Decorated Emergency

“Damn it!” Sherlock couldn’t take it any longer. Springing to his feet, he sent the paper on his lap fluttering every which way around himself as if it were snowing. It had been almost a month since the last case he had worked on, and Sherlock was beginning to feel the withdrawal that came with not being needed. Not a word from Mycroft nor Lestrade, apart from an invitation to join Lestrade and the ‘boys’ for a drink which he less than politely declined.

Sluggishly, Sherlock made his way to a stack of books and picked up the wooden instrument that he had discarded the previous day. He brought the violin up to the crook of his neck, allowing his long fingers to wrap around the bow, using his thumb as a fulcrum. However, after drawing out a few painful atonal notes, widening his eyes and furrowing his brow at the sound, he threw it back down in frustration and disgust.

Nothing he could do seemed to be able to pull him out of the funk that he had found himself in the past few days. Taking a gun to his walls only left him with a stern telling off from Mrs Hudson, and the local shops had closed their doors to him, refusing to sell the man any more tobacco. He had almost turned his small flat into a gas chamber after doing little else apart from smoking, again much to Mrs Hudson’s annoyance. In fact, she had been contemplating murder herself, simply to get Sherlock to stop wrecking the flat. There was no possible way she was going to stand his sulking any longer.

Sherlock spun on his heels before collapsing back into the chair, sulking like a young child. He was positively bored. Not just the bored that school children got on the last week of their holidays, but the boredom of a fully grown man whose purpose in the world had been seemingly rendered useless.

"BORED. BORED!" His voice rose once again, and his left hand scrambled about on the coffee table for a gun. However, the bullets were already lodged in the plasterboard, so pulling the trigger had no effect other than providing Sherlock with a cacophony of clicks that seemed to linger in his mind.

He prayed (to a God that he neither believed in nor whole-heartedly trusted with the knowledge) that someone would just die already. Maybe a little bank robbery, a scandal within the government perhaps. Even the thought of it sent a shiver up his spine, leaving a fleeting tingling sensation; the sensation Sherlock lived for.

There was a buzz of pure ecstasy that he felt when his deductions left him with a case so exciting that he literally did not sleep; a certain sparkle in his eyes when he was found to be right, leaving a bewildered Scotland Yard in his shadow.

Sherlock was getting desperate. He sighed, picking up the leather case that contained his only vice, or at least, the only thing he considered a vice.

Cocaine , a seven per-cent solution

It wasn't like he had turned into some drug addled psychopath, oh no. Although Sherlock had found himself becoming more and more dependant on it to stimulate his mind.

For if there was one thing Sherlock hated more than not being wanted, it was the fact that without his work, his brain had a tendency to rot.

Flipping open the catch, he inspected the instrument inside it. Gleaming in the dim lights of the apartment, the needle was held by delicate fingertips so the man could inspect its beauty. Already inside was the mixture, for it was the last that Sherlock had. He knew where was best to get it, his homeless network supplying him with the purest of forms. The silver was ever so slightly tarnished, but the antiquity of the product gave it vintage charm. Its usual place of being on display on the mantelpiece may have confused some, but to Sherlock, it was craftsmanship such as this one that deserved to be admired.

His veins pulsating with the adrenaline that came with the anticipation of indulging in such an activity, Sherlock grasped the arm of the chair with his left hand, free to concentrate on rolling up the sleeve of his purple shirt with his right, the needle perched between his fingers the way a cigarette would. With the vast expanse of pale skin before him, he searched for a telltale mark and positioned the device alongside. A sharp intake of breath, and a smirk so wide that the Cheshire cat would have been jealous, and he had the needle in his skin. Pushing the plunger down, he exhaled, letting all his stress travel with his breath.

221B

Sherlock could begin to feel his pulse quicken fast - too fast.
Water was streaming from his eyes at a pace the Niagara Falls would be envious of. Blinking once, he noticed that he could no longer see. He was surrounded by crippling black.
His thoughts were racing like a Formula 1 car, and his hand reached with the accuracy of ancient bones for a phone.
Swallowing to clear the burning from his throat, he just hoped that an ambulance would come soon.