Author's Note: I'm so sorry for the late update, my friends, life got in the way...
But I really didn't want to miss a day, so... here's this chapter. Though I'm not that proud about it, in fact.
Do you know what would help? Reviews! (Embarrassing begging over).
I still don't own anything.
Moriarty waits a day before he calls.
A whole day in which Sherlock prowls about Mycroft's mansion, anxiously waiting for the next period of semi-awareness, and at the same time fearing it – what if he should hear that he's about to die?
And what if he really –
If he died, what would happen?
He's never believed in a life after death, but then, he's never believed that the brain would come up with a whole different world while you're lying in a coma, either.
If he dies, is he stuck here?
Stuck in a world where Mycroft hasn't anything to do, and it's slowly killing him, Sherlock knows his brother and sees how sad he looks when he thinks no one can see him.
Mycroft has always needed an occupation; he might not get bored like Sherlock, that is, he would never shoot at walls or take drugs, but his mind starts running in circles when there's nothing to think about.
Sherlock wouldn't go so far as to say that his appearance gave Mycroft something like a purpose – but it's as close to one as he has had ever since Irene Adler walked out of the room with her phone.
God knows what could happen if he is once again left alone.
Sherlock chooses not to think about that.
Stuck in a world where Lestrade is an alcoholic who – it hurts to admit it, but it's obvious – is gone too far for any hope of recovery. Actually, Sherlock is rather sure the DI won't live another year. And he isn't quite prepared for how much he cares about that.
He has never thought he would stand at the DI's grave, which, of course, is rather childish, since Greg is older than him, and Sherlock – although his John seems to think differently – has never intended to die of anything different than old age.
So, intellectually he knows that he'll most likely burry his DI one day.
But something – and he knows it's his heart, which has made several painful appearances in this strange, distorted world – in him can't abide the thought of Greg dead, and he supposes that's one of the reasons he jumped all these years ago, because when he thinks of John and Mrs. Hudson, he has the same reaction.
Jumped. Or didn't jump. It's all rather confusing.
Stuck in a world where John is lost in his memories, and, although his limp is getting better and better in the course of the day – naturally, with every minute they get more anxious – there's still a certain hollowness in his eyes that tells Sherlock that he came just a little too late.
John might not be suicidal anymore, but he's broken and he doesn't know how to fix him.
Sometimes he plays his violin on this, the longest of his days, and tries to think of something different.
Never has a day seemed this long.
Never, not even in his three years of hiding and chasing and being chased.
And then he realizes he hasn't had trouble keeping the memories in their room for a while now, and he could laugh at the irony that now, now he is able to control the memories and live in the present, when it's clear he isn't even awake and has to face his biggest challenge yet.
The others spend the day quietly.
John is mostly sitting around, legs twitching, saying nothing. When he can't stand it any longer, he goes to the kitchen and makes tea. Luckily Mycroft has a vast assortment of different teas.
Greg is drinking, though far less than what Sherlock has seen him drink till today. He only drinks enough, as he informs Sherlock, when he passes him once again on one of his strolls, "To make my hands stop shaking. I'll need a clear head for this. Though I'm not sure my hands shake because I don't drink enough – today, at least".
Mycroft is reading – though Sherlock suspects he's been on the same page of War and Peace for several hours now.
He still prepares a good lunch and dinner. Sherlock forces himself to eat. They all only pick at their food, though. They can't help it.
Every few hours, Sherlock has to shoot up and hates himself when he inserts the needle. He makes sure the others don't see him when he does it; he doesn't want their pity. Or their acceptance, which is somehow even worse.
He does get caught once, however. It's his third dose of the day, somewhere between lunch and dinner, and he has tried, in vain, to keep the withdrawal symptoms at bay with playing his violin for the last hour. So he gives in and takes the drug.
He's in his old room and just ready to plunge the needle in his arm when there's a knock on the door.
"Yes?" he asks.
"It's me" Greg answers, "You hanging on any needles?"
"Give me a moment" Sherlock replies, remembering Greg's problem with needles – and wondering if his DI is afraid of them too – pressing the plunger just because he has to. He can't face Moriarty in the midst of coke bugs or exhaustion or dizziness.
"Sure, I know what it means to accept and indulge your addiction". Apparently Greg takes a sip from one of his flasks, just to be sure.
He opens the door just as Sherlock hides the needle. "Appreciate the sentiment".
"Greg, what is it?"
"Sherlock... You would tell us, right? If Moriarty called, I mean". He looks pained.
"Of course I would." Sherlock reminds himself again that DI Greg Lestrade is one of the Yard's finest and knows what he is going to do – most of the time, at least.
"Well, good then". He looks at Sherlock. "'Lock – just promise me you'll be okay, even if it's not true."
"Alright then, I promise".
"Good. That's good." Greg seems to search for words, then settles on a nod. "Till then".
"Yes, till then" Sherlock replies, for once – no, for the second time in his life really, can't forget the time he had to explain to John he was a fraud – lost for words.
After dinner John decides to corner him.
"Sherlock..."
"Yes, John?" he asks, already itching for the next dose, but refusing to give in.
"Please... if it turns out that everything was just a hallucination, if you end up a cocaine addict... I want to help you. Get clean. I want to be there for you."
And Sherlock looks at him and sees a man whose last hope is a druggie who just turned up one day, so he says, "Of course."
"Thanks, Sherlock". And John just looks at him and then he hugs him for no reason and leaves the room.
Sherlock stays awake the whole night; he's quiet at breakfast, and John – just like his John – shoots him disapproving looks, because it's obvious he hasn't slept, and it makes Sherlock's skin crawl.
At about ten am he gets a text from Moriarty.
Or rather, Mycroft gets a text from Moriarty.
Or rather, every single one of Mycroft's phones suddenly gets a text from Moriarty.
Sherlock isn't surprised; of course Moriarty figured out that Sherlock doesn't own a mobile phone in this world, so he sent the texts to Mycroft, who's obviously his brother.
The text is simple.
"Roof of St Bart's, in an hour. Come alone
JM."
But it's enough to make Sherlock's skin crawl without any withdrawal symptoms.
He hasn't been on the roof of that building since the one fateful day.
He doesn't want to go back there, and, of course, with this message, it's impossible for Greg to go with him.
Or for John and Mycroft to lie in waiting.
But maybe that's how it has to be.
Sherlock and Moriarty. Archenemies to the end.
So he tells his friends – Greg shrugs and takes a large gulp out of his flask, but Sherlock can tell from the look in his eyes that he's worried, John's left hand starts shaking again, and Mycroft just looks defeated, something Sherlock never thought he'd see, but then again, how often has he seen something like this in the last days? – and they decide to wait in front of St Bart's, because there's no building high enough in the vicinity to allow snipers or anyone to lie in wait, and maybe that's Moriarty's intention.
As soon as the text arrives, Mycroft drags him in another room, far from questioning glances.
"Sherlock..."
"Not you too, please."
"I am aware that DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson already spoke with you..." He looks at the floor, rather sheepishly, and Sherlock pities him. "Mycroft, what is it?"
"I was just... Sherlock, please take care. This man controls every crime committed in our great city..."
"I know".
"And he'll most likely want your death, after you found out".
"I know" Sherlock replies again, because he has no better answer, because he is aware that that's what Moriarty does.
"Do you want me..." Mycroft starts in his usual, detached tone, but then his voice breaks and he has to clear his throat.
"If you... shouldn't return, is there something you want me do?"
"Yes" Sherlock answers, and just like that, he knows what to say.
"Look after John – he's an adrenaline junkie, I'm sure you'll find him something to do, and try to force Greg into rehab, though I'm not too optimistic. And Mycroft..." Sherlock hesitates.
"There are enough governments who would gladly have someone like you."
Mycroft nods, his face impassive. "I know. I will take care of your... friends, I promise."
"Thank you."
Mycroft takes his hand and squeezes. Just once. Then he clears his throat again. "Better take you to Bart's. Though not without a microphone".
"Moriarty will see it immediately".
"I don't care... I don't want you to go there alone".
Which is why Sherlock finds himself, after a silent car ride, with Mycroft driving again, on the roof of St Bart's, with a microphone (naturally), and a pistol in his pocket, because he's still determined to rid the world of Moriarty once and for all, and John almost got a heart attack when he explained he had to face the criminal mastermind alone – Greg turned around so he wouldn't see his tears and took a large gulp out of his flask.
Moriarty shows up not long after Sherlock.
"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" he asks as he steps out into the light, in a Westwood suit (of course), but strangely unfocused; his gaze wanders all over the roof, never really locking on Sherlock, and the consulting detective realizes that the consulting criminal, without him, has gone over the edge, is insane, and unpredictable, more so than ever before, and once again, he is reminded of the fact that he never thought Moriarty could get more scary than before. How wrong he'd been.
"Yes".
Moriarty takes a picture of him with his phone. "Good, then." He sends the picture to someone and tries to focus on Sherlock.
"How did you find out? I'm, rather curious..."
And Sherlock tells him everything, the footprints under the window, the glasses, the missing DNA profile.
Moriarty looks slightly impressed. "Honey, that's far more than I expected after... everything."
"What do you mean, "everything?"" Sherlock demands, fingering the pistol in his coat pocket.
"It's rather dangerous to finger a pistol in your coat pocket" Moriarty replies, looking at a message he just received on his phone.
"That may be true – but what do you mean?" Sherlock wants to know, still feeling rather inadequate.
"I am informed by the two murderers of Lord Brackenstall – you were right about that, so you seem to be rather smart, it's really a pity what they have to tell me – that they went through everything they had to do in an abandoned building, when a drug addict stumbled in upon them, apparently living there, not speaking coherently. They had to drug him with far more dangerous stuff, that can cause hallucinations, I fear, as well as feeling exhausted and cold, to make him forget – they may be hit men, but they don't like killing someone they haven't been paid for – though, by now, the drug should be out of your system and you should have stopped hallucinating. A pity, though – I looked forward to a distraction".
Moriarty looks disinterested and Sherlock grows cold.
If he knew about the case because he heard the two murderers discussing it –
If his periods of semi-awareness were just hallucinations, and they seem to have stopped now, so a drug is within the realm of possibility –
Then this is his reality.
And Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective never existed.
Author's note: That might be the worst cliff hanger I ever wrote. I'm sorry. But I couldn't resist. Let's be honest: We all love a good twist, don't we?
Also, it's short again, but – let's face it, Sherlock and Moriarty don't need a lot of words.
Mind: That's not nice, you know. You should write the next chapter immediately.
Me: Soon, I promise.
Mind: Your friends will die if you don't.
Me: ...
Mind: ...
Me: You are aware that you can't commit murder without me playing along, right?
Mind: I just realized, yeah.
Me: ...
Mind: ...
Me: Well this is awkward.
Mind: Tell me about it.
I hope you liked it, please review.