This chapter contains drug use. Consider yourselves warned.
By the time Sherlock woke the following morning, John had already left for work. A note on the sofa indicated that he would be at the surgery until around 7pm.
Sherlock pushed down the lump in his throat as he realised he wouldn't see John until late: an action that only served as a reminder of why he had plans today.
He quickly looked around the flat. He'd expected to be forced to use the bedroom, but now, in John's absence, he was free to do it anywhere.
Deciding the sofa was as good a place as any, he slipped into his bedroom, emerging minutes later with a small, ornate box.
Shiny black ebony with inlaid ivory depicting an Oriental lakeside scene, trimmed inside with soft navy velvet with silk edgings - a present from Mummy when Sherlock was a teen. She had come across it on her travels in China and thought Sherlock would like it. She figured he would use it to store something treasured. Little did she know. He stroked the box fondly, closing his eyes to the nostalgia that came with it.
He started making his preparations. A ritual, if you like. He closed the heavy curtains against the morning glare and London street noise, and he cleared the coffee table of everything except the box. Carefully, he opened it and removed a large blood-red square of velvet. He delicately laid the fabric on the coffee table and started to lay the box's precious contents out.
He prepared the drug with well-rehearsed precision. It was almost as if he had never stopped. Something one never forgot. "Like riding a bicycle", he thought morosely.
With the drug prepared, he slowly drew it into the syringe, pressing the plunger slightly and flicking the end a few times to remove the air. With the syringe ready, he removed a candle from the box. A small round candle in a rich deep purple, held by an antique silver holder. The candle holder had been another gift. He closed his eyes at the memory of that gift-giver. He wasn't sure when or why the candle had become part of his ritual, he only knew that he needed it.
Placing the candle down on the coffee table, he lit it and removed the tourniquet from the box. More practised ease had him bringing up a vein in little time at all.
Settling himself on the worn sofa, took a long breath as he slowly pushed the plunger.
This. This would fix him. This would make sense of his emotions; his thoughts; his feelings; his... desires.
He needed this more than anything.
No, a small voice argued, you need John more than anything else.
The voice was right, but that was why Sherlock needed to do this.
He might need John, but he couldn't have John. John would never feel the same way about Sherlock.
Straight, doctor, soldier John could never love Sherlock Holmes.
As the drug started to take effect, Sherlock found himself lifted. Higher and higher. Away from 221B; away from London, away from John.
He'd always loved the soaring effect that cocaine had on his brain.
Where a clean, sober Sherlock's mind was wild; racing; frantic; genius, when he used, his mind would still: not silent but surveying; experiencing control and calm.
Under the influence of cocaine, Sherlock found relief. Relief from his own mind; relief from his emotions; relief from his turmoil; relief from... life.
He just let... him... self... go.
It was... perfect.