#threadalliwanted

Empty.

That was all.

Just empty.

There was a sensation that went along with empty. It was what some people might compare to cold, or lonely, or even restless.

Empty was nearly Sherlock's least favourite, second only to hurt, which was so rare that it was at this time quite entirely forgotten. It made Sherlock fidget on the couch, made the stale tang of the air far too apparent, a soft buzzing just against the underside of his skull burning through his consciousness and making it impossible to stop thinking. Thoughts that raced, constant, bright and dark and colourful and constantly moving against the backs of his eyes, like a garish cinema.

Unsettled, unable to breathe for the words that were stifling and choking against his throat and into his nose and down to the very veins of his lungs, Sherlock let out a beastly noise and fidgeted right off of the couch. The sudden impact of his body to the floor shocked him, for a moment, and he lay there, staring at the vague white-grey of the ceiling, letting his mind rest. Only a moment, just long enough for him to start to fall asleep, until the buzzing recommenced, making him close his eyes in frustration, see the swirling pastels of his own neural network again, and it started all over.

He took a shower, shaking off every bit of the feeling, but the second the cool air hit his body his skin began to itch. Frustrated, he sat on the edge of the tub and ran his fingers through his hair over and over, ruffling it, shaking himself, trying to loosen the threads of his mind, woven too tight. A second later he was up, raiding his dirty refrigerator. Curdled milk. Bread ends. Broccoli - why did he have broccoli? Tea. He should make some tea.

A few minutes, a scald, and seven nicotine patches later, he sat on the couch once more, clad in loose pyjamas, fingers steepled against his lips. Breath after slow breath was taken, his mind settling finally. There was nothing to do, that was the problem. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't leave his current residence, couldn't satisfy himself with what he was allowed to explore on the internet, couldn't even get lost in a new book. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Before, this had led to terrible consequences, being left alone with his own mind and nothing to distract him.

And those had been his last nicotine patches.

The tea went cold. He'd run out of ideas. His fingers felt warm against the crook of his arm. If he was human, he might have felt sorry. For now, he was simply glad that the colours of his neural network were cool rather than feverish and gold, that the sensation of insects under every inch of his skin was gone, and that, in a way, he could sleep.