Through strenuous efforts, John was able to pick the lock on the snare. If he hadn’t confiscated one of Alana’s hairpins when he had last kissed her, he would’ve never freed himself. Dropping gently to the floor, John kissed the pin and said through a smile, “Thank you, my darling!” Limping off to the iron doors, he fingered the walls for the light switch. It didn’t take him too long because the switch was the only protruding object on the walls. Keeping eyes shut until he could adjust to the light, John flipped it on.
The orange tint flooded the room, revealing a lever John hadn’t noticed when Moriarty had turned the light on. Retrieving his handgun and tucking it inside the back of his jeans, John cautiously stepped towards it. Hoping it was the key to his escape, John took hold of it and faithfully pulled it down. Instantly, the floor trembled and the iron door grunted. With a growing smile, John watched as the egress lifted slowly. Once it had locked itself in place, John rushed out and headed for the front door.
Sherlock sat in the backseat of the cab, wondering what was to happen next. Under normal consciousness, the detective would know exactly what was happening and who would be involved. But this cab ride was different: it was quiet. And not in the auditory sense, but in the sense that Sherlock’s mind wasn’t wracking with ideas, assumptions, and solutions. Mental noises he heard when he’d put together a chase or a deduction were put to sleep. Sounds he’d memorize and tag to a suspect were dead. His own voice—the voice he relied on above all else—was silent.
The cab pulled into Moriarty’s driveway and parked. Sighing a heavy sigh, Sherlock popped open his door and made his way to the house. It felt so strange, even when walking to the front door, how quiet things were. Everything he saw seemed to contribute no value to his mind. Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his pockets and groaned deep in his throat. He hated his state. He hated how that no matter how hard he tried to deduct, his mind would shut down.
When he arrived at the door, he raised his hand to knock, but before he could make contact, the door swung open and Moriarty stood before him. “Ah! Sherlock, come in.”
Sherlock stepped inside and brushed past Moriarty. “Where’s John?”
“He didn’t get too far, like I said, the dog stopped him.” Moriarty closed the door and motioned to a large pit-bull crouched in the hall. Looking up at John who sat restricted on the sofa, Moriarty chimed, “Had a row with the dog, yeah?”
“Quite,” John replied stiffly, holding a wad of gauze over his hand.
“And where’s the duchess? Or is she in secret-secret hideaway?” Sherlock mocked, rolling his eyes afterwards.
“She’s in her room. John can go see her, if he’d like, you can, too.”
“Actually, I’d rather not go. I’d actually like you to show me how you made your drug,” Sherlock asked casually, as if it was something Moriarty would instantly agree to.
Squinting at the detective, Moriarty laughed through his nose. “Oh, my dear friend, have you gone completely mental? Do you think I would show you my ‘secret-secret’? Even if you couldn’t understand anything, I’m not going to chance it.”
“That’s all right, I’ll just go downstairs and see for myself.” Sherlock shoved Moriarty out of the way and headed for a door that he believed led to Moriarty’s lab.
“You’re not going to find it down—,” Moriarty stopped himself and bit his lips.
John let out a snort and tried to cover his laugh, but his restrain was weakening the more he thought about what had just happened.
Sherlock jerked a sealed a smile and lifted his eyes to the upstairs. “Then, I presume it’s upstairs? And if not upstairs, the only other places it would be are—no wait, it has to be upstairs because this is a two story-house.”
“And how would you know that?” Moriarty sneered. “I could easily have another attachment.
“The load bearing,” Sherlock replied smartly.
Moriarty remained silent, and waited to see how far Sherlock could deduct before forgetting.
“The load bearing walls in this house are the fundamental part of the structural system. These walls,” Sherlock waved his hand around him, “support and distribute weight of the roof. And from the sight of the roof I saw when I was somewhat in my right mind, was the weight and measurement of a roof that could only be built on top of a two-story home. Therefore, your house is two-stories. It stretches back pretty far, but it’s not very tall. Therefore, the duchess is in the south wing, where John had gone was the north wing, and your secret-secret lab is upstairs.”
Shaking his head, Moriarty closed his eyes. “Sherlock, Sherlock, I’m so proud of you. You figured this out quite well. Though, you made a mistake.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“You could’ve easily pretended you didn’t know a thing, and if you didn’t know anything, I would’ve probably taken you to my lab. Just to watch you get a headache from my explaining of the drug.” Moriarty placed a hand on Sherlock’s dropped shoulder and led him to stairs. “Go on and sleep. The drug will be taking its affect and I rather not you sleep on the stairs.” He gave Sherlock a firm push up the stairs and watched him until he disappeared.
“Are you really going to kill the duchess?” John asked, getting up from his seat.
“That’s the whole point, Doctor Watson. I know how strong this drug is. Sherlock will fail, and in his despair, he’ll kill himself.” Moriarty sunk into a comfortable chair and picked up a nearby book. “I know you have hope that Sherlock will turn the tables like he did last time, but, things just don’t happen twice. Sherlock Holmes will die and that’ll be the end of everything.”
“And what will become of you after your playmate is gone?” John questioned.
Smiling, Moriarty looked up at John. “Then I’ll come after you. And you will be so, so easy. It’ll be like the dessert after the feast. Well, enough of this boring chatter, I’ll give you a moment with the duchess.”
“Why?”
“She asked for you,” the criminal replied plainly as he pushed the chair out from underneath him and headed towards the south wing. John followed willingly.
“Are you taking me to her so that I’ll stay out of ‘trouble’? So to speak,” John asked.
Opening the door to Alana’s room, Moriarty gave him a wink. “Exactly. But I’ll fetch you before tonight.”
John, keeping a watchful eye on Moriarty, stepped inside the room and didn’t take his eyes off of him until the door closed. When it was just him and Alana, John turned around and was horrified at what he saw.
There, curled up on the bed with her face buried in her knees, was a practically destroyed young woman. Her arms had scratch marks and her hair was down and tangled about her face. Her dress was torn and ripped, and her shoes missing. John approached her slowly, as if not to startle her.
“Get out,” Alana mumbled through her arms.
John stopped, but took no offense. “Alana, it’s John.”
“I know who you are,” the duchess snarled. She lifted her face, showing two hollowed eyes and cracked lips. “How much?”
“What? How much for what?”
“How much did Moriarty pay you to make me fall in love with you? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Alana uncoiled herself and stepped off the bed. Her neck was arched slightly, like an angered vulture. She crept up to John and stood in front of him, her eyes piercing through his. “Answer me, Doctor Watson. Or, are you too afraid to admit it?”
Fumbling over his words, John replied, “I don’t know what Moriarty put in your head, but I’m on your side.”
Alana flew her hands up in rage. “You liar! I should’ve never taken you back at the party. You’re just a manipulating bastard who’ll do anything to make it look like it’s not your fault!” Alana pulled at her hair and then clutched herself in insecurity. “Even my most trusted servant turned me in! And you didn’t come after me because it was all part of this plan!” She turned to John and said in almost a hiss, “You know this is all a game? Between Moriarty and Sherlock. The two set this up for their own entertainment. And you,” Alana stopped to sniffle. “And you’re playing it to—only to save yourself.”
“It’s not true,” John retorted. He grabbed Alana’s closest arm and yanked her towards him.
The duchess let out a shriek and slapped John hard across the face. She beat his arms and scratched at his face until he had to let her go. Stumbling back, she cried, “I hate you. I hate you and your stupid friends. I hate Moriarty and I hate that Sherlock Holmes!” Alana looked back at John and laughed. “You know what’s sad, Doctor Watson? I actually hope that detective fails so that they’ll kill me. I can’t return to a “normal” life after this.”
John stared at her through severe pain. His heart wrenched inside until he could hardly. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to tell her that she believed a lie. But he didn’t know how after she had convinced herself that he was playing for the other side. In his softest, John spoke. “Alana, please, just let me…let me hold you.”
Erupting into a laugh, Alana denied. “What? Like Moriarty did? I didn’t know who he was. I was frightened when I got here. And then this strange man came up and comforted me.” Her voice stopped and the horrid memory replayed. Squeezing her eyes shut, she threw herself on the bed and wept.
John came up beside her and though she refused, he pulled her head against his chest and held her. He shushed her and stroked her hair. She cried and cursed at him, but she didn’t pull away.
Sherlock stared out of his bedroom window, thinking about what his next deduction would be. He wished he had contacted Molly earlier when John suggested it. But he wasn’t even thinking right back then. Sherlock, in anger, slammed his fist against the glass and let out a tormented yell.
At the same time, Moriarty sat in his room, grinning. His eyes were fixed on the third injection—the one he would give Sherlock after the second deduction. He knew what would happen to the detective once he’d give it to him. While Sherlock’s scream echoed through the house, Moriarty closed his eyes and laid his head back. The cry was like a tender lullaby to him: beautiful and haunting.