Sherlock Holmes was high. Not on the cocaine he had succumbed to in his post-university days, before he decided to be a detective, but on music.
He had completely lost any sense of exterior self as he drew the bow across the violin strings. His mind burst with imagination and activity as the improvisation continued. Endorphins flowed through his veins, a fresh pump at every F and every D. He shuddered as his eyes rolled backwards, his soul on the wings of the birds and his mind right along with it.
It had been proven that music has a similar positive effect on the brain as cocaine (and love), and Sherlock was determined to take every advantage, particularly as the physiological consequences were far less serious than his old habits.
The vibrations of the strings made his fingertips tingle, a 1046 Hz massage, while his brain lit up with activity. Both halves of his brain working in perfect unison while his body played on. This, to him, was one of the most beautiful things the universe had to offer. The perfect drug. No fear of losing grey matter or destroying important neural pathways, no needle marks in his arm, no chance of being arrested. But this high was good. It was addictive.
He hadn't told John about the extent of his addiction. Why would he? Why wouldn't he? It wasn't like John would send him to rehab. What would that be, anyway, Musicians Anonymous? Besides, like the sugar in American food, there was really no escaping it—music is everywhere, from the poetry of the street performer to the prose of footsteps, there's always music. Always.
Like any addict, Sherlock had a secret stash. John didn't know about Sherlock's iPod. He'd never seen the playlist that was loaded with trance, trip-hop, ambience, and what others would only hear as chaos. It was a playlist that would flood his mind, too many musical tracks for the human brain to keep track of without falling into a trancelike state. He'd listen to it when John was asleep and they had no cases. He'd spent nights just staring at the ceiling, listening to the music, letting his mind be overwhelmed with the mathematical perfections and the impossible juxtapositions. He'd even tried his hand at composing, trying new flavours of his drug which he had invented. The overlapping vocals, track upon track upon track of them, combined with harsh electronic sounds, overlayed with snatches from his own violin compositions, and layered with sounds just inside the reach of human hearing. He'd never told anyone. He'd never published any of them. They were his private drug. His private solution to the problems of his world.
But for now, he stood in the sitting-room, the horse-hair bow against the catgut strings. The pace of his musical meanderings picked up as he fell even further into his intoxication. Sherlock hadn't even noticed he'd been hours just playing his violin. He didn't care that he hadn't eaten yet today. All that mattered was the high.