Aged 23 years old.
"I can't do this anymore-"
"-Sherlock, you've disappointed me, again."
"-Why? Why do you insist on being a –"
" – How could you do this – "
"You selfish, dishonest, disgusting bastard – "
" – I've stuck my neck out for you too many times – "
Sherlock's eyes opened beadily. He let out a deep breath, letting the water swill into his mouth. On the bath rim was a needle and a vial of 0.7% solution of cocaine. He could end it all. He could inject an air bubble into the vein and end it all. Right here. Right now. His hair clung to his skin as he thought about all his past experiences. His future ones and the ones that existed in the present. His undesirable want for Irene. His need for her. But his need for the drugs was far more accessible. With long spindly fingers, he reached out for the needle. His fingers traced the marks on the crook of his elbow. He could hear the voices of things to come and knew in his heart that something was wrong. Did he already take the drugs?
He could hear his brother pounding at the bathroom door, screaming at the top of his lungs to let him in. Above Sherlock's head images swirled like patterns. His hand closed around the needle.
"Sorry," He muttered, ramming it into the vein.
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