Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Quick and Gritty	By : wanderlustmind Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3263 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Quick and Gritty

Summary: John discovers Sherlock's secret stash of cocaine. Enraged and hurt,
he decides to see for himself why Sherlock can't get enough of the stuff. Established Sherlock/Watson relationship.

Words: 1,343

Genre(s): Angst/Romance

Author's Notes: I haven't quite decided how long this will be yet. It could work as a stand alone, I suppose, but don't hesitate to let me know if you would like to read more.
Warnings/Triggers: Here be drugs and drug use, profanity, sexual situations, and angst.
Chapter 1
It was lying there—balanced precariously on the porcelain bathroom sink.

Sherlock would be disappointed. John could almost picture the raised eyebrow on his otherwise emotionless face, daring him to observe instead of just seeing.

Why the world’s only consulting detective had such high hopes for John, he had no idea, because right now all he could think of, strange enough, the only scene playing out in his mind was that night—all those months ago, when DI Lestrade was raiding 221B Baker Street. “I’m clean now,” Sherlock had insisted, proving his point by showing off the nicotine patch on his arm.

As if a nicotine patch would quell this urge, when Sherlock regularly used three so he wouldn’t have to smoke a cigarette.

But John, he had accepted the seemingly truthful confession as readily as he’d rushed in to defend Sherlock’s lack of a drug habit.

But they’d never talked about it.

Maybe that was John’s fault.

He’d had plenty of chances, after they lay spent in each other’s arms at night, those rare occasions between cases when they had all the time to just relax and listen to each other’s breathing. John would always ghost his fingertips along the man’s fine pale skin, exposed and practically glowing in the moonlight. He’d trace every scar and caress every curve of soft sinew and jutting bone.

Of course he’d seen the track marks, tiny blemishes all but invisible along the crook of his arms. Once, just once, Sherlock had started in a soft whispered, “John,” but he seemed so out of sorts, off balance—as he always was when he was about to divulge forth some illogical, emotional part of himself. John cursed himself for a fool, now, but then John had just smiled, placating, and pressed their lips together, softly, murmuring “I trust you,” and that was the end it.

“I’m clean,” he’d said to Lestrade. Why should John have trusted such a ridiculous statement? The man who claimed to pickpocket from the DI when he was being annoying! What was just another lie from a sociopath?

John angrily ran his fingers through his hair. He loved the man. God, he really did, and he dreaded the upcoming conversation he’d have to have with Sherlock, more than anything. Harry... she got hostile and defensive when her excessive drinking was mentioned, and no matter how hard John tried, he was never really able to get through to her. What luck did he have in getting through to a man such as Sherlock? Would he use his irrefutable logic and deny everything? His razor sharp wit to lash out at John? Would he just ignore it, ignore John altogether?

What else had his flat mate—no, he’d stopped being just his flat mate months ago, Sherlock Holmes was now his lover—lied to him about? God, how did the man who spent his time hunting criminals even get cocaine? John’s face flushed with anger and shame, remembering all the times Sherlock had been inside him, come inside him, without any once of protection. What if he caught something?

All the possibilities stung, a sharp tug inside his chest, and John felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Unceremoniously he dropped to his knees and retched into the open toilet, blaming the tears that flowed down his face on the heaving.

John didn’t even know where to start a conversation like that. Obviously Sherlock hadn’t quit the habit at all, and John had nothing to go on, no way to rationalize or compare any type of behavior. The man was eccentric and boisterous and frighteningly focused all of the time! If John hadn’t found the cocaine, would he have gone this whole relationship with the infamous Sherlock Holmes never knowing that the man was constantly using? Should he go around checking the man’s pupil dilation, body temperature, heart rate and blood pressure consistently and at random intervals?

“I’m clean,” he had said, but the needle, as clean as it looked, and the bottle sitting next to it... That was clearly proof that he wasn’t. And he dared to berate John about his trust issues.

The man was brilliant, a genius, part bloody scientist for Christ’s sake, surely he knew of healthier ways to stimulate dopamine! Surely he knew the dangers of sustaining in recreational substances like this one, especially this one!

So how could Sherlock possibly see the need for it?

Even John, who knew something was wrong with him for being so attracted to danger and adrenaline and everything that came with being thrown into Sherlock’s world after spending so long in a warzone, even he didn’t understand what so called high was worth the possibility of ending up alone and dead in an empty flat or stark emergency room.

John could almost see a small nod of encouragement from the Sherlock in his mind, pushing his thoughts in the right direction.

He didn’t understand, obviously, because he’d never experienced it. John had always been aware of his health and risks he wasn’t willing to take, the part of him that always wanted to be a doctor and then finally the Doctor John Watson that was so prominent inside him—he’d never taken a drug in his life. He barely drank.

And with that fleeting thought, with trembling hands and with utter abandonment of principles he’d held dear to him all his life—John made a most rash and stupid decision—because damn it! What was so great about the syringe and the bottled, powdered benzoylmethylecgonine—what fucking high was worth Sherlock casting aside John’s safety, and, more importantly his own body’s health to achieve?

It took him three tries to open the first aid kit in the cabinet under the sink, but once he had the rubber band, only one quick flick of his wrists and fingers to secure the tourniquet just so around his left bicep. He removed the plastic casing around the needle tip and plunged the air out of it, his breathing hard, but steady.

Briefly, as he was dissolving the powder with water straight from the tap directly in the chamber, he wondered if this was how Sherlock did it: quick and gritty.

But if he stopped to think his nerve would leave him. And suddenly, as he flawlessly found the vein and released the tourniquet and slowly pressed the plunger down, John felt the rush hit him like a punch in the gut—he felt hot all over, flushed and full and positively vibrating—his thoughts strayed to Mycroft’s warnings, about bravery being the nicest form of stupid.

And God, he could definitely feel the effects of the drug, it coursed through his system in thudding heart beats—never would a rush of adrenaline feel quite the same because nothing would ever compare to his feeling, this euphoria, and all John could do was laugh, not even sure why or when the tears started—because he’d so completely misunderstood Sherlock. The question wasn’t how the man had started or if he never stopped, but why he ever stopped.
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Quick and Gritty