Twenty Hours Ago: Sherlock Is Not a Beggar
I have finally managed to pass out from the pain when a door slams open loudly and violently. I am already in a fetal position, but I curl into it tighter in an effort to do I don't know what.
"Sherlock," Moriarty sing-songs. "So sorry to wake you."
He draws nearer to me, teasing words assaulting my ears the whole way. "I wanted to make you an offer, Sherlock."
"Go to hell," I barely manage to tell him.
"Well, that's not very nice," he chides as he sinks to my level.
He grabs my chin. I try to pull my face away, but his grip is too strong and I am shaking too hard. "I came to offer you morphine, Sherlock."
"Come to kill me already?"
"No," he replies, eyes widening comically in surprise. "Oh, no, no, no. Sherlock, I come to offer you just enough to stop all… this."
"Right," I scoff.
"To be perfectly honest, you're disgusting right now, Sherlock," Moriarty sighs. "Soon you'll probably be incoherent and it's no fun to taunt someone who can't hear you."
"Shame."
"Surely you don't want to feel this way?" he asks. He takes my lack of response as an affirmative. "I will give you a safe dose, Sherlock. I swear on all that is criminal and entertaining. All you have to do… is beg."
I glare at him. "Then I imagine you will be very bored very soon," I strangle out. I think my whole body just took a swan dive off a building. It's not the dive I'm feeling, but the sudden stop and explosion of pain at the end.
"You'll break, Sherlock," he states calmly. Then he stands. As he walks away, he calls over his shoulder "I won't be back, Sherlock. Not until you beg."