Here I am again! Chapter 12 is here! Oh and by the way - PLEASE READ THIS PART NOW - I know that the realtionship of Kiara and Sherlock is very strange. I mean, she is the daughter of Moriarty and they don't know each other for that long. But I want to say to that, a) Sherlock knew her perfectly since the first time they met "three minutes would be enough to make me an expert, five is more than enough" or something like that, Sherlock says it on Moriarty's trial, and Kiara is not entirely stable. She isn't fully okay and normal, which you can see as she is really thinking about suicide.
But what ties them together is the wish to destroy Moran. These chapters that are coming now are there to make their relationship a bit more normal.
Now - have fun reading!
Mycroft arranges on Tuesday, the first of May, everything to be done with the media till Thursday. It's amazing how much evidence there is, collected by Mycroft, the homeless network, admirers of Sherlock who didn't believe the media or had been clients, the DI Lestrade, and most importantly, Dr Watson.
Sherlock is behaving strangely. He is even more closed off than usual, watches Dr Watson with my phone at least once a day and still seems to be happy. I think it is because we reached a huge milestone in our "journey" together. I don't know whether that makes me happy or sad. On the one hand I want to destroy Moran. I want him to be dead, and I somehow want Sherlock and Dr Watson to be "together" again, but I am at a loss of what to do later on. I don't really have any friends, I don't have what one would call a proper education and it'd be so boring. A normal job, after all I've been through? A normal, mundane life?
I do have a plan b. There is no reason for me to go on, Sherlock will live with Dr Watson and I'd be off on my own, so why bother? Why live at all?
I am very careful not to show these ideas and thoughts to Sherlock and Mycroft. I don't know what they'd do, but Mycroft is so powerful, I don't want to risk it.
These thoughts are buried at the darkest corner of my mind, not forgotten, but only looked at when I am completely alone.
On Thursday, I sneak out. The news have spread already, the rehabilitation of Sherlock Holmes is a hot topic. Everybody has seen the news, or heard about them, or is currently reading them.
I push the hood of my jacket up and walk through the streets. It's nice, just walking, listening to the noise of London, being part of the city. Somehow my steps carry me towards the old house Father and I used to live in. It's been nearly a since I saw Father last, a year and two days to be exact.
The pain and grief hits me once again and I cower down in a corner. The ache in my chest is ripping me apart, I can't breathe. Now the image of his smile, the sound of his voice, his smell, now I can still remember him, the picture of him in my mind is still clear. But already the lines are blurring, what will happen if I forget him? Only remember him as a name, as somebody who I once loved?
I don't dare going closer to the house. I'm not sure who is living there now, what if Andy is still there? David? Or worse, Moran?
Another flare of pain shoots through me when I realise that the house, which used to be the safest place in the world for me is now a really bad place to go.
Just as I'm wiping the tears of my face, the front door opens. I act without having to think, I jump up and flee, run away from the ugly truth - that I don't belong here any more.
I don't want to go home yet. Home? Since when is Mycroft's house home? I don't know and I don't care. I don't know what to do with myself so I keep walking, letting my mind wander. After about an hour of walking I am near Baker Street, and I can't help wondering how Dr Watson is. Sherlock must be in hell in the moment, not being able to go out, the newspapers writing about him, about Dr Watson, about Father.
I look down onto the pavement, grey, dirty, part of London, a city I love. I stop and stand still, bowing my head, just thinking, lost in the storm of thoughts that is my mind.
"Sorry!" I stumble when somebody bumps into me, nearly knocking me over, and when I catch my balance I look up, directly in the dark blue eyes of Dr Watson.
"It's okay," I mumble. My heart is beating furiously, my brain going into overdrive. What if he recognizes me?
"Are you okay? Standing there just like that?" He asks, and I suppress a quick smile. If he knew who I am – but then, the last time I saw him he was just as kind.
"You are John Watson, aren't you?" I ask and he sighs, annoyed. His concerned face vanishes and he just looks pissed off. As he narrows his eyes, I quickly continue.
"I'm fine, thank you, but I need to go now. I believe in Sherlock Holmes." With that, I start walking away, quickly, but I still hear what he calls after me: "Everyone says that now!"
And somehow, it is even worse hearing his sad, angry, exhausted voice than I thought it would.
Three hours later I am home. My left hip is stinging, so I hobble carefully up the stairs to Sherlock's and my rooms. My bag lands on the bed and then I'm out of my room again, knocking on Sherlock's.
"Are you there?" He doesn't answer, so I push down the handle and enter. Sherlock is lying on his bed, fully clothed, breathing deeply and calmly. Careful as not to disturb his sleep, I leave the room and close the door.
Sherlock doesn't go out for a month, and it's driving him as well as Mycroft and me insane. Without any distraction beside Mycroft and me, searching for threads in my phone and the web and watching Dr Watson he is slowly but surely sliding into depression. Mycroft told me about the danger-nights, and all of us in the house besides Sherlock is fearing him to break. It isn't a danger-night any more. It's a danger-month, and more than once I just leave the house for hours, once even two days. It might be cruel showing Sherlock my freedom, but I can't stand him right now.
But all that isn't the worst. In June, just a bit more than a month after Sherlock's rehabilitation, something is different. Very different. I don't know how he acquired it, as he didn't leave the house according to Mycroft and the staff, but when I enter his room after two hours walking through London, I can only stare in shock. Sherlock is sitting on his bead, belt around his arm, syringe in his hand. The needle is only millimetres away from his skin, and he is looking me, surprised.
"Kiara?"
This pulls me out of it and I rush towards him, hitting the syringe out of his fingers. We both watch, how it flies, in slow-motion, through the air, shining in the sunlight. I recognize cocaine, having been addicted to it as well, but this stuff is good. Much higher quality than what I used to take, but still, cocaine, in the hands of a former addict, in a very high dose. Maybe even overdose, depending on his tolerance. Then something hits me and I am thrown backwards. My head hits the floor, and I lie there, dazed, realizing belatedly that it is Sherlock who hit me. Only a second later I manage to connect the dots. His pupils had been huge when I saw them for that tiny moment, cheeks flushed. He is already high. And now reaching towards another syringe, also filled. But not cocaine – is that heroin? I struggle to get up again and grip his arm.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!"
I don't know how it happens. Sherlock must have pushed me again, as I am back on the floor, but I have no idea how some of the drug managed to come inside me. I can feel it cursing through my blood, making me light-headed, happy, as I hit my head once again, but this time I close my eyes and am gone.
Well, what did you think?
Did you see John's new blog entry? If not, go on, do it, it's brilliant, tumblr is full of it!
The next chapters will be rather dull, probably, kind of... I have already written a huge amount, I want to finish this story before Sherlock airs (in England, but I think I won't be able to do that - yay!), so I hope the chapter I am writing now don't look like I am rushing through them.
If any of you wants to see a timeline of this story, just PM or review, I have it all planned out.
Laterz, my lovelies!