The Evils of a Brilliant Mind
Summary: Sherlock is having trouble dealing with the turmoil in his mind. Will drugs be the only thing that keeps him sane…
A/N: I don't really know what im going to do with this but im going to add more chapters, john will probably find out and try to help and they may start a relationship. Don't own anything.
Sherlock entered 221 B with John in tow. The moment he stepped foot into the dimly lit flat he was surrounded by a familiarity that seeped from every crevice of the place. The faint and pleasantly rich scent of wood, the slight clutter that sat in random areas, the warm dim lighting, the mess of scientific tools that consumed the kitchen counter, it was all familiar. He removed his coat, tinged at the corners by dirty street water from a mad dash for a criminal that brought about the conclusion of their latest case, and hung it on the hook by the door. He was faintly aware of John's presence behind him as he trudged over to the sofa and thrust himself onto it with an unceremonious thud.
The work was over. The thrill of the chase was fading with every passing moment. A plethora of insistent thoughts were hammering at the rapidly weakening doors of his mind. Ah yes, this too, was familiar. The voices where all demanding to be heard and he was powerless to control them. The cheap thrill of those utterly insufficient puzzles wasn't enough to keep the horrors of his mind away. Not anymore. He needed something more elaborate. More complex, more deliciously twisted and perplexing. Something starkly foreign and curious. And he needed it quickly.
John watched, brows knitted and mouth pressed into a firm line, as Sherlock layed inhumanly still on the couch. He didn't know what was happening inside his friend's mind at the moment more than he ever had. But Sherlock was behaving differently. It was subtle but John perceived a shift in Sherlock's demeanor. He was quieter, less excitable. The indifference he usually displayed toward silly human things like overt displays of emotion was now present in the examination of crime scenes, in his new scientific endeavors, in things that he before seemed to so thoroughly enjoy.
The room was filled with an almost tangible silence for the next few moments while Sherlock pondered the fresh hell that was overcoming his senses and John attempted to understand the enigma of a man he had grown so fond of.
John moved to the kitchen and set about heating water for tea. "Tea, Sherlock? There's leftover take out if you'd like, too." He silently hoped that Sherlock would consider eating a decent meal now that the case was over.
"No, John. I think I'll have a nap now." John heard a rusting of cloth and turned to watch Sherlock walk toward his room.
Sherlock entered the dark room. The air was slightly stale, the bed was in pristine order, the old wooden desk was covered in precariously stacked books and research materials. He sat stiffly on the bed for a moment before laying down flat on his back. His body was rigid and his muscles were taunt as he fought to ignore the daemons whispering in his ear. No! He didn't want to think anymore. He didn't want to struggle with every aspect of his existence. He wanted simply to have a clear and concise purpose that his over active mind could focus on.
Sherlock opened and closed his eyes slowly, then looked to the small table at his left. He stared at it for a moment then turned around onto his stomach and dug behind his bed. He quickly produced a oddly shaped silver key from the mess and roughly opened the drawer of the table. He emptied out the contents of it and stuck the key into a concealed hole at the corner of the drawer. The false bottom sprung up and he cast it aside carelessly then sat back onto the bed, cradling the box almost gently in his lap.
Inside the box was an assortment of needles, a unlabeled bottle of dilauded, a bottle of Vicodin, and several small bags of a fine white powder. Sherlock took one of the small bags and eyed it for a moment, then made a decision…