Loving the Insane (Moriarty Fanfic)

Greeting SM

Chapter Twelve

Greeting SM

Sherlock's P.O.V. (Third Person P.O.V.)

Sherlock took his bottle from the corner of the mantle piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat, Morocco case. With shaking fingers, he filled the tube with his familiar seven-per-cent solution and readjusted it, rolling back his left sleeve cuff.

For some time, his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist which was dotted and scarred with an innumerable amount of puncture marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down on the tiny piston, and sunk back into his chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Each day and night, John had continuously watched this presentation unfold, but not even repetition had reconciled his mind to the foreign action that lay before him. John sat in his chair with crossed arms, opposite of Sherlock's; he leaned his head back, shutting his eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh, clearing his throat before speaking, "Sherlock."

No reply.

John let his head roll to its side where it lay on his shoulder, eventually jerking it back up to keep from falling asleep. He inhaled sharply, "Sherlock."

Still no reply.

"Sherlock, " he repeated a little louder this time.

Sherlock still ceased to talk; however, he averted his gaze to John languidly. John noticed the bloodshot red veins clawing at Sherlock's strained, and now dilated, eyes. The sleepless wrinkles under them granted him an appearance that suggested he was much older than he actually was.

But beneath his emotionless, drug-abused mask, John was able to see the pain, the guilt, and the fear Sherlock concealed inside. Sherlock, meanwhile, was caught in the middle of a battle of emotions between his head and his heart. His head screamed for him to hurt, to fear, to argue; while his heart felt heavy, like an anchor dragging him down, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

He'd never listened to his heart before....

So why should now be any different....

Then again, why should it not....

John spoke up sluggishly, interrupting Sherlock's train of thought, "We are going to find Carter. But resulting back to Cocaine to keep from sleeping is not the way to do it."

Sherlock wanted to help....but how could he?

He was the one who pushed Carter away....pushed her so far out of reach....too far out of reach....

She was lost....maybe kidnapped....or even dead....so how the hell could he help?

Sherlock's eyes filled with a ferocious heat as he leant forward, letting his head fall into his numb, yet aching hands. He felt a slight wetness in his eyes, but he was too helpless to care. He was shaking.....he was crying.....he was breaking down.....

Carter's P.O.V.

I woke in an endless darkness, secured to an old, wooden chair with rope as Staying Alive rang through my ringing ears. My vision was blurry and my sense of sound was emphasized greatly. An incredibly loud BANG echoed through the room and a spotlight was set on me. It felt so familiar. It felt like deja-vu.

My thoughts wandered back to the night where I met James Moriarty. This set-up reminded me of him.....but.....the opposite......

Instead of being bound by duct tape to a metal chair, I was bound with rope to a wooden chair. And instead of the spotlight being in front of me.....it was on me....