Work Text:
Together
Sherlock watches the sky uplift itself in a nefarious blue. Red horizons disappear when his head hits the rocks, soft texture cocooning him up in deep azures he has come to hate.
"The puzzles are indeed enticing! Let's solve them together!"
"Liam, let's see who can solve first instead!"
"But Sherl–"
The room chases the reds away religiously. William's eyes change shapes to adjust.
"Oh."
In a tiny world within a small room, Sherlock swallows a river of regrets once more.
The whole world condenses into a black globule at his palm, ugly and growing in size like an abominable cancer. It grows into him like an evil entity, rearing it's ugly head into all of his seven orifices.
He tries to scream, but dark bile clogs his throat. Red eyes stare at him dying; cruel, merciless.
"No… No wait– Liam! Liam!"
Sherlock claws at his vocal chords to work. His chest aches and his tear ducts dry up. His entire body spasms as he prays for death– but water flows into his system instead.
Liam gives him a cruel smile.
"This is not how you beg, Sherly," He speaks, his voice echoes from continents away.
"You won't catch me like this."
The room abhors the red; Liam's eyes melt in the acid.
Only the hollow of a bitter smile remains.
It crawls inside Sherlock, building a home beneath his chest.
… . . . . … … . … … . … … .
"He– He's not breathing…"
"Ms. Hudson, I have to ask you to calm down–"
"HE'S NOT BREATHING!"
She breaks down immediately, too shaken to even glare at Mycroft– but John feels the jolt in her voice with a physical impact almost.
"I'd need more cold water, he's still burning up." He says, terrified of his own calm.
Mycroft leaves to fetch water dutifully, not a hint of alarm in his steps– only a vague sense of familiarity that John can never get used to.
In fact, the events unfold almost regularly these days, and yet John does not get used to the stench of how familiar it feels.
Mycroft comes by in an unhurried urgency everytime, he can't get used to it.
Ms. Hudson cries the same, repeats the same words; he can't get used to it.
The cold water is never enough, he always asks for more; he can't get used to it.
Under his palm Sherlock's heart beats at a rate that is slower than eternity, the silence between each beat cruelly punching a hole in his gut with its existence alone– he absolutely can't get used to it.
"He's… ," Ms. Hudson gingerly touches Sherlock's forehead, pushing the midnight strands away from the moonlit face. "He's burning up so much."
Her voice breaks. Every time.
The cold water arrives at the feet of the tub. John splashes the ice over Sherlock, and some warmth spills forth from his own eyes. Sherlock lays still with chapped lips and frozen eyelids, only colour on him being the reds on his arms, over his veins.
"How did he find the heroin?" Mycroft asks, his voice laced with an unusual gentleness that pokes John uncomfortably.
"Last time he begged on his knees to a hooker for it." John says like it doesn't eat away at a part of his heart. "I can only imagine."
Ms. Hudson stays quiet.
Eventually, Sherlock returns to them, screaming a name all too familiar.
Except John can never get used to it.
… . … . . . . … . … . … … .
"Why are you here again?" Liam asks. His foot move against Sherlock's chest in the tiny bathtub, and his eyes drip a sad, uneasy mockery.
The bathroom is red, bleeding in delusions.
"You know why," Sherlock smiles brilliantly. "This is the only way I can see you."
"One of these days you would not be able to return."
"I can't wait."
"You're irrational. The whole world awaits you."
"A world without you. I'd rather be stuck in a tub together."
William breathes. His heart does not beat.
Under red moonlights William places his head on his chest. Sherlock kisses the top of his head, water flowing into his throat as he does.
In his small world of red tsunamis, he cannot kiss his lover without choking to death. The Thames fill up his lungs every time he breathes, and the searing pain makes him wish for death.
But Liam is with him here. They swallow death together.
He holds him tight, even when it kills him to do so.
The blues of dawn slowly peek into the tub.
"It's time to go Sherlock."
The room chases the reds away.
"No… too soon. I haven't held you long enough!"
The world turns into a dark black globule again. Sherlock cries out loud.
"This is not how you should beg." William has tears in his eyes, but his smile is cruel.
"You couldn't catch me, Sherlock."
"Liam! No! Wait just a bit more! Please– Liam don't–"
The world slithers into his throat like an empty snake.
The room tugs on the red diligently as William's eyes melt like runny eggs again. The acid turns everything ugly, and Sherlock throws up dark blue bile.
" Sherlock !" Someone calls from under the water.
His vision turns into ice. Nothing moves.
"Sherlock!"
"Liam… "
"Sherlock!"
"Liam… Liam… don't… leave– Liam!"
Sherlock wakes up with the stench of delusions. In the same bathtub. John wraps a blanket around his shoulders.
The red is now gone, the water drowns the little pink dot on his arm into a white blank, a cruel reminder.
"Sherly, you wouldn't want to learn about paradoxes!" Liam heartily laughs in his dreams.
Paradoxes are the only lesson he had ever received from his Liam.
"Try me," Sherlock smiles. "I might surprise you with my aptitude."
The world is red, bright and warm.
Liam is surprised. Sherlock relives the moment every time.
He never got to teach him anything else. So he learns about paradoxes, again and again.
The Thames roar in an azure protest.
"Alright, I'll teach you."
A streak of blue seeps into the room, and Sherlock fails to die again.
Apart.