Still The Addict

Cigarettes and Bourbon

(John's POV)

He leans on the windowsill and I stare at every visible vertebrae cascading down his pale back. The smoke billows from the open pane, dissipating as it rises into the night's sky. Sherlock is so beautiful even the smoke he exhales belongs at level with the stars. He's naked, the edges of red slashes peeking around from the front of his thighs. "Come back to bed, you bloody git," I ask, but not in the form of a question. The crumpled sheets to my right lost all their attraction as soon as he left the bed. The consultant detective makes everything so much more alluring. "You're letting all the heat out,"

I can't believe, not for a second, that I ever denied loving this man. He's all I've ever loved. Shame, really, that I hurt him so much before finally realising, embracing who I truly am. Sherlock scoffs, but shuts the window with the cigarette still in his mouth, climbing back into bed with me. The mattress doesn't seem so cold anymore. "Let's go somewhere," he suggest, spontaneously. "Just you and me,"

"You have work tomorrow, John," he reminds me, rolling his eyes.

"Come on, what's one less GP in England for a day?" I chuckle, before I realise the gravity of my own joke. "It's not like I do anything important anymore,"

"John," Sherlock speaks sternly, propping himself up to look harshly into my eyes with his own milky green ones. He's so close, I can feel his warm breath on my skin. "Everything you do is important,"

"I used to save lives," I remind him bitterly. The days when I was a real doctor, a real soldier. Now I prescribe anti-itch cream for yeast infections. How one's life can plummet into the depths of despair so easily remains beyond my comprehension.

"You saved my life," Sherlock glares, the cosy lightning warming his face, revitalising it with lost vigour. "Never forget that, John. You're the reason I'm alive today. Surely that's all the fulfilment you need?"

It isn't. Or is it? Am I just being selfish? Or worse, self-indulgent? I used to hold myself to such high standards, morally, mentally, physically. I've gotten lax with all of these, too much so. But I still haven't lost my edge. After all, Sherlock is right. I did save his life.

(Sherlock)

I'm so hungry. Seriously, the cravings overwhelm me with each second. But the thought of food, even just the texture makes me sick. It makes me want to cut. Gives me that drive. So instead, I smoke following my orgasm. "Hey, want a beer?" I ask John, my lover, who's eyes unfocus into the darkness of the bedroom. He just nods, and I find it best to leave him alone with his thoughts. No matter how redundant and obvious they might be. His sense of duty appals me, but as his
... partner...I have to tone down the insults a little bit.

No, I haven't bloody gone soft! And don't you dare call me a romantic!

I'm just doing the minimum possible to keep John happy. It sounds cruel I know, but I'm quite inept at social interaction, especially with John since he makes me so nervous when we aren't even talking. It's like my heartbeat magnifies a thousand times, pumping so much blood to my head. And other places.

There's no beer in the fridge. Just a bag of thumbs I swiped from Bart's and... bourbon? Why does John keep such weird shit in the fridge? Whatever. I pour him a little glass and looks around for more smokes. Apparently we're all out. No matter. I can get my high other ways. I grab the knife from the rack, allowing it to hover over my wrist.

No!

This is what John is talking about! Self control and going cold turkey. Totally clean. Didn't he say something about taking away all my knives? How could he miss one?! So inconsiderate. So in a way, if I let it slip and it happens to graze my skin...maybe draw a little blood ... then it's his fault!

I slice it down my exposed hip, pulling through the concave where it shadows in, just in my pelvis. So beautiful. Freeing. A wonderful relief from the noise in my head.

"Sherlock, what're you doing?"

I drop the knife, and have to jump away so it doesn't hit my foot.

"Shit!" I squeal, turning and glaring at John. "You startled me!"

He looks deapanned at me, then the bloody knife on the floor. Then my hip. I gulp, and realise the situation I'm in. John may be smaller than me, but he's a soldier. He knows how to handle something like me, and I can see the darkness behind his eyebrows. "John, I mean..."

"Save it Sherlock," he raises a hand, and I shut up. "Come here,"

I make my way over, shuffling like a damn schoolboy. Why do I feel so intimidated by him? My eyes never leave the floor.

"Bring the bourbon,"

Odd request but alright. I snatch it off the counter and hand it dejectedly to my lover. He grabs me by the ear. "Hey what's the big-?"

"Sherlock, unless you want me to shove that knife up your ass, you'll be quiet. Understand?"

I don't feel like mentioning the irony of him telling me to be quiet and then asking me a question. "Yes,"

"Yes what?"

"Yes John,"

"Good boy," he leads me through to the bathroom. Gently but, firmly at the same time. An oxymoron I know but somehow it works. Control and care blend together wonderfully, I deduce as he runs the cloth underneath the water taps, letting the faucet drip a little. I watch, my lips barely parted as he wrings it out before gliding the surface off my cuts.

The soothing, cleansing water calms me, like a radiating warmth spreading from my stomach to every inch of my body; hitting my brain last. John sighs, but I detect a smile behind his disappointment. "Stay here. Keep this pressed against your cuts," with pleasure. He stalks off, but for once I don't pay attention to what he does. "This will sting a bit, Sherlock. But we need to disinfect,"

And a searing pain blinds me as bouton is poured over my wounds. I fight the screams, which stay dormant within my throat. I glare inwardly. He did that on purpose! But I deserved it, and I know John is in this for the long term. Short term pain for long term recovery. Is that a thing? Well, John really is special. An amazing doctor. He'll make it a thing.