Sherlock would find him. No matter what he would do.
That was how Sherlock planned to do it. Find John, any means necessary. He called his homeless network to look out for Moriarty, Sebastian or John. To look for anything that could lead to where John was.
Then a week passed, no sign. Frustration started to grow inside when eventually, there was another package. Another small, blood red package. This just caused suspicion to grow.
Sherlock just sat there, leaning back in his arm chair simply staring at the package. Curiosity growing, though conclusions spreading. What was it? Something told him that Jim wasn't so stupid as to send another body part to Sherlock, but another part of him told him that Jim was exactly that clever. That smart.
Messages then started flooding in. Texts from Jim, teasing Sherlock's curious mind. Was Sherlock going to open that package? That stupid, small package.
Then he lifted it up with one hand, balanced on his palm of his hand as he studied it. It was surprisingly heavy and he frowned.
It wasn't a body part. Surely not. But that's what Sherlock wanted to think, for once, emotions where getting in the way of his case. That would be his downfall, not that Sherlock knew that.
But Moriarty did.
Sherlock eventually succumbed to inquisitiveness and curiously opened the box.
There was a flash of light. A loud explosive sound, smoke pouring from the box.
Game Over.
It was game over for Sherlock. His little bit of consciousness he had left heard some police engines, followed by an ambulance. Then screams. Screams of Ms Hudson.
Idiot.
Then another text message. But this time Sherlock couldn't read it.
Then Darkness.
That was it, Darkness for the next couple days, weeks. Waking up in a hospital room? No. That would be too obvious. Jim wouldn't waste an opportunity like that, so when Sherlock did wake up, it was in a small room. A small white, enclosed room.
A almost scary room. Mirrors surrounding him constantly, causing Sherlock to frown and panic inside.
Then the door opened and in walked, Jim. No. It wasn't Jim. It was John. John, looking reasonably well, but looking at Sherlock with cold eyes. Cold piercing eyes.
Sherlock blinked and smiled.
"John!" He exclaimed. "You're here! Quick! Let me out!"
But John shook his head. Sadly? No. Not sadly. He just shook his head and sat down next to Sherlock and whispered some apologetic statements in his ear as he got a syringe out and slowly pushed a liquid which resembled herorin into Sherlock.
Then Jim walked in. Jim. Sherlock would kill Jim. But as he struggled to stand up, he collapsed. His right leg. Sherlock looked down at it.
It was numb. Then Sherlock saw a clamp like feature tightened around his leg, stopping the blood flow to it.
The next few minutes blurred passed Sherlock as Jim simply got out his small hand gun and hit Sherlock round the head multiple times using the end of it, letting the blood from his head drip to the pure white floors, now dirtied with a rich red.
Red.
Everything was red to Sherlock.
John was curled up in the corner of the room, the syringe thrown across the room, the herorin kicking in. The hallucinations.
Red dripping across the room, his eyes dilating and Sherlock's pulse rising. Then he saw Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson all crowding round him. Laughing. Sherlock panicked and frowned.
He had been clean for nearly four years. He had forgotten how awful the delusions, hallucinations could be. Then more blood and screaming.
Screams that he had heard earlier. He could no longer feel the whacks round the head that Jim was delivering to him.
Then he was out. Cold again, lying on the floor.
But he could still smell the thick stench of blood in the room. He could still hear the screams, the laughter from his loved ones, his friends.
Then, as he opened his eyes, he saw John. Lying there. Dead. Decapitated, blood seeping towards him, as if a tidal way of blood.
Sherlock was too gone to realise it wasn't real. All he could see is blood.
Game Over, Sherlock Holmes.
He would have to fight to get out of this.
