Chapter Eight

I had phoned the police sometime in the early hours, and Lestrade stayed with me through the night after that, as we searched for a Sherlock, but we had no luck. Finally, at about six in the morning, we went back to the flat in the hopes that Sherlock would be there instead.

We both soaked to the bone, sneezing and spluttering as we let ourselves in and climbed the stairs to my flat. Lestrade shook his hair to try and get rid of some of the extra moisture, but it had little effect. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever feel dry again,

"I just don't get it. He's been acting so weird of late. You're a doctor, John; you must at least have some idea what's going on." I sighed, I wasn't sure if I should tell Lestrade. It might tie his hands in the future and prevent him giving Sherlock further cases, if Sherlock was proved mentally unstable, but this was Lestrade. He cared about Sherlock, and he certainly deserved to know.

"He has multiple personality disorder. It means that he blacks out and different personalities take over. It just so happens that Sherlock's personalities – possibly due to him being an arrogant sod, or possibly because of the other underlying conditions – are deviations and exaggerations upon his own personality." Lestrade looked very pale as he tried to absorb the new information, but to his credit he persisted,

"Do you know why he's like this?"

"It's a defence mechanism. It was probably established early in his childhood, in response to a traumatic event, and simply resurfaced the other night. Now, however? I think the personalities may be the greatest danger."

My extremely cold fingers fumbled as I tried to quickly unlock the door, and allowing Lestrade to step through first. I was hanging up my coat, hoping it would dry without leaving a puddle and annoying Mrs Hudson, when Lestrade shouted,

"Jesus, Sherlock!" I jumped into action immediately, rushing to the source of the chaos, and spotting Sherlock without difficulty. He was lying on his side, blood gushing from his stomach, but his stitches seemed intact. It was another wound that was bleeding; a long slash just below his solar plexus.

I crossed the distance to his side in seconds and found the shard of broken mirror in even less time. It was embedded in his stomach, and the positioning of his fallen hand suggested that it might have been self-inflicted. It was huge, but at least it seemed relatively recent. The blood loss was fast, but the small puddle suggested he'd only been bleeding for ten minutes. It was lucky we'd come back in time.

I let my breath out through my teeth with a hiss, forcing the world to slow down and my body to calm down, and then my army training kicked in and everything went into overdrive. I dropped to my knees to start work and snapped over my shoulder,

"Greg, call an ambulance." He didn't move; he was still staring at Sherlock in shock, "Greg, now!" He looked up, snapping into attention, and went to work as I did the same. "Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The unconscious man let out a tiny whimper, but there was no other response. His eyelids were flickering in a way that was reminiscent to their movement during REM sleep, and he was muttering to himself. I could hear tones and phrases from each of the personalities, as they warred and mumbled inside his head.

Psychopath's POV

The other personalities aren't happy with me; something about me trying to kill our host? But who cares about them and their opinions? They can go ahead and get their stupid knickers in a twist. Especially, the so-called sociopath; he should know better than to side with them. We're supposed to be on the same side. We're the unfeeling ones, the intelligent ones who don't care; we should be working together. He claims to be on no-one's side, except logic's.

Stupid git. I mean who cares if I stabbed him? Well, apart from him, of course. He was getting boring anyway. He's always so cold and logical; he just wants to work and understand, and he never wants to play or lose himself in the moment. At least, I have a new play-mate. Moriarty wants to be part of the game. He wants to be on my side.

I want to go see Jim. He's the only one who understands; he's the one who understands what it is to have an unquenchable thirst, to be bored and need to soothe the burning with a stream of never ending blood. I can't go find him, however. We're on lockdown at the moment.

I can hear Lockie sobbing in some not-so-distant corner of Sherlock's mind. I hate that kid. We think he was the original personality, he was the original whole before the real Sherlock as we know had developed, but he retreated so far into Sherlock's head during our childhood that he lost control. I was born, along with my fraternal twin – the Sociopath – to fill the void left by Sherlock's inner child, and the real Sherlock developed from bits of each of us. He has parts of us all.

My twin took control for most of our childhood and stopped me from having my fun, which is one of the reasons why I hate him so much. I would stab him again if he hadn't gone off to tend his wounds. He would keep us moving, and keep up the pretence of normality when Sherlock and Lockie were too terrified to come out, and I was only allowed out during the abuse.

The rest of the time I would retreat as well, to recover; don't get me wrong, I'm incredibly strong, but I still need time to recuperate. I wouldn't have any of the other's face the abuse, not because I care, but because I want to rip the throats of my attackers out. The abuse doesn't frighten me; I revel in it. It makes me angry, and that makes me strong. If I hadn't been tied up by those men, I would have killed them sooner – before they could rape our body – but I had to get my hand on a knife and free us first. I only released Sherlock to act as the control of our body because the attack left me too weak to force him down.

That was the only reason Sherlock was awake for any of his childhood; I can't keep control all the time. In childhood, I would release him or Lockie for just long enough that he retained some of his memory of his formative years. They certainly did form the Sherlock you see today. Each personality that splintered off over the years took something from Sherlock; he lost chunks of himself whenever he formed someone new, and it left him incomplete.

I remember when he reached puberty; he began to get human urges. In any other kid, they would take care of it with sex, or other methods, and it would be fine. Sherlock hated it, however. He didn't know why – he couldn't remember the abuse – so he called it primitive and claimed an aversion caused by a dislike of the distractions of sex. He pushed away those urges and the lust was trapped deep inside his mind, a horny creature that bounced off the walls every time a pretty girl passed us, or even when Dr Watson walked pasted in nothing by a bathroom towel. Luckily, it didn't register in Sherlock's poor little "virgin" mind.

The next time such a personality was created was during his university years. He started to realise that caring for people made him vulnerable, and that being analytical and cold was best for his work. It got him further than being nice, so he took almost every single nicety he had within himself and he pushed them down. They created a pure iota of insipid human niceness, untainted by even a tinge of cruelty, and the new personality was left to coo and cuddle us inside his mind. Outside however, he was left without understanding of social graces, or manners, and the smile he had once had ready for meeting new acquaintances became false and strategic. All that was left with what he needed to manipulate others to do his bidding, and the genuine smile that was only seen on rare occasions.

For a while, we were locked away and he commenced his life. We thought he was done, and no-one else would join us, but then came the drugs. Sherlock lost control and we were able to slip out of our prison and enjoy a brief period of freedom. I had the most fun going unnoticed; no-one blames an addict for attacking his dealer, or getting in a few fights.

Then he met a Detective Gregory Lestrade. Work became readily available at his fingertips and it became an obsession. On the provision that he stop taking the drugs that allowed us our freedom. Sherlock didn't hesitate and he got clean. The addict was shoved in with the rest of us and, for many years, we languished in the dungeons of the mind palace. We waited for Sherlock to weaken and give us the opportunity to escape.

Opportunity presented itself when Sherlock was attacked; it was like the old days. I broke out of my prison, and Sherlock let the floodgates open. Now, we roam freely, interacting and living side-by-side. It's boring and far too peaceful for the mind of a mad man, so I planned my escape. It's my final attack, and I will be victorious. I will take control of the body.

I should be King of the Mind Palace, not Sherlock. I fought all of the battles and protected our walls from siege and intruders. Surely, I should be more than a mere servant in his mind. I have done everything for him, I have protected him from the world, and they have never acknowledged that. That is way I have to take control. I am going to commit Regicide and take my rightful place as ruler of the Mind Palace. I can't kill the physical body, I've realised, because them I will have nothing to control, but I have a plan. All I need to do is overthrow him and lock him away in the dungeons for just long enough that I can take control of Throne room, and my control of the body will be strong enough that severing his link to the body will not kill me as well. Then I can kill him.

I've already started redecorating the throne room. That is where I took up residence as the other personalities snuck around, disgruntled over my attack on the body. There's a voice somewhere above and, after a brief moment of disorientation, I took control of the body.

Perhaps, I shouldn't have stabbed the sociopath. I hadn't been in so much pain for a long time. It doesn't help that the good doctor is frantically working on the wound and attempting to stem the flow of blood. I waited. I pretended for just long enough for him to stitch up the wound and I waited for the perfect opportunity, which presented itself when the doctor ducked down to listen to my breathing. He was whispering reassurance as I pounced, my fingers closing around his neck and squeezing.

He choked and spluttered through the injury, scrabbling desperately in attempt to pull me off, but I was stronger. I had the element of surprise on my side, and it gave the upper hand for just long enough that I could shove upwards and flip us. I pressed my knee into his stomach and tried to apply all of my weight onto his windpipe. He was going a fascinating shade of purple.

The detective had returned to figure out the source of the noise and grabbed my shoulder, trying to pull my off, but the attempt was futile.

"He's possessed," shouted the Detective Inspector. "Sherlock, it's John! Get off of him." I released him for a second, just long enough for Lestrade to breathe a sigh of relief and just long enough to grab the tea tray from the desk and smash it into the older man's face.

He fell to the ground with a cry of shock, blood spurting from his broken nose like a fountain, and tripped over the armchair. I heard the sickening crunch as his head caught the edge of the mantelpiece, knocking him out cold and hopefully permanently, and slumped onto the hearth. The doctor was just recovering as I turned my attention back to my chokehold, and I watched with satisfaction as the spluttering stopped and his eyes rolled back into the back of his head, his body limp.

I held on for just long enough to be certain that it wasn't a ploy before dropping him to the ground and stepping over him. I picked one of the clean shirts out of the laundry pile, abandoned by John earlier, and was just changing out of my blood soaked white shirt into a darker fabric, which wouldn't show the stains so clearly, as Mrs Hudson rushed in. She took one look at my bare abdomen and screamed,

"Sherlock, what happened? You're hurt—" She looked beyond me, at the chaos littering the kitchen floor and stepped further into the room when she saw the two men on the floor, "Oh my goodness, are they—Sherlock what's going on. I'll call the police."

"No need, Mrs Hudson," I said with a smile. I pointed at the unconscious detective inspector, "They're already here. I must say the police force really has become quite inefficient – lying down on the job. Out of my way." She gaped at me, a hand reaching up to her face, and shook her head,

"How can you be so calm, Sherlock? John's hurt! I have to call an ambulance."

"He's a doctor; once – or rather if – he wakes up, I'm sure he can patch himself up. Would you be a dear and make sure my dinner's ready for me when I get back, and don't tell me that you're my landlady and not my housekeeper, or I'll throw you down the stairs." She stared at me, the tears beginning to well up as she tried to make sense of what was happening, "I'll be back in an hour. Try and keep it warm for me."

Before she could reply, I pushed past her and breezed out of the flat, pulling on the shirt as I went, and down the stairs. There were a few odd looks as I walked, shirt slightly unbuttoned to reveal bloody skin, and the rest of me no doubt a state, but I simply smiled, wiping Lestrade's blood splatter from my face, and went about my business. One passer-by looked at me for a second too long and I smirked at her; she let out a squeak and raced past without comment.

It wasn't hard to return to Moriarty's home. He welcomed me with open arms, pulling me into a surprisingly pleasant kiss, and I simply shrugged and allowed him his fun. He smirked against my lips and his fingers buried themselves in my shirt, paying no attention to my injuries as he pulled me towards the bedroom.

When he was done, he offered me a cigarette, and I gladly accepted.

"I must say, I like this new you, Sherlock. My men have already gotten to work on the first few ideas you came up with. Have you anymore that you would care to share?" I smirked, puffing thoughtfully,

"Of course, and they will be the very best – I assure you. No offense, but I imagine they will trump even your most dastardly schemes. Give me a few months and I can use my personal insights into my brother's world and have the government begging me for mercy on bended knee."

"Sounds like fun."

"Oh, it will be. I'll burn it to the ground, and then I'll sell the ashes to the highest bidder." He smirked, resting his head on top of my chest,

"We'll be the most powerful men in Britain."

"Yes, we," I said with a smirk. How very quaint. He was forming an attachment already; he thought we were in this together. No doubt he thought he could treat me as an equal now, and then take control of me in 'our' future. I don't think he realised how close he was to death at the moment. I could have snapped his neck; it would have been easy. The only reason he was still alive was that he was mildly useful – for the time being.

But, he was only as useful as the web he had weaved, and even his connections would only make him useful for a restricted amount of time. He would run out of people to use eventually, and then I would be the one in the centre of it all, and I would be free to kill him with my bare hands. They'd probably give me a knighthood if I did.

I took one last drag of my cigarette and then, before he realised what I was doing, stubbed it out on his bare skin. He let out a sharp bark of pain, and then a chuckle,

"Oh, this is definitely my favourite Sherlock. You should be in charge all the time."

"My thoughts precisely."

"I imagine that you have plans to take over?"

"It won't be long. I just need the opportunity to free the rest of them, and then I'll pick them off. Sherlock won't be coming back."