Chapter Nine
It was a few more hours before he finally let me get out a bed, I was bored for most of them, and I began picking up my clothes. He raised an eyebrow, licking his lips eagerly, but I simply rolled my eyes and went back to buttoning my shirt. I paused in my exit from the expensive flat for just long enough to check my appearance in the mirror – I looked suitably rumpled, but extremely good nonetheless – and I grabbed my suit jacket off the hook, slinging it over my shoulder.
I closed the door behind me and paused to consider my next plan of action. I needed the perfect place to fulfil the rest of my plan, and that place needed to be as quiet and undisturbed as possible. I needed a place where no-one would stumble across us, where the other's couldn't get help, and no-one could stop me.
The answer presented itself relatively quickly. The abandoned office building, where the men from the last case had met their gruesome end, had been emptied recently, since the case closed, and it wasn't far from my current location.
The other personalities seemed to sense that something was wrong as we stepped into the building, and they were struggling and screaming just beneath the surface, but I pushed them down for just long enough to lock the door behind me and hide the key. Finally, I unleashed them and they stumbled out, disorientated by the new surroundings.
The sociopath, whose bleeding had finally stopped, was pale from blood loss and look pathetically weak and pained. He had to support himself on the wall to face me,
"What are you planning?" I smirked, leaning against the desk and watching the weaker personalities panic and try to escape. They were finally at my mercy. Lockie was sobbing loudly, the nice creature desperately trying to hush the screaming child, and the noise began to grate on my nerves. In one hard tug, I moved the nice personality out of the way, pulling back a hand, and slapped the child hard across the face,
"Shut up!" I shouted. He let out a whimper, stumbling back and desperately trying to sob more quietly,
"Why are you doing this? You're being like him; you're just like daddy—" I seized him by the front of his shirt, lifting him close to my face,
"And how would you know? You of all people have no idea what he was really like. Yes, he occasionally hit, or slapped, you, but you always left it down to me to deal with it. You threw me to the dogs, and all that's happening now is because of you. It's your fault I'm like this! Sob all you like, you pathetic little kid, but just remember that this is all your fault."
I felt a hand grab my shoulder, but before I could react a fist had connected with my chin, catching me off guard, and knocked me to the ground,
"You can't blame him. It was our father who made us like this. We let you take the hits because you were stronger, but we never intended to hurt you—"
"Hurt me?" I asked with a scoff, shaking my head, "You didn't hurt me. You made me stronger." I kicked out, catching him on the shins, "Strong enough to kill you—"
"Stop it!" We turned to the voice, immediately recognising the overly friendly freak, who stood between us in his desperation and tried to break up the fight, "The fighting has to stop. We're tearing Sherlock's mind apart, and we can't do it anymore, or there will be nothing left for us. If we don't reconcile then he'll never be whole—"
"Whole?" I asked. "Why on Earth would we want him to be whole? You're asking us to kill ourselves, and for me to become one with you pathetic creatures?"
"But, don't you see? We won't die; we'll be part of him, and he'll be happy—"
"Why should he get to be happy?" The personality looked sad as he looked at me, the sympathy painful as he directed it at me,
"I feel so sorry for you. You can't be happy for anyone else, and you can't be happy either. If we become part of Sherlock again, he'll be happy and we'll get to be part of us. He doesn't deserve this anguish; he doesn't deserve any of this. Look around you." I glared back at him, defiantly standing my ground, but he held fast.
Finally, rolling my eyes, I glanced around at the others. The sociopath stared back at me steadily, the child was still sobbing and the goody-two-shoes wrapped his arm round his shoulder. The addict was rummaging through the drawers of the desk, the horny creature eyeing us all up and the depressing one was sat in the corner. Then, for the first time in my life, I faltered. I saw what he was seeing.
The sociopath seemed to understand and he stepped forward to try and finish the job, knowing that I would listen to him more than any of them,
"You understand now, don't you? Sherlock is sick; he's been sick for a long time, and that's because of us. He's nothing but a splinter, never whole, and we have to work together, or we'll continue to tear him apart. He can't go on like this." I looked back at him, and the relief that flickered across his face – as he believed that he had won – immediately riled me.
"So be it. It'll be easier to take control like that. I will not lie down and let him destroy me—"
"But you won't be destroyed. You'll just be part of something better!"
"I don't want to be part of that!" I shouted. I grabbed him, throwing him into the desk and laughing as the wood splintered and sliced his skin, "I am my own person. I made myself into who I am today, and I want my independence. Why should he get to be the real one; what makes me any less of a person than him?"
The goody-two-shoes had pushed the kid behind him, standing between us to protect the sobbing brat, and the sociopath staggered back to his feet, wiping the blood away for him face, and prepared to fight.
But, before we could engage, everything went black. Sherlock was finally gaining control.