Mary rings him in the morning. A bright morning, nearing the year mark of Sherlock's death.

I'll call you on break.

"I want to go out tonight."

"Dinner first?"

"We can, yea."

"You don't sound too enthused."

"I want to take you somewhere."

He laughs, "Fine, take me."

She's smiling across the line.

They stop at a café to grab a roll and a coffee each and then she hails them a cab. Neither of them can stomach much because of the piles of cocaine they ingest each day. However, John loves to entertain the idea. He has always been fixed to some traditions. Sit down meals are one of those things.

A cab picks them up. She tosses her schoolbag in first. Her hair is pulled back this evening, a cascading ponytail. She is wearing black and grey checkered pants with thick magenta pumps. Her legs are matchsticks and her hips are inviting. Her shirt is pastel yellow, not fitting for the season. Over it all she's thrown a floral scarf and a blue blazer. She should be cold, judging by the outside air, but she doesn't appear to be.

Their hands, laced, set upon his lap. He sits upright and remains alert as ever. More fun than cab rides with Sherlock, he tells himself. They talk easily about their day, laughing and interrupting each other with kisses.

John has no idea where they are. The sun is setting. She leads him by the hand into a strange building. They take an elevator up many flights and walk out into corporate looking space. Mary greets somebody behind a desk and is ushered to a waiting area. They sit. Within minutes she is called into a private office. John has to wait outside, which is to be expected. He humours himself by trying to deduce where they could possibly be and why.

Presently a man opens the door for her, waves at John, and sees them off.

They are alone in the elevator heading to ground floor. He asks her what that was all about. She gives him a cheeky look and tells him they are going to need to make a few deliveries before she can show him the surprise she has planned.

"It's killing me, I've got to know!"

It's well after dark when they get home. They light cigarettes and set their things down. He goes into his bedroom to grab the box and calculate what's left, what he'll use now, what he'll need more of and when. At this point it's beyond second nature.

She can't stop giggling as she goes to the counter and takes two glasses from the cabinet. She fills them with vodka and goes to the bedroom. "I'm so close to showing you. The wait is almost over!"

They toast to nothing and smoke and talk expectantly. John takes off everything but his boxers and white undershirt. She changes her outfit completely, putting on clean pyjamas she finds in one of the several drawers she has claimed.

Onto the next drink, and he lays out a few lines of heroin for himself. This is how he makes sure he gets at least some rest at night. The best part is he doesn't dream. No more nightmares of Sherlock's blood pooling on the cement.

Laying on her side of the bed she fists through her bag until she pulls out an envelope. She waves it at him and he kneels on the bed before her.

"Open it!"

"What—okay, what could this be?"

As he pulls out the tickets she squeals. "Aren't you so excited! Just the two of us, a real vacation!"

His face lights up. "Wow, Mary. I didn't… Wow."

She looks up at him. "Well? How excited are you?"

"Pretty… Um, yea. Pretty excited." He leans down and kisses her, thanks her for her troubles. Though he has no idea what troubles she's gone through. She assures him that everything will be ready for them when they arrive. The hotel, it'll be a five star for sure, the reservations for restaurants and shows.

"And don't worry, I've got connections there. We won't have to worry about bringing anything on the plane or wandering around looking for people. It'll be smooth, just us. Our own little world."

He begins to feel the tug of the dope. Warm, pleasant. It slows him a bit.

"Mary, this is so sweet. Really. I am looking forward to it."

"Oh, you're welcome. You're so wonderful to be with. And after all you've been through? How could I not spoil you."

The tickets read Paris.

Their hotel room is trashed. He lays in bed, watches her walk across the room and yank the drapes apart. Sunlight floods in, blinds them both. She laughs, he cringes. She's been up for a while already, watching tv and smoking cigarettes. Got high immediately upon waking.

His head is throbbing, as it is every morning, and his leg pain recently returned; he lays there rubbing it. He's feeling strangely inconsolable this morning, in this new place. The carpet is cream and the wallpaper is an antique gold, striping. The dark wooden furniture and hunter green duvet give off a regal air. John should feel like a prince right now, but he doesn't.

"Do you want me to order up breakfast, then?"

"What time is it?"

She dances about the room and finds her phone, then laughs. "We slept in!"

"Okay."

At the small table in the corner of their room there is a half brick of coke. It's been broken open, ravaged by hungry noses. Did they have help? Surely they couldn't have used half a brick so far, the two of them. They only just arrived… When did they arrive? He rubs his temples. He is missing something.

This should have been him and Sherlock. Not him and some insane female chic punk prodigy. It should have been John buying the tickets, setting the reservations, making the plans. Treating Sherlock how he deserved to be treated. Not blowing money and drugs and self mutilating when he is blacked out alone in the bathroom after dark. John wonders what he would say. In their time together, he had always resented Sherlock for the exact thing that made him intoxicating—he was untamable. A trip to Paris would have complimented that.

Mary leans over the table, blows lines of the brick. John is broken from his thoughts by the rough sound. She coughs. The pain is so unbearable. He doesn't know what to do. An itch on his upper arm reminds him of the cuts he made there last night. He doesn't remember. Mary doesn't seem to notice what a mess he is. Does it even matter? Does John Watson matter? In many ways he ceased to be a person past Sherlock's death. His life ended when his lover threw himself off the roof.

"I've got a place I want to go today. We can eat, shower and dress and then go walking around. It's just some shops," she gives him a bashful smile, takes off her shirt and underwear and unties her hair. Her nude body is unappealing and frank. "You know how I am about shopping."

"Yea, I do. Have you money for it? If you remember, you are a student…"

"So? This is the best time in my life to have fun, to care less. Soon enough I'll be all glum and bogged down by responsibility." She makes a face at him and ducks into the bathroom. He hears the shower run and sits up, rubs his eyes. As if he's had a spiritual awakening he thinks, I can't do this much longer. I've been avoiding all my responsibilities. Burying my pain with more pain. This isn't fun anymore, it never has been.

God, I wish he could save me.

Paris is just another place. Mary snaps photo after photo on her digital camera. It is beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"John, look!" She drags him by the hand into a shop where she's found something in the window she wants to try on. He isn't sure how he's managing to stand right now. He ate two bars of Xanax he'd brought as part of a private stash, and blew a pile of coke before they left the hotel. For breakfast he passed down a coffee spiked with gin and a small biscuit. He doesn't notice how thin he's gotten.

Several shops later he tells her he needs to take a break. They decide to return to the hotel and refresh. While they are there he sits at the table with a brick and crushes two 80mg Oxys. He takes the majority of the pile of powder, leaving a fair line for Mary. He mixes this powder with a hefty amount of coke and blows it all in one horrific inhale.

He lights a cigarette and considers his life.

Mary fixes her makeup for a half hour and changes her outfit several times.

He tells her that he is going out for a walk. She insists she go with him, which rather annoys him. In fact, at this point he feels disgusted by the very nature of Mary. Everything that brought them so close at the start, that made her so appealing, all of that has washed away like the blonde dye of her hair.

While riding the elevator down she is all over him. He tries to push her away, but she cant take the hint. In her mind she is living out the story she wrote for John and herself. They've been living together for months, a destructive couple, and this long weekend away seals the deal. He is surprised she's not bowing down, offering a ring.

On the street he leads her absently. She hangs about his arm and chatters on about the scenery, repeating various phrases she's learned in French. John cant feel the pain in his leg because of all the drugs, and he doesn't notice that the rhythm of his gait is off. Fog begins to muddy up all his thoughts. The Oxy hits him and he feels the tug of rest, while the cocaine keeps him standing upright.

It seems too bright out for this hour.

"Let's get drinks!" Mary is not making a suggestion. She is waving her free arm at some restaurant ahead. John stops short and lights a cigarette. One for himself and one for her. She smiles at him. He no longer carries any expression on his face.

John drinks like a death wish. He is put in a trance by the voices around him, the murmurs in a language he doesn't understand. Only bits and pieces of. Mary's hands flit about, she lies sloppily on the bar, gets up a few times to use the lavatory. Of course she's doing something in there. John could not care less what she does. At this point he is torn between two choices. He can end the relationship, but he fears that wont be enough. That wont fix him. Nothing on this earth can. The other choice becomes the obvious answer. End his life.