Sherlock inserted the needle into a vein of his left arm. Blood married with the contents of the syringe, and then he compressed the plunger. The familiar tingle of excitement hit his stomach first, and then radiated up through his chest and groin. A sense of wellbeing settled on him.
He imagined John's reaction if he walked in now. Surprise, undoutedly, and then concerned anger. Sherlock could picture that furrowed brow and tightened lips and the disbelieving shake of the head. How could you do this? It's only been a few weeks, and I walk in here and see you back on the morphine or cocaine or what have you –"
"Shut up, John. It's not what you think." Sherlock packed away his equipment and entered the dosage into a spreadsheet on his laptop. "It's amphetamine. Please. Cocaine is too expensive these days for what it is."
I don't care what it is! I can't stand by while you pointlessly endanger your health like this.
"It's not pointless. It's the only thing preventing me dying of extreme boredom."
You're on a case, Sherlock! How can you be bored?
Sherlock flopped into his chair, head drooping lackadaisically onto the armrest. "Oh, I'm bored of Janine. I'm bored of having to go through all the arbitrary motions to accrue enough relationship points with her to reach the next stage of my plan. All there is to do is wait. I don't even have you around anymore to keep me amused."
It's not for lack of trying. I came over here two days ago. You weren't even in. You're the one who's avoiding me. You even took away my chair.
"I… Yes, all right, I pretended I wasn't here. There's a good explanation. I just can't… tell you."
Well, that's no surprise, is it? I'm always the last person in the world who you bother telling anything to. Why bother, after all, I'm only your moronic, big mouth blogger.
"It's not like that, John," said Sherlock towards the empty space where John's chair had been, the chair he'd moved because it was too painful a reminder of his friend. "Don't you understand? I made a vow to protect you from danger. I can't let Magnussen use you as my pressure point. I'd murder him before I let him use you."
That's very noble of you, Sherlock, but you could've at least texted. Let me know what's up.
"Don't worry. It will be over soon. Then I can rescue you from the clutches of domestic life. You looked so very bored when last I visited. Oh, I didn't let my presence be known to you, of course, but I've been watching from a distance. Don't look like that, John. I'm keeping tabs on your security. Nothing interesting to report yet, sadly, unless you count the hysterical neighbour who barges in on you at odd hours of the morning to be hysterical about her smackhead son, although one would think -"
Sherlock paused mid-sentence as something clicked in his head. He jumped to his feet and started pacing around the room. "Brilliant. Kills two birds with one stone. Magnussen will think… and John will… oh, this is just brilliant."
The following day, Sherlock walked up the stairs of the smack house, adjusting his parka and mussing up his hair. Dingy, derelict and promising. He walked the length of the room, past rows of stoned junkies on dirty mattresses, and claimed a mattress adjacent to a dozing youth.
"Hello, Isaac," Sherlock said.
"Huh? What do you want?" Isaac mumbled.
Sherlock only had to keep Isaac here for a couple days. The mother would come crying to John. John would inevitably come in search for Isaac. He was too adrenaline starved to resist.
Sherlock rummaged around in his pocket and withdrew a bag of smack. "Want to get high?"
And when John arrived here, Sherlock would be waiting for him.