Turning tables (NeighbourhoodBomber/Sherlock Holmes)

Sherlock didn't want to move. He was vaguely aware of someone's hands on him, a voice far away in the distance, sounding like it was underwater or in a bubble. He couldn't make out the words, nor did he want to. Why should he? He was perfectly happy right here. More than happy.

He could feel the drugs tingling through his body from head to toe, a soft haze of delirium and ecstacy, his heart pounding wonderfully like someone was tickling it. The real world might be foggy and murky but inside Sherlock's mind palace everything was clear and sharp.

He could see himself sat at in the flat at Baker Street, in his favourite armchair, John sat opposite him, a cold night so they had the fire lit. John was typing on his laptop, finishing off his blog. Sherlock was idly thumbing through the pages of his new Chemistry text book. They'd just solved a case and he was happy and relaxed, the tedium of idleness not yet setting in. He glanced up at John and smiled warmly as his friend read out the latest excerpt from his blog, before teasing him mercilessly over it.

But then something kept interupting them. Someone was saying his name. Sherlock. Over and over again. Sherlock. Sherlock. SHUT UP! he shouted. Sherlock. Sherlock.

Reluctantly he opened his eyes, not seeing anything at first through the haziness. "John..." he slurred, mumbling. "John where are you?"

Anthea noticed Sherlock's eye movements - he was having some form of hallucination or vivid imagery. She needed his assistance right about now.
She stood and went through the drawers and found naloxone - interesting. Anthea had experience of using this on Sherlock; long before John came along.

She was about to walk over and heard him shout; she knelt down next to him and stroked his cheek lightly.

"Sherlock, John isn't here. It's Anthea."

She prepared the solution, then remember naloxone did not work if it was cocaine, she then swore in frustration. Think..think..think

There were two treatments; sedation or some anaesthesia. She stood and then found what she was looking for - dexmedetomidine.
People forget she was a biochemist before working for Mycroft.

She took the medication and some oxygen for the nausea that was to come; he would rouse quite quickly from the low dose. She then injected the solution into his vein and waited, her finger monitoring his pulse.

"Come on Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes fully and sat bolt upright, his daydreams slowly melting away and reality kicking in. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might explode, his breathing heavy and jagged. He shook his head trying to focus his eyes and managed to make out Anthea crouched next to him.

"What? Um...fuck..." he panted, lifting up a shaky hand to wipe some sweat off the back of his neck. "I'm hot..." The blood was pumping round his temples, a dull pain felt like the beginnings of a headache and a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He groaned and leant forward. "I took too much...what...um...where am I?"

He screwed his eyes tight shut then opened them again, the memories flooding back to him. "Moriarty," he gasped. "Can't let him get away." Sherlock scrambled to his feet in a hurry but his legs gave way and he collapsed back to the floor again.

Anthea placed a calming, yet firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. She spoke in a soft voice;
"Sherlock, you will be fine. Just rest for a bit.I gave you dexmedetomidine - you will feel crappy but I need you to help me."

When Sherlock stood she followed and grabbed him, and helped him to the floor. "We are locked in..I need you." she placed a hand on his cheek.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and face with his hands, shaking his head and trying to focus. "We're...we're...we're what?" he stammered, noticing his speech was slurred, his tongue felt large and sticky in his mouth, dry.

"Is there any water in here?" he coughed, clearing his throat.

He wiped some more sweat off his forehead and staggered towards the locked door, his vision still a little blurred and hazy. He noticed a keypad about halfway down.

"It's....it's a keycode..." he muttered. "Um...six...six...six digits. Just need to...work out what it is..."

Anthea assisted Sherlock to the door, and held him firmly. She was quite used to the Holmes' brothers different characters and could slip into the different roles. She placed Sherlock onto the wall.

"Stay there, I will have a look."

She looked around and found two bottles - and a note besides it

Hello boys and girls. You seem to have needed the water. One has pure H20 - the other has an interesting combination of botulinum. Your choice. Jim xx

"Bastard" she muttered.

Sherlock stared bleary eyed at the keypad. Focus, he told himself silently. Just. Focus. He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes one more time, finally able to see clearly. He lifted up a hand and wiped the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder towards Anthea and wishing she'd hurry up with the water.

Six digits. Think. Think. This is James Moriarty. What would he choose? He loves to play games. It occured to him that the code would be related to him in some way. Six possibilities instantly sprang to mind, all of them dates - the date they first met, the date of the pool incident, the date of Carl Powers' death, Jim's birthday, Sherlock's birthday or...the date of the fall.

Sherlock scanned his hands over the edges of the keypad and down the sides of the door trying to feel for wires. It wouldn't surprise him if there was some kind of bomb or booby trap attached to it. Would Jim give them more than one chance? Or if he got it wrong would the whole place blow up? He hesitated, his hands over the keypad, doubting himself.

Anthea walked over, leaving the water. Not wanting to risk them being poisoned..even if Jim was bluffing. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"There is no water in here, unless you want to drink saline." she said sarcastically.

She saw Sherlock looking confused and tired. "Can I help? I know that you see me as Mycroft's assistant."

There was a tapping at the door, she knew Morse Code well - she was trying to translate it and she smiled but that was before a clicking could be heard.

"Sherlock, you may want to hurry up. I think the air supply has been cut off."

Sherlock groaned at the lack of water, his mouth dry and stodgy. He turned his attention back to the keycode, still weighing up the different options.

"6 digit code," he mumbled to Anthea, "It wouldn't be random, Moriarty's not like that. It's likely to be a date of some kind. I've narrowed it down to six possibilities, a couple of them considerably more likely than the other so - "

Sherlock stopped as he too heard the tapping, followed by a clicking noise. "The air?" he repeated Anthea's statement with a slight tone of alarm in his voice. "Well in that case...better just take a chance."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, his fingers poised over the keypad. "Let's see how well I know you Jim," he whispered as he slowly tapped out the date of their infamous meeting on the roof of St Bart's. He held his breath, nervous, expectant. Then a loud click. Then nothing. Sherlock opened his eyes and tried the door handle. It opened. "Yes!" he exclaimed, pleased with himself.

Anthea stood there quiet and attentive, she knew that both the brothers preferred peace, and let Sherlock find the code. She stood there nervously, concerned about the air supply - she worked out that they had about 3 hours of good air. Thankfully they were both quite fit - despite Sherlock's health.

She heard a click and increased her alertness and then the door opened she pulled Sherlock into a hug. "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant." then released him. "Let's get out of here."

The medical team and the SWAT team were faffing around Sherlock; but she led him into the black sedan. "Sherlock would you be coming back to London with me?"

Sherlock practically fell out of the open door, he was still incredibly shaky and weak. He felt various pairs of strong arms around him and someone threw one of those stupid shock blankets over his shoulders.

"I'm not in shock," he snapped and shrugged it away.

His eyes scanned through the team of people till he found Anthea again and held out his hand to her as she led him towards a car. Everything seemed to be happening at once, it was all a bit of a blur. But he heard Anthea mention London and all he could think of was John, Baker Street, Scotland Yard, home.

"Yes," he nodded enthusiastically. "Yes I'd love to." And he clambered into the back of the car, resting his head on the window of the closed door, physically and mentally exhausted.

Anthea and Sherlock were on route to the airport; she had passed him water and had contacted Mycroft about the possibilty that Jim had given Sherlock cocaine and she was too keep an eye on him.

"Mycroft suggests that we stay at the Manor until he is back from Geneva, then we can consider you returning to John if you so wish."

After a few hours they arrived back in London; and enroute to Mycroft's manor in Cheltenham. But that's when Anthea noticed a car follow - she tried to hide her anxiety from Sherlock whom would pick it up instantly.

The car suddenly lurched forward; she retrieved her handgun and insisted Sherlock stayed there. Before she could open the door, a stun bomb went off - sending high pitch noise and smoke making her cough. She discharged her weapon, not knowing whom or what she had hit.

She felt around for Sherlock; whilst barking orders at the driver. The car then returned at pace.
"Sherlock are you okay?"

The journey back to England passed fairly quickly, but by the time they were in the car Sherlock was beginning to feel a little jittery and on edge, the first signs of the cocaine wearing off. His mind was elsewhere, worrying about the inevetible withdrawal symptoms and wondering if he'd be able to resist the temptation of going back to Jim for more.

He was too lost in thought to notice the car following them, or pick up on Anthea's tense body signals, and then suddenly all hell broke loose. The car jerked. Sherlock fell forward, his seat belt hauling him back. Anthea took out her gun and got out the car then the explosion came, smoke and dust everywhere, gunshots...Sherlock's ears were ringing with the blast...

Disorientated he peered through the smoke and grabbed Anthea's arm. "I'm OK," he replied. "What the hell happened? Someone's trying to kill us clearly." He twisted round in his seat and tried to stare through the blacked out sooty back window.

Anthea smoothed her outfit down and called Mycroft explaining what she saw in great detail. Her ears were throbbing and all she kept thinking about was who would want them both dead.

"Do you reckon it was Moriarty's men?" she spoke with a cool yet concerned tone. She assessed the possible damage on Sherlock - trying not to fuss much.

They arrived at the Manor - and she assisted Sherlock out of the car and into the house. She returned with coffee and sandwiches and a cake. "Here, I will stay tonight but then I have to go after the men that attacked us."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "No. No I don't think it was Moriarty," he thought aloud, "he doesn't want me dead...he hasn't finished with me yet. Unless...well...unless the bomb was purposely pathetic just to scare us. It wasn't exactly Afghanistan."

He was glad when they arrived at the mansion and he was shown to his room. He'd slept there a few times before and always had the same room.

Sherlock got changed into an old pair of pyjamas he'd left there many years ago and wrapped himself up in the sheets. He was beginning to feel really sick and uncomfortable with the beginnings of withdrawal kicking in, and started to doubt he'd make it through the night without needing another fix. He attempted to eat some of the food Anthea brought him, but it was really the last thing on his mind right now.

Anthea was concerned for Sherlock and requested that some antiemetics were available. She returned to the bedroom with an injection, she approached him quietly.

"Sherlock, I have some compazine here. It will help with the nausea, I can get you a sedative if the urges become too strong." she cocked her head. "I have been told to take your mobile off you, however I feel that it is not in your interest to remove that." she smiled.

Sherlock was sat on the bed anxiously jigging his leg up and down. He looked up as Anthea came in and tried to offer her a smile. "Thank you," he said and accepted the compazine. "And thanks for letting me keep my phone. I'm awaiting important news on my latest case back in Switzerland."

He waited until she had left then removed the phone from his pocket, looking at it curiously. He hadn't exactly lied...he was waiting to hear back about a case, but that wasn't the real reason he wanted it.

Sherlock had been deep in thought for the last hour. He'd gone over in his mind everything that had occured between him and Moriarty and had already made up his mind that he couldn't be allowed to get away with it. Sherlock needed revenge....and more drugs. He unlocked the phone and fired off a text message to Moriarty:

Back in England. Where are you? Need to finish the game. -SH

Jim was sitting in his old penthouse, he had contacted some old friends and had set up part of Sherlock's fall. This one would end up with one winner - hopefully Jim.
He was about to pop off and see a particular member of parliament when he had received the text, he smiled devilishly.

Hello m'dear. I am ready for the next instalment - do you need any more of the 7% solution first? JM

He waited impatiently for Sherlock to answer..this would be excellent.

Sherlock wrapped himself in blankets and sat up in bed. He was starting to come down badly. He needed his mind to be sharp and focused for the task ahead and he knew that once he got used to his old dosage again he could quite reasonably do that. It was certainly no good for him to be in this kind of state.

He'd been over in his mind all possibilities. Sherlock really didn't want to have to ask Jim for more drugs, but seeing as he'd previously helped to put all his old dealers behind bars, he really wasn't sure who he could get it off anymore, particularly as he was so fussy as to how he liked it.

He looked at the message again and sighed before typing off a reply.

Yes. And as quickly as possible. Tell me where to meet you. - SH

Jim smirked at the reply, laughing out loud that he has reduced Sherlock to a wreck. He sipped his tea and prepared the location, and had the message that would hopefully see to the end of Sherlock Holmes.

Very well m'dear. St Bart's Roof - 1430. JM

Jim then sent the text's to set up the last remaining pieces, he spoke to Seb to ensure a bullet was ready for Dr Watson if necessary.

((Sorry for delay..bloody people keep dying...do we have a decent Lestrade yet?? I need him to possibly arrest you..or a Mycroft?))

((Actually yes, we had a new Lestrade and Mycroft join fairly recently...I will e-mail them if you like to ask if they'd like to join in...just let me know when the time's right because I kind of have no idea what you're planning...part of the fun))


Sherlock received the message and opened it eagerly. He rolled his eyes slightly at the choice of location. How apt. Then he checked the time on his watch. Christ, he still had a few hours to wait, by the time he met up with Jim he was going to be in a really bad state. He was already feeling nauseous and shaky.

He stood up from the bed and quietly got changed out of his pyjamas and into his clothes, pulling on his coat and scarf before heading towards the door and peering out. All seemed quiet in the mansion. He tiptoed through the corridors and down the stairs, pausing again at the front door just to make sure no one had seen him, then silently slipped out and dashed across the lawn.

Trust Mycroft to have a house in the middle of bloody nowhere, he cursed to himself as he staggered towards the main road miles away. A few times he thought about just sitting down and curling up into a ball, giving up, but he kept his mind on the prize, knowing that soon he could get his next fix. And get Moriarty. He kept forgetting about that part in his drug addled haze.

Finally he arrived at the train station and caught a train back to London, that killed a couple more hours. And by the time he'd arrived back in the city and stumbled into the back of a taxi he was a complete shivering, sweating wreck of a human being, with only one thing on his mind. "St Barts, quick!" he snapped at the driver, who looked at him worriedly through the mirror. "Are you alright mate?" he asked. "Yes I'm fine, hurry up!" Sherlock retorted back and tugged up his collar.

Originally he'd planned to go back to Baker Street and pick up John's gun. He knew his friend would be out at work. He could sneak in, get the gun and be off again, arrange to have it put back later, John would be none the wiser. But he forgot all about that in his eagerness to get to St Barts, get to Jim, get to the drugs. He chucked a few notes at the driver and fell out of the cab, staggering up the stairs of the fire escape and up to the rooftop. He burst through the doors and collapsed into a heap on the roof. "Jim!" he shouted, writhing around on the floor.

Jim was sitting there; similar to their previous rendevous here. He was wearing the traditional Westwood suit and was fiddling with a small package.

He heard the fire door and saw the young detective on the floor and smirked. "Ah, there you are. The mighty have fallen then." he walked over to him and placed his foot onto Sherlock's wrist; putting pressure onto it.

"You want this, do you?" he questioned whilst twiddling the small purse. "You can have this, however at a price. One has your favourite brand in - the other has pure adrenaline in."

Sherlock yelped in agony and tossed his head back as Jim stamped on his wrist, his other hand reaching up to try and grab the package. "Please...please Jim," he begged.

He realised the obvious danger of the predicament when the criminal explained the two packages, and looked up at him pleadingly. "Oh come on Jim...just give me the gear....I need it...please, I'll do anything..." Sherlock knew the implications of saying 'I'll do anything' weren't exactly great, but right now he needed the drugs to even function properly. He was a wreck.

Jim smirked and laughed before walking away; holding the package over the edge.

"You would do anything?" he chuckled. "What's to stop me dropping this over the edge?"

He teased Sherlock with evil intent; contemplating the facts at present, still keeping an eye on the wrecked detective. "Okay, you can have the /poison/ at a price. I want you to disclose yourself to the world again."

"No!" Sherlock screamed as he saw Jim dangling the package over the edge. He scrambled to his feet only for his legs to give way again and he fell down, cursing and sweating. He angrily shrugged off his coat and scarf, dropping them to the floor and wiped the cold sweat from the back of his neck.

With one last effort he managed to haul himself to his feet again and stagger towards the ledge of the rooftop, holding out his hands, pleading.

He sneered slightly at Jim's suggestion, still able to muster up a sarcastic remark. "Come on Jim what do you want me to do...tell the world I'm a fake again? Tut tut, you're repeating yourself. Thought you were a little more interesting than that."