Chasing paradise, by chibiness87
Rating: M. Drug use.
Season/Spoilers: Post ep for 4.02 The Lying Detective
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: The comedown's going to be hell.
A/N: Inspired by Ben's brilliant portrayal of a heroin addict in Patrick Melrose. Y'know, for a change of pace.
He really could do with a fix right now.
It's for John. That's what he tells himself. All for John. And if it's for John, then it needs to be done properly. Needs to be done with care. Doses measured, needles procured. No point in risking using a contaminated needle, after all. No point in almost dying to save his friend only to actually die in the process.
Molly will kill him if he ends up on her slab.
Molly. The thought of her is almost enough for him to regret this, but she'll understand. She will. She gets him, even when no one else does. She stays. She stays.
He's tried so hard over the years to push her away, but she's like an annoying goddamn puppy, and sticks by his side. He's honestly run out of ways to get her to leave.
If he didn't love her so fucking much he'd be royally pissed off with her.
His hands are shaking.
He needs another hit.
The door to his kitchen, to his make-shift lab, are so far, he feels like he has to pull himself along the wall to get there. Is this a new side effect? He can't remember.
Can't remember being this high, for this long.
Christ, the comedown is going to fucking hurt.
But that's for later.
Right now he needs a fix.
Maybe he should mix it up a little. Try some meth. Some coke. Something other than smack.
But the thrill of the heroin is unlike anything else, makes his mind quiet like nothing else.
He misses it.
The quiet.
Finally, he's at the kitchen door. Hands scrambling, he finally pushes it opens… nothing.
There is nothing in his kitchen. No lab. No Wiggins.
No drugs.
Shaking hands clasp his hair, greasy with sweat.
Wasn't there drugs here?
Wiggins was here and the drugs were here, and he was going to make him some more. For the plan. Because he has a plan. He knows he has a plan. He's the king of plans.
No he's not.
Just how long has he been out of it?
He slumps against the table. A pain in his chest, now. Looking down, dressing gown gone, pyjamas open, he sees bruises.
Bruises?
Faded memory of John kicking the holy cap out of him, pain and anger fuelling him on. Oh yes, bruises. He remembers now.
John.
It was all for John.
John and Rosie. Rosie, who still has a father even if she no longer has a mother.
Mary.
Mary and her plan and the drugs and John.
Fuck, he needs a fix.
But the drugs are gone. Why? Why are the drugs gone?
No.
No, that's not right. He has… he has stashes. Emergency supplies. Provisions, for times like this. Not like this.
Maybe like this.
He's confused.
Everything's going too fast, or too slow. One of them. Both of them. He can't keep up.
Heroin.
He needs heroin.
Just a little. Just enough. Just to take the edge…
"I got rid of it, Sherlock. So you can stop looking."
Her voice is cold. Hard. Full of edges, where normally she is soft and smooth and round.
His eyes blink open. When has he closed them? He can't remember.
"Mol'y."
There's something wrong with his hearing. Her name's all… blurry. Fuzzy. Humming and distant. But wait. No. her voice was all cold and hard and had all those edges. He's sure of it. Certain of… what was he saying?
Brown eyes. Her eyes are brown. Like soil. Like coffee.
Oh. Coffee. He could do with a coffee. Black, two sugars, I'll be upstairs. Hahaha.
"It's not funny, Sherlock."
That voice again.
"M'fine." His hearing's playing up again.
Playing up. Why is it always playing up? Why isn't it playing down?
He plays down. Down to a crowd, to an audience. Look at me, I'm so smart. I see everything. Everything.
Where did he stash that needle? The preloaded one? In the skull?
"I said I got rid of it."
She's lying. She's lying. She wouldn't have got rid of it. She wouldn't. He needs it.
No.
No, he doesn't.
Junkies need. Addicts need.
He wants.
That's… different. Right?
Want… that's better.
Right?
There's a sigh. A shift in the air around him. Oh, hello, he's not alone. He thought he was. He always is.
A blanket lands on his shoulder, and he shrugs it off. He doesn't need it.
Except, well, now he's cold.
Shaking and trembling and sweating, and ok, maybe he wants the blanket.
Maybe the blanket was a good thing.
Like heroin.
Heroin's good. Really, really good.
He could really do with a fix right now.
End
Thoughts?