Taught skin stretched across milky and aching bones-

Blood, flowering like crimson roses,

and his mind, and lost-

John-

The name pulled him back to his twisted reality, and he fell to the kitchen floor, hitting the tile with a distant thud.

Not depressed/yeah, sure/

His mind was hyphenated, caught in a colon, why wouldn't he end,

God fucking damn,

Another shot of morphine….. (only 22 ml.,) (it's not much) (not enough to kill.)

He remembered when he attempted when he was sixteen, and his daddy sighed and his mummy cried,

"You're okay, sweetheart. You want to live. It was a mistake, right,

sweetheart?"

But this was no mistake, this was (sadness)—and—(all the cruel games he had lost.)

John-

John was a stupid fucking game,

God,

Sherlock Holmes cried.

Sherlock was high when John came home, sprawled across the sofa, his limbs hanging haphazardly over the edge.

"I'm solving a case," he mumbled,

Tired,

Scared,

Sad.

"Not again, Sherlock, Christ," John yelled, walking over to him and picking up Sherlock's arm, which was bloody and scattered with needle puncture holes.

"Go to bed, John."

He loved his name, all the things he longed for and

….missed….

"Fuck," John spat, sitting down in his chair

and it just didn't seem

fair.

When Sherlock wasn't solving a case, or taking drugs, or playing the violin, or annoying John, or solving complex mathematical equations, or watching Ms. Hudson dance exotically, he memorized words. Definitions.

Mizpah- the deep emotional bond between two people, especially those separated by distance or death.

Elysian- beautiful or creative; divinely inspired; peaceful and perfect.

Eunoia- beautiful thinking; a good mind.

And then, when the words began to crumble in his mind, he would pull out his morphine. And cocaine. And heroin.

Jesus

When he was high he was a little bit /happy/, a little less /afraid/.

John

John

John

His best friend's name was always in the epicenter of his mind, a mantra that was constantly repeating itself,

Oh, fuck, Christ-

The voices were distant, different, and the hands that grabbed him were harsh and raw and Sherlock opened his eyes and saw the world fall upside down and twist inside out.

He remembered when his brother found his drug stash,

"Oh, brother dearest, this is quite the hobby, isn't it?

Brother dearest-"

Mycroft fucking Holmes, the better brother, the favorite brother, but only because he didn't shoot himself with lord fucking knows what every night to escape

r-e-a-l-i-t-y.

Ah, God,

Sherlock closed his eyes.

John.

"You're a fucking idiot," John announced the next morning.

"Every fucking night I have to make sure you haven't overdosed- Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John shouted, angrily placing down his tea and walking over to where his flatmate sat, staring intently at absolutely nothing.

"What? Yes, John, I'm listening," Sherlock replied distantly, and John rolled his eyes, stepping back into the kitchen.

"Do you even care about me?" He asked. Sort of sadly. Sort of warmly.

The question hit Sherlock like a knife.

He used to love knives, and he used to love scars.

And how could he articulate what he felt? He cared for John more than he cared for himself.../...

"Of course I care about you," Sherlock answered. And his throat was dry. And his eyes were closed. And his hair was greasy. But he cared for John,

he loved John, and it was driving him crazy.

INSANE INSANE INSANE INSANE

He was trying to quit.

Trying wasn't enough; trying was never enough.

(ive got to memorize the book. that's the only way. the only way to be good enough. be better than him; mummy'll love you more and daddy will be proud of you and you will be okay. memorize and remember and repeat.)

He was going to quit.

He was going to quit for John.

They were walking down the stairs (one foot in front of the other) when Sherlock's hand brushed against John's.

John stopped in his tracks. Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

Everything, for once, was

quiet.

John cleared his throat. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair.

He was filled with electricity, and John gave him a high better than

heroin and cocaine and meth and marijuana.

johnwasdrunk. sherlockwashigh.

they kissed, and that was that.

They didn't discuss the kiss. No, they avoided the topic by kissing some more.

They kissed in the dark, and in the light, and under covers and on top of the covers and they never got undressed but they loved each other and everything was clear for once yes everything was clear and even and right and sherlock was high on john and john was drunk on sherlock and everything was perfect yes perfect and perfect things always find ways to fall apart.

"Sherlock-"

-God, Sherlock loved the way John said his name-

"Yes, John?"

"We need to talk."

Sherlock's heart stopped. Because John didn't sound happy. Why didn't John sound happy?

John sat down in his chair. His foot was centimeters away from Sherlock's, but they didn't touch.

"It was a mistake."

"The kiss?"

"Yes, the kiss."

THE WORLD IS ENDING, THIS IS THE END. OH, GOD, I LOVE HIM, I LOVE HIM, I LOVE HIM...

"Alright," Sherlock whispered. He stood up and walked into his bedroom, and although he could hear John calling his name, he was distant. Everything was distant.

Taught skin stretched across milky and aching bones-

Sherlock was high on drugs. John had Mary; Sherlock had cases and cocaine. A beautiful contrast.

John was happy, and Sherlock wasn't. Sherlock never would be. Sherlock was addicted and alone and broken and he could never be healed, never. He hated himself more than the world hated him, and everything was a chore, everything was painful. He was sad and isolated and John was gleeful and in-love with a woman who loved him back and it just didn't seem

fair.