Bored. Bored. He's so BORED. There's nothing Sherlock can do to get away from the boredom. John's disappointed him once again. He's so typical, so normal, so boring. He's already had his first surgery - of course it looks good on him, but Sherlock prefers the raw John. And to that think he'd counted on the man to be different from the rest of them. So boring. His other best friend - best friend is a term used loosely, he makes sure to note, is busy. After Sherlock had dropped a concerned hint to Mycroft, a rare contact between the two which explained just how serious the situation was, about Jim's sadistic side, his older brother had gotten Jim a man as a Repoman. Jim loved the work - too much, and Sherlock knew it worried Mycroft. Soon enough, Jim would be bored with that too, and he had no idea what would have to be done with him then. God, it was something that even he didn't want to think about. Perhaps he could find new ways to torture his victims - at least they somewhat deserved it, he shrugged. John always was upset when he heard about the ninety-day delinquents - and their respective fates. While he himself was safe because of his relation to Sherlock, he.. He cared. Sherlock couldn't understand. He absolutely couldn't fathom it.

Caring wasn't something done in the Holmes family. While Mycroft wasn't as cruel as the founder of the company, Rotti Largo, he was cold and detached. Hell, he didn't even give a damn about Sherlock half the time. The boy was left to run wild. Left alone with his thoughts. When he was bored, Sherlock would sometimes compare himself and his 'friends' and family with the past of GeneCo. So long ago was the start of the company that it almost seemed like legend. Things had gotten better when the Holmes family came into power, but things hadn't changed enough for Sherlock's liking. Everyone was boring.

He considered again. Yes, Molly was like Shilo, he thought, at least - her sweeter side. Jim was without a doubt the most like Pavi. John - he took back the comment about Shilo. John was most definitely like the sweet tempered girl. Mycroft was, he supposed, Rotti, even though the personalities didn't match. Sherlock didn't care. Mummy was without a doubt most like Amber. He didn't bother casting the rest of his aquaintences, his attention span was too short. Except - perhaps Mycroft was like Nathan. Yes. That was better. Sherlock shook his head, frowing. He'd gotten distracted. Again. Maybe Mycroft was right - brain surgery could help refrain his thoughts. But he was pure now, and he intended to stay that way as long as possible. He kept himself in shape - his organs were really amazing. And real. And.. his.

"Bored." he muttered, climbing off the couch and starting to pace. His mind was driving him insane. It wouldn't quite - not even when John held him, or had him. Nothing stilled it - except working on a case for Mycroft, which didn't ever entertain him for long. Jim was too busy with his work for games now, which left Sherlock in an even worse situation than normal. The man got off work in three hours - John in four. Sherlock frowned. Perhaps it was time to go for a friendly visit to Jim's boyfriend. Yes, that would be.. nice.

Jim was dating danger - of course. He'd fallen for the neighborhood's Z-dealer - Sherlock wasn't sure about the whole 'fallen in love' part, but Jim claimed it was true, so Sherlock didn't bother arguing. Zydrate - it didn't count as impure, Sherlock ensured himself. Besides, the quiet and the nothing it gave him was unlike everything he'd ever felt. If he could be sure death felt that way, he'd kill himself immediately.

Sherlock practically ran downstairs, heart already beating with excitement. He knew he shouldn't - he knew if John or Greg - hmm, he thought, Greg might be a good Nathan - damn it! He'd done it again! What was happening to his mind? It couldn't be the Z, could it? He shook his head, sighing. Impossible. John, or Greg, or Mycroft - if any of them found out about his habit. Oh, God, Sherlock didn't even want to think about it.

Mycroft had already told Sherlock countless time he would supply him with clean, pure Z - but that was too boring for Sherlock. He preferred a hit of the street variety - it gave him a bigger rush. He pulled his coat on, glancing around, making sure he wasn't forgetting anything. Money wasn't a problem with Sebastian - Sherlock knew he could blackmail the man if he wanted, but he never had to. For a small price he would get all the Z he could possibly want.

And then he was there, in the back alley. He knew Sebastian was aware of his presence - and yet the man kept him waiting for half an hour. Sherlock knew better than to bother Seb - John had noticed the bruises the last time.

Finally. The scalpel sluts had all left, and he was alone with Seb. The man sauntered over to him, grinning down at him. "Miss me?"

Sherlock hadn't. It was the drug he'd missed, but he knew that if he didn't answer right, he could forget about getting any. "Of course. You know I can't live without you."

Sebastian had detected the sarcastic tone, though, and Sherlock mentally punched himself. Stupid. He knew better than to be so openly snarky. His mental punch was followed by a sharp, real, pain across his face. Seb had backhanded him. It didn't hurt too bad, but Sherlock dropped to his knees, pretending that it did.

They both knew it was just a game, but it didn't seem to matter. It wouldn't have been the same without the foreplay. And God, Sherlock needed this. They'd found out what happened when he started to go into withdrawals, although Jim was the only one who really suspected the truth. Poor John was too afraid to consider the possibility that Sherlock had a problem to acknowledge it. Mycroft didn't think Sherlock was stupid enough to do anything without him.

Jim, on the other hand, understood. Although he had accepted Mycroft's offer, he didn't look down on Sherlock for his decision.

Didn't look down on, but never joined, either.

And then Seb's mouth was on his, and he was gasping for air, and he felt the cold, rough brick against his back through his coat and - then his brain shut off. All he could focus on was the kiss - and the meaning behind it. The sooner they finished, the sooner Sherlock could be satisfied.

He couldn't live with himself if he hurt John again.

That might have been the only reason he kept coming back.

When his brain started again, he was on his knees and Seb was pulling at his hair and his first instinct was not to gag. Seb should've known better than to do this to him - but Sherlock swallowed his pride and obeyed the man's wishes. He'd never been more humiliated in his life - the thought ran through his head every time he was in the position.

John would have been so hurt, and in some dark, back, buried corner of his mind, Sherlock knew this could be considered as cheating. But he had to do it, had to, or he'd hurt John. He couldn't hurt John. Sherlock couldn't hurt John.

When he had hurt John, it'd taken months for him to recover - compared to John's days. It was horrid for every party involved.

Seb had finished, and Sherlock almost hadn't noticed, which wouldn't have ended well for his drug habit. But he finished with the customary routine - it had become robotic by this point, and he didn't even notice that he was doing it.

Then Seb was tugging Sherlock's trousers down, pressing him against the wall. Sherlock hated this part - he felt extremely violated. But the tiny part of his brain that was still logical told him it was common practice - his thigh was the best place for the drug to enter his system. Not too close to his heart or brain, but not in a place where it would never effect him.

And if John found either the vial or the needle. Sherlock felt sick at the thought. Also why he hated this part - he realized just how horrible he was being. John would be so upset. So upset.

But he was jerked back into reality by his trousers being jerked up, and Seb was pushing him back into the direction of the Holmes' mansion. He had to hurry, had to hurry, had to go. But he swayed, listening to his waning thoughts, and as such was completely blank by the time he walked through the door.

Blank enough to ignore the clock. Half an hour till John returned home.

Also half an hour till the drug fully awakened in his system.