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Chapter Text

The door to 221B Baker Street opens forcefully and a mobile flies across the expanse of the sitting room. There’s a satisfying crack when it hits the far wall and it’s undoubtedly shattered by the time it hits the floor. He’ll need to replace it tomorrow; it isn’t as if he wants to talk to anyone tonight anyway.

The majestic Belstaff falls into a crumpled heap on the floor and the blue scarf lands haphazardly on top. The coat has been his armor, his shield. He’d stripped it for John, but it’s far too late now. The tuxedo jacket joins the pile. Waistcoat. Tie. Shoes are toed off, a long camel dressing gown is donned and stocking feet pad quietly across the room.

A mop of dark messy curls falls against a grey leather arm; toes press firmly against the other. An old, empty red chair stares at him sardonically. A chair which brought him so much comfort as a child and so much friendship as an adult now mocked him, teased him, and taunted him. Pale cerulean eyes shut tightly and warm salt-water leaves streaks as tears trail down bisque flesh.

“Who leaves a wedding early, indeed, Mrs. Hudson,” a smooth baritone mumbles into a room as empty as he is.

Three days. It’s only been three days. Sherlock tries to breathe. The mobile is still lying broken at the baseboard and the detective cannot seem to find it in himself to care. He worried fleetingly that John might try to call or text, but the thought is quickly wiped away with the reminder that the blogger is on holiday. Sex holiday. Honeymoon. Sherlock’s sure that a tall, brooding detective is the last thing on John’s mind right now.

He opens his laptop and sighs, pulling up the wedding pictures and flipping through them. For someone who was an attempted murderer and not an actual wedding photographer, the Mayfly Man certainly had taken decent photographs. Sherlock stops at a particularly good one of John and he maximizes it, giving his John every centimeter of screen real estate that he can. John. John Watson. He looks so happy and radiant, his smile so pure, genuine and…

“Not for you, Sherlock,” he whispered sadly. “Not for you. Not ever again.”

The detective slams the laptop shut and stands where he’d been sitting. He shakes his head and closes his eyes, not allowing himself to think about it. He simply walks back to his chair and curls up in it. He turns, this time, facing the back and he nuzzles into the leather. He isn’t going to look at the red one today.

Six days. It’s been six days and Sherlock finally retrieves the forlorn pieces of phone from the floor. John’s flight is due back in two hours. Accounting for forty minutes to gather luggage, seventeen for the drive home and twenty to unpack essentials, it would be three hours and seventeen minutes until John texts. He’d ask him how he was doing. Tell him about the delicious near-burn he was sporting and how he wasn’t sure what possessed him to have those cocktails. It would be three hours and twenty-nine minutes, then, when Sherlock will reply with ‘I have a case, but I need your help. Meet me at 221B.’ Three hours and forty-two minutes later, the damned red chair would be occupied again (at least temporarily).

So why , then, is he still lying on the sofa, brand new mobile on his chest, waiting for something, anything, nine hours and fifty-one minutes later?

“What has she done to you, John? You promised nothing would change,” is the last thing to grace his mind before sleep overtakes him completely.

Nine days. John has been married for nine days. He’s been back in London for three (confirmed by Mycroft). John still hasn’t called or sent a text. Not since the night of the wedding. The texts which Sherlock didn’t even see until three days ago, and they send a cold chill through him each time he reads them.

Sherlock? Did you go outside? Are you smoking again? JW

Where are you, Sherlock? Wanted to ask you something.

Was going to dance with you, you git. Mary was going to dance with Janine. Some crazy idea of Greg’s. Where the hell did you run off to?

Listen, I know you don’t like crowds and public speaking, and weddings aren't really your thing – but you could’ve at least said goodbye.

That was it. The last message. And John thought he’d left because of crowds and public speaking. Always seeing, never observing, John. Of course, maybe that was a good thing – Mary will be better for John. So much better. Mary doesn't keep severed heads in the refrigerator. Mary doesn't sulk on the sofa like a two year old when she doesn’t get her way. Mary doesn’t call him an idiot. Mary is good to John, good for John.

“Time to stop pining, Sherlock. John deserves better than what I could ever aspire to be,” he mumbles, putting the kettle on to boil – though not before hiding John’s favorite mug in the cabinet under the sink.

Ten days. Sherlock refuses to send John a text, already resigned to the fact that he’s no good for John anyway. John doesn’t need him around now that he has a new wife and a baby on the way. John certainly doesn’t need to be running about on dangerous adventures. He needs to be home with his wife. His pregnant wife. Pregnant. Because of course they had sex. Probably a lot of it. John was experienced – the sex was likely fantastic. John surely knew exactly how to please a woman. Sherlock was sure that he’d likely know exactly how to please a man. Not that Sherlock would ever be able to accurately judge such things.

Nope. If John is avoiding getting in contact, Sherlock definitely isn’t going to allow himself to come across so desperate to hear from him. He’ll wait. He could wait until John finally shows up, right?

Sherlock is curled in his chair again, staring mournfully at the empty red one. Ten days of only seating Mrs. Hudson. Ten days of no longer being John’s.

It is now just the empty red chair of 221B.

Chapter Text

Eleven days now. He’s not sure why it matters. John never moved back in after he returned anyway. Of course, they’d still communicated. They saw each other almost daily. Now it’s been eleven days without a visit, a call, a text. The emptiness is too much; he hasn’t felt like this in years. This is the feeling he wanted – needed – to prevent from ever happening again.

First Victor.

Now John.

He hopes they won’t try putting him in the institution this time. He’s sure he’ll never be able to go through that again.

It’s easy, really; like riding a bike. He’s never forgotten  and he never will. He sets the box on the coffee table and kneels on the floor. He lifts the lid and begins taking each item out, lining it all on the table before him: the test tube stand with six tubes, a bottle of 28% hydrochloric acid, a small bottle of distilled water, a bottle of ammonium hydroxide, a bottle of ethyl ether, three pipettes, a glass stirring rod, a petri dish, baking soda, alcohol swabs, a tourniquet, a syringe and the bag of white powder.

Always a chemist first, Sherlock takes the time to purify the heroin properly instead of half-arsing it with a spoon, a lighter and a cotton ball. Besides, Mycroft had assured long ago that his old dealer would never sell again and the detective refuses to take chances with what this may have been cut with.

A gram of powder into the test tube, three drops of hydrochloric acid. Wait. A squirt of distilled water. Stir, stir, stir. The stirring itself is nearly hypnotic as things begin to dissolve and the particulate begins to settle.  First pipette – transfer the liquid to the next tube.

Ammonium hydroxide – one drop, two drops, three, four. Precipitate is forming. White. More ammonium. More precipitate. More stirring.

Ethyl Ether is poured, gently, into the next tube. The milky mixture is added. He waits again as the chemical reactions take place. His heart is racing. He’s nearly finished, it’s nearly ready. The water is sucked from the bottom of the tube with a pipette and is added to another to discard. Tube four receives 5mL of Hydrochloric acid and 5mL of distilled water. Stir. Pour this into tube number three. Stir again. Quickly. One-two-three – each rotation of the stir stick in time with his pulse.

He sucks the bottom layer with a pipette and squirts it into the petri dish. His breathing is heavy. It’s been years since he’s done this, since before John was ever in the picture. He adds baking soda to bring the pH down. It bubbles. His stomach twists. He’ll be addicted again, there’s no doubt about that. He doesn’t care. He can’t survive without John. He’s an idiot for ever thinking he could. John’s marriage was bad enough, but for John to be gone.

The bubbles stop. The blue latex is tied tight around his arm. The syringe is filled. He wipes his arm clean with the swab. He holds his breath and lays the needle against his skin.

It’s only a matter of minutes and the detective finds peace. 

Chapter Text

Janine? It’s Sherlock. SH

Well, hello there. Didn’t expect to be hearing from you so soon. xJ

What are you talking about? SH

John’s been home less than a week. xJ

Six days. SH

Sue me. I’m not keeping up with their diary. Why aren’t you out solving crimes? xJ

I need your help. SH

Need me to commit a crime? I’m sure I could arrange something. xJ

Don’t be absurd. SH

What can I do for ya, love? xJ

I haven’t seen John since the wedding. SH

I’m in love with him. SH

How exactly am I supposed to be helping you with that, Sherl? xJ

Don’t call me that. SH

Be my girlfriend. Well, pretend anyway. SH

I’m only pretending to be your girlfriend if ya let me call ya Sherl. xJ

Fine. SH

I want to see how he reacts, if he ever comes around again anyway. If he’s happy for us, for me, then I’ll know this thing with him and Mary is really what he wants. SH

You don’t think it’s really what he wants? xJ

I’m hoping what he really wants is me. SH

Sherl, what am I going to do with you? ;) Are there rules, then? xJ

No sex. Kissing is fine. Not sure if I really want to go any further than that. It’s not real, afterall. SH

But it’ll have to be believable. xJ

Hence the kissing. It’s not as if I’d be performing cunnilingus in front of him. SH

Well… if you’re into that sort of thing. ;) xJ

I wouldn’t know.  Though I have absolutely no desire to ever perform cunnilingus on anyone. SH

What a shame.  xJ

Are you a virgin? xJ

[significant delay]

I’m high. SH

A bit. SH

Oh Sherl, love. Alright. I’m coming by. Can’t be letting ya get into trouble. xJ

Chapter Text

Two weeks now. Three days after his first fix. The emergency stash is gone and this is the best Sherlock has felt since before Moriarty – since before the fall. He's completely strung out.

John doesn’t love him, he’s sure of it. He loves Mary. But it’s okay, it’s all okay now. Their baby is going to be adorable and blond and nothing like Sherlock. Maybe a little like Sherlock. Maybe, if Sherlock is lucky, they’ll let him teach the little one about science and deduction, even if crime scenes are out of the question.

A normal life for the ex-soldier. Exactly what he wanted. What he deserved. John is a good man, he deserves only the best. The best of what Sherlock will never be able to give.

He’s sweating now and his eyes water. He absently scratches at his arm. It’s been seven hours since his last dose. There’s a place he can go. Where is it? Think, Sherlock, think.

He calls a cab.

He remembers.

He goes.

“Who’re you again?”

“Shezza.”

“No one’s allowed in here.”

“Don’t play me, or I’ll find your parents and let them know you dropped out of grad school last semester and decided to use your leftover scholarship money to start concocting and selling drugs which you sell so cheaply you can’t afford the rent on anything except for this broken down, sorry excuse for a house which you share with the junkies who by your smack.”

The man in the hoodie steps aside and Sherlock walks in, preening like a peacock. This is where John would tell him how brilliant he was, and ask in that beautifully awed voice how he did it. This is where Sherlock would point out all the things that Sherlock saw in the man’s clothes, his posture, his fingers. This is where Sherlock would feel cherished and adored and he would feel, like the first time all over again, that his mind was something to be /proud/ of. 

Sherlock shakes his head and closes his eyes and interrupts the man who is getting ready to speak. “Please,” he says, his voice nearly desperate. “I’ve run out. I need…I’ve got everything, I just need the heroin.”

The other man frowns and then rolls his eyes. “Upstairs,” he says with a huff. “Who broke your heart, anyway?”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You came in here telling me about dropping out of university, what makes you think I can’t tell you've just had your heartbroken?”

“The only person I know who can observe such things as well as I can is my brother.”

“Now ya know someone else. Go on. Upstairs. Get your fix. I won’t charge ya for the first one. Name’s Wiggins.”

Sherlock nods, but continues to eye Billy curiously, wondering how glaringly obvious Sherlock’s heartache must be for some junkie drug dealer to be able to see it within a matter of seconds. He shrugs it off, however, and makes his way up the stairs for another injection of contentment.

Chapter Text

“I saw where you were last night, Sherlock.”

“Shut up and go away, Mycroft.” Sherlock spits angrily.

“I told you not to get involved.”

“I told you I’m not.”

“I see.” Mycroft frowns, eyes taking in the disarray of the flat, the chemistry – drug – equiptment on the table.

“You told me to keep him, Mycroft. You told me not to screw this up. You promised it wouldn’t be like Victor. That he wouldn’t be like Victor.” His eyes burn with tears, but he refuses to let them fall.

“That was before you let him believe you were dead for two years.”

“That was your fault!”

“Mm. Yes. Perhaps it was.” Mycroft sits in John’s chair, looking over at his brother’s far too thin body curled across from him. “I didn’t think he’d move on, to be honest. Your doctor.”

Sherlock pulls the hood of his jacket down over his eyes and grabs the union jack pillow, hiding his entire face behind it. He can’t look at Mycroft sitting in John’s chair. His stomach turns.

“Leave me alone, Mycroft.”

“No suicide this time, Sherlock. I’m watching you.” Mycroft is short and firm and he reaches across the expanse between them with his umbrella, using it to push the hood from Sherlock’s face.

“Whatever, Mycroft, Fine.” Sherlock agrees haughtily, batting the umbrella away and flipping dramatically in his chair.

“I do worry about you. Let me know if I can be of assistance.” Mycroft says, a bit softer, as he stands from the red chair and leaves the flat. 

Chapter Text

Eighteen days.

Sherlock is laughing.

The first time he’s so much as cracked a smile in eighteen days and it’s better than a smile. Sherlock is, dare he say it, happy.

“That one there… he was a truck driver. Always runnin’ from his wife, wasn’t ‘e? Company went outta business. Six…”

“Seven.”

“Oh come on, Shezza.”

“No, no. Listen. The watch he’s wearing – anniversary gift for working there fifteen years. The company’s logo is on the face.  QuickFreight Courier. They went bankrupt seven years ago after a particularly messy scandal with the company’s president.”

“Show off.”

Sherlock grins and leans into Billy, nudging him just slightly.

“’Ey. Watch it, Shezza. Don’t wanna be fallin’ down the stairs.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re not that far gone.”

“Not gone at all, am I? I don’t do the drugs. Just the chemistry.”

Sherlock looks over at the young man curiously and he tilts his head. “Why?”

“Got tired of the institution. Got tired of bein’ bullied, didn’t I? I know enough to get by, and who cares ‘bout the rest. The people in here, they need peace. Peace from somethin’; all of ‘em. I do what I can to give it to ‘em.”

Sherlock’s head finds itself resting on Billy’s shoulder and his eyes close. He hums. “Yes, I suppose we do. Need peace, I mean.”

“’Course ya do. Don’t you worry about your boyfriend. He’ll come ‘round.”

“Don’t wanna talk about John.”

“Go on home, Shezza. Time for me to get e’ryone in here locked in for the night anyhow. We've been doin' this for hours.”

“Mm. Yes. Thank you. Really.”

“You’re better than ya think. I’d stop doing all this if I was you.”

“Maybe. Eventually. Just need to get him out of my head.” He says quietly before getting up and leaving, the small bag of white powder in the inside pocket of his coat. 

Chapter Text

Double murder. GL

Nope. SH

No weapon. GL

The weapon is rarely found at the scene of the crime. SH

No wounds. GL

Asphyxiation. SH

Teenagers. GL

Probably an overdose or alcohol poisoning then. Teenagers are idiots. They never think anything will happen to them and that’s when most of the worst things happen. I’m not coming to the scene. I’m not solving your crimes. I’m not a bloody detective anymore Lestrade. Leave me alone. SH

Sherlock. GL

I can’t work without John. I won’t work without John. SH

Sherlock, please. Just to get out of the flat? GL

My brother put you up to this. SH

Just think about it, alright? GL