Chosen for Fate

Sherlock: drifting

[TW it's sherlock so darker elements. You have been warned ooooooooh *insert bad ghost noises* ]]

After his boarding school days and nights Sherlock had almost immediately Acquired the flat 221B on Baker Street. The landlady who obviously doubled as a housekeeper was very kind and offered Sherlock a deal after he had helped her out with a "sensitive matter." He had been studying "ring magic" for the past few years, as Lord of the Rings as that sounded, in a last ditch effort to find out the very scarce information about the silver rings that decided their fate. He had discovered temperature changes when distance is involved but not a lot of research had been done. So when unknown to him John was deployed (the government was supposed to send messages when "partners were sent overseas") Sherlock fell farther and farther for every degree his ring became colder and colder.
Abandonment. That is all sherlock felt. Deep down he knew it wasn't his fault and there had to be a probable explanation but all he could think of was "his" John leaving him. Where was he going? Why away? It was because he was guy. He knew it. He knew it he knew it he knew it. John was leaving because he couldn't handle what never even was. He knew it. Another scratch. Another gash. More blood swirled down the drain of the shower as he sat and sobbed, hot water rushing over his dark damp curls.

The bullet hit Johns ring and the temperature hit zero. Sherlock couldn't take it. He took the silver band that held his only source of happiness off his finger breaking some of the intricate ice crystals that decorated his finger by now. He let out a deep sigh as he placed the ring on the table next to his bead and lied down. He didn't know what to think or do for that matter so he just lay there thinking about John. A man who didn't know who he was but left. Was he really that much of a freak? "ahhhhhgggg" Sherlock cried out into his mind palace as he locked the door from the inside.

He doesn't remember the first time he stole some of Mrs. Hudson's "herbal soothers" and smoked on the fire escape. He didn't remember falling asleep for days at a time just not having the strength to go up. He doesn't remember losing 20 lbs making his stomach cave in and his cheekbones protrude. He doesn't remember the first time he organized a deal and shot up for the first time. He only remembers the feeling it let him have. The cocaine slowly moving through his veins helping him forget. Forget what a freak he is. Forget about Moriarty and those years. Forget about his John leaving him. How could someone he didn't even know have this kind of effect on him. When did he let his emotions get the better of him. With shaky hands and quivering tears more and more priks dotted his porcelain arms to match the scars.

John felt it. He always did. Every time.

[AN: Don't kill me. Kill sherlock if he doesn't do it himself god. Well if you comment I might lessen the pain a tad. *peeps in through your window and whispers* coooommmeeennnttt. So long.]