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John was out again and the house was quiet. Mrs. Hudson was keeping her distance, knowing Sherlock was in a mood. He was always in a mood when John was gone too long though. Without John there, there was no one to understand him, not one to help him in his time of gnawing stagnation.
His body twitched, itching from the lack of stimulation. Sherlock twisted and turned, ruffling his hair and adjusting his robe. Nothing he did brought him comfort. Around him colors began to lose their saturation, shapes blurred at the edges until they were no longer what they were meant to be. The world began to spin around and around and around, dizzying Sherlock to no end. He slammed his eyes shut, the only defense against the merry-go-round world.
For days, this happened over and over until Sherlock ended up in darkness. He was helpless to his own mind, prisoner to his own thoughts. The twitching worsened, and the itching burned deeper until he actually began to claw at his own skin. Sherlock felt raw with madness eating away at him, consuming him.
Finally, he stood and left. He didn’t bother with proper clothes or even proper shoes. Sherlock marched through London until he reached the grittiest parts of town, until he blended in with the ill-dressed inhabitants. Shattered and broken like the people around it, the buildings stood hollow and empty of feeling. Leaning against one of the many buildings was a woman. She was swearing two sweaters, a zip-up and hoodie with the hood pulled over her face and a pair of black track pants, her hands buried deep within their pockets. Her eyes darted back and forth, keeping watch for things that would never find their way here, for this place was abandoned by all. This place held no future, no dreams or ambitions. Even the police left this place alone.
Sherlock strode up to the woman, their eye contact was the conversing they needed. She brought her hands from her pockets and traded with him what was in her hands for what was in his. Cash for a small bag. He nodded before turning away from her and made his way back to his flat without interruption.
Mrs. Hudson was gone when he arrived and John too was still out, so Sherlock made his way up the stairs and got to work. He grabbed his tools and began cooking. When his meal was ready, Sherlock served himself up a heaping dose. As he felt it entering his system, Sherlock laid back in his chair. His breathing slowed and he melted into the soft cushion. The effect was slow in coming at first. For a moment, it felt like nothing changed, that the world was still a grey, shapeless sphere that wouldn’t stop spinning. But then it all stopped.
The world stood still, but burst with life. Everything snapped back into shape, becoming sharper and more vibrant. On the wall, the smiley face was glowing brightly, staring at him. He could feel the judgment radiating off of those painted eyes, or was it from another set of eyes? Sherlock felt another presence close by, yet he was alone, could see no one as his head rolled from side to side.
“John?” Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken for the last couple of days, and perhaps he hadn’t. He couldn’t, at present, remember. But it was possible.
Sherlock rubbed his arms as if he was cold, but wasn’t. His body was warm, tingling, indecision pulsating through him. He wanted to get up and run around town, conquering all the madmen running about, while at the same time he wanted to stay put. There were experiments that could be done, discoveries that could be made. Sherlock’s mind reeled with possibility.
Thunder echoed up the stairs and there was shuffling. Sherlock’s head floated up to see a saturated and vibrant colored John taking off his jacket and kicking off his shoes. A smile slid across his lips. John was home now and early. Sherlock didn’t have to be as bored now. John could join in on an adventure.
But, John was home now. John was home, and Sherlock was high. John would know, and Sherlock would be in trouble. He could see it now, playing out in his mind, the anger that would change his face. His heart began to race, palms sweat. He needed to do something to distract John, or perhaps pretend he was asleep.
“Sher-” John began, turning to face the consultant. It was too late for Sherlock to pretend now. John’s eyes met his and they stayed there, locked in a moment before John’s eyes truly began to see. They scanned Sherlock, the things around him, stopping dead on something. Sherlock’s head lolled to the side to see what it was, but it didn’t take him long to see what John saw. The needle Sherlock used to feed himself with was sitting there right out in the open.
Sherlock closed his eyes, not wanting to see Jon’s on coming wrath. He waited for it, the explosion to break the silence that fell thickly upon their flat. But there was nothing. Nothing but a suffocating silence that stripped Sherlock’s lungs of air. Fear began to wiggle around like a worm in an apple in Sherlock’s heart. He began to wonder if John was still even there. Sherlock wanted to know desperately, but he was far too afraid to open his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John croaked, sounding like it was miles away.
“Why?” Sherlock inquired, his voice soft, not completely sure his lips actually moved to speak.
A hand came out of nowhere to touch Sherlock’s shoulder and his first reaction was to flinch away. He did too, before processing it was John and relaxing. He reached up and touched John’s hand. It was rough from the years of labor and war. Sherlock didn’t know why he was touching his hand. It wasn’t for his own pleasure, not really. More, he was just trying to keep himself grounded, to keep from floating into the clouds and leaving John behind.
“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” John replied through gritted teeth. There was anger in his voice, being shot out in all directions. At himself and Sherlock and drug dealers and the whole damn world.
“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock tired to assure, his lips hardly forming the words properly.
“You’re slurring,” John practically growled. “Damn it, Sherlock. Why couldn’t you just say something? A few simple words and I would’ve stayed.” John’s hand left Sherlock’s shoulder. “I should’ve noticed something was wrong. Where’s Mrs. Hudson? I’ll get you a case, Sherlock, as soon as you’re sober. I promise.”
Sherlock could feel himself reaching for John, could feel himself elevating away from reality. He didn’t want to go, not yet. He didn’t want to leave John behind, but he was powerless now as his head fell back, rolling. John was there again, taking Sherlock’s hand. He lifted Sherlock up, hoisting Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder, and heaved Sherlock over to his room. Sherlock could felt the softness of his bed beneath his body, felt covers wash over him like a wave.
“I’ll be here when you wake, Sherlock,” John’s voice said, echoing in Sherlock’s head. “I’m sorry I left you.”
Sherlock tried to call for him, to have John wait until he fell asleep, but he was already drifting away. Slumber pulled him back into his own mind until he was back in darkness.
The next morning came like an unforgiving plague. Sherlock stirred in his bed, the covers making it nearly impossible to move. His mind recalled last night, the memories breaking down the doors of the drug fueled haze blocking his mind. He remembered John, an ache awakening his chest as he sat up in his bed. Letting out a low sigh, he brushed a hand through his thick mane curls. His head spun and he dropped back down in bed, pulling the covers to his chin. He felt so sick.
“John!” Sherlock called, his deep voice echoing throughout the flat like a gunshot in an alley. “John!”
There were footsteps, soft and delicate, not like John’s before Sherlock’s door finally opened. Mrs. Hudson stood there, shadows beneath her eyes, cheeks sharper with weight loss. Tears dampened her hollow eyes as she clasped her hands together over her chest.
“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, her voice quivering as she carefully stepped closer to him. “I’m here for you.”
“Where’s John?” Sherlock asked, his voice rough, husky.
“Sherlock, please,” Mrs. Hudson begged. “Don’t make me say it.”
Pain erupted in Sherlock’s chest as more memories broke through the drug fueled door in his mind. A call from Mycroft. A dead body found. A bullet wound to the head. A funeral. No more blogs were posted. No more patients were seen. No more jumpers were worn. All because the soldier, the doctor, the blogger was gone. He left his room on Baker Street for a space much smaller, much colder.
Sherlock felt his eyes dampen and he pushed his face into the pillow. He rolled over, unable to face Mrs. Hudson. She didn’t need to see his tears. Sherlock took his face from the pillow, eyes going towards the window, a rare ray of sun shining through, casting a bit of light unto his bed.
John was there beside him, crouching next to the bed. He was using his arms as a pillow, eyes filled with regret as he looked to Sherlock.
“I’m sorry I left you,” he said, voice low.