He wanted to believe he was better. He worked so hard to prove to himself that he was better, stronger, more capable on his own than before. Then he remembered the utter mess of his life when he lived alone. Drinking, fighting, and not to mention drugs. When he wasn't working or doing something pertaining to work he was practically criminal. He wasn't better at all he just had far too much ego. He wasn't self-sufficient at all. He was utterly dysfunctional. And now everything was painless, was quiet, was peaceful.
Sherlock heard the door. He was conscious, aware, but too high to move at any rapid speed. He was beyond the initial state of Heroin-high. The euphoria having come - and proof of that on the walls. This was Sherlock years ago. Seedy apartments doing equations on the walls that may or may not relate to anything, cryptic notes, ciphers - high out of his mind. At first, it actually produced worthwhile results and then he became addicted. Now he was at the point of 'nodding'; sliding in and out of what seems like a sleep state although he was not sleeping. Aware enough to hear the door; aware enough to hear her voice - for a second he thought it was... Irene. How many times had she found him like this? Took care of him.
There's a noise, a grunt, a hum. His eyes tried to focus on her but they were heavy, glossy - Watson. And for a moment a look of remorse fell over his expression. He very much knew what he did. In after thought, he would hate himself for it. He couldn't help it. His desire to be better than it was outweighed by his desire to revisit old memories. To dream that maybe if his eyes opened again like this he might see her. It was so laughably foolish.
"Watson?" It's quiet. Come on, Watson. It's so obvious what he took. He didn't feel her hand. He didn't feel anything.
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Date: 2012-12-07 01:49 pm (UTC)Sherlock heard the door. He was conscious, aware, but too high to move at any rapid speed. He was beyond the initial state of Heroin-high. The euphoria having come - and proof of that on the walls. This was Sherlock years ago. Seedy apartments doing equations on the walls that may or may not relate to anything, cryptic notes, ciphers - high out of his mind. At first, it actually produced worthwhile results and then he became addicted. Now he was at the point of 'nodding'; sliding in and out of what seems like a sleep state although he was not sleeping. Aware enough to hear the door; aware enough to hear her voice - for a second he thought it was... Irene. How many times had she found him like this? Took care of him.
There's a noise, a grunt, a hum. His eyes tried to focus on her but they were heavy, glossy - Watson. And for a moment a look of remorse fell over his expression. He very much knew what he did. In after thought, he would hate himself for it. He couldn't help it. His desire to be better than it was outweighed by his desire to revisit old memories. To dream that maybe if his eyes opened again like this he might see her. It was so laughably foolish.
"Watson?" It's quiet. Come on, Watson. It's so obvious what he took. He didn't feel her hand. He didn't feel anything.