Title: No Guilt In The Morning
Fandom: Sherlock, BBC
Characters: Sherlock, one of his contacts
Rating: T, for drug use so if triggers than please stop here.
Summary: John isn't there to keep him in check. And he is bored.
Don't flame for me discussing the use of drugs. I do not condone or endorse such practice, but such are the character's choices. Even the ugly must be portrayed as well as the genius. Might be considered a sequel to "Better Without Lyrics," but can be read as a standalone as well. I will admit I was tempted to title this "The Fix" as well as allusions to Ke$ha's music, a) it seemed as though that would be a popular title, and b) Sherlock probably hates Ke$ha if he's even aware of it and c) Coldplay is overplayed. As much as I like it for my muse. Besides, Ke$ha gets her nod in the club song.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't make money from it, don't get to work with awesome people such as MF and BC. Wouldn't even need to write fic if I did.
Tuscany.
The noise, the buzzing in his head. The hypersensitivity. He could almost taste the street lights, feel their electricity searing through his senses. The lights were blinding. The yellow tasting like that awful candy that sizzled on his tongue.
Too bright, too bright. Turn it off.
It was times like these he wished his mind were a lightswitch and he could just easily turn it off. But things were never that easy. They never had been. It had been worse in his teens, so intense he'd sometimes screamed and nobody knew what was wrong until he conducted his own experiments on himself. Found out what concoctions quieted the noise.
The pain in his head, the loud tha-thump of his heart pumping blood though the rest of his body felt like a weighted fireball. Elevated pulse. Pupils dilated.
He didn't think the onslaught would be so strong. He hadn't needed much when he was in Rome. But breaking into the Network had proved damned near impossible, because Moriarty had nearly ensured his associates knew bare minimum about each other. Only meeting times. Appearance. Besides, the last one had proved to be nearly useless despite a clue that Tuscany might hold another.
One down, countless to go.
Eventually he would enlist Mycroft. But not yet. He didn't want to think about that now. In fact, he didn't want to think about anything - just quiet the damned painful noise that made all his senses far too keen for sanity.
He needed something - fix wasn't exactly the right term for it. It didn't "fix" anything, just made the problem go away for awhile. Kept him sane, yes. But didn't "fix" a damned thing.
This was his destination - the nightclub at the edge of the alley. Though he quite dreaded this trek. In order to reach his contact it required a walk through a place with incessant noise, writhing idiots trying to get off together in corners. Positively disgusting in normal circumstances.
The noise coming from the building wasn't music - it was just that - noise. It made the buzzing and weighted heartbeat vibrate through his body. He let out what might have been a resigned sigh, straightened his shoulders, and opened the door.
The noise hit him blindly, the lights flashed and tasted a bit like that disgustingly mingled ice cream instead of only one flavor.
The door wasn't guarded. The club was owned by an American.
He fought to keep his consciousness in check. Started walking toward the VIP lounge.
A woman sidled up to him, flipping at his lapels, but he pushed her away with his arm - clearly on a mission as he strode through the flashing lights and writhing bodies, feeling vulnerable yet appearing quite the conqueror.
Stop this beat is killing me, the speakers blared at him. No, it wasn't killing him. It was simply terribly inconvenient.
There was a guard there. Sherlock honed his senses toward forcing legible words from his mouth, to sound completely control. He held up his identification before it could be asked for. "Mr. Daneman. I believe Monsignor DiMera is expecting me?"
He was escorted in without a hitch other than emptying his pockets which he complied. Only his notes.
"You carry no pistol Monsignor Daneman?" the question came from his contact, the Italian who controlled this place like an American establishment. A guise to hide his true dealings.
"Yes, of course - it's not on me at the moment though." Sherlock blinked mundanely. "You're not a threat to me, neither are your clients."
The mobster - as best as he could be termed - laughed at that. "You want prodotto then? I give best deal to Monsignor that does not tell his MI - 5 or CIA dees tings of my business."
Sherlock gave a mild, amused nod. "Not the usual this time, DiMera. This time I want eroina. Or whatever the proper term might be for it."
The dealer smiled. "Hundred euro. It's a good deal."
He knew that, it was practically stealing. He placed the euros on the table, already counted. "Two hundred if you can have it in an hour."
"Two hundred and it's yours in fifteen, Monsignor. You drive a hard bargain."
Sherlock merely smiled, hiding the fact his body was panting, racing. "And MI-5 will continue to forget this place."
"A drink for you, Monsignor?"
"No, thanks." A drink would simply make it worse, make it throbbing and beating as though his veins would pop from his body. A rather unpleasant sensation he would rather avoid. "Tell me of London, if there is any news. Don't usually read the papers."
"Oh yes, there is some roba grossa over someone that jumped off de roof of the hospital," he said.
"Other than that." Though he was pleased that the news of his death seemed to be quite widespread.
"No'tings. Other than than the terrible weather they've had."
"London is always bad this time of year." He rubbed his damp palms between his legs as though the room were slightly chilly, apparently nonchalant. Weather was boring. "That's why I'm on holiday," he let out a slight laugh that sounded extremely false to his own ears. "What about the Organization? The message I sent you?"
"Ah yes. Der is a man fitting dis description. He may show up tomorrow night."
"For product?" That would be an easy advantage. Slip something into it... no, he needed information first.
"Sometimes. Mostly he want merchandise. Which I can do. But it very expensive."
"He pays in cash?"
The man shrugged. "Sometimes. Sometimes an associate buy it for him. She good-looking woman. Pays with an Arabic visa. Usually on Tuesday."
The guard slipped a plain paper bag on the table, folded neatly except for the the slight bulges that were clearly a vial and a syringe.
Sherlock rose, the visit finished. More successful that he could have originally planned. "Thank you Monsignor DiMera. You've been very helpful." He bowed, smiling.
"Thank you, sir. Watch that you don take too much. I don want to lose amico, yes?"
"It's not for me," the lie slipped easily from his tongue. "It's for an experiment."
The Italian huffed dismissively and Sherlock was escorted out.
The business transaction finished, the proper information obtained. He could watch from the alley. Easy enough.
Once in the alley, he stumbled. The buzzing had increased its searing tempo. He tore the paper bag in a sweeping motion, tossing it aside.
The vial, the needle.
The proper things to silence the noise. When he wanted to think he got snuff. Right now, he didn't want to think.
Particularly about John sitting back in Baker Street, in the drumming rain. Thinking he was dead. Replaying the images of Sherlock, broken on the pavement in his mind like a scratched record.
He gritted his teeth, sitting against the building. Hidden between two large bins which no one had yet seemed to claim.
Ignoring the vile smell that crept onto his taste buds. He took off his coat. Unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. He filled the needle first before applying the tourniquet. His hands were already shaking enough. Knotted the scarf around his arm, just above where the vital artery connected to the elbow. The blood thrummed it's way frantically to his trembling fingertips.
He counted to five, then thrust the needle into the vein, precisely where it was supposed to go, seeping its way into his bloodstream.
Three minutes for the concoction to reach his brain cells for the desired effect. The buzzing was no longer as loud and the beating of his heart reverberating across his body seemed less intense. He leaned back against the building with a relieved sigh.
There would be no guilt in the morning.