In the end he chose Vegas as his own personal hell; it was kind of fitting, given his past experience in that very place. However, it wasn't revenge that brought him there this time around. Revenge was now finally beyond his grasp, and the hardest part of it all was that Lisbon was the one to blame.
He was well prepared to die, and take Red John with him at the same time; the only weakness to his plan was that his friend just couldn't let him go. Angry tears had blurred his vision as he'd watched his enemy crumble to the ground; he hadn't even dignified her with a word, he'd simply walked away.
She had no right to do this to him; after all those years she should have known how much Red John meant to him, how he desperately needed to be the one to pull the trigger. There he was instead, staring at the steaming beverage that was brewing in a nondescript teacup courtesy of the motel reception; and it wasn't just any brand of tea that he was only too eager to taste.
If luck was on his side, then he would at least get the chance to see his daughter again; he stubbornly tried to ignore the small part of him that wished for Teresa to appear before his eyes instead. He was actually surprised when a most unexpected vision materialized after he'd taken a mere couple of sips.
"Belladonna again? You should try and kick the habit, my friend."
The man that was comfortably ensconced in an armchair, which he was sure wasn't really there, looked remarkably familiar though he couldn't quite place where or when he'd actually seen him. His eyes were sharp and piercing; his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision.
And then, in a sudden flash, he understood.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume," Jane murmured wryly, slightly amused that his subconscious had decided to show him the fictional detective of all people.
"I see that you know my name. Very well. You may be aware of the fact that I too had the habit of indulging in narcotics, until my dear friend Dr. Watson cured me of my partiality for cocaine."
"Please. You're just a figment of my imagination. Why should I discuss drug addiction with you?"
Holmes gracefully shrugged his shoulders. "Probably because your subconscious is trying to pass through a message. Even I couldn't do without some sort of human contact; I wouldn't willingly give up my partnership with Watson, he was always a good friend to me."
"You're suggesting my subconscious thinks I'm drinking belladonna because I feel lonely?"
"Something along those lines, yes. However, you do have your personal Watson – and a very handsome too, if I may say so."
He frowned. "Leave Teresa out of this."
"As you said, I'm a figment of your imagination. That means you're the one who brought her up in the first place."
"She betrayed my trust. There's nothing else to say."
Sherlock Holmes joined his fingertips in the manner that was peculiar to him, his gaze as hard as steel now.
"I too chased my personal nemesis right to the brink of the abyss, but in the end came out of it alive. It was the thought of my loyal companion grieving my supposed death that eventually brought me back."
A humorless laughter fell from Jane's lips. "Moriarty didn't kill your wife and child; as a matter of fact, you were never known to love a woman."
"I have never loved a woman, that is true; but if I did, I would not permit that she might suffer because of me."
For a moment there, he was about to retort that he already had; Angela was dead and gone, and so was little Charlotte. However, that wasn't what his hallucination was hinting at, and he knew it only too well.
He was in love with Teresa Lisbon, had been for years now. She'd done nothing but save his life time and time again, while he was just a selfish bastard who kept on putting revenge above everything.
"Battling wits with Professor Moriarty has been a honor and a pleasure to me, but the only thing that really matters at the end of the day is friendship. Or love, in your case."
"I bet that your friend would have seen it differently, had you been set on a quest for revenge instead of mere justice."
The detective shook his head. "John Watson was always a patient man, and the most loyal of friends. As is your young lady, as a matter of fact."
"What if I'm the one who doesn't want her friendship?" he shot back defiantly.
"That would be a real pity. Unless you're all too keen on dying a lonely man, that is."
His hallucination promptly got to his feet, then swept out of his sight after a courteous bow. Jane stood still for what seemed an eternity, then reached for the half-empty teacup with trembling fingers and poured it down the bathroom sink.
Perhaps it was time he faced his demons, and he'd better do it while he wasn't under the effects of some alkaloid. On a sudden whim he fished for his cellphone and hastily typed a message.
I'll be back to Baker Street ASAP. Wait for me, my dear Watson – if you can.
He'd just placed the phone on his bedside table when its buzz startled him.
You're drunk again, right? Text me your address and I'll get there.
Jane stared at the message for a good five minutes, then his fingers finally moved over the keypad.
Never mind. I'm in Vegas, just need some time to sober up.
His cellphone buzzed again almost immediately.
No shit Sherlock. Stay safe, will you?
He laughed, couldn't help it; hallucinating the great detective was one thing, but Lisbon mentioning him in turn was way too funny. Weariness washed over him at last, and he leaned back against the pillow.
Then, for the first time in years, he instantly fell into a deep slumber.