force Moriarty to call off his dogs--and he could be...persuasive when necessary.
He took a deep breath and walked out onto the rooftop, elaborately casual. There was a click of a gun behind him and Sherlock turned casually, refusing to hurry despite the instinctive and inconvenient jump in his gut. "Moriarty. Hardly your usual technique, a gun. I can't imagine you want to do anything so tedious as shoot me."
Moriarty grinned manically, wild and much, much too confident. "Oh, not at all, Sherlock. I'm going to do much more than shoot you." He giggled, high and mad. "But if you try anything stupid, I suppose I'll have to settle. Kneel down, hands behind your head."
This was not good. This was very not good, this was not remotely what he was expecting. Brute force wasn't Moriarty's style, he was a genius, he had to be clever, he had to prove he was clever. Fragility of genius, needs an audience. He felt the man beside him, the gun to his temple. No way to make a move without dying. "What's your game, Jim?"
Instead of answering him, Moriarty spoke, as if to empty air--though a wire, obviously. "Bring him up."
There was a few minutes of silence, and then a tall, thin man with an angular face--
(Former military, going by bearing, out at least five years, going by the tone of his teeth--doxycycline--not his choice of clothes, moves slightly uncomfortably in them as if ill at ease, trained killer, assesses the situation on coming in but has no emotional connection...)
With a knife in the small of John Watson's back. Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily before he controlled himself, feigning a disinterested look. John shouldn't be here, this is meant to be between him and Moriarty.
"You lost your pet again. Not a very responsible owner, are you?" Moriarty taunted.
"We've watched this film before, Jim. Sign of a dull mind, repeating yourself."
Moran brought John out onto the roof, well away from where anyone would see. Cuffed as well, though he'd put up a fight, based on the bruises he could see on Moriarty's man. And he knew it was soundproof up here, only a maintenance area below, no one would hear unless shots were fired.
"Not exactly," Moriarty laughed. "No. Not this time. You see, I wanted to make you kill yourself, but you had a plan--oh, I know you had a plan, you're like me. You always have a plan. No."
"You see, I wanted to end the world, but I’ll settle for ending yours." And with a brutal, rattlesnake strike, the soldier plunged the knife into John's side.