A/N: Saw Last Vow today, so I had to write a fic for John Barracuda (as a friend of mine and I lovingly call dear Watson). Okay, it's really a drabble.
It's an addiction; Sherlock's right. He's always right. Pretty much always. Damn him.
Without it, his hands tremble. When it's bad, they shake so much that they rattle his tea and Mary notices. Without it, his leg pains him. It feels like he's being shot again and again. He tries not to limp but sometimes it gets the better of him.
Without it, his heart feels slow and faint in his chest. To take a breath is a long slow drag. He can almost imagine the air having invisible hands that grasp at his trachea, scrabble and scratch. He imagines it, and his heartbeat quickens and his breath comes easier (he can feel again).
And then his heartbeat fades. He only notices that his hands stopped shaking because he can feel the tremors running through them again.
It's part of why he took to Sherlock so well and so fast (he would kill, did kill, for the man and he didn't even know him). Sometimes, now that he knows, he wonders if that is why he fell in love with Mary.
With it, he's electric. On fire. Icy. All at once. His mind becomes incredibly sharp, like a razor, though still dull compared to Sherlock's. (Adrenaline, or epinephrine: hormone, neurotransmitter; can be used to treat cardiac arrest, anaphylaxis, superficial bleeding – he can think.) With it, however, he can see what Sherlock can't. The intent of another, the danger. The trajectory of his shot. Bang.
His hands are still as he takes aim.
Heart races – he can feel it. Inhale – exhale – inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale inhale exhale inhaleexhaleinhaleexhaleinhale – he can breathe. Muscles contract, tense, ready. He can run; he can fight, the snap of muscle and sleeve as he throws his punches, aggression in his form. He can almost feel the roar of blood through his veins, the electric crackle of oxygen and cells on hyper drive.
If he were the kind of man who grinned easily, he would grin a savage grin. As it is, his jaw tenses, clenches, bone prominent. He's angry. Of course, he's often angry. Irritated. Before worry, before sorrow, before despair, always anger.
If he's mad, he doesn't feel. Yes, he's mad.
But when he can see like this, the anger condenses into a hard shell in his chest. Determination. He can do what it takes.
And it feels wonderful.
Like this, he's light. He can run a million miles, a thousand more.
Fight or flight? Fight. Always fight.
Some of it's adrenaline, some of it's endorphins.
Sherlock's right. Damn him, damn him.
He'd go to the ends of the earth for him.
And for her. Also for her. Always for her.
Damn her.