"I swear, Sherlock, if you're making this up -"

"I never create information, Graham. What would be the purpose?" He glanced up briefly at the Detective Inspector with a raised eyebrow. "There is sufficient data on the body to tell you everything you need to know and more. It's the latter that I'm interested in." Swiftly he turned back to the body and continued gathering data.

Lestrade let out a half infuriated sigh.

"It's Greg. You know it’s Greg."

Sherlock barely seemed to register the remark. With a dramatic flourish he whisked the pocket magnifier from his coat, slid it open and returned his attention to the male body on the floor.

Nails only slightly worn. Clean hairline. Callus on right index finger. Slightly faded tan line on left hand. Hairline is worn around the left wrist. Slight skin irritation around the back of the collar. Shoes are a quarter size too small.

"So he's homeless, yeah? An overdose. I don't really see why you're interested actually. John said you'd never leave the house for - "

The detective cut him off coldly, looking over his shoulder towards the detective inspector but deliberately withholding eye contact.

"John's not here though is he, Gavin? He's off on his holiday. Doesn't make him very helpful on cases and leaves me rather bored. Tedious. I gambled that this would turn out to be something worthy of my time and it is. The less I deal with the general public the better. At least Scotland Yard are useless enough to need help with actual investigations, not pedestrian housewife dramatics."

Lestrade shifted his weight and a fury started to rise in his voice. "How is this more - "

"He's not homeless. Well, he was but only in the last six or seven days. His nails were continually manicured on a regular basis but not recently. He only has a few days worth of facial hair. Tan line on the left hand indicates he was married for about 20 years but it's been removed recently as has the watch on his left wrist. Most likely sold to afford his new drug habit. The irritation on the back of his neck is his skin adjusting to a lower quality fabric so he clearly wore higher quality clothes on a regular basis, probably suits. I'd say security from the light callous on his right hand from a small firearm, not used enough for military or police work so security."

His eyes glittered. He had been hoping something may arise in one of these tiresome outings. Lestrade he could deal with, it was Anderson and Donovan, even being in the proximity that frustrated him.

Trying to keep their little affair from the world but being so blatantly obvious about it.

Why people even hide their true agenda was a mystery to the consulting detective. It’s ever so dull as it inevitably comes out in the end, regardless.

Seems an awful lot of effort for no gain.

"There." Sherlock pointed triumphantly to the track marks running up the victim's arm. Lestrade knelt and ran his eyes up and down the damaged veins. It looked like every other overdose. Same pinpoint bruising. Same discoloration of the veins. His eyes stopped at once and squinted. Sherlock rolled his eyes and held the magnifier just above the lowest entry point. "You see that don't you?"

"What is that?" Lestrade would have missed it completely, but he'd never admit it, of course. It was only faint, but there was a small patch of deep red, almost completely hidden behind the bruising and damaged tissue. An abscess? Easily mistaken for a bruise itself if not for the injection site.

"Something has briefly contaminated the site. Any normal compound of cocaine couldn't have left these markings. There's nothing there that would react to the blood or skin. This compound has been laced with trace elements of cyanide with the intent of causing death masked by an overdose. This man turned from something in his life that caused him to use again and again in a matter of days. Must have been something rather important but that’s dull. He doesn't matter. What matters is our new dealer."

The previous fortnight had proven more insipid than earlier predicted. Sherlock lay across his lounge with his fingers pressed together and against his lips. He held his eyes softly closed and monitored his breathing. He picked through his mind palace trying to piece together a motive. Sherlock was.. regrettably not as good at picking human behavior as he'd like. He excelled in facts.

Emotions were human error.

Lestrade had raided no more than five known locations of dealers in the central London district against Sherlock's expressed instructions. Whoever this new dealer was they were clever. They weren't going to deal this new batch of coke out of any old hovel or bodies would be piling the streets and his cover would be blown. No this was something more. He had selected his victims carefully but why?

Assisted suicide? The ones that were truly depressed and wanting to leave this world entirely and not wanting to 'cause a fuss'? No. The matching cases weren't consistent enough. Some of the victims were people of wealth that had had a very steep decline in behaviour and increase in drug use within a matter of days. The causes seemed to vary. Some obviously divorced. Some suffered from some financial crash. Whatever this had been, it had worked fast. Others seemed to be happy enough, if the family accounts alone were anything to go by. Sherlock suspected this was something similar to...

And there it was. The cabbie. The pills. "A Study in Pink". The thought made his gut wrench and his brow furrow. He dropped his head to the right and opened his eyes. John would have some insight. He wasn't as completely useless as Scotland Yard and occasionally had something to input. But instead of his wise cracking companion, he had an empty chair. What would happen after he came back? He wouldn't live here. No doubt he wouldn't assist in cases.

He'd have her.

He turned his head back and stared at the ceiling. His mind wasn't focused. He needed something. The three nicotine patches up his left forearm were proving useless. Tiresome. He would need something stronger.

The thought pained him. John would be disappointed if he were to use anything. He would make that same disheartened face he did when he first learned that he had used in the past. Something about 'damaging brilliant cells' and 'throwing gifts away'. He didn't understand it how it had made Sherlock's intellect expand and contract at the same time. The way it made him tune out the rest of the world and pinpoint the exact particulars that he was looking for.

To hell with him. John had left to pursue selfish needs and desires so why couldn't he. John had 'needed' Mary and a tiresome suburban existence. Sherlock needed to find this dealer and for that to happen he needed to concentrate. He couldn't have John poking his little head where it wasn't needed anymore. John could at least be thankful that this was in pursuit of saving lives. Nonsense like that always made John feel better.

That was enough thinking about it. It had been weeks and bodies kept piling up with new but insufficient data. Sherlock gathered that simply using wasn't going to rearrange the information and give him an intellectual epiphany.

He had to be engrossed by it.

He needed to be among it.

He needed to breathe it in.

He needed to be inside and for it to be inside him.

This hadn't been one of Sherlock's regular locations. Though he hadn't used in a year - hadn't needed to - and these sorts of places often left as soon as they came. He had heard about this one from some of the people in his homeless network. Relatively new. Only a handful of 'regulars'. Perhaps this was the place. The other locations he'd scouted had been functioning since before the appearances of the abscess track marks. The newer ones didn't have the higher class clients the dealer seemed to target. Here, he could easily distinguish those that had 'fallen from grace' or were trying to disguise their higher status. Again he didn't care to waste any attention on the clients themselves. His only interest was who they were going to see.

He knocked on the door and waited. A young man with wide eyes opened it and quickly looked Sherlock up and down. Sherlock shifted his eyes"Come on man, I need to see him. I've heard about his product". The man glanced past him and hurried him through the door. Sherlock made sure to have some of his best out and clearly it had helped him. He bought a plain gold wedding band and a matching gold watch. He had styled his hair back and had worn a rather smart set of clothes and jacket. Not unlike his usual garb.

He needed to 'blend in'.

As Sherlock casually glanced around the dank, poorly lit warehouse, the man found a space on a nearby mattress and dropped Sherlock down to sit on the edge, then left without another word. Sherlock started pulling crumpled notes out of his pockets and attempting to flatten them, counting on his fingers and staring into the distance.

A presence slithered to his side, just out of sight. It whispered "Need a fix?"

His voice was strained and husky. As if he had sustained an unseen injury and was trying to mask the pain under his breath. Sherlock had in fact expected him. His network had said no one gets anywhere without going through Vandal. He gives you a somewhat 'dirtier' blend to see if you can handle the more expensive or cleaner product. Don't want to waste the good stuff on those that can't come and buy more. Or don't deserve it. They think of it as an 'auditioning process'. Though Sherlock knew perfectly well how to play the part, he still needed to climb the ranks.

Sherlock stuttered and shook his hands with the telltale signs of withdrawal. He let out a quivering. "Yea - Yeah.." and handed over the cash. Vandal pocketed it and thrusted a small bag at Sherlock before scurrying back to the corner he came from.

Sherlock waited till Vandal had left and took a second glance to make sure no one was watching him. He could hear the whispers of the other inhabitants. The place was so quiet he could make out some of what they were saying upstairs. Of course they weren't watching him. They were here for the same thing that Sherlock was - almost. He held the bag up to the light coming through a small crack in a window and recognized it immediately. He opened it with somewhat shaking hands. His body preparing itself maybe? It knew as well as he what was coming. Sherlock gently slid a finger into the bag and withdrew it, examining the substance at the end before pressing it lightly to the end of his tongue then gingerly smelling it, searching for the bitter almond scent of cyanide. There was certainly no poison here. He was safe.

Wasn't he?

Sherlock hurried to remove his outer jacket and lay it neatly at his side, already mentally preparing for what was coming. He lay across the mattress with his back flat against the wall, tied the rubber strap around his forearm, held it in place with his teeth and watched as the veins began to rise. He had always had good veins. His median cubital had been a nice deep shade of blue that contrasted beautifully with his alabaster skin. He picked up the needle from beside him and stopped.

He stared down as the tourniquet brought his veins further and further to the surface. Was it too late to turn back? What would John think of him? He pushed all thoughts of John from his head and plunged the needle home. He slowly reached a finger out and curled it around the head of the syringe as he pushed the substance inside of himself. His jaw dropped and the rubber fell from around his bicep. He pulled the needle out.

It rolled through his fingers and dropped to the floor beside him.

John tried to call Sherlock for the 4th time in half an hour. Still nothing. There was no chance Sherlock would ignore his phone calls for this long. He waited and waited, holding the phone in his palm as if trying to summon some sort of response from Sherlock but nothing. He rolled his eyes and rose to his feet.

Git was being stubborn.

He dialed for Lestrade and waited impatiently for the Inspector to pick up.

"John! How was the honeymoon mate?” Lestrade seemed genuinely happy to hear from him which made John think that perhaps he needed to be a better friend and go to the pub more with the man.

“What? Oh yeah, good. Good.” John replied, waving away the niceties distractedly  “Greg, have you heard from Sherlock?”

“I haven’t actually. Well not since last weekend.”

“Last weekend?”

“Yeah he was helping me with a case. Well he said he was. Said I finally gave him something interesting and then didn’t hear from him again.”

“What case?”

“Some new drug dealer. Slipping cyanide into the cocaine.” Greg seemed to be reluctant to continue the conversation as he began to realize his mistake. Bracing himself he held the phone slightly away from his head, expecting a tirade of deserved chastisement from the man who had become Sherlock’s ‘keeper’.

John’s heart sank. No. He wouldn’t. How could the Inspector be so oblivious? He knew about Sherlock’s struggle with addiction and had witnessed it first hand before John had even come on the scene.

“Greg, you left him unsupervised while working a drug investigation.” He felt the rage escalating his voice, “A bloody cocaine investigation? Have you even tried contacting him?” He didn't give him the chance to respond and to Lestrade’s credit, he did not try to defend himself. "You'd think I'd be able to leave for a few weeks without Scotland Yard turning it all to hell." He hung up and damn near threw his phone at the wall.

He paced back and forth.

Think John, Think!

Where would that lanky prick go to to for info on a new dealer?

Five days had passed and Sherlock had been there for each of them. He had ignored calls from Lestrade saying they were getting nowhere. Of course they weren't. I've done more in a few days than they had in as many weeks. I could have this thing by sundown. He'd ignored calls from John. So what if he was back home again. He didn't particularly want John seeing him in his current pursuit. He'd disapprove. At the current rate, John wouldn't even have to know the path Sherlock had taken to detain this mysterious dealer. He'd have him cuffed and swept under the rug without John so much as suspecting him of using. He tried to convince himself of that at every given sober moment but knew deep down that John always knew. Sherlock was sure he was getting close. During his 'time' here he had heard very interesting conversations between some of the clients he knew shouldn't have been there. Some hadn't been back and he assumed they wound up dead. That's probably why Lestrade was pestering him.

He knocked on the door and waited. The wide eyed boy he’d come to know as Billy gave him a nod as he let him through the door. He checked behind Sherlock to make sure no one was following and swiftly closed the door behind him. He led Sherlock up the stairs and returned to his post by the door. The room upstairs was similar to that of downstairs. People of all classes strewn across filthy mattresses and carpeted flooring. Yet in the corner he could see a man. He wasn’t strung out like the rest had been. He was sitting, seemingly unaffected by the surroundings.

He was dressed rather nicely. Short, clean cut hair. Pressed clothing. Sherlock carefully moved forwards towards him, narrowly avoiding the stray limbs lying unconscious or intoxicated about the floor. The man caught Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and smiled. 

“Welcome brother! I have seen you in my halls of late. Are you searching for something? Do you seek the truth? You have come to the right place, brother! We have more truth here than we can handle!”

Sherlock had not expected this. This sort of fanfare. He spoke with such volume and conviction over, what he proclaimed to be his subjects. “Is that what you call it? In your little plastic bags? Do these people know what they’re getting themselves into? Before you let them poison themselves?” He straightened his back and kept his poise. He knew this was him. Plain enough by his superior god complex.
 

“Poison?” He sounded offended. “Brother! You have to open your mind! One man's poison is another man's sanctity. Come! Partake of our communion.”

“So they do know? They come to you looking for what, a way out?”

“Some are aware of their burdens. Others need to have their burdens lifted for them. For I am their shepherd through the darkness. Their guide through their last days here on earth. Some of their hardships are too great and they need release! Some indeed ask for it. Others do not have the strength but they are thankful!”

“Thankful? That you kill them?”

“You would be thankful, brother. For I have seen you in your final days here. I can see your pain. Your heartache. I have seen your curtain drawn back, drawn back by my hand. By my remedies. Do you seek to be enlightened?”

Sherlock was no less than a few feet from him now. Dangerously close but enough to see the frenzy in his eyes. He moved carefully not to arouse suspicion “Is that it? You enlighten them?”

“I’m afraid the time for words has come and gone brother. You and I will take those last steps together and see what is behind your curtain.”

He rose to his feet. Sherlock reached into his coat for his concealed gun but it was too late. He felt the bite of the needle enter at his shoulder and whipped around to defend himself, only too slow. He ripped the syringe out and held it in his hand. He felt the immediate euphoria that came with it and dropped to his knees. Somewhere, his ears picked up the sound of muffled footsteps. Running? Could he run? He felt like he could fly. Fly away from the pain and his misery. He didn’t need them anymore. He slumped gracelessly to the floor in front of him and vaguely heard voices as he drifted off.

John didn't know where else he could go. He had tried three different hide-outs in the last twenty four hours. He had felt as if he'd tried everything. He stopped by Baker Street and found some map markers and notes Sherlock had kept for a general vicinity scattered in what John knew was ‘organised chaos’. Sherlock, unfortunately had always thought too fast. Once something had come to him he'd either run off in a dramatic flourish or sent John if it had been been too dull for him to leave, himself. While all the clues were usually on the board, it took Sherlock’s brain to translate that into the final destination. John had stared at the clues but was not surprised that it made no sense to him at all and he quickly gave it up. He'd asked a few people he'd recognized from Sherlock's homeless network and went from there, but as soon as he arrived at each location, Sherlock was no where to be seen.

John felt as if he'd been going around in circles when the phone finally rang. He breathed a sigh of relief thinking it may finally be Sherlock but when Lestrade's voice made itself known, he could feel his whole body tense. Greg hadn't bothered contacting him since yesterday when John had told him off. If he had found Sherlock..

Why wasn't Sherlock contacting John himself.

He answered without pausing to greet him. "Have you found him?"

"John, I need you to not worry and just meet us at Bart's."

"Greg, what's happened"

"Just get here. He'll need you"

Lestrade clicked the end call button and sighed heavily, looking over at the prone man unconscious in the bed. Sherlock, what have you done to yourself this time.

Sherlock forced his eyes open. The room was bright. Far too bright. He battled, trying to adjust to the clinical white of the hospital room. Hospital room? That would explain the overwhelming smell of disinfectant. He struggled to pull himself upright and immediately felt the tubes attached to his hands and in his arms. He assessed that he was plugged into a series of IV, antibiotics and most likely an antidote.

Imbecile medical staff. The dimercaprol should have been given on site and would have been sufficient with follow up D-penicillamine. I have no need to be here. Idiots. John would have known. 

“So you were just going to run off then?”

Sherlock felt something in his chest. A curious tightening perhaps and turned to see his only friend in the chair beside his bed.

“John? What are -”

“Save it. Of course I’m here.” He sounded more concerned than irritated but with John, that typically meant the same thing. “You think I wouldn’t find out you stormed a drug den and got yourself jabbed? Apart from whatever else was in there, you were lucky they couldn't get all of that poison in you.”

“Gavin?” Sherlock asked, nonchalantly. John rolled his eyes.

“Greg. Yes”

Sherlock exhaled his disgust “Meddlesome.”

"You know I've been home for a week, Sherlock." His tone wasn't aggressive, more accusatory. Sherlock could see it in his body language as well as hear it in his voice.

Sat forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, interlocked fingers. Nervous?

"I called you. Repeatedly actually. Got nothing back so I asked Lestrade. Said you were working some case and he hadn't heard from you either. When he called this morning I was - "

"Worried?" Sherlock cut him off. He had averted his gaze and was staring off at the wall in front of him. How could John possibly have time to worry about him when he had his new suburban life to tend to. The good doctor would be focused on his impending future, and mortgages and Tuesday night dinners and all that rubbish. No time to be running around half of London trying to solve cases for the incompetent Lestrade together. "I appreciate your concern but I am experienced in taking care of myself"

John let out a laugh in disbelief. "Really? When did you last eat anything?"

Sherlock fixated his eyes on the waffle pattern of the sheets at his knees. "What day is it?"

"Not to mention your current position in a hospital bed after being injected with poison and cocaine?" John continued on, barely pausing for an answer.

"It was a case, John!" He threw his head back and looked to the ceiling. "You know Lestrade has a habit of sodding up practically everything he sets to accomplish. I accepted his case and solved it by whatever means necessary. I had the situation under control, as shown by me having an ambulance on standby," he turned to John, "therefore I'd say I'm quite capable of being on my own."

John rested back in the hospital chair. He was afraid of this. Afraid that his being with Mary would push Sherlock away. It was just one of his tantrums though. Sherlock had been renowned for them almost as much as his intellect. Associates had been telling John about how his appearance in the Consulting Detective’s life had lessened the severity of the infamous public tantrums. He knew the safest course of action would be to ride it out.

After a brief, but pointed silence, John simply stated.

"I'm taking you home. We both know you're only going to annoy and piss off the staff and I can see to it that you have your medication for the next two weeks. I'll sign you out and get you unplugged and I'll call us a cab."

Sherlock merely nodded his assent and continued his observation of his sheets. He knew that John was merely ‘handling him’, as their associates at the Yard called it when they thought he wasn’t listening. He had to admit to himself, he was somewhat annoyed and simultaneously relieved of John’s interest in his well being. Having only recently returned from his honeymoon (a ridiculous tradition that he couldn’t fathom had any real purpose) Sherlock had assumed that John would be dropping out of his life in favor of pursuing his own happy ever after. He was somewhat surprised, which was a rarity. Instead of letting himself dwell he paused the thought and stored it in John’s wing of his mind palace to be analysed later.

Sherlock kept particularly quiet in the cab ride over. John had started droning on about his holiday at which point Sherlock had tuned out entirely. He stared out the window of the car when he noticed John go silent. He turned to face out the window again and tried to retreat to his mind palace for the duration but John wouldn't leave. He felt that familiar tensing in his lower abdomen and it felt as if he had swallowed lead.

Soon enough the cab had pulled up at 221B and Sherlock hurried out the door, leaving John to pay as always.

"Sherlock!" He sighed as he followed the detective out of the car before turning back, "Don't go anywhere, I'll be back in a minute"

"Alright. Meters still runnin' though, mate."

"Sherlock!" He caught him at the bottom stair. "Sherlock, I mean it now. Just because I live somewhere else doesn't mean it can't be like it was before. I mean, I maybe can't help all of the cases but that's because I work now too. Will you let me know when you need my help? Nothing's changed, Sherlock." He looked up at Sherlock in such a way that he hadn't seen before. There was something in his face - in his eyes that almost looked like begging. Don't be absurd. John doesn't need you anymore. He's moved on. The way they all do.

"I will contact you in future if I require your assistance." With that he turned on his heel and pushed swiftly but gracefully through the door. Slamming it behind him. Leaving John perplexed on the other side. He ascended the stairs, burst into 221B and placed his coat on the stand. He started searching furiously through a dirty pile of clothes he had yet to do anything with. I don't need him here. All he manages to succeed at is complaining and scowling when I try to perform perfectly reasonable experiments to expand well needed knowledge. He threw one pile to the ground and started frantically searching through another. If he is out of my way he is one less distraction I have to tend to and will create more space on my hard drive for more important matters.

He found it. Hidden deep in the pockets of the jacket he had worn on his first time to the abandoned warehouse, lay a small bag with a powder inside. He tossed the jacket aside and strode swiftly to the kitchen to prepare it. Swiping his arm across the bench, he knocked a selection of empty jars and beakers to the floor and one mug that had been there for - How long had it been there for?

He rummaged through the cupboards above the stove-top and by the sink, knowing he still had his equipment somewhere. That's all they ever do. Find some use of me and put me to the side when they’re done. Utilizing my talents to suit their needs. John had been cured of his limp and found what danger he had needed as a fix after the war but now he has her he doesn’t need me. He has her.

Sherlock could still hear it. All the times John had called him brilliant. Extraordinary. Amazing. Each one of the words pained him and he needed to be rid of it. He strode back to his armchair and retrieved the tourniquet he’d pinched from Bart's during one of his first visits. He pulled up his sleeve and fastened it around his arm. The words kept repeating. Fantastic. Really, quite extraordinary. “Shut up, John” he whispered to himself. He aligned the tip of the needle with his vein and flexed his other hand. As if his body was subconsciously refusing to go ahead. He had no need of it anymore. The case was solved! But when had Sherlock ever given into the needs of his transport?

It was his mind that mattered.

He plunged the needle through his skin and poured the euphoria into his veins. His mind swam and crashed in waves and he tried to drown John. As he was swept away into the depths of the ocean he whispered... 

“Everything's changed”.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, fingers steepled beneath his chin and stared at the empty chair in front of him. It had been a month and a half since he had delivered his best man speech at John’s wedding. While John had been his other half and lived with him he had a buffer, an intermediary between himself and the idiots that lay outside his front door.

Sherlock had begun to find accepting clients insufferable and usually not even a four.

Husband has become distant and private. Mistress, invest in a good lawyer. Next.

Adopted. Yes, as a baby from an impoverished, drug addled household. Next.

Even the cases that Lestrade was “consulting” him for were barely a six and the detective does not wear clothes for less than a seven. His mind flicked back to when he sent John armed with notes and deductions to a case that he solved without even getting out of bed.

And then there was the chair.

That empty chair, the chair that should hold his best friend sipping fresh tea and writing away. Except it wasn’t. He went and got himself married, quite selfish really. How was Sherlock supposed to interact with the general public without John? And besides, nobody could make tea like his doctor.

He tapped his fingertips together and frowned at the chair as if it somehow offended him with its existence. Suddenly Sherlock got to his feet and grabbed the disagreeable piece of furniture. Pulling it by the arm he dragged it to the room that had formerly been his own and looked around.

The room smelt musty with disuse, the small single bed made with military precision still sat in the corner where he had removed it from the room above. Sherlock hadn’t set foot in this room since John had informed him that he was leaving. The detective had simply moved all of John’s belongings down into this room and replaced them with his own. His brain involuntarily cast a projection of John yelling at Sherlock after the latter had burst in with an epiphany concerning a case while John slept. A projection of another time when a pillow flew at him after Sherlock had burst in while John was getting dressed.

Honestly, he didn’t know what John’s obsession with privacy was but it was very cumbersome at times.

Pushing John out of his head momentarily he pulled at the chair again, dragging it over the threshold and into the room where all the other John things lived. After John left it had been too hard to have these items laying around the house and so Sherlock had collected them as he stumbled across them and deposited it into this room.

The book he never finished (some trivial armchair detective novel), the cup he always drank his morning tea out of (unless Sherlock interrupted by dragging him to a case), a jumper that Sherlock had actually folded and placed on the bed.

Just in case. 

No. No, ‘in case’ he comes back.

He’s gone and he’s happy.

They all leave in the end.

He slumped into the armchair now safely in the John Room and dangled his legs from one arm. He reached out and grabbed the soft jumper, pulling it to his chest he rubbed the material between finger and thumb, retreating to his mind palace to relive when John had worn it. But it wasn’t enough, being here with John’s belongings and his jumper. It had ceased to smell like John anymore but just the sight of it brought memories of cases and sitting in dual armchairs discussing case details. Sherlock sighed and stared out the door to the coffee table where a syringe lay and closed his eyes.

Just one? To help him remember with more clarity? If he can’t have John here, couldn’t he at least have those memories relived? Really, it was the only course of action left for him to take. His stubbornness didn’t allow him to call John and invite him over for usual social gatherings. It had always been on someone else’s terms. Others would contact him to request his time, not the other way around. Showed weakness. Sherlock hadn’t even realized he had actually walked to the table and picked up what he would need until he looked down and saw them in his hands.

When had that happened?

This had been the last of it. If he used this, he would need to leave the flat to acquire more. That would mean going through the general public and Sherlock found an entirely new annoyance at his missing doctor for making him go out on his own. Granted if he was here, he wouldn’t be in this bothersome predicament in the first place.

He returned to John’s armchair and slipped down into it. At least here, surrounded by John’s abandoned things he felt cocooned and safe.

Sherlock placed the syringe on one side of the armchair. He slowly inched his long fingers back down to his cuff and undid the button. This should have felt wrong but it didn't. Nestled in the safety of John’s chair, there had really been no better place for it. The substance had soothed him briefly elsewhere but now that he was here, surrounded by all things ‘John’, he knew his mind would absorb it all and make for a truly better high. Maybe it may even make the hurt go away. For a time.

Sherlock looked in front of him and stared at the single bed, imagining the man who should be beneath its covers with numbed, glossy eyes. With more force than he was intending, he neatly rolled up the shirt sleeve up past his forearm. Sherlock heedlessly wrapped the tourniquet around his arm and tightened. Perhaps a little more than necessary. The vein rose quickly and powerfully, as if agreeing with him. They hadn’t ever agreed on much, but they agreed on John.

They needed him.

No you don't. He’s not coming back. You need this.

He slid the needle deep through his skin, only a fraction too slow and a drop of blood seeped from the open wound. Disregarding it, he plunged the remedy he so sorely needed into his bloodstream. Sherlock exhaled softly as he felt it rush under his skin, into every corner of his being. He dropped the tourniquet and pulled the needle out letting it dangle from his slack hand. He could almost feel the cells trying to restitch after such an invasion.

Bringing his eyes away from their locked position, he forced himself to look at the blood. He moved to brush it away but hesitated. It was fascinating. The color. The bouquet. The form. John would have seen so much in his time at war. He wondered if It still affected him. He decided to let it clot in the crease of his forearm and left it hanging off the side of the armchair. With his other hand, he grabbed John's oatmeal jumper and held it close.

I need a doctor. Bring me my doctor.

This would be it. The last time he would be here. Granted he had said the same thing each of the last three visits that he made but this time was different. After this he would have no need of his drug. Granted it wasn't his drug of choice. His preferred narcotic was busy being happy somewhere not with him. It would all be fine though. One more purchase and he could put the whole set of events with the doctor behind him and he could return to what he did best. 

Being alone.

Billy Wiggins had surprised him though. After the incident with Vandal and his ‘boss’, Wiggins had returned and set up his clientele in the same location once the police had swept the area and completed their usual poking about. He figured if the cops had already cleared the area there’d be no reason to return to it. Surprisingly clever for someone in this habitat.

Sherlock knocked on the familiar door, was met with a nod and allowed through without much preamble.  He moved quickly and silently through to his regular mattress. Up the stairs and all the way at the back. This space was chosen to be as out of sight as possible in case the worst was to occur. Not a likely probability but one must factor in all the possibilities. His preferred position was blanketed in a shroud of darkness due to the lack of windows or any direct lighting. Just as it should be.

Sherlock placed a handful of notes at the end of his mattress and waited. Wiggins made his usual slither past him, exchanging the cash for a small bag and left as quickly as he came.

Sherlock hesitantly reached out and wrapped his long fingers delicately around the bagged powder and brought it back to his lap. As he held it in front of him, his constant reminder, the voice of his doctor pounded in his head. 

“When will it stop Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. John’s silly little face had such a sad expression. Similar to the one he had pulled when he had first found out about his past when they first met. He knew deep down if John were to find out now there would be more than those desperate eyes, silently begging for it to not be true. But Sherlock was lacking at predicting human emotions so the only thing he would return to were those eyes.

“I trusted you!”

Sherlock inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. You don’t belong here John. He started to prepare the only way he knew to silence John when another voice creeped inside his head. One that shouldn’t be there. He looked up in confusion and heard it again.

That came from downstairs.

He thrust the bag into his pocket and moved silently and swiftly towards the top of the stairs. Peering through the gap between the railings, he made out an all too familiar woman. With a furrowed brow, Sherlock desperately inched closer. As close as possible without being noticed.

“Is it ready? You said it’d be ready to pick up.“

Sherlock almost couldn’t believe it. If it had been a few moments later he would have sworn it was the narcotics but he was more sober than he cared to be. It was as if she wasn’t even trying to be subtle. No overcoat. No disguise. No attempt to camouflage herself at all. Mrs Watson in a drug den. There was no way this was anyone else. Sherlock had stood at their wedding. Watched as they took their vows and played them through their first dance. He would know that voice anywhere. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

“Yeah, it’s all ‘ere”

Wiggins pulled out a bag and held it out for her. Sherlock stared in utter disbelief. There must have been a hundred grams in there easily. Why on earth would anyone require such a vast amount at any one time? That would have been priced far above what a freshly married Watson couple could afford. Five thousand? Six?

“Thank you. There’s an extra thousand in there. I was never here. You understand?”

“A’right, neva seen ya. Sure”

Mary turned and hastily exited the den without another word. Sherlock moved back away from the stairs and leant against the wall behind him. How could he not have seen this? He could identify an engineer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, but he couldn’t pull ‘addict’ from John’s wife. She had been almost everywhere John had been and he’s seen her more than he cared to over the last six months. More than ample time and opportunity to deduce something from this woman.

How had she come up blank?

Sherlock pulled away from the wall, pulled his scarf from his coat and hung it around his neck. He head down the stairs and waited an appropriate amount of time before exiting to be sure Mary wouldn’t catch him. He wouldn’t need the drug in his pocket. Not for now. He had a case. He had to find out what John had gotten himself into. And with whom.

The game was on.

Sherlock fumbled through the scattered papers on the floor and tried to establish the appalling from the truly horrendous. He had been at this for hours. It had been sunset when Sherlock left the den. He’d worked through the dark of night with the glare from the street lights burning into his eyes till the sun rose. Between his time sifting through government documents, tracking reports and various confidential witness accounts he had a reasonable idea but it wasn’t until he was allowed the access that Mycroft had granted for him that he had found out who she really was.

Maneuvering around the scattered documents, he gathered the ones he had deemed the most insightful and added it to the others tacked to the chocolate fleur de lys pattern on the wall. Sherlock took a step back and stared at the organised chaos plastered in front of him with reproach.

How had he not seen this earlier?

When he had first met her she was.. nice. Charming. He had picked up on a number of things but they were all pedestrian. Nurse, bakes her own bread, short sighted, cat lover. Nothing that would even remotely suggest an ulterior motive.  Though that had been the plan hadn’t it? Given her obvious skill set she'd clearly learned how to manipulate herself to fly under the radar. She had expertly hidden any physical characteristics;

She'd hidden markers on her hands that would be the result of years using a firearm.

Posture doesn’t suggest any history of physical exertion relative to that of a gymnast.

Build wasn't suggestive to any previous years of hard labor.

She certainly hid herself well to those around her;

Name taken approximately five years ago from the grave of a stillborn child.  

Claims to be an orphan to dis-encourage any further prodding into her family.

Established a career well below her intelligence. A receptionist at a surgery. How quaint.

Accent is English to 'blend in' but given her history she could be from anywhere.

He traced the last few years of her life tangibly in front of him. Sighing inwardly he brought his hands to a picture of her. Quietly, he asked her "Who are you?" He dropped his hands back to his sides and scanned the photographs and documents another time, as if they would reveal themselves after several hundred attempts.

"Why did you want John? He can't be a target. He's too stupid to have upset of anyone worth mentioning. Though, yes, he can be particularly stubborn at times -" Sherlock smiled, remembering several times John had almost gotten himself killed from that defiance. He returned his focus to the board - "He hasn't had the company, besides me, that would warrant a hit so why him."

Sherlock had all the information in front of him but it seemed to raise more questions than he already had. Some had been answered. Answered in a way that he had almost regretted asking but at least he knew now what she was and what she was capable of. He would have to meet with her. He needed to know what she had planned for John, preferably without the doctor present. This wouldn't be a conversation he would take too well, Sherlock imagined.

He pulled back his sleeve at the wrist. 9:30. John will have just arrived at work and it was Wednesday. One of two days when John works while Mary stays at home. Does she though? Their flat wasn't too far. Sherlock could easily head over and simply ask her. Though if he revealed that he is aware of her indiscretions, would she not simply take him out too? No she clearly has some emotional attachment to John and she is perfectly aware of what my last death did to him, if she does care she would not repeat the situation.

Though that too, may all be a lie.

Sherlock hadn't spoken to John in a near a fortnight. He had been too preoccupied by his own selfish desire to try and shut John out the way John had shut him out. In truth he hadn't realized it had been so long. Yes, it had felt like an eternity without his doctor but he had felt like that for the month that followed the wedding. After John had tried to reconcile with the detective in his hospital bed, only to make plans with Mary before Sherlock had even left the cab on the way home, it had all proved too much.

The influence of his narcotic had warped his sense of time, and clearly, his perception.

No reply. Sherlock lay across the lounge, legs propped up by the arm rest on the far end and his head resting on the other. He can't still be asleep. John was such a light sleeper, any sound would have woken him. Waiting till late was the only way to ensure there would be no communication between him and Mary. He could read John even from the other side of London. When he would come over, and he would come over, he wouldn't dare wake his pregnant wife from her slumber.

The thought of John in that house with that woman sent chills up his spine.

He needed to get to John before she did.

Sherlock smiled. John was coming here. However his smile quickly vanished when he thought to why he had needed him at the flat in the first place. John was sure to be disappointed by the events of the coming hours. Mary’s past, the pregnancy... And him. Sherlock knew Mary would follow through in her threat to tell John about his addiction and everything else but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that John be safe and away from this woman.

She was dangerous and a liar.

John deserved better.

Sitting up he brought his feet to the floor.

This needed to be timed perfectly.

Wiggins had turned out to be a somewhat faithful recruit. After the whole ordeal with 'the dealer', he had learned who Sherlock really was and requested that he be of assistance to him. Billy was actually rather clever. And he knew how to recognize code phrases as well as John could. He had made observations about the fellow 'junkies' in the den to an extent that he doubted even John would have picked up on. He can understand why he was made the doorman. He could pick out an undercover policeman in a heartbeat simply from their haircut. He was also rather quick on his feet and stronger than he looked. Though now those skills were at Sherlock’s disposal.

John exited the cab and fumbled through his keys trying to find the right one. He hadn't used it in a while and seemed to have lost its place among the others. There you are. He plucked the key out and allowed the others to slide down the key-ring around it before quietly inserting it into its place and letting himself in. Stepping quietly up the stairs he remembered every creak and where to step to avoid them. John couldn't wake Mrs Hudson at this hour. He'd never hear the end of it.

He knocked lightly on Sherlock's door as a courtesy before letting himself in. Half expecting to see Sherlock in a pool of his own blood, he was almost relieved to find him upright and pacing around the living room, dressed rather well actually, for this hour. He sighed. The room seemed different, off balance somehow. Looking around he squinted, trying to remember where everything went until he realized just what was missing.

"Where's my chair gone?" John's voice shook Sherlock from his mind palace that had been playing out the possibilities of outcomes from tonight’s proceedings to come. Sherlock stopped immediately in his path and turned to face him, completely ignorant of whatever comment John had just made. Oh John. Please don't hate me for this.

Sherlock had suddenly lost all of his words. He had planned this down to every detail since he had seen Mary this morning but seeing John in his doorway just brought everything crashing down around him. Focus. She'll be here soon.

He closed the space between him and his doctor and brought his hands to John's shoulders, mentally noting the soft cotton from his jumper. He looked deep into the eyes of his doctor to ensure he had all his attention. His tone was soft but direct.

"John. This is very important, I need you to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

"What's this about, Sherlock? It's the middle of the bloody night. You better be bleeding internally or something."

"John, please." John's face turned serious. There was that word again, twice in one night no less. "There isn't a lot of time. I have a client coming over who is potentially very dangerous and very skittish around other people. I need you to lock yourself in your -" Not anymore, "my bedroom." Sherlock's eyes widened. Oh no. He had forgotten the John room. Focus! He could deal with that later. "John listen to me. This is important. Listen. Don't come out for anything. No matter what you hear. No matter what is said. I need you to stay out of sight."

John watched Sherlock intently as he lay out his instructions. First he ignores him for weeks then he has the nerve to lock John in a room while he probably gets himself killed. Sherlock would be the death of him, he just knew it.

"Sherlock, what's going on, what client?" John was still protesting, didn’t he realize how close to the deadline we are? Sherlock shot a concerned look at his watch while trying to usher John away.

The doorbell rang.

"Have you locked Mrs Hudson downstairs? She'll slap you if that doorbell wakes her up in the middle of the night."

"She's at her sisters." Sherlock grabbed the doctor’s shoulders firmly and directed him down the hall. "I am sorry for this but it's imperative that you stay here." Sherlock reached past John and pushed the door open in front of him. "Keep the light off. Don't make a sound."

What could John do but obey? It was clearly too late with his client already here. That bloody man was walking on very thin ice. He would be having a word with him after this whole stupid ordeal, but for now, he did as the man had asked. He took a step into the room before Sherlock hastily shut it behind him.

"Lock it from the inside." Sherlock called out as he turned away from the door and went down the hall.

The whole room was black. John couldn't see a thing but turned and fumbled at the door until he heard the latch click. Who could Sherlock be seeing so late at night that required him to lock himself into a dark room? Furthermore, who could be so dangerous that Sherlock needed him there at all? He widened his eyes, trying to allow his pupils to adjust to the abyss that was Sherlock’s bedroom. From memory, his bed should only a few steps directly opposite the door. He turned again to face into the darkness and reached out in front of him. He took slow, careful steps into the darkness, not entirely lifting his feet from the floor and, sooner than he thought, he bumped into something. He stared uselessly in front of him as his hands traced out the shape of the object at his feet. Furniture. But not a bed. It ... felt... almost like..

John turned once again to face the door and trusted himself to sit back, bringing his arms up to rest by his sides. His chair. It was his chair. Why had Sherlock dragged it all the way from the living room to his bedroom? It had been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the floor. Surely this must be in the way of his bed. Of everything?

That didn't matter now. It could be one more thing that he bring up to Sherlock later. For now he had been instructed to listen. He sat comfortably in his chair and stared at the thin sliver of light trying to push its way under the door, listening for Sherlock's client.

Sherlock barely had time to return to his armchair before he heard her downstairs. He leant back into the chair facing the door and pressed his fingers together, then to his lips. No aspect of what was about to happen was going to be pleasant. He had hoped to be a little more delicate with John but he wouldn’t believe him otherwise. Not after Sherlock being purposefully distant for so long.

He heard the bang of the wooden door as it slammed closed, then the hurried sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.

Into battle.

“What the hell is this, Sherlock?” Mary barged through the door, immediately focused on Sherlock with a burning fury behind her eyes. “It’s not enough you come to my house this morning, now you drag me here in the middle of the night? We’ve discussed this. There’s nothing more to say!”

John’s ears perked. He silently mouthed “Mary?” What the bloody hell was Sherlock doing?

“I just want to understand.” Sherlock pulled out a binder filled with his personal ‘favorite’ details that he had found the previous night and dropped it on the table in front of him. He gestured to the wooden chair on the other side, where John’s chair had been before he dragged it from the room in an angry, lonely high. He invited her to sit. “If I understand your case, perhaps I may be willing to come to terms with what you’ve done and allow you to continue.”

John furrowed his brow and leant forward in his chair. What the hell was going on? Why had Sherlock dragged him over here, hidden him in his room and now seemed to be interrogating his wife?

Sherlock watched as Mary sighed, gave a slight nod and proceeded to sit in the seat opposite the detective. She reached for the file in front of them and started to flick through the pages, as Sherlock read them aloud for the benefit of her hidden husband.

“Mary Elizabeth Morstan was stillborn. Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where five years ago you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter her identity. That’s why you don't have friends from before that day. Making it rather difficult to fill your half of the church at your wedding”. Mary brought her eyes up from the file briefly, just to acknowledge that Sherlock was correct, then returned to the papers. “It’s an old enough technique, known to the kinds of people who can recognize a skip-code on sight and have extraordinary retentive memories.”

Mary smiled and threw the file back to the table.

“You were very slow.”

Sherlock leant forward and with genuine curiosity and asked, “How good of a shot are you?”

“How badly do you want to find out?” She quickly pulled a Browning M1910, cocked it and aimed it directly between Sherlock’s eyes. He smiled.

Interesting. 

John leapt from his chair at the painfully familiar sound and stopped inches from the closed door in front of him. Surely, she wouldn’t shoot Sherlock? The light poured over the tips of his shoes as he struggled to remain silent and still. He closed his eyes as if the room wasn’t shrouded in enough darkness. This can’t be. What the bloody hell is this?

"I want to know how good you are. Go on. Show me. The doctor’s wife must be a little bit bored by now.” Sherlock goaded her, stroking her ego until she gave in.

Mary paused, considering the proposition. She gave a half-shrug, turned the gun to the wall and fired, never breaking her eye contact with Sherlock. Lowering the gun, she raised an eyebrow as if to say “Well?”. Sherlock carefully turned his head towards the wall, only turning his eyes from her at the last moment to observe the shot she had made. It had entered the wall directly inside one of the eyes spray-painted in yellow. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned back to her. She slid her sidearm back into her cloak.

“May I?” Mary nodded in agreement.

Sherlock rose to his feet and approached the wall that had only hours earlier been plastered with photos and documents on Mrs Watson. He reached his hand out and with the tip of his finger, traced the hole made by the bullet. It was perfectly in the center of the yellow circle. He turned back to Mary to see a look of self satisfaction comfortably rested across her features. Sherlock made a subtle, passing glance on his way back to the center of the room towards the John Room, which had earned a whole new meaning to its name. He could make out the shoes closely standing at the back of the door. John was hanging on every word, even the ones unspoken. 

I’m sorry John.

“Why the pregnancy?” Sherlock inquired. John needed to know, needed to hear it in her voice. How else could he be expected to understand the extent of her betrayal?

John was certain they would hear him. His heart pounding in his chest. His shaking breath.

“I told you. That was insurance in case John had any reason to leave”

John brought his hand up to the door and rested it on the cold wood in front of him. As the lies kept streaming from his Wife’s mouth. He leant his head forward, pressing so hard into the door, he was sure it would swing open. John desperately clung onto every word trying to absorb what was being said. She lied. Everything. That was enough. He’d sat idly by for long enough. He brought his other hand up and rested it on the doorknob.

He needed to face her.

Sherlock stood behind his armchair and leant forward, commanding Mary’s attention.

“Why won’t you tell him? You can’t keep this up. He’s going to figure it out. He may not have our level of intelligence, but he is not stupid. Eventually, he will find out, wouldn’t that be worse?”

“Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever – and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen.” Sherlock looked past Mary and saw John emerge around the corner. He stood there in the hallway, shoulders back, arms down his sides and his left hand flexing subconsciously against his hip. Their eyes met and Sherlock had never seen John so heartbroken. “Please .. ... understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening.” Sherlock looked back down to Mary and could feel her desperation. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

He simply uttered, “Sorry.”

Mary looked at Sherlock quizzically before following his line of sight over her shoulder and the realization hit her. She turned slowly, dreading the moment when their eyes would meet and was met by John’s barely comprehending face. Sherlock could feel what he was feeling. He had a deleted memory somewhere labelled ‘betrayal’ and seemed to recall it felt similar to how John looked.

John paced back and forth in front of the sofa, continually nodding his head as he attempted to absorb the information. Sherlock’s concerned gaze followed him while Mary studiously avoided looking anywhere but her feet. The lies. The lies that stretched back as far as he had known her. She had been perfect. So perfect. Too perfect. Of course she was. She made herself perfect to fit into John’s life. Right when he was the most vulnerable. Right when he had needed someone the most. How could she?

John’s internal monologue was tangible between Sherlock and Mary. Mary looked at Sherlock with such hate and he knew that she was going to reveal his secret. He didn’t care anymore. At least John knew who she was, what she was. He could be rid of them both and finally be happy.

John stopped. He turned straight to Mary and looked her dead in the eyes.

“Is everyone I have ever met a psychopath?” Sherlock deserved that. He knew he shouldn’t speak given the current events taking place in his living room. Every word, every syllable uttered must be measured with incredible delicacy. So naturally he replied bluntly

“Yes.” Mary gave a tiny nod of agreement, pursing her lips.

“Good now that we’ve settled that. John I -”

John cut him off furiously and snapped to face him “SHUT UP!”

Sherlock flinched at the sheer volume. He had never seen John so volatile, despite Sherlock’s many misdeeds John had never yelled at him, not like that at least.

“And stay shut up, because this is not funny.” He gave Sherlock an angry humorless smile that Sherlock could feel cutting through him to the bone. “Not this time.”

“I didn’t say it was funny.” Sherlock replied, almost as an after thought but he was no longer the focus of John’s attention.

“You.”  John forcefully turned to look at Mary. His voice and his face full of barely-controlled anger and his frequent breaths heavy throughout his next words. “What have I ever done ... hmm? ... my whole life ... to deserve you?”

Sherlock mouth seemed to speak before he had any control over it.

“Everything.”

John, in the same trembling tone, turned back to Sherlock “Sherlock, I’ve told you - “ He started moving towards the detective. “- shut up”

He instantly regretted the words before they even passed his lips, but they needed to be said. John was going to hate him regardless after Mary spilled his secret too. Perhaps if he knew.. “I mean it, seriously. Everything – everything you’ve ever done is what you did."

John spoke very softly and dangerously “Sherlock, one more word and I swear -”

He needs to hear it. He kept John’s eye contact and refused to look away...

“You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without performing your own dangerous investigation into your best friend’s whereabouts. Said best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way.” He raised his hand and waved “Hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel.”

John's face fell.

“John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations ... and people... so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

He grimaced briefly and then, with his eyes still fixed on Sherlock, pointed towards his wife at the other side of the room. Sherlock could hear him attempt to suppress his tears.

“But she wasn’t supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?”

Sherlock gave up. He looked away, not bearing to meet John's eyes anymore. He paused and forced himself to look at him again. His doctor. So full of hurt and betrayal.

“Because you chose her.”

Over me.

John stared back at him, his face unreadable. Sherlock held his gaze for as long as he could bear before John finally turned away. Sherlock looked up in relief. This was proving more difficult than he had originally thought.

John smiled tightly and walked casually towards the table with Mary’s file still on top. He held up a questioning hand and asked “Why is everything .. always .. MY FAULT?!” He shouted and kicked the table, sending the papers flying. He moved close to Mary and paused, examining her and trying to find the real woman beneath this mask. How had he not known any of this? Was he truly as stupid as Sherlock had said he was?

That he missed the signs.

That he couldn’t tell that she had been lying about everything.

That Sherlock was bloody right.

Again.