8. Echo - Jason Walker

--

Pushing the door open Sherlock steps out onto the roof of Bards Hospital.

The night air nips at his skin, causing his nose and cheeks to turn a light shade of pink. The glow of street lamps can faintly be seen, rings of light peeking over the edge of the roof. Above the detective stars shine brightly against the black sky and the moon provides enough light for him to see.

Sherlock allows the door to swing shut behind him as he walks forward, stopping in the middle of the roof and looking down at the exact spot James Moriarty shot himself.

Letting out a sigh, he drops to the floor, shuffling back until his back was against the small wall. His eyes fix on that spot, seeing the marks from the blood on the concrete.

Sherlock forces the forming tears back, choking on a sob as he did.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pulling his knees into his chest and letting his head rest on the wall. Sherlock tries to convince himself he's okay, but he knows he's not. He hasn't been for the past four and a half years. It was amazing he'd gone this long without cracking.

But tonight marked five years of Moriarty being gone from his life.

Five years without the only other human being that could honestly understand him. Five years without the one who was made for him. Five years without James Moriarty to keep him a little more human.

Without him, Sherlock was an empty shell. He felt as though he had no purpose. He needed Moriarty. Needed him like he needs the air surrounding him.

Without his spider Sherlock was slowly dying, his own web unfolding.

His body was fine, in good health if anything. But inside.. Inside he was riddled with a disease. A horrid disease that he was painfully drowning in, sinking to the bottom to never return.

Loneliness.

Before Moriarty, Sherlock had never truly known what loneliness was but now that he'd had a taste of what it was like to have a companion he knew what it was like to not have one, how much it hurt to not have one.

He had friends. But he didn't need or want them and could easily get by without them. He couldn't say the same about Moriarty. He couldn't survive properly without him.

James Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock and many believed he did not succeed when Sherlock fake the fall, but Sherlock knew the truth. James was still destroying him, the fact he was six feet under didn't change his power over the lonely detective.

Sherlock's every thought and move was powered by the puppet string he had attached himself to for Moriarty's use. By letting himself miss the deceased man he had let himself become a piece for Moriarty to control in the game.

Sherlock didn't mind. He missed the man and he couldn't deny that, so he happily let his strings get pulled by the ghost and memory of James Moriarty.

Now, away from the eyes of his friends and family, Sherlock lets the deadly disease of loneliness consume him. Letting the strings be ever more controlled by Moriarty. He just let go of the walls surrounding him, the ones shielding him from displaying the loneliness, he let them crumble and crash to the floor without a single regret.

His hands slot through his curls and he leans down, breathing deeply as his forehead rests on his knees.

The pain of loss and loneliness spreads through his chest and the hot tears run down his cheeks without permission as he just sits and takes the pain.

Gasping he stretches out, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the syringe. He'd asked Billy for a special mix and as he looks down at the green coloured liquid he could hear Molly's words in his ears.

He doesn't care though. He doesn't care if it will hurt his family and friends. He just doesn't care anymore. He just wants to forget the pain.

So without another thought he pops off the lid off the syringe containing Billy's special mix and aims it towards his arm. He lines the point up with his vein and injects, gasping once again.

The wind glides through his hair and the sun begins to peek over the horizon behind him as he relaxes and let's the poison cloud his mind and affect his body.

As he slowly becomes less and less aware of his surroundings he let's image of Moriarty flash behind his closed eyed, smiling wider with each image.

He hears his voice too, words that pasted between them all those years ago.

The spider.

James Moriarty.

Sherlock's salvation.

*-*-*

What he presumed was hours later Sherlock blinks, sun blinding him momentarily. His vision is blurry as he tries to move his body.

He can't. He frozen in place, unable to move his arms and legs.

He can't help but laugh, because he truly wasn't fussed if he were to be stuck here forever. At least he'd have the memories of James as he wastes away and dies in the same place that his only true match took his own life.

A figure bends down in front of him and he squints in an attempt to make out the figure even though all he saw was colours and shapes.

If he ever left he'd have to congratulate Billy on the mix. It was powerful and Sherlock could still feel the buzz in his head.

"Who's there?" He chokes out "Go away, whoever you are, this is our place"

"Sherlock.. What are you doing here? Is this where you've been for the past three days?" John's voice reaches his ears.

Three days? Billy certainly deserves a pat on the back.

"John" Sherlock hisses the word "Go away. I want to be alone"

In the next moment the shapes become more focused and Sherlock can see the doctor, a blurry version of him but him all the same, as he moves to lift Sherlock from the floor.

Sherlock struggled and rips himself from his friends grip and he staggers towards the edge of the building.

"Get away from me, John, now. I swear if you don't I'll jump for real!" Sherlock threatens as he steps up onto the ledge, still wobbly from the drugs coursing through his blood stream.

John backs away, holding up his hands as he takes in Sherlock's appearance. The man was definitely really really high and there was no doubt in John's mind that in had to do with what occurred on this rooftop five years ago.

Reluctantly John leaves Sherlock alone once again.

Sherlock waits until he sees John climb into a taxi before he steps off the edge.

He retrieves the other syringe and looks down at it. This one was loaded with enough heroin to kill him and another man. If he were to inject this into his system there would be no way back.

His eyes runs over the vile and licks his lips before looking up at the sky.

The clouds float by, unaware of all the pain, betrayal and sorrow the world below contains.

Sherlock turns and makes his way towards the door, the syringe goes back to his pocket, ready for another day should he want it.