AUGH What is wrong with me?! I've been gone for two years and THIS is what I come back with?! Some super depressing, sprinkled with fluff, unsatisfying ending oneshot?! well shit.
NOT A SONG FIC but I love the song... so I guess a song fic? no. idk. Doctor Blind by Emily Haines and the Soft Skeletons.
My Baby's got the lonesome lows,
Don't quite go away overnight;
Dr. Blind just prescribe the blue ones.
If the the dizzying highs don't subside overnight,
Dr. Blind, just prescribe the red ones.
He was lying in bed, long limbs spread out in all directions. Like a compass. Like a compass. Sherlock moved his arms and legs so they actually did mimic a compass, his head pointing north and his feet pointing south.
Oh he could feel it. He could feel another fit setting in. He didn't like to call them fits. No, he didn't have fits; that sounded like he was having a tantrum like a child.
But he could feel it creeping into his bones like a plague. No, not like that either. That was impossible. Nothing could creep into bones. He had done enough research and experiments to know. But that's what it felt like.
It's coming. A whisper in the back of his head told him.
Yes, yes, he already knew. Sherlock knew the exact moment it began and the exact moment it was going to end.
The low had hit at 7:12:09 January 5. Three hours and twenty seven minutes and nine seconds after they closed a case. Four hours and five minutes and nine seconds before John would go to bed.
Nine seconds. Nine. A constantly recurring number.
At the age of nine Sherlock had bypassed almost every grade in his elementary school. He would have to be homeschooled from then on out.
At age nineteen he was shunned by almost every peer for his deducing and lack of social skills.
At age twenty-nine the fits began. No, not fits. Never call it fits. The highs and lows began. The age that most people should be in college, age nineteen to twenty-nine, mental illness begins to show. It begins to make its symptoms known.
In nine hours it would be a full blown low. Even his mental illnesses were on a schedule.
But it wasn't a mental illness to him. No it was something that could easily be cured with a case. Something to make his brain thing. To get him on a high. Such a dizzying high.
Sherlock blinked. His eyes stung from dryness. He forgot to blink while he was so deep in thought. How useless.
The room was dark. Of course it was dark, it was nighttime and both him and John were in their rooms. Separate rooms.
They were supposed to be asleep. Sherlock had only humored John in coming to bed. The fit was seeping into his bone marrow and being mass produced through his blood. White blood cells were being replaced by the low. It's coming. It's spreading.
Blink.
Nine hours from now he should be waking up again. It's when he needs to do something. It's when he begins pacing and throwing things. Three hours from then he'll be curled up on the couch with John trying to comfort him.
John. He's just upstairs. And he always makes the lows better. No matter how hard Sherlock might fight him, he makes the lows better.
Sherlock sat up and moved through the dark room. Suddenly his compass was pointing towards John. John would push the sickness out of his body. Once outside his room, everything filled his mind.
Cold floor; boiler broken still. Walls caving in towards him; the fit gripping its cold arms around him. Never call it a fit. A light snoring sound from above; John is deep in sleep. He won't notice when Sherlock slips into bed beside him. The stairs creak and the snoring stops but Sherlock keeps walking up.
He opens the door slowly, a soft light spilling in the room from the small hallway. John was laying in bed, covers all around his body like a cocoon. Sherlock padded in quietly. John was awake, he could tell by the soldier's posture. He was trying to pretend to be asleep.
Doesn't matter. Boundaries don't matter. Sherlock crawled under the covers and pressed up close against John's back. You can't stop it. That voice kept whispering its cruel words.
"Sherlock?" John whispered finally. He was confused. He had questions, but he was too tired to ask. Sherlock could hear it all in his voice. But his voice seemed to lay a blanket of warmth around his cold, hollow skeleton.
Should he say something? It had been so long since they shared a bed… Why did they stop in the first place? Oh right, a week ago Sherlock had done something John didn't approve of and then never apologized. Sherlock was just on his high from the case. The climax was so near then, nothing could bring him down.
"Just for tonight," the words were a plea for help, but John couldn't hear the S.O.S. Still, he responded by turning around and holding Sherlock.
And the low didn't hurt quite so much.
It's coming.
Hard to hold, cold to touch,
Fall to pieces, treat the rush,
In hindsight, with prime time talk.
All your pain will end here.
Let the doctor soothe your brain, dear.
So many years of this. The low. The high. Never anything in between. John was catching onto the pattern, Sherlock could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at him.
It was like a bulb would go off in his brain and Sherlock could see it shine behind his eyes. Sherlock knew John was actually trying to deduce him with his medical theories.
And that was why Sherlock curled in a small ball on the couch this time. John knew. He was understanding. Finally after all this time he got it. It's not a mental illness, John.
At least, to him it wasn't. It was strength for him. How else would he get so much done during a high.
It was in full swing.
If he went too deep in his mind palace he wouldn't come back from it. The black smoke had woven itself through every door and every crack in the walls of his mind palace. If he stayed there he would be lost.
And he couldn't leave John. John was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground. Except at this moment John had left.
He had left a steaming hot tea on the table for Sherlock and then went out.
Alone. Alone. ALONE.
Alone protects him. If he was alone then he wouldn't get this feeling when John left. John left at 1:24:19.
It was currently 1:43:19.
Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like days. John was gone for so long. The room was closing in on him. Sherlock closed his eyes and there he was, standing outside his mind palace.
The black fog was everywhere. He was just beyond its reach, but if he got too close it would suck him in. It happened once before and it was addictive. It was so hard to get free.
And it was laughing at him as he stood there, just beyond its reach.
You can't stop it.
No, no he couldn't. It would reach him eventually. Maybe not this time, maybe not the next. But it would consume him. It would eat him alive.
Sherlock felt its pull and he wanted it. He wanted it like it was a long lost friend. No, not like that, Sherlock didn't have friends. He wanted it like he used to have John at nights.
It was laughing even harder now.
You ruined that too, didn't you.
It wasn't a question. It was telling him. But he didn't ruin it. It was just on a temporary pause.
But he left you.
No. No he didn't. He didn't. He just stepped outside.
He stepped outside days ago. All you have left is me.
Days ago? It was only 1:51:19.
You can't stop it. He's gone. All you have is me.
Sherlock stared at the black fog that surrounded his mind palace and took a step forward into the darkness.
My Baby's got the lonesome lows,
don't quite go away overnight;
Dr. Blind just prescribe the blue ones.
If the the dizzying highs don't subside overnight,
Dr. Blind just prescribe the red ones.
Violent shaking. He was shaking so hard. His entire body was trembling.
Wait no, that wasn't it. Someone was shaking him. Focus. Pay attention. His brain felt slow and lazy. The black fog was making it crawl like molasses.
"Sherlock!"
What? That didn't sound like the voice that kept whispering lies to him.
"Sherlock, wake up you twat!"
Oh no that wasn't it. He knew immediately who that was. John.
Groggy eyes opened slowly and squinted at the bright light coming through the window. It was only 2:09:00. It felt like a year had passed in there.
Worried eyes, angry face, confused body language. That's what greeted him when he woke back up.
"What?" His voice was weak and tiny. Embarrassing.
"I brought you something," John said and suddenly his posture became awkward. It was something he shouldn't have. Something John will feel guilty about giving him. Sherlock sat up a little bit more.
John pulled out two orange bottles. One full of red pills and the other full of blue pills.
"Red for your highs. Blue for your lows. It'll help," He was so nervous about this. He felt uncomfortable and unsure of how Sherlock was going to act. It was written all over him.
"It will help." Sherlock repeated, blue eyes looking at the bottles. "You mean it will fix me."
"No, no that's not what I meant. I mean, it will help you with your… it will help how you feel." John was even more uncomfortable now, regretting his decision. Sherlock could read it.
But he knew if he took these… he wouldn't be able to read things like that anymore. He would be normal. He would be like everyone else.
"And is this what you want?" He asked John. If it was for John, he would try it. John fidgeted.
"You know what, we don't need these. We can just go through it like we always do, yeah?"
"Why don't we try it. I'll try it for you."
A pause between them.
"You need to try it for you, Sherlock."
You can't stop it.