25-2
Twenty minutes into the internet search, Sherlock began to tear out his own hair. It was a sort of coping mechanism, not something he had tried before. He was frustrated, incredibly so, and his time kept running out. If this was before john, he would pump himself full of cocaine and run off the buzz. But he couldn't bring himself to do that, not after he had made a promise. Besides, he was sure it wouldn't help, he needed to be sharp and for his brain to be clear. When he was high he felt numb, the thoughts whizzing around his brain just melted into nothingness. That's why he did it, that's why he did the cocaine, to soothe his ever working brain, to stop himself from having a meltdown from which he could not return. So instead of using substances, he took to hurting himself to try and soothe his anger. At every dead end, every wrong turn, another clump of his thick curls fell to the floor, he had a feeling he would end up bald before he found John. He had always been a vain man, took care in his appearance, but not religiously so, just enough that he was aesthetically pleasing to all. He knew he didn't have to try hard though, he had incredibly desirable cheekbones, a toned figure, attractive eyes, and he had beautiful hair. He was sure he would weep when he caught sight of himself in the mirror after mutilating himself, yet still he couldn't help it, it was almost as if he was punishing himself for letting such a thing happen to john.
It was his entire fault after all, he should have never even moved in with john, let alone find himself attached to the man. People around him, get destroyed. It had never happened like this before, but from past experience, he knew death wasn't the only way to destroy a man. He had seen people try to get close to him, become infatuated, interested, and eventually obsessed. Obsession always let to a downfall, always created a person broken, sometimes beyond repair. He knew this, so why did he let john come into his life, why did he let john become infatuated with him? The answer was quite simple really: he became infatuated first. And he would rather be a broken man, than be a man who had never met John Watson at all.
His research online was utterly useless, just more dead ends, and more hair pulling, it wasn't providing any information, just making Sherlock angrier than he had ever felt. He knew he had only one more option left at this stage, and that was to call the man with a thousand eyes. The person who saw everything in this city, and who most definitely saw everything that John and Sherlock did outside the flat. He knew that he was in the country, there was too many political factors going on for him to be elsewhere. And he knew that he would have people watching, because that's the sort of thing he did. He took his blackberry out of his pocket, and stood up, scrolling through the contacts, until he reached the name he desired, and pressed call. He answered on the third ring, predictable as always.
"Hello brother, what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Moriarty has john," he muttered, regretting that he had to turn to Mycroft for help. "I need you to find him."
"Well anything I can do to be of service," he replied. "I couldn't tell you anything from today for at least a few hours though."
Sherlock growled with frustration. "That's no good, I have no time. What about when john has been away from the flat in the past seven days, has anything odd been picked up? Someone following him, he mentioned that."
Mycroft seemed to be muttering to someone near him, and Sherlock's patience was wearing thin.
"There was something," he stated to Sherlock. "Almost a week ago, John got in a cab ended up in canary wharf; we tracked him down an industrial area, near a warehouse. We assumed he was meeting either you or Lestrade. He walked back about half an hour later, didn't follow the cab."
"Text me the address. Now." Sherlock hung up the phone and went over to his desk. As soon as the text came through, he inserted the address into his mobile GPS, and wrote it down on a piece of paper for good measure. He didn't even have time to put on his coat however, before the phone rang, the iphone.
"What?" answered Sherlock, tired with exchanging pleasantries with a psychopath.
"Naughty boy Sherlock, breaking my rules," said Moriarty on the other end.
"I broke no rules, you said I could not contact the police, and I haven't," he replied calmly.
"Oh police, government it's all the same! If you're not going to play fair, neither will I," he said, in a chilling tone.
"What have you done," growled Sherlock. His head began to swim again with concerns for john's safety.
"Don't worry, john is alive for now. That can't be said for your little mortician though. The thing is, keeping a girlfriend is so dull, and I just had to blow her off!"
Sherlock couldn't find the words to answer Moriarty.
"Six hours Sherlock Holmes and I am getting bored!" he sang, hanging up on the detective.
Sherlock was immeasurably angry. Molly didn't deserve to die; she was a good girl, kind, helpful. He couldn't help but drift back to his previous thoughts, about how people around him always get hurt. Molly was infatuated with him to the point of obsession, and now she was gone, wiped off this earth by her connections to a madman, and he wasn't thinking of Jim Moriarty.
He shrugged on his coat; he regrettably had no time to grieve for poor Molly. He had the address from Mycroft, he knew where John was, and he was going to waste no more time.
