AN: Holy crap! I already have people following me. I feel special :3 Anyway, while this was a fairly quick update (I think) they won't be coming nearly as quickly as the story and my own life progress; the plot bunnies are currently quite maddening and then there's the fact I start college in two weeks... So yeah, while there may be daily-ish updates for a bit, please don't expect it to last or get mad at me when I do start slowing down a bit with updating. I do plan on trying for regular, weekly updates until the story's finished but I sadly don't know how the future shall pan out.
So, R&R as per usual and I do hope you enjoy.
Oh, and Warnings: Drug use! Yay for Cocaine! (but not really...)
The next morning, after having been awake all night playing his violin into the pre-dawn hours, Sherlock was making some tea and waiting for John to come down the stairs and join him. Lestrade had sent Sherlock a text earlier that morning about a string of crimes the Yard was having trouble with, unsurprisingly. Sherlock had looked into some of the crimes on his own and felt that it wouldn't take more than an hour or two to not only solve the case but also have it wrapped up–at least on his and John's part. Lestrade and the rest of the Yard could handle all of the tedious paperwork, even if they couldn't manage to do much else on their own.
The kettle had just begun to whistle when a still sleep-laden John made his appearance in the kitchen. He was wearing just his sweatpants and dressing gown, showing off his smooth, and still well defined, torso. The scar from the bullet wound was barely perceivable as the dressing gown moved ever so, revealing it in the pale sunlight filtering in behind him. Sherlock's eyes briefly skirted over John's exposed body, marveling at its masculine beauty.
Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips before seeming to realize that his was ogling at his best mate. He quickly scolded himself and set about finishing their tea, almost in an unknown apology to John for thinking about him in such an intimate way without permission.
John appeared almost startled when the tea was placed in front of him, since Sherlock rarely if ever did anything voluntarily for another human being. Even if it was something as simple as tea, which he expected people to manage on their own, despite always asking John to make him a cup.
"Lestrade called, we have a case, if you can even call it that." Sherlock smirked at John as he sat down with his own cup in the armchair across from the good doctor.
"Oh? And what is it this time? Triple murder? Prison break?" John asked, waking up and sitting a little straighter in his chair. John was starting to get almost as bored as Sherlock himself, having nothing better to do but sit around the flat and work on his blog.
"Hardly anything nearly as challenging as that. No, a string of robberies spanning the past few weeks. Never any evidence, always manages to avoid the endless cameras, that kind of thing. Oh, and they seem to like to leave a bit of a calling card from time to time." Sherlock drawled out in an uninterested, flat tone. They both knew this case wouldn't really last them the day, but still, it was something to do and they both figured they might as well help Lestrade.
"Sounds…fun… I guess I'll be finishing up my tea and taking a quick shower." John took a final, long sip of his tea and stood, arching his back and causing the dressing gown to fall open over his chest. Sherlock gulped slightly and turned towards the window, unable to allow himself to violate his flatmate's privacy and decency like he was. John yawned, and took his tea back into the kitchen, gently setting it in the sink. "So are you going to be taking a shower? I know you were up til God knows when last night, but I didn't know if you manage to pause your music long enough to take a shower and whatnot." John stood leaning against the doorway, awaiting a quick answer before heading off to use up an appropriate amount of the hot water.
"Yes, I'll be taking a shower, but feel free to take whatever time you need. We're not exactly in the greatest of hurries." Sherlock rolled his eyes and watched John shrug before turning and heading up to his room.
The moment John was out of sight and Sherlock was sure he was busy, he sagged down in his seat, too bone tired to get up at first. He knew these days; they came more and more often lately. They were the days when he was bored to tears, yet never had the energy or will to move and do anything to end that boredom. He'd lie in bed all day if he'd been allowed to, even if it meant him going absolutely stir-crazy stuck within his own mind.
And it was also days like this that always seemed to lead him to his black box, even first thing in the morning, because he knew he needed to move, to do something with his time without falling into a comatose like state.
Which is why, after a few minutes of idle, maddening nothingness, Sherlock finally managed to pull himself from his chair and make his way to his own room. Once in his room with the door firmly shut and locked, he made his way over to his bed. Kneeling next to the headboard, he removed the framed Chinese piece to reveal the cubbyhole he had made in the wall. He gently took the box into his hands and lifted it carefully out of the hole. He knew it was probably one of the most basic and unimaginative–the most ordinary–of hiding spots for something so damning and important. But that was the beauty of it–no one would ever really look there because they all expected him to be so much smarter, so much better, than that.
He gently laid the box on his pillow before carefully replacing the picture. That way, even if he somehow, eventually, got caught with the box out, they still wouldn't know where it, and several other illicit things, was hidden. At least then, he could maintain some semblance of control over it. Or something along those lines.
Once the picture hung exactly as it had a few minutes prior, Sherlock took the box and moved to the other side of the bed, sitting on the floor with his back against the edge of the mattress. He undid the latch and began to remove a few select items until he was able to reach the ones he desired at that moment. Pulling out the recently sterilized syringe, his spoon, Zippo lighter, bottle of water, and small baggy of soft, white powder, Sherlock set the box aside and focused on the items before him.
He knew he had approximately 13 minutes before John finished and emerged from his shower, another 7 until he was fully dressed and would probably be expecting to hear Sherlock enter the shower, and another 9 until he would become suspicious. So Sherlock also knew he had to move a little faster with everything than he normally preferred.
Scooping out a medium amount of the snow-white powder and adding the correct amount of water, Sherlock lit the lighter below the spoon, calculating just how long until the solution became a homogenous, bubbling liquid based on the mass, melting point, and the approximate temperature of the flame. He knew he would most likely be fine on time in terms of a worrying John and any possible suspicion, but still. He wanted everything to move faster because he needed to feel the delicious burn of the cocaine in his thin veins.
He needed this boredom to end, and he sure as hell needed the energy boost, if he was going to have to deal with Lestrade and all the incompetent idiots at the Yard. And his wish was on its way to being granted as the mixture finally reached a uniform consistency and he was able to pull the plunge of the syringe, filling it up with the delicious drug. Sherlock shed his own dressing gown and grabbed a nearby belt, tightening it around his upper arm and holding it in place with his teeth. He slowly flexed his hand, urging the vein in his arm to pop up, before finding the perfect point on the vein, and sliding the needle in. Pausing for a moment to make sure the needle was in correctly, Sherlock depressed the plunger, pushing the deadly drug into his bloodstream.
Sherlock let out a low moan and let his head fall back, hitting the bed, as he began to feel the drug coursing through his veins. He quickly pulled the needle out, pressing his fingers to the small hole, and managed to undo the belt with his teeth (after all these years, he had somehow managed to become a master at that bizarre skill). He allowed himself a few minutes to enjoy the song in his veins before he heard the water turn off and John yell that he was done, Sherlock could get in now.
But Sherlock couldn't care, not at that particular moment, not really, but when John knocked on the door, it startled Sherlock out of his drug-induced haze. "You getting in soon? While I'm sure this isn't the most pressing case for anyone, we should still probably get down to the Yard before too long." John called through the door. The knock was enough to awaken Sherlock back to reality and cause him to throw everything back into the black box, fearing John would somehow manage to magically unlock and open the door. After figure out that John wasn't trying to enter the room, Sherlock sighed and slouched against the bed. Then he remembered John was talking to him and was awaiting a response.
"Um, yes, I'll be getting in momentarily, of course." He tried to sound as normal as possible, if that was even possible for 'The Freak', before looking around his room, trying to locate his dresser as if it had moved since the injection of the cocaine. Finding it exactly as it always was, Sherlock quickly rummaged through the drawers, selecting some pants and an undershirt, before grabbing a slightly used towel from the bin and making his way towards the bathroom.
Once safely inside, he shut and locked that door as well, as if John or Mrs. Hudson might manage to undo the lock on his bedroom door for whatever reason and try to get into the bathroom as well. Dropping his clothes on to the bathroom counter and throwing his towel on a nearby rack, Sherlock quickly removed his clothing, but hesitated looking up into the mirror. Even in his drugged-up mind, he knew how horrible he looked. But still, he did look.
He was skinny, abnormally and almost dangerously so, with skin as pale as porcelain and as unhealthy looking. He could see the raised scars and bumps littering his torso from years of cutting and burning and general self-harm, including the most recent ones only a few centimeters above his pelvis. He lightly traced his fingers over the wound, not even wincing at the slight pain anymore, and moved his fingers to the other marks; the cigarette burns, the cuts, the gashes, the chemical burns, all of it.
He hated them and loved them at the same time. They were a reminder of every bad thing in his life, every bad memory and experience, and of himself in general. And he hated them for that. But he also loved them in their uniqueness, secrecy, and because of the strange sense of security the raised collagen offered him whenever he felt them. But still, they were ugly to most, and Sherlock knew that is anyone ever saw them, he was done, over with. Not even Mycroft had seen him lately, seen him in his naked entirety with the scars lacing every inch of reachable, exposed skin. And they both had a vague idea of what would happen to Sherlock if he did. A thought which sent a cold shiver down Sherlock's spine.
Sherlock finally sighed, ran his hands through his mess of curls, and turned away from the mirror and towards the shower. Turning on the water and stepping in, Sherlock breathed in the humid air that was starting to surround him in the small bathroom and allowed his head to rest on the cool tile wall, simply feeling the buzz of the cocaine in his veins and relishing in the way it forced his brain into a rapid fire mode that drowned out everything but the simple facts. Drown out the pain and hurt and confusion and just the general shitiness of life.
Sherlock stopped noticing the time pass, only noticing feeling the welcoming heat of the water as it cascaded down his bare back.
The first time Sherlock did cocaine, it was anything but planned or unwelcome. He was in secondary school, still as much of a hated freak as he had been in primary school, but somehow even more of a social pariah than before. Mycroft was gone, off at uni, so Sherlock was left without his greatest enemy but also his greatest protector because though Mycroft knew some of Sherlock's secrets, even back then before things got really bad and had seen some of them for himself, he was also fiercely protective of Sherlock, as most big brothers tend to be of their little siblings. And with his parents just as distant as ever and him no being "too old" for a nanny, Sherlock really was on his own now,
Which also meant that no one really noticed when he was gone. Nor cared. So Sherlock could basically do whatever he wanted, when he wanted, so long as he didn't get caught by any outside authorities, thereby reminding his parents and others of his incompetence at general functioning in life.
So when he snuck out one night, after getting the shit beat out of him once again at school, and went down to the shadier side of the Thames, no one noticed. Absent-mindedly navigating his way through the throngs of homeless and various low-class of London, he came across a group of teenagers his age and just a little older, though clearly none of them were in school or going to uni judging by the fact they all seemed to possess the grammar skills of a primary school student.
Still, Sherlock approached the group as they huddled around a bin fire. They acted a little suspicious of the newcomer at first, but Sherlock gave a half-hearted, disinterested shrug and that seem to be some kind of universal signal because others of the group merely shrugged in response and went back to their truly enlightening conversation about skateboarding and how much the police sucked.
After standing around for a while, Sherlock went to leave the small group and the warmth of the fire someone always made sure was still going. But one of the other teenagers, a girl with black hair and multiple facial piercings, grabbed his arm.
"Oi, leaving before the fun starts?" She asked with a kind smile. Despite her appearance, she was remarkably peppy and one might even go so far as to say happy.
"Fun? What? Are we going to be discussing the latest graffiti 'art' and deciding which low-class, unsanitary, disgusting hole in the wall we're going to grab a 'quick bite at'? And would that be after you're little lover boy over there screws pink hair, catching her obvious STD, judging by the constant shifting and supposedly inconspicuous scratching and the fact that she's throwing herself at your boy toy in some asinine way of proving that her current state doesn't void the possibility of sex and desperately needing some form of reassurance as to her appeal. Or after green jacket passes out and asphyxiates on his own vomit? Which, I guessing by the crowd's apparent indifference and green jacket's general state of attire, is something that has not only happened before, but repeatedly before, leading to you constantly having to move from spot to spot once the ambulance and police show up to grab his unconscious, idiotic self. Do you want me to finish out the circle or shall that be sufficient enough to get you to unhand me?" Sherlock snarled, looking down at the hand on his arm with contempt. He hated everyone right now, including his family, including these imbeciles around him, including the girl with endless body modifications touching him, and, especially, himself.
Expecting the girl to be offended or scared off by his outburst, he was extremely surprised when she simply stared at him for a quick moment before bursting out laughing. "Oi! This one's a crack! Come on, mate, stay a bit longer, just til Skip gets here. Then you can decide whether or not you want to leave. And Skip's got the good stuff mate, promise. Oh, and Bobby! Get away from that one unless you want to catch something mate!" She added, yelling over her shoulder to the "lover boy". She continued chuckling as green jacket passed out, and she moved to nudge him over with her booted foot until he was on his stomach. She returned to stand next to Sherlock.
"There, problems solved. Anyway, I'm Marge, and you?" She smiled at Sherlock in a way that stumped Sherlock once again. He expected just as much scorn and hatred from this crowd as he got from everyone else, and was surprisingly confused when they, especially this Marge, seemed to accept him without question or judgment.
"I– I'm Sherlock." Marge stuck out her hand.
"Nice to meet you Sherlock, and let me officially welcome you to the group." She began to make introductions around the circle, which seemed normal despite the fact he had been standing with them for almost an hour already without ever saying anything, let alone bothering to greet anyone. And yet they all seemed perfectly okay with that and not offended in the least. And Sherlock found that he liked it for some odd reason. Maybe it was just being accepted without it being forced with tight, fake smiles and hidden fear and disgust. But still, he liked this odd group of other unwanted misfits.
Marge made conversation with him, just talking about absolutely nothing, but Sherlock didn't mind. Because, for one of the first times in his life, someone was actually talking to him, and genuinely wanted to be, for that matter.
Before too long, Marge looked behind Sherlock and smiled even wider than before. "Oi! It's Skip! You better have brought the good shit, mate; my man Sherlock here seems like he's needing a fix!" Marge called over Sherlock's shoulder. He turned to see another young man, only a few years older than the ones that were already standing here, in dark denim jeans, a Beatles screen tee, and a slightly wrinkled, unbuttoned dress shirt.
Again, Sherlock was somewhat familiar with drugs, the various kinds and their various effects, and he wasn't stupid or naïve enough not to catch on to what Marge had been saying. But still, standing there as the apparent dealer sauntered up dressed like any normal guy his age, Sherlock felt as if he was dreaming, as cliché as that sounds. Because he had a hard time believing that he was standing in the bad part of the lower side of London, surrounded by a bunch of junkies, as the dealer came up and pulled out a few baggies of various substances, in the middle of the night when he was supposed to be in bed at home.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Marge, I got the good shit, so calm yourself, woman." Marge merely stuck her tongue out at Skip as he joined the circle on the other side of Marge. "Alright, Benny! I got your shit." He tossed the bag that looked to be filled with marijuana to one of the guys on the other side of the fire, who barely managed to catch it before it fell into the fire. "Mark, mate, got your shit too, and thanks for the payment, by the way, it really came in handy," he tossed a similar baggie to the man standing next to 'Benny' with a smile and a wink. "Let's see, got Joey's shit," He mumbled almost to himself as he selected a bag and looked around the circle. Marge simply rolled her eyes and pointed behind them to where green jacket had passed out. "Oh right, here ya go, mate," Skip lifted Joey's jacket and slipped the baggie into his jacket pocket before pulling out his wallet and taking what Sherlock assumed was his payment. "Right, next, Cody, your supply of quick trips," Skip smiled as he handed what appeared to be a pack of stamps, which Sherlock (correctly) assumed was actually LSD tablets, to the man standing next to Sherlock
"Thanks mate." Cody said with a nod before handing a small stack of bills to Skip and promptly leaving the circle.
"Well he bloody well knows what he wants." Skip laughed and shook his head and Sherlock noticed Marge was smiling after Cody as well. Must be a good friend as well as a client Sherlock thought to himself as Skip continued to conduct his nefarious business exchanges. "Anyway, Lydia, here's your stuff and I expect your payment, in full, by Thursday, understood?" Skip stopped smiling as a young blonde made her way over to Skip and accepted the baggie filled with yellowish clumps of powder. Even though Sherlock wasn't very familiar with drugs in person, he knew enough and could read enough off of this Lydia girl to know that the baggie was most likely filled with meth, and that Ms. Lydia had had previous trouble coming up with payment before. But still she took the baggie and greedily opened it up, inhaling the scent of her addiction, before turning back to Skip.
"Of course, mate, I won't be late this time, I promise." She nodded enthusiastically, as if that might somehow work as payment too.
But Skip merely gave her a look, "You better, because you know the consequences. Manny isn't going to be happy if you don't bring the money because that means I'm not bringing in the money I'm expected too, so if I get in trouble, you get in trouble, understood?" It was the first direct indication that Sherlock got that Skip wasn't a one-man dealer. He worked for someone, which Sherlock had already suspected based on the variety of drugs he had showed up with. Dealers who were only out for themselves tended to have one focus when it came to drugs, with occasionally handling few select other type. But showing up with baggies that had at least 6 different drugs between them tended to indicate a more complex drug ring.
Finally Skip turned to Marge, the rest of the group either sharing with the others or already having got their fix. "And for the lovely lady and her new friend, I see," Skip did a mock gentleman's bow and presented a baggie filled with fine, pure white powder.
"Thank you, Skip! And this is Sherlock. He just decided to join us poor sods tonight and I swear he's fucking psychic or some cool shit like that, mate!" Skip immediately straightened up and became extremely alert as he scrutinized Sherlock, who simply rolled his eyes.
"Oh do calm down, if I wanted to report anyone here, I could have done so an hour ago when I first showed up. Clearly since I didn't and still haven't, I'm not going to at this point." Sherlock stated in a bored monotone, carelessly waving his hand as if to demonstrate his point.
"And why might that be, mate? I mean, seriously, why should I bloody well trust you?" Skip was defensive and the rest of the group had noticed the exchange by this point, all lowering their various fixes and staring, worried and even a little scared, as to how this was going to end and if they needed to start running.
"Because I don't care. I mean, I'm hardly one to get all high and mighty about a person's vices considering my own and those of my family. Not to mention, yet again, that I could've called the police and told them enough to get each of you arrested on multiple charges mere minutes after I showed up. Do you lot truly understand how much of your illegal activities you wear on you? Hell, dear Joey here has at least two warrants out for his arrest, judging by the 3 fake ID's I saw in his wallet when you took your payment, as well as an extensive history with the police. Benny over here wouldn't last half a second next to a drug canine, what with the marijuana particles right there on his shoes, which most likely fell there when you went to roll a hasty, desperate joint using the last modicum of your stash before you came here. Lydia's clearly a prostitute as well as a meth addict, as is Ms. Pink Hair over there, because that's the only way they can manage to get enough money for drugs, which explains the STD I told Marge about earlier, by the way. Might want to get that checked out at a free clinic or something. Oh, and the fact that there are already several burnt up baggies in the fire, all the same size and made with the same type plastic as each other, and the exact same as all of the baggies you just distributed so this is a regular meet up for the exchange and use of drugs, a fact that most police would be very interested to learn. So yeah, mate, as I said, I could've called the police well over an hour ago, had I felt the desire, but I don't. Because I. Don't. Care." Sherlock stood there, breathing ever so heavily, very not used to any amount of confrontation. Or at least, not used to actually responding to confrontation in any amount.
The rest of the group stood gaping at him, including Skip and even Marge, who had already seen part of his mental abilities. Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed as Sherlock turned to stare back into the fire and the others continued to stare at him, utterly dumbstruck.
It was Marge that broke the silence.
"I bloody well told you! He's fucking psychic! Oi mate! That is bloody amazing; you've got to show me how you do that! Skip, what did I tell you! He's cool, now calm yourself, ya sod." Marge continued to smile and laugh as she took some of the powder from the baggie and sat down on the ground, clearly over Sherlock and Skip's slight row. Skip just stared for a few more seconds before shrugging.
"Eh, who am I to go against Marge, of all people? If she says you're an alright bloke, then I guess you are. We good, mate?" Skip stuck his hand out for Sherlock to shake, which he did with some reluctance.
"I guess so, and you really don't have to worry, I don't intend n telling anyone since that would also mean admitting to my own presence here, which can easily be as damning for me as any of you."
"Good to know mate, good to know. But seriously, Marge was right, you need to show us how you did that shit; it was epic, I tell you. It really is like you're psychic or something." Skip shook his head and chuckled, mostly to himself. It was the first time in his life that someone had actually found what he did, what he could do, interesting, let alone cool.
Which is probably why, when Skip offered him a small baggie 'on the house', one a fraction of the amount of Marge's own, Sherlock accepted it. Much the same way Marge and Skip and this entire rag-tag group had accepted him. And when he sat down next to Marge, she showed him how to cut the cocaine into lines on the back of the book she had brought with her that Sherlock had somehow managed to miss until that moment. She showed him how to roll up a random pound note and snort the lines in quick succession, as well as telling him the things to avoid and what to be prepared for. She guided him through this new experience, all the way up until he leaned over his own line, the make-shift straw up to his nose, and snorted the line of fine, white powder into his nose and sinuses.
At first, the pain in his head and sinuses was maddening, but Marge rubbed his back comfortingly as the pain gave way to his mind racing with, just, everything. But it wasn't any of the complete shit his mind was usually racing with. No. his mind was racing with beauty and science and thoughts that he never thought he would have, genius brain and all. He could now see so much he hadn't been able to before, and he absolutely fucking loved it.
And Marge was sitting right there next to him, smiling up at him as she watched him experience his first cocaine high. And they both knew at that moment, and even Skip standing a few feet away could tell, that this wasn't going to be a onetime thing. Not even close.
Sherlock was shaken out of his reverie and he realized two things at once: first, the water was now freezing and appeared to have gone cold some time ago judging by the fact that there was no longer any steam in the bathroom and by the fact that, second, John was knocking at his bedroom door, calling his name.
Sherlock quickly turned off the water, carelessly leaping out of the shower and drying himself as fast as he could manage, which on a cocaine buzz, was pretty damn fast. He yanked on his pants and undershirt before unlocking the bathroom door and rushing back into his bedroom, where he could more clearly hear John in the hallway.
"Sherlock, are you okay in there? You can't have really been in the shower that whole time; the water has to be utterly freezing by now! Anyway, Lestrade called and would very much like us to hurry up and get over to the Yard. But really, are you okay Sherlock?" John's concerned voice drifted through the door, making Sherlock's heart clench in guilt, self-loathing, and reminding him what a complete wanker he was at times.
How could he have lost track of time like that] Complete imbecile! That's what he was! Sherlock continued to chide himself as he answered John. "Yes, I'm fine John, and your concern is almost contagious, really. I'll only be a few minutes more, so you may head back downstairs and wait for me." Sherlock tried to sound as composed, apathetic, and as least drugged as possible as he found a clean, and even ironed, pair of trousers, along with a light blue dress shirt, sports coat, knit socks, and even a matching pair of shoes in under a minute and a half. He managed to dress himself and appear put together and business-like in only three additional minutes. He almost exited his room before running back into the bathroom to brush his teeth and almost tripping over some of the things from his black box on his way out the door.
He started when he saw that he hadn't bother to put away the damning box and all its evidence, which he quickly did, kneeling on his bed to removed the picture, place the box in its hiding place, and haphazardly placing the picture back, not having the time to place it back in its original, proper position.
He grabbed his watch and wallet before leaping down the stairs, startling a patiently waiting John. He put on his coat, scarf, and gloves before turning to notice John still staring at him.
"Well, come on, the Yard is waiting for our expertise, as always, Dr. Watson." Sherlock gave a sincere yet cocky smile as he opened the front door of 221B Baker Street and joined the flow of London people and traffic. John stood opened mouthed for only a moment longer before grabbing his own coat and rushing after Sherlock as he waved down a cab.
