SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

Before Seven

Through strenuous efforts, John was able to pick the lock on the snare.  If he hadn’t confiscated one of Alana’s hairpins when he had last kissed her, he would’ve never freed himself. Dropping gently to the floor, John kissed the pin and said through a smile, “Thank you, my darling!” Limping off to the iron doors, he fingered the walls for the light switch. It didn’t take him too long because the switch was the only protruding object on the walls. Keeping eyes shut until he could adjust to the light, John flipped it on.

The orange tint flooded the room, revealing a lever John hadn’t noticed when Moriarty had turned the light on. Retrieving his handgun and tucking it inside the back of his jeans, John cautiously stepped towards it. Hoping it was the key to his escape, John took hold of it and faithfully pulled it down. Instantly, the floor trembled and the iron door grunted. With a growing smile, John watched as the egress lifted slowly. Once it had locked itself in place, John rushed out and headed for the front door.

Sherlock sat in the backseat of the cab, wondering what was to happen next. Under normal consciousness, the detective would know exactly what was happening and who would be involved. But this cab ride was different: it was quiet. And not in the auditory sense, but in the sense that Sherlock’s mind wasn’t wracking with ideas, assumptions, and solutions. Mental noises he heard when he’d put together a chase or a deduction were put to sleep. Sounds he’d memorize and tag to a suspect were dead. His own voice—the voice he relied on above all else—was silent. 

The cab pulled into Moriarty’s driveway and parked. Sighing a heavy sigh, Sherlock popped open his door and made his way to the house. It felt so strange, even when walking to the front door, how quiet things were. Everything he saw seemed to contribute no value to his mind. Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his pockets and groaned deep in his throat. He hated his state. He hated how that no matter how hard he tried to deduct, his mind would shut down.

When he arrived at the door, he raised his hand to knock, but before he could make contact, the door swung open and Moriarty stood before him. “Ah! Sherlock, come in.”

Sherlock stepped inside and brushed past Moriarty. “Where’s John?”

“He didn’t get too far, like I said, the dog stopped him.” Moriarty closed the door and motioned to a large pit-bull crouched in the hall. Looking up at John who sat restricted on the sofa, Moriarty chimed, “Had a row with the dog, yeah?”

“Quite,” John replied stiffly, holding a wad of gauze over his hand.

“And where’s the duchess? Or is she in secret-secret hideaway?” Sherlock mocked, rolling his eyes afterwards.

“She’s in her room. John can go see her, if he’d like, you can, too.”

“Actually, I’d rather not go. I’d actually like you to show me how you made your drug,” Sherlock asked casually, as if it was something Moriarty would instantly agree to.

Squinting at the detective, Moriarty laughed through his nose. “Oh, my dear friend, have you gone completely mental? Do you think I would show you my ‘secret-secret’? Even if you couldn’t understand anything, I’m not going to chance it.”

“That’s all right, I’ll just go downstairs and see for myself.” Sherlock shoved Moriarty out of the way and headed for a door that he believed led to Moriarty’s lab.

“You’re not going to find it down—,” Moriarty stopped himself and bit his lips.

John let out a snort and tried to cover his laugh, but his restrain was weakening the more he thought about what had just happened.