It was too much.
The distraction was too sharp, the need too strong.
It came on suddenly.
It came with the realization that he'd let himself down—he'd dropped the act in front of John—and for what?
He couldn't even say why, exactly.
The important thing was that he'd failed to remain stoic. He'd let Moriarty get to him.
A slip in judgment; a stumble in focus.
He had to get back to the real point, somehow.
And this need was standing in his way.
So he'd waited until John had left for work Monday morning, and then ambled back to his bedroom and opened the sock drawer where, far in the back, he'd retrieved the little bottle of his solution.
It wasn't one he liked to go to very often, because it interfered with his thoughts, and it was harder to keep it hidden from John than cutting would be.
But it seemed like the only thing he had left.
He'd unscrewed the cap, and shaken out two of the little red and white solutions onto his palm.
And… maybe one more wouldn't hurt, now that he was going this far already.
They felt light and reassuring in his hand.
But they felt even more reassuring on the way down his throat, promising that fairly soon he wouldn't be feeling much of anything.
All that was left to do now was wait.
He probably had a good... thirty minutes and fifty-two seconds before the full effect kicked in, but until then he was left with nothing but will-power as defence.
That would leave him several hours to enjoy the benefits of being numb before it wore off again and John came home.
John…
Sherlock stopped and stared at the bottle for a few moments. He knew John wouldn't like this if he knew. It was nowhere near as destructive as cutting, in his opinion, but… it was still something the doctor would probably frown upon.
So Sherlock wouldn't tell him.
What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Besides, was it really any of his business what Sherlock did to his own body? Sure, there was all that about caring and friendship, but… in the end, if he wanted deep, permanent scars all up and down his body, then that was his decision and no one else's.
But… did he really want that?
"Too late…" He murmured to himself as he replaced the bottle in the back of the drawer and covered it back up with socks, making sure they were still in their proper index before shutting it.
He turned on his heel and looked around the room introspectively for several minutes.
Nothing was changing, yet.
In the meantime… he decided he might as well use his last half an hour of total mental acuity to make sure there was nothing about the current case that he'd missed, nothing about the evidence that he just hadn't linked together yet.
At the moment, the 'evidence' consisted only of the photos of the murder victims, the police report, and that knife that Moriarty had left at the scene.
And John had left the knife…?
In the kitchen cupboard, second one up on the left.
It took him only a few moments to locate everything, and spread it all out on the floor of the living room since there were no clear spaces on any of the tables.
Everything looked exactly as he'd remembered it, all the details checked out…
He knelt on the rug, poring over the photos again before rifling through the report, spreading the papers out in a big semi-circle around him so he could fact check quickly as he worked, even though he had most of it committed to memory already. Better safe than sorry.
At last he turned his attention to the knife.
It slowly started to register in his mind just how heavy it was beginning to feel, much too unwieldy and awkward in his now slightly uncoordinated fingers.
The pills were starting to take effect.
Sherlock sat back on his heels, trying to keep his head level, though it felt as if it were spinning in circles.
Stupid.
The room was perfectly still.
Maybe that third pill hadn't been such a brilliant idea…
The knife slipped from his hands and clattered to the floor, and he sat there looking at it for much too long before it occurred to him that he ought to pick it back up.
But he couldn't quite seem to get his hand to do what he wanted it to, at first only succeeding in pushing the knife a little farther away from him across the floor. With a growl of frustration he lunged forward and grabbed it firmly; it was only when he looked down and saw the blood that he realized he was gripping it by the blade.
Sometimes when a person gets a cut or a scrape he doesn't notice until he looks down and sees it, and once he does he finally begins to feel the pain.
Sherlock did not.
He opened his hand slowly, staring down at the parallel slices along his palm and fingers, watching the blood drip, but feeling nothing. He was hardly even aware that he wasn't feeling something he should be, transfixed by the vivid red.
This hadn't been part of the plan.
Had there been a plan…?
Who knew how much time passed while the simple slices held him spellbound, but at last a thought forced itself into his mind and he finally moved again.
He really couldn't feel. Every nerve in his body seemed deadened, and if he weren't consumed by curiosity he would have reflected on what a relief that was.
As it was he could only focus on one question: Just how numb was he, truly?
Sober, he could have answered his own question fairly quickly—but now, like this, it seemed much more important and interesting to know firsthand. And there only seemed to be one way to find out.
He struggled with pulling his sleeve up for several minutes, and finally succeeded in ripping off one button and undoing the other so he could roll it up to the elbow.
The shirt would be ruined.
So what?
The knife hid from him, and he twisted around to locate it, finding it next to his left foot.
It still felt heavy and cumbersome, but he managed it determinedly and set it against the pale skin of his inner arm and held it there for ages, unsure whether he was trying to feel or to remember something that nagged at the back of his mind.
He couldn't do either.
Sherlock stared at the edge of the blade pressed against his skin.
Was that even his…?
It was so odd, to see but not to feel, to be utterly desensitized when he knew there was supposed to be pain here.
Even when he pushed down and dragged the knife back, even when the blood spilled, there was nothing.
Nothing at all.
The second and third cuts were deeper, deeper than they should have been, but he couldn't tell.
The bright scarlet fell in drops and spattered onto the crisp white sheets of paper surrounding him on the floor, like a crime scene all its own.
A crime scene in which Sherlock would be both the perpetrator and the victim. A case he couldn't solve because he didn't want to.
The knife slipped again.
His hand was now dripping with his own blood, making it harder to hold the murder weapon.
Wait a minute… murder weapon…
Weapon.
Evidence.
Contaminated evidence.
He struggled hazily to recall if the knife had already been checked for prints and DNA. It must have been.
Then this would be okay. He hadn't ruined anything, this time.
But… just to be quite sure that he really was numb to the bone… one more slice…
...
John almost couldn't contain his grin as he caught a cab from the clinic and settled in for the ride.
Somehow he'd managed to convince Sarah to let them have another go, and see if they could work things out this time, hopefully with less violent Chinese circus acts.
He was already so hot under the collar that the cold had hardly bothered him on the walk out to the street, and he almost found himself humming.
He'd make it work, this time.
He would. Somehow.
The cab dropped him off at 221B, and he climbed out and searched about in his pocket for his key, unlocking the door and letting himself inside.
A quick glance at his mobile told him it was nearly 6 o'clock pm. He must have spent longer than he thought he had talking to Sarah.
He shrugged and went up the steps—but before he even opened the door he stopped short.
He could hear a faint sound from inside, like a muffled groan.
A chill snaked up his spine, making the hair at the nape of his neck prickle.
Something felt wrong.