Author's note: So, this is the final part of this chapter, hope you enjoy some angst.

CHAPTER 7: THE PENANCE (Part 5)

For a hollow, empty man, who didn't really know he had a heart until very recently, he did not appear glad by the news that proved otherwise. In fact, if he was being completely honest with himself, given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to grab a spade and carve it out of his chest. Never-mind about the shape it would leave him in. He would actually prefer the weeping arteries, and decaying tissue to what he was experiencing at the moment.

He had not realised how a mistake from his part could lead to such disastrous results. He never intended something like that to happen, nor he even predicted that him being wrong could be a possibility. But wrong he was, and now he had to pay the biggest price. It's true that some situations are not within our reach to manipulate, no matter how capable or close we are, but he somehow should have prevented this. He should have figured out his error earlier, or at least stopped John from leaving on his own.

Too long had the detective imprisoned ghosts inside his mind, and they were now slowly clawing their way out from the debris of his mental universe, yearning to see the light of day. The truth is Sherlock was tired of fighting them for this long, he had pushed this aside for too many a time, and just like the Bogeyman, they slithered out from under his bed now, at his most vulnerable of times, to haunt him. Is was highly ironic that the monsters that had never scared him when he was little, would be able to terrify him so thoroughly today. Because before, he only thought about the challenges inside his own room and found them unworthy of his fear, not even real enough or logically possible to even cause a slight tremor up his spine; but now he knew better. He had become aware that those beasts were not inside a suspicious looking cupboard, but walking all around him —had been all the time, actually. He was only just realising what a scary world was out there and how unprepared he was to face it.

Moriarty, being the chiefest of the cruelest live-forms, was talking to him now. After leaving him alone for a few days, letting him truly absorb the news of his best friend dying in whatever way he pleased; the criminal was now back at his side in full force.

Story-telling about how unfortunate it had been that someone else had managed to snatch John away from him before he got a chance to play with him. Listing possible ways in which he could have tortured the soldier in payment for his loyalty to the sleuth. This was hell to hear for the boffin whom so desperately needed some comfort right now. But on the spider went, making the silver-gazed man want to tear his own ears off just to stop himself from listening all the hypothetical hurt he could have inflicted on John if he were still alive. For Sherlock, it didn't matter that the scenarios could never become a reality, seeing them play out in his mind did not only distress him for their explicit and horrifying nature, but they also brought forth images of what had actually happened to his dear friend because of him, and how he was never going to forgive himself for it.

The criminal was sitting on a chair, located directly ahead of where the slumped form of the genius was laying, leaning his side on the wall and with his legs curled up against his body as in protection. Looking a lot like a scared animal waiting to lash out at the slightest provocation. "You know what I find extremely funny?" James asked, completely aware that he would not be getting a reply. "How close to Baker Street we actually are."

At this, Sherlock's damaged brain started to attempt at bringing to mind any location within a 3 kilometre radio of his home, but came out empty handed. That helpless need of staying alive that comes with being human making itself known, even if the curly-haired man saw no reason to fight for anymore. "If they haven't found you yet, it's because they're not even looking." That cut deep into the flesh, specially when Sherlock was already dancing in the penitence ball.

"I don't blame them, though." Moriarty continued. "After all, you got Johnny-boy killed and then ran off when you heard the police coming. That was not very decent of your part." The detective could still not believe, nor remember, what could possibly had gotten through his head as to even contemplate running when he heard the sirens, much less do it. But here he was, captured after his failed attempt at escaping and ruthlessly berating himself for being so heartless. The criminal didn't have to remind him the extent of treachery he had shown, not when his usually impenetrably thick skin was already feeling thin.

"With your prints on the knife they probably even think you did it." The brown-eyed man said nonchalantly while he inspected the state of his nails, as if opening up someone's skull and playing while sticking your hand in their brain is no issue to concern oneself about. "So, what do you think, Sherl? you think it's possible for them to believe you would be capable of doing something like that?" And "Sherl" had all but just about have it with the beast calling him pet-names. He disliked them on a normal basis, and hearing them come out swirling from a mouth whose owner clearly did nothing but despise him was another complete level of denigrating. No matter how sweet the words, they always left a bitter taste in his gut. "I bet they do. And no one comes looking for a killer, you see?"

"Why should I believe a single word you say?" The musician asked after a seemingly endless stream of silence. He could not let Jim enter and have a permanent residence in his subconscious, he was already plagued enough by guilt and grief to have an spider constantly contributing his venomous suggestions and opinions. He needed to keep him out of head, as long as possible.

"Would I lie to you?" The consulting criminal inquired, and was only dignified with an ironically exasperated glare from the vulnerable-looking ball of detective on the floor. "Okay, okay. You don't have to believe in anything I say, Sherlock." Jim preached, his eyes turning that impossibly darker shade of black when he spoke; almost as if he was about to thrust a curse on your shoulders. "But you do, don't you?" The face the younger man made was all the affirmation he needed. "It's obvious they have given up on you." The chair was vacated as the criminal stood. "So brace yourself, darling. There's no John-The-Guardian-Angel to come and save you from hell now." And with that he exited.

But Sherlock didn't want salvation. He didn't want to prepare himself for what was to come. Because he wasn't broken, and he didn't need to be fixed. He just needed something to forget, something to soothe the ache that had been growing ever since he found out the true nature of his despicable actions. So he scrambled to where the nearly forgotten plastic bag laid waiting. Ripped it in half, spilling its contents to the frankly dirty floor and wrapping the rubber tourniquet around his arm. He prepared the syringe, inserted the needle to his veins, and following a deep breath, pushed the longed liquid in. After that, is was all just a blissful blur.