His last dance
Irene and Microft had been wrong. Wrong about him not having a sex life. He once had. But his last "relationship" had been long ago, long before Mycroft started to watch Sherlock's every move. In a time, when Sherlock still desperately tried to fit in into a society in which there was no place for a genius like him. He had taken a dangerous road – plastered with blood, drugs, sex and self-destruction.
Chapter One
John was gone. Gone out on another date, with another woman, to another of these tedious and boring talks and stolen kisses and… what the hell was he thinking? He had long ago stopped caring. Caring about everyone moving on, leaving him behind. It started when he was a child and it would only end with his death.
Sherlock stared out of the window of Baker Street 221B. It was raining, what a cliché. There was no work for him to do, no case and even his experiments seemed far too boring. The rotting fingers in the sink, oh yes he could smell them, the eyeballs he had split open with his scalpel hours ago – it didn't matter to him. He was not depressed, never was. But it was one of those evenings when the solidly build walls of his mind castle started to crumble.
It was nagging on him. It shouldn't but it did: Irene Adler teasing him, Mycroft mocking his sexual inexperience, Moriarty calling him the Virgin-Holmes. He had long stopped caring about what other people did, said. Or didn't he? It was one of those evenings he was no longer sure of himself. It was the twilight hour that brought danger.
Sherlock massaged his temples. Thinking meant headaches. Thinking along this road meant destruction of his mind. He had once done it. Dear god… he did remember it every day: How he wanted to breathe but no air filled his lungs, how his heart beat slowed down and his body started shaking. There was blood in his mouth from biting down too hart, splitting open lips and tongue. And the pain, dear god, this unbearable pain in his chest… What had he thought then: That dying of drug abuse was easy? That he would lose consciousness and feel nothing? Whish for it and you would never get it. He had pumped the heroin into his veins to end his miserable excuse of a life. But what a joke: For when dying he suddenly realized, everything he ever wanted was to live. Everything he ever did, he did to feel alive. Stupid. Stupid! Day after day he had accused others of being so, still did, but it was him, the great Sherlock Holmes, that was the most stupid man walking on earth.
Sherlock closed his eyes. Remembering was dangerous. He tried not to. But closing his eyes meant retreating into his mind. And there they were waiting. Dormant, but intact. He had buried them deep in the dungeons of his mind: those pictures of him in his youth, his struggle to build a life, to fit in. He could see himself failing and then… what had he been thinking. Stupid! He was not Virgin Holmes. He was Stupid Holmes. Stupid!
He absently touched the scar on the back of his left hand. A soft trace of long forgotten lies. He had two others on his back, on the right side near his spine. Knife wounds. John had recognized them for what they were, when he had once flicked him together after being beaten up on a chase. John had recognized them but had deduced the wrong thing. As always. John, this far too good, too caring man, had assumed they were wounds inflicted by an assassin. Dear John, no you are wrong, for the darkness is much deeper in your friend than you ever thought. How could Sherlock tell John the truth since he knew what John thought about his current experiments? How could Sherlock tell him that the scars were the result of an experiment involving LSD, a knife and sex – with a man after all?
Even Mycroft had been wrong – always been wrong, when it came to his little brother. Mycroft was the one who always found a way to appear normal – not a genius, but a hard working man who achieved a career by willpower and diligence. Not because of his extraordinary mind. Mycroft had it – the genius-gen. But he never had the ambition to shine. Unlike his younger brother he had always known when to shut up. And that is why Mycroft never understood Sherlock's struggle, his inner turmoil, the feeling of being lost. He never understood how far Sherlock would go until one day he got this cryptic letter of goodbye Sherlock had sent him before taking the overdose. It had been Sherlock's luck. For this one sign of weakness he had once shown towards his brother, had saved his live. It was all in a blur. The things that happened after Sherlock had started throwing up his own blood. Making a mess of the carpet… But somehow Mycroft saved him, controlled him since then. But Mycroft never understood that Sherlock's self-destruction ran deeper than simply taking an overdose.
Not good. Not good at all. Sherlock's breathing was labored. It was his danger-night, he recognized the signs now. Why not earlier? He would never have let John go out, if he had seen the signs before. He touched the wall to steady himself. The pull. He felt it. Deep down. Dear God… dangerous. It was worse than ever. The pictures in his mind started to rotate, making his head spin. Steady, Sherlock told himself, forced his eyes open. The room seemed to be in a blur. If it had been someone else, he would have called it a panic attack. But a Sherlock Holmes never panicked, never ever.
Slowly Sherlock walked through the room. If he could make it stop, everything would be fine. No drugs, he promised. No drugs to feel numb. If he could sleep… He knew John had pills in the bathroom. Not many for he still feared Sherlock could misuse them. How right he was. There they were. Paracetamols. Good. Five. Right. No more. And one sleeping pill. Only one. No more. Strange. Is it drug abuse to make yourself a bit more comfortable when in despair? Sherlock let himself fall into his chair, five plus one… was it too much? How did it come that in these situations his brilliant mind never functioned properly? One plus five and a glass of wine. That was ok, or? Even John would approve. Wouldn't he? How had he come so far? From being angry with John for going out, for being annoyed with his brother and this slut of… no he never used these words… to this mess? Five plus one was definitely ok. Better take two or three of the sleeping pills. Only to be sure. One never knew, he was used to those things after all. Far better than heroin. Not that dangerous. Or? He swallowed. They tasted like shit. Wine. Yes wine made it better. One glass… maybe two or three…
Sherlock felt tired, all of a sudden his eyes fell shut. His heart was beating fast. Why was that? Ahhh, good… numb... a blank mind… that was good… exactly like he had planned. A genius after all…
"Sherlock!" Johns voice cut through the silence at 221B Baker Street.
To be continued