Sherlock - fic - You had chemicals, boy; I've grown so close to you, Sherlock, John, Sarah, R
Title - You had chemicals, boy; I've grown so close to you
Author - laurab1
Rating - R/15, gen
Warning - explicit drug use; please do not try this at home, kids.
Characters - Sherlock, John, Sarah
Length - ~1400 words
Summary - There are many kinds of drugs.
Spoilers - 1.1 A Study In Pink, 1.2 The Blind Banker
Disclaimer - This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
A/N - First part was previously posted as Addiction, and has now hopefully been corrected for drugs fail. Thank you, kind anonymous :) Also, I have far more experience than I would really like of having blood taken (buggered adrenal glands), so I’m pretty sure that bit’s right. Title from "Born Slippy", by Underworld.
You had chemicals, boy; I've grown so close to you
by Laura
one
“I am clean!” he’d protested, but that'd been mostly to put Lestrade off the scent, to stop his (their) home being ransacked, yet again.
The DI would have known he was lying, but had chosen not to pursue the matter further on that particular day. John knew he was lying, Sherlock had heard that from the accusation and disappointment in the way he’d said, “You?” when he had finally persuaded John to stop talking about there being no drugs in the flat.
Of course there bloody are.
Sherlock knows exactly how long John will wait until he asks. A week after the revelation is too long; a day will make him appear too eager to know. So, of course, John asks over breakfast, on the fourth morning after he shoots a man, saving Sherlock’s life.
“So, what kind of drugs?” is the question, followed by a sip of his tea.
“Cocaine,” Sherlock answers, all matter-of-fact, and sips his own drink. “And, on occasion, morphine.” One's completely illegal, the other's only illegal when abused. Then he counts the seconds until…
“Morphine?!” John, the army doctor, quietly exclaims, as expected, depositing his mug on the table so hard that some of the tea sloshes out. “Where the hell do you get that from, Sherlock? It’s what we give to the poor bastards who get blown up or shot in Afghanistan.”
“Including you,” Sherlock says, purposely distracting John from his original question.
“Yes, including me,” John replies, nodding. “The last men I gave it to were four sappers who’d driven over an IED in their Land Rover. Quickly stopped them screaming from pain. It’s bloody dangerous stuff, Sherlock.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Which is why I only use morphine when even I need to turn my brain off, completely.”
“And it's the only thing that works, isn't it?”
“Of course, John.”
“What's wrong with Pro Plus and Nytol? Couldn't you just take them, like everyone else?”
John says 'like everyone else', and Sherlock hears 'like a normal person'. “No,” he says, flatly.
He closes his eyes, runs his hand over his forehead, picks up his mug again and finishes his tea. Resignation, Sherlock sees. “What about the cocaine?”
John isn't a complete idiot, so of course, he's remembered. “That's when I really need to think, and an armful of nicotine patches just won’t do it.”
“I’d much prefer to see an armful of nicotine patches than fresh puncture wounds, Sherlock.”
“Then I’ll ensure my sleeves are pulled down when I do have fresh puncture wounds, John.”
Mug on the table, heavy sigh. “Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Both of them will potentially kill you, I’m sure you know that. As a doctor, I would really rather you didn’t use either of them at all. But, obviously, this is you. So, if you must, then, please, for God's sake, only when I’m here, and can keep an eye on you.”
Sherlock drinks up his own tea and rather quickly finds himself agreeing to this plan. “Very well.” John’s concern is somewhat different to Lestrade’s.
John nods, and asks, “Where do you get the morphine from, then?”
“Barts, of course.” Where else would he obtain pure narcotics, other than a hospital?
“Of course.” More resignation. “I’m not asking how, or anything at all about the cocaine; I don’t think I can deal with either of those just yet. At least you can be sure that it’s actually morphine, though.”
“Precisely,” he says, putting an end to the subject, for now. Getting up, he grabs his laptop. Someone else after his brand of help, Sherlock reads, then goes straight for his coat and scarf. The technology is as much an addiction as the drugs. So’s the thrill of the chase. “And we have a case, John. Come on.”
***
two
Even an armful of patches won’t help him solve this problem. It needs much more than that. So, at 5pm, when the nicotine had run its course, he’d torn off his patches and retrieved the necessary supplies.
Well, some of them.
In a tray on the coffee table, his tourniquet sits with a still packaged hypodermic, both of them silently tempting him: Fasten Me, Fill Me. No drugs yet, though, because he promised John, and the doctor, who is going against both his better judgement and medical training for him, would be so very disappointed in him if he did this incorrectly.
But in his mind’s eye, Sherlock sees a vial of cocaine, and its tag reads, repeatedly: Inject Me. He picks up his mobile from the table, leans back on the sofa, and quickly texts John.
***
After John’s said goodbye to his last patient of the day, he turns his phone back on. One message. He opens it immediately, his first thought being to wonder what Sherlock needs him for, this time. Yes, obviously, it’s a text from the detective:
Come at once, if convenient.
More than a five patch problem.
Assistance required.
SH
And he’d sent it an hour ago, despite knowing that John was at work. “Oh, Christ,” he exclaims, phone going back in his trouser pocket, grabbing his coat from the hook on the door. Thankfully, he catches Sarah on his way out. “Sherlock,” John sighs, still putting on his coat.
“Go, then,” she replies, understanding. “I’ll tidy up for you.”
“Thank you very much,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. Outside, he flags down a taxi, and texts Sherlock:
On my way, right now.
WAIT UNTIL I GET HOME.
JW
“What the bloody hell am I doing?” he whispers to himself, in the back of the cab.
***
At the sound of John’s shoes on the stairs, Sherlock rises from the sofa, and goes to retrieve the rest of his supplies for this chemical experiment. They’re in a box under the loose floorboard in his room. It’s a cold place and a double bluff: the police wouldn’t think him so idiotic as to use such an obvious location. So, of course, that’s exactly where he hides the drugs.
“Sherlock?” John asks from the living room.
“One moment,” he calls back. Box replaced, a small bottle in his hand, he returns to his doctor.
“More than a five patch problem?” He hands the vial to John. “Cocaine. Of course.” One look, and the vial is returned to him as though it’s hot. “I could be struck off for this, you know, Sherlock.”
“This is hardly the most morally or legally dubious action you have performed for me. Once again, you will simply have to ensure you tell no-one, John. I certainly have no intention of doing so.”
John breathes a heavy sigh. “Come on, then, on the sofa, let’s get this over with, and get that genius mind of yours working.”
***
They sit, and with John watching him closely, Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, takes out his left arm. He shouldn't be quite so skilled at this, something tells him, in a very small voice, far, far at the back of his enormous brain, as always.
But, it’s:
Unwrap the needle, pick up the vial, draw up the drug, knock out any air bubbles, tourniquet tightened around his left bicep, find a good vein on the inside of his elbow, plunge the needle in, and bliss...
While John quickly and silently takes the hypodermic from him, covers his puncture wound, and gently eases him back against the sofa, Sherlock’s brain catches fire, and he’s solved the problem within seconds. But, then, as fast as he rose up, he crashes back down.
“That’d better have worked, because we are not doing it again any time soon,” John tells him, firmly, replacing his clothes. Sherlock’s only half-aware, but John’s voice sounds distinctly shaky. “Do you hear me, Sherlock?”
“It did work, John. But I can give you no promise as to when we will need to do it again,” he says, not sure how coherent he actually sounds.
“Thought that’d be the case.”
“But I will always call, John,” Sherlock says, looking at him.
John sighs, offers him something like a smile. “Make sure you do, Sherlock, please. Who did it, then?”
“The Greek gentleman, of course. Pass me my phone, and I’ll text Lestrade.”
“I’ll do it on mine. Close your eyes.”
Sherlock does as asked, and listens to the click of the keys. Once more, he considers that he is extremely fortunate indeed to have Doctor John Watson as his friend.
-end-
Author - laurab1
Rating - R/15, gen
Warning - explicit drug use; please do not try this at home, kids.
Characters - Sherlock, John, Sarah
Length - ~1400 words
Summary - There are many kinds of drugs.
Spoilers - 1.1 A Study In Pink, 1.2 The Blind Banker
Disclaimer - This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
A/N - First part was previously posted as Addiction, and has now hopefully been corrected for drugs fail. Thank you, kind anonymous :) Also, I have far more experience than I would really like of having blood taken (buggered adrenal glands), so I’m pretty sure that bit’s right. Title from "Born Slippy", by Underworld.
You had chemicals, boy; I've grown so close to you
by Laura
one
“I am clean!” he’d protested, but that'd been mostly to put Lestrade off the scent, to stop his (their) home being ransacked, yet again.
The DI would have known he was lying, but had chosen not to pursue the matter further on that particular day. John knew he was lying, Sherlock had heard that from the accusation and disappointment in the way he’d said, “You?” when he had finally persuaded John to stop talking about there being no drugs in the flat.
Of course there bloody are.
Sherlock knows exactly how long John will wait until he asks. A week after the revelation is too long; a day will make him appear too eager to know. So, of course, John asks over breakfast, on the fourth morning after he shoots a man, saving Sherlock’s life.
“So, what kind of drugs?” is the question, followed by a sip of his tea.
“Cocaine,” Sherlock answers, all matter-of-fact, and sips his own drink. “And, on occasion, morphine.” One's completely illegal, the other's only illegal when abused. Then he counts the seconds until…
“Morphine?!” John, the army doctor, quietly exclaims, as expected, depositing his mug on the table so hard that some of the tea sloshes out. “Where the hell do you get that from, Sherlock? It’s what we give to the poor bastards who get blown up or shot in Afghanistan.”
“Including you,” Sherlock says, purposely distracting John from his original question.
“Yes, including me,” John replies, nodding. “The last men I gave it to were four sappers who’d driven over an IED in their Land Rover. Quickly stopped them screaming from pain. It’s bloody dangerous stuff, Sherlock.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Which is why I only use morphine when even I need to turn my brain off, completely.”
“And it's the only thing that works, isn't it?”
“Of course, John.”
“What's wrong with Pro Plus and Nytol? Couldn't you just take them, like everyone else?”
John says 'like everyone else', and Sherlock hears 'like a normal person'. “No,” he says, flatly.
He closes his eyes, runs his hand over his forehead, picks up his mug again and finishes his tea. Resignation, Sherlock sees. “What about the cocaine?”
John isn't a complete idiot, so of course, he's remembered. “That's when I really need to think, and an armful of nicotine patches just won’t do it.”
“I’d much prefer to see an armful of nicotine patches than fresh puncture wounds, Sherlock.”
“Then I’ll ensure my sleeves are pulled down when I do have fresh puncture wounds, John.”
Mug on the table, heavy sigh. “Bloody Hell, Sherlock. Both of them will potentially kill you, I’m sure you know that. As a doctor, I would really rather you didn’t use either of them at all. But, obviously, this is you. So, if you must, then, please, for God's sake, only when I’m here, and can keep an eye on you.”
Sherlock drinks up his own tea and rather quickly finds himself agreeing to this plan. “Very well.” John’s concern is somewhat different to Lestrade’s.
John nods, and asks, “Where do you get the morphine from, then?”
“Barts, of course.” Where else would he obtain pure narcotics, other than a hospital?
“Of course.” More resignation. “I’m not asking how, or anything at all about the cocaine; I don’t think I can deal with either of those just yet. At least you can be sure that it’s actually morphine, though.”
“Precisely,” he says, putting an end to the subject, for now. Getting up, he grabs his laptop. Someone else after his brand of help, Sherlock reads, then goes straight for his coat and scarf. The technology is as much an addiction as the drugs. So’s the thrill of the chase. “And we have a case, John. Come on.”
***
two
Even an armful of patches won’t help him solve this problem. It needs much more than that. So, at 5pm, when the nicotine had run its course, he’d torn off his patches and retrieved the necessary supplies.
Well, some of them.
In a tray on the coffee table, his tourniquet sits with a still packaged hypodermic, both of them silently tempting him: Fasten Me, Fill Me. No drugs yet, though, because he promised John, and the doctor, who is going against both his better judgement and medical training for him, would be so very disappointed in him if he did this incorrectly.
But in his mind’s eye, Sherlock sees a vial of cocaine, and its tag reads, repeatedly: Inject Me. He picks up his mobile from the table, leans back on the sofa, and quickly texts John.
***
After John’s said goodbye to his last patient of the day, he turns his phone back on. One message. He opens it immediately, his first thought being to wonder what Sherlock needs him for, this time. Yes, obviously, it’s a text from the detective:
Come at once, if convenient.
More than a five patch problem.
Assistance required.
SH
And he’d sent it an hour ago, despite knowing that John was at work. “Oh, Christ,” he exclaims, phone going back in his trouser pocket, grabbing his coat from the hook on the door. Thankfully, he catches Sarah on his way out. “Sherlock,” John sighs, still putting on his coat.
“Go, then,” she replies, understanding. “I’ll tidy up for you.”
“Thank you very much,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. Outside, he flags down a taxi, and texts Sherlock:
On my way, right now.
WAIT UNTIL I GET HOME.
JW
“What the bloody hell am I doing?” he whispers to himself, in the back of the cab.
***
At the sound of John’s shoes on the stairs, Sherlock rises from the sofa, and goes to retrieve the rest of his supplies for this chemical experiment. They’re in a box under the loose floorboard in his room. It’s a cold place and a double bluff: the police wouldn’t think him so idiotic as to use such an obvious location. So, of course, that’s exactly where he hides the drugs.
“Sherlock?” John asks from the living room.
“One moment,” he calls back. Box replaced, a small bottle in his hand, he returns to his doctor.
“More than a five patch problem?” He hands the vial to John. “Cocaine. Of course.” One look, and the vial is returned to him as though it’s hot. “I could be struck off for this, you know, Sherlock.”
“This is hardly the most morally or legally dubious action you have performed for me. Once again, you will simply have to ensure you tell no-one, John. I certainly have no intention of doing so.”
John breathes a heavy sigh. “Come on, then, on the sofa, let’s get this over with, and get that genius mind of yours working.”
***
They sit, and with John watching him closely, Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, takes out his left arm. He shouldn't be quite so skilled at this, something tells him, in a very small voice, far, far at the back of his enormous brain, as always.
But, it’s:
Unwrap the needle, pick up the vial, draw up the drug, knock out any air bubbles, tourniquet tightened around his left bicep, find a good vein on the inside of his elbow, plunge the needle in, and bliss...
While John quickly and silently takes the hypodermic from him, covers his puncture wound, and gently eases him back against the sofa, Sherlock’s brain catches fire, and he’s solved the problem within seconds. But, then, as fast as he rose up, he crashes back down.
“That’d better have worked, because we are not doing it again any time soon,” John tells him, firmly, replacing his clothes. Sherlock’s only half-aware, but John’s voice sounds distinctly shaky. “Do you hear me, Sherlock?”
“It did work, John. But I can give you no promise as to when we will need to do it again,” he says, not sure how coherent he actually sounds.
“Thought that’d be the case.”
“But I will always call, John,” Sherlock says, looking at him.
John sighs, offers him something like a smile. “Make sure you do, Sherlock, please. Who did it, then?”
“The Greek gentleman, of course. Pass me my phone, and I’ll text Lestrade.”
“I’ll do it on mine. Close your eyes.”
Sherlock does as asked, and listens to the click of the keys. Once more, he considers that he is extremely fortunate indeed to have Doctor John Watson as his friend.
-end-