A/N: Did I mention that I was sorry? Trigger warnings for domestic violence, drug abuse and tons of suicidal ideation. (sorry (sorry sorry))

 John

John woke up to a buzz from his phone, hidden it under his pillowcase; Harry had work and Pickard was with his mum, so he reached, relatively safe from getting caught.

It was... "Shezza Holmes." John chuckled softly - fucking eleven at night and Sherlock wanted to talk. John opened the text, smiling from it all.

We can't see each other anymore. -SH

John blinked at the text in confusion, clenching his fists slightly and then opening them. The moonlight streaming in through the window highlighted another text, which John was afraid to open. John quickly typed out a response, praying that it was all some hilarious prank.

You're kidding, right? -JW

The reply was instantaneous.

I'm not safe. -SH

Of course you are, Sherlock, what's happened? -JW

I've just used it all up. -SH

You've used all what up? What does this have to do with us? -JW

John breathed deeply as he waited for Sherlock's answer. He felt like his heart was going to swallow him whole; like it was taunting him.

The heroin, John, I took it all. -SH

He stared at his screen, not noticing his pulse increase in pace and volume. It mocked him. It said, "See how alive I am?" He hated it, because it still provided him with the proof that he was, in fact, awake. This wasn't a hallucination; it was real, and John felt a moan bubble behind his lips before he threw his pillow at the wall as if it had a heartbeat. Like a pillow could feel.

Now WHY IN THE HELL WOULD YOU DO THAT? -JW

John shook, kneading his index fingers into his sweating temples. He rubbed his nose, whispering, "Why, why, why, why," and ten minutes later the response came.

Because I needed to stop feeling. -SH

John stared at the text for a moment before opening up the next one.

I've decided that sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. You should leave me now, so you don't have to later. -SH

I won't leave you, Sherlock, what the /hell/ are you on about? -JW

I mean that I might leave first. -SH

Don't say that. -JW

Ever. -JW

What's happening? Do you need to call me? Your crypticism is worrying me and I'm not sure if you're okay. -JW

Sherlock. -JW

Have you hurt yourself? Tell me you haven't. -JW

SHERLOCK, I SWEAR. -JW

Sherlock, please answer. -JW

John angrily slammed down on the keyboard with his thumbs, waiting for a response like his life depended on it. The way he felt right then was like nothing else, and his heart rose into his mouth as the minutes passed and passed, drawing out the pain.

Hello? Sherlock, stay with me. -JW

I can't talk to you anymore, John. I'm just making you as fucked as I am. -SH

You can speak to me, Sherlock, what's happened? -JW

My father came in an hour ago telling me my mum got into a car accident. -SH

Is she alright? -JW

John bit his lip, hoping she didn't get hurt too badly.

She's gone. -SH

John froze.

She went instantly. At least, that's what the police officer said. -SH

You know the last thing I said to her? -SH

I don't remember. I dont think I even said goodbye when I wnet to school. -SH

Sherlock, do you need me to come over? Or call you? -JW

Don't call me. -SH

Alright. -JW

God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. -JW

I don't want to do this anymorw, John. I want to die. -SH

No you don't. -JW

I really, truly do. I thoguht the drugs would do it but they didn't, so I need to stop talking to yoy. -SH

You* -SH

No, Sherlock, don't go.  -JW

I have to. I can't be with you like this, John. I'm so fucked uo. I'm such a freak. -SH
 
Up* -SH

You're not fucked up, Sherlock. -JW

"You're not," John repeated, even though no one was listening. John didn't care. Sherlock needed to know that. He needed to know that someone cared about him, that he was worth it, that he was worth every pain and peril and everything that John had ever been through for him. He was worth it, and John would do anything, everything, to keep Sherlock with him. He would move mountains and burn villages for him. He would back away for him, he'd leave him for him... and for a split second, John understood why Sherlock was doing this.

You don't know me as well as you think, John. You can't know me. If you knew yoi would hate me and I never want that. -SH

I'd never hate you, Sherlock. Ever. I love you. -JW

No, you don't. -SH

I really do. -JW

You couldn't. -SH

But I do. -JW

You're lying so I don't hurt myself. -SH

I'm not lying. Listen to me. Please listen. -JW

I will always be here. -JW

It drives me mad when I'm not with you, okay, so if you never were with me again, imagine how I would feel. -JW

That's the thing, John, I'm starting not to feel. I took the heroin and it took everything away. I think if I keep on doing it, I'll stop altogether. -SH

Stop feeling? -JW

Yes. You won't like me anymore and you'll be safe. -SH

I'll never be safe if you're not there, Sherlock, you're my safety. -JW

You have to believe in that. -JW

If you can't believe in yourself, believe in me. Please, Sherlock. -JW

How could I possibly feel for you? -SH

What? -JW

Why would I feel? I can't do anything properly. I'm a time bomb, John, and I will cause the worst collateral damage. So why would I ever waste my time feeling? -SH

Because your mum wants you to. -JW

My mum is dead adn she's never coming back. -SH

I want to be with her. -SH

Sherlock, stay with me. Call me. -JW

I'm not going to kill myself, John. But I'm not stupid enough to let myself hurt you. -SH

John wanted Sherlock to hurt him. He wanted Sherlock to inject him with all the drugs he'd put inside himself, and inflict all the pain that he beared upon John; he needed Sherlock to believe that John needed him.

Please, stop. -JW

You aren't safe, John. -SH

I'm safe. -JW

I kill everything I touch. -SH

Why won't you believe me, Sherlock? -JW

He felt the tears bubble behind his eyelids as he typed, trying to hold it in. Why did Sherlock think hurting himself was the solution? Because it wasn't, it would never be, and all the condescending psychological drivel he came up with would never convince John otherwise. He needed Sherlock to hear his voice and change his mind.

Just hold on, I'm calling you. -JW

I won't answer. Don't call. -SH

John pressed the call button, and waited patiently. He knew if he started to talk he might begin to cry; he felt the emotion in the back of his throat, trying to make its way up. He almost hoped Sherlock didn't answer so he wouldn't have to hear his voice.

He did, at the last second.

The first adjective that came to mind was vacant. "Hey, John," he said. John started silently crying at the second syllable - Sherlock's voice cracked on it.

"Sherlock. Speak to me."

"I can't." He sounded so dead. "I can't, John, I don't want to feel it again and I used up all the drugs. I shouldn't have wasted them-"

"Listen to me, Sherlock, Sherlock... Sherlock, listen. Listen. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening, John." His voice cracked every time he said his name.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"Do you think you can make it?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Where's Siger?"

"I don't know. Wallowing. Whatever widowers do," Sherlock said dryly. "Stop crying, John. I'm not going to do anything."

"I can't," John responded. "I'm not quite as badass as I look," he confessed. "Just, uh, talk to me. How are you feeling?"

"Better than before."

"Do you need to call the police?"

"No. No, I don't think so."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"Well, I love drugs. That doesn't mean they're good for me."

"You think my love isn't good for you?"

"The more relevant question," Sherlock said, clipping his words like they were wings, "is why you think it is." Sherlock moaned for half a broken, choking second as John inhaled; "What are you doing, Sherlock," John whispered.

"Sticking the... t-taking it." His voice broke, and gave out completely as he inhaled all that air.

"Stop." John was whimpering. "Please, Sherlock, please, stop. I need you to. For me."

"No, John... it makes me feel nothing and I need to feel nothing so please just please shut up."

"No," John spat, rage welling in his fingers. "No. I won't stop. I will never stop until you do, I will never fucking stop, and you listen here, you listen to me..." John faltered, as if he was trying to listen for Sherlock's pulse, "Sherlock. Sherlock, hello?"

"'Mmm heree," Sherlock said. "'Mm here."

"You took them, didn't you. Is this a prank. You didn't just take them over the phone."

Silence.

"Listen to me, Sherlock. Please listen, or I'll break, I'm already broken, you'll just break me more, you're fucking me up."

"I... know," Sherlock slurred. "'M trying to not hurt you moore thani need to, Jshawn, dontchu see?"

"No. No. No, I'm not... you can't..."

"'M doing whaz'right. I am trying my hardez..."

"No. No, stay with me. Wake up. I need you. I need you, because Pickard," John cried hoarsely, voice a baritone version of what it usually was, "I need you because I'm scared, I'm so scared to be without you, Sherlock." 

There was a moment of tense silence, followed by labored breathing and what sounded like a groan. "Have you ever gotten high, John?" was all Sherlock said. Like a casual inquiry, and when John couldn't find it in himself to answer - to speak, he repeated the question.

John didn't respond. Instead, he said, whispered, "I'm not entirely sure if you're listening. In fact, you won't remember this conversation, one sided as it may be. But I want to know, Sherlock - can you answer this? I want to know that if I left you, if I moved on, if you would stop."

"Nuungh," Sherlock moaned. "Suuuure."

"Do you still want this? Do you still miss me?"

"No," Sherlock responded, and it felt so disconnected, so unattached, that it had to be true. That was the only logical explanation for the voice. John couldn't even process the way it felt in his head - like a ghost of what Sherlock used to be.

"There is a castle on a cloud," Sherlock began, and John felt his heart crack as he hung up.

Sherlock

Sherlock was staring at a wall, not sure if the wall was even a wall, or if his body was even a body. It was almost like Lego pieces, stacking up and building the life around him. But it wasn't real; his mum, John Watson, Mycroft... it wasn't real. He could see his lego-piece door open and his father entered, wearing a bathrobe. His hair was slick, his eyes dull.

"Did you take them?" he said.

Sherlock nodded at his father, rubbing the dots spattering his elbow. He was still so high - everything was fluctuating and spinning as if he was on a merry-go-round. Like he was falling off.

He faintly heard, "You're the closest thing to your mother I have."

"I'm yourreplazment for Mum?" Sherlock suddenly said, "I'm your plan B? I'm your little plaything?" His voice rose and rose, and then Sherlock was screaming at the top of his lungs, and he felt he'd never stop. He felt the air come out, but he wasn't certain how it got there, since he hadn't been breathing before, and he was hitting Siger, spasms rocking through him as he beat his arms into his father's chest, "You killed her," Sherlock yelled. "You killed her and I hate you and I hope you die," and he just punched and flailed until he collapsed against his father's chest like a rag doll. "Ihopeyoudie," Sherlock repeated, "I hate you I hate you I hate you."

"Stop causing a fit," Siger said coldly, as Sherlock threw his fists.

"NO NO NO NO NO, why did she have to go I needed her I needed her to protect me from you I needed her I needed her-"

There was a sting against Sherlock's cheek when Siger told him to shut up, but he kept on screaming, screaming, "I want Mum I want Mummy I want her back so she can put me to bed and make me feel something other than pain I want her I need her I need her now-"

"Shut up," Siger said, and Sherlock felt his head snap left.

"I hate her I swear to God I hate her-"

"Shut up," he repeated, and his left cheek burned as it flicked right.

"I wish she didn't have to go," he sobbed, holding his cheek in his hand, not even caring if his nose was bleeding, "Why did you do this? Why did you kill Mum?"

Siger turned to him, and his eyes were alight with rage. "What... did you just... say?"

Sherlock shrunk back. He felt the room close in.

"You know, I'm getting tired of you," Siger said, encroaching ever closer. "If it weren't for you, my life wouldn't be what it is!" Sherlock cowered against the pillows, until he felt Siger's hands on his tarred throat, choking the air out of his lungs. It tasted like blood on the inside of his cheek, and adrenaline ran through him as sparks appeared in his vision. "Complete" - Siger pressed him deeper into the bed with his hands around his neck - "shit!"

Sherlock wheezed and went limp, surrendering himself, legs kicking feebly. Oh, he wanted Siger to choke him until the light faded from his eyes; he wanted the pain to end. He didn't want to feel anymore. And if dying was the solution, he gladly would surrender - but he couldn't do it himself.

When Sherlock was about to lose consciousness, Siger let go and delivered a punch that made his neck snap back so hard that he heard it crack. There was blood everywhere, all over his sheets. He could already feel the black eye.

What had he said to John?

Why was he thinking about this? He was about to die. Siger was picking him up from the floor by the collar, dragging him up to again meet his bloodied fist, and he was about to die, but he was trying to recall what John had said to him.

Blood. Blood, and waves of pain crashed through Sherlock's body.

"I want to know that if I left you, if I moved on, if you would stop."

And what did he say back?

Was it the wrong answer?

Sherlock heard himself cry out in pain.

"Do you still want this?"

And then the thud as he was thrown to the floor.

"You... do... heroin?"

And the pain when his father kicked him in the stomach.

"Hey. I wanted to thank you for this morning."

And then, the ache.

"Hey, Sherlock."

That he left.

"I'll just say, 'Sherlock, follow me down the rabbit hole...'"

When he left.

"Sherlock - wait-"

They always did.

"I love you."