That night, after being thrown into his room by a raging Moriarty, Sherlock was quite content to stay in his room. He didn’t care that Moriarty had latched his door from the outside and strung barb-wire outside his window—it only gave him a better chance to experiment with the antidotes.
“Your third injection is tonight, Sherlock Holmes!” Moriarty yelled, as if threatening the detective with a childish punishment. He stormed into his lab and began mixing the next concoction.
Sherlock sat on the floor, his legs crossed, and the five syringes fanned out in front of him. Pressing his folded hands against his chin, he stared at them. Though, staring didn’t help because he was still under the influence and he couldn’t think even hard enough to decide which one he’d start with.
“Why do you think Moriarty allows us to see each other?” Alana asked, draping herself over the bed so that she saw the world upside down.
Pacing, John replied, “Probably to agonize the part where you die.” He tried to laugh off the last words, but it instead came out in a warble.
Turning over, Alana rested her chin on her fists and watched John go back and forth in front of her. “You think Mr. Holmes will be able to deduct?”
“I don’t know. I had texted Molly, his lab assistant to make something up, but God only knows if she was able to get them to him. It’d be a bleeding miracle if she got them to him through security.” John stopped and buried his face into his hands.
Feeling awfully sorry for him, Alana slipped off the bed and cradled his shoulders in her light arms. Stroking his short, shaggy hair, she swayed back and forth, inviting him to dance along. John rested his chin on her shoulder and released a long sigh. Fingering her brown locks, John drew his breath back in and held it for a moment.
“What’s wrong?” Alana asked, pulling just far enough away to read his face.
In short breaths, with frequent pauses, John asked, “Would you…if all this traumatic stuff wasn’t happening…would you consider…”
Alana’s face lit up and her bones quaked. She could feel her energy building up and the anticipation was more than she could control. Before John could finish, she interrupted him with a breathless, “Yes! I will.”
“You will what? I haven’t even asked the question yet,” John said through an unsure smile.
“Weren’t you going to ask me to marry you?” Alana quivered through a tightened throat.
“I was actually going to ask you to be my girlfriend. But, now that you mentioned it, you would? Really?” John’s voice squeaked in a vocal register that was only heard when he was either really confused or extremely excited. “Well, right. Then, would you?”
Smiling with complete ecstasy filling up her soul, she kissed John on the forehead and then looked him tenderly in the eyes. Caressing the soft spot behind his ear, she replied in a whisper, “Yes.”
Sherlock hurled one of the syringes across the room and grabbed his head with his hands. “Four down, seven hours to go…this is so tedious! If I could identify the taste,” Sherlock paused to lick the tip of finger, “then I would know exactly which one to take.” Giving up on keeping his sleeve rolled up, he stripped off his shirt and injected himself with the second needle. He turned his eyes to the clock and began the countdown. The only way he knew if an antidote worked was by picking a subject in the room and deducting it. If his mind bruised itself into a headache, he obviously knew he had to try another syringe. And, on the contrary, if he could deduct within less than five seconds, he knew he had taken the right one.
The minute hand ticked halfway around the clock and Sherlock couldn’t deduct one thing. He sent the second syringe whistling through the air and snatched up the third one. Sticking himself quite violently, he jerked the needle out and stared at the clock. “Oh, Molly, you better have at least one good one in here for me!”
Before Sherlock knew it, one o’clock came around. Half asleep, and his brain feeling like slush, the detective didn’t notice Moriarty hovering over him.
“Where did you get these?” Moriarty barked in his ears.
Sherlock jumped and, remembering what he had last been doing, scooped up the last two injections and held them securely in his fists. Blinking, he replied cheerfully, “Ah! Moriarty, what brings you here?”
Squatting so that he was eye level with Sherlock, Moriarty held up the third injection. “I’ll trade you mine for yours.”
“What?”
“Don’t play with me. I see the two syringes in your hands.”
“The third injection. What will that do since the last one didn’t drive me to my death?”
“This one will slow your heart down. It’s not one of my inventions, it’s the lethal injection. Your heart won’t feel a thing.” Moriarty grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and tried to hold him still.
Sherlock struck out and pinned Moriarty to the floor. “John! John!”
Panting, Moriarty declared, “He won’t here you! He’s got his door secured anyway. But I know who will hear you!” Gathering enough strength to fill his lungs with air, Moriarty let out a shrill whistle.
There was a beat of silence before Sherlock heard the deep-throated growl of Moriarty’s pit-bull. Shooting his eyes to the doorway, Sherlock watched in horror as the monstrous gray dog charged him. Knowing no other way to protect himself, Sherlock braced himself for the attack and held ready one of the syringes. If he could put the dog’s eyes out, or perhaps jam the needle in its throat, either choice, he had a slim chance of surviving.
Moriarty kicked Sherlock off of him and rolled out of the way just at the same time his dog soared over his head. Glaring at the detective with disgust, he stood up and brushed off his suit. “Hope you like dogs.” With that, Moriarty twirled his syringe between his fingers and watched as his dog tore and thrashed at Sherlock.
It wasn’t long before Sherlock’s arms were shredded into bloody pieces and his face punctured by teeth wounds. Struggling and groaning under the unwavering animal, Sherlock turned to his last resort. Gripping the syringe firmly in his fist, he plunged it under the ribcage. It was hard for him to know exactly what he hit, but he knew he would find out in a matter of seconds.
The dog’s growling ceased into complete silence. The claws retracted, the muscles relaxed, and the eyes rolled back. Chuckling to himself, Sherlock shoved the dog off of him and twirled the syringe between his fingers. Letting his eyes fall on the astonished criminal, Sherlock said, “I may have lost my ability to deduct, but you seemed to have forgotten that I was still born a proper genius.” Tossing the empty syringe at Moriarty, Sherlock added, “There, I’ll trade yours for mine.”
Seething with anger, Moriarty took the syringe he had in his hands and slowly squirted out its contents. Through the thin stream, he replied, “Hope you’ve figured out which one’s the good injection, though.” He tossed the needle behind him and walked out, closing and locking the door behind him.
Breathing in heavy breaths and shaking from loss of blood, Sherlock took up the last syringe and injected himself.