Hi there! I know, I know… So much for "I'll post it next week." Oh well, welcome to my world. Anyway. Thanks for reading, reviews and alerts are greatly appreciated.
For this one, I looking to look into the feelings of an ex-addict. Well, it didn't turn out as I had expected. I think it'd be better if I'd actually do it from Sherlock's POV, but somehow I ended with John's POV. So, I think it's not that bad, so I'm posting it, but I think it needs to be rewritten again from Sherlock's POV like I said. So I'll leave that story "uncomplete" until I find the right way of telling Sherlock's POV.
Also, I do realize this is a very abrupt ending, but it is not quite meant to be a real ending. Simply us having a glimpse in Sherlock and John's life. It's a OS really. If it works, I'll do more of that, if not, I'll go in another way.
Take care all of you! And a small poem coming up soon! :D
Another day with Sherlock. You know, dead body, frozen hamster in the fridge, fist fight with gangsters, some running of course (keeping in shape), some laughing at Molly's new boyfriend (drug addict this one, Sherlock said. And he'd know), and with the grand ending of locking up the criminals. Nothing out of the ordinary. John expected the bored phase, as he liked to call it, to hit any time tomorrow. It was usually the best time to either make love or go shopping. Whichever he felt like doing, he went with it and didn't have to undergo the whole Holmes drama.
To find the murderer, they had had gone in a school. A school again, what is it about schools? John thought. Souvenirs probably. Speaking of reminders, where is my clever husband? Sherlock had spoken with Sebastian earlier and disappeared. Please tell me I'm not on my own again to come home. Please tell me this is not a new case, I've had enough for one day… Sherlock didn't leave him like this unless he was completely absorbed by something. Since they had just closed a case, it could only be a new one. Damn it! God. How am I supposed to find him now? He'd text. Wouldn't he?
John walked through the corridor, limping a bit. When the adrenaline was gone, his leg would start hurting again. Arg! He so didn't feel like walking. Just going out. Just out and he'd call a cab. Truth was, he didn't trust cabbies so much since the Study in Pink. But right now, a cab would be great. Ouch! Damn it!
Everything was dark. What time was it? Midnight? One o'clock. The wee hours no doubt. John walked slowly the corridor. On his right, trophies were shiny with the light from the lampposts outside. John stopped a second to look at them. He could remember the prizes he won along the years. Somehow, the one he remembered the most was the prize he had received in English class. He had always liked writing. When he was younger, he used to write fiction, and that's why his ex-therapist wanted him to write a blog. Oh well, it did help. It made him feel free. Plus, it made his adventures with his husband so real and would immortalize those memories. Where were the literature awards in this display window? Math, math, math, math, physics, physics… this is the science part. Chemistry, chemistry, chemistry, biology, biology… Hang on! What's this? It's written Sherlock Holmes! My Sherlock? This must be Sherlock's elementary school! Wait a minute, what year is this? 1988. Hang on. Three years previously to that as well. Grade 1 in 1981-1982 prize in Science; Grade 2, sciences; grade 3, science; grade 4, sciences; all through to 1989-1990 for chemistry and physics. That's 3rd year into secondary school. After that… Miyoto Tamishi. Asian of course. And Matthew Johnson, Mark Fisher. Only in Lower sixth did Sherlock earn back the chemistry prize. That did not sit right did it? If someone was really better than Sherlock, then he/she would have run off with the prizes every year after his/her arrival… not just a couple of random student. John suspected with sadness that those might be the beginning of Sherlock's decline in drug addiction. This school must be so full of memories for Sherlock. Somehow, I feel it's not good memories.
John started when a large bang echoed in the corridor. He looked towards where the sound had come from. Then some squeaks.
"Anyone there?"
The excitement came back up and he ended for the noise. He got to another corridor in which a classroom was opened up and light illuminated the floor in a trapezoid shape. Some more noise and a shadow in the light passed. The rest looked dark. A teacher? At this time at night? Or rather the morning, because it was surely the morning technically. John approached carefully the classroom. He placed his right hand behind his back to reach his handgun, but not taking it. It was probably the janitor cleaning up. He didn't want to scare him with a gun!
A few steps more. Slowly, but no limping anymore. God. He got off this as much as Sherlock. Just about 5 steps more. "Who's this?" he said before appearing in the doorstep of the classroom. It was a science lab. Nothing particular to it. A big black counter in the middle. The same counter edging the contour of the class. Underneath were white drawers where undoubtly laid beakers and graduated cylinders.
Every meter was a sink with other faucets for products such as gas. All kinds of instruments were arranged along the counter and microscopes were protected by a plastic over. The neon light gave a surreal impression. The smell of disinfectant filled John's nostrils.
In front of him, a slim silhouette was bent down staring at something on the counter. Both arms leaning on the edge of the black counter, the bottom slightly curved backward.
"Sherlock!" John let out with surprise.
Sherlock did not move, did not say a word, or look at John. That, in itself, was not so surprising. It was normal, even.
But the Sherlock's contorted expression and the wetness on his face made John think otherwise.
"What's wrong?" John inquired worried and he went forward few steps.
"Step back." breathed Sherlock. It was a strange voice from Sherlock. Too quiet. And broken.
The few steps John had taken allowed him to have a better view on what was in front of Sherlock. The detective's hands were bloody and trembling. The joints were disfigured and opened to the flesh. The wrists had been rashly scrubbed. Something red caught John's gaze on the wall behind Sherlock. Traces of punching. No doubt where Sherlock had grated his wrists. The image of his husband hurting himself so violently made him sick to his stomach.
"Oh my god, Sherlock! What have you done to yourself?" and he rushed to his husband's side, but Sherlock stopped him by vehement "STOP!"
John realized what his lover was staring at: in front of him was a ziploc bag with white powder in it (probably not sugar, John thought) and a scalpet.
"What is that?" John said changing his voice to a more authoritative tone.
"250 grams of cocaine and a scalpet." Sherlock said very casually, or rather emotionless. His voice not glitching a single bit.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. OH MY GOD!
"Did you take some?" he then asked nervously, not trying to keep his voice steady.
"No."
Sigh. "Good… How about the scalpel? Did you use it?"
"No."
John sighed heavily.
"Ok. Now give it to me." He ordered. How the hell did anyone get hold of 250 bloody grams of cocaine?
"There was a microscope in the science lab when I was going school." Sherlock said absently.
God, he's totally out!
"What about it?" John asked.
"The microscope never worked, but they never threw it away. They kept it in the far corner of the shelf on your right. Everyone knew it was not working so no one ever bothered to take it out."
"Sherlock let me take a look at your hands, it's…"
"It was the perfect hide-out." Still absent, as unaware of John's presence, just looking astray, thoughtfully at the cocaine and the scalpel. But the hands were still shaking.
"Sherlock, you're freaking me out."
John's heart was pounding hard.
"And I thought, I'd put some supply there, just in case."
This was a confession. But not just a confession probably, by the tears rolling down Sherlock's cheeks. John tried to control himself and did not more. Better to let him get it out.
"Do you know how long this has been sitting there?"
"The end of your secondary school?"
"Eighteen years!" Sherlock chuckled. "What does that tell you John?"
John decided to play the game. Might as well at this point. And it might help him to talk. He crossed his arms and said: "That they should fire the janitor."
"It means that they have the same stupid teacher." And he laughed.
John looked at the little sack anxiously. It they were found by the police in possession of this. Oh god. His medical liscence, jail, for fuck's sake. What could possibly be worse?
"All so stupid. They couldn't even see a single thing that's right in front of their eyes."
This sounded much more like the Sherlock he knew. John relaxed a tinsy bit.
"Not everyone is like you, darling." He scoffed. And thank goodness for that!
"Shall we go now, we'll get some Indian on our way home, ok? Just like you like it. All right?"
"But there was one good teacher. A young teacher. He was only a substitute for one year." He said regretfully.
Where is this going, for heaven's sake? In his psych classes, John had learnt that the best thing to do in those crises is to make the person talk. Make them see what they are doing. Indeed, Sherlock did not seem to realize anything he was doing. Freaky as it sounds, his mind seemed fading away. But this is my husband we're talking about!
John had always expected a relapse at some point or another. Two years without drug, smoking, drinking or cutting. That was really, really good. In fact, he had started forgetting about Sherlock's past habits. He seemed fine. What on Earth had destroyed his husband like this?
"What about him? What was so special about him?"
Make him talk, Watson. Make the man talk! And look to get the scalpel away. Subtle, subtle…
"He was very handsome…"
Ah. First love. Of course, Why didn't I think of that? Because you're an idiot. Oh Christ. I'm talking to myself. Focus Watson.
"The very first day he came to class, he saw right through me. He talked to me. He didn't think I was a freak. He understood me and was nice to me…"
Pause. Don't move Watson. Wait for the right moment.
"Just like you." Sherlock said giving a first look at Watson. A first gaze of sadness, about the past, but mainly of gratitude and love to John. John smiled, relaxing his shoulders. Sherlock was there. It'll be ok in the end.
"He's dead, you know." He said his voice cracking. So much for him not caring about people dying. "He killed himself, John." And Sherlock broke down in tears.
"Oh my god, come here." John whispered wrapping his lover with his arm.
"I could have prevented this, I could have helped him." Sherlock muttered in John's shoulder.
"You don't know that, Sherry. All right, all right."
"Sebastian just told me about his suicide."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He told his sobbing lover.
"He's the one who gave you the price in your lover sixth, innit?"
Sherlock nodded.
"He's the only one who trusted, when even you did not trust yourself. When you were having trouble with addiction, he was there for you. And you loved him for that. And he loved you back. He helped you out of it. Didn't he?"
"How did you figure that out?"
"I've got a good teacher, if I can say so myself."
Sherlock looked straight into John's eyes.
"That's cheesy."
"So be it."
Sherlock smiled. So easy to please. John thought. It's like giving a candy to a kid.
"It's not your fault, you know?"
Sherlock started to shake again. It's the craving. He's trying to resist the urge.
"You're not alone in this. I'm fighting with you. All right?"
Sherlock shook his head childishly. To express his agreement.
"Now how about you sit here on that uncomfortable school chair…" and he lead Sherlock to the chair.
"And I'll get rid of that knife." He said putting the scalpel away.
But Sherlock started breathing very loudly. "What is it? What is it?"
"Please. It hurts everywhere. Please, I need some. Lemme take some."
Sherlock had waited all this long and not taken any. He had resisted it all that long. He wants me to stop him. He wants me to be strong for him. Then that's what I'll do. Sherlock had closed his eyes.
"No, no, no, no. Stay with me Sherlock." He patted Sherlock's cheeks. Make him talk, remember.
"So tell me more about this wonderful teacher. What was his name anyway?"
"Professor Anthony Williams."
"Hmmm… nice name. How was he? Physically?" John asked getting hold of a sponge to clean up the wall. Sherlock sniffed surprised.
"Shouldn't you be jealous?"
John smiled. No, but you want me to be.
"Well, I have to know what I'm up against?" How about the cocaine. Oh my god! How am I gonna get rid 250 g of bloody cocaine? Take it back home? Lestrade could be there at any time. Plus, there are probably fingerprints on it. Then water. Washroom? I'd have to leave Sherlock alone. Throw it off a bridge? For fingerprints that was good, but London was the most CCTVed city in the world. Bad idea. How on Earth does one get a hold on 250 bloody grams of fuckin' cocaine?
"John."
250 bloody grams!
"John!"
"Hum? What is it?" John asked turning around. He saw Sherlock all cleaned up his coat on, collar up. The bag of cocaine gone.
"Ready to go to that Indian you promised me?"
"Oh no you don't! Give me that cocaine now!"
"I put it back where it was."
"Don't lie to me, now give it to me."
"I put it back, look!" he pointed.
It was there all right.
"Did you take some?"
"John, don't be so dramatic."
"Did you?"
"Did not."
"What tells me you won't come back for it?"
"Because I promise you." and he gave John a kiss.
"Don't think that this is talking all suspicion off your case… What about the fingerprints?"
"Took them off with rubbing alcohol." He cut.
"What about…?"
"John." Sherlock cut again.
"What is it?" John said throwing away the sponge he had used for the wall.
"I love you, John. I'd ask you to marry me if you weren't already my husband."
John smiled. He wasn't sure how to react. Was that a screen Sherlock was trying to put on to distract him?
"Shut up John. You think so loud! I'm fine."
John raised his eyebrows, sceptical.
"I mean… I'm better. Now come."
"I don't want you to hurt yourself, do you understand?"
"Yes, John."
"Do you promise?"
"Do you promise to not commit suicide?"
Ouh! The fear. Wow! I wouldn't have thought this was about me…
"I promise."
"I promise too."
"I love you too."