Fic: My Mind Rebels At Stagnation (2/3)
Title: My Mind Rebels At Stagnation (2/3)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Word Count: 772
Summary: This is kind of a follow up to 'My Mind Rebels At Stagnation’. John’s perspective and thoughts on Sherlock’s drug use. Written in the second person.
Warnings: Drugs mentioned.
Disclaimer: Alas, I don’t own Holmes or Watson.
You look at your watch as you unlock the door to 221B Baker Street. 13:45 - only 15 minutes behind schedule. Not bad, you think to yourself, not bad at all. At least one part of your weekend away was a success.
“Hello, John,” Mrs Hudson says, smiling at you as you pull your overnight bag inside. “Nice weekend?”
“Oh, yes. It was good,” you lie, and smile back at her.
“It’s nice to have a change of scenery every now and again,” she says, conversationally, and points out a large wedge of envelopes on the table. “Your post. I knew you’d be back soon, so I kept it down here for you.”
“Hasn’t Sherlock been down?”
“No.” Mrs Hudson frowns slightly. “I haven’t seen him for days. He’s been very quiet.” She pauses. “I would’ve taken it up myself, of course, but you know what he’s like sometimes...”
“Ah.” You nod and pick up the post. It’s junk mostly, junk and bank statements, but there are a few intriguing envelopes addressed to Sherlock. “Thanks, Mrs Hudson,” you say, and begin to ascend the stairs, wondering who the post is from and what Sherlock’s been doing.
You see him, as soon as you open the door, lying on the floor by the sofa. You stop instantly, shock and worry paralysing you for one heart-stopping moment.
“Sherlock,” you say, and barely notice the post fluttering to the floor as you rush over to him. Still breathing. Good. “Sherlock!”
He opens his eyes slightly, and frowns at you. You start to wonder why he was on the floor.
“Sherlock, are you alright?” you ask, and he grunts, presumably in confirmation. It’s then that you notice the puncture marks on his forearm, three or four of them - the telltale signs of injection. You don’t have to look any further than the coffee table to see the cause. Sitting casually atop it are a few hypodermic needles, small bottles of clear solution, and several bags of powders and pills. As if it isn’t enough that your sister is an alcoholic; now it turns out that your best friend is a junkie.
“Sherlock,” you repeat, the tone of your voice far more sombre now. When you turn back to him, Sherlock is actually looking at you this time. He sits there for a moment, mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something, and the two of you share a powerful look. Sherlock is the one to break it first.
“My mind rebels at stagnation,” he mutters, and you wonder what on earth that’s meant to mean as he collects all his paraphernalia from the table and starts to walk off.
“Sherlock!” you say again, but he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.
“I’m going for a shower,” he says and disappears, leaving you to stand glowering at nothing in particular. After a few minutes, you stop glowering and put the kettle on. A cup of tea would probably do you good.
* * *
Two cups of tea later, you still can’t think of anything else. Part of you wonders why Sherlock would do that. If he values the brain so much, why would he go to such efforts to destroy his? A small part of you is unsurprised; this is a man who spends his life chasing after dangerous criminals, throwing himself into situations which could result in his death, not for the money or the credit, but for the intellectual stimulation. Another part of you is angry at yourself for not noticing before now, which is ridiculous, because of course you’ve noticed Sherlock’s substance issues. There hasn’t been a single week that you’ve been here in which you haven’t seen Sherlock wearing an absurd amount of nicotine patches at once. And there was Lestrade’s ‘drugs bust’ on the day you’d moved it. You remember the way Sherlock told you to shut up and that black look he gave you when you defended him. You’d forgotten that; it seemed like one insignificant event in one very significant night and you wonder if you should have made more of an effort to remember, to bring it up in conversation. You feel somehow responsible, as if Sherlock’s drug use is in some way your fault, although... what was it he had said?
My mind rebels at stagnation.
Even now you’re not quite sure what he meant by that, or how it was meant to explain anything. Sherlock’s mind might rebel at stagnation, but right now your mind could do with some.
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Word Count: 772
Summary: This is kind of a follow up to 'My Mind Rebels At Stagnation’. John’s perspective and thoughts on Sherlock’s drug use. Written in the second person.
Warnings: Drugs mentioned.
Disclaimer: Alas, I don’t own Holmes or Watson.
You look at your watch as you unlock the door to 221B Baker Street. 13:45 - only 15 minutes behind schedule. Not bad, you think to yourself, not bad at all. At least one part of your weekend away was a success.
“Hello, John,” Mrs Hudson says, smiling at you as you pull your overnight bag inside. “Nice weekend?”
“Oh, yes. It was good,” you lie, and smile back at her.
“It’s nice to have a change of scenery every now and again,” she says, conversationally, and points out a large wedge of envelopes on the table. “Your post. I knew you’d be back soon, so I kept it down here for you.”
“Hasn’t Sherlock been down?”
“No.” Mrs Hudson frowns slightly. “I haven’t seen him for days. He’s been very quiet.” She pauses. “I would’ve taken it up myself, of course, but you know what he’s like sometimes...”
“Ah.” You nod and pick up the post. It’s junk mostly, junk and bank statements, but there are a few intriguing envelopes addressed to Sherlock. “Thanks, Mrs Hudson,” you say, and begin to ascend the stairs, wondering who the post is from and what Sherlock’s been doing.
You see him, as soon as you open the door, lying on the floor by the sofa. You stop instantly, shock and worry paralysing you for one heart-stopping moment.
“Sherlock,” you say, and barely notice the post fluttering to the floor as you rush over to him. Still breathing. Good. “Sherlock!”
He opens his eyes slightly, and frowns at you. You start to wonder why he was on the floor.
“Sherlock, are you alright?” you ask, and he grunts, presumably in confirmation. It’s then that you notice the puncture marks on his forearm, three or four of them - the telltale signs of injection. You don’t have to look any further than the coffee table to see the cause. Sitting casually atop it are a few hypodermic needles, small bottles of clear solution, and several bags of powders and pills. As if it isn’t enough that your sister is an alcoholic; now it turns out that your best friend is a junkie.
“Sherlock,” you repeat, the tone of your voice far more sombre now. When you turn back to him, Sherlock is actually looking at you this time. He sits there for a moment, mouth slightly open as if he were about to say something, and the two of you share a powerful look. Sherlock is the one to break it first.
“My mind rebels at stagnation,” he mutters, and you wonder what on earth that’s meant to mean as he collects all his paraphernalia from the table and starts to walk off.
“Sherlock!” you say again, but he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.
“I’m going for a shower,” he says and disappears, leaving you to stand glowering at nothing in particular. After a few minutes, you stop glowering and put the kettle on. A cup of tea would probably do you good.
* * *
Two cups of tea later, you still can’t think of anything else. Part of you wonders why Sherlock would do that. If he values the brain so much, why would he go to such efforts to destroy his? A small part of you is unsurprised; this is a man who spends his life chasing after dangerous criminals, throwing himself into situations which could result in his death, not for the money or the credit, but for the intellectual stimulation. Another part of you is angry at yourself for not noticing before now, which is ridiculous, because of course you’ve noticed Sherlock’s substance issues. There hasn’t been a single week that you’ve been here in which you haven’t seen Sherlock wearing an absurd amount of nicotine patches at once. And there was Lestrade’s ‘drugs bust’ on the day you’d moved it. You remember the way Sherlock told you to shut up and that black look he gave you when you defended him. You’d forgotten that; it seemed like one insignificant event in one very significant night and you wonder if you should have made more of an effort to remember, to bring it up in conversation. You feel somehow responsible, as if Sherlock’s drug use is in some way your fault, although... what was it he had said?
My mind rebels at stagnation.
Even now you’re not quite sure what he meant by that, or how it was meant to explain anything. Sherlock’s mind might rebel at stagnation, but right now your mind could do with some.