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Entry tags: |
complete, fanfic, rated:pg, sherlock |
John Watson was an addict.
Oh, not the usual sort, there was no pill, tincture or vial that could possibly hope to contain the thing that left him pining, and no dosage could be calculated to satisfy his craving.
No, it was more an addiction of the outside than in, and even as he observed it's rapid progression in half-horrified bemusement, he found himself completely powerless to counteract the inevitable.
What he wanted- no, honestly, what he needed- was no more or less than a single instant, a frozen moment of life within living.
And the name of that most coveted and incontainable thing?
Sherlock Holmes.
It was the man himself, the very distillation that held every iota of who and what he was, his make and manner in equal amounts.
It was the air he breathed, the threading of his clothes, those rain-colored eyes and willful speculations.
It was deduction of fact and thoughtless action, quick-moving hands and slow, deep kisses, the sound of a gunshot or the silence of boredom.
Even the tread of his foot upon the lowermost stair, or the slide of his fingers over the surface of telephone keys, it was all of a likeness to the ever-wanting Doctor.
Sometimes he contemplated an overdose, but then again, there never seemed to be enough.
Hooray for that.
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