Sherlock was fifteen the first time he got high.
The cigarettes had started when he was thirteen. The coffee when he was eleven. Each had their purpose, which was mostly the intake of stimulants, even at low level. Sherlock wasn't oblivious; he had gone into each habit knowing full well the risks, but had found the momentary calm from his brain scratching a hole against his skull and his mind racing like a toy car trapped against stair, tires spinning but going nowhere was well worth it.
(And if he were to be entirely honest, the mystery of addictive substances had also been enticing as well, dangerous and acrid and altogether intriguing.)
The chemistry of each finally came to him in his fourteenth year, the year he averaged two packs of cigarettes a week, and couldn't seem to keep himself functioning without a near constant flow of coffee in his system. It was the year he first began public schooling, full of exams, homework, and of course people which were the biggest challenge of all. Stress added up, more stimulants needed to keep his mind even somewhat in check. Caffeine stimulated increased ATP production within cells by blocking adenosine signals, presumably because its molecular structure blocks adenosine receptors. Nicotine activated various neurotransmitters, such as dopamine, epinephrine, norepinephrine, etc. Simple science, and yet it so flawlessly seamed itself into his life.
(Not an addict yet, though. That would come later in life.)
Mycroft had found out about the smoking that year. Not that Sherlock kept it much of a secret, because he really couldn't find a discernable reason to keep the information hidden. Mother was seen less and less these days, her vacations away from the manor occurring more frequently and for longer intervals. And Father… well if Father decided to give a damn about Sherlock's health that would be the epitome of hypocrisy.
But Mycroft, the fat sod, always liked to shove himself into Sherlock's business.
"Cigarette smoking is not at all a pleasant habit to acquire, Sherlock, and isn't even legal for someone your age."
"Sod off, Mycroft, it's an experiment."
"You would experiment with your own health?"
"Says the boy who eats three donuts for breakfast and could stand to lose a good ten."
"I could tell Father."
"You wouldn't dare. You like having me around too much to orchestrate my execution."
Sherlock knew that his peers were also experimenting with substances. There were the parties, the ones he wasn't invited to, when a parent would go out of town and his classmates would get together in someone's basement and drink alcohol, talking about it brashly at school over the next week, how Leah got so trashed and how Sean hooked up with Kylie (things that made no sense to Sherlock as he tucked himself away in the corner, head down, trying to hide the disappointment in his face and to keep his hands from shaking as he attempted to shrink down to the smallest possible size, easier to look over, easy to miss, no bruises today please).
There were those other boys, the ones who came to school with uniform infractions and glazed over eyes, smelling of smoke but not the kind brought on by any of the chemicals Sherlock was familiar with from smoking cigarettes. The boys who snuck across the street during lunch recess and came back with dulled reaction times and all the discernable indications of psychosis. They whispered to each other about the high in the back of the classroom, how they got so stoned last week that they could barely stand up and how they were so baked all they could do was stare at their hands.
This was the high that initially perked Sherlock's interest. True, he was not entirely partial to giving up all intelligent faculties, but from what the boys in his class said the world slowed under the influence of THC and cannibinoids (the chemistry of which Sherlock had immediately looked up upon hearing the name of the drug, marijuana). Wasn't slowing things down what he always attempted to do, what the nicotine and coffee had been doing, if marginally, for the past two years?
It was then that Sherlock determined he wanted to attempt a new experiment, similar to the behavioral studies he conducted on the cook's new family of cats or on Mycroft's eating habits or Father's behavioral indications of psychopathy.
Sherlock Holmes resigned himself to getting high.
The only problem with the experimental goal was that he was successfully alienated from his schoolmates and therefore lacked all resources to acquire the independent variable, the drugs. He was too nervous to approach his school's drugs dealer (mostly because it was likely he would be answered with a swift punch to the face. Charles hadn't taken to him much after he accidently outed his mother's prostitution during one of the early parent days).
The nagging section of his brain, the one that hung up on small details, minor thoughts that really should not be so all-consuming and distracting, could not let go of the desire to experiment. Cyclically he would be reminded of his deep desire to experience varying levels of psychosis, of his need to test the boundaries of his consciousness and his mental states. It ate at him for months as he investigated different methods that did not involve a human intermediary giving him the independent variable. He needed to take people out of the equation entirely.
Cough syrup ended up being the easiest option.
There were other "home remedies" to be sure; nutmeg, taking his mother's Valium, huffing, even the compounds of mothballs could produce something resembling a high. But cough syrup was the only method he was comfortable with, the chemistry behind it clear and easy to follow.
Dextromethorphan, DXM, component of cough suppressants and over-the-counter cold medicine. Easily obtainable for a fifteen year old boy, not suspicious in the least as well. Certainly not suspicious for Sherlock to have, compared to the variety of animal carcasses, questionably dangerous chemicals, and material samples he had collected and worked on over the years. No, no one at all would question why Sherlock had a bottle of Robitussen. It would probably just be assumed he was isolating some compound from the mixture or using it in some study of L-methamphetimine (which he'd been meaning to get around to, actually. He couldn't actually isolate methamphetamine from the compound as it was an enantiomer, but still appropriate study of the legal form of the pyrimidine ring with attached amine group could render insight into the psychoactive form).
It was all too easy. He went to the package store one day, bought two bottles of Robitussen, and half an hour later was sitting in his room, door locked, contemplating the proper course of action.
Proper dosage was certainly an important component of the experiment. Sherlock wanted to get high, yes, but not uncomfortably so. Not so high that the experience would be unpleasant, but not so little that he didn't understand what a high actually felt like. His research into the chemistry of DXM had proved to be relatively futile as most of the information on the use of DXM through the medium of cough syrup came from unreliable teenage sources with no lick of knowledge about the underlying mechanisms of the high. This made proper calculation of a limit exceedingly difficult. He settled on a moderate 5 mg/ kg as the dosage, meaning he would have to drink around a bottle's worth to feel the buzz.
Sherlock sat back on his bed, shaking the curls out of his face. He gave himself a moments pause to collect himself, to remind himself that nicotine and caffeine were drugs just like DXM, that the experience of a high was something he'd been chasing for ages, that he really needed a way to stop the rocket that was his brain, freeze it in place or bury it under a psychotic haze, it didn't really matter anymore did it? No more options except for this…
(and those horrid pills his doctor wanted him to take, the ones that made him feel clouded and buried, not at all whip-quick and fiery clever like he wanted so no fucking thank you.)
Sherlock cracked the opening of the Robitussen with a sharp twist and ignored the plastic two tablespoon dose cup in favor of chugging the syrup straight from the bottle. It was repulsive to be sure, especially to Sherlock who found taste and texture extremely overwhelming (couldn't eat eggs, yoghurt, milk, couldn't stand the static texture of chairs, couldn't stand the fuzziness of a stuffed animal, the feelings were too overwhelming and made him squeamish.). Sherlock grimaced his way through, though, downing the bottle as fast as he could, allowing his impulsive side to override the vague dissonance he felt within his logical mind at the outright stupid and bloody insolent decision he had just made but shut up shut up shut up this is the only way. The syrup stuck in his throat and almost caused him to gag, but he continued anyways. No sense going back now.
With the bottle empty, Sherlock flopped back on his massive bed, allowing his head to roll back onto the pillows. He supposed that for the sack of scientific experiment he should write down the exact dosage and time to high for future reference. Sherlock checked the clock next to him, passively writing down the time on the pad of paper he kept on his bedside table, and pulled out a cigarette from his pants pocket. He lit the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. No one ever went into this area of the house except the maids and Mycroft, but Mycroft was off at university and he was fairly confident the maids wouldn't tell his parents about him. On the offhanded chance that Siger was walking by and noticed the smoke, well, then he would be in for a pretty bad ride. Yet considering that he was likely to be very dissociatively high very soon, he considered that he wouldn't even feel nor be altogether aware of the punishment Siger would administer, which made it a moot point really. And God he needed that disgusting not-quite-cherry taste out of his mouth.
Sherlock took another drag off the cigarette, rubbing his eyes. God how long was this going to bloody take?
Ten minutes went by and he couldn't really feel much difference from his usual state. Brain still going A to Z back to Q, flying off the radar, not slowing down one bit. No grogginess. Didn't feel tired. Certainly was still perceptive of the reality that surrounded him, no dissociative delusions yet to think of. So… not high. Right? Sherlock really wasn't quite sure as this was his first experience with altered states of mind, but he was sure that he didn't feel too different.
God, this was getting rather boring.
Sherlock sighed, and went to reach for another cigarette but instead found his pack was empty. Well then, that was a problem, wasn't it? Immediately he decided that the best course of action would obviously be to go buy some more from the shops about a mile or so down the road from the manor. He wasn't quite sure how long this high thing was supposed to go for, and to be honest the concept of coming down from a high and going through nicotine withdrawal was far from a pleasant concept. No, definitely needed to procure some more cigs and fast.
Perhaps the blood flow would make the high work faster, anyways. Faster distribution and all that.
Sherlock pushed himself off of the bed, ignoring the rushing sensation the motion caused in his head (the beginning of the high or simply the result of a rush of blood to the head?) and slipped his shoes and coat on. He exited the manor as quickly as possible.
No more than twenty minutes down the road Sherlock suddenly found the world around him was becoming slightly less tangible, like perhaps the trees on the path weren't really there at all or that the ground beneath his feet was just some sort of figment of his own consciousness telling him there should be a road there. Sherlock dismissed this as possibly the result of his recent, unimpressive, forays into the concept of phenomenology.
The feeling only got worse the farther he walked though. Sherlock felt a creeping sensation in the back of his head, starting from the base of his neck and moving to encompass his entire cranium. The thoughts that usually were firing constantly seemed to be on some sort of ceasefire. It was odd, he decided, and definitely was a result of the Robitussen. Sherlock wasn't quite sure if he enjoyed this sensation yet. He felt mildly sick and more than a little paranoid that he had somehow caused himself permanent mental incapacitation through this little experiment. Had he crossed a line? What if his brain never went back to the way it was before, all clever fire and bright insight? Sure it had been annoying, sometimes incapacitating, and definitely alienating, but it was better than being average and boring like everyone else. Why had he given that up?
(But no, that's stupid some logical part of his now foggy mind retorted. Brain chemistry doesn't switch that quickly, it would take multiple exposures and even then the possibility of permanent damage is slim. The thought was comforting even if it was small in comparison to the overwhelming paranoia Sherlock was feeling.)
By the time Sherlock had reached the package store he was definitely high. The bell that tinkled as he walked on made him cringe and the world in front of him was swirling with unreality. He felt like he was floating through the aisles, and was totally incapable of ensuring that he wouldn't fall over. That would be inconvenient. He found, though, that his body was moving quite well on autopilot despite the fact that his mind was quite obviously disengaged from the reality in front of him. How delightfully interesting. This just went to confirm his belief of physical and mental disparity, how the body is totally separate from the mind and the two can function independently. He would have to record this in the experimental conclusions (if he remembered).
The numbness that had started in his head a few minutes back (was it only a few minutes?) had now successfully infiltrated his entire brain. It was oddly relaxing, or would be if he weren't so paranoid about his surroundings (incomprehensible at best, his hands felt like they were swelling and shrinking, the floor seemed to be rippling, god this was bad) and the people (they know, they know, they can tell I'm high and will tell father and that would be disastrous). Despite this, he trusted in his autopilot physical reality to get him through the situation and resigned his brain to simply observing the outcome of this interaction. Nothing to be done really, he couldn't will himself to sobriety, and this was his choice wasn't it? Might as well experience every aspect.
Sherlock walked up to the clerk at the counter and pointed at his usual brand of cigarettes. "I'll take a package of those, please," he intoned, startling himself as he felt the vibrations of his speech all throughout his body. It almost made him smile, and he probably would have if the action also didn't make him feel sick.
The clerk looked back at him, the edge of his mouth smirking slightly. Sherlock tried to stay as impassive as possible, keeping his body rigid and his mouth a hard line despite his body's natural inclination to sway on the spot. He felt a roiling in his stomach. After a moment the clerk shrugged and tossed a package of cigarettes towards Sherlock, who surprised himself in catching them with one hand. The separation of physical and mental self would definitely be going in his write-up.
"A little young for smoking aren'tya?"
Sherlock frowned, but decided that he was already holding a package, the clerk was unlikely to take them away from him (except he could, he could turn violent, he could call the cops, this is bad bad bad some part of his brain intoned on repeat and good lord this was getting in the way, the thought seemed to swell in his numbed mind). He shrugged and pocketed the pack, pushing the cash towards the clerk.
"Old enough, I'd reckon, by your standards."
The clerk laughed softly, counting out the change before pushing the cash back towards Sherlock. "It's not my place to get in the way of experimenting kids. I don't give a damn what you do as long as it ain't gonna cause me any damage." He gave Sherlock a knowing look. "No matter what the kids are on."
He definitely knows, Sherlock thought, the fact resounding through both the logical and drug-affected regions of his brain. But he's not doing anything about it so it's fine.
"You're right, it's not your place," Sherlock responded, pocketing the change. He turned to leave the store. The creeping sensation that something bad would be happening was upon him and he decided he'd much rather be out in the open than trapped in this goddamn package store when whatever-that-bad-thing-that-was-going-to happen happened.
"Just be careful," the clerk called behind him as he exited, the bell ringing as he left. Sherlock nodded absently, the motion causing him to feel a rush of vertigo and make the roiling in his stomach suddenly start again. God, this was getting bad. He should do something, but he couldn't very well think of anything logical to do at this point. The pavement underneath him, whether it was there or not (which was doubtful, Sherlock conceded, he didn't even know anymore. God he hated not knowing above all else, this high was not for him) kept bucking under his stumbling feet. He fidgeted with the package of cigarettes in his pocket, shakily pulling one out and placing it in his mouth. A moment later he had an ember, the silky smoke that was inhaled gave him something tangible to focus on since he had chosen to put it there, it was under his control unlike the rest of the goddamn shaky world around him. The faces of passersby seemed judgmental (they know they know they know) and Sherlock longed to be back in his spacious room to ride out the rest of this nonsense. He hurriedly made his way back to the path that led to the manor.
Halfway back to his house he felt that bad thing was about to happen.
Sherlock ran to the woods, trying to hold himself together until he was safe within the forest. He barely made it to the edge of the woods before he retched, the vomit a dark red color, resembling blood, staining the grass. When he was finished he settled at the base of a nearby tree. He suddenly felt cold, the numbness in his head turning over to ice. He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes, the logical part of his brain that was still functioning taking stock of his situation, willing himself out of this horrid nausea. The world around him seemed to be pixelating, he could feel his heart beat, the work of his internal organs, the digestion occurring in his intestines, the cough that he produced working its way through the lungs. It scared him, if he was going to be quite frank. Some dark part of his brain kept intoning you will die you will die you will die over and over. But no, he had to control those base emotions if he was going to pull through this. He willed the logical part to take over, to calm the screaming of his nerves. No, he was going to make it. He willed his heart to pull through, for the ringing in his ears to subside, for his body to stop shaking so uncontrollably. And no, closing his eyes was bad because now he had no tangible surroundings to grasp hold of, to assure himself that he was real, that his body and world were real (of course it's bloody real the quiet logic of his unaffected brain scoffed you're just high). His brain was quite effectively blocking any physical sensations to assuage him so he had to be content with opening his eyes and using the swirling eddy of color in front of him as the only sensation that convinced him of his existence. The sensation was uncomfortable and unnerving, yes, but better than floating as an intangible mental mass in some internalized black void of space.
(Of course you bloody well exist, you're a hunk of organic material that is living and you're just high stop focusing on such metaphysical bullshit you sod.)
Sherlock wasn't entirely positive how long he sat on the forest floor. By the time the sky was darkening he had regained some semblance of control over his limbs and some piece of his brain (perhaps the survival mechanisms) told him that despite everything he really should be getting home.
The walk back felt like eons, but after thirty minutes and about four cigarettes later Sherlock found himself crawling into his bed. He had made it back before dark with a new package of cigarettes, no one it seemed was aware of his absence, and he now knew what a robo-trip was.
He closed his eyes. The initial power of the high had faded significantly. Now he was just buzzed and very drowsy. His eyes seemed to close of their own accord as he burrowed into his blankets, the texture of them soothing and inviting. Sherlock curled into a ball, and felt for the first time a sense of quiet and calm inside his brain. No fast movements, rapid fire thoughts; now that he was in a safe location he was no longer paranoid. He was, in fact, quite happily high. Not sure yet if the result was worth the last two hours, but he knew inside his chest that he enjoyed this dissociation, if only because of the momentary peace it brought. DXM may not be for him, but the resulting psychosis definitely was.
Sherlock stored this information in a corner of his mind for future rumination. He had to find another alternative, another way of getting high. But for now, all he could do was sleep.