The trick with a void is to empty it. Drain it into nothingness where anything matters none.
He'd said that to John when he'd first discovered Sherlock's derelict sheen of white powder,
Even though he'd tried to be as meticulous as possible. No wonder the doctor is such a help.
Voids, as said before, can be turned into black, where the brain can work, unconsciously,
Open doors which would forever remain shut if not for the substance that is the key.
"I'd rather die. My mind rebels at stagnation!", he'd yelled when confronted by Dr. Watson.
Doctor Watson. Not John, definitely not dear John, and most definitely not the man who sweats,
Thrives, shivers and moans in their bed, when it suits him. When Sarah is unavailable.
Harrowingly, Sherlock led the life of a consulting detective, it was all he knew. He'd created the job.
Anything else would be just that void where nothing exists and the mind rots, no puzzles to solve.
The only thing that bothered him, was that he wasn't bothered at all. Dead people, serrated heads,
Lives of mothers and fathers and friends lost, and the only thing Sherlock felt that mattered, was that,
In time, John would come home. For now, he'd rely on the next best thing.
Easing out a small pouch from his breast pocket, Sherlock inspected it carefully. The stuff was pure, he's tested it himself.
Straight up the nose, and as quickly as the drug hit his bloodstream, the best thing,
Best of them all, glared at him in all his wrath. It didn't help that Sherlock's cock was hard now.
Even Sherlock fathomed that this wasn't the time to suggest a little tumble…
"Never. Can I never leave you alone for a few seconds longer? You mutt, you, you…"
Each word that dripped from John lips was liquid gold in Sherlock's ears. It meant that John was home
And caring. For Sherlock. The freak, the anomaly, the obsessed sociopath who'd've gladly have shared,
To show John, how good it could be. So far, John hadn't agreed to fuck under Sherlock' influence…
"Hear me out…Doctor." Sherlock tried, then fell apart. "You know this is your fault. You know it."
"This?" John could but roll his eyes, entering the kitchen which was at its usual stage of clutter.
"How, if I may ask." John turned, furious, an clamped his hands to Sherlock's collar. "Why? Why me?"
"Even if this is elementary, my dear John, it bears repeating; You left me. You went away. To her."
Veering them both to the sofa, John sat Sherlock down and let go of him, sighing deeply. "It's over.'
"Over? This? I may as well start with the heroin then. Works wonders." "No, you tool. Sarah,
"It's been wrapped, and thrown away a long time ago. We're just friends. Besides, what does it matter?
Don't pretend that's an excuse." "It is. Sherlock hid his face. "Without you, I can't drain the void."