Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sasha watched as the train engine began to move forward. She could only stand there and do nothing. Nothing but watch to see whether or not Sherlock would pull the lever and divert the train, killing his friend but sparing the innocent civilians.
Over and over again she repeated to herself that it didn’t matter. Either choice that Sherlock made, it meant that she had written a unique Sherlock story, and they would go home.
And she wouldn’t have to face down the horribly conflicted mess that was going on in her head. She wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that the man—the thing that was standing behind her, was slowly running his hands up and down her arms in a way that was driving her insane.
He was a demigod. A monster. A villain. The thing responsible for all the horror and trauma that they had already suffered and were going to suffer.
And she had had sex with him.
Twice.
Because she’d wanted it. Because she’d needed it. Because the way she felt when he touched her, when she’d felt the jaws of that dark and terrible fiction sink into her, she was lost. Absolutely lost.
And no matter how she tried to convince herself it wasn’t a betrayal of Sidney…it was. Because strapped to the front of that moving train, screaming at Sherlock to save her, thrashing back and forth, trying to yank free of the ropes—was her poor sister.
Sasha was having the best time of her life and Sidney was getting tortured. And was likely about to die. Maybe she had taken on the challenge of playing the villain a little too much this time around.
“But you do it so well.”
“I thought you couldn’t read my thoughts inside the fiction.”
“I can’t when I’m in the form of a character.
I’m here as myself. And we’re at the end, anyway.
It’s basically the epilogue. Who cares.” He shrugged, wrapping his arms around her waist and stepping flush to her back.
“You really do make a phenomenal little villainous sidekick, Sasha. Though you trust your evil companions too much for your own good.”
“What do you mean?”
“You let Moriarty outsmart you. Because you trusted him.” He tsked. “Silly little thing. Never trust a mastermind. He doesn’t even trust himself.”
Fear twisted in her. She tried to turn in his arms. “What—”
He squeezed her tight, keeping her facing straight. “Watch. You’re missing the good part. You worked so hard for this moment. Terrible waste if you didn’t get to see it now.”
In wide-eyed horror, she turned back to the scene in front of her. “What did he do…?”
“Nothing outright. You, quite remarkably, won his respect. But there was one outcome you hadn’t spelled out a solution for. You gave him instructions for what to do if Sherlock chose track one or two…” He trailed off, leaving it for her to piece it together.
For a moment, she couldn’t grasp what he was talking about. She focused on the scene in front of her, trying to frantically finish the jigsaw puzzle he’d half finished for her.
Sherlock shook his head violently, screaming at the man pointing a gun at him as the train lumbered down the tracks. Sherlock was arguing with him. Vehement and furious—panicking. He had no brilliant way out of this one. There would be no “ah-hah” last-minute save from the detective.
Because she hadn’t written one in for him. But she was forgetting something. What was it? What was it?
She thought about the original ethical debate and all the follow-ups she knew about it. All the additional versions of it that sparked debates. Pushing a fat man onto the tracks. Or—
Then it hit her.
The third choice. Cringing, she wailed. “Fuck!”
“Mm, there it is. You found it.” He chuckled. “What is to be done…if Sherlock chooses to not choose at all?”
Sure enough, Sherlock simply…dropped to his knees. Dropped to his knees and put his head in his hands. He would not choose either track.
Thus, neither death, or groups of deaths, would be his fault.
He would be a witness to horror. Nothing more. By not playing the game, he would be able to wash his conscience of it. Even if he could save fifteen lives—in theory—by dooming one. Or save his friend by dooming the others.
God, she hated philosophy.
Vile let out a wistful, happy sigh. “Of course, Moriarty would not give up such a wonderful opportunity to watch his greatest foe suffer.” The man with the gun reached forward and pulled the lever.
The train track screeched loud enough that she could hear it from the tower as it clicked into place in front of the roaring steam engine.
The train swung toward the right.
And straight toward an unfinished station stop. With no brake, and nothing to slow the train down…Sidney would be crushed as the train smashed into the building.
“No—no—” She squirmed in his grasp. “I have to stop this, I have to save her!” Panic welled in her. Sidney was going to die. “I have to—”
“It’s too late, Sasha darling. And this is your design.
Enjoy it! Revel in it!” He held her tight.
“And you would never make it down there in time except to throw yourself upon the burning wreckage.” He hummed thoughtfully.
“Though, you might be able to stop the hired hands from shooting all the hostages.”
“What?” She stared up at him in horror.
“What?” He repeated down at her blankly. “You expected Moriarty to let anyone live?” Snickering, he shook his head. “Come now. Don’t be silly.”
She was going to cry. “Please, don’t let this happen—please. Please don’t let Sidney die—I’ll do anything—”
“Music to my ears.” With a contented exhale, he rested his cheek atop her head, ignoring her struggles as they watched the scene unfold before them.
“Sherlock escapes with his morality intact. Yes, Watson dies, but Sherlock is hardly the first hero in fiction to suffer the tragic death of his companion. But look on the bright side. You gave Moriarty a tiny bit of a love life. As much as that sociopath will ever have. A marriage that will end with him murdering his wife when she becomes a liability—an ending that actually makes sense for him. Good for you.”
Gripping the railing tight in both hands, she wished she could set him on fire with her mind. “I hate you. I fucking hate you.”
She could hear the smile in his voice when he kissed the top of her head. “I know.”
Sidney knew it was over when she became aware of herself suddenly, but not with enough time to be saved. No, no. She wasn’t lucky enough for that. No, she snapped into the scene in time to see a Danger—Construction—No Entry! the second it turned into splinters by smashing into her body.
Her ribs were broken from the impact. She assumed. She didn’t really know. But she had felt something crunch inside of her when the sign had splintered on her. And she knew it was only going to get worse. Far, far worse.
For the train wasn’t slowing down.
And the end of the tracks in front of her was a brick wall.
She felt the first few seconds as her legs began to shatter, shattering more like the wood sign than crumpling like the metal of the train.
It was the sound, though, that she thought might stay with her the longest.
The sound of that much metal bending.
Mixing with the sound of her screams.