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Sherlock had been restless all day. He couldn't focus his mind on one thing, on one task to block out intrusive thoughts. His constant fidgeting was difficult to hide from those who were looking for such signs. Mycroft came to visit him that day, concerned and disapproving of his little brother's life choices. Dropping out of uni was the latest reason for the family to worry about Sherlock, another occasion to wonder why his only goal in life seemed to be self-sabotage.
As soon as Mycroft left, discouraged by Sherlock's attitude, Sherlock could finally do something to feel better. Sometimes he almost wished to try more sensible ways of lifting his spirits. A long walk, an uplifting book, leaving the country and never coming back. But that would have meant making a decision to improve his life and that wasn't something he was interested in. At that point, he doubted it was possible to start anew, find any sort of happiness.
He rolled up his sleeve, tapped the vein. He carefully inserted the needle, smirked when he remembered how scared of needles he used to be as a child. Back then, he had specific plans for his future and neither of them included finding a good vein on his body when the most convenient ones had already collapsed. But that was a different life, Sherlock thought, a time when he could find joy and peace naturally.
Soon, the thoughts melted in his mind, his head lolled back as he felt a powerful rush of pure bliss. That was all he needed, a flood of dopamine. Nothing more. The intense pleasure made everything easier, he wasn't upset anymore about Mycroft's comments and his subtle threat of withholding financial support. Nothing mattered when he was feeling euphoric, nothing bothered him then. And perhaps most importantly, even if he remembered what brought him there, it didn't hurt that much. It was afterwards that the memories were unbearable and he had to do it again.
The trick was, he told himself, not to think about it. About that night when Mummy wasn't there when was getting ready for bed and Daddy came in. Not thinking about it was the key to surviving another day. The problem was that countless things triggered an uncomfortable memory. The passing time didn't help, Sherlock could still feel a hand on his back, keeping him pinned down and the other hand on his hip. Thinking about not thinking about it didn't stop him from hearing again the heavy breath above him and the creaking of his bed. He remembered the duvet rubbing against his cheek, his pyjama bottoms tangled around his ankles, his hair covering his eyes. The wind blowing outside, the reflection of the light in the window pane, the silence of the house. He felt the same numbness as when he was finally alone again. The simplest and most effective solution was heroin.
He knew, from the first hit, that it was a slippery slope towards self-destruction. When he was younger, he considered trying cocaine, curious about its effects on his mind. How would a powerful stimulant like that affect him, he wondered. It never occurred to him that he would want the opposite effect that heroin caused. But there he was, in his tiny flat, doing everything he could to not think. The sensation of complete safety was a bonus, a welcome one. He could simply lie back, close his eyes and relax, and nothing bad was going to happen to him. The pleasant warmth and comfort let him forget the awful conditions he was living in. He was free from pain, any pain. He didn't feel like himself, which was a good thing. He didn't want to be himself anymore.
He woke up early, it was still dark outside. That was enough to annoy him and after a few moments, he realised he was cold and hungry. He hated having to get up. He hated starting a new day. One of the biggest appeals of his drug of choice was a high risk of overdose and Sherlock was disappointed every time he avoided that.
He was irritated even before he recalled his last conversation with Mycroft. He doubted there was much time left to the ultimatum: rehab or no money. It lasted long enough. From the first time he took a couple of sips of Daddy's favourite bourbon and didn't try to hide it, he knew where it was going to lead him. Alcohol was only a momentary relief, Sherlock hated his first hangover and began searching for something different. He only doubted his mental strength when Mycroft would criticise him for being too immature for his age. Apart from that, he thought he could cope with anything. But sleeping in the same bed, under the same duvet and not knowing if it was going to happen again, all that was too much to bear. At least when he was not under the influence.
Mycroft had already moved away. Sherlock was curious if there was a connection between his absence and that night. Maybe Daddy needed a replacement, or he simply didn't want his other observant son to notice anything. Sherlock chose to believe Mycroft didn't know. It was easier than suspecting he left Sherlock where he wasn't safe.
It wasn't the second or third time that inspired him to finish what Daddy started and ruin his life completely. That was the effect of the fourth one when Sherlock found himself staring at the ceiling. He saw a crack near the window and a delicate spider web in the corner. He was lying there, waiting for it to end, again too numb to move. He had thought about fighting, but his only reaction seemed to be quiet passivity. That, however, wasn't the worst. It was knowing that in the morning everything would return to normal, they would behave like any other father and son and no one would know what happened.
He doubted his father felt no remorse, most likely he wanted to pretend he wasn't hurting Sherlock. For years Sherlock heard from classmates and family members that he was an unfeeling machine and maybe Daddy believed that, believed that Sherlock wasn't emotionally affected by his actions. When Sherlock's apathy started attracting attention, they started having serious conversations about his irresponsible behaviour and Daddy seemed genuinely worried about him. That was more than Sherlock could manage. If that he was doing was disappointing his father, he only felt more motivated to continue.
Once he left home, he had one desire: get high. Get high and if he overdosed, then so be it. And yet he was careful about the doses. Months passed and he was still alive. Unexpectedly, the distance that separated him from his family made him less suicidal. He was convinced he would never feel good again, yet he did. Occasionally. Studying was a great distraction. Sherlock caught himself planning his future. Thinking what he was going to do when he graduated. He was conflicted; on one hand, it'd be easier to give up and spiral out of control and never waste time and effort on getting better. On the other, he was finding more and more things that were worth his time and attention. Things that could make his existence meaningful. He had to decide if he wanted to end his life or turn it around. After a while, Sherlock realised it wasn't a matter of a single choice. With each and every small disappointment and difficulty, he became disheartened and was no longer sure what he wanted. Eventually, it overwhelmed him and that was the end of his education.
Strangely enough, even then he seemed to be waiting for something. A sign to stay, to regain control of his life. Or a sign to intentionally overdose. He had to choose. Mycroft's patience wasn't endless and Sherlock felt the pressure to solve the problem, in one way or the other.
He was sure he got the answer to his question when he was arrested. It was such an embarrassing situation, Sherlock couldn't believe he was sloppy enough to be caught. In his mind, he was a brilliant burglar, impossible to catch. He was sure the experience he had, cleaning his family house and Mycroft's flat of anything of value, would help him avoid an arrest, but he didn't consider other factors, like the side effects of heroin. Sherlock was taken to the police station and the shamefulness of the situation almost made him cry. To make matters worse, Mycroft was in no rush to intervene. When he waited to be questioned, he remembered the time when he was eager to talk to the police about the missing shoes. He wanted to solve crimes, not commit them.
The officer who was to question him looked like he had been working for days without a break. Bleary-eyed, stifling a yawn, his greying hair completed the picture of an exhausted officer. Sherlock expected him to be unsympathetic and impatient. However, Greg Lestrade didn't raise his voice. He remained calm even when Sherlock, confused by his attitude, used his usual defence mechanism and let Lestrade know what he knew about him. He deduced Lestrade's workaholism was caused by marital problems, most likely his wife was cheating on him. Although that comment stung, Lestrade didn't react like other people.
'Great, I'm glad we've established that,' he remarked, his tone suggested he was actually a little bit impressed with Sherlock's observation skills. After a moment of hesitation, he added, 'You know, the owner of the house you broke into, she's dead.'
'I haven't-'
'She was found in a sauna.'
'Hypertermia?'
'See, that's so odd about it. It wasn't hyperthermia.'
'I'm intrigued.'