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holmesticeTitle: I have been one acquainted with the night
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venturous1
Author:neurotoxia
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: ~12,000
Warnings: substance abuse, oral, handjobs, underage, dubcon, angst, self-harm, bdsm themes (riding crops, knifeplay, bloodplay)
Author’s Note: Happy Holmestice,venturous1! I hope you enjoy :)
Summary: Sherlock leaps from one addiction to the next, always circling back to one until it almost kills him. Staying sober isn’t easy and when he can’t have his new addiction John Watson anymore, his old vice is lurking in the shadows.
Sherlock trades his virginity for an Ecstasy pill at Eton.
Marijuana and cigarettes are easy to obtain, anything stronger than that and it becomes difficult. But just like in a prison (and Sherlock saw many parallels between Eton and a prison), there are always things around that normally have no business being there. Sherlock likes cigarettes, but dislikes what THC does to his mind.
The boy is a year older than him and evidently more experienced. Sherlock has not had much interest in gaining that kind of experience and whenever hormones struck him, he just took care of it himself. None of the insipid people he knows are worth the time and effort. This boy isn’t really worth it either, but he has something Sherlock wants and he’s lucky the boy is attracted to him (Sherlock deduces the boy will be a closet homosexual later, preferring men but refusing to admit it).
They’re crammed into one of the barely used sheds on the grounds, the greenkeeper at least twenty minutes away and nobody else around. It’s hot -- at least 30°C in the shade -- and Sherlock’s hair sticks to his forehead and the starched collar of his shirt itches against the skin of his neck. The close proximity to the other boy doesn’t make it any better. The boy tries to kiss him, but Sherlock won’t let him. He doesn’t like kissing; too close, too intimate, too personal. Most would argue that letting someone stick their hands down your pants is more personal, but most people are idiots anyway.
The boy is pushing Sherlock’s pants out of the way and reaching for his prick. Having a hand other than his own touching it is strange, if not unpleasant. It makes the encounter less predictable. The boy’s other hand tugs at Sherlock’s wrist with impatience. Oh, right. He undoes buttons and fly, tugs down midnight blue pants and copies the motions. The stimulation isn’t bad but not any better than doing it on his own. Sherlock doesn’t understand what the fuss is about.
The encounter is clumsy and over fast, with Sherlock just barely able to climax. The rush of endorphins is nice, Sherlock thinks and takes his hand out of the other boy’s pants. It’s sticky with semen and Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste before wiping it on one of the rags in the shed and fixing his uniform afterwards.
He waits until the other boy has closed his fly, then he holds out his hand, palm up, his look impatient as the boy digs through his pockets.
“If you need any more, you know where to find me,” he says and drops a small plastic bag with a single pill into Sherlock’s hand. His smile is sly; Sherlock feels the need to wipe it off his face. He doesn’t reply, just shoves the bag deep into his pockets and exits the shed.
He finds he doesn’t like Ecstasy very much.
Sherlock steadfastly ignores the sleek black Mercedes slithering along the street at his side. He draws the hood of his jacket deeper over his face to block out the tinted windows staring at him accusingly, beckoning him to get in the car.
The sky is overcast: a light drizzle rains down on London and turns the pavement before Sherlock’s feet a darker grey. For good measure, Sherlock winds his scarf tighter around his neck, covers his mouth and half of his nose. If he ignores it long enough, the car might go away. Although he knows it’s wishful thinking. How did the meddling bastard find him so quickly?
Sherlock thumps his fist against a tinted window. Of course it doesn’t break anything; the glass is armoured. As are the doors and floor pans. Mycroft has built a cage for himself -- and he’d love to trap Sherlock in it, too.
“Piss off!” he yells in frustration and directs a two-fingered salute at the back windows.
It appears Mycroft has had enough: the window rolls down to reveal the biggest nuisance of his life. His brother’s eyebrows are drawn into a frown and his lips set in a firm line. Yes, his patience is wearing thin. Good.
“Sherlock, cease this childish behaviour and get in the car.” Mycroft’s voice is pitched to freeze hell over. Sherlock notices faint rings under Mycroft’s eyes, probably losing sleep over his stupid war in Iraq. Serves him right. At the moment, Sherlock wishes he had a cigarette lit just so he could flick it past Mycroft into the car.
“Didn’t you hear me when I said ‘piss off’ the first time?” Sherlock hisses and narrows his eyes at his brother.
Mycroft is not impressed. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice.”
It’s not so much a choice as it is a threat. Sherlock is sure it means there are enough of Mycroft’s lapdogs around to shove him into the car. They’ve gone through the ordeal before and it’s by far more humiliating to be manhandled into the backseat than to get in on his own. As if to prove his brother right, it also starts to rain in earnest.
Sherlock flings himself into the car, seething with anger. “What the hell do you want?”
“You haven’t paid your rent and were thrown out of your flat over three weeks ago. Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t react to that?” Mycroft drums his fingers on one of the armrests and licks his lips. He’s irritated.
Sherlock doesn’t answer -- Mycroft doesn’t really want an answer anyway. It’s not the first time they’re having this conversation.
“If you’re finished stating the obvious, I’d like to leave,” Sherlock says, but doesn’t try to open the door. He knows Mycroft’s driver locked it the moment it slammed shut.
“You’re living on the streets again,” Mycroft continues, the word streets dripping with so much condescension it’s a marvel his face doesn’t scrunch up in distaste. Only his nose wrinkles, which for Mycroft is about equal to shuddering with disgust.
“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock shoots back.
“You already lived in a veritable dump for a price nobody could possibly claim to be unable to afford. And yet you chose to be ejected.”
“Playing stupid doesn’t suit you, Mycroft.” Sherlock digs into his pockets to find one of his cigarettes, a bit crumpled as they came without the box. He had traded a coffee for five of them. “Thanks to you, I don’t get to roll around in money the way you do.”
“You would have more than enough money if you acted responsibly. You could have finished your degree and not invest all your money in narcotics.”
“And do a tedious job somewhere in a laboratory or play lapdog for the government like you or Father?” Sherlock laughs without a trace of humour and tries to light his cigarette, only to have Mycroft snatch the lighter from his hands. Ah, the temper shines through. Mentioning Father always works.
“I don’t see how taking drugs and sleeping under a bridge or in an abandoned building is the superior choice,” Mycroft nearly hisses. He’s approaching the danger stage.
“At least it’s my own choice!” Sherlock shoots back. Mycroft in turn becomes very still, all emotion wiped from his face. He lifts a hand and the driver pulls over. Sherlock hears the doors unlock and grabs the handle, eager to get away from his brother’s suffocating presence.
“Don’t think this conversation is over, Sherlock,” Mycroft says before he can leave. Sherlock holds his brother’s gaze for a few seconds, then exits into the rain, throwing the door closed before Mycroft can say anything else.
The brick is rough under his fingers, against the thin cotton of his shirt. Texture slightly different from the ones produced by Britain’s largest supplier of building materials. Interesting. Does he have a sample of it? He can’t remember. The sensation of somebody biting at his neck persists. All teeth present and even -- probably braces in their early teens.
Sherlock’s focus is hazy, his brain feels as if it were wrapped in cotton wool. Not the desired outcome; he prefers substances that sharpen his mind.
Fingers slither under his shirt, one hand grips at his belt. The man probably expects some kind of participation from him. That was the deal. Sherlock might not be a gentleman, but business he can conduct. He tips his head back against the brick wall for better access and clenches his left hand on the man’s biceps. Flannel shirt, medium price range, pattern in red and... dark green? Black? The light is bad at this end of the alley. Somewhere in Lambeth, Sherlock thinks.
Should he pay a bit more attention to the other man? Focussing is hard, his thoughts are swirling around in an uncoordinated mess. He hates losing control of his mind like this: enough to be frustrated but not enough to not give a damn. This new designer drug he’s offered himself up for doesn’t do what he wants.
Sherlock is always looking for the best hit possible, but upper-class designer drugs are expensive. Drugs designed for the yuppies of the city are more likely to accelerate, enhance and push: stockbrokers looking for something to see them through fourteen-hour work days; the nouveaux riches wanting to party for twenty-four hours straight; models seeking to limit appetite and fatigue. If you were living under a bridge not knowing where your next meal was coming from, you wouldn’t want something to make you even more aware of it.
Sherlock occasionally lives under bridges but craves the hits of those dwelling in converted lofts and dining at two-star-restaurants. Ever since Mycroft froze Sherlock’s access to the family money, he has been low on cash. Curse his brother for being the eldest and therefore the sole heir, as per their parents’ decision.
Fingers are opening his belt buckle, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping below the waistband of his pants. A lightly calloused thumb strokes his protruding hipbone (light work with his hands, fingernails very short, no obvious remnants of oils or dirt, so probably not a machinist -- maybe a painter for his day job.)
The man murmurs something, probably appreciative from the sound of his voice, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. He has deleted his name already. It doesn’t matter. He should get this over with and hide in his flat until the effects of the drug have worn off. Sherlock grabs the other man by his biceps and reverses their positions. Taking an active part in these encounters is always irritating but with no supplies whatsoever there is little he can do to sate the man’s very narrow definition of what counts as ‘sex.’ His actions have made it clear that it won’t count unless it involves penetrative or oral administrations.
The mechanics are easy. Sherlock loosens the belt, opens the trousers (small speck of off-white wall paint on the right thigh of his jeans -- so he is a painter) and tugs down the pants, freeing the other man’s erection. Without much preamble, he sets to work. Suction, head movement, tongue patterns, that is all there is to it. The noises overhead confirm his competence. Not that Sherlock needs confirmation; and he actually wishes the man wouldn’t continue to remind Sherlock of his presence. He changes the rhythm and pattern, making more deliberate strokes with his tongue along the shaft.
Fingers in his hair, tugging at the curls. Sherlock pushes them off; he hates being touched when he tries to concentrate on a task. A change in breathing pattern, elevated pulse and muscle tremors tell him it’s almost over. Good. The man is already twenty-six seconds over the average it takes Sherlock to bring men to climax through fellatio.
Texture and bitter taste unpleasant. Sherlock spits the contents of his mouth on the ground, next to the man’s shoes. If the man weren’t a moron, he would get the hint that his presence isn’t as appreciated as he thinks. He murmurs something, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. Instead he wipes his mouth with his forearm and gets back up, dusting gravel from his knees. The other man hasn’t fully gathered himself yet, but Sherlock doesn’t wait; he has done his part.
With a curt nod, he strides out of the alley -- somewhat unsteady because of the drugs -- wanting to get back home as soon as possible for some tea to get rid of the taste on his tongue and to sleep off that failure of an experiment.
“Shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, pain clear in his eyes, eyebrows drawn into a frown. “Not again.”
***
Lestrade was the first to arrest him. In a raid that Sherlock hadn’t predicted because the Met had changed their pattern. All due to an eager detective sergeant on the brink of making detective inspector. Lestrade had thought Sherlock was just another addict in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having all kinds of insults thrown at him was nothing new either.
The lanky young man started to unnerve Lestrade with a series of razor sharp truths no one could know about -- but most of all it was knowledge someone he had never seen before shouldn’t possess. That he had been married for more than five but less than ten years according to the state of his ring, his wife (or less likely husband with long red hair) being unhappy with his hours but trying to be supportive. Remnants of crayon and Plasticine under his fingernails told Sherlock he had a young child of three to four years. He also had had a lamb curry for lunch.
Lestrade didn’t know whether to be confused or to tell the boy to shut up. He settled for the former -- Sherlock Holmes was in enough trouble as it was. Then he shoved him into the back of a police car and drove him to the station himself.
Holmes was in a holding cell for all of two hours before a call came in to release him immediately. Apparently orders from very high up. Lestrade knew questioning it would get him nowhere, so he let Sherlock go. It turned out all the charges had been dropped before they even reached the Crown prosecutor. Friends in high places, Lestrade concluded.
Lestrade was also the second, third and fourth to arrest Sherlock. Each time, his heart broke a bit more for the wayward young man.
Sherlock overdoses once, late into his habit, when his tolerance is high and he needs more and more to replicate the rush. The mood swings have become worse: he can go from lethargic to erratic in a span of minutes. Eating habits -- if you can call them such -- almost completely abandoned, he has lost so much weight that he had to punch two new holes into his belt with a screwdriver. Sherlock feels watched at all times; not unjustified with Mycroft around, but his brother has been out of the country for two weeks and the minions only watch Sherlock occasionally.
He miscalculates (which will be what irritates him most, later), injects too much into his vein (left-handed because the veins on his left arm have almost all collapsed from his lack of experience at the beginning) and it takes under a minute for him to notice something has gone very wrong: his heart is racing, not in the usual way that has him elated, but at a punishing pace that pounds against his ribcage. Sherlock feels hot, much too hot -- he’s burning up and starts to sweat. As his vision goes blurry, he sinks down to the cheap rug (stains ranging from blood to tinned chicken soup from previous tenants, why did he never take samples?) in his rundown flat, panic starting to swell in his chest. It’s the last thing he needs, but hyperventilation sets in fast.
He’s going to die.
He first notices that he cares about John Watson when the man stands before him covered in Semtex. The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. Sherlock suspects he’s never gone through so much sentiment at once before that day. Frustration at Moriarty’s game, the stab of betrayal when he thought for a split second that his flatmate was the criminal mastermind who was toying with him, the horror that John could die. Like that old woman who said just a word too much. Life without John already sounds bleak, even though they have only known each other for a rather short time. Sherlock doesn’t care half as much that he could die in the explosion, too. Collateral damage. He is surprised that he has actually lived past thirty anyway.
They get away somehow. In hindsight, Sherlock knows there was much more luck than skill involved, which annoys him. Also, he’s more rattled by it than he should be. John seems to cope well -- but the man was a soldier once and calmest when times were most dangerous.
Sherlock is excited, thrilled even by the existence of Jim Moriarty -- the grandest of all puzzles. But he threatened what Sherlock valued most and Sherlock found himself in limbo. Caught in the strange juxtaposition of playing with fire and knowing he was about to be burned. John is unnerved by Sherlock vibrating with tension and Sherlock in turn fears one of these days, John will just up and leave. It’s the most horrifying thought in the world. Sherlock decides not to examine it too closely.
He notices John Watson. He not only acknowledges his existence, but actually notices him. The way John takes his tea (no sugar, dash of milk), his preference in literature (crime fiction and autobiographies), his favourite films (Bond; they’ve become Sherlock’s guilty pleasure), which takeaway meal he likes best (Bò lúc lắc, side of Dưa kiệu from one of the Vietnamese restaurants on Kingsland Road). Sherlock knows how John’s stubble grows (patchy), how often he gets his hair cut (every six weeks) and how long he showers (seven to twelve minutes, the latter if he feels indulgent). Sherlock retains all the facts in John’s room in his mind palace. John was recently accorded a spare room in there since the facts don’t seem to stop flowing in and Sherlock does not delete old information about him. He trades in useless facts from elsewhere, like the capital of Venezuela or the currency in China.
There is data he doesn’t have, which is irritating. How the skin behind John’s ears tastes, for example. Or the texture of his scar. Sherlock hasn’t even seen John’s scar yet, which is a crime in its own right. John’s lips often seem dry and Sherlock wants to test the hypothesis by touching and tasting. How it would feel to grab a fistful of John’s jumper and press him against the living room wall.
Sherlock doesn’t do anything about it. He has observed John long enough to know that he wouldn’t be adverse to a more physical aspect to their relationship. But love is a dangerous disadvantage.
He doesn’t want to be vulnerable like that and doesn’t realise he already is.
Having sex with John for the first time confuses Sherlock. It defies all previously established parameters and Sherlock can’t wrap his head around it. The occasion already stands out because he’s not high on one substance or another -- what little sex he’s had before was always related to drugs: getting a discount or a taste of something new, lowered inhibitions and the need for stimulation when all his senses were in overdrive. Sherlock never saw the benefit of copulation -- it’s messy and far from the dopamine rush cocaine can produce. But Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised that the addition of John into the equation alters the results in unexpected manners. John already proved that when overthrowing Sherlock’s kissing hypothesis.
Sherlock has never engaged in kissing, except for a few experimental times to establish his hypothesis: kissing is unnecessary and dull. On top of that, it is far too personal and intimate. But kissing John isn’t dull -- far from it. It’s intriguing. As previously expected, John’s lips are often a bit chapped (he tends to forget to use chapstick even though he carries one around) and taste of tea (sometimes coffee). Right after shaving, the skin on John’s cheeks is smooth and Sherlock traces it with his fingers while kissing him. On other days, there is a bit of stubble -- barely visible, but easy to feel. Kissing John doesn’t feel too intimate -- even with tongues and teeth involved. Actually, it doesn’t feel intimate enough.
Sherlock wants to devour John, make him his and ruin him for everyone else forever.
They take it slow. If Sherlock were one for baseball metaphors, he’d speak in bases. Sherlock explores first slowly, not really sure how to proceed with the tilting of his axis. Contrary to his expectations kissing only offers so much incentive before it ceases to be interesting, with John it never becomes boring. Sherlock decides to study it: he tries different angles, techniques, more tongue, no tongue, teeth, no teeth, in daylight, at night, different locations (sitting room, kitchen, bathroom), before and after meals (favourable results if John had toast with jam or Marmite), clothed, less clothed (has to be abandoned as they were both becoming overexcited). It remains the same: still thrilling and addictive.
John stops being surprised by Sherlock’s stealth kisses. Sherlock removes their flat from the parameters, kisses John out of the blue in Hyde Park, in a cab, and once drags him around the corner of a level-eight crime scene to crowd John against a wall and snog him. John doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Sherlock scowls at him afterwards. He has probably noticed Sherlock is conducting some sort of experiment. Not much change in the results. If anything, the crime scene made it even more exciting. It has to be John, the only constant in the study. Sherlock ought to conduct a counter study to verify the results, but the thought of kissing someone who isn’t John is disturbing and nauseating.
Sherlock completes bits of his missing data, he tastes the skin behind John’s ear in an extensive study. He takes samples in the morning, afternoon and evening, and once he sneaks up into John’s room at night -- John nearly jumps out of his bed when Sherlock nibbles at his ear, prepared to pack a punch to the intruder’s face before he realises it’s Sherlock.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Warn a sleeping man before you do these things!”
“You not knowing is one of the parameters,” Sherlock answers in his petulant voice and prepares to get up.
“Bloody hell. Get back here, you tosser.” Sherlock crawls under John’s duvet and conducts a thorough study, then races back down to mull over the results.
More variables enter: after John has been out for a walk or at the shops, after showering, before showering, before and after shaving, before and after exciting crime scenes. His preliminary favourite is John in the evening, after showering, shaving and a visit at a crime scene -- mixture of adrenaline, aftershave and a heady aroma that seems to be just John’s. John conducts his own counter study in similar places; it sends Sherlock’s thoughts spinning and shivers all over his arms. The intensity is unexpected; Sherlock wants to isolate it, put it in a bottle and inject it.
He records every minute detail of their first sexual encounter on his hard drive. It wouldn’t do to forget any of the touches, smells and tastes. Sherlock lets John unbutton his dove-grey shirt while he steals kisses and nips at John’s lips. John appears to be in favour of small bites. They sit on Sherlock’s bed, John against the headboard and Sherlock in his lap.
Hands are all over Sherlock’s body, but for once he doesn’t want to push them away. It doesn’t feel as intrusive and uncomfortable as it used to. There is an undeniable need to see more, to hear more, to feel more. John’s rooms in his mind palace might grow into a wing at this rate, because he can’t see how he would ever delete data relating to this man (meanwhile, he deletes Mummy’s birthday, the Pythagorean theorem, and the location of Australia). Feeling impatient, Sherlock tugs at John’s jumper. The chuckle he gets in response lights a fire in his stomach.
As John’s shoulder is revealed, Sherlock latches onto the scar; he has been obsessed with it for so long. The bullet didn’t lodge in his body, it went through instead, shot from the back and the upper left. With his fingertips, Sherlock traces the old wound -- the texture is different from the skin around it, not as smooth. Also, the skin seems lighter and stands out quite a bit against the rest. The scar tissue fans out like a spider’s web, signs of an old infection. How easily John could have died back then. So many soldiers die in Afghanistan. Sherlock doesn’t care much about the war, but he looked into the statistics after he learned that John was shot. John was lucky. Sherlock doesn’t even want to think about the fact that he never would have met John if things had turned out for the worst. He kisses the scar and John threads a hand into Sherlock’s hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. If he could, Sherlock would purr like a cat.
John pushes the open shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, letting it glide down his arm to pool at the elbows. Sherlock can’t remember the last time he let someone unclothe him. John, he would gladly let strip the flesh from his bones. John traces his fingers across Sherlock’s sternum, down his ribs and comes to rest on Sherlock’s stomach where he traces the scar.
“Appendectomy?” he whispers and smiles.
“Yes. When I was eight.”
Sherlock hated the appendectomy. He was in pain and bored from being in hospital. Mycroft came home from school to stay with him since their parents were on a trip halfway around the planet at the time. Sherlock muses that this was one of the last times he was glad to see his brother.
His thoughts derail when John’s fingertips tease his nipples with a hint of pain. At the moment, he has no idea why he would have ever wanted to ‘take it slow.’ An erection tents his trousers and it’s as if his whole skin itches. John looks smug and Sherlock glares at him in return. He tries to gain some friction by pressing closer to John, but it’s not enough. There might be whimpers coming from his mouth and at some point, John must have taken mercy on him because there’s a hand in his pants and it wraps around his prick and Sherlock thinks it’s one of the best things in the universe -- right up there with cooking eyeballs in acid.
Without lubrication, the strokes are rough, Sherlock can feel the callouses on John’s hands. His fingers dig into John’s shoulder (not the one he was shot in) and when John performs a particularly clever flick of his wrist, Sherlock comes undone above him.
Afterwards, his body feels like lead. Sherlock is exhausted, but the endorphins make him buzz with pleasure. It’s so foreign a feeling to him, he suspects he will be processing it for some time. John pushes a few sweaty locks from Sherlock’s eyes and kisses him -- passionate, gentle and a little self-satisfied This kind of kiss is new. Sherlock files it in the cabinet in John’s mind palace office.
John’s hand snakes into his own trousers to take care of his personal urges. Sherlock swats it aside and does it himself -- not out of any obligation or agreement, but because he wants to. He closes his fingers around John’s shaft (cataloguing everything he can from touch: length -- slightly above national average; width -- national average; uncircumcised). Much more interesting are the sounds John makes beneath him: groans, sharp intakes of breath, whispers, moans -- Sherlock saves them all on his hard drive, determined to find out if there are more. There have to be more.
After John climaxes, Sherlock contemplates whether he should save some of John’s semen which is sticking to his fingers but postpones taking the sample in favour of resting his head on John’s chest, taking in the smell of sweat, sex and them.
With his first pleasurable sex in years, the proverbial floodgates open. Headfirst into a new addiction. Sherlock wants more, needs more -- he wants clarity, the sort only cocaine has been able to bring so far.
With time, he coaxes John into introducing pain to their repertoire. Not that John needs much persuasion. Careful observation led to the conclusion that John enjoyed domination and painplay. The thrill of being caught between just right and too much, the exercises in endurance -- they help Sherlock achieve new heights of awareness.
John is the only one he can trust with this, how far to take it and at which pace. His body, mind and soul are safe with him.
He should have known. It is like putting the proverbial child in a sweets shop and tell them not to eat anything. Place a dormant addict in a group of active addicts for long enough, copious amounts of his substance of choice within arm’s reach -- it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Sherlock has never played the remorseful ex-addict who devotes his life to overcoming those desires once and for all. He doesn’t regret it. The cocaine has done its job -- sharpened his mind, focussed his attention, reined in in the chaos. His mind palace was built with solid blocks of cocaine.
And the palace could always do with an additional wing.
The hunt for Moriarty’s web is long and exhausting. The man left barely any traces to follow and Sherlock has to chase whispers of Moriarty hidden under false identities all over the world. His had hoped that Moriarty had concentrated on Europe, but no such luck. He had had his fingers everywhere from Laos to Moscow and Rio de Janeiro.
As hateful as the thought is, Mycroft is a vital resource. His brother’s name opens doors in Tokyo and New York; equips him with money, papers and weaponry; and unearths leads Sherlock would never have found on his own. Though he would rather cut out his tongue than admit it out loud. He’s also the only one who can keep Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John safe, should anything go wrong.
One day, Sherlock hears of a Triad gang in Bangkok that has ties to one of Moriarty’s most trusted men but as soon as he gets there, he can’t find anything. He catches wind of a small group laundering money for Moriarty’s operations in Kazakhstan but it takes him nearly a month before he has enough leads to send to Mycroft who then pulls strings until local authorities arrest them.
Days and weeks turn into months. Sherlock didn’t expect to be away this long. He aches for London and 221B Baker Street. Most nights, he wishes he could just crawl into bed with John (does he even still live there? Sherlock often stops himself from asking Mycroft about John. He thinks he might just falter and run back home if he does). He regrets not having crawled into bed with John as often as he could have, staying up late or not going to sleep at all. He eats frankly outlandish amounts of risotto with asparagus and Parmesan because it’s John’s best dish and Sherlock almost always ate it when John had put a plate of it in front of him. In a bout of sentimentality, he sends Molly an unsigned postcard from Warsaw. When possible, he buys chocolate biscuits and always thinks they’re not as good as Mrs Hudson’s.
It’s when risotto, chocolate biscuits and a dogeared photo in his wallet aren’t enough anymore to keep him pushing through that he goes back to his oldest friend.
Sherlock sits in his hotel room in Bogotá and contemplates the items on the table in front of him. Sterilised, disposable syringes and needles, tourniquet still in its shrink-wrapping, empty vial, small bag of cocaine amidst stacks of papers, news clippings, photographs -- many covered in Sherlock’s handwriting in red pen.
He’s been brooding over the clues and evidence for weeks, unable to make sense of it. Everything points to Jim Moriarty having been involved in drug trafficking in South America, Colombia first and foremost but he doesn’t get any further than that. The frustration eats away at him. It’s as if he’s sifting through a ten-thousand piece jigsaw of an undisturbed blue sky.
He bought the cocaine on a whim, readily available at every corner if one knew where to look. It should be able to make him see the pattern, connect the dots and solve the mystery. John isn’t here to be his conductor of light, neither is his violin, and cocaine used to do the job just fine before. Sherlock is reluctant to go back to it -- not that he has many regrets, but towards the end of his last bout of using, the negatives started to outweigh the positive. He hit rock bottom with the overdose. If Lestrade hadn’t stopped by to berate Sherlock for his behaviour at the crime scene, he would have died. Not that health concerns are usually at the forefront of his mind. Some sort of Pavlovian reaction to John’s badgering whenever Sherlock was too laissez-faire about health risks and danger. It's pot and kettle, really, Sherlock thinks; John did (maybe still does?) enough dangerous things himself. But John is a compulsive caretaker, he needs someone to look after to function (and not notice how screwed up he is himself). Sherlock provided John with a steady supply of internal and external damage.
Sherlock closes his eyes and leans back on the battered sofa, a pea-green memorial to the seventies. If only John were here to bring him focus and order; he is the perfect drug -- much like cocaine, but without the side effects. This is why he avoids touches from and dependency on other people: they may be gone one day and he is left craving.
Sherlock tries to picture John’s reaction to finding out about the cocaine. Not favourable, that much is certain. John is a doctor with an alcoholic sister. He hates his sister’s addiction, one of the main reasons they don’t get along. John would not live with an active drug-user.
However, Sherlock has learnt from the past: he would never use cocaine unless there was a purpose for it; he's not just interested in the hit. He thinks of it as a supplement: boring people take magnesium, he takes cocaine. He has an engaging puzzle on his hands -- the puzzle. With so much stimulation, his brain won’t become reliant on the substance. Only clarity, not function.
If it helps him solve this mystery faster, why shouldn’t he use all available resources? The faster Moriarty’s empire crumbles and turns to dust, the quicker they’re all going to be safe. And even if he ends up with a bullet in his head, he doesn’t want it to be out of false morality.
Sherlock gets up to dig in his bag. He finds the pack of cigarette filters (he has taken to rolling his own cigarettes lately) and flings it on the table before moving to the tiny bathroom with the flickering lightbulb. A pack of razor blades (not the five-blade-with-soothing-gel nonsense), hand mirror and he’s almost good to go. Sherlock takes the spoon from the tray on the table by the entrance as well. He doesn’t plan on cooking the solution, but the spoon makes filling the syringe easier.
Back on the sofa, muscle memory kicks in. With his lighter, he heats the spoon’s handle to facilitate bending it until it’s standing up in a graceful arch. He opens the bag and tastes the product, slight numbness on this tongue but nothing tastes off. Exact measuring is impossible and unnecessary, he can still tell how much he’ll need for his preferred seven-percent-solution. Sherlock pours the powder onto the hand mirror and cut with the blade, a leftover ritual from the days when he snorted it. It doesn’t serve much purpose if you inject it, but the repetitive movement calms Sherlock’s almost-tremor in his hands and gets his heartbeat back under control (excitement, fear, uncertainty, greeting an old friend).
When the cocaine is near dust Sherlock moves back to the bath to fill the vial with water; the right amount still comes to him naturally. Back to the sofa, cocaine transferred into the water. Sherlock puts his thumb on the opening and shakes the contents to dissolve the drug -- very few particles remain. Good. His mouth runs dry as he lifts his thumb from the vial, the tip glistening with a few drops of the cocaine solution. Carefully, he sticks the digit in his mouth, sucks off the liquid (once again light numbness on his tongue). For a moment, he revels in the familiarity, the nostalgia of it -- it really is like greeting an old friend.
The old air conditioning unit in his room whirrs in the background, not really cooling the 120 square feet of his temporary home, but Sherlock commends the owner’s effort to lie to his customers.
He pours the solution into the spoon, drops in one of the filters (not that it erases the chances of cotton fever, but he really doesn’t trust the cotton pads in the bathroom dispenser) and watches it soak up the cocaine, filtering the particles. With a deep breath, he unwraps the syringe and needle, places the tip against the filter and slowly draws up the liquid. He holds the filled syringe against the light falling in through the windows and taps his fingers against it to eliminate the bubbles before putting it back on the table. Tourniquet next, around his right arm. Looking for veins in his left would take longer than he would like. Balling his hand into a fist, he finds one quickly, tapping against the crook of his elbow. Sherlock hesitates for a second as he picks up the syringe, still unsure if it’s really the right choice. It probably isn’t, but it’s the best one he can come up with. He stopped once before, he can do it again if he has to.
He licks his lips, places the needle against his skin and pushes in. Drawing the plunger back a bit, bringing a swirl of red with it that confirms he really caught a vein. He could still back out, but doesn’t want to. Not anymore. Sherlock presses the plunger fast, then pulls the needle back out, throws it on the table and releases the tourniquet. The drug travels fast to its destination, Sherlock can feel the heat crawl towards his heart before it hits.
For a second, he sits back and closes his eyes until his brain accelerates to maximum speed. He flings his eyes open and for the first time in months he sees.
Find part two of the fic here.
Recipient:
venturous1Author:
neurotoxiaCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: ~12,000
Warnings: substance abuse, oral, handjobs, underage, dubcon, angst, self-harm, bdsm themes (riding crops, knifeplay, bloodplay)
Author’s Note: Happy Holmestice,
venturous1! I hope you enjoy :)Summary: Sherlock leaps from one addiction to the next, always circling back to one until it almost kills him. Staying sober isn’t easy and when he can’t have his new addiction John Watson anymore, his old vice is lurking in the shadows.
I have been one acquainted with the night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
-- Robert Frost
Sherlock trades his virginity for an Ecstasy pill at Eton.
Marijuana and cigarettes are easy to obtain, anything stronger than that and it becomes difficult. But just like in a prison (and Sherlock saw many parallels between Eton and a prison), there are always things around that normally have no business being there. Sherlock likes cigarettes, but dislikes what THC does to his mind.
The boy is a year older than him and evidently more experienced. Sherlock has not had much interest in gaining that kind of experience and whenever hormones struck him, he just took care of it himself. None of the insipid people he knows are worth the time and effort. This boy isn’t really worth it either, but he has something Sherlock wants and he’s lucky the boy is attracted to him (Sherlock deduces the boy will be a closet homosexual later, preferring men but refusing to admit it).
They’re crammed into one of the barely used sheds on the grounds, the greenkeeper at least twenty minutes away and nobody else around. It’s hot -- at least 30°C in the shade -- and Sherlock’s hair sticks to his forehead and the starched collar of his shirt itches against the skin of his neck. The close proximity to the other boy doesn’t make it any better. The boy tries to kiss him, but Sherlock won’t let him. He doesn’t like kissing; too close, too intimate, too personal. Most would argue that letting someone stick their hands down your pants is more personal, but most people are idiots anyway.
The boy is pushing Sherlock’s pants out of the way and reaching for his prick. Having a hand other than his own touching it is strange, if not unpleasant. It makes the encounter less predictable. The boy’s other hand tugs at Sherlock’s wrist with impatience. Oh, right. He undoes buttons and fly, tugs down midnight blue pants and copies the motions. The stimulation isn’t bad but not any better than doing it on his own. Sherlock doesn’t understand what the fuss is about.
The encounter is clumsy and over fast, with Sherlock just barely able to climax. The rush of endorphins is nice, Sherlock thinks and takes his hand out of the other boy’s pants. It’s sticky with semen and Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste before wiping it on one of the rags in the shed and fixing his uniform afterwards.
He waits until the other boy has closed his fly, then he holds out his hand, palm up, his look impatient as the boy digs through his pockets.
“If you need any more, you know where to find me,” he says and drops a small plastic bag with a single pill into Sherlock’s hand. His smile is sly; Sherlock feels the need to wipe it off his face. He doesn’t reply, just shoves the bag deep into his pockets and exits the shed.
He finds he doesn’t like Ecstasy very much.
Sherlock steadfastly ignores the sleek black Mercedes slithering along the street at his side. He draws the hood of his jacket deeper over his face to block out the tinted windows staring at him accusingly, beckoning him to get in the car.
The sky is overcast: a light drizzle rains down on London and turns the pavement before Sherlock’s feet a darker grey. For good measure, Sherlock winds his scarf tighter around his neck, covers his mouth and half of his nose. If he ignores it long enough, the car might go away. Although he knows it’s wishful thinking. How did the meddling bastard find him so quickly?
Sherlock thumps his fist against a tinted window. Of course it doesn’t break anything; the glass is armoured. As are the doors and floor pans. Mycroft has built a cage for himself -- and he’d love to trap Sherlock in it, too.
“Piss off!” he yells in frustration and directs a two-fingered salute at the back windows.
It appears Mycroft has had enough: the window rolls down to reveal the biggest nuisance of his life. His brother’s eyebrows are drawn into a frown and his lips set in a firm line. Yes, his patience is wearing thin. Good.
“Sherlock, cease this childish behaviour and get in the car.” Mycroft’s voice is pitched to freeze hell over. Sherlock notices faint rings under Mycroft’s eyes, probably losing sleep over his stupid war in Iraq. Serves him right. At the moment, Sherlock wishes he had a cigarette lit just so he could flick it past Mycroft into the car.
“Didn’t you hear me when I said ‘piss off’ the first time?” Sherlock hisses and narrows his eyes at his brother.
Mycroft is not impressed. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s your choice.”
It’s not so much a choice as it is a threat. Sherlock is sure it means there are enough of Mycroft’s lapdogs around to shove him into the car. They’ve gone through the ordeal before and it’s by far more humiliating to be manhandled into the backseat than to get in on his own. As if to prove his brother right, it also starts to rain in earnest.
Sherlock flings himself into the car, seething with anger. “What the hell do you want?”
“You haven’t paid your rent and were thrown out of your flat over three weeks ago. Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t react to that?” Mycroft drums his fingers on one of the armrests and licks his lips. He’s irritated.
Sherlock doesn’t answer -- Mycroft doesn’t really want an answer anyway. It’s not the first time they’re having this conversation.
“If you’re finished stating the obvious, I’d like to leave,” Sherlock says, but doesn’t try to open the door. He knows Mycroft’s driver locked it the moment it slammed shut.
“You’re living on the streets again,” Mycroft continues, the word streets dripping with so much condescension it’s a marvel his face doesn’t scrunch up in distaste. Only his nose wrinkles, which for Mycroft is about equal to shuddering with disgust.
“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock shoots back.
“You already lived in a veritable dump for a price nobody could possibly claim to be unable to afford. And yet you chose to be ejected.”
“Playing stupid doesn’t suit you, Mycroft.” Sherlock digs into his pockets to find one of his cigarettes, a bit crumpled as they came without the box. He had traded a coffee for five of them. “Thanks to you, I don’t get to roll around in money the way you do.”
“You would have more than enough money if you acted responsibly. You could have finished your degree and not invest all your money in narcotics.”
“And do a tedious job somewhere in a laboratory or play lapdog for the government like you or Father?” Sherlock laughs without a trace of humour and tries to light his cigarette, only to have Mycroft snatch the lighter from his hands. Ah, the temper shines through. Mentioning Father always works.
“I don’t see how taking drugs and sleeping under a bridge or in an abandoned building is the superior choice,” Mycroft nearly hisses. He’s approaching the danger stage.
“At least it’s my own choice!” Sherlock shoots back. Mycroft in turn becomes very still, all emotion wiped from his face. He lifts a hand and the driver pulls over. Sherlock hears the doors unlock and grabs the handle, eager to get away from his brother’s suffocating presence.
“Don’t think this conversation is over, Sherlock,” Mycroft says before he can leave. Sherlock holds his brother’s gaze for a few seconds, then exits into the rain, throwing the door closed before Mycroft can say anything else.
The brick is rough under his fingers, against the thin cotton of his shirt. Texture slightly different from the ones produced by Britain’s largest supplier of building materials. Interesting. Does he have a sample of it? He can’t remember. The sensation of somebody biting at his neck persists. All teeth present and even -- probably braces in their early teens.
Sherlock’s focus is hazy, his brain feels as if it were wrapped in cotton wool. Not the desired outcome; he prefers substances that sharpen his mind.
Fingers slither under his shirt, one hand grips at his belt. The man probably expects some kind of participation from him. That was the deal. Sherlock might not be a gentleman, but business he can conduct. He tips his head back against the brick wall for better access and clenches his left hand on the man’s biceps. Flannel shirt, medium price range, pattern in red and... dark green? Black? The light is bad at this end of the alley. Somewhere in Lambeth, Sherlock thinks.
Should he pay a bit more attention to the other man? Focussing is hard, his thoughts are swirling around in an uncoordinated mess. He hates losing control of his mind like this: enough to be frustrated but not enough to not give a damn. This new designer drug he’s offered himself up for doesn’t do what he wants.
Sherlock is always looking for the best hit possible, but upper-class designer drugs are expensive. Drugs designed for the yuppies of the city are more likely to accelerate, enhance and push: stockbrokers looking for something to see them through fourteen-hour work days; the nouveaux riches wanting to party for twenty-four hours straight; models seeking to limit appetite and fatigue. If you were living under a bridge not knowing where your next meal was coming from, you wouldn’t want something to make you even more aware of it.
Sherlock occasionally lives under bridges but craves the hits of those dwelling in converted lofts and dining at two-star-restaurants. Ever since Mycroft froze Sherlock’s access to the family money, he has been low on cash. Curse his brother for being the eldest and therefore the sole heir, as per their parents’ decision.
Fingers are opening his belt buckle, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping below the waistband of his pants. A lightly calloused thumb strokes his protruding hipbone (light work with his hands, fingernails very short, no obvious remnants of oils or dirt, so probably not a machinist -- maybe a painter for his day job.)
The man murmurs something, probably appreciative from the sound of his voice, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. He has deleted his name already. It doesn’t matter. He should get this over with and hide in his flat until the effects of the drug have worn off. Sherlock grabs the other man by his biceps and reverses their positions. Taking an active part in these encounters is always irritating but with no supplies whatsoever there is little he can do to sate the man’s very narrow definition of what counts as ‘sex.’ His actions have made it clear that it won’t count unless it involves penetrative or oral administrations.
The mechanics are easy. Sherlock loosens the belt, opens the trousers (small speck of off-white wall paint on the right thigh of his jeans -- so he is a painter) and tugs down the pants, freeing the other man’s erection. Without much preamble, he sets to work. Suction, head movement, tongue patterns, that is all there is to it. The noises overhead confirm his competence. Not that Sherlock needs confirmation; and he actually wishes the man wouldn’t continue to remind Sherlock of his presence. He changes the rhythm and pattern, making more deliberate strokes with his tongue along the shaft.
Fingers in his hair, tugging at the curls. Sherlock pushes them off; he hates being touched when he tries to concentrate on a task. A change in breathing pattern, elevated pulse and muscle tremors tell him it’s almost over. Good. The man is already twenty-six seconds over the average it takes Sherlock to bring men to climax through fellatio.
Texture and bitter taste unpleasant. Sherlock spits the contents of his mouth on the ground, next to the man’s shoes. If the man weren’t a moron, he would get the hint that his presence isn’t as appreciated as he thinks. He murmurs something, but Sherlock doesn’t listen. Instead he wipes his mouth with his forearm and gets back up, dusting gravel from his knees. The other man hasn’t fully gathered himself yet, but Sherlock doesn’t wait; he has done his part.
With a curt nod, he strides out of the alley -- somewhat unsteady because of the drugs -- wanting to get back home as soon as possible for some tea to get rid of the taste on his tongue and to sleep off that failure of an experiment.
“Shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, pain clear in his eyes, eyebrows drawn into a frown. “Not again.”
Lestrade was the first to arrest him. In a raid that Sherlock hadn’t predicted because the Met had changed their pattern. All due to an eager detective sergeant on the brink of making detective inspector. Lestrade had thought Sherlock was just another addict in the wrong place at the wrong time. Having all kinds of insults thrown at him was nothing new either.
The lanky young man started to unnerve Lestrade with a series of razor sharp truths no one could know about -- but most of all it was knowledge someone he had never seen before shouldn’t possess. That he had been married for more than five but less than ten years according to the state of his ring, his wife (or less likely husband with long red hair) being unhappy with his hours but trying to be supportive. Remnants of crayon and Plasticine under his fingernails told Sherlock he had a young child of three to four years. He also had had a lamb curry for lunch.
Lestrade didn’t know whether to be confused or to tell the boy to shut up. He settled for the former -- Sherlock Holmes was in enough trouble as it was. Then he shoved him into the back of a police car and drove him to the station himself.
Holmes was in a holding cell for all of two hours before a call came in to release him immediately. Apparently orders from very high up. Lestrade knew questioning it would get him nowhere, so he let Sherlock go. It turned out all the charges had been dropped before they even reached the Crown prosecutor. Friends in high places, Lestrade concluded.
Lestrade was also the second, third and fourth to arrest Sherlock. Each time, his heart broke a bit more for the wayward young man.
Sherlock overdoses once, late into his habit, when his tolerance is high and he needs more and more to replicate the rush. The mood swings have become worse: he can go from lethargic to erratic in a span of minutes. Eating habits -- if you can call them such -- almost completely abandoned, he has lost so much weight that he had to punch two new holes into his belt with a screwdriver. Sherlock feels watched at all times; not unjustified with Mycroft around, but his brother has been out of the country for two weeks and the minions only watch Sherlock occasionally.
He miscalculates (which will be what irritates him most, later), injects too much into his vein (left-handed because the veins on his left arm have almost all collapsed from his lack of experience at the beginning) and it takes under a minute for him to notice something has gone very wrong: his heart is racing, not in the usual way that has him elated, but at a punishing pace that pounds against his ribcage. Sherlock feels hot, much too hot -- he’s burning up and starts to sweat. As his vision goes blurry, he sinks down to the cheap rug (stains ranging from blood to tinned chicken soup from previous tenants, why did he never take samples?) in his rundown flat, panic starting to swell in his chest. It’s the last thing he needs, but hyperventilation sets in fast.
He’s going to die.
He first notices that he cares about John Watson when the man stands before him covered in Semtex. The realisation hits him like a ton of bricks. Sherlock suspects he’s never gone through so much sentiment at once before that day. Frustration at Moriarty’s game, the stab of betrayal when he thought for a split second that his flatmate was the criminal mastermind who was toying with him, the horror that John could die. Like that old woman who said just a word too much. Life without John already sounds bleak, even though they have only known each other for a rather short time. Sherlock doesn’t care half as much that he could die in the explosion, too. Collateral damage. He is surprised that he has actually lived past thirty anyway.
They get away somehow. In hindsight, Sherlock knows there was much more luck than skill involved, which annoys him. Also, he’s more rattled by it than he should be. John seems to cope well -- but the man was a soldier once and calmest when times were most dangerous.
Sherlock is excited, thrilled even by the existence of Jim Moriarty -- the grandest of all puzzles. But he threatened what Sherlock valued most and Sherlock found himself in limbo. Caught in the strange juxtaposition of playing with fire and knowing he was about to be burned. John is unnerved by Sherlock vibrating with tension and Sherlock in turn fears one of these days, John will just up and leave. It’s the most horrifying thought in the world. Sherlock decides not to examine it too closely.
He notices John Watson. He not only acknowledges his existence, but actually notices him. The way John takes his tea (no sugar, dash of milk), his preference in literature (crime fiction and autobiographies), his favourite films (Bond; they’ve become Sherlock’s guilty pleasure), which takeaway meal he likes best (Bò lúc lắc, side of Dưa kiệu from one of the Vietnamese restaurants on Kingsland Road). Sherlock knows how John’s stubble grows (patchy), how often he gets his hair cut (every six weeks) and how long he showers (seven to twelve minutes, the latter if he feels indulgent). Sherlock retains all the facts in John’s room in his mind palace. John was recently accorded a spare room in there since the facts don’t seem to stop flowing in and Sherlock does not delete old information about him. He trades in useless facts from elsewhere, like the capital of Venezuela or the currency in China.
There is data he doesn’t have, which is irritating. How the skin behind John’s ears tastes, for example. Or the texture of his scar. Sherlock hasn’t even seen John’s scar yet, which is a crime in its own right. John’s lips often seem dry and Sherlock wants to test the hypothesis by touching and tasting. How it would feel to grab a fistful of John’s jumper and press him against the living room wall.
Sherlock doesn’t do anything about it. He has observed John long enough to know that he wouldn’t be adverse to a more physical aspect to their relationship. But love is a dangerous disadvantage.
He doesn’t want to be vulnerable like that and doesn’t realise he already is.
Having sex with John for the first time confuses Sherlock. It defies all previously established parameters and Sherlock can’t wrap his head around it. The occasion already stands out because he’s not high on one substance or another -- what little sex he’s had before was always related to drugs: getting a discount or a taste of something new, lowered inhibitions and the need for stimulation when all his senses were in overdrive. Sherlock never saw the benefit of copulation -- it’s messy and far from the dopamine rush cocaine can produce. But Sherlock shouldn’t be surprised that the addition of John into the equation alters the results in unexpected manners. John already proved that when overthrowing Sherlock’s kissing hypothesis.
Sherlock has never engaged in kissing, except for a few experimental times to establish his hypothesis: kissing is unnecessary and dull. On top of that, it is far too personal and intimate. But kissing John isn’t dull -- far from it. It’s intriguing. As previously expected, John’s lips are often a bit chapped (he tends to forget to use chapstick even though he carries one around) and taste of tea (sometimes coffee). Right after shaving, the skin on John’s cheeks is smooth and Sherlock traces it with his fingers while kissing him. On other days, there is a bit of stubble -- barely visible, but easy to feel. Kissing John doesn’t feel too intimate -- even with tongues and teeth involved. Actually, it doesn’t feel intimate enough.
Sherlock wants to devour John, make him his and ruin him for everyone else forever.
They take it slow. If Sherlock were one for baseball metaphors, he’d speak in bases. Sherlock explores first slowly, not really sure how to proceed with the tilting of his axis. Contrary to his expectations kissing only offers so much incentive before it ceases to be interesting, with John it never becomes boring. Sherlock decides to study it: he tries different angles, techniques, more tongue, no tongue, teeth, no teeth, in daylight, at night, different locations (sitting room, kitchen, bathroom), before and after meals (favourable results if John had toast with jam or Marmite), clothed, less clothed (has to be abandoned as they were both becoming overexcited). It remains the same: still thrilling and addictive.
John stops being surprised by Sherlock’s stealth kisses. Sherlock removes their flat from the parameters, kisses John out of the blue in Hyde Park, in a cab, and once drags him around the corner of a level-eight crime scene to crowd John against a wall and snog him. John doesn’t even bat an eyelash when Sherlock scowls at him afterwards. He has probably noticed Sherlock is conducting some sort of experiment. Not much change in the results. If anything, the crime scene made it even more exciting. It has to be John, the only constant in the study. Sherlock ought to conduct a counter study to verify the results, but the thought of kissing someone who isn’t John is disturbing and nauseating.
Sherlock completes bits of his missing data, he tastes the skin behind John’s ear in an extensive study. He takes samples in the morning, afternoon and evening, and once he sneaks up into John’s room at night -- John nearly jumps out of his bed when Sherlock nibbles at his ear, prepared to pack a punch to the intruder’s face before he realises it’s Sherlock.
“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Warn a sleeping man before you do these things!”
“You not knowing is one of the parameters,” Sherlock answers in his petulant voice and prepares to get up.
“Bloody hell. Get back here, you tosser.” Sherlock crawls under John’s duvet and conducts a thorough study, then races back down to mull over the results.
More variables enter: after John has been out for a walk or at the shops, after showering, before showering, before and after shaving, before and after exciting crime scenes. His preliminary favourite is John in the evening, after showering, shaving and a visit at a crime scene -- mixture of adrenaline, aftershave and a heady aroma that seems to be just John’s. John conducts his own counter study in similar places; it sends Sherlock’s thoughts spinning and shivers all over his arms. The intensity is unexpected; Sherlock wants to isolate it, put it in a bottle and inject it.
He records every minute detail of their first sexual encounter on his hard drive. It wouldn’t do to forget any of the touches, smells and tastes. Sherlock lets John unbutton his dove-grey shirt while he steals kisses and nips at John’s lips. John appears to be in favour of small bites. They sit on Sherlock’s bed, John against the headboard and Sherlock in his lap.
Hands are all over Sherlock’s body, but for once he doesn’t want to push them away. It doesn’t feel as intrusive and uncomfortable as it used to. There is an undeniable need to see more, to hear more, to feel more. John’s rooms in his mind palace might grow into a wing at this rate, because he can’t see how he would ever delete data relating to this man (meanwhile, he deletes Mummy’s birthday, the Pythagorean theorem, and the location of Australia). Feeling impatient, Sherlock tugs at John’s jumper. The chuckle he gets in response lights a fire in his stomach.
As John’s shoulder is revealed, Sherlock latches onto the scar; he has been obsessed with it for so long. The bullet didn’t lodge in his body, it went through instead, shot from the back and the upper left. With his fingertips, Sherlock traces the old wound -- the texture is different from the skin around it, not as smooth. Also, the skin seems lighter and stands out quite a bit against the rest. The scar tissue fans out like a spider’s web, signs of an old infection. How easily John could have died back then. So many soldiers die in Afghanistan. Sherlock doesn’t care much about the war, but he looked into the statistics after he learned that John was shot. John was lucky. Sherlock doesn’t even want to think about the fact that he never would have met John if things had turned out for the worst. He kisses the scar and John threads a hand into Sherlock’s hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. If he could, Sherlock would purr like a cat.
John pushes the open shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders, letting it glide down his arm to pool at the elbows. Sherlock can’t remember the last time he let someone unclothe him. John, he would gladly let strip the flesh from his bones. John traces his fingers across Sherlock’s sternum, down his ribs and comes to rest on Sherlock’s stomach where he traces the scar.
“Appendectomy?” he whispers and smiles.
“Yes. When I was eight.”
Sherlock hated the appendectomy. He was in pain and bored from being in hospital. Mycroft came home from school to stay with him since their parents were on a trip halfway around the planet at the time. Sherlock muses that this was one of the last times he was glad to see his brother.
His thoughts derail when John’s fingertips tease his nipples with a hint of pain. At the moment, he has no idea why he would have ever wanted to ‘take it slow.’ An erection tents his trousers and it’s as if his whole skin itches. John looks smug and Sherlock glares at him in return. He tries to gain some friction by pressing closer to John, but it’s not enough. There might be whimpers coming from his mouth and at some point, John must have taken mercy on him because there’s a hand in his pants and it wraps around his prick and Sherlock thinks it’s one of the best things in the universe -- right up there with cooking eyeballs in acid.
Without lubrication, the strokes are rough, Sherlock can feel the callouses on John’s hands. His fingers dig into John’s shoulder (not the one he was shot in) and when John performs a particularly clever flick of his wrist, Sherlock comes undone above him.
Afterwards, his body feels like lead. Sherlock is exhausted, but the endorphins make him buzz with pleasure. It’s so foreign a feeling to him, he suspects he will be processing it for some time. John pushes a few sweaty locks from Sherlock’s eyes and kisses him -- passionate, gentle and a little self-satisfied This kind of kiss is new. Sherlock files it in the cabinet in John’s mind palace office.
John’s hand snakes into his own trousers to take care of his personal urges. Sherlock swats it aside and does it himself -- not out of any obligation or agreement, but because he wants to. He closes his fingers around John’s shaft (cataloguing everything he can from touch: length -- slightly above national average; width -- national average; uncircumcised). Much more interesting are the sounds John makes beneath him: groans, sharp intakes of breath, whispers, moans -- Sherlock saves them all on his hard drive, determined to find out if there are more. There have to be more.
After John climaxes, Sherlock contemplates whether he should save some of John’s semen which is sticking to his fingers but postpones taking the sample in favour of resting his head on John’s chest, taking in the smell of sweat, sex and them.
With his first pleasurable sex in years, the proverbial floodgates open. Headfirst into a new addiction. Sherlock wants more, needs more -- he wants clarity, the sort only cocaine has been able to bring so far.
With time, he coaxes John into introducing pain to their repertoire. Not that John needs much persuasion. Careful observation led to the conclusion that John enjoyed domination and painplay. The thrill of being caught between just right and too much, the exercises in endurance -- they help Sherlock achieve new heights of awareness.
John is the only one he can trust with this, how far to take it and at which pace. His body, mind and soul are safe with him.
He should have known. It is like putting the proverbial child in a sweets shop and tell them not to eat anything. Place a dormant addict in a group of active addicts for long enough, copious amounts of his substance of choice within arm’s reach -- it’s a disaster waiting to happen. Sherlock has never played the remorseful ex-addict who devotes his life to overcoming those desires once and for all. He doesn’t regret it. The cocaine has done its job -- sharpened his mind, focussed his attention, reined in in the chaos. His mind palace was built with solid blocks of cocaine.
And the palace could always do with an additional wing.
The hunt for Moriarty’s web is long and exhausting. The man left barely any traces to follow and Sherlock has to chase whispers of Moriarty hidden under false identities all over the world. His had hoped that Moriarty had concentrated on Europe, but no such luck. He had had his fingers everywhere from Laos to Moscow and Rio de Janeiro.
As hateful as the thought is, Mycroft is a vital resource. His brother’s name opens doors in Tokyo and New York; equips him with money, papers and weaponry; and unearths leads Sherlock would never have found on his own. Though he would rather cut out his tongue than admit it out loud. He’s also the only one who can keep Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John safe, should anything go wrong.
One day, Sherlock hears of a Triad gang in Bangkok that has ties to one of Moriarty’s most trusted men but as soon as he gets there, he can’t find anything. He catches wind of a small group laundering money for Moriarty’s operations in Kazakhstan but it takes him nearly a month before he has enough leads to send to Mycroft who then pulls strings until local authorities arrest them.
Days and weeks turn into months. Sherlock didn’t expect to be away this long. He aches for London and 221B Baker Street. Most nights, he wishes he could just crawl into bed with John (does he even still live there? Sherlock often stops himself from asking Mycroft about John. He thinks he might just falter and run back home if he does). He regrets not having crawled into bed with John as often as he could have, staying up late or not going to sleep at all. He eats frankly outlandish amounts of risotto with asparagus and Parmesan because it’s John’s best dish and Sherlock almost always ate it when John had put a plate of it in front of him. In a bout of sentimentality, he sends Molly an unsigned postcard from Warsaw. When possible, he buys chocolate biscuits and always thinks they’re not as good as Mrs Hudson’s.
It’s when risotto, chocolate biscuits and a dogeared photo in his wallet aren’t enough anymore to keep him pushing through that he goes back to his oldest friend.
Sherlock sits in his hotel room in Bogotá and contemplates the items on the table in front of him. Sterilised, disposable syringes and needles, tourniquet still in its shrink-wrapping, empty vial, small bag of cocaine amidst stacks of papers, news clippings, photographs -- many covered in Sherlock’s handwriting in red pen.
He’s been brooding over the clues and evidence for weeks, unable to make sense of it. Everything points to Jim Moriarty having been involved in drug trafficking in South America, Colombia first and foremost but he doesn’t get any further than that. The frustration eats away at him. It’s as if he’s sifting through a ten-thousand piece jigsaw of an undisturbed blue sky.
He bought the cocaine on a whim, readily available at every corner if one knew where to look. It should be able to make him see the pattern, connect the dots and solve the mystery. John isn’t here to be his conductor of light, neither is his violin, and cocaine used to do the job just fine before. Sherlock is reluctant to go back to it -- not that he has many regrets, but towards the end of his last bout of using, the negatives started to outweigh the positive. He hit rock bottom with the overdose. If Lestrade hadn’t stopped by to berate Sherlock for his behaviour at the crime scene, he would have died. Not that health concerns are usually at the forefront of his mind. Some sort of Pavlovian reaction to John’s badgering whenever Sherlock was too laissez-faire about health risks and danger. It's pot and kettle, really, Sherlock thinks; John did (maybe still does?) enough dangerous things himself. But John is a compulsive caretaker, he needs someone to look after to function (and not notice how screwed up he is himself). Sherlock provided John with a steady supply of internal and external damage.
Sherlock closes his eyes and leans back on the battered sofa, a pea-green memorial to the seventies. If only John were here to bring him focus and order; he is the perfect drug -- much like cocaine, but without the side effects. This is why he avoids touches from and dependency on other people: they may be gone one day and he is left craving.
Sherlock tries to picture John’s reaction to finding out about the cocaine. Not favourable, that much is certain. John is a doctor with an alcoholic sister. He hates his sister’s addiction, one of the main reasons they don’t get along. John would not live with an active drug-user.
However, Sherlock has learnt from the past: he would never use cocaine unless there was a purpose for it; he's not just interested in the hit. He thinks of it as a supplement: boring people take magnesium, he takes cocaine. He has an engaging puzzle on his hands -- the puzzle. With so much stimulation, his brain won’t become reliant on the substance. Only clarity, not function.
If it helps him solve this mystery faster, why shouldn’t he use all available resources? The faster Moriarty’s empire crumbles and turns to dust, the quicker they’re all going to be safe. And even if he ends up with a bullet in his head, he doesn’t want it to be out of false morality.
Sherlock gets up to dig in his bag. He finds the pack of cigarette filters (he has taken to rolling his own cigarettes lately) and flings it on the table before moving to the tiny bathroom with the flickering lightbulb. A pack of razor blades (not the five-blade-with-soothing-gel nonsense), hand mirror and he’s almost good to go. Sherlock takes the spoon from the tray on the table by the entrance as well. He doesn’t plan on cooking the solution, but the spoon makes filling the syringe easier.
Back on the sofa, muscle memory kicks in. With his lighter, he heats the spoon’s handle to facilitate bending it until it’s standing up in a graceful arch. He opens the bag and tastes the product, slight numbness on this tongue but nothing tastes off. Exact measuring is impossible and unnecessary, he can still tell how much he’ll need for his preferred seven-percent-solution. Sherlock pours the powder onto the hand mirror and cut with the blade, a leftover ritual from the days when he snorted it. It doesn’t serve much purpose if you inject it, but the repetitive movement calms Sherlock’s almost-tremor in his hands and gets his heartbeat back under control (excitement, fear, uncertainty, greeting an old friend).
When the cocaine is near dust Sherlock moves back to the bath to fill the vial with water; the right amount still comes to him naturally. Back to the sofa, cocaine transferred into the water. Sherlock puts his thumb on the opening and shakes the contents to dissolve the drug -- very few particles remain. Good. His mouth runs dry as he lifts his thumb from the vial, the tip glistening with a few drops of the cocaine solution. Carefully, he sticks the digit in his mouth, sucks off the liquid (once again light numbness on his tongue). For a moment, he revels in the familiarity, the nostalgia of it -- it really is like greeting an old friend.
The old air conditioning unit in his room whirrs in the background, not really cooling the 120 square feet of his temporary home, but Sherlock commends the owner’s effort to lie to his customers.
He pours the solution into the spoon, drops in one of the filters (not that it erases the chances of cotton fever, but he really doesn’t trust the cotton pads in the bathroom dispenser) and watches it soak up the cocaine, filtering the particles. With a deep breath, he unwraps the syringe and needle, places the tip against the filter and slowly draws up the liquid. He holds the filled syringe against the light falling in through the windows and taps his fingers against it to eliminate the bubbles before putting it back on the table. Tourniquet next, around his right arm. Looking for veins in his left would take longer than he would like. Balling his hand into a fist, he finds one quickly, tapping against the crook of his elbow. Sherlock hesitates for a second as he picks up the syringe, still unsure if it’s really the right choice. It probably isn’t, but it’s the best one he can come up with. He stopped once before, he can do it again if he has to.
He licks his lips, places the needle against his skin and pushes in. Drawing the plunger back a bit, bringing a swirl of red with it that confirms he really caught a vein. He could still back out, but doesn’t want to. Not anymore. Sherlock presses the plunger fast, then pulls the needle back out, throws it on the table and releases the tourniquet. The drug travels fast to its destination, Sherlock can feel the heat crawl towards his heart before it hits.
For a second, he sits back and closes his eyes until his brain accelerates to maximum speed. He flings his eyes open and for the first time in months he sees.
Find part two of the fic here.
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Date: 2013-06-16 02:43 pm (UTC)***hugz you***
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Date: 2013-07-03 08:39 am (UTC)