The Bell Ringer

by songsofgallifrey

Ficlet prompt given by a friend. Takes place shortly after Reichenbach. Sherlock stayed clean while in London, but fleeing the country after faking his own death and being forced to go into hiding has taken an unfortunate toll on his sanity. Sherlock must go to desperate lengths to drown out John's voice, and his own guilt gets the better of him. (Look up what 'bell ringer' means.)

"You? Really?"

Sherlock twitched his head and repositioned the tourniquet on his upper arm. The words echoed in his mind, a sick reminder of what his only friend had thought of him being in this exact position. A glint of silver caught his eye and he remembered the syringe on the glass table in front of him.

"Don't do this, Sherlock. You're better than this."

"SHUT IT, JOHN!" His hands shook violently and he clenched them into fists to still them. Breathing rapidly through his nose, he tried to steady his racing heart. Sherlock opened his fists and a thin trickle of blood dripped from each palm where his nails bit into the thin flesh.

He glanced at his left arm and saw a satisfyingly large blue vein pulsing out under his skin, about the size of his index finger. His right hand readied the syringe and –

"Please, Sherlock. Don't."

"I'm sorry, John! I have to do this! I'm so sorry!" With a defeated roar Sherlock buried the needle to the hilt in his vein and pushed the syringe's plunger down. In the span of a few heartbeats the burning sensation traveled up his arm, reaching his chest first, and then his brain. The ringing in his ears, at last, drowned out the last few shouts of John's voice.

Relieved, Sherlock smiled. He released the belt tourniquet from his arm, quickly withdrew the needle and flung it across the room, laughing with joy when it shattered against the cheap motel wall. Leaning on the back of the tattered couch, his laughter became manic and he clutched his arm to his chest.

Another night reliving John's plea for Sherlock to stop being dead would surely have killed him.