okay... so I'm a massive idiot and didn't see the preference for no Mary! DX I'm going to continue on, with the promise she really doesn't play a big part in this, and sincerest apologies to the OP. Anon is a sleep-deprived idiot o:
The day had been a rousing success. He had ‘come out’ to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and the public had caught wind he was alive once more. He had even received a hug from the Detective Inspector, which had been wholly unpredicted. Sherlock had marvelled at the distinct differences between his reaction and John’s. A part of his mind echoed John in an impassive, mocking echo. You would have liked the reactions reversed, wouldn’t you? To feel my arms around you. Pathetic, Sherlock. He tried to shake that off, looking around the empty flat as the last whispers of John’s voice faded.
As soon as his informant had dropped off his ‘supplies’, Sherlock immediately set about sterilising the syringe, smiling fondly at the little instrument. He would say he had two weeks before Mycroft caught on his that he had taken up his little habit again. After that point he could have to get creative…
Still, not worth thinking about now. He groaned as the needle pierced his skin, the liquid disappearing in a rush before the waiting began. One minute fifteen seconds, he had calculated many years ago. The time it would take for the drug to start working its’ way around his body, fully taking over his neural paths and helping him forget.
Existence without John was boring, as he had never realised life before they had met three years ago was. The world got brighter around him, and he allowed himself a grin as his hand outstretched from the couch to the armchair. He laughed, looking at the watery image of the only person he had ever loved sitting peacefully, reading the newspaper.
“John.” He breathed, joy soaring through him as he scrambled up, holding on to the spectre as long as he could, desperately hoping the man would solidify into a permanent fixture. A smile flitted across his John’s face as they looked at each other.
After two years of abstinence, two years of not being able to see that wonderful smile and supressing his inner most desires, Sherlock finally felt alive, once more. Curling up next to the armchair, far gone enough to almost feel that gun calloused hand running through his messy curls, he closed his eyes and smiled. It was only when he had awoken in the morning, alone and cold on the floor, that he truly registered that it was merely an elaborate hallucination.
FILL: Never Forgive, Nor Forget 2/?
The day had been a rousing success. He had ‘come out’ to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, and the public had caught wind he was alive once more. He had even received a hug from the Detective Inspector, which had been wholly unpredicted. Sherlock had marvelled at the distinct differences between his reaction and John’s. A part of his mind echoed John in an impassive, mocking echo. You would have liked the reactions reversed, wouldn’t you? To feel my arms around you. Pathetic, Sherlock. He tried to shake that off, looking around the empty flat as the last whispers of John’s voice faded.
As soon as his informant had dropped off his ‘supplies’, Sherlock immediately set about sterilising the syringe, smiling fondly at the little instrument. He would say he had two weeks before Mycroft caught on his that he had taken up his little habit again. After that point he could have to get creative…
Still, not worth thinking about now. He groaned as the needle pierced his skin, the liquid disappearing in a rush before the waiting began. One minute fifteen seconds, he had calculated many years ago. The time it would take for the drug to start working its’ way around his body, fully taking over his neural paths and helping him forget.
Existence without John was boring, as he had never realised life before they had met three years ago was.
The world got brighter around him, and he allowed himself a grin as his hand outstretched from the couch to the armchair. He laughed, looking at the watery image of the only person he had ever loved sitting peacefully, reading the newspaper.
“John.” He breathed, joy soaring through him as he scrambled up, holding on to the spectre as long as he could, desperately hoping the man would solidify into a permanent fixture. A smile flitted across his John’s face as they looked at each other.
After two years of abstinence, two years of not being able to see that wonderful smile and supressing his inner most desires, Sherlock finally felt alive, once more. Curling up next to the armchair, far gone enough to almost feel that gun calloused hand running through his messy curls, he closed his eyes and smiled.
It was only when he had awoken in the morning, alone and cold on the floor, that he truly registered that it was merely an elaborate hallucination.