He was normally so careful.
It all started with specific amounts, precisely calculated. When he needed to stave off sleep. Food. When he needed to think. When he needed a boost.
When he needed to suppress the undesirable parts of humanity, the parts that refused to be shaken away.
When he simply needed it.
Calculated to the milligram.
So careful.
But sometimes it just wasn't enough.
The dim light of the melting, dribbling candles flickered upon the syringe in his shaking fingers, accompanied by the fading sunshine that reached through every hole of the ratty curtains, both only seeming to bring prominence to the deep, wavering shadows rather than chasing them away. His bloodshot eyes slowly ran over the numerous puncture wounds on his bared arm, one by one. One more…
Just one more dose…
...
...
"…Sherlock."
A voice pierced through the veil of his unconsciousness. A familiar voice. A very, very tired voice, with taut undertones of worry. A voice he didn't want to hear, tried to tune out. It wasn't hard, with everything else going on inside of him. He focused on those things instead, unpleasant as they were, and did everything in his power to mute the voice, delete it away.
Snippets wormed their way in anyway.
"…knew you were…so obvious…send Mummy and Daddy to their graves…hospital…a list."
"Go away," Sherlock managed to spit out as he clawed at his chest, a bout of pain overwhelming him. He was unable to suppress the pathetic whimper that escaped his lips.
"You're going to make a list."
Anger. Much more prominent worry.
Sentiment.
Sherlock heard a small, derisive bark of laughter ripping out of his own throat. Surely he was hearing wrong. Hallucination…
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock's eyes flew open to stare directly into Mycroft's, dilated, darting pupils briefly focusing on constricted, unmoving ones. Mycroft was leaning over him, a small pocket notebook and fountain pen in his clenched hands. His brow was furrowed, and his mouth was set in a hard line.
"This is…none of your business, none of it," Sherlock hissed venomously, just as the word hospital truly registered. "And I don't need to go to hospital! Go – just go away!" He lunged out with his free hand, and Mycroft pulled the pen and paper away to avoid them being sent flying across the small, dirty, shadow filled room.
"No."
Nothing seemed more irritating, grating, and infuriating than Mycroft's mere existence. He was fine…He would be…He was careful…It was just a little extra, this time…He would be okay. The pain would pass.
"Sherlock, you are going to make a list of everything you took," Mycroft said slowly, his voice filled with anger, leaving little room for that patronizing tone that so often dominated it. "I won't hear otherwise. You will make a list; you will listen to me, damn it."
Ever the control freak!
Even with the thick cloud of the drugs' influence pressing in from all quarters, Sherlock knew well enough that when Mycroft set his mind to something, he would see it through. No matter what it was. Even if there was sentiment involved, which there wasn't…Even if it was something he didn't care about.
Even if it's me.
A long, shuddering breath of defeat escaped him as he slowly reached out, took the offered notebook and pen, and, with trembling fingers, began to make a list.