I look down at the girl in a wheelchair, so fragile and foolishly trusting. I know very well that Moriarty wasn't watching, know very well that this was all part of his plan.
I also know that Sherlock and Watson, the uptight smarties, are hilariously clueless. Casting glances to either side, I quickly roll Elly down the ramp and into a nearby alley, zipping by surprised pedestrians and rolling up to 221B.
Pausing before the door, I briefly consider what sarcastic thing I would say when entering the apartment. "Hello" might be in order, not to mention ironic, but "here's the bacon, I brought it home to you" was too cheesy and could be too easily converted into a pickup line. So, what to say?
"Think." Says a voice in my head. Startled, I retreat into my mind castle and try to locate the voice. "I am well known for dramatic entrances." The voice lilts, and I recognize it as Moriarty.
How did Moriarty get into my mind castle?
"You let me in." He says, as if it should be obvious. "Anyway, I just gave you the answer."
I pull out and knock on the door to 221B. As my hand falls, it brushes against my left arm - the very same arm that Moriarty had burned. It didn't get treated because I denied its existence, and it's not like there were any witnesses to point out my lie. It was still very, very sensitive, and though my arm was inside my jacket, it only takes a moment for the pain to make me pass out.
YOU ARE READING
Paths Woven
FanfictionThere are two girls who live in London. Their parents are dead. They are the nieces of two very different people, but these girls think in the same way. One girl is related to John Watson and the other is niece to Sherlock Holmes. Both are being hun...
