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Sherlock is high. Blissfully high.
He is laying on the bathroom floor staring at the fluorescent lamp (don't how he got there— don’t know, don’t care) and isn’t morphine bloody fantastic? If it weren’t for morphine, he would probably be crying (can’t have that. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t cry. Not as often as he feels the urge to anyway). Because, in all honesty, what now if not cry? Well, morphine, obviously, but what now that John has left him? And it’s not so much as John not being around (he has learned to cope with his absence since— God, has it really been that long?— the faking of his death) it’s that John despises him. If he can’t see him, know about him anymore, it’s because John doesn’t want him to. And just the thought of it… is agonising.
There is a dark, deep pit in his chest that burns and tears his soul apart each time he glances at something (i.e. everything) that reminds him of John. His eyes moisten, his throat closes, his stomach sinks. It truly is dreadful.
Now that it’s over… it feels pointless, and painful, to go on. Cases are not the same without his little contributions. Life is not the same without his little contributions. His whole world is crumbling down.
Hence the morphine, he’s blissful now. Drunk with it and he loves it.
He’s vaguely thinking of Prairie Vole— a kind of rodent that mates for life and how pleasant that must be, to feel attached to someone and said someone feeling the same way in return. He doesn’t feel pain, he’s relaxed. Happy, even. Not possible without the drugs.
He hears the door of the flat opening, the person entering walking around the room (even as high as he is he can tell whose gait it is. Always will). His chest floods with warmth and he scrambles to his feet. He opens the door to find a startled John Watson standing by the kitchen table, looking at him behind his shoulder. He slowly turns to face Sherlock, who is motionless by the bathroom door.
John looks good (has he ever looked not-good?). His cheeks are tainted red and his nostrils open to take in more oxygen than usual. He has liquid droplets on his hair and forehead— sweat? A brief glance to his clothes and shoes reveal he’s been running to escape rain. Is it raining? Last time Sherlock was outside it looked like it wouldn’t rain for days. But John looks good.
They stare at each other silently, deducing one another.
John's eyes are dry and sunken— no sleep. His clothes hanging a little loose— little food. His hands mildly trembling by his sides and his gait did sound uncoordinated— plenty of alcohol. And he still looks good.
Why would John have to jog to evade rain? Didn't he drive or get a cab to Baker Street? Unless— ah, he didn't intend to come to Baker Street. Heavy drinking in a pub, rambling around the streets, found himself in front of Baker Street. Rain only made it easier for his subconscious to decide where to run to. Cheeks tainted red. He smiles at John, lightly.
John looks uneasy. He wishes he could share a portion of his bliss with John. Maybe not with drugs— definitely not with drugs. But maybe... he could take down the bathroom mirror and show John how endearing he looks when he's flushed. Sherlock is suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to kiss those pink cheeks.
The drug running inside his veins inhibits his well-trained auto control and he decides to do just so.
John widens his eyes as Sherlock, rather quickly, stumbles towards him and gets uncharacteristically close. But he doesn’t step back. Sherlock grabs him by the head, clumsily leaning down.
John goes rigid and says “Sherlock,” but Sherlock isn’t sure if it’s meant to sound like a warning or a question. His fingers cling to John’s damp lapels because it’s hard to stand when he’s this high and this overwhelmed with, oh, sentiment.
He kisses at least three different spots on each feature of his face— his cheeks, his jaw, his chin, his nose, his eyes and his forehead while he’s at it. On the mess of it all, a few light kisses land on the corners of his lips, too.
He decides the feeling of his lips against John’s skin is superb, he doesn’t want to live without it anymore.
He only stops when his shallow breathing demands him to, but he doesn’t give up that easily, so his hands snake to his (good) shoulder and neck as he descends his nose to sharply —pathetically— inhale his scent. And, oh, if he could only bottle it up (not that he hasn’t tried, back in the day when John used to live here) he wouldn’t need any other drug.
Incidentally, Sherlock is very grateful morphine has allowed him to do this, which he has craved to do for so many years. He's grateful morphine prevents him from feeling shame or panic. It feels marvellous to be unstrained.
He draws back only to look at John’s face, because it’s been too long since he last saw it a few seconds ago. The hand on his neck snakes back to his cheek and his thumb dares to caress the —even more now— flushed skin.
“John,” Sherlock smiles at the sound of it, at the sight of him, at the wonderful nature of it all.
“Sh— wh— what’re you doing?” John quietly blurts out. He is being unnecessarily, stupidly cautious about this.
“—issing” Sherlock slurs.
“What?” John asks again.
“Kissing,” he repeats through a smile.
“Oh.” John looks at him in astonishment.
Silence settles in as they look into each other’s eyes. It’s not awkward at all.
Sherlock thinks about how he could get used to this, how he has longed for this but never thought it would be within reach.
He thinks it may fit him, the romance skin. The human skin.
John interrupts his thoughts by looking down and taking him by the upper arms, slowly pushing him away. Sherlock frowns and searches for eye contact. John stays still for a moment and then his eyes dart up to Sherlock’s. A not-entirely-comforting grin settles on John's lips and he says in a cold voice: “Did you miss me?”
Sudden white noise deafens Sherlock's ears as a sort of television static deforms John’s face.
Sherlock wakes up.