Chapter IV

"needles"

Soon, Jim Moriarty shifts unconsciously in his arms, trying to snuggle into the warmth of his hands, blood on his face continuing to flow slowly, creating sticky streams down both sides of his cheeks. He's scrunching his nose every other second, gasp-like breath the moment he has to move his head. His eyes have been pierced through with something, a sickening mass of jelly-like flesh shimmering in the dimmed light. There are numerous bruises on his chest and purple fingerprints on his throat, long fiery lines done perhaps with fingernails and various bluish marks of injections smiling on the inside of his arms. A red silky shirt is opened fully at the front, clinging wetly to his chest, making him shiver. The back of his head is wet, colouring the water beneath him crimson.

Sherlock is speechless for a moment but then begins to tremble uncontrollably, clenching the front of John's jumper. He props the man up, shaking him and crying "Wake up! WAKE UP, for fuck's sake!" His fists are sweaty and Jim's head lolls from one side to the other helplessly, neck cracking from time to time dully and he grits his teeth in the slumber. After a moment Sherlock smacks his face a couple of times but with the same effect, cheeks swollen and skin breaking under his fingertips.

Suddenly, a pair of girls still standing on the street comes up to them, a shared, nearly burnt down cigarette lighting the face of one of them.

"Found him here an hour ago, yo" the taller, redhead smacks her lips, trying not to shiver under her thin violet coat. She's clad in fishnets and neon green summer dress, heels of her stilettos needle-thin, echoing on the street. "but didn't call nine-nine-nine. After all, many sissies give their last show here."

"Not that we enjoy 'em much" the other one, with a slight Russian accent, puffs the smoke away, her eyes shining sickeningly. She's smaller, her miniskirt and long-sleeved blouse fluttering on the wind. She begins to circle them slowly, glancing from time to time at Moriarty with interest. Sherlock doesn't pay the two much attention, staring at the sweater with unblinking eyes. "Think he's got a concussion, sweety. Won't awake without a good dose of medications. Oh, guess he's either already in a coma or will need to be put into one. No luck, whatsoever."

Sherlock spins around at that, his eyes wide and distrustful. "How can you know that? You're not a doctor!"

The girl looks hurt for a moment but then laughs bitterly, coming up close to him and puffing the smoke right into his face just the way Moriarty did all those hours ago. "Better call an ambulance this instant, kрасотка, or your любовник will bleed himself to death. And then, not even aпостол Пётр himself will be able to help ya, even if he's got Диплом."

Sherlock doesn't have time for petty quarrels with sassy foreign medicine students who have to sell themselves in order to live in London. He is sure of that, holding Moriarty's head in one of his hands while quickly snatching the mobile from his pocket.

There are no new messages.

He dials the number, closing his eyes.

The operator has a nice, deep voice and even though Sherlock tries hard to sound reasonable, he stammers a few times.

There's a badly beaten man lying on the street. Yes, he needs the police and an ambulance to come. Soho, a brothel alley. Happened at least an hour ago, yes, the state is really bad. No, Moriarty still breaths. Perhaps a robbery, he feels his jaw tightening. No, he's just found him. Okay, he'll stay calm.

Yes.

Indeed.

Understood.

The casing is cold in his hand and Sherlock doesn't really know what he should do now. Girls have left while he was calling, Moriarty still as still as a stone just inches away.

Oh how those bones would crash lovely under his fists, he muses suddenly, windpipe snapping as easily as a match in just one movement. Ribs cracking and perforating both of the lungs. Liver and spleen bursting after some time from the cuffs, kidneys not able to filtrate the blood any more and slowly dying, internal bleeding just few seconds away.

Or maybe not. How would it feel if he broke every bone separately instead, not letting it to heal and then accrete, breaking every sinew and ligament?

Too improbable and bothersome to perform but hell, such silly thoughts seem to bring some odd comfort to him.

A thought comes to him after a moment. He forgot to riffle through Moriarty's clothes, thanks to all of those stupid, ignorant emotions.

"Oh, damn it all." Sherlock whispers, carefully feeling both sides of the black jeans. Moriarty's hips are bony and sharp under the material and he quickly snakes his hands into the pockets. There's a soaked wet case with a mobile inside it in the right one and Sherlock quickly snatches it and sticks into one of the coat's. There are some crumbled scrapes of paper and two visiting cards in the left one and soon they're accompany the telephone. Slowly, he ghosts his hands over other parts but finds nothing more.

He can already hear the distant echo of alarm buzzers and really it's the last moment to quickly get the most valuable thing. He props the man against himself, Moriarty's head lolling onto his collarbone and Sherlock tries with all of his strength not to recoil in disgust at the touch. He lifts heavy with sleep arms unceremoniously, deaf at short, pained sighs and gasps. Roughly, the jumper comes unstuck, weighty with water and a faint but still lingering, scent of John.

Sherlock cradles it in his arms, throwing Moriarty off of himself delicately, watching his head. He lands on his back with a thud on the sidewalk and Sherlock smirks quietly. At least this much can be done now.

He draws his own mobile and dials Lestrade's number, clenching his hands on the jumper and crouching near the body.

There's some buzzing but eventually a sleepy, slurring voice fills the receiver "Sherlock? What the hell d'you want this time? It's four in the damn morning!" Some shuffling is being heard and a few muffled curses. " I've been having the best dream..."

"I found him." A quick pause. " I found Moriarty."

"WHAT?" Something akin to the noise of cracking porcelain echoes on the other side." FUCK! Is John okay? Where are you?"

Sherlock stares into the distance, bringing the woollen jumper close to his face, trying to be strong. To face it. "He's not here." Change the subject, change the fucking subject. "Moriarty has been blinded with either a needle of some sort and nearly beat to death."

"What do you mean he's not with you? Sherlock, you said yourself that..."

"I know what I said, Lestrade. John isn't with him anymore." It hurts, hurts so much. "Come here at once."

"But, Sherlock, why..."

"Please." He feels tears slowly forming in the corner of his eyes and his voice breaking. He tries his best but still it trembles like a leaf on the wind. "Please come. I need you here."

There's a moment of silence. "Where are you?"

"Soho, near," Sherlock spins around, trying to make out the name flickering on the glass-case of the biggest brothel. "a bordello called Delightful Roses."

"Okay, give me ten minutes." The line grows silent the next second and Sherlock draws a shaking breath.

He wants to curl himself round the jumper and pretend it's all just a dream.