21 Years Old
Cocaine.
A 7% solution. Harmless to the vital organs if taken in proportion. But an excellent stimulant nonetheless.
With shaking nervous hands Sherlock placed the syringe back into the velvet case from whence it came. He leaned back on the bed, waiting for the rush.
Colours flooded into his senses. Suddenly he could hear the rouge sing, the black mourn and the yellow ponder.
Exhilarated, he caught his breath. Breathing hard, he looked down at his newspaper. The words blurred on the page and a messy solution of neon lit up his sight.
He began to laugh feverishly as it took hold of him. The constant memory of being attacked; relived and Sherlock was ecstatic by it. The memory of his father's fist…
The broken window…
… Glass everywhere…
The cold uncaring darkness.
Sherlock sat, shaking for a second. Blinking. He wiped his cheeks. They were wet.
He laughed out. He laughed out as he remembered. He laughed out as he remembered his father's pain. He laughed out when he remembered his father's pain when he, Sherlock, his own son had confronted him about the affair.
He laughed as he remembered his mother crying at the rug and father for once sober, standing over her, shouting at Sherlock.
"You've ruined everything… It was a happy marriage…How could you do this to your mother?"
Sherlock bit his fist, goose-pimples rising on his skin. His hysterical laughter turned into sharp throbbing sobs as he felt himself collapse into his own world.