I don't know whether I like this chapter. It might be slightly OOC. Let me know what you think :D
Warning: Heavier drug use, it's probably gonna get worse before it gets any better. ANGSTTTTTTTTTTTTGGSH|WRJN|
Disclaimer: Still nope.
Sherlock sat stiffly in the backseat of a cab on the way back to Baker Street, hand wrapped loosely around the little plastic baggy in his pocket. He silently praised himself for keeping in the good graces of at least some of London's less savoury residents. He'd only managed to purchase a small amount, but he'd only had petty cash on him and wasn't too confident that drug dealers accepted Visa Electron.
Humour. John would appreciate that. He'd have to re-tell his little joke when he got ho- oh.
He'd forgotten for a moment. The memory tore the oxygen from his lungs.
He shouldn't have done that quick "sample" line with the dealer; it hadn't had the numbing effect he'd wanted. Even now, with veins pumped full of whatever miscellaneous mixture of white powder he'd crammed into his nostrils, his brain remained unfalteringly sharp and alive with John. He rubbed at his temples trying to soothe himself.
John, John, John, John, John. The man had become a completely crucial part of his live in the short amount of time they'd spent together and Sherlock hadn't even noticed. The realisation made his heart lurch, stomach twist.
Everything hurt. Even his limbs ached. He couldn't do this.
When the cab pulled up outside the flat, Sherlock threw a fist full of notes in the driver's general direction and flung himself out into the cool night air. He must look insane; hair sticking out erratically, pupils dilated, chest heaving.
Panic attack. How inconvenient.
He fumbled with his keys, hands shaking. "Dammit, pull yourself together," he hissed. If he couldn't make it through today alone, what hope did he have for tomorrow? Or the next day? He had an entire life to live, for God's sake!
His eyes began to blur, tears carving salty paths across sharp cheekbones. "Breathe."
He was causing a scene now. People were starting to notice the crazed man half-growling at himself.
Finally, the key slotted into the lock. He forced himself through the small gap he'd allowed in the door, collapsing on the other side and pulling his knees up under his chin.
A sob ripped its way out of his throat.
"Sherlock, is that you?" Mrs Hudson's voice was laced with concern. No doubt she'd been sitting up with a cup of tea in hand waiting for him to return.
Sherlock's stomach made a move to evacuate its contents. He took a moment to be thankful that there was nothing left in him to bring up. Still, dry heaving was a wholly unenjoyable experience.
Something cool and damp pressed against his forehead. It was comforting.
"It's okay, dear, it's okay. I've got you," Mrs Hudson cooed, pressing a cloth delicately to his face and neck.
They sat together on the welcome mat, the landlady and the detective, for what could have been hours. Sherlock let the tears fall unabashedly. Indignity wasn't a factor when it came to Mrs Hudson; she gladly clung onto him like a mother shrouding a child.
Eventually, she untangled herself from him and gripped his arm, pulling him to stand. It took the last remaining dregs of energy Sherlock had to push himself up, blinking firmly to clear his eyes.
Climbing the stairs to the flat was not unlike climbing a mountain.
Once inside, he made a beeline for his bedroom and flopped ungracefully onto his bed.
Mrs Hudson made quick work of cleaning whatever experiments and papers were still sprawling over the sheets. She then removed his shoes and coat, the latter taking a little longer than it would have if he'd bothered to help. Instead, he just laid there. Moving wasn't an option. Even if he'd wanted to, he didn't think it possible in his current state. Exhausted wasn't an appropriately strong word for what he was feeling. She didn't tut or make complaints, though, even with her bad hip. Sherlock was grateful.
His mother wasn't particularly present for his childhood. She was often away on business trips or last-minute vacations with his father. The maids had ignored whatever attempts to gain their attention he'd made, and Mycroft wasn't exactly what you'd call a doting brother. He was left almost completely to his own devices growing up. Mrs Hudson was the closest thing to family he had, and he loved her as such.
When she'd finished and Sherlock was tucked into bed, she placed a hand on his cheek and ran a thumb over the swollen skin under his eyes.
"Oh Sherlock," she cooed again. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. Everything he needed to know was made evident in those 3 syllables. Her words came out choked, gravelly. She'd been crying and, by the sound of it, long before their little moment downstairs.
Suddenly, He felt ashamed of himself. Of course Mrs Hudson would be mourning the loss of John. She had cared for him, no doubt to the same extent she did for Sherlock. John was good at that, making people like him. He was just so...likeable.
"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. I'll be fine. Thank you," he whispered. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth but didn't touch her eyes.
"I know you will, dear. Do you need anything? A cup of tea or something to eat?"
Sherlock just shook his head. She attempted a smile again and leaned in, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. If Sherlock's heart hadn't already been ripped in two, this unexpectedly tender action would have done it.
"If you need anything- anything at all- please don't hesitate." And with that, she left.
Sherlock stared fixedly at the ceiling until he heard the faint click of the door latching. He sat up slowly, stretching a long arm across to his coat pocket and routed around until his fingers came into contact with cellophane.
He shuffled lazily out of bed, stopping first in the kitchen and then bathroom to grab his supplies, before collapsing again in bed.
He was nervous. It had been so long since he'd even thought about doing anything this reckless, but he didn't want to feel like this. He didn't want the pain anymore.
He tied a piece of fabric around his elbow, twisting in a pen to ensure its tightness.
Next, he sprinkled a small amount of the off white powder onto a teaspoon, mixing in lukewarm water and heating his concoction with a lighter, watching it bubble stickily.
The end of a q-tip made a decent enough make-shift filter as he sucked the finished product into the needle.
It was easier to find a vein than it had been the last time he'd taken this drug. He'd only had to slap his arm a couple of times before he was ready.
This was it.
He plunged the needle into his skin.
It was a completely different feeling to the morphine he'd taken the other day. Instead of a fuzzy almost-dullness, his mind was dancing.
He smiled for the first time in days.
