Demons
[Part One of Five]
"Don't wanna let you down, but I am hell-bound;
Though this is all for you, don't wanna hide the truth.
No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed.
This is my kingdom come; this is my kingdom come."
- "Demons" by Imagine Dragons
WARNING: MENTIONED DRUG USE & HALLUCINATIONS.
It was easy, really.
Not the mission he was on; no, that certainly was not easy. He'd been in hiding for the better part of two years, slowly and precisely taking down those in Moriarty's network. With the madman himself gone, it was only a matter of destroying the remnants of his work. It was, however, proving difficult, as the man had a vast spiderweb of influence that reached every last continent, every single corner of the world.
For a while, it had been quick work. He was constantly on the move, a majority of his targets located in and near Tibet, and there was adrenaline pumping through his veins and burning his lungs. And for a dead man, he felt incredibly alive, so alive that it was easy to stop thinking about what he'd left behind. Instead, he shoved it away, buried deep in a part of his mind that he often found quite easy to ignore. He could focus and move on.
And then, things came to a screeching halt; there was a sudden lull as the number he was searching for had substantially declined. Now he was only seeking a few who were deep into hiding, constantly awaiting any word from Mycroft. But even then, the gaps between those messages were becoming longer and longer, and Sherlock began to feel the darkness encroaching on the space in his mind that he'd previously kept clear.
So then, it was so, so easy, to find himself in that damn hotel room he'd confined himself to for the past week, not a word from Mycroft, but an empty syringe in his hand, another on the bedside table, and the two tiny puncture marks in his arm as proof of what he'd done to himself.
He could feel the drug working, fully aware of what it was doing to his brain—blocking the norepinephrine, serotonin, and dopamine from being reabsorbed, instead building up to give the desired—needed?—effect, the feeling of euphoria. His mind felt active again, stimulated, and suddenly it felt as though he could breathe, because with the poison running through his veins, that meant he couldn't be overwhelmed with the feeling of loss because he'd lost everything.
Bittersweet, he mused. He had to lose everything in order to save everything. A bit funny how those things worked out.
He closed his eyes as he reveled in his current state, the blissful feeling of his blood pumping and mind racing and endorphins rushing, while still wonderfully blocking out everything that he wanted to. Yes, this was any easy fix.
"Tsk, tsk, what would the doctor say about this?"
His eyes snapped open at the sound of that voice.
It was impossible, he quickly assured himself. Dead. He'd seen it himself, and Mycroft had managed to have it confirmed, to give him some sort of peace of mind. No, he tried to tell himself, it wasn't real.
He glanced up, and, sitting in the chair near the stiff mattress he was situated on, was a man in a grey suit, the very same suit he'd seen him die in.
"Hallucinations," Sherlock murmured under his breath. It was a side-effect of cocaine, he knew that, but it wasn't one that he'd ever experienced before. And for his very first hallucination to be of this man? "How disappointing." Even he was surprised at the lack of contempt in his voice; it was mild and even. Funny. His brother had pointed out once that he was noticeably irritable when he was using; but really, what was the point of being angry at something that wasn't real?
"Oh, my dear Sherlock," the man simpered, "is that anyway to greet an old friend?"
At this, Sherlock huffed out a sigh of annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Of all the things I consider you, Moriarty, a friend is definitely not one of them."
Jim Moriarty only continued to smile at Sherlock in that horrific way, and the detective hated him a little bit more. He tried to reason with himself; this vision was not real. There was no use in feeling angry, he'd already established that. And why on earth was he actually talking to him? It wasn't logical; this wasn't talking to the skull on his mantle or John when he was only half-listening or maybe not even there. This was talking to a man he loathed, a dead man, who was sitting in a chair in his hotel room, legs crossed and eyes shining. This man was a drug-induced image, only there to—to what? Probably to mentally torture Sherlock; he couldn't even have this moment of peace.
Sherlock scowled a little bit at the realization that, as much as he despised the man, the company was still strangely welcome. He was so used to a lifetime of being alone, but without John, his only friend, he'd found himself so lonely. He shook his head and released another angry sigh. This was ridiculous. Defying all logic and reason. And now, he was allowing a small part of himself to admit that he was a bit sentimental.
All because of the man in his hotel room. The dead man. The man that wasn't real.
"Ohh, I'm not going anywhere for a bit, love," Moriarty told him. "Have I ever been easy to get rid of, really?"
Sherlock tried to retreat; he closed his eyes and repositioned himself on the bed. He would ignore the image. That was all there was to it. He would withdraw himself back into his body and mind, to let every lasting sensation of the drug overtake his senses…
"Oh no, that's not how this works," Moriarty said. Suddenly, Sherlock was certain that he could feel warm breath ghosting his cheek. His eyes opened, and he was face-to-face with his hallucination. "You don't get to just will me away."
"You're not real," Sherlock hissed. "You're a figment of my mind and my induced state. For some reason I've managed to conjure you up, so I can definitely make you disappear."
Moriarty chuckled. "But you won't," he assured the other man. He pulled back a little, and the space allowed for Sherlock to sit up a little more on the bed.
"Why is that?" Sherlock asked bitterly.
"You need me," Moriarty said. "My dear, you need me in order to get anywhere." Sherlock only stared at him with narrowed eyes, and the apparition laughed. "Oh, you can't even see it, can you?" He was met with no answer. "Well, it's all the same to me. I missed our little games, Sherlock—"
"You mean your games—"
"—and I'm really feeling quite generous," he went on, as though Sherlock hadn't spoken. He leaned in again, and whispered, "I'll give you a little hint."
The detective scoffed and tried to close his eyes again. He did his best to ignore the feeling of the man so close to him because, after all, he wasn't real, he shouldn't be getting to him like this…
"What you need," Moriarty sing-songed, "is a change of scenery…"
Sherlock bolted upright in his bed, his mind suddenly racing. "Where?" he demanded.
"Think," Moriarty breathed out. "Use that brilliant brain of yours, love."
Sherlock ignored the patronizing compliment and term of endearment. His mind was racing now. He'd been dancing around this for weeks—he needed to move, to find the next place, to get out of Tibet, but where? The details weren't making sense…
"For a cold-hearted man, what would be the biggest motivator in location?" Moriarty demanded, an edge to his voice, but still so soft.
Cold-hearted—not love, then. So no details were needed about personal lives. It was a generalization. Then what—greed?
"Money," Sherlock breathed out.
"And where could help fuel that desire?" Moriarty pressed on.
There, another clue, only minimally disguised, this time. Fuel. Sherlock ran over the statistics in his head, quickly narrowing the choices down, until it suddenly seemed to click.
Large reserve of fossil fuels. Fourth largest petroleum reserves. Largest natural gas supply.
"Iran," he whispered.
And then it was clear, the first lead he'd had in weeks, one he'd been so close to for so long, if he'd only used his brain to really think…
He whipped out his phone, quickly preparing to text his brother.
He froze. Was it an actual lead? It was a man who was long since dead that had brought him to the realization, after all. He glanced to the spot where Moriarty had been standing seconds before, but he had vanished. The drug was wearing off, then. He had disappeared along with the euphoric effects.
He shook his head. It was a figment of his mind, thus a way to work through the data he had not yet been able to. Right? An unwanted image, but perhaps he needed that to coax him into the realization he'd been only centimeters away from. Again he shook off the wary feeling of possible doubt. There was nothing else to go on, really, and there was literally nothing else that he could lose by a trip to Iran.
He tapped out a message to his brother: short and simple, declaring his next destination, with no explanation. But, he reasoned, how would he explain to Mycroft just how he'd reached the conclusion? 'In a drug-induced state my mind whipped up an image of Jim Moriarty, who then prompted me into deducing that Iran was a probable location to venture to next.' No. It was best to leave that out.
His phone pinged. A short affirmation in response lit up his screen. He nodded silently at it, then settled back onto his bed; it was time to begin preparation, then. He probably had until morning before some messenger from his brother offered an admittedly convoluted method and means of traveling, a new story, a new location to hide. That meant he had about seven hours to memorize every detail he could about Iran and to compile the data in order to properly plan out his next course of action.
Already he could feel the welcome feeling of adrenaline as his mind worked as quickly as it could, the ever-present promise of danger as he plotted his next steps.
And he would definitely stay away from the drugs for a while—he shivered slightly upon remembering the feeling of Moriarty so close to him, the sensation of his breath on his face as he loomed over him. He wasn't real, he reminded himself. Still, that was definitely a memory and feeling he wanted deleted.
