I have become comfortably numb. (drabble)
Series: Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG 13. (Drug use)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes
Summary Sherlock craves something more.
Author's note: First ever thing I've written for Sherlock Holmes.
He was without a case, and it had been that way for a while. Days, perhaps weeks. Months, even, though Holmes could care less about particulates. He was absently reaching for the cold feel of the violin stacked against the wall out of habit and muscle memory. He plucked the strings, though his ears were barely paying attention to each note played; they were hardly a song, the notes grating against one another harshly until finally, he let out an inaudible sigh and began playing a beautiful piece by Mozart. His mind was unusually blank, fingers resting against the neck of the instrument as he stared blankly ahead, apparently attempting to stare a hole through the wall.
His mind had slowed without the work load it was so used to bearing, and he hadn't bathed for weeks. Though, again, time escapes him and he couldn't find himself obsessing over the minutes that had passed, nor could he manage any attempt at intrigue at the months that had slipped by without his notice.
It was dark, that much he could easily assess. The curtains were closed, the lights were switched off and he sat in complete and silent black. If only he could sleep, like those others who lay still in the house. There was nothing else for it, he decided. The opium would have to take the harshness of being wide awake from him, and allow him time for sleep. And if sleep still denied him, then at least he would be more comfortable, out of his head and into a world he liked to watch. The pain was ultimately worth it, though the pricks in his arm were unsightly and led him into wearing long sleeved gentleman's shirts at all times, or at least most. Watson's were the most comfortable, but there could be multiple reasons for that. After all, when something is free, it is often better.
The needle slid in effortlessly, and he made a brief but pained face. Just as the fluid slipped into his veins he began to feel the release and he sighed gratefully, his back falling against the wall behind him. The cold felt wonderful against the fabric of his dress shirt. He already felt better.
Rating: PG 13. (Drug use)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes
Summary Sherlock craves something more.
Author's note: First ever thing I've written for Sherlock Holmes.
He was without a case, and it had been that way for a while. Days, perhaps weeks. Months, even, though Holmes could care less about particulates. He was absently reaching for the cold feel of the violin stacked against the wall out of habit and muscle memory. He plucked the strings, though his ears were barely paying attention to each note played; they were hardly a song, the notes grating against one another harshly until finally, he let out an inaudible sigh and began playing a beautiful piece by Mozart. His mind was unusually blank, fingers resting against the neck of the instrument as he stared blankly ahead, apparently attempting to stare a hole through the wall.
His mind had slowed without the work load it was so used to bearing, and he hadn't bathed for weeks. Though, again, time escapes him and he couldn't find himself obsessing over the minutes that had passed, nor could he manage any attempt at intrigue at the months that had slipped by without his notice.
It was dark, that much he could easily assess. The curtains were closed, the lights were switched off and he sat in complete and silent black. If only he could sleep, like those others who lay still in the house. There was nothing else for it, he decided. The opium would have to take the harshness of being wide awake from him, and allow him time for sleep. And if sleep still denied him, then at least he would be more comfortable, out of his head and into a world he liked to watch. The pain was ultimately worth it, though the pricks in his arm were unsightly and led him into wearing long sleeved gentleman's shirts at all times, or at least most. Watson's were the most comfortable, but there could be multiple reasons for that. After all, when something is free, it is often better.
The needle slid in effortlessly, and he made a brief but pained face. Just as the fluid slipped into his veins he began to feel the release and he sighed gratefully, his back falling against the wall behind him. The cold felt wonderful against the fabric of his dress shirt. He already felt better.