The soft screams of the light, and the high delusions of the night - a TSoT fic written by me.
(There will be more coming soon, I promise :) )
Needles pricking your skin, poisoning you with the elixir of life. Bubbling mixtures and compounds adorning the kitchen table, varying in colour and strength. You’rve hit rock bottom, though it seems there’s always a new low waiting for you. Biding its time, fangs gleaming, ready to pounce at any sign of weakness. And now… now you kneel at its feet.
Coat-tails flying, mind ablaze, Sherlock Holmes staggered through the streets of London, taking no notice of the people walking past him, staring at him before hurriedly tugging their children away. Why would he? They weren’t him, weren’t his saviour, his everything, his reason to stay clean.
He could barely see them anyway. His vision seemed impaired, the edges of his sight blurring and melting together into myriads of greens and greys. None of it registered to him, not the backlit advertisements that would usually hurt his eyes, nor the wheezing, honking cacophony of late-night traffic, held up by drunk partygoers. It was all there, of that Sherlock was certain, but it had the same effect on him as the knowledge of the solar system did. Unnecessary.
An incessant nagging sound took up lodging at the front of his mind. Thoughts as thin as paper and translucent as glass were nudged aside, allowing the rushes of wind and thudding of footsteps to properly hit him.
There was someone in front of him.
“Got any change to spare, sir?”
Deductions flew up almost immediately, the tapping and squeaking of chalk around the woman’s scarved head landed like miniature bullets on the back of his skull. He swiped them away, looking almost wistfully at the space next to him.
“Any change at all sir, just a penny?” She looked up at him pitifully, but with something else, too. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, trying to understand the implications behind the intensity of her gaze. Passer-bys stared at this strange interaction: a formally-clothed man, clearly on some kind of drug, squinting at a homeless woman? How grotesque, they must have thought. How grotesque, indeed!
“No, no, I don’t have any money on me,” Sherlock mumbled, tripping over himself as he clattered up the street to Baker Street and freedom.
Dear God, he thought - or would have thought, had his mind been capable of forming complete sentences then. What have I become without you?
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