So I posted a very silly multi-chapter a long time ago, which I very merrily deleted. But I'm back again with this ugly thing.
It's angsty and druggy and inspired by this weird mix between drowning and heroine overdose (which is actually very akin to morphine overdose, thank you).
Sherlock is in a bad way, and let's all just happily torture him in as few words as possible.
A little desperate!lock. Very vague Johnlock ok just read it kiss kiss.
They would throw a fit if they knew, just knew, and knew what? Knew this, this thing that made him, this thing that made him feel something he could not feel, something so quick and effortless, a thing, a thing tangible and not quite so fleeting, a thing. He could see it, a liquid, clean and clean and neat with promise, promises to him and to this aching, stupid, meaningless boredom. Prod, prodding him all the time, so devil-may-care he would try to seem, but in reality, reality he knew this was a solution, which he admittedly had, had, had to have. He had to get it, get it out and here and now, but John would be disappointed, and he doesn't like to disappoint him, given it is, was, is so perfectly easy to do the very opposite on any given day with, with the good doctor. Amazing, brilliant, fantastic, fantastic, amazing, brilliant, brilliant, John. John.
He finished with restraint, pulling the needle out slowly, tossing it on the sidetable, glancing one last time at his bedroom door with apologetic eyes, as if his friend was reading the post next door. But it was too late now, and it would, would, wouldn't, Christ here it comes. His back arches, a hand clutches the dark duvet, and this is what, why his body is on earth. Simply for this. He feels soft and delicate, but very heavy. So heavy, in fact, that he sinks effortlessly into the bed, plummeting in soft warmth and his own scent. This is heaven, heavenly, so much so that he relishes for what feels like years, wrapped gently in it. He feels things others can only describe. The touch of a lover after years apart. A mother's embrace. Friendship. Warm drinks. The scent of the kitchen after Christmas dinner. The morphine makes it difficult to withstand the feelings of sentiment attached so haphazardly to these thoughts. And if there is anything he wishes to allow, it is thoughts of his flatmate. His stupid hair, his stupid jumpers, his inability to quite handle the chip-and-pin, his silly, stupid, stupid slow and meaningless prattling about silly, stupid, wonderful—stop.
He clutches at the soft dark violet walls of duvet surrounding him, straining in his blurred vision to spy the soft lamplight from the nightstand. Suddenly he is filled with dull rage inspired by a generous lack, a lack of oxygen. It seems to sink lower and lower, drag, dragging him with it, his lungs filling slowly with fatigue and then, then he is suffocating not only in the literal sense, but with, with, with panic. He reaches, but his hands clutch nothing, go nowhere, the only sensation is that confounded duvet, and heat, and the scent of his own dull cologne. He hears, feels Moriarty snapping his fingers happily as the past four months playback like a shit reel-to-reel. The pool, The roof, Irene Adler, The roof, John, John, The roof, Jim from I.T., Molly Hooper, The Roof. Moriarty laughs at him. Moriarty puts a gun in his mouth. Moriarty watches him from Hell, as he says his goodbyes, and plummets to his death. Riding off into the moonlight, he had thought so sincerely that he had one the game enough. It would take time, but he would be back. Everything would be, be normal, back to normal. Mrs. Hudson's soft hands, John's natural state of upset. He had initially taken to drugs, short term, and suddenly Moriarty snaps again, and he is back in his clothed grave. All bark, and no lungs, eh Sherlock? He is a murmur in the warmth, but it is hot and harsh and loud. He stops fighting with a single breath, the lamplight dims, full stop.
Sherlock Holmes is dead.