Fic: Downward Spiral
Downward Spiral
Rating: PG-13 (Teen)
Warnings: Drug abuse; depression/mental illness; sexual situations (not graphic)
Summary: It’s been two months - two months - and nothing: no leads, no clues, not a single trace of Moriarty. Sherlock can hardly bear it, can feel himself slipping away.
Follows Down the Rabbithole, but can be read by itself.
A/N: Apparently the muse was not satisfied by a one-off and this happened. A step closer to PWP, but still very heavy on the plot... :-)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s been two months - two months - and nothing: no leads, no clues, not a single trace of Moriarty. Sherlock can hardly bear it, can feel himself slipping away. His mind eats away at itself bit by bit as they move from town to town, chasing whispers and rumours and finding nothing. They’ve been in this nothing-town for too long already but John succumbed to a viral infection two weeks ago and he’s still recovering, sleeping for hours every day as his exhausted body tries to heal itself. Despite Sherlock’s growing desperation, and John’s weak objections that he’s fine, he’s ready to move on, Sherlock takes one look at John’s gaunt appearance and shakes his head, insists they wait. It is a sacrifice he makes for John, but he is risking his own mental wellbeing.
He tries to fight it, but the madness calls him, the hunger claws at him, and he can no longer depend on John to keep him tethered, weak as his friend is. He doesn’t quite know how he finds himself in the alleyway behind a butcher’s shop, exchanging an expensive watch (not his own, he’d pickpocketed it just two days before; he has no guilt left for petty crimes) for the one thing he can’t resist any longer. He left John asleep and John is still there, curled up on the bed, the lines of his face softened in sleep, when Sherlock returns. Sherlock’s hand spasms around the small parcel in his coat pocket and he slips silently into the tiny bathroom. He looks deathly pale in the mirror, almost unrecognisable to himself, and he looks away, sits down on the toilet seat and pulls out his prizes one by one. His hands are trembling - he can’t pinpoint why, whether it is from anticipation, or dread, or relief.
When John walks in only a few minutes later, he is still poised, waiting, hesitant. His belt is pulled tight around his left bicep, the end caught between his teeth, and he holds the needle mere centimetres from the crook of his elbow. John takes it all in in a matter of seconds and for a long, horrible pause he does nothing. He stares at Sherlock, his gaze unnervingly blank, and then suddenly he is in motion. He takes the needle first, tosses it in the sink, and then his hands are at the belt, pulling it free and throwing that aside as well. His hands are steady as he pulls Sherlock to his feet, shoves him out into the main room, forces him to sit on the bed. John shuts the bathroom door with finality, as if the barrier of wood can stop Sherlock from wanting, from craving.
John stands in front of him for several tense moments and then lets out a noise that sounds part hoarse cry, part harsh laugh and his expression is suddenly anything but blank as he locks his gaze on Sherlock. He steps forward and he’s trembling now as his hands cradle Sherlock’s skull, fingers twisting into his hair in an almost vicious grip. He holds Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, and then he closes his eyes, shakes his head as he presses their foreheads together.
“Promise me,” he says forcefully, brokenly, “Promise me, Sherlock.”
The grip on his hair tightens a fraction and Sherlock gasps, leans into it. It hurts but he relishes the short, sharp pain - it keeps his mind fixed firmly on now, on John.
“I promise,” he says.
“Promise me, promise me,” John whispers, his voice shaky, uneven.
“I promise. I promise.”
The tight grip on his hair loosens - just a touch - but then John’s mouth is crushed against his, the contact burning like a lightning bolt straight down into his chest. John goes to pull away and Sherlock surges forward, clasps John to him, pushes into the bruising kiss. John makes a broken noise in his throat and Sherlock twines his hands in John’s shirt, unable - unwilling - to break the connection. It’s raw, electric and he feels like he’s in freefall, but it’s so different from the usual slip and slide of his mind towards darkness. This is flesh and blood and need and two people desperate for a connection, desperate for sense in the madness of their existence.
Somehow, they end up stretched out on the bed, bodies entwined, clothes discarded at some point and hands still grasping at each other. It’s desperate and intense and raw and they’re both trembling, even as their mouths press together again and again. They’re both hard - are reminded of it with every minute shift of their bodies against one another - but despite the hunger in their touches, it’s not about sex. All that matters is this connection, this one moment of desperation which has bound them together. Sherlock can’t stop the endless frantic shifting of his hands over hair, skin, sharp juts of bone and he breathes John’s name over and over, like a prayer. If he can just anchor himself in this moment, tie himself to John, then he can stop himself from sliding, can stop himself from disappearing. John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, his collarbone, his jaw, his temple and Sherlock doesn’t even realise he’s crying until John presses his lips to his cheekbone and shushes him gently.
“John. John. John.”
“I’m here. I’m here.”
John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s once more, his hand twined in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock falls apart suddenly, unexpectedly, so overcome it’s almost painful. He sobs into John’s mouth and digs his fingers into John’s shoulders and lets everything go bright behind his eyes as he hears John give a choked moan.
When the world rights itself, he finds himself wrapped tightly around John, his head buried against John’s throat, John’s head against his. John lets out a shaky breath, presses his mouth against Sherlock’s temple, his hand curled around the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
“It can’t happen again, Sherlock,” he whispers, “I can’t lose you like that.” A pause and then John continues. “You need to tell me when it gets too much. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
All this time, he’s been fighting his demons on his own and he’s never realised that he doesn’t need to be alone in this - never realised that John has been there, ready to fight with him all along. His whole chest feels painfully constricted with emotion and he tightens his hold on John, presses as much of his body against John as he can, as if he can mould them into one person.
“I need you,” he breathes, “Stay.”
“Always,” John promises, and it sounds like salvation, like a benediction.
*End*
Rating: PG-13 (Teen)
Warnings: Drug abuse; depression/mental illness; sexual situations (not graphic)
Summary: It’s been two months - two months - and nothing: no leads, no clues, not a single trace of Moriarty. Sherlock can hardly bear it, can feel himself slipping away.
Follows Down the Rabbithole, but can be read by itself.
A/N: Apparently the muse was not satisfied by a one-off and this happened. A step closer to PWP, but still very heavy on the plot... :-)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s been two months - two months - and nothing: no leads, no clues, not a single trace of Moriarty. Sherlock can hardly bear it, can feel himself slipping away. His mind eats away at itself bit by bit as they move from town to town, chasing whispers and rumours and finding nothing. They’ve been in this nothing-town for too long already but John succumbed to a viral infection two weeks ago and he’s still recovering, sleeping for hours every day as his exhausted body tries to heal itself. Despite Sherlock’s growing desperation, and John’s weak objections that he’s fine, he’s ready to move on, Sherlock takes one look at John’s gaunt appearance and shakes his head, insists they wait. It is a sacrifice he makes for John, but he is risking his own mental wellbeing.
He tries to fight it, but the madness calls him, the hunger claws at him, and he can no longer depend on John to keep him tethered, weak as his friend is. He doesn’t quite know how he finds himself in the alleyway behind a butcher’s shop, exchanging an expensive watch (not his own, he’d pickpocketed it just two days before; he has no guilt left for petty crimes) for the one thing he can’t resist any longer. He left John asleep and John is still there, curled up on the bed, the lines of his face softened in sleep, when Sherlock returns. Sherlock’s hand spasms around the small parcel in his coat pocket and he slips silently into the tiny bathroom. He looks deathly pale in the mirror, almost unrecognisable to himself, and he looks away, sits down on the toilet seat and pulls out his prizes one by one. His hands are trembling - he can’t pinpoint why, whether it is from anticipation, or dread, or relief.
When John walks in only a few minutes later, he is still poised, waiting, hesitant. His belt is pulled tight around his left bicep, the end caught between his teeth, and he holds the needle mere centimetres from the crook of his elbow. John takes it all in in a matter of seconds and for a long, horrible pause he does nothing. He stares at Sherlock, his gaze unnervingly blank, and then suddenly he is in motion. He takes the needle first, tosses it in the sink, and then his hands are at the belt, pulling it free and throwing that aside as well. His hands are steady as he pulls Sherlock to his feet, shoves him out into the main room, forces him to sit on the bed. John shuts the bathroom door with finality, as if the barrier of wood can stop Sherlock from wanting, from craving.
John stands in front of him for several tense moments and then lets out a noise that sounds part hoarse cry, part harsh laugh and his expression is suddenly anything but blank as he locks his gaze on Sherlock. He steps forward and he’s trembling now as his hands cradle Sherlock’s skull, fingers twisting into his hair in an almost vicious grip. He holds Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, and then he closes his eyes, shakes his head as he presses their foreheads together.
“Promise me,” he says forcefully, brokenly, “Promise me, Sherlock.”
The grip on his hair tightens a fraction and Sherlock gasps, leans into it. It hurts but he relishes the short, sharp pain - it keeps his mind fixed firmly on now, on John.
“I promise,” he says.
“Promise me, promise me,” John whispers, his voice shaky, uneven.
“I promise. I promise.”
The tight grip on his hair loosens - just a touch - but then John’s mouth is crushed against his, the contact burning like a lightning bolt straight down into his chest. John goes to pull away and Sherlock surges forward, clasps John to him, pushes into the bruising kiss. John makes a broken noise in his throat and Sherlock twines his hands in John’s shirt, unable - unwilling - to break the connection. It’s raw, electric and he feels like he’s in freefall, but it’s so different from the usual slip and slide of his mind towards darkness. This is flesh and blood and need and two people desperate for a connection, desperate for sense in the madness of their existence.
Somehow, they end up stretched out on the bed, bodies entwined, clothes discarded at some point and hands still grasping at each other. It’s desperate and intense and raw and they’re both trembling, even as their mouths press together again and again. They’re both hard - are reminded of it with every minute shift of their bodies against one another - but despite the hunger in their touches, it’s not about sex. All that matters is this connection, this one moment of desperation which has bound them together. Sherlock can’t stop the endless frantic shifting of his hands over hair, skin, sharp juts of bone and he breathes John’s name over and over, like a prayer. If he can just anchor himself in this moment, tie himself to John, then he can stop himself from sliding, can stop himself from disappearing. John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s neck, his collarbone, his jaw, his temple and Sherlock doesn’t even realise he’s crying until John presses his lips to his cheekbone and shushes him gently.
“John. John. John.”
“I’m here. I’m here.”
John presses his mouth to Sherlock’s once more, his hand twined in Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock falls apart suddenly, unexpectedly, so overcome it’s almost painful. He sobs into John’s mouth and digs his fingers into John’s shoulders and lets everything go bright behind his eyes as he hears John give a choked moan.
When the world rights itself, he finds himself wrapped tightly around John, his head buried against John’s throat, John’s head against his. John lets out a shaky breath, presses his mouth against Sherlock’s temple, his hand curled around the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
“It can’t happen again, Sherlock,” he whispers, “I can’t lose you like that.” A pause and then John continues. “You need to tell me when it gets too much. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
All this time, he’s been fighting his demons on his own and he’s never realised that he doesn’t need to be alone in this - never realised that John has been there, ready to fight with him all along. His whole chest feels painfully constricted with emotion and he tightens his hold on John, presses as much of his body against John as he can, as if he can mould them into one person.
“I need you,” he breathes, “Stay.”
“Always,” John promises, and it sounds like salvation, like a benediction.
*End*