Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Abominable Bride- Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Third POV

Night was slowly falling as time passed. Holmes still sat in the same place on the floor with his eyes closed. A shadow falls across him and the floor creaks. Holmes frowns slightly and turns his head a little in the direction of the sound, his eyes still closed. The floor creaks again and quiet footsteps can be heard. After a moment, a familiar voice speaks: "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"And possibly my answer has crossed yours."

"Like a bullet." Holmes opens his eyes, then carefully gets to his feet, putting his right hand into his pocket. He turns to face Professor Moriarty, who is standing in front of the right-hand window. "It's a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one's dressing gown. Or are you just pleased to see me?" He smiles, then rolls his jaw and tilts his head to the right, crunching the bones in his neck. "You'll forgive me for taking precautions."

"I'd be offended if you didn't." He pats the pockets of his jacket, then reaches into the breast pocket and takes out a small pistol. "Obviously I've returned the courtesy." He looks down at the gun and cocks it, then spins it round with his finger through the trigger guard for a few seconds. Eventually he stops, holds it properly and wanders vaguely around the room. "I like your rooms. They smell so..." He gestures with his free hand as if searching for the most appropriate description, then says the next word in a deeper voice than usual: "Manly."

"I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with them before now."

"Well, you are always away on your little adventures for The Strand. Tell me: does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose..." Lifting the pistol, he touches the end of the barrel to his chin while he steeples the fingers of the other hand against it. "During your deductions?" He lowers his hands and wanders towards the fireplace. "I'm aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence." Holmes turns, keeping the Professor in sight. "I know you are." He runs his fingers along the top of the mantelpiece. It's very dusty. "By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed. Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?"

"Yes." Moriarty opens his mouth, sticks his fingertips onto his tongue and licks them. Holmes, his hand still in his pocket, looks slightly appalled. "Doesn't taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh... Just a little crispy."

"Won't you sit down?" Holmes gestures to Watson's chair. "That's all people really are, you know: dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people."

"Fascinating, I'm sure." He gestures to Watson's chair again.

"Won't you sit..."
"People, people, people. Can't keep anything shiny."

Moriarty blows into the end three times, then lifts the gun and peers into it. "Do you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out?" He turns the gun and points it at Holmes. Instantly Holmes snatches out his own gun and points it at his enemy. They stand there for several seconds, the ends of their pistols almost touching. Eventually and almost simultaneously, although Holmes makes the first move, they lift their guns to point the muzzles upwards. Moriarty slowly swings his pistol around to lower it to his side, while Holmes drops his own gun onto the nearby table. "Exactly. Let's stop playing. We don't need toys to kill each other. Where's the intimacy in that?"

"Sit down."

"Why? What do you want?"

"You chose to come here."

"Not true. You know that's not true." Holmes stops a pace away from him. They stare into each other's eyes. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"The truth." Moriarty nods. "That." He starts to walk past him but turns to put his face close to Holmes's. "Truth's boring." He walks slowly across the room. Holmes turns to watch him. "You didn't expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him."

"But you couldn't have killed him."

"Oh, so what? Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don't care about Sir Eustace, or the Bride or any of it. There's only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting."

"I know what you're doing." Holmes intensely whispers. The room starts to rock as if an earthquake is taking place. The decanters and glasses rattle. Holmes shakes his head and closes his eyes. The disturbance stops. Moriarty holds his pistol near his chin. "The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back." He shrugs and moves the gun further away from his face. "Impossible." Holmes's eyes are open again. "But she did it, and you need to know how. How?"

The room begins to rock again. "Don't you? It's tearing your world apart not knowing." The room continues to shake. "You're trying to stop me..." He pulls in a deep breath through his nose, closes his eyes and shakes his head before opening his eyes again. "To distract me, derail me." The room settles. "Because doesn't this remind you of another case?" Moriarty reminds. "Hasn't this all happened before? There's nothing new under the sun." Holmes grimaces, closing his eyes. "What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? Do you remember?" Holmes raises his hands and runs them over his face.

"It's on the tip of my tongue." He points to his mouth. The room starts to shake again. "It's on the tip of my tongue."

"It's on the tip of my tongue." Holmes repeats. He opens his eyes as the room continues to shake, then settles. "It's on the tip..." Morairty raises the pistol, opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, and rests the muzzle against his tongue. Slowly, holding that position, he sinks down to sit on the low table in front of the sofa. "Of my tongue." The room shakes again. Holmes takes another sharp breath through his nose and the room settles. "For the sake of Mrs Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead." He whispers the last word. Moriarty, the end of his gun still resting on his stuck-out tongue, speaks incoherently. "Ed ith the noo thethy."

"I'm sorry?" Morairty removes the gun and pulls his tongue back into his mouth, holding the gun next to him pointing upwards. "Dead... Is the new sexy." Holmes stares at him in shock. Again the room starts to shake and this time the tremors are much stronger. In a quick movement, Moriarty raises the gun again and opens his mouth, aims the pistol into it and pulls the trigger, firing the gun. He falls backwards and blood flies into the air.
The room settles and Moriarty stands up, shaking himself down. He has some blood spatter on his face. "Well, I'll tell you what: that rather blows the cobwebs away." Holmes stares at him wide-eyed. "How can you be alive?"

"How do I look, huh?" Slowly Morairty turns around to reveal where the back of his head has been blown out. Still Holmes stares in disbelief. Moriarty turns a full circle to face him again. "You can be honest. Is it noticeable?" He moves his head around as if giving Holmes a good look at him. "You blew your own brains out. How could you survive?"

"Well, maybe I could back-comb. "

"I saw you die. Why aren't you dead?" Holmes accuses. "Because it's not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, you should know that. It's not the fall. It's never the fall." Glassware around the room begins to tinkle and smash. Moriarty spreads his arms wide on either side and stares manically at Holmes. "It's the landing."

The tremors start again, even stronger than before. On a cabinet in the corner, a small model of an elephant is shaken off the side and falls to the floor. The tremors throw Holmes stumbling back towards the fireplace.
Holmes falls backwards into his chair...

Sherlock sits in one of the seats with his eyes closed, his executive jet plane is landing at the airfield. Nearby, John, Mary, Michelle and Mycroft stand in front of the car and watch as the plane rolls to a halt.