Pieces

The air seemed colder this evening as Sherlock slipped away. He glanced over his shoulder in some hope that his dear friend would be running after him, calling his name. Yet he remained alone. His feet numbly hit the uneven pavement and he stumbled, his breath catching. Sherlock just couldn't think straight after all those alien emotions had flood his mind like a river after a rainstorm. He wanted to be the one sitting next to John, gripping his hand and never letting go, while some other man, probably Lestrade gave the speech of the best man. The detective shoved his hands in his pocket and lowered his head, his long fingers brushing against a crumpled ball of paper. Pulling it out, he immediately recognized the delicate melody he composed the evening he knew he would be the best man. The melody he wanted to play for John on the night he would have proposed. The hurt washed over him like a furious wave, saltwater pressing into the mouth, burning the throat. Sherlock clutched the sheet tight in his sweating palm. Anger, sadness, and confusion bloomed on his face in a hot blush, eyes watering, lip trembling slightly, hands shaking. This never happened to him before, all these human emotions were frustrating. Everywhere Sherlock turned, he hit a wall in his head where nothing made sense, yet everything hurt.

All he wanted was company as he sat on a park bench, bathed in the bright orange glow of a street lamp. A taxi rolled by, asphalt crunching under the weight of the vehicle. Sherlock stood, feeling like forever, and called the cab over. He climbed in, mumbling "221 Baker Street, please," and stared morosely out the tinted window. A silent tear slipped down his face, followed by more. He wiped his nose weakly. When the cab pulled to a halt, Sherlock stepped out, paid his fare while covering most of his face with his scarf, and silently went up to his flat. The once welcoming place now seemed to reek of death, although no such event had occurred. Cold, black shadows seeped from the floorboards and crawled from behind bookshelves as Sherlock slipped off his coat and scarf and shoes, and clambered into his empty bed.

An hour passed and still he lay there, hands gripping the sheets, dampened eyes staring through the ceiling. His bed felt so cold and silent, like those in hospitals where the people go to die. He stood, eyes adjusting to the dark surrounding, and padded into the sitting room. His fingers gently grazed the back of John's favorite chair, memories caving in from all sides. It wasn't so long ago when John sat there in the sunlight reading the paper, his usual tea within reach. And yet the past seemed so far away, like a bridge crumbling right before your eyes, letting you fall helplessly into the void below. Sherlock bent down and sniffed the worn armchair, craving any presence of John. The familiar scent was comforting, and he sat down, hugging its pillow tightly, face pressed against it. Great, heaving sobs spilled from him suddenly, as he truly realized that everything between the detective and the doctor would be completely different now. Now that the man he most loved had found a wife, and just moved on.

Another two hours passed as Sherlock grieved the loss of his best, and really his only friend. John had changed him, made him into something more human, capable of feeling. Sherlock had felt real, bubbling joy whenever he stood by John's side, close enough to touch. Never before was joy so obvious and so prominent, and so warming for the detective. Never.

Eventually John's sweet, addicting aroma began to fade, and Sherlock felt a pang of anxiety. He rushed to John's room and swathed himself in the cozy blankets, burying his head into the pillow. Breathing deeply, his shaking shoulders calmed, his choking grew softer, the tears became fat and slow. He slept there, curled up in his friend's bed, past the time when the morning light cracked through the window and shone on the sweet figure of the lonely detective. His breathing remained slow, soft, and deep, meaning he was still fast asleep, presumably living a nice dream where he could be in love with John all he wanted. The main door downstairs creaked open. Footsteps resounded on each step. The door to 221 B opened slightly, following a sharp knock. "Sherlock…?" John hissed as he slipped in, the door creaking shut behind him. With his hair awry, dark circles beneath his eyes, and slumped shoulders, John held the look of a man deprived of sleep, one who had stayed up all night celebrating. He glanced around, rubbed his temples, and decided to just go about his business on his own. Walking into his old bedroom, he saw his best man swaddled in his blankets like a cocoon, curled in the fetal position. John looked concerned, confused about what he saw. He sat down on the bed and shook Sherlock's shoulder softly at first, and when that didn't work, he shook harder. The detective sat up drearily, and upon seeing John, he started and blushed furiously, and quickly ran his hands through his dark, curly locks of hair. The humiliation of being discovered in John's bed, his wedding outfit still on and slightly sweaty, was terrible. John still looked confused. Sherlock hopped off the bed and practically shouted, "Tea! Yes! Would you like some? I think I'll make some," and he sped out of the room like a frightened bird.

In the kitchen, Sherlock sat at the scarred table, kettle boiling. Oh, why did John have to discover him like that, what ever was he thinking! Sherlock glanced up to find John rifling through the papers on the small computer desk in the sitting room. He rose and strode over, curious. "Did you leave something here?" Sherlock inquired, although he knew full well why his friend stopped by. "Er, yeah, I left my computer," John said frustratedly, his mind occupied with the search. "You know, it's right in the drawer as usual," Sherlock replied, nearly choking on the last word. Of course John wouldn't leave his device here anymore, he had a new home now, with someone else to share it with. Sherlock may have seemed happy and proud of John at the wedding, but of course he envied Mary tremendously. The detective longed to hold John's hand again, pretending like it was necessary and not out of feeling. The love he felt was genuine, and unique. A once in a lifetime occurrence. And now that perfect human had found someone else.

Sherlock stared at his bare feet, lost in his head. John patted his shoulder to rouse him, and Sherlock did stir, only to fall on top of John. The last few days he had exhausted himself, staying up just staring out the window until the sun peeked through the curtains, heralding a new, miserable day. He expected John to be the same man he protected those two years, and that they would become partners again, or even something more. But that was the past now, nothing but an old memory suddenly resurfacing.

Luckily, John caught his friend before an injury could occur. He held him there, leaning limply against his shorter mass, before settling him into his favorite chair. He heard the kettle whistle, and moved over into the kitchen to finish the tea. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, focusing on the floor. Dazed, he rose, but John rushed back in and pushed on his head to keep him seated. "God, you must be tired after all the business of my wedding. You just rest there, it'll be good for you. I'll get that tea, alright?" John scolded, walking back into the kitchen, as if Sherlock was merely a child, tired after a long dreamless nap. The detective blushed fiercely, and pulled his legs up, wrapping his long arms around his knees. John returned, laden with a clattering tray of tea, cream, sugar, and anything else necessary to compose a warm, comforting cup of tea. Sherlock sipped on his tea, melancholy. He wanted John to stay, but he could tell by the way he fidgeted about that he wanted to leave. "Do you mind if I-" John began, "Yes yes, go. I'm fine. Just a little worn out after… everything." Sherlock interjected. John rose, stood for a minute, and walked to the door. Before he exited, he turned back. "I'll be back later, alright? I think you should have company while your ill. I'll bring Mary and some games." At this, Sherlock shuddered slightly. Of course. Mary. And they would have so much fun. Together. How agonizing. Sherlock merely nodded in reply, and sipped his tea again. John left, shutting the door quietly behind him. Sherlock stood, setting his tea on the floor, and stepped to the window, watching John call a taxi and drive off. He shuffled to the doctor's bedroom again and dove under the covers once more, bringing them up to his nose to take deep breaths.

Later, a knock on the door. Mary called out, "Coming in!" And she and her husband entered, laughing. Sherlock went to welcome them after just finishing with something. His hands shook slightly as he smiled at the happy couple. John pulled up a table and set up Monopoly. They all sat, choosing their pieces, and began to play. Sherlock was trembling ever so slightly, but John noticed, and without saying a word, met the detective's intense gaze. He furrowed his brow, sad at what he saw. "Mary, I think we need some biscuits, and Sherlock appears to be out. Would you kindly go to the store and get some?" Mary smiled, nodded, and promptly left the flat. "Sherlock, please, don't tell me… you're… on it again."

"I haven't been using drugs, John. I just decided to try some coffee, alright. And it's a bit chilly in here." He shook a little, to prove his point. "Aren't you cold?" He added. "No," John replied, still suspicious. Sherlock shrugged, his elegant fingers moving to their familiar position. Hands poised beneath his chin, deep in thought, Sherlock's mind palace brought him feverish, drugged dreams of white whispers, falling leaves, imminent darkness surrounding his ever changing body. His head spun drastically, and he leaned over, puking all across the Monopoly board, ruining it. John leapt to his feet, grabbed Sherlock's elbow, and yanked him up, practically dragging him into the bathroom.

John knelt, one hand on Sherlock's heaving back, as the detective emptied the meager contents of his stomach into the toilet. John remained serene, knowing full well the cause of his friend's sudden sickness. Narcotics. When the detective had finished, John gently helped him to his feet, throwing Sherlock's long arm over his shoulder, and walked him into his bedroom, laid him down, tucking the sheets under his body. The doctor sat next to his suffering friend, tears rolling down his cheeks.

All Sherlock could feel was void. A vast, cold emptiness surrounding him, pressing into his skin, almost palpable, like rubbery liquid. And yet it was not there. He tried to peer into the black, but nothing showed. A faint noise echoed somewhere far above him, but he couldn't understand. The void grew thicker, and it became harder to breath. Slowly, he suffocated in the great, incomprehensible nothingness.

John had stayed with Sherlock while he lay passed out on his bed, shivering feverishly. Mary did stop by with biscuits, but John shooed her out without a word. Now he sat on the bed, face in his hands, hair in disarray from running his fingers through it so many times. Sherlock adjusted himself and John looked up, hopeful. But his friend did not wake. John gingerly lifted his arm, looking closely. He found two small, red pricks near the wrist. Frustrated, angry, sad, and confused, John threw down Sherlock's long arm in disgust, as if it was a useless thing. "Sherlock… why… why are you doing this to yourself…" John whispered.

A couple hours later, Sherlock awoke alone. His head reeled again and he leaned over the side of the bed, just in case. When nothing came up, he laid back down, a wave of nausea washing over him. He stretched his arms out, and the bed next to him was still warm from John's body, the sheets wrinkled to describe the impression he had made. Sherlock's clammy hands closed around the sheets, as if he wanted John to be there. In his fervor, he saw the man he felt for sitting beside him, his homely hand just an inch away. Sherlock sat up, his fingers shifting slightly for John's, the tips brushing. But in reality, what he felt was just a book left for the detective to read and distract himself from the overwhelming nausea. "John," he murmured weakly, "you've- you've changed me John, and… I'd like to, um, thank you for that. I feel more… natural. More… good. I- I appreciate what you've done for me." John stood watching from the doorway, completely unnoticed by Sherlock. He heard it all. A silent tear carved its way down his face, and he hurriedly wiped it off. The movement attracted the attention of Sherlock, and John rushed out to make coffee. Sherlock laid back down, somewhat confused and quite sick again. John returned with a tray of coffee and toast. He sat on the bed and patted Sherlock's sweaty, disheveled hair. "Sherlock. Sherlock? Sherlock!" John yelled. Sherlock groaned and rolled over, clearly having no intention of doing anything more. John grabbed his shoulders and pulled him upright, pinching his arm slightly to get his attention. "Wake. Up. You. Cock." He grunted, shaking his friend. Sherlock groaned again, but let his eyes open slightly. "We need to get you out of bed. Let's go for a walk." John said decidedly. He spent a few minutes rummaging through Sherlock's drawer, and tossed some clothes at him. A simple grey tee and sweatpants. Sherlock's sculpted face twisted in disgust, wondering why he even kept those clothes. John left him to change.

Sherlock emerged after a few minutes past, showered, with clean clothes on, the toast nothing but crumbs and the mug of steaming coffee half empty. He had dark purple circles beneath his eyes, and a melancholy look. His hands he shoved stubbornly inside the pockets of the sweatpants, knowing exactly why they were about to go out. John grunted and trudged down the steps, preparing in his mind what to say to his friend. This wasn't necessarily an intervention, more of an explanation.

Outside, John motioned to walk around the block. Luckily Baker Street was quiet this late morning, and not full of it usual bustling passerby and rumbling vehicles. They strode along at a hefty pace, John struggling to keep up with Sherlock and his long legs. After some distance John grabbed Sherlock's shirt and pulled him to a stop just inside one of the many alleys around the area. "Sherlock, we-" John began, but Sherlock interrupted him instantly. "I know full well what you're about to say, and-"

"Shut up. Just shut up. You have no idea what I'm about to say, or how I feel right now, about all of this, about you. No idea. You never think about how you affect others, and that's why I'm your only friend, Sherlock. You hurt people when you don't always mean to, but they hurt all the same. I hate it, hate it when I see you like this, needle pricks on your arm, this sickness. Why, Sherlock. Why do you do this to yourself? That's all I ask, I don't understand why you want this."

"John, I… well I… you see I…" Sherlock looked up at the grey sky, the thickening clouds, the oncoming storm. He stared John straight in the eyes, unsure of how to explain himself. A tear trailed unnoticed down his sad face, wiped away only when Sherlock felt its sting on his lips. John shook his head, torn. "You'll never understand, will you." He said, more as a statement than a question. If only it were a question, and the answer was a glad one. That Sherlock would understand. That he would know how his words and his actions affected the lives of others. If only. Sherlock let more tears slip, his heart felt broken. Dejected, he turned back the way he came, and walked back to his empty flat, furiously brushing the oncoming tears away. John stood, watching him walk away, fists clenched and reddening. He knew he hurt Sherlock, but he didn't care. Sherlock had brought this upon himself.

Back in the lonely flat, Sherlock sat in his chair, curled into a tight ball, shaking, eyes staring empty and dead at John's chair. He wiped his nose and got up. He didn't feel the nausea any more, just numbness. Was this how humans feel? This, emptiness inside? An insatiable hole that screamed to be filled? He grabbed the blanket thrown over the back of John's chair and held it to his face, breathing in the scent. He imagined John was still with him, and happy. He imagined John moved back in, and they would solve cases together just like old times. The scent faded away and Sherlock shivered. He trudged slowly into his bedroom, his mind feeling disconnected. Opening the door and stepping in, he reached up to slide back a secret compartment hidden in his doorframe. He silently pulled out a small needle and a vial filled with fluid.

John sat morosely on the sidewalk, leaning back against a heavily graffitied brick wall. Maybe he shouldn't have been so hard on Sherlock, after all, he had the emotions of a child but the mind of a genius. He stood, stretched, and there decided to go back to the flat and forgive his friend. He walked slowly, tired from their fight. He despised fighting with Sherlock, though he often yelled at him. Opening the downstairs door, he heard the sound of glass shattering from upstairs, and he ran up, expecting the worst. He entered the flat to find Sherlock hurling fragile objects, and anything else he could find, at the same wall he shot so long ago. Glass and sharp ceramic chunks littered the floor around John's feet. "Sherlock," he began, reaching an arm out. Sherlock whirled around, eyes reddened, hair sticking everywhere, blood dripping from his lips and staining his shirt. He frowned, as if suddenly realizing what he had done. Then, he collapsed.

John yelled his name, no response. He shuffled through the wreckage, cutting his ankles. He pulled Sherlock up, his body limp in the doctor's arms. John half carried, half dragged Sherlock into his bed once more, knowing deep down this was so much worse. Sherlock coughed up more blood, some splattering on John's sleeves. Unaffected, John propped his friend up on the bed, putting pillows behind his sweaty back. He use the sheets to gingerly wipe away most of the blood from Sherlock's face and hands, as he had cut himself when he fell. Then he blotted away the blood on his ankles. He took the sheets with him as he went to fetch a washcloth and bandages. He returned to find Sherlock with his eyes partially open, head lolling. John grabbed his hair and yelled, "Sherlock what have you done?!" Sherlock only responded by looking John in the eye and looking back into his lap. John released his hair and wiped away more blood with the moist cloth, cleaning Sherlock's wounds. They weren't very deep, but they bled. He wrapped the detective's hands with the bandages he used to keep in the bathroom cabinet. Sherlock winced but still said nothing. Then John cleaned his cuts, not bothering to wrap them. "John…" Sherlock whispered, his voice raspy and hot on John's cheek. "You need to know-"

"Shut up you bastard. Don't talk." John interjected harshly, "I hate you right now, you know that? I really hope you do."

Sherlock cried a little at his words, and mumbled, "oh. It's raining." John looked up, and Sherlock was right. It really was raining. Lightly at first, but quickly the storm thickened, the rain beating against the windows, dark and angry. Sherlock moved his hand to rest atop John's, and John swiftly turned his head to stare at the connection, surprised. "John, I think I'm going to die." Sherlock whispered. John reeled back, stumbling into the bedside table, banging his knee, but he took no notice of it. His fists clenched and unclenched, mouth gaping, unable to come up with any words. "No… Sherlock… what have you done…" although he already knew. Sherlock looked away, unable to meet John's gaze. "I, um, I think I… well you know." He could tell John knew what he had done to himself. John stepped over, grabbing his arm angrily, then set it down, picked it up again, and looked closer. The rubber band was still tied around his arm. He pulled it off and saw 5 needle marks dotting his forearm, slowly turning red. Sherlock leaned over the bed and vomited blood, the glaring red spreading across the mattress like a wine stain. John moved backward again, horrified, so shocked he had no idea what to do, what to say. "I need to go call an ambulance. You hang in there. Sherlock. Please, for me. I need you to stay awake." But all Sherlock heard was thick, slurred words. His eyes longed to close and never open, and he slowly began to shut them. John noticed and slapped the detective's rapidly paling face. Sherlock's eyes were red, his skin clammy and grayish, but he opened his eyes halfway. "Ugh, John, don't do that. I want to sleep. Look, it stopped raining," Sherlock murmured. But the rain still pounded against the windows, wind howling. It seemed as if the flat would just be swept away in the powerful storm. John dialed the hospital hurriedly, time was running out. Sherlock coughed more blood, using his hand to wipe it away, but that only smeared is across his hand and his face. Finally, John's call was answered. "Please I need an ambulance at 221 Baker Street as fast as you can," he said in a rush, "my friend is dying." Sherlock coughed and weakly moved his hand up to catch John's attention. John hung up and moved to his friend's side. Sherlock reached for his hand, and John took it. Surprisingly, Sherlock's grip was strong, and his eyes were wide and fearful. "John I regret it. I don't want to die. Please, help," Sherlock gasped, tears streaming down his sweaty face. "I called an ambulance, you'll be fine!" John whispered comfortingly, crying onto their joined hands. "No…" Sherlock mumbled, looking away. His eyelids drooped, and John yelled his name over and over, trying to prevent the inevitable. "SHERLOCK! DON'T YOU DARE LEAVE ME NOW." But Sherlock's grip loosened, and his eyes began to fade, losing their brightness and color. "I- I love you John Hamish Watson," he said, so softly that John had to lean down to hear him at all. "I love you…" and Sherlock's eyes closed, and his fingers slipped from John's. John screamed, throwing himself over Sherlock's body, holding his friend's limp head in his arms. He stayed there until the ambulance arrived, where he was gently pulled away. They loaded Sherlock's body into the back, and John slipped in just before they shut the doors. John grabbed Sherlock's wrist, some crazy hope driving his mind to action, but he felt nothing. At the hospital, he waited by Sherlock's side until Lestrade came to pick him up. They shared no words, only exchanged a quick, sad glance. Before they walked away, John took one more long look at the incomprehensible sight before him.

Sherlock's finger twitched only slightly, but John didn't see.