Let The Shadows Win

Alcohol To Ease The Aching Heart

Sherlock POV: Very often the right choice to make was nowhere near the easiest, and never was that more evident than today at the grocery store. He wanted John just as badly as John wanted him, which was ever so obvious by the way John simply wouldn't let him go. And Sherlock didn't want to let him go either, he didn't want to have to part ways so quickly after they were reunited, but what choice did he have? John had moved on, and as much as Sherlock hated to be a moral man he had to take into consideration the choices John had made long ago. Yes, maybe right now John was willing to abandon them and go back to Sherlock. Yet that in itself was a selfish move, for Sherlock would then know that John was only out for his own self-interest. He was unable to wait for Sherlock's release, and therefore he displayed that he was not the loyal and patient man any true lover would prove to be. If he truly loved Sherlock he wouldn't have gone off and married someone else, and despite what he may claim about love now that they were reunited, in the end his heart had followed mere whims and ended up disappointed. It was what he got, it was what he deserved. And so Sherlock sat alone, alone on the couch that had been provided in his horrible apartment building, only now realizing how miserable life outside the walls of the penitentiary could prove to be. He drank vodka, and John was right of course, it was strong. Maybe that was because Sherlock had never drank any alcohol before, or maybe it was the potency of the drink. Yet after a mere couple of sips from the neck of the bottle he was beginning to feel woozy, at least woozy enough to hide his pain away and concentrate on the TV that was flashing in front of him. He didn't know what he was watching, and frankly he didn't care. It distracted him from the loneliness he was beginning to feel, the aching that was building up inside of his chest and reminding him that freedom was only as good as the people you share it with. Sherlock felt as though he was wasting his time on the outside, now that John was a good couple of miles away instead of a good couple of inches. They deserved to be together, didn't they? And yet John had proved that he didn't care enough to wait, and that was why Sherlock drank, that was why he stayed alone.  

The next morning Sherlock felt sick, in fact as soon as he woke up he had to rush to the bathroom and throw up into the toilet. He had slept on the floor, cradling his half-drunk bottle of vodka as if it were a suitable substitute for John Watson. Yet this morning his stomach was sick, his head was throbbing, and his vision was all blurry. This must be, if he assumed correctly, what was known as a hangover. He never knew much about them, only that sometimes when Mycroft was feeling particularly angry or upset at night he would wake up in this disorientated and sickly state. It was a miserable feeling, one that progressed throughout the morning until Sherlock was sure he had thrown up all of the food and liquid that had been in his stomach the entire time he had been in the penitentiary. He wasn't sure what to do, either. He forgot how to cure a stomach virus, he forgot what to do to make sure you survive it, and more importantly he never knew how to cure a hangover. Surely there was a way? And so with whatever strength was left in his body he started down the stairs to the ground level, where he knew Mrs. Hudson's living quarters were. He didn't know what he was planning on asking, and more importantly he didn't even know if she would be willing to help. However he leaned over the desk, his vision spinning with the effort of merely staying on his feet, and rang the little help bell a couple of times to summon her to the lobby.
"Oh Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry to keep you waiting!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed cheerfully, emerging from the door behind the counter only to have her smile fade away. "You don't look too good."
"Yes I'm uh...well I think I have a hangover. A bad one. And I don't know what to do, I've never drank before and this is awful." Sherlock admitted apprehensively, his stomach giving a forewarning lurch. He grimaced once more, looking around for a trash can which could possibly aid him in the very near future.
"Oh dear, a hangover! Yes don't you worry, I know just how to cure those nasty things. Come on in, I'll fix you up a mixture that I always used to drink when I had the same problem." She offered with a grin. Sherlock nodded, opening his mouth to thank her yet ending up lunging to the trash can instead, emptying out mere bile into the trashcan before getting once more to his feet and smiling thankfully.
"That would be wonderful." He agreed with a weakened little smile. Mrs. Hudson merely laughed, as if Sherlock's sickly state was some sort of occasion to be celebrated, and led him in slowly to her own apartment. It was small and very curiously decorated, plagued with pictures of family and cats, and with knitted blankets thrown over every piece of furniture in the house. It smelled pleasant, like hand cream and incense, and it was lit only with a couple of lamps on some desks in the corners.
"Why don't you go and lie on the sofa there? I'll get you a trash can, just in case you can't make it to the bathroom in time." Mrs. Hudson offered, patting Sherlock on the shoulder as a mother would and letting him stumble off towards the sofa which she had indicated. He collapsed into a long heap, his feet hanging well over the armrest on the other side as he tried to hold his stomach in time for Mrs. Hudson to reappear. His head was pounding horribly, however her apartment was soothing enough for his mind to begin focusing on things again. For instance, an old photo hanging on the wall, seemingly displaying a married couple. The bride looked like a much younger Mrs. Hudson, and yet it made Sherlock wonder what had happened to her husband. Died, probably?
"How much did you drink last night?" Mrs. Hudson asked, reappearing with a pink plastic trash can and sticking it under where Sherlock's head was lying on the couch.
"I um...well I'm not sure. A half a bottle I think?" he muttered miserably.
"Half a bottle of beer? Wine?" she presumed with a little chuckle.
"Vodka." Sherlock admitted miserably, holding his stomach and giving a great groan. Mrs. Hudson gasped; obviously that was not what she had been expecting.
"Sherlock don't you know how strong that stuff is? And you said you'd never drunk anything before? What, did you have company?" she asked with a bit of a stifled laugh. She sounded concerned; however it was ever so obvious that she found the tale a little bit amusing.
"No, no I just had a bad night. I had been under the impression that alcohol helps, and it did in the moment! God, I'm never having a sip of that poison ever again!" Sherlock whined.
"Oh I know that's not true. Come on then, try to keep your spirits up. I'll go and make you my special potion." She said with a teasing little laugh, tapping Sherlock once more on the shoulder as it to tell him to stay put before disappearing into the kitchen.
"So what ruined your night then? I thought you were happy to be back?" Mrs. Hudson called. Sherlock could hear cabinets opening and ingredients being arranged, however he knew better than to look. He could only imagine the foul things that were going into this concoction, yet it was easier to gulp the thing down if he didn't know what was inside. He would drink anything now so as to cure this misery, yet he would rather do it anonymously.
"I thought freedom would be better, Mrs. Hudson. But it turned out that I had been abandoned in all of my years of imprisonment." Sherlock admitted miserably.
"Well surely not? Your parents must still love you?" she presumed with a sad sort of tone.
"They're dead. Everyone I know is dead, except the boy who I loved when I was put away. I saw him yesterday, he's married to a woman, they have a child. And he's forgotten me." Sherlock admitted miserably. His stomach gave another great churn, yet he ignored it so that he could listen to Mrs. Hudson processing this shock. He heard her make a little noise of shame, followed by what must have been a blender.
"Oh Sherlock I'm so sorry to hear that." she muttered, for obviously she knew nothing else to saying this situation. Sherlock nodded, for he was sorry to hear that as well. Yet just as she didn't know the magical solution for loneliness, neither did he it would seem .There was no special potion to summon John back to his side, just as there was none for making that wife and child disappear. Just as there was none to erase Sherlock's crimes, and take them back thirteen years, when they might have solved this problem before it ever began. Tragic that he had to sit here and suffer, just as he was doing with this hangover, just as he had done in that pit. Yet physical pain was much more manageable, simply because he could tell himself that it was out of his control. This pain, this emotional pain, was a stabbing thing. A knife that had been wielded by John over the years they were apart, yet dragged through Sherlock's skin by his own hand. It was both of their faults, a combined effort of neglect and pride that would drive them even farther apart. Yet there was something that could be done about it, if of course Sherlock daring enough to try. If he was daring enough to abandon the obvious signs of disloyalty and look ahead to much more treacherous, much more sinful days.
"The worst part is that he said he'd wait, or at least that he'd visit. And still, nothing." Sherlock growled, shaking his head and pulling his knees up to his chest the way a whining child might when they weren't getting their way.
"Well why don't you just go talk to him? Just because he's married doesn't mean you two can't still be friends." Mrs. Hudson suggested, of course speaking like the true and obscenely annoying optimist.
"It's not that simple." Sherlock groaned.
"Why not?" she asked once more, speaking as Sherlock imagined his mother might have if she had lived to ever council him on relationship advice.
"Because he probably doesn't trust me, he probably doesn't want me anymore. Time stopped for me when I was in that penitentiary, and I'm coming back thinking I can just pick up where I left off. Yet so many things are different...he's different." Sherlock admitted with a groan.
"Do you still love him?" she asked curiously, pausing their conversation so as to blend some more stuff in that ridiculously loud blender of hers. Sherlock sighed heavily, trembling just a little bit as chills overtook his body, yet sweat was still dripping down his face. Who knew drinking so much could have such consequences?
"Yes of course." Sherlock agreed quietly, once the apartment had given way to silence once more.
"And does he still love you?" she asked once more. Sherlock blinked, contorting just as much as he could manage without his head spinning just so that he could look at her. Surely he must be hearing her incorrectly, and if not that then he must be misinterpreting her meaning.
"You don't mean to say that I should get him back?" Sherlock clarified with a blink. Mrs. Hudson merely shrugged, pouring her disturbingly brown concoction into a large glass innocently.
"I'm not saying it's impossible." She suggested with a little conniving grin. Sherlock was beginning to like her more and more, now that he found she had something of a dark side.
"An affair?" Sherlock suggested.
"A divorce." Mrs. Hudson corrected, walking over with her high heels to where Sherlock was lying miserably across the couch. She seated herself on the coffee table, pushing the back of her hand against Sherlock's forehead so as to take his temperature the old fashioned way.
"I couldn't possibly ask him to leave her. Not only that, he's got a daughter." Sherlock pointed out.
"Love will find a way, Sherlock, I'm sure of that. If he loves you a lot then he'll manage. I'm sure that talking to him would solve a lot of this angst, a lot better than a vodka bottle will at least. Now come on then, try to sit up." Mrs. Hudson insisted, sitting back with both her hands clenched around that abnormally large cup, filled to the brim with what looked and smelled to be the most foul concoction known to man. Sherlock looked at it fearfully, for he could barely stand the smell, much less the taste!
"I have to drink that?" he wondered apprehensively.
"I didn't make it so that you could just stare at it. Best not think about it, come on then." Mrs. Hudson insisted, handing Sherlock the glass as he positioned himself on the couch and frowned.
"Whatever you say." He agreed nervously. And with that he downed the entire thing, trying to gulp as fast as he could possibly manage without actually having to taste it. He never found out if it had actually worked or not, because merely two minutes later he was already bent over the toilet throwing it all up. For some reason he suspected this was the goal, for Mrs. Hudson was consoling him as if she knew that would happen. As if she had made the thing just to empty his stomach once more, and to give him some relief for the rest of the day. 

    Sherlock didn't have a car to take up to his old house, however he was feeling considerably better the day after his alcoholic mishap, and decided to go and reclaim his old possessions. The drunkenness had long since worn off, and now he was forced to have to live with the emotions that were bubbling up in his chest, the feelings of rejection and of abandonment, of treachery and of inopportune love. It was a terrible state to be caught in, when the man you most love was responsible for all of your problems. Sherlock didn't know what to do, if he could possibly manage to hate John for what he had done, or if he could possibly look past his actions so as to love him fully once more. That would depend on whether or not he took Mrs. Hudson's advice and went to go see him, or at least try to go find him. Sherlock had been a little bit stubborn when he had first encountered John, and in all of his anger and all of his hurt feelings he had decided to be an absolute idiot and neglected to get at least an address. Well how was he supposed to contact John once his temper tantrum was over? Hadn't he even considered that in the moment? Sherlock felt like such a fool, for now he was alone, simmering out of a flame of discontent only to find that he had burnt himself in the process. Yet it was not the right time for anger, not even the time for reconciliation. At the moment Sherlock had to find out a way to get to his house, which was a good couple of miles from the edge of town where he stood just now. He didn't have a key; in fact no one did anymore, considering it was probably still sitting in the rotted, abandoned thing. He would have to find it, on the peg where they kept their car keys and any other sort of lanyards they thought necessary. Hopefully it was still hanging there, or else he would have to get creative once he had found a way inside. Sherlock finally decided that he would walk, for he couldn't afford public transportation (he was riding high now on merely thirty dollars cash, and he still had four days to go) and he didn't want to bother anyone to borrow. That anyone was of course Mrs. Hudson, the only friend he seemed to have made in his very limited time outside of the penitentiary. She had a car, he knew that for a fact, yet at the moment he didn't want to be a burden. Her magic concoction had worked the day before, and yet in the process he had taken up her couch space for about three of the most miserably hours of his life. Surely he couldn't ask her for another favor, so early on? She was his landlady, after all, not his mother. And so Sherlock decided to walk, despite his characteristic little hobble he knew that he would be able to make it. Five miles, right? That shouldn't take too long. Yet merely twenty minutes in, undoubtedly a mere mile in, Sherlock found out how grossly incorrect he had been in overestimating his own strength. The sun was hotter than he had ever remembered it getting before, and the cropland didn't provide any adequate shade at all. It seemed to be soybeans this time of year, those squat little things that were hardly any use to him at this time. If only it had been August, and the corn was taller than he was! Yet no, his shadow was very prominent among the cracking pavement beside him, and even that could provide him no shelter. He was out in the heat, wearing the only outfit he owned (long pants, button down shirt) and he was already nearly three quarters done with the little bottle of water he had brought along. Yet there was no other way, was there? Sherlock stepped off of the side of the road in some horror as a car went zooming by, one that seemed to have no care at all for pedestrians. Yet in his shock he remembered a vital tool for getting about the countryside without an actual car. Hitchhiking.