Sherlock: His Lover Called A [Sherlaide II]

His Breakdown

Sherlock got into the flat and raced to his laptop, opening the browser and typing in the names of the two men he'd encountered.

Neville McDermott and Sebastian Moran.

Not surprisingly he found their records- they had resurfaced a couple months after he had returned to London but up until January had only been active in Eastern Europe. Of course they weren't truly  seen as criminals by the world- as they masqueraded around in the guise of powerful businessmen. But they had actually been Moriarty's top assassins. Sebastian Moran had been one of the snipers the day Sherlock jumped from St. Bart's.

Why couldn't they have stayed dead?!

Sherlock smacked his fist into the desk and rattled the wood structure. Papers flew off and onto the floor as he repeated the action, "I was certain that I took them out in Bucharest!!"

He rested his elbows on the edge of the desk and massaged his temples. What if it actually is Moriarty, not a puppet? Not someone who up and rebuilt the Network in his name?

As his theories took over, rather than being based on fact he found that they were quickly playing on his fears. This upset him and he growled, "No. Stop. There is a logical explanation."

He tried to focus on reorganizing his thoughts instead of the pain, both physical and mental, that was consuming him. Memories of the two years where he had been tortured and tormented swelled up and the wounds he'd incurred during the brawl screamed for attention.

Wanting some form of release from it all Sherlock hauled to his feet and grabbed his pistol. He loaded the bullets and aimed for the smiley face on the wall- which had been recently redone so it was a fresh canvas. He aimed, despite shaking all over, and pulled the trigger for the first time in months.

BANG!! BANG!!

The force of the recoil from the gun did not sit well with the bruises and welts along his arm and shoulder, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He shot one more time and his grip was off. The recoil increased and pain shot up his arm, "Gah!!"

He growled at the smiley face.

Then he lost it.

He lost track of how many bullets that he fired into the wall in his rage. He'd dump the empty shells and reload in seconds, fire as quickly as he could and then he would repeat the process- trying to find control.

He shot the yellow spray-paint face until the wallpaper started to flake off, followed by small chunks of the drywall. The smoke from the ignited gunpowder filled the flat and stung his eyes and nostrils. He was in such a trance that he didn't bother to notice Missus Hudson screaming when she came in from the shops and had run upstairs to see what was going on with him.

The landlady didn't dare pass the threshold. One glance at him and the state of the living room was enough. She popped right back out, racing downstairs to where she'd left her mobile. She looked through her contacts, trying to figure out who to call before finally making her choice, "I'm not a civilian, I can't call the force!"

Meanwhile Sherlock took a reluctant pause as he ran out of bullets and had to root around the flat to locate the rest of his ammo. He found them and slammed the next round of six bullets into the revolver, carrying the ammo box with him to the living room. As soon as he saw a hint of yellow he fired again, imagining that with each shot he took out another member of Moriarty's network, or Moriarty himself, "Blast it all!"

Missus Hudson had attempted to go upstairs when the shooting had stopped, but had only made it halfway up when it restarted and she ducked back to her kitchen. She texted John this time, begging him to hurry.

Sherlock could feel himself in a free falling spiral. For every memory or aching pain, he fell further as they accumulated into years' worth of torture. He had kept everything in for so long that it was suffocating him and the only way he could cope was through the revolver- at least he thought. His mind was too muddled to be thinking rationally.

He threw up his hands and cursed, running a hand through his hair and tugging at it. He cursed Moriarty and everyone who had ever been connected to him, "I spent two blasted years and put myself and everyone I cared for in pain! Why couldn't you all have just stayed dead!!"

He picked up his knife and forced it into the mantle, skewering a piece of paper that Moran had slipped into his palm before running off. Unsatisfied he stabbed it again before turning back to the wall, lifting the gun to fire.

"SHERLOCK, STOP!!"

Stay tuned!! Love y'all!!