Author's Note: I realise that in canon, Sherlock's drugs of choice are caffeine, nicotine and cocaine, but I kind of figured that if I'm allowed artistic license to be able to turn the world's best and only consulting detective into a rentboy, I'm allowed artistic license to make him interested in heroin as well as cocaine. Hopefully this is ok with you guys.
Extra Warnings for This Chapter: Explicit drug use.
xxRegretteRienxx
It was a surprisingly short walk to Tommy's destination, although Sherlock initially didn't realise that this was where they were headed. To say the building was derelict would be an understatement. There was evidence of "condemned" signs hanging off multiple places on the building's front, but Tommy strode in confidently, so Sherlock followed without comment. Running thoughts through his head about what they were going to find in the depths of the building, Sherlock wasn't particularly surprised when they finally came across an open area, in which there were about a dozen people, slumped either against walls, or against each other, but all in a general cluster around two individuals, a man and a woman, with a small portable gas cooker lit on the floor between them.
"Tommy!" the man exclaimed congenially, an intoxicated smile taking over his features. He reached among the paraphernalia on the ground in front of him. "The usual?" Tommy nodded, and held out a handful of notes. Sherlock glanced at the bundle and quickly calculated, two twenties, a fifty and a ten: one hundred pounds. "And for your friend?" the dealer gestured towards Sherlock. "The same." Sherlock breezed confidently, holding out one of Allen's £100 notes. Allen always had been one of those clients who never quite grasped that rentboys and other people who did not wear three-piece suits as their daily attire were guaranteed to attract attention by flashing larger denominations around the place. Sherlock anticipated that the note would garner some reaction from the dealer or his partner, but the duo barely blinked at it, and handed over a small foil package the same size as Tommy's. They were either new to the game and treating Sherlock's cash with naïve trust, or more likely, judging from the irrefutable evidence that they had quite an established client base, were able to tell a fake note without the need for unwieldy devices such as UV lights.
Tommy had taken a seat on a small patch of ground near the gas cooker, and dug around, producing a spoon and a syringe; neither of which looked particularly sanitary, Sherlock noted darkly. He sat down next to Tommy anyway, slipping one arm out of his coat, and rolling up his shirtsleeve above the elbow. If sanitary practices had ever truly been a massive priority for him, they weren't anymore. Not tonight, anyway. The pain still coursing through his body took precedence over any other concerns. This was sure to dull it. He knew the logistics of heroin; possibly more so than anyone else present here, despite never having done it before. He'd never really been interested previously.
Delicately, he plucked a syringe from the clutter on the ground: there didn't seem to be as much congealed matter on this one. He passed it though the flame, then deftly removed the plunger, and allowed the liquid to drain out, while he measured a spoonful of the slightly off-white powder from the foil. He held the spoon over the flame, and watched the substance brown and liquify. With his other hand, he reassembled the syringe, and heated the needle again. He used the needle to swirl the contents of the spoon a little, then depressed the plunger, and carefully drew the liquid into the canister. He noted the cubic centimetres automatically as he did so, absently planning a procession of experiments to observe the effects of varying amounts of the narcotic on the capacity of human functioning. But it wouldn't be tonight. Tonight, pain would be killed, so that tomorrow could even be contemplated.
He took a slightly deeper breath than usual, and focused his attention on the fine network of pale blue lines winding down the underside of his arm. He superfluously tapped gently on his skin, not really needing greater clarity of where his veins were, but somewhat unable to stop the automatic action. His eyes flicked over to Tommy, who was already beginning to nod off a little. His lips tightened, and he pressed the needle gently against his skin.
It dimpled, then punctured, and he depressed the plunger again. Slowly, and carefully, and now he understood what people meant when they said; sensually. A warm flush stole over his body, originating not from the injection site, but from his genitals. "Guh –" His breath escaped irresistibly. His body shook with pleasure, and when he thought it was done, another wave struck him, and another. This...this, finally, was something enjoyable.
He drew on his inner practicality one final time for the night, and forced himself to remove the needle from his arm. He pocketed the remaining heroin, and staggered over to a sorry excuse for a couch near the wall. There was someone else on it, but he didn't care. One sleeve of his coat was still hanging off, but again, he didn't care. The heroin had him. The heroin was his master and mistress. He was no longer thinking in the spiteful, cynical, bitter and analytical way that he always did; he was feeling. Everything was sensation.
He couldn't possibly pay attention to the texture of the couch as well as the incredible feeling pumping through his veins right now. He closed his eyes so that the sights in the room wouldn't distract his, and concentrated on his groin. In his line of work, of course, he had experienced any number of orgasms, not to mention encouraged sexual release in his clients, but he was willing to bet that none of them had felt anywhere near as good as this did. He couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely remember to breathe the thrill overwhelming him was so commanding. He wanted to stroke himself, to see if he could possibly achieve a greater level of ecstasy than he already was, but he couldn't quite remember where his hands were.