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Chapter Twenty Five: Build God, Then We'll Talk

The first thing I felt when I woke up was shame. That sort of shame someone feels when they're completing the walk of shame in a slutty fancy dress outfit at noon on All Saints' Day. There I was curled up like a cat on my comfy chair in my basement study. I'd let this man into my life and into my heart and in one night he'd managed to pull the rug from under me.

I uncurled my legs from under me and felt a flash of pain as I released my clenched leg muscles. My eyes felt like they were glued together; I dug out the tears that had dried on my tender eyes between 3am and my exhaustion.

I wondered what kind of night Sherlock would have had upstairs and left to his own devices. He'd had his escape from the recent events and now I wanted mine. I checked my watch and cursed when I saw the time. Nine thirty; damn it! At least three hours before it was acceptable to order tequila in a bar. At least twelve hours before it was acceptable to order it alone.

I paced my floor while I entertained the idea of buying a bottle from the supermarket. I decided there were no flaws in this plan; I could drink my fill and avoid all human contact for the next few days. I'd pass out and perhaps have an idea of what I could do about Sherlock once I'd awoken. It would cause no harm to anyone.

After finding something clean to wear out of my 'getaway' bag I cambered into the shower. It smelt musty; it had not been used in an awfully long time. I wash my body and hair with a fresh block of soap I found in the cabinet. It leaves my skin feeling tight, dry and begging for its usual routine.

With my eyes stinging I made my treacherous escape from the shower and dried myself off with unfamiliar towels. I throw on the clothes that I judged to be acceptable over my frame and make my way back into the main room of the apartment. Using the last of the battery on my phone I rang Sarah for an update; she was due for a release within the hour and would be heading straight to see John. When I'm done I turn off my phone with no intention of turning my phone back on for at least three days. If I was to turn it back on at all.

This was my preparation for my withdrawal from the world; no contact with anyone and drinking to oblivion. That's what I did when my parents were killed; I began renting out the flat, I destroyed all lines of communication with the world and shots of tequila until I passed out.

I pull my feet into my shabby converse and make my way outside. Every person I pass increases my need for human contact. I had needed someone last night. I had needed Sherlock to comfort me. I was so used to being strong but I'd hoped that this one time; he'd have allowed me to fall apart.

I skirted through the chiller section of the supermarket to get to the alcohol. While tequila was my preference I settled on a large bottle of dark rum. I retrieved a bag of ice from the freezer, along with a tub of ice cream. I wanted it to see like it was casual purchases. The woman behind the counter seemed soulless as she passed my items over the counter.

I didn't speak. I didn't say hello, excuse me or even thank you; Nothing. All of a sudden I was that invisible girl again. How had I lived like this? I was I going to live like this again? I used to go days without any form of conversation; my vocal chords used for anything more than my orders in the tea shop. I'd never minded before Sherlock existed in my life. Now the very thought was sending a panic attack my direction.

I was inside Baker Street and up the stair before I remembered that I'd been banished. Sod it, I thought, he'd be gone for the day and I'd either be in a drunken stupor or hidden away downstairs by then.

I dropped the contents of the bag on the table before retrieving a glass from the side. I filled it with ice and topped it up with rum. I'd purposely not bought anything to mix it; it would have only slowed the process. I should have left then. Perhaps I wouldn't have put myself in so much danger if I had just crept down to curl up on my chair with my drink. With a glug of chilled liquid in my unsteady hand I rifled through our now mingled collection of books until I found my go to book for when I was in a bad mood. I curled up on the chair nearest the fire; the drink never leaving my hand.

I flicked through my worn copy until I found my favourite part; it was one of very few books we both enjoyed. He loved the tone and perfect grammar; I loved the humour and the Britishness. I thought back to one of our first nights together once all my things had been moved in. He'd stumbled upon my copy and his quirky smile spread across his face as he inspected the broken spine. We proceeded to quote the saga into the early hours.

'Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.' I whispered into the void; our agreed favourite quote from the saga. I threw the book down in anger; why did he have to ruin everything? I drained my glass; the ice attacked my dry top lip.

As I raised myself from my seat to refill my glass I saw it. There resting on the coffee table was his escape. I snarled at the offending object as I ventured into the kitchen area. I'd still not placed the ice cream or ice cubes in the freezer. I didn't care. I topped up my glass with rum and returned to the chair.

I'd not minded Sherlock's dabble with drugs. That was, of course, until he picked them over me. Where would something like that end? Would he eventually see more benefits in having Molly than me? I knew he'd flirt with her to get what he wanted. It had never bothered me before now; now she was responsible for a high I could never give him.

My mind was overwhelmed with reasons for why he needed the substance. Too many to make sense of as the rum took effect and dulled my senses. What could it do that I could not provide? I'd drained my glass and I was out of my seat; but I did not head to the kitchen. I found myself on my knees before the infamous morphine tin. It now lay open before me and my thumb was brushing the strap he would have used last night.

I'd not even tried smoking so the only experience I could compare it to was the one that was coursing through my body at this very moment. That wasn't good enough. Without thinking I strapped up my left arm, pulled out a clean needle and loaded it with the clear solution.

It would have been at this time that I would have gotten a phone call that would have brought me to my senses. Except my phone was off and the call was directed straight to voicemail, while I remained blissfully ignorant.

Finding a vein was easy. Building up the courage to plunge the sharp object into my arm, however, was far from easy. I had butchered my arm by the time I hit a vein that would allow me to depress the plunger.

Before I'd even removed the strap that was keeping the morphine from entering the rest of my body I knew I'd made a mistake that I could not take back. I'd misjudged the dose, or It was about to react with the alcohol in my system. Something was wrong.

I pulled off the tie and allowed myself to fall backwards as it rushed to my heart. I was in trouble and if he didn't find me soon; he'd be blaming himself for the rest of his life.