A/N: So up to now I've been trying to go through the episodes roughly in order, but someone suggested doing this scene and I couldn't help myself, it just sounded too fun.
I apologise in advance if anything gets incomprehensible - for some reason I decided it would be terribly clever and realistic of me if I were to go cold turkey myself before writing the first draft. (It has now been a day and a half since I've had a cig, by the way, and I am far less than pleased about it.) Hopefully this turned out readable despite the lack of nicotine swimming around in my brain.
Shower to wash the pig blood off, fine. He'd almost rather have continued to wander around the city covered in the stuff - interesting to watch peoples' reactions - but John insists so Sherlock reluctantly does as he's told.
Soon enough he's back to looking respectable (ugh how dull). Even cleans the end of the harpoon! Very responsible today. But that only took all of five minutes so now he's bored again. Bored bored bored bored good fucking christ is there nothing at all do bloody do!?
Pacing back and forth, harpoon in hand because it's somewhat interesting to look at the tiny patterns in the wood and of course there's always the chance of it going off accidentally and wouldn't that be exciting? Can't do it on purpose though, no, then he'd know about it beforehand and things you know about are never quite as fun as random events and good god is there nothing at all going on!?
In answer to his question John lists off a load of boring tripe from the news - military coup in Uganda, who cares, another photo of… oh for the love of- damn that stupid hat and whoever made it.
Whatever, boring uninteresting pointless just ignore it go back to pacing back and forth to and fro across the hardwood occasional step on carpeting not random enough too expected so it fades into mundane argh the wallpaper's peeling the slightest bit in the corner right there and the picture frame map of the British Isles crooked off-centre but only because he knows it annoys Mycroft when was the last time he looked at that sheet music what if the suspect in Lestrade's case last month hadn't actually been the killer of course he was but what if he hadn't been who else could have been a suspect no no no this is a stupid line of thought no one cares John flips another page of his newspaper cabinet reshuffle who honestly gives a damn nothing of importance another million thoughts blurring into a chaotic mess and OH GOD make it stop!
Slams the harpoon down, but it fails to go off (it won't, of course it won't he's engaged the safety mechanism but wouldn't it be interesting if it failed?) and the vague burst of disappointment just makes everything that much more irritating. Ugh, no. No no no sod this sod everything he gives up. This whole stupid bloody plan was John's idea anyway - whinging about health risks and breathing and why on earth had Sherlock even agreed in the first place? As if he gives a toss about his health. Just caved to John's badgering like usual. And since this is all John's fault in the first place it should really be him who goes and obtains whatever might be available, right bloody now because honestly he needs something.
But damn it, that's right, they've paid off every shop and dealer in the area. No cigarettes, no cocaine, not even speed (which despite its tendency to give him heart palpitations he'd gladly accept at the moment - who gives a shit about one's heart after all when their brain is ready to explode!?) And god who the hell came up with that stupid ide- oh right. He did.
ARGH but who cares anyway dismiss that move on to something else such as the fact that there has to be some sort of drug around here somewhere. A stray cigarette or a nicotine patch, maybe a phial of something stronger. With all the substances he's experimented with it's nigh impossible there won't be a scrap of something left. Flips folders out of the way - flinging them, because the dramatic movements bring a spike of adrenaline. Only a fleeting burst, doesn't help much, but still it's a vestige of stimulation. And fuck there's nothing there and not in the box or the shelf or under papers and this is all John's fault he's got a stash somewhere hiding them for emergencies tell me where they are!
Please!
Pleasepleasepleaseplease just one drag, one pill or hit or anything because he honestly can't deal with this it's too many details registering all at once all echoing hollow into the utter, utter stillness of nothing going on. There's no focus point so instead everything becomes a focus point and the human brain simply wasn't built for this! Not even his!
You're doing really well, don't give up now.
John sounds exasperated - probably because this is the third time they've been through this conversation in less than two days and the doctor's getting sick of it. Well quite frankly Sherlock's getting sick of it too, which is why it would really be better for everyone if they'd just let him go back to his usual routine of chemically-assisted brainwork but nooo it's got to be all down to his health.
Hang his health! He's managed to survive this long without giving a damn! And anyway what's the difference if he gets lung cancer or dies of an aneurysm? One less sociopathic freak of nature for the world to deal with - hell they'd probably celebrate down at the Yard. Better to live a shortened blip of an existence than to deal with this constant neverending buzz of thoughts and details and knowledge and argh, just shut it off!
John doesn't understand, refuses to sympathise. So Sherlock falls back on the only thing he can think to try and acts normal.
Careful arrangement of facial muscles, ensure the correct expression of contrite humble pleading because fuck his dignity at the moment there's more important things at stake.
Please.
John is unimpressed. Damn it!
Alright well, on to bribery then - next week's lottery numbers? He's sure he could crack the algorithm or whatever they use, but John's not interested in that either (knew he wouldn't be, worth a try anyway.) Argh fine if John's going to persist in being unhelpful... there! By the fireplace something's been moved recently, could be an old stash- oh, his secret supply! He literally flings himself toward it.
Mrs Hudson comes in as he's searching, she'd know what they've done with it tell me where it is but she just plays stupid. How about a nice cuppa? No! No no no caffeine does nothing! Why don't they seem to understand!? He needs something stronger!
Seven percent stronger... he hears himself mumble. Flashes of memory - snow, frosted pristine mirrored ice, the chilled apathy and effortless poise... all he wants is a single bloody cigarette but if they won't let him then by fucking god he'll quite happily go straight back to the harder substances. It'd serve them all right for trying to control his decisions anyway. Glances over his shoulder with a glare and oh, look at all that! Details, facts... Mrs Hudson you silly woman, think I wouldn't notice?
Points the harpoon at her. (For drama's sake mostly, because the safety's still on - but there's a spark of something horrible in his brain wondering just what might happen if it went off; blood splattering the windows, all over John's chair, the death would be slow and painful... she might be saved but only with quick intervention. He doesn't, absolutely doesn't want anything to happen to her but god there's nothing at all going on! so the dark thoughts rise up unbidden and there's little he can do about it.) Rattles off where she's been, who she's been with, why and how and all the things she thinks no one will notice but he always notices and maybe if he just says something terrible and rude, gives them a glimpse into his mental space right now they'll understand.
It's the only way he can think of to show them that he can't just turn this off, can't stop knowing about all the things everything everywhere all their little secrets and sordid love lives. It's always always always happening. Drugs are the only way to quiet the cascade of details facts and ideas that chase constantly screaming round his head. Drugs will make this stop.
But she only gets upset and runs out. John's angry now too, and of course it's all Sherlock's fault. He's the one in the wrong - for pointing out things they could have all seen if only they had the slightest clue what this is like. It's not their doing. No, no, certainly not. Even though this is only happening because they've taken away his bloody drugs!
He curls up in his armchair and rocks back and forth a few times like a child, because while he'd quite like to be able to sit quietly like a sane person staying still is not an option right now. John's lecturing him. Go after her and apologise.
Apologise!? For what? For doing exactly what they should all have been expecting him to do!? Go fuck yourself!
God, bloody John and his placid empty little mind. Doesn't have the slightest fucking clue what any of this is like, what the forced dormancy is doing to Sherlock's brain - tearing itself to pieces inside his skull. He tries to explain regardless, metaphors similies but none of them quite right, everything sounding so stupid and god I need a case!
John's apparently had enough - he snaps and yells back about having just solved one.
So!? That was this morning! Hours and hours ago (well, more like one or two but who the hell can be expected to keep track of time in this state) and that's an eternity when every single second of every minute is filled with a million million racing thoughts. With a huff Sherlock flops down in his chair and fidgets like a madman. Movement helps, calms the sensations of tiny racing ants in his nerves though it does unfortunately make him look rather insane. Not that he cares right now. God need a case, need something to think about when's the next one!?
The only thing on the website is an utterly ridiculous email from a little girl. Can he please please please find Bluebell? A rabbit, John! Who the hell honestly expects a homicide detective to go chasing after rabbits!? Do people teach their children anything these days? Or are their dimwitted parents actively creating morons? He drops into sarcasm; oh yes let's phone Lestrade get the bloody police on the case this is obviously a matter of national importance!
John, predictably, is utterly lost. Are you serious?
Sherlock turns back to him with a vicious scowl. Is he seri-? What the hell kind of question is that? Yes, John, of course I'm serious. Let's call up the bloody Yard and report a goddamned missing rabbit you complete fucking idiot.
He stares his flatmate down for a second more, then delivers an ultimatum (mostly just to see what he'll do): report the rabbit... or Cluedo.
John reacts as if he's just suggested they murder the Prime Minister. No no no we are never playing that again.
Why not, though...? Stupid game had actually been halfway amusing the last time, coming up with logical solutions for the utterly moronic little murder scenarios. True, no one else had seen the connections but that's hardly a surprise now is it? Perhaps if he got Mycroft to play... he'd certainly agree about the rules needing a proper overhaul. Maybe he could get the pompous git to rewrite them and then-
The doorbell cuts him off mid-sentence.
Single ring, maximum pressure just under the half-second... it's a client.
Oh thank god.