Warnings: Explicit drug use. If you don't like it, don't read. Also, I've never done drugs, so God only knows if I'm writing this correctly. I did some pretty extensive Wikipedia research, so if you know any better, please feel free to let me know! Also, I'm in the market for a beta, and I've reviewed it, but if you want to beta or see any mistakes, PM me. Reviews are always welcome :) That's all!
"I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel. I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real. The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting. Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything." –Johnny Cash
There are some things you never forget. For John, there are only a handful of these moments-when he graduated from medical school, when he signed up for the army, the feel of his blood pooling underneath him as he lay in the hot Afghan sun. And now-the sight of Sherlock's dead body lying on the pavement outside of St. Bart's. It was the last sight in particular that kept him up at night. He would never forget it. It had become an indelible part of him.
More importantly, he'd always regret the things that he had meant to say to the detective. Ella, his therapist, had urged him to say the things he wanted to say to Sherlock, but he couldn't. It didn't seem right to say those things to this woman who was quintessentially not Sherlock-dark, where he was fair, empathetic where he was brash.
He returned to the flat after his appointment, feeling no different from when he had trudged out into the rain an hour and a half previously. At the end of their session, Ella had given him a brochure that listed all of the veteran events taking place in the city, and had urged him to attend.
"If you can't talk to me," she had said, "then find a comrade."
What she failed to realize, was that the only comrade he wanted was Sherlock.
It had been a year and a half since Sherlock had died, and all of his experiments were spread throughout the flat. John had even taken to sleeping in Sherlock's room, wrapping himself in the now musty sheets that still faintly smelled of the spicy aftershave to which Sherlock had been partial. He still worked at the surgery, of course, but he often felt as if there was no point. It wasn't as if he needed the money anymore.
Two weeks after the funeral, John had stumbled out of bed to find Mycroft and Anthea sitting on the couch, the former looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"John. I'm here to inform you that Sherlock has left everything to you. The remainder of his trust fund will be deposited into your bank account by tomorrow. And, as long as you wish it, rent will be paid for here at Baker Street." Mycroft said, twiddling with his umbrella.
Ever benevolent Mycroft, a voice that sounded distinctly like Sherlock sneered in the back of his head.
John had merely nodded, and shortly after, Mycroft and Anthea had bustled away, probably to negotiate with the North Koreans.
John had continued to sit in Sherlock's chair, his clasped in his lap, when all he felt like doing was screaming. Now, almost a year and a half later, John still hadn't changed anything. Perhaps now was a good of time as any.
He hobbled around the flat, leaning heavily on his cane. The limp had returned a day or two after Mycroft had seen him, and it didn't surprise him in the slightest. He pulled down a few of Sherlock's books, flipping through them in an attempt to decide if he wanted to keep them or not. The London A-Z book went in the keep pile, as well as Grey's Anatomy. Death, Decomposition and Dogs: From Science to Scene went into the box for charity, but most of the other criminology books, he kept. He had been debating for a while if he would continue with Sherlock's consulting detective work. He wanted to. Sherlock had poured so much of himself into it, and it just didn't seem right to abandon all the people that still believed in him.
He pulled down a Bible, which was the one book that confused John, because why would a confirmed atheist own a Bible? It fell open.
The pages had been carefully cut away, so that the book still looked intact, but there was a hollow space between the covers. Two small plastic bags were shoved haphazardly in the space. One was full to the brim of cocaine. The other had several sterile hypos, a rubber tourniquet and a lighter. John paled. Sherlock must have deleted the existence of this. Otherwise he would have been stoned out of his mind the entire time John had known him, which obviously wasn't the case.
He pulled the bags out and tightened his grip around them. He'd been in so much pain the last year and a half. As a doctor, he was against all use of recreational drugs, but did that really matter in the grand scheme of things? How was he expected to function like this? It had been a year and a half, and it felt like things were supposed to be getting better, but they weren't. God, he sounded pathetic. But Sherlock did this to him. He forced John to be his suicide note, and had ripped John's heart out in the process. He'd do anything to feel better.
John walked over to the kitchen, the bag clutched in his hand. He carefully measured out the correct dosage into a spoon and added a bit of water. He then flicked the lighter, holding the spoon over the open flame. John watched as the powder dissolved in the water, then flicked the flame out. He waited a few seconds for the mixture to cool, then filled one of the hypos with the solution.
He had taken more blood than he cared to think about from patients during his time as a doctor, so it was with ease that he wrapped the rubber tourniquet in the middle of his bicep. Smacking the crook of his arm lightly, he watched as the purple-blue veins rose up. He pressed the air out of the hypo and hissed as the needle slid under his skin. Without looking, he injected the solution into his veins.
The feeling of euphoria was immediate. It felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off of his shoulders. For the first time in a year and a half, he actually felt like going out to the pub or calling Mike Stamford to see what he was doing.
It was with this thought in mind that John headed for the shower. He stood under the spray, allowing the feel of the drugs to wash over him. He shampooed his hair quickly, the heat from the shower causing his skin to flush. He slid out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. He padded out into the sitting room, bounding up the stairs to grab some more clothes to take down to Sherlock's room. He tugged on a pair of pants, jeans and his favorite oatmeal colored jumper.
He bounded downstairs, slipping on a pair of shoes. The brochure for the veteran's events was lying on the coffee table. He picked it up, perusing it. There was a mixer tonight at a pub across town. If he hurried, he could make it.
John arrived at the pub just in time for introductions. A room off the back held all of the veterans and he jotted down his name and regiment on a name tag before sliding into the back. Someone was speaking at the front, and John allowed the words to just wash over him. He didn't really care much about what this man had to say, he just wanted to have a pint.
A man turned in front of him and smiled. John nodded and he stepped back. "Hello."
"Hello. Hi." John said, nodding.
"These things are always kind of boring, eh?" The man said, and John shrugged.
"I don't know, never been before."
"Ah, I see. Well, how about we head into the bar and get a drink?" He asked.
John looked him over. He was tall, even taller than Sherlock. In fact, everything about this man reminded him of the detective. Not that he looked particularly like Sherlock, in fact, he looked nothing like Sherlock at all, with blonde hair and dark brown eyes, but the way he carried himself, as if he feared nothing and knew everything, screamed Sherlock. It put him at ease
"I'm Captain Watson, RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." John said, holding out his hand.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran, 1st Bangalore Pioneers."
Ok, as I'm sure some of you are aware, the 1st Bangalore Pioneers doesn't actually exist, but it's the regiment that Moran is in in the actual Sherlock Holmes series, so I went with it.