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Eyes dazing, a slow withdrawal overtook his brilliant mind, wrapping its explicit affects around him. He tightly gripped the needle, his arm contracting, then releasing the object. He watched his muscles work analytically, his eyes darting around every pore, every depression, every minuscule dip. His heart rate slowed causing him to moan in an utter attempt to stay alive, anxiety riddling every surface of his brain. His fingers reached to pick at the scabs that littered his once pale but then dirty skin, and his fingernails scraped up a gritty layer of dust with every tug at his epidermis. It was a road to an infection that would scar his skin with all the obsessive peeling. Distinctive round sores were a result of all the compulsive tearing. He mutilated his skin, scraping the needle, across every crawl of a bug he thought he saw, he thought he felt. With every feel of the army of cockroaches underneath his skin, he stabbed his own limb with the needle trying to kill them all. He shivered and tugged at his skin, and eyed the wrinkles that formed because of the absence of fat on his limbs. He tried to counteract with his dying heart, and wondered if the shaking, and the screaming of pain, did just that.
Stabbing the needle in his flesh, he watched the dust fall from his window as the heroin seeped into his dry, flaky and itchy skin. The unclean needle came into view, and Sherlock Holmes smiled at the only thing that made him happy, his only friend that would make him scream. He raked his fingers across himself, noticing how the bugs disappeared with the presence of his happy drug, but he did it just to be sure. His brain was coated in a desire for heroin which ultimately caused him to graze the needle on his own self. All he did was this until he eventually felt nothing. Circles of the blood were the result of the constant mutilation
The detective curled as he let out a singular cry, which triggered the release of more and more. They landed on the openings, which elicited a gasp of shock at how they hurt him. His body convulsed as the thought of his John smile at his wife-to-be walk down the aisle that Sherlock wanted gone. He bit his arm like an animal, as his tongue met the infected red spots, feeling heightened parts that were because of himself, or rather, the numerous drugs he put in his own body everyday. He was desperate to stop this attachment that his heart had for John Hamish Watson, but no, a deep bite could never stop the man loving his doctor. He dully stared at the floor of the apartment, his mouth well away from his unhealthy arm.
The light in his eyes that once existed when only his John was around, when he told him that he was fantastic, or when he smiled as he watched him across the room, was lost long ago. He was everywhere, and every time he saw delusions that he was there hugging him tightly, caressing his forehead, telling him that it would be better soon, the light would be running further away from him, sprinting away with every hour. Every time he shut his eyes, he always saw John on his eyelids.
Soon it would be irretrievable when John would marry someone that was not him.
It was not a greed, no, it was the disadvantage that his brother worried him about, love, sentiment, and it was its vacation that Sherlock couldn’t cope with alone. He wasn’t alone then, he had his selection of drugs that he could choose from. At least they were there for him always, at least they wouldn’t leave him for someone else, at least they would give him happiness.
In the dark of the room was a light that signalled a text. Sherlock, on the floor hugging his thin starved legs, just stared at it, eyeing every curve of the device. He watched it disappear into the blackness that surrounded him.
Astray. That was what he was. Astray, in the sense that he wanted to find himself once more, and die if he couldn’t. Because he thought that none of this, this fact that his lover was in love with someone else that wasn’t him, wasn’t worth going through. Sentiment was what tore his heart apart, sentiment was what was eating, munching, devouring his heart and licking its fingers, or rather was it John Watson who was ripping the tissues of his heart apart subconsciously. It was like they were working side by side, on a mission to destroy him, tear the walls of his skull apart every time he thought of him. A dynamic duo, flying in the air with their capes flowing behind them in search for any weak points to target, to hit at, to destroy.
Sherlock Holmes just wanted to perish, to not exist. Seeing John with an arm around the waist of Mary Morstan would only make him fake a smile, and fake his joy. He couldn’t live with the fact that every morning he would not see Watson in 221b with a fresh cup of tea in his hands and a smile across his pretty face, and instead would see nothing.
Sherlock walked over to the kitchen only to stumble onto the floor, twisting his ankle in the process, He yelled out, and grasped his ankle, hopelessly, almost pathetically. the drugs were slowing down his responsive and his awareness. His breathing wanted to increase in order to cope with the damaged ankle, however the heroin refused and continued to lick every bit of his head, and tickle at his amygdala. Standing up, he brushed his hair out of his face in desperation to get to the cabinet in the kitchen.
Grabbing the handle, he pulled it out, looking all the petri dishes amongst what he wanted. Carelessly whipping the weapon out, he waved it around in the air with a laugh. This could be his final release, the thrill of his year. Laughs followed another creating a sick and twisted atmosphere. Sherlock Holmes was laughing at the thought that this was it, that with it he would not have to suffer, to feel the ache that arose every thought of his friend, his crush, his love. He was lost with the ideation of his own ending, adrift with the conclusive thought of death.
Pacing back to the spot on the floor, that held all the needles, all the flakes of death skin, he sat down cross legged. The concept of his life disappearing made him smile, and he cocked the gun into his own mouth, chuckling at the bliss and the sweet taste of incoming release from torturous life.
Finger on the trigger, the piece of metal that could dictate the finalisation of someone’s life, the head of the gun grazed the back of his throat, making him choke and gag. That wouldn’t matter now, would it?
He had no one. He was alone, and it’s protection had expired.
‘Sherlock bloody HOLMES!’ A scream of torment buried into Sherlock’s ears. The gun hit Sherlock’s teeth as the gun was taken away from him. He swallowed. Loud footsteps made Sherlock look up and let out tears at the sight in front of him. His fingers trembled on their way to his mouth. John screeched at the sight of the broken man, the frequency resounding in Sherlock’s ears. John’s screams shattered Sherlock’s heart like the pane of a broken window. Sherlock’s feeble frame, scabs on his disheveled face, and the red tender bumps bestrewed with yellow bumps scared him. Quivering hands, he slowly looked at the gun, trying to get his hand to stay still. He stared at him, angry, miserable, and overwhelmed. John’s eyes clouded with tears. He looked at Sherlock, his mouth agape.
‘Sherlock - ’ John placed a hand to his mouth. After all this time in the army, he had never seen someone so wasted and crippled as if he was a dead rotting body filled with feasting maggots. He looked exactly like a corpse. He wanted to die, and John could never believe that was what he wanted.
‘John,’ He squeaked, stammering, scared and frightened. His nose started to feel heavy, his throat beginning to clench. Sherlock stood himself up, wobbling side to side. He ran over to John, and lied his cheek against his head. He whimpered and let go the utter emptiness and pensive sadness through soft tears and hiccups, hugging John’s body tightly. Feeling his sobbing stature against him made him unleash more tears, as he let himself go, let all the soreness out through consistent wails. John enveloped the troubled man welcomingly, rubbing his back. He closed his eyes against Sherlock’s chest, swallowing the saliva that built up. John’s fingers comforted Sherlock’s trembling body, the warmth making Sherlock close his eyes.
‘S . . . herlock,’ He rasped, ‘why?’ John whispered, his heart twisting and throbbing
Sherlock only held his shirt tighter, cried even more fiercer. Every hiccup made the cockroaches come crawling back, and for that reason he closed his eyes tighter until he saw the familiar green spots on his lids. He could never tell him why. He could never tell him that the reason that he did this was because of his romantic relations that he was free to have with anyone but secretly wanted to restrict. No, he could never tell him that he was in love with John Hamish Watson, but John Hamish Watson was in love with Mary Morstan, and that fact pained him to the extent that he would rather die than live through life without him.
’It’s going to be okay. Everything,’ He let in a sharp intake of breath, ‘is going to be, okay.’ His voice squeaked, Sherlock only took that as a chance to cry even more.
-
‘John!’ Mrs Hudson said, smiling, ‘you picked out a fantastic day for the wedding! It’s so nice.’ She grinned, rubbing John’s arm.
‘Credit Mary, she picked out the date.’ He patted her hand, letting out a soft chuckle.
Everyone seated in the church, some with tissues in their pockets ready to be used. His friends sat at the front, creating small talk. Sherlock was no where to be seen. He did arrive however, somewhat better. It seemed to everyone that he was in the bathroom.
The attendants were just waiting for the bride now, to walk down the aisle. Sherlock didn't want to be there for that part.
John eyed the audience, looking for Sherlock, yet he couldn't be seen
The doors opened, and Mary was there, her beautiful face framed by a delicate white veil. Everyone turned around, smiles on their faces. Mary awed as she met with John, and exchanged laughs. It was painstakingly brilliant, but that was it, it was too brilliant, almost like a dream that felt off.
It was time for the vows, and Sherlock still wasn’t there. His reserved seat in the middle of the church was empty, and he was not sitting in it. His friends were worried, although they kept peace with the fact that he was okay, despite the fact that he wasn’t. He was in a bathroom stall, not bothering to sit. Sherlock stood looking at the door, looking at the little hills of paint. He was living in his mind palace.
‘If anyone object to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.’ The priest said, watching the audience.
Sherlock opened the church doors, eyes widened at all the eyes that randomly turned to him. John and Mary were confused at the sight of his figure. Sherlock wasn’t aware what all the fuss was. Everyone eyes him and Sherlock walked down the aisle, glancing at all the people that watched him. His shoes creating sharp noises, he took his seat closest to the edge of the aisle, and sat down, brushing the dust off him.
John looked at him still, shaken at what his life had become. His fiancé nudged hm out of his crisis, of his daze, and he knocked back into reality. For a second, he thought that Sherlock was to object. He thought that Sherlock was going to object. The idea of what would have happened if he did, if he objected and said that John was his. John knew, that no, he didn't want to belong to Mary. Mary wasn’t the one for him, and he never was. John referred back to the moment when a gun had existed within Sherlock’s dry mouth with a finger on the trigger, to when he asked why, and when Sherlock cried even more desperately than before.
‘John, will you keep Mary as your favourite person - to laugh with her, go on adventures and support her through life’s toughest moments, be proud of her, grow old with her, and find new reasons to love her everyday?’
John stood still, off into a distance. He decided that did not want to laugh with Mary, go on adventures and support her through life’s toughest moments, be proud of her, grow old with her and find new reasons to love her everyday. She was not his favourite person. This wasn’t the path that he was willing to take. He felt no love, no adoration for her.
Sherlock sat wide eyed at the silent doctor. He didn’t speak, or move. All he did was stand. The whole church was quiet, save for the few gasps that erupted from people’s mouths.
Mary stared at him, wanting him to say something, say yes. Her John wouldn't do this, not on her wedding day. That wasn't the John he knew.
John stared at Sherlock, who was looking towards the ground, but tilted his head up to him as soon as he sensed a pair of eyes on him.
He turned to Mary and then back to Sherlock, as if it wasn't obvious enough that he was rethinking his own marriage the seconds before it was finalised.
‘I can’t.’ He whispered, running a hand through his hair. It wasn’t in response to the priest’s question. It was more a response to himself. He could not live this way. He could not do this. He just couldn’t. Individuals gasped, some murmuring quickly to show their thoughts. John composed himself, standing more straight and coughed to prepare his voice,
‘I,’ His eyes scanned the worried faces of the crowd, ‘can’t.’ He repeated.
Mary bit her lip, but was even more unsettled as John walked over towards the first row of people. Sherlock clenched his jaw to stop it from falling, as a salty tear fell down his cheek. He let a hand out to Sherlock, smiling and avoiding his eyes. John was willing to disturb his own wedding just for him, for the detective, for his love of his life that he neglected and distracted himself from.
Sherlock took his hand knowing that everyone’s eyes were towards them. John sighed, focusing on his shocked eyes, then the ground as waves of embarrassment washed over him like a life-threatening tsunami. He examined his magnificent blue eyes, the eyes that John wanted to see for the rest of his life.
‘Sherlock Holmes,’ John started. He intertwined his fingers with his, both of them observing their hands touching and uniting, ‘It was always you.’ John whispered, before her licked his lips and let out a laugh. Then, in the midst of the moment, he grasped his jaw and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, eye’s fluttering closed, slowly brushing his lips against his, tasting tears. Sherlock let out a moan as he kissed back, smiling through the sweet kiss. John tugged on his curls with his free hand, the other still grasped tightly in his that held at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock groaned in pure pleasure as he let doctor take control, and bite his bottom lip. He dove back to his lips again, laughing at the height difference, but they both didn't care. John was his to love, his lips were his to kiss, his hands were his to hold. He didn’t care about Mary, or the audience, he only cared about John and kissing him like he was suffocating and John was his air.
Because it was always him.