“…Sherlock?” A familiar, overly gentle – overly patient voice called out to him.
A warm hand on his wrist, checking his pulse.
The shoelace he’d used for a make-shift strap was just barely clinging to his forearm; track marks easily seen running up and down the pale length of skin. Empty needle cradled loosely in the other hand.
“Can you hear me, Sherlock?” the voice whispered, concern wafting through its tone.
He could see them everywhere now, so clearly. The little demons, the nagging ideas, the chess pieces, eating away at him. His nemesis, too. Oh yes. He saw him more and more… ever since the Fall. Ever since his return.
Drugs, Sherlock was quickly discovering, seemed to have the reverse effect on his system now. Something in his chemistry had changed. His mind spun more rapidly, instead of slowing. The visions and flashes weren’t distant, but in the foreground of his mind.
It was all so visible… and it was all so terribly dark.
“I’ll give you something, alright?” That voice, like a warm, comforting ball of light; it was addressing him again. A soothing hand cupped his cheek, “Just let me help you…”
Sherlock managed to open his eyes, but only just. His lids felt as if they were weighed with lead. “Juzsit… ONLY it… to pierce, and… and… felkad not! …regrets, y-your b-bag… John,” He muttered feverishly. Dilated pupils honed in on the long, spidery legs that seemed to slink out of his friend’s medical bag – reaching out, one touching John while the others padded onto the floor.
“Shhh… it’s just my medical kit, Sherlock.” John corrected as gently as possible.
The dazed detective felt something pierce his arm. Another needle? Its contents were irrelevant. He was too focused on the ghostly outline of Jim Moriarty, sitting in the chair across from him. The image didn’t so much move, as it did waft. It hovered and seemed to trail after him, regardless of which way he leaned or looked.
“I… I know you’re struggling,” John spoke again. His voice always seemed to succeed in breaking through the shadows of Sherlock’s mental turmoil. A rather curious skill. “Nothing’s been quite the same since you returned. And… and I know… you must be dealing with a lot…”
“I told you I would be here for you,” he continued, “I m-might have been angry… at first. You had left me out, and I’d been grieving for three years over someone who wasn’t actually dead. But I think… that was preferable. Believing you were dead… was a more humane, tolerable existence… than seeing you like t-this.”
John sucked in a quick breath and swallowed, desperately trying to push the lump that was forming in his throat down, “I want you back. You must know. I miss that spark, I miss that life… and… it kills me to see you so distant. You’ve retreated so far into yourself that I don’t even know where to look… w-where to start…” His partner whispered,
“I c-can’t tell you to stop… t-taking the drugs, Sherlock. I can’t do that to you.” His John wasn’t even attempting to hide the tears that were welling up in his eyes anymore. “If… if that’s what helps. That’s fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock. Just…” The doctor sniffed, clenching his hand around Sherlock’s wrist even tighter. “Tell me. Please, please… please just tell me if there’s anything I can do. I want to help. I…”
Sherlock’s eyes closed again, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against John’s; his body instinctively turning into that source of light. That heat and warmth. That comfort.
The doctor stood, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, and cradling the back of his dark, curly head as he burrowed his face into John’s stomach.
“I’m here, Sherlock…” he murmured, “You don’t need to keep falling. I’ve got you.”
# fic inspired by pic || #angst like woah
Reblogging again for that fic. Dramatis-Echo, you are amazing and perfect and your writing is just…And that last line. Oh God, I just have a lot of feelings ok?!?