sh (humanerror) wrote in snapthread, @ 2019-06-02 10:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | irene adler (bbc), sherlock holmes (bbc) |
Who: Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler.
What: Arrivals, confusion, probably snarking. You know how they do.
Where: Courtyard.
When: Morning of Sunday, June 2.
Warnings: Blood, mentions of death.
Sherlock was furious. And a little impressed, admittedly, but mostly angry, because anger was far easier to grapple with than fear. It left him feeling very cold—or perhaps that was the lingering rigor mortis, there was really no way of knowing. He glanced down at his ruined shirt and made a face. There would be no saving the expensive fabric, not with the rapidly drying blood that ran down the front where he'd been shot only moments before. Perfect aim. Surgical, really. Mary had been so calm, so chilling, and the sudden unveiling of her true character left Sherlock reeling with a hundred questions and a deep, deep uneasiness he preferred not to examine. Who was she really? Had he been wrong all along? Why hadn't he seen? Did Mycroft know? Of all people, he never would have suspected Mary, and yet here he was, dead, standing around like an idiot because he was in shock.
He tore his gaze away from the blood he'd been staring at and took in his surroundings, only to immediately grimace. It looked like some rude reimagining of an amusement park, the bright colors already giving him a migraine. This must be hell. Wonderful. Sherlock wasn't much for religious allegory, but being shot in the heart by his best friend's wife and thus forced to spend eternity with Moriarty was a bit heavy-handed. It didn't surprise him whoever was in charge of all this had very little creativity to spare. "Well?" Sherlock turned on his heel, sneering. "Where are you? Oh, don't be shy now. That's no fun. You've been waiting for me long enough, and here I am—you got me." He waited, heart beating so loud in his ears that he could scarcely hear anything else.
Nothing happened. Nobody came.
A heavy, shaky breath gusted out of Sherlock, but he didn't dare let his guard down. Moriarty was here somewhere, he'd simply have to find him. It was a task, a puzzle to be solved, something to keep his mind occupied when the fear began to claw its way up his throat again, choking him with cold, cold fingers. She'd slipped past his defenses, made him feel comfortable, accepted, and then—what about the others? Would Mary go after them, too? Or was Sherlock the only one standing in her way, an inconvenience to be disposed of? Poetic, really. The rest is silence.