Well hello there :) rating up to M now. Possibly overkill, but I think I'd feel uncomfortable encouraging 13 year olds to read this, so that clinched it...
Explicit drug use from the start.
There's about a square foot of clear space on the counter now. Sherlock has shifted his microscope and some acid bottles into a relatively safe corner of the floor, and created for himself a small workspace. In it lays an odd assortment of things: a tea light, a box of matches, a spoon with several chips, and a stinging yellow plastic lemon – containing lemon juice. Also, rather ominously, the margarine tub stands next to this open space, its lid lying beside it.
Sherlock is a few feet away from the space, supported by the kitchen table, his pale grey eyes staring into the small square that's almost empty amongst the chaos. One of his hands is curled into a fist around a tiny syringe. The needle shines orange in the streetlights, a tiny metal fang ready to bite, to shoot venom into the veins of the man that clutched it like a lifeline.
There's hesitation in him yet, that much is certain, as he stands immobile, entranced by the kitchen surface. He sniffs, swallows, and looks around.
It's almost; he muses, as if he's waiting for someone to burst in and wrestle him to the ground, and tell him that he is not under any circumstances to inject himself, because if he does, then that someone is going to bloody well kill him.
The silence stretches on, and Sherlock moves. In the absence of an interceptor, his mind recalls easily the release the drug brought, the rush of fierce, uncontrollable, and entirely false joy. He remembers the feeling of apparent freedom, and he steps over the gap between him and the counter.
The process of preparation, too, is far too easily recalled. His fingers fumble in his haste; tipping a small measure of the powder into the bowl of the spoon. The utensil is momentarily discarded as long fingers strike a match. He watches the flame for a few moments, watches the flickering white crawl along the match towards his fingers. The light dances in his eyes as he lights the little candle, illuminating something resembling defiance kindling in their depths. The tiny flame sits on the counter and pitches slightly from the detective's breathing, which sends long, dark shadows from the spoon and the lemon juice. It gives an ominous backlight to Sherlock's intentions, being the only light source in the room. Sherlock had neglected to switch on the light.
He feels slightly jumpy, but his fingers are steady as he adds a few drops of lemon juice to the spoon, followed by a few water droplets from the tap. Sherlock holds the spoon in his long pale fingers, swilling it slightly until the contents becomes a thin translucent brown liquid, glistening in the candlelight.
Holding the spoon as steady as possible, Sherlock moves it into the flame of the candle, allowing the contents to dissolve fully in the heat provided. He can smell it now: the familiar, reassuring scent that sent his head spinning and his heart pounding in anticipation. A part of him is ashamed at his reaction.
But how is he meant to think if he can't get the dead children out of his mind?
Pushing back the surge of self-revulsion, Sherlock rests the spoon on the counter once again, careful not to splash any of his precious solution onto the surface, and carefully sliding the plunger from his syringe.
The next part is fiddly, but he manages it easily with well-practised fingers: tipping the coffee coloured liquid into the tiny syringe, managing not to waste a drop.
He stops again; and once again it's almost as if he's waiting for something. His eyes survey the filled syringe with something akin to suspicion.
But they change: doubt morphing into hunger, cautiousness to recklessness.
In one swift movement, the metal of the needle is inches from the delicate skin in the crook of his arm. It gleams; the dark metal contrasting with the white of his skin. Just visible, he can see the vulnerable blue of his veins through the translucent skin.
He swallows, and smiles.
It's a relief to feel the familiar sting of cool metal piercing his skin, burrowing into the sensitive walls of his vein. A bead of blood surfaces as the needle plunges into his arm. The scene is comforting, it's familiar, and it feels like danger and adrenaline. It feels like running from sirens, pounding headaches, collapsing in hotel foyers, kicks and bruises and shouting, and pushing Mycroft away so hard he fell, clinging and crying and waking up in unfamiliar bathrooms. It feels like the life he tried to leave behind, but never quite managed it. It feels like home.
There's no hesitation now, as he presses the plunger down, and feels the drug rush through his veins. He closes his eyes and smiles. Crouching on the floor of 221B, he's losing the reasons he gave this up.
Why couldn't he be addicted to this and his work? Why did people insist on renouncement?
He gets up, his brain still insisting on a certain level of dignity, even now. He can feel the slightly dazed smile on his lips, and the thought broadens it into a full blown grin. There's something almost feral in that smile: a primal thrill in this manufactured euphoria. It's a powerful rush, and it's beautiful.
The rush of joy brings with it an unnatural alertness. Sherlock's eyes feel wide and staring as they dart eagerly around the flat, his tongue moistens his lips as he thinks. Like this, he feels invincible. It brings the details all into sharp relief, brings everything into a clearer light. His mind is blissfully clear.
But there's something he's forgotten…something important.
In his heightened state of alertness, Sherlock quickly identifies what he's neglected: the assortment of items strewn on the counter, that would betray him to John. With unadulterated exhilaration burning through his veins, he finds it difficult to understand precisely why he wants to hide the evidence from his flatmate, but he's got enough of a recollection of what it feels like without it to realise that he doesn't want to disagree with John. Things were always worse when that happened.
It doesn't take long to hide the evidence and replace what had previously occupied the space. He dumps the remaining packets of the drug into the margarine tub, secures the lid, and admires his work. It might not have fooled his brother, but John wouldn't notice.
That done, he turns his mind back to his case. His muscles buckle suddenly, and he staggers across the room a little wildly, limbs flailing. He grabs onto his laptop and a haphazard stack of photos and notes, and stumbles into the lounge, before collapsing onto the sofa.
He deduces that he's experiencing the usual muscle relaxation; but it's not severe enough to prevent him functioning, and it's his mind that matters in any case – and that feels perfect. He opens his computer, and in the hope of finding something new, brings one of the photos of the children and their killers up level with his eyes. Of course, the picture is grainy, but there's a certain amount that could still be detected.
His eyes scan the woman up and down: his old, cold and purely analytical stare. The ability to do so draws another smile to his face, and he feels his cheeks flush with pleasure.
She's not dressed prettily, he notices immediately. Her trousers and jacket are both clearly cheaply made even from this distance, which indicates instantly that she's likely dressed for work. Not only that, but on the right breast of the jacket is a tiny logo. The writing or symbol is unreadable from the photo, but the fat, symmetrical trapezium shape of it narrows down the list of possible workplaces significantly. The navy blue of all her clothing helped clarify the point too - there were few women who would voluntarily leave home in one shade.
Also, the company was probably based in London. Not certain, but certainly probable.
He begins tapping feverishly at the keys of his laptop. The casual style of the jacket coupled with the sensible navy, suggested the company operated in either the production or construction industries, something where practicality was more important that employee presentation. It narrows it down, again.
A quick bit of research on Google later, and Sherlock's narrowed it down to just three possibilities: a company that distributed spare car parts, a warehouse in the east of London, and a rather interesting garden retailers not far from Baker Street. With the connection with the drug scandal, Sherlock's inclined to try that place first: it would be only too easy to disguise the drugs as garden goods: compost, fertiliser. Properly done, he doubted they would go detected.
His rather lopsided grin is tainted by disgust at himself for not seeing this before: for succumbing to the weakness of worrying, and letting his disgust at the murders blind him to the little details. Inwardly, Sherlock memorises every tiny aspect of the state of mind currently provided by the heroin, so that he could replicate it alone when contemplating this case. This - experiment - demonstrated that he needed to concentrate firmly on the positive, the joy of his work, and turn his back so firmly on the horror that it would be impossible for it to bother him.
It's on his way down the stairs that he meets John, going the opposite way. As he catches John's eyes and grins at him widely, his legs give way underneath him, causing him to hurtle down the remaining stairs, and land in a crumpled heap at the bottom, where he lies, trying to supress a giggle.
John, he notices with hilarity, seems to find less amusement in the situation. His concerned eyes as Sherlock sits up, only causes a stronger wave of mirth to crash over the detective. He manages to control the laughter from breaking free of him, but only just.
"Are you alright?" John asks him uncertainly, joining him at the bottom of the stairs. He smells of Sarah, and Sherlock frowns.
"Of course," he says, giving a disdainful sniff. "Are you coming?"
He gets to his feet, and it amuses him greatly to make a point of looking disgruntled and angry as he brushes dust from his coat. He finds that he's entertained by the fact that John is oblivious to his activities: that he's so skilful as to go undetected. It's fun.
"Where?"
John sounds suspicious, and Sherlock can see him squinting in his direction with doubt. He curses himself for falling, and sighs at his flatmate.
"To investigate companies possibly connected with our murderers. Or you could stay here."
He tries to look steadily at his flatmate.
"No, I'll come," John agrees, although his eyes are still fixed on Sherlock in a searching way that makes him nervous. "Wouldn't be easier when they're actually open, though?"
"No." Sherlock decides, wrenching open the front door, and pulling John along with him. "Taxi!"
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The dark shelves swim before Sherlock's eyes. He's so tired: he can feel his eyelids drooping against his will, the scene flickering into double images in the wavering torchlight. Yellow and grey overlap in a blur of dizzy sepia. In a desperate attempt to stay awake, he blinks hard. Gradually the shop stops swaying, and Sherlock is able to collapse against a shelf, breathing rather hard.
Getting in had been no problem: it had taken about a minute to pick the lock and let themselves in – John fretting the entire time, of course – and what they'd found had been incredibly interesting. At the back of the shop was a large store cupboard, its area almost equal to the amount of space in the store, and in it were stacks upon stacks of merchandise. Potted plants threw dark shadows across their faces as the torch leered over them, there were huge bags of fertiliser and bark and compost covering almost every inch of floor, only a thin path left clear for access to the shelves.
Trying to shun the sudden wave of drowsiness, Sherlock searches his pockets for something sharp; and managing to procure a compass from the inside of his jacket, he sets about attacking the bags with it. At first, they seemed to contain exactly what they claim – which again, causes an attack of ridiculous moral feeling in the doctor – but as Sherlock shifts the front bags out of the way, he spots a tiny 'X' adorning the harder to reach produce, and when slit open, they reveal exactly what he had expected.
Huge, 10kg bags of class A illegal drugs, stacked in the back of 'Jay's Gardening Store'. There were only 10 stores nationwide. There could easily be millions of pounds worth of produce in this one dingy back room.
"Got it!" He shouts across to John, who had been peering out of the tiny window of the storeroom door, nervously watching for intruders on their investigation. "Heroin," he tells his flatmate proudly.
John looks at him, his face incredulous. He takes the handful of brownish powder that Sherlock hands him and exhales a whistling breath through his teeth. Sherlock grins at him, feeling the intoxicating mixture of exhilaration from his find, and that from the substance running in his veins. His grin blossoms into a laugh, and he grabs his flatmate by the shoulders and positively beams at him.
Something occurs, and he spirals wildly away from John, his hands gesticulating by the sides of his head in realisation.
"Oh." He says, mouth slightly open in shock at his own blindness. "Of course! John. John…we've got them!"
John looks quite stunned at this information.
"At least one of the killers is involved with this place," he tells John eagerly. "With a description, it won't be hard to identify her. The other…the other is a cleaner at the original school! It's so obvious. How did I miss it?"
"Wait, slow down," John says, holding out a hand to pause Sherlock's rant. "Obvious? I don't see."
"The window!" Sherlock exclaims, smacking his forehead with one hand. "The window was open! At the school, the first time I saw it. With so much security and precautions in place there, the cleaners would never leave the windows open. But what if one of them needed access to the school whenever they wanted it: access to school records, pupils' details? It would be perfect. We just need to identify the offending cleaner, which shouldn't be difficult when we've got photos of her."
"But what about all the checks…CRB checks, they look at your criminal convictions when you apply for a job. You said this wasn't a first time murder."
Sherlock gives John a rather withering look.
"Please try and remember who we're dealing with, John."
He takes a deep breath, and feels his senses reawaken a bit. The desperate tiredness abates.
"Oh, and text Lestrade. If we leave this until morning, they'll know someone's got them, and move all the evidence."
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Everything hurts. There's something bright and intense burning through his eyelids, making his head pound. The buzz that had ravaged through him the night before has gone, leaving only a wistful memory, and a head full of that penetrating fear.
Sherlock groans, lifting himself from his mattress. He can hear the television in the next room, and John moving around, and trudges from his room to have a look.
"You look terrible," John tells him by way of greeting. Scowling, Sherlock deduces that he's probably correct. He can feel the dampness of old sweat on his face, and his eyes are screwed up against the light.
His mouth is uncharacteristically dry, and he stumbles clumsily to the sink, filling a vaguely clean glass to the brim and downing it in one. He leans against the counter and breathes heavily, clutching his throbbing head.
"You look like Harry on New Year's Day," John tells him lightly. He chuckles to himself. Then – "No, That's unfair. You look more like me on New Year's Day."
"Mhmm," Sherlock mumbles, staggering back towards his own room, and leaning heavily on the doorframe. From the high of the previous night, the negativity and discomfort the morning has brought is doubly hard to deal with. What he wouldn't do just to be able to erase it all.
Properly dressed, he feels a little better, if only marginally, and glances over at the television in time to catch a piece on the case.
'Panic begins to emerge across London as the brutal child murders reported over the past months become more frequent and widespread. The acting chief commissioner of the metropolitan police has this morning confirmed a ninth murder, following only two days after the murder of twelve year old James. As parents begin to question their children's safety at school, the police force urges people not to panic, and encourages anyone with any information to come forward.'
Sherlock tries for a smile, and manages a grimace.
"Well, we've got information," he says, getting up and switching the programme off. "Coming, John?"
The doctor hesitates for a moment.
"I don't know…I've got." He stops, his eyes flicking back towards the now blank screen. They glaze over, settling in a determined expression. "Of course. What can I do?"