Fic: Faust Arp
Title: Faust Arp
Genre: Angst
Pairings: None, Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Words: 669
Warnings: Heavy Drug Use
Summary: After John's death, Sherlock began to see him everywhere. He's not sure if its John's ghost or his own hallucinations, and he doesn't care.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song Faust Arp by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. As requested by mr_liam_to_you . Part of my Radiohead songfic project. Details after fic. BTW these fics are all one-shots/drabbles and you can read any of them in any order.
Songs done: 15 Step, Black Star, All I Need, Fitter Happier, Karma Police, The Amazing Sounds of Orgy, No Surprises, Subterranean Homesick Alien
Songs queued: There There, Exit Music, You and Whose Army, True Love Waits/Jigsaw Falling into Place
The first time he saw John was five months after the funeral. He was functioning fine, really, taking on cases of all calibers in order to pay the full rent now that he had no flatmate. He used, sure, but not more than he's used to. He began to frequent the seediest clubs, for field research only of course.
He'd come home one night, hopped on a new designer drug, to find one John Watson sitting in his old armchair, newspaper in hand.
He ran into the restroom and sank his head under the running tap. His dripping face in the mirror was all hollowed cheeks and overblown pupils. Just the drugs. He's had hallucinations before, what's one more?
He accepted it far too readily. John began showing up sporadically. More often when he's on substances, but also when he's without. John was with him on cases, in clubs, when he takes, snorts, shoots up, pills, powder, liquid. He was there when Sherlock cries, laughs, hysterical, there when he vomits, passes out and wakes up. If Lestrade saw him talk to himself he certainly didn't say anything. If Mrs. Hudson noticed the needles she didn't ask any questions.
--
When Sherlock was sober, John was always eager to jump on the chance for a real talk, as he called it.
“We have to talk about this.”
“What's there to talk about?”
“I'm dead!”
“So you're a ghost.”
“I thought you didn't believe in the supernatural.”
“Its not a matter of belief, merely the suspension of.”
“What if I'm not a ghost?”
“Then you're a manifestation of my own mind.”
“And you're fine with that?”
“Why wouldn't I be.”
“This can't continue you know.”
“I don't need an intervention, not from a ghost or my own conscience.”
He retreated to his room but John was waiting in there, jaws clenched and arms folded. Sherlock wished he would smile. He rummaged in his drawers for the little bag of pills. Uppers, uppers always made John smile.
-
“Wakey wakey, rise and shine.” John's voice cooed in his ear.
He opened his eyes. His body was stiff from sleeping on the couch. How long was he out? Two hours? Two days? What day was it?
“Its been a whole day. You should check your texts.”
It was dusk. Dim light filtering in from the blinds colored the room yellow. John was a solid shadow sitting in his chair. He looked solemn, immobile. Probably just the light.
Sherlock sat up slowly to avoid worsening his headache. He felt sick. He looked down to see he was actually covered in sick. Right, withdrawals. He checked his phone. Texts from Lestrade he ignored. Texts from his brother he deleted. Text from a private source, a lucrative incentive attached. He'll follow up on it.
“What is it today?” The mess strewn about the table had syringes and rolled up bank notes, a tell-tale twisted plastic bag of white powder somewhere in there. John's lips pursed. “Ahh, back to the basics.”
It was only his imagination, but Sherlock thought he detected a note of weariness within the disapproval.
“I don't think I'm such a good fill-in for your skull anymore. I can't even help you pay the rent.”
“What are you saying, really? You don't want to stay with me?”
John was all smiles and softness. “You know I love you.” But enough is enough. It was in his eyes. What eyes? It was all in his head. Was it?
“You've given up too much for this.” Your sanity, Sherlock. “I can't bare to see you wasting away.”
He sank back onto the couch and lulled his head to one side, away from the pained blue gaze. He can't let go, can't escape. Not just yet, he told himself. He pushed in the needle. Seven-percent solution. He clinched, flexed, stretched his hands. A gasp, a sigh. The world faded, and for now, everything was fine.
--
AN:So this is part of the Radiohead songfic request project/thing I'm doing, because I just love them so much. If anyone feels like having a fic done to any Radiohead song, drop me a line in the comments. The queue is a bit long right now, so you'll have to wait a while for it to be up, but if you fancy a song of theirs, don't be shy! You can choose pairing/non pairing, premise/plot and genre. I also do Doctor Who fandom (Doctor/Master preferred) and House/Wilson.
AN2: Sorry about the long wait. A bit of a writer's block. I don't mean to be so angsty, and so soon after the holidays.
Genre: Angst
Pairings: None, Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Words: 669
Warnings: Heavy Drug Use
Summary: After John's death, Sherlock began to see him everywhere. He's not sure if its John's ghost or his own hallucinations, and he doesn't care.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money earned.
AN: Written to the song Faust Arp by Radiohead, but does not require the song for understanding. As requested by mr_liam_to_you . Part of my Radiohead songfic project. Details after fic. BTW these fics are all one-shots/drabbles and you can read any of them in any order.
Songs done: 15 Step, Black Star, All I Need, Fitter Happier, Karma Police, The Amazing Sounds of Orgy, No Surprises, Subterranean Homesick Alien
Songs queued: There There, Exit Music, You and Whose Army, True Love Waits/Jigsaw Falling into Place
The first time he saw John was five months after the funeral. He was functioning fine, really, taking on cases of all calibers in order to pay the full rent now that he had no flatmate. He used, sure, but not more than he's used to. He began to frequent the seediest clubs, for field research only of course.
He'd come home one night, hopped on a new designer drug, to find one John Watson sitting in his old armchair, newspaper in hand.
He ran into the restroom and sank his head under the running tap. His dripping face in the mirror was all hollowed cheeks and overblown pupils. Just the drugs. He's had hallucinations before, what's one more?
He accepted it far too readily. John began showing up sporadically. More often when he's on substances, but also when he's without. John was with him on cases, in clubs, when he takes, snorts, shoots up, pills, powder, liquid. He was there when Sherlock cries, laughs, hysterical, there when he vomits, passes out and wakes up. If Lestrade saw him talk to himself he certainly didn't say anything. If Mrs. Hudson noticed the needles she didn't ask any questions.
--
When Sherlock was sober, John was always eager to jump on the chance for a real talk, as he called it.
“We have to talk about this.”
“What's there to talk about?”
“I'm dead!”
“So you're a ghost.”
“I thought you didn't believe in the supernatural.”
“Its not a matter of belief, merely the suspension of.”
“What if I'm not a ghost?”
“Then you're a manifestation of my own mind.”
“And you're fine with that?”
“Why wouldn't I be.”
“This can't continue you know.”
“I don't need an intervention, not from a ghost or my own conscience.”
He retreated to his room but John was waiting in there, jaws clenched and arms folded. Sherlock wished he would smile. He rummaged in his drawers for the little bag of pills. Uppers, uppers always made John smile.
-
“Wakey wakey, rise and shine.” John's voice cooed in his ear.
He opened his eyes. His body was stiff from sleeping on the couch. How long was he out? Two hours? Two days? What day was it?
“Its been a whole day. You should check your texts.”
It was dusk. Dim light filtering in from the blinds colored the room yellow. John was a solid shadow sitting in his chair. He looked solemn, immobile. Probably just the light.
Sherlock sat up slowly to avoid worsening his headache. He felt sick. He looked down to see he was actually covered in sick. Right, withdrawals. He checked his phone. Texts from Lestrade he ignored. Texts from his brother he deleted. Text from a private source, a lucrative incentive attached. He'll follow up on it.
“What is it today?” The mess strewn about the table had syringes and rolled up bank notes, a tell-tale twisted plastic bag of white powder somewhere in there. John's lips pursed. “Ahh, back to the basics.”
It was only his imagination, but Sherlock thought he detected a note of weariness within the disapproval.
“I don't think I'm such a good fill-in for your skull anymore. I can't even help you pay the rent.”
“What are you saying, really? You don't want to stay with me?”
John was all smiles and softness. “You know I love you.” But enough is enough. It was in his eyes. What eyes? It was all in his head. Was it?
“You've given up too much for this.” Your sanity, Sherlock. “I can't bare to see you wasting away.”
He sank back onto the couch and lulled his head to one side, away from the pained blue gaze. He can't let go, can't escape. Not just yet, he told himself. He pushed in the needle. Seven-percent solution. He clinched, flexed, stretched his hands. A gasp, a sigh. The world faded, and for now, everything was fine.
--
AN:So this is part of the Radiohead songfic request project/thing I'm doing, because I just love them so much. If anyone feels like having a fic done to any Radiohead song, drop me a line in the comments. The queue is a bit long right now, so you'll have to wait a while for it to be up, but if you fancy a song of theirs, don't be shy! You can choose pairing/non pairing, premise/plot and genre. I also do Doctor Who fandom (Doctor/Master preferred) and House/Wilson.
AN2: Sorry about the long wait. A bit of a writer's block. I don't mean to be so angsty, and so soon after the holidays.