Sherlock leaned back in his favourite chair and sipped his tea. He had officially moved back into 221B a couple of weeks ago but since coming out to the world that no, he was not dead he was too busy with press releases and being interviewed by Scotland Yard and reporters to actually enjoy being alive again. It was all Mycroft's idea of course, you couldn't just come back from the dead and assume everyone was up to par with it like he was.
Despite the whole situation and, how had Mycroft phrased it; the tedious legwork that Sherlock had endured these past couple weeks everyone, including the press, was finally convinced that Sherlock wasn't a fraud and that Moriarty was the criminal mastermind behind it all. His work was done, Sherlock could finally relax.
Sherlock stretched out his long limbs and shut his eyes. He had a headache that was threatening to become a migraine but he couldn't bother himself to take anything, it slowed down his mind. He allowed himself to wander into his mind palace for the first time in a long time, he frowned and took a mental note to delete most of the information on Moriarty and Moran, only to make sure he kept the important stuff just in case something like this ever happened again.
Sherlock wasn't sure how long he had lost himself in time but when he opened his eyes he noticed the sun had gone down and his tea was now ice cold. Sherlock got up from his chair and walked the short distance to the kitchen noticing that Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to leave out some biscuits and sweets before she left for her sisters. Really, Sherlock didn't know why she did, she knew he wasn't going to eat them. But it made him smile.
Coming back to the world hadn't been that very difficult. At first John thought that he was having another nightmare but with Mary's help he assured him that no the man in front of him was Sherlock and no he was not dead. And okay, maybe he did deserve that punch and split lip but certainly not that one in the stomach! Mrs. Hudson acted like instead of dying he had just been on holiday for three years and was just coming back, he was secretly thankful he didn't have to go into details with the old woman. Lestrade seemed in denial for a total of fifteen minutes before realizing that with Sherlock alive he could get his old position back and now he'll finally have someone to help him solve the latest batch of unsolved homicides. Lestrade hugged his favourite consulting detective holding Sherlock in a deathly tight embrace and ran quickly to tell the rest of the team. Surprisingly Donovan and much to Sherlock's dismay, Anderson both appeared and shook hands before calling him a freak and going back to work. Things were finally back to normal.
Sherlock grabbed the nearest glass in the cupboard and began to pour himself a glass of water but his hands were too shaky and the water spilled out everywhere soaking papers and getting in the cracks of the counter. He glanced at the clock on the wall, it was almost midnight. It had been sixteen hours, thirteen minutes and twenty eight, twenty nine seconds since his last hit. His withdrawal was getting worse and the symptoms were coming faster and quicker now.
He could feel his head reeling and pounding, he felt the sweat gather just above his brow, his hands shook so much he couldn't grip anything, the room began to pick up speed and spin. He shut his eyes and counted to fifty in Latin then backwards in Spanish. He went over the velocity of the tube, he started making random calculations, charted the stars and it's constellations in his head- anything to take his mind off of it. But nothing he did seemed to help, anger bubbled up within him and before he knew what he was doing Sherlock grabbed a nearby beaker and threw it against the wall.
He stormed out of the kitchen and nearly ran to his bedroom. When he reached his destination he pulled open his drawers from his dresser almost taking down the whole thing, he didn't care about the old thing, he only cared about the precious wooden box deep within. He pulled it out and stepped back away and into the light. Holding his breath he opened the box and admired the beautiful vile of clear heaven. The syringe next to it was wrapped delicately in a fine golden cloth he had found while he was in India; it is also where he bought the drugs. He hadn't used them till he got back, at first he didn't want to use him but when it was just him alone at night with the memories of what had happened to him- he couldn't think about it.
He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and wrapped the band around his arm tightly, he made a few tight fists to make the veins thick with blood. He filled the syringe and held the needle up to the light, admiring it like it was the most beautiful thing in the world he had ever seen. He hesitated only for a second before injecting himself.
He felt the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, he felt his pulse quicken, he felt his pupils dilate so much it was almost painful. Oh how he missed that feeling, oh how he lusted for that euphoria! Sherlock placed the box back in his original spot and went back out into the sitting room to retrieve his phone. He swayed gently before picking it up and when he did he noticed he had one missed alert; a text from Molly. Molly, sweet and gentle Molly. His pathologist- his Molly.
He could smell her perfume and her shampoo in his nose, he could feel her soft hands pressing gently against his chest. He could feel her soft warm lips pressing against his- no wait. He couldn't because they had never been there before. Why had he never kissed her before? Such beautiful and perfect lips were wasted if they were not being put to use up against his own.
He could feel her fingernails drag along his bare back making small red lines as she trailed her way down his small frame. He imagined the way her breath would hitch when he flicked his tongue over that delicate spot right behind her ear. He could almost feel her against his skin and taste her in his mouth, and she felt good.
He needed Molly right then at this very second, or however long it would take to get to her flat. Picking up his keys and mobile Sherlock almost sprinted out of the flat and out into the cold freezing night. He had forgotten his jacket but barely felt the cold, he turned his feet to the west and began running down the streets.
He needed a doctor. And he knew one who wouldn't mind a house call.