Moriarty/Sherlock : In The Game of Shadow and Blood.

Here we go with another adventure so please support me in order to write more

And if you're really interested take a look on my patreon :

Patreon.com/Doflamingo4

_ _

1 .One piece: The Last Voyage to Mordor.

2 .Spider-Verse: The Web of Deception

3. Moriarty/ Sherlock: In The Game of Shadow and Blood.

_ _

Moriarty/ Sherlock: Blood and Shadows.

The Tension Before the Storm

The morning after Jack's letter arrived, a cold rain washed over London, as if the city itself was trying to cleanse the filth that had taken root in its streets.

Inside 221B Baker Street, the atmosphere was thick with tension.

Holmes sat in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, his sharp gaze locked onto the bloodstained letter resting on the table.

Moriarty leaned against the fireplace, swirling a glass of brandy in one hand, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

Watson, standing near the window, exhaled sharply. "So that's it, then. Jack wants to play."

Holmes' voice was sharp. "He's always been playing."

Moriarty smirked. "But this time, he's invited us into the game."

Watson scowled. "And you both plan to accept?"

Holmes met his gaze. "We don't have a choice."

Moriarty chuckled. "We always have a choice, Doctor. But some choices are simply… more entertaining than others."

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. "You both are mad."

Holmes smirked. "Perhaps."

Moriarty raised his glass. "To madness, then."

Watson sighed. "To an early grave."

They drank in silence.

Then, Moriarty set his glass down with a soft clink.

"Holmes," he said smoothly, "I believe it's time we spoke with London's underworld."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

Moriarty's smirk widened.

"Because if we're going to hunt the devil—" He turned, the firelight casting shadows across his sharp features.

"—we'll need to make a pact with demons."

---

The Den of Vultures

That night, beneath the gaslit streets of London, the real city thrived.

The criminal underworld.

A world of thieves, assassins, smugglers, and men who profited from the misery of others.

Moriarty and Holmes stepped into a dimly lit pub in the heart of Whitechapel—a place where law held no power, and only strength determined survival.

The room fell silent as they entered.

Holmes ignored the stares, his sharp gaze sweeping over the faces of criminals and cutthroats.

Moriarty, however, smiled. "Gentlemen."

A heavyset man at the bar scowled. "This ain't your place, Moriarty."

Moriarty chuckled. "Oh, but it is." He stepped forward, his golden eyes gleaming. "And tonight, I come with an opportunity."

The crowd murmured.

A thin man with a jagged scar down his cheek leaned forward. "What kind of opportunity?"

Moriarty's smirk was razor-sharp.

"The kind that determines whether you live or die in the coming days."

Silence.

Holmes watched carefully.

Moriarty had them.

"Jack the Ripper has declared war on London," Moriarty continued, his voice smooth as silk. "Sooner or later, he will come for you, just as he has come for the nobles."

The criminals exchanged uneasy glances.

They had heard the rumors.

They had seen the bodies.

Jack was a predator unlike any they had ever known.

"What do you want?" the scarred man asked.

Moriarty's smirk never wavered.

I want everything you know about Jack the Ripper."

_ _

A Devil Among Demons

The criminals did not trust easily.

But they feared Jack.

And so, slowly, the information spilled forth.

Rumors. Sightings. Whispers in the dark.

Jack had no pattern. He moved like a phantom, striking wherever he pleased.

But one thing was clear—

Jack had a place.

A hidden lair, buried somewhere deep in the filth of Whitechapel.

No one had seen it. No one dared to search for it.

But it existed.

Holmes' sharp mind latched onto the smallest details.

A woman claimed to have seen him disappearing near the docks.

A smuggler mentioned shipments going missing—bodies taken, never found.

A child swore he saw red eyes staring from an alleyway.

Each story was a thread.

And Holmes was already weaving them into a noose.

Moriarty exhaled slowly, pleased. "It seems we are finally closing in."

Holmes nodded. "Yes."

Then, from the shadows, a voice.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

Holmes' blood ran cold.

The criminals froze.

A figure stepped from the darkness.

Tall.

Lean.

And smiling.

Jack.

---

A Game of Death

Every man in the room reached for a weapon.

But Jack only laughed.

"Now, now," he purred, stepping forward, "let's not be rude."

Holmes and Moriarty stood still, watching him carefully.

Jack's crimson eyes gleamed as he surveyed the room.

"How delightful," he mused. "London's greatest criminals, whispering in the dark like frightened rats."

The scarred man snarled, pulling a gun.

Jack tilted his head.

"Go ahead," he whispered.

The man hesitated.

Then—

Jack moved.

A blur.

A flash of silver.

Blood sprayed across the table.

The man gasped, his throat slashed open.

He collapsed, choking, drowning in his own blood.

Jack sighed. "Pity. He was rather loud."

Silence.

No one moved.

No one dared.

Jack turned to Holmes and Moriarty.

His smile widened.

"I do hope you weren't planning something… unpleasant for me."

Moriarty chuckled. "Now why would we do that?"

Jack's eyes gleamed. "Because you're clever."

Holmes met his gaze. "And you are dangerous."

Jack's grin never wavered. "Flattery will get you nowhere, detective."

Holmes exhaled slowly. "Then what will?"

Jack's smile faded.

For the first time, his expression was serious.

"I'm not here to kill you," he said.

Moriarty arched an eyebrow. "A change of heart?"

Jack chuckled. "A… proposal."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "What kind of proposal?"

Jack leaned forward.

"The kind that will change London forever."

The room held its breath.

Holmes and Moriarty exchanged a glance.

Jack grinned.

"Shall we talk?"

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The underworld's most dangerous men—thieves, smugglers, assassins—stood frozen.

Jack the Ripper was among them.

The scent of blood still lingered from his latest victim, a reminder that the man before them was no ordinary killer.

He was a phantom. A nightmare given form.

And now, he had made a proposal.

Holmes and Moriarty exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them.

Then, Moriarty smirked. "Jack, dear fellow, you do have a way of making an entrance."

Jack chuckled. "It's a talent."

Holmes stepped forward, studying him with keen eyes. "You said you had a proposal."

Jack's crimson gaze locked onto him. "I did."

Holmes folded his arms. "Then let's hear it."

Jack's smile widened.

"Simple," he said. "London is already drowning in filth, corruption, and decay." He tilted his head. "Let's tip it over the edge."

A hush fell over the room.

Even the criminals, hardened as they were, tensed.

Holmes' expression was unreadable. "And why would we do that?"

Jack's voice was almost playful. "Because you know the truth, detective. This city is rotten. And if something is rotten…" He gestured vaguely. "You don't patch it up. You burn it down."

Moriarty chuckled. "Anarchy, then?"

Jack grinned. "Call it purification."

Holmes exhaled slowly.

Moriarty took a step forward, swirling his drink. "And in this grand vision of yours, what role do we play?"

Jack's eyes gleamed.

"Oh, that's the best part," he whispered.

Then, he leaned in.

"You get to decide who lives and who dies."

---

The Philosophy of Death

Holmes' jaw tightened. "You want us to choose victims?"

Jack smirked. "No, no, detective. I do the killing. You do the thinking. Imagine it—a city where only the strong, the worthy, remain."

Moriarty chuckled. "And what defines 'worthy'?"

Jack's eyes glowed.

"That's the game, isn't it?"

Holmes exhaled sharply. "You expect us to help you?"

Jack tilted his head. "Help? No, no, Holmes. I expect you to play."

The weight of his words settled over them.

A city where death was not random, but calculated. A city sculpted by intellect and blood.

Moriarty was intrigued.

Holmes was disgusted.

Jack was delighted.

---

A Clash of Ideals

Holmes' voice was cold. "You are a monster."

Jack grinned. "And yet, here you are, listening."

Moriarty chuckled. "He does have a point, Holmes."

Holmes shot him a glare. "Don't tell me you're considering this insanity."

Moriarty smirked. "I consider everything."

Jack leaned closer. "Come now, detective. You've spent years solving crimes, catching men after the deed is done. I offer you something greater—control."

Holmes' expression darkened. "You enjoy this, don't you?"

Jack's smile widened.

"Oh, immensely."

Silence.

Then—

Moriarty set down his glass. "We'll need time to think."

Jack studied him.

Then, he laughed.

"Of course you will."

He stepped back, tipping an imaginary hat.

"I'll be watching."

And then—

He was gone.

Leaving only the scent of blood behind.

_ _

End of Chapter 11.

Jack has made his tweet offer , and now Moriarty and Holmes must decide what to do next .

Stay tuned for the next thrilling and mysterious Chapter.!!

Chapter 12 : Shadows in the Gaslight.

To Be Continued...

_ _

If you want to read more up to 3 or even 7 chapters or simply to support this young writer:

Patreon.com/Doflamingo4

_ _

Please check my other works :

1. One Piece: The Last Voyage to Mordor.

2. Spider-Verse: The Web of Deception.

3. Moriarty/ Sherlock: In The Game of Shadow and Blood.

_ _

Thanks for all the support and take care of yourselves .