Hello all. This is a little diddy inspired by Sherlock's nasty habit and that span of time John and Sherlock spent apart. It takes place before they ever come in contact with Magnussen, however. This story involves drugs, sex, and rock and roll (well maybe not the latter), plus a fair bit of angst, adultery, and anger.
I don't own or make money from this fic. BBC owns Sherlock. But boy if I had an hour with that man...
This is obviously the best way to convince Magnussen that I'm not a threat. If he believes I'm a worthless, sobbing addict, it will be that much easier to catch him unawares... Sherlock thought to himself, staring down the sharp end of a syringe.
Of course, Sherlock didn't need to actually do the drugs. Surely it would have been effective enough to be seen in the drug dens, to be caught making obvious cocaine sales on the back streets and then stashing it away, unused.
But...
There was something missing from Sherlock's life. Some gigantic chunk of him that he had become so accustomed to having and was suddenly just gone. A piece of Sherlock had been gained when he met John that was never there before. John was like the masterstroke on the painting of his psyche. No person had ever added to Sherlock, no one had ever succeeded in making him better from simply having known them. And there was no doubt about it, Sherlock was better for having known John. John did something to him, made him...human. But now that piece of him was gone and Sherlock felt the loss acutely. As far as he was concerned, John had fallen into a black hole of domestic servitude never to resurface. So what was going to replace him?
Truly nothing could ever replace John, but maybe some of this pain, this bloody aching loneliness that never plagued him before John, could be tempered. Maybe he didn't have to feel the cold of the emptiness. Maybe he could shut out the ghosts of longing that Sherlock had struggled to stifle ever since they began to appear.
Was this momentary salvation worth sacrificing the years that he had been clean? Was it worth going back to that place of substance worship he already left far behind?
Unequivocally, yes.
Sherlock buried the sacred sharp into his wanting skin, a blessed ritual of the only religion he had ever known: Self Indulgence. Moments later, Sherlock was free.
John sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in hand, reading the news on his laptop with one leg bouncing around anxiously. All this crime. John looked at all the cases and absentmindedly imagined which ones Sherlock would find interesting.
Hooker found dead in a bathtub? Well that one is rather obvious, even for me. An alleged framing involving a well-to-do banker? Well at least that one is rather posh. I'd imagine Sherlock would have us dressed up in tuxedos, gallivanting around some rich people's party, sniffing for clues behind bookcases. Of course if there was a more interesting murder …
"Dear?" came the clear voice of John's new wife. Her face was illuminated by the morning light streaming through the kitchen, igniting her presence that warmed him like a hearth flame.
"Hmm?" he replied, moving his eyes back to the screen after a long moment.
"Why don't you go visit him?" Mary asked, giving him a cheeky smile.
"Who?" John asked, staring at her in earnest. Though he had an inkling of who she meant.
"Sherlock. Not for your sake, of course. I just think it might do him good to check up on him," She suggested, taking a sip from her cup.
"And miss spending the day with you? Perish the thought," John said, moving from his place to go kiss her gently on the lips. "Plus, I'm sure Sherlock is fine. He has Mrs. Hudson to wait on him, whether she'll admit to doing it or not. He's probably at the Yard right now, causing an upset of some sort," John assured. Who he was assuring he could hardly tell.
"Alright, love," said Mary, settling into his embrace.
Of course John missed Sherlock. In a lot of ways he missed their life together. The intrigue, the danger...he missed being around that sort of brilliance, too. Even the frustrating things Sherlock did now seemed to hold some charm to them. But that wasn't John's life anymore. He had his family to worry about, and he couldn't very well provide for his family if he was killed by some psychopath in the name of justice.
And to be honest, John thought, it may hurt just a bit to see him living in Baker Street without me there. I rather prided myself on being the best friend to Sherlock Holmes, and now that's all over.
John shrugged off his emotions and turned the full force of his attention to Mary, a shining light of pure grace.
A month passed and Sherlock kept his eye on the prize. Magnussen. Or drugs. To be honest, Sherlock wasn't sure which was more important at this point. Of course, the drugs were a means to an end. Magnussen was the real target. This wasn't like the last time. He didn't need the drugs, they were just an added bonus. Of course after this case he would stop. He wasn't an addict anymore. Absolutely not addicted.
Sharp pinch.
Plunger in.
Relief.
A wave of euphoria and Sherlock felt as if he could deal with the world and all its frustrating trivialities. He picked up his violin and started to play an up tempo, jaunty tune. He felt the blood thrumming through his veins and his thoughts doubled and re-doubled in his mind until they were just beautiful, white noise against his melody.
"Well that's lovely," came a chirp from the doorway. It was Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.
Sherlock said nothing and was unable to stop the invasive smile spreading like oil across his face. He did not stop playing.
"My, it is good to see your mood improving, dear. I have to say I was a bit worried for a while. What with John gone off and you being cooped up here all by your lonesome, I was beginning to think...
Her words joined the cacophony of other noises Sherlock was acutely aware of. The noise of the street, the rustling of tree leaves, birds chirping, sirens squealing, wasn't it all just a wonderful symphony of madness? Madness that would take them all. Spiraling, spiraling into an abyss of noise, noise, noise, noise...
"Noise!" Sherlock shouted, and abruptly stopped playing. Mrs. Hudson stopped what she was saying and looked offended.
"Well, beg your pardon," she said and bustled off in a flurry of rage. Sherlock paid no mind and went back to his violin, staring at the ant-people outside crawling all over their hovels and hallways. Curious little things. Weren't they?
"John Watson, I insist you get your lazy arse out of this house!" Mary said as she walked into the kitchen and found him in exactly the same spot he was in two hours ago.
"And why is that?" John asked, slightly dazed and sore-eyed from staring at his blog.
"You've be reading that thing all day, it's time for some more entries. Your readers are getting bored," she said pointedly, obviously referring to herself.
"Are they now?" John asked as she moved the laptop and settled herself in its place.
"Excruciatingly so. Plus, I'm going to the shops. So unless you're going to be cleaning the floors while I'm gone..."
"Yes, right, you're right. I'll be on my way," John said, hopping up with Mary in his arms. He didn't admit to himself that he nearly dropped her as his arms sagged from lack of a proper workout. Maybe Mary was right, he had gained a bit of weight lately...
"Good. Don't get into too much mischief," Mary said through a smile. John didn't answer. Because he knew exactly how he was going to spend the afternoon...