Author's Note: Ok, this is dedicated to LuverSherloc4eva for being the most faithful reviewer I've ever had. Thank you for the feedback (and reminding me to update) I appreciate it so much. I'm sorry about the extremely long absence. I hope this makes up for it. Enjoy!
Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. The name would not leave Sherlock's mind. After the cabbie had revealed the name of his "fan," it had run as an undercurrent in his thoughts for days. But he had found nothing. He had used all his sources—the homeless network, people in high places who would take bribes for information, librarians, record holders, anyone that might even point him in the right direction. There was nothing. Not a word, a reference…. "A name no one says," is what the killer had told him. And now, in the usual post-case boredom that plagues his great mind, finding the mysterious criminal for hire was the only thing he could think about.
"Sherlock, you haven't eaten anything all day. At least have some tea and toast," John coaxed, but Sherlock turned an icy glare on him and he huffed and turned away. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the main room, where he had been for approximately the last four hours and twenty minutes, staring at the wall opposite the fire place. The damasked wallpaper was no longer visible due to the papers, charts, maps, and pictures that were hung in a haphazard pattern. Lines of string crisscrossed in a web so thick most people couldn't see what lay underneath. It was everything Sherlock could gather that might possibly point in the direction of "Moriarty." Reports of car bombs connected to robberies tied to murders linked with terrorist activity, the only thing associating one with another is the lack of information. No prints, no names, no faces, nothing. It was most complex puzzle Sherlock Holmes had ever faced. And it was all-consuming.
"I'm going to bed now. You really should think of doing the same." Had it become night? That meant hours had passed without even a flicker of understanding in the racing mind of the detective. There had to be something. Maybe he should check the census records again…. Or the name could be an anagram for something else? The violin was out and scratching a few hours after John's interruption, but all that did was irritate him.
"Have you had any water in the last 8 hours? Sherlock?" He throws the full glass that had appeared near his chair an hour ago against the wall in a fit of rage when the only idea he'd had in the last day had come to a dead end. Moriarty…. Who are you? He'd been on Sherlock's website! Maybe he could figure out how to trace the views back to the sources.
"Let me see your arm. I'm taking these off. You have to give yourself a break from them or you'll get nicotine poisoning." Three nicotine patches are thrown in the trash and Sherlock absently rubs his arm where John had ripped the patches off. He had to have messed up somewhere. They always mess up. Maybe the car bomb in Istanbul and the museum break-in in Dublin are connected? There has to be a correlation between the murder sprees in Reykjavik and St. Louis. Maybe… Maybe… Maybe…
"Go take a shower and give your brain a little time to process everything. Or get some sleep. I'm sure it'll help." There are too many variables, too many "what if's?" and maybe's, too little information and too many things that don't fit a pattern.
"Sherlock, look at me. You're shaking. Sherlock." The eyes of the detective look away from the wall for the first time in possibly days. He had just been roughly shoved into the arm chair that the doctor had taken fondly too. He looks at his flat mate and struggles to focus.
"I need to find him, John." His voice is unrecognizable from not speaking for days on end. "I've always been able to find people, but now….."
"Sherlock, you look like you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It's not healthy." There is honest concern in John's voice and Sherlock's mind—which feels like it's a rag that's been wrung out too many times—is confused by it. Had he not spent the last blur of unnumbered days ignoring him, throwing things, playing the violin at who knows what hour, and basically acting completely abominable? But John is still looking at him like he's afraid he going to keel over any second. It helps bring Sherlock a little closer to earth.
"How about you go take a shower?" John suggests. "I'll order some take away and it'll be waiting for you when you get out. I'm sure you'll feel loads better after you eat." Sherlock's tongue wants to argue that he feels fine, that John needs to leave him alone and let him focus on finding Moriarty. But his mind feels heavy and compliant as putty. He stands and finds that he's tired. He nods automatically and has to concentrate on stopping. John goes ahead of him into the bathroom and turns on the hot water for him. Sherlock finds himself glad cause he suddenly isn't sure he could have straightened back up, not with his head feeling so heavy. As John turns to leave, he hesitates at the doorway.
"Don't lock the door. If you pass out I don't want to have to worry about breaking it down." He seems a little awkward saying it, but there's enough authority behind his voice that it's obvious that he honestly thinks it might be an issue. The shower is hot, but the heat just makes Sherlock's brain feel heavier. He leans his forehead against the wall. Moriarty... Irish surname…. Criminal…. He shakes himself a little when he feels his consciousness slipping. He straightens and turns the water to cold. It invigorates him enough that he can step out of the shower and dress with relative ease. His mind feels less foggy now, more alert.
John looks relieved when he emerges from the bathroom; as if he was afraid Sherlock had passed out without him knowing and was silently drowning in the shower. True to his word, there were Chinese take away boxes stacked on the table, along with a large glass full of water.
"Sit," John instructs, pointing to a chair that Sherlock sinks into like the effort to stand was too much.
"Drink." He shoves the glass towards him and it's obvious that Sherlock is not going anywhere until it's empty.
"Now, eat," he says, and his voice is gentle as he pushes an already full plate towards Sherlock. The food smells divine and Sherlock suddenly realizes that his stomach is so empty it's probably shrunk to half its normal size.
"And Sherlock," he continues, as he watches Sherlock take a bite of food with vigor. "I understand that you work a little differently than most people. And that sometimes you don't feel you have to eat or sleep. But don't ever do that again."
Sherlock looks up from his plate of quickly vanishing food at the steel in John's voice. Then he smiles and says, "Of course, John." He looks back down at his plate and adds a little quieter, "thank you."
I don't think this is how I planned to take it when I started writing, but I like it well enough. Again, I'm sorry for the wait. Thank you for reading.
