The days go by and I am in full use of my 7% solution. It is getting hard to find a vein. You dearest John come and go. I hardly notice. I am in the proverbial, 'zone'. Mrs. Hudson knows something is up and so I avoid her at all costs. I refuse all the cases put before me. I would rather stay within the confines of my mindpalace where I am safe. My sex drive is diminished. I feel numb. Until I hear the water in the shower running and I think of you, the water cascading over your short, thick thighs, over your arms, the wound in your shoulder, the nest of hair between your legs, your lovely manhood resting like an egg, dormant, waiting for me.

I look down, I am fully aroused. I tap on the bathroom door. I see the outline of your body. I slide the door open and join you.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" You ask as you jump back.

"Bend down for the soap," I whisper.

You turn off the water for a moment. "Sherlock, I'm tired, quit playing around."

The rebuff hurts even in my drug induced state. "Fine," I say. You turn the water back on. I sit down on the toilet, my butt cheeks slid on the seat. My groin aches with desire. I hate myself as silent tears flow down my cheeks. I reach between my legs, to relieve the unrequited tension that coils within me.

The quick motions I make with my hand do nothing to improve my mood. I am finishing up as you exit the shower. My body spasms a couple of times as you stare at me. "Sherlock, did you just jerk off while I was in the shower?"

I stand up and wash my hands off. Then I look at you and I want to hurt you like you hurt me. "Why John, you are a proper genius. However, did you figure that out by yourself?" I ask as I do a quick mock parody of a man getting off with my hands and hips.

You sigh. "Sherlock, I don't have time for this. I'm sorry I just don't feel like it, but we should talk. I'm worried about you."

I see the concern in your face. I smile as I dig in deep with a verbal thrust. "Sod off, John, I'm going out. Don't wait up." The hurt in your eyes makes me smirk.

I get dressed, tell Mrs. Hudson I'm going out. I shoot up again and take a couple of balloons with me for the road. I then take the motorcycle that I promised you I'd get rid of and ride through the streets of London high. I blast music inside my helmet. I laugh as I almost collide with several vehicles.

I swear as a flashing blue light reflects in one of my mirrors. "Good luck, catching me," I think as I ditch the copper.

I go to my drug den. I will wait for you to come and get me. Hours go by, then days, I make out a list for Mycroft and then out of loneliness and boredom I become a willing slave to my habit. When someone comes for me, it is not you. It is Mycroft. I look into his eyes, wrong color of blue, wrong eyes, wrong person. "Sod off," I say and then turn over.

In a rare moment of tenderness my brother smooths a dirty lock of hair from my forehead. "Time to go to the clinic," he whispers.

I struggle with him, brother against brother. I sucker punch my own brother, barely noticing as he hits the ground.

I wander the streets, people avoid me. I keep to the dark corners. When I go to withdraw some funds, my account has been frozen. "Damn, Mycroft," I mutter.

I sneak back into the flat. You are not there. I have to get my hands on some cash, for my muscles are starting to tighten from withdrawals. I then begin to rummage through everything in the flat, looking for anything of value. I grab some of my science equipment, my laptop, your laptop, Mrs. Hudson's cookie jar of cash, your wedding ring, your army medals, some books, then finally my violin. I pawn it all. I then take to the streets and blend in with my homeless network.

I've been on the street for almost two weeks when one of my homeless soldiers hands me a note. My grubby hands take it, holding it up to the light. It is from you. It reads: "Sherlock, god knows I've tried to get over Mary, but I can't escape the guilt. I have to go away for a while. Mycroft will explain. These things are difficult for me, but please know that I love you, Sherlock. Your Doctor JW."

My hands shake as I make my way back to the flat, maybe I can still catch you. I must beg you not to leave. When I get to the flat, I race up the stairs. Mycroft is there. A pile of things lays in a prominent place in the middle of the room. It is everything I had pawned; all the items are there except for my heart. For a moment I think I can see it alongside our pile of valuables, beating as I bleed out. The room swirls around me. I cannot face this. The reality of being a grieving adult is too much to bear. When my eyes next open, Mycroft is holding me in his arms. His eyes are full of pain, but he doesn't say so. He just holds me tight. I don't struggle, not even when I am buckled down to a gurney. The last thing I see as I am carried out of the flat, is your medals dearest John. The firelight reflects off of them, making them glow, consigning my soul to flames of woe.