Sherlock woke with a start, quickly realising that he had fallen asleep on the sofa again. He stretched out his gangly limbs, loosening tight muscles as memories came back to him slowly.
He'd come back home. (from seeing Jim - he repressed that part of the memory)
He'd showered and stored his stuff. (drugs, don't beat about the bush, Sherlock)
He had spoken with John. (oh yeah, that went really well, didn't it? He rolled his eyes at his own psyche)
John had gone out. (on a date with...- Sherlock repressed that part of the memory too)
Greg had called round.
Right, yes. Greg had called round to check on him.
It irked him knowing that Greg knew so much about all of this, but he knew that the detective was just worried. Greg had been Sherlock's friend for many years, since his darker days, and he knew everything about Sherlock.
He knew about John.
He knew about the drugs.
And now, he knew about "the talk".
Right, yes, the talk
Except Sherlock hadn't taken the newly gotten drugs. He'd retreated to his Mind Palace after John had gone out, only coming back just minutes before Greg had arrived.
Then he'd fallen asleep. On the sofa. On Greg.
But he hadn't taken the drugs.
He was stronger than that. He had other ways to deal.
His Mind Palace was solid; reliable; dependable.
And Greg. Greg was his friend. He didn't judge.
He looked at the clock on the mantel. Nearly 11.30pm. John wasn't home. Well, he didn't think he was. He hadn't heard him come in, and he rarely slept so heavily that he would miss someone come in to 221B. He briefly debated going up to John's room to see if John was there but really, he knew. He wasn't there. He hadn't come home. He was out. On a date. With Sarah. He would be staying at Sarah's.
Sherlock took a long, shuddering breath before he stood and moved over to the desk, opening his laptop.
As his browser started on screen, he opened up John's blog and started reading through the most recent entries.
He smiled as he was reminded of various cases they'd taken lately and something fluttered in his chest - pride? - as he read all the different ways John always found to compliment him.
John had so many nice things to say about him.
John was his friend.
John is his friend.
Sherlock embraced the warm feeling that the realisation gave him.
John is his friend.
John will always be his friend.
Sherlock stifled a tired yawn. Emotions were exhausting.
He closed his laptop and headed to his bedroom, slipping himself between cool sheets with a soft sigh and a smile.
Sherlock was jolted from his sleep when his phone started to buzz, dancing its way across the side table, with the notification of an incoming message.
Sleepily, he reached across and fumbled in the darkness, dragging the device onto his pillow as he squinted at the glowing screen.
Did you do it yet, Sherly?
Sherlock blinked and re-read the message. There was only one person who called him that.
He was still processing that thought when the phone buzzed again.
You know you want to.
He frowned. What was Jim doing? Taunting him? Goading him?
His heart started beating hard. He couldn't breathe. He felt himself getting light-headed; panicked.
Are you thinking about me, Sherlock?
God, what was he doing? What did he want?
Sherlock felt his stomach lurch as the day's events flooded his memories, and he barely made it to the bathroom before he vomited.
Returning to the bedroom, he sank to the floor and leant against the bed, dropping his head onto the soft sheets and closing his eyes.
His breathing was heavy and laboured. He made an attempt to calm himself and access his Mind Palace for refuge.
He couldn't do it. He was too agitated. Too wound up.
He needed peace. He needed escape.
He needed...
His eyes flew open and homed in on the dresser opposite him.
He heard himself moan. A long, needy, desperate moan. He tried to stifle it but it was strong. Powerful.
His arm twitched, and he instinctively clenched a fist.
The phone buzzed a fourth time, and he flung himself to retrieve it, annoyed at the intrusion.
Do you want me, Sherly?
Sherlock let out a harsh breath and threw the device. It hit the back wall and slid down onto the floor.
"No!" he shouted at the floor; the phone; the room, his voice filled with anger.
"No, I don't want you." Anger turned to fear.
"I will never want you!" Fear turned to desperation, and his voice became small.
His eyes fogged with reluctant tears, and his arms trembled as he attempted to crawl across the carpet of his room, towards the dresser.
Pulling the bottom drawer open and removing the box, the tears began to fall, and a shaky hand opened it, tipping out its contents.
His thoughts were clouded, his breathing erratic and his body shook as the long, practised fingers set about hastily preparing the drug.
He choked out a sob as he pulled the tourniquet tight and, angrily taking hold of the needle, he pressed it into the crook of his elbow.
As the poison flooded his system, he muttered one more time...
"I need..."