~*~Three years later~*~
Sherlock at 22 had become nothing short of obsessed with finding the character that had informed him where John would be deployed. Sherlock had shown up at crime scenes, convincing a wary classmate to let him in on the interesting ones. After helping solve several seriously complex cases, the DI had allowed Sherlock to accompany them to certain cases. Eventually he would send Lestrade to fetch Sherlock to help them.
During one case that had seriously stunk of this man, Sherlock had forced a sniveling criminal during the last gasps of air to reveal the name. Moriarty, he had screamed. Moriarty... Sherlock had felt out of his depth. An alarming sense of calm washed over him in those moments that the man bled out on the floor, but it was suddenly replaced with a burning desire to hunt down Moriarty and stop him.
He breathed Moriarty, he slept Moriarty. Moriarty filled up his time and his brain, reaching into the deepest folds. Moriarty enraged him, but there was also an admitted intrigue. He was a man with incredible intelligence. Paralleled only by Sherlock himself. He was able to orchestrate clever heists and tricks, and he had evaded the police for years. Moriarty had the liberty to work outside the law, he was able to create intricate patterns of crime, all whenever he wanted.
Once or twice when he was at the depths of his cocaine high, Sherlock had thought about what would've happened if he had joined Moriarty. Almost immediately, he laughed at this thought bitterly. He would never throw his ranks in with someone who would threaten John's life like that. Never.
Mycroft couldn't bear to see Sherlock like this. He would spend longer hours at work and come home to see Sherlock poring over cases. Sherlock was trying to dress respectably as he had promised Mycroft he would three years ago, but time and obsession had warped Sherlock. It was more pathetic seeing how much Sherlock couldn't even do that. Sherlock had to set an alarm to remind himself to eat, and when he did so it would be anything he could get his hands on. Sometimes it wouldn't stay down and Mycroft would hear his brother retching in the bathroom.
He would mutter Moriarty's name hatefully and randomly, causing Mycroft to close his eyes in exasperation. Sherlock was terrible. Sherlock was absolutely terrible and Mycroft kept himself in denial about it for as long as he could. His brother was fantastic, amazing—surely he could think his way out of his four-year addiction. The answer was becoming more and more clear as time went on. And that answer was 'No. No he can't, Mycroft. Help him.'
Mycroft sat at the dining room table, his hands folded on the shining wooden top. Sherlock came home from a case.
"Lestrade is going to be promoted soon, I can tell." Sherlock said happily. "This means I'll be able to go on-scene for some of the more difficult cases. If only you'd let me take a little before I went there, all I could think about is how well I would see the crime scene if I had the drug." Sherlock threw off his coat and retreated to his room. It took him less than a minute to start screaming at the top of his lungs. Mycroft heard crashing and banging of furniture before Sherlock threw his door open madly, teeth bared, looking at Mycroft.
"What have you done with it?" He bellowed. "Where is it?"
"I've taken it."
"Where?" He demanded. "Mycroft, you had no right—that was my property—"
"You can't see yourself, Sherlock." Mycroft shook his head. "You need help."
"I don't need help, I need cocaine." Sherlock demanded. "It's the only thing that makes sense! I need it to defeat him!"
"This Moriarty character?"
"Bloody fuck—YES!" He snarled. "Who have I been talking about endlessly for the past three years?"
"If he's as brilliant as he says he is, he'll know about your addiction. He'll use it against you."
"He can't do that because I'm not addicted." Sherlock bit. "It merely enhances my senses."
"Sherlock—"
"Just give me the fucking drugs." He spat.
"I've destroyed them." Mycroft responded calmly. "I've mixed them all with cement and buried them under the ground with a steel beam. Nearest construction site." Sherlock was shaking with rage. He screamed and swung to hit Mycroft, but Mycroft ducked it and caught him in a chokehold.
"Get off of me!" He screamed. Mycroft released him. Sherlock angrily threw his coat back on and ran out of the flat. Anderson. He needed to get to Anderson.
Sherlock turned the handle to Anderson's house and found that it was open. That should've been the first indicator. "Anderson!" He shouted into the flat. "Anderson, where are you! I need more! My fucking brother is being—"
"He never did like your little habit, did he?" A soft voice replied from the living room. Sherlock stopped cold. He backed up and stared at the man standing in the center of the room. His hands were in his pockets and he was very relaxed. "Hi I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty."
Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously as he stepped towards Moriarty.
"And then this can only be Sherlock Holmes!" He said as a sort of introduction. "I used to describe you as 'The Great' Sherlock Holmes but…" He shrugged. "You sort of lost that title."
"Will I gain it back when I've defeated you?"
"Certainly." Moriarty shrugged. "The problem is that you'll have to defeat me. And that's not very likely is it?"
Sherlock swallowed. "What are you doing to John?" He said firmly.
Moriarty laughed loudly. "I keep forgetting!" He wiped his face and grinned. "You see, my problem is that I still see you as I did when I was fourteen and you were twelve. You were trying to investigate the murder of a man who had seemingly drowned with his own vomit because he was drunk. Well, that was me, Sherlock, that was my debut. You were the only one who tried to get the police interested and I couldn't have that. I've kept an eye on you ever since." He smiled maniacally. "You didn't have one weakness back then. Not one. And now you've got two. A doctor and his medicine." He snickered. "Dear me, Mr. Holmes."
"What are you doing to John!" He demanded.
Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Come on Sherlock. Isn't it obvious? The only person in the world that you care about, he's gone and left you? I'm going to threaten to kill him so you can never make amends, of course! And it's so easy too, him being out there in the middle of the heat and the sand. Completely unaware that there is another thing threatening his life. He's a great medical man. He's excelled away from you when he was just overshadowed by you here. I think he finds it… freeing." It was like he was pressing salt into a wound that was already smarting.
"Stop." Sherlock whispered.
"Though I thought this whole 'cocaine' thing would shoot itself over. Kind of expected you to get over it by now. Disappointed. I do sort of need you out of the way for a little while. You're getting too deep." Moriarty said unkindly. He pulled out a syringe from his pocket—it was already filled with a clear liquid. He held it in his open palm.
"Come, boy!" He called, and Sherlock obeyed. The craving for it pulled him, it called to him. He could tell by a glance that it was cocaine in the needle and not some sort of poison. He grabbed the needle hungrily and sat on the floor at Moriarty's feet as he searched for a vein to inject himself. Once he did he sighed, a calm feeling washing over him. Moriarty pulled out a mobile and started dialing a number.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
"Me? Oh I'm dialing for an ambulance." He said. Sherlock's mind started spinning with the drug. Everything was super-intense, brighter and harsher than he had ever experienced before. "It seems that you've overdosed." He said in a sing-song voice. Sherlock's face was wracked with panic as he fell over on the floor, shaking and clutching on the cuffs of Moriarty's pants. Moriarty bent over to Sherlock and murmured gently.
"I just need you away for a bit. To keep you from prying. If I find out that you had a hand in anything, I'll kill the Doctor." Jim stroked Sherlock's face with one finger. "It's nothing personal, my dear. But when you return, bring your best game." He stood and was gone. Sherlock passed out cold on the floor of the living room, Moriarty's final threat ringing throughout his head.
I had a tough time imagining Sherlock cussing, but I tried to put myself in the place of him...
so yeah I'm terrible with showing how long it's been but it's been three years, nothing has changed. Sherlock thinks that he's getting closer and closer but in reality he's just sort of circling Moriarty. But Moriarty finds it to be annoying, and he needs Sherlock out of the way for a little bit. Overdosing.
oh man I love writing Moriarty though, he's so much fun.
review please!
