[Fic] Sherlock (BBC) - Fabrication
Title: Fabrication
Author:
autumndynasty
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, mentions of drug use, (incorrect) discussion of mental disorder
Wordcount: ~750
Summary: To replace one addiction with another, all you need is self-assurance and distraction.
Notes: Written for
thegameison_sh Round 1: 'Firsts'. I went for a lot of first times here, and I'm not too keen on the resulting fic, especially compared to the sheer quality of the other entries! But...eh. It's my first foray, and I learnt a lot from writing it.
Everything before the cases, before the puzzles, is black and white. Not in a moral sense, no, because even at his most bored, Sherlock can admit the world is a bit more complex than that. No, it’s just unspeakably dull; so boring he doesn’t bother to remember the colours yet so important that he can’t delete the memories. He mustn’t.
Because even Sherlock Holmes believes in justice (of a kind).
Before Mycroft agreed to become a politician, before Sherlock refused and went his own way, everything was so mind-numbingly simple or irrelevant and Sherlock was never satisfied just analysing human relations and the complete history of British politics as his brother was. Some information really was useless and, without stimulation, so was Sherlock’s brain.
His parents despaired of him; a disgrace to the family name, off the rails. He alternated between lying listless on the carpet for days to climbing the walls and scratching frantically at his face, at his hands. Then back again to the dark corners and blank expressions. And when the family doctor foolishly suggested Bipolar Disorder, well, there was a temporary solution. Not the Lithium, of course, because the slight giddiness wasn’t worth the ataxia and potential memory loss (he’d researched. Of course he had). But it opened a door and Sherlock had to wonder why he’d never thought of it before.
Then came University. That great institution.
And so, before the nicotine patches, before the smoking habit, there was morphine and there was cocaine as Sherlock formed more useful connections than the pedestrian family doctor. Gone was the pretence of taking Lithium and the staged injuries (until Mycroft realised what he was up to). It all became so simple. Take an injection to make the world go away for a while or take some powder and escape the bland limitations of normal thought. So simple.
Except when it wasn’t. Because Mycroft would nag constantly. Because Sherlock didn’t really like to think of himself as having an addictive personality. Because he knew (better than anyone, always) that there was only so long you could rely on chemicals to keep the brain going between experiments. There were limits; and brain damage was a very real possibility.
“It’s not all you are,” Mycroft had said, eyes rolling at the ceiling.
“Find something to obsess over.”
“Like politics?” The word dripped disdain as Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust.
And that had been the end of that.
That would have been the end of everything, had Sherlock not drifted (as most eventually do) to London. Had he not stumbled upon a crime scene within his first week.
It was the middle of February but a cold snap had covered London in a surprising 5cm of snow. Sherlock had been trudging back from the local Tesco with milk (painfully, cripplingly dull, but sadly necessary) when he passed the police barrier, a small crowd already milling around to watch. Frankly, anything was more interesting than grocery shopping and so, trying to look casual, he wandered over to join the crowd.
A body lay on the snowy pavement, a knife wound in his neck. A mess of footprints surrounded it, though the only police on the scene were a female officer with a rueful expression and a Detective Inspector, talking quietly.
“Looks like your standard mugging,” the woman tutted. “Poor bloke.”
The detective, a serious man greying beyond his years, glared at the body and briefly rubbed his temple.
“Just give them another call; there must someone who’ll admit there’s not enough snow to keep them stuck at home.”
If they weren’t even going to try and keep their conversation secret to lip-readers, Sherlock decided to take it as an invitation.
“A mugging?” he laughed. “Hardly.” He ducked under the tape and strode purposefully towards the body. The DI grabbed his arm.
“What the hell-? This is a crime scene! You can’t just-”
“I’m a consultant. I thought you looked a bit...” Sherlock looked at the indignant woman beside him, “...understaffed.”
To his credit, the detective looked suspicious, but he was desperate enough to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt.
He continued to give him the benefit. Five years and counting.
It only took a month to develop an encyclopaedic knowledge of crime. He already had more than the basics.
And those puzzles. They could never disappoint. They became everything.
(Most of the time.)
This entry was originally posted at http://autumndynasty.dreamwidth.org/3469.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author:
autumndynasty
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, mentions of drug use, (incorrect) discussion of mental disorder
Wordcount: ~750
Summary: To replace one addiction with another, all you need is self-assurance and distraction.
Notes: Written for
thegameison_sh Round 1: 'Firsts'. I went for a lot of first times here, and I'm not too keen on the resulting fic, especially compared to the sheer quality of the other entries! But...eh. It's my first foray, and I learnt a lot from writing it.
Everything before the cases, before the puzzles, is black and white. Not in a moral sense, no, because even at his most bored, Sherlock can admit the world is a bit more complex than that. No, it’s just unspeakably dull; so boring he doesn’t bother to remember the colours yet so important that he can’t delete the memories. He mustn’t.
Because even Sherlock Holmes believes in justice (of a kind).
Before Mycroft agreed to become a politician, before Sherlock refused and went his own way, everything was so mind-numbingly simple or irrelevant and Sherlock was never satisfied just analysing human relations and the complete history of British politics as his brother was. Some information really was useless and, without stimulation, so was Sherlock’s brain.
His parents despaired of him; a disgrace to the family name, off the rails. He alternated between lying listless on the carpet for days to climbing the walls and scratching frantically at his face, at his hands. Then back again to the dark corners and blank expressions. And when the family doctor foolishly suggested Bipolar Disorder, well, there was a temporary solution. Not the Lithium, of course, because the slight giddiness wasn’t worth the ataxia and potential memory loss (he’d researched. Of course he had). But it opened a door and Sherlock had to wonder why he’d never thought of it before.
Then came University. That great institution.
And so, before the nicotine patches, before the smoking habit, there was morphine and there was cocaine as Sherlock formed more useful connections than the pedestrian family doctor. Gone was the pretence of taking Lithium and the staged injuries (until Mycroft realised what he was up to). It all became so simple. Take an injection to make the world go away for a while or take some powder and escape the bland limitations of normal thought. So simple.
Except when it wasn’t. Because Mycroft would nag constantly. Because Sherlock didn’t really like to think of himself as having an addictive personality. Because he knew (better than anyone, always) that there was only so long you could rely on chemicals to keep the brain going between experiments. There were limits; and brain damage was a very real possibility.
“It’s not all you are,” Mycroft had said, eyes rolling at the ceiling.
“Find something to obsess over.”
“Like politics?” The word dripped disdain as Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust.
And that had been the end of that.
That would have been the end of everything, had Sherlock not drifted (as most eventually do) to London. Had he not stumbled upon a crime scene within his first week.
It was the middle of February but a cold snap had covered London in a surprising 5cm of snow. Sherlock had been trudging back from the local Tesco with milk (painfully, cripplingly dull, but sadly necessary) when he passed the police barrier, a small crowd already milling around to watch. Frankly, anything was more interesting than grocery shopping and so, trying to look casual, he wandered over to join the crowd.
A body lay on the snowy pavement, a knife wound in his neck. A mess of footprints surrounded it, though the only police on the scene were a female officer with a rueful expression and a Detective Inspector, talking quietly.
“Looks like your standard mugging,” the woman tutted. “Poor bloke.”
The detective, a serious man greying beyond his years, glared at the body and briefly rubbed his temple.
“Just give them another call; there must someone who’ll admit there’s not enough snow to keep them stuck at home.”
If they weren’t even going to try and keep their conversation secret to lip-readers, Sherlock decided to take it as an invitation.
“A mugging?” he laughed. “Hardly.” He ducked under the tape and strode purposefully towards the body. The DI grabbed his arm.
“What the hell-? This is a crime scene! You can’t just-”
“I’m a consultant. I thought you looked a bit...” Sherlock looked at the indignant woman beside him, “...understaffed.”
To his credit, the detective looked suspicious, but he was desperate enough to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt.
He continued to give him the benefit. Five years and counting.
It only took a month to develop an encyclopaedic knowledge of crime. He already had more than the basics.
And those puzzles. They could never disappoint. They became everything.
(Most of the time.)
This entry was originally posted at http://autumndynasty.dreamwidth.org/3469.html. Please comment there using OpenID.