A Study in Pink [Reader Insert]

Two Bottles, Two Pills.

     -John's POV-

     John was belting down the corridor of one of the top floors- he couldn't remember if he was at the top or the second-to-top floor- and was throwing open doors in his frantic search for Sherlock. He came across a locked one, and didn't hesitate to slam his body into it, throwing it open. 

     Nobody was there, but John stopped and stared across the other side of the classroom he now stood in. He was, in a way, in the same classroom as Sherlock and the serial killer.

     Just the wrong building.

     Dr. John Watson was looking through the window of one building and into the other, watching helplessly as Sherlock raised a pill to his mouth. Though, thinking of his gun.... perhaps not so helplessly after all.

     -Sherlock's POV-

     Sherlock was holding the pill up to the light as if examining it. "Oh, stop it, you can't see the poison!" sneered the serial killer.  "You just wanted to get one step closer, didn't you? Ever the addict!"

     Sherlock glanced away from the pill and to the murderer. Murderer? Is it still murdering if the culprit only told their victims to do the job? Of course it is.

     "But this is what you're really addicted to, isn't it? This is the only fix that works. You'll do anything... just to not be bored," the sinister old man hissed.

     Sherlock stared at the pill. One trembling hand slowly raised. "Not bored now, are you?" the driver remarked as Holmes brought the pill drew closer and closer to his own mouth...

     And then suddenly, the window behind the serial killer shattered! Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair in surprise, but also dropped his pill. The taxi driver across the table was staring in shock at the blood coming out of him and spilling onto the table and the floor. He seemed to be choking, and was clutching at the blood spurting from his chest. He made a flailing grab for the table, but only managed to bring it down with him as he fell to the floor. Sherlock stared at the dying man with shock in his eyes. He looked up with a start to the window, wondering in muffled bewilderment who shot him- who had shot the serial killer!?

     But it was too dark to see. Flustered, Sherlock turned back to the killer. He swooped up all of the pills and bottles and compared them frantically. There was no difference! "Did I get it right!?" Sherlock demanded to the dying man on the floor in front of him. "Tell me! Was it the right pill!?"  The dying driver only gave the faintest hint of a smile as he gasped for breath. He was never going to tell. Sherlock threw aside the bottles in fury, but then composed himself. He gathered his anger and brought it under his control. "Okay, then," said Sherlock with a frighteningly calm voice, "Tell me this. Your sponsor-who is it?"

     The still-writhing taxi driver shook his head faintly. "The one you told me about," Sherlock pressed. "My fan. I want a name." The taxi driver only shook his head again in response.

     "You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock growled, placing his foot next to the dying man's wound. "Give me a name."

     "...No," the taxi driver croaked. Sherlock pressed down with his foot and cabbie cried out in pain. "A name! Now!" Sherlock repeated angrily. He pushed down on the cabbie's ribs, causing the dying man to scream in excruciating pain, but the wild look in Sherlock's eyes remained as he snarled, "Name him!!!"

          "Moriarty!" the serial killer bursted, sobbing through his pain. 

        "Moriarty!!!"

      

   

     (A/N: Due to a tight school schedule, I'll be writing much less, but I'll still try to publish at least a chapter a day. Comments are very much appreciated, but then, so are roller coasters so

well whatever bye)