Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
howdull) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fossilised2017-06-04 11:25 am
howdull) wrote in fossilised2017-06-04 11:25 am
For Mycroft
[Seventeen, in university already after completing his A-levels alongside his GCSEs, and arguably one of the more brilliant students in the country. Sherlock Holmes had a bright future ahead of him, or should have done. But he's bored. Oh, so very bored. He can't stand the banal chatter of his peers, caring more about how much alcohol they could consume without dying and who could manage to copulate with who, than they cared about what chemical compounds could be taken from a small patch of hair.
He hates his teachers, they're all dull-witted and far less intelligent than him. He hates the coursework, he completed it in a week and promptly deleted the majority of it from his mind palace for being utterly pointless information. His mind is always running, always chasing thoughts endlessly, the observations from the world around him impossible to stop. He has no funnel to keep them focused, no specific experiment to distract him, and so it's all very overwhelming. Very tiring. Very tedious.
When he discovers heroin, it's bliss. It wipes his endlessly busy mind blank and allows him rest. When he discovers cocaine, it's better, it lets him focus and work far beyond his normal capacity. It enhances him. When he takes them in combination, it's the least bored that he can ever remember being. It's a thrill. He's not an addict, he's far too clever to fall into a trap of addiction, he just uses to augment his natural abilities. There's no need for anyone else to know.
Until one particular night when he finds that the solution he's taken, the added little pills given to him to create a potent cocktail, is killing him. He can feel it, he knows his own body better than anyone else, and he can feel the rapid beat of his heart and the ache in his head, the danger zones. He tries to roll off the mattress in the crack house he found himself in, and can't. He can't go anywhere.
Which is why, for the first time in months, Sherlock digs his phone out and dials the number for Mycroft's phone. Better him than their parents, Mycroft will probably understand. Drugs aren't the demonic big deal with the media makes them out to be.
Pick up, Mycroft. Pick up.]
He hates his teachers, they're all dull-witted and far less intelligent than him. He hates the coursework, he completed it in a week and promptly deleted the majority of it from his mind palace for being utterly pointless information. His mind is always running, always chasing thoughts endlessly, the observations from the world around him impossible to stop. He has no funnel to keep them focused, no specific experiment to distract him, and so it's all very overwhelming. Very tiring. Very tedious.
When he discovers heroin, it's bliss. It wipes his endlessly busy mind blank and allows him rest. When he discovers cocaine, it's better, it lets him focus and work far beyond his normal capacity. It enhances him. When he takes them in combination, it's the least bored that he can ever remember being. It's a thrill. He's not an addict, he's far too clever to fall into a trap of addiction, he just uses to augment his natural abilities. There's no need for anyone else to know.
Until one particular night when he finds that the solution he's taken, the added little pills given to him to create a potent cocktail, is killing him. He can feel it, he knows his own body better than anyone else, and he can feel the rapid beat of his heart and the ache in his head, the danger zones. He tries to roll off the mattress in the crack house he found himself in, and can't. He can't go anywhere.
Which is why, for the first time in months, Sherlock digs his phone out and dials the number for Mycroft's phone. Better him than their parents, Mycroft will probably understand. Drugs aren't the demonic big deal with the media makes them out to be.
Pick up, Mycroft. Pick up.]
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As long as it's not boring, I'll certainly take a look.
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Have I ever let you down before?
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No, he hasn't. Even when Sherlock was a small boy and the subject of taunts at school for his analytical mind, it had always been Mycroft there until he got too old to ask for his assistance any longer.]
Continually, that I have to suffer you as a brother is a permanent let down.
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I'm only too glad to provide this source of perpetual conflict for you. It would be far more boring otherwise, would it not?
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[He huffs back in his seat looking pale and exhausted, the effects of the night before finally hitting him properly.]
Is it much further?
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It's not much further, no.
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[He's only saying it to distract himself from how shaky he's starting to feel.]
Clearly a desk job, complete with pastries, has not been kind to your waistline.
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[And cheating on his diet, because of stress and a ready supply of snacks thanks to said desk job, but it was annoying that Sherlock picked that out so easy.]
Thank you for your concern, little brother, but I really am fine.
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[Maybe closer to two, but he's not in a mood to be charitable right now.]
It'll cost you a fortune in tailored suits if you keep stuffing your face like this.
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I'm not stuffing my face, I have a busy schedule and erratic mealtimes. It's only natural that the body reacts in such a fashion.
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[Given in a falsely saccharine faux helpful tone.]
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Perhaps you ought to worry about other things besides my preference for deserts, brother dear.
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