Trigger Warning: Drug References (Just to be safe)
Sherlock: 20 Years Old
Dear Sherlock,
Things are getting crazy over here. I've seen so much. Things you don't ever want to see. I may not be the one running out in the fields, guns blazing, but I get to sit here with all the results. The blood on my hands and the cries in my ears, but I'm managing. I know I've said this before, but it's harder than I imagined. My comrades are supportive and I've kept strong. It may be tough, but I have to persevere, for all these soldiers fighting this awful war.
The quiet nights are growing far and few between, I miss our quiet weekends at the café. I'm sorry I haven't called, we've lost two doctors in the field this month and another was shipped off to a different station. I promise to keep writing. I'm okay Sherlock, I really am. Almost a year now, yeah? We've made it this far, we can make it another three. Please wait for me Sherlock.
I miss you.
I love you.
I promise to be back by your side soon and then everything will be alright.
All my love,
John
The letter was signed with a delicate flourish that belonged only to John. It was the anniversary of John's departure for Afghanistan. Not a anniversary you would want to celebrate, but Sherlock wasn't celebrating. Far from it, while the few letters that sat before him reminded him that John was indeed alive and okay, they were also the painful reminder that he wasn't here, by Sherlock's side, keeping the promise that he wrote at the end of each letter. There were eight in total and Sherlock had spent the day reading through them one by one, over and over until the room grew dark and he had to move to turn on the light. The most recent letter had come in only days earlier, but Sherlock had waited until this day to read it and now, he had read it more than any of the others.
It was one of John's shorter letters, that ranged from a single page to twelve in length, but it revealed more than any of the others had. Something that scared Sherlock.
The war was getting to his John. The death and violence that John had to go through, even on the side lines, picking up the pieces (sometimes literally), it was starting to get to him and it was starting to show in his letters. Even through the scribbled ink, Sherlock could still read, quite clearly, the lines of nightmares and it hurt. It hurt that John had to go through that. It hurt that he chose to go through it. It hurt that Sherlock couldn't be there, couldn't hold his hand, couldn't shelter him as John had done for him all those times growing up.
Sherlock dropped the letter back on the table after reading it through once more. John promised that he was okay, but that was a lie, wasn't it? He wanted Sherlock to wait, to hold on. 'Three more years' he said, but Sherlock wasn't sure if he could hold on. He was losing strong holds. Three years is a long time to wait for something you can only hope comes back in one piece. If they come back at all.
These letters and the sporadic, choppy phone calls and occasional e-mail were the only things he had to hold onto and even those didn't seem like enough anymore. He needed John. He needed the smell, the feel, the taste, the emotion that was all John and only John. He felt like he was going through withdrawals and it had only been a year.
God, only a year. If he was this bad after only 365 days, what were the next three going to be like? He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't give up on John, not matter how hard it got. He wouldn't. He couldn't do that to John. He couldn't do that to himself.
He needed a hobby.
But he had one didn't he? If you could call it that at least, following police cases like an obsessive recluse and leaving anonymous tips hardly counted as a hobby. He wanted to do more, but there was only so much he could do when he wasn't actually part of the force. Mycroft wouldn't help him either, not like he would ever ask. If only he could get into a crime scene and be a part of the action, he was sure he would be able to help, if only they would let him. The Yard was so stupid it was wonder anything got done without Sherlock's help.
He needed air, he needed to breathe.
It was growing close to 11 at night, but still, he pulled on his long black coat and navy blue scarf before heading out onto the streets of London to clear his head.
He enjoyed this time. It was empty and peaceful, especially if he took the back streets. Nobody bothered him and he kept to himself. The cold didn't bother him, if anything, it felt nice on his skin which always felt much too hot after thinking about John.
Sherlock watched his feet as he walked, not paying much attention to where he was going until a cough had him looking up. An alleyway? And not in a very pleasant part of the city either. He usually tried to avoid these areas as they were usually filled with the type of people he would rather not associate with on any means. Desperate beggars, full of filth inside and out. People, if he could call them that, who had lost everything and still yearned for more, who believed that harmful chemicals were the only thing left in their pathetic lives, the only thing that could provide comfort in the pain, bliss in the sorrow. It was annoyingly demeaning, on their part and the rest of the world. To think anyone would resort to such means, and ruin what little brain they had. That they would keep coming back to what was only a temporary fix. It didn't make sense and it disgusted Sherlock.
Another cough, more pronounced this time and clearly meant to draw Sherlock's attention. Sherlock would have ignored it, but as he turned to leave, he came face to face with a rather greasy looking man.
"May I help you?" Sherlock asked, not even trying to hide the annoyance from his tone.
The man smirked and Sherlock could see that he was missing a tooth.
"The question is, may I help you?" he asked. "The name's Julio."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped around the man. "No thank you."
Julio grabbed him by the elbow and Sherlock fought a cringe.
"Hey man, I understand, but I think it could really help. I'm sure I've got what you need."
Sherlock shook his head and not-so-gently tugged his arm away, brushing at his elbow as if that would get rid of the man's grease and presence. "No," he said. God, he would need to wash his coat when he got home.
"Alright man, I hear ya," Julio said, stepping back and raising his hands in surrender. "Just know that you're just like all the rest, and when you break, I'll be here." He smirked at Sherlock's intense and disgusted glare before turning and walking away.
Sherlock gave a slightly offended huff and straightened his coat before roughly sticking his hands in his pockets and heading home.
Sherlock was terrified, more scared than he had ever been in his life. More scared than when his father hit him for the first time or when John told him he was joining the army, more scared then when he left for Afghanistan. Even more than when he realizing that the war was breaking his soldier. All because of seven little words.
They're sending me out into the field.
Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe, he didn't know what to do. Not that he could do anything, not all the way over in London. John was going out into the firezone and Sherlock could do nothing. Absolutely nothing.
And it terrified him beyond function.
Nightmares started. On the rare occasion that he found himself able to sleep, John would be shot down and lay bleeding to death while Sherlock watched, paralyzed, unable to move, unable to call for help. Unable to hold him, to sooth him. Unable to promise that he would always be by his side and that everything would be alright.
More than ever the letters became a physical sign that John was still alive, but they were becoming shorter, and the wait for them was becoming longer and longer.
Seven months since the anniversary, six since Sherlock learned that John was going out into the field and only two letters had come, both only a page long and the second one being the cursed note that was slowly ruining Sherlock's life.
That had been sent over two months ago and once again Sherlock found himself wandering the damp back streets of London.
"So you're back then, eh?"
A familiar voice, had Sherlock turning, looking confused. "Do I know you?"
"Don't give me that. I never forget a face, especially one like yours. Haunted, troubled eyes, seeking release. No offense but it's kind of my job to recognize potential clients. I told you you would come back, didn't I?"
Sherlock's face lit up with recognition as he took in the ragged, greasy looking man standing before him.
"Sorry, but I'm not here to buy," Sherlock said, quickly walking away.
"Who are they?"
Sherlock froze.
"Excuse me, what?" he asked, turning around.
"People with eyes like yours usually have somebody, somebody they've lost."
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"Come on," Julio said, stepping closer. "It's not like it's going to hurt anybody."
Sherlock frowned but then found himself speaking despite everything, every part of him screaming at him to walk away.
"John. His name is John."
"See, that's not so bad, so what is he then? Brother? Friend?"
"Boyfriend," Sherlock answered without hesitation.
Julio smirked. "Ah, that makes sense then. You didn't say ex, so you're still together than?" he asked.
"It's complicated," Sherlock answered. "Look, I don't have to tell any of this to you. I won't be coming back here, please don't seek me out."
Before he could turn Julio called for him to wait.
"Your personal life is none of my business, you're right. But I can make you happy through all those… complications." He took Sherlock's hand and stuck a tiny back of fine white powder into the palm. "Try it out alright, free of charge. If you like it, I'll be here. If not, I'll admit defeat and never bother you again."
Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the packet and instead of throwing it like he intended he, for unknown reasons, slid it into his pocket.
"Oh and one more thing," Julio said as Sherlock started to walk away. Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder at the dealer, only to see the man with his signature cocky smirk.
"I'm never wrong."
Two weeks later the small packet of powder sat on the cleared dining room table. Sherlock sat staring at it, as he had been for the past several hours, with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
This had been the longest he had to go without a letter from John and with every passing day, that tiny packet became more tempting. His curiosity grew with every passing glance and he found with disgust that he wanted to try. What was it that had people coming back, why did they seek that high when they would only crash in the end?
Swiping up the packet he carefully opened it.
Only a few hours had passed, but it felt like eternity. The white powder was completely gone, but Sherlock felt at ease, he finally understood. He had misjudged all those scummy people in the back streets. This was glorious.
Staggering down the stairs he swiped up the mail that had been dropped through the slot. And there, right on top was a letter from John.
Sherlock: 21 Years Old
It was too much, he couldn't handle it. He had hoped, he had tried but a month had passed and then two and finally another letter from John, it was short and said very little, but it was John.
Sherlock left the flat after reading the letter several times and without completely meaning to, but completely on purpose, Sherlock found himself for the third time in front of Julio.
Julio opened his mouth to let out a snide remark but Sherlock cut him off with two sharp words.
"How much?"
It was two years now, and Sherlock couldn't care less. Five months and no letters or phone calls or e-mails from John and Sherlock still didn't care. Right now, he felt marvelous. Never mind the constant runny nose or the headache or the aches all over his body, those all went away with every hit. Of course coming down wasn't the best, but as long as Julio was around, he could get back up any time he wanted.
He didn't even answer his phone anymore, didn't check his email and the mail was thrown in a pile at the end of the couch.
The best part was the hallucinations. They were vivid and strange, but John was always there, he was always okay. Sherlock couldn't get enough.
Desperate for more, Sherlock was reminded every time he went back that he was Julio's best customer. Sherlock should have been ashamed, but instead he felt pride, and he just didn't care.
He shouldn't have trusted him, he knew that, but still Sherlock had fallen into the trap called Julio. He tried it out and before he knew it, Julio was his savior. His life, his breath, everything that made life okay while John was off possibly dying.
But now all of that was gone. Sherlock couldn't trust anyone else, he wouldn't. It had been ten months since that first hit, and Sherlock knew that the drug was his blood. He had to have it and after a week of searching, he was starting to care less and less how he got it or where he got it from.
Another week and then they started. The depression came first, then the anxiety and the aches and pains and chills. When the tremors hit, Sherlock knew he had to do something. When he realized he would claw down a steel door if only half an ounce was on the other side, he picked up the phone.
When Mycroft's phone rang, it didn't much surprise him. He was used to getting phone calls day in and day out. What did surprise him was the name on the screen.
"Hello little brother, fancy hear—"
"Mycroft…." The older brother was cut off by Sherlock's hoarse and weak voice.
"Sherlock, what is it?" He asked his face and tone abruptly going serious as he stood from his desk.
"Help me…. Please."
That was all Mycroft needed to hear as he rushed from his office. He spoke rapidly into the phone, trying to get more information out of Sherlock, but the other end was filled with nothing more than groaning before the line went dead.
Mycroft cursed as he climbed into his car and when he found his brother curled up on the floor despair and sorrow over whelmed him as he ran a hand over his face.
"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"
Sherlock shifted between walls of blinding white and complete and utter darkness. He couldn't be sure how much time had passed, but it didn't matter. In the world of white he was sure there were voices. Not that he cared. He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He was done.
"Sherlock…..Sherlock…. Sherlock!"
The voice was familiar, but distant and echoey, like it was being shouted down a long, metal pipe. He wished it would go away. He rather enjoyed the darkness and its peaceful emptiness, but the sound of his name being repeated over and over and the constant tapping and shaking was becoming too much to handle and he was forced to roll over and face whoever it was that dared disrupt his peace.
"What?" he asked, his voice rough and slurred with sleep.
"Sit up Sherlock. I have something to tell you."
Mycroft. That's who the voice was. With that mystery solved, Sherlock obeyed, running a hand through his hair as he sat up and leaned back against the wall.
Sherlocked looked to his brother, and while he may not have seen much of him over the years, he knew the face Mycroft was wearing now very well, even through the haze he had been in, and instantly he was more awake. The older brother wore his business face. The I'm-going-to-shut-out-all-emotions-and-get-down-to-business face. It only appeared when Mycroft came bearing bad news.
"Mycroft. What is it, just tell me."
Mycroft sighed and turned his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "You know I don't approve of your relationship of John, I never have. But after…. All of this." He waved his hand over Sherlock and the bed in which the younger man was situated. "It seems you have completely disregarded any warning I ever gave you on becoming attached."
Sherlock opened his mouth to interject with a protest, but Mycroft continued on, pretending not to notice.
"With that being said. I do care for you deeply, despite your thoughts, and I only want what's best for you. Upon seeing the effect of this John Watson, both at your side and away, it seems I have underestimated your need for him and his relationship. All I want to say is that if John is what keeps you from falling to things like cocaine, then I will approve of the relationship."
Sherlock blinked, there was more, he knew and he wasn't quite sure he completely trusted his brother and his approval.
"That is also to say, that with a heavy heart I inform you of something that might cause some shock. And Sherlock, I beg you to please remain calm."
The younger sibling swallowed. "Well get out with it already."
Mycroft took a heavy breath and let it out slowly. "Sherlock, about a month ago, while out treating wounded in the field, Dr. John Watson was shot."
So, I got this chapter out much faster than I expected. It was weird to write because it has a much different feel than the rest of the chapters. I hope you enjoyed it all the same, thank you so much for reading! Please, as always, tell me what you think and Chapter 8 should be up in the next couple of days filled with Happy angst. Thank you for reading!
