She felt strapped to the front of the proverbial train. Which was fitting, as that was exactly what was probably going toliterallyhappen to her. But Sherlock seemed blissfully unaware of the trap that Sasha and Moriarty had set for him.
It was clever, she had to admit, how Sasha was playing Sherlock against himself. He didn’t suspect athing.The detective was pacing the room, frantically babbling about how the train yard was the perfect place for an attack as it would drive a bigger wedge between theyadda-yadda-yadda.
Sidney couldn’t give less of a shit.
Tonight, they were going to infiltrate a train yard. And Sidney was going to be used as bait.
Then?
She was probably going to die.
“I am glad you came.”
Moriarty’s dark voice sent a shudder through her as Sasha came to, mid-stride, as she entered the room. She almost tripped and fell. Stupid scene changes. She’d get used to it eventually. Or rather, she hoped she wouldn’thaveto. Hopefully she was going home soon.
She wondered if Watson ever died in any of the Sherlock Holmes stories. She didn’t think so. None of the official ones, anyway. And none of the adaptations that she could think of. And in none of themcould she think of an example where Sherlock let innocent people die.
Wait. Would they wineither way?
Hope bloomed in her heart. It was dangerous to let herself believe she might have found a way out of this mess.
“Like I would miss this for the world.” She shut the door behind her. It was the top room of the observation tower for the new train station. Currently, most of the building was still boarded up and under construction. But this section had its glass and glazing in place, likely to keep the rain and birds from taking up residence in the rest of the building. “Don’t you need to be down below to oversee the…activities?”
“No. I have well-paid individuals to do that for me. I rarely show my face. It is far safer that way. We will watch from here.” He was standing by the window, little more than a silhouette against a backdrop that was barely brighter. There were no lights on in the room—it would be too much of a risk to give away that someone was watching.
Down below was the train yard. And in an hour, perhaps less, all of the nonsense ofSherlock and The Problem of the Trolleywould be over and resolved. One way or another.
Part of her would almost be sad to say goodbye to Victorian London and Irene Adler. It was fun to be a boss-ass bitch for a little while. To feel like she could actually be someone with her shit together. Someone powerful. Desirable. Intelligent.
She moved to stand beside Moriarty. And some part of her would miss him, too. His sharp features were barely lit in the moonlight that was cast down over the train yard. Everything was damp—it was London, after all—and puddles of water on the packed dirt reflected the moon and stars back up at them.
He was so damnhandsome.So damnterrifying.The evil mastermind himself.
But this was allheridea, wasn’t it? Not even Irene Adler was to blame for this nonsense. This was one hundred percent SashaLancaster’s fault. Resting her gloved hands on the railing, she looked down at the train yard. “How will this all play out?”
“There”—he pointed to one end of the yard—“is the train that will be our deus ex machina for the evening. At the end of the tracksthere”—he pointed at the other end—“are fifteen innocent steel workers and their wives and children, already bound, drugged, and gagged.”
She huffed a half-laugh. “Fifteen?”
“I thought your idea of five was a bit…lackluster. I wish to make him feel the agony of his choice should he choose to spare Watson’s life.” When he lowered his hand, he moved his arm behind her to settle his palm on her lower back.
Her cheeks instantly went warm. “By your tone, you seem to think he will murder his friend.”
“I do. He is a fool who is always wont to make personal sacrifices.” His voice betrayed nothing else of his intentions as his hand slid up from her lower back, underneath her shawl, and began to deftly undo the laces of her dress.
She should stop him. This wasn’t about setting a trap. This wasn’t about Sherlock watching them. But she didn’twanthim to stop.
Slowly, giving her all the time in the world to protest, he stepped behind her. “Watson will be tied to the front of the train. Sherlock will be given control of the switch that will decide whether or not the train continues down its normal path. Doing so will murder fifteen innocents—who will feel no pain in their drugged and unconscious state before the train rolls to a stop allowing Watson to be rescued. However, if he throws the switch, Watson will smash head first and at full steam, into the unfinished dock, there.”
Her breath caught in her throat as he slid her shawl from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Finishing undoing the laces of her dress, he slipped the shoulders down her arms. The warmth of his touch against her bare skin left goosebumps in his wake. He leaned down and kissed her shoulder, sending another shiver through her.
Inch by inch, kiss by kiss, he trailed his lips to her ear, before he murmured to her. “He will feel every second of it as the metal twists, and warps, andripshis body to shreds.” He said it like it was the most erotic of speeches, and not about her sister brutally dying in a train crash.
“I—”
One of his hands slipped down the front of her corset, painfully squeezing her breast, causing her to gasp.
“He will have to choose—an agonizing death for his only boon companion—” He rolled his tongue along the lobe of her ear before nipping it. “Or a painless death for fifteen innocent souls who will be none the wiser.”
