Hello! This is my next big, actually-with-a-plot, no-romance story. Friendship only :D
Warnings: DARK (T for a reason, be warned); immediate drug references.
Finally, reviews are always welcome. Enjoy...
Ashes.
"Our main headline tonight: children from a school in North London are reported to have been being supplied with the illegal drug, heroin. Worried parents have contacted the police, but as yet, the suppliers have not been identified. Five children have been hospitalised to date, and there are concerns that the perpetrators of the trade may expand their dealings across other schools in the city. Our education correspondent, David Hargreaves, is there for us now – David."
John exhales, tuning out the Welsh accent of the newsreader to look at his flatmate, concerned. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over his experiment. He's holding a flask of something purple in one hand, and frowning over his microscope, but John can tell from the slight tilt of his head that he's half listening to the television. He doesn't look up at John's gaze, as he often does. He's absorbed in his work, tipping the flask infinitesimally, so a tiny drop of purple splashes onto a Petri dish. The contents of the dish bubbles violently, and when the bubbling stops, one side of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards, and he slides the dish under the lens of the microscope, surveying it for several minutes.
Sighing, John leaves him to it, returning his own attention to the news. A police officer he vaguely recognises is being questioned rather mercilessly by the reporter.
"What would you say to those who are criticising the police for not treating this matter with more urgency?"
"Well that's completely untrue. I can assure you that this is being treated as a matter of huge importance: the safety of our young people is one of the priorities of the police…"
John tunes out from the forced politeness of the police officer, leaning back in his chair and yawning. He hears Sherlock give a small snicker, and looks up.
"I don't know why they bother coming up with all this," Sherlock says, waving a hand dismissively at the screen.
"Well I'm sure they're doing their best," John counters, watching the detective. For all the man's criticism of the police, and even his superiority in solving crimes; John did not believe the police were incompetent or even not well-meaning.
At his words, Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, looking down at John with scepticism, and pursing his lips. He doesn't say anything, however, focussing his attention on the screen. It's now showing a worried mother, the mother of one of the hospitalised children. She's quite pale, and her voice is shaking.
"I realise she's worried about the wellbeing of her son, but she's clearly exaggerating it for the camera. Still, she never did get much attention, second eldest of four siblings…"
John ignores him, grimacing, and shaking his head at the screen.
"My God," he murmurs. "I can't believe this…the youngest was only eight."
"He's still alive, John," Sherlock tells him, frowning at the use of the past tense.
"Don't tell me it doesn't bother you even a little bit."
"It's unpleasant," Sherlock concedes, shrugging. He seems to lose interest, returning to the kitchen and peering at his experiment.
The news switches to a story on the economy, and John gets up, following his flatmate into the kitchen, and leaning against the counter as Sherlock works. He can feel the irritation radiating off the detective as he does so. His jaw has tightened, and he sits very still. John grins.
"Yes?"
The word, forced out from between gritted teeth, makes John chuckle, and the expression on the detective's face darkens further. He lets out a long-suffering sigh, and turns to face John, who's still trying not to smile at his friend's apparently black mood.
"You do realise that just because I used to take drugs, it doesn't mean I am instantly fascinated by stories that relate to them?"
John opens his mouth to object.
"I- "
"And yes, it was usually heroin. Are you satisfied now?"
John sighs at Sherlock's irritable disposition, and leaves him to his experiment, returning to his chair in the lounge. He's been getting progressively more volatile over the past week: the 'interesting' cases seem to have dried up, and he's been, to quote him 'cooped' inside Baker Street for most of that time, not counting a few visits to the morgue to torment Molly and steal body parts. In all honesty, John was beginning to wish for a murder (not something he tended to wish for, but a man could change) for the simple reason that it would give the consulting detective something to do. Deprived of decent thinking material he became increasingly irritable and insulting, played the violin with increasing frequency and ferocity, and seemed to lose all social skills that he had previously possessed in very small quantities anyway. It was akin to living with a crate of high explosives next to the fireplace: that was, high explosives that played the violin at two in the morning.
Actually, Sherlock had been deprived of work for so long that 'playing' was really stretching the truth.
Nonetheless, John is quite pleased to have gleaned the small fact about the man. They've never talked about Sherlock's past, not ever: so absorbed as they are in the excitement of the present. It's not much, but John can't help but feel grateful for this small piece of information about his flatmate, even though all it is; is the man's previous drug preferences.
He supposes it puts him in some perspective, makes him more human. Sometimes, John needs reminding that Sherlock is not, in fact, a hero: he's just a man, someone who walked into his life at exactly the right moment, but still nothing more than a human being. Flawed, just like everyone else.
Absorbed in his thoughts, John has not been paying attention to the news, and notices with little interest that it's got to the weather forecast. He flips the TV off, leaning back, and closing his eyes, but not before sparing Sherlock a glance. The detective is no longer focussed on his experiment. His elbows are rested on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin, a serene expression on his face that was tainted by the last vestiges of antagonism. John smiles.
Something suitably horrendous would come along soon, he was sure, and Sherlock would return to his usual manic self. He wonders if he should be worried that such a thought sounded promising.