Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, John - pre-slash or friendship at the moment
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: T for drug use and aftermath
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone for your favorites and for your reviews. Sorry it's been a while since I updated. The muse hit me. There should be another chapter up tomorrow.
Sherlock walked with purpose to the street corner. The old man hadn't moved. But then, he never did. Even at night he slept there.
There was a nod between them. Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Cold isn't it?"
"That it is, y'want…"
"The usual please."
"In a hurry are we?"
Sherlock stamped his feet in response. Leaned against the corner, business out of view of the CCTV. He slipped a handful of notes into the man's hand, and with a flick of his wrist took the product and slipped it into his pocket.
"And the other stuff you have."
"Other?" The old man raised his eyebrows.
"Yes." Sherlock replied testily. "Other." He held another roll of notes between two fingers and the man slapped the desired merchandise into his hand. That was slipped into his other pocket. "Thank you."
The old man smiled, showing his gold teeth. "Anything you like. Anytime you like." Sherlock paid double for his anonymity, and looked both ways before crossing. He didn't hail a cab for home, rather he stopped at the pharmacy a block away from Baker Street for some 30gauge needles.
They assumed he was insulin dependant by the way he asked for them. He never took the needles the sellers provided - the risk of getting a dirty one and contracting a horrid disease was too great.
He reached the flat and unlocked the door. John hadn't returned from seeing Mary. Good. He didn't want to be stopped this time, besides his brain was going off - telling him that his need to switch off was approaching.
He stuffed half of the first round of product in the skull, the rest in the compartment behind the microwave. The second product went into a compartment in his violin, and the needles went into a strange-looking urn on the second bookcase.
Except he laid out what he needed. The blue scarf served as a good tourniquet. He watched the blood flow turn his fingertips pink as he rolled up his sleeve. The "new habit" he'd picked up. It cleared his mind completely, left him blank. Clear. He didn't want to think right now. He loaded up the needle, 15 cc's this time. 10 last time had done positively nothing. The need for the feeling of the first high he knew that it wouldn't be obtained. It was the blank feeling he wanted.
The need to forget.
He deleted her and deleted her. But she wouldn't leave as though she'd engrained herself onto his memory.
It took five minutes for his muscles to relax as his mind went blank. A comfortable nothingness. It had been instantaneous the first time. The wait was getting longer. More torturous. He would have to up the dose again…
The voices that had tortured him in Yemen came … and faded. You're nothing. Worthless. Stupid.
He was floating. Lazily. No aim to go anywheres particular - just to float and not think.
"You'll kill your brain cells that way."
He blinked, dully. The world was hazy and he couldn't discern who was trying to shake him awake.
Go away. It's nice here. With just floating in space…
"Sherlock, come now. How much did you take?" Henri's voice faded and it was only John talking to him, shaking him in concern.
Aw John, why'd you have to ruin it? John reminding him. Chiding him. Annoying. Bringing him back down.
He mumbled something aloud, distinctly annoyed.
"Sod it, Sherlock, you've - what did you take?"
"Heroin, what else?"
"Well you've taken. Goddamit, Sherlock - it's not enough for you to kill yourself in front of me. You've always got to outdo yourself. Come on." John puts Sherlock's arm over his shoulder.
"What for?"
"Getting you to bed. You should sleep it off."
"No."
"I'll call Lestrade. He can haul you off to jail for possession for all I care." John had his mobile in his hand, meaning to make clear his threat.
"No." His voice suddenly resembled a whine.
"No? Why don't you tell me how much you took and I might reconsider."
"You. Have no intenton ob doin any such. Thing." He forced the words out, slumping back into his chair. "Fifteen cc's. I'm fine." Of course he didn't sound fine.
"Sure, now yeah, but what happens when you take the full 31? I am not -" John's voice rose with emotion and he paused, lowering his tone. "I'm not loosing you again Sherlock. I almost killed myself with the boredom. You - don't make me loose you again." His voice started to crack around the edges with the emotion.
"Am. Not. Going. To do. That," It felt like he had to force every word out. Why was John making him talk?
"You can barely talk. Jesus, Sherlock. Come now, up to bed."
"Don't want to. Want sleep." He leaned back, closing his eyes. Meaning to do just that in the chair.
John sighed, exasperated. "Bed is a good place to sleep. You'll be stiff and sore if you don't. Come now, up you get." He put Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, meaning to properly get him up.
"Won't be. Carried to bed like a child." He could tell John's retort you are a child was hanging at the edge of his tongue. Through the haze he wasn't quite sure.
"Well tough," John said, hauling him to his feet. Sherlock flopped on the floor next to his chair, legs had given way to the muscle relaxer, and they refused to move. Or because he was being stubborn. He wasn't sure he knew which.
"I'm going to have to call Lestrade because I certainly am not going to hoist you upstairs by myself. "
"Don't care."
"He'll have you arrested."
"So?" Sherlock shrugged carelessly, a blank stare still on his face.
"Fine," John huffed. "Stay there. And I'll call Mycroft to haul you off to one of his private rehabilitation facilities. We both don't want that. You hate that."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but tried to stand up.
"Here," John offered his arm, but Sherlock pulled back, stubborn.
"No. I'm fine."
"Alright then," John stood back, watching.
He barely made it to the stairs, though he made it up the first one - he would rather not crawl. Besides the room was - it was making him dizzy and sick.
"Sherlock?" John broke through the haze, but his vision didn't clear.
"Why is the room spinning?" He asked even though he knew the answer.
"You're high. You don't usually walk when you're in such a state.