Welcome to Baker Street

99. A place in history

They are so focused on staring at the black screen with bated breath that they don't realise that Moriarty's face has reappeared on the other monitor. Only when he claps loudly do their heads simultaneously whip around and stare at his gleeful sneer.

"Congratulations. You got that right."

John flies into a rage, barking, "What happened to Greg? Show us."

At that moment, the second screen powers on once again to show a disoriented Greg coughing spasmodically and wrinkling his nose. He is still in a fugue state, but he seems to react more actively to his surroundings. They all sigh in relief.

"He will survive, thanks to you. I simply opened the window in his room. The air was getting heavy." Jim's sadistic joke is welcomed by death stares.

Sherlock struggles to control his mounting fury. "Were you really going to kill him with laughing gas?"

"Not as effective as a bullet, but you've gotta admit that's funnier," Jim emphasises with a sarcastic smirk. "Now, please walk out and proceed down the corridor. You will find another room waiting for you." His words are followed by the click of the automatic lock when the door of the room springs open.

John looks viciously at the screen, without budging. "What makes you think we feel like playing anymore?"

Jim looks down on him, and a gleam of cruelty shoots across his dark eyes.

"After seeing what my incentives comprise, do you really think you are in a bargaining position, Doctor Watson?" Moriarty cocks a brow at him. "You remember the men that were chasing after you in the parking lot, don't you? I'm afraid you're going to meet them again, but don't worry, they aren't authorised to harm you... Unless you unwisely choose to defy me and try a daring escape."

He fakes a yawn, before explaining, "I have positioned them along the corridors of the theatre: there's nowhere to go. But I'm sure I won't need to use such brutish ways with you. After all, Sherlock Holmes would never quit the game. He is so convinced he can beat me that he will go all the way," he says in a taunting tone.

John takes a couple of steps towards the door but Moriarty calls him back, causing him to half-turn with a hate-filled grimace.

Jim smiles in return. "If you don't mind, please leave on the table the gun that's on your person."

Watson takes Giulia's gun that he had tucked back in the waistband of his jeans and checks the almost empty magazine, before grunting, "There's only so much threat I can pose with just one bullet."

"I disagree. One bullet can do a lot of damage. So you'll leave the gun behind now. I promise to take good care of it and give it back at the end of the game."

John rolls his eyes and places it next to the marble figurine on the small table, then turns towards his friend and shoots him a concerned look, whispering, "Sherlock, this has already gone too far. How are we gonna get out of this?"

Holmes clears his throat to buy some time to gather his ideas.

"We obviously can't rely on the police; we've just freed Lestrade, while Donovan and Anderson just don't care about me at all. If I were to go missing, they'd wait a month before starting a search," he whispers back, joking to mask the hopelessness of the situation.

John presses him. "What about your brother, then?"

Sherlock fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and his lips twitch anxiously at the sight of the empty screen: no signal.

"I contacted him before getting here, but I don't know if he ever got my messages. Since we stepped into the theatre, my phone lost any connection to the outside world," he announces flatly. He is trying to hide his anguish behind his infamous icy façade, but he is not certain how much longer he can keep it up.