*The characters are not mine*
Chapter One:
"We can't dance with three people. There are some limits." John said. He was glowing, or at least he was going to his very best to appear glowing and happy. It was his wedding day. He was married, and now he and Mary were expecting a baby. This was, without a doubt, the most important day of his life.
"Yes, there are." Sherlock smiled. It was reluctant, but he did his best to make it look real. He squinted his eyes just enough so they creased like they would in a real smile.
John grinned back at him and took Mary's hand. Conversely, Mary looked at Sherlock with a look that matched the pain he was feeling. She knew when he was fibbing, even when John didn't. She was scared about having a baby, but excited too. Sherlock wanted to be happy for them. He really did. However, as John turned his back and lead his wife to the middle of the dance floor away from Sherlock, away from the life they had together, Sherlock felt completely lost.
Everything seemed to slow down at once. The music that had been pumping in the background, faded to the background. The laughter and conversation became muffled. Everything seemed to grow a little darker and a little farther away. He looked around the room for someone to dance with, but no one was there to be his partner. No bother. Sherlock didn't feel like dancing anyway, and he would hate to intrude on anyone else's festivities. He quietly exited the dance floor and took his coat and scarf from the coat room.
He stepped out into the warm night. It had been the perfect day for a wedding: sunny and warm. Of course that didn't stop him from wearing his coat over his tuxedo. He was a little too warm, but that hardly mattered. He wanted, needed, his coat. It was his defense and his home. In this coat he could be the great Sherlock Holmes. The man John admired and respected. The man John could have grown to love. Sherlock shook his head, scolding himself. No thoughts like that are allowed now, Sherlock. John's moved on. Mary is a wonderful woman. They will be very happy together.
Of course those thoughts didn't help quell the emptiness of his stomach and how his feet felt like they were weighed down by metal chains. Unthinkingly, Sherlock rubbed his wrists. He shouldn't be thinking about chains either. He had spent far too much time in them for the past two years. But that how it all started didn't it?
He had been by the police about to be taken into custody when John had been thrown on the car next to him. The two of them had been chained together and then they had become fugitives together. It was thrilling, and Sherlock had never wanted it to end. But as they say, all good things come to an end, which meant that his life with John Watson had to, at some point cease to exist. He still bore scars marks from the chain that had tied him and John together. But they weren't scars that anyone could see, because they marked his heart and not his skin.
Then came the chains that bound him to walls. The chains that made him feel helpless and hopeless, even though he never let his enemies know. John had kept him strong in those times, directing him on how to be cold, calculating, and a general dick. He still heard John's voice, but it was less often now. Unfortunately, he could never control when John became a presence in his mind palace. It was much like the real John, though. Sherlock never really could predict the man.
Sherlock shook his head once more. He'd been thinking too much. For once, he didn't want to think. He was tired. He wanted a break he feared even sleep couldn't provide. If he had exhibited insomniac tendencies before, then they were even worse now. He paused in his tracks. He'd been walking without direction and was unsure where he was exactly. John and Mary had held their wedding just outside of London in an area that Sherlock hadn't memorized, and he'd been too nervous on the way to the party to accurately pay attention to the roads that had gotten them to the reception hall.
The detective stopped in his path without warning, causing the person behind him to walk right into him; however, Sherlock was too numb to feel it, and he waved the man off as he tried to apologize. Putting his hand out, he flagged for a taxi. The sooner he got back to 221b the better.
By the time Sherlock got back to the flat he was exhausted, truly exhausted. Every bone in his body seemed to sag and every muscle felt sore. His normally straight posture was hunched over as he unlocked the door to 221b. He opened the door and closed it behind him.
Sherlock stumbled up the staircase into the sitting room, deciding to sprawl out on the floor. He didn't bother to turn on the light. It was easier to grieve in the dark. Darkness could hide him; shield him unlike light, which only exposed him. That would explain John, wouldn't it? The conductor of light had left Sherlock more exposed than he could have ever imagined. Well damn him. Sherlock had tried so hard to not get along with people. He didn't need friends. He only needed allies. Then John came along, and suddenly Sherlock savored having company. He liked talking to John and guiding him through deductions. It was enjoyable.
Stop it Sherlock! He scolded himself, but he simply couldn't stop. The entire day had been about John. It had been his wedding. Well, it had been Sherlock's wedding too. He had spoken his one and only vow, pledging himself to John and Mary. It only made sense, since the two of them were one unit. They worked well together.
As the evening passed by, it became more and more evident to Sherlock that he couldn't hold himself together any longer. He was aching for… something. Perhaps it was love or companionship, but he couldn't tell the difference anymore. The detective stood up, despite his protesting limbs, and stumbled up the stairs to John's room. What had been John's room, he supposed.
One reason that he adored 221b Baker Street was all the hiding places. There were so many nooks and crannies and hiding spots. John had never found a single one, which was to be expected. He had a tendency to fail to observe the world around him. Sherlock chuckled slightly. John had many tendencies that were the opposite of his, but he'd liked that. It made John more interesting to figure out.
John's room wasn't as dusty as one might expect, since the room's occupant had moved on. This was simply because the world's only consulting detective had taken to going to John's room on a fairly regular basis. Ever since he had returned to London, Sherlock's nightmares had been brutal. He now understood what it had been like for John. On many nights, when John's screams reached Sherlock's ear, causing the detective would run to his room. Sherlock was always worried about John becoming embarrassed that he couldn't control his nightmares, so Sherlock never went inside. Instead he stood outside the soldier's room and would play squealing notes on his violin to wake John from his night terrors, and then he would play John's song. It was a bit of a lullaby, a bit of a love song, and everything that made up John Watson as well as Sherlock's own feelings for him. He'd played an adaption of that song at the wedding but selfishly kept the original for himself.
Most nights Sherlock wished that there was someone there to comfort him during his nightmares. However, he always tried to dismiss those thoughts quickly. He wasn't in need of company. He had done well without it before, and he could do without it again. Of course, it would be harder to do it this time, because he'd had a taste of living life with someone else. It was like smoking. It was addictive to live with someone else, to love someone else. And it was terribly hard to quit cold turkey, and even harder to do it without asking for help. Sherlock had no intention of asking anyone for help. Maybe he did when he arrived back from his years on the run, but that was done. He'd rather be alone now.
Sherlock all but fell onto John's bed once he had gotten close enough to it. The sheets and pillows had long since lost the scent of the previous occupant, but Sherlock didn't mind anymore. He bought the same cheap detergent that John used and every once in a while, he'd use the same shampoo and shaving products that John used. It never seemed quite right on him, but he had taken to imagining that the scent was still from John as he smelt it on the pillow. He did this now, but it had been a few days since he had done his Watson routine, so the pillow smelt of him instead. Maybe that was a blessing for the night. Sherlock wouldn't be constantly reminded of his blogger.
He closed his eyes, begging for an uneventful night of sleep. His thoughts disagreed with him, though. Instead they speed up as Sherlock attempted to sleep. Images of the wedding played behind his eyes. Strings of sentences from John repeated themselves in Sherlock's ears. Sherlock groaned and put the pillow over his head, as if the object could protect him from his own thoughts. The thoughts were unceasing and after half an hour of trying to ward them off Sherlock finally gave in.
The bed creaked as he sat on the edge of it, staring at the wardrobe that used to hold John's cloths. It had come with the flat, and John, being a practical man, never thought to move it. Sherlock, being quite the opposite, had found a small opening behind the wardrobe. Originally, he had nothing to hide in it. Of course, that sentiment changed as soon as John Watson had come into the picture. The absolute certainty that John had exhibited when he believed that Sherlock had never been a junkie was enough to make Sherlock cringe.
The next time that John was out of the flat, Sherlock had taken his box, hidden expertly behind his sock drawer, and hidden it in John's room. As he had said at the wedding, John kept him right. John had saved his life. In many ways this was true, but perhaps one of the most important things that John had done was saving Sherlock from himself. John had given Sherlock the strongest support to stay clean than anyone else had. Yes, by the time they had met Sherlock was clean. He was no longer an addict to the drugs, but every once in a while he relapsed. Just a bit here, a bit there, it was never enough for anyone to notice. John changed that, as he changed many things about Sherlock.
However, he was gone from Sherlock now. He'd be leaving for his sex holiday soon, and after that he'd be preparing for the baby. Sherlock had no place in their family. So he stood from the bed and moved the wardrobe just a bit to the left, opened the hiding place in the wall and took out the box.
He took it back to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. He stared at the smooth wooden lid. It was a beautiful box that enclosed a hideous thing. How fitting, Sherlock mused. Whether he was referring to himself or to his relationship with John he wasn't sure. Regardless, he took out a syringe filled with heroin and studied it. Academically, he knew that turning to drugs was dangerous and could go very badly. However, emotionally, he could think of no other option. He needed release and he needed it now. His body refused to sleep. There were no sleeping tablets in the flat, since he had taken the last one the previous night and hadn't been out to buy more. This was what he wanted. He raised the needle to his arm just above a blue colored vein, uttered "I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry," and slid the needle under his skin.
A faint buzz rippled through his skin as he lay back onto the sheets imagining that John was there instead of an empty space. But of course that would never happen. Sherlock Holmes was destined to live and die alone, and John was meant to live a normal life with a wife and kids.
"Work faster!" Sherlock yelled unexpectedly toward the track mark in his arm. He'd already thrown the needle onto the ground. He didn't need it anymore. He was on the verge mixing too many chemicals together anyway. He'd put on three, no… four, nicotine patches for the wedding. He doubted that he could have made it the entire time without the drug pumping through his veins.
"Sherlock…" came a disapproving voice from the corner, causing Sherlock to sit up immediately.
"John?"
"Sherlock, what have we discussed about using drugs. You're hurting yourself." It was John as Sherlock always pictured him, from the time before the Fall. From a time when John could have still loved him back.
"I don't care." Sherlock dismissed him, waving a hand haphazardly. "I needed to see the John Watson that I knew before all this."
"You can't keep doing this Sherlock." John walked over to the detective and stroked his forehead with a gentle hand. Sherlock said nothing in return, watching John. He drank in every movement without his normal restraint. He allowed his eyes to roam over John's face. The warm, blue eyes could have swallowed Sherlock up in their vastness. Sherlock wished that was a plausible option. It would not be a bad fate to spend the rest of his life swimming in those eyes.
"Are you even listening to me Sherlock?" John asked slightly annoyed. He had stopped touching Sherlock, causing the detective to whine softly.
"Not remotely." Sherlock answered candidly. "I know the risks of using drugs, and I needed a release. There is nothing else to discuss."
John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock cut him off. "I barely see you anymore, now. Can you please stop lecturing me and just accompany me for the night?"
John's face softened at Sherlock's words. A crooked smile made its way onto John's face as he shooed Sherlock. "Move over then. You're taking up the entire bed."
The detective shifted in the bed to make room for John, watching him situate under the covers before inviting Sherlock to join him. The rough sheets rubbed against him as he slid next to John. Of course it wasn't John, it was just his brain projecting his image, but that seemed to be as close as he could get at the moment.
As soon as Sherlock became situated he became tired and tried to stifle a yawn. John saw it, though. He reached over and brushed the curls on Sherlock's head.
"You've seemed more tired lately Sherlock." John observed, tracing the dark circles under his eyes. He'd gone through great lengths that morning the apply makeup in a subtle enough manner that no one would notice.
"It was anxiety for the wedding." Sherlock answered, moving closer to John, longing for some touch of body warmth. But there was none to be found.
"Why? It wasn't your wedding?" John asked genuinely. Sherlock's heart ached for this to be real and not just his mind. It almost made dealing with all of this more difficult. Almost.
"I exchanged vows, didn't I?" Sherlock responded. "I vowed to protect John and his family. If John is happy and safe, then I can live in relative peace. That's all I hope for at this point." Sherlock looked into John's eyes the entire time. They were memorizing.
"So the man who claimed to be disgusted by sentiment, got married anyway?" John asked incredulous.
"If you want to phrase it like that," Sherlock nodded. His head sank into the pillow, his eyes closing.
"Sleep now Sherlock. I'll watch over you." John said softly into Sherlock's ear. With the words of his best friend and the overwhelming image of his eyes, Sherlock drifted into a deep sleep. He had no nightmares and no panic attacks, sleeping peacefully for the first time since returning to London.