Sherlock Holmes rolled up the left sleeve of his dress shirt and ran a finger down the porcelain skin of his forearm, resting on the scarred crook of his elbow. He clenched his fist and a blue vein revealed itself under the milky white barrier. Sherlock smiled and reached up to the mantle. He took down his bottle and his syringe, sighing with relief as he filled the syringe with his old friend. But before he could get the relief he wanted, the syringe was gone from his hand. Looking up, he saw John Watson holding it in a firm grip. "Give it back, John." Sherlock held out his hand for the drug.
"No." John held it away from him at arm's length. "I'm not going to sit by anymore and watch you do this to yourself."
"I explained to you why I do it, and why I need it." Sherlock reached for the syringe again, but John sidestepped him.
"And they're not good reasons. This stuff will destroy you. And I'm not going to watch it."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How would you even understand? To have a mind that races at top speeds, only to be managed by a little stimulation?" He raised his voice.
"You're going about this the wrong way, Sherlock!" John matched his volume. "You're destroying your gift that you treasure so highly!"
"John Watson," Sherlock was almost shouting now, "If you don't give me that back right now, I will never speak to you again!"
"GO AHEAD!" John thundered back, "Because when you're on it, it's not you talking anyway!" Sherlock fell silent and the two stared at each other for a while. "I just want you back. Not whoever you're trying to be with this." He waved the syringe to make his point.
It had been a mistake. Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed the drug, running off to his bedroom. He slammed the door and John ran into it, slamming his fists hard against the wood. "Don't do this, Sherlock! Please! I'm begging you!" He pounded harder, tears rolling down his face, until he sunk to the ground. He leaned his back against the door and put his head in his hands, sobbing, "Please. Please. Please."
Sherlock sat with his back against the door, the needle positioned to do its job. He listened to John's pleas, shedding a few tears for the hurt he was causing his friend. Then he pushed down on the piston and breathed deep as the cocaine coursed into his system. But the high didn't cut through John's stifled cries. Sherlock rested his head on the door and closed his eyes, letting a tear roll down his velvet cheekbones. The empty syringe rolled out of his hand and across the floor away from the empty hand and the empty man.