A/N: Hope somebody still reads and enjoys it.
I'm taking a ride off to one side
It is a personal thing.
Where?
When I can't stand
Up in this cage I'm not regretting.
I don't need a better thing,
I'd settle for less,
It's another thing for me,
I just have to wander through this world
Alone.
(...)
I'm gonna lose you,
Yeah I'm gonna lose you
If I'm gonna lose you
I'll lose you now for good.
Lose you by Pete Yorn
(a fragment)
chapter X
regret, part II
"What a healthy breakfast indeed."
Even though the tablets taste horrendously and Sherlock has to fight a wave of nausea upon feeling them touch his tongue, he washes a handful of them down his throat with a mouthful of water from the tap in one quick gulp. The liquid feels sticky on his palate, tasting of iron and for a moment, the bitter aftertaste of MDMA capsules remains glued to his gums.
Oh my God, he wants to feel something once again, to have even a glimpse at the peacefulness he could have never found himself. Drugs welcome here with loving arms just like they did in college and Sherlock greedily holds onto the sweet illusions, the world more open, details like the splattering of the rain onto the windows vivid as ever.
When he gazes at himself in the mirror, the world seems not to be able to stop spinning round and round. He needs a couple of seconds to steady himself against the wash basin, his legs nearly giving up under his weight, a splitting headache forming behind the eyes.
His hair is messy, unruly locks reaching lightly past his shoulders already. It feels strange to look, to observe the changes daily, each bang under his closing constantly eyes growing darker, each nerve ceasing to function properly.
Toothpaste is doughy and lacks its cap.
Is having a tic a sign of a nervous breakdown or rather crying around, smashing things and screaming obscenities? What is more important, the wave of hormones flooding the brain or the sheer knowledge of the value of a loss? Why exactly all those people keep nagging at him, keep coming and going past, saying that nothing could be done, nothing could end up well.
To hell with all those people, he smiles to himself. Cigarettes are hot between his fingertips, water staining the tissue paper in circles.
Can he drink coffee after these pills or maybe having some cognac would be a better idea?
Sherlock starts laughing as his pulse quickens, the sound metallic and hollow in his ears, tiredly echoing against the tiles of the hospital toilet. The pills start kicking in, euphoria befalling onto his dulled senses . His knees buckle finally and he grunts, trying to stabilize himself against the porcelain, sweat gathering on his brows, an eerie smile plastered onto his lips.
The world is so beautiful when it starts spinning once again and he holds for the dear life onto the tap.
"Sir, we cannot let you come in, unless you have a pass." A blonde is lustrating DI Lestrade with her pale blue eyes full of evident distaste when he shows up in front of Moriarty's room. She is shorter than him, a bulky frame hardly reaching past his shoulder. He sighs and flashes his badge, smiling at the mix of surprise and alert coming onto her face. She doesn't say anything, nodding her head and then nearly running away from him down the corridor.
Well, it's not like Lestrade wants anyone like that near himself but that was at least…
Bizarre, that's a better word.
The hospital he found himself in isn't one of the cheapest, rather the extra super class of medical care in Britain. Walls are sickly white of course and fluorescent lights are on all day making it look like a horrendous, sterile desert decorated with various posters from time to time or an overgrown palm tree in a corner. Since coming in here a couple of minutes ago, he has seen only the staff going to and fro, heels clapping rhythmically onto the tiles and linoleum.
He needs to find Sherlock and talk some sense into him finally or else that relative of his in the Ministry will make him quite a surprise when it comes to Yard. Holmeses and their problems, always the specialty of Gregory Lestrade, right?
He gets himself a cup of the strongest coffee from the machine and gets closer to the vitrified halfway door.
Not much can be seen inside but he's fairly sure that apart from the still silhouette on the vast bed near some half-opened windows, there's no sign of that well-known mop of black locks. There is a solitude chair in the centre, facing the windows and Lestrade knows there is not much left to do for him than waiting. He finds himself a cozy place near the wall where he goes to and fro beside, sipping the dark liquid and thinking of a way to get out of this whole situation.
They checked all the trails left by Sherlock, they did check them five times each at least. The man stopped picking the phone when they wanted to deny another hypothesis and Lestrade couldn't blame him for that. Five months already passed and there is no sign of being even close to untangling the whole thing. Try as he may, Lestrade feels truly sorry and doesn't know what to expect the moment he'll see Holmes.
They couldn't get in any contact with him for the past two months, even though the Inspector himself has visited the hospital, their flat and every place he could have think of. He tried talking to the man, trying to think of something that could either get his mind on track or simply get the gloomy thoughts off of his mind for a while. It was no use though, Sherlock either not speaking a word to him when he'd come and stay with him, sitting just inches from Moriarty for over two hours or giving no responses to his emails or texts containing anything but details of the case.
At first he thought that Sherlock might be back to being his old self if he got him back into danger, solving complicated cases, thinking those hideous thoughts of his and just being that cold bastard everybody hated and yet started to miss over the time. Once even Sally Donovan went with him to talk some sense into the man but the moment she saw him hunched over the bed, all the arrogance gone and replaced with resignation, she stopped dead in her track and refused to come in. If Lestrade hadn't known better, he'd have thought he saw tears shimmering in her eyes as she stormed down the corridor, her coat lashing the air with a crack.
That day Lestrade brought folders on a new case they had had problems with, something akin to Moriarty's work in the past. When he handed them to Sherlock, the latter just snorted, closing his eyes and pushing his hand away. He whispered that they wouldn't bribe him with quizzes or puzzles good for a five year old and Lestrade smiled at the dead certainty of the sentence.
He didn't know however, what to do when Sherlock sighed and hid his face in his hands, adding: "If you think you can do nothing to help me find him, I don't want to work for the Yard anymore. It's just senseless now, Lestrade."
That day was the last he saw Sherlock in hospital. Now his mobile seems dead and no one, even that brother of his in the Ministry knows where he is. Lestrade can't help a shudder run up his spine as he remembers the phone call from Mycroft Holmes this morning. The man's cold accent and long pauses to let his words sink into the Inspector's ears thoroughly. To him, the guy was even in a worse condition than his younger sibling and Lestrade sure prays not to see him soon. He doesn't want to have nightmares other than his usual ones.
It's precisely ten thirty in the morning when the same nurse he met before bumps into him, hauling a giggling man clad in a baggy, worn sweater and an unstitched in a few places pair of dark jeans. The few left-over droplets of the coffee falls onto the tiles and Lestrade can feel his patience leave him. Oh, he'll tell her just alright what he thinks of rude individuals like her, too stuck up to look where they are going, just wait, dear sister! but words freeze on his tongue the moment he gets a glimpse of the youth's face. His black curly hair is of medium length, snaking onto his shoulders in waves, obscuring the frantically moving eyes thoroughly as he keeps chuckling nervously, grappling against the strong grip the woman has on one of his arms. His skin is ghostly white, slightly bristly and sweaty. His hands are shaking and it looks as if the last meal he's eaten was served in the previous century.
When Sherlock notices Lestrade staring at him, clear panic shows in his eyes. It seems to sober him enough to manage some strength for he wrestles out finally and runs for it towards the exit before the stunned man can even utter a word.
Taken from English Wikipedia:
MDMA (3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine) – colloquially known as ecstasy, often abbreviated as "E" or "X" – is an entactogenic drug of the phenethylamine and amphetamine class of drugs.
Some of the most common effects reported by users include:
# A general and subjective alteration in consciousness,
# A strong sense of inner peace and self-acceptance,
# Diminished fear, anxiety, and insecurity,
# Extreme mood lift with accompanying euphoria,
# Feelings of intimacy and even love for others,
# Improved self-confidence,
# The ability to discuss normally anxiety-provoking topics with marked ease,
# An intensification of all of the bodily senses (hearing, touch, smell, vision, taste),
# Mild psychedelia, consisting of mental imagery and auditory and visual distortions,
# Stimulation, arousal, and hyperactivity (e.g., many users get an "uncontrollable urge to dance" while under the influence),
# Increased energy and endurance,
#Analgesia or decreased pain sensitivity.
After-effects
Some effects reported by some users once the acute effects of MDMA have worn off include:
# Anxiety and paranoia,
# Depression,
# Irritability,
# Fatigue,
# Aches and pains, usually from excessive physical activity (e.g., dancing),
# Exhaustion,
# Loss of appetite.
When they occur, these after sub-acute effects are typically reported to last up to 3 to 7 days, with the exception of depression, which in some cases has become chronic.