habits. ~ Chapter 1
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a/n: hi everyone, i hope alls going well:)
this is my first and a half fanfic because my other failed (like really badly), because i only wrote one chapter and was going nowhere with it.
this one is quite psychological and is based on a few songs, which i suggest you listen to. i'll name the songs so you can listen them before/during/after the chapter.
i cant wait to get started, y'all ready?:)
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Sherlock sat on the chipped windowledge. Gently sipping from a luke-warm can of, possibly intoxicated, coca cola. The morning breeze rushed through his hair and the sun glimmered on the horizon. Looking past the tower blocks and skyscrapers, you might've thought that nothing would ever change in the city. A sense of infinity was clouding over his blurred head. The memories from the recent nights were pounding, despite the fuzz. Every so often an image would bounce into his mind of the reckless behaviour experienced. The young man, lost in thoughts, did not have a care in the world and felt certainly entitled to oblivion. Any other man mightve been proud of the recent events, but Sherlock was ashamed. He'd used so many people and hurt so many friends. Sitting in one of the most popular places in such a crowded town, he had never felt so alone. So desperate for human contact, he couldnt stop the need for the relief.
His mind started to race; the adrenaline had worn off and the real panic kicked in. He quickly stood up, which caused a wave, more like a tsunami, of nausea.
'Woah, that's a long drop' Sherlock gently eased his way back into the flat. Luckily, he must've kicked everyone out last night, or they had exited of their own accord. The stained couch was the centrepiece of the worn walls and was, fortunately, one of the least damaged item of furniture. On the coffee tables lay damaged beer cans and cigarettes. Sherlock had no intention of clearing up, he had to keep moving and searching for her. Last night was hectic, Sherlock needed to find her and by hosting the party he could get more information. He dragged a wooden stool into the centre of the room, he stood on it and gently moved one of the ceiling tiles aside. He pulled out a rucksack filled with papers, a laptop, money and a few spliffs. Ignoring the rolls he turned on the slim laptop, grateful that nothing had been damaged. He opened a few files and traced the GPS chip: '75-82 Westminister Street'. The disadvantage of the programme was that it only refreshed every 30 minutes, leaving enough time to cover a lot of distance. Sherlock realised that he was still wearing his two-day-old clothes and that they unquestionably reeked. After he refreshed himself, he hailed a cab.
1 year earlier
"Just head up to the warehouse 'round the back, Bill or Jimmy will be on the door, just tell 'em that Dog sent you in, yeah? Y'know a rich lad like you, ain't ever been 'eard 'f 'round 'ere. Nah, don't worry mate, I ain't gon' bother no good customer like you." Unfortunately the burly man stood no chance of becoming a television star, nor any kind of star for that matter since he had the complete inability to fully pronounce his words. His thick cockney accent didn't help the situation either. Sherlock had used to try to act like a East-London mechanic, but had given up the act, since no one bothered anyone as long as the substance was paid for. Sherlock swiftly acknowledged the doorman and entered the long-abandoned property. Stained matresses lined the floor and upon them lay a range of people. Middle-aged adults to mere teenagers. Sherlock made his way to his usual spot in the corner of the large hall, watching the humans smoke, inject and sniff their way to ecstasy. Sherlock sat down took out the leather strap, syringe, vial and phone. Roughly, he put on the leather strap, just above the elbow and tight enough. He quickly set up the syringe. He needed the rush, the tsunami of oblivion that he had to have. It was an addiction, unhealthy and illegal, but still an addiction. Sherlock had stobbed the shaking and anxiety he used to get and now had gotten used to the little jolt of the needle piercing his worn skin. He sighed contently as the drugs rushed through his viens. His mind couldnt cope without it. Sherlock's brain was always racing and he needed something to keep up with it. He'd experimented, but nothing soothed the pain like the high he got from drugs. The only disadvantage was coming off the high. Realising that it wouldnt last forever, that nothing lasted forever. That shock back to real life.
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a/n I'm really excited for this fanfiction, i hope it takes off. Favourites, follows and reviews would be fab! Don't worry, the fanfiction won't carry on like this, this is kind of a prologue/climax chapter to start off the story!
Love you beautifuls?