He hadn't meant it. Not a word. He'd never have said something like that to John if he'd been thinking straight. But he hadn't been thinking straight, because he's an idiot and he never fucking thinks straight when it comes to John Watson and he always ends up ruining everything. Every good thing that has ever happened to him he has destroyed, and now John is just the final in a long line of casualties at Sherlock's hands. Well, perhaps not the final casualty.
He took a quick swig of his pint, swallowing it down quickly and grimacing slightly at the taste. He didn't drink often, finding the depressant effects of the alcohol too unbearable for him most days. But some days, when the emotions became too much and he just needed something to dull the sharp edge of the agony, he'd find the nearest pub and hole up there for as long as they'd allow him and get right pissed.
He'd already been sitting at this stool for an hour or two. He wasn't really sure as he'd honestly stopped counting the minutes long ago in deference to the thick clouds that rolled through his mind. His pint was long gone uncomfortably warm and the crowded pub was crushingly warm and seething with an enormous amount of noise and writhing movement. He thought about moving on, finding a smaller pub where he could wallow in peace, but he honestly couldn't find the effort. What was the point anyways? He didn't deserve the comfort of grieving in peace. So he'd suffer through this final night with as much dignity as he could muster and then hole himself up in the nearest drug den with the cheapest cocaine money could buy until he was beyond saving.
He took another swig of the pint and again grimaced before pushing the glass away, bowing his head between his elbows, and tugging on his curls hard enough to make his scalp burn and a few loose strands flitter out from the horde.
God, why was he so stupid! Might as well just get on with it if all he was going to do was berate himself, give himself the chance to turn back. He was probably stupid enough to take the chance, but how could he live in a world without John Watson by his side? Surely he'd have long gone by now, packed up his meager belongings and left.
He sighed deeply before pushing himself up from the bar and staggering slightly to the door. He opened it and was immediately met with a blast of bitter wind. Right, January, with no coat. He steeled himself, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso, and pushed out into the snowy chill.
He wandered the streets aimlessly for what felt like hours, numb to the protests of his feet, stomach, and core as he began to shiver. Finally he happened across one of his bolt holes from so many years ago, when he'd been cut off from all funds from his family and needed his fix as cheap as he could get it. It took a moment for his unfeeling fingers to undo the latch on the gate, and even longer for them to find the bell and ring it as he slumped against the door jamb. A minute or so passed in the bitter silence of a snowy evening, only the shrill whistling of the distant wind to keep him company until the door opened suddenly and he stumbled forward into hard, muscled arms.
"Wooah! Woah there! What do you think you're doin'?!" A gruff voice called from above him in the darkness. It took him a moment to get his feet under him and sway back out of the man's reach. "Sorry," Sherlock slurred slightly, "Wasn't expecting you yet, didn't hear you coming." Sherlock listed to one side and had to catch himself before he stumbled, "Just looking to buy a bit, I'm an old friend of Kinlan's." The man gave him a once over and grunted his approval, stepping aside to allow Sherlock in. "Kinlan's upstairs in his office, you'll know it if you know him." Sherlock nodded his thanks and slowly made his way through the freezing, musty darkness, passing room after room of bodiless groans of pain and pleasure, to the second floor.
It took a moment for his clouded brain to remember how to find Kinlan, who hid his "office" to avoid buyers, sellers, and cops alike, except Sherlock. When he finally remembered where the wallpapered door was hidden and how to knock to gain entrance, he'd already passed by the very spot 5 or 6 times.
He was met at the door upon its opening by the short, mousy stature of his closest and most familiar coke dealer of years past. "Sherlock!" The man called loudly with a smile, "How good to see you! I've missed you, you were my best customer! How've you been?" He held out his hand for a shake, which Sherlock returned begrudgingly, and then stepped back to let Sherlock through.
Sherlock just managed to piece together just enough of his normally impeccable articulation to respond sharply, "I'm not here for pleasantries, Kinlan. What's the cheapest you've got?"
Kinlan looked away nervously, "I've got some stuff, cheapest I've seen in years, but it's nasty stuff Sherlock, it's not gonna be fun."
"I don't care about pleasant! How much?"
Kinlan hesitated.
"How much?" Sherlock snarled.
"40 quid a gram. Guy gave me a lot of it for nothing."
"Fine." Sherlock pulled out his wallet and handed over the cash, which Kinlan accepted reluctantly.
"Be careful Sherlock." Kinlan said as he passed the baggies and assorted supplies along. Sherlock only growled menacingly in response before snatching the bags away and flying out the door with a not-so graceful stumble.
When Sherlock returned to the bitter sidewalk the icy, biting wind seemed to talk all of his anger with it as it whipped past, leaving only the regretful sorrow of a grieving man. He walked the inky streets of London, the sun long since gone down, turning his words over and over in his mind.
"I don't need you or your meddling, John!" He roared, flailing his hands in his frustration, "Not your doctoring, your care; none of it! Just leave me alone! Go have sex with another one of your detestable, inconsequential girlfriends that will last two weeks or drink yourself into oblivion like your father!" Sherlock stormed out of the flat in a huff, catching a glimpse of the hurt on John's face that sobered him immediately, but not enough to prevent his leaving.
He walked, hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets, gripping the baggies he'd stuffed there with fingers stiff as a corpse's, unable to release even if he tried; though whether it was from cold or anxiety he didn't know. Hours seemed to pass as centuries, tears freezing to his cheeks and eyelashes making them feel heavy. His legs, his arms, his head, weighed down by thousands of kilograms of lead, dragging him down, calling out to the soft, feathery mattress at his feet. They grew heavier and heavier as he settled into the supple, white down, his duvet descending around him bringing comfort from the frigid wind he hardly felt anymore.
He just wanted to sleep but despite the heaviness of his eyelids he couldn't seem to get them to close. They fought him at every blink, forcing him awake, reminding him of someone waiting for him, watching him, Stay awake Sherlock, you can't sleep just yet, there's still more to do tonight. But it was a warm, lovely voice he'd never hear again. Like a basilisk, slithering through the grasses, he'd get close just to find that his presence brought only death and destruction.
Sleep. A final request from a grieving man, it eluded him, until finally he remembered the remedy in his pocket. He curled up in the space where the bed met the corner, propping himself up just enough to be considered upright, and slowly uncurled his fingers from their death grip around the bags. He emptied the three little bags into the vial of water and shook it, the movement making his head spin. He pulled the liquid up into the syringe with quivering hands and had to stop for a moment to close his eyes and bring the reeling world around him back into focus.
He managed to find the vein he needed and inject the solution with a cloudy sigh. Finally his eyes allowed themselves to close, his blinks becoming slower and slower, an ache developing deep in his chest, a dull throbbing he found far too easy to ignore. He didn't even remember why he'd stayed awake so long, perhaps he'd been living a nightmare, one that was blessedly ending, and he'd wake up in a world where basilisks didn't exist and destruction kept its distance. He smiled at the thought.
Then he remembered the far off lighthouse of warm blue/brown eyes. Eyes that sparkled with laughter, darkened with anger, crinkled around the edges with a smile dancing in the irises. Eyes that pinched in the center with concern. He could almost see them and reached out with brittle hands and glass fingers, reached out towards the sweet haven of them, but glass cannot feel the tenderness of a warm cheek as it backs away into the darkness. He surged forward and cried out for the comfort of those eyes, "I want to come back!"
But then his eyes refused to open and the darkness behind them was only broken by the twinkling of a long lost, remembered star in a dark blue sky.