Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

WARNINGS: Drug use.

So I decided to write a one shot drug fic. I apologies now if you hate it. I have never done cocaine and I never plan to, so I don't know what its like but I was a good girl and I researched it. I hope I got some of it right.

Enjoy :)

Ugh. Quiet. Too quiet. Bored. So very, very bored. Mind racing. Nothing to do. Bored.

Sherlock laid still on the lounge, eyes closed, with his hands on either side of his head. Boredom had eased its way into his mind, like an eerie fog, slowly clouding his thoughts. This is what the brilliant detective hated the most. The maddening, dull, eternity between cases. Nothing for him to do, nothing to stimulate his great mind. John had been no help for Sherlock's growing problem. All he did was state a list of tedious pastimes.

"You could, I don't know, read a book?"

"Ugh, dull."

"Take a walk?"

"Ah…No."

"You could maybe clean the flat."

"Ha!"

Sherlock zoned out after that, only zoning back in a few hours later to notice John's absence. Judging by the amount of aftershave he was wearing and the fact that he bothered to shave on a Sunday at all suggests he went to see Sarah. Again. It was the third time in this week.

Even his own head betrayed him. He could see the silence and dullness when he closed his eyes. Boring black and grey clouds seeping into his mind palace, changing it from a welcoming venue of deduction and knowledge, to a hostile land of nothing but the boredom. It rang quietly at the base of his brain, slowly moving, spreading to the furthest corners of mind, sending him insane. I need to end this.

His eyes snapped open, the green lights bright with a way to end the boredom. Why didn't I think of this earlier? The black and grey clouds obviously hid his wonderful idea from view, but Sherlock being the great detective that he is found it eventually. The idea was triggered by a memory that was tucked away in the darkest, deepest part of his mind palace. With great difficulty Sherlock accessed the memory, bringing it to the front of his brain. Rolling off the lounge, Sherlock found his feet and walked to his bedroom.

He knew where it would be straight away, the memory directed him to his wardrobe. Opening it, he crouched down picking up a small box that he would have usually overlooked. Inside he found what he was looking for. He smiled at it as if he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and really he was. The detective made his way back to the lounge, setting the box down on the coffee table. Sherlock hesitated for just a second, thinking the situation through. Am I really that bored that I would risk an addiction again? He retreated to his mind palace, gathering the data for his question. All he saw was the black and grey clouds of boredom, surging through his head. That gave him his answer.

Getting the equipment out, he mixed the substance into a constant mixture. Grabbing the syringe, Sherlock's hands began to shake in anticipation. He knew all too well what was to come and he knew for certain that the dullness with most defiantly end. Wrapping the tourniquet around his slender arm, he flexed, finding his vein. He brought the needle to his arm, the excitement filling his body making him shiver. Sherlock sunk the sharp metal into deep into his flesh, gently pushing down. Lying down, he waited. Then it hit him, a wave of pure, intense pleasure. It washed the black and grey fog of boredom far away from his mind. All Sherlock felt complete ecstasy. He felt the drug advancing to all parts of his body and that made him feel at home.

He relaxed into the lounge but became alert when he heard someone downstairs. Anxiety and paranoia began to take over his mind. What if it's Mycroft, or worse John? What would he think of me?! Would he hate me? Would want to move out? With his mind swimming in his paranoia, Sherlock jumped to his feet, shoving the needle, the tourniquet and the cocaine into the box. John walked through the door, not even looking at Sherlock. The detective had sat back on the lounge, struggling to keep from twitching. He had to act normal or John would know.

John finally looked over at him and he squirmed under the doctor's gaze. "You haven't moved since I left."

Sherlock felt words rise in his throat. "Well, yes that's because I have had nothing to do you see. I have no cases and no deductions to make and no people to annoy as you went to Sarah's. How was that by the way? Wait, don't tell me." Sherlock looked at John. His mind sparked with deductions and before John could even blink Sherlock was off, speaking at the speed of light. "You had a steak, I can tell from the reddish stain on your collar, that it was medium rear. Obviously from that ridiculously priced restaurant just down the road from Sarah's place. You're trying to impress her then. The receipt in your top pocket tells me exactly that and so does your aftershave. I noticed it before I left, you shaved on a Sunday. You usually shave Monday morning, Wednesday morning and Friday morning, leaving it over the weekend. Unless you wanted to impress someone, that someone being Sarah of course. You were trying to get in her pants. You thought shaving and going out to an expensive restaurant would be enough? You're dumber than I thought.

John was frozen on the spot, mouth hanging open. More anxiety hit Sherlock. Shit, he knows.

"Are you feeling okay?"

Sherlock jumped up once more, almost tripping his own feet in the process. He towered over John; the feeling of euphoria had been replaced with annoyance and hostility. "You know what John, I have never felt any better so just leave me alone." Sherlock spat the words violently. He barged John out of the way, almost knocking him to the ground. The high was obviously starting to wear off, making Sherlock aggressive.

"Hey!"

Sherlock stumbled to his bedroom, lacking the grace that he usual held. John defiantly noticed. He followed Sherlock into the kitchen grabbed the detectives arm. That was a mistake. Sherlock threw John against the wall, pinning him there, one hand grasped his shirt. "Do not touch me." Sherlock's voice was dripping with venom.

John's eyes were glued to Sherlock's face, he was both shocked and a scared for his friend. He was acting stranger than usual. "Your pupils are dilated and you're covered in sweat." John said. "I can hear your heartbeat from here Sherlock! What have you taken?" Sherlock loosened his death grip on John's shirt, stepping back a little. He swayed on the spot, his head pounding. Sherlock hadn't noticed a new kind of haze filling his great brain. Deep blues and purples saturated his mind palace and spilled across his vision. Sparks of red and orange danced like fire in front of him, making his thoughts ache.

Sherlock raised his hand in front of his face. He was shaking, the trembling spreading throughout his entire body. John moved away from the wall, walking back to lounge. "Cocaine." He heard John mutter. "Sherlock what the hell were you thinking?!"

I wasn't thinking. I couldn't think. I was bored.

The hues in his mind grew and grew, spreading to every point of his brain until he couldn't think. Oh no. A ringing sound whispered softly in his ear, gradually becoming louder and louder. Sherlock through his trembling hands to his head, his skin was on fire. Elevated heart rate, blood pressure high. I think I'm…His mind stopped dead in its tracks and with that he was gone, escaping into the blackness of unconsciousness.

John heard a cracking sound from in the kitchen. That sounded like bone. He rushed around the corner to see his flat mate unconscious on the floor. "Jesus Christ!" John swore, moving to kneel beside Sherlock. His medical knowledge kicked in, as he rolled Sherlock onto his side to ensure he didn't choke. John knew enough about drugs to know that his friend was overdosing. John felt Sherlock's pulse. It was elevated far beyond a healthy heartbeat, but he was still breathing so that was a good sign. John checked his temperature, it was high. Oh god he's burning up. He quickly grabbed his phone out of his back pocket, dialing the emergency number. He knew he had to be quick about it.

"Ambulance please." He waited for his call to be transferred before providing his information. "221B Baker Street. My friend's just OD'd. Male, mid-thirties." The voice at the end of the phone assured John that there was an ambulance on its way that would arrive in a few minutes. All he could do now was wait.

"John?" Sherlock slurred. He had regained awareness, his eyes scanning the flat. Sherlock tried to sit up but John pushed him back down.

"Don't move Sherlock."

"I… I need to get up. They're going to get me." Sherlock struggled on the ground. His face looked genuinely terrified. "John. Please." He looked up into John's eyes, almost pleading with him to let him up. It was a strange thing for John to witness. The great mind of Sherlock Holmes begging, but in this moment John was only worried for his friend's wellbeing.

"Who is going to get you, Sherlock? I don't understand."

"I don't know," Sherlock moaned, still struggling. "But they're going to lock me up and hurt me." He looked over John's shoulder, his green eyes locking on something in the distance, his face a mask of horror. John realized then that his friend was hallucinating.

"It's okay Sherlock." He placed a comforting hand on the detectives shoulder. He felt it best not to tell Sherlock about the ambulance, he would only protest. "You're okay."

"You're in on this too aren't you, John. You want them to take me away!" Sherlock sat up and John noticed the pool of blood on the kitchen floor. So he is ODing and is also concussed. Great. "They're not taking me away, have you got that?" He swayed where he sat, suffering from a combination of high blood pressure and blood loss.

"Sherlock just lie bac…" John hit the ground in one sudden movement. Sherlock was on top of him pinning him to the ground. His grip was weak and John knew he could escape it easily but he didn't resist. He could see that his friend was the verge of unconsciousness once more. Sherlock stayed there breathing heavily for a few minutes before blacking out again. John sighed, pushing Sherlock onto his side.

What am I ever going to do with you Sherlock?

Bright lights invaded Sherlock's mind palace, highlighting some damages to the architecture. Walking across the decimated infrastructure, he noticed John sitting up against some of the rubble. His features enhanced by the intense lights shining down on them. His golden hair blazed and Sherlock couldn't help but admire its quality. Looking to his face he noticed the expression on John's face. The look burned into his mind, a look he never wanted John to have. It was a look of disappointment.

Sherlock never cared for people's opinions. He found people boring and he found their opinions tedious beyond belief. Until some time ago Sherlock never cared for anything but his work. Then he met John and it was like he found something that he cared for more than his work. Almost.

Walking over to John, Sherlock stared intensely into his sad blue eyes. He placed a hand on John's shoulder, feeling a mix of emotions fill his slender frame. But in the blink of an eye he disappeared leaving Sherlock in his palace. Sherlock felt the absence of John everywhere. All that remained of his glorious mind palace was the work. He was all alone.

His eyes opened slowly, revealing the same bright light that had invaded his mind palace. The sounds of beeping filled Sherlock's ears making his brain ache. Body aching, head pounding. Rolling over he felt something tug on his arm. Ugh, of course. The IV drip in his arm restricted his movement. He closed his eyes, cutting off the light.

"Sherlock?" a small voice called.

John.

Sherlock opened his eyes once more, letting the light in. He turned to John seeing the exact same look of disappointment and sadness as the one in his mind palace. It made Sherlock's heart ache but he withheld his emotions.

"You scared the shit out of me Sherlock." John spoke firmly. "Why? Why did you do it?"

"Bored."

John froze. "What was that?"

Shifting in the bed, Sherlock rephrased himself. "I was bored, John."

The doctor's face shifted into a mask of anguish. Sherlock deduced that John didn't like seeing him like this. He didn't like seeing his friend in danger. I was never in danger. I wasn't going to die.

"Mycroft told me everything." Sherlock squirmed at the name of his brother. "He told me about you drug addiction when you were younger. He told me you went through a lot." Of course he would say that. Mycroft wouldn't want everyone knowing that his little brother was a raging cocaine addict because he couldn't think of anything better to do. John leaned in, his face a few inches form Sherlock's. "You scared me tonight."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock replied quickly.

"Mycroft's waiting outside. Do you want me to send him in?" John rose to his feet.

I would rather stick a thousand razorblades down my throat that see me dear brother. Sherlock shook his head. "No, I should rest." It was an easy lie.

John smiled. "Okay. You know next time I'll think before leaving you alone when you're bored." And with that John left the room.

Please tell me what you think of it :)