SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

First Deduction

The dreaded day had come. At five o’clock in the morning, Sherlock was chauffeured to the London Eye, where a platform was built in front of the famous, giant Ferris wheel. The sky was still a dark shade of blue and the air was a bitter chill. It was a weather fitted perfectly for the depressing event about to occur. The only person looking forward to the event was Moriarty.

Sherlock had dressed in his navy blue trench coat and warmed his neck with his signature scarf. He didn’t dress to keep his stylish reputation, but to honor himself and everyone he knew would be watching him. As he sat in the back of the cabbie, he thought about John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Alana. He wondered where they were and if they were safe. He wondered if he would be able to save the duchess in his state. Sherlock knew Moriarty wouldn’t let him win this round. And he also knew Moriarty had cleverly devised it so that he would commit suicide, willingly.

John opened his eyes from a light slumber. He couldn’t sleep a wink the night before because he was too occupied trying to reach up and grab the trap around his ankle. He knew that if he was able to take hold of the trap, he could pull himself upright, dissemble the snare, and drop to his freedom. Though, it was much harder than he had imagined—his poor back wasn’t flexible enough and the leg that was caught was his injured one.

He had to try it once more. Pumping new energy into his muscles, John reached up, curving his neck and back until he felt that he would snap in half. He bent his knee, thinking it would shorten the reach, but it only put strain on his hip.  Relaxing his body, John stopped and waited until he found new breath. Feeling a surge of determination, he shot up and stretched for the rope. His fingers twisted and grabbed at the air, but it seemed so far away and so impossible. But John didn’t give up. He sent another force into his arm and was able to graze the rope with his fingers.

“Come on, you bleeding bastard!” John gritted his teeth, slammed his eyes shut, and distracted himself with only retrieving the rope. His back stretched in pain and the tendons in his legs screamed in agony. John’s fingers brushed the rope hard enough to coax it into his hands. Grasping the woven cable, John gasped in relief and hoisted himself up so that he was beside the cord vertically. Smiling at his achievement, John panted, “Wish Sherlock could’ve seen that!” Keeping a firm grip on the rope, John lifted his ensnared foot and began working the trap loose.

When the black cab pulled into the parking lot outside of the River Thames, Sherlock was greeted by a horde of flashing photographers and shouting news broadcasters.  It felt just like it did back in the Reichenbach age, though, this time, John wasn’t there to keep his nerves calm. When he exited the vehicle, he was immediately bombarded with questions.

“What are you going to say, detective?” asked a reporter, shoving a microphone into his face.

“Where’s your mate? Where’s Doctor Watson?” blasted another one.

“Are you all right? What are you going to say?”

“Did you volunteer to do this?”

“The Duchess of Cornwall’s life is in your hands? How do you feel about it?”

On and on, the raging press crowded and overwhelmed the relatively reserved Sherlock Holmes. The detective hated the attention. He hated the pleading faces and the constant snapshots of his face. As he pushed through the crowd, he caught site of Lestrade on the sidelines. Thrilled to see a familiar face, he fought through the throng and went up to his friend.

“Lestrade—,”

“If this is how you get your thrills, Sherlock Holmes, I’m disappointed.”