SPOILER WARNING FOR "THE SIGN OF THREE"

So I'm not even sure why I wrote this...

Sort of just my reaction the The Sign of Three and what could have happened afterwards.

But, the thing that's freaking me out the most is that I decided to try first person for a change and I'm really not sure if this is any good and I don't know if this is even worth putting up here and and I almost didn't do this and yeah... I don't even know right now

So be brutally honest with me, does this suck?

Trigger warning: drug use and mentions of torture

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock...sad, right?

I glanced around the room, searching for something, though for what I wasn't sure.

Nobody was paying attention, really. They were all caught up in the celebration and drowning themselves in ever-flowing champagne. Plenty of people were already tipsy and on the dance floor. I even noticed Janine sneaking off somewhere with some man that I didn't know personally. Probably one of the many unattached I'd pointed out earlier. Typical.

They were all whispering too, at my little slip up during my speech. What had "three" meant? I'm sure they were all wondering, though it should be obvious to even the dullest of minds.

I sighed deeply and scanned the room once more, still not really sure what I was looking for.

Perhaps John coming over, abandoning his wife and the thralls of eager guests to spend a few extra moments with his best man and friend.

It was silly to think that would happen. John was done with me, at least for the most part.

People had been trying to tell me for weeks that things were going to be fine. Nothing would change, we'd still be friends and we'd still see each other plenty. John would be there to help me on cases too. Mrs. Hudson had even tried to make me feel better this very morning, and I am well aware that Mary and John have been scheming to make me feel better as well. I knew the only reason John had gone on the Mayfly Killer case with me was Mary. They thought I was going to crack without John.

Well, maybe I would.

Maybe I was already cracked.

They were all so transparent though. They thought they were being sneaky, but I saw right through them, just like I saw through everyone else.

Everyone was just trying to lull me into this sense of false hope. They wanted me to think that everything was going to stay the same, even though they all knew full well it wasn't going to. John had to understand things were going to change, that, by making Mary his wife, he was effectively abandoning me and our friendship.

Maybe they were trying to convince themselves of the same thing.

John had to know a new life was waiting for him, with Mary and their future children and a perfect little house with a white picket fence. God, maybe they'd even get a dog.

He'd find new friends that shared his more mundane interests, the ones that didn't involve bloody combat and murder. Boring married friends that drank cheap wine and played Scrabble on Friday nights instead of running through the city and collapsing exhausted in bed at ungodly hours.

I would only be a hinderance to the promise of a normal life, something I'd kept him from in our years together.

There's no more room for the sociopath. Respectable people rarely associate with the likes of me and no amount of misplaced reassurance could change the fact that John was leaving, probably for good, and it was not okay.

It's not that I didn't like Mary, because I did. She was far, far better than the other dull women John had paraded through the flat during our time together. She truly deserved him, at least I thought so. She was kind and intelligent and strong, the perfect woman for my best (and only) friend. I wouldn't have wanted John to marry anyone else.

I suppose is was only a plus that she didn't hate me, perhaps she even liked me.

And maybe I could have been okay with this, with John leaving and moving on with someone else, someone I genuinely liked to the best of my capability, but not after what happened tonight.

I just could't believe all of them anymore. Things were not going to be okay.

Mary was pregnant and John was going to be a father sooner than I'd expected, and the two of them would have their own little family of three. No room for me anymore. They'd have a real baby to take care of.

I thought it would take years. Isn't that how it usually went? People got married, spent a few years together, got a puppy as practice then decided to have a baby or two. Of course, I knew John would end up with children eventually, he was always so good with them, but I'd put those thoughts at the back of my mind. A child would be the thing to really screw everything up and I didn't want to think about what it would mean for the two of us.

Now John would be caught up with a wife and work and a baby on the way. No room for friends that required a lengthy drive to see. No running off on cases where you could be shot or stabbed or worse. John had a family to think about now.

Sure, someone could make the case that this would only bring us closer. John would want me in the child's life, he might make me the godfather.

But honestly, who in their right mind would want me near a child? I blew things up and worked with dangerous chemicals and molds and body parts. I studied dead bodies and traipsed around crime scenes and chased after criminals. My life was dangerous and insane and I'd gotten John and myself nearly killed too many times to count, recently too, I'd gotten John stuck in a tube tram with a bomb and nearly blown him up. I was the kind of person people protected their children from. I was the monster.

I had to shake myself mentally. I couldn't do this anymore, I could't keep standing here in looking at all these happy people that didn't seem to notice how horrible I felt.

I could leave right now without anyone noticing. I probably should. There wasn't a point in staying, really, it's not like anyone wanted me here. Sherlock Holmes at a party, it was unthinkable. I'd only embarrass myself or someone else. I'd say something wrong to one of Mary's friends or get in a fight or God knows what and I'd ruin the night just like I'd ruined most of the day.

Yes, they didn't want me here. Why would they? I'd already caused enough trouble for the day. I'd already embarrassed John and Mary both, letting out a secret they weren't even aware of to an entire room of people. I'd done enough as it is.

They probably wanted to celebrate too, their wedding and the "wonderful" news I'd just given them.

And anyway, if I stayed I would end up sitting in a corner somewhere, drinking glass after glass of wine with a sour look on my face. I'd be nice and drunk before anyone noticed, before Mary would no doubt rush over and force me to dance, not taking no for an answer. John just get worried and Molly would just want to make sure I was okay before reminding herself that she loved Tom now, not me.

It's not like anyone would miss me. They wouldn't even notice I was gone.

It would be better if I left now.

The night was as good as over. I'd done what I was supposed to, what I promised John I would. I'd stayed for the ceremony and the food (which I actually ate, for once), I'd given my speech, despite how horrible and stressful it was. I even surprised the two of them with a song I'd composed specially for them.

I'd done more than enough.

Now I could go and leave the happy couple in peace.

And finally, I could get on with my own plans for the night. Things I'd been thinking about for a long time. Alcohol (or perhaps something stronger) sounded comforting right about now.

I checked to make sure nobody was watching. I had to be careful. Nobody could be allowed to see my leave, it would just arouse suspicion, and suspicion was not something I needed right now. No need to let on to anyone else how terrible I was feeling. It would only worry them, make them follow me.

I walked out of the room, winding through the sea of people and waiters. Nobody seemed to notice, all of them too drunk or distracted or a combination of both.

I was invisible.

I grabbed my coat from the coat check, pulling it on as I walked outside, feeling a rush of blessedly cold air swirl around me. I hadn't realized how hot it had been in there. Or maybe it was just me.

I did have to give it a few minutes through, just to be sure. I had to make sure nobody saw me and decided to follow me out here. I still had to hope, I suppose, that someone cared enough to follow me and make sure I was okay even though I'd never be honest anyway.

Bloody human emotions, always making things difficult.

I couldn't deny that I had them anymore, it just wasn't an option. For so long I'd shut myself away, refusing to feel. It'd worked for a while. I kept my distance, never got entangled in friendships or romantic relationships. Nobody could ever be used against me. But I decided to open myself up to someone, and in the end, I've only been hurt because of it. But the time I've gotten to spend with John before I had to go did not make up for the amount of time I'd been "dead" and gone. I'd hurt too much in the past two years to pretend I was some sort of machine. I was hurting to much now, actually, even if I would never admit it to anyone. I had trouble admitting it to myself.

Leaning against the carved stone railing, I dug a mostly empty, slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. It was amazing that John hadn't figured out I was smoking again. He should have been able to smell it on me, but he was probably distracted enough as it is what with the wedding and Mary and all.

I plucked one out and jammed it between my lips, lighting it deftly, a skill I'd had far too many years to practice.

Immediately, I felt a bit calmer, a bit better. Slowly, I exhaled, blowing the smoke out my nose and watching it billow and rise in the crisp air. I couldn't deny how beautiful it looked.

If someone found me right now, it would be easy enough to pretend I was just out having a smoke. I could follow the back into the party and sneak off later. Simple.

I thought I head footsteps behind me.

Maybe it was John, brow furrowed like it always was when he worried, trying to find me, trying to play therapist and find out what was wrong with me.

Maybe it was Mary, ready to drag me back inside.

Maybe it was Molly.

Maybe it was Lestrade.

I turned, holding the cigarette between my fingers, and holding my breath, hoping someone would be there.

Nobody.

Must have been my imagination. I'm hearing things again. I thought I was done with that.

I rested my elbows on the stone railing, lazily tapping the ash away. Not much longer and I should be in the clear.

Looking down, I realized the rather hideous boutonniere was still in my jacket pocket. I removed it, hesitating as I moved to drop it over the edge. I laid it on the railing instead, straightening myself and dropping the mostly finished cigarette to the ground, twisting my foot on top of it.

Look at me, already leaving signs for people to find me.

I walked out into the night, turning back once more to make sure nobody was following me. Hoping somebody was.

Nobody was.

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet, uneventful, though rather long. No calls. No angry texts. No "Sherlock, where bloody hell are you?". No "Why did you leave so soon?"

Looks like nobody had noticed.

I shoved the cabbie some notes as I felt the vehicle coming to a stop. I exited quickly, hoping to escape for the cab's frankly sweltering, stepping back into the cool night air.

I exhaled slowly as the cab pulled away, leaving me the only one on the street. The city seemed quieter tonight, if that was even possible.

My fingers fumbled for the keys. I ignored how they shook so violently.

I suppose I was finally acknowledging what leaving the wedding early meant for the night.

Finally, I managed to slip it in. I made my way up the steps, running my fingers along the wall, just remembering.

Mostly that first night with John, how we'd chased a cab through the streets and ended up back here, panting and, frankly, giggling. Giddy and high on excitement, the thrill of the chase. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget the smile on John's face that night. It had brought me comfort in the past two years spent alone.

I pushed past the feelings and memories though, sure I would never have such a experience with John again. No more chasing cabs through London.

The game was over.

I entered the flat, not "our flat" but "mine" now, dropping my coat in a pile on the floor. I was alone, once more. John wasn't here to bother me about hanging it on a hook or at least draping it over a chair. Mrs. Hudson would't be home for hours, and the other tenants only bothered me when my experiments went awry and exploded. I don't even know their names.

I locked the doors anyway, both the sitting room and kitchen. No need for Mrs. Hudson to interrupt me.

I unbuttoned my suit jacket as I made my way to the bedroom, grabbing a change of clothes (unsure of their cleanliness, not that it mattered) and tossing the jacket on the bed. A shower sounded good right now.

I stepped into the bathroom, already working to undo the buttons on my shirt. I couldn't help but grimace at the sharp pain in my back.

I let the shirt drop to the floor, twisting and craning my neck in front of the mirror to get a look at my back.

Still streaked with wounds in varying states of healing, some of them still bandaged, resolutely refusing to heal, other scabbed over or turned to puckered, red scars.

I grimaced, turning around again to face myself in the mirror.

Pale skin, messy hair and tired but still sharp eyes ringed in deep half-moons stare back.

I haven't sleeping well, too many nightmares.

Nightmares of torture and pain, of falling, and of what could have happened.

Nightmares where John never forgave me, where Mary wasn't there to talk him around.

Nightmares where they found him, where they shot and killed the one man that truly seemed to matter.

I couldn't sleep, not matter how hard I tried.

I'm thinner too, almost remarkably so. Not only weight lost during the past two years, but weight lost very recently. My cheekbones were sharper, and if I looked down, I was sure to be greeted with the sight of grotesquely protruding ribs and hip bones.

John wasn't here to remind me to eat anymore, so I wasn't going to. I usually only manage to eat the tea and biscuits Mrs. Hudson brings me on occasion.

I just forget, that's all.

I'm surprised John hasn't noticed yet. How thin I was. How I winced whenever I moved the wrong way.

Shows how much he cares.

He hasn't noticed anything about me.

He hasn't noticed how bad things were. He hasn't noticed how sad I am.

Tearing my eyes away from my ghostly reflection, I strip down and step in the shower, reveling in the scalding hot water.

I should probably turn down the heat, it was starting to hurt.

I didn't really care, I let it go on.

When I stepped out, my skin was flushed and angry red.

I ignored it.

I changed quickly, making my way into the sitting room, where I sank down on the couch.

I stretched out, a thousand different voices filling my mind, all trying to tell me the same thing.

No, don't do it.

You're being stupid.

You said yourself you were done with this.

It'll only make things worse.

It's never helped you in the past.

It's only destroyed.

Someone will find out.

Mycroft will find out. He knows everything.

He'll send you away again, just like he did last time.

John will just be disappointed, so disappointed.

He'll cut ties with you, or worse, treat you like some fragile, broken things.

I punched the cushions, groaning.

The voices needed to stop. I had to make them stop.

John's voice, Lestrade's voice, Mycroft's voice, even Molly's, all weaving through my mind constantly. Trying to tell me what to do.

They were always there, constantly whispering in my ear. I hated them.

It started a long time ago. Sometimes for comfort, sometimes to remind me of things.

I'd embraced them at first, relishing in the fleeting familiarity of the voices in the alien parts of the world I was forced into.

Imagining John there for me, when I was being tortured, when I was hurt, when I was sick.

But now they were horrible. Now they only reminded that the real mouthpieces to the haunting voices were gone, that they weren't here, that they never would be.

Now they were just trying to stop me for doing what I wanted.

But they were just voices.

They weren't here, they couldn't stop me.

I was alone.

I would always end up alone, because people moved on. It was what they did.

John had moved on. Molly had moved on. Lestrade would move on too, running back to his ex wife who despised me. Maybe Mycroft would even find his goldfish.

I was alone. The voices couldn't tell me what to do.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," I muttered, fisting my hands in my hair.

I did know one thing that could make them stop.

Slowly, I rose from the couch, crossing the room. I knelt on the floor, pulling up the rug and a loose floorboard along with it.

I grabbed my new stash, hastily purchased the night before. A part of me seemed to have known how tonight would have ended.

But I'd been careful, making sure to avoid CCTV cameras. Mycroft didn't know, at least not yet. Nobody knew.

I returned to the couch, sitting up this time.

I laid everything out, mind already racing, remembering the steps as if it had been days instead of years since I'd last tried this.

I'd stayed clean in my two years away, hoping John would still be there when I came back.

He was gone now, and I was alone.

I stopped myself, hesitated for one moment.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Checking for messages, something, anything. Something to remind me that John still cared, that he was still there.

Nothing.

I suppose nobody noticed my absence.

It didn't make me feel any better. It only made me feel worse.

My movements were methodical now, well practiced and precise despite the violent shaking in my hands.

It took a few minutes, but finally it was ready.

I held the needle in my hand, enjoying the familiar sensation of the cool glass on my feverish skin and the weight of it against my fingers.

I gipped the needle tighter in one hand, unbuckling my belt and taking it off with the other.

I wrapped it around my arm, pulling it tighter with my teeth, the taste of the leather filling my mouth.

No turning back now.

The voices came back though, whispering.

No.

No, Sherlock.

Don't do this.

Don't destroy everything.

John will be so...

The voices were cut off my a sharp, but familiar sting. The needle was in.

Shaking, I depressed the plunger, shuddering as the blessed drug entered my system.

My first high in years. It felt wonderful, better than I ever remembered.

Everything faded, the world grew sluggish and slow, crawling like at a snail's pace.

Troubles slipped away, and, suddenly, I forgot what I was worrying about.

I forgot about John.

I forgot about the pain and the humiliation and the unending loneliness that was my life.

The high was all that mattered now.

I slipped back on the sofa, sighing contentedly and curling up around a pillow, a genuine smile playing across my lips for the first time in a long time.

I'd do anything to get rid of the voices.

Yeah...so I don't even know what that was. Well, it was probably just a one-shot. I mean, I could write more but I'm not sure if I will...

Really, it was just an experiment in the first person.

So please, tell me what you think.

Please?