At the end of the day, it all works out. For the first time, there's a happy ending, and it's alright that some idiot got the reward for Sherlock's solving the case, because John knows the truth, and John's opinion is the only one that matters.
John, who was happy at the end to (happy after three years of Sherlock destroying him), married off to Mary, who wasn't too intolerable for Sherlock, and off on some overpriced sentimental romantic getaway.
Sherlock's on his own getaway but it's not sentimental and romantic isn't a word in his vocabulary.
It's not that he didn't put it out of his mind place, the consequences of such a large quality of the substance in question entering his system. He's fully aware of the ramifications.
He doesn't know what makes him do it anyway.
Sentiment?
It doesn't matter, he supposes, because right now his mind is empty and that's all that's important. An empty mind is the one thing that's always so far out of his reach (but so close because he always keep that single item that empties it close at hand). It's the only thing he wants more than anything.
No, that's not quite true. There's another, but that's delving into /emotions/ which are far too complicated to give any sort of bother about.
His mind isn't the only thing that's empty.
If he tilts his head and closes his eyes he can hear the ticking off the clock past the buzzing in his ears, he can hear the traffic below and his own heart beating. And if he really tries, he can hear two other heartbeats, miles away, perfectly in sync, with his trying to catch up, close behind.
If he tilts his head to the other side he can hear Moriarty cackling, and he can hear Sebastian Moran spinning a tale of love and deceit. And the concept is so foreign to him - how has Moriarty managed to grasp a concept that he has not?
If he doesn't tilt it either way, he can recall that Moriarty is dead and everything is the same.
Everything except John, that is.
One more milligram later, and Sherlock is dreaming.
It starts with sounds.
Female, thirty seven? No thirty-eight, she comes from a healthy financial background, but she understands hardships. Married, most likely for less than a year. A month, even. Others would call her kind, but she's also bold.
Male, fourty. Recently married as well; doctor. No, military service - no, both. Both. (John?)Male, fourty-seven. Works in the government. Posh, proper. Mycroft. Mycroft?
Male, fifty-two. Doctor, no doubts this time - now that's thought. Doubting. Not related to the other three, no social connections. Distant. Tired. Two kids. Older, in university. His wife is cheating on him, and he knows, but he doesn't care.
Sherlock opens his eyes, and he sees a concerned green (hazel?), that's red-rimmed and panicked. "Sherlock," the eyes say - no, it's spoken out loud, that's ridiculous, eyes can't speak.
His head hurts.
"John?"
"Sherlock," that's Mycroft there, Sherlock would recognize that demeaning tone anywhere. Sherlock groans and he closes his eyes against - he doesn't want to deal with Mycroft right now.
"Leave."
"Sher -"
"You heard him," he female voice, fiercer and more determined then he had otherwise deduced. "He said leave."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Wat -"
"Leave!"
The next time Sherlock open his eyes, Mycroft is gone, and so is Mary Morstan - Mary Watson. Mary Watson. But John Watson isn't, and he sits in a plastic-backed chair beside Sherlock's hospital bed (Sherlock begins carefully extracting the IV from his arm and climbing out of said bed, and John knows better than to protest.)
"You ov -" John begins but Sherlock raises a hand.
"I overdosed, I'm aware. I assume it was Mrs. Hudson who found me, you returned from your retre - honeymoon, called back likely by Mycroft. You're here, and I'm fine, and I'm returning to the flat now."
John doesn't say anything for a long moment, not like Sherlock so desperately wants him to, and Sherlock himself has his coat around his shoulders and his scarf wound around his neck when John finally speaks.
"I thought I - I lost you. Again, I thought I lost you again."
Sherlock stops, but he does not make eye contact. "I told you I'd never let something like that happen again, John, really, you're much brighter than -"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock looks at him, and there's this silly thing called emotion in his chest.
"Don't. Alright? Just, don't."
John doesn't have to clarify. Sherlock understands, and he nods, and he wants so badly to cross he room and plead to John and apologise but it's irrational and not something that is necessary.
Mary Watson knocks lightly on the door, and she enters with a smile, and when John returns in, Sherlock watches their moment slip between his fingers and fall away from the both of them.
That's alright, though. He still has his cocaine