How to Play a Game Called Murder

Chapter 36: The War Within

"You're not coming, Molly." Sherlock drawled from his position leaning against the outside wall of Bart's. Molly jumped, startled. She'd been so busy looking back and forth down the sidewalks for him, that she'd missed him right there next to her. She put her hands on her hips, giving him a fierce glare, which he ignored.

"I'm serious. I don't want you to go with me this time." He turned away, but she grabbed his arm.

"Sherlock," Molly searched his face, and he avoided her eyes. "Tell me what's wrong. Why are you shutting me out?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. I just don't think it's necessary for you to go." He pivoted on his heel and managed to take two steps away from her, but was stopped by the ping of an incoming message. He froze and sighed before reaching into his pocket and pulling up his inbox.

He exhaled loudly in frustration and uttered a curse word under his breath, before holding out his hand to Molly.

"Orders from on high," he said, sarcastically. "You're coming." His face was a storm cloud of anger making her hesitant to reach out and clasp his outstretched hand.

He huffed, rolling his eyes, and grabbed hers, pulling her off in the direction of the street, where he hailed a cab and climbed in, not waiting for Molly. Rapidly firing out an address to the driver, he settled back into his seat, staring out the window. He heard Molly sigh but didn't, couldn't, face her. Not when he knew where he was taking her.

Sherlock climbed out of the cab in front of an old Victorian building. There were no signs on the outside, nothing to indicate what lay within the grey walls.

Sherlock straightened up, his chin held high, and stalked up the walkway; Molly trailing behind. The detective paused in front of the door. His brow furrowed, his body language making his hesitation apparent. The large wooden door was cracked and Sherlock smirked at the irony. There were multiple locks, but they were attached to the outside of the door, like they were meant to keep something in instead of keeping the world out. He pushed lightly on it and stepped inside.

The interior was barren, nothing, not even furniture lay within, and it was covered in dust, as if the building hadn't been opened in years. Which, as far as Sherlock knew, it hadn't. He knew he hadn't set foot in it in over eight and he was sure he was the last person inside.

He glanced over his shoulder at Molly who was taking everything in, wide-eyed. The detective walked across the room to a large staircase which snaked up the far wall and into the top left of the large front room. He looked down at the bannister before gently putting his hand down onto it as he climbed the stairs, Molly on his heels.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway of a bedroom at the end of the hall. It was the only room in the entire building that still housed furniture. There was a narrow bed with a white metal frame covered in a ratty grey blanket, no pillow. Against one wall stood a chest of drawers and an armchair, the leather cracking with age and misuse, taking the rest of the space in the tiny room. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust.

Molly sneezed, making Sherlock jump. He'd completely forgotten she was behind him.

"Sherlock?" she whispered, loath to disturb the intense stillness of the room. "Where are we?"

He stepped into the room, looking more closely at the dresser on the far side of the space. On it, drawn with a finger into the piles of dust, was the cipher he was searching for.

He took a picture and turned back to face the petite woman.

"Welcome to my own personal hell, Doctor Hooper." He gestured around him. "Have you ever wondered why Mycroft and I fight all the time?"

Molly's brow furrowed, not following Sherlock's train of thought but she nodded obediently.

"When he found out I was using, he had his men take me in the middle of the night and shut me up in here with nothing but some water, a few food items, and a woman who came to check on me twice a day. Mycroft said it was for my own good. That he wouldn't have done it if he didn't care about me. He lied! He locked me up in here like some sort of ANIMAL!" He shouted the last word at her, making the woman jump in fright.

Sherlock turned away from her. He took deep breaths, trying to ease the churning inside of him that his surroundings brought forth. He could feel his heart racing, and vaguely realized he was hyperventilating.

Sherlock turned and violently punched the wall, eliciting a scream from Molly.

He heard a soft moan from the direction of the bed as he sank to his knees.

Damn this place! Damn these memories!

Sherlock looked up. The dust was gone, Molly was gone. Ragged curtains covered the windows and more groans came from the rickety bed. He gulped and stood, looking down at the form writhing on the mattress. His eyes widened as he stared down at himself from years ago.

His body was a sickly pale and his bones stuck out through his translucent skin. Sherlock's brow crinkled in pain as he took in the sight of his past self's inner arms, purple and black from repeated needle marks. There were beads of sweat on his brow and he tossed and turned on the narrow bed, aching in his withdrawal.

Sherlock grimaced as his former self leaned over the side of the back and retched, expelling the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He bit back the bile that threatened to rise in his present self.

He hated himself then. What he was, what he had let himself become because he couldn't learn to control his brilliant mind without the assistance of his drugs of choice. Cocaine for the rush and additional clarity. Morphine for the peace and stillness.

Sherlock worried that now, he was addicted again. Instead of a needle though, his fix came in the form of a petite little woman with mesmerizing chocolate eyes. He was afraid he was once again dependent. That he would never be the same without her. And the thing that was the most terrifying to him was how alright he was with it all. How fine he was with changing his life to fit her into it.

As he pondered his dilemma, his mind created an image of Molly, who rushed into the room with a bowl of cold water and rags tucked into one arm and a glass of some sort of liquid, (juice, he guessed) in the other hand. She hurriedly set the glass down and dodged his vomit to sit next to his limp form on the bed and dab his feverish forehead with the cool cloths.

Sherlock watched, fascinated by his own mind's projection of Molly caring for him even in his lowest moment. He gazed at her in amazement as she cleaned him up lovingly, not even cringing at the foulness of his broken body.

Sherlock came to sometime later, blinking at the rays of sun that streamed into the room through the bare window. His brow furrowed at the bed, and the lack of people on it for a moment before realizing what had happened.

He turned quickly to face Molly, who was curled up against the wall of the hallway outside the door of the small room. Her knees were tucked up close to her chest with her arms wrapped tightly around them. There were tear tracks down her cheeks and her eyes were still a bit puffy and red-rimmed though it was obvious she'd stopped crying several minutes before.

Sherlock crossed the room and stepped out into the hall, kneeling next to Molly who valiantly tried not to cringe, though Sherlock saw the war waging in her eyes. He took her hands, noting that his right was bruised and covered in blood from cuts across his knuckles from punching the wall.

"Come on, Molly. We're finished here." He stood and helped her to her feet, tucking her into his side with an arm around her waist, as they headed back to the entrance of the sad, abandoned building, leaving his burden behind in the dusty depths of the place.