Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 2

2004

Nix, Ex Vena, Cucurri.

Warning: Drug use

Sherlock forced his aching, sore eyes open. His limbs felt heavy as lead, as if it would take years to lift them an inch off the floor. His dirty room slowly swam into sharp focus, as did the pain in his body and head. He was lying splayed across the sofa, head on the armrest, one arm hanging down, the back of his hand touching the carpet. His skin felt as if it was prickling. He swung his gaze around the room of his little flat. The coffee table in front of him was scattered with scales and science equipment. A small bunsen burner attached to a little gas canister burned a merry yellow. A large bottle of purified water sat on the carpet.

'Ah yes, I had to buy.'

He willed his mind to work, to move, to start. He lifted his leaden limbs and gingerly sat up, cradling his head in his hands. He forced down the sudden rise of nausea. The comedown from buying was always much worse. Of course, the purity of such drugs was never much higher than 50%, and though Sherlock was reluctant to put anything in his body that he did not know the full chemical makeup, by the time he was forced to buy from a dealer his cravings were so strong it was a colossal effort just to make the solution and inject it. The hits weren't good, either.

He ran cold fingers through his black curls, breathing through the sick feeling, before gently rising and turning off the burner. He could feel the bruise in the crook of his elbow, lancing up his arm from the injection site each time he moved. A glance out of the window told him it was late morning. 'Still time to go to the lab' he thought, stepping out of the little lounge and into his bathroom.

30 minutes later Sherlock stepped from the cab outside St Bartholomew's Hospital, and made his way to the labs on the third floor. He was currently working on synthesising a new antidote to the digitalis toxin which wouldn't have such severe side effects. The hospital would pay him for his time and for the formula. It also guaranteed him access to the labs. Sherlock knew he would get much more if he sold the formula directly to a drugs company, but the bureaucracy and suits bored him, and he wasn't interested in huge monetary gain. He hung up his coat and settled in front of a microscope, loading up the cultures he had prepared and left to incubate onto slides. He soon sank down into the comfortable routine of testing and re-testing.

The sound of a mug hitting the tabletop jumped Sherlock from his reverie of slides and molecular structures. He flicked his head up, spotting the shy woman in the lab coat standing next to him. "I made you some tea," she stammered, a nervous smile ghosting her lips. It vanished when she made eye contact with him. "Are you okay? You're so pale."

Sherlock didn't answer and lifted the mug to his lips, however he soon realised he was going to have to speak to make her go away when she didn't make any move to leave. "I'm fine. Thanks for the tea," he said, looking back into his microscope.

"Um, do you want any help? You are working on something similar to me at the moment, so-"

Sherlock cut across her. "No thank you." He glanced up at her, his eyes searching. "What's your name?"

"Molly."

"You give me tea every time we are both in the Labs. Why?"

"U-um, because you work so hard and you never take a break."

"But you don't know anything about me and you have no obligation to do so."

"I want to."

Sherlock studied at her for a moment. "Why?"

"Um, because it's a nice thing to do?" Molly could see the lack of comprehension behind his bright, analytical eyes. She decided to change tact. "I don't want you to get dehydrated."

"Oh. Well you should probably have a cup too then. You have a headache coming on."

Molly stammered. "I- I'm sorry?"

"Your cheeks are slightly reddened and your eyes are bloodshot. You've been looking down a microscope too long. Take a break."

"Oh… well, you've been working for a long while too now, so do you want to j-"

"No."

Sherlock turned back to his work, leaving Molly standing alone next to him. She turned awkwardly away, realising their conversation had been swiftly ended. "Right then," she said quietly to herself as she left the lab, pulling her hair down and refilling the kettle when she entered the empty staff kitchen.

Sherlock's mind had began to wander in the last few hours. He found it increasingly difficult to focus on his work, and the tremors in his hands had started up again. He grimaced down at his transport, angry that his body would fail him so, would be so dependent on a foreign chemical to function. He knew he was close to a solution, but his body had once again started the withdrawal timer. He cast his eyes around the lab, spotting Molly in the far corner, deep in her own projects. He could wait, continue to work until he couldn't hold the cultures any more, or he could leave now. Sherlock decided on the latter.

He packed up his work, placed his new petri dishes in the incubator, and swiftly left the lab, ignoring the sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades. His goal was the Opthalmology labs on the floor above, but as he currently had no reason to be up there, it would take a little more planning. Making a beeline for the staff cloakroom, he scanned the lockers, spotting one (obviously) owned by an Ophthalmologist, before picking the lock and helping himself to the lab coat and ID card stashed inside. All that was left was to act. He strode confidently to the lift, pressing the call button and smiling at the others already inside as the doors slid open. One floor up, and he was out, taking his well trodden path to the chemical store room down the corridor. The lock yielded quickly to his nimble fingers. Sherlock scanned the racks, before spotting what he needed: a small collection of vials in a glass cupboard. 'The hospital should really consider investing in better security measures,' Sherlock mused as he broke in. 'I do wonder sometimes if this is too easy.' His treasure gained, he smoothly locked up again, replaced the lab coat and ID, and left the hospital.

His withdrawal began to come to a head in the taxi journey back to his flat. His limbs trembled, his body was on fire but he was shivering. He could feel the sweat running down his back and chest. The craving was getting more unbearable by the second, and Sherlock could only look with hatred at the traffic jam surrounding the vehicle. He turned to the driver, who was staring at him in the rear view mirror. "I'm getting out here."

"Wait, are you sure? You look like you need to go to a hospital mate."

"No, I'm getting out."

Sherlock shoved a fiver and a few pound coins at the driver and stepped out of the car, willing his trembling legs to hold him as he weaved through the near stationary traffic to the pavement. The path wasn't much better; people sped in every direction, harried businessmen, families and students weaved among each other, while tourists stood staring at maps, islands in the rushing river of London. Sherlock quickly stepped off the main road, preferring the much quieter back streets to get around. He aimed for the closest pharmacy he knew of that wouldn't ask questions.

The hustle of London quietened as he pushed open the heavy doors to the little chemist. Shelves nearly reaching the ceiling were piled with everything from children's hairbands to sanitary towels, and behind the desk were drawers and drawers full of prescription drugs. A small Greek man sat behind the desk, reading the morning's Metro. Sherlock approached the man, doing his best to hide his tremors and laboured breathing, and the man looked up. From his wry smile, Sherlock knew the man had already worked out what he was going to ask for, but allowed him to do it anyway. "Diabetic syringes, please. 100 unit." The Greek man nodded once and reached under the counter for a box of sterile syringes, which he scanned into the till and handed to Sherlock.

"Anything else?" he asked in his thick accent.

Sherlock just gave him a look, and the man chuckled darkly. "£12, sir."

Shooting up was the easy bit. Sherlock simply had to find a spot in which to do it away from prying eyes. Simple. He sat himself on a crate in an alleyway behind a restaurant, and his shaking fingers opened the box of syringes. He held one of the packets in his mouth as he fished around in his coat for the vial of 7% Cocaine Hydrochloride he'd stolen from the hospital. He could feel a rush of anticipation and relief shoot through his body as he unscrewed the lid, opened the needle and drew it up into the barrel. He flicked the syringe to remove any bubbles and once again placed it in his teeth while he took off his belt to act as a makeshift tourniquet to raise a good vein. He pushed up his shirt sleeve. Slapping his arm, he took the syringe, willed his hands to stop shaking, and pressed it into his arm, pushing down the plunger a little before drawing back to ensure he had hit the centre of the vein. The blood in the barrel was a shocking contrast to the clear liquid in the syringe.

Sherlock pushed the plunger all the way down.

The building rush was immense. Colours brightened to sugary levels. His heart beat a Beethoven rhythm, and sounds bit his ears. He could see everything, hear everything, do anything. Solve any problem he was thrown. Take down any foe. He rejoined the bustling, neon luminescent throng of Regent Street, the sounds of cars, people and conversations like acid rain on his skin. His thoughts rang clear in his head. His mind was a finely sharpened spear.

He felt his phone buzz. His spider fingers reached into his pocket. Mycroft's name flashed jewel bright on the screen, the black letters like ink on snow. His thumb found the answer button and he held the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Brother dear."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, and London pushed through Sherlock's bubble, piercing his eyes like tiny needles of dry grass. Mycroft finally spoke. "You're high."

"Well observed. Is that a problem?"

"As always, Sherlock, it is most definitely a problem."

"Then why do you always allow it to happen, Mycroft?"

"Because you adamantly reject everything I try to do to help, Sherlock."

"Thats because it is none of your business, nor interest what I do with my funds and time, Mycroft."

"I would agree wholeheartedly, until it begins to impede on your health, Sherlock."

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?" Sherlock's cackle was hoarse and dry in his throat. He stepped out of the human river and onto a back street, where the outward stimulus was a little less jarring on his hyper observant senses. His feet tracked the pavement. He cut through the air. Mycroft's words filtered through the heady London rush again.

"Where are you?"

"Where I always am."

"Don't be obtuse, Sherlock. I'll send a car to your location to drop you off at your flat."

"And why do you think I want that?"

"Because when you crash, which you will, you will crash hard, Sherlock. And I don't want another of last month's fiasco."

Sherlock could feel shards of glassy rage slowly press themselves into his skin. "Why won't you just leave me alone? I want to be alone. I work alone. I think alone. I act alone."

"Because you can't seem to prove you can look after yourself, Sherlock. Who would be there to pick you up from wherever you've crashed? Who would be there to make sure you've eaten in the past two days? Who would be there to drag you to A&E when they visit and find you dribbling and twitching into the carpet?"

Sherlock hung up the phone. His rage was deep and full now, blossoming through his body like a white hot flower. He was breathing heavily, his heart a frantic staccato in his chest. 'Calm down.' He told himself, attempting to control his angry breaths. He stepped back and slid down the cool brick wall behind him onto the paving stones under his feet. His watch told him he'd injected 20 minutes ago, and Sherlock could feel himself coming down.

He waited for his heart rate to drop to a more acceptable level, before standing, stepping out onto the pavement, and hailing a cab.

The translation for this chapter: Snow, Vein, Rush.

The more I read up on the highs, lows, and effects of cocaine, the more I am horrified that it is used so freely.
Please be extremely careful when using any drugs, especially ones that are highly addictive and don't have a safe dose, like cocaine.

Thank you for reading! Reviews make me happy.
Update soon :)