Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/895743.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes, Mrs._Hudson, Greg_Lestrade,
      Sebastian_Moran
  Additional Tags:
      Substance_Abuse, Oral_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Anal_Sex, Dubious_Consent, Angst,
      Self-Harm, BDSM, Bloodplay, Knifeplay, Unhealthy_Relationships,
      Codependency, Pre-Canon, Post_Reichenbach, Eton, Cocaine, Relapse,
      Luxembourg, Stream_of_Consciousness, Riding_Crops
  Collections:
      Holmestice_June_2013_Fanworks_Exchange
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-23 Words: 14319
****** I have been one acquainted with the night ******
by Neurotoxia
Summary
     Sherlock leaps from one addiction to the next, always circling back
     to one until it almost kills him. Staying sober isn’t easy and when
     he can’t have his new addiction John Watson anymore, his old vice is
     lurking in the shadows.
Notes
     This was written for the Summer Holmestice 2013 and my recipient was
     Venturous1 , who gave me great prompts to work with. Finishing this
     wouldn't have been possible without Penombrelilas , who didn't
     complain about my whining, offered endless advice and handholding and
     whacked me around the head when I was writing stupid things. More
     thanks go to Swissmarg for overhauling grammar and spelling in this
     monster. And last but not least thanks to Sherlocked01 for the cross-
     check :)
     Since Holmestice, I have added an extra scene with Mrs Hudson,
     because I felt that Sherlock's past and present needed more of a
     transition. And I love Mrs Hudson.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
-- Robert Frost
===============================================================================

Sherlock trades his virginity for an Ecstasy pill at Eton.
Marijuana and cigarettes are easy to obtain, anything stronger than that and it
becomes difficult. But just like in a prison (and Sherlock saw many parallels
between Eton and a prison), there are always things around that normally have
no business being there. Sherlock likes cigarettes, but dislikes what THC does
to his mind.
The boy is a year older than him and evidently more experienced. Sherlock has
not had much interest in gaining that kind of experience and whenever hormones
struck him, he just took care of it himself. None of the insipid people he
knows are worth the time and effort. This boy isn’t really worth it either, but
he has something Sherlock wants and he’s lucky the boy is attracted to him
(Sherlock deduces the boy will be a closet homosexual later, preferring men but
refusing to admit it).
They’re crammed into one of the barely used sheds on the grounds, the
greenkeeper at least twenty minutes away and nobody else around. It’s hot -- at
least 30°C in the shade -- and Sherlock’s hair sticks to his forehead and the
starched collar of his shirt itches against the skin of his neck. The close
proximity to the other boy doesn’t make it any better. The boy tries to kiss
him, but Sherlock won’t let him. He doesn’t like kissing; too close, too
intimate, too personal. Most would argue that letting someone stick their hands
down your pants is more personal, but most people are idiots anyway.
The boy is pushing Sherlock’s pants out of the way and reaching for his prick.
Having a hand other than his own touching it is strange, if not unpleasant. It
makes the encounter less predictable. The boy’s other hand tugs at Sherlock’s
wrist with impatience. Oh, right. He undoes buttons and fly, tugs down midnight
blue pants and copies the motions. The stimulation isn’t bad but not any better
than doing it on his own. Sherlock doesn’t understand what the fuss is about.
The encounter is clumsy and over fast, with Sherlock just barely able to
climax. The rush of endorphins is nice, Sherlock thinks and takes his hand out
of the other boy’s pants. It’s sticky with semen and Sherlock wrinkles his nose
in distaste before wiping it on one of the rags in the shed and fixing his
uniform afterwards.
He waits until the other boy has closed his fly, then he holds out his hand,
palm up, his look impatient as the boy digs through his pockets.
“If you need any more, you know where to find me,” he says and drops a small
plastic bag with a single pill into Sherlock’s hand. His smile is sly; Sherlock
feels the need to wipe it off his face. He doesn’t reply, just shoves the bag
deep into his pockets and exits the shed.
He finds he doesn’t like Ecstasy very much.

===============================================================================

Sherlock steadfastly ignores the sleek black Mercedes slithering along the
street at his side. He draws the hood of his jacket deeper over his face to
block out the tinted windows staring at him accusingly, beckoning him to get in
the car.
The sky is overcast: a light drizzle rains down on London and turns the
pavement before Sherlock’s feet a darker grey. For good measure, Sherlock winds
his scarf tighter around his neck, covers his mouth and half of his nose. If he
ignores it long enough, the car might go away. Although he knows it’s wishful
thinking. How did the meddling bastard find him so quickly?
Sherlock thumps his fist against a tinted window. Of course it doesn’t break
anything; the glass is armoured. As are the doors and floor pans. Mycroft has
built a cage for himself -- and he’d love to trap Sherlock in it, too.
“Piss off!” he yells in frustration and directs a two-fingered salute at the
back windows.
It appears Mycroft has had enough: the window rolls down to reveal the biggest
nuisance of his life. His brother’s eyebrows are drawn into a frown and his
lips set in a firm line. Yes, his patience is wearing thin. Good.
“Sherlock, cease this childish behaviour and get in the car.” Mycroft’s voice
is pitched to freeze hell over. Sherlock notices faint rings under Mycroft’s
eyes, probably losing sleep over his stupid war in Iraq. Serves him right. At
the moment, Sherlock wishes he had a cigarette lit just so he could flick it
past Mycroft into the car.
“Didn’t you hear me when I said ‘piss off’ the first time?” Sherlock hisses and
narrows his eyes at his brother.
Mycroft is not impressed. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s
your choice.”
It’s not so much a choice as it is a threat. Sherlock is sure it means there
are enough of Mycroft’s lapdogs around to shove him into the car. They’ve gone
through the ordeal before and it’s by far more humiliating to be manhandled
into the backseat than to get in on his own. As if to prove his brother right,
it also starts to rain in earnest.
Sherlock flings himself into the car, seething with anger. “What the hell do
you want?”
“You haven’t paid your rent and were thrown out of your flat over three weeks
ago. Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t react to that?” Mycroft drums his
fingers on one of the armrests and licks his lips. He’s irritated.
Sherlock doesn’t answer -- Mycroft doesn’t really want an answer anyway. It’s
not the first time they’re having this conversation.
“If you’re finished stating the obvious, I’d like to leave,” Sherlock says, but
doesn’t try to open the door. He knows Mycroft’s driver locked it the moment it
slammed shut.
“You’re living on the streets again,” Mycroft continues, the word streets
dripping with so much condescension it’s a marvel his face doesn’t scrunch up
in distaste. Only his nose wrinkles, which for Mycroft is about equal to
shuddering with disgust.
“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock shoots back.
“You already lived in a veritable dump for a price nobody could possibly claim
to be unable to afford. And yet you chose to be ejected.”
“Playing stupid doesn’t suit you, Mycroft.” Sherlock digs into his pockets to
find one of his cigarettes, a bit crumpled as they came without the box. He had
traded a coffee for five of them. “Thanks to you, I don’t get to roll around in
money the way you do.”
“You would have more than enough money if you acted responsibly. You could have
finished your degree and not invest all your money in narcotics.”
“And do a tedious job somewhere in a laboratory or play lapdog for the
government like you or Father?” Sherlock laughs without a trace of humour and
tries to light his cigarette, only to have Mycroft snatch the lighter from his
hands. Ah, the temper shines through. Mentioning Father always works.
“I don’t see how taking drugs and sleeping under a bridge or in an abandoned
building is the superior choice,” Mycroft nearly hisses. He’s approaching the
danger stage.
“At least it’s my own choice!” Sherlock shoots back. Mycroft in turn becomes
very still, all emotion wiped from his face. He lifts a hand and the driver
pulls over. Sherlock hears the doors unlock and grabs the handle, eager to get
away from his brother’s suffocating presence.
“Don’t think this conversation is over, Sherlock,” Mycroft says before he can
leave. Sherlock holds his brother’s gaze for a few seconds, then exits into the
rain, throwing the door closed before Mycroft can say anything else.

===============================================================================

The brick is rough under his fingers, against the thin cotton of his shirt.
Texture slightly different from the ones produced by Britain’s largest supplier
of building materials. Interesting. Does he have a sample of it? He can’t
remember. The sensation of somebody biting at his neck persists. All teeth
present and even -- probably braces in their early teens.
Sherlock’s focus is hazy, his brain feels as if it were wrapped in cotton wool.
Not the desired outcome; he prefers substances that sharpen his mind.
Fingers slither under his shirt, one hand grips at his belt. The man probably
expects some kind of participation from him. That was the deal. Sherlock might
not be a gentleman, but business he can conduct. He tips his head back against
the brick wall for better access and clenches his left hand on the man’s
biceps. Flannel shirt, medium price range, pattern in red and... dark green?
Black? The light is bad at this end of the alley. Somewhere in Lambeth,
Sherlock thinks.
Should he pay a bit more attention to the other man? Focussing is hard, his
thoughts are swirling around in an uncoordinated mess. He hates losing control
of his mind like this: enough to be frustrated but not enough to not give a
damn. This new designer drug he’s offered himself up for doesn’t do what he
wants.
Sherlock is always looking for the best hit possible, but upper-class designer
drugs are expensive. Drugs designed for the yuppies of the city are more likely
to accelerate, enhance and push: stockbrokers looking for something to see them
through fourteen-hour work days; the nouveaux riches wanting to party for
twenty-four hours straight; models seeking to limit appetite and fatigue. If
you were living under a bridge not knowing where your next meal was coming
from, you wouldn’t want something to make you even more aware of it.
Sherlock occasionally lives under bridges but craves the hits of those dwelling
in converted lofts and dining at two-star-restaurants. Ever since Mycroft froze
Sherlock’s access to the family money, he has been low on cash. Curse his
brother for being the eldest and therefore the sole heir, as per their parents’
decision.
Fingers are opening his belt buckle, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping
below the waistband of his pants. A lightly calloused thumb strokes his
protruding hipbone (light work with his hands, fingernails very short, no
obvious remnants of oils or dirt, so probably not a machinist -- maybe a
painter for his day job.)
The man murmurs something, probably appreciative from the sound of his voice,
but Sherlock doesn’t listen. He has deleted his name already. It doesn’t
matter. He should get this over with and hide in his flat until the effects of
the drug have worn off. Sherlock grabs the other man by his biceps and reverses
their positions. Taking an active part in these encounters is always irritating
but with no supplies whatsoever there is little he can do to sate the man’s
very narrow definition of what counts as ‘sex.’ His actions have made it clear
that it won’t count unless it involves penetrative or oral administrations.
The mechanics are easy. Sherlock loosens the belt, opens the trousers (small
speck of off-white wall paint on the right thigh of his jeans -- so he is a
painter) and tugs down the pants, freeing the other man’s erection. Without
much preamble, he sets to work. Suction, head movement, tongue patterns, that
is all there is to it. The noises overhead confirm his competence. Not that
Sherlock needs confirmation; and he actually wishes the man wouldn’t continue
to remind Sherlock of his presence. He changes the rhythm and pattern, making
more deliberate strokes with his tongue along the shaft.
Fingers in his hair, tugging at the curls. Sherlock pushes them off; he hates
being touched when he tries to concentrate on a task. A change in breathing
pattern, elevated pulse and muscle tremors tell him it’s almost over. Good. The
man is already twenty-six seconds over the average it takes Sherlock to bring
men to climax through fellatio.
Texture and bitter taste unpleasant. Sherlock spits the contents of his mouth
on the ground, next to the man’s shoes. If the man weren’t a moron, he would
get the hint that his presence isn’t as appreciated as he thinks. He murmurs
something, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. Instead he wipes his mouth with his
forearm and gets back up, dusting gravel from his knees. The other man hasn’t
fully gathered himself yet, but Sherlock doesn’t wait; he has done his part.
With a curt nod, he strides out of the alley -- somewhat unsteady because of
the drugs -- wanting to get back home as soon as possible for some tea to get
rid of the taste on his tongue and to sleep off that failure of an experiment.

===============================================================================

“Shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, pain clear in his eyes, eyebrows drawn into a
frown. “Not again.”
                                      ***
Lestrade was the first to arrest him. In a raid that Sherlock hadn’t predicted
because the Met had changed their pattern. All due to an eager detective
sergeant on the brink of making detective inspector. Lestrade had thought
Sherlock was just another addict in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having
all kinds of insults thrown at him was nothing new either.
The lanky young man started to unnerve Lestrade with a series of razor sharp
truths no one could know about -- but most of all it was knowledge someone he
had never seen before shouldn’t possess. That he had been married for more than
five but less than ten years according to the state of his ring, his wife (or
less likely husband with long red hair) being unhappy with his hours but trying
to be supportive. Remnants of crayon and Plasticine under his fingernails told
Sherlock he had a young child of three to four years. He also had had a lamb
curry for lunch.
Lestrade didn’t know whether to be confused or to tell the boy to shut up. He
settled for the former -- Sherlock Holmes was in enough trouble as it was. Then
he shoved him into the back of a police car and drove him to the station
himself.
Holmes was in a holding cell for all of two hours before a call came in to
release him immediately. Apparently orders from very high up. Lestrade knew
questioning it would get him nowhere, so he let Sherlock go. It turned out all
the charges had been dropped before they even reached the Crown prosecutor.
Friends in high places, Lestrade concluded.
Lestrade was also the second, third and fourth to arrest Sherlock. Each time,
his heart broke a bit more for the wayward young man.

===============================================================================

Sherlock overdoses once, late into his habit, when his tolerance is high and he
needs more and more to replicate the rush. The mood swings have become worse:
he can go from lethargic to erratic in a span of minutes. Eating habits -- if
you can call them such -- almost completely abandoned, he has lost so much
weight that he had to punch two new holes into his belt with a screwdriver.
Sherlock feels watched at all times; not unjustified with Mycroft around, but
his brother has been out of the country for two weeks and the minions only
watch Sherlock occasionally.
He miscalculates (which will be what irritates him most, later), injects too
much into his vein (left-handed because the veins on his left arm have almost
all collapsed from his lack of experience at the beginning) and it takes under
a minute for him to notice something has gone very wrong: his heart is racing,
not in the usual way that has him elated, but at a punishing pace that pounds
against his ribcage. Sherlock feels hot, much too hot -- he’s burning up and
starts to sweat. As his vision goes blurry, he sinks down to the cheap rug
(stains ranging from blood to tinned chicken soup from previous tenants, why
did he never take samples?) in his rundown flat, panic starting to swell in his
chest. It’s the last thing he needs, but hyperventilation sets in fast.
He’s going to die.

===============================================================================

The fire wasn’t part of the plan. Unfortunately, his landlord didn’t care
whether or not it was. Now, Sherlock has three days to find a new flat and he
finds it irritating.
Montague Street has been ideal. Central London, quick access to all important
locations and the rent has been very cheap for the area. The flats in the house
are old and in dire need of renovations, which is what makes them cheap in the
first place. Hot water in the shower is a bit of a gamble, blown fuses are not
a rarity and Sherlock has discovered at least twelve different kinds of mould
in his rooms (three of them toxic) but he doesn’t mind the minor inconveniences
too much. Location is more important than comfort.
His landlord had threatened before to throw him out for playing the violin at
ungodly hours or producing ghastly smells that waver through the halls, but
only this time he went through with it. His face was beet-red when he shouted
something about nuisances, lunatics and dangers (Sherlock hadn’t listened) in
the charred kitchen of Sherlock’s soon-to-be-former flat.
Sherlock’s hands are buried in the pockets of his coat which now vaguely smells
of burnt plastic, wood and sulfur. He supposes he will have to have it dry-
cleaned to get rid of the odour. Irritating.
Where to get a central London flat within three days? Sherlock doesn’t have too
high standards when it comes to his living quarters, but central London is in
demand. And ridiculously expensive. Sherlock isn’t poor, but his income from
the cases fluctuates, because he often can’t be bothered to charge people.
An idea strikes him when he reaches Russell Square: his former client, Mrs
Hudson. The case she had for him two years back was an 8.5: her husband was on
death row in Florida.
                                      ***
Sherlock was vaguely bored with the conversation, the old lady on the other end
had just launched into an explanation how her husband had ended up on death
row. It was likely that she was one of those people who turned a blind eye to
evidence and wanted to believe that their partner was fundamentally good.
Foolish. She would ask Sherlock to prove his innocence, clear up the
“misunderstanding” or some such nonsense.
Sherlock took a deep breath to launch into a string of “dull, pedestrian, stop
bothering me”, but was cut short by the woman’s words:
“I want you to make sure he’ll be executed!” Her voice was grim and determined.
Sherlock’s eyes widened and he sat up straight, the old springs in the sofa
protesting the abrupt movement. Oh, that was interesting.
“I know I’m asking a lot, with being in Florida and all,” she went on, her
tones soft and pleasant again. “But my friend said you were really clever, so--
”
“Your address Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said, not caring about the polite drivel.
He could be on his way to the airport already.
                                      ***
The case was almost a nine on his scale. It was clever -- Mr Hudson was clever
(and rich enough to pay one of those obnoxious, greedy celebrity lawyers).
Sherlock had no doubt he was guilty; his job was to find enough evidence to
ensure the failure of Mr Hudson’s appeal.
Sherlock had been in Florida for three days and just reached a breakthrough
with the help of a bit of cocaine. Sherlock probably would have come across the
solution without it, too, but it might have taken an extra few days. As
exciting as the case was, Sherlock didn’t want to stay in Florida longer than
necessary. He hated the subtropical climate.
Mrs Hudson wanted an update, so Sherlock was now standing in her front yard,
knocking on the off-white door. It could do with a fresh coat of paint, much
like the house itself and the fence surrounding it. The last time it was
painted, keeping the local weather in mind, was at least three years ago, so
just around the time Mr Hudson had been arrested. He hadn’t been convicted for
long; the trial, the preparations before and the procedures afterwards had
lasted over two years -- it had been a high profile murder case under intense
public scrutiny. Mrs Hudson had had her mind on other things for the last
years, and she didn’t really see the house as a home anymore, that much had
been clear when Sherlock had first seen her. Sherlock had also deduced that the
only reason Mrs Hudson hadn’t divorced her husband was to ensure her
inheritance rights; he respected that.
                                      ***
Mrs Hudson fussed over Sherlock and he had no idea why. He hadn’t even been
particularly nice to her, but she had taken to him within the first fifteen
minutes of meeting.
She would chide him for saying “indecent” things and order him to eat his
biscuits in the same breath. If Sherlock didn’t know any better he’d say Mrs
Hudson’s affection confused him -- but he didn’t get confused. Confusion had
been deleted years ago.
“Here, some chicken sandwiches. With the things you do to your body, you could
at least eat properly,” she said, smiling and put a platter of sandwiches in
front of Sherlock.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He had been careful with his appearance for a
while. For some time, he hadn’t cared whether or not he looked like an
unwashed, strung-out junkie, but he wasn’t one, so why look like it? Cocaine
could be consumed just as well in a dress shirt and pressed trousers. People
were stupid, almost nobody who hadn’t known him before would guess he took
drugs. So how could Mrs Hudson tell? He wasn’t really high anymore from the
cocaine he had injected today.
“Oh, you young people always think you invented ‘wild’. But we were young once,
too. Now eat up!” Mrs Hudson chuckled and waved her hand in a throwaway
gesture.
Sherlock saw no judgement in her eyes. Possibly, he was a bit confused.
Maybe he could call Mycroft and ask him to use his ridiculous power complex to
speed up the execution. He knew enough government people in America.
                                      ***
After Sherlock had solved the case and even had gone through the humiliation of
asking Mycroft for a favour, Mrs Hudson smothered him with almost more
affection than he could bear and offered him to come see her if he needed a new
flat. She would go back to London where she owned a house with three flats.
Sherlock would get a special deal on the rent. Sometimes, she sent tins of
biscuits to his flat, with a note that he better ate them all up. Sherlock
rarely ever replied, but he always ate the biscuits.
Mrs Hudson’s house is on Baker Street. Right in the centre, an ideal location.
And if Mrs Hudson doesn’t have any tenants at the moment, all the better.
Although he is sure he could engineer something to make them go away if needed,
Sherlock thinks as he waves down a cab and slides into the seat.
Sherlock spends the short ride deducing the cabbie, not finding much of
interest: happily married for at least fifteen years (wears ring on a chain to
prevent damage, ring shows signs of age), has a hobby that involves handiwork
(gardening? Sherlock can’t see the dirt under his fingernails from up close,
could be dirt or oils), one child and a dog (possibly Cocker Spaniel, hard to
tell from a distance)
221 Baker Street looks promising, Sherlock concludes as he exits the cab. The
building is old but well-maintained. The white coat of paint on the entry level
isn’t older than eighteen months and the bricks show the typical residue of a
building in the centre of a metropolis. No further damage or extensive wear.
There is a cafe out front, useful for the times when Sherlock can’t be bothered
to cook or go out for shopping. Which happens rather often.
He rings the doorbell next to the handwritten label “Hudson” and takes a look
at the other bells. The one below hasn’t been pressed in years, and neither has
there been as label for just as long. Probably a basement flat. Not hard to
rent out in London, so there must be some problem with it. Dampness is a common
one in basement flats. The top bell has been in use not too long ago, so recent
occupation. However, a label is missing. Could be tenants who didn’t bother to
put one up, but the empty space has residue of glue (sellotape, still sticky),
so a label peeled off just a short while before. Excellent. Although chasing
away other tenants might have been fun.
It occurs to him that he could have called ahead. Most people would have. Then
again, Mrs Hudson would have asked him to come over anyway, so it doesn’t
matter. Sherlock just skipped a step and it saved himself a tedious phone call.
Mrs Hudson is likely home. Sherlock already deduced in Florida that she does
her shopping in the early morning and most of hobbies involve crafts, such as
knitting and baking. She is social, but also likes the quiet solitude of her
home. Most social engagements of hers are during the weekend, aside from
occasional visits from the neighbours. No chronic ailments, so she has no
regular doctor’s visits to attend. There is every chance she is currently at
home, alone and entertaining herself. Perfect time to pay a visit.
“Oh, my goodness! Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs Hudson exclaims as she appears behind
the door.
“Hello, Mrs Hudson,” he says, words muffled by a hug of surprising strength.
Why he lets her, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t even let his own mother hug him.
Not that his mother is very keen on it in the first place.
“Come in, come in,” she chirps, effectively manhandling him into the house and
then her living room.
Mrs Hudson is delighted to see him; Sherlock can deduce that and it baffles him
no less than before. The only thing that’s even more surprising is that he too
is glad to see her again.
The wallpaper and furniture are old-fashioned in colour, pattern and style,
lots of pea greens and off-whites, pastel blue and antique pink. The interior
hasn’t been modernised since the Seventies, but it’s been cared for well and
everything has been high quality when bought. Mrs Hudson probably picked the
furnishings and is still satisfied with them.
There’s a platter of biscuits and a cup of tea placed in front of him,
accompanied by Mrs Hudson’s chatter of which Sherlock hasn’t heard a word.
Something about strawberries. Sherlock doubts he missed anything of importance
and just talks over her.
“You said you might have a flat available for rent,” he says and Mrs Hudson’s
eyes light up.
                                      ***
The flat is perfect. He wants it, no -- needs it. There is only one problem: he
can’t afford it.
Mrs Hudson has given him an excellent price. So low that even Sherlock would
have felt ashamed to barter any more. From any other tenant, Mrs Hudson could
easily ask double, maybe even triple. Many people are desperately looking for
accommodation in London and willing to pay outrageous sums.
Still, Baker Street is far out of his price range. Even though his family is
rich, most of their assets are properties and to make sure it stays in the
family, Mycroft was named sole heir when his mother gave up hope that Sherlock
would turn into a “responsible adult.” Dull and boring was more like it.
With his government job on top, Mycroft’s wealth has become obnoxious, much to
Mummy’s pride and joy. Sherlock spent the little family money he had mostly on
drugs and, after he gave them up, on a new wardrobe. The wardrobe at least has
helped finding clients. Nevertheless, he doesn’t have a steady income, so he
has to calculate in averages. And he doesn’t like the numbers.
Mrs Hudson suggested he look for a flatmate for 221B, it would be perfect for
two people. A flatmate? He and a flatmate?
The idea sounds ludicrous. Not only did Sherlock not want to share his living
space with some irritating halfwit, he has enough self-awareness to realise
that not many people would choose to live with him. Whenever Sherlock had done
it, it had gone spectacularly pear-shaped.
Renting 221C isn’t feasible. Mrs Hudson let him have a look at the basement
flat, but even Sherlock with his low accommodation standards had to admit it’s
not inhabitable in its current state. Much too damp, the wallpaper is peeling
off and the electricity is a nightmare. Mrs Hudson doesn’t have the money for
extensive renovations, so she simply doesn’t rent it out.
Sherlock gives a last wave to Mrs Hudson at the door who tells him to call her
and gets into a cab. He wants to take a look at the corpse Molly has texted him
about yesterday. The one she would let him use to test his theory about
bruising patterns. He just needs a quick stop at his still-residence to pick up
his riding crop.
The flatmate business stays on his mind. He really wants the flat at Baker
Street. Since he was going to St Bart’s anyway, he could start asking around
there. Not that he is very optimistic about finding someone who would want him
for a flatmate, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
He thought of Mike Stamford, one of the teachers there and the kind who knows
‘everybody and their mother’ (as Molly once called it). The man is even
tolerable and doesn’t abhor Sherlock as much as most of the staff at Bart’s.
Maybe Mike Stamford could help.

===============================================================================

He first notices that he cares about John Watson when the man stands before him
covered in Semtex.
The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. Sherlock suspects he’s never
gone through so much sentiment at once before that day. Frustration at
Moriarty’s game, the stab of betrayal when he thought for a split second that
his flatmate was the criminal mastermind who was toying with him, the horror
that John could die. Like that old woman who said just a word too much. Life
without John already sounds bleak, even though they have only known each other
for a rather short time. Sherlock doesn’t care half as much that he could die
in the explosion, too. Collateral damage. He is surprised that he has actually
lived past thirty anyway.
They get away somehow. In hindsight, Sherlock knows there was much more luck
than skill involved, which annoys him. Also, he’s more rattled by it than he
should be. John seems to cope well -- but the man was a soldier once and
calmest when times were most dangerous.
Sherlock is excited, thrilled even by the existence of Jim Moriarty -- the
grandest of all puzzles. But he threatened what Sherlock valued most and
Sherlock found himself in limbo. Caught in the strange juxtaposition of playing
with fire and knowing he was about to be burned. John is unnerved by Sherlock
vibrating with tension and Sherlock in turn fears one of these days, John will
just up and leave. It’s the most horrifying thought in the world. Sherlock
decides not to examine it too closely.

===============================================================================

He notices John Watson. He not only acknowledges his existence, but actually
notices him. The way John takes his tea (no sugar, dash of milk), his
preference in literature (crime fiction and autobiographies), his favourite
films (Bond; they’ve become Sherlock’s guilty pleasure), which takeaway meal he
likes best (Bò lúc lắc, side of Dưa kiệu from one of the Vietnamese restaurants
on Kingsland Road). Sherlock knows how John’s stubble grows (patchy), how often
he gets his hair cut (every six weeks) and how long he showers (seven to twelve
minutes, the latter if he feels indulgent). Sherlock retains all the facts in
John’s room in his mind palace. John was recently accorded a spare room in
there since the facts don’t seem to stop flowing in and Sherlock does not
delete old information about him. He trades in useless facts from elsewhere,
like the capital of Venezuela or the currency in China.
There is data he doesn’t have, which is irritating. How the skin behind John’s
ears tastes, for example. Or the texture of his scar. Sherlock hasn’t even seen
John’s scar yet, which is a crime in its own right. John’s lips often seem dry
and Sherlock wants to test the hypothesis by touching and tasting. How it would
feel to grab a fistful of John’s jumper and press him against the living room
wall.
Sherlock doesn’t do anything about it. He has observed John long enough to know
that he wouldn’t be adverse to a more physical aspect to their relationship.
But love is a dangerous disadvantage.
He doesn’t want to be vulnerable like that and doesn’t realise he already is.

===============================================================================

Having sex with John for the first time confuses Sherlock. It defies all
previously established parameters and Sherlock can’t wrap his head around it.
The occasion already stands out because he’s not high on one substance or
another -- what little sex he’s had before was always related to drugs: getting
a discount or a taste of something new, lowered inhibitions and the need for
stimulation when all his senses were in overdrive. Sherlock never saw the
benefit of copulation -- it’s messy and far from the dopamine rush cocaine can
produce. But Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised that the addition of John into the
equation alters the results in unexpected manners. John already proved that
when overthrowing Sherlock’s kissing hypothesis.
Sherlock has never engaged in kissing, except for a few experimental times to
establish his hypothesis: kissing is unnecessary and dull. On top of that, it
is far too personal and intimate. But kissing John isn’t dull -- far from it.
It’s intriguing. As previously expected, John’s lips are often a bit chapped
(he tends to forget to use chapstick even though he carries one around) and
taste of tea (sometimes coffee). Right after shaving, the skin on John’s cheeks
is smooth and Sherlock traces it with his fingers while kissing him. On other
days, there is a bit of stubble -- barely visible, but easy to feel. Kissing
John doesn’t feel too intimate -- even with tongues and teeth involved.
Actually, it doesn’t feel intimate enough.
Sherlock wants to devour John, make him his and ruin him for everyone else
forever.
They take it slow. If Sherlock were one for baseball metaphors, he’d speak in
bases. Sherlock explores first slowly, not really sure how to proceed with the
tilting of his axis. Contrary to his expectations kissing only offers so much
incentive before it ceases to be interesting, with John it never becomes
boring. Sherlock decides to study it: he tries different angles, techniques,
more tongue, no tongue, teeth, no teeth, in daylight, at night, different
locations (sitting room, kitchen, bathroom), before and after meals (favourable
results if John had toast with jam or Marmite), clothed, less clothed (has to
be abandoned as they were both becoming overexcited). It remains the same:
still thrilling and addictive.
John stops being surprised by Sherlock’s stealth kisses. Sherlock removes their
flat from the parameters, kisses John out of the blue in Hyde Park, in a cab,
and once drags him around the corner of a level-eight crime scene to crowd John
against a wall and snog him. John doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Sherlock
scowls at him afterwards. He has probably noticed Sherlock is conducting some
sort of experiment. Not much change in the results. If anything, the crime
scene made it even more exciting. It has to be John, the only constant in the
study. Sherlock ought to conduct a counter study to verify the results, but the
thought of kissing someone who isn’t John is disturbing and nauseating.
Sherlock completes bits of his missing data, he tastes the skin behind John’s
ear in an extensive study. He takes samples in the morning, afternoon and
evening, and once he sneaks up into John’s room at night -- John nearly jumps
out of his bed when Sherlock nibbles at his ear, prepared to pack a punch to
the intruder’s face before he realises it’s Sherlock.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Warn a sleeping man before you do these things!”
“You not knowing is one of the parameters,” Sherlock answers in his petulant
voice and prepares to get up.
“Bloody hell. Get back here, you tosser.” Sherlock crawls under John’s duvet
and conducts a thorough study, then races back down to mull over the results.
More variables enter: after John has been out for a walk or at the shops, after
showering, before showering, before and after shaving, before and after
exciting crime scenes. His preliminary favourite is John in the evening, after
showering, shaving and a visit at a crime scene -- mixture of adrenaline,
aftershave and a heady aroma that seems to be just John’s. John conducts his
own counter study in similar places; it sends Sherlock’s thoughts spinning and
shivers all over his arms. The intensity is unexpected; Sherlock wants to
isolate it, put it in a bottle and inject it.
He records every minute detail of their first sexual encounter on his hard
drive. It wouldn’t do to forget any of the touches, smells and tastes. Sherlock
lets John unbutton his dove-grey shirt while he steals kisses and nips at
John’s lips. John appears to be in favour of small bites. They sit on
Sherlock’s bed, John against the headboard and Sherlock in his lap.
Hands are all over Sherlock’s body, but for once he doesn’t want to push them
away. It doesn’t feel as intrusive and uncomfortable as it used to. There is an
undeniable need to see more, to hear more, to feel more. John’s rooms in his
mind palace might grow into a wing at this rate, because he can’t see how he
would ever delete data relating to this man (meanwhile, he deletes Mummy’s
birthday, the Pythagorean theorem, and the location of Australia). Feeling
impatient, Sherlock tugs at John’s jumper. The chuckle he gets in response
lights a fire in his stomach.
As John’s shoulder is revealed, Sherlock latches onto the scar; he has been
obsessed with it for so long. The bullet didn’t lodge in his body, it went
through instead, shot from the back and the upper left. With his fingertips,
Sherlock traces the old wound -- the texture is different from the skin around
it, not as smooth. Also, the skin seems lighter and stands out quite a bit
against the rest. The scar tissue fans out like a spider’s web, signs of an old
infection. How easily John could have died back then. So many soldiers die in
Afghanistan. Sherlock doesn’t care much about the war, but he looked into the
statistics after he learned that John was shot. John was lucky. Sherlock
doesn’t even want to think about the fact that he never would have met John if
things had turned out for the worst. He kisses the scar and John threads a hand
into Sherlock’s hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. If he could, Sherlock
would purr like a cat.
John pushes the open shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, letting it glide down his
arm to pool at the elbows. Sherlock can’t remember the last time he let someone
unclothe him. John, he would gladly let strip the flesh from his bones. John
traces his fingers across Sherlock’s sternum, down his ribs and comes to rest
on Sherlock’s stomach where he traces the scar.
“Appendectomy?” he whispers and smiles.
“Yes. When I was eight.”
Sherlock hated the appendectomy. He was in pain and bored from being in
hospital. Mycroft came home from school to stay with him since their parents
were on a trip halfway around the planet at the time. Sherlock muses that this
was one of the last times he was glad to see his brother.
His thoughts derail when John’s fingertips tease his nipples with a hint of
pain. At the moment, he has no idea why he would have ever wanted to ‘take it
slow.’ An erection tents his trousers and it’s as if his whole skin itches.
John looks smug and Sherlock glares at him in return. He tries to gain some
friction by pressing closer to John, but it’s not enough. There might be
whimpers coming from his mouth and at some point, John must have taken mercy on
him because there’s a hand in his pants and it wraps around his prick and
Sherlock thinks it’s one of the best things in the universe -- right up there
with cooking eyeballs in acid.
Without lubrication, the strokes are rough, Sherlock can feel the callouses on
John’s hands. His fingers dig into John’s shoulder (not the one he was shot in)
and when John performs a particularly clever flick of his wrist, Sherlock comes
undone above him.
Afterwards, his body feels like lead. Sherlock is exhausted, but the endorphins
make him buzz with pleasure. It’s so foreign a feeling to him, he suspects he
will be processing it for some time. John pushes a few sweaty locks from
Sherlock’s eyes and kisses him -- passionate, gentle and a little self-
satisfied This kind of kiss is new. Sherlock files it in the cabinet in John’s
mind palace office.
John’s hand snakes into his own trousers to take care of his personal urges.
Sherlock swats it aside and does it himself -- not out of any obligation or
agreement, but because he wants to. He closes his fingers around John’s shaft
(cataloguing everything he can from touch: length -- slightly above national
average; width -- national average; uncircumcised). Much more interesting are
the sounds John makes beneath him: groans, sharp intakes of breath, whispers,
moans -- Sherlock saves them all on his hard drive, determined to find out if
there are more. There have to be more.
After John climaxes, Sherlock contemplates whether he should save some of
John’s semen which is sticking to his fingers but postpones taking the sample
in favour of resting his head on John’s chest, taking in the smell of sweat,
sex and them.
With his first pleasurable sex in years, the proverbial floodgates open.
Headfirst into a new addiction. Sherlock wants more, needs more -- he wants
clarity, the sort only cocaine has been able to bring so far.
With time, he coaxes John into introducing pain to their repertoire. Not that
John needs much persuasion. Careful observation led to the conclusion that John
enjoyed domination and painplay. The thrill of being caught between just right
and too much, the exercises in endurance -- they help Sherlock achieve new
heights of awareness.
John is the only one he can trust with this, how far to take it and at which
pace. His body, mind and soul are safe with him.

===============================================================================

He should have known. It is like putting the proverbial child in a sweets shop
and tell them not to eat anything. Place a dormant addict in a group of active
addicts for long enough, copious amounts of his substance of choice within
arm’s reach -- it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Sherlock has never played the
remorseful ex-addict who devotes his life to overcoming those desires once and
for all. He doesn’t regret it. The cocaine has done its job -- sharpened his
mind, focussed his attention, reined in in the chaos. His mind palace was built
with solid blocks of cocaine.
And the palace could always do with an additional wing.
The hunt for Moriarty’s web is long and exhausting. The man left barely any
traces to follow and Sherlock has to chase whispers of Moriarty hidden under
false identities all over the world. His had hoped that Moriarty had
concentrated on Europe, but no such luck. He had had his fingers everywhere
from Laos to Moscow and Rio de Janeiro.
As hateful as the thought is, Mycroft is a vital resource. His brother’s name
opens doors in Tokyo and New York; equips him with money, papers and weaponry;
and unearths leads Sherlock would never have found on his own. Though he would
rather cut out his tongue than admit it out loud. He’s also the only one who
can keep Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John safe, should anything go wrong.
One day, Sherlock hears of a Triad gang in Bangkok that has ties to one of
Moriarty’s most trusted men but as soon as he gets there, he can’t find
anything. He catches wind of a small group laundering money for Moriarty’s
operations in Kazakhstan but it takes him nearly a month before he has enough
leads to send to Mycroft who then pulls strings until local authorities arrest
them.
Days and weeks turn into months. Sherlock didn’t expect to be away this long.
He aches for London and 221B Baker Street. Most nights, he wishes he could just
crawl into bed with John (does he even still live there? Sherlock often stops
himself from asking Mycroft about John. He thinks he might just falter and run
back home if he does). He regrets not having crawled into bed with John as
often as he could have, staying up late or not going to sleep at all. He eats
frankly outlandish amounts of risotto with asparagus and Parmesan because it’s
John’s best dish and Sherlock almost always ate it when John had put a plate of
it in front of him. In a bout of sentimentality, he sends Molly an unsigned
postcard from Warsaw. When possible, he buys chocolate biscuits and always
thinks they’re not as good as Mrs Hudson’s.
It’s when risotto, chocolate biscuits and a dogeared photo in his wallet aren’t
enough anymore to keep him pushing through that he goes back to his oldest
friend.

===============================================================================

Sherlock sits in his hotel room in Bogotá and contemplates the items on the
table in front of him. Sterilised, disposable syringes and needles, tourniquet
still in its shrink-wrapping, empty vial, small bag of cocaine amidst stacks of
papers, news clippings, photographs -- many covered in Sherlock’s handwriting
in red pen.
He’s been brooding over the clues and evidence for weeks, unable to make sense
of it. Everything points to Jim Moriarty having been involved in drug
trafficking in South America, Colombia first and foremost but he doesn’t get
any further than that. The frustration eats away at him. It’s as if he’s
sifting through a ten-thousand piece jigsaw of an undisturbed blue sky.
He bought the cocaine on a whim, readily available at every corner if one knew
where to look. It should be able to make him see the pattern, connect the dots
and solve the mystery. John isn’t here to be his conductor of light, neither is
his violin, and cocaine used to do the job just fine before. Sherlock is
reluctant to go back to it -- not that he has many regrets, but towards the end
of his last bout of using, the negatives started to outweigh the positive. He
hit rock bottom with the overdose. If Lestrade hadn’t stopped by to berate
Sherlock for his behaviour at the crime scene, he would have died. Not that
health concerns are usually at the forefront of his mind. Some sort of
Pavlovian reaction to John’s badgering whenever Sherlock was too laissez-faire
about health risks and danger. It's pot and kettle, really, Sherlock thinks;
John did (maybe still does?) enough dangerous things himself. But John is a
compulsive caretaker, he needs someone to look after to function (and not
notice how screwed up he is himself). Sherlock provided John with a steady
supply of internal and external damage.
Sherlock closes his eyes and leans back on the battered sofa, a pea-green
memorial to the seventies. If only John were here to bring him focus and order;
he is the perfect drug -- much like cocaine, but without the side effects. This
is why he avoids touches from and dependency on other people: they may be gone
one day and he is left craving.
Sherlock tries to picture John’s reaction to finding out about the cocaine. Not
favourable, that much is certain. John is a doctor with an alcoholic sister. He
hates his sister’s addiction, one of the main reasons they don’t get along.
John would not live with an active drug-user.
However, Sherlock has learnt from the past: he would never use cocaine unless
there was a purpose for it; he's not just interested in the hit. He thinks of
it as a supplement: boring people take magnesium, he takes cocaine. He has an
engaging puzzle on his hands -- the puzzle. With so much stimulation, his brain
won’t become reliant on the substance. Only clarity, not function.
If it helps him solve this mystery faster, why shouldn’t he use all available
resources? The faster Moriarty’s empire crumbles and turns to dust, the quicker
they’re all going to be safe. And even if he ends up with a bullet in his head,
he doesn’t want it to be out of false morality.
Sherlock gets up to dig in his bag. He finds the pack of cigarette filters (he
has taken to rolling his own cigarettes lately) and flings it on the table
before moving to the tiny bathroom with the flickering lightbulb. A pack of
razor blades (not the five-blade-with-soothing-gel nonsense), hand mirror and
he’s almost good to go. Sherlock takes the spoon from the tray on the table by
the entrance as well. He doesn’t plan on cooking the solution, but the spoon
makes filling the syringe easier.
Back on the sofa, muscle memory kicks in. With his lighter, he heats the
spoon’s handle to facilitate bending it until it’s standing up in a graceful
arch. He opens the bag and tastes the product, slight numbness on this tongue
but nothing tastes off. Exact measuring is impossible and unnecessary, he can
still tell how much he’ll need for his preferred seven-percent-solution.
Sherlock pours the powder onto the hand mirror and cut with the blade, a
leftover ritual from the days when he snorted it. It doesn’t serve much purpose
if you inject it, but the repetitive movement calms Sherlock’s almost-tremor in
his hands and gets his heartbeat back under control (excitement, fear,
uncertainty, greeting an old friend).
When the cocaine is near dust Sherlock moves back to the bath to fill the vial
with water; the right amount still comes to him naturally. Back to the sofa,
cocaine transferred into the water. Sherlock puts his thumb on the opening and
shakes the contents to dissolve the drug -- very few particles remain. Good.
His mouth runs dry as he lifts his thumb from the vial, the tip glistening with
a few drops of the cocaine solution. Carefully, he sticks the digit in his
mouth, sucks off the liquid (once again light numbness on his tongue). For a
moment, he revels in the familiarity, the nostalgia of it -- it really is like
greeting an old friend.
The old air conditioning unit in his room whirrs in the background, not really
cooling the 120 square feet of his temporary home, but Sherlock commends the
owner’s effort to lie to his customers.
He pours the solution into the spoon, drops in one of the filters (not that it
erases the chances of cotton fever, but he really doesn’t trust the cotton pads
in the bathroom dispenser) and watches it soak up the cocaine, filtering the
particles. With a deep breath, he unwraps the syringe and needle, places the
tip against the filter and slowly draws up the liquid. He holds the filled
syringe against the light falling in through the windows and taps his fingers
against it to eliminate the bubbles before putting it back on the table.
Tourniquet next, around his right arm. Looking for veins in his left would take
longer than he would like. Balling his hand into a fist, he finds one quickly,
tapping against the crook of his elbow. Sherlock hesitates for a second as he
picks up the syringe, still unsure if it’s really the right choice. It probably
isn’t, but it’s the best one he can come up with. He stopped once before, he
can do it again if he has to.
He licks his lips, places the needle against his skin and pushes in. Drawing
the plunger back a bit, bringing a swirl of red with it that confirms he really
caught a vein. He could still back out, but doesn’t want to. Not anymore.
Sherlock presses the plunger fast, then pulls the needle back out, throws it on
the table and releases the tourniquet. The drug travels fast to its
destination, Sherlock can feel the heat crawl towards his heart before it hits.
For a second, he sits back and closes his eyes until his brain accelerates to
maximum speed. He flings his eyes open and for the first time in months he
sees.

===============================================================================

He nearly had him. He came so close. So very close. Sherlock lies in a bathtub
filled with tepid water in the tiny but expensive (and they say prices in
London are ridiculous) one-bedroom flat in Luxembourg. He must have been lying
here for at least an hour, maybe longer -- if he cared, he could deduce it from
the wrinkles on his fingertips. But he doesn’t care.
Four months. He wasted four months to get close enough to the last pillar of
Moriarty’s empire. Four months to tear it down and then triumphantly walk home
through the rubble. But the pillar skipped away into the sunset right before
his eyes. Sebastian Moran. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Jim Moriarty’s second, his
right hand, his favourite lapdog (more of a Doberman than a Chihuahua though).
Intelligent, skilled, and downright dangerous. You have to be well-trained to
fly under Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s radar for almost two years. Moran was a
whisper at first, almost as elusive as Moriarty -- Sherlock was almost
convinced Moran was a straw man (or woman). But the whispers persisted, and
Mycroft’s team uncovered a first name somehow. It took months to turn the man
into a tangible concept. Unlike Jim Moriarty, he wants to remain hidden,
doesn’t have his boss’ rampant narcissistic streak.
When finally attached a face to the name, Sherlock vibrated with tension. Only
this man stood between him and London, 221B and John.
Sherlock studied the file he received from Mycroft religiously. Colonel
Sebastian Moran, formerly of the British Army. Dishonourably discharged in 2004
(reasons blacked out). Excellent marksman, trained sniper, ruthless commander.
No known relatives. Completely disappeared from the face of the earth in 2006.
Sherlock spent hours staring at the photograph attached: an official army photo
from late 2003. Green eyes, blonde hair cut extremely short, prominent jaw with
darker blonde stubble. A scar runs through his left eyebrow. By Sherlock’s
estimate he is at least six foot three tall, possibly even six five.
Once Sherlock had a lead on him, he felt like Christmas came early. Word had it
that Moran was planning a trip to Luxembourg to secure some financial matters.
A country well known for its banking services catering to wealthy clientele but
lower on the radar than Switzerland, Liechtenstein or the Cayman Islands. Less
suspicious. A clever choice.
Sherlock hopped onto a plane in Budapest and arrived at the country’s only
international airport. He posed as a Frenchman working in the capital. He could
have used his German identity, too but while his French is fluent and accent-
free, his German isn’t. Might be suspicious in a country where German is an
official language.
He had an estimated forty-two hours before Moran would arrive and hopefully
walk straight into his demise. Success was within his reach; he could almost
taste it. For the first time in over a year, Sherlock bought himself a treat -
- a piece of Quetschentaart at a boulangerie on Rue de Bonnevoie and enjoyed it
with a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of sugar in his temporary
quarters. Just to taunt Mycroft, Sherlock emailed him a picture of the cake.
It’s childish, but he hadn’t been able to properly tease Mycroft for far too
long.
Sometime after that, everything went wrong.
Moran entered the country much sooner than expected, passing through undetected
even with Mycroft’s staff watching. Sherlock had chosen to scour the bank Moran
is supposed to have dealings with, feigning interest in seeking to hide his
earnings from the French tax office.
As luck had it, Moran was crossing the lobby when Sherlock exited the lift. He
immediately spotted the colonel, but couldn’t get back into the lift before
Moran saw him as well; the man’s instincts were in excellent shape. Moran
didn’t waste time,. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, spun around on his heel
and strode back towards the doors without appearing too hurried to the
bystanders. He stopped at the entrance and leaned towards the security guards,
saying something to them that made them look at Sherlock who was half hidden
behind the fountain in the foyer. The bulky men approached Sherlock, Moran
vanishing behind them out the door. The guards held Sherlock back for some
reason he can’t remember now. They were talking to him in Luxembourgish,
French, German and English but Sherlock doesn’t hear a word. It all blends
together from the point when he saw Moran in the flesh for the first time.
Sherlock can only remember the cold clenching at his heart after he managed to
escape the security guards’ clutches to discover that Moran used the time to
disappear.
Since then, he's been awake for two days, conducting a frantic search, but
Sebastian Moran is nowhere to be found. Chances are that he has long since left
the country (easy when the whole country is only 300 square miles bigger than
Greater London).
Sherlock takes the razor from the edge of the bathtub. Its edge gleams in the
low bathroom lights. Disappointment, anger and homesickness gnaw at his heart.
So stupid. So careless. Moran is aware now that Sherlock is alive and hunting
him and Sherlock is back to square one. How long now before he can go home? If
he ever could.
The chances of him dying -- most likely at Moran’s hand -- have risen by forty-
three in the last forty-eight hours. Almost three years of hunting could be
undone by a stupid mistake. Almost three years since Lestrade last patted his
shoulder, Mrs Hudson gave him a hug or John touched his bare skin.
Sherlock has no idea what or how John is doing. After he allowed himself that
last glance at the cemetery, Sherlock hasn’t inquired after him. Mycroft is
only allowed to give him news if anything grave happens. No news amounts to
good news. Fear nags at Sherlock’s mind. What if John isn’t in 221B, not in
London, anymore? What if he’s married some nice, boring woman and has two point
five children? What if he’s forgotten about Sherlock, who’s supposed to be
little more than a skeleton by now? He surely feels like one.
No. No. Sherlock refuses to think about that. John is his. He promised and John
doesn’t break promises. If there was one truth in the universe, it was John
Watson’s.
Sherlock hardly feels the splitting of flesh on the underside of his upper arm
-- the blade is extremely sharp. He watches the blood in rapt fascination,
running down in a sluggish scarlet trickle, away from the cut. It’s not
superficial, but not deep enough to be worrisome. Seconds or minutes later,
Sherlock can’t recall how long, he stares at his work. He has carved a “J” into
his arm and can’t remember doing it or making the decision to.
More blood trickles down, collects at the lowest point before dripping into the
water and forming a tiny cloud of red. Sherlock continues to stare at the
letter, maybe two inches long. The cut burns just a little, almost the same
pleasant way as when John does it. John with his medical knowledge, who knows
enough about bloodflow and tissue to end Sherlock’s life in seconds. Sherlock
finds being at John’s mercy exhilarating. He inclines his head and lets his
tongue trail the edges of the, the metallic tang on his tongue urging him to
close his eyes and enjoy. John’s blood is better but his own from the cut made
for John is all he has at the moment.
Sherlock continues to lie still in the tub, gaze following the slowing trickle
from the bleeding “J”, turning the sharp letter into a blurred shape in deep
red. The cut will heal in a few days; it might leave a faint scar -- hopefully.
It’s the closest he can get to a permanent imprint of John, one he can take to
the grave if push comes to shove.
Maybe John will let him cut an “S” into his body once he comes home. If he
comes home.

===============================================================================

The last week before his return is a blur. Mycroft’s lackeys manage to find a
picture of Moran entering the UK. On the flight back home. Sherlock thinks that
Sebastian Moran didn't so much get caught on camera as he let himself be
caught. The colonel is much too elusive to make a mistake like that,
considering it took them months to find out he was real at all. He is sending
Sherlock a message. Or rather a final warning: Sherlock doesn’t have any
evidence but Moran is likely one of the snipers who were set on John, Mrs.
Hudson, and Lestrade.
The disaster in Luxembourg was weeks ago; Sherlock fell into a slump of
combined apathy and cocaine high, tacking the walls with Morans previous
movements and pictures. Sherlock didn’t do much more than stare at it, no new
clues to be gained. Only Mycroft’s call with the words “He entered the United
Kingdom via Glasgow six hours ago” makes him move. Sherlock knows it’s a trap.
Moran is trying to lure him out by reviving the threat. Years ago, Sherlock
would have refused to take such obvious bait, but he can’t be bothered to care
about a clever delivery. His friends’ lives are at stake. John’s life is at
stake.
A world without John Watson in it is not an option.
He is tired of playing cat and mouse and has no idea anymore whether he is the
hunter or the prey.
The first time he sees John after he’s returned is a heady mixture of anger and
adrenaline. John is so shocked upon seeing Sherlock, he goes white as a sheet
and nearly vomits into Mrs Hudson’s umbrella stand by the door. He staggers
back to sit on the stairs, Sherlock follows him inside, for once not saying
anything. Sherlock is desperate to touch John, his John, but doesn’t dare. John
regains the ability to stand and whispers Sherlock’s name, the most painful and
yet most beautiful sound Sherlock has ever heard.
He can read the upcoming punch in the tension in John’s body and doesn’t try to
stop it. If he has ever earned a punch, this one would be it. A faint trail of
blood runs from Sherlock’s nose as he picks himself up, just in time to catch
John in his arms like a marionette cut from its strings. The anger was
apparently the only thing keeping him upright. For several minutes, they cling
to each other.
They come close to dying at Moran’s hands, the only thing saving Sherlock from
a bullet to the brain being John’s steady hand and the team of policemen
Mycroft had dispatched. Lestrade looks as if he’s ready to have a heart attack
when he sees Sherlock. For a second, Sherlock thinks Lestrade is going to punch
him as well, before he’s enveloped in a crushing hug (Sherlock would have found
a punch much easier to deal with) and treated to a string of Lestrade’s
favourite cuss words for him. Sherlock pets Lestrade’s shoulder, feeling
awkward and watching John, who looks exhausted (mentally more than physically),
but has a small smile playing at his lips.
Lestrade only lets them go with a promise to see him first thing in the morning
and then they’re back at Baker Street, the flat silent and too tidy for
Sherlock’s taste. John has been staying but not living there -- it looks like a
cleaned-up shrine to Sherlock. His chemistry equipment is missing, but his
insect collections are now mounted on the wall over the mantle. The skull still
rests on it (now wearing the hideous hat, but the framed picture next to it is
new -- a photograph of Sherlock in what John once dubbed his ‘thinking pose’:
reclined on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin and his gaze fixed on the
windows (judging from the angle). Sherlock didn’t even know the picture
existed. He can feel John’s eyes boring into his back.
“John...” Sherlock starts but doesn’t finish because he is propelled into the
wall by John’s body.
“You utter bastard,” John hisses and crushes his lips against Sherlock’s.
It’s desperate and not gentle, which is the last thing Sherlock would be able
to take at the moment. He needs John; he needs John to be angry with him
because Sherlock doesn’t have the power to be angry at himself anymore.
Sherlock needs John to wipe his mind clean, format the hard drive and reinstall
the operating system that is currently riddled with viruses and fragmented
beyond saving.
When Sherlock begs John for the pain, John hesitates. He wants it as much as
Sherlock, but knows that he shouldn’t do it with so much anger bottled up
inside. Sherlock continues to wear John’s reluctance down, knowing that John
would never ignore a safeword, no matter how angry he was.
Once he finally caves, he orders Sherlock to the upstairs bedroom to undress
himself and wait. Sherlock is strung as tightly as his violin bow, can’t get
out of his clothing fast enough. Three years without touching John -- three
years of not knowing whether he would ever get to do it again. The thought
alone makes his cock strain against his pants. Sherlock removes the final piece
of clothing in haste and gets on the bed before John enters, riding crop and
old army knife in his left hand. The air sticks in Sherlock’s throat,
anticipation ready to burst out of him, but he doesn’t say a word out of fear
that if he says the wrong thing, John might remember how ill-advised this
encounter is.
And if John stops, Sherlock doesn't know what he'd do -- he doesn't think he'd
survive it.
Sherlock expects to be bound, but John wants an exercise in discipline and
orders him to hold onto the headboard and not let go. He scurries to comply,
licking his lips in anticipation and grabbing the wood above him until his
fingers hurt. The headboard is the only thing anchoring him to earth. That and
watching John strip off his jumper, but not more. In the last three years, John
has gained a few pounds (lack of exercise) but is still in much better shape
than most of his age group. As he looks at Sherlock on his bed (and Sherlock
feels stripped much more than just to his skin), his eyes are still hard and
angry, though his anger is controlled and hopefully soon channelled into quick
flicks with a crop and the slither of a blade against pale skin. He asks for
the safewords and Sherlock has to find his voice again before he can answer
(yellow and red -- the former for ‘dangerous’ and the latter for ‘stop’ -- John
prefers his safewords to be easy and precise).
John steps forward to the foot of the bed, riding crop in hand and Sherlock’s
world narrows down to exquisite pain: his partner’s knowledge of anatomy helps
him keep the pain just this side of ‘bearable’ and he never strikes hard enough
to draw blood. That is going to be the blade’s duty.
A moan erupts from Sherlock’s mouth when the crop leaves a welt across his
inner thigh and he almost lets go of the headboard.
Every strike with the crop makes the hard drive in his mind skip for a blinding
moment of pain dissolving into pleasure. John speaks words but Sherlock can’t
seem to string them together into sentences. It doesn’t matter, the sound of
John’s voice is enough.
When John casts aside the crop, Sherlock’s chest is heaving from the thrum of
arousal and the effort to follow John’s instructions. A faint sheen of sweat
sends goosebumps across his body and makes locks of hair stick to his forehead
and neck. John nudges Sherlock’s legs apart and kneels between his thighs and
unclasps the knife. The light of the evening sun falling in through the window
dyes the blade a vibrant orange and Sherlock can’t help but lick his lips. He
still hasn’t dared to break his silence, afraid to undo the spell. If John
decides to stop now, Sherlock would probably empty a syringe into his
bloodstream within the next ten minutes to reach oblivion.
Luckily, John seems to need it as much as he does and throws caution out the
window. Just as well that he doesn’t ask whether Sherlock contracted an illness
during his abscence; at this stage, Sherlock would lie without hesitation. He
is reasonably sure he hasn’t picked up any strange viruses or other illnesses -
- he had all kinds of vaccinations before his trips and he was never stupid
enough to use needles twice or share them. Safe and sane still doesn’t apply to
what he and John are doing right now, but Sherlock considers these words to be
synonyms of “boring” anyway.
Cold steel presses against his throat, not enough to cut, but it would if
Sherlock moved. His heart hammers in his chest, instinctual need for survival
setting in, even with the knowledge that John has no plans to kill him.
Sherlock’s erection grows, the tip glistening with the first signs of pre-
ejaculate. John drags a finger along the shaft, almost making Sherlock flinch.
“John,” Sherlock whispers, unable to remain mute any longer.
John removes the blade from Sherlock’s throat and for a second, Sherlock thinks
John is going to stop -- fear welling up before he feels the sharp burn of a
blade being drawn through the skin of his biceps. Just enough to make the
crimson of his blood appear at the surface. The instant it happens, Sherlock’s
mind goes blank, his mind becomes a vast, empty space.
It’s a high not even cocaine can produce.
A moan escapes him upon the second cut, a few inches below the first. Sherlock
wants to fist the sheets, but he hasn’t been given permission to let go. He
breathes in John’s scent, a combination of tea leaves, laundry detergent and
aftershave (Diesel’s Only the Brave, present from Harry). He blanks out with
the next cut and descends into a state of mind where he can only focus on pain,
pleasure and John.
When he surfaces again, his upper arms, chest and thighs are striped with thin
ribbons of blood, a delicious burn and ache deep in his bones. Sherlock is
panting and the erection between his legs is begging for attention. The muscles
in his arms start to protest against holding onto the headboard for so long -
- he can’t remember the last time he felt this good.
“John, please,” he whispers, voice hoarse. He needs release. Needs to go
higher, faster, harder.
The wait only takes seconds, but feels like hours.
Sherlock hears the sound of a bottle cap being opened. There are slick fingers
at his entrance, pressing into him. The stretch and burn is almost like a new
experience after so long. John avoids all the places and movements that would
get him off -- Sherlock is already teetering on the edge. John doesn’t take
long; the fingers withdraw fast to work on John getting ready, judging by the
sound of more lubricant being squeezed out of the bottle and the rustle of
fabric and a zipper.
“Turn around. On your knees,” John commands and Sherlock snaps out of his haze
long enough to scramble into position.
The cuts on his arms and thighs stretch and start to burn anew -- Sherlock
bites his lower lip to contain the sounds that threaten to escape him. John
wraps an arm around his waist and drags him back until he’s sitting in John’s
lap, his naked back against John’s soft shirt. John nuzzles at Sherlock’s
vertebrae and enters him without much preamble. Throwing his head back against
John’s shoulder, Sherlock bares his throat and groans. He won’t last very long
-- not with John’s hand closed around his prick and his mouth biting at the
column of Sherlock’s throat. Only now does he truly realise how much he missed
John, how incomplete he has been for the last three years.
“I...” he whimpers, hitching breath matching John’s thrusts.
Picking up speed, John grabs Sherlock’s jaw and draws his head back again,
licking at one of the small cuts he left on the throat. He has the one last
thought -- John, taking in his blood, a bit of Sherlock now in John’s system -
- before his mind whites out into complete silence and he comes into John’s
hand.
Sherlock sags against John, his mind caught up in white noise and nothing else.
John finishes shortly after, Sherlock’s name on his lips and holds him against
his chest for a few more seconds before he guides Sherlock down to the
mattress.
Sherlock is covered in blood, sweat and semen and he couldn’t care less. John
moves around on the mattress, preparing to get up. He catches John’s wrist in a
vice grip -- he can’t leave, not when Sherlock has just come back --
“I’m just going to get some antiseptic and a towel. Then we’ll talk,” John
murmurs and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. His anger hasn’t dissipated,
that’s obvious from his body language. But as long as John’s not going to
leave, he will talk as much as John needs to. Later.
Sherlock lets go of John’s wrist and sinks back into the pillows closing his
eyes. In the background, his brain comes back online, hard drive formatted and
recovering bit by bit.

===============================================================================

“Sherlock, I just want to help. You can’t keep doing this. How do you think
John will react?”
Lestrade shows all the signs of discomfort. He twists the phantom of his
wedding band with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. A stubborn
frown as he leans back in his chair. One of his better dress shirts; he’s
taking Molly out for dinner. Sherlock hopes the relationship with Lestrade will
finally rid Molly of her infatuation with Sherlock. She’s made remarkable
progress in the last three and a half years, doesn’t let Sherlock walk all over
her anymore. It makes her harder to manipulate, but Sherlock respects Molly
now. Lestrade knows she isn’t completely over Sherlock, but is hoping she will
get there eventually.
Sherlock doesn’t tell Lestrade there is a seventy-eight percent chance she will
abandon her hopes for Sherlock in the next three months. Ninety-four percent in
the next five months. Lestrade doesn’t deserve good news for his meddling.
“John doesn’t know,” Sherlock murmurs and keeps reading the weather reports for
Bristol on his phone.
“Yeah, how long do you think it will stay that way? He’s just still too glad
that you’re not dead to notice there is something wrong.” Lestrade abandons
twisting his fingers in favour of crossing his arms.
“If you keep your mouth shut--” Sherlock starts, glaring at Lestrade before
being cut off.
“No,” Lestrade says and shakes his head. “I am not watching you go down that
road again. You’re not as bad off as last time and that’s the only reason John
hasn’t picked up on it.”
It’s a disadvantage that Lestrade knows exactly what Sherlock is like when he’s
on drugs. Too much experience with it to miss the subtle signs not even
Sherlock can cover up. Of all the things Lestrade could be perceptive about, he
has to make it Sherlock.
“Mind your own business,” Sherlock hisses and gets up. In his head, he gears up
a litany about Lestrade’s self-consciousness, the ongoing fight with his ex-
wife over custody, the illness of his father.
Lestrade sighs, looking defeated. “Sherlock, you are my business. It became my
business when you almost died on me from that overdose. And I’m telling you to
stop so you don’t lose everything you give a toss about. John won’t stay if you
don’t stop. I’m giving you a last chance to get clean before I have to ban you
from crime scenes again.”
“What?”
“No crime scenes when you’re using. That rule hasn’t changed.”
Sherlock knows that tone -- it always comes out when Lestrade is being
particularly hard-headed. Most of the time, the man is putty in his hands: too
set on solving cases to stop Sherlock from walking all over him. With the
drugs, there’s never been room for negotiation. Bloody morals.
“You need me,” Sherlock tries, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway.
“We solved crimes for three years without you and we can do it again. Consider
yourself lucky I’m not arresting you on the spot.”
Sherlock has enough of this farce and leaves Lestrade’s office in the most
dramatic manner he can conjure up without slamming the door.
He walks to St James Park close by and sinks onto a bench a good distance from
the water where dense clusters of tourists and Londoners are feeding the ducks.
The weather is good for the time of the year: cold but the sun is shining and
has lured people outdoors. Sherlock hopes for an increase in crime. Other than
Christmas, winter is a bit dire when it comes to interesting cases. Not that
he’ll profit from more crimes if Lestrade doesn’t call him in -- and the man is
stubborn enough to stick to his word. He didn’t budge last time, which was part
of the reason Sherlock stopped the cocaine. If Lestrade doesn’t call, John will
notice and become suspicious. And if John isn’t in a state of blissful
ignorance, he is going to pick up on the signs. Idiot he may be sometimes, but
he is a very good doctor.
He has to tell him. Before Lestrade sweeps in and takes matters into his own
hands. John tolerates a lot from Sherlock but he’s not sure if John will
forgive another large-scale deceit. For the time being, Sherlock only indulges
occasionally, but it’s increasing. The old life in London with its regular
cases isn’t as adrenalin-fuelled as hunting after a web of criminals all over
the world. The need to seek stimulation for his brain is bigger in London.
Sherlock knows it’s a dangerous gamble.
He conceals it well, doesn’t leave any drug paraphernalia lying around and the
signs of agitation that set in when he hasn’t taken anything for a week or so
don’t differ much from the way he usually expresses his frustration. Sherlock
even moves the injection sites around: one day it’s the groin, the next time a
foot or his hand. John may be closely acquaintanced with every square inch of
Sherlock’s body, but small, healed-over pricks where a needle once breached
skin are hard to find if one isn’t looking for them.
Unfortunately, Lestrade has experience. Ever since the overdose, Sherlock can
feel Lestrade scanning him for signs of a relapse. The fabricated drug busts
for withheld evidence also serve to bring peace to the detective inspector’s
mind. Not that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hide his drugs from the police -
- if Lestrade combed the flat (with drugs in it) today, he wouldn’t find
anything.
Mycroft not knowing is sheer luck. Since Moran’s “elimination”, Sherlock’s
surveillance has been downgraded and his brother has been out of the country
for weeks (probably cleaning up after Sherlock’s operations with his diplomatic
chess games). He has no illusions about being able to fool Mycroft. If his
brother looked properly, he would know within seconds (bloody irritating,
that). And if Lestrade called Mycroft, an intervention would be guaranteed.
It is impossible to just wait and sit it out this time. If John finds out from
anyone other than Sherlock himself, he will leave. John is still working on
conquering his anger over the fake death. The only reason he hasn’t packed his
things and left is because Moriarty blackmailed Sherlock with his, Lestrade’s
and Mrs Hudson’s life. But making him see the necessity of Sherlock turning to
cocaine to focus his mind would be impossible. John refuses the premise of the
theory. Sherlock has to concede that no one with an average mind would be able
to understand his logic -- even Mycroft only grasps it in an abstract sense.
He is at a crossroads. It seems simple, deciding which direction to go, but it
isn’t.

===============================================================================

Sherlock doesn’t exactly talk to John about the cocaine. He leaves his
syringes, the tourniquet and the vial with the rest of his supply on the
kitchen table and waits for John to find it in the morning. Right now, it’s
four a.m. and John won’t be up for another three hours at least. He sleeps less
when Sherlock isn’t in bed with him.
Sherlock has banked the fire and sits in his chair, fiddling with the sash of
his robe. Reruns of the afternoon programmes are running on the telly but he
doesn’t feel like deducing the women and men in the talk show. He would like to
play his violin but doesn’t. Normally, he has no qualms about waking John with
his playing, but he feels strangely torn between wanting John to wake up
immediately and hoping he’ll sleep another twelve hours.
Sherlock is vibrating with tension, tempted to relieve it with the remnants of
the cocaine. Greeting John with his drug utensils while high might be a bad
idea though. Cigarettes, maybe.
Sherlock jumps out of his chair and fishes the packet of tobacco out of his
coat pocket. It’s empty. Frustrated, Sherlock hurls the empty pouch into the
small bin next to the coat rack and strides into the kitchen. Tea then. He
needs some sort of stimulant.
Mug (check if it’s actually clean), tea bag (PG Tips), hot water, leave to
steep for a few minutes, milk (the one he’s not cultivating bacteria in), sugar
(not to be mistaken with the barium nitrate in the other container), stir and
back to the armchair. He grabs his laptop and proceeds to find the vilest
documentary available about decomposition. This at least proves interesting
enough that he doesn’t notice the passage of time until the bedroom door opens
with its usual low creaking. John, clad in boxer briefs and an old t-shirt,
emerges, rubbing his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all?” he murmurs and rubs his hands through his hair.
Sherlock doesn’t answer, keeps staring at the screen where the body of a
middle-aged man is being devoured by an array of maggots. His stomach feels
about the same.
He hears John halting on his way to the kettle. The following silence is dense
and heavy. Sherlock can visualise all the emotions crossing John’s face -- it’s
so expressive that he still hasn’t catalogued them all. The likely order being
puzzlement, suspicion, realisation, confusion and disappointment.
“Sherlock...” John starts, but doesn’t finish.
Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, pauses the video and looks at John -
- disappointment, as expected. Lips pressed together, the lines around his eyes
deepened, arms crossed.
“The answers to your questions are yes. But I’m not back to habitual use.” He
leaves the yet unspoken.
“How long?” John’s voice sounds detached, bare of emotion. The tone unsettles
Sherlock because it’s so unlike John.
“Twelve months.” Sherlock traces the inside of his lower lip with his tongue. A
nervous habit of his.
“So, when you were...”, John replaces the end of the sentence with a gesture.
He has trouble giving Sherlock’s absence a name, even after six months.
Sherlock nods. Words are failing him, choked by the fear of John leaving
forever and taking Sherlock’s heart with him. He watches John release a breath,
his left hand scrubbing over his face.
“Right. I’ll just--” John says and turns back to the door.
“John.” For once, Sherlock doesn’t know how to explain himself. He hears the
impending panic in his own voice and snaps his jaw shut. He wouldn’t beg.
Digging his fingers into the armrests, he wills himself to stay put. Neither he
nor John would appreciate an undignified display of weakness and fear.
John turns back around, having apparently noticed the panicked tone and lets
his eyes rest on Sherlock. Realisation sweeps over him, showing in a widening
of the eyes and a barely mouthed ‘oh’.
“Sherlock, I’m not leaving,” he says and walks over to Sherlock’s chair. John’s
callused fingers cover the side of Sherlock’s throat. “I won’t tolerate you
taking cocaine, but if you really want to quit, we can work this out.”
John’s hand tightens lightly around Sherlock’s throat, restricting his airflow
enough to be noticeable. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, his heartbeat stopping
for a second before picking up its elevated rate again -- excitement, not
panic.
“Yes,” he whispers.
With John, he can do this. With John, he won’t crash and burn. That’s how it
has always worked: Sherlock has his foot on the accelerator and John his hands
on the wheel.
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