Everything is agony, from the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet, his mouth is foul with the taste of stale vomit, and the beeping of his heart monitor is going to drive him mad before the detox does. Staring up at the hospital ceiling, Sherlock wishes the shivering would stop, at the very least. For the first time in weeks, he is tired enough to want sleep.
Mycroft is such a damned mother hen— it hadn't even been a proper overdose, just a bad hit and a few small seizures. Not nearly reason enough to be plucked out of his wretched little flat by the paramedics he certainly hadn't called, pumped full of Labetalol, and strapped to a cot.
Sherlock hasn't actually seen his brother yet, but beyond the obvious fingerprints all over this heavy-handed farce, there is also the small gift box perched on his tray table. Crisp silver cardboard, tied with a thin blue ribbon— given the size and shape of the box, Sherlock has narrowed the contents down to five probable items, though admittedly if anyone could surprise him, it would be his overbearing arse of a brother. The box itself is a surprise; they haven't exchanged gifts since they were boys.
Could his brother be growing sentimental? That's laughable.
The shaking in his hands continues for some time, trembling to the point of near uselessness, though that's much more to do with poor nutrition than withdrawal. One of the nurses opens the gift for him, despite his scathing protest that he couldn't possibly care less; inside is a glossy new Blackberry.
The phone is already programmed with several numbers Sherlock has no intention of ever calling, but he does keep it; it's not as though Mycroft doesn't already have him under surveillance, and he has every intention of selling it for another model the moment he is released from hospital. His own mobile had been confiscated when Sergeant Lestrade had hauled him in to Scotland Yard after Sherlock had refused to stay out of the scene of that triple homicide on Christmas Eve.
The photos he took will be more useful than anything provided by the ineffectual idiots he'd seen fumbling around with forensic gear. Perhaps, if Lestrade actually is slightly less moronic than average, Sherlock's phone hasn't simply been impounded and forgotten.
"Even if I wanted to," Lestrade had said, in a tone that made clear his dismissal of Sherlock was at least somewhat reluctant. "You think I don't know you're strung out? Can't have a junkie roving around crime scenes, for fuck's sake. Doesn't matter how damned clever you are."
Lying in his hospital bed, weary in that hateful way that makes him resent every unnecessary cell that traps his mind inside in his body, Sherlock scratches absently at his dry palms. He is under no illusions that Mycroft won't keep dragging him back to hospital for every little thing, and the concept of spending more time hemmed in by these sterile beige walls is intolerably dull.
One of the numbers in the new mobile is listed as Sgt. Lestrade. Sherlock doesn't waste a single instant wondering how or why Mycroft has that information, but he does type out a careful text, cursing quietly at every incorrect button his thumbs glance across.
Cat hairs in footprints same as cat hairs on sister's jeans. Check photos thirteen through twenty-two for strange weight distribution pattern. Suspect she wore boots larger than her feet. -SH
Surely if London can provide him with enough sensory input to be nearly overwhelming, there will be some interesting puzzles tucked away amidst the ocean of boredom. It might be worth a try, if only for the novelty.