CHAPTER 8: THE DECEASING. (PART 1)
A very familiar substance rushed through his veins, intoxicating the cells and exchanging what it could to suit its own fancy; and he could not be more indifferent about it. As the debris of a broken man's consciousness was quietly rounding up around him. Slowly, painfully unhurried as if dancing a lackadaisical Merry-go-round to which he could only follow with his eyes. They finally stopped and sat down in a circle, joining hands as in praying.
Almost hourly forcing into his bloodstream the numbing liquid to help forget all the spiders he saw climbing up the walls. Drifting in and out of awareness. No time spent wondering when was the last time he actually ate —probably three to four days ago. When at last, those mindless thugs exchanged putting their filthy fingers on his jaw to force a dubious fluid down on him, for providing something he actually needed— not caring for anything, except for the loneliness.
The silence was always so consuming. White noise yelling at him all at once; and even if the drugs did quiet it for a while, the infinite feeling of voidness was undeniably tearing the last of his sanity to pieces. That sensation of complete emptiness enveloping him resulting in unapologetic apathy for his surroundings.
The apparition, once it came, was so life-like that he almost would be certain it was real if he didn't know any better. Silent but from the occasional scrub of fabric against itself. Perfect down to the last detail, excepting the fact that it was so utterly wrong. It stood there, in front of him like he hadn't a care in the world. With his blonde hair and blue eyes. Staring at the detective as if he hadn't had a knife pushed through his abdomen because of him.
An image brought by the detective to both comfort and torture himself as an act of contrition. A memory made out of intangible smoke that was summoned to fill the empty space, the silence that was threatening to consume him, because right now he'd rather experience an electric shock than be left alone with nothing but the thoughts inside his head.
Sherlock wondered if this is how he had made John feel after he forced him to watch what would later become a recurring nightmare in the blogger's restless nights. The helplessness, the guilt, the fear of the eloquent quiet that declares truths, realities. Knowledge of a life well lived slipping down the drain because of a mistake. Being trapped as a victim of a cruel fate that someone else had deliberately carved out, forced to lay down in the grave you dug for yourself perfectly.
He pondered if his friend had also subconsciously sought something to fill the open hole inside the space, forced his own mind to give him someone to whom he could talk. Because Sherlock failed to function without his best friend, and he knew it. He was already experiencing it. And what the detective would do to bring John Watson back, in any form, if ever possible, it's best not said.
"This is what he wants." Sherlock breathed disappointedly to the figure in front of him. Blue eyes shifted to see him through the fluctuating blonde eyelashes. Not making a single sound.
"He wants me to do this." Chapped lips muttered viciously. "He wants me to lose my mind." The sleuth explained, fishing for a respond, but the mirage just stared at him. Not even making an attempt to open his mouth.
"John." Called the silver-eyed man. Seeking to sink down into a seance. Trying to communicate with a ghost as if he wasn't a ghost himself. Still, would the phantom remain soundless, only almost indifferently shifting his gaze between both the boffin's eyes. Sherlock contracted his legs towards his body in a defensive manner. "John." He insisted, closing together his wet eyelids and burying his face between his own knees. Bracing himself for the respond that would miraculously break the silence at long last.
However, when it never came, he raised his face to the only sight that had not made him want to crawl out of his skin ever since he was first trapped in that place a lifetime ago -which in reality had been 31 days. "John!" He yelled desperately. Trying to coax him into answer him, but nothing happened.
"Say something!" Long, slender fingers grabbed at his hair and pulled. "Just... please?" He pleaded, sounding disheartened. Looking at the other man supplicating. "Fine!" He spat resigned when the other seemed to refuse him that small mercy just to spite him.
The way Sherlock saw him, he had a big, almost black blemish on his stomach. Probably from all the liquid he lost. It made the detective choke on his own air to know he was the cause of that. To know that his hands were also tainted with the same blood; it was sickening.
Staring down at said extremities, now cleansed, the boffin saw a completely different picture. And suddenly, he felt utterly dirty. That sort of polluted nature that water would never clean. He had to get it off, he needed to get it off now. His scrubbed his palms over his wrists as if rinsing. But it was still there, it was still on him, and he couldn't stand it a second longer.
There was no more gore on his hands, not really. Hadn't been for a few days actually. Yet all the detective could see was crimson liquid on them, over him, covering every inch of his skin, seeping all the way down through his pores to his very soul, and just getting it off his skin wasn't enough anymore. His nails scratched at his arms, digging into his flesh viciously, cutting stripes so deep to draw blood, trying to flush all of it out from the inside too. The procedure hurt a lot, but all he cared about was the filthy stain that wouldn't come off.
After the frantic feeling had left, he turned to look at the blogger once again. With fingers bloodied and clawed arms. Not so much in panic but in realisation. A frown on the blonde's face made the detective furious."Don't judge me." He warned flatly.
The scowl was painted with concern, and it made the sleuth mad with shame. Angry at his friend that even after having murdered him, he still dared to feel worry for his aggressor. He had no right to hold against him an opinion on the actions to which he resorted to heal -or in this occasion to auto-destroy- of his trespasses. "Why are you looking at me like that?" He snarled. "This is your fault!" Accusingly, he waved his abused arms to draw attention at the damage that he had managed to inflict on himself.
"If you hadn't gone and gotten yourself stabbed, I wouldn't even be here anymore!" His flatmate looked at him passively through his outbreak. Not seeming overly moved by his placing of blame over his shoulders. As if welcoming the burden if it helped him vent his pent up despair. And that made it worse. "I wouldn't be here at all!" He was screaming outrageous things to gauge a reaction, even if the other man was continuously being infuriatingly patient. Never mind the fact that he was as fanciful as his Mind Palace.
Frustrated, the curly-haired man grabbed an already used syringe and threw it to the silent companion. "Speak to me, goddammit!" He said, as the needle flew right through the intangible body in front of him, landing on the floor with a pathetic whimpering clink.
The raging impotency he felt was enough to cost him his composure, throwing him against the wall in a heap. Sobbing like a hungry babe and circling his thin arms around his neglected body for protection. The man one metre away from him watched the sleuth with big round sad eyes. "It's your fault!" The detective cried. He pointed a finger at the figure.
Something odd happened then. The ghost started to become blurry, and even in his compromised state, Sherlock knew that wasn't only the tears flooding his eyes. No, the spirit was becoming more and more invisible by the moment, and just as fast as it came, it was gone.
The chamber felt bigger after its absence, and certainly darker. As if by leaving, the phantom had sucked the light out of every particle and left them all to shine dully in the aftermath. It was a horrible feeling, to replace the presence of something so medicating for his mind sickness with loneliness. "All your fault." He whispered to empty room, and it rung true int the barren space. Only for him and the silence to hear.