[He'd gone to be the annoyance. To remind Moriarty that he was watching. Always watching. That he knew what he was and that he wouldn't forget. Moriarty knew all that, of course, but there was something more striking about a physical presence than written or spoken words. To be there, to stand with him. To come after him.
Just as Moriarty had come to Baker Street to threaten him.
Turn about. Fair play.
He'd had the upper hand. Or at least an even field. Until those words.
"Have you told him?"
Two men here knew what had happened on that roof. Sherlock intended to keep it that way, and Moriarty knew that. Moriarty knew that he would never tell John why he'd done what he had. He'd never admit to that kind of weakness. To that sentimentality. To that attachement.
But it was a thought to prey on his mind.
And it had.
Sherlock Holmes entered 2-21 with an unusually quiet movement. Normally, he was utterly unaware of how loud his step was coming home or whether or not he slammed the door. Even if he was late returning. Tonight, though, it was almost normal. For anyone else. Carefully shutting the door, minimising sound that might wake the sleeping doctor. Had he been asleep.
It was difficult to say in the late hour, but he looked paler than usual, and his jacket lay perfectly still down his back, untroubled by ruffling or restless wings. Because they were pressed flat against his shirt, all nerves and the muscles tight coils. His fingers flexed and contracted just barely as he turned the deadbolt. Not that a lock would keep out anyone who really wanted in.
no subject
Just as Moriarty had come to Baker Street to threaten him.
Turn about. Fair play.
He'd had the upper hand. Or at least an even field. Until those words.
"Have you told him?"
Two men here knew what had happened on that roof. Sherlock intended to keep it that way, and Moriarty knew that. Moriarty knew that he would never tell John why he'd done what he had. He'd never admit to that kind of weakness. To that sentimentality. To that attachement.
But it was a thought to prey on his mind.
And it had.
Sherlock Holmes entered 2-21 with an unusually quiet movement. Normally, he was utterly unaware of how loud his step was coming home or whether or not he slammed the door. Even if he was late returning. Tonight, though, it was almost normal. For anyone else. Carefully shutting the door, minimising sound that might wake the sleeping doctor. Had he been asleep.
It was difficult to say in the late hour, but he looked paler than usual, and his jacket lay perfectly still down his back, untroubled by ruffling or restless wings. Because they were pressed flat against his shirt, all nerves and the muscles tight coils. His fingers flexed and contracted just barely as he turned the deadbolt. Not that a lock would keep out anyone who really wanted in.
He breathed the word:] Damn.