*Thanks for all the kind reviews I really, really appreciate it!
I'm trying to keep the morphine addiction facts straight but there are some blips here and there. I hope you don't mind...and thanks for the advice on tenses, yes, i do get them mixed up don't i ?:0 I'll try my best to fix them, thanks for the heads up!
For nearly 5 minutes, Sherlock stared at the injection needle in his hand. A pleasant feeling spread inside him, but it wasn't strong enough to satisfy him. It just made him hungry for more. He raised the needle, edged it closer to the vial in his other hand. Faint blue lights leaked into Sherlock's bedroom through the cracks of his curtain. He can hear birds twittering in the distance now. There was a soft thump from the corridor. John was up and he had just entered the bathroom to wash his face. Sherlock's face snapped up. He flung open the window and hurled the vial and the injection as far away as his weakened body could manage. He heard a faint sound of breaking glass somewhere in the distance.
Oh, look what you just did…
A voice said teasingly in his head.
…
Just when John finished his scrambled eggs, Sherlock treaded down the stairs and entered the living room. He was freshly cleaned with his usual trim attire.
"Morning" John called. Sherlock's mouth twitched as he tried to coordinate his muscles to make a small smile, only to end up in an awkward grimace. He tried not to drop his gaze towards the food on John's plate. It created an unpleasant swirling sensation inside of him, making Sherlock want to run straight to the bathroom and hang his head over the toilet frame. He had his last dose of morphine two hours ago. He still had half a day before the effects wore off completely. He slumped into the couch as the wheels in his head turned slowly and reluctantly against the drug.
Think…think…
Though Moriarty declared that he did his research, the drug Moriarty gave him was not the brand Sherlock used to frequent. He either accidentally or deliberately injected Sherlock with the worst batch of morphine he could have provided. The side effects were tremendous, it was short lasting, and the after effects were absolutely horrid. Maybe I could track down the market route of the drug and find Moriarty. If Moriarty truly did get the drug from the same dealers as Sherlock's, he could just approach the man and question him. What was the man's name again? Perhaps Lestrade could help me. He has the files and the records. How did Moriarty find out about all of this anyway? Oh yes, Mycroft, that's right…bloody Mycroft, what was he thinking… His thoughts trailed away.
John eyed Sherlock curiously. His flat mate was lying on the couch, the tip of his fingers placed together in his usual thinking position. He's never seen Sherlock so calm in between works. He was usually restless, constantly looking for something to work on. He shrugged. As long as Sherlock wasn't jumping around the room, demanding for a pack of cigarettes with a harpoon in his hand, John was fine. Just then, Sherlock's phone let out a beep. Someone had just mailed him. Sherlock slid his hands in his pocket without opening his eyes and lazily pulled out the phone. He tapped the screen and peered at it. His eyes widened for a while. It was Lestrade.
Body of 3rd victim found. Meet me at Bart's –GL
Ah, of course. Oh Moriarty, Moriarty, how brilliant you are. I would have been so delighted if it wasn't happening to me. Sherlock closed his eyes and chuckled to himself. The serial killer that they caught was responsible for 5 eaths. 4 of the victims were found at the crime scene but 1 body was missing. Moriarty knew that Sherlock was too strong to go into relapse with just one shot, but Moriarty couldn't visit Sherlock to inject him the drug over and over again. So what did he have to do? He simply made Sherlock take the drug by himself. Moriarty made Sherlock nostalgic with the sensation of the drug, and then the excruciating pain, giving Sherlock no choice but to take another dose of morphine. The consulting criminal even predicted that Sherlock would resist by destroying any remaining stock of drug he had at home. So what is Moriarty going to do next? Why of course, send Sherlock to the hospital, where all the narcotics are within his reach. Sherlock sat up to grab his coat. There was no way he was going to fall for such a trick. How ridiculous, how silly, how sloppily planned…but the Moriarty/Sherlock inside him tapped his brain.
Remember, I'm still in here you know?
Sherlock shook it away. He's just going to see the body. Make sure that his deductions weren't mistaken. John's back was turned toward Sherlock. He was washing the dishes.
"John," Sherlock called. "We're going to Bart's." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. John is coming. He's going to keep an eye on Sherlock, just in case.
…
"We found it in the Thames, just like you said." Lestrade explained. Sherlock peered down at the pale blue, half decomposed body. His eyes were distant. Molly hovered on the right of Sherlock and John on the left, but Lestrade lingered a few paces behind them, well away from the body. Lestrade could never get the hang of floaters, probably because it always reminded him of his childhood pet goldfish. He found it dead one day, floating in the bowl lifelessly, covered in white decomposing scales and its eyes agape. Sherlock used to have a pet goldfish too. Only it was eaten by his cat. Little Sherlock was so disappointed because he was planning on dissecting the fish.
"And again, you were right about Anderson being wrong. He wasn't poisoned to death." Lestrade muttered and he expected a cold "of course" or "obviously" from Sherlock but it didn't come.
"He was strangled to death…just like you said." Sherlock still didn't say anything. Lestrade expected Sherlock to jump up and down in arrogant joy and exclaim
"Aha, I was right, all along now, wasn't I?" He always did.
"Is there anything wrong?" John asked. He also sensed something unusual about Sherlock's aloofness.
"No, no, it's fine…all fine." Sherlock caught Molly's eyes. He flashed a reassuring smile. Molly froze at the spot. Sherlock walked briskly past the petrified coroner as he pulled off his elastic gloves. John followed Sherlock, eyeing worriedly at Molly before muttering,
"Thanks for the time, Molly." She barely managed to nod in reply.
Lestrade, John and Sherlock strode out of the morgue and into the corridor. Sherlock tried hard not to think about the lab or the medical quarters in the hospital facility.
If you turn right, there's the lab.
Shut up.
You sure you don't want to grab anything on the way? Methadone, perhaps?
Lestrade pulled at Sherlock's coat. The tall man's train of thoughts disappeared.
"You're going the wrong way. The parking lot's this way." Lestrade said. His head tilted, his dark eyes peering into Sherlock's face. Sherlock laughed nervously.
"Um…" He started. "Would you excuse me for a second?" And he turned toward the direction of the men's restroom. John and Lestrade exchanged looks.
"Is Sherlock on a new case right now?" John shook his head.
"Not that I know of, no."
Lestrade rubbed his hand over his chin.
…
Sherlock didn't remember when he did it. His heart thumped and his eyes widened in disbelief. He slowly reached into his trouser pocket. There was an object in there. His quivering fingers touched the cool surface. His shoulders tensed as he weighed the object in his hand. He prayed that it was just an ink bottle. He pulled the object out and slowly dropped his gaze. The moment he saw it, Sherlock's face twisted into a look of pain and frustration. He couldn't believe it. John was there, Lestrade was there, Molly was there. How the hell did he do it? When did he do it? Why did he do it?
In his hand was a fresh bottle of morphine.