Psychostimulant

 I.

He's active. I'm reactive, though not perhaps in as volatile a fashion as I should be.

Comes home in one of those moods. Itching for a case; craving interaction that I couldn't possibly give him. Really, Sherlock's his own only friend, in that regard; only his thoughts can provide the sort of stimulation his mind needs. He may think it's dull inside my head, but I will say I'd take my empty walls of a skull over his, constantly having a bundle of mania bounced between them, any day.

So he doses. He doesn't really care if I watch, which I'm glad about; I like nothing more than to observe him in the art that is everything he does. And it is an art, really; from solution to shot, the entire thing is done in a total of about 30 seconds, all with the finesse of a diver. It seems so second-nature, pouring the exact amount of solute, bending his arm and finding (without his eyes) the correct vein. A single movement, in, out, and it's done – he leans back and shuts his eyes, finally at peace, losing himself in the euphoric ringing in his ears.

He stays like that for a few moments while I continue to be leaned against the door frame. I take him in. God, he is mine. It's incredible.

I disapprove. He knows.

I'll tell him later. Let him enjoy the short amount of time he has until he needs another injection.

Perhaps I'm an enabler.

II.

I don't catch a lot of sleep when I know he's coming down. I just... I like to keep an eye on him.

I normally just lie next to him and breathe with him. You know how that is, right? Sometimes just knowing their breath is there, next to yours, in tandem with your own, is more comforting than anything that could be said.

“John, go to sleep. For God's sake.”

He usually catches me, but he usually thinks I obey him.

Or maybe that's not the case, and I'm the one who's fooled.

Maybe he just likes to breathe in time with me.

III.

Kiss, shiver, shudder, moan. He drags a fingernail down my back; I nip at his excellently defined clavicle. He groans and tilts his head back, allowing me better access, so I take it.

There are moments, Holmes...

Eyes. Bright, burning, boring straight through me. Above me; no, below. That was fast. How'd he do that?

Skin. More, god, please – more. Moisture, musk. Man. Mine.

He gasps; sighs happily. Yanks me closer, pushes me away, pulls me back in with a rough kiss. Bites my lip, hard enough that it's probably bleeding.

It's all sort of blurry, except for those eyes.

Release. Still, those eyes. Fixed upon me, studying me, figuring me out. Though there are times, Holmes, that surely even you have read all that there is to read.

I collapse onto him. He drags his nails up my back again, lightly. I grumble and kiss his neck, speak gently into it.

“How is it that you reduce me to this?”

He refrains from showing off by speaking, for once, but I can practically hear the smirk.

IV.

I'm rather addicted to him, you know?

As a muse; as a lover. As most things. He's got this gruffness to him but it's also a cloud of mysteriousness, a dark energy that'll pierce straight through you if you let it. Sudden and delicious and extraordinarily gratifying.

It's the comedown that's the hard bit.

He is quite the mind-reader, Sherlock Holmes. And the mind-alterer.

He changes everything. There's no going back.