A/N- OK, so this is just… weird. It originally came from the lyrics of this song I was listening to, but it when I googled the song to make sure they were the right lyrics, I found out they weren't in fact the actual lyrics after all. But I still wanted to write it and this is what happened.

So yeah. Enjoy the crazy ramblings of my too-much-Maths brain.

And I don't own anything. (Except maybe the incorrect lyrics. But probably not)

Sherlock had never hidden the fact that he used to be an addict. Granted, he didn't tend to broadcast it, but if someone asked him directly, he wouldn't deny it.

He'd tried everything.

Different times, different reasons, different drugs.

When he was in secondary school, it was marijuana. It was what everyone else was doing, and while even at fourteen Sherlock had known that was not valid reasoning, it had helped lesson the bullying slightly. And at boarding school he was independent and there was no Mycroft or Mummy there to tell him off, so why not? It was something to do, something to alleviate the boredom of day-to-day routine that never changed.

And it helped. It dulled his brain, slowed the rapid racings of his mind and prevented deductions from spilling out of his mouth at random. It kept his underused brain busy and dampened his intelligence to about the level of everyone else. And while he'd never exactly liked that, he fitted in and the drugs made everything easier.

They made him feel normal.

And then when he got older, heading into uni and beyond, it was cocaine. Because it made his brain speed up. The solution swirled through his veins, calming and soothing him like a deep, slow breath, and then everything was razor-sharp and perfect and so much better. It gave everything a crystal clear clarity and in that brief time of a high it made everything seem like it had been cut from diamond. It heightened his intelligence, enhanced his senses, exactly the opposite of what he'd been trying to do in high school. Because by that time he'd learnt to handle himself a bit more, and he knew by then that he wasn't the societal definition of 'normal', probably never had been, or ever would be. The cocaine helped him see why he didn't want to be like everyone else, let him probe into the far reaches of his mind and experience things he'd never thought possible.

Then it was heroin. Pure heroin didn't last for long; he didn't like how it made him feel. It made him nauseous and he hated the confusion. It was too easy to overdose and it did funny things to his heart. He felt himself becoming dependent on the drug, not just craving the high like he did with cocaine, but feeling as if he needed it for day to day life, and so he stopped pretty quickly.

But by the time he was twenty five, he was taking a cocktail mix of anything he could get his hands on. He knew it was dangerous, but he didn't care. He was drifting; he didn't have a job, he was moving from apartment to apartment, and he had virtually nothing to live for. Those were dark days, and he hated it. He hated the dependence he had on the drugs, he hated that he wasn't strong enough to go a few hours without a hit, and he hated that the high was the only thing that made his days worth living.

But the highs made him feel alive. It was worth the withdrawal because the highs were so illegally extraordinary. It was a confusing jumble of emotions and experiences but everything was sharp and vivid and it left him reeling and breathing heavily like he'd just run a marathon and he craved more. It spun his whole world off kilter, like living on another planet, where everything was new and exciting and so different from what he was used to. It was all-consuming.

The same feeling John Watson gave him.

John was interesting and every-changing and always a puzzle that Sherlock didn't ever want to solve. John was confusing and everything he did was unexpected. Sherlock couldn't ever predict what he'd do next (though he was working on it) and he was so normal, so different to Sherlock. It made Sherlock wonder why John had chosen him, why he had stayed and elected to move into 221B Baker Street when he could have gone anywhere he wanted, even after he got to know Sherlock better. He was broken too, but he was essentially good and kind and maybe he and Sherlock could heal each other. Just maybe. Sherlock was lost without John, like missing an essential body part- he could live without him but it was painful and disconcerting and something he didn't want to think about. John was bright and vibrant, puzzling and mystifying, and sometimes he was the only thing in a world of jumbled hypotheses and whirling facts that made sense, and sometimes the world made sense and John didn't, but every now and then he even made Sherlock smile.

John Watson was his best trip.

A/N2- I don't even know if this makes sense. Probably not. It's exaggerated and probably a little OOC, but I like the end bit :)