Fic: My Mind Rebels At Stagnation.
Title: My Mind Rebels At Stagnation (1/3)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Word Count: 954
Summary: John goes away for a few days. With no cases, or other distractions, Sherlock finds himself turning to alternative means of entertainment. Mild spoilers for 'A Study in Pink'. Written in the second person.
Warnings: Drug use.
Disclaimer: Alas, I don’t own Holmes or Watson.
You’re home alone. John’s gone off on a mandatory family visit; the half-dreaded weekend visit to Harry’s in Edinburgh. Surviving by yourself for two and a half days might sound easy to a stranger, but you know that some things are a lot more difficult than they sound.
You start to get bored (well, more bored than usual) about half an hour after he leaves. It’s surprising how much you’d started to take John and the little distractions he provided for granted.
The first day passes uneventfully. Literally. No cases, no John, nothing. Lestrade has nothing for you to do and you couldn’t even find anything worth investigating on your long jaunt around the backstreets of London. How so many people can live such empty, desolate lives is truly beyond you. Of course, you have to concede that they have the advantage of not being you, but the point still stands. You start to think the oppressive lack of things to do will drive you to insanity. You really begin to feel that urge; that mad feeling, the one you can normally suppress; that near-constant impulse to do something senseless and exhilarating. Every second you spend without a distraction makes it harder and harder to ignore.
Sherlock, it says, let go. Do it. Just let go.
Stopping that impulse is the biggest problem you’ve ever faced. The puzzle of how to silence it, permanently, is the only one you’ve never solved. It’s far more than a three patch problem.
You resist for as long as you can before applying several nicotine patches. Lying down in the sofa, you exhale deeply, and smile softly as the drugs begin to take effect. The world around you twists and distorts. The clarity of your thinking improves and the metaphorical box you’re exiled from disappears completely. Even though you’ve nothing to concentrate on now, it helps. You while away the hours chasing random thoughts and, at one point, you even fall asleep.
The second day is worse. Lestrade still has nothing for you and, in your desperation, you go out and get a copy of every London newspaper to see if there might be anything worth investigating. The whole thing turns out to be a massive waste of time but it’s barely noon when you return to Baker Street. The thought of spending another 24 hours with nothing to do is torturously painful.
You pace, for a while, around the apartment. A new collection of nicotine patches adorns your arm, but they just don’t seem to be working so you rip them off, in frustration. You’re still bored beyond belief and, as the seconds drag slowly by, the feeling only worsens. It’s stifling and torturous and you can almost feel your brain beginning to atrophy at the lack of decent mental stimulation. That niggling voice in the back of your head is getting louder and louder and you really can’t ignore it anymore.
Go on, Sherlock. Do it. Feel.
You stare bitterly at John’s empty armchair before going to find your boredom cure. It’s been a while since you’ve taken anything illegal, but you still have everything hidden away, where no one - especially not Lestrade - could find it. It’s his one point of leverage over you, and he knows it.
As you return the living room, you remember Lestrade’s latest attempted drugs bust and John’s naivety. He must be the only person who doesn’t know about your substance issues, although you imagine he’s started to make some assumptions. You sit on the sofa, roll back the left sleeve of your shirt and pause for a moment, before plunging the needle into your skin. If you look closely, you can just about make out older, healed puncture marks. You exhale deeply, and after a minute or so, you can feel the effects of the drug taking hold.
* * *
“Sherlock. Sherlock!”
You wake up to see John leaning over you, concern written all over his face. Your mind is momentarily fuzzy and it takes you a few seconds to realise that you’re on the floor.
“Sherlock, are you alright?”
You make some sort of noise as confirmation. John was due back at 13:30, so you must’ve been asleep for the last ten hours. You still feel slightly fuzzy and tired, which means (ah, yes, you remember now) you must’ve taken some form of sedative, probably Seroquel, to ease the post-cocaine come down.
“What - What happened?” John asks. Ignoring him, you focus on sitting up slowly, to prevent a drop in your blood pressure.
“Sherlock,” says John, in a quiet voice, and this time you look at him. He’s staring at the table; at the your assortment of stuff - the needles, the assorted doggy bags, the bottles of clear solutions you’ve mixed yourself. When you look back at him, he’s staring at you. The severity of his gaze is such that you pause for a moment. The look the two of you share says more than words ever could.
“My mind rebels at stagnation,” you mutter as you stand, and begin to gather your things off the table, as if that one phrase explains the entire situation. John stands there, just watching, not saying anything.
“Sherlock!” he repeats, as you leave the room. You cut him off with a wave of your hand.
“I’m going for a shower,” you say, partially because a shower would probably do you good and partially because you don’t want to face up to John’s questions. You know you’ll have to talk about this one day, but for now, you really can’t be bothered. So you leave it, just like you always do.
Stagnation isn’t the only thing your mind rebels at.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Word Count: 954
Summary: John goes away for a few days. With no cases, or other distractions, Sherlock finds himself turning to alternative means of entertainment. Mild spoilers for 'A Study in Pink'. Written in the second person.
Warnings: Drug use.
Disclaimer: Alas, I don’t own Holmes or Watson.
You’re home alone. John’s gone off on a mandatory family visit; the half-dreaded weekend visit to Harry’s in Edinburgh. Surviving by yourself for two and a half days might sound easy to a stranger, but you know that some things are a lot more difficult than they sound.
You start to get bored (well, more bored than usual) about half an hour after he leaves. It’s surprising how much you’d started to take John and the little distractions he provided for granted.
The first day passes uneventfully. Literally. No cases, no John, nothing. Lestrade has nothing for you to do and you couldn’t even find anything worth investigating on your long jaunt around the backstreets of London. How so many people can live such empty, desolate lives is truly beyond you. Of course, you have to concede that they have the advantage of not being you, but the point still stands. You start to think the oppressive lack of things to do will drive you to insanity. You really begin to feel that urge; that mad feeling, the one you can normally suppress; that near-constant impulse to do something senseless and exhilarating. Every second you spend without a distraction makes it harder and harder to ignore.
Sherlock, it says, let go. Do it. Just let go.
Stopping that impulse is the biggest problem you’ve ever faced. The puzzle of how to silence it, permanently, is the only one you’ve never solved. It’s far more than a three patch problem.
You resist for as long as you can before applying several nicotine patches. Lying down in the sofa, you exhale deeply, and smile softly as the drugs begin to take effect. The world around you twists and distorts. The clarity of your thinking improves and the metaphorical box you’re exiled from disappears completely. Even though you’ve nothing to concentrate on now, it helps. You while away the hours chasing random thoughts and, at one point, you even fall asleep.
The second day is worse. Lestrade still has nothing for you and, in your desperation, you go out and get a copy of every London newspaper to see if there might be anything worth investigating. The whole thing turns out to be a massive waste of time but it’s barely noon when you return to Baker Street. The thought of spending another 24 hours with nothing to do is torturously painful.
You pace, for a while, around the apartment. A new collection of nicotine patches adorns your arm, but they just don’t seem to be working so you rip them off, in frustration. You’re still bored beyond belief and, as the seconds drag slowly by, the feeling only worsens. It’s stifling and torturous and you can almost feel your brain beginning to atrophy at the lack of decent mental stimulation. That niggling voice in the back of your head is getting louder and louder and you really can’t ignore it anymore.
Go on, Sherlock. Do it. Feel.
You stare bitterly at John’s empty armchair before going to find your boredom cure. It’s been a while since you’ve taken anything illegal, but you still have everything hidden away, where no one - especially not Lestrade - could find it. It’s his one point of leverage over you, and he knows it.
As you return the living room, you remember Lestrade’s latest attempted drugs bust and John’s naivety. He must be the only person who doesn’t know about your substance issues, although you imagine he’s started to make some assumptions. You sit on the sofa, roll back the left sleeve of your shirt and pause for a moment, before plunging the needle into your skin. If you look closely, you can just about make out older, healed puncture marks. You exhale deeply, and after a minute or so, you can feel the effects of the drug taking hold.
* * *
“Sherlock. Sherlock!”
You wake up to see John leaning over you, concern written all over his face. Your mind is momentarily fuzzy and it takes you a few seconds to realise that you’re on the floor.
“Sherlock, are you alright?”
You make some sort of noise as confirmation. John was due back at 13:30, so you must’ve been asleep for the last ten hours. You still feel slightly fuzzy and tired, which means (ah, yes, you remember now) you must’ve taken some form of sedative, probably Seroquel, to ease the post-cocaine come down.
“What - What happened?” John asks. Ignoring him, you focus on sitting up slowly, to prevent a drop in your blood pressure.
“Sherlock,” says John, in a quiet voice, and this time you look at him. He’s staring at the table; at the your assortment of stuff - the needles, the assorted doggy bags, the bottles of clear solutions you’ve mixed yourself. When you look back at him, he’s staring at you. The severity of his gaze is such that you pause for a moment. The look the two of you share says more than words ever could.
“My mind rebels at stagnation,” you mutter as you stand, and begin to gather your things off the table, as if that one phrase explains the entire situation. John stands there, just watching, not saying anything.
“Sherlock!” he repeats, as you leave the room. You cut him off with a wave of your hand.
“I’m going for a shower,” you say, partially because a shower would probably do you good and partially because you don’t want to face up to John’s questions. You know you’ll have to talk about this one day, but for now, you really can’t be bothered. So you leave it, just like you always do.
Stagnation isn’t the only thing your mind rebels at.