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He shouldn’t be doing this.
When John finds out—and he will, because he always comes by in the mornings without fail, shoulders hunched with quiet worry and that hopeful look on his face saying please tell me it’s one of the good days—he’ll be disappointed. Sherlock will still wear the aftermath of the night, too drained to even attempt to hide it. John will step inside, take one look at his bloodshot eyes and trembling fingers, at the empty syringe on the floor, and his face will fall in that way that hurts more than shouting ever could.
Miss Hudson will shout, though. She’ll curse him, her hands on her hips and apron askew. But her anger never lasts long. It burns quick and bright, then turns into sorrow. She’ll apologize and excuse herself to make tea, as if pouring water over some dried leaves could fix something broken in Sherlock’s soul.
Then Mycroft will appear, out of thin air, always summoned by some sixth sense that alerts him the second Sherlock veers off-course. He’ll simply exist there in the room, hovering in a way so him, radiating concern but never expressing it aloud, and Sherlock will find himself trapped between those three, at the mercy of their care and good intentions.
But he tries. By God, he tries his hardest not to give them reasons to worry. He’s not ungrateful for everything they’ve done, how much they still do for him. For their loyalty, their patience, the way they keep showing up, even when he does everything to push them away. He knows he’s always been a handful, but now it manifests in different ways—in sharper edges, in longer silences. Too often, he doesn’t have the energy to fight it.
But some nights, the darkest ones that don’t seem to have an end in sight, only seeing him can lighten the burden.
Will it help? Or only drag him further down?
The moment a needle bites into his arm, the answer doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is the thrill beneath his skin, the electric buzz of anticipation. The world softens around him as the drugs kick in. His thoughts begin to slow, blurring at the edges.
He sinks into the armchair, eyelids fluttering shut.
And he waits.
Then—
“Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock’s eyes snap open.
There he is. Just a shadow at first, but Sherlock knows that silhouette as well as his own. Tall, composed. Regal, even. And yet there’s always been something so approachable about him too—casual, easy, familiar.
Something that now makes Sherlock’s chest ache.
“Liam,” he breathes out, the name torn from him too fast, like a wound reopened.
He swallows, pulls himself back.
“I think we’re past such pleasantries, aren’t we?” he adds, more measured this time.
The shadow steps forward, just enough for the dim light to catch on a half-smile.
“True that, Sherly.”
And oh, it’s too much already. That name takes him all the way back to that night on the bridge, when William dangled by one arm and Sherlock held on to him, muscles trembling, desperate. He’s only heard the nickname once from William’s lips, imbued with an impossible amount of fondness. All the other times were just sad echoes of it, mirages conjured by his own mind and drugs coursing through his veins.
“How are you?” William asks.
Sherlock hesitates. Should he lie?
But what would be the point? Can you lie to your own creation? To your own guilt, walking and speaking, with the face of a man who once knew you like no other but slipped through your fingers?
“Been better,” is what he says in the end.
He’s never been good at lying to himself.
William steps closer. His movements are slow, deliberate. Sherlock studies every detail, every the shift of shadow over the fabric of his clothes, the faint shift in air as he moves.
It’s not real. He knows that.
But it feels real. He feels real.
And Sherlock lets himself believe, just for a moment.
So when William comes to a stop a breath away, hands folded behind his back and that serene, unreadable smile on his face, Sherlock leans forward in his seat. When a hand reaches out, he closes his eyes and lets phantom fingers skim the side of his face.
He exhales at the touch—soft, relieved—and lets the weight of his longing rest against the illusion.
“Not your wisest idea,” William murmurs, almost amused. “Indulging in ghosts.”
Sherlock scoffs, eyes still closed. “I never claimed to be wise.”
The hand lingers against his skin, warm. Impossibly warm. So warm it hurts.
He swallows. His voice, when it finally breaks the quiet, is barely a whisper.
“You should’ve let me die with you there.”
How much easier would it all be then. No after. No weight of survival. No reliving that moment a hundred different ways and still coming to the same ending.
When no reply comes, Sherlock opens his eyes.
William’s expression shifts.
No, his whole image flickers. Like a candle, right before it burns out.
Sherlock’s breath catches. William steps back.
“You know it had to end like that,” he says. “It was the only way. And now, you need to finally let me go.”
The air changes. The warmth Sherlock felt just a moment ago is already a distant memory. The walls of the room seem to stretch and grow cold.
Sherlock’s chest tightens.
“What if I can’t?”
His voice cracks open, raw. It’s a confession more than a question, and William smiles, knowing.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, his form begins to dissolve. Shadows creep in, taking over the spot where he’s standing.
“No—”
Sherlock leaps from the armchair, reaches for him—just like that night, just like at the bridge.
His hands grasp at nothing. He hits the floor with a bone-jarring thud, the impact sending a wave of pain through his body.
“Don’t leave—” he rasps out.
But it’s over.
The room is still. The drugs are wearing off.
And again, Sherlock is alone.