Sherlock's fingers danced on his thigh as he stared at the small bag filled with white powder. He picked it up and held it in his hands, the small weight an already larger weight on his conscience. His shaking fingers tugged it open and he coated his fingertip with the substance. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Moriarty a few hours before.
"Hey, Sherlock," he'd sang, catching Sherlock when he'd been alone in the corridor of the dorms and blocking his path. "I know you've been feeling down lately because of, well, your mum kicking the bucket or whatever. But I feel like it's my duty to perk your spirits up a little, as your councillor. I know we haven't got off to a great start, so, think of it as a… getting-to-know-you present." Jim smirked, his eyes glinting, and reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. He tossed the bag up and down in his hand. "Do you know what this is, Sherlock?" Sherlock replied with a vacant expression, with just a touch of loathing. Jim rolled his eyes.
"It's cocaine. A couple of grams or so would definitely lighten your mood a little, eh?" Sherlock blinked once, his expression unchanging. "Do you know how to use it?" Jim asked patronisingly, although if he was being honest, Sherlock didn't. He'd always believed drugs to be the occupation of the stupid, whose minds have little else to distract them from their mundane, meaningless existence. So he hadn't looked into it. "Put a bit on your finger and snort it, like this," said Jim, demonstrating. "Or if you want a proper hit, pour it into a line and snort it up." He sighed after the lack of response, exasperated. "This is expensive you know. The things I do for my kids…"
Jim leaned towards Sherlock, his face so close to his ear he could feel Moriarty's steady breathing on his skin. Sherlock flinched as he dropped the package into his trouser pocket. "This is a gift. But if you find yourself wanting more, come and see me. I'm sure we can sort out some sort of arrangement," he whispered, "and of course if tell anyone about this generous present we'll have to come to another, less satisfactory one. Well, less satisfactory for you." He brushed past him. "Catch you later, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty called as he turned a corner.
Sherlock had been debating about whether to take advantage of Moriarty's gift for some time. He upheld his view on junkies. They were nothings, looking to perk up their low-level brain activity with chemicals. But, wasn't Sherlock a 'nothing', now everyone he felt… had felt any sort of love towards was either ignoring him or dead? He certainly had nothing, and therefore nothing to lose. There was no one to talk him out of it, no one that could be disappointed in him now. Apart from perhaps Mycroft, but Sherlock didn't expect a visit from his brother anytime soon.
Sherlock had been looking for a distraction, something to numb the cliché throbbing of his heart. To his disgust, Sherlock was a person with a practically perfect set of reasons to take drugs. He couldn't deny the draw towards the danger. He'd never known such a small bag to be so intriguing. It would be like an experiment, he told himself, an experience to widen his knowledge about the drug – their effects and their users. Knowledge was good. Knowledge was something Sherlock took pleasure from, something that was familiar.
Sitting himself on his unstable chair and even more rickety table, he dropped the bag of powder onto the table. He used the hole in it to pour some into a line, what Moriarty had said would be a bigger hit and therefore a more accurate experiment, on the table top. It was covered in graffiti. Mindless stuff mainly, like initials in hearts and meaningless promises of forever; colourful language, and some unwitty insults. Many a disaffected teen had sat at this desk. How many, Sherlock wondered, would've been doing what he was?
He neatened up the messily distributed lines before he lifted a finger and blocked a nostril, leaning over the table top. He inhaled deeply and coughed as the rush of dry powder flew into his windpipe. He blinked furiously as his eyes watered. After a few seconds, he let them flutter closed. He wanted his senses to be as acute as he could make them when the effects kicked in. It wasn't long before Sherlock noticed his quickening heartbeat. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow. A short time span for the cocaine to reach the brain, Sherlock noted, or tried to, anyway. It was hard to concentrate on deducing when he could now hear his heartbeat in his ears.
His eyes snapped open, and his first smile in months played on Sherlock's lips. He felt invincible, on top of the world. Nothing mattered but everything was possible. Anything could happen, and it felt amazing. Sherlock's throbbing heart was now actually pulsating, and all of those nasty, unwanted thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind where they couldn't be heard. He enjoyed this oblivious, happy feeling for a few minutes. But then he could feel himself begin to topple and fall off his cloud.
"No. No. No," Sherlock muttered over and over again as he scrambled for the little bag. Empty. He let out a small yelp as his light, empty mind was swamped with darkness once again. He grabbed the bag and stuffed it in his pocket, running out of his room and downstairs to Jim's office. He banged on the door agitatedly. The pale man in the dark suit opened it with a grin on his lips.
Sherlock took cocaine for barely a week and was hooked, totally ensnared. If he went without a hit for ten minutes he would get irritable and desperate; half an hour he would become aggressive, and would continue to become more so as time went on. He had to be creative with his excuses to get out of class and sneak into the toilets after the first ten times, and he could tell teachers and students alike were getting suspicious. John, to his surprise, was included in the people that gave him whispering glances and sneering scepticism (less of the latter). But Sherlock was in fact too wired to make any further deductions about whether John's looks were out of scorn or concern.
He met with Moriarty daily to get his next fix. The first few had been gifts, but Moriarty had demanded a payment after that. Thankfully Sherlock had packed some emergency money, not thinking he would need to use it. He'd rummaged through his bag, finding the wad of cash in a pair of shoes he never wore. He paid Moriarty and gratefully received a package every day from then on. Sherlock insisted that he wasn't getting friendly with Jim, the only communication was solely for business. Jim had agreed profusely.
"Sherlock…" Moriarty said one evening as Sherlock was getting up to leave. "I have a proposition for you."
"Go on," Sherlock mumbled and sat down again. He was too high to resent any extra conversation like he usually did,
"I'm terribly flattered that you've come so attached to my service and thought you would be a valuable part of it. That would be if you'd consider helping me out of course."
"Why would I help you?" Sherlock sneered. Moriarty glanced at the bag clutched fiercely in Sherlock's fist.
"You wouldn't go without payment," he replied with a smile. "You sell some stuff for me and you'll get a slice of what you get." Sherlock paused for a few moments, shrugged, and then nodded.
"Okay. I can start as soon as you want me to," he said eagerly.
"Good." Moriarty opened a safe filled with illegal goods and handed Sherlock a box from it. "Start off with these." Sherlock picked up the box. "…and of course if you happen to lose or use any of it, I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you," Jim spat.
Sherlock clutched the box and hurried out of Jim's office and into his room. He sighed as he put the box on the bed and dashed over to his favoured spot for taking his fix. He quickly finished off his supply and found himself looking at the box resting on his bed as he came crashing down from another high. Giving into temptation, he walked over and sat on his bed, putting it on his lap. Moriarty couldn't do anything to him, Sherlock assured himself. Firstly, he was his care worker and secondly, he'd never seen the man with any 'people' and Sherlock could easily take the smaller man down if he was by himself. He smirked as he opened the box.
