Title: Syringe
Summary: He supposes this makes him dirty again.
Warnings: Drug use. Heavy drug use. Some hinted sexual content.
Words: 464
Author: limabear
Comments: I… I understand this is pointless and shit. I do. Don't judge. Anyway, I hope you do enjoy. And please, please, please review.
xxx
Your first action, when you start to feel it, is to close and lock yourself in the bedroom. No need for John to walk in on this. No need for him to catch you in your fall from grace and you know, you know that's not possible.
(You had no such grace from which to fall.)
But the truth is, as you're lying there staring at the snow lights dancing about, that this is easily the least comfortable trip you've ever experienced. And you've partaken in a good many uncomfortable highs- ending up on your knees in payment because you'd do anything, anything for that one hit.
Sherlock Holmes, brilliant though he may be, can never say no to a syringe.
No matter how clear you keep your head, the boredom will always come back to make you insane. Eventually you can't live without the high, you need a hit like a shot to the back of the head.
Now come the less favourable bits, the shakes, the vomiting (dry heaves actually, when did you last eat? Is that why you're shaking? When did you last sleep?). But it's worth it, it's worth it completely because it's something, it's better than nothing. Better than nicotine, better than the Ritalin and Adderall you used to buy off your roommate back in Uni. Sure there was the withdrawal, the screaming, wanting to rip yourself in two and let all the jumpy, bothersome blood run away.
Hell. There are days you could do that without the aid of drugs. Boredom does things to you. It banishes self-restraint and caution and just leaves a need to never stop moving.
(Constant stimuli.)
The nights you've had- kissing, touching, bedding strangers, women, men, not because you liked it but for the stimulation. Not mental, perhaps, but it. Was. Something.
You learned a very long time ago that too much boredom led to too much thinking led to—
And you observe the light, vertical scars on your wrists, forearms, brown and healed over for ages now (you were never strong enough to cut deeper, but you tried, God damn it you tried). It's been ages since you inflicted a razor on yourself. Ages since your brain went there. (You deserve this, freak.)
But this being the worst high in recent memory, of course it doesn't last long, it never really does. You find yourself almost not wanting it to end- wouldn't it be so much easier to deal with John and his how-could-yous and I-thought-you-were-cleans.
(You wonder, does this make you dirty again? How much filth has been crammed into the mind and body of Sherlock Holmes?)
And down you go, head spinning, body heavy, room warping back into place, and you know, you know you live for this.