Sherlock's thoughts:
The last couple of days have been pretty tough. I don't remember them. John injects my poison of choice into me so that detoxing will go easier. He's requested a blue light bulb from Mycroft so he can find a vein-a vein that hasn't been destroyed. I shiver, for I deduce today is going to be difficult. Though I'm cold I take off all my clothes and wait for my fix, my fix of you and my recreational substance-my mind palace stimulation.
You come into the room, God, how I am aging you dearest John. I don't put on a robe I just lounge on the chair. You pause for a second your eyes clinically observing my naked body as a Doctor would. Wait; hold on, John you do know exactly where to look. Your eyes roam over my body like a hungry predator, pausing to look on my pubescent tree and its fruit. A thrill of electricity runs through my body, I spasm, jiggling the fruit. You stare. You frown. You lick your lips. You then look away. I inwardly sigh with relief and disappointment; there will be no cherry picking today. I am glad I am disciplined for the thought of you tasting my forbidden fruit is enough to send me into a pre-orgasmic fit.
"Sherlock, are you going to put on a robe or something?" You ask, you beg.
I show you no mercy. I want to see you suffer a little. "No, I'm going commando," I answer with a smirk.
"Fine," you say turning on the blue light, "I need to find a vein." You approach me like a zoo keeper that has been attacked by a large animal that he now has to treat. Your hands rove over my arms, tears spring up in them when you observe the track marks of my abuse. You look away, take a deep breath, then you examine my legs, there is no clear vein of entry for it seems as if the track marks have spread like an out of control wisteria vine, its tendrils reaching everywhere.
"Sherlock, I'm going to have to inject the substance into one of the veins on the top of your foot. Sherlock…it's going to hurt," You say as you swab the top of my foot with alcohol.
I must be sick for as much as if hurts I love the feel of you sticking a needle in me. Slow at first and then the sting as the needle penetrates my vein. I sigh in pain and pleasure.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," you say and then leave the sleeping area.
I can hear you pouring another scotch, the ice cubes hit the glass, the liquid hits your tongue and then burns its way down your throat. I wish I were the liquid, burning my way through you as you…swallow. I'm sleepy, goodnight John and then I'm out.
I wake up. Too late I am vomiting everywhere. John, you rush to my side. When I don't stop I hear you on the phone calling in yet another prescription for me. Whoops, another drain on the system. A short while later and Mycroft is at the door handing you a bag from the drug store. His nose wrinkles as he smells the vomit. You snatch the bag out of his hands and approach me.
"Sherlock, I've got some medicine for your nausea. I can't give it to you orally or in an IV, it's a suppository." You blush and hand me the package.
My hands are shaking so bad that it becomes apparent to both of us I need help. "Sherlock, I think I'm going to have to…"
I spare you having to say it. "Fine, just do it." I no more than get the words out and I am vomiting yet again.
You come over and cover me with a blanket. "Sherlock, lie on your left side and put your right leg over the left, like this," You say as you show me a picture on the drug insert.
"Wait, put on some loud music," I say just before you put on a rubber glove. "No, wait put on Sweet Dreams by the Eurythmics; it will help me distance myself."
You do as I request. I let the music float over me. I feel your gloved hand on my waist. "Sherlock, I'm going to put some lubricant on the…the area, it will be cold."
I nod my head for you to proceed. Your gloved hand applies the lubricant, then I hear you unwrapping the suppository. You then speak to me softly, "Sherlock, I'm going to slip it in now. Just relax, it shouldn't hurt."
I try and relax as I feel you easing me open. I can't I am as tight as a drum. But you are so clever John; you are skilled, for your fingers ply me into submission. The entrance of the small bullet suppository makes a suction sound as my body accepts it. Then just like that it's over. You turn me over and pull the blanket up to my chin.
"Get some rest, Sherlock," you say as you pat my shoulder.
I close my eyes, but I know I won't sleep, for I want to record your touch in my mind palace so I can reference and enhance it any time I please. I do so with great accuracy. The tactile memory is clear, leaving me to wonder why my reference to it makes me feel lonelier than ever.
