Sherlock Holmes had faced many enemies in his time as a detective, but none so challenging as simple boredom, and with each peaceful day that passed, the crushing sensation of uselessness and abandon grew within his brilliant mind. Restless and itching, he scoured every newspaper, every website, every notice board he could find looking for that cry for help that would bring him purpose again, to no avail. Nothing he could find lasted more than a day or two, and brought him no satisfaction, no thrill or challenge. Each case just drilled home to him the idea that he would never find a place in the world, that his life would be empty and void of real reason, and the insufferable, desperate boredom he fought every day to overcome would win out against all else. The same idea that had led him to the precipice on which he now stood, facing a decision he had never thought he would actually consider.
Sherlock was perched on the edge of his armchair cushion, his hands folded delicately under his chin and his narrowed eyes fixed on the bottle in front of him, a fresh needle placed neatly beside it. The room was still around him as if holding its breath, waiting for his decision, with only the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece breaking the silence. He had lost track of how long he had been sitting there contemplating the potentially life altering choice he had laid down for himself, but to be completely frank, he simply didn't care. His mind was already racing, weighing up everything he knew about injecting cocaine, and what he would need to be prepared for if he actually went ahead and did it. The mental effects, the physical side effects, the potential to become addicted… not to mention the difficulty of hiding it from his over bearing brother, who would have a fit if he was to find out. The taking of illicit drugs seemed so simple to most people, but to Sherlock Holmes, everything seemed to be infinitely more complicated.
He broke his statue like reverie suddenly, reaching out a hand to grasp the small bottle, his slender fingers curling around the glass like a spiders spinning web. It felt cold on his skin, and he twisted it away from his palm, holding it gently in his fingertips. Raising it to the faint light streaming in through the window, he eyed the innocent looking liquid thoughtfully, wondering to himself how something so simple could change a person so drastically. He held his lip in his teeth and tried to imagine himself as he would be in the throes of a cocaine high, but nothing he could picture made the choice any easier. Of course he had researched the effects, read accounts written by addicts and reports compiled by therapists, yet he knew without the actual experience, nothing he could read would help him decide.
The ring of his mobile phone brought him roaring back to his lounge room, and snapped him out of his thoughts. He snatched the drug back into his palm, placing it gently on the windowsill before turning his attention to the source of the interruption. It seemed he would have to put off the inevitable for just a while longer, a concept, he realised, that came to him with the smallest hint of relief. He found his phone on the desk, and a quick glance at the screen told him it was his brother Mycroft that posed as the welcome distraction, something that Sherlock could not say very often. With a reluctant sigh, he picked up.
"Mycroft."
"Sherlock," came the reply, the familiar voice as smooth as always. "Just calling to check up on you."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "You never just check up on me, what is it?" He made sure to saturate his voice with dull disinterest, a habit he knew his brother detested. He could almost hear Mycrofts frown through the phone line, and a faint smile tugged at his mouth .
"Come now, we are family after all Sherlock. I'm allowed to be worried about you every now and then."
Sherlock had wandered over to the coffee table, and had picked up the needle while his brother talked. Twirling the instrument in his fingers, he reassured him there was nothing to worry about, and he was doing just fine.
"I've had a few cases, yes." He drawled, placing the needle carefully back on the table. "Nothing substantial, but enough to get by on."
"I do hope you're being honest with me Sherlock. I know what you're capable of when left to your own devices, and I also know that London has been fairly quiet lately. These so-called 'cases' you speak of cant be more than child's play at best." For a moment Sherlock thought he detected genuine concern in his brothers voice as he ran his hand slowly over the polished wood of the mantel. An idea he banished almost instantly from his mind.
"Mycroft, I assure you, child's play or not, a case is a case, and I am quite content to solve any puzzle put before me." He was verging on angry now, always tired of his brothers watchful eye, treating him like an errant child, incapable of taking care of himself. He spun around on his heel, his eye catching a faint glint on the windowsill. The room grew still as Sherlock eyed the bottle, Mycrofts voice still prattling in his ear.
"Sherlock, I am your older brother, I know how you get restless." He was hardly paying attention anymore, his eyes fixed solely on the shining glass. "And I know how childish you can be when left alone for too long!"
Mycrofts words echoed in Sherlocks ear, and he suddenly found his mind made up. His brothers condescension was the final push he needed, and he didn't even bother to utter a farewell before ending the call and dropping his phone to the couch. As if in a daze, his eyes locked on the illegal elixir, he crossed the room in four long strides, snatching the bottle up and gracefully resuming his position in the armchair. His eyebrows knitted, and his jaw clenched in determination as he rolled up the sleeve of his button down shirt, pulling the material tight over the muscle just above his elbow. He let his brothers mocking tone ring through his mind as fuel to unscrew the cap and fill the needle with the liquid drug. He held the readied injection to his arm, lining the point to his vein, his ragged breath tearing thick and fast through his lungs. He felt wild with excitement, adrenaline pumping through his veins as the anticipation of what he was about to experience forced his heart into overdrive.
His eyes closed, and his breath hissed between his teeth as the needle pricked his skin, and as if with a mind of its own, his thumb depressed the nozzle, emptying the drug into his system.