First Sherlock fic. Reviews however critical are welcome, i'm always grateful for tips and suggestions. I apologise to anyone who isn't English who reads this, I do not know if I use slang that isn't commonly used anywhere else, please tell me if I do. I decided to do this fic because I always see the ex-chemical side of Sherlock rather than a heroin addict as other people suspect him to be, I chose meth because I didn't want to write about a coked-up Sherlock (coke turns people into absolute assholes and I couldn't picture him being more of a dick than usual)
Sherlock shivered as he waited in the cold dark of night, I really must invest in a scarf he mused to himself. The slender fingers of his left hand as he shoved it into his coat pocket touched against the £60 that was already inhabiting it. I should go home and try to rest, someone is bound to notice that I will be on a comedown, I'll be irritable and tired and hungry, someone would notice. If someone actually knew me well enough, if i ever let someone in. I'm so alone.
It was ten self-hating minutes later when his dealer strode around the corner of the building that he was leaning against, he hurriedly righted himself and pulled out the notes from his pocket, thrusting his hand towards the woman with a powerful need that he couldn't quite source. With his amazing skill at reading other people, Sherlock was remarkably blind when it came to himself, he didn't seem to realise or didn't care that this had become a habit.
The woman didn't even look at Sherlock for more than a passing glance, Sherlock was a regular she knew what exactly and how much he wanted. She grasped the 60 pounds and replaced them with a small, sealed plastic bag filled with tiny white crystals, almost like washing powder, except it wasn't, this was meth.
The door slammed shut behind Sherlock as he rushed into the tiny flat, he didn't bother with stealth as he had no-one to bother with his loud noises. Throwing his coat and shoes haphazardly onto the sofa in the lounge/kitchen he immediately sat next to the darkly varnished coffee table and poured all of the contents of the bag into a small heap at the side table. In front of Sherlock was an unused credit card and a straw that he had cut short, that wth the pile of powder at his elbow was all tht he needed for the next few days to drown out the buzz of humanity from the back of his mind. Using the credit card he racked up quite a big line and, using the straw, swiftly packed it up his nose and into his system, he lay back against the sofa and waited for the rush to kick in.
Feeling the sensitivity of his skn increase, the corner of his lips curled upwards slightly in a smile and he rest his head back against the sofa as he could feel his body start to twitch in time with his leg tapping aganst the floor. He crawled over to the cd player by the window and he turned on some classical music that had a fairly quick beat, his head bopped along and he spread out his arms and twirled slowly, feeling the freedom of having few inhibitions left, the rest burned away with his troubles under the rush. He half strode, half skipped over to the immaculately clean kitchen to boil the kettle for a cup of strong tea with lots of sugar in it. While waiting for the water to boil he fetched a stick of gum from the cupboard for when he started to gurn and lit a cigarette. The raw scratching of the smoke against his throat always made him feel even better than the hightened state he was in at the moment. He ws blowing smoke rings at the ceiling, still twirling in the corner of the kitchen to the music softly playing when there was a short and sharp knock at the door with an object, wooden by the sound of it.