Watson raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and he stood up.
"It seems like cantharidin, Watson, because it is. This man was studying Meloidae Gyllenhal."
"Blister beetles. They use cantharidin as a defense mechanism, and he seems to have been touched by a few. The thief breaks in while he is here, they struggle, the case breaks, they both get touched by them, but our man here swallows some and dies."
Bell looked oddly at Sherlock. "Dies from swallowing a bug?"
Watson shook her head, it all seemed to make sense. "Only 10mg is needed to kill somebody."
"Exactly. Now the only question is, why would someone break into here and break the case? Those bugs are the most valuable item here."
A police officer looked over the desk and plugs which were unconnected to what seemed to have been there not more than a day ago. The computer and the man's valuables were stolen. Was that not enough value? People have killed for less. Especially in NYC.
"Is not a billion dollar drug. So why would you steal it if you didn't get your original goal- unless..."
Sherlock closely inspected the shattered case and then walked around the room slowly, as if searching for something he couldn't find.
"Officers, we are looking for a man who works in pharmaceuticals... Or a historian..."
"How do you know it's a man?"
"Why must I always explain such an a trivial piece of deduction? Watson, we must be off! We're wasting time."
Sherlock was almost out of the door when he took a step back, almost crashing into Watson.
"You can't work with raw beetles..."
Bell decided to ignore all of Sherlock's words after that as the detective began opening drawers. He stopped and stared at a empty space in one and then took note of a second box of the same dimensions with empty vials.
The cantharidin poison had already been harvested. It all made perfect sense. All the details tied in without a hitch... So now all that was left was finding the thief.
"No fingerprints, no DNA left behind. No more deduction from Sherlock and no witnesses. No video cameras. Nothing to help us whatsoever on this person's identity."
"You mean identities, Captain. Although, I've already solved one of them."
"And when were going to tell us that you already know the thief?"
"I don't believe she stole anything. But she was involved in the first crime scene."
"And how do you know?"
Sherlock said nothing, the letter on a table in his study. He had no plans of keeping it locked away in the police department was evidence. Or for getting 'fired' for tampering with a crime scene.
And that was all Sherlock would tell anybody about the matter.
"We all have our poisons, Sherlock. What consumes us and what we can't live without. We all have our addictions."
Sherlock tossed his head as his finger curled into the armrests on the chair. No use for his handcuffs, huh? It seemed as though lately they weren't used for simple decoration either.
His breathing quickened as he saw that it was so close to him. It was in a bag on the table, the empty needle was in Sherlock's hand, ready to be filled. This was how you found him.
His senses were already partially dulled from a dose taken long enough ago for the effects to have faded.
"Let me have mine then. Please."
Sherlock fought against the restraints, his breathing speeding up and his gaze no longer on you but on the package of heroin.
For a million reasons you left the room and didn't say anything. Sherlock screamed your name, he tipped the chair over in a desperate attempt to escape. When he managed to slip out of the handcuffs using the lock picks he kept nearby in a coat pocket, he become slowly aware that it had been awhile since you left.
After many more doses and a few weeks of a messy oblivion, he realized you were never coming back. It was just more reason for him to take more. It became a cycle.
It became an addiction.
It became his only true way of escape from the hardships of his life.
It became his life.
"What are you looking up?"
Sherlock rubbed his eyes, a burning sensation starting from staring at a screen too long.
"Looking up patient lists for hospitals."
Watson wasn't going to even ask how he got access to that as she sat down next to him.
"Those aren't hospitals. Those are mental institutions and rehab centres. Are you afraid of relapsing-?"
"No. Not me."
Sherlock looked blankly up at you, the scent of cooked heroin in the air and case files spread out over the floor. You took the small plastic syringe and filled with a thick red liquid. You then injected him, making him cringe as a burning sensation swept through his body. His flesh became red and he gnashed his teeth at the pain. It felt as though acid was eating his flesh, which in some ways it was.
His heartbeat went still, his breathing seized. He went dead.