Chapter Nine: The Criminal Consultant

The following day was worse than anything Sherlock had experienced before. Yes, he'd detoxed before (more than several times), but this was different. This time the drugs had taken a hold and forced Sherlock into shooting up at least four times a day. And the cuts, every single one of them was infected and they cause Sherlock a mad, itching sensation when John disinfected them.

Sherlock withered about on the couch, with John hovering over him, offering water, tea, biscuits, anything Sherlock need. When Sherlock shouted for the drugs John told him no, helped him through the feeling.

He could barely hold a cigarette but smoked then constantly, trying to fill his boiling blood with nicotine.

Finally, after dropping a cigarette for the twentieth time, John stood. It was mid-evening and had already grown dark outside. Lights flashed past the window as John said, 'I'll get you some patches.'

Sherlock glanced up at him.

'It'll help,' John said, 'keep your mind busy. Plus, you're ruining the couch even more.'

Sherlock smiled at that.

'Will you be okay by yourself?'

Despite feeling impossibly dreadful and weak, Sherlock nodded. There wasn't enough time to get any drugs before John got back with the patches. And he didn't want the drugs, he wanted to stay clean. He couldn't go through this again.

John grabbed his jacket and headed out, leaving Sherlock sitting in the living room. he sucked on his smoke and nearly dropped it again, coming close to burning his thigh. Sherlock wondered if a burn would help with the pain.

The door opened a few minutes later and Sherlock said, 'That was quick.'

But his mind was quickly attuning itself back to reality and Sherlock realised it wasn't John's steps. This man, he was slightly taller than John, and wore a different cologne. Sherlock breathed in and froze, recognising that smell.

'Hello Sherlock,' said the cold, high-pitched voice of Moriarty.

Sherlock turned to see the slim man standing in the doorway. He was wearing a clean pressed navy blue suit and shiny, shiny shoes. He looked the same cold, calculating criminal consultant that Sherlock had last seen.

'I'll scream,' Sherlock said. He was far too weak to fight back. In withdrawal, even Jim Moriarty could take Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty smiled. 'Ah, but if you do, I'll kill you,' he said and withdrew a black pistol from his trouser pocket.

'Gonna kill me yourself, then?' Sherlock asked. 'I didn't think you'd bother.'

'Oh, after last time, I came prepared,' Moriarty grinned.

'Why have you waited so long?' Sherlock asked. 'It's been two months.'

'I had things to do, criminal plans to hatch,' Moriarty said, his head twitching slightly.

Sherlock watched him carefully. He found it odd, to finally be up against Moriarty again. He had thought he'd want to fight, or talk, or possibly play some type of insane game... but Sherlock found that he didn't want any of that.

No, he wanted a normal case (well, as normal as Sherlock Holmes got, anyway), and he wanted to figure it out with John Watson. He wanted Mycroft stalking him the entire way, and Lestrade yelling at him about the rules. He wanted Donovan calling him "Freak", and Anderson blithering on about something idiotic.

Moriarty was a good adversary, a great one, but Sherlock just didn't want to play anymore.

The criminal mastermind seemed to notice the change in his counterpart.

'Why the smile, Sherlock Holmes?'

'Oh, nothing,' Sherlock murmured. 'Just waiting for you to shut up and get it over with.'

Sherlock was concerned now. Had Moriarty got to John? And if not, what would happen when John got back?

Moriarty would kill him, obviously. This withdrawal had thrown Sherlock more then he liked to admit.

That's it, then, he said. I can't allow John to get injured, not this time. I won't do that again.

He looked up at Moriarty, who grinned like the insane man he was.

Whatever the cost I won't let John get hurt.

For once in Sherlock's life, he put a person before the thrill of a puzzle.

Sherlock got to his suddenly and Moriarty stepped back.

'Not going anywhere, I hope,' he said.

'No, no,' Sherlock said. 'I wouldn't miss this for the world. He backed towards the window.

'I had high hopes for you, Sherlock Holmes,' Moriarty said and took a step forward for every one Sherlock took in retreat. 'But it seems you're not the adversary I thought I needed. You're ties to the police force, and that doctor... well, they make you weak. And I do not pit myself against weak people, no matter how brilliant they are.'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Sherlock said and stopped with his back pressed against one of the tall living room windows.

'I'd been hoping to cross your brother's path at some point but he is incredibly boring,' Moriarty mused.

Sherlock nodded. 'I agree with you one hundred percent, Jim. My brother can be boringly ordinary.'

Moriarty's dark eyes found Sherlock's bright blue ones. Sherlock would always worry that one day he'd turn into Moriarty; that the small bit of goodness in him would slowly disappear. But he didn't see the light in his eyes; the good he did. But John did. Others did.

Sherlock dropped the blanket that had been around him and faced Moriarty off. The other man was dressed impeccably and had a gun. Sherlock was in a silk robe, barefoot. What chance did he have?

There was only one way Sherlock could win this and that was to take the control away from Moriarty. He had to do something that Moriarty never would...

Sherlock took a step forward and Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

'I can see you thinking, Sherlock. I can smell it. Do tell what you have planned.

'No plan, Jim,' Sherlock said, 'no, more a final gesture.'

The consulting criminal raised a clean, brown eyebrow. 'Oh?'

And suddenly he realised what Sherlock was going to do and jumped forward. Sherlock pushed himself back and the window broke behind him, sending Sherlock tumbling back. But Jim Moriarty was fast and he grabbed Sherlock by the front of his robe, hauling him forward.

And then Sherlock spun so that Moriarty was leaning out the window.

All too late, Moriarty realised Sherlock's real plan.

'Sorry,' Sherlock said and pushed.

Moriarty fired his gun and the bullet clipped Sherlock's arm but it was no use. Moriarty was falling, quickly, and he hit the ground hard. It wasn't a long drop but he hit it back first, breaking his spine and smashing his skull.

Sherlock wobbled to the window and peered out. Down below lay Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal.

Dead criminal, Sherlock mused.

And then vertigo washed over him and Sherlock fell back. He hit the floor and immediately blacked out.