Second Deduction

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Seven o’clock arrived sooner than anyone had expected. And just like earlier that morning, the crowds gathered and this time, televisions were switched on and all of Europe was tuned in to watch the great detective. By then, news had reached Alana’s parents and they were absolutely livid with security. However, they underestimated Moriarty’s power and didn’t know that their arrival would threaten their daughter’s life even more.

Sherlock stood in the guest room, mending the hand Moriarty had wounded. He had taken a good slumber, but upon waking up, his mind was placid. It felt like nothing was happening inside. All he thought about was the next step he should take or what he wanted to eat. Sherlock taped the bandage and grabbed his coat, all the while wondering why the spot on the wall wasn’t interesting to him. He knew it meant something and that there was story behind it, but his mind didn’t even make an effort to deduct it.

He opened the door and stepped out, his whole being feeling empty and dreamlike. Sherlock winced and stomped a hard foot. “Come on, think!” he growled to himself. But there was nothing to think about. He was living in the moment and that was his entire mind allowed him to do.

John inhaled deeply, taking in a fresh fragrant that breezed through his aching body. Smiling, John turned over and nuzzled his face in the back of Alana’s silky hair. He kissed her smooth skin and slipped his arms around her. “You awake?”

Alana giggled and snuggled against John’s arms. She twisted her head around and nodded slowly. “Yes. I thought you’d left. After all, I did say rubbishy things to you.”

“No. I’d never leave you. You’d fallen asleep, so, I thought I’d sneak in.” John nibbled at her ear with more passion than Alana was comfortable with.

Laughing and giving him a playful shove, Alana sat up and looked at the clock. “John, it’s six-fifty. You’ve got to go. They’ll come in a fetch me.”

Chuckling at her attempt to straighten up a room that only had a bed, a lamp, and shades, John supported himself on his elbows and watched as she continued to titter around the room. “Why don’t you pull out the invisible hoover over there and vacuum the sodden floor as well?”

Alana, knowing he was being quite sarcastic, grabbed a pillow and threw it at his face. “Shut it! It makes me feel…I don’t know, comforted.” She stopped and her arms drew up to herself. John read that sign to mean she was going to cry, or sink to the floor in silence.

“Come here,” John swung his legs over the bed and walked over to her. Taking her by the shoulders, he looked at her square in the eyes. He parted his mouth to say encouraging words, but was interrupted by the rambunctious flinging of the door. Looking up, he spotted a large man armed to the teeth with knives and firearms.

“Get out,” the man said, directing his voice at John.

John kissed Alana’s forehead and pulled away from her, their hands being the last to part from each other.

Just like that morning, Sherlock exited the cab at the London Eye and was greeted by a pack of reporters. He crawled through the masses, making sure to catch Lestrade on the outer edges. Donovan stood beside him with her jaw shifted and her arms crossed. Sherlock could read the disappointment and frustration on their faces; he knew they were expecting him to perform a miracle.

The detective walked up the stage where he was greeted by a grinning Moriarty and a saddened duchess. He sighed and turned his attention to the crowd. The congregation stared at him as if he was a gladiator in the ring. He noticed the money crunched between their hands and the eager gleam shining in their eyes. The duchess was no longer a concern to them—they were now a show, simply to entertain the thousands of bored minds out in the world. Sherlock hated it. He hated the attention. He hated knowing that the duchess would lose her life if he failed. He hated everything.

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