{Angst} TW for drugs and drug-indused hallucinations and suicidal thoughts
What was he doing? This cycle. This repetitive chain of events he had thrown himself into was killing him. Sherlock was falling. Deeper and deeper into a void filled only with loss, tears, disappointment, and drugs. Everything he had ever wanted was gone. John. John was the only thing keeping him going all these years and now he was gone.
It wasn't his fault. He was happy with Mary and Mary was happy with him. John didn't mean to hurt him. He wasn't aware he was the love of Sherlock's life. That his leaving broke him. Shattered him into a million unrepairable pieces he had desperately tried to reassemble.
The sunset forced Sherlock to open his eyes. The oranges, the yellows, the hints of pink and small bits of purple peaking through the clouds. He watched the sun slowly descend behind the buildings. The sunset was one of the few things Sherlock still enjoyed. In a way he related to it. A beautiful show of color and light to bless everyones eyes. Fill a few with happiness. Just a moment of true glory before it was gone as quickly as it had formed. He felt as though he was setting.
He rarely ate anymore unless Mrs. Hudson begged or forced him to and even still it was never enough to energize him. Convince him he could re-enter the world with confidence and assurance he could get back into his routine. He hadn't talked to Lestrade in three months, never taking any cases. He only slept if his body absolutely forced him to by collapsing. His violin lay covered in a thick layer of dust in the corner of the flat. He couldn't bare to look at it, let alone play it.
Everything. Everything reminded him of John. Everyday he kept living made Sherlock think of him. There aren't even any body parts in the fridge. No experiments on the kitchen table. He thinks about how John used to complain about heads and ears with their food. How he used to make him tea and set it next to him while he worked so long it would get cold and then John would roll his eyes hours later and then make him another cup.
How would he feel if he saw him now? A man so far gone he wanted to die because he couldn't let go of a man he never had. Never belonged to. A man who just wanders around his flat reminiscing and remembering, almost always high. Who doesn't want to do things he used to enjoy because he longs for a married man. A content man. A man who doesn't need him to be happy. John. John. John...it's always John.
A month ago he had written a letter to John intending to end it. End everything. He never did. Instead he just let himself suffer with the memories and left the note on the coffee table. He imagined John sometimes. Making tea. Coming home with the groceries. Writing his blog. Sitting in his chair. Sherlock would smile at those moments before he saw a heroine needle in the corner of his eye. A realization would hit him and he would look back at John, only to find him gone.
Everytime he would hope and pray for a different outcome. That he had imagined all these months. That it was just a bad dream. That they still lived together and Mary never happened. That he never left and maybe he loved him too. But everytime it was the same and he would collapse into a fit of raw sobs on the couch till he passed out from exhaustion and woke up a few hours later.
This night was no different. After the sunset he sat on the couch, heroine already in his system. He didn't know why he was crying just knew that he couldn't stop. He layed down starring at the needle on the table, his thoughts running circles. Next to it was a tray of tea from Mrs. Hudson, cold now as he hadn't touched it. He knew he was hurting her. He knew he was. But he couldn't stop. The only thing he could do was try to avoid her.
Lock himself in his room when he heard her coming up so she didn't see him like this. He hated what he had become. What he was doing to himself for one person who didn't care for him the way he did. But he couldn't stop. No matter how hard he tried to. His body soon gave in to the exhaustion and he passed out on the couch.
//
Sherlock woke with a start to the door opening, his face still wet with tears. He probably hadn't sleep for long. The room was dark so he couldn't tell who had walked in. It was probably Mrs. Hudson. "Hudders...please go away." There was no response. "Mrs. Hudson?" He started to reach for the lamp and froze when he heard it. A voice that had haunted his mind for so long. That infected his dreams. John. "Sherlock." He clicked on the light and shot to his feet.
It was him. Wasn't it? It couldn't be. That's impossible. "J-John? What- no. No you're-" Sherlock looked down at the needle and choked out a sob. Of course. He braced himself to look up and for John to gone, but he wasn't. He was still there. Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No. No no you're- you're not real. I- no-" He was sobbing and he felt anger, hatred even. Not towards John. He could never hate John. Towards his mind. That it was so cruel as to torture him like this.
John would never come here. He was happy...with Mary- why? Why would he be here? "You're not here. You're not supposed to be here! You're- you aren't here!" Sherlock screamed and stormed forward. John didn't move but he was...crying? Sherlock grabbed his shirt and tugged him forward. John looked shocked but didn't push him away. Suddenly he was up against the wall. "You're not real. If you were John you...you'd never let me do this..."
He was so hurt. This was going to end any minute now so why not do what he'd been wanting to do for years. This would be his only chance...even if he imagined. So he leaned in and kissed him. Hard. He was shocked to feel John kiss back with just as much force as him. Their tounges danced together in their mouths, like a beautiful, flawless, unholy waltz. Twisting and turning in graceful fashion...as if they had a million times before.
John tangled one of his hands into Sherlock's hair and tugged slightly causing him to make a small noise of pleasure as he was pulled forward by the rope on his robe. John pulled his hair again and Sherlock felt his knees buckle. Sherlock pulled away and they both gasped for air. Sherlock had his eyes glued shut as he spoke. He was so afraid that he had imagined that and that John wouldn't be there when he opened them. "John?" His voice came out shaky.
A warm hand on his cheek made him open his eyes. John was still there. A small smile on his face and tears on his face. "I'm here Sherlock. I'm never leaving again...I promise." Sherlock put his hand over John's and he was suddenly reminded of something- or rather, the absence of something. There was no ring. He wasn't with Mary anymore. He was with Sherlock now. He was here...and real...and warm...and...his. Only his.
"What happened?" Sherlock questioned taking John's hand in his and looking down at it as he ran his thumb along the place where his ring used to be. John starred at him for a moment before sighing. "We decided it wasn't working. Apparently I'm still in love with my flatmate." He met Sherlock's eyes before they both laughed lightly. John kissed Sherlock again. This time less forcefully and more soft and slow.
John surprised Sherlock as his tounge traced his bottom lip. He tugged lightly at it with his teeth and swallowed up the sounds Sherlock made, reveling in the fact that his was causing them. As they pulled apart Sherlock chased John's lips making the older man let out a low chuckle that sent a shiver up Sherlock's spine. John put a finger to his lips causing him to whine in protest.
"As much as I'd love to do this right now... you're high Sherlock. Which means you're getting medical attention and throwing away all of your needles and such before we do anything." He leaned up to Sherlock's ear to finish. "Wouldn't want to send you into shock, now would I?" "John-" Sherlock pouted. "Ah ah pouting will get you nowhere detective." He waggled his finger in front of Sherlocks face. "Come on now. I do believe my bed's in need of warming up." He turned on his heel and walked towards his room.
Sherlock followed close behind. Slightly embarrassed at the puppy dog-like action, but unmistakeably thrilled to be sleeping next to John for the first time in a long time.
