Still The Addict

I Imagine.

(Sherlock's POV)

John Watson doesn't think that I'm capable of love. And until very recently, I would have to agree with him. But now? Now all I can think about is his hot breath on my skin, that little light in his blue eyes that dazzles when we're on a case, that horrid jumper he wears all the time and can somehow make look acceptable. I mean, anyone who makes those things look acceptable is more than worthy of my love! I know I'm a terrible friend. I treat him like he doesn't matter, which he doesn't in he general scheme of things but to me he really does. He really matters to me. But I'm so hostile.

Mycroft taught me to be that way, I suppose. He had always made sure that I didn't get too close to anybody. I used to thank him for it. Not to his face, the fucking arsehole, but I knew - suspected? - that he meant well. Now I hate him for it. I hate him because I want to be with John, and I can't because John must hate me for being such an arrogant bastard to him all these years. And I can't suddenly become nice now. That damn war-damaged brain of his will probably assume that I'm a spy or something if I pretend to care about his stupid - no not stupid Sherlock, John isn't stupid - feelings. And yes, his feelings are stupid no matter what my conscience tries to tell me.

I am lying on my couch with my knees drawn to my chest, doing what John would consider pouting. I do this when I think about him, and I have found myself doing it more often than not. I keep imagining scenarios in my head. Mycroft had always wondered why I have this incessant need to pretend when I have an almost complete understanding of the real world around me. What he never considered is that's the very reason I pretend. Poor Mycroft. He's so apt at deducing external attributes yet so inept at deducing internal ones. He doesn't have the foggiest idea what goes on in my brain and he never will. I don't want to deduce everything all the time. All those words, all this knowledge and these connections my brain makes become overwhelming, and it's so fucking difficult to handle. In my scenarios that I imagine I am not smart. There are no words popping up in front of me or little connections and analysis. All that exists in these scenarios I dream up is me and John, enjoying each other's presence. Together. Me encased in his strong arms. I am in love with John Watson. I am in love with John Watson! I would love to be able to say that out loud, to breathe those words, feel the little vibrations on my tongue. It's boring and stupid, that phrase. But that just makes it so much better. I always want to make the boring interesting and the stupid enlightened. But that phrase means so much to me now that I would never change a thing about it. I love that phrase now. That's how fucking much I love John Watson, I don't care that it's stupid. Haha. This is so fucked.

I walk silently, stealthily to John's room, feeling the cold hard wood underneath the bare soles of my feet, the light breeze coming in though the open window and ruffling the flaps of my dressing gown - house coat? I can't keep up with what ordinary people say to each other. I tend to keep them all on semi-permanent mute. I watch John, who lies in the half-darkness, a little silhouette of him illuminated by the moonlight streaming in, his chest rising and falling so simply, so perfectly. I hear his slow breaths, imagine in the darkness his lips parting, slightly, only slightly, and inviting my tongue into his. I imagine his hands, currently gripping the sheets in a troubled nightmare, all over my body, running firmly down my back and to my ass. I imagine. But John stirs, and I turn, hiding myself behind the corner, my breath hitching, such a little, insignificant noise sounding so loud in the dead of night. Thankfully he doesn't wake, and I walk back down the stairs to the rest of the flat, even quieter this time, until I reach my room.

I do not take drugs. I promised John that I wouldn't. But I'm still the addict. No, I know what you're thinking. I don't smoke ether, still clean. Alcohol is...detrimental to my brain, so I don't dare consume any of that. But I need to feel something. I need something to take that edge off, to calm this burning fire within me, no longer in my brain but now in my heart. I pull down the waistband of my pyjamas, watching light blue give way to white, illuminated flesh tarnished only by lots - I would say hundreds but I deleted the number - of red scars, little cuts and scrapes that I made, if only to take this loss, this pain away from me. I take it out of the drawer on my bedside table, the CD. It still has a little blood on the rim, dried up from my previous escapade with my lower abdomen flesh being torn apart. I had broke the CD in half when I was bored last year. It had been John's. I had kept this in my room for this exact purpose. The sharp edge. That one quarter-second of bliss, of peace before everything comes crashing back down again. I run the sharp CD, that edge, that blade, over my hip, and watch the blood pour, so freeing and so satisfying. I watch it go down my leg and as I let my pyjamas go back up, the little red patch seeps through the fabric, so I see two little beads of blood. I want them to be there forever. Parallel. Symmetrical. Perfectly in balance. Normally to would be afraid that John would see the blood, but today I am not. I don't seem to care. I will care tomorrow, I'll try to hide it, but for now I'm not even aware that there will be a tomorrow. I just know one thing; I love John Watson.

^

"Sherlock?" I hear John's supposedly stern voice from the chair opposite me, and I shudder in response to the almost-dominant tone. Why does he have to be so enthralling?!

"Yes?" I ask after clearing my throat, and innocent look in my eyes that could have been mistaken for mischief, and probably was mischief.

"There's blood. On your hip,"

John and I are sitting in the sitting room, him reading some boring nonsense in the paper and me just...thinking. No not about John! About the most recent case that John has just blogged about. What did he call it again? The Story of The Blue Kerfuffle? Stupid name. So John had looked up from his paper to presumably make some kind of sagacious into my recent 'odd behaviour' when he had noticed the bleeding. I simply sipped my tea innocently.

"Blood isn't mine John. Its from an experiment,"

"But you haven't done any experiments lately,"

"We aren't joined at the hip John!" I scream, to loudly and too suddenly to have been considered anything close to a normal reaction. I am seething, my bulging eyes wide with repressed emotion. "Sorry. Didn't mean it like that," I mumble.

"Well, what's bleeding then?" John insisted. Oh if only my brain could be as simple and ordinary as his. He thought that pushing me could actually achieve something. Once again, he has grossly underestimated me. I search my mind for an answer, and immediately come up with one.

"I fell over your stupid jumper. It's in the hallway, on the floor in a heap. Honestly John don't you ever wash your clothes?"

"Let me see your hip Sherlock, the least I can do is put ointment on it. Maybe a bandage?"

"John, I'm honestly fine,"

John nods, and I can practically feel the scepticism hanging thickly, heavily in the air. John isn't going to let this go so easily. Dammit Sherlock why didn't you clean up the damn blood last night?! Never make that mistake again! I'm not used to feeling this vulnerable. I might actually kind of like it. This whole 'needy' thing. John had apparently given up on the paper, which I don't blame him for, there's never anything worth reading about, and was now typing on his blog. What on Earth is he saying on that thing now? 'Sherlock Holmes is being a moody git this morning and is refusing to tell me why there is blood on his trousers...something is going on'. That's about as insightful as he gets. Can't jump to conclusions very well, it overloads his simple mind. I swear that I don't mean to be mean. But he's just so...distracting. I forget my manners around him. John is typing with such vigour and his fingers are pressing down so hard on the keys that I know he is veracious. I never wanted t upset him. I wish I knew how to talk to this man. Damn I need a hobby.