I want to thank you guy's for the awesome reviews and follows on this, thank you so so much. I really honest to god cried when i saw i had actually gotten reviews for this story. I hadn't expected any body to read this much less enjoy it. So THANK YOU, CYBER HUGS AND COOKIES FOR YOU ALL. I hope you guys carry on enjoying and reviewing (really nice reviews by the way, i cried laughed and just smiled for a long time). Enjoy the newest chapter.

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Sherlock sat on his bed, his morphine sat in front of him in its carefully crafted box. He wanted it, he would reach out his hand to grab it only to pull it back. He could feel the need coursing through his veins when it should be the drug. It should be shooting through him, warming his insides and trapping his thoughts. Sherlock was anything but stupid; he knew he would end up taking the drug at some point in time. His thoughts were just becoming too much. He felt as though inside he was screaming in agony, bloody tears running down his pale face while tried to scratch his eyes out. On the outside he was collected, apathetic.

John had made him realise there was nothing waiting for him. There was no dawn for him, it would always be darkness. He would always be stuck in the darkness. He thought that John was helping; somewhere inside of him he knew that it was always a lie. That John would always leave and he would always be alone. It was his sick destiny and John had only made him realise that he didn't want it. He thought he was fine before John. He wasn't lonely, he was just alone. Then John came and showed him life and the light only to push him back into the darkness laughing all the while.

Sherlock curled in on himself and started rocking. Back and forth, Back and forth. He found the repetitive motion soothing. He was getting lost in it. He needed organisation, he need boxes and labels and the straightest lines. He needed that needle. He needed to trap his thoughts somewhere. He needed his thoughts in a labelled box. That only ever happened with drugs; otherwise he never knew where his thoughts would go. His head was a frightening place, there was little light and the light that was there was tainted into a sickly yellow glow that made him want to run back to the darkness. The darkness in his head was familiar, safe. There was only one way the darkness went and that was down and down.

He knew there were monsters inside him. He had known it for a long time; he felt them inside him, dark terrifying creatures that lurked within him. They tore at his brain and lived in his soul. But the Creatures were him and he was the creatures. He had created them and they had morphed beyond his control.

He knew there was poison inside of him; it ran through his veins and held on to his flesh. It had planted itself into his bones and consumed him. There was no warning when the poison decided to damage him. Unlike the creatures, Sherlock had not created the poison. The poison was everything. The poison was fists and blood and death. The poison was words. Foul words that stopped his breath and crumbled his heart. Freak, worthless, broken, not human, useless, meaningless, go to hell, you don't belong here. BURN. And he was burning, his soul was scorching in all-consuming flames and it hurt. He knew the poison belonged in him, the creatures fed on it. Sherlock knew what the poison was, and it was him. He was the poison.

Sherlock had hoped something could heal him and that's when Doctor John Watson came into his life. What do doctors do with poison? They heal it. Stupid, stupid, you are an idiot. That's not what doctors do to poison. John Watson built him a home. John Watson destroyed it. No he didn't. John Watson had comforted him and kept him safe. John Watson destroyed all of it. No, John can help, he can help me. He's a doctor, he can heal me. Don't be so stupid, we are Sherlock Holmes. You know what he's going to do. John Watson is our HOME. John Watson burnt it down. Big bad wolf. John is good, were the bad ones. Yes we are. What do doctors do with poison. They get rid of it. No, they obliterate it. They burn it.

John soaked him in Kerosene and lit the match. Sherlock Holmes was burning.

Sherlock knew all of this yet he still didn't want to betray John. He had told John he wouldn't go back to the drugs, he had promised. He still had no idea why, he had no idea why he even cared about John. His thoughts were buzzing, louder and louder. He couldn't hear the traffic outside or the wind pushing against the window. His Mind Palace was in chaos, utter chaos. Nothing made sense. That frustrated Sherlock beyond belief. He started rocking faster and faster, the bed was creaking underneath him. He looked to the morphine again and stopped. He forced his body to relax and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes the needle was still there, he licked his lips and prepared. He realised that he had been on his bed for hours now and the sun was already up.

He put some alcohol on a cloth and swiped it over his arm. He saw his old track marks there. The beautiful, horrifying things. They reminded him of the ecstasy of the drug and the feeling of when that went away. He took a deep breath and began his work. He plunged the needle into the bottle of morphine; he didn't have to worry about filtering because he had taken it from Bart's. He put in a little more than usual because he knew his tolerance was high from past use. He slowly pulled the plunger, watching his dear liquid flow into the syringe. I need it, I need it. Sherlock felt himself shivering in anticipation; he could feel tingles running across his shoulders and through his lungs. Eagerness was flowing out through his every breath. His mind was whispering soothing words that ran through his veins, preparing him for the morphine. He added more and more and in some part of his head Sherlock knew it was too much but the other thoughts were smothering it, killing all of his nervousness. When he finished flicked the needle and watched the bubbles flow to the top gracefully, he pressed the plunger and expelled the bubbles that were at the top.

He wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and faced the needle upwards and pointed it towards his stone heart. He pressed the needle in and embraced the delicious sting of the needle slipping past his skin. He pulled back slightly and watched some blood appear in the barrel of the syringe. He quickly tore his tourniquet off and threw it onto the bed. He took in a small breath and gently pushed the plunger, feeling the morphine silently make it way through his bod. All of this was done quickly and with the efficiency of an addict. He swiftly placed his needle back into his box and swiped his arm again with the alcohol soaked cloth.

Sherlock slowly sunk down onto the bed and has a brief feeling of fear. He knows now that he has taken too much but he can't make himself care. The tiredness that was coursing through his veins has been replaced by his dear drug and it's masking it. Sherlock knows all he wants is the exhaustion to fade; he wants the feeling of his poison to disappear, so he chases it with another.

He takes a deep breath and holds it until the high hits. He knows it won't take very long and when it hits it's going to hit hard. And it does.

When it comes Sherlock releases the breath he was holding in a rush. It hits him like a ton of weightless invisibles bricks, it smothers him like a too thick blanket and it's almost too much for him. Is feet are kicking up and he can't breathe but the blanket is holding him down, choking him. He feels his thoughts berating him, trying to rip past through the artificially induced fog but then they slowly trickle away and his thoughts are sluggish and exaggerated. The drug is dragging him to the floor so he willingly follows it and places himself onto the cold luxurious wood. He feels it beneath his fingers and it's amazing to him. Sherlock Holmes is actually happy. Sherlock is also numb; he can't feel the cold of the floor even though he knows it's there. His mind has finally been forced to shut up and he is relishing in it. He knows he feels slightly sick and his breathing is far too shallow to be healthy but he can't hear his thoughts and it is bliss for him. He know that if someone hit him right now it wouldn't hurt so Sherlock sits up and lifts his shirt and scratches as hard as he can into his stomach. He leaves behind red welts to match his arms except the ones on his stomach are much deeper and the blood is flowing much more quickly. Sherlock sighs and falls back onto the floor. He feels very dreamy and sleepy and every movement he makes is slowed dramatically and he is in ECSTACY.

Another ton of bricks hit's Sherlock but this one is less pleasant. Suddenly he is drowning and the blanket isn't allowing him to breath. He can feel his own sweat drenching his shirt but it feels foreign to him. He can feel the fog taking him over and he can't breathe or think and he knows this is the end. So he takes the deepest breath he can and whispers two words.

"Goodbye John"

*A few hours earlier*

John flees to his room in confusion. He knows there is something completely wrong with Sherlock and it's terrifying him. He closes the door to his room and slides down onto his bed. He can't escape feeling that something is horribly wrong. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, as he changes into his pyjamas he tries to listen for any sound that Sherlock is making. He heard him close the door to his own bedroom five minutes ago but he can hear anything now. Sherlock did look really tired, maybe he's sleeping again. Everything that had happened seemed strange to John but he knew he should leave Sherlock alone for a bit to sort out his emotions.

He regretted with every fibre of his being what he had said to Sherlock but he also knew he had not meant a word of it. He knew that this had cracked Sherlock's trust in John but he didn't want this to have completely severed it. He knew he had been one of the only people to get even remotely close to Sherlock and he didn't want to see their whole relationship shattered.

John was rolling around in bed for hours, every time it seemed as if he was going to fall asleep guilt hit him like a train and he had to change positions again. He had all this nervous energy in him and he decided to walk it off. John glanced at the clock and saw that it was early morning but not so early that there wouldn't be a few people around. He threw on some jeans and a jumper and walked out into the living room. He hadn't heard a sound from Sherlock in hours so he guessed that he was asleep. He grabbed an apple out of the kitchen and munched on it for a second. The silence was smothering him and he knew he had to get out. He grabbed his shoes and put them on, he threw a worried glance to Sherlock's rooms door and walked out, making sure to close the door quietly.

When John reached outside he took a deep breath of the London air, John knew it wasn't the cleanest but to him it smelled like home. He took a long walk around, enjoying the peace that was early morning. A few Joggers or people in suits went by him but compared to the morning traffic this was isolated. Before John knew it he was sitting on the same bench he had last night. He was tired and guilty and all he wanted to do was erase last night, have a shower and go to sleep. Another part of John wanted to break down in tear and smash his head against a brick wall. For the first time in John's life he had found someone who he was completely comfortable with. Of course John had had best friends and lovers and even people he thought he was going to spend the rest of his life with but he had always hidden a small part of himself away from them. With Sherlock he knew he didn't have to do that, he didn't have to hide and he hoped that it felt the same for Sherlock. He had known after he had stepped into this friendship that he would have to be careful with it. It was precious and all friendships were easily broken. He had seen far too many waste away because of a few cruel words.

John hung his head in his hands and felt tears well up in his eyes; he didn't know how he could have been so cruel. He knew he was caring in nature but he could also be stern when the time came but what he had done back there was outright cruelty. He had hurt another very human being intentionally and he had wanted to see the hurt in Sherlock's eyes in that second. John understood now Sherlock's contempt for most people, we were essentially all driven by human instinct and many instincts were to care and nurture there was a whole other side to things. He knew that human nature was to attack and kill when threatened, he knew that people could be possessive, jealous and mean and that it was kill or be killed and it didn't matter what way it was done. What he had done back there may have very well killed a part of Sherlock. John knew that when he looked into Sherlock's cold eyes and heard his name spoken with such scorn.

John knew he could sit here and cry and weep for hours on end or he could be the soldier he was trained to be and go home and sort things out. He got up from the bench, nodded once and soldiered on home. He would be brave and sort out things with Sherlock, but he had time for a coffee before.

*Twenty minutes later*

Lestrade ran his hands over his face and groaned. He knew he needed Sherlock for this case, he could see Anderson was completely and utterly stumped and the rest of the team didn't look much better. He felt tiredness run through him and groaned again, he hadn't had a proper night's sleep in more than two weeks. If putting up with Sherlock's arrogant ass meant that the job would get done then Lestrade would suck it up and go and get Sherlock.

He cricked his neck and walked put onto the main road. He stuck out his hand for a taxi and groaned yet again when he realised how much it would cost. On his way over he slowly mentally prepared himself for going to meet with Sherlock, he was difficult at the best of times and at the worse Greg didn't even want to think about it. He did notice that Sherlock was a hell of a lot easier to work with when John came with him. He really owed a lot to John for keeping Sherlock in check. John was really a good man. When he arrived at 221b he gave himself another mental shake and knocked on the door. When he received no answer he sighed and knocked again, after another two minutes of this swore softly, rolled his eyes and fished out his mobile. He phoned 221b two times, Sherlock's mobile four times and then he called 221b again. "Bollocks"

He fished through his contacts until he saw John Watson and ringed, when the John answered Lestrade did a little jumped then gathered himself together and sighed.

"Lestrade, why are you calling me so early?" Lestrade could hear a bit of chattering in the background and various plates being pushed around and forks scraping. He knew that John wasn't in the house and was probably in a café somewhere.

"I have a case for Sherlock and he isn't answering his blasted phone, please tell me he isn't running around London, this is a hard case and my boss is breathing down my neck"

"Sherlock should be at home, he was when I left a little while ago. Have you tried calling the house."

"I tried his phone and the house a million times and he isn't answering." Lestrade could almost see Johns frown from across the phone.

"There's a little space in between the bricks near the bottom of the door, it might take some searching but you'll find it, there's a key in there. Let yourself in. I'll be home in ten minutes but text me if he's not in there. Be careful with him though, he might not be in one of his best moves."

"Why?"

"Do you really want to know Greg?"

"I guess not, I don't have the time to deal with Sherlock's moods" He heard John pause over the phone and frowned. Lestrade wasn't kidding when he said he didn't have the time to deal with Sherlock's moods and if he and John were having a fight he shuddered to think how insufferable he would be at a crime scene.

"Oh and that's the last time you can use that key, Sherlock would have my head if he found out I told you where it was." There was a click from his phone and it took a second to realise John was hung up on him. He shrugged and opened the door with the newly acquired key. If he knew Sherlock at all he could guess that the when he found out that Lestrade had used the key he would insist that the locks get changed.

He jogged up the stairs and into the opened the door to 221b. The flat was eerily silent and he peered around the living room and the kitchen. There was no one here. He frowned and was about to go investigate around when he heard a shout and a bang come from Sherlock's room. Lestrade quickly grabbed his gun and walked silently towards the closed door, he suspected Sherlock had gotten into a fight with another criminal and was proceeding to almost get himself killed. Again.

Greg pushed open the door and prepared himself for a number of scenes but what met him made Lestrade stop in his tracks in shock. Sherlock was convulsing on the floor, his shirt was ridden up his belly and there were deep red bleeding scratches covering almost every inch of that patch of skin. One of Sherlock's sleeves had ridden up as well and there were bandages covering it but Greg didn't notice those, he only saw the one little bleeding hole in Sherlock forearm. He swivelled his head around and was met by what he knew was Sherlock's hidden drug kit. Greg's attention was put back on Sherlock when he suddenly stilled. For one second everything was deathly quiet and then Lestrade heard to very quiet whispered words come out of Sherlock's mouth. "Goodbye John"

Lestrade whirled into action and fell onto his knees beside Sherlock. He felt at his neck with one hand while the other was already calling John again. When he felt a very, very weak pulse he allowed himself to take a deep breath before blurring into action. He quickly moved Sherlock into the recovery position and reached for the house phone that had toppled to the ground across from Sherlock. He lifted his mobile to his ear and listened to an angry shouting John while he typed 999 into the house phone. John continued shouting at Lestrade while the house phone kept ringing. He brought his mobile to his ear again. "John, Shut up. I came into the house and god Sherlock was on the floor. He's overdosed again"

"What, he's overdosed. What. Again. What's going on Lestrade."

Lestrade reluctantly got up and crossed the room to the bed, when he saw an empty morphine bottle he swore and raised the house phone to his ear. "Hello, this is detective inspector Lestrade, I have a man here who has overdosed on morphine, I'm not sure how much but could you send an ambulance to 221b Baker Street immediately. " He heard the woman on the other end trying to get his attention but he knew he couldn't give an more information to her and he already knew how to handle the situation. He crossed back to Sherlock and rubbed at his back before raising his mobile only to hear John was screaming again and this time more insistently.

"John I know you're not stupid so shut up and listen. Sherlock has overdosed on morphine here in the flat; an ambulance is on its way. This is not my first time dealing with Sherlock like this and I know what to do. Just get back here as fast as you can." He heard John's breathless agreement and realised that John was running back.

Sherlock suddenly convulsed again, his back arching painfully then fell to the ground limp. Lestrade scrambled for Sherlock's pulsed and his heart dropped when he didn't find one.

"You bastard, don't do this to me again. Think about John. God, god. Sherlock wake up now. You are not doing this again. I am not letting you do this you utter bastard. Wake up." Lestrade was shaking Sherlock and shouting in his face. All he was met with was silence.

Sherlock's heart had stopped beating.

And Greg Lestrade would be damned if he didn't get it to start again.

A/N Thanks for reading, i really hoped you enjoyed it. This actually took me a really long time (i wasn't really in the right mindset to write it) and filled around six word pages, but thank you for encouraging me.

The lonely lovely little review box is very happy and slightly less lonely, but he wants more friends. :( Please be nice, the little box below is very friendly :). Till the next time fellow Sherlockians.

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