Hey ladies and gentlemen! We're nearing the end… There will only be 2-3 chapters left. Thanks to everyone who commented or followed. It's been wonderful seeing how this story has developed.
Greg looked around his apartment, looking for a source of entertainment. His television had given him no relief from boredom. Greg's loneliness piled in his chest. It had been months since he had dated, years since he had felt any real attachment. His eyes flitted towards the liquor cabinet. It would be a quick relief, a solution to both his boredom and loneliness. Greg thought of the countless hours of blissful comatose its contents would afford. He started up, then sat back down. It had been three weeks of sobriety for him- his longest dry stretch in years. Pausing,
Greg got back up and walked to the cabinet. The bottles seemed to smile at him, hinting their chemical euphoria. He poured himself a drink and raised it to his lips, enjoying its burn. He drank another, and another, and another again. He kept drinking as fast as he could, wishing for the alcohol to finally end him. Angered, he ran into the street, yelling at nobody to end him.
Collapsing into a heap of drunken flesh, Greg sobbed into his shoulder, gasping for breath. He regained composure and staggered back into his apartment. He walked to his bathroom and took out his razor. Rolling back his sleeve, he stared at his white, vulnerable wrist. Blue veins spiraled in his soft skin. He couldn't do it, he couldn't.
Greg threw the razor on the floor in disgust and slammed his bare foot down on it. The edge of the blade sliced across his toe, leaving him cursing. He punched the wall, leaving an indent. Greg fell over and cried until he was overtaken by the night.
Greg scrubbed his at his carpet. His foot had bled profusely, leaving a large puddle of blood on his floor. Bleach quickly whitened the stain, destroying the evidence of Greg's rage. He watched as what had used to keep him alive was eradicated by the toxic chemical.
A long Saturday stretched out in front of Greg. There was work to be done, but he doubted he would do it. He checked his phone, scrolling past dozens of Sherlock's texts in the search of something interesting. Greg stumbled to his bed and fell asleep again, hoping his liver would catch up with his consumption while he rested.
A knock at the door awakened Greg. Sleep had eliminated his self administered poisons, and he rose easily to answer the door. Opening it, Sherlock's long face greeted him. Sherlock gave him a smile, let himself in, and sat down.
"Hello Greg! Had quite the night I see." Sherlock said, looking amused at Greg's foot.
"What do you want?" Greg inquired, unwilling to play Sherlock's games.
"An L85A2 automatic rifle and a kevlar jacket."
"What the hell do you want those for?"
"If you want to find this person and stop them from killing again, I need to make a deal with certain people. They want an L85A2 automatic rifle and a kevlar jacket."
"Christ Sherlock, I can't get you those."
"Just talk to someone in CO19 Force Firearms Unit and see what you can do." Sherlock walked silently out the door.
Greg watched him leave with that smug walk of his. He sighed, knowing he couldn't say no to Sherlock.
John woke up, listening as footsteps thumped towards his bed. A familiar face peered at him through the darkness. His ear was gone from its mouth; that was probably to be expected. Once again, the figure led him to the sink. This time, it took his upper lip.
The next night it took his pinky finger.
The next, a slice out of his left cheek.