Meet You Again

Chapter Eight

((A/N: Trigger warning. Use of drugs.))

***

“It’s nice to meet you.”

He stared at the open hand, lips parted and eyes wide with confusion. “It’s...nice to meet you...again.”

***

 

The grass was damp beneath him, cooling and seeping through the legs of his trousers and everything was frighteningly numb.

You’re brilliant. Did you know that?

Sherlock curled in on himself, fingers flexing against his knee caps as he tried to find some purchase to reality.

It’s only been a month and he caved in. After all this time, all the work and struggles and nights of screaming pain and pure need, want, now, he caved in. He sunk back under familiar yet worn and rigid skin, itching for the taste of a needle, of that feeling of soaring, if only for a few brief hours.

What would John think if he saw you now?

The thought, at first, had felt like a slap across his cheek, felt like a fist clenching around his heart. Now, it was just a small voice in the back of his head, a pang of guilt and remorse and regret in his chest.

John had stopped calling ten days ago.

Sherlock had stopped caring nine days ago.

His fingers curled, just slightly and he let out a weak sigh, eyes hooded.

***

 

Thirteen days without a call, without his voice.

Sherlock grew desperate.

He walked the streets of London, coat tucked around him carefully, skin itching and mind reeling. He needed a distraction, he needed something, anything in order to breathe properly again.

And the itch was becoming unbearable.

***

 

Everything felt good and warm and unbelievably clear as he lied in his flat, blue eyes glazed and seeing nothing, absolutely nothing and he felt nothing, just an overwhelming need to fly and fucking soar so nothing can touch him again. So he didn’t taint something pure and ruin it completely.

And the real world felt out of reach, yet so close, but he was too far to take the reigns of reality and slow down, too gone to even think of coming back now, not now and everything was just a distant fog in the back of his mind, even the pounding at his flat door went unnoticed.

There was a rattle then and crash and Sherlock’s head lolled to the side, eyes focusing on a moving figure, but not long enough to actually care. Then there was shouting and he couldn’t make out the words, but the voice was pure and sweet like honey or sugar or that taffy his mum use to give him when he was younger and, for some reason or another, he wanted to grasp on to that one thing, something as feeble as a voice to keep him grounded, and then there were arms around him, strong and warm and pulling him up, cradling him as the voice shouted more words, whoever’s heart beating wildly against Sherlock’s ear and he blinked slowly, his muscles like molasses as he forced himself to look up, to concentrate on the face hovering above him.

And the man was glowing, practically glowing and Sherlock couldn’t tell if it was his cocaine induced mind or not, but it was a beautiful sight nonetheless. Lines played out perfectly on the blond man’s face, once laughing creases now twisted into worry, fear, anger and Jesus, was that a sight. And those eyes, those amazing, brilliant eyes were blue and deep, every emotion flicking through them like the man was a walking cinema.

The man was speaking to him and he could decipher one word, his name, and he clutched desperately to it, seeking more, wanting more and the man, this wonderful man, was stroking his cheek and murmuring soft words (he had no idea what he was saying), touching his neck and wrist and looking up every ten seconds, frantic and scared.

Sherlock felt….he felt tired now, beyond so, eyelids heavy and sliding shut even as the man began telling him in a calm, but stern voice to...to stay...to stay with him...and...and he wanted to...oh god, he did, but everything was...breathing was becoming exhausting and he really didn’t want to do it anymore, he couldn’t...he just wanted to sleep….

***

The next time he woke, everything was white and his throat was killing him.

It took him ten seconds (twice more than it should) to grasp his surroundings. And, as soon as it dawned on his, a raspy groan escaped his lips, fingers clutching at the sterile sheets beneath him.

“Fucking Mycroft.” he muttered, weakly, to no one in particular.

So, when a someone answered back, it was quite a shock in itself.

“Actually, no.” the words sounded strained and gruff and, hell, Sherlock knew that voice, had it burned into his memory the first moment he ever heard it. But it never, never, sounded like this. “But he told me where you were, so, in a way, yes. Never knew you had a brother.” and it all sounded so bitter, so broken.

Sherlock swallowed back bile, turning his head, ignoring the pain erupting at the back of his skull, just to see his face, though he knew what it would look like, what it would be. “John.”

The man sat back in a plastic (surely uncomfortable) chair, eyes guarded and face rough around the edges, still beautiful in every way. His hair was a mess on top of his head, greasy and tangled, making Sherlock want his fingers through it, though he was certain that would be a bit not good at this point in time. “John, I-”

“Don’t. Sherlock. Don’t.”

And didn’t that hurt. His mouth snapped shut, eyes wide and scared and he just wanted to touch John, just once.

“Just...don’t.”

He fell quiet, looking away and ignoring the sudden flare of pain in his chest.

I deserve this, I deserve all of this.

((A/N: So...here is another short chapter and there is two more to come before this little story is over...have some angst until then.))