1. It's like fucking lightning in his veins. Everything is movement and slick; it's technicolor and pulsating with quelled life. It hums through him, striking him head to toe, firing his synapses one after the other without stop, the sodium channels flooding open without the opposite activation of potassium channels to counteract the action potential welling up inside. The world is action and energy.
Fucking lightning indeed, galvanizing him from the inside out.
It's foreign and he doesn't quite know where it comes from either, and as three days pass without a break, without a decrease in this… energy, without sleep or the need for food he wonders what possibly is raging inside him.
All Sherlock understands is what the data tells him. He gets more experiments done, has more brilliant ideas, deductions come quicker, and he feels amazing.
On the fourth day it's over just as quickly as it began. He sleeps for twelve hours and awakens feeling heavy and disappointed.
The electricity is gone, the world fading to dull shades, bleary and boring. So Sherlock sneaks a cigarette past mother and Mycroft and smokes one silkily in the forest during midday recess.
The spark of the lighter as he lights up reminds him of flame and fire and lightning.
2. There are weeks that pass by, un-ending in their monotony and routine, grey and dull and oh so hateful. His classmates are boring, Mycroft is boring, everything is just so fucking boring (especially because he remembers the opposite, those blissful four days of endless activity and stimulation). It makes Sherlock itch, he feels his mind grate against the confine of his skin.
Even those weeks are better, far better, than the shocking crash.
Sherlock wakes up one morning and finds he cannot move. After running a quick mental analysis he recognizes that he is not, in fact, paralyzed. Yet, he still can't get his muscles to push himself back up.
He tells his mother he is ill and she makes a quick call to the school before rushing off to teach a class at the university.
The day passes by slow and unending, Sherlock staring at the ceiling his mind so uncharacteristically numb, his thinking delayed. He absently scratches his skin, the weight of the covers eventually making him feel claustrophobic and even then he can't get himself to move. Red marks dig into the side of his arm from his compulsive action, over and over, nails up, nails down, repeat.
His heartbeat irks him as it pulsates through the silence.
Mycroft pokes his head on the third day of Sherlock missing school.
"I collected your coursework for you to complete when… this is over."
Sherlock does not deem this worthy of a reply.
Up, down, repeat. Up, down, repeat.
Cyclic, methodic, ritualistic, it keeps him sane through the darkness.
Up.
Down.
Repeat.
On the fifth day he wakens (not sure if it is morning or night, everything has run together) to find his head is clear. Sherlock is able to push himself out of bed and drag himself downstairs.
He just popped the toast in the toaster when his mother screams behind him.
Sherlock looks at where her wide eyes are directed. Cracked blood flows down his inner left arm, his nails on his right hand cracking and raw. Sherlock hadn't even noticed it.
Interesting. Data to be stored for later review.
In the end, he tells his mother he had been stressed about exams and that the mental vacation was definitely much needed. She kisses him on the forehead and never asks about the scratching, because Mummy Holmes had learned long ago to never question the Holmes children; there were some things a mother just doesn't want to know.
Sherlock's glad she doesn't ask, because, even after further data review, he finds he does not have an answer.
3. Two towns over Carl Powers dies in a swimming pool after experiencing a crippling seizure. The local paper gives him a small amount of space in the obituaries and a short sensationalist segment on whether the boy's death was foul play. It's clear from the tone of the article that the journalist doesn't believe Carl had been murdered; the piece was obviously to fill space and add some spice to a dreadfully dry paper.
Sherlock can't get it off of his mind.
Granted, ever since two days ago, it seems like Sherlock can't get anything off of his mind. Everything is starlit it seems, brilliant and shiny, so intriguing and he has to have all of it. Every thought that pops into his head leads to ten others and he has to toy with each one, play for a bit and then eventually discard it, like a spoiled child.
His mind is noisy and racing, and as the need for sleep seems to have disappeared, he just finds that he has more time on hand to be stranded in the cacophony that is his brain.
Carl Powers is just such a thought, the itch he can't help but scratch. Foul play. The thought swells within Sherlock's mind, bending and contorting to fill his every heartbeat, swells and contracts with each breath.
Something isn't quite right about Carl Powers.
It hits him one evening (or is it early morning?).
The evidence. He needs to collect evidence, not rely on some haphazard recollection of events done by a lazy, underpaid office worker at the local gazette. His forays in the scientific method have taught him that much, and the deductive skills he's been honing with Mycroft (the only use for his larger older brother) could definitely help.
Data has to be collected.
Sherlock bolts out of his room, discarding the petri dish of E. coli he had been culturing for future experiments, donning a jacket and scarf as he leaves.
It isn't hard to exit his house without being caught. After all, it is a large house with lots of space between bedrooms and it's late at night (early morning?).
His body seems to be shaking, energy bubbling from his toes, rushing through his circulatory system, everything is trapped by the confines of his body, his hateful transport and he just wants to go go go go go.
Sherlock breaks into a run as soon as the cold night air hits his face. The stars shine brightly in the sky that is so vast and nebulous and far, but Sherlock doesn't want to toy with those thoughts because intangibility makes him uncertain and certainty is what he strives for, clarity and logic and the scientific method and…
fuck he wants to know what makes a star and what makes them implode because he imagines the same science that applies to the nebula and destruction of stars could give him clarity as to what his mind is doing…
because he feels as if he is going one hundred miles on a treadmill, everything is so slow and he's moving in place, the motor inside of him not matching with the motor of the rest of the world, disconnect in electrical input perhaps, or perhaps an inductor has halted the flow of current in everything around him while his mind goes at full speed.
It takes him less time to arrive at the locker rooms of the swimming pool where Carl Powers died then he realized.
Then again, time was strange in this state. There never seemed to be enough even as his days doubled from not sleeping.
Hopping the fence is easy, and brushing past the comical, yellow 'Police Line Do Not Cross' tape is even easier. He's gaining momentum now, his velocity increasing both internally and externally as Sherlock breathes in the chlorine (group 17, period 3, electron shell 3s2, 3p5…).
The pool is not where the evidence will be. The pool was the scene of the death, but not the scene of the crime. Too many people watching, the mechanism of killing must have come before the swim meet had begun. Which meant he would have to look in the locker room.
Everything is untouched in Carl's locker. Morbidly neat, but that's not exactly a flaw or a clue to the murder. Could just be OCD. Towels folded in the shelf at the top of the locker, bleach-clean with the faint scent of chlorine and body odor. No clues there. Goggles and swim cap not present, but that's easily explained, he was wearing them when he died, why would they be put back in the locker? Carl's street clothes are at the bottom of the locker, packed just as neatly as the towels. A pair of socks lie balled up on top of the pile.
Sherlock sighs. Nothing of interest. Boring. Dull. No clues for the case…
Except Sherlock's eyes can't seem to move away from the socks because something isn't right here. Carl Powers, OCD tendencies, very clean and hygienic boy, does not have shoes in his locker. Character evidence for the victim rules out that he just walked around barefoot. Where were the shoes?
Sherlock's mind is spinning, the gears turning, data running through. He had to collect more evidence, obviously, to validate his claims, but Carl Powers had his shoes when he came into the locker rooms, left them in the locker (presumably; a safe assumption given character evidence, he wouldn't want his shoes to get dirty and in the locker was the safest place), and then began a swim meet that ended in his death. Police obviously hadn't touched anything in the locker, as is their MO in regards to potential criminal evidence.
That meant someone else was here in the locker room in between Power's death and the beginning of the police investigation. And they took his trainers.
Foul play was certainly looking more likely. True, it could have been the act of a sentimental mother or sibling who wanted to have 'something to remember Carl by' (sentiment, dull), but unlikely. People tended to lose cranial function after the loss of a loved one; unlikely that they remembered something as arbitrary as shoes.
Sherlock grins, rocking back in forth on his toes, his fingers steepled under his chin. His mind is whirring, computations, postulations expounding, the data seems to be flowing in his veins, circulating his body. He needs more, more, more! More evidence, more data, more cases, this is so much fucking fun he can't imagine dull dull dull school with dull dull dull peers anymore.
He rushes out of the locker rooms, velocity now directed towards home, towards lab, towards shower and experiments and more, more more.
"Hey, what were you doing in there?"
Police man. Middle aged. Wife cheating on him, only married a couple years, he's young and not used to having authority.
A pushover.
The police man runs over to Sherlock who stops and waits for his arrival. No use resisting really. He can't outrun a cop car.
"What are you doing there lad? Didn't you see the bloody tape?"
A reply is not necessary; therefore, Sherlock does not give one.
"You're not allowed in there. I could haul you down to the station for trespassing, or worse tampering with evidence."
"I didn't touch anything."
The police man pauses, surveying Sherlock closer. He squints and moves so the lights from the school can shine more clearly on the boy's face.
"You're just a kid. What were you, a friend of Carl's, a schoolmate?"
Sherlock sees the opening and takes it. He nods, his face contorting itself, the muscles of his face taking on the appearance of a distraught fifteen year old (different facial numbers). He wills tears to appear in his eyes, his shoulders shake up and down.
"Yeah… he, Carl is… was… my mate."
"Christ kid, I'm sorry. But I can't have you wandering around a crime scene, understand? Do you need a ride home?"
It would seem strange for him not to take it, so he plays the part and gets a ride in the back of the police cruiser. Sherlock finds it hard to keep still when his mind is eons ahead, especially while simultaneously trying to play the role of a grieving "commoner".
His father is awake when he gets home (is it really 3 in the morning?) and is none too pleased to find out his son had been romping around a crime scene at ungodly hours.
"Because my mind is a supernova, father, and it was the only thing to keep it from imploding into a neutron star."
Alvin Holmes cocks an eyebrow and sends him to bed.
The high is over the next day, as he dejectedly resigns himself to never knowing the truth behind Carl Powers.
Alvin Holmes notes his son's erratic behavior for further analysis.
4. Sherlock thrives in patterns, in picking order out of chaos. His basest needs are to dismantle, destroy everything only to organize and divulge in its inner working, and then build it up again. Puzzles, people, he dissected them all, cataloguing every minute detail until the general pattern was determined. Only then could he put the stimulus down, only after he had learned all its secrets. Then it would dull and fade to the perimeter.
There was no pattern to these varying states. They were systematically random.
It was both extremely intriguing and annoying, a nuisance that always scratched at the back of his mind. When would the next one be happening? Would it be the high or the crash?
Sherlock began to think of himself as an enigma, a mistake in the order of the universe because as far as he could tell everything else was based on an underlying schema, except for this. Except for him.
5. "Sherlock, please, it's been days love, tell us what's wrong. Come out and have some tea and for God's sake let us help you."
Sherlock rolled over in bed to face the wall, hoping that if Mother Holmes did barge in (which was likely considering past experience) she would presume him asleep and go away. He didn't want to see her, he didn't want to see anybody, and he certainly didn't want to get out of bed.
Not because he couldn't, no it wasn't that kind of crash, the kind when he felt lethargic and apathetic. No this one was more dangerous, a knife with just a hint of the coppery taste of blood. There was the sadness and the emptiness, yes, that was there as it always was, but along with this were desires, the ache, the need to do something reckless, something dangerous because if he forced himself into an adrenaline rush he could forget the emptiness for a little while.
It scared him. Shook him to the core. It was illogical and therefore he shouldn't be clutching at these desires, holding them close to himself and cradling them in his chest. Yet he was, which was even more illogical. And the whole ordeal had Sherlock anxious and angry, sad and overwhelmed.
So he locked himself in his room to chain himself to these demons. It was easier than giving in to them.
The door burst open and the matronly figure of Mother Holmes stood in the frame. She took in the state of the room, noticed the experiments hadn't been touched in awhile, that the clothes strewn on the floor were not new. Her son had obviously not left his bed then in awhile, he hadn't been working on some project and needed the privacy as was usual.
She wishes he had been.
Mummy Holmes moves towards the bed, perching her slight frame on the edge of the mattress. Her hands stroke Sherlock's curls lightly, the action caring and so obviously coming from a place of affection and love. Sherlock squirms slightly away from her touch, curling in on himself. Mrs. Holmes sighs.
"This is the third long period you've missed school in the past couple months, Sherlock, and when you're not sleeping for days, you're spinning in circles. What's wrong, love?"
It is only because he is scared, shaken, and cracking slightly at the edges, and because he believes his mother, although a nuisance, should have some validation for her matronly duty, that he answers.
"I'm a systematic error, there is no pattern, no reason behind my actions. I'm out of sync with the rest of the order that's out there. I do not know how to answer your question because I don't know the answer myself."
Mummy Holmes looks into those piercing grey eyes and glimpses the tidal waves of emotion roiling through her normally aloof son, and her heart snaps inside her.
6. Bipolar Disorder.
This doctor is not dressed in a lab coat, but rather a strangely eccentric brown suit and comically thick-rimmed glasses. Psychiatrist, the best money can buy.
Violet and Alvin, as usual when something was going wrong with their sons, had decided to get expert advice on their mental states. It had happened with Mycroft's OCD, Sherlock's… other eccentricities. Sherlock didn't think his parents had expected to need so much expert advice on their children, but they were unique for sure.
He didn't believe the doctor when he had given his diagnosis. Was already diagnosed with ADHD from a young age, couldn't these hyperactive tendencies just be that? And the crashes, law of conservation of energy? He expends so much being hyper that he's bound to run out sometime, it can't be magically created.
He's prescribed Lamictal, told to take it every day at night to stave off the negative side effect of "fuzziness of mind". Good God, how is he supposed to function like that? He wants everything to be bright and interesting, mad and brilliant, and if having a few days of the month be the lowest of the low, isn't that worth the trade?
The chemical is administered anyways, and Sherlock tells himself that a true scientist would treat this as an experiment. He lets his mind fade, lets the titration increase to the desired dosage, and as he falls under into the placidity of chemical equilibrium, he wonders if the normality is truly worth it.
7. He stops taking the drugs as soon as he leaves for uni. They were dull, and almost as boring as the people in school. Except with them he found it harder to be smarter, to be brilliant and whip-like smartass because everything was just a little foggy, a little less lucid. Sherlock liked knowing he was better than everyone else, but found it hard to prove it when he was stuck in a chemical wasteland.
After he's dropped off at Oxford, he bins the orange bottle immediately. Fucking Lamictal and it's fucking dream like state. He will never deal with that again. He swears.
8. Cocaine is not a dream like state. Cocaine is just the opposite. Cocaine makes everything crystal sharp, so highly in focus, yet his thoughts are moving at the right pace, not jumping around from A to Z to Q. Linear thinking is something Sherlock never thought he would experience. That is until the white mistress flew from his nose to the blood-brain barrier, affecting his serotonin reuptake. Good God, this was good. And although the nose bleeds are a nuisance, it's so much better than a foggy, placid haze.
He gets the reputation of being a smart ass, a prick, and a whacked out druggie genius, which are all things Sherlock is totally okay with owning up to. He doesn't talk to Mycroft or Mummy anymore, and he never spoke much to Father to begin with. There's just him and the cocaine, and the wonderful feeling of finally being in control.
9. He supposed he should have known that lacking Lamictal and introducing a stimulant would result in an exacerbated mania.
Unfortunately, Sherlock only comes to this conclusion when he wakes up in a neck brace and staring up at the white, bright fluorescence of hospital lighting. He knows Mycroft is there even if he can't see him, can't turn his head with the neck brace. But that looming presence, the overbearing disappointment is present, so his big brother must be too.
"Mycroft, what happened?"
"You jumped off a roof Sherlock. Fell four stories. High as a kite on cocaine too, and no traces of Lamictal left in your system."
Sherlock closes his eyes against the blinding white light, taps his foot lightly under the thin sheet to give his body something to focus on while his brain spins in circles. He'd been a bit manic, sure, not sleeping enough, more impulsive. Thought it had just been the cocaine, had forgotten about that dreadful diagnosis ever since he'd started using the white powder. Yet now he was well aware of his aching body and the pain in his hip, the bruises on his skin and the irregular beeping of the heart monitor. He's willing to admit that this is not exactly a circumstance he wants to be in.
He still can't see Mycroft, his brother seems to be remaining purposefully out of view for some reason. Trying to set a foreboding presence or because he's betraying sentiment? Hard to tell with Mycroft. Nevertheless, his brother speaks up.
"When you are released you will be taken to rehabilitation for detox from your illegal drugs and treatment for your current psychological condition. I will pick you up in three months time."
Sherlock hears the click of his brothers shoes and the clack of his umbrella as it hits the linoleum tiles on his way out. Breath catches fast, heartbeat speeding up, tears prick at the edges of his eyes but no no no he will not have a panic attack, will not give in to hollow emotions and useless feelings especially not over his useless whale of a brother. Sherlock is logical, he is a scientist, he is above all this.
And as a scientist, his best option is to turn up the dial of his morphine and drug himself into oblivion.
10. "I hope your stay in rehabilitation was beneficial Sherlock."
Sherlock can only nod, can't find enough energy to particularly care to respond in any other way. They'd put him back on Lamictal again, the world becoming a foggy haze, his highs and lows flat lining to something in between, something boring and hateful but with the titration up to where it should be he doesn't have the fortitude to balk against the mental stagnation.
He misses the lightning and the energy. The fire and the dances with danger. Most of all he misses cocaine.
"Mummy and Daddy don't know, of course, think you took a semester abroad. You can thank me for this later."
"I'm not going to thank you Mycroft."
"My people will be monitoring you, Sherlock. Do not attempt to continue your disuse of prescribed medicine or your misuse of self-prescribed illicit drugs. I will know."
Sherlock can once again only nod.
God, he misses the highs.
11. He does well for a while, stimulated by the publication of his chemical research into the composition of a new synthetic drug. Chemical makeup of the newly released drug could potentially lead to dangerous side effects in people that are low in particular amino acids. Which of course, is impossible to know upon prescription to a patient. A rather dull topic, more done for the notoriety of publication than for actual interest in the work itself, but interesting enough to hold his attention (which was prone to waver) and keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow.
Three months in he cracks. Things are too dull, too boring; he misses the circular nature of his brain, the whirling thoughts, the clear and bright elucidations. Misses the highs, doesn't care about the danger or the sickening lows. Sherlock wants lightning and electricity, anything besides this numbing chemical static.
Lamictal down the toilet, cocaine in his veins.
He collapses boneless onto his bed, as his ears begin to ring, his heartbeat increases, and everything finally feels normal.
He is once again high.
12. Sherlock hasn't been able to sleep in days, but whether that's the mania or the cocaine, he isn't quite sure. He's been using for a few months now again, sharing with his friend Victor, and somehow Mycroft still hasn't found out that he's both dumped the prescription and taken up drugs again. Which is all fine.
He presumes it must be the cocaine because he hasn't done anything monumentally irresponsible yet. Just been doing loads of coursework, shuffling around his disaster of a room tirelessly though the night, and topping himself off when he feels a bit low.
Sherlock glances at the clock, 4 am. Hasn't topped up in a couple hours, beginning to feel the dregs of his last hit. He prepares the syringe, ties up the arm, finds the vein and injects.
There is fire, and electricity, but it is painful and irritating, crackling down Sherlock's spine causing him to twitch in seizure. Lightning snaps through his brain, electrocuting the synapses, causing them to rapidly fire than switch off. Convulsing on the ground, the needle full of cocaine still in his arms. He's had too much coke before, thought that the whirling and the pain was what an overdose felt like. Not like this.
Noises, screaming (his screams?), a door banging open, shouting, ambulance, paramedics and pumps and tubes out of his skin before the all-consuming darkness.
Sherlock doesn't like this high, doesn't like this fire and electricity and lightning. It burns him from the inside out.
13. Mummy picks him up from rehab and brings him back to the manor before his reinstallation into London as overseen by bloody Mycroft. She sets him down on the sofa, wraps him in a blanket and fetches some tea and biscuits. Sherlock touches neither, instead staring ahead of him into the empty fireplace.
"Sherlock, we care about you, you know."
"I know. You and Mycroft are always riddled with sentiment," he responds coldly, throwing up barriers and deflecting the emotions, his typical coping mechanism (besides cocaine).
"There's no need to be ashamed Sherlock."
"I'm not ashamed of having an overdose, nor am I ashamed of being a drug addict. They are simple causes and effects of my choices, and a natural response to my body being presented with mind-altering substances."
"I'm not talking about the drugs. I'm talking about your… psychological issues."
Sherlock is silent for a moment. "I'm not ashamed of that either, Mother. I just don't think it's as big a deal as all of you make it out to be. I could function normally if everyone would just stop forcing me into the bleeding medication. No wonder I became a drug addict, I was primed to be one since the age of eleven!"
Violet Holmes looks into those piercing grey eyes and glimpses the tidal waves of emotion roiling through her normally aloof son, and her heart snaps inside her.
14. "I am willing to make a deal with you Sherlock. You don't have to take the mood stabilizers anymore if you agree to stay clean."
Sherlock's heart skips a beat though his face remains placid. Easy to remain detached after years of being manipulated into feeling so. "Agreed," he says faster than he'd intended.
"And one more thing, you will be instead using all of that… energy… so to speak towards helping the police out. I've worked a deal out with Detective Inspector Lestrade. You will be a private detective."
"Ugh, dull Mycroft. Private detectives only get dull domestic cases or some half-assed murder case. I want the interesting ones because otherwise… I just need to be occupied."
Mycroft lifts an eyebrow yet remains entirely stoic. "I shall see to that, Brother Mine. Only the most interesting for Sherlock Holmes, private detective."
"Consulting detective, Mycroft."
"There's no such thing."
"There is now."
"If I find that you have broken the terms of our agreement, you can be assured that you shall be placed once more into rehabilitation and the choice of going without medication will no longer be an option."
"This is ridiculous, I'm twenty-six years old, I should be able to make my own choices about my well-being Mycroft."
"Not when those choices involve illegal drugs, dangerous manic episodes that lead to suicidal feats, and self-destructive depressive episodes."
Sherlock scowls but says no more. As long as he doesn't have to take Lamictal, he is okay with the conditions.
15. . It's like fucking lightning in his veins. Everything is movement and slick; it's technicolor and pulsating with quelled life. It hums through him, striking him head to toe, firing his synapses one after the other without stop, the sodium channels flooding open without the opposite activation of potassium channels to counteract the action potential welling up inside. The world is action and energy.
Fucking lightning indeed, galvanizing him from the inside out.
The cases are invigorating and captivating, capturing Sherlock's attention for days on end and giving him all the fodder to feed his manic phases. The crashes are bad, but manageable, as he is able to puzzle through cold cases when he feels the energy to exert anything. There's still a stash of seven percent solution hidden in the Persian slipper buried under the bricks in the fireplace, but he hasn't felt the need to use since working with Scotland Yard (who are in themselves dull, but the cases they get can sometimes be so intriguing).
Sherlock is the world's first and only consulting detective and he's brilliant and lightning quick, and he feels amazing. Not completely stable, but better than he's ever been.