Breathing in the snowflakes
Tall, pale, dark – stumbling down Baker street.
Unsteady, unaware, unkempt.
Shivering.
221. 221. 221. Right…here…
Fading. Falling.
Gone.
Closed eyed, and hoping for a better life
Sherlock's eyes open, and then close. He is in his bed, wrapped in a filthy duvet. How long since he had last washed it?
His return to consciousness is always paired with disorientation, and when a cold, wet flannel is pressed to his forehead, he pulls back in surprise.
"Mycroft?"
"No. I saw you faint, and, well…I brought you up here. I spoke to your landlady. You've been out for about an hour."
He does not know that voice.
He's so tired. The pleasure of detachment is beginning to fade, and the pain is returning, bringing with it his most common thought:
More. More. More.
I need it. Get me some, please god, get me some.
Exhaustion is taking over. He can't be bothered to push it away. There's a tentative hand in his hair, stroking. A different kind of pleasure, one he can barely recall ever experiencing stems from the touch.
Warmth, light.
"Who are you?"
"My name is John."
Sherlock slips into a dream.