It's all Fine

Is it all fine?

Sherlock groaned as he lay there on the floor of his dark and dingy flat. His arm was dotted with track marks from the past year of loneliness that he had endured.

Glancing down at the plastic needle resting just beside his hand, he winced. Was this real? He couldn't tell. All he knew was this was it. He'd gone too far. The pain was immense, encasing him in a bubble of half consciousness.

Sherlock couldn't move so instead he thought. That's what he did best, thinking. Apart from deducing of course, but he was in no state to do that now. So he closed his eyes and thought.

He thought about his life, his flat, his worsening drug habit and about how lonely he had been since Mycroft had left.

A year. A whole year and still Sherlock hadn't found anyone. Mycroft was his only friend and he had left him. Sure they'd spoken occasionally, a few texts, but other than that...

He'd resorted to drugs as his only solution. Heroin was the only thing that would fill the whole left behind by his brother, which was probably a bad thing in the long term. But in the short term? Sherlock had never felt more at peace.

Until now. Until gradually, the effects of the drug had weakened, and gradually he became more aware that getting high did not make him forget completely any more. So he'd resorted to bigger doses.

It was all Mycroft's fault. If it weren't for him, if the bastard hadn't just upped and left then none of this would've happened.

No doubt Mycroft knew about the heroin, he was probably spying on him right now. Sherlock wondered if he would care. If he would give two flying fucks that his little brother was on the verge of death. Sherlock knew he wouldn't. After all he had done for him when they were little, after all of the shit they went through together he had still left him.

Yet, despite this, in his last moments Sherlock wished he was here. Sherlock wished he wasn't in America working twenty-four-seven, however selfish that may have been its what he wanted more that anything. Just someone who he could hold on to, someone who gave a damn whether he lived or not.

A wave of relief swept over Sherlock as he realised that actually, he didn't give a damn whether he live or not himself. He wouldn't care if he died, after all, what was he leaving behind? Nothing.

The corners of his mouth turned up a little as his worries drifted away from him, leaving him free of his troubles.

This was it. This was one injection too many. These were his final moments. This was death.

Sherlock was going to die.

Of course he was going to die! That's what people did wasn't it? They died? Of course it was. Everyone dies eventually, his time was just abnormally early. Only 22 years old. But that didn't matter. There was no point saying he was too young to die, no point arguing with himself because that wouldn't change anything. His parents were too young to die but that didn't stop them did it? No it didn't.

He wondered if Mycroft cared they had died. He wondered if Mycroft cared about anything at all any more.

Sherlock saw his phone vibrate on the floor beside him, the screen emitting light into the darkness. It was a text. From Mycroft.

I just thought I'd let you know I shall be returning home tomorrow. My work here has finished and I am no longer needed. See you soon. - MH

It's too late, Sherlock thought. Too late. Unless...

Unless it wasn't too late. Unless Sherlock could hold on. Just for a day. Just until Mycroft's nine hour flight had landed and he was home. Maybe just until Mycroft was here, with Sherlock, making it all better.

But what if he didn't care? What if Mycroft was ashamed of him? No, Sherlock though, he couldn't be... Could he? But then, what if he did care and Sherlock had brought him there and what if he couldn't take it? What if Mycroft felt responsible for him and... And...

It was all too much. Too many thoughts. Too many 'what ifs'. God he needed more heroin. But he couldn't, not if he was going to entertain the possibility of surviving.

He needed Mycroft, more than he had ever needed anyone before. Maybe even more than Mycroft had needed him in their childhood.

With all the great strength Sherlock could muster, he. managed to type out a text back to him. It read:

Hurry - SH

(Sooooo! Let me explain quickly that I HAD NOT INTENDED TO WRITE MORE! It just sort of happened and I liked it and yeah.

There may or may not be another chapter depending on what kind of response I get from this.

It's been a while hasn't it?

Anyway, I hope you liked it, if you want more please comment!

'It's all fine' is one of my favourite thins I've written so it just seemed a good idea to continue it ;)