Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter V - Evocative

-Millie-

~~~~~~

I am lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, my fingers fisted in the sheets and my heart beating thick, cloying fear through each concaved cell, each slither of membrane. The dream dissolved minutes ago, but the images were too potent; they forced their way past the barrier between sleep and reality and I can still see it all, despite being awake. Feel it all.

I can't turn it off.

The spoon is rough between raw fingers and the cigarette filters glow like little orange suns, sending plumes of sweetly-scented smoke up into the stale air. Sound is distorted; white noise hisses, voices without bodies whisper and shout at irregular intervals, and I am taut with anticipation. I can see the tourniquet, the flame, the ethanol, the precious white powder – I am not just remembering, I am reliving.

There is a romantic pageantry about the whole affair, a drawn-out process that sparks a longing so overwhelmingly acute, it is all I can do not to cry out for my taste of illicit satiation. I close my eyes, yearning for that finely honed piece of surgical steel, that seemingly innocuous device of delivery that rules out every moment of my life prior to the pinch of the tip piercing the vein. Cocaine, as a word, does not do the substance justice; it is responsible for such beauty, such elation, such incredible, overpowering emptiness – I don't just want it. I need it, and I need it now.

I tear the covers away and stumble to my feet, blind with craving, mad with memory-induced desire. I stagger through the dark corridor, into the kitchen, tugging at cupboard doors and pulling down trays of prescription medication, fingers shaking, mind racing, tossing aside pills and packets and vials of liquid in search for something strong, something similar.

I catch sight of my reflection in the polished window of the microwave, and I stop.

My eyes are wide, wild, the lavender strap of my camisole slipping over my shoulder, snagged curls falling in front of my face. My hand is held centimetres from my mouth, palm cupped and filled with dry pills, ready to be consumed on mass.

The reality of my situation hits, hard.

I lower my hand.

It has been months since I experienced my last bout of craving, and even then, it was not nearly as all-consuming as this wave of arguable insanity. I drop the pills, feeling them bounce and scatter at my feet, and rest my head in my hands, leaning on the kitchen counter for support.

The front door slams downstairs, followed by the sound of a coat being unzipped. I look up at the kitchen clock: it is eight o'clock – John must be visiting before the late commence of his weekend shift. I consider concealing my collapse, but my body simply won't respond to the commands my mind issues; I succeed only in dropping the remaining medication, shaking so violently the pills ricochet within the confines of their plastic bottles.

My thoughts re-orientate themselves around the photographs currently residing in the pocket of one of my angora jumpers, at the back of my wardrobe.

I blame them for this entirely.

They developed a newly sinister meaning upon the noting of the white flower in the gambler's apartment - I could not shake the images from my head. It continued throughout the day and into the evening, slipping into my dream sequence as I slept, influencing my waking moments.

I sink to the floor, my back to the drawers. I am very aware that my reaction is only strengthening whoever is responsible for posting those photographs, but I cannot control it; it is terrifying, knowing that I am still a puppet at the hands of an ingrained addiction. I blink, feeling hot tears on my cheeks as I indulge my fears – somebody knows me, and what triggers my deterioration. And I do not know them.