Apologies for the delay (my god that sounded posh) but I basially, and quite reasonably, ran out of ideas. Sorry. Don't worry though, one turned up eventually, stumbling and staggering, but it made it. And here it is, Denial, in all it's beauty.
Warning: Drugs mention.
oOo
Denial
"An unconscious refusal to accept or believe painful realities, thoughts or feelings"
oOo
The couch is uncomfortable.
It wasn't a very loud thought, more a whispering, nagging one, as if to remind him of a fact he had already discovered some time ago.
But, ever the dismissive, high-functioning sociopath he promoted himself to be, Sherlock denied the thought any attention and continued to lie there, legs dangling over the end of the couch, one arm reaching and clawing behind his head, and the other mindlessly scratching against the floor.
He was thinking.
With thinking, came the delight of nicotine patches, four of them to be precise, dotted symmetrically along his arm. But this time, they weren't enough. Sherlock needed to think, but he also needed to forget.
That was why there was an opened, but untouched, packet of cigarettes on the table beside him. He was debating, weighing out the negatives and positives. The negatives being that it was impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London, especially with no actual income coming into the flat – not that Sherlock ever needed an incentive but it would have been helpful. Also, there was the fact that smoking did nothing good for your lungs, and in turn for your breathing, which had been pointed out to him before. And however boring breathing was, it was pointlessly necessary to life.
But the positives were looming, and somehow winning. Possibly because they involved John. Smoking was pleasurable, but it was also extremely good at hazing unwanted memories, and making them questionable blurs of the past. And if they happen to quicken his approaching death, perhaps that was good.
Making up his mind in that last thought, Sherlock reached over without much effort, and slipped a couple of cigarettes out of their case. With a bored manner, he lit them both with a cracked plastic lighter and slotted them between his thin lips. Instantly the smoke set him smiling, the aroma choking the air around him until he couldn't see the ceiling any more.
He stayed like that, time slipping continuously away, lost in smoke and haze, until a frown slipped along the cigarettes, and they dropped to the ground as he sat up.
It still isn't enough, came a pleading voice from his head. He needed to blank it out, to delete it. It had been easy enough to do with all the other things in his life, all the useless facts about presidents and solar systems, and never, ever needed. But now, when Sherlock most relied upon the skill, it was gone. Or maybe, all it needed was a boost.
Running his hands through his hair, Sherlock hummed and hawed, arguing not only against his head, but the familiar, vague voice in the back of his head, before standing, crossing to the mantelpiece, and stooping to reach into the chimney.
Stupid Lestrade, he chimed happily. Blind Lestrade. Idiotic Lestrade. He could drag together a million "drug busts" and he would still never find them, even when they were in the most obvious place on earth. Smirking to himself now, Sherlock pulled out the small tin box with both hands and blew away the ash which had settled on it.
The drugs were purely experimental of course. That was what they always had been. Just new, interesting chemicals to mix together and pass the time. But now they proved their true potential, in helping Sherlock forget every single thing about the past two weeks, possibly even the past six months, so that by tomorrow, he could completely deny the fact that John had ever even existed.
Just as he reached towards the clasp on the box, there was a rushed knock on the door and Mrs Hudson entered without hesitation, bustling about with her usual chatter and looking around at the mess with a shaking head.
Quickly shoving the box underneath a chair, Sherlock stood to acknowledge her presences and, to fully express that he was fine, crossed back over to the couch and fell across it, closing his eyes.
Making herself busy by tidying up the things she came across and switching on the kettle for a cup of tea – every now and then mentioning that she was not his housekeeper – Mrs Hudson showed every ounce of her strength in those next few moments, and folded a newspaper onto the coffee table in front of Sherlock with the hurried, smiling words, "A new case, that's what you need dear. Sort you right out. And a cup of tea, just this once mind".
Sherlock nodded away without paying any real attention, only focusing on the box and its contents. He would wait until Mrs Hudson had left, then it would be opened and he could relax.
Blocking out the chattering voice in the background, Sherlock locked up his thoughts and listened to the small humming noise that came from within the walls. Electrical current, Mrs Hudson's TV was probably on. It was disturbingly relaxing...
It was when she was absolutely certain that Sherlock had dozed off, either In sleep or thought, that Mrs Hudson approached the chair, quickly snatched the box out from under it with a disapproving nod, and shuffled out of the door.
Before it closed behind her, she glanced sternly over the sleeping figure, "Not in my life young man. Just think of the grief John would give me".
oOo
When Sherlock awoke, in the very early hours of the morning, he didn't even bother looking over at the chair. He knew fine well that Mrs Hudson had taken it. He had known that since he had started feeling tired. It was probably for the best. She was trying to help, after all.
And what was more, after wanting to deny John's existence altogether only a few hours ago, Sherlock realised suddenly that he didn't want to forget him at all.
oOo
Yes, I did feel like hitting Sherlock when he thought about using drugs, but I couldn't because I wrote the words. So I tried to hit myself on the head and then realised that would look stupid considering I'm sitting in a public library whilst writing it, and people would start to give me odd looks. So instead I wrote in that Mrs Hudson saved him, in her own fussy and caring way.
Anway, there is chapter 3, take it in whichever way you like, as long as there are reviews :) Please and thank you.