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He had to wait. He hated waiting. His current ‘victim’ was holding up at his mansion in San Fransisco and Sherlock had to search out the opportune moment to sneak into his home to get a hold of the documents that would condemn him. Another strand of Morriarty’s web would soon be cut and he’d be on to the next one. But first he had to wait. He had waited for two weeks now. Too long. Long enough for certain urges to strike him. They always went twofold.
The gun in his belt seemed more and more attractive as the horrors of the past year and what he had had to do to survive crept into his conscious mind over and over again. Maybe Moriarty had chosen the right way out. Put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger, that’s how easy it’d be. To be rid of all of it. Such a tempting thought. It were the memories of John that pulled him out of those thoughts. John, his best friend, would never let him do that. He’d grab hold of the gun before Sherlock would even have fully pulled it out of his belt. Plus, it was for him that he did all this. For him, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson… At least hold on until the work is done, the John in his mind convincded him, and then come back home and we’ll put all of this in the past. Sherlock listened.
Well, if he couldn’t die, there was always another, more temporary way out.Only once, Sherlock told himself, just to pass the insufferable dull hours. The drug cartel he disbanded the week before hadn’t helped either. All drugs in the hangar were confiscated by the police, helped by an 'anonymous tip’. Except Sherlock couldn’t help himself and knicked 10 grams of a heroïne/cocaïne mix. He hadn’t used any of it… yet. It was just… his mind was overflowing with everything. Memories, data - useful or not -, emotions he thought long forgotten. Too much at once flooded his conscience. Too much at once to process. He just needed a few hours of absolute numb silence.
Before Sherlock was completely aware of his own actions, the rubber band was already thightened around his upper arm, a blue vein popping out of the crease of his elbow invitingly. He didn’t even remember having prepared the heroïne but the substance in the syringe he held tightly in his fist proved that he must have, right?
This time it wasn’t John that stopped him. Sherlock didn’t even remember having her in his mind palace, but there she was, exactly like the last time he saw her. Labcoat and hair pulled back, eyes big and brown and on the verge of tears. She didn’t talk to him in his mind, but he could almost feel her fingers as they lightly pushed his arms to his sides, seperating the needle from the skin before it had penetrated the vein. He leaned against the wall as mind-Molly kept her hands on his arms and stepped closed. Sherlock closed his eyes and felt his forehead coming to resta against hers. He could hear her shaky sigh as if she really were standing in front of him.
She’d be so dissapointed, the real Molly. She put her reputation and medical license on the line and for what? To get a message in the middle of the night from Mycroft that his little brother, the man she thought to love, had succumbed in an alley on a drug overdose? She’d cry at first, grieving for the illusion of what he could have been; and then she’d be furious, accepting him for who he really was. Weak.
No. this wasn’t how he was. It hadn’t been for years now. Molly knew that, right? She trusted him; she had to know. Just one weak moment doesn’t mean all is lost, she’d say. He’d proven to be anything but what she
believed him to be.
Maybe, this one time, he could prove her right.