Staying Alive - Sherlock (BBC)

Chapter 8

Fumes circled the room in a variety of dull colours. The man himself was a silhouette, slumped in his armchair, head lolling back. The curtains were drawn, letting in only slithers of light.

221B had become a different world, not one it hadn't seen before. Anyone who walked in would return with their head spinning for the rest of the day.

Two sets of hurried footsteps raced up the staircase, Sherlock didn't notice.

The door flew open sending smoke billowing further into the room. Mrs. Hudson was not happy, as soon as she looked into the room she abandoned Lizzie at the doorway, racing back down the stairs.

Lizzie stood in the doorway, eyes watering, she held up a cloth that covered her mouth. Racing across the room she flung open the nearest window. Sherlock made a loud noise and curled up in a ball.

Not a single word was uttered as Lizzie quickly swept throughout the flat flinging open any window, letting smoke stream out.

She glanced at the scattered pile that lay at Sherlock's feet. They brought a lump up in her throat as past memories and habits threatened to resurface.

"You feel guilty don't you." Sherlock croaked. He had watched her as she paused, staring at what lay at his feet. "You were the one who handed me my first high." He turned around, facing away from her. "Don't be though, it would have happened anyway.

His drugged state caused his words to slur, almost soften at the edges. But no amount of drugs could erase the poisonous, bitter edge to his voice.

"No you ignorant, self-centered arsehole." She replied calmly, straining to tear her eyes away from them. "They are breathing the life back into the old me, that I killed."

She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

After opening them again, she found that Sherlock had passed out. "Alas," She whispered. "Even the mighty Sherlock Holmes has fallen."

Rolling her eyes, she draped Sherlock's left arm over her shoulder. The effort it took to get him to his bedroom was much greater than she expected. Despite his lean figure the man was surprisingly heavy.

Then again, it was not the first time Lizzie had carried an unconcious man.

After dumping Sherlock on his bed she rushed around the flat eradicating any evidence of what she had just stumbled across.

All the while, Lizzie was being haunted by the ideas and memories that were floating around her head. Was this her fault?

She was beginning to regret returning.

*****

The cigarettes weren't enough.

Walking around the quiet town during the evening may have been a pleasant thing for any normal person.

The magnificent colours that were thrown across the street creating monsterous shadows in every nook and cranny. The trees dotted with the golden autumn leaves, blowing gently in the breeze.

For Lizzie it was boring.

The outrageous silence that made her head hurt. There was nothing to do, there was nothing going on. She hated it.

Then an idea popped into her mind as she lit yet another cigarette.

Stopping in the middle of the road, she abruptly turned around towards the house of Sherlock Holmes.

She was always thinking for her friend.

*****

Bright.

Everything was very bright.

Sherlock winced as his vision began to clear.

His head was buzzing. His eyes were burning. The world was slipping and sliding like it was sat in a boat on a stormy ocean. He closed his eyes again.

Sherlock stumbled into the living room and almost tripped over the armchair that Lizzie was slumped in.

After a few more minutes of confusion he collapsed into his leather armchair.

Eventually he looked at Lizzie who had her laptop perched on her lap. She was in a red silk dressing gown, her hair was a lion's mane and she was completely ignoring him.

"Why are you wearing that?" He asked, wincing.

She didn't reply.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was a habit of hers to ignore him when she was particularly pissed off with him.

Her fingers tapped away at the keyboard. Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"Mrs. Hudson." Lizzie bellowed suddenly, startling Sherlock, he visibly jumped at the sudden noise.

"I will be taking the second bedroom for a few nights if you don't mind." She continued, at the same volume.

A short shout from downstairs confirmed that Mrs. Hudson had heard her. She looked back at her computer.

"Wait, what?" Sherlock hissed. "Why are you staying here? You don't need to stay here."

"Because, Sherlock Holmes, if it was not for our past history of substance abuse, you may have died yesterday." She said simply. Finally acknowledging his existence. "You almost ended up in hosptial, but luckily your body has seen worse."

Snapping the laptop shut, she looked at him. Disappointment filled her eyes. "So that is why I am now staying in John's old room and have to work from home."

With this Lizzie stood up and walked to her room.

Sherlock groaned and tipped his head up, leaning back into his armchair.

The entire situation was confusing him and he hated it. His brain was not functioning, he had a massive case on and he just could not get his brain to work.

Lizzie's appearence had sparked somthing old in him. It was blocking his brain up, his mind, it infuriated him.

He hated it all, he wanted John.