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Sherlock : A Story Of A Short Story

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"Hello Sherlock," Jim said from the darkness, down at Sherlock as he was picking himself up off of the damp concrete floor. "So how is John these days? Is he doing well?" Jim smirked, knowing he hit a nerve. It was obvious that Moriarty knew on of Sherlock’s very few weaknesses. The man had always known, it is hard not to see, let alone a criminal mastermind. "He is doing well," Sherlock responded cooly, brushing himself off and leaving it at that, figuring he knew already. "And you Sherlock? Are you well?" he patronized. "As well as I can be with you cause havoc all over England." "So you enjoyed my little show for you?" he smiled smugly at him from across the vast room. Sherlock took the moment to survey the room and measure the amount of danger he was in. "Your little 'shows' are childish really," Sherlock rolled his eyes at the pathetic man, still calculating plans for escape. "Childish? Don't you find it… intriguing?" he drawled. "Not in the slightest. Amateur." "Tell me the truth Sherlock, you love how I can make you dance like you do? You thrive off of the mystery of me? Don't you," He asked, his voice holding no question. "You are quite easy to see. An open book as they say." "Then who am I Sherlock." "A boy with a criminal mind. Haunted with knowledge like myself. But don't know what to do with it. So you decide to play games with the big boys out of your league. You throw little fits when you don't win, and you never do, do you? Consulting Criminal? Honestly?
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