Disclaimer: I own nothing.
I'm doing this because the shorter the story, the more difficult it is for me to write. I'm working towards writing a 100 word story that actually has meaning. Until then, 1000 words or less.
Rated M because probably some of them will be sexy. I'll put the rating above the story.
Noise
Words: 999
Rating: K
Spoilers: N/A
Not much longer. Sherlock knew that. Only an hour longer and he'd be free.
But when each minute felt like an eternity, that was hardly comfort.
Without the work, his brain rotted. He had meant that when he said it. When he didn't have a case, he could nearly smell the decomposition in his own skull. There was an itching fuzziness in his head and in his blood that he felt at all times, since as long as he could remember. And of course, beyond the itch, there was the noise. His brain, it was screaming constantly. Not one voice with one message—that he would accept gratefully. No, it was a cacophony of whispers that turned to a dull roar between his ears. His mind was his greatest gift and his greatest curse, because he couldn't turn it off. Anyone in the world must've thought Sherlock would have no reason to want to turn it off… but sometimes it became too much. There was just the screaming and when he saw everything all at once sometimes he was seeing nothing at all and this was one of those times. He knew that the married ones upstairs were having a row and Mrs Hudson was baking again and a couple from Sweden was lost on their way to an Italian restaurant just outside 221 and a million other things, but none of it mattered. None of it was the work, which meant none of it made any difference. Which meant his head was full of things that he wanted to delete but if he deleted it all then his head would be silent and that was the only thing worse than the racket. His violin was just a screech to add to the din and the computer was just a world wide web of things that didn't matter in the slightest and he couldn't sit because he couldn't stand the scrub of the settee on his flesh and he didn't even want to stand because he could feel the floor beneath his feet and he had to stop existing, he had to just stop, it was the only way because he couldn't do this for long. He never could.
There were very few things in the world that helped him when he was like this. In his youth, it was always a mystery. In uni he found drugs, and they helped from time to time.
But the best help was only an hour away. Just an hour he had to wait and not go mad. He could do that, right?
He went into the kitchen and jumped on the counter just because the floor beneath his feet was making him barmy but then the marble under him spoke of past experiments and rows and mysteries long solved and he couldn't think about any of it, none of it.
He jumped off and paced, back and forth and back and forth and he closed his eyes but saw his palace which was the last thing he needed right now.
Too much too much TOO MUCH.
"SHUT UP!"
He was so far gone he didn't realise he said it aloud. When he was like this there was nothing anyone could do. Well, one person and one only.
An hour.
Spinning.
Just one.
His head was spinning.
His life was spinning, falling, careening out of control, no work, no cocaine, nothing—
He couldn't make it.
"Sherlock."
The spinning stopped. The shouting stopped. The universe ground to a halt and Sherlock froze, whipping around.
There he was. His dark sapphire eyes wide with concern, but no confusion. He knew what this was. He had seen it enough times. He was breathing just a little bit harder than normal. It never ceased to scare him to see Sherlock like this. Not fear of Sherlock, but for Sherlock.
But now it was quiet. Not silent, which would be the worst thing Sherlock could imagine, but the millions upon millions of whispers were just one voice now. Not his own, no. The golden, warm voice of the only one that mattered.
I'm here. I'm right here.
Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd thought it or actually heard the shorter man say it. It didn't really matter.
"John," he sighed, coming forward and putting his forehead against the other man's. Every place they touched was hot—not a shock, but a gentle warmth that spread slowly through him, like winter giving way for spring.
They were silent for a long time, with Sherlock having his eyes closed and resting against him, just feeling him there. He ran a soothing palm up and down Sherlock's arm with one hand as the other rested on Sherlock's cheek, thumb rubbing against his cheekbone tenderly.
It was an eternity before Sherlock spoke. "You aren't supposed to be home yet."
"I knew you needed me."
Sherlock's eyes opened. "How?" he asked without condescension—truly curious for once.
And then he grinned, that perfect grin that brought the sunrise with it, banishing all the darkness Sherlock had been feeling. "Because I know everything."
Sherlock pulled his most incredulous face and sucked in a breath to—
Lips pressed firmly against his own, and he let out the air again.
"John," Sherlock hummed appreciatively, a dreamy smile on his face that Lestrade would pay money to see a picture of. Sherlock kissed him again, savouring the taste and the shape and the meaning under it all.
He didn't have to say it, but he did anyhow.
"I love you," he breathed against Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock felt his smile widen, locking eyes with the other man. He could have said the proper response. He could have started deducing. He could have done a lot of things.
"John," he said one more time, and he might as well have said 'I love you' from the look on the other man's face.
John.
John.
Better than a mystery. Better than a drug. Better than everything.
And Sherlock's. All Sherlock's.
