At first it had just been a game. A nothing. A mindless distraction to fill the periods of boredom that books could no longer cure. It had been easy enough to acquire. The student at the back of the class, with the dark glasses and bad attendance record. It was too easy.

He had stared at the thin white line on the mirror for a while. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, followed by his father's, which he quickly shoved away. If anything, the memories steeled his resolve. He picked up a note and rolled it into a tube. One deep breath later he was flying.

It was like he had spent his whole life staring at just dancing shadows, but now saw the light of day. He felt powerful, invincible even. Suddenly, his brother's expectations, his mother's ambitions, and his father's reputation didn't matter anymore. He was his own man. And no one could tell Sherlock Holmes what to do.

The crash came as expected, but he was well supplied. The next night he flew again. The feeling of his mind racing was incredible. At times he felt like he could almost watch his intellect sprint, like an Olympic athlete it was amazing to watch.

Of course, no one jumps head first into the dark abyss of addiction. Except Sherlock. Why stare at dancing shadows when you can fly? Why bother with just thinking when you can watch your own mind race? Everything else seemed just so utterly simple and stupid. It was a waste of his time.

But no one told him of the creatures that lurk in the dark. The feeling that someone was always watching, that he could trust no one, became too familiar. Doubts about just how brilliant he was clung to him. Whenever he touched back down to Earth, they were there waiting for him.

They know about your secret.

They'd whisper to him in the dark lonely nights.

Isn't life so boring? It's just…staying. Never growing, never moving, just staying. How droll. How stupid. How…ordinary.

The voices were terrible. They chilled him. Was it worth flying if you sacrificed your sanity? No, he decided. He was better than that, than this addiction. It wasn't even an addiction; it would be easy to stop.

But he sat there alone in the dark of his room and they came to him. They looked at his shaking fingers and fixated gaze and must have chuckled.

Wouldn't you rather fly?

He fought to resist but lost. He flew that night, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't reach the heights he once had. He could still hear them as he stretched to soar. Something had to be added, something to keep him off Earth and away from the voices.

This time he had to search, walk through dark alleys and speak with questionable people. But he found his salvation. Since he couldn't fly, he buried himself deep where none could find him. The empty silence was a welcome relief to the boring normalcy of life and the dark whispers of his demons. His mind was free to stretch out and expand in his comatose like states. It didn't race, but moved like lava, slowly and surely enveloping everything in its path.

Eventually his mother found out. He sat, impassive as a stone, as she railed him. He wasn't sorry for his choices. She had no idea what type of world he lived in, he decided. The only regret was that she cut him off from the family money, and paying for his desires became difficult. But he managed; he always found a way, no matter how degrading it may have been. It was always a better option than facing the whispers.

So he remained hidden, for months, years; sometimes in the earth, sometimes in the sky. But he discovered a problem with his plan: it is impossible to hide from one's own mind. And the whispers found him again.

You need us.

You can't live without us.

What would you be without us?

A nothing. Average. Never able to fly or sink to the depths of existence.

Wouldn't it be nice if you could just stay like this?

He dragged his eyes open. That was a tempting thought. He certainly preferred this state than normal life. But somewhere his logical brain reminded him it was physically impossible to remain constantly high, there was always a crash.

Come on, you know that's not true. There's a way to spend the rest of your life like this.

Suddenly, he understood what they meant. But he didn't immediately reject the thought, a fact which should have scared him more than it did. He staggered to his feet and moved out onto the balcony of the apartment he had found himself in. Thirteen stories up, and a busy street below. What was the point of living, he asked himself. It was boring, without his demons. They stood beside him, looking down at the street.

Don't you want to fly?

Suddenly, his logical mind screamed out NO. And Sherlock's grip turned white on the thick concrete railing. They surveyed him and smiled darkly.

No…you won't do it.

You're far too ordinary to fly. You're far too weak to try. You can't even resist us.

Without fully thinking about it, he found himself stepping on to the railing. The breeze brushed the curls away from his face. It was dizzying, air being the only thing between him and the ground.

Go on.

Jump.

"Sir!" a voice sounded behind Sherlock. He glanced behind him to see several police officers filling the apartment behind him. They were cuffing the other people in the room. Sherlock turned to face forward again, the whispers yelling in his mind.

JUMP.

A pair of strong arms grabbed Sherlock's waist and pulled him back onto the balcony. He fell to the ground and leaned back against the railing. A flashlight was shined in his eyes and he quickly looked away, grimacing from the pain.

"Sgt. Lestrade, this one's high too." The man said, turning back to the officer in charge of the drugs bust. Lestrade nodded and put his hands in his pockets.

"Take them all to the station."

"I understand the nature of his offense, Sgt. Lestrade-"

"It's Detective Lestrade now."

"…Detective Lestrade. But I believe my brother could find a better use of his time than spending five to ten in a penitentiary."

"Look, Mr. Holmes. I know your family is better connected than the Queen herself, but my hands are tied. He had cocaine, heroine, and an unidentifiable substance in his blood. He's lucky to be alive. But he's going to serve time. And besides, narcotics is no longer my division, I'm in homicide now. You need to talk to Sgt. Neely-"

"Detective, wait. My brother has certain skills that could be…of use to you."

"To me?"

"To your department. If these skills helped you, do you think his sentence could be lessened?"

"…what kind of skills?"

It had been a hellish week for Sherlock. He had spent most of it in a cell, huddled in the corner to contain the shaking. The whispers had become screams now, they were always there. Berating him, mocking him. All he wanted was to be left alone, and in that very moment the last person he wanted to see showed up.

"How could you have fallen so low, little brother?" Mycroft's voice was filled with disappointment. Sherlock glared up at him, his arms wrapped around his long legs, but Mycroft noticed the shaking.

"Go."

"I arranged a situation for you. At the end of the week, you will accompany Detective Lestrade on an investigation and help him in anyway you can. If he thinks you did a well enough job, you might escape prison. You will not fail this time, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but continued eye contact with Mycroft.

"Think of it as community service. Good-bye, Sherlock."

Sherlock waited till Mycroft had almost left the hallway when he asked, "Why are you doing this? The family name?"

Mycroft scoffed. "I'm afraid father beat you to destroying that a long time ago. No, my hope is that if we give your mind enough to think about, it won't turn to narcotics for entertainment."

Mycroft left and Sherlock was alone again. The whispers had stopped screaming, but they spoke constantly. Always hissing at him.

Failure.