Author's note: Again, I do not own these characters, but I love them.

Chapter Four

Sherlock stood in the dark, the only light coming from his computer screen. Unable to sleep, he had come down for a glass of milk, even though he knew it wouldn't help. He had taken to checking email, thinking maybe it would bore him to sleep as usual. There had been a question from Gregson, about a certain type of substance that the lab had found in a victim's toxicology assay. He consulted several volumes on his bookshelf, looking for the answer. It was a bit obscure, so he tried Wiley's Textbook of Modern Toxicology. It would have just the information he needed.

When he began flipping through the book, something hit the floor. He reached down to pick it up, without looking, as he was busy scanning for the right information. As soon as his fingers grasped the tiny flattened bag, he looked down, knowing what it was. It was a small bindle of heroin, no more than a hit. This was high grade gear, though, maybe China cat. He tilted his hand in the light, almost hypnotized as he looked at it.

It brought back memories, just as the banker case had done. He raised an eyebrow, wondering when he'd hidden this inside his book. He had no memory of it, but he'd done plenty of things in London that he had scanty memories of after she had been murdered. She'd been a colleague, on her way to becoming a friend. Maybe more than that. God knows how hard that had been for her, he thought, knowing how difficult a person he could be.

Olivia, who had been a forensic scientist at the lab, had been a frequent face, and then, after a time, they had become close. He would often call her when he had specific forensic questions, and she would consult on cases that he brought to the lab. He'd known she was attracted to him, and he hadn't been totally uninterested, but . . . nothing had happened between them. There just hadn't been time for it to develop.

Moriarty had murdered her. He wasn't ever able to prove it, oh no. The fiend had proved marvelously adept at hiding his connection to the killing. Sherlock had been pulling together all the crimes in London, seeing the gossamer connections and intimations that pointed to a mastermind of the criminal element. He'd gotten too close, and Moriarty had noticed him. Sherlock had continued to push, disrupting as much of Moriarty's network as he could, even after the first warning. Then, the second warning had been deadly.

He remembered finding her near his lodgings on Baker Street, and his face twisted with grief. The first winter storm had started, and if not for her red coat against the snow, he might have missed her in the alley as he went around to the back. He'd forgotten his keys, and was going to try the back door, when he saw her, her coat spread out over the whiteness, her body propped against the wall as if waiting for him. Her clothes had been impeccably clean, with absolutely no trace evidence of any kind. A week after it happened, he had gotten a letter, addressed in silver pen on black stationery. It had said simply "I win this one. Play again? M."

He found that the muscles in his body were aching from tension. It would be easy, he knew, to use again. To find the oblivion that would be blessed peace from his memories. He clenched the bag in his fist and looked away. Those were the thoughts of a junkie. But wasn't that exactly what he was? His face twisted in self-loathing. His very brain itched with craving. Heading upstairs, he did the only thing he knew to do to soothe the tempest in his mind.

She was sure Sherlock's presence had woken her, but he was standing stone still beside the window, looking out and not making any noise. The moonlight and faint glow of the streetlights outside highlighted his form in the darkness.

"Sherlock?" She asked, sitting up in bed. "What's up?" She brushed her long hair from her face and waited, thinking he'd had another nightmare.

In the darkness, he came toward her, and handed her something small. "Hidden. In a book. I didn't remember about it."

Turning on the light, she saw what he meant. The packet of powder sat on her palm, small but sinister- looking. Her eyes widened. This could be the relapse that she'd worried about. She searched his face, looking for signs that he was high. He seemed lost and shaken, but that was all. "Okay." She said, calm and collected. "I'll be right back." She headed for the bathroom and returned after he heard a flushing sound.

As she'd done so many times before, she handed him the drug test and watched while he mechanically swabbed his mouth. "I'm still clean." He told her, handing it back.

"I know." She said, glancing down briefly and then tossing it in a nearby trash can. "Sit down." She gestured to the bed, and then took a seat beside him. "Want to tell me?"

"The banker case was bad." He admitted, not meeting her eyes. "But. . .this. . ." He looked down at his empty, shaky hand, glad that temptation was gone. "I almost gave in, Watson. For a moment. . .all I could remember was the good part about it. The oblivion." His unfocused gaze studied the floor.

"You did the right thing." She reassured him, sitting beside him on the bed. "It brought back memories again, didn't it? Like before." She already knew it had, but thought she might be able to get him to talk about it. Any part of his history would help her, especially anything about London. The place he'd crashed and crashed hard.

He nodded. "I started with drugs after she was killed-Olivia Hastings."

Joan pulled her feet up on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. It was chilly in the room and as he spoke, it seemed to feel colder. "She meant a lot to you. Was she a girlfriend?"

He shook his head. "She might have been if there'd been more time, but no. We knew each other from Scotland Yard. She was a forensic scientist and we worked together frequently. I suppose we became rather fond of each other, although I don't know how. You and I both know how difficult I can be." A sadness touched his features and she had to clench both hands around her knees to keep from wanting to reach out for him. It was important that he tell this story, she knew.

"How…how did she die? You said she got killed." She gently urged.

His eyes hardened. "Moriarty. She was strangled. Just because she knew me—just because she was someone I cared for. I had gotten close to him, to seeing the entire society of crime that he commanded, and it was a warning to back off." He looked at her, trying to explain. "He is an organizer. A spider in a great web of crime that reaches worldwide. He sent the first warning. A note. The second one was Olivia. Her death was at least partially my fault."

"No. No it wasn't." She interrupted quickly.

"Watson." He shook his head, as if she didn't understand. "Of course, I know I didn't kill her, but she died because she was close to me. Moriarty was impossible to find. I believe he has an intellect nearly equal to my own. I tried each and every moment to track him down, for a while, until I lost hope. I was obsessed with the failure. That's when I started with whatever drug I could get my hands on…to distract myself from everything."

She didn't know what to say, so she got up on her knees and reached out and wrapped her arms around him, unable to help herself. He rested his head against her for a long moment.

"Look at all you've done now. I'm proud of you." She whispered against his short unruly hair.

He shook his head. "Proud." He made a dismissive sound. "I'm an addict. Just a junkie. That's all tonight proved." Knowing he didn't deserve her words, he pulled away from her embrace, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Stop." She said quietly, trying to command his attention. It left her heart aching to hear him talk like this-the self-loathing from his voice, coming out of him like poison, an infection in his soul. She wanted to fix it, but didn't know how.

"Oh, come on Watson. It's best that we see it for what it is, right? It doesn't matter what I do, how many cases I solve, or how long I stay clean. . .I'm still an addict." He spat the word out. "No matter how much I hate what I am… it doesn't change anything." Before he could say more, she leaned in again, and made him look at her, a hand on each side of his face.

"Now shut up and listen." She said in a voice that sounded calm and strong. "Yes. You're right. You are an addict. You always will be. But that doesn't mean you can hate yourself. You're human. That's why I lov… I mean it's...one of the things I…like about you." She colored at her Freudian slip and let him go.

Sherlock blinked twice, slowly, as if coming to a realization, and began to speak, but she silenced him with a look.

"No. We've talked enough for tonight. You're exhausted." Let me shut up before I say something else stupid, she thought. "Stay." She motioned to the bed. "It's too early in the morning, and I'm not leaving you alone."

Unbelievably, he gave in without argument as she threw a blanket on him. He noticed the pillows smelled faintly like her perfume: rose, jasmine and a hint of cedar. It was comforting. All at once, everything caught up to him and he found his eyes slipping closed even before she returned to the bed.

She crawled up next to him, picking a place beneath the covers. "Don't you dare leave this room without telling me."

"Of course." He murmured. He tried to focus his mind on what she had said, but it was too difficult. He found everything slipping away as sleep claimed him.

She listened to his breathing slow down, and when she was sure he was asleep, she let her eyes roam over his face. A danger point had come and gone and he'd remained sober. There would be others, she knew, but she felt relieved; maybe her feelings for him weren't getting in the way of doing a good job. Still, she worried. She would ponder what he'd told her, use it to help him in any way she could. She had to stay focused.

He'd told her about seeing the puzzles in everything, and how it pushed people away. She had thought she agreed until now. Every piece of his puzzle that she put into place brought them, not further apart, but inexorably closer together.

Author's note: Comments welcome!