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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.

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Chapter 2: Chamomile and Benzoylmethylecgonine

Notes:

Thanks so much for your interest and encouragement in this! I hope you all like this. Warnings: drugs and drug use, profanity, angst.

Chapter Text

His body lay slumped, cold, and unmoving. Sherlock watched the corpse, detached, his eyes tracing the contours of the arms and legs as they settled, splayed and twisted, in what appeared to be a last ditch attempt to remain curled around himself while leaning hard against the wall.

Male, early thirties.

The skin that was visible was cruddy, plastered in dirt, and underneath, what was once the fading of a summer tan was now pale with death. His clothes were also dirty, ('Layered, mismatched, different textures and sizes, all probably second hand or swiped.') wrinkled and worn and hard with grime. Tucked into the dead end alley as he was, Sherlock would be remiss to say that the dumpsters were the only things that smelled.

His hair was long, as haphazardly dreaded as his unshaven, unkempt beard. ('Full head of it, swimming with lice and dandruff, often scratched at, but the scalp isn't as littered in scratches and scabs as it would be if he had a nervous disposition.')

So, homeless, obviously. ('Years, and at least a few weeks since he last washed.') Even over the stench of death and trash the man positively reeked of alcohol—the cheap, boxed or jugged wine kind of liquor. ('Probably preferred to ask for pints and change and sleep outside than waste the time and chances to sheltered cots.')

Now, homeless drunks on the streets of London were not news at all. Had the man's face not been paralyzed by a mortar of fear, Sherlock would have wondered why Lestrade would have bothered to call him in the first place. ('His fingertips are orange; his nails bloody and cracked from how fervently he must have clawed at the brick.')

What could possibly scare a grown man in such a manner, homeless and as hardened to life on the streets?

"Any time you feel like spouting off your... deductions would be most welcome," Lestrade volunteered. He seemed put out that Sherlock wasn't sharing, having extracted his pen and notebook like any good DI should.

But John wasn't there to witness and smile in his genuinely amazed way. Sherlock failed to see the point of making sweeping deductions aloud if John wasn't there to incessantly prattle on with whispered exclamations of praise.

"This is the fourth one, Holmes," Lestrade muttered.

"You declined to mention there were others," Sherlock spat, voice sharp and seething, rounding on the detective with a disregard for personal space. "How many? Why you didn't think to call me earlier when there could be a serial murderer prowling the streets—it doesn't matter, I'm sure you mistakenly thought you could solve this without my help."

"I called for you insight, not your petulance!" The DI barked back. "We didn't find the others. Homeless drunks and prostitutes turn up all the time, Holmes, dead on drugs and exposure and fights. No one thought to investigate if there was connection between all four deaths until I stumbled across the open case files and realized it could be murder."

"Oi, freak! Who let you in without the good ol' doctor to keep you in check?"

Sherlock didn't dignify Donovan's interruption with a reply or a glance, his mind processing Lestrade's new information. He resisted the urge to text John about the crime scene, their new case, for the seventh time. Distractedly, his hand grazed the patch of where his phone lay in his pocket, but it had not vibrated with a response.

For whatever reason, John was ignoring him.

"Yes, right. Sherlock?" That was Lestrade again, peevishness turning his voice sour. Sherlock made a dismissive sound in his throat, eyes narrowing as he continued to study the body. He suspected that this was the point that the DI would tell him to piss off so Anderson could finish processing the crime scene, and since John wasn't there to assist him and protect what evidence would surely be destroyed by that imbecile, Sherlock had precious few seconds to—

"Flowers, I think," in a rush of blubbering awkwardness and no finesse. Sherlock blinked, his only outward sign of surprise. He glanced at Lestrade, an insult ready on his tongue, but the inspector talked right over him, eager to get his bit out. "Whatever you did to screw things up this time, Holmes—fix it. He's much better company than you are at these things and so help me I'll make sure Anderson is here every time the doctor isn't to give you something to properly sulk about! Speaking of which, you've two minutes before he gets here, so tell me what you've found and piss off."

—

Later, as Sherlock made his way down the crowded streets of London, it was not hard ('at all') to keep his thoughts from straying from John. He busied himself with case, conducting efficient sweeps of his usual spots, talking rapidly to the people he knew on the streets that served as his eyes and ears surrounding London. He paid them generously for their information, making sure they would keep a look out and report back to him with what they knew and could find out.

John would probably tell them to keep low and be careful, but the bloody fool wasn't there so Sherlock did it in his place.

As twilight befell his city of choice, Sherlock found himself along the main streets again, walking amongst closing little shops. He was watching people go about their dull, transient little lives when Sherlock began cataloging all the things that would make John ignore his texts. He didn't think of a single thing that he did wrong.

There were no new experiments lying about that John could possibly trip over or get annoyed at—he even washed the kettle, and the new head was safely hidden in a cake box so John wouldn't see it first thing every morning.

Well, there were drying strips of flesh hanging in the shower, but that was pig skin, surely John would be able to tell the difference if he stumbled across it—and Sherlock had his showering patterns memorized and he left it there knowing it was highly unlikely to be found before the experiment could be finished.

Today wasn't any sort of meaningful day by, not even by… normal people's standards.

He was not supposed to be working today.

He was fairly certain John hadn't asked him to do the shopping.

"Fancy a bouquet of flowers to take home to your pretty little lady?"

Sherlock glanced at the old woman steadfastly arranging the flowers on display outside her quaint little shop ('Owned with her husband, recently passed, struggling to not fold under the weight of the rent and the bills and the arthritis attacking her hands.') He was about to keep walking, not spare her another thought, when he saw the flowers she was handling.

The woman had decided to put out chamomile for display ('Her hands shake too much to dethorn the roses and prune the hydrangeas.') and Sherlock caught himself between a frown and begrudging acquiesce.

Lestrade was an idiot. He wouldn't notice the filched notebook with what little details he bothered to scribble about the connected cases until much later, and by then it would be read and memorized and of no use to Sherlock. So, really, what place did someone like Sherlock have to listen to anything the man offered up as advice?

Yet, as appallingly domestically guile as it sounded to be buying flowers for John Watson, Sherlock found himself handing over the necessary quid to purchase the fragrant chamomile. Sherlock could list off its medicinal properties ('most common being the specific method in which it was distilled into oil, not only used in aromatherapy but as an anti-inflammatory agent as well') but what made his eyes crinkle in a smile was chamomile's fame and popularity in its regular use as tea.

Much more John than a bouquet of roses.

Assuring himself he could find some use for it if he changed his mind, or just bin it on the way home, Sherlock made his way back to 221B Baker Street.

—

"Oh, Sherlock. I thought you were already in." Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the foot of the stairs what would have finally taken him up to the flat. He tried not to let the annoyance show on his face—obviously he wasn't in already if she'd just seen him walk through the front door.

He made a noncommittal sound and began climbing the seventeen steps. "There was such a racket upstairs I thought you were up to your usual experiments. Tadpoles in the tub or some nonsense like that. Oh, you brought flowers, how nice! I'll bring you boys some tea, then, I'm sure you'll want to relax."

Sherlock frowned, wondering, and responded with a curt yes.

He breezed into the living room, his eyes taking in everything in a few seconds.

Something was wrong.

Experimentally, he shouted, "John! We have a case!" but was not surprised with the lack of response.

He tossed the flowers onto the couch, stepping over an upturned pile of books into the kitchen. A broken tea cup was on the floor. Blood on a rag used to mop it up, abandoned. The sink also had blood in it and bits of china. He could hear the sink running in the bathroom and he could feel the coat billowing behind him in his haste to find John.

Something was wrong.

"John!"

Not in the bathroom.

"John!"

He slammed the door open and found John on the floor by his bed. ('Erratic breathing, eyes scrunched shut, hands cut, rumpled—flashback? Panic attack?')

Sherlock wasted no time dropping next to him, feeling his pulse, checking for injuries—he shouted his name and slapped his face to get a response, any response.

Sherlock's heart beat so loudly in his ears. It was suddenly so difficult to detach himself, and he found he was never more abhorrent of his emotions then he was of them now. Caring for someone didn't stop them from dying in his arms—facts and logic and finding a solution to the problem did!

He heard Mrs. Hudson with the tea. "I need an ambulance!"

John's eyes fluttered—such beautiful sandy brown eyes, bloodshot, dilated—open just as Sherlock noticed the pinpricks on his arms, running neatly along his veins and he felt himself slip into shock. "What did you do?"

But he knew. The facts were there, leaving a single theory.

"Sherlock—what's going—?"

"—an ambulance Mrs Hudson! Ring for an ambulance!"

"John," and the needle on the floor made sense, and the racket and the mess and the bottle and running water, and no cold logic could explain why he felt as though his heart and body felt were physically crumbling.

—

C17H21NO4.

Benzoylmethylecgonine.

Cocaine.

John's hands only slightly trembled as he brought the illicit substance to a vein and pressed the needle in.

It stung, but in a small way. He was careful, even now.

He could feel his eyes roll just a bit, as his heart frantically pumped the substance through a maze of capillaries and arteries.

The human heart pumps more than five liters of blood per minute. He counted the seconds, but couldn't keep up with the sudden surge of dopamine trapping itself in the synapses of his brain.

He wanted to laugh just then, so he did.

He was a doctor—a bloody good fucking doctor—shooting up in the kitchen he couldn't remember being in, like a junkie.

Like Sherlock—brilliant consulting detective Sherlock Holmes who had the nerve to call John an idiot when he was a bloody overqualified army doctor, not some junkie who lied to his lover as easily as he lied to the world.

—and there was blood on his hands and the sounds of gunfire in his ears and smoke and screaming, he couldn't breathe and the Afghan sun was too bright, every shimmer was a scope and he was going to die—please God let me live!

His cheeks were wet and stinging.

"John!"

Another sting and John opened his eyes as Sherlock's face materialized out of desert sand, a beautiful, deadly mirage.

"What did you do?"

His voice was strange, face more panicked than John had ever seen it, with eyes were impossibly wide. And he was touching him everywhere with those slender fingers that felt so good and John, so angry, so hurt, couldn't help but try to reach out to Sherlock over the fog in his brain.

But the world was so slow and the uneasiness stilled his hand that so badly wanted to touch that wonderful face again. He wasn't fast enough, and already it was turning and shouting, and John figured if he could just take another hit he could just float above the cloud and catch up with the world, anything to avoid dealing with the—with this feeling of sagging and sinking that was overriding everything—anything to be the focal point of Sherlock's attention again.

Notes:

Feedback is inspirational. Constructive criticism is also appreciated. :] Constructive criticism greatly appreciated. :]
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Quick and Gritty

Chapter 2: Chamomile and Benzoylmethylecgonine

Notes:

Notes: