So I guess I'll continue this, since people seem interested.

Warning: drug use, mentions of suicide, and mental illness ahead my friends

And so it became ritual once again.

Almost every day. Quick injections, familiar pinches to the skin. Apathy afterward, or else a lazy, fitful sleep. Pure bliss.

I kept up appearances though. I had to, lest arise suspicion.

Nobody could know, so nothing much changed.

I still met Mrs. Hudson at the door almost every morning, when she'd drop off tea and some sort of breakfast item, the only food I allowed myself to consume for the day. I always checked to make sure I presentable, made sure my pupils were normal and such. I couldn't have her start wondering what was wrong with me.

I hid my the bruised skin at the crook of my elbow with dressing gowns and long sleeves.

I got dressed on the days I went out, the fleeting hours when Lestrade would call me to a crime scene or when I needed to stop by Bart's for something.

I shaved and showered, I wore clean clothes.

I experimented and took cases, despite the fact that they'd lost their effect on me. It just wasn't the same without John there. Molly had been a poor substitute.

I pretended everything was okay, even if it wasn't.

Only because I needed the drugs.

If I pretended things were fine, I could keep them.

And because of that, I usually reserved my questionable practices for nighttime, when Mrs. Hudson was long asleep and I didn't have to worry about anyone showing up and finding me. During the day the only thing that kept me from using was the hope that Lestrade would text me about a case or a client would show up. It wasn't quite like old times, but it was good enough. There was no way I'd be able to show up high in front of at a crime scene, Lestrade would notice immediately. He had entirely too much experience in the matter. So I kept to the darkness.

But even on the days I had a case, the voices still whispered, almost always John. At every crime scene, he still seemed to be there with me, telling me what I was doing wrong, reminding me I wasn't in my right mind, that I shouldn't even be there. Pointing out everything I missed because of sleep deprivation. Because I couldn't see straight. Because I felt like I was going to faint, liable to the fact I hadn't eaten in days and didn't plan on it. Because all I could think about was the next high.

It was annoying. And hurtful.

It only made me want the drugs more. Anything to shut the voice in my head up.

But there were still days when I felt like I was drowning, like I was falling again. When everything was dark and everything seemed hopeless.

There were still days when the voices became too much to bear, when I couldn't ignore them and push them away anymore. All I could do to silence them was inject.

Those were the days I binged, harder than I could ever remember.

I usually only allowed myself a little bit, just a small hit under the cover of darkness, just enough to get me through the night. Just enough to get me to sleep. To soften the voices a little, make their remarks a little less biting.

But sometimes I couldn't take it anymore. Sometimes it all became too much.

I'd lock the doors and close the curtain. Never answer my phone.

I would keep myself in a perpetual high, taking hit after hit after hit. So much I was surprised I hadn't overdosed yet.

I would just let go, not caring what happened.

I wasn't in my right mind, that was for certain.

I didn't care that it might kill me. I didn't care that it would probably be Mrs. Hudson to find me after, lifeless and cold on the couch. I didn't care about the people that might miss me, though somehow I doubted they would.

They'd gone without me for two years, thinking I was dead. They could go without me again.

John would get over it, he had Mary now. He had a baby on the way. He had a future ahead that didn't involve me. He didn't need me anymore. He was healed.

Lestrade would be fine. He always was. It isn't like he cared all that much anyway. I doubt he missed me much when I was gone, even though he'd hugged me. Probably just because he was glad he didn't have to feel guilty anymore.

Molly would get over it too. She had Tom now, and he was like a better version of me. My looks (though I honestly didn't understand why Molly ever found me attractive in the first place) along with a small portion of my intelligence without the sociopathy. She would be fine.

And it wasn't like Mycroft would care at all. He'd detached himself from me years ago. He didn't care much about anything these days.

Nobody cared, so neither did I.

I wasn't necessarily going to try to kill myself though, not again.

Well, maybe just not yet.

But I wasn't going to stop myself from bingeing either. I wasn't going to regulate my dosage to carefully like I had in the past.

I suppose that meant I was giving up.

Whatever happens, I don't care. Perhaps I die soon or I keep on living like this, surrounded by people so blissfully unaware of the turmoil I hid so carefully.

Maybe they wouldn't know until they found me dead.

But maybe they would see something, some kind of pleading pain in my eyes.

Maybe they would realize I needed help, maybe they would realize I was in pain.

It scared me. Living without the drugs.

So much had changed, I'd become dependent quickly, almost scarily so.

It scared me thinking that someone would find out, that they'd get Mycroft involved and he'd lock me up again. They would think I was crazy, hearing voices in my head.

I would never know freedom again if they found out.

A part of me didn't care, a part wanted to die and leave everything behind.

But another part of me wanted to be saved, even if it scared me.

I didn't yet know what part would win.

Tell me what you think? If anyone had any suggestions, I'm certainly open.