Sherlock pressed his fingers against his temples, attempting to suppress the desire for a fix, a desire that he had eluded since his marriage to John, but yesterday had taxed him beyond his limits. The dark mood that pressed itself in on him threatened to strangulate any sane, logical thought processes. I want to be comfortably numb, he mused, and it would help clarify my thoughts, thus allowing me to concentrate on the case. This thought squelched any hesitation. His need for a fix was now justified. He looked down at John while he slept. Beautiful. He is perfect, Sherlock thought, then he walked out of the room. Once outside the flat, he took a deep breath. The city was ready, ready to take him in its arms, ready to caress him with its decadent wares.
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