Sherlock could feel somebody stroking their fingers through his hair. Before, he'd not been a fan of touching other people or vice versa but it had been so long since anybody had shown him the slightest bit of kindness. So, instead of flinching away, he enjoyed the sensation.
Suddenly he realized he wasn't in the alley anymore, he was laying on something soft under thick, warm blankets. He blinked his eyes open and found that he was in his own bed at Baker Street.
"How-?"
"Oh good you're awake."
Sherlock blinked, the rest of the room coming into focus to reveal John sitting beside him. It must of been him stroking his hair.
"Come on sit up."John smiled, "You look like a stick figure, you need to eat."
"What?" Sherlock sat up against the headboard, "You're not mad at me anymore?"
"Of course not." John chuckled, "Now come on, I made some of that risotto you love."
Sherlock's mouth watered at the thought, he loved John's risotto, it was one of the things he'd been dreaming about for three years.
"How did I get here?" Sherlock asked as John passed him a plate of food.
"I came and found you of course." John replied, "You know I would never just abandon you."
Sherlock felt a genuine smile tugging at his lips when suddenly there was a horrible screeching sound, tires skidding on asphalt and he jerked awake.
Sherlock almost sobbed when he saw the walls of the cold alley he'd collapsed in and realized he'd dreamed the entire scene. The sub-conscious could be cruel.
Groaning he heaved himself off the ground and blinked when his vision swum before him. He felt hot, very hot, but he was shaking. Fever. Sherlock had suffered through many infected wounds in his time away, he'd had no choice but to stitch himself up no matter how awkward the angle, which often resulted in sinking into his own mind for a few days while his body sweated the illness out.
This fever was more likely exhaustion, so if he got to a hotel or something and rested for a few days he could beat it easily. That wasn't what he wanted though.
What he wanted, was to go home to Baker Street and let John take care of him, he wanted his dream desperately.
The logical thing to do was to go to Mycroft, he'd have people who could help him but he couldn't stand coddling from anybody but his army doctor. He'd rather do things on his own.
Carefully he got to his feet and brushed the grime off his coat as best he could. London was a big city, it wouldn't take him long to find a hotel, hopefully one with a chemist nearby so he could buy some paracetamol or aspirin.
He pulled his collar up and walked with his hands shoved in his pockets, eventually he wandered into the more shady part of town. With his long coat he probably looked like a dealer in this neighborhood but he didn't care.
He found a cheap hotel and checked in, the room was small and of questionable cleanliness but it was still better than half the places he'd slept in while he was away. He just wanted to sleep, logically he knew he should eat first but he was too tired.
Collapsing on the bed he wondered what John was doing now. Was he looking for Sherlock? Did he feel bad about what he said? No, that was a fantasy. John wasn't looking for him. He was probably in the flat drinking tea and reading a newspaper. God what he wouldn't do for a cup of tea right now.
His stomach gave a growl of protest as he closed his eyes, the pain was becoming a nuisance now. Too sick and tired to go out t find food he walked over to the table where a basket of biscuits had been sat and practically inhaled them all. They were dry and stale but he didn't care, it was food.
This, if anything made him feel worse, now his stomach had gotten a taste it was demanding more food. The detective fell back on the bed and wrapped his arms around his torso and moaned. He felt awful, this wasn't how things were supposed to go! He was supposed to be home at last, not in another grimy hotel living on out of date snack food.
'Maybe this is my life now' He thinks darkly, flopping down on the bed and trying to sleep.
'What if this is all there is?'
-oOo-
John dialed Mycroft's number for what felt like the hundredth time. Sherlock had to be with him, Mycroft wouldn't let Sherlock go off on his own in such a state. Finally, finally, Mycroft answered.
"John I understand that you are angry but-"
"Is he safe?" John blurted out.
"What are you talking about?" Mycroft asked seriously, "He's not unstable if that's what you mean?"
"Oh good." John breathed, "You've got to tell him I didn't mean what I said, it was the heat of the moment and I was taken by surprise-"
"Wait, Sherlock's not with you now?" Mycroft questioned, John felt his heart sink.
"No, I thought he was with you." The doctor replied despite his dry mouth.
"Why on earth would you assume such a thing?" Mycroft scoffed, "He demanded I let him go to you as soon as it was possible."
John felt the guilt building within him.
"He came here, w-we fought, I...I did something really stupid Mycroft." John stammered, "He ran off, I've been searching for him all night."
Silence.
"How could you keep this from me?" John asked finally, "Don't try and lie to me, I know you knew he was alive. How could you do that to me?"
"It needed to be-"
"If you say 'convincing' I will scream." John sighed.
"John my brother does not wound easily, what did you do?" Mycroft asked flatly.
"I said...I told him that I wished he was dead." John chocked out, God how could he of said that.
There was more silence from Mycroft.
"I will locate him." The politician said finally.
"What can I-?"
"You've done enough."
The line went dead.
-oOo-
Sherlock awoke as the sun was setting, he'd slept all day. Wincing as he got to his feet he was pleased to discover his fever was gone, but his body was still weak and starving. Without really thinking about it he left the hotel and dove into a connivence store, using the pocket change he found within his coat to buy a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. Both of which he downed much too quickly once he'd turned the corner.
His stomach gave a lurch as the nausea grew but he managed to keep the food down. Breathing deeply he felt his brain come online for the first time in 48 hours. Finally he could think again, which he discovered was a bad thing. He didn't want to think. Thinking made him remember John and what he'd said. More importantly, how he'd said it. With finality, like it was a fact, the same way people said the sky is blue.
John wanted him dead.
He wished Sherlock had hit the pavement for real.
Now, part of Sherlock wished he had as well.
He had no choice, he had to go back to his life before John. Something he thought undoable. He was going to be alone again.
Well if he was going to do this he was going to do this right, good thing he was in a shadier part of town.
First things first he visited an ATM and withdrew a few hundred pounds from the account Mycroft set up. After that it took him less than two hours to find a dealer and purchase a small vial of cocaine, seven percent solution. He also managed to throw an extra tenner in and buy some fresh needles.
He knew this was wrong.
He'd been clean for six years.
He knew if Mycroft knew, he'd be disappointed, probably lock him up in some rehab centre but right now he didn't care. He wanted John really, he wanted companionship and dare he say it, he wanted to feel loved. Cocaine couldn't do that but it could give him the illusion of bliss, at least for a few hours.
Right now he'd take anything he could get.
It was like slipping back into a long forgotten routine, he knew exactly what to do without thinking about it. Fill the needle, tie his belt around the arm to find the vein, slip the needle under his skin and push the plunger down.
He sighed with relief as the drug entered his system, he'd forgotten how good it felt.
The world lit up, the colours became brighter, the shadows sharper, everything was clear and glowing. Sherlock grinned as the euphoria took over.
Why on earth did he ever give this up?
Oh dear, what do you think will happen next?
I know, but you might not like it... ;)