There's a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and it's morals aren't worth what a pig could spit and it goes by the name of London. On top of the whole sit a privelaged few making mock of the vermin in the lower zoo, turning beauty into filth and greed. I too have sailed the world behelds it's wonders. For the cruelty of man is as wonderous as Peru, but there's no place like London.
Sherlock Holmes was not a man to be tested. Everyone in London had known him. Years ago, his name had been well known and he had been quite famous. The consulting detective that could tell anything about anyone in a matter of seconds. Now here he was, returning to London after three long years. His hopes were building up and he hoped that everything would be the same as it was before. To return back to life as normal. He knew, however, that things would be different now. He had not been given a choice. They had all condemned him. Forced him into a self-proclaimed exile. Of course John had never doubted him, but in the end, it hadn't been enough. He had to go and he had to die. And so did James.
The ship arrived at it's port and Sherlock left as quickly as possible, not wishing to linger there any longer. He walked out onto the familiar streets of London, happy to be breathing in that oh so wonderful city air that Sherlock had missed. He straightened out his over-coat, adjusted his tie as he began to walk. The sound of his boots on the cobble stone streets was rather calming. He gained some odd looks, but he knew that nobody would recognize him. He had changed over the years, even in appearence. A white streak had been permanently dyed into his hair and was much thinner than he had been when he left London. Without John being there to constantly remind him to eat, he rarely ever did it. His face was gaunt now and even he could recognize the haunted look that rested in his own eyes. He made his way down to Baker Street and when he stopped outside of the familiar flat. He smiled widely for the first time in three years. He pulled out his key that he had kept with him all these years, slipping it inside the lock. it opened with the same click that it had always and he stepped inside the flat, shutting the door behind him, looking around expectantly and hoping to see Mrs. Hudson and John. He went ot go and open the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, only to find it locked. Odd. The door was usually left open for himself or John.
"Oh, a customer!" a female voice rang out from the stair well.
Sherlock looked away from teh door as he heard the voice and the footsteps on the stairs that followed. He couldn't deny the fact that he was rather surprised to see Irene Adler coming down the stairs of his flat. She had not changed much, though he could see the age lines around her eyes. She looked at him, a smirk playing across her lips and she pushed him against the wall, pulling off his overcoat and tie off.
"I do not remember making an appointment with you, but I'm sure I can adjust my schedule." she purred in his ear.
"I am not here for...that." Sherlock said, pushing her away. "I am looking for a Mrs. Hudson and a Doctor Watson." he stated.
"Oh, you'll be disppointed. The Mrs. Hudson who had once resided here is dead. Passed away around three years ago. Doctor Watson left shortly after that as well. Met and courted a lovely girl named Mary Morstan. They have a small house in the country now." Irene stated, backin away from Sherlock and readjusting her clothing so that they covered more of her body than they had before.
Sherlock could not believe what he was hearing. It was impossible. Mrs. Hudson was dead and John was gone. All that he had hoped to come back for had just been ripped away from him in a matter of a few seconds. Three years of waiting to return to nothing.
"I knew you'd come back." Irene stated. "The Great Sherlock Holmes, the man who told me that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, had come back from the dead only to find that everything you love is gone." Irene said, resting a hand on Sherlock's cheek.
"You are cruel, Ms. Adler. I come back, expecting to see people I consider my family again, and in their place I find you, using my home as a place to conduct your vulgar business." Sherlock spat out, this dull ache building up in his chest.
"Would not prefer it to be me, other than some stranger? At least I am willing to offer you your old room." Irene smirked.
"I'll take it." Sherlock said, making his way up the stairs, Irene following behind him.
It was all so familiar to him. So well known and he rememberedit all, but he had never seen the building so empty. Never had it felt so hollow. As he made his way into the sitting room, he noticed that nothing had been moved. Well, anything that had belonged to him. All of John's things had vanished and now the room seemed even more hollow than before. It was painful. It was an odd feeling. Of course, Sherlock had been feeling this pain since the Fall but never had it been this strong. Irene stepped up behind him, resting a hand on his right shoulder.
"I did not have the heart to change anything that belonged to you. I knew you would come back. Could have sold everything. But I didn't."
Sherlock moved away from Irene's touch, stepping further into the flat. Nothing had changed. He moved through the room, stepping outside his bedroom door. Irene made a move to follow him, but he held up his his hand.
"Leave me." he ordered.
Irene stepped back, nodding her head and turning away. Sherlock reached forward and opened the door to his bedroom, slipping inside and shutting the door behind him softly. Everything was how he had left it years prior and he couldn't help but to find one layer of happiness in all of this. He bent down onto the floor, prying open the floorboards. Resting inside of it was a silver case. He pulled it out, wiping the think layer of dust off. He cradled it in his hand, mimicking the way a mother would cradle her child. He opened the case and smiled as he looked upon the oh so familiar needles. He waited a moment, simply admiring them, before he reached out into his pocket, pulling out the seven percent soloution. He let out a heavy sigh as he filled the needle with the wonderful soloution. He pressed it to the centre of his elbow, slipping it into his vein and injecting it into his bloodstream. He let out a heavy sigh, running his hand over the needle.
"These are my friends. See how they glisten. See this one shine, in the light, my friends! Speak to me friend. Whisper, I'll listen." he whispered. "I know, I know, you've been locked out of sight all these years! Like me, my friends! Well, I've come home to find you waiting. Home, and we're together...and we'll do wonders...Won't we?" Sherlock asked.
Sherlock could feel his eyes growing heavy and he blinked. When he opened his eyes, he gasped loudly in shock. Above him, smiling down at him was James Moriarty. He could feel tears building up in the corners of his eye, similar to the ones that had been there before his fall. He reached a hand up, brushing his hand across his cheek and the man's grin simply widened.
"You're alive?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.
"Indeed I am, Sherlock. Have you missed me?" James asked.
Sherlock nodded his head, feeling one of his tears slip from his eyes and James reached a hand down to wipe it away,while Sherlock looked up at him with desperate eyes.
"It's okay, my love. It is all going to be alright. I'm alive. You can see me."
"I can see you..." Sherlock whispered. "When you died...it looked so real."
"I know, darling. But it was necessary."
"Why was it?" Sherloc asked, sitting up and looking Jim directly in the eye.
"Because I had to go."
"But you're here now." he argued.
"No I'm not. Not really." James whispered.
"I don't understand."
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." James said, leaning forward and pressing his lips against Sherlock's own softly.
When Sherlock opened his eyes once more, James was gone and he felt that pain return to his chest, right where his heart lay. This was so much worse. He pressed the palms of his hands to his closed eyelids, letting out a sound that sounded almost strangled. He turned his head to look at the needle.
"Rest now, my friends. Soon I'll unfold you. Soon you'll know splendors you never dreamed all your days, my lucky friends! 'Till now your shine was merely silver. Friends, you shall drip rubies. You'll soon drip precious rubies..." Sherlock said, holding the needle tightly in his hand.
He heard the door open with a click and he turned to face Irene once more. She walked over to him, the material of her dress brushing across Sherlock's face ever so slightly.
"We're going to need to get some gin in you. This looks like it's going to be a long night." Irene said, helping Sherlock to stand up and lead him out towards the sitting room, forcing him to sit down. She walked over to the mantlepiece, picking up the skull and placing it in his hands.
"Talk to your skull if you have to. I already know why you're like this." Irene said, sitting in the chair opposite Sherlock.
He looked down at the skull, it's vacant eye holes staring back at him in a way that made his whole body begin to shake. The grin of its jaw reminding him of that oh so familiar psychotic smile.
"I've lost everything." he said, pressing the forehead of the sull against his own, looking into the darkness of it The hollow base was echoing the way Sherlock's chest felt. Empty and bareen except for that pain that he seemed to be breathing in and out. He could hear Irene pouring a drink and he looked away from the blackness as Irene handed the drink to him. He wasn't normally one for drinking, but he would do anything to numb this pain. To make it stop if only for a moment. The drink burned as it travelled down his throat, but he welcomed it.
"You haven't lost everything." Irene stated. "You still have your mind. Use it."
"You're right. The one thing I have." Sherlock mumbled. "I need to go to the Yard! I have to see Lestrade!" he said, running to the door.
"You won't find him there!" Irene yelled.
Sherlock paused out in his movements and turned back to face Irene.
"Where is he? Where is Lestrade?"
"Fired from Scotland Yard. once they realized how many cases he had allowed you to come in on, he was fired."
Sherlock looked at Irene, a crazy look in his eyes. Everything was gone. There was nothing left for him here and now, his mind was useless. He had spent three long years fighting and striving for the chance to come home only to have everything taken away from him. He wanted them all back, th epeople he had taken for granted, now that they were gone. He alked over to the window, looking down onto Baker Street. All those people, walking around so free. The ones who had allowed doubt to fill their head and were the reason why his life was gone. The reason why James was gone.
"There's a hole in the world like a great black put and it's filled with people who are filled with shit and the vermin of the world inhabit it. But not for long. They all deserve to die." Sherlock whispered to himself, glaring down at the warm bodies on the street that he wished were cold.
Irene came up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder and he turned around, looking into her eyes, before reacing up with one hand, wrapping it around her throat and slowly beginning to cut off her airway. She gasped and clawed at his hand, trying to pry them off, but he only applied more pressure. It was only a moment before unconciousness would have reached her, he decided to let her go. Irene collapsed onto the floor, coughing and trying to breathe heavily in order to bring oxygen back into her lungs as she looked up at him.
Irene stood up, walking over to Sherlock and grabbing his head and leading him over to his chair and seating him. She kneeled down in front of him, a hand on his knee.
"Easy now, hush, love, hush. Don't distress yourself, what's your rush? Keep your thoughts nice and lush. Wait." Irene stated, running one hand through his hair. "Hush love, hush, think it through. Once it bubbles then what's to do? Watch it close, let it brew. Wait."
"I can't." Sherlock stated, thoughts all centering around James.
Irene sighed, picing the skull up out of Sherlock's hand and placing it back on the mantlepiece, running her hand over the polished, yet chipped wood.
"I've been thinking flowers, maybe daisies, to brighten up the room. Don't you think some flowers, pretty daisies, migth relieve the gloom?" she laughed, bitterness resting at the edge of her voice, before turning to look back at Sherlock sighing loudly. "Ah, wait, love, wait."
"Why? When they get to walk around, living their happy lives and not even know what they have made me lose." Sherlock spoke, voice laced with venom.
"Slow, love, slow. Time's so fast. Now goes quickly, see, now it's past. Soon will come, soon will last. Wait. Don't you know, silly man, half the fun is to plan the plan. All good things come to those who can wait." Irene said, resting a hand on Sherlock's head.
Sherlock moved his head away from Irene's touch, glaring at the Woman. James was the only one ever allowed to touch him like that. The touch he missed and craved. Irene walked away from him when he did this and back over to the mantlepiece.
"Gilly flowers, maybe. 'Stead of daisies. I don't know though. What do you think?" Irene asked, not really interested in an answer.
Sherlock glared at her from his seat, peering at her from under his long, dark curls. On the side of the angels. James had once said that he was on the side of the angels. Now though, Sherlock was determined to prove him wrong. He rose from his chair, moving past Irene and out the door, pausing on the streets of London. He watched as people walked past him, not even bothering to give him a second glance. He walked quickly, determination in his step as he made his way towards Scotland Yard. It was dark now. Most would be going home. It was a quiet night. He could tell by the number of people surrounding the building, smoking as though they didn't have a care in the world. He picked out one of them. A male. Five feet, three inches. Stocky build and broad shoulders. It would be so easy. He moved in the shadows, quickly and quietly, until he was behind the man. He had not move, not once. Sherlock moved up behind him slowly.
Sherlock shouldn't have had this all planned out. Shouldn't have known how to kill everyone around him so easily. He went up behind the man, a cloth in hand. It was drenched in a substance known as chlorophorm used in various medicinces and surgical procedures and it could easily render a person unconcious by having them inhale it. He wrapped his arm around the man's face and placed it over his mouth and nose. The man struggled, if only for a moment, before falling to the ground unconcious. Wouldn't be hard. Wouldn't be hard at all.
Sherlock dragged the body of the man away, behind the building and he propped him up so that his back was resting against the brick wall. The chlorophorm had been for conviences sake, not wanting to have to fight a struggling victim. However, he would now have to wait for him to wake up. He wanted the man to know the pain. He slowly began to awake and Sherlock found himseld growing excited. The man blinked, confused and looked up at him.
"Who...Who are you?" he asked, a slight slur in his voice.
"Once an idea is planted in the mind, it continued to grow and manifest. It can never truly die. All of you allowed doubt to fill your mind and you took them away...you took him away." Sherlock said angrily.
"I don't know what you're talking about." the man said, trying to stand up, but Sherlock forced him to stay on the ground.
"You wouldn't. You people and your simply minds. Don't you remember my face? It's only been three years." Sherlock laughed.
"Please. I really do not know what you're talking about, Sir." the man said, his fear showing now.
"It's too late for you now. You're the start of a new game. I have to do this on my own now."
Sherlock didn't give theman a chance to respond this time. he pulled the knife out of his pocket, twirling it in his hand for a moment before holding it in his hand tightly and plunging it into the man's stomach, twisting it as the man stared at him in shock, making choking sounds. Sherlock covered his mouth as the man attempted to scream, smiling softly at him.
"I just stabbed you in the stomach. If I wanted you to die quickly, I could have just slit your neck. It will burn through you slowly and painfully. But just rememer that none of this pain will ever compare to the loss I have suffered through."
As soon as Sherlock removed his hand the man began to scream, but it didn't matter. Nobody would come in time. Sherlock slipped away from the scene, slowly walking back to Baker Street. Blood as staining the sleeves of his shirt and it was the first thing Irene noticed when he walked through the door.
"You didn't..." Irene whispered, holding a hand up to cover her mouth in shock.
Sherlock didn't say anything. He simply walked past her, sitting down in his chair and running a hand over his face in exhaustion. Irene followed after him, the look of shock never once falling from her face.
"How could you di this, Sherlock? Kill a man who hasn't done anything you?"
"He's done everything." Sherlock whispered, his suddenly dark eyes flicking over to Irene. "They all have. Even you. They're all going to have to die. They'll suffer as I have never stopped for the past three years."
"Do you really believe that this is going to bring him back, Sherlock?"
An anger built up inside of Sherlock as Irene mentioned him, reminding him that he was gone. Dead. He stood up from his chair, walking over to her and she looked frightened of him, realizing her mistake.
"I am going to go and see James." Sherlock said, voice weak as he turned to go to his room.
"He is not really there. He is never coming back."
Sherlock ignored Irene's statement, entering his room and locking the door behind him. He pried open the floorboard, pulling out the needles once more. It didn't take long for him to be seeing James standing in front of him, a wide smile spreading across his face.
"Did you miss me, dearest?" James asked, walking up to Sherlock and running a hand over his cheek.
"Yes. Come back." he said in a choked voice.
"I can't." he smiled softly. "They all ensured that."
Sherlock felt the anger come back and fill his body, and James simply stepped closer, hushing him. Sherlock's body was shaking as James pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him, grabbing onto the sleeve of his shirt, inspecting the blood.
"Have you be naughty, my dear?" James asked, grinning widely.
"They're the reason you're dead." Sherlock whispered. He sounded so broken. "I'll take their breath away. Just like they stole yours."
"Yes, my love. Avenge me. Shed blood. Red looks so good staining your skin."
James leaned forward once more, tangling his hand in Sherlock's hair and kissing him hard, wrapping his other arm around Sherlock's waist to hold him still. Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut as he kissed James back until suddenly he stumbled forward. He opened his eyes once again and saw that he was alone. The pain in his chest returned and he fell back against the floor, curling up into a ball as silent sobes wracked his body and he pressed his face into the wooden floor, looking at his hand that was clutching the needle.
"I'm always alone." he whispered.
Time passed and London was at it's highest point of crime in the past three years. Bodies were piling up and all were killed in the same manner. A knife wound, each directly located in the stomach. It was at that point that Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead and offered his services to Scotland Yard. They accepted him without even asking questions. Not even bothering to wonder if it was he who had killed them. When they asked what the killer's motive was, Sherlock simply responded that he had lost a lover and lost a game and now they were seeking revenge. Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes was working on the case, it was still unsolved and it seemed that the number of bodies was only increasing now. The people of Scotland Yard and all of London were depending on him. How foolish they all were. Irene continued to take in clients, much to Sherlock's displeasure and many times, once she was done with her business, he would kill the men. This could either make Irene very happy or very angry, but she never ocne dared to question Sherlock, in fear of risking her own life which he had threatened time and time again. However, life ends quickly and it would appear that life was going to slip away from the great Sherlock Holmes. It was late at night and it appeared to be the one night where Sherlock was not out hunting for new prey, but the cocaine was flowing through his system. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Anderson.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest on suspicion that you have taken part and organized the murders around London. You'll have to come with me."
Sherlock looked up at Anderson in his drug induced state and he smiled widely begore laughing maniacally. Irene looked at him, her fear showing in her expression as Anderson took a step back. Sherlock stood up and walked over to him, pulling the blade out of his pocket.
"I was going to let you live. I really was! I was playing a game with all of you and now you're forcing it to end." Sherlock sighed, bringing the blade closer to Jim.
Anderson's eyes opened wide and he tried to back , but Sherlock grabbed onto him, pressing the blade over his stomach. As he was about to make the fatal strike, he paused and the knife clattered to the floor. He moved away from Anderson and over to the staircase of his flat. Standing in front of him was the dead James Moriarty.
Sherlock could not believe what was right before his eyes and as he looked upon the grinning villain to who his heart had burned for. The criminal stepped forward and rested a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Are you really here?" Sherlock asked in complete disbelief.
"Yes, dearest, I am here." James smiled.
"It can't be..." Sherlock breathed out.
Sherlock turned around to face Irene, picking up the knife from the floor and walked over to her. She tried to back away, but it only resulted with her back hitting the wall. He wrapped a hand around her throat and pressed the tip of the blade to her stomach.
"You lied to me." he growled.
"No, not lied. No I never lied!" Irene shouted.
"I don't believe you. It's been fun Irene." Sherlock whispered, smiling at her.
James came up behind Sherlock, resting his chin on his shoulder and he reached an arm around to wrap his hand around the one that was holding the knife. He led Sherlock's hand as he pushed it into Irene's stomach. She didn't make a sound as he life ended. Her death was silent. Dignified. She fell to the floor, clutching her stomach as life slowly left her eyes. Sherlock turned around to face James, looking at him with complete adoration. He looked behind the other and saw that Anderson was no longer there. He moved to run out of the flat, but James grabbed onto him, halting him in his movements. Sherlock looked and James held his own knife in his hand. He walked close to him.
"We have to go now, Sherlock." James said, a small smile on his lips.
"Why?" he asked, not exactly sure what James meant.
"This world is not meant for us. Now come here."
Sherlock took a hesitant step forward and James smiled, bringing himself closer. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, securely, knife held tightly in his hand as he leaned down to brush his lips against James' own for the last time as he felt a knife plunge into his stomach and he gasped loudly, sealing his lipsover James' to stifle the sounds of pain. He quickly plunged his own knife into James' back and he felt the other man stiffen against him. He didn't stop kissing him until the pain became to much for him. He broke his lips away from James', falling to the floor and bringing James down with him. He held onto him tightly, feeling his body grow cold as life left him.
"I-I...I did it all for you." Sherlock stuttered as he looked into James' eyes.
"I know, my love." James smiled fondly. "Now close your eyes. It's just like falling asleep."
Sherlock nodded his head, a tear falling from his eye and dropping onto the floor as James smiled fondly at him, before he shut his eyes, letting out his final breath. Sherlock shut his eyes, letting out a heavy breath and closing his eyes, grasping onto James' lifeless hand before he too let out his last breath. And that day, in that lonely flat died Sherlock Holmes, The Great Detective of Baker Street.
FIN