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Sherlock and John trailed in after Moriarty, each wondering if they’d see the outside world again. The door closed and automatically latched behind them.
“Sorry about the mess,” Moriarty apologized as he flipped on the hall light. The orange light lit up the entry, revealing an ape’s face peeking out from one of the nearby rooms. “Ah, there’s my chap. You two have a seat in there, I’ll join shortly.” Moriarty passed a hand over the ape’s head and trotted up a flight of stairs, disappearing with a flamboyant kick of the heels.
“What do we do now?” John asked, looking at the low ceilings and strange paintings on the wall. “Sherlock?”
“I’m trying to think, John!” Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair and wandered the room. His eyes darted to every object and his lips moved rapidly in broken deductions. “John, is it just me or does this look like just a room? There’s got to be something…there’s always something!”
John went over to a low mantel and curiously observed a set of wooden figurines. If he had been Sherlock, he would’ve noticed that the figures were knobs that turned and unlocked the drawers installed underneath the mantel. “You think we ought to stay put or explore while he’s gone?”
“We should stay where we are in case he’s a got a lot hidden somewhere that’ll jump out and kill us. One thing I know is that duchess is here.”
“How did you know that?” John’s voice brightened and he came up beside Sherlock with a listening ear.
“I don’t. Moriarty just told me.”
Cocking his head, the doctor said slowly, “So, there’s no evidence around here that says she’s in here? You just believe because you were told?”
Sherlock smacked his other hand with a balled fist and spun around on his toes. If he hadn’t been in someone else’s house, he would’ve gone into a roaring fit. Spinning once more and landing in front of John, he hissed, “Of course there’s evidence! But I don’t know where to start!”
“Calm down, Sherlock. It’s this drug you’ve been given. You aren’t going to take the second, are you?”
“Obviously not. I’ll fight him tooth and nail before he sticks me with it.” Sherlock placed his folded hands vertically against his face. He paced the room back and forth, his coat kicking up behind him dramatically. Stopping, he raised an eyebrow and motioned John to join him.
“What?”
Nodding his head towards the hall opposite of the one they had first entered, Sherlock whispered speedily, “Look at the corner over there. Do you see it?”
Shaking his head, John replied with an unsure, “No.”
“All right, there’s a thread on the edge. Looks strikingly much like Alana’s dress, hmmm?”
“Wait, how did you know what color dress she was in? You came in after she was abducted.” John went over to the corner and plucked the lone thread. He held up against the light and examined it.
“Well, obviously I had time to follow you in and I caught a glimpse of her. So, she must’ve been dragged down that hall.”
John pushed himself off his knees and began making his way down the carpeted hallway. Sherlock took a large leap and caught him by his coat collar. Pulling him back, he said firmly, “Moriarty is a clever man. If he didn’t want us to know where she was, he wouldn’t have left a bright purple piece of thread against a white wall and floor. Obviously he wants us to go down there.”
“You’re right. What was I thinking?”
“Nothing, apparently,” Sherlock replied coldly. He sulked over to a sofa and took a seat. “This is dull. Not being able to know what’s going on.”
“Well, perhaps this will help you understand the other ninety-nine percent of the world,” John commented, taking a seat beside him. “You all right?”
“Splendid,” Sherlock answered in a drab voice. “I wonder what’s keeping our host.”
Rubbing his brows and clasping his hands together, the doctor replied, “Who knows. He did talk about a second injection, so, he’s probably preparing that.”
A spark of adventure lit up Sherlock’s eyes and he grinned. “John, would you feel comfortable going down that hall and finding Alana?”
“You just said she’s not there. Or, it’s a trap.”
“Moriarty can’t keep his eyes on two people at once, even if he has sniffers. I’ll keep him occupied with trying to give me the drug and you start looking for the duchess. Just go down there, seems like it’ll be worth a try.”
Laughing, John noted, “I don’t have a weapon.”
Kicking the coffee table in front of him without tipping it over, Sherlock said confidently, “Under the table. A handgun’s strapped there.”
Performing the actions of Sherlock’s words, John peeked under the table and saw a forty-five millimeter Beretta strapped securely to the inside of the table. “How did you know?”
“There’s a faint area on the edge right where one hand would lift it up or steady himself while retrieving the gun with his right. Moriarty is left handed, so obviously his right hand will be touching the table. He didn’t want to leave a smudge on the table so he frequently polished the table to get rid of the handprints.”
Chuckling to himself, John retrieved the gun and tucked it in his back of his jeans. “How come you could tell me that but not know anything about the room?”
“It comes and goes. Probably the medicine is wearing off. It’s like a fever—attacks me in a big, hot wave and then becomes a sniffle or a cough. It’s very unpredictable and puts me off so much.”
Footsteps resounded in the hall and Moriarty made his appearance with a theatrical lift of the head. He was dressed in his fine, tailored suit and a tacky tie that had little violins patterned on it. Smiling, the criminal mastermind said, “Care to step this way, Mr. Holmes?”
Stiffening his neck and straightening his lips, Sherlock replied in brazen courage, “No.”
“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, must you put up a disagreement?”
Standing up and yanking off his gloves, the detective stared at his insidious opponent. “You’re like a brackish taste in my mouth, Jim, yet, I’ve gotten used to it and it’s become my fix. So, to turn me down when I’m willing to take you on would be quite a mistake on your part.”
Spinning a syringe into view, Moriarty stared at the tip in a loving manner. “You said that so beautifully, Sherlock. I think I ought not to refuse you now.” With that, Moriarty dropped his hands by his side and pushed off the balls of his feet. He drew one hand back and sent it flying in Sherlock’s direction.
Sherlock ducked and slammed his body into Moriarty’s core. “Run, John!”
John broke from the skirmish and bolted down the hall. He drew his handgun and rested it in his hands. A thrill raced up the doctor’s spine and the faint sounds of guns rattled in his memory. He was back in the war. The thick smell of smoke and blood came back to him – this time, John felt that he could face it all again without fear. The hall darkened, making John take out his pen light. He clicked it on, and the search for Alana began.
Moriarty cornered Sherlock and thinking that he was on the winning side, Moriarty advanced with the loaded syringe. Sherlock, however, was right where he wanted to be. He pretended to make his left side more vulnerable when, in fact, he planned to wheel his left side around and deliver an uppercut. Moriarty pressed his weight against Sherlock’s body and fixed his eyes on his exposed neck. The needle came closer. Sherlock, seeing an opening, knocked the syringe out of Moriarty’s hand and grabbed him about the neck.
The criminal was slammed against the wall and Sherlock lured Moriarty into believing that he would strike with his right hand instead of his left. But Moriarty read Sherlock’s plan and already decided to step through Sherlock’s punch and throw a bomb of a right hook. Sherlock jabbed with his left, but was blocked and thrown several feet away.
Moriarty cackled and wiped his face. He closed in on Sherlock and, seeing the perfect moment, threw a strong right hook and caught Sherlock in the temple. The detective let the shock last for a split second before reacting with a left jab. It sent Moriarty stumbling back this time, giving Sherlock enough time to send a roundhouse kick. Moriarty shielded his face and grabbed Sherlock’s leg while it was in still in the air. He gave it a quick twist, sending Sherlock onto his back. But Sherlock was just as fast on the ground as he was on his feet. He grabbed the cuff of Moriarty’s trouser and jerked it up and forward, causing Moriarty to lose his balance.
The enemy fell flat beside Sherlock, but like a cat, he flipped over onto Sherlock and pounded viciously on his face. Blood broke through Sherlock’s skin and stained Moriarty’s fists. Sherlock didn't let up though, he stopped Moriarty’s next blow and threw him off with his knees. He popped to his feet and stood guard.
“That was so lovely. So, so lovely!” Moriarty patted his busted lip and slowly pulled out a jackknife. He wielded it in front of Sherlock, laughing. “Are you done, Mr. Holmes?”
“We’ve only just started,” Sherlock said dramatically, joining in Moriarty’s teasing fray.
Like roaring beasts, the two flung at each other. Arms and legs twisted together, locking the other into immobility. Teeth gnashed at the tender parts about one another’s heads, such as the ears and the throats. Their eyes traded penetrating stares of hostility, each desiring more than anything to see the other in pain. Moriarty slipped the blade to his other hand and went for Sherlock’s ribcage.
Sherlock dodged it and grabbed Moriarty’s passing wrist. He twisted the blade into his hand and directed it at Moriarty’s lower back. Feeling his life uncomfortably on the edge of mortality, Moriarty sped up his defense and caught the blade by the hilt. With his free hand, he grabbed Sherlock by the back of the neck and threw his face down to meet his knee. Sherlock struck it and collapsed onto the floor.
Moriarty planted a foot on Sherlock’s chest and cracked his own neck, loosening himself for his next move. The criminal leaned down and scooped up the fallen knife. Keeping vengeful eyes on Sherlock, he raised the knife and with no hesitation, drove it through Sherlock’s palm and into the floor. The detective’s eyes shrunk in pain and a piercing scream filled the room. Crowing at his victory, Moriarty straddled Sherlock and pulled out an extra syringe from the inside of his jacket.
With the back of his hand, he slapped Sherlock’s face so that he could see the neck. Once Sherlock’s head was turned, Moriarty carefully inserted the needle and shot the drug into his veins. While he was so close to the detective, he leaned in and whispered into the bloodied ear, “I winnnnn!”
“Sherlock?” John whispered to himself, stopping in his tracks. He turned the penlight off, letting the darkness hide him. He reached out and felt for the wall. He listened, but heard nothing. He knew he had heard his friend cry out. “Sherlock?”
A voice answered him, but it wasn’t Sherlock’s. John turned his stretched eyes out to the blackness ahead of him. He answered quietly, “Alana?”