The Days After

Smoking, Drinking, and Lots of Needles

"Molly, please. Im begging you. Just ONE more! PLEASE!!"

"N..n..n..no."

"What?"

"I...I..I said no,Sherlock."

"Molly, please. I need some. I need some! Please!"

"Im...Im sorry."

"Please."

"..............Its not good for you."

"But I NEED some! Molly, I thought I could trust you."

"You can! Its just....you have already had 6 packs today....its not-"

"So what?! Breathing's boring! Its boring! And I need them! I need them......

to help me forget...."

"......okay."

Molly walks over to her dresser and reaches down into one of her open drawers. She snakes her hand all the way down through her pile of shirts and pulls out a medium sized black box with a small padlock. She takes the key thats connected to her necklace, unlocks the box, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, carefully handing them over to the anxious Sherlock who was now tapping his fingers and stomping his feet while sitting in the lounge chair in Molly's room.

"There you go."

Sherlock loudly sighs in relief as he viciously rips open the box and shakily pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and putting it in his mouth.

"Sherlock, please, no smoking in my house," Molly whispers for the seventh time that day.

Sherlock looks Molly, seeing the hint of annoyance in her eyes that she is trying to hold back, and climbs out the window and onto the roof.

"Ahhhhhh."

Sherlock closes his eyes and sucks in the smoke of his cigarette, his worries of John, already fading from his mind.

After a few minutes of enjoying the bliss of a nice drag, Sherlock's eyes snaps open as he realizes he had just finished his last one of the pac. "Great. Just what I need. Seven pacs down today and still not enough to make my thoughts of John disappear! Why cant they just stop haunting me!? I miss John so much and I just wish I could see him again.....but that cant happen! Uggg! The pain!! I need to forget. But I need something stronger. Much stronger. Exactly seven percent stronger.....Ah. I know...."

John sits at a bar in Central London with a few mates, including Greg Lesterade. They both had really bonded more after Sherlock's death and had started going out to the bar more often. That particular day was the three year anniversary of Sherlock's death, and one year after the time when John had attempted to commit suicide in 221B. The wound from the bullet in his hand had healed and is now just a fading scar....just like John's fading memory of Sherlock's voice and smell. But his looks would never leave John's mind. Besides, there was an abundance of pictures of Sherlock, whether from newspapers or himself, all around the flat, so John could never loose the glorifying, beautiful image of his consulting detective.

At the bar, John had gotten overemotional and drank away his sorrows and anger. In about an hour of crying and talking and expressing his feelings to Greg, John was full out drunk and could barely stand up without falling over. John tried standing up from the bar stool, but fell down in a heap. He attempted to crawl over to the door, mumbling on how he needed to visit Sherlock's grave.

"John, you're too bloody drunk to visit him!"

"NOOOOO IMMMMM NOOOOTTTTT GRREEEEGGGGG!!! I neeeeeddddd to seeeee myyyyy Sherrllllyyyyy nowwwwwww!!!!!!"

"John, no. We need to get you back to your flat and go to sleep." Greg reached down and tried picking John up from his shoulders, but John instantly swung his fist up, hitting Greg in the nose. A trickle of blood began to ooze from his nose.

"AH DAMN IT!"

"I NEEDDDD TO SSEEEEE SHEERRRRLAAAAAWWWWKKKKK!!!!!! NOWWWWWWW!!!"

John continued limp crawling out the door and managed to surprisingly hail a cab, being on the ground and drunk. (Maybe you do care, Mycroft!)

John arrives at the cemetery in less than 30 minutes, and collapses on Sherlock's grave, tears streaming down his alcohol smelling face. He dreams of The Fall....Again.

Sherlock had lived with Molly for a year now, in fear of being spotted by John when he went on his occasional trip to his grave.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed of the guest room, well, now Sherlocks room since moving in. He had an ebony box sitting in his lap. It sparkled in the moonlight. Sherlock smirked at the glorious, shining box in front of him, as he opened up the lid, revealing a glass syringe and tube of clear liquid.

"Welcome back, old friend. Help me this last time and make me forget. Make me forget the pain I have to go through without John. Make me forget."

With that, Sherlock loaded the tube into the syringe and strikes his long pail arms with the needle. The needle slides into his vein, the clear cocaine quickly diminishing from the tube as it enters his blood stream.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" Sherlock sighs even more heavily as he did when smoking, as all worries immediately vanish and his vision begins to blur. But that wasn't enough to numb and fill the deep hole inside Sherlock that could only be filled with John. Sherlock needed more.

"Just one moreee...just one moreee."

Over the course of 10 minutes, Sherlock had 17 syringes poking out of his pale arms. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but his body was crazily fidgeting and squirming without control. Sherlock's mind was incapable of thought, and most of the pain was gone...but Sherlock still felt pain. No matter how many syringes he stuck into himself, there would never be enough in the world to make Sherlock forget and not feel the pain that he feels when he has to torture John like this and not see him for years.

Sherlock croaks, difficultly reaching out for the box on the table, "One more.....One more thing.....One more miracle......Just for John."

And with that, Sherlock stabs in the 18th syringe into his arm, symbolizing the 18 months they had been together, and passes out into infinity.