Notes:
Warnings: Drug use
Originally I planned to say Heroin, but when I looked up the affects, it didn't match what I needed. So I looked it up, and it's all true: Meth, when first injected sort of causes a buzz, then it enhances your sense, and when you suffer withdrawal, depending on the person, it can make them sort of nuts, which explains Sherlock's out of character reaction.
Duality
Sherlock Holmes sat at his desk, thinking. He was bored.
He had thought about going out, and searching for a test subject for his latest experiment, but he hadn't slept in 48 hours, and Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to deal with idiots.
Sherlock noticed a strange tapping noise. It was annoying. It wasn't until a few moments later that Sherlock realized that he, in fact, was the source of the tapping noise. His foot was frantically tapping the ground.
Seeing that caused somewhat of a revelation, Sherlock knew what to do to stave off his boredom. He grabbed his navy blazer from his bed, and swept out of his bedroom.
He almost made it to the door, until Mycroft stepped right in front of him, less than a few metres from the door. Sherlock groaned.
"Where are you going?" he said calmly.
"Out." Sherlock replied, lacing his fingers together behind his back.
"Where?" Mycroft said quickly.
"That's none of your business," Sherlock answered smoothly. Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"You know, mummy doesn't believe me when I tell her your always being a difficult arse."
"She doesn't believe me either, when I tell her your a stubborn control freak." Touche, Mycroft thought. He moved out of the way, and Sherlock pulled open the door and practically jumped out.
"Be careful Sherlock, don't do anything stupid!" He called after his brother.
"So don't do anything you would do!" was the waning response. Mycroft shook his head and closed the door.
"No Sherlock," he murmured to himself, "Don't do anything you would do."
Sherlock walked through the neighborhood, shivering. His neck was cold. He made a mental note to ask mummy for a scarf.
Turning the corner, he happened open the local 24 hour convenience store. Shivering, Sherlock entered the empty store, and leaned up on the counter in the back of the store.
"Hello?" he called out, already a little annoyed. A few minutes later, a pale kid in a black hoodie came out of the door behind the register.
"What do ya know," the kid said, grinning. "It's the great Sherlock Holmes."
"As much as I just... Crave the appreciation of my inferiors, I do believe I'd prefer we skip the pleasantries, sarcastic or not." The kid raised an eyebrow.
"Whatever the fuck you want man," the other kid said, before leading Sherlock into the back.
Inside, the air was full of smoke, and needles were spread across the floor."What do you want, dude?" he asked, gesturing around. Half a dozen kids were either smoking a joint or shooting themselves up, and there was one more sleeping in the corner. Sherlock thought for a minute.
"Meth should be good enough." The kid shuffled over to a shelf, were there wrinkled, brown paper bags. He peeked ina few, and turned back to Sherlock.
"For here or to go?" he asked. Sherlock frowned.
"To go," he said. The kid stuffed a strand of rubber in the bag as well as a few new needles, and handed the bag to Sherlock.
"That shit's fifteen pounds, dude." Sherlock reached in his pocket and handed the kid several crumpled notes. Withh that, he returned to the store, and trode back out into the cold, heading home.
When he got home, Mycroft wasn't there. Wow, first he'd been allowed to go out, he'd gotten his solution to his boredom, and now Mycroft wasn't here to discover it as Sherlock returned home with it.
In a few minutes, he wouldn't even be tired or bored.
Sherlock headed to the restroom, preparing the shot. With that done, he bit on one end of the rubber provided and wrapped it around his arm. Once he had the knot tied, he grabbed the hypodermic needle, and gently inserted it into his arm. Pushing it down, he breathed in, more than ready for the drug to take affect.
The first part was a rush, a buzz. Oh god, it just felt so good. And then, Sherlock stopped feeling tired. Immediately, his senses were heightened, everything seemed so... New.
Figuring his luck would run out soon, or in other words, Mycroft would be home soon, Sherlock hurriedly injected himself with more meth.
Sherlock breathed deeply, still on his initial rush, when suddenly, the door opened, and Sherlock found himself being caught by Mycroft.
Looks like his luck had a run out.
Sherlock couldn't believe it.
He'd been locked in his own bedroom.
By his own brother.
It didn't matter right now. Sherlock spent the night touching everything in his room. Everything felt so different when he was like this. He thought for a minute.
If everything was different to the touch, what did that mean for sound? Sherlock grinned and grabbed his violin from the chair it rested on. Plopping down on his bed, he avidly plucked at the strings.
If anything, Sherlock's playing sounded worse than ever, but it was still captured Sherlock's interest for several hours.
After that, he continued to go around touching and knocking on things, even tasting certain things. Most of the time, Sherlock ended up spitting those hings out.
Eventually he, fell asleep. Everything felt wonderful.
When Sherlock wakes up again, though, it's terrible. The rush, the buzz, it's gone now. Sherlock's shaking, he needs more, so bad. His head and heart are pounding, a constant echo rings through his head, more, more, more.
He's screaming in his head. He doesn't hit anything, he doesn't make a sound. He just screams, n his head.
Eventually, he slumps against the wall, scrabbling at the floor, until one of his fingers actually bleeds from all the splinters he's getting. And finally, he's so tired, he just stops.
And that's when he hears it. Soft quiet sobs coming from the other side of the door. It's not just anyone sobbing, it's... Mycroft.
It's only then that Sherlock sees it, the duality of the punishment.
Here, he thought he was the only one suffering. He was feeling the pain of withdrawal. But Mycroft was suffering too. He wasn't feeling pain of withdrawal though, no, he felt the pain of guilt. Because he was punishing himself as well. For not stopping Sherlock from getting into drugs in the first place. For not being there, when Sherlock had first started the dirty deed.
Sherlock uses what little control he has to make a few deductions. He crawls into his bed slowly. He waits for the sobs to subside. And when they do, just as he predicted, his door opens. In shuffles Mycroft, just as Sherlock knew he would. Sherlock closed his eyes, and pretends to be asleep.
Mycroft sits on the edge of his bed, and reaches out. He gently strokes Sherlock's hair for a minute. This had been expected. But what Mycroft murmured next- That had not been.
"I'm sorry, 'Lock," he cried quietly, "So sorry. I know how it good it feels, I know how hard it is to... Please, I'm sorry, I'm your brother, I love you." Mycroft is biting his lip, and the hand touching Sherlock's hair is shaky. Sherlock's actually gotten very close to falling asleep, now, but he uses the last of his energy to tell his brother exactly what he needs to hear.
" 's alright, 'Croft," he whispers back, "I love you too."
And Sherlock means it.