Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!
He had broken the rules. He knew better. He always knew better. But the threat had been real, and even with any danger dispelled, he had to make sure she was all right.
His heart had pounded in his chest as he burst into the morgue. There she was, hair high in a pony tail and filling out a report on a recently deceased, whose body was laid out on the table in front of her.
He let out the breath he'd been holding. The man's threat led to nothing. She was safe.
She looked over her shoulder, her eyes silently asking why he was in when he hadn't called first.
He couldn't respond.
Instead, he broke the rules. He approached her, and took her in his arms.
Before she could so much as mutter a complaint or stir up a response, he kissed her.
He kissed her, trying to convey everything in the movement that she had never allowed him to display for her.
She had let out a surprised whine. She had kissed him back, and in that small moment, he thought he was safe. That he was accepted.
She kissed him back, until her mind caught up with her body.
He hadn't expected the slap, but as soon as it was delivered, he knew he deserved it. Still, he regretted nothing, until she spoke.
"Arsenic. Stay away from me, you bastard."
Those words kept him paralyzed as she yanked herself away from him, and sprinted for the door. It didn't take his powers of deduction to know she was crying as she left the room.
Arsenic was their safe word, the deadly poison that killed just as effectively as that word uttered from her lips had killed him inside. He had never had to use it, of course. She was too careful for that. She never should have had to use it. He had drove her to that.
He should have known better.
That was three weeks ago. She still hadn't called him or contacted him. Sherlock gave her the space she obviously wanted.
He had forced himself to remain calm, taking cases, dealing with experiments that did not require biological items or body parts to do.
Now, he had no cases, and no experiments.
For the first time since getting high for the Magnussen case, Sherlock felt like it might be, as his brother put it, a genuine danger night.
He refused to go to Mycroft for help.
John didn't know what was going on. He only knew that Sherlock had begun to refuse cases.
Molly didn't want anything to do with him.
His fault.
He broke the rules, after all, just as he thought he might be earning her trust, that maybe soon he might prove himself worthy of her. He ruined everything.
Stupid, stupid man.
Sherlock looked idly at the little vial of heroin, sterling silver spoon, and syringe in front of him. Regardless of the searches, no one had found the small amount he kept at all times in his flat. It was hidden well, in a secret compartment in the fireplace. One of the bricks, he had painstakingly hollowed out before replacing, creating a little hole that, when placed properly, was undetectable to the naked eye.
he picked up the vial. It would be so easy. A bit into the spoon, a few drops of water, getting it to the right consistency and injecting it into the crook of his elbow. It would offer him a small reprieve from it all.
But it would also destroy him, because once he took that first hit, he would never allow himself near Molly again. She deserved someone better that him as it was, never mind if he should ever put her into another situation where she was forced to deal with him high.
The fact that he even still had this, waiting in case he felt the need, was horrid enough.
He rolled the vial between his fingers. He should throw it out. Molly might still come back. He'd have to start from scratch again, but it would be worth it. He could do it.
Without this.
He stood and picked up the needle and spoon, and walked over to the trash bin. He set everything on the kitchen table, and continued staring at the items in front of him.
The trash bin was beside him. It would be so easy to throw away these items. So easy.
He picked up the vial again.
"Sherlock, we need to -"
He looked up as Molly came into the kitchen. The last word, 'talk,' died on her lips as she caught sight of him.
He blinked. Looked down at the vial. Back up at her. Blinked again.
She backed away from him as he stood.
"You bastard. You horrible man. Stay away from me Sherlock." She said, running from the room. His name might as well have been a curse on her lips.
Sherlock stayed where he was, simply staring at the door way where she'd just stood.
He heard the front door slam.
He looked back down at the vial.
He'd ruined things permanently this time. He knew it.
Stupid. Always, he made the bigggest mistake.
He only had one more. What did it matter anymore? She'd already seen, made her assumptions. She was right, after all. He was a horrible man. This would only be proving her right. And he could forget, for just a little while, his grievous mistakes.
A small amount of the heroin in the spoon.
A few drops of water to thin it out.
A lighter to heat it to the right consistency.
A needle, in the correct vein in the crook of his elbow.
Sweet oblivion.
Part two of this series, hehe. There will be a third part, hopefully soon, so keep your eyes peeled!
And thanks to everyone who read and commented on the first part, and of course to my lovely beta, Cumberburch.