Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn't clean. And this time it may cost him. Rating for drug use, angst, self-harm, and possibly future language.

In episode 1, A Study in Pink, Lestrade's "drugs bust" and Sherlock's reaction made me terribly curious as to his drug habit. Does he have one at all, did he have one, does he have one still? In the original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle books, Sherlock Holmes was a habitual cocaine user, which is why it's Sherlock's drug of choice here.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. In any way, shape or form, sadly. So pretty please don't sue me.


From Sherlock's point of view.

John is gone. It's been almost a week now and there are no cases. Why the criminal classes should chose now, when my primary source of secondary entertainment (secondary to solving crime, obviously) is away visiting his sister, and will be away for at least another day, is beyond my comprehension. This dead spell started the week before he left, and has continued until now, when my boredom is approaching unbearable.

So I'm alone. And bored. Bored, bored, bored. Terribly, mind-numbingly, inconceivably bored. And there's nothing and no one to distract me from the horrible predictability of life, and how skull-crushingly dull it is to just exist, without challenges, without the work that keeps me going. My finely-tuned mind continues to churn, continues to seek answers, but without questions, it just turns upon itself, upon me. And that is one thing I cannot stand.

I can see through everyone, find their every flaw, every insecurity, and I myself am no exception. And I need distraction, because I do not like the things I see in myself. Too tall, too skinny, sharp eyes and shaper tongue. Alone, unlikeable and friendless. A freak. But being a freak is all I've known. I don't know how to be anything else, how to turn off the blessing that curses me to this. The boredom, and the cocaine.

John doesn't know. He thinks I'm clean. Lestrade wouldn't work with me if he knew. What they don't know is that I've been injecting myself with anything that would stave off the banality of life since I was sixteen, or that it would be easier to put out my eyes than to stop. Nobody knows but Mycroft, but he too thinks I've given up the habit.

And here I am again, bottle in hand, sleeve rolled up, selecting a spot on my arm, amongst the other, older marks, scars, and burns marring the smooth white flesh of my forearm. I've tried other things, through sheer desperation to feel something. To not be bored. But I've found that cocaine works best, my seven per cent solution, and that its marks are easier to hide. I fill the syringe to the proper mark and sigh lightly as the needle penetrates my skin. Relief will come soon. It's been 41 days since I last used. But I always come back.

I depress the plunger, and recline on the sofa, as the sweet relief races through my veins. I leave the needle and bottle where they are. It will be some time before John returns, and everything will be long hidden before then. So I lay back, steeple my fingers under my chin, and relax, as I can only when under the influence of narcotics.

Well, try to. It's not working quite like it should. The dreamy feeling is there, yes, but not nearly so strong as it should be. I frown, acutely irritated by the lack of release I'm feeling, drum my fingers against the coffee table. Ah, of course. My body's built up a resistance to the cocaine, so the reaction isn't as strong. I can still get the proper reaction. I just need more.

And the need is strong, now that I've had a taste of it. I'm not sure how much more I should use, however. I've never faced this response before. Normally, I would do some calculations, based on body weight, the amount I'd taken before, and the amount of resistance I'm feeling. But I can't wait. My need for the drug is growing still more pressing. So I do a slapdash calculation in my head, and fill the needle with what looks like a reasonable amount. Injecting it is the sweetest relief I've ever felt, until the edges of my vision go fuzzy and the darkness swallows me whole.


That's it for now, I'm afraid. If I get enough lovely reviews though, I may continue it. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sherlock is such a wonderful muse.