The Woman Who Counted (A Sherlolly Tale)

Chapter 44

            Sherlock awoke to tremors in his hands, an irritating headache, and shivers. Cold, he was ever so cold. His first thought was to wrap his arms around Molly, but it didn't help. His shivers were worse than they had been. Secretly, he wished someone would realize what was happening to him, but he was too damn clever, too good at hiding.

He became hot, almost to the point of sweating, and turned over, away from Molly. It was just going to get worse from here. It was just going to get worse before it got better, but if he continued the way he was, he would be in hell....

Molly was still sound asleep, so Sherlock was sure to not wake her as he slid out of bed and sat down on the floor, leaning back against the bed. He pulled his suitcase out from under the bed as quietly as he could, checking to make sure Molly hadn't stirred before opening it. An old, beaded Moroccan case was hidden in a zipper pocket, and Sherlock took it out slowly, telling himself over and over in his mind not to, but his body disobeyed. He opened it and inside is where he found the syringe, the water, all of the supplies he needed. It was all he needed. All he had to do was....

No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Molly was here, and if she figured out what he was doing, she would beat the hell out of him. But his shaking hands, the chills running up and down his arms, his headache ... it all screamed at him to do it. It would only take a second....

He leaned his head against the mattress, closing his eyes. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and found John's contact. He stared at it, thinking.

"If you were anywhere near this sort of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me."

He shook his head, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Just once more. One more time, just one more. No one had been noticing, and no one will notice if does it just once more.

He took the pencil case and all of the supplies and wrapped a clean outfit around them. He took his shower equipment and headed to the bathroom across the hall. Seeing it empty, he decided to take this opportunity to do what he needed to do.

After stepping in he locked the door behind him. He showered first, having to constantly switch the water from cold to hot to keep his temperature at bay. After getting out, he put down the toilet lid and sat down on it, trying one last time to tell himself no.

It didn't work.

He opened the case, took out the spoon, the lighter, everything. He watched as it all shook in his hands and let out a shaky breath. He put everything but the spoon and the tube of heroin, sprinkling the powder onto the spoon. Then he filled a syringe with water for injections, squirting it onto the spoon as well, then using a pocketknife to sprinkle the tiniest amount of citric into the mix. He then took the lighter with his free hand, switching it a couple of times before it lit, then held it below the spoon, allowing the flame heat the liquid, watching the powders dissolve into the water for a second before taking his thumb off the switch. He set it down and took the syringe again, using the end to stir the mix gently. He removed it once more, and then took a clean filter, dropped it into the liquid, took the syringe and poked it into the filter. Slowly, he drew up the end of the syringe, watching the dark brown mix fill the syringe. His breath became increasingly shaky. After setting down the spoon, he flicked the syringe a couple of times, watching the air bubbles disappear from the mix.

He lifted his sleeve and started to pump his fist until a vein popped up. He took pause before slowly inserting the tip of the needle into the vein. He steadily pushed down the end of the syringe, the liquid slowly but surely leaving the syringe and flowing into his veins.