A/N: So this is a sort of follow up to Schoolgirl Crush, with spoilers for all of series 3, but in particular, His Last Vow. This won't be massively long - about 9 chapters I believe, and you don't necessarily have to have read Schoolgirl Crush first, but I think it would be beneficial for context and stuff and things. Anyway. Hope you like it.

Full Circle

by Flaignhan

He tosses the bangle into the air and it spins, catching the light, before it falls back into his hand. He launches it upwards again, watching its progress, trying to work out when exactly it will reach its peak, before it comes back down again. It's guilt, he knows that. It's why he's already thrown it across the room three times today, and then gone to collect it almost immediately, just in case somebody else takes it while he's passed out. He won't allow that to happen. No way. No matter how angry or frustrated it makes him, the bangle belongs to him.

Except it doesn't. Not really.

He had come in with the intention of faking it. Had thought that if he'd just spent enough time amongst the other addicts, that some of their unpleasantness would rub off on him, and he'd look (and smell) the part, and that would be that. He had kept a firm grip on the bangle for the first week, hardly ever releasing it, even in his sleep. It had been working, it had anchored him, reminded him of what had been done in the past, and what must never be done again.

He doesn't really remember the moment things changed. In fact, he doesn't really remember that night at all. He remembers the comedown though, hard and cold and unbearable. And so he had dealt with it, the only way he really knew how.

He hasn't had this much peace and quiet in his own head for years, hasn't managed to stay this still for this long since…well, since the last time. But the last time he had nearly died, and the memory of it sends a faint buzz of panic through him, muffled by the bliss flowing through his veins. He'll be all right. He's older now, wiser, he'll be absolutely fine. He rolls over onto his side (just in case) and curls up into a foetal position, closing his eyes, and trying to block out the memory of the look of disappointment on her face. His fingers trace the carved patterns on the bangle, and the feeling of being a let down intensifies, as much as it can when he's up to his eyeballs in heroin. He doesn't care though, because it's for a case, and the case is what matters, the case is what counts, and if he can do this, then maybe he can bring down Magnussen.

Getting clean won't be an issue. He's done it before, so he can do it again. He might choose a different facility this time however, or maybe he'll just sweat it out in Baker Street, have Mrs Hudson wait on him hand and foot, with Molly coming round every evening and staying with him, to make sure he's still alive.

Unless she's busy with Tom, that is.

He doesn't know what's happened to the world. He goes away for two years, and when he comes back, John's found a girlfriend and moved in with her, and now married her, and got her up the duff to boot, and Molly, meanwhile, has found herself a dimwitted arse wipe who's got just enough braincells to realise that he's never going to do better, and so whips out a diamond ring, having the good fortune to choose a point in time when she's feeling particularly lonesome. It's absolutely ridiculous. He'd have thought, what with her knowing he was alive, that she might have actually considered him when making decisions like that. But no, she, like John, has abandoned him. After everything, he is alone again, save for the prattling Mrs Hudson and overbearing Mycroft.

Alone would be preferable, if he's being honest.

He lets out a sigh, preparing himself for a relaxing few hours, but the sound of footsteps breaks into his mind. He nearly yells out for the person to be quiet, to stop striding around like they own the place and making so much noise on the floorboards, but he doesn't; all that comes out of him is a vague grumble.

"Isaac? Isaac Whitney…"

Sherlock frowns. He knows that voice. He's probably hallucinating again, and so he huddles up in his hoodie, arms folded across his middle.

"Doctor Watson, where am I?"

Sherlock frowns again. Isaac's words are sluggish and slurred, as per usual. He doesn't think he's ever heard the boy utter a coherent sentence the entire time he's been here.

"Arse end of the universe with the scum of the earth," says that same, familiar voice. "Look at me?"

"Have you come for me?"

"You think I know a lot of people here?"

There's no way this can be a hallucination. Why on earth would he hallucinate about John talking to somebody else? Sherlock's hallucinations always involve himself. He's never merely just a bystander. That would be ridiculous.

He pushes himself up with his elbow and twists around on his mattress, to see John crouched next to Isaac, his hand on his shoulder while Isaac has a broad, dopey grin on his face.

"Oh, hello John. Didn't expect to see you here. Come for me too?"

His reflexes are a little slow, and he doesn't manage to dodge when John's fist comes flying towards his face, catching the corner of his mouth. The force of the impact slams him into the wall, his head smacking against the plaster, his mind going blank with the pain.

"Get up," John growls. He doesn't give Sherlock a chance to follow through on the order, and simply grabs him by the scruff of his hoodie and hauls him up. Sherlock's legs feel like jelly, and he has to focus all of his energy on stumbling forward with as much stability as he can muster. John starts to descend the stairs, still yelling about what a disgrace Sherlock is, and demanding to know what the hell is wrong with him, but Sherlock veers off along the corridor. When he reaches the end, he smashes the thin board of plywood out of the crumbling doorway and steps through it, John hot on his heels.

He's lucky to make it to the ground in one piece, his knees nearly betraying him when he jumps onto the bin, but he manages to drop down onto the grit store in one smooth move, this time more prepared, before he falls and breaks his neck.

John's still yelling, but Sherlock's barely listening. The daylight is absolutely blinding, and he can hardly see a thing, his eyes stinging after weeks inside that dingy darkened house. He clambers into the car, ignoring the meaningless chatter going on around him, and huffs irritably when he has to move over to the middle seat to let the other one in. He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a grotty old handkerchief, paying no notice to the Shezza jibes, and hopes that John hasn't managed to split his lip. That'll raise a few unwanted questions, and he could really do without that now.

"We're not going home, we're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly."

Sherlock's ears prick up, his heart freezing in his chest. He wants to argue, wants to tell John that that's the worst decision he could possibly make in his life, but his brain can't come up with a justification quick enough. It's sluggish, unreliable, and he's furious with it for letting him down.

"Why?" Mary asks, turning to John, her hand poised over the gear stick, ready to depart.

"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

His brain provides him with one word now, and it comes to mind at lightning speed.

Fuck.