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The wind swept the leaves across the barren earth when Sherlock arrived at the remains of that church forgotten by time. The structure rose mockingly before his sight as he slipped his hands into his pockets, walking toward the interior of that corpse of fallen walls and worm-eaten stones.
The vestiges of cracked cherubim abandoned in the corners gave a spectral appearance, and seeing the virgins stained with moss made him think he was entering the bowels of hell.
He passed between the rows of wooden pews, letting his shoes echo on the worn and frayed carpet that provided escort toward what was once the altar where prayers were offered to a divine God. But Sherlock didn't care about those ceremonial services, dressed in hypocrisy. The reason he was in that place was because there he had once met with the lord of crime. That encounter which gave shape to what was merely a name plagued in a fantasy tale.
Sherlock wandered the corners in silence, not searching for evidence because he knew he wouldn't find any, but feeling the presence of the lord of crime everywhere. As if it were a shadow that pursued him through life. He approached the confessional finally and brushed the wood with his fingers, thinking about why he had chosen that site for meetings with his clients. He closed his eyes, evoking that moment. The memories danced in his mind. The voice that pursued him in dreams.
Had it been an actor? He had never heard it. Had he really met with the lord of crime that he had drawn so much in his dreams and that only traced the face of William James Moriarty? And the voice he heard was definitely not Liam's.
He sighed, watching the small insects pass across his feet. Perhaps he just wanted it to be him. Maybe he was idealizing him.
He entered directly into that booth that smelled of road dust and old memories, sitting on that bench that seemed to receive the sorrows that poor souls sobbed. The perfume that spoke of high nobility that he perceived that time had already vanished.
His fingers touched and examined. Somehow, he felt that those walls were haunted by an immense sadness that was beginning to infect him.
Fear was a distant whisper that he tried to ignore and that, by then, was making nests in his head with an irrevocable possibility. Liam perhaps was not who he believed.
He had made mistakes in profiles before. The idea that his feelings clouded his judgment filled him with unease. He pressed his lips, biting them to contain the outburst that wanted to burst from them.
In that instant, lost in his thoughts, a sound of footsteps outside made him restless. Surprise came to him when he saw through the small window how a woman, dressed completely in black, sat on the other side of the confessional. She made no noise when sitting, and only crossed her hands on the ledge. She had a veil on her face that cast shadows and could almost awaken his pores seeing that silhouette become one with the darkness.
However, a part of him couldn't help but smile.
"How convenient that you come to greet me," said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you knew I came here. You really do spy on me, don't you?"
She didn't answer him. He knew she wouldn't.
"Did you come to comfort me?" he wanted to know, though he knew he wouldn't get a glimpse of a reply. "What are you doing here? Do you come to mock me?"
Sherlock clenched his fists. Reliving certain powerlessness that he had to trust someone else to save that Irene Adler. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. He was acting like a child.
He shook his head. He had to focus.
He looked up again and found that the woman had disappeared. It was to be expected. He almost laughed at it, before feeling how some quick hands covered his eyes. The woman's black gloves now plunged him into a new darkness.
He started, his shoulders rising, before hearing a whisper in his ear. When had she...?
A hiss. Like a mother who soothes a frightened child.
"You don't have to console me," sherlock told his lord of crime. "Only you could save her."
The fingers on his eyes tensed, even pressed a little more as if he didn't like him releasing that string of needles that had left deep wounds in his consciousness and that he wanted to ignore. Sherlock had always hidden from the world that breath of inferiority that awakened when being Mycroft's opponent. And although he kept fighting each time, each defeat, each needle, 673 in total, kept stinging him.
The hands released him, descending down his chest and seeking his own. The breathing on his neck was awakening a shiver that danced in waves down his back.
That person made of folds woven with darkness brushed his fingers and the skull ring with soft strokes, as if admiring a jewel with edges of incalculable value.
That sweet gesture made Sherlock turn slowly in the chair and face that woman.
"Thank you," he expressed finally. "For killing Irene Adler."
He sketched a small smile and made a slight bow. Before saying anything more, again a hand covered his eyes and he laughed a little at it.
"I won't see you, don't worry. Even if I do, I have no evidence to incriminate you..."
And he was silenced by velvet lips that covered his. They were rough and needy. As if Sherlock's mouth was what he most wanted to taste. It drew a moan of surprise from him, making him open his cavity to let her in.
Sherlock couldn't understand everything due to the speed of the moment, but he intuited seconds later that the mouth and the roughness belonged to a man.
He didn't have time to respond, because that man didn't take long to pull away as if an improper act had been committed. He heard the agitated breathing, both their heartbeats making percussion in his ears.
To give him an opportunity, Sherlock turned his back, hiding his blush and the smile that was drawing itself with long folds from the happiness that was flowering in his interior.
"You can go, I won't see anything," Sherlock assured, raising his hand in farewell.
He kept his word, hearing the footsteps fade away, taking with them in their breast the emotion of having met with the true lord of crime. When he turned around again, there was no longer anyone in the booth. Only a black veil at his feet, abandoned by its owner, which he took between his fingers and smelled the same perfume he had tasted before.
Beyond the church exit, he saw the lord of crime dance among the shadows and bid farewell to his presence, perhaps letting him glimpse as a vote of consolation: some blond hair.
Sherlock knew he would never expose himself unless he wanted to. He burst out laughing loudly, frightening the walls with that din
Yes, some blond hair... like William James Moriarty's. So, it was always a he, not a she.