Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
Hi this is Flavialikestodraw, sorry again for the long wait. This chapter would not be born without the help of the wonderful Potix (which I'll be always grateful for her help and her friendship).
Just a little warning: in this chapter it will be mentioned the intravenous use of drugs. In case you feel triggered by it, feel free to skip the last section of this chapter, after the last horizontal line.
Can you feel a little love?
Can you feel a little love?
Dream on
Dream on
Blame it on your karmic curse
Oh, shame upon the universe
It knows its lines
It's well rehearsed
It sucked you in, it dragged you down
To where there is no hallowed ground
Where holiness is never found
"Dream On"-Depeche Mode"
They were there, they were always there. Every time he closed his eyes. At first it was just the hint of a little chubby smile ( the ones that the newborns always have); then it appeared the beaming gaze of a very unusual pair of eyes: one light blue (like the sky after the storm), and the other warm brown (like Molly's eyes). Then the small details: a mass of blonde curly hair; pudgy hands, always on the move; and a bright laugh, echoing without rest, like the carol of little bells, breaking the silence of the night. It was clear, pure, innocent.
Sherlock knew that laugh. Because it was like his own, when he was a child. A sound he was sure he had forgotten, buried under years of pretentious denials that he had no heart, and no desire to perpetuate his genetic code, to raise a child. Until that moment, when he asked himself how much he wanted that unknown voice to call him "Dad", again and again.
Many months had passed from the last time he had seen her, but the dreams - those awful, beautifully strange dreams - had started just the day after that last time, when he had witnessed her kissing another man. A man who could love her as she deserved to be loved; a man who would support her, hold her body against his at night, share her dreams and help her to chase away her nightmares. A man he resented, deeply, because he was succeeding at a task he had failed to accomplish: to give Molly Hooper the hope of the life she needed to enjoy, full of laughter and love, without the constant worry about her self-being that a life by Sherlock Holmes' side would provide.
The dreams were not always the same. There were times when the blurry snippets about the infant disappeared, and Molly filled his mind again.
In his imagination she was lying in bed with him, talking about everything and nothing. With her head on his chest, and his hands caressing her hair, he could almost feel her soft breath whispering in his ear silly terms of endearment, that would make him turn to her, to kiss away that secret smile that appeared on her small lips every time she tried to poke fun at him. Her hair, so soft, would fall on his face, while she let him take control of the kiss; her hands would be pressed against his chest, like she was controlling his heartbeats. There wasn't an inch of his body not reacting at his presence. Every cell, every atom in the room, everything was responding to her mere existence
It was like a stab in his heart (the same who said he did not have). Every time he closed his eyes, worn-out after days of wakefulness, overstuffed by too simple cases and endless sessions in his Mind Palace, they came back. Every. Single. Night. It was a torture, the sickest someone had subjected him too; Moriarty would have been glad, because finally someone had started to burn the heart out of him.
He had tried to deleted them, infinite times, but he simply couldn't. She was in every corner of his mind, in his memory and in every inch of his heart. And the baby...How could he suppress someone who died before his own birth?
She had, they to had to disappear. And he knew only one method, to make the pain go away. It had always worked, and he was sure it would do it again.
He only needed a big, difficult case, far away; "to keep his mind busy", he would tell John, Mary, Mrs Hudson. Something to keep him away from London, from his memories and his visions.
He chose one from the many that Mycroft had continued to send him and he had started to was one about a mysterious disappearance of the entire population of a village in the north of Mexico. It was perfect: the level of complexity, the location...He simply sent a message to his brother, and waited for the car to bring him to the airport.
One month later
"Mr Holmes, would you follow me, please?". The security officer's tone was polite, but firm. Sherlock followed him without a word, knowing exactly who was waiting for him behind the closed door of the office.
"Brother dear...your stay near the Northern Tropic seemed to have spoiled your complexion. I reckon you are informed about how sun exposure relates to skin cancer". Mycroft's allowed himself a sarcastic smile.
Sherlock sat down, regretting the lack of his famous coat. Who knew that even in Mexico he would find someone so fond of his trademark Belstaff to steal it from his hotel room. "And obviously you are aware of the Los Alamos National Labs' research, about the possible health effects of the millimeter wave scanner. I know it's you who asked the security to use it on me more than one time."
"I only wanted to exclude any false positive". The older brother got to his feet, ignoring Sherlock's glare.
"You mean, your agents, the ones that you sent to keep a close watch on me, didn't report to you that I'm absolutely clean? Or was having me followed, inspected, and tested in Mexico, not enough?".
Mycroft didn't deem his brother's questions worthy of a response. He simply approached the door, and without even turning, he said "Outside Anthea has one of your coats. I'm sure the Watsons, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade would be thrilled to know that you're back. They all seemed to be rather worried when you disappeared without let them knowing where you were going".
Sherlock followed him outside, and as he had said, Anthea was there, his coat ready for him. As he strode down the corridor, Mycroft's voice reached him again.
"What I said to you that Christmas... it's still true, Sherlock. Your loss would break my heart."
Sherlock didn't stop; he continued to walk, until finally he was out the airport. London's grey sky and the misty rain were his welcome. He raised his hand, and as always, a cab stopped by his side. He could barely contain his excitement, when he barked out his destination. "221 Baker Street".
When he arrived, Mrs Hudson was thankfully outside. He climbed the stairs two steps at a time, his coat already in his arms, ready to be thrown on the sofa. His flat was not as dusty as he expected: obviously his landlady had decided to take advantage of his absence and clean everywhere. He spotted a parcel on the coffee table, and proceeded to rip up the paper that covered his old coat, the one that he had ordered to be stolen from him during his stay near Tampico. He tore out theseams at the bottom of the coat, and the precious little pack fell down. He ran to the kitchen to take a spoon, and his lighter; a quick visit upstairs to retrieve John's old medicine chest, and he was ready.
The heroin, the blessed heroin. It was just there, in the top of the spoon. The only thing that could stave off the dreams, and make him forget his own body. He only needed a little taste then ohh... the perfection of chemistry would make its blessed effect.
At first there would be like a violent orgasm, which would be travelling through his body like an electric shock. Then theheroin would be insinuating in his mind, to take all his thoughts (which were always running at supersonic speed) away. Everything would be slowing down, and finally (it happened all the times, without fail) everything would return to have its own logic.
He would no longer feel his body: there would be only him and his mind, like a huge library where everything would have its own logic and its own sense.
And then the peace, the blessed white, bright peace... no thoughts. No dreams. Nothing, and nobody would hurt him. Not anymore.
Hi everyone, this is Potix speaking. I would like to thank everyone who is reading, reviewing and favouriting this story. You are all very kind, and I'm truly sorry if I haven't answered your reviews lately, but life had been a bit hectic. Once again, thanks for reading and for your support.
Potix
