A recent study suggests that about 1 in 3 Americans have a venereal disease. That's a staggering amount, and all I want to say is that if you don't know whether or not it's clean, don't dry hump the peen. This is also irrelevent to anything, but it's morbidly interesting, to say the least.
John's brain was heaving with billions of trillions of possible scenarios, each more sordid and unsavory than the last, by the time he collapsed behind the doors of 221b Baker Street. His chest heaved, part of him overexerted, and the other half of him on the brink of hyperventilation. He inhaled through his nose, counting to five, before exhaling loudly. He tried to unclench his jaw as he repeated the motion, and again, before he finally found some of himself, enough to calm down.
He didn't even know what he was dealing with yet, and he was already in a state of persistent dread, exacerbated by the fact that he knew literally anything could be wrong with him, considering just who he lived and associated with on a daily basis. Steeling himself, because he was an Army Captain, thank you, he marched up the stairs.
"Sherlock," he threw open the door to their flat, looking around for his flamboyant companion. Not in the living room, so John moved for the kitchen.
"Sherlock. Where are you?" He stepped into aforementioned area, and suddenly two hands shot out of nowhere and grabbed a hold of his shoulders. He might have screeched, but he was rather sure it sounded more like a battle-cry. His vision danced with shadows and half-faces, it was almost blinding.
"John!"
Watson relaxed, his gaze focusing onto just who had done the grabbing. Sherlock. But, of course it was Sherlock, always attempting to be omniscient and mysterious. Can't just acknowledge your own presence, you have to force it onto people. John shoved the hands off of his shoulders and stuck an accusing finger right below Sherlock's nose.
"What have you done! What is it? Am I going to die, Sherlock?"
Now it was John's turn to do the shoulder-grabbing. He shook his taller friend with frantic passion, and when he looked up into his friend's eyes, he saw amusement.
To say John had been angry before would only mean that, after John saw the smirk in his friend's eyes (How do eyes even smirk?), he was now incensed, his body cloaked in fine rage.
"What is so humorous, Sherlock?" He moved his arms to cross his chest, instantly defensive and poised to strike. He was nervous, anticipating the worst, of course. It served to amuse Sherlock further.
"I made that last part up, John. I just needed to get you back to the flat. You're not dying, you've just been drugged," the nonchalance in his voice would have been amusing if he were saying this to, say, nobody.
"It's nothing serious," Sherlock began, again, "Just an experiment I'd been working on for a couple of months. I figured that, since your height and injury are two very important inhibitors, it would disparage you from the top shelf of the left cabinet. If that had been the case, you wouldn't have been able to reach the jar that I'd stuffed this specimen in when the case had started," he sighed, obviously disappointed in his deduction, "I'd also thought that, since the date had been expired, if it was found you would have abstained from even touching it. If anything, it would have been thrown out. It appears as though, yet again, you managed to somehow surprise me, John."
Sherlock was proud of him. Proud that he'd been so sick with fatigue and hunger that he'd resorted to eating week-late jam that, apparently, just so happened to not be jam and did happen to be laced with whatever drugs Sherlock had been experimenting with. John was boiling.
He clenched his left fist, unclenched it, took a shuddering breath. There's no use arguing with this man. He was crazy, and he was a crazy scientist at that.
"Cheers to me, then," he seethed through his teeth. The room was darkening along with his mood. "What, exactly, am I being drugged with, Sherlock?"
Sherlock grinned, his brain assuming that John's inquiry meant that he was curious in an academic stance. John wasn't. He was interested in a "My brain is about to implode from rage and discomfort so please distract me from causing damage to myself and others," type of way.
"An ingenious blend of 5-MeO-DiPT, which will in turn present a very heavy body high, clonazepam to calm the nerves during the onset of the methoxytryptamine, and a blend of psilocybin and dimethyl tryptamine—of which, I had to first blend with a monoamine oxidase inhibitor before I even added it into the mix—a slight annoyance, really," he smiled, proud of his little concotion, "I'd managed to turn it into a gelatinous form, which I was hoping would liquify, because it's not really that pleasant to the taste, if the state of your half-eaten toast is anything to go by," he waved toward the trash, "But, that's irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is the fact that this has not even been tested on humans before."
John shouldn't have asked.
It was then that Sherlock turned to his now-ashen flatmate, eyes awash in a childish glee."Do you understand, John, that we shall be making a scientific breakthrough, tonight? This is the kind of experiment I've been longing for: a live test subject and a plethora of psychedelics," his face was alive with joy, a rather handsome grin adorning his features. It made John sick.
"That's all bloody well for you, Sherlock," John spat, moving out of the kitchen and onto the couch. If he knew his chemistry well enough, which he didn't but would venture a guess anyway, he was going to trip balls. "I don't know how to feel about his. Is this anything like acid?"
Sherlock's smile still hadn't left his face as he graced John with a moment of contemplative thought. "Unlikely. A psilocybin high is typically much more different than one produced by lysergic acid diethylamide. But," he raised a brow, shrugging, "with the potent mixture you've ingested, my friend, we'll have to wait and see."
And experiment, John finished for him. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He needed a cuppa.
"Well," he shifted awkwardly in his chair, exasperated, "there's no use getting riled up over the inevitable. I must say, I'm quite nervous, Sherlock. I mean," he took a sharp breath, "I've never done this before."
He stood up and moved to start the kettle, when he was gently ushered back into his seat by a rather placating Sherlock. When he questioned the motive, his companion gave him a soft smile, grabbing John's now-shaking left hand and giving it a rather friendly pat.
"You need to focus on relaxing, John. Do those rotten breathing techniques you're so fond of, and I'll make you tea."
John gave an incredulous laugh. "You want me to relax. That's charming, really, considering that I've just been drugged!" His hand clenched, and John swore he could feel all of the veins, arteries, and capillaries contort with his muscles around his bone. He stared at his hand for a moment, dumbfounded.
"I don't want you to," Sherlock drawled, padding back from the kitchen where the kettle stood to boil. He propped himself on the armrest of John's chair and patted his shoulder, "I need you to, John. For your own sake. The more nervous you are, the worse your experience will be. So just relax."
John stared into his friends eyes, dumbfounded. It must be the drugs, because the intensity of his friend's gaze was enough to calm him. He nodded, astounded by the depth of his friend's eyes. How could such a twat have such stunning features?
A grin found it's way onto John's face, then; he found that no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop the infectious grin that must have glued itself on his feature when his roommate had distracted him. The grin didn't bother him, though, instead he found great amusement in the fact that he was unable to control his smile.
"Sherlock," he called from his seat. His friend had run into the kitchen to finish the tea. "Sherlock, look."
Sherlock's head peeked around the corner, brow raised with imperious restrain. "Yes?"
John pointed, with no lack of dramatics, to his mouth. "I can't stop smiling."
Sherlock perked up, "Good for you, John," before the smile dropped and he disappeared behind the doorway. The phony smile that had graced Sherlock's fair features served to send John Watson into a rather hysterical round of giggles.
"You should be an actor," John piped, grinning at his friend who had reemerged with two cups of tea perched on fine china. He accepted his cup with a beaming smile, the warm liquid filling his entire being with the warmth of the world. He let out a low moan, "Delicious."
He sipped quietly for a while longer, unaware to the man who sat mere feet from him and was staring at him like a fresh corpse in the mortuary. It didn't matter to John, however, because he felt absolutely delightful. The warmth of the tea had begun to resonate through his chest. He felt it slither and slosh in his stomach, the warmth seeping into his capillaries and invading his bloodstream. He felt it from the last lash on his right eye to the fingertips on his left hand. It was warm, so delicately warm, and it wrapped him like a blanket.
His grin was less manic, more of a languid, lopsided smile than everything, and he settled into his armchair with renewed vigor.
"I feel amazing," John whispered to the air.
The air responded with a short chuckle before wrapping him in more warmth and he truly felt love for a moment. He'd never felt like this in his life. He was the air, and the chair, and this wonderful contraption that had suddenly wrapped him up tighter than any burrito he'd ever eaten.
"A blanket, John," a voice helped, tinged with amusement. He turned his gaze to the direction of the speaker, saw Sherlock, and giggled.
"I didn't have a blanket on me a moment ago," John laughed out. Sherlock shook his head in confirmation.
"Indeed, you did not."
"You put a blanket on me?"
"Excellent deduction, John."
John's laugh picked up momentum. "You arse. I'm feeling light, Sherlock. And I like it."
"This is the come-up, John. Bask in it."
John didn't care to think about how Sherlock knew these things. Because he couldn't care to think of anything aside from the word, "Whoa," as the world began to shift, his perspectives on things began to distort, and reality fused together in a symphony of noises and emotions and stimulating sights. Everything became new.
And then Sherlock played the violin. John's world almost exploded. He was splendid, indeed.
Agh, I wanted to write more, but I'm afraid I need to cut myself off! I'm being whisked away. Anyways, stay tuned! The next chapter will have a lot of drug-induced conversations and insight. I hope you all enjoyed this. I hope my characterization wasn't too horrible, and I apologize if this is going too slowly. I didn't edit this, either. I still need a beta!
All drug!feels were felt by me at some point. The feelings, the vibrancy, all of that. And I don't know if you can mix the aformentioned drugs, but for the sake of artistic license, I'm saying we can. I'm no chemist, but you can read erowid for more info.
Drugs mentioned: Shrooms, DMT, Clonazepam (Clonapin, an anti-anxiety med), and 5-MeO-DiPT, to which I can only describe from a secondhand source, a man who documented his experience on erowid:
"Time: 10 PM start
Within 20 minutes I feel a certain Ketemine like feeling, very dreamish. I feel incredibly light and fluid (and I weigh 280 lbs.!) I dance around my bedroom like a pixie, listening to Terence Mckenna spout mushroom truth and dmt prophesies. After much body movement, I feel the imp of masturbation creeping up upon me. Sneaky little bastard. Always underhanded :) Needless to say the enhancement of said activities was exilerating, uplifting and consuming. A Human twicting Machine. 5Meo-Dipt-ah-dee-doo-dah!
(T 1:30)
Thus far into the ordeal, I've been having a pleasant yet laid back experience. Between yawns, I remeber having taken 2 mg clonazepam earlier in the eveing. This could account for the dreamy aspect of the trip so far. Just lying, snuggled up in my bed covers, feeling every inch of skin glow against the fabric, is fantastic. Very sensual, almost like a massage for the etheric body. All the while, I am trying to tune my mind to the theta frequency, listening to theta frequencies imbedded into various classical music. This part stretches out into daydreaming with intermittent bouts of self doubt etc. This is the point where I am always found grasping at the intellectual need to accept these doubts and dreams as parts of a whole, namingly me. Yet where the intelect knows best, the emotions waltz away to their own strange dance. Aloneness is where I am entering. A gap between personality and true being...ugh.
So many knots to tie and not to tie and all the while trying not to become toungue tied."
Leave a review, chapter three will be up soon! And it will be longer, I promise~
