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C17H21NO4. Benzoylmethylecgonine. The innocent seeming snow. A rose by any other name, Sherlock supposes, and laughs to himself at what a terrible joke it is.
Less than ten seconds from the crook of his thumb to his sinuses, mucous membranes through the blood-brain barrier and there it is almost immediately. God, it's good, and his fingers are moving over the keys of his laptop twice as quickly as they were; connections that seemed distant and dim suddenly thrown into sharp relief, almost faster than he can keep up with them.
Almost.
It's not the same as a real crime, not the same as a chase, not remotely the same as a hostage situation or a good murder, but it's close enough. Close enough to keep him thinking when the rest of the world is so bloody boring.
It isn't a habit. Sherlock Holmes knows more acutely than anyone that he is an obsessive, and has a personality that lends itself strongly to addiction.
He isn't addicted. He would know it if he were. This is merely a... a protest against the monotony of existence.
He taps another measure onto the back of his hand and inhales. It only burns for a second as the powder is insufflated, then there's no feeling left but the rush. His fingers tap on the keys, light and percussive, and it sounds like music.
-----
The flat is in total disarray, the memorial remnants of Lestrade's raid.
Sherlock isn't particularly bothered by the mess. The room has been far worse in the past, after all, before John moved in. When he was free to keep things exactly where he needed them most at all times, which was usually the floor. Easily accessible.
John, however, looks shaken. Not at the damage, though, and that's a pity. Sherlock was really hoping they could avoid this conversation.
"Where is it?"
Sherlock doesn't insult his intelligence by pretending he doesn't know what they're talking about. "'Where is it?'" he repeats. "Interesting that you didn't ask what."
John meets his gaze, level. "I can guess what. But if there is something in this apartment that I could possibly be incarcerated for, I deserve to know where it is, at least."
Sherlock shrugs dismissively. "There are a number of substances I use for my experiments that could…"
"Don't," John cuts him off, and Sherlock isn't really surprised. "Don't do that with me. No misdirection."
"You say you can guess what," Sherlock says, flatly. A challenge. "Do it. You tell me, and I'll tell you."
John wasn't expecting that. To his credit, he only hesitates for a second before he answers. "Cocaine."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turns up in a curious expression, not quite a smile. "Is it?" he asks, voice giving away nothing.
"Yeah," John half-laughs, amazed at his attitude, though he really shouldn't be. He really should know better. "You want me to show my work?"
In response, Sherlock flourishes his hand in a 'go on' sort of gesture, so John barrels forward.
"You crave stimulation, the thrill of the chase, depressants aren't for you; and if it were a prescription drug, it would be all too easy for you to forge a label, or simply fabricate a lie, so they're out, too. You prize clarity of thought and keenness of observation; that takes hallucinogens off the table.
"Stimulants, obviously. Likely those with euphoric properties, to better simulate the rush you get from solving a difficult puzzle. You aren't a rich man, but neither do you live in squalor, the state of the bathroom aside. Therefore it is a drug within your means to acquire, which means it is cocaine." He crosses his arms then, takes a breath, as if the mere act of saying the words aloud had been a taxing task.
The answering look on Sherlock's face is very nearly pride. "You know, there may be hope for you yet."
John does his best to mask the pleasure he feels at that assessment, but it's perfectly obvious all the same. "So tell me where it is."
Sherlock shakes his head. "I never said you were right."
"Fuck you," John spits back, and there's genuine anger in his tone. "I know I'm right."
"Not entirely," Sherlock corrects. "And that's as good as wrong." John's face goes red, tension in his shoulders, his arms as he clenches his fists, and this won't do. He's never going to see reason at this rate.
A change of tactics, then, before he can respond. Sherlock leans back against the sofa, one arm casually stretched across the top, open body language. Nothing to hide. "It's nothing you need to worry about, John. It's none of your concern." His voice is disarming, his eyes as wide and sincere as he can compel them to be, and the effect is not lost on his flatmate.
"But it is my concern, Sherlock." John drops his hands heavily to his sides. Helplessness. "I'm your…" - interesting brief hesitation there - "friend, and I'm a doctor, and I simply can't…"
"Not my doctor," Sherlock interrupts, and John looks him straight in the eyes, not even trying to mask his hurt.
"Look, I'm trying to help you."
Sherlock barks out a laugh, though there's no real amusement in it. "A change from your original stated intent then, which was to avoid being arrested. And a waste of your time, since I don't need any help."
"Fine," John declares, forceful and final. "Go ahead and kill yourself. See if I care." He grabs his coat and makes as if to leave, but stops short at the door, hand poised just over the knob. Slight tremor, there.
He waits for a long moment, no doubt expecting Sherlock to make some sort of token protest. How very redundant such a gesture would be, since they are both fully aware that John isn't going to leave. John cares about him. He's making that painfully evident, even now.
At length, John drops his head and sighs in resignation. "You're not going to tell me where, are you?"
Sherlock is slightly surprised at the hitch of relief in his own breath. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want you to know. You don't need to know, it has nothing to do with you, and it's none of your business." Simple facts, clearly stated; and he can hardly be blamed for the exasperation in his tone.
"But it is my…" John throws his coat down, clearly frustrated, but doesn't reopen the circular argument. Sherlock watches him, watches the frustration temper into resolve.
"When I find them," says John, newly determined, "I'm getting rid of them."
"When, not 'if,'" Sherlock replies, relieved to have won, though that conclusion was never really in question. "Why don't we turn that optimism to more constructive pursuits? Your phone, please." He reaches out a hand to receive it, but makes no further effort to move from his sprawl on the sofa.
John glares at him for a long time, jaw clenched tight; seemingly unaware that the argument is over. But then he lets it go, rolls his eyes in a long-suffering fashion, and hands Sherlock the device.
Sherlock smiles up at him, genuinely pleased. John just rolls his eyes again.
-----
He admires John's optimism, in a way; his dogged determination to save him from himself. Sherlock wonders what he did to command such loyalty, such concern. Such care.
It's very different from anything he's familiar with. Even Mycroft has his own agenda, his own reasons to keep tabs on his little brother. Those reasons are transparent and numerous, and nearly none of them stem from brotherly love.
Watson, however. John. He has no apparent reason, save for his trivial financial investment in the flat. He doesn't know Sherlock, not really. Doesn't understand him, to be sure, and likely never will. John doesn't...
Ah. Precisely.
He's surprised it took him so long. John doesn't have anyone else.
A warm feeling that has nothing to do with the drug suffuses Sherlock's chest at the thought. How sweet. It's utterly misguided and unnecessary, but it's sweet.
The least he can do is repay some of those kind intentions.
He cuts another line of white powder on the table and lowers his head, eyelashes fluttering involuntarily as he inhales.
Perhaps he'll buy milk tomorrow.