All is Fair in Love and War

An Abundance of Keys

Black-brown eyes were gazing into my steel grey ones, though I made no effort to stop myself blinking. It always unnerved people, I mused, to find that I wasn't to be drawn into childish staring matches quite so easily as all that. To say that I was not worried would be untrue; there were undoubtedly elements of my current captivity that I found cause for concern. These were not, however, the elements that would have bothered most individuals (id est being chained to a pole in the same room with a brilliantly deranged psychopath), but rather the logistics of the escape I was planning.

It was not the difficulty of the idea so much as it was the misuse I would assuredly experience in its exercise. To put it simply, phase one was going to be painful. I could deal with pain, was dealing with it, as my leg reminded me, but there was a ratio of discomfort versus my physical capabilities, and if the former tipped too heavily on the scales, I could potentially be rendered physiologically incapable of completing the second phase of my escape.

On our first case together, I remarked to a perturbed John and exasperated detective inspector that the only trick to dealing with serial killers was waiting for them to make a mistake. In this respect, Moriarty was no different. He was simply smart enough to anticipate mistakes and stop himself from making them. Though the waiting had lasted weeks, the inevitable trip-up had finally reared its head.

Moriarty had shown me the key.

He'd let my one hand loose.

I'd watched him return the key to his pocket.

All there was left to do was slip it off his person.

Pickpocketing Jim Moriarty required a personal sacrifice; there was no help for it. I had to get him close enough to touch, and the only way to do that was -

"So, Sherlock," Moriarty began as the door snapped shut behind Moran, "how are you liking my hospitality so far? This is your last night, so you should enjoy it."

My eyes swept the room critically.

"The décor needs work."

Moriarty chuckled and took a step closer.

"Yes, it does," he agreed. "You would not believe how hard it is to find a good designer who will work illegally on an old military compound outside of London." The consulting criminal gave a long-suffering sigh. "But that's the business, I suppose. And speaking of business..." He closed the gap between us. "How's the leg holding up?"

He drove his knee into the side of my leg, pressing hard on the fracture, and for a second, white fire shot up my spine, blinding me with its cruel radiance.

I gasped, collapsing against the pole for support. It hurt too badly. Moriarty was close enough, but I couldn't force my fists to un-ball and reach for the key. Seeing my face, obviously in pain, beginning to perspire, Moriarty pressed harder. I could feel blood running down the inside of my trouser leg. The world tilted on its axis - I was going to pass out again. And then he backed off.

Straightening, the criminal mastermind gave a grotesque impersonation of a smile.

"I have been waiting for this," he said. "You have no idea how bored I was, waiting for you to come back from the dead. Now I'll put you back there. Permanently."

"Why?" My throat was tight with discomfort, but I got the word out evenly enough. "You'll just be bored again when you do."

Moriarty shook his head wryly. "But that's the point! I have to beat you! And after I do, who knows? Being the world's only consulting criminal does have its perks."

He stepped forward again, running a finger across my cheekbone. "You won't be around to see that, though."

"Don't be so sure," I said smugly.