Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter LXXVII - Numbing Agents

I have thrown myself back into alcoholism with savage passion.

The bottle glints in my grip as I swirl the contents, watching the liquid lap at the glass; it's cheap vodka, the sort that strips the saliva from your tongue and leaves your throat searing. In truth, I can't stand it – but it succeeds in rendering me inebriated, and for that I am exceptionally grateful. The quicker I silence the murmuring in my head, the better.

I no longer trust my conscience.

I drink it neat, each swallow sweeter than the last, until I surpass the halfway mark and the room commences its slow rotation: my internal temperature spikes, the fear numbs, and I have to grip the leather armrest in an attempt at grounding myself. It is a Machiavellian mission, my self-destruction; I am engaged in an ongoing battle between present and past, between the woman who demands hot-blooded vengeance and the wife who would cut throats to turn back time. The alcohol is the mediator, negotiating on behalf of both sides. My health is the sacrifice.

I tip my head back, take a poorly-coordinated gulp – missing my mouth by an inch, letting it run down my chin – and see Sherlock watching me from his desk chair.

"What?"

"I give you seven months."

"Until?"

"Cirrhosis of the liver."

"What are you, my mother?" I retort, using his own words as my weaponry.

He mutters something under his breath and returns to the paperwork. I content myself with squinting at his outline; his face is very pale in the dark, a white paint thumbprint on black paper, but I can't make out his features. They shimmer on his skin.

"Sherlock," I slur. He looks up. I lift my feet over the armrest, lean back, beckon him closer with one, heavy hand. "Come here. Have some. It'll make you feel better."

"Organ failure? I doubt it."

"Alcohol," I say, waving my bottle as testament to my truth, "and sex. Best numbing agents out there. Trust me."

I don't expect a response, which is why I'm startled when he closes his book with vicious frustration and stands up; he tosses his pen down on the desk, kicks back his chair, knocks my legs off the armrest and sits beside me, heavily.

I gape at him.

Sherlock extends a hand, irked by my inability to process his intention. 

"You offered."

Stunned into submission, I pass him my drink. He looks at it as if it's bottled cyanide, takes a deep breath – and then he raises it to his lips and begins drinking as if his life depended on it.

He doesn't stop.

I watch as he knocks back mouthful after mouthful; it's painful, this desperate determination. I try to pull it away, but he holds up a hand as a refusal and continues until oxygen deprivation prevails – then he drops the empty bottle, gagging as the consequences of his actions reach his stomach. He claps a hand over his mouth and moves to stand. I push him back into the sofa cushion, holding him steady.

"Don't get up," I say. "It'll pass. Keep your eyes closed."

Sherlock does as he's told. While he waits for intoxication to catch up, I retrieve the can of week-old beer from beneath the sofa and sip its flat froth, intent on reaching black-out before midnight. Fifteen minutes pass, and I begin to suspect he's passed out–

He opens his eyes.

"Oh. You're awake." I roll the can between my palms. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock inspects his hands for one, long moment. When he looks up, his face is remarkably vulnerable; open and flushed and uncertain.