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Three am. That's the time on the clock on the wall when John's phone rings, waking him from his already fitful rest. 'Wha d'ya want, Mycroft?' he mumbles, still half asleep despite the shock. 'Come to Baker Street immediately. He's doing it again.' The line goes dead before John can even question what 'it' is. He rolls his eyes; ever the man of mystery. Sighing at relinquishing yet another nights sleep for Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson crawls out of bed, for once grateful that Mary is staying at a friend's.-'No no no no no! You don't see it do you? You never see it! That's the problem with you people, you're too busy looking and you never just take a moment to see.' Sherlock has been pacing up and down the tiny flat for hours now. Mrs Hudson made the mistake of asking what was wrong with him, and is now baring the very harsh brunt of his anger. She casts a hopeless glance over at Mycroft, who is sitting on Sherlock's chair by the fireplace as if everything is perfectly ordinary. Mycroft, of course, just shrugs, bored with her already. A few muttered swears and a promise of some tea, and Mrs Hudson is gone. Twenty seconds later and the outside door slams shut. Gone to her new boyfriends. She shouldn't be back for a while. Sherlock turns his focus on his brother.'You,' he spits, up in Mycrofts face with a speed that a man in his state shouldn't be able to achieve. He clamps a hand on his jaw. 'This was your plan all along, wasn't it? Moriarty, Reichenbach, all of it was your sick twisted little game.' Mycroft continues to sit in silence; he's seen his brother like this twice before, and those experiences alone were enough to teach him all he needs to know in order to be able to deal with Sherlock in this state. He is past reason, past care, past even love. Except, Mycroft hopes, the love of his best friend. Hope- it has always seemed like such a naive concept before. Still, it can't hurt. Sherlock clutches his hair, pulling on the curls with such force that it takes all the strength Mycroft has not to wince. Faking nonchalance, he glances at his watch. John better get here soon - he doesn't know how long his little brother can hold on without him.-Moriarty is here. He's here and he's alive and he's laughing. Laughing at Sherlock with his evil psychotic grin. God help him. The room is swimming and spinning and Moriarty is there and he's laughing at him and he's telling him something in between the laughing. Sherlock tried to hear, really tries hard to listen, but he just can't. He doesn't like not understanding. Maybe it's the drugs doing it. Has he made a list? Sherlock always makes a list. Ever since...
No. he can't think about the past, he doesn't have time because Moriarty is here back laughing talking. Laughing at him and talking to him. The problem is that even when Sherlock can't hear him he makes too much sense. That's the way he works: he worms his way into your head until you're his. And Sherlock Holmes has been under his control for a very long time. Moriarty knows that. He knows he knows he knows he knows. He can smell it, taste
it in Sherlock's blood. It's obscene. He needs to get it out; cut the disease out until it's been purged from his body.Half running, half stumbling, Sherlock gets to the bathroom. Does it take seconds or minutes or hours? It's hard to tell through the haze. Moriarty is there too, still talking, still trying to win. No, Sherlock thinks. 'No. No!' Suddenly he is punching his own reflection in the mirror, screaming the word every time his fist lands on the glass. Landing. That word has meaning, Sherlock knows it, he just can't unlock the door that leads to the information. He punches the mirror once more, revelling in the screaming pain in his hand, before gripping onto the sink with such force he is surprised it doesn't shatter into a million tiny white pieces under his hands. Sherlock looks up, oxygen heaving into his lungs in ragged breaths. The shattered reflection that greets him is almost shock enough to make him pause. Almost.His eyes, that not too long ago could glance at a man and interpret every aspect of him, are now sunken deep back into their sockets, and surrounded by bags so dark that they could easily be mistaken for bruises. Perhaps they are. Sherlock's always chiselled cheeks now just look hollow and gaunt and pale. A chill runs through him. The East Wind. He looks like a druggie. He is a druggie. A giggle from behind, almost childlike in its sinful glee. Moriarty is leaning over his reflection's shoulder, whispering in his ear. What is he saying? It doesn't matter. Sherlock came in here to do something, and he's intent on doing it. 'You wanted this Moriarty, and now you're getting it, so please just let me be. Please.' Voice cracking, he scrambles around in the various items just dumped by the sink. A toothbrush and soaps and needles brush against his fingers, but he can't find what he needs. Where is it?-Why is it always so hard to get a cab when you need one? Giving up and surrendering to the cold and rain, John starts walking down the silent street. His phone starts to vibrate in his pocket. A text this time, but also from Mycroft. 'He's made a list. Hurry.' John starts swearing under his breath, breaking into a run. If things are as bad as this message implies, and there is no reason to believe the implications are misled, then Sherlock's life is almost definitely in danger. Mycroft never texts. That has to mean something.-
Sherlock is vaguely aware of a rattling of the door handle behind him. Funny, he doesn't remember locking it. But that noise is nothing, nothing, compared to the voice getting louder and louder to his side. Moriarty is standing beside him, a finger nonchalantly brushing over his, like it's the most most normal thing in the world for him to be back from the dead and standing in his bathroom. 'What-' Before Sherlock can form so much as a phrase, Moriarty's finger is on his lip. Even to him, it feels unnaturally cold. Dead. 'I know what you're looking for Sherlock, and I know what this means for you. You're falling Sherlock Holmes, falling deep and down into a pit that nobody can get you out of. Not this time. It's a little later than I'd hoped for of course, but it's time. Time for the impact.' With that last word, a harsh clank of metal and ceramic scrapes through the thick air. Funny, when Moriarty was talking, Sherlock had forgotten about the rest the world. He looks down into the dry sink, where Moriarty had dropped his razor.
Reaching down with trembling hands, Sherlock picks up the razor and brings it to his eye level. The manic giggling starts again. 'Oh this, this is genius. It really is. So much effort taken to destroy you and look, Sherlock Holmes is killing himself.' The glint of the light off of the metal mesmerises Sherlock for a moment. Somewhere, deep in his drug addled mind, is a voice screaming 'no'. But next to him, directly into his ear, is a voice whispering 'yes, do it.' That voice has always been seductive to Sherlock, irresistible. With hands suddenly steady and a mind suddenly sharp, he brings the blade to his skin.The first cut glides through the smooth, pale skin of his forearm. The red spills out over the white and purple skin, forming a pattern like a dying sunset. Sherlock wants more. Moriarty laughs manically in the background. Sherlock grins; maybe this is what he wanted all along - to make him happy. He slashes his arm again, the razor blade tugging slightly on his skin as it creates the wound. Another cut, deeper this time, adds to the splashes of crimson on the tile. Another cut, and another. More, more, more. There has to be more. Funny, how the pain just isn't there. All of Sherlock's anguish, physical and mental, is lost in the endorphin fuelled mania of his brain. Except his hands are shaking again. The blade is suddenly lost from his grip. His vision is going black and fuzzy around the edges. One bloody hand against the mirror and one clutching his hair, Sherlock tries to stay standing. For what reason, he doesn't know. After all, wouldn't it be so easy just to sleep? With a sound like the last nail being driven into a coffin, Sherlock Holmes falls. The last thing he sees before closing his eyes is Moriarty gripping the collar of his white shirt. 'It's not the fall that kills you Sherlock. It's the impact.-John bursts through the door of 221B Baker Street, dropping his soaking wet coat to the ground. 'Mycroft?' he shouts. 'Sherlock?' Running up the stairs with energy he no longer knew he could muster, he is greeted with a very pale Mycroft standing at the top, leaning on his cane. He looks like he is about to vomit. Mycroft Holmes, the ice man, looks scared. More than that, he looks terrified. 'I need,' John strugglesm to control the wavering in his voice. 'The list, Mycroft, I need to see the list. Please.' Still silent, Mycroft holds out a crumpled piece of paper. Snatching and unfolding it, John's eyes skim the paper. 'Shit,' he mumbles, letting it flutter out of his grip and to the ground. 'Shit, shit, shit. Mycroft where is he?' When the man stays quiet, John rushes up to him and knocks his cane out of his hands, forcing the usually superior Holmes brother to stumble. Before he can fall, John grasps his shoulders. 'I don't care, Mycroft. I don't care what retention she reasoning is behind you just, just standing there like an idiot, but I swear to whoever will listen that if you don't tell me where my best friend is right bloody now I will punch your face in. To hell with national security, I will kick the shit out of you if you don't tell me how to help Sherlock Holmes.' Mycroft is trembling now, a bead of sweat rolling down his face. Is that sweat or is it a tear? Either way he's shaken. Good. With a shaking hand, he points to the bathroom. John knows there's only really one thing he can be doing in there, and it's enough to make him sick to his stomach.The door is locked; John doesn't even need to touch the handle to know this. Of course he still does, in futile hope that that there might be a flicker of a chance that there might be something worth saving in that tiny, dim room. And of course he's wrong, because if there's one thing Sherlock Holmes has always been good at, it's playing the drama queen. He rattles at the handle, the soldier not accepting defeat in the face of an impossible challenge. 'So help me Sherlock, I'm not going up on you this easily, not this time.' He slams himself against the door, cheap wood crunching and groaning but not giving. Again, the pain shoots through his side. Gritting his teeth, John slams his side into the door again and again and again, relentless in his dedication to his friend. He needs to get to him, needs to save him, before something God awful happens. Something that Sherlock can't just bounce back from. One last slam, the whole of the side of John's body slams
against the door with such force that he's surprised he hasn't broken a rib. Actually, he might have. With a final groan of splintering plywood, the door disintergrates inwards and John falls to the ground, head smashing against the floor. There isn't any time to regain his senses before he scrambles to a standing position, feet and hands slipping in something slick and warm and sticky.He's there. Lying, broken on the floor like a rag doll. Sherlock's arm is in tatters, ribbons of flesh stained in the crimson blood that sustains the life of the most genius man alive, which is currently leaking out onto the floor. Immediately, John disappears, leaving behind him Dr Watson. Scrambling over to kneel beside the body, he surveys the damage. The obvious thing is the state of Sherlock's arm: blood is still pulsing out of it, enough to lead to life threatening blood loss. The cuts have made their way deep into the muscle, and with the sheer amount of blood coating the surfaces, they may have hit an artery. Gritting his teeth, John rips a strip off of the bottom of his own shirt, tying it tight around the top of his arm in a makeshift tourniquet. Another glance at the detective reveals the true state of his injuries, however. Puncture wounds are scattered over the inside of his elbow, the classic signs of substance abuse. Of course, that isn't a surprise. The real shock is how much Sherlock has let it ravage him. The bags under his eyes look like bruises. He is so skinny as to make him emaciated, skin white as a ghost and paper thin. A pulse check shows John he is still blissfully, blessedly alive. But only just.
Strangely, just at the moment when his job has always trained him to act without hesitation, John begins to panic. Maybe the knowledge that his friend is still alive prevents him from seeing Sherlock as another patient, as a body that needs to be fixed. Or maybe it's because he's never seen self injury as horrific as this before. Either way, John finds himself unable to do anything but let out a choking sob. No. 'Pull yourself together John Watson. Time to cry later, but now just do your damn job.' Yes. Because that's what John has always done, what he's meant to do: save Sherlock Holmes.
Now the instincts spark back to life. After pushing him into the recovery position, a task that doesn't require nearly as much strength as it should, John puts pressure on his arm wounds. 'Mycroft!' he shouts down the corridor. 'You get here right now!' He is surprised that his voice stays steady enough to yell. Another glance at Sherlock's seemingly lifeless body is enough to panic him all over again. When no older Holmes appeares at the door, John leanes over Sherlock, an ear against his plush lips, to see if he is breathing. There, a faint whisper of breath. 'So help me Mycroft if I find out you're sitting in there having a bloody whisky.' John doesn't know how long he could keep him going.-With one last sip, Mycroft finishes his whisky. Placing the empty glass on the cluttered side table, he stands up from Sherlock's chair, adjusting the lapels on his jacket. He knows his brothers limits, and he knows that he can last at least forty seconds longer plus the time an ambulance will take to arrive with London traffic at this time of the night. Still, sometimes it's better to play it safe. Pulling out his phone from his pocket, the emergency number already typed in, Mycroft presses call. Twenty seconds of talking, and an ambulance is on its way to Baker Street. He takes off his jacket and pushes up his white shirt sleeves in preparation for the scene he is about to witness. One breath in. One breath out. Mycroft walks over to the bathroom.
'Hello John,' he says, taking in the exact damage in an instant, brain already running through a simulation of exactly what happened, 'lovely evening for it.' In return, he is shot a glare that could turn a lesser man to dust. 'I swear on anything you make ever been capable of loving Mycroft Holmes, that if Sherlock doesn't make it out of this I will hold you completely, one hundred percent responsible, and I will, I will
destroy you.' Interesting, how John Watson acts when what he loves is under threat. He files that information away for later. 'An ambulance is coming. It should be here within minutes. You can keep him going until then. But for now, I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn my attention away from my darling
brother who is, apparently bleeding to death on the floor,' An even more venemous glance from John, along with an almost blood curdling snarl. 'And towards this.' The sharp snap of his cane against the cracked mirror slices through the thick tension in the air. Of course, it's not the mirror itself that has snagged Mycroft's eye, but the message on it, written in blood. DID YOU MISS ME???-John almost chokes on air. How has he not noticed that. He's obviously not as well trained as he would have Sherlock think. It could only be the work of one man: Moriarty. Except Moriarty died. Then again, he died on the same day that Sherlock Holmes did, and Sherlock Holmes is alive. Alive, but dying. John shakes the thought from his mind, but it grows like a cancer. Dying. Dying. His fingers press into Sherlock's arm harder, but blood still seeps out from between them, mixing with his own tears. All the while Mycroft, the pompous arsehole, stands leant against the door, any signs of his previous emotion washed away like breath on a windowpane. God, the bollocking he's going to get later; John is almost looking forward to it.Just as he is thinking through a couple of choice phrases, a shudder and a gasp comes from underneath him. Sherlock's eyes flash open, pupils dilated so much that they look like black holes in his skull. 'Hey,' John breathes frantically, moving a hand to rest it on his face, leaving a bloody handprint on his cheek, 'Sherlock it's me, it's John, I've got you. You're safe.' Eyes not wavering from their view somewhere behind his head, Sherlock's uninjured arm clamps a too strong grip on John's shoulder, forcing him down so his ear is on his lips again. Almost too faintly for him to make out, the detective whispers again. 'The landing, John. It's always the landing.' But before John can ask what this means, the grip slackens, the eyes roll back in their sockets, and Sherlock blacks out again.-The darkness isn't what Sherlock expected. It isn't comforting and soft and peaceful like it has been before. This time it is sharp and hard and cold and it bites, it bites like something baying for his blood. And he isn't alone. The roads we walk have demons beneath them. Sherlock has finally reached that depth, finally reached the demons. Maybe he's in hell. Maybe this time he won't make it back. To his surprise, that thought genuinely scares him. He all at once misses but is grateful for the lack of drugs clouding his mind. But there's someone else as well, someone so familiar but so alien. Real and a dream and human and something other all at once. And it's a she. She is singing. Sherlock cant make any of the words out, only the surreal but familiar tune, the rest snatched away by a chilling East Wind. Surely he can't be dead if he can feel the wind. Then again, he's never been dead before, so how would he know? What Sherlock really wants to know, though, is where is Moriarty?There. A stab of pain on the back of his hand, different to the biting pain. The wind stops, and the singing disappears with it. The darkness, too, has gone, replaced with the most nauseating sense of nothing
that Sherlock thinks is possible. But instead of the demons and the chill and the impossible voice is pain, searing pain that dominates his every sense and clouds any sense of judgement, including the intuition that would usually tell him to stay completely still. He starts to thrash in the emptiness, the reassurance that he still has a body to thrash completely lost in the panic. At some point, he has no idea when, Sherlock becomes aware of two pressures on each arm, two on each leg, and one pushing, pushing down on his chest. With a final gasp and a break through the skin of the real world, Sherlock Holmes' eyes snap open.The light is enough to sear his retinas. His mouth opens in a silent scream, every nerve on fire. A shape comes into his view, smothering the light and providing blissful relief from the brightness, allowing his eyes to slowly come into focus. John. John Watson, his best friend is there. He is safe. He can be still because John is here and John won't let anything bad happen to him. The pressures on his limbs disappear and Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. 'Shh, shh Sherlock, don't try to speak, don't say anything, just stay calm, I've got you, you're safe.' And Sherlock lets himself believe him. He shuts his eyes, focusing on assessing the state of his ruined body. He may as well take the opportunity - this is the first time he's been sober for months.
He doesn't yet have the strength to move so much as a finger. The bed beneath him is too comfortable, the covers too thick for him to be in a hospital. He can only assume that he is in a private treatment centre, undoubtedly of Mycroft's arrangement. The amount of hands that had immediately been on him when needed suggests he is in an intensive care, high security area. He is attached to various pieces of monitoring equipment and has an iv line attached to his uninjured arm. Then there's the injured arm; swathed in thick bandages, and even through the pain medication being pumped into his veins he can feel the extent of the damage he has caused to himself. Sherlock is also aware of a friendly, calming presence to his side, stroking his hair, which he can feel has been rinsed clean of any blood that may have been in it. John. In fact, his entire body has been scrubbed clean of anything and his clothes changed to what feels like a standard issue hospital gown. So he has been out for a while. Days, possibly. The hand is still moving through his curls, providing relief enough to his pounding head that Sherlock can fall into a true, calm, unthinking sleep.-Mycroft stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back as John sits with Sherlock. He knows his little brother will be okay, and has payed good money to be sure of it. That is not the most pressing issue of the moment. His issues are split into three parts, the first being the list. Instead of the usual list, a scrawled account of all the drugs Sherlock has taken, the paper is simply decorated with a yellow smiley face, identical down to the paint used to the one on the wall of 221B. The second point for concern is the message on the mirror. There is only one man that message can be from, but that man is dead, so who is it from? But these pale into insignificance to the third; the song that Sherlock was singing over and over and over from the moment he was taken by the paramedics from the bathroom floor to the moment he woke up at his hospital room in Mycroft's home. He sighs, a long, shuddering thing. An unfortunate accident will have to be arranged
for those paramedics - nothing about the events of that night can be allowed to get out, especially that cursed song. It is a demon from the Holmes brothers' past, one far too dangerous to be allowed to escape. The future will be a dangerous place. Mycroft glances at Sherlock, then at John, ever the faithful soldier, standing vigil by his side. Maybe his little brother had the right idea in trying to escape it.