Summary: In which Sherlock Holmes turns to morphine after leaving John Watson’s wedding.
Note: This is very short but I’m still putting it under the cut if you don’t want to see it.
"And what about you?"
“Well, we can’t all three dance. There are limits!”
“Yes, there are.”
Limits.
Limits to Sherlock Holmes, to John Watson.
Limits to their relationship.
Friendship, Sherlock corrects himself.
He trudged up the stairs and sat silently in his (not their) flat for ten minutes, fifty two seconds. His fingers began tapping against his leg erratically. His leg bounced. His head twitched. His heart ached.
His heart ached because John Watson was happy, and John Watson was happy without him.
His temples pounded as millions upon millions of thoughts and deductions relentlessly rushed through his head in one minute flat.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, there was a glint of silver. A street light shone through his window and hit a dreadful, intricate, tiny, silver chest he had been avoiding.
He stood up and strode across the room. Opening the box, there lay the cold needle.
For a fleeting moment Sherlock imagined what would happen if his- sorry, no, not his- the army doctor walked through the door at that moment. Would he stop him?
Probably.
But he wasn’t here.
He wouldn’t be here.
His hesitance faded.
He pushed the needle through his left arm and exhales.
Warmth flooded his body, blood calming.
And, for a while, his mind drifted.
He did not think about John Watson or Mary Morstan. He did not think about watching the smile on John’s face as he danced with the love of his life. He did not ponder how it felt when John hugged him after his best man speech. He did not think about his hands upon his waist when teaching him how to waltz in Baker Street, alone together, at night, with Mrs. Hudson just a floor away. He did not recall the two years of torture he endured for John Watson. He was not reminded of the many nights he played Tchaikovsky on his violin as John sat nearby, always impressed and always praising. He most certainly did not approach the thought of when he first made contact with John Watson’s impossibly blue eyes.
For a while, he was nowhere and everywhere at once.
He was not happy. He was not sad. He was merely existing.
That is, until, his high went down, the easiness dissipated, his brain began to function normally, and his heart began beating again.
His stupid damn heart, beating for a man who was not in love with him, who was now married to a woman whom he loved.
