A subdued click was emitted when Sherlock finally unlocked the bathroom door. Vapory steams gushed out alongside Sherlock, swirling around him like clouds curtaining the moon on a murky night as he wended his way to John's room on tiptoes. Once he was behind a wall and another door had been shut, putting concrete separations which offered Sherlock fundamentally needed space, he slid out of the bathrobe he had felt impelled to wear to isolate his nude skin from John's gaze.
Oh why why why, why on earth, no, why in the entire universe, all its galaxies, stars, planets, comets, black holes and black matter that is still undigested by astronomers did John come home earlier the precise day I have succumbed to the temptation of cocaine which had been lurking abominably in every cell of my body from the minute adrenaline went on vacation?!?! He wasn't supposed to return until now, which would have been perfect timing as the effects are about to wear off!
A fretful downpour of agitated thoughts fell on Sherlock.
He collapsed on John's bed like a heavy stack of potatoes, grieving at his poor choice of drug. He ought to have picked narcotics instead of stimulants. Morphine would've done just fine, would've enveloped him in its cloak of nothingness, wrapped him in the sweet state of oblivion, numbed the buzzing in his head that arose whenever his brainpower remained inactive, but mostly, he would be far far away, and wouldn't have to cope with the killing vision of John's teary gaze engraved in his mind by his photographic memory. All of this for the slight inclination he felt for cocaine and its colorful high, the way it seem to gather energy from an electrical power plant and direct it straight into his entire being, the euphoria produced by the neurotransmitter dopamine.
On the other side of the wall, John ploddingly ate the omelette he had just fried. It was cooked like a chef would and at the ideal temperature, but tasted like ash in his mouth and stuck midway through his throat at the unyielding knot that had formed there.
He scrolled aimlessly through his phone, barely registering any information.
Hours went on while sleep eluded him, his frivolousness reflected on the posts he saw on the internet.
John saw the convolution of his attitude crystal-clear. It wasn't simply the wish to conquer the obsessing sense of useless he felt when he was incapable to aid a patient that made him so keen to Sherlock's hypothetical withdrawal. This was beyond the delimitations of sympathy and compassion. He could feel Sherlock's body suffering. The tissues in his own body ached, as if they were physically connected to Sherlock's. And it hurt. It really hurt, all the was from head to toe, his arms, his stomach, his legs, but what hurt the most was the palpitating heart in his chest cage. It tightened tangibly between every beat, incarcerated in a shrinking cage by the memory of Sherlock's hysterical laughter.
John must've dozed off despite all the factors keeping him awake. When he awoke, the sun was rising, filtering through the foggy air of London.
Begrudgingly, John knocked on his bedroom door, the cognizance of Sherlock being inside floating vaguely in his mind.
Sherlock's eyelids crushed into each other in the identical manner as a frightened soldier apprehending an impact, for the knocks sounded no different than gunshots to his ear—an announcement of terrible fate. Strangely, while his mind catalogued all the possible outcomes of John opening the door and finding him wide awake, being shot suddenly came across as a very appealing escape. He carefully nested himself in the mattress, curving into a fetal position, the cushiony duvet encasing him like a protective womb. He slowed his breathing and relaxed his features. The illusion of sleep was perfect.
The door creaked open. John entered the room, his footfalls light on the floor.
John hadn't yet been able to seize the reason creepy practices such as staring at people while they slept existed. Not until today, when he was met with the sight of Sherlock's pacified physiognomy, the ebony eyelashes of his upper and lower eyelids intertwined, the creaseless anemic skin tantamount to an esplanade covered in delicate pallid snowflakes. His rigid silhouette was melted into what John could only describe as the shape of peaceful slumber, his shoulders freed from their ninety degree angle molds.
John could not bring himself to put an end to this unique phenomenon. Sacred, it was.
He knew it didn't have anything to do with narcotics nor opioids. He knew it by Sherlock's breathing, he knew it by its regularity, he knew it by its steadiness, he knew it by its unwavering intervals.
But John was also aware of something else. The symptoms Sherlock had manifested last night had everything in common with those of stimulating drugs, and John's intuition inclined towards cocaine specifically. The vasoconstriction which had impeded his blood vessels from supplying enough vital fluids to his lips, the two pools of squid ink that were his eyes, and the falsetto corrupted by artificial bliss that came of his throat...
The thing is, one doesn't normally sleep after using dopaminergic drugs. Cocaine is much enjoyed for the alertness and dopamine-increasing effects it provides, but is no help when it comes to falling asleep. It all brings to light a savage revelation: Sherlock was purposely faking his sleep. And John could only think of one reason he would do that.
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Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}
Fanfiction"Detective Holmes, does your job ever cause you troubles that might lead to consuming drugs?" "I never have troubles with my job." Sherlock said, holding John's penetrating gaze without flinching. "Neither family issues, nor anything related...
