It was a beautiful thing, Sherlock decided, reconnecting with the bliss that was heroin. He had little trouble finding it once he decided upon indulging in a brief relapse. Though others would disagree he found nothing wrong with his choice to go back into the warmth and numbness of the drug. He had little motivation to stay sober between the lack of any case on the horizon and the loneliness he was feeling now that John was with Mary so often.
Upon returning to 221B Baker street Sherlock nearly bounded up the stairs to avoid any contact with or suspicion from Mrs. Hudson. Locking the door to his flat behind him and retrieving the small bag of heroin from his trouser pocket. A small smile curled the corners of his lips, his eyes alight as he admired the powder inside the clear plastic. He placed it on the coffee table beside the sofa and went to find his tools. Going upstairs to the second bedroom that belonged to John he went over to the window and knelt down prying up the loose floor board. No one ever thought to look here, they were always searching his room for signs of the drugs but John was not an addict. Plucking up the board and smirking down at the small black case that was still hidden in its place. Opening the box to inspect it he was not surprised to find the contents exactly as he had left them. Inside was two clean needles and the spoon he favored to cook his heroin on. He headed back downstairs and into the bathroom, grabbing a cue tip and a small bit of water before heading back into the parlor.
He sat down in on the sofa and began to set everything up as he needed it, measuring out a little over half of the bag onto the spoon and adding only the slightest bit of water to help it dissolve. Taking out a pack of cigarettes and a torch from his other trouser pocket he began to heat the metal of the underside of the spoon. Eyes carefully examining it as his wrist delicately swirled the small pool of solution on the metal, watching it come together nicely. Sherlock could not wipe the expression of excitement from his lips, delighted with his own handiwork. Carefully, very carefully he set down the spoon on the table and hastily prepared the needle. With the greatest gentility he let the now liquid heroin pour into the chamber. His long, clever fingers flicking the glass as he expertly removed any air pockets and let the drugs cool a bit.
Rolling up his left sleeve he studied his veins, looking for one that was primed for injection. His pale skin let him find a beautiful, thick purple-blue vein as his right hand held the needle oh so ready to enjoy himself once again. Sherlock rarely thought of himself as a happy person but despite the problems it had caused he remembered the happiness that came with every high from the precious few milliliters inside the hypodermic needle. With a steady hand he eased it towards his flesh, aiming with absolute precision he let the cold metal pierce his milky skin.
The acute sting that came from the needle only went noticed because it was a sign that he was close to what he wanted. His thumb slowly began to press at the stopper and he watched the mixture empty into his blood stream, a small amount of blood pooling inside of the needle once it was emptied. Removing it and setting it back upon the table he leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Letting out a long soft sigh of pleasure as his body was enveloped in that familiar warm kiss of his mistress, heroin. The drugs quickly coursed inside of him and he felt his muscles release every bit of tension that they had been holding on to for so long, for too long.
Sherlock opened his eyes, his apartment seemed hazy as his mind thankfully slowed even just the slightest. He doubted most people could truly appreciate the quiet mind that came with the intense high of it all. Soon even that thought was quieted as he sat staring blankly around the room. His eye lids felt heavy as he took in his surroundings, looking to the skull on the mantle and letting the smallest of laughs. He would pay for this later if Mycroft ever found out that he had relapsed but in this moment of sheer bliss he could not care. He was no longer bored, he no longer was lonely or thinking of his crime-solving partner. He was happy and numb even if it was artificial and to Sherlock that was a beautiful thing indeed.