Author's Note: My first ever Sherlock/John fanfic. Sure took me long enough to get around to writing. I'm very excited about this one and have big plans. BIG plans.

But first a warning. Please read it.

Warning: This fic will contain the following- slash (m/m), drug use, other various forms of addiction, and possibly gore. (Covering all my bases here) Intolerance will not be tolerated. If you are offended by any of the items listed DO NOT READ. I'm serious. Don't read if you do not like. If you do, then welcome! Stick around and enjoy the show.


London, 1891

"Don't marry her."

John Watson glanced up from his chair beside the fire to see Sherlock Holmes sitting on the window ledge, his dark intelligent eyes fixed on him. It was a look John knew all too well, Holmes was studying him, everything, his facial movements, looking, calculating how to act, how to respond.

John had only told Holmes that he was planning to marry Mary a day ago. Needless to say he did not take it well. "Holmes…"

"Don't marry her John. She doesn't need you…I do…" What was that in his voice? Something John had never heard before; Holmes was begging.

There was a look of what John could only describe to be pure desperation on his long time companion's face. "Sherlock…we've…I…I can't. It wouldn't be fair to her…"

The look changed for fraction of a second. Anger, betrayal.

Heartbreak.

"Do you think so little of me John? Do you think me to be a child who is losing a toy? John. You mean so much more to me than you ever will to her. She is like the rest. She does not want you near me. She thinks I am a no good drug addict. A sociopath who could simply kill you and no one would notice. I know the look that people give me when they see me with someone like you. Someone so…" He tilted his head, pausing. "Prominent. She'll take you. She'll keep you. And she'll never let you see me again. She thinks I'm bad for you. That I'm nothing good, that I'm not good for you. She truly thinks I am nothing."

"Sherlock you're-"

"Being ridiculous?" Holmes moved with cat like abilities, his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping John there, their faces inches apart. "Why are you so blind my dear doctor?" He whispered, his fingers moving to brush against John's cheek, staring into his eyes with such intensity that it made John shiver. "Why are you so blind that you don't see what is sitting right in front of you?" He inhaled, his entire body freezing the instant Sherlock's lips brushed against his own. "Why John? Why are you this blind…" The warmth of his fingers disappeared as Sherlock Holmes walked out of the sitting room and, judging by the sound of his footsteps, back up to his own room leaving John completely alone.

His fingers trembled as he brushed his lips, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Could Holmes be right? Could he just be blind? John shook his head, telling himself that the great Sherlock Holmes was wrong. He wasn't blind. He loved Mary, not Sherlock.

Then why did that heartbroken look on Sherlock's face haunt him?


John had not been home in 2 days, 7 hours, 18 minutes, and 47 seconds.

Sherlock had not been sleeping. He had been frantic, paranoid. Had he acted rashly? John hated him obviously. He always did that. He always drove everyone away. Everyone except Nanny…

He shouldn't have kissed him. He shouldn't have confronted him. He hated emotions…why did he think that John would understand? Why did he think John would feel the same? No one liked him.

He wasn't even sure his own brother did.

John had not been home in 2 days, 7 hours, 20 minutes, and 2 seconds.

Cases had been offered for him to solve and he had done so in record time just so he could return to Baker Street and wait. But wait for what? For John to return home and run into his arms? No the probability of that was slim, more than likely John would punch him in the jaw. Again.

He had messed up this time…

His eyes fell on the small black box that sat on the mantel of his fireplace. Inside was an escape, one that he would welcome greatly after what he had been dealing with for two days.

The loneliness was creeping in. Cool air sending shivers up his spine. Empty. The room was empty. No warmth from the fire. No knowledge that John Watson was just a room away. Nothing. No one. He was alone.

Sherlock inhaled, breathing in the familiar scent of tobacco that rose from his pipe. He had followed John after the doctor left, followed him right to Mary's place. At that moment, Sherlock had known that he had done the wrong thing.

He had lost him. For good.

Emotions were not worth shit. He hated them. They clouded his mind, his judgment. Of all the blasted thing that could happen to him, why did he have to fall head over heels in love with Doctor John Watson?

Because he is everything that you need. He balances you out. He keeps you sane. He keeps you human.

Oh that damn little voice in his head reminding him of why exactly he needed John. He wondered what it would take to silence the little voice… Again, his eyes fell on the black box.

He smiles and I smile. He is handsome, and kind. Smart, though not as smart as I. Logical sense is we'd be perfect together.

And there it was. It wasn't the little voice in his head; it was his own thoughts reminding him of everything. Sherlock forced his gaze away from the black box, reminding himself he had told John he would never touch it again.

But he chose her over me. He doesn't really care. Otherwise he'd be here…

Slowly, he rose from the chair and in three steps was standing in front of the fireplace, in front of the box. His fingers closed around it, the leather was comforting on his skin. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath before he sat back down in his chair, leaving the box on the mantel.

"Don't Sherlock, you've come this far without it. You don't need it." John's words sounded clear in his head, reminding him of how long it had been since he had last entered the world of sweet bliss that the needle brought. Damn John, damn him to hell.

He took another breath, needing the comfort of the nicotine to consume him. He was not sure how much longer he would be able to last on pipe smoke alone…

John had not been home in 2 days, 7 hours, 23 minutes, and 12 seconds.

He had been sober for 6 months, 34 hours, 1 minute and 30…31…32…33…


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