Ending Gried

Chapter 4

When Sherlock awoke he was lying on the floor of his flat. Slowly, he got to his knees and groaned loudly at the pain in his head. He felt awfully sick– sicker then he normally did after being that high.

"Feeling alright?" a voice asked him.

Sherlock jumped and looked behind him. Mycroft was sitting on the torn, stained sofa on the other side of the room. He stared blankly at Sherlock before getting up and walking towards his brother's bed. Sherlock was still halfway on the ground when Mycroft slowly walked passed him. Sherlock's eyes followed him carefully.

Mycroft picked up the small black case that held Sherlock's muse. He stared inside it calmly. "Did anyone ever tell you that this stuff kills?"

"So does falling off buildings," Sherlock rebutted.

Mycroft chuckled softly. "Humorous." He set the case back on the nightstand.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked as he got to his feet.

"Checking up on my assets."

"And how am I an asset, exactly?"

Mycroft turned toward his brother. His eyes softened slightly when he saw him. Sherlock was thin–too thin. The drugs and sleepless nights wore down his face to skeleton like features. It made Mycroft slightly sick. "You're my brother," he finally said softly.

Sherlock ignored the comment and walked toward his kitchen. "Want something to eat?"

"No, thank you, I ate on the plane," Myrcoft replied.

"Isn't a little risky for you to fly down to New Delhi so often?" Sherlock asked. "People might ask questions…"

"About?"

"Me."

Mycroft laughed. "I think those drugs are making you a little too paranoid. You're still dead, you know."

"Am I?" Sherlock asked blankly as he poured himself cereal.

"Of course. That Molly girl did a wonderful job of faking your certificate of death. Those things are too easy to fraud. But Irene Adler can tell you that."

Sherlock hesitated at the name. He picked up his cereal and walked toward the table. "Ah."

"You really thought I wouldn't figure out she wasn't really dead?" Mycroft snorted.

Sherlock only smiled.

"And I assume you've been seeing her?" Mycroft continued.

"Seeing her? I'm not alive, remember?"

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "But neither is she."

Sherlock stared up at his brother. It hadn't really crossed his mind (why would it?) that he and Irene could see each other again. He wasn't sure what he could need her for…besides one thing– her professional skills. Sherlock had never really needed sex until he moved away from 221B. Since his time in New Delhi (and it could partly have to do with the heroine) he became exceptionally hungry for sexual release. He masturbated often; sometimes without even thinking about anything– just mindless, primitive release.

But more often then not, he would think of Someone. While he lived in 221B, the thought of sex with…him…had never really crossed his mind. Sex with anybody never crossed his mind. After he left, however, sex was constantly thought provoking.

"Is there anything you need before I go?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked up from his daze. "Oh, yes. Money."

Mycroft chuckled.

"What?" Sherlock frowned.

"I'm sure you have plenty of it. With your new occupation, and all," Mycroft pointed to the black case on the nightstand. "Besides. If I give you money you'll just buy more of that poison."

Sherlock stared at him blankly. He didn't try to deny anything; he knew what Mycroft was saying was true. He was neck deep in a deadly addiction and it was all because he wanted to be.

Mycroft sighed and got out his checkbook. He knew that if he didn't give Sherlock money it would either be starve and die, or sell more drugs and get shot. He placed the check on the nightstand and walked towards the door.

"Goodbye, brother. Try and keep yourself healthy."

Sherlock sat in his spot for a while after Mycroft left. His cereal got soggy while he sat there, and since his appetite was gone anyway, he threw it out.

He began to think about what Mycroft was saying about Irene. Sherlock found himself really wanting to see her, but he had no way to contact her…

Then he had an idea.

Sherlock got his laptop from underneath his bed and plugged the Ethernet cable into it. The Internet was slow and it made Sherlock impatient, but finally he landed on Irene's website, which he noticed hadn't been updated since the time of her "death".

He clicked the "Contact if you dare" button on the left-hand side of the screen and typed a quick message:

Hello. I am in urgent need of your services. I am LOCKED up at the moment and unable to come to you. You can find me at this IP address. Goodbye, Miss Adler.

Sent.

Sherlock took another quick dose of heroine (a bit smaller than the last time) and laid in his bed. His mind began to wander. If Irene did find him…what exactly could they do? Sherlock knew he wasn't exactly interested in the "dominatrix" idea, per say. He liked to be in control.

Since he had been in New Delhi, he had used countless prostitutes– male and female. Being in the "drug circle" gave you a complimentary membership into the "prostitution circle". It wasn't the first time Sherlock had sex– but it was the first time he experimented. Typically he found he was more sexually attracted to men, but women did have their usefulness.

But when it came down to the truth, no matter how much Sherlock wanted to deny it, having sex with Irene had nothing to do with "sexual experimentation". He could do that with anybody in New Delhi. He wanted Irene– and it may sound odd– because sex with her was the closest he could get to having sex with John. Perhaps it made him morbid, but when he thought of Irene he thought of John, and while the sex would be very different, they could make it work.

Sherlock's thoughts were starting to take a physical form. When he was high, he got aroused a lot faster.

He imagined John coming in the door to his flat– Mycroft had finally told him the truth! John came to his bed and knelt beside it. He had missed Sherlock so much…he needed Sherlock. Sherlock took him up onto the bed and held him. John began kissing his neck, repeating over and over how much he hated Sherlock for leaving– how much he loathed Sherlock for hurting him like that.

How could you have lied to me?

"It was to keep you safe," Sherlock whispered, stroking John's hair.

You bastard.

"I'm sorry…if things could have been different–"

Then what?

John looked up at him and touched Sherlock face softly.

If things were different, what?

"I…I would have held you like this sooner."

John kissed Sherlock softly on the cheek. I need you…

Sherlock's erection began to be painful underneath his pants. He pulled them down and stroked his penis through his underwear– imaging that is was John. He moaned loudly as his mind played tricks on him. Was John there or not? But it didn't matter– it made the pressure in his abdomen only build up more.

He imagined John taking his dick in his hand and moving it slowly up and down. Sherlock bucked his hips into his hand.

Sherlock lifted his hand from his body momentarily. He reached for a small tube of lubricant that was in the drawer of his nightstand. Once his hand was lubed up, he pressed it against his cock again. He imagined that it was John sucking on him. His hand clenched tighter around his cock, and his hips were moving in a perfect rhythm. Soon, he felt the pressure in abdomen get tighter. He questioned whether or not he should just stop and take his hand away. Then his orgasm would be so much more intense…

But he couldn't. His hand kept pumping and soon hot cum was pouring down it. He moaned loudly as it happened, wanting desperately to say John's name– but his voice wouldn't allow it.

He laid panting on his bed as his orgasm ceased. He fell asleep shortly after, but soon awoke when his computer made a faint beeping noise. He looked at it and saw that he had an email. He smiled.

I'm coming, Mr. Holmes.