Yo world

This one needs a trigger warning, I guess

Boi usin drugs and shiz

Kids, don't try this at home

Alright carry on with your meaningful lives

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The cold leeched into his veins, a poisonous cancer with a deviously delicious quality. John wasn't home yet. What he didn't know wouldn't kill him.

It was only one shot. It wouldn't kill Sherlock, he had a far higher tolerance for much stronger things. But it gave him such bliss.

Such numb bliss.

Sherlock looked up from his arm and glanced at the clock; John wouldn't be back for at least another five or six hours, and judging by the fact that he had ironed his shirt and used a new cologne that morning, Sherlock came to the conclusion that there was probably yet another damsel that John was trying to rope in.

Could mean John wouldn't be back all night, if he played his cards right. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if the mystery girl yielded to John's charms.

Out of my head.

The breaths rattled in and out, his heartbeat a distant drumroll of thunder somewhere in the attic of his mind palace. That was where he liked to assume his heart was.

Up in the mental attic, among the dusty cobwebs where no one bother to check.

Don't misunderstand, Sherlock was entirely conscious of his actions, but he tried not to hate himself for it. He tried not to hate himself for the sigh of relief that broke past his physical confines as the magic wand brushed past his pale skin.

He hated that such a cheap bane could taste like such a rich boon.

Today was an evening of addictions. There were two others he had not had that evening. One was just a text away. The other was probably out for the night.

Don't you have any for me?  I'm told I'm dangerous when idle.
-SH

Sherlock tried not to groan out loud. After all, he couldn't expect a goldfish to meet his reasonable expectations of replying within ten seconds of receiving a text.

Eleven seconds later, his phone rang.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Apparently people weren't always disappointing.

"Lestrade," he spoke into his phone, trying to keep the slight drug-induced tremor out of his voice.

"Yeah, no, I'm sorry, Sherlock," came the detective inspector's voice. "London's not up to its usual class of criminal tonight."

Sherlock tutted in sympathy, Giles really did seem sorry. "Can't blame you for trying. I believe you did your best, sad as it is." He winced. That sounded different in his head.

"Well, there is this one guy, but I know you only like murders-"

"I'll make an exception to hear this one."

"Some middle-aged bloke, salt and pepper hair-"

"Stupid expression. Salt and pepper were fine as seasoning."

"-I didn't ask for Your Honour's opinion - no glasses, and apparently he's driving around in a stolen Mercedes with a sixteen year old girl in his backseat. Parents are worried sick."

"You're right, I usually take murders."

"I know."

"But I'm desperate. And bored."

"You're actually taking the case?"

"Text me the location where he was last seen, Gavin," said Sherlock, as he rolled his sleeves down to perfection and threw on his coat, looping his midnight blue scarf round his neck. "And thank you."

"You're saying thank you's and accepting non-murders," said a confounded Lestrade. Seemed to be a trend in his personality. "You're definitely on something," he joked.

"You have no idea. I'll let you know if I notice the difference, Graham."

Sherlock heard Gareth chuckle on the other end of the line. "Say hi to John."

"When he decides to remember where he lives, I'll pass it on." It just slipped out.

"He's not with you? Where is-"

"Goodbye, George." The line went dead.

Sherlock wrenched the flat door open, ready for whatever hell was planned for him.

Time for my second addiction.

~

It took Sherlock hardly twenty minutes to track the car down. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all, drugs or no drugs.

He ended up in a deserted street, empty cars parked and dim lamps flickering bleakly. If he had calculated correctly, the car would take two more rights and a left from its current location and turn on to this street, where Sherlock Holmes would be waiting for him.

Right on time, about seven minutes and three seconds later, the beam of light from powerful headlights illuminated the end of the street. Sherlock got into position, pressing his back to a wall of an alleyway. The car slowed as it cruised over the cobblestone, as Sherlock predicted. He tensed, ready to silently sprint over to the car, break the window, knock out the driver, unlock the doors and get the girl out. Simple.

Except that the moment he took a step forward, his drugged head went weightless and Sherlock was sent stumbling towards metal trash cans, creating a very obvious clamour and alerting the driver to Sherlock's presence. The drugs were trying to cast a fog over Sherlock system, but through the haze he picked up something that felt strong and ran with his eyes on the car, just catching a glimpse of the man yelling frantically into his cell phone.

The adrenaline raced the morphine in his veins. His thirst for his second addiction was slowly being quenched.

There was a distant tinkling noise and Sherlock felt sand shower his shoes. He then became aware of the shards of glass in his hands and on his shoes.

Not sand, apparently.

The driver sat slumped over the steering wheel, a dark maroon drop finding its way through his hairline. Mild concussion, he would be fine. Sherlock rifled through the man's pockets, fingers searching, searching.

He made a small 'aha' as the man's driver's license slipped into his nimble fingers. He took a picture of it and sent it to Lestrade. That should get them somewhere. Honestly, he single handedly spoon-fed Scotland Yard.

Sherlock froze as looked up cautiously from his phone when he heard a dazed groan from the backseat of the Benz. He silently cursed himself for getting distracted and swiftly unlocked the car doors, finding a drowsy young girl half horizontal on the seat. Her brown hair was messy, driving auburn streaks across her arms.

Sherlock grimaced. "Hello?"

She said nothing.

She snored.

She breathed.

It was annoying.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gripped her forearm and her shoulder, and he was about to pull her out of the car when she shrieked into full consciousness and sent herself as far away from Sherlock as possible. He jolted back in surprise, and then understanding, as the girl clutched her forearm to her chest protectively.

Another druggie. Lovely. It really was an evening of addictions.

After a tedious three minutes of persuasion, the girl agreed to come out of the car. Sherlock scanned her for damages, but found nothing apart from the bruises from the needle that seemed all too familiar to him. He brushed the thought aside and looked back at her.

"Now, I need you to listen to me," he started. "Don't ask why, just go to a friend's house. Someone who knows about your habit, and will let you stay the night. Go home only when you're lucid again, your parents are worried."

The girl raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "How worried?"

"Scotland Yard sent me."

Her eyes widened. "Oh."

There was something. Something...utterly fascinating about this girl, her eyes, something was constantly gravitating him towards her. He made a careful attempt not to let his uncertainty show on his face, but it bothered him. A lot.

"I need you to go, now. Don't worry your parents any longer."

She said nothing, responding only with a terse nod.

Sherlock turned to examine the man in the driver's seat. Something was setting him on edge, he just couldn't pinpoint it, was it the girl? The man? The morphine? What? What was he missing? 

Sherlock was always brilliant. But in one moment of actual stupidity, in his desperation to solve the questions about his mind, he forgot about the man having made a phone call upon seeing Sherlock.

Sherlock saw the headlights too late this time. 

As his body hit the pavement, his body fell into a state of panic but his mind was awake, alive, alert. 

Should have seen that coming. Stupid, stupid.

Mrs. Hudson shouldn't try again with him, he's cheating.

Mycroft should tell Lestrade.

John didn't buy milk.

John.

Sherlock caught a fleeting glimpse of the stars above, and then the stars melted into black as a shrill feminine shriek cut through the air.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

AY

SooOooO wow that was long

But this is a short story, to be continued

This idea hit me at 2 am, took me three hours to write. Y'all like it or nah? Don't have to respond. Issokay.

Anyways

Next part will be up sooOooOoonN

THE GAY IS COMING DW