Moriarty grinned as he stalked around the room, hands carelessly shoved in his pockets.
John Watson glared at him from his place on the ground, hands clenched into fists where he had been forced to raise them.
"Sherlock is boring."
Mary was stone-faced beside her husband, hands twitching, begging to move and try to do something.
A shuddering gasp came from the space between them, making the two flinch and his grin grow.
He couldn't help but linger for a second, taking in the scene; the Watsons kneeling in an ever-growing pool of red, murderous glares fixed on him as the number of little red dots dancing on their bodies grew, most of them lingering on Mary's pregnant stomach and John's heart.
"Sherlock is dying."
He stepped closer, looking down at the consulting detective. Sherlock glared at him, though most of his ire was lost in the unfocused direction of his eyes and the way his breathing became increasingly labored.
"I've been dying to know, Sherlock," Moriarty drawled, Irish lit echoing in the empty room.
He offered a wicked smile, sharp teeth and smooth lies poised at the tip of his tongue as he asked in a stage whisper,
"Did you miss me?"