Sherlock watched the needle travel from his neck to up against Moriarty’s face. Panting, the detective said, “What are you going to do now?”
Standing up and brushing off his suit, Moriarty replied carelessly, “Nothing at the moment. I’m just going to set up the event for tomorrow. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs, you can wash off all that blood and make yourself look presentable.” Moriarty chucked the syringe and buttoned his cuffs. Walking up to his bedroom, he looked around the room. His eyes ended on Sherlock. “Where’s Watson?”
Honestly not knowing where his companion was, Sherlock struggled to his feet and answered with a strong, “I don’t know.”
“Well, if he went down that hall, he’s in for a real treat!”
“Would Alana be there?”
Moriarty twisted his mouth and his eyes danced in malice. Leaning over the stair’s banisters, he replied through a laugh. “Oh, yes, she’s down there. But if Watson is able to get her out, he’ll have to get past my dog. And, he’s not really friendly. Toodles!” The criminal vanished into his room and closed the door behind him.
Sherlock remained standing, wondering if he should help Watson. But the injection had made him almost paralyze, and the only way to escape the dizziness and growing headache, was to sleep. Sherlock dragged himself over to the sofa and collapsed onto the spongy pillows. His eyes shut and he disappeared from the world for a while.
“Alana?” John called out, stepping forward into the darkness. He scooted his feet slowly on the ground, making sure that there weren’t any traps on the ground. The thought of stepping on an explosive brought back the unrecognizable faces he had sewn and repaired and he didn’t want to his face to become part of such horrors. “Alana?”
Without warning, the shriek of metal scraping against metal sounded and before John had time to make an escape, his foot was lassoed by an invisible rope and he was pulled upwards. His gun spun from his hands and his world flipped upside down. The doctor felt the blood rush to his head and it didn’t take him long to realize he had been flung upside down by an uncomfortably painful snare. As he hung, swinging back and forth in small motions, he heard approaching footsteps.
A laugh vibrated off the walls and a light switch clicked on. Standing in front of him with arms crossed, was Moriarty. “Oh, John, why did you go down this hall? Perhaps I took the duchess down the other way.”
John grinded his teeth together in anger and mentally strangled himself for even going down the hall. “Where’s Sherlock?”
“Ooh, don’t worry, he’s sound asleep like a baby on my couch.”
“And Alana?”
Snapping his fingers and stomping a light foot, Moriarty said in blushing embarrassment, “That’s her name! Hmm, was trying to remember it when I shagged her.” He placed a naughty index finger on his lips and looked at John through pretend guilt. “She is so beautiful, too.”
Seeing that he couldn’t do anything hanging upside down, John closed his eyes and held his breath. He listened to the pounding of his heart, waiting for it to decrease. But it never did, it only sped up at the image of Moriarty claiming Alana for his own. Opening his eyes, John asked through a tight mouth, “Are you joking?”
“Now that would take away the whole mysterious fun, wouldn’t it? I’ll leave it to your imagination. Anyway, I came down here to let you know you’re invited tomorrow. Sherlock will be performing his first deduction under ‘the influence.’ I’ve told my whole network community about it, and from the Facebook invite, we’ll be having over a thousand people in person, and thousands and thousands of more media viewers.”
“What about the cops? Security? How are you getting past them? Oh, never mind, you threatened you’d kill the duchess if they try anything, right?”
Moriarty sauntered up to John and stood in front of his face. Narrowing his eyes, he thickened his accent and replied with a slow whisper, “Spot on, chap.” He gave John a disgusted sneer and walked over to the light. He flipped it off and the clanking sound of metal was heard again. John dangled in the dark, wondering how he would escape. He had several methods, but all he could think about was Moriarty harming his sweet Alana.
Sherlock woke up with a grunt and jumped off of the sofa. He looked through a pair of blurry eyes and struggled for his memory. When he came to, he shouted in his loudest voice, “John!”
“He’s not here,” Moriarty growled, appearing from the downstairs. “He just went down my creepy hall and got himself stuck in a trap. Don’t worry, I’ll let him down before the show starts. In the meantime, Mr. Holmes, you better start exercising whatever you have let in that head of yours because I am going to wear it out.” He took Sherlock by the back of the neck and led him upstairs. “Take care of your face and your hand should be somewhat fine. I bandaged it up. Sorry about that.”
Sherlock gave Moriarty a long stare. A stare that made Moriarty feel, for a moment, afraid. Sherlock’s motionless expression seemed to subtly warn Moriarty that he shouldn’t be so sure of himself. Smirking, the detective stripped Moriarty with a distained look. Leaning in, he whispered, “Watch your back, Jim.” He broke the eye contact and quietly made his way up the rest of the stairs and into the bathroom.
Moriarty stood in the middle of the stairs, trying to figure out what Sherlock Holmes meant. He knew the detective wasn’t bluffing—his voice was too controlled and confident for that. Slipping into another room, Moriarty closed and latched it. Once inside, he went over to one of his computer screens and lit up the screen. He pulled the Facebook page up and read the number of guests. Three-thousand twenty four people stated they were ‘going’. Five thousand people said ‘maybe.’ Moriarty moved the key over to the title of the event and typed in, Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective. Mockery snapped in his fingertips as he added in the description bar: see if England’s prized detective is all he says he is! Tune in on BBC Network as well. Open wagers accepted. Free admission for live show. Bring your mates.
The criminal stepped away from the computer and looked at his watch. Sighing in impatience, he mumbled, “Ten hours before show time. Might as well call my security.” Moriarty went over to his mobile and sent a mass text to every criminal and mercenary he trusted to come and prepare for tomorrow’s performance.