Not Knowing - Wholock

I • 1

Music.
He could always escape with music. It seemed to envelope him, blocking out the voices and holding him tight, but it was never quite enough. He collapsed into his chair, his violin falling to the ground.
He could see things, too. Things he never wanted to see, but couldn't unsee. It was mostly memories. He hated to remember. That was why he took so much solace in the drugs. His body welcomed them like an old friend. He picked up a needle, plunging it clumsily into his already scarred arm. He couldn't even feel the pain anymore, only the rush of energy that the opium provided. As the adrenaline dispersed, his eyes felt heavy. He let them fall shut.
He had nothing left to live for anyway. His grip loosened and the needle fell from his fingers and onto the floor.

When he woke up, it was to Mrs Hudson's soft voice. His eyes fluttered open. Her expression was one of pity. "Oh Sherlock..." She murmured. "What have you done?" She picked up the needle and frowned at it.
He looked away, feeling something like shame. His eyes landed on his violin, discarded on the floor. His fingers shook as he reached down to pick it up, inspecting it for damage. He found none, and sighed, resting it in his lap.
Mrs Hudson smoothed his hair back in a motherly gesture, and he didn't try to stop her. In truth, he liked it.
"Why did you do it, Sherlock?" She asked.
"Bored." He muttered resentfully.
"No." Mrs Hudson sat down in the chair across from him. "It's more than that." He sighed again, but didn't say anything.
"Sherlock, are you-"
"Probably." He cut her off, his voice still slurred with the drugs that hadn't quite worn off yet.
She sighed sadly, then got up and began gathering the syringes and drugs that surrounded Sherlock. He was too tired to stop her, and his eyes began to droop once again.
Once he was asleep, she tossed her collection in the fireplace, determined to dispose of it permanently.
She then went to his kitchen to make tea, hoping to bring him back from his drug induced state.

***

The scream of the kettle jolted him awake, and he looked around, bleary eyed, immediately noticing the lack of drugs. He sighed.
She was never going to stop.
The kettle kept whistling and he got up with a groan.
"You're up!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, suddenly appearing in the doorway. "Why didn't you turn it off?" He complained.
"Because you needed to get out of that chair for once!" She said, shaking her head. "Now make your tea. You need to wake up a little." Her voice was stern, and he knew he couldn't ignore her.
He groaned again but did as he was told.

He refused to admit it to anyone, but he was an addict. He wanted to believe what he insisted aloud- that he was just a user, that he could put it down whenever he so pleased. But that was a lie. He was addicted and he couldn't stop. He loved the feeling of it, the artificial energy coursing through his veins.

He finished making the tea and brought it to the sitting room, carrying it successfully without his hands shaking.
Mrs Hudson was still there.
"What did you do with it?" He asked.
She sat up a little straighter. "I destroyed it."
He nodded. "Mmm, typical."
"Sherlock..." She sighed. "Can't you see you're killing yourself? If you keep taking what you're taking, you'll be dead in weeks."
He shrugged. "What's it matter? At least I'll die happy."
"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson scolded him.

He felt bad. He knew she loved him, she made that quite clear. But the truth was, he hated his existence. He hated his memories, he hated that he had had 27 years of nothing. For his entire life, he'd done nothing, he'd been nothing.
Granted, he was clever, and he'd worked with clients before, but none of it was fulfilling because the only person who loved him was his landlady, who, honestly, just felt bad for him.
So he hated it. He just wanted to relieve the world of the burden that was him.
"Leave me alone." He muttered.
Mrs Hudson's eyes filled with sorrow, but she complied, returning to her own flat downstairs.

He could hear the voices again now. Ghosts of his past.
He's not even human, he's just a machine.
He's a psychopath, he doesn't have any friends.
Ordinary. Freak. Psychopath. Insane. Crazy. Addict.

The voices merged in his head, becoming one, insulting him and tearing him down.

They were right. I am a freak.

He clamped his hands over his ears and yelled, a sound that seemed more like a strangled plea for help than anything else. Tears ran down his face. He just wanted a release. He wanted to stop hearing them, just for a day.
He curled up in his chair, shoulders shaking. He was glad no one was here to see him like this. It was the polar opposite of the mask he wore when he was dealing with clients, the one that convinced people that he was an emotionless machine, when he was really deteriorating inside, letting the blackness eat away at him.

He got up and dragged himself to his bedroom, shutting the door and enveloping himself in total darkness. Perhaps if he were to get some real sleep, some that wasn't drug induced, he would feel better.

Wishful thinking.

***

His eyes shot open, breath ragged. The covers, which had been pulled up when he'd gotten in bed, were now tangled up by his feet.
The dreams always did this to him, he wasn't even sure why he attempted to sleep anymore. He balled up his hands, which were damp with sweat, squeezing them until his nails dug into his palms.
Trying to go back to sleep now was useless.
He glanced at the clock.
3:06 AM. He sighed, then got up.
He'd slept for nearly ten hours, a record for him.
He walked over to the window and looked out at the street below. Lamps provided an artificial glow where the moon lacked, illuminating the damp pavement. It was mostly deserted, but for the occasional car passing by.
He turned away from the window and exited the flat, going down the stairs quietly, stopping only to put on his shoes and coat. He stepped outside, greeted by the crisp, cool air of autumn.
He put his hands in his coat pockets and started down the footway. He had no destination in mind, he just wanted to keep himself occupied so that he didn't dream again.

No one else was walking at this time, quite the contrast to the usually crowded pavement. He loved the silence, hearing only his own footsteps.
He walked until he was finally tired again, eventually retiring to a bench and watching the city wake up as the sun began to rise. More and more cars showed up and people began to leave their homes, fully clothed but still drowsy, evidently heading to work. Soon London was once again a hubbub of people and traffic, the misty quiet of earlier a fleeting ghost.

Sherlock got up and began walking back toward his flat, fearing the crushing boredom that seemed to envelope him the moment he walked in. Perhaps if Molly had some new cadavers for him he could-
He hadn't even seen the man before he ran into him. He scowled, but the stranger just gave him a crooked grin. He immediately felt recognition, but it was gone as soon as the quirky man left, walking off in the opposite direction. He stared after him a moment, trying to figure out why he had seemed so familiar. Eventually, he gave up and continued his trek back to Baker Street.

He knew someone was there as soon as he entered the building. He climbed the stairs and found exactly what he was expecting: An overweight, middle-aged man with a plastered on smile and a decidedly anxious look in his eyes.
"What are you do-" His question was cut off when Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea. "I let him in." She said, then mouthed, 'please'.
He rolled his eyes, but complied, sitting down opposite his new client.