chapter eight

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'John! John!' I'm running down the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me, I skip steps and stumble down the last few. 
'My god, Avery, what?' Sherlock shouts, coming out of his room, his eyes weary and red, his angular face wan. 
'I-I have to tell you something.'
'Spit it out then.'
'Can you not be an arsehole right now?' I snap, 'Because I have really, really fucked up, Sherlock, and I don't know what to do.'
He closes his door behind him as he pads into the kitchen in his bare feet and striped pajama bottoms and slides into the chair at the table, looking slightly bored as if I am about to deliver the news that I cheated on my university exams or lied on my CV or something as normal and mundane as that. 
'Okay, so, um, in university, I-I met this guy...'
'Oh my god, this is what you're all wound up about? A boy? Normal people are so irritating.'
'Fuck SAKE,' I boom, slamming my hands on the table in frustration, 'Deduce me, genius! Would I be this upset if it was about a stupid boy? This panicky? Feeling as if I'm about to die?'
Sherlock stares at me for a moment.  'Okay.  Tell me.'
'I was abused when I was in uni.  This guy, he just seemed like a normal guy, you know? Like, so normal.  He was a bit older, I mean, in like his thirties but he seemed good and loving and...perfect.  He seemed perfect.  He told me he loved me and I believed him, he told me forever and I almost bought it...but he...he was bad, Sherlock, really bad, and when he told me who he really was...a part of me died.  He'd used me, like a pawn in his game, he used me to get to you, because it was always about you, he used me to get information about John and I didn't even realize but he got us all...he played me all along.'
'And who was this person, Avery? What was his name?'

I breathe and collapse into a chair, choking back the sobs.  'Jim Moriarty.'

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