Chosen for Fate

Sherlock: A Message

Sherlock's ring remained on the bedside table, gathering ice and dust as he preferred to pick up a syringe instead. Some times he wouldn't talk for days on end, preferring to shoot up and stare into space, enjoying the emptiness the drugs gave his mind. On special days the drug combination he used would give John. A John that would hold his hand, use his rough hands to stroke his cheek, kisses his forehead, and tell him everything was going to be alright. He liked those days, but only the drugs could give him that. He barely had to pay rent, his father had left him half the fortune, so he could do whatever he wanted. And that "something" was cocaine for his John.

Everyday he would walk around the flat, a trail of smoke behind him, and pass his violin stand. Everyday he would pick it up, stare at it, then play. It was a song he was composing for his John, is he ever showed up or wanted him which was unlikely at this point. As he brought the bow against the delicate strings he would think of the way his John looked. The sunshine of his hair, the way the light reflects of his eyes, his adorable shortness, the way those lips curved into a smile- and he would begin to play. He played John for hours and hours and hours until it was time to replace John with something else.

One day in the middle of a rather distressing John composition there was a sound of the nip of a familiar umbrella against the door of 221B. Sherlock stopped his long fingers on the bow for a moment and took a deep breath; Then continued to play through the lock picking of the door and the sounds of two sets of footsteps up the stairs. Without facing away from the window, two men entered the flat. A ginger man took a seat at one of the adjacent chairs and the silver haired one (looking quite lost in the situation) stood awkwardly next to the chair. Sherlock suddenly stopped playing and quickly twisted his small frame around.
"What are you doing here /Mycroft./" He spat out at his brother sitting across from him.
"As always. I worry about you." said the other man calmly, mindlessly playing with his umbrella and shooting a supportive grin to the man standing next to him. "Sherlock, this i-"
"Your soulmate. A detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Met him ehhh 4 no 6 months ago but were hesitant on telling me because of my so called emotional state which I remind you Mycroft I am FINE and have no interest in your love life."
Mycroft pursed his lips and set down his umbrella. He raised his hand to gesture towards his partner, "Yes this is Greg Lestrade, a DI for the new Scotland Yard. My boyfriend and we are engaged. He doesn't know it yet but we are going to have a kid, most likely a boy. And he also would like to tell you something. Dear?" He said plainly as he gestured towards his partner again, who wide eyed and muttering something about children and a familiar name. Sherlock let out a long exhale and slumped his shoulders, sitting down in his chair ready to listen to whatever he had to say.
"Greg, love, tell Sherlock you're thing." Mycroft said to the side to his rather flustered partner.
"Oh, yeah, right sorry." Said Greg in a husky voice shaking his head out. "As Mycroft said I'm a DI for Scotland Yard. And as much as I like to think I'm decent at my job I'm no match for a Holmes and from what Myc has told me you have the same sort of skills as him so I'm here to offer you a job." Lestrade finished quickly, taking in a deep breath and puffing his cheeks out on the exhale.
Sherlock sat there, across from the two men who had just offered him a cure to his boredom, his constant state of only thinking about John, a way out. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply an immediate yes but was interrupted by his brother and Lestrade saying at the same time "wait! There's a catch." Sherlock closed his mouth and rolled his eyes because of corse there was. Putting myself in danger, sacrificing myself for the greater good, whatever it was he could completely handle it.

"You have to get clean."
Sherlock blinked once, then twice. Clean? How could he get clean? It brings him John! He can't lose John.
"Yes." His mouth said before his mind had finished.
Mycroft grabbed his partner's hand and they smiled at each other reassuringly as Sherlock sat there and grinned. All Mycroft saw was the eyes of his little brother, full of hope.

Sherlock checked into rehab the next day.

Sherlock checked out of rehab two months later, clean.

Sherlock solved his first case with Gregory Lestrade the next day.

Sherlock insulted Anderson for the first time 2 minutes later.

Sherlock walked around his flat with a nicotine patch on a week after and played John.

Sherlock put his ring back on 4 days later

Sherlock started a blog a month later.

Yes, things were going well for Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock thought as he poured himself a cuppa and almost, almost smiled. He would only smile when John was here he thought. He grabbed his mug and sat in his chair going to his mind palace to visit John.

The genius was awakened by a a ding coming from his computer. He groaned and sat up, running his hands through his thick curls, shaking them out. He got his lanky form up (although he had gained a few pounds, he was still skinny as ever) and walked over to his laptop, the sounds of his padding feet echoing through the empty; rather Johnless; flat. He rubbed the sleepy out of his eyes and blinked as the light from his screen hit him in the dark flat. As his eyes adjusted he realized he had a comment on his blog. He sleepily clicked on it, resting his chin on his hand.

James Moriarty >> Did you miss me? Top of Saint Bart's. Come and play. <<

AN: well, whoop there it is. Building up to the planned climax I have had since the beginning of this story. Please leave your lovely comments they mean so much to me and encourage me to keep writing for you guys 🙊 okay well... Did you miss me ?