OH MY GOD I FORGOT I HAD WRITTEN A JOHNLOCK FANFIC…and I never finished it. Jesus christ, it hurts.
OH MY GOD I FORGOT I HAD WRITTEN A JOHNLOCK FANFIC…and I never finished it. Jesus christ, it hurts.
Guy just walked past me at school, I swear he had the exact same eyes as Andrew Scott when he plays Moriarty in the BBC Sherlock. He was even dressed in the same fashion as Scott when he did the whole ‘i.t. guy’.
“John. We have a problem.” Sherlock said from the kitchen.
“Sherlock, if you clogged the sink again with one of your experiments…”John started as he walked into the kitchen from the living room. John looked around the kitchen, expecting anything from fire, to a bleeding flat mate, to Sherlock waiting expectantly for John to fetch something within arm’s reach.
Instead, the former military doctor found the eccentric detective staring at his phone.
John knew from the ridged set of the younger man’s back, the paler than usual demeanor, look of concentration furrowing his brow, and the abandoned experiment in front of him that something was very, very wrong.
Sherlock turned to look at John as the older man came to stand behind him.
“I just received this text.” Sherlock said, handing the phone to his counterpart.
On the screen was a picture of Molly, tied to a chair, looking frightened, with a very much alive Moriarty in a freshly tailored suit standing beside her. The words below the picture simply stated: “She does matter though, doesn’t she?”
“When was the last time anyone saw her?” John asked. “Have you tried to ring her?”
“This was sent from her phone, John.” Sherlock said, placing the phone on the table in front of him.
“What are we going to do? We need to save her, Sherlock.” John said, as he paced the small bit of floor in the kitchen.
“I am aware of that. However, we don’t know what he wants yet.” Sherlock responded, staring at the phone.
John stopped, spinning the chair the younger man was sitting in so that they were looking at each other with mere inches between them. “We don’t know? Sherlock, you tricked him into thinking you were dead. Now you’re alive. Clearly he wants to continue to play his game with you.”
“Yes, John. I believe you are correct.”
The two were silent. They were both sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the phone.
Sherlock’s phone rang.
The two didn’t move, staring at it, as it rang.
“It’s Lestrade.” Sherlock said, finally, as he picked up phone from the table.
“Yes?” He asked, as he answered.
