Still The Addict

Devil's Beauty, Deep Waters

(Sherlock's POV)

When I walk, I don't feel my foot touch the stone cobbles on the street. I see that the traffic lights have changed colour but don't remember what they mean. I smell the diesel and fumes in the air yet I am not bothered by it. The excited chatter of those going by invades my eardrums like crawling snakes but I can't hear what's they're saying. It's all just static; just noise. My own saliva tastes unrecognisable. It feels like I've been exhumed and am now floating in a transcending bubble ascending over the heads of the normal people. What's electronegativity you ask? I have no clue.

I used to know. I used to know a lot, I think. But now, as I take this gun from my pocket, I don't remember it's name. I think someone, someone I instinctively hate yet feel drawn to for some reason, once told me it's a browning 1881 pistol. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe I'm wrong, and he never even existed.

Yes this is a good spot to do it. Lots of water. Water is good, right?

(John's POV)

The helicopter blades shear through the wind as we fly overhead, peering down in the little grooves falling like ditches between the skyscrapers. Mycroft is sitting beside my, decked out in all these earmuffs and wires and voice signals and GPS trackers. Along the Thames we spot black illusions and billowing coats, searching manically for Sherlock. Eventually, Mycroft catches of glimpse of something. Metal gleaming from sunlight.

A gun.

"Fly as low as you can," Mycroft isn't shouting, but his voice isn't steady. The pitch fluctuates. I've seen this, on the battlefield. The ore adrenaline coating everything in matte black. I watch, and sure enough it looks like Sherlock. At first the person is holding the gun, not really pointing it at anything but merely inspecting at as he sways on his feet. As if he's trying to pinpoint exactly what it is.

Then he points it across the Thames. This situation still doesn't seem urgent. Not like he could actually hit anybody. By now I'm almost positive it's Sherlock, the dark coat blending with his dark curls. I call down, but know he can't hear me over the whirring of the blades and the screaming through his own head. "Sherlock!" I call. Even through the microphone he doesn't look up. Mycroft is watching, his face unreadable.

"Pilot, could you please land down there?"

"It's too dangerous, sir. If we hit any turbulence there's a chance we'll hit the water!"

"Trust me," Mycroft can easily take malice in his tone, as easily as I take happiness. "You don't want to defy this order,"

The pilot doesn't say anything and hovers down, landing on the edges of the walkway and blowing the trees all around. Sherlock's hand is now against his head, the gun pressed firmly to his temple. If he stumbles, gets distracted, even if the wind changes, the trigger will pull. Mycroft stares from the helicopter, oblivious to the swirling pools of emotion which have been dormant within him for years. He knows what is going on around him, but nothing of what is inside.

He knows he'd better leave this to Me.

I climb out, my arms raised as I approach Sherlock cautiously. I'm taking the same amount of time each step, and not looking him in the eyes. No sudden movements is the most important thing being in the army will ever teach you. Be calm. Maintain mutual understanding.

Then go in for the kill.

"Sherlock, do you know where you are?" I ask reverently. I can't see a good angle where I can pull his arm away to make sure he doesn't shoot himself.

"Water,"

"That's right," I smile; he's aware of his surroundings and he must know who I am as well. His eyes are unfocused yet full of recognition. The madness may be drug-induced but his feelings are real. Deep. His eyes have always held such beauty. Deep beauty like deep water. "Sherlock have you taken anything?"

"No,"

"Do you have a list?" He pulls one out. Good, he hasn't forgotten his pact with Mycroft. This was more of a cognitive abilities test than anything else. I can now rule out him being deranged, or psychotic. He understand who he is, even if he doesn't know it.

"Sherlock, can you give me the gun?" While I've been talking to him, holding his attention I've been walking towards him. We're about fifteen feet apart now. He keeps it at his head.

"You don't love me like I love you,"

"Sherlock, this is crazy. You can't make me love you by threatening to-"

"I don't want to make you love me, John," he sighs. "It's merely a statement of fact. You don't like me the way I love you. That is why I need to leave,"

"Sherlock, you've survived without my love this long,"

"Maybe so, John," he seethes. He's getting emotional now - this is serious! "But I didn't need your love before! I just wanted it. Just like before I took heroin I wanted it! Then after I took it I needed it. I need you John!"

"Sherlock, I can't..."

"Then why did you?!" The taller man is almost crying, but masking it underneath his beautiful cheekbones. I have always liked them... "How'd you think I'd react after our night together? You must have know I had feeling for you, what did you think would happen?!"

"You've dealt with worse!" I remind, grappling with my own words. "You're Sherlock Holmes! You're the strongest man I've ever met..."

"Is that right?" He smiles bitterly, eyes remaining cold. "Fine, I'll cut you a deal,"

I gulp. Deals with Sherlock equate to deals with the devil.