Sherlock was bored. And when he was bored, his mind wandered, it danced into the past and invaded the corners of his memories, pushing them out into the open ground of his mind. Yet there was one memory, one case that has irked him since it had been losed.
It was like an itch that wouldn't go away. Something no amount of nicotine patches could dull or help him with. No violin playing could help him out of this situation, and no amount of composing could stop the niggling doubt in the back of his mind. What if… the pill he had chosen was not the right one; the old cabbie had beaten him. His eyes flickered to his mantelpiece, to a small box that contained both vials.
Stealing them from Lestrade had been easy, child's play, once a case was finished the evidence was forgotten. A slip of the hand and they had been in his coat pocket, two small vials, each one could only be told apart from the slight scratch on the lid Sherlock had made before he was about to take the pill. His fingers tapped and leg jiggled, this was a distracion he could have, his last case had been difficult to say the least. A Scandal in Belgravia, yes, thats what john had called it, The Woman, a combination of her and the pills was too much.
His mind just couldn't focus; his thoughts belonged to the small box, with the woman appearing every so often, in the back of his mind as a shadow, flitting in and out of his thoughts like an elusive butterfly, beautiful, desirable, but extremely difficult to catch. Something about her was different, the way she had held his hand, the sound of her whisper in his ear, something in the ways she looked at him…
He just couldn't focus and the pills were getting more enticing by the day, luring him, calling him to test his mind…to see if he, Sherlock Holmes, could be broken by a simple cabbie. His hands moved to the box and his nimble fingers pulled off the lid. He draws out both the vials in one fluid motion, memories of that night return, flooding his distracted mind. The murmur of "Oooh, interesting" as he picked his bottle, the click of the pill, clattering on the floor as he threw it, the way the pill glinted in the light, him putting the pill back in the bottle, these memories were stuck, repeating on a never ending loop, a runaway train, in the ordered railways of his mind. Was it interesting because he had chosen right, or because he had chosen wrongly.
He crefully placed the pills back on the table and absently picked up his violin to play a few notes and pluck a few random strings. His eyes flicked round the flat, taking in all his experiments and documents. The eyes in the microwave were doing nicely, having been there for alomst two years. He sighed, tossing his violin gentle but carelessly onto the sofa, he walked over to the coat rack and slipped on his suit, before deftly looping his blue scarf round is neck and slipping on his large coat.
In one swift motion, he slipped he pills into his coat pocket and strode out of 221b bakers street, and over to St Bart's hospital.