"Come on, John!" the detective urged his friend as he pocketed his gun and headed down the stairs, as if there was no outside world than what Sherlock Holmes currently cared for.
"Woah! Sherlock! Where are we going?" John asked from his awkward loneliness in the living room before he followed the man, like the second car follows the locomotive.
The tall man stopped on the pavement and had his back turned to John, as he waved for a taxi. The doctor could see the stiff stance beneath Sherlock's thick coat plainly. There was a beat, before Sherlock swirled around to face his friend, the same unwillingness to take pause plainly written across his face as well. John understood his friend, or at least assumed he did. He wanted to save the woman, too, though it sort of pained him to admit as much. She had been a great help in solving the puzzle of Sherlock's deteriorating mind, and had in her own way then won the blond man's respect. Whether it was this frustration and stress of a friend in distress that Sherlock's eyes now conveyed, or a deeper emotion, John couldn't know.
As the sounds of the cars whizzing by outside, the tall, dark-haired man managed through gritted teeth, "If you don't mind... According to the text Irene has a thirty minute head-start on us and I'd appreciate getting to her while she still has a pulse. Could we take this on the way?"
A black cab stopped outside Baker Street then and with a pleased hum, Sherlock opened the door and stressed his friend inside. John sat down in the backseat and pondered the clues thus far as the detective gave the cab driver a destination and jumped into the backseat as well.
The doctor turned and gazed at the detective hesitantly. Sherlock noted and sighed heavily. The detective really didn't think there was much time for it, but if it would help the slower mind and let them move on to the major issue...
The man inhaled until his lungs could fill no more and shared his deductions in lightning speed, "Tempus fugit. Time flies. Suggests the location to their rendez-vouz is somewhere relating to time. A clock, a clock shop, clock maker? Now, what about 0963? Despite being written like military time code it is obviously not telling the time since there aren't sixty-three minutes per hour. No, what's missing is a simple comma. 96,3."
"Ok. 96,3-what?" John questioned and to his defense he did feel it was an honest question considering the fact that his friend had just a few hours earlier been declared insane, though wrongful it had been. There could still be remnants of the drug in Sherlock's system and he just wanted to make sure his friend was sure of what he was doing now.
"Meters, obviously," the detective said dully. "Now, where does time fly at 96,3 meters, John?"
The blond man glanced sideways at his friend and saw the unmistakable twinkle in the man's pale eyes. Even though Sherlock wanted to rush out to save the woman, he seemed at the same time excited to have a proper puzzle to solve for once. "...I'm not sure the drug has worn off yet."
"A clock tower. The great bell of Westminister, actually. The bell tower stands at 96,3 meters. 61 meters is the bell tower, the remaining part is the taper. Big Ben, John."
The other man nodded thankful not to be left out of the loop anymore and positive his friend was fully himself. "Very well! There's something I don't understand though."
"Isn't there always?" Sherlock muttered as he shifted in his seat and watched shop lights and buildings swish by outside the car window in the dead of night like a blur of colors.
John thought about not asking, but in the end knew he had to, "I just don't get why she'd go at all? If she knew he was intending to kill her, why willingly meet her doom?"
The Holmes boy sighed and pulled out the woman's phone from his coat pocket. "There were two more texts between Irene and Moriarty a few hours before the final cryptic text. First one from Irene telling the criminal she had outsmarted him, and Moriarty's reply... Here. 'I applaud you, Ms Adler. Come alone when I call for you later or they die.'. Obviously he meant you and I. She went because he gave her no choice."
"Then why leave us the phone?"
"Maybe she hoped I could still be in time to save her," Sherlock stated in a low, dark voice. As do I, the man added to himself in his mind, though he wasn't prepared to admit as much to his friend. He then turned his gaze out the window while one of his impatient hands drummed its fingers against his knee in an impatient beat.
The doctor watched his distressed friend but refrained from commenting on his uncommon behavior.
_____________
The time had almost reached the stroke of midnight, Irene noted as she gazed out through the glass of the great clock. She had arrived at Big Ben just twenty minutes ago and wasn't too surprised to find both the path unlocked and unguarded as she had made her way up to the very top of the bell tower. Obviously, Moriarty had connections everywhere to make it happen.
She had found her way to the smaller area right behind one of the dials in the four-faced clock itself to await Moriarty. The area was about three meters wide and twenty meters long and opposite the glass of the clock there was a large wall, behind which the mechanics of the watch were hidden from sight.
Irene stood close to the clock and attempted to look down at the Thames but found that it was virtually impossible to see anything but shadows and light playing outside the opal glass. Besides a few lanters in the small space inside, the moon itself bathed the room in a pale light. Irene wished all the more she could have seen the city of London down below one last time. Or that she could have seen the people she cared for most once more, but it was better this way, she supposed.
She was no stupid girl, and had known from the get-go that following the directives in Moriarty's text would lead to her probable death. If she was lucky, the youngest Holmes had found her phone, decrypted the text and was on his way to save her. Then again, that would also mean that he might not be so lucky, Irene knew.
Moriarty had in plain text threatened he would kill Sherlock and John if they appeared. The woman couldn't help but be afraid she had made the wrong choice in hoping naively that the brilliant man would find a way to solve that small problem, too. Regardless, she couldn't rely on the detective's aid now.
Early on, when she had first contacted the criminal master mind, Irene had learned of his intricate love of games and riddles. She had also learned that no one crossed his path and lived, just as Sherlock had later also warned her. And this time, it meant she was no longer the dominatrix but the dominated. The fact that her puppet-master was none other than the criminal mastermind who held the whole world in the palm of his hand, frightened her more than she cared to admit.
Suddenly, a sound echoed between the high walls in the bell tower, a chill ran up the woman's spine. It was a humming noise of a haunting tune that danced between the shadows. It seemed to awaken dark thoughts and deeds everywhere. Irene stood frozen and with her head held high. Fear gripped at her throat but she would rather die than portray that truth.
"O-oh, death..." the voice sang in a low-key tone. "O-oh death. Won't you spare me over 'til another year...?"
The brunette heard the soft tapping sound as shoes hit the floor and the voice grew louder and closer from the shadows on her right, from the same stairs she had recently climbed to get to the hidden area.
"But what is this that I can't see, with ice cold hands taking hold of me?" Moriarty's voice sang the haunting melody as Irene held her gaze fixed out at the dial. "When God is gone and the Devil takes hold, who will have mercy on your soul?"
Suddenly his voice was close to her ear and Irene could feel his warm breath on her neck and ear. "No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold. Nothing satisfies me but your soul.... Well, I am death none can excel, I open the door to heaven or hell. My name is death and the end is... here..."
The fair woman kept her face impassive while her heart hammered in her chest. Dully, she commented, "I don't particularly care for that song. I prefer 'Live to die another day'."
The man chuckled, though there was no warmth in his laughter, and Irene finally turned to look at the man beside her.
There was a sick, twisted grin on his face as his dark eyes spoke of joyless amusement. There was obvious glee in his entire stance as he held her gaze firmly. The criminal wore a classic, grey suit and his hair was slicked back. His hands rested casually in his pants pockets as if this was more of a friendly meeting than a 'business meeting' such as this.
Suddenly the smile on Moriarty's face disappeared and left in its wake nothing but coldness and death. "You've stopped me twice now, dear. You didn't actually think I'd let you continue, did you? You're like the annoying, teaseful thorn in my eye. I simply must take you out and be rid of you..."
Irene turned to look out the glass once more, attempting to mentally shrug off the implications in his words. She noted the drizzle outside and gently commented, "...It's raining."
"Could it be the gods that mourn your upcoming death? She whom the gods love dies young."
The woman turned around and took a few steps away from the man. "Jim-"
"I wonder, would Sherlock cry?"
At his words, Irene's gaze flew to meet the man's and she could clearly see both amusement and intrigue in his eyes. There was something in those dark pools that the dominatrix simply couldn't read, despite her best efforts, but still found she was drawn in deeper into danger. Suddenly, Moriarty chuckled once more.
Irene raised her chin in hope of conveying an aloofness she didn't necessarily feel. "Care to clue me in on your joke?"
"It's just funny. I still don't know what the coroner will say your COD is..."
"Ah... Forgive me for not laughing," the woman said and shrugged her long coat closer to her body.
"Oh, come now. Lighten up, Ms Adler. You only die once, why not die with a laugh? How about this, I'll let you decide the cause?"
The brunette shook her head and boldly met his eyes. "I fear I have terrible news for your maniacal ego: I'm not afraid to die. We're all born to die, sooner or later, after all."
"I don't think I could have said it better myself, Ms Adler," Moriarty smirked. "...Mind if I quote you post-mortem?"
"Go right ahead."
"Thank you."
"If you want more quotes, I suggest you keep me alive."
The mastermind grinned crookedly and shook his head. "It just won't do, Ms Adler."
"It was worth a try," she commented coldly and her hard eyes met Moriarty's in a sharp battle of stares. As a devilish smirk grew on the man's lips that chilled her to the bones, Irene opted for a bolder tactic. "I'm on to you. Your threat was worth nothing. If I hadn't come tonight, you still wouldn't have killed Sherlock. You love his presence too much."
Moriarty's smile fell somewhat but he played along. "And yet you didn't risk it..."
"You can't kill him," the woman pointed out and smirked devilishly.
"Oh, killing him isn't the problem, darling. It's utterly and completely destroying that man that's proven a bit problematic."
The truth in his words were something she didn't know how to respond to. She walked back over to the clock and her stilettos clicked against the floor as she did. Though the woman shared the criminal's love for games, this was not a game she particularly cared to keep playing.
"I don't care about him, you know. Not in the way you think, at least," Irene stated dully as she listened to the drizzle splash against the glass of the dial.
Moriarty took hold of her shoulders then and turned her around to face him. She was startled by the moves as he reached one hand down to unbutton her coat. The woman stood stiff as he questioned, "Then why do you keep saving his shapely arse? He is your greatest weakness, Ms Adler."
"I don't-" Irene began fervently but the man interrupted her by holding up his palm to stop her and finished unbuttoning her coat.
"Question is... can you be his?"
The woman was thrown by this question and paused before uttering, "Hardly."
"Oh, I don't know..." Moriarty's eyes traveled over her features as if devouring her soul and life with his eyes without mercy or concern. Then, as a small smile spread across his thin lips, Irene finally read the intention in his eyes.
She was too late though.
At the same time he plunged a small dagger in her stomach. She gasped for air as he withdrew it and coldly began to button up her cloak once more, covering up the wound sneakily. The woman's breaths were raspy as pain spread through her abdomen and rose to numbing heights. Her wide eyes beheld Moriarty, who wasn't fazed at all, as he threw the dagger out of sight into the vast shadows of the room.
He turned back to the beautiful woman, cocked his head to the side and merely nodded in the direction of the staircase on the right. "I think maybe you can."
At that moment, Sherlock and John barged up the stairs in full speed and came to a halt upon finding the duo standing on the other end of the narrow space.
Swiftly, the detective raised his gun arm and pointed it towards Moriarty as his unblinking eyes took in the scene before him. The mad man and Irene were illuminated by the moon outside the glass clearly and stood close, however whatever conversation they had shared before his arrival had been lost on Sherlock's ears. Now, he noted that the woman hadn't turned to acknowledge their presence, but the detective could clearly see her eyes were wide and her breaths came shallow.
The criminal didn't seem surprised to see the two new arrivals as he instead spread out his arms in a welcoming gesture towards them, "Welcome, Sherlock, John! So lovely to see you both! How are you tonight?"
"Clear of mind despite your best efforts," Sherlock replied dryly and turned his gaze back to the woman. "Are you okay?... Irene."
She snapped out of her daze and turned to meet his eyes. The fear was written without subtext in her pale face, and this the man took as a clear warning. Irene never did anything without subtext.
"...Shoot him," she managed in a low voice and somehow this simple command was all the more haunting than if her voice had been powerful. The thought of what it might imply disturbed the Holmes man, though the feeling itself was beyond explanation to the detective's brilliant mind.
Moriarty clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as a parent might sound when expressing their disapproval towards a misbehaving child.
"Is that how you treat old friends, Ms Adler?" the mad man reached up and pinched her cheek as his smirk grew.
Without warning, he then suddenly pulled a small revolver from his pocket and pressed it against her temple. John let out a stunned shout as Sherlock re-gripped his gun and took aim directly at Moriarty's head.
The criminal merely tossed an amused grin in the detective's direction. "How about a game of Russian roulette, Sherlock? There are two rounds in the cylinder. Want to see if the woman is as lucky as she's rumored to be?"
Without awaiting a response, Moriarty pulled the trigger. the woman violently flinched back and fell to the floor. She landed on her side and remained down. John moved to step over to her but the criminal turned his gun on the doctor, effectively stopping him mid-step.
"Uh-uh. No, no, dear. Step right back," Moriarty said and glanced down at Irene who was very much alive as her eyes flew open, though there was evident shock and an inability to focus in the two blue ponds. Sherlock felt his muscles relax momentarily before his fingers clenched tight around the gun once more.
Moriarty smirked at the doctor. "Step back now, Dr. Watson, or we try another round of roulette, and this time Ms Adler's chances won't be as good."
"Alright, alright! I'm stepping back, lower the gun...!" the blond man raised his hands to signal his retreat and swiftly moved to stand on Sherlock's left again.
The mad man's smirk spoke volumes of his dark intentions as he merely asked, "Do you want to play another round?"
"Not really," the detective replied. "I've already grown tired of this game."
"Yeah, me too..." the other man nodded and shrugged as he swiftly pocketed the revolver once more. The changeable nature of Jim Moriarty was never easy to understand or foresee.
"What do you want, Jim?" Sherlock asked, still without lowering his gun.
"What I always want. To wreak a little havoc, my dear," Moriarty shrugged and then nodded down at the shacking woman. "And to kill her, of course. Or now, as it seems, all of you."
"You won't succeed," John said boldly as he gazed from Irene, who still remained down, and up at the mad criminal. "As you never do."
"Not entirely true, Dr Watson," Moriarty argued and casually placed his hands in his pants pockets once more. "I always succeed. I'm always Mr Sex. You're just too dull to see it."
"Maybe," the short man agreed. "Or maybe what I see is that Sherlock is always cleverer than you."
"No, he's not," Moriarty argued.
"Yes, I am," Sherlock bit back.
"No-"
"Let's call it a draw," John interrupted as he concluded that both men could continue arguing over that particular fact forever unless he nipped it at the bud.
Moriarty smirked and winked at his nemesis, before turning down to gaze at Irene lying by his feet. He turned his grin on Sherlock and the detective frowned in response. The look on Moriarty's face spoke of a victory that he couldn't quite deduce. He was concerned, too, since the shocked woman still had to stand from the ground and her shallow breaths came swifter by the minute.
"Don't misinterpret this, Dr. Watson," Moriarty began then and grimaced as he turned to the third man, "but this isn't turning out to be as fun as I thought. Maybe I'll let you live for now."
"You're giving up?" John asked.
"No. I'm just..." the criminal glanced down at the woman briefly, "-... letting you live to die another day."
While Sherlock could feel, rather than hear, his friend's relieved breath, Moriarty's words only made the detective clench the gun in his hands tighter.
"Well, I'd better be off..." the mad man said casually but just as he turned to leave towards the left stair case, the detective raised his gun and pointed it steadfast towards the criminal consultant.
"Not. This. Time," Sherlock breathed slowly and watched as a slow smile spread on Moriarty's lips and a dark glint ignited in the man's pale eyes as he turned back. He was obviously thrilled to be challenged and seemed to have been expecting nothing less.
"Oh, Sherlock, I think you will..." the man said in a calm voice which merely elevated his nemesis' anxiety. "I go, or we all die."
"Another trick, Jim? I know you have no henchmen with you tonight, you have no back-up. You can't stop me," Sherlock's dark voice was relentless.
Moriarty shook his head and looked over at the dark-haired man with a disapproving look. "You're still so far behind, Sherlock, it's not funny. You've started to bore me... Since when do I come unprepared? But let's not get fired up over it, shall we? This party blows already."
John's eyes widened as he turned to his friend. "He rigged it. He's rigged the goddamn bell tower!"
"Good, Mr Watson. Very good, indeed," Moriarty seemed genuienly approving of the doctor's deduction. "I thought it would be a fitting end for Ms Adler. The woman on fire consumed by fire. Get it, John? Or would you like me to show you instead?"
"No! No," the doctor raised his hands as if the gesture would calm everyone down. "Let's not blow up anything tonight."
The criminal turned his gaze back to Sherlock and there was a wordless conversation between the pair. The criminal master mind glanced down at his hand in his pocket pointedly and then up at the gun in the other man's strong hand.
"The great bell of Westminster has always tolled since its completion, Sherlock. It's seen many wars and years come to pass. Still, it chimes. But I can end that tonight. I can kill Ben tonight. I was only intending Ms Adler to die alongside him, but killing three flies in one hand is better than just the one," the man shrugged. "Unless you let me go."
The detective hesitated a second before glancing at John by his side who seemed to hold his breath awaiting his decision. A short nod was all the encouragement the blond man offered as Sherlock reluctantly lowered his gun.
"Run then, if you must."
Moriarty's grin was crooked and wicked as he backed off into the shadows and soon disappeared down the stairs on the other end of the room. Sherlock distantly held out the gun towards his friend. "Make sure he doesn't change his mind," the man commanded and John nodded distantly as he took the weapon and hurried after the criminal mastermind. Left alone in the small area, Sherlock hurried over to the woman and knelt on the floor next to her.
She reached out a trembling hands towards him and he attempted to read the unfocused fear in her eyes. He opened his mouth to ask when a voice echoed from somewhere down the stairs.
"Sherlock!" it was John's terrified voice.
Fear gripped the man's throat as he jumped from the ground and yelled back, "John!"
Whatever his friend had attempted to warn him of, soon became abundantly obvious as the entire tower shook from a loud explosion further down. Sherlock felt the warmth before he saw the flames lick the walls as they climbed up the stairs and into the small area. The pressure wave that followed threw the detective backwards. Rubble and stone flew all around him and Irene as parts of the wall that hid the mechanics toppled over, narrowly missing their bodies. Sherlock landed hard on the ground and felt the air knocked from his lungs as well as a ringing sound in his ears that seemed to dull all other noises. He glanced about and saw that the woman lay immobile to the side on the burning floor and a cloud of dust floated in the air between them.
"John!" Sherlock bellowed once more and crawled towards the stairs as he attempted to get to his feet. The smoke filled his lungs and he coughed when suddenly a second explosion rocked the tower once more. The man knew what it meant, Moriarty must have set a chain of bombs to prevent their escape. This time the flames were relentless as they climbed the stairs and towards Sherlock.
The pressure wave threw the man roughly into the glass of the clock wall and his head smashed into the hard surface. As he fell towards the ground once more, the room faded in and out of darkness.
Sherlock was barely aware of the chaos around him. The flaming wood flying through the air, the glass of the clock shattering to pieces and the entire roof above their head shaking to join in the crescendo of Moriarty's game. There was no way of knowing just what damage had occurred, only that their was commotion everywhere in the bell tower.
The last thing the detective noted before darkness entirely consumed him was the utter devastation of the area and his last thought was one of concern for both John and Irene.
Then, suddenly, there was nothing.