Summary: "A great racing beast momentarily quiets. Something warm and needy uncoils deep inside of him. The careful control slips away. It's liberating. And terrifying. And he lets it pull him under."
Why does the Holmes family never do Christmas? The origin of Sherlock's addiction and how it changed two brothers' relationship forever.
Pre Series 1 Back Story. Rated T for drug use and general dark angst.
"Holmes!"
The man in question pauses, fingers grasping the doorknob to his room. If only he'd moved a few paces faster he'd be safely inside rather than standing in the hallway, gripped with a sudden urge to do something unwise. But it has been a trying day, a trying term come to that, and he's tired.
Tired of shrugging off the barely disguised insults and the blatant taunts. Tired of reminding himself that they're all idiots and just jealous of his upbringing and his intellect. Tired of waiting for the term to end so he can spend a few precious weeks away from university. Home, while not exactly stress-free, is at least, blessedly free of the constant sneers thrown his direction. All he has to contend with there is boredom and his brother.
"Holmes! I know you hear me, damn it! Just come down here, will you?"
Sucking in a breath, he runs his hands through his hair as he heads towards the call from the open doorway down the hall and readies himself for an attack. It's always best to be prepared when one senses an ambush. In this case, it's better than feeding the fire by shrinking away into hiding. And, if he's honest, part of him is itching for a fight. He rounds the corner into the room in a huff, hands already balled into fists...and comes to an abrupt halt.
The room is empty save for its sole inhabitant, a lanky blonde fellow known simply as 'Trev' among his mates. Of all the posh prats rooming on this hall, Trev is the only one who's never been intentionally cruel to him. In fact, early on, the young man had actually attempted to engage him in awkward small talk.
He's currently lounging on the bed, back propped in the corner between the headboard and the wall. A quick scan of the room and its inhabitant's rumpled clothing reveal that he's recently returned from an exam (in Comparative Political Analysis, where he performed poorly) by way of a book shop several blocks to the south that's known for its selection of illicit products sold out a door round the back. This is confirmed by the presence of a large (no doubt hollowed out) dictionary on the corner of the bed acting as a tray for a loose mound of powder, a razor blade and several short straws. It's a habit the man has recently begun indulging with some fair regularity.
"Oh, there you are, Holmes." Trev glances lazily up, then waves vaguely in the direction of the desk chair before continuing in a slow drawl, "You really must try this."
"Why?" Any other time he would have simply turned and left, but the day has been horrid already, so there's little room for it to get worse. He allows himself the luxury of considering sitting down on the chair. He doesn't sit, but does slow his breathing and relax his posture.
"Because you're miserable and you've had a twig up your arse all term. Must be getting a bit uncomfortable." There's no judgment or malice in the comment. Surprisingly, it's just an observation.
"Seriously," Trev continues, dropping his head lethargically back against the wall and letting his eyes flutter closed, "It's stress relief".
"You're sharing your chosen form of 'stress relief' with me?" he confirms, a bit disbelieving, and moves to sit on the chair, curiosity getting the better of him.
Trev lifts his head, leveling a look at him like he's dense. "No one else here, yeah?"
He can't really dispute that logic, nor does he care to try.
The disheveled blonde leans slowly forward and uses the razor to divide out a quarter of the powder and scrape it together into a precise line. The movements of his slender fingers are oddly fascinating. He pushes the makeshift tray across the bed with an encouraging nod and a quick grin.
"On you go, then."
It's like he's watching from outside himself as he leans forward and picks up the straw, lifts it to one nostril and inhales the line. Straightening up, he delicately wipes any traces from beneath his nose. By keeping his vantage point remote, he reasons, he can treat it like an experiment.
Nothing happens. For an unpleasantly long three and a half minutes, he's left perched on the hard chair, awkwardly studying the room and trying to be discreet about noticing the way Trev lays back, languid body splayed over the bed.
He's about to get up and leave when a pleasant rush surges through his bloodstream. Closing his eyes, a flood of euphoria engulfs him, like being surrounded by warm ocean waves. His body both floats and falls, heavy in the most exquisite way. All the clatter in his mind suddenly clears. The most difficult equation solved effortlessly and at the same time, there's no need solve it at all. A great racing beast momentarily quiets. Something warm and needy uncoils deep inside of him. The careful control slips away. It's liberating. And terrifying. And he lets it pull him under.
There's a vague sensation of running hands over smooth skin and long limbs. It's nothing more than a disjointed fragment of reality. His thoughts wander pleasantly. Everything seems equally intriguing. Even the lines on the floor tiles are blindingly beautiful and infinitely compelling.
He slowly realizes it's only a temporary escape, and one he won't allow himself to indulge again. Because somewhere underneath the lovely inarguable feeling that all is right and wonderful, lies want and need and a horrific dark desire.
He knows unequivocally that all he needs do is give in once and the desire will grow to gradually consume everything else and he'll never be able to satiate it or beat it back. He's still high, but coherence is coming on now and he knows it was a grave mistake trying this.
He manages to lurch to his feet, with the sudden need to escape the now too small, suffocating room. The experiment has been interesting, beautiful even. But, ultimately, it's disturbing and he's ready for it to end. At some point, he had shed his coat. He casts about for it in a way that would be frantic if it didn't feel like it was happening in slow motion. He finds it on the floor and finally slides his arms into the sleeves. Trev is standing in front of him now, leaning in, patting him on the chest, telling him to stay, that it'll get better, and holding out a tiny pink-tinged plastic packet.
He licks his lips, wanting what's in the packet so badly he can taste it. Worse than he's wanted anything in a very long time, possibly his entire life. It takes everything he has to stay his hand from reaching out and taking the bag. Trev finally lets him go, but not before slipping the bag into his coat pocket.
Stumbling back to his room, he drops onto his bed and sleeps for eleven hours, waking with an aching thirst and the worst need to piss he's ever experienced. He's surprised he didn't wet himself in his sleep. Moreover, he's deeply disturbed that even more than he wants a sip of water or use of the loo, he wants to snort the packet of white powder he knows is lurking in his coat pocket.
Instead, he buries the coat in the suitcase stored at the bottom of his wardrobe, then stacks every book and every pair of shoes he owns and even a portable radio on top of it. He showers and spends the next forty eight hours in the library, the cafe and the student lounge...anywhere that's not his room. And slowly he rebuilds the walls of control around himself and reacquaints himself with the person he was before sniffing that glorious, dreadful substance.
Trev disappears a week later and doesn't return. Rumor has it his mum's ill, a convenient euphemism for a visit to rehab.
He puts the entire incident out of his mind, a dalliance, nothing more. His experiments and his studies take priority. There are any number of other, more pressing matters to occupy his attention.
Winter weather arrives in the form of a snow storm that forces him to excavate his coat out of the wardrobe. Recalling all too well what it contains, he tells himself he'll flush it down the loo at the first opportunity, but can't quite bring himself to do so. It's simpler to avoid the use of that pocket altogether and let the sleeping dog lie.
Christmas break promises relief from both the drudgery of his studies and the dislike of his surroundings. Taking the train home, he arrives amidst a cold downpour, but just in time for Christmas Eve Dinner.
"Leave your wet things and come eat. Look at you, so thin..." his mum says, tsking and fussing over him as he shakes out his brolly and slides out of his damp coat. He hangs them in the mud room, pulled towards the savory, comforting scent of roasted goose and the sounds of familiar conversation wafting from the kitchen.
The next afternoon, following a leisurely brunch and exchange of gifts, he's off to sneak an illicit cigarette in the garden when he notices the exposed inner lining of his coat, hanging differently than he left it the night before. It's obvious someone has gone through his pockets. It hits him in a rush just what's been residing there and how utterly stupid he's been.
Panic grips him at the thought of what he's inadvertently brought home and left right there on the peg for anyone to find...especially a teenage boy with a penchant for mischief, unbridled curiosity, and a brand new microscope as a Christmas gift. A little packet of mystery chemicals. Good Lord, it's practically gift-wrapped in its pink-tinged plastic. He slips his hand needlessly into the now empty pocket.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he pushes open the door to his brother's room, eyes immediately falling on the microscope at the desk, a slide still in place, surrounded by a few speckles of white powder.
Disappointment wars with relief as he enters the room to gratefully find his little brother conscious, sitting on the floor, an array of chemistry books scattered around him. The curly-haired boy's glassy eyes and slow sloppy smile complete the picture of his Christmas afternoon's activities.
The older brother's shoulders sag as the full realization of this devastating mistake descends on him, a mantle of responsibility he knows it's already much too late to escape. The first thought through his head spills out of his mouth, unbidden and unfiltered.
"Oh Sherlock, what have I done?"
His baby brother blinks up at the question, looking much younger than his fourteen years, then holds out the empty pink packet, smiles and says in a slow slur, "Hullo, Mycroft. Do you have any more?"
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A/N: Many thanks to JolieBlack for the Britpits. :)