Asklepian: the symbol of medicine, a wooden staff encircled by a snake.
How is it possible to be both selfish and selfless?
Moriarty stumbled to the door, humming to himself and avoiding the eyes of everyone he passed. He arrived at a dark and lonely Baker Street flat, silently sliding his key into the lock.
The King and his key-ring.
In his other hand, he kept a briefcase. Not large enough to be suspicious, but not too small to neglect expensive branding and embroidery. He crept past the landlady's rooms, then up the narrow staircase.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were away on a case. He knew this because he'd directed them there. Anonymously.
His visits were careful but frequent. Despite the darkness, he easily found Sherlock's room. He set the briefcase down on the half-made bed and produced a torch from inside it. Holding up the light, he began shuffling through the detective's drawers.
Using his phone, he took a picture of the meticulously-maintained drawer of socks. When replacing them, he needed to ensure every detail was correct. John was never so thorough, and was unavailable to catch the blame.
Once the drawer was cleared of the socks, he reached his goal: Sherlock's prized swatch of leather and canvas, tied shut with shaky fingers, and gathering too much dust for Moriarty's liking. Being careful not to shake off even a single speck of it, he opened the pouch and counted stolen spoons, secondhand syringes, and a battle-worn belt.
It's so kind of me He thought, chuckling to himself, to maintain his 'palace.'
From his own case, he took a vial and a fine paintbrush. He held the torch between his teeth, dipped the brush in the scarlet liquid, and coated the tip of each needle.
Selfless and selfish, His thoughts repeated, I should always be on his mind... He's always on mine.
He delicately reset the room, and his departure from Baker Street was graceful.
Sherlock's arrival, however, was not.
He leapt up the stairs and pounded on the light-switch with more enthusiasm than John had ever seen.
"That's it, then?" he tried to whisper as he followed, hoping they wouldn't wake Mrs Hudson.
"Yes." said Sherlock. He entered his room and slammed the door, "We were beaten by a common criminal. A toddler's scribbling, hailed as artwork. There is no such thing as 'abstract', and yet I've been blinded."
John knocked on his door, but did not wait for confirmation before entering. He stood in the doorway, glancing gently at his friend:
"I'll be upstairs."
"Ah, yes," he snapped, "My common mind had forgotten where your room was."
"Right, fine." John shrugged, "I'm just saying; you can't get every case, and it's fine if you want to talk about it, or just whinge or whatever. That's all..."
"Yes." Sherlock was not looking at him. He was comparing the dressing-gowns in his closet and hoping to avoid sleep for as long as possible. If he slept, he could not think.
John sighed, turned, and shut the door when he left.
Having selected a gown, Sherlock threw it over his shoulders then dug through his sock-drawer. He noticed no imperfections, and rapidly emptied it. Once the leather pouch was uncovered, he stared madly. With twitching fingers, he reached out for it, but, as he stretched his arm, the gown slid up to reveal his skin. He was inspired:
"Patches!" he called, knowing John had not made it upstairs yet. He was, in fact, in the kitchen, sifting through science-experiments to find some biscuits and a newspaper.
"Hmm?"
Sherlock heard his footsteps, and quickly replaced the socks and shut the drawer. Again, John stood in the doorway, clutching a can of biscuits and a cup of cold tea. Sherlock's eyes glimmered as he growled:
"Patches. I need one." he glanced at his arm, "No, two."
"You finished the box off yesterday, didn't you?"
"You keep them, Doctor—"
"Yeah, so I c—"
"In the drawer of the desk in your bedroom, beside your handgun. As I recall, the box is empty, yes, but you haven't thrown it out. That can't be sentiment; that's just idleness."
"Sherlock," he sighed, "Not now. You can go a night without, alright? I'll stay up, and we'll watch telly..."
"You'll stay up," he corrected, still sitting on the floor, "And get me patches. I need patches."
Based on their short, shared glances, John caved to this recommendation. As he watched Sherlock shake and sweat beneath the silky gown, he nodded and gave a partial smile:
"Right. Won't be long."
Sherlock provided a false promise to make coffee, while John considered nearby chemists.
When he was alone, the detective returned his focus to the drawer. He studied the pouch, hastily untying it and heaving it open. He counted the outlines on his skin, where the patches typically rested. Somehow, these spots were paler than the rest of him. They felt grainy and gummy, as he traced his fingers along them. Compulsively, he reached to remedy this with the needles. He felt a promise he'd made to John, crumbling as he held up his best syringe. It was used most frequently, and displayed a thick, evaporated film and some leftover solution.
He tore off the dressing-gown, because the sleeves would not remain firmly rolled up. The belt was clenched between his teeth, though he could not force himself to loop it around his forearm. He panted, sighed, and held the needle up to the light. Through his finely-tuned fascination, he observed a red dot on the tip of the needle. It was not his blood. It was not anyone's blood.
Like in a fairytale, Sherlock pricked his fingertip with the syringe. Moriarty would be proud, when he came to inspect his work.
The paint strayed from the metal and was joined by a single fleck of his blood. He stared. His eyes were deep and his breaths were shallow.
"No." he tried to say, but the sound was soft and garbled as he held his face in his hands.
He continued staring and shaking his head. His blood was orange, then purple, then black. Orange, purple, and black, and absolutely pouring from his body, trading places with the filling of the syringe. He gasped and he shuddered. The belt constricted his arm, and he watched the venom course through his veins. He tugged the belt until it was as tight as possible.
"No." he said, more clearly. He shut his eyes and focused.
Somewhere in his palace, he kept a room about mythology. He found a map to get there, stairs to climb, doors to pass. He saw paintings; ancient medicine, the snake entwined around the staff, healers diluting venom. There stood Moriarty, barring the door and dangling the keys. Sherlock stretched to reach them. Moriarty laughed, and tossed the keys to the ground. When Sherlock stooped to catch them, he found himself falling through the floor, and all the rooms of his precious palace melted together, hidden by Moriarty's face.
His eyes flashed open.
"John!" the word trembled on his lips, "John."
He could not recall sending the doctor away, so he struggled to his feet. He failed, and crawled, instead, to the bedroom door. One hand slid into the threshold, trapped against the floor. When he looked up at the handle, he only saw Moriarty. No keys. No escape. No John; he would not be able to come in. Unacceptable.
Sherlock tugged on the door and leaned against it. He cried the name into the wood.
He took the syringe and carved it there, as well. He could not open the door. Moriarty was there. He carefully scooped up the abandoned syringe, refilled it, and left a message on the pane. The letters glowed, but Sherlock could not read them. He could barely see through invented clouds and smoke; his palace blazed and burned.
The syringe was empty. While he thought he wrote on the door, he had been jabbing his forearm. He winced but did not stop.
"Sherlock?" eventually, John's voice crept under the door, "Are you alright?"
He tried to enter the room, but Sherlock's weight prevented it. The detective had entered a treacherous spell of sleep, sweating and continuously stabbing his arm. Blood stained the floor, and John noticed it.
"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"
He shoved the door open, dropping the new box of nicotine-patches into the puddle of blood. He was angry and frightened, but this was overthrown by concern. The doctor knelt and considered his patient. John shook his shoulders until he awoke.
"John?" gasped Sherlock. He prepared a slurred speech about Moriarty, but John shoved him to his bed and ensnared him in the blankets. The belt was stripped from his arm, and nested beside him. It was cold against his skin.
"I don't wanna hear it, Sherlock, and you don't have to say it."
Using Sherlock's former dressing-gown, John wiped the blood from the floor. He collected the leather case and its contents, and considered calling Lestrade to ensure a proper disposal. He'd call in the morning, he decided. Maybe.