His Little Pill (JohnLock Fanfic)

Poison Pill

Meaning: an element introduced into the restructuring of a corporation so that it becomes undesirable for another corporation to take over

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Trigger Warning: Life-Threatening Emergency

Sherlock woke to the movie over, laptop nearly falling from his lap. As Sherlock removed the computer from his lap and setting it aside, John woke up and sighed happily half-awake. Sherlock nearly turned around to ask how long he'd been asleep until John squeezed him in a gentle hug from behind.

Sherlock felt himself blush and wrenched himself from the touch, lying that he had to go to the bathroom. John's eyes grew heavy again but he forced himself back to his side of the room and flopped on his bed. Sherlock splashed water on his face, looking at the dripping reflection in the mirror. He took note of the dilation of his pupils, the speed of his racing heart, and his usually dry hands moist with sweat.

The bathroom mirror, with its tiny crack in the bottom left corner made his breath hitch.

... Flashback ...

Pleasant weather, first sign of fall, made Jim Moriarity to feel compelled to open their only window. This forced Sherlock to weigh his papers down with a few small rocks as he worked on his project.

"Have you ever been on a swinging bridge, Sherlock?" Moriarity asked from the bathroom, out of the blue, as he was primping in front of the mirror for another night out.

"Is there a point to your blathering, Jim?" Sherlock hissed furiously, trying to focus on his plants on the desk. His roommate had been humming and scooting around the room rhythmically to music for the past half hour getting ready for a "date".

"It has been proven that high arousal-- in this case meaning fear and agitation-- can falsely make you perceive attraction. There was a study done on a swinging bridge, which proved this theory--"

"Get on with it," Sherlock muttered with discomfort. "I'm busy."

"Well, can't you feel the ground getting closer and closer? Feel the parachute giving out? Can't you, Sherlock?"

"Quiet will you, I can't think!" Sherlock had yelled, throwing one of the rocks at Moriarity and barely missing his temple. The mirror broke in the corner with a loud crack.

"Now, see what you've done!" Moriarity half-scolded, amused, "This is why we can't have nice things Sherlock."

"I was aiming for your head."

"Have to do better than that to get rid of me, detective." He whispered dramatically, "I have a date tonight. Shame you can't meet them, they're quite a scream."

"I abhor your psychotic jokes."

"Oh well. See you later, Sherly... Don't wait up." With that, Moriarity left with a smile. It was the last time Sherlock saw him alive. That is, until he identified the dead body at the morgue-- half convinced it was all a big joke.

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He breathed in and out quietly, taking in shallow breaths in hope to regain his composure. Luckily, he needn't have bothered. When he regained himself and went back into the room, John was gone. He tried to rack his brain to remember if John said anything on his way out, he couldn't be sure. Likely just went to the canteen, he reasoned.

Alone, his fear still high, he rushed to the drawer. It opened with a loud thud, the pill bottle rushing to the front with a muffled thwack. The bottle's contents clicked against each other as he licked his lips and let his eyes flicker over the label. He swallowed deeply, breathed, and forced down the pill with a sip of water. He left the pill bottle on the desk and stared at them in irritation.