Chapter Text
You knew it. Your gut told you. You knew something was wrong. But at the innocence of the moment, your mind told you not to suspect a thing. You remember, sitting there, in Molly's humble abode on her comfy white, felt sofa. She was your friend, she is your friend, so you didn't suspect a thing about her obviously gay lover. You felt bad for her, honestly, so you didn't want to tell her the truth. At least what felt like the truth at the moment.
You sat there with your legs crossed, draped over the edge of the cozy cushions on the right side of the couch, your body touching the armrest, so your friend and her boyfriend had enough room to sit together. They’ve only been dating for a couple days now, but Molly clung to him like he was the best thing in the world. Though, she didn't seem to be paying much attention to him, as she just raved on and on about Sherlock, stopping occasionally to talk about your average conversation topics. But mostly? Sherlock. You knew she had it down bad for him. She was probably only dating this man to get to Sherlock, but you don't think she was doing it intentionally, she’s just not toxic like that. It was probably subconscious.
Poor Jim.
But then you also wondered why he was even dating her. He was gay, after all. The several times his gaze drifted to the rug laden hardwood floors, you could tell his mind was elsewhere. Seemed dark, though, his gaze. But you shrugged it off. He was probably just bored, right?
Now that you sit in your own home, staring at the television screen, you realize that maybe you should've trusted your gut instead of your eyes. There he is, that man, now with slicked back hair, an expensive gray suit and stylish sunglasses, walking out of the court house like he owned the world. You clutch the blanket that lay draped across your lap, squinting at the screen that casts a blue glow across your living room. How did he get out? He broke into the three highest security places in London. There must've been some bribe money, some kind of thing to alter the jury.
Shaking your head, you turn away from the TV screen, looking back into the kitchen. You lived in a small apartment, but it was good for simple living. The door to enter the apartment led straight down a short hall that widened into a living room to the left and a kitchen to the right accompanied by an island to make it look big, contrasting the reality of it. In the hall there were three doors, one on the left and two to the right. One was a laundry room that you never managed to get fully uncluttered, and the others were the doors to a modest bathroom and a haven of a bedroom. You prioritized your comfort.
Sighing, you grasp the fabric of the blanket and pull it away from your lap, setting it on the cushion beside you and pushing down on your knees as you stood up from the couch. Stretching your back, you turned to face your attention back to the kitchen and walked around the side table to step over to the marble top island. You tap your fingers against the cool, slick surface as you contemplate what to eat for dinner.
It was difficult to focus, though.
Jim– no, Moriarty was out there, loose. It’s been that way for several hours now. He walked out of court today, but that was midday. The sun has set now, and you’re tired. You originally heard about his release from Molly. She called you in horror, not exactly sad that her boyfriend ended up being, not only “gay”, but rather a mastermind villain. Molly had been holding hands with a psychopath murderer, of course she was horrified.
“Sherlock said he was gay not… not Moriarty himself!” She had stressed over the phone, not loudly, but almost carefully, like she’d be caught fretting. “He was so sweet! Not that it matters, anyway, he’s a criminal. Just– just faking it! God… I couldn't tell. What does that say about me?”
Now the news report you just watched confirmed it. You believed her anyway, but it made it more real to you. Watching from your screen, him walking out of that grandiose archway to the sunny outdoors. Rare in London, a bright day.
Abruptly, you tap a finger on the counter with finality as the decision of ramen comes to mind. Making anything else would be too draining after a day like this. You walk around the island to the slim kitchen area, wrapping your hand around the brass handle of a birchwood cupboard, reaching your other in and retrieving a hollow, styrofoam frustum with the words “Cup O’ Noodles” printed in colorful, bold letters on the sides. As you set down the cup, a prolonged, triggering noise disrupts your line of motions.
The trill came from your phone that lay on the side table by the sofa, continuing to beckon you. With a quiet huff, you cross the little space between the kitchen and living room, picking your phone up off of the wooden table and staring at the figure on the screen.
“Blocked Number”, it reads.
You can't remember blocking anyone recently, and curiosity gets the better of you. If it’s spam or any unwanted caller from your past, you can just hit the helpful red button on your screen. So, hesitantly, you tap the opposing green one and press the phone to your ear.
“Hello?” You inquire into the unknown.
“Will you open up? It’s awfully dreary out here.”
You recognize that soft, almost petulant voice immediately. It takes a moment for you to gather a response.
“What are you doing here?”
Your eyes fixate on the door through the dark hall, and dread settles in the pit of your stomach. He gave a short, unsure hum over the phone like he was trying to figure it out for himself.
“Can’t a friend visit? Oh, will you just open up? You’re not gonna let me freeze to death, are you? Nooo.”
A foot of yours takes a step forward towards the door, dangerous curiosity. You know it's stupid to follow through, but is it any more intelligent to not open the door? You know he won't just walk away-there will be consequences. You take another step.
“Will you kill me?”
“Well,” he scoffs on the line, “that’s a bit of a silly question, isn't it? If I wanted you dead, I certainly wouldn't do it myself. No, that’d just be...”
The sound of him opening his jaw with a disgusted ‘blegh’, like he tasted something foul, filtered through the speaker and into your ear.
“Nnno, that’s just not me, I’m afraid.” He speaks plainly so far, you can imagine him saying it with an unbothered shrug and frown. “No, what I have planned is so, much, more, fun.”
He finishes with a slow, strained voice, his grin heard through the phone before he chuckles dryly.
You swallow, continuing to step towards the door, each step feels like another brick placed in a wall behind you as it seals your fate onwards.
“Open the door.” He says once more, his tone now suddenly icy. “Open it, and you’ll be… ehhh, more or less okay. Don't worry about it, just focus on the ‘okay’ part.”
Your fingers move to brush against the handle, but before you even think about turning it, you peer out of the peephole to get a look at this man. There he is.
Moriarty.
Phone against his ear, staring with something dead at the center of the door, his eyes unmoving. That was, before, the shadow of yours through the peephole catches his attention, those soulless eyes lifting to meet your own. Then, he grins, taking the phone away from his ear and pointedly pressing that red button you wish you had pressed. His eyes never leave your point of gaze.
Your fingers tighten on the handle, and then, you twist it.
Pocketing your phone that beeped out an end tone, you slowly open the door, meeting eyes with a man you originally sat on a couch with and thought nothing of the matter.
“Hi.” Moriarty greets in a sing-song voice, his face deadpan.
He slips his phone into his pocket, and takes the other out his opposing pocket, holding a small aerosol can and brings it up to your facial level, giving a spritz. You recoil, stepping back into your apartment. It all happens so fast, your vision swims and your muscles slacken with an abrupt weakness. Your body harshly meets the ground, eyes heavy and blurry.
“Sorry. I just need you for something, is all. It’s nothing personal.”
The man stands over you with his hands in his pockets as a blurry, taller figure walks through the door. You can't keep your eyes open any longer. Your grasp on reality slips and you’re met with darkness.