For the first time in just under five years, Sherlock Holmes was high on cocaine. He was working diligently in the kitchen of 221b, on not only a case, but on several personal experiments. The area was a mess. Every surface was strewn with flyaway papers and rogue body parts. A mysterious fluid was dripping off the edges of the counter. Whether it was blood, or a chemical of some sort, even Sherlock didn't know. Most likely, it was a cocktail of several substances that he'd been using haphazardly in the area. The chaos in the room was the least of Sherlock's concern when he was accomplishing so much. He'd forgotten how good it felt to have his body and mind working in tandem. So often his body would lag behind his racing thoughts, and it irritated the detective to no end.
At that specific moment, Sherlock was standing at the table, typing furiously into his laptop. His eyes were wide and his pupils had masked nearly all of the piercing blue of his irises. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the marks where he had injected the substance into his system.
He knew that he shouldn't have done it. He knew it was a bad decision. But he couldn't care right then. That was future Sherlock's problem. He, in fact, was so concentrated on the task at hand that he didn't hear the footsteps of his flatmate coming up the stairs. In only moments, John entered the flat with an armful of groceries.
"Sherlock, I've got milk so I hope there's room in the fridge for it," he said, as he kicked off his shoes and stepped into the kitchen. John surveyed the area with a vague expression of distaste. "Well, at least you've emptied the fridge of the ears and arms you had in there- but it would've been nice if you'd put them somewhere other than… here." He stated, gesturing with his free hand to the general area of the kitchen.
His back was turned to Sherlock as he put away the groceries that he had purchased.
John sighed as he heard no response from the other man. Typical. Chances were that he was so immersed in his work that he hadn't even noticed the presence of the doctor. It was incredibly ironic how Sherlock could notice details that no one else would, but blatantly obvious events could go right over his head.
"Sherlock," Nothing. "Sherlock."
"Busy, John."
"What are you working on?" John asked, moving towards the preoccupied detective.
He tried to look over Sherlock's shoulder to see the screen of the laptop, but found himself being swatted away. This was when John noticed the marks. All up and down Sherlock's arms were those telltale bruises and scabs that screamed substance abuse.
Anger flooded John's body, but there was a sense of relief in knowing that the detective had been careless enough to forget to conceal the marks. If he hadn't, the taller man would've had a good chance at getting away with it.
"Sherlock Holmes, what the hell are those?" John exclaimed, forcibly grabbing the exposed forearm to inspect it more closely.
Sherlock was hardly fazed by this abrupt action, continuing to type with his free hand with as much speed and ability as if he was using both. He wasn't about to let this interfere with his productivity. Nothing could stop him. In that moment he felt like he could do anything. Only seconds had passed, however, before the screen of the computer was slamming shut, narrowly missing his fingers. Sherlock looked up at John, his expression angry and accusatory.
"What on earth was that fo-" he was interrupted with an even more upset John.
"No. Sherlock. Shut up. What did you take? How much? And why the hell did you do it?" he demanded, grip still firm on the detective's wrist, despite the squirming that the taller man had started.
"Let go." He growled under his breath.
Eyes narrowing and lip curling in a sneer, John did so. Sherlock's tone was dangerously low, and he knew it wouldn't be safe to push it. They'd need to wait until he'd come down from the effects for the two of them to have a conversation that could be even remotely productive.
"Don't think for a second that you're working anymore tonight. You're going to clean up anything that may blow up within the next while, and then you're going to sleep this off. We don't need to talk, and quite frankly, I don't want to talk to you at the moment, but this not a request." John finished, and stalked off to the living room, lowering himself into his chair with a heavy sigh. He could tell that this was going to be a long, long run for the both of them.