He enters his best friend's room again. He had missed the signs. He wanted to be a doctor and yet he failed to see the things that were all obvious noe that he thought about it.
All the times Sherlock has been gone. Those two years of disappearing. Because in fear of his own parents. His seemingly perfect rich parents.
His own father may be alcoholic but he isn't physically abusive, mentally exhausting yes, but never abusive. His mother may have been neglectful, but she never hurt him. His sister may be going along the paths of alcoholism but she's only hurting herself, so... (Especially with her break-up with Clara)... His family is falling apart. He may have been always ignored. But they would never lay a finger on him.
He looks at the lumps of flesh on the bed that he calls his best friend.
Even in sleep, Sherlock still looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes, the bruises, cuts and burns in his flesh... 'Wait a fucking moment! Are those fucking track marks!?'
He looks at Sherlock's left arm. They ARE track marks. Sherlock hates hospitals so he couldn't have gotten it here. What did Sherlock always say? "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains however improbable must be the truth." He says out loud.
Sherlock's been using drugs.
He is feeling nauseous. It's like he doesn't know who he is visiting anymore. He doesn't know anything about Sherlock anymore. No. He's wrong. He knows Sherlock too much.
They will talk about his drug habit when he recovers.
He decides to stay a while, and just watch Sherlock for a while.
The silence is interrupted by the opening of the door and Mycroft enters. "John."
"Mycroft."
"Where's your mother?" Mycroft asks.
"Not sure actually..." He left her the minute he found out the truth. He looks at Mycroft.
Mycroft is standing near the door, using his umbrella for support. He can see Mycroft's bandaged hand. The scene Mycroft made stuck in his mind forever. This fake-unemotional man is as human as Sherlock is. Both ordinary humans burdened with alien minds. But he knows the Holmes brothers have hearts. They just don't show it until something pushes them. In this case, Sherlock's family problems.
"You know," Mycroft says calmly.
"Know what?" He asks. They are both looking at Sherlock. He knows they are both wearing concerned faces. Worried about this person on the hospital bed. Who has been enduring pain for goodness knows how long.
It makes him sick. Sherlock is being bullied AND being abused at home. He wants Sherlock to be happy for once.
Then he remembers how he called Sherlock a freak, a machine, everything he warned people not to call Sherlock.
"You know what," Mycroft interrupts him again.
"You didn't?" He asks in question.
"Busy. Government and such," Mycroft says calmly. But he can see Mycroft's grip on his umbrella is so tight, his knuckles are white.
"This is horrible." He sighs.
"I agree." Mycroft says. He watched as the older brother walks towards the younger's bed and looks at his younger sibling. "Brother dear. What on earth to do to you?"
"Your parents are monsters," he blurts out. Mycroft looks at him. He can see the anger in the Holmes's eye. But not towards him. But for his parents. "Mycroft... Is there a way to get your parents in jail or something?"
"Afraid not," Mycroft answers.
He raises a brow at this. "Not even the British Government himself?"
"I may be in control of the government now but... I have learned that to make a way through life, one needs connections from people. I do have these. Strong connections. Unfortunately, I got this trait from my fath- him... In conclusion, his connections are far darker and greater than mine. There is no chance to win a case against my own family. Rest assured, John. I will get to the bottom of this." Mycroft finishes coolly.
He can actually feel a shiver run through his spine at Mycroft's words. "How-"
"Family business, John. I'm afraid it's confidential."
He nods in reply. The two looks at Sherlock again. "Don't let your parents near me, Mycroft. I might accidentally kill them."
"Not if I kill them first."
He chuckles. Mycroft does care about his brother. The two Holmes brothers are just idiots and egotistical to say how much they care about each other.
"How's your hand?" He asks.
"Not broken. Just sprained." Mycroft answers. Silence. "What do you think, John?"
He hums in question.
"What substance do you think he uses?" Mycroft tilts his head.
"I don't know. I didn't even know he uses."
"I thought he stopped when he was fourteen."
"Fourt-? Fourteen?!"
"Indeed. He started when he was thirteen, didn't you know?"
"It's something I wouldn't forget."
"I suppose so. His drug habit apparently started at age thirteen. I managed to force him into rehab when he was fourteen. Although I'm not surprised he's back on this state."
"Why?" He asks confused.
"I suppose I should tell you... Well, Sherlock called me while he was hiding. Called me because he overdosed. Flatlined, even," Mycroft tuts. "I would have guessed that he spent his time away with drug abuse. I do regret sending him in the house rather than rehab."
"YOU SENT HIM INTO YOUR HOUSE?!"
"An action I regret... Well, dear brother." Mycroft puts a hand on Sherlock's arm. It's like he's intruding something private between the brothers. "You cause trouble everyday."
"What do we do?"
"Send him to rehab, of course."
"That would be hell... For him, it would probably be worse than hell."
"I suppose. Yes. It will help him though. I'll arrange another private facility for him that will allow you to visit him as much as possible."
"Another?"
"He left the previous facility with... events they won't ever forget..."
Mycroft looks at his brother. He can only describe it as regret. God. His best friend, a drug user. How can he be blind with all of this.
"He will kill you for this, Mycroft."
"Better than continuing his substance abuse." Mycroft stands straighter. "Well good evening, John. It appears that I have work to do."
He opens the door for Mycroft and the older Holmes leaves.
Running. Where is he? The hallway...
The palace is still in shape. Nothing new. Except for one door. The ashen brown door cracked and ready to burst. He made sure to block this door but it seems that it isn't working.
He can't let the demons out of this room.
"Sherlock..." a voice somewhere says.
He blocks out the door but there is no use. So he tries his best to delay the demons' actions as possible. He would not let these out.
"Sherlock..." the voice says again. It's John! John's here? Where is he?
He runs. Runs up the stairs. A few minutes ago, he crawled up here. Now, he only has to walk and yet gravity is making him heavier every step he takes.
"JOHN!" He yells. It's his motivation. His inspiration. One who would help him on his feet.
"JOHN!" He yells again. The end is nearing.
"ONE MORE!" He yells.
Lights. Lights. Lights.
He's been sitting beside Sherlock's bed everyday for a week.
"Sherlock..." he starts. "I know you're still unconscious. You might actually call me an idiot when you see me right now. But I am sorry. I've caused you pain even if you don't want to say it. You should've at least point it out."
He sighs. If he was observant enough, he would have noticed Sherlock's other hand twitch.
"Sherlock... I hope nothing changes between us. Mary wishes her love, you know. I love her, Sherlock. She knows you're a part of my life I cannot erase... So don't erase yourself from my life... Fuck, where did this side of me come from? I sound like a fucking idiot. Even I can see that." He laughs.
"John..." Sherlock whispers.
He looks up. Sherlock's head moves side to side. His face shows concentration. Sherlock looks frustrated but determined.
"Sherlock?" He stands up and leans down. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
"John!" Sherlock would be yelling if it wasn't for the mask on his face.
"I'm here, Sherlock!" He calls the nurses and tells them to tell the doctors that Sherlock is awake.
"One more..." Sherlock says. 'One more?'
Sherlock's eyes open. Frantically looking around the room. Until Sherlock's eyes lock in his.
"John..." he whispers followed by a coughing fit.
"Okay, breathe, Sherlock. Breathe..."
The doctors help Sherlock as he secretly texts Mycroft that Sherlock is awake.
Mycroft replies that he has already been informed and is on the way here. He rolls his eyes at this. Of course Mycroft knows.
Six minutes later, Mycroft walks towards him. The two stands in front of Sherlock's room.
"How is he?"
"Recovering. Too quickly," he smiles, shaking his head.
In the span of thirteen minutes, Sherlock has been bored, deduced the nurses and doctors to get them away from him, and been telling him to kill Mycroft for him.
"Prepare yourself, Mycroft. The annoying dick has returned." He smiles.
Mycroft enters first and he hears Sherlock yell, "What the hell are you doing here?!"
He laughs and lets the brothers have their privacy.
"I see you're recovering." Mycroft tells him.
"Congratulations on your observational skills, brother."
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "How many times?" Mycroft asks suddenly.
He looks at his brother. "How many times what?"
"You know what I'm talking about."
"I'm not an addict if that's what you're worried about," he glares daggers at his brother.
"You never answered the question."
"When my brain gets too much," he shrugs.
"And how often is that?"
"I don't keep track on how often, Mycroft."
"I've had my people search. You keep shooting up almost everyday. I think that counts as addicted, brother." Mycroft tells him.
"YOU HAD ME SEARCHED?!"
"I know you wouldn't answer it. And it seems that I am right, considering that you never denied it."
"I don't shoot up everyday!" He tells Mycroft. He is telling the truth. He doesn't shoot everyday. In one week, he would've only had injected thrice. He sighs. He knows his brother won't let himself lose in a fight. He says quietly, "Just tell me the dreadful news."
"What news?"
"Stop being innocent. It doesn't work on you."
"You will be in a facility. Not far from here. But far enough. It is arranged that John and I will visit you as often as possible. We'd check up on you. Make sure you're not up to something."
"God... Rehab again."
"You brought this upon yourself, brother."
"Shut up. How long will it take this time?"
"Longer than last time."
He grumbles. "John?"
"Outside..."
"M'kay." He closes his eyes. He wants to sleep.
"Don't even think about manipulating people in the facility, Sherlock. The people there are much more capable than your previous facility."
"Go away." He mutters. He is drained.
Plus, it is rare for him to sleep in an environment as quiet as this. Might as well use it for his advantage.
"John?" He wakes up.
"Yeah, Sherl?"
"Hi," he smiles at Sherlock.
He may not be Sherlock Holmes. But he knows his best friend is high on morphine. He arranged it to have the right amount of morphine. 'Damn it Sherlock.'
"John. You're my best and only friend."
"Okay, Sherlock."
"I don't want to lose you, John."
"Right."
"Kill me before you leave me," Sherlock smiles. "Promise me that."
"I won't kill you."
"But when you leave me, I'll do it myself."
Pain creeps throughout his body. He hates this. He hates how Sherlock used the word, when, instead of, if. It's like Sherlock believes he will leave him.
"I will never leave you, Sherlock. Not anymore. Leaving you was a mistake, you see? If you kill yourself, I will kill myself too, okay?" Blackmailing Sherlock Holmes.
"You're not allowed to die!"
"Then don't die..."
"Okay. Promise promise promise!" Sherlock smiles and yawns.
"Sweet dreams, Sherl."
"It's true." He heard a voice. He just woke up. John, who was sitting beside him, turns around from the source of the sentence. He peeks... He sees him. That black hair. Those psychotic eyes. The Westwood suit. Damn it. Moran's owner is here.
"Sorry... you're-?" John starts.
"A mutual friend, John Watson. Yes, I know your name. Pretty famous in uni, are you?" Jim smiles.
"How did you-?"
"Please. Allow me to visit my friend."
"He never mentioned you."
"Been keeping me a secret now, is he?"
"Who are you?"
"James Moriarty, hi."
"Nope. Never heard of you."
"Such loyalty you have. Now. I believe one Harriet Watson is currently in sight. Probably in one little diner across your house. Now, I have people around. And... you know the rest..." He can practically hear the innocent smile in Jim's voice. "If not convinced, I have people surrounding this particular area and..."
He hears John's breath which means 'Oh shit'... "Shoot me for all I care..." John says.
James Moriarty has been progressing since he last saw him... Snipers? Really?
"Oh that's not what I had in mind..." James voice echoes.
He hears John's intake of breath. One that means. 'Oh my god' and he knows the sniper is pointing at him. This should not happen.
"Now. You know now how much power I've gathered in the palm of my hands. Now please, give Sherlock and I the privacy we need..."
"If he gets hurt, I will-"
"No worries, John. I only want to chat with the man."
He hears the door open and close.
"John isn't here, Sherlock. You don't have to pretend that you're sleeping with me... Atta boy... Hello, Sherlock... Missed me?"
"Not one bit."
"Shame then."
"What do you want?"
"To chat."
"So I've heard."
"I haven't had time to meet you, Sherlock Holmes."
"Indeed. I was busy getting beaten up at the time."
Jim laughs, "Yes, I do remember greatly. You're Sebastian's favourite punching bag, it would seem."
"You'd be blind not to see it."
"Blindness won't stop me from knowing, Sherlock. I still have four other senses." Jim chuckles. "I have known you for a long time. Carl Powers. Remember dear old Carl?"
"He died when I was just in Year 7... Was that you? Why take his shoes? Oh. Poisoned him using his shoes. Why?"
"Carl laughed at me. So I stopped him laughing," Jim shrugs.
"He was in Year 9. I remember him." He mutters.
"I was at Year 8 at the time." Jim smiles. "I remember him gasping, drowning, screaming for help. I was there, you know? The moment he died. His screams are still music to my ears." Jim smiles. He is aware that they sound like old friends. "I have observed you for a long time, dear Sherlock. Who wouldn't be aware of someone who keeps getting in my way? All those school thefts, school food poisoning, hacking. The two years you left, my, my... You think I wouldn't notice when some of my clients tell me someone is bothering my work? People come to me, you know. I'm a specialist you see. Like you."
"Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's ex. Dear Jim please will you fix it for me to get all A-stars?"
"Just so..."
"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."
"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."
"I did."
"You've come the closest and now you're in my way," Jim stands in front of his bed. Smiling like the psychopath he is.
"Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes you did."
"Yeah okay I did... But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now. You know how much that I can do... Cut loose all those people, all those little school problems, even started killing people from the outside. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off."
"People have died."
"That's what people DO!"
"No shouting in the hospital, Jimmy."
"Suppose I should follow rules. Don't want to upset the patient now, do I?"
"No."
"Well, I better be off. So nice to have a proper chat. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
"Catch you later."
"No you won't," he says in a high pitched voice and leaves the room. He sees John, waiting by the door. Jim gives John a brief smile and a wink. John stares at Jim angrily.
Suddenly, John decides to pull the lapels of Jim's coat. "Leave us alone."
Jim laughs. "Oh good! Very good!"
John enters and blocks the window with Jim. "Your sniper. If he pulls the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we'll both get shot."
"He's sweet. I can see why you like him. Although people do get sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal... OOPS!" John stares at Jim. "Tick tock goes to Harry Watson." Jim whispers at him. John removes his grip immediately. "Seems I won't be leaving you alone much."
"Suppose not."
"I won't kill you. No. Getting killed is ordinary. I may kill you in the future yes. Not now though. I am saving it for something special. No no no no. If you don't stop prying, I will burn you. I will burn the HEART out of you."
"I was reliably informed that I don't have one." John glances at him.
"But we both know that's not quite true." Jim glances at John and he wants to strangle the man himself. If he dares lay a finger on John... A phone call interrupts them.
"Hello?... Yes of course it is what do you want?"
Jim mouths, 'sorry.'
He mouths, 'no, it's fine,' back.
"SAY THAT AGAIN... Say that again and know that if you're lying to me. I will find you and I will skin you... Okay, wait... Sorry about that. You'll be hearing from me Sherlock." Jim turns around and snaps his finger in front of the window. He walks away. "Now if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't I'll make you into shoes."
Jim leaves and John sits on the ground, growing faint. "What happened there?"
"Something new... Thank you for... What you did there... That was good."
"Good god, none of the Rugby team saw that," John says and he hums in reply. "The way I pinned him on the wall... People might talk."
"People do nothing else."
The two smiles at each other.
AN: I apologise for not updating soon. I've had lots of things going on in my humble abode... Clue? I feel Sherlock's pain... Anyway, here is your new chapter... Well, I've always wanted to include Jim in this fanfic. I just don't know how to... So, the fuck with it and here he is with his grand entrance...