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I became so bored with my genius. It was as if my brain was a train on rusty tracks; constantly moving but so slowly, driving me into madness.
It started simply.
Pot, pills, cigarettes; it was like I developed an oral fixation, so constantly did I have something hanging out of my mouth. Those things were a passing fancy, wonderful but too quickly did they become dull.
Cocaine was my first love.
The electricity of of the feeling; pure energy rocketing through my veins! I felt free from my thoughts; I realized that I was a mound of feeling, sensitive flesh. I was a being of touch and desire. Whenever I came down from a high, I was normally in someone's bed; male, female, it didn't matter. I don't remember their faces.
God, I was in love with those feelings, nearly addicted to sex as I was cocaine. My attention span was short however, and soon I grew tired of electricity and heat.
Someone (I've deleted it, they're irrelevant) introduced me to my second (and it seemed at the time) my only love: heroin.
I remember the first time I slipped the needle into my arm; my mind drowned in the sticky feelings, zoning out for hours until I was brought back, a mess of shivering limbs and headaches.
Heroin was a sadist and I was her loyal masochist.
Every night I would find a way to indulge in with my mistress. (Conning those idiotic university students was far too easy). I would pass out and find myself in strange places; it never bothered me if I wound up with someone 'unsavory' or 'dangerous'. I believed myself invincible and far too clever to get caught up with those people.
Years passed; my health was rapidly deteriorating but I didn't care.
I created a manage trois with my first love and current amour. They worked beautifully together until my brother put a stop to my fun.
Worried. He claimed, shouted and sobbed. I hated him, especially when he had his minions grab me off the street and shove me into their car. I'm worried. I'm getting you help. You should be grateful.
I was alone and going through with drawls.
My organs were on fire; my brain clawed at the inside of my skull. I sobbed and cried out for my mother, feeling the scratchy carpet of the detox center against my cheek. I knew Mycroft was watching, so I cursed until it felt as if my throat was bleeding.
I hated him, but I hated myself even more.
After the detox center, I was sent home to be fretted over by Mummy and my childhood caretakers. Life was growing dull again, the urge to light up a cigarette and inject something into my blood was starting to grow.
I needed to leave.
Venturing back to London, I took a deep breath of the polluted air and released it with a shuddering gasp. How I missed the stench of car exhaust, far too many bodies living clustered together and danger.
Apparently though, I was a horrible tenet and an even worse flatmate. I was thrown out on many occasions, but always I would charm someone to let me stay with them for the night. I went hungry, but found that the emptiness of my stomach heightened my thoughts; I found sleep to be boring and the cause of a sluggish mind, so I went without that.
Running on coffee and adrenaline, I fell back into my old ways.
I remember the sharp snap of cocaine in my system; how I moaned and nearly sobbed as my thoughts began to zoom inside my head. I missed it terribly.
That night I met Lestrade.
The dealer with whom I had scored my small prize had turned out to be the infuriating (then) inspector. He took me in, expecting me to be another run of the mill addict. After I sobered some, I shocked him with my deductions about his cheating spouse and quick questions as to whether he and the incompetent Yarders had any leads about the Korean sex-ring.
I was released, hands shaking around a poorly made cup of coffee and eyes darting to the other investigators. I didn't bother with pleasantries and instead went to work.
Donavon was polite, if a bit snide. I didn't care much for her, and seeing that her taste in men was abominable, my respect for her was very small. Anderson was even more of a pain than his obvious lover. His face just bothered me, and when he opened his mouth to let out a stream of such stupidity, I had snapped.
I was rude and crass; my speech was small but biting, and I smirked in victory as their eyes widened. They thought they had been clever with hiding their affair. What idiots.
Donavon's expression crumbled from polite shock to embarrassed outrage. "Why are we taking advice from a junkie?" Lestrade looked worn out; he ran a hand through his silver hair and glanced at me. (He thought that I wasn't paying attention apparently; I did look as if I was absorbed in the case files).
"Because, Sally. This 'junkie' is smarter than you lot and me put together." I snorted. You're not even a fourth of the way right.
I was still kicked out of flats on a semi-regular basis, but it seemed that working with Scotland Yard on interesting cases was providing me with another thing to focus my addictive tendencies on. Donavon and I didn't get along because I was a tit towards Anderson (who's face never got any less irritating), but it seemed as if I was somehow...folded into their little office family.
Perhaps I was considered the third cousin twice removed.
Cases came and went; some interesting, most easy. I still felt the need for something stronger than intellectual stimulation pulling at my brain; sex had become boring long ago, so I only gave into that addiction when I couldn't quell down my desire.
Soon even the cases became boring; I was there as Lestrade was promoted to Detective Inspector. We had gone out for drinks and he had signed the papers finalizing his divorce. I watched human drama unfold, unaffected and unchanging.
Then I was introduced to something that I could never grow tired of: John.
John, JohnJohnJohnJohn. God! The man was so simple and yet so complex; he changed so rapidly it caused my head to turn. Upon first meeting him, I had wowed the doctor (Ex-army, recently discharged. Psychosomatic limp, wounded shoulder. Strained relationship with family) with my intellect; seeing his eyes widen and the awe light up the depths stirred something inside of me.
I left without giving anything of myself away, knowing (hoping praying) that I would see him the next day.
Our life kicked off after that; he had shot a man for me after we had only known each other for a day. Mrs. Hudson (the charming woman whom I had helped six months before moving into her building) had told me that she noticed chemistry between John and I. We sat in her parlour, sipping tea and eating digestives; I smirked slightly, barely a twitch of my lips before downing the rest of my drink.
I do so love chemistry.
Interesting cases seemed to flow; the ridiculous blog John's incompetent psychiatrist had insisted he write was beginning to fill with our adventures. John seemed happier, and I knew (having over heard Lestrade discussing this with someone over the phone. Mycroft no doubt) that I was happier as well.
John's girlfriends came in went. They were typically boring, vapid creatures. I could provide my blogger with much more stimulating things than those women could; he knew this, and I suppose that's why his relationships never lasted long. (I won't mention that when he brought them to the flat, I would make sure to be in a particularly sour mood).
Then came the time when John was threatened. Seeing him strapped helplessly in semtex, completely at Moriarty's mercy (and yet not, seeing as my idiot darling of a doctor had attacked the criminal when he thought the moment opportune). My hand began to tremble minutely around the gun, pointed directly at the grinning face of the 'consulting criminal'.
We exchanged 'pleasantries' and as Moriarty skipped off, I held my breath. Without missing a beat, I hopped to John, ripping at the bomb-filled coat and throwing it away. John was shaken as I was; he fell to his knees, scooting back till he could rest against the wall. He said something annoyingly adorable about me "ripping off his clothes in a darkened swimming pool"; I paced, hands twitching and an altogether bad feeling washing over me.
I knew as soon as I saw John's eyes widen that there were sniper sites directed on me; Moriarty's sing-song filled the air, bringing to me a dreadful calm. I aimed the gun at the bomb, prepared to strike.
I will die for you John. I will take this man with me. Just don't be an idiot and get in the way, whatever you do...
We survived, through some odd plot twist; John was fine, he was okay. I could breathe easily, but I knew that my game with Moriarty wasn't over.
It would never be over.
It seemed that we moved on with our lives, however my brother decided to bring me into a political scandal which I had no feelings about. It was a clever game devised by a dominatrix who was being threatened. She was unused to having the power taken away from her and of course any normal human being would be frightened by their life being threatened.
The Woman was clever until she allowed her feelings to get in the way. I suppose she's doing fine in America after her little stint in the Middle East.
Life got boring after the scandal case; I could nearly hear the seductive whispers of my former loves hissing in my ears. I could almost feel their fingers digging into the folds of my brain (the sulci and gyri; each sending off waves and waves of electricity) hacking away at every lobe till I was almost deaf with their howling. Most days I put on a brave face for John and solved almost every one of those ridiculously easy cases that his blog attracted.
Soon a case at the army base Baskervilles broke me out of some of the funk my chemically addicted brain had put me into. I felt for the first time in what seemed to be years without the use of anything; it frightened me, and I snapped at John. He became angry with me, and that night he didn't return to the inn room until he thought I was asleep and slept sitting on the chair rather than the practical choice in the bed next to me.
I apologized and though John acted as if he wasn't effected by my apology, I could see that he was touched.
It was interesting to see how he reacted to the hallucinogenic drug I had slipped into his coffee, and though after the case was wrapped he was upset with me, I wished to see it happen again. I filed away his reactions and what I had used into my 'John area' of the mind palace.
And then the problem, the Final Problem.
My world began to careen off the rails; it reminded me of a high and then the resulting crash that would follow.
The trial, the confrontation, 'Richard Brooke', Molly...and then I found myself standing atop St. Bart's with Moriarty hissing in my ear about the ordinary people, how there "was no key, DOOFUS."
I began to laugh to mask the overwhelming fear that was curling like a snake in my gut. Of course Moriarty couldn't stand my laughter, and though I had promised to shake hands with him in Hell, he surprised me by putting a bullet through his head.
I watched in shock as his body fell to the rooftop with a wet sounding thud; my heart beat loudly in my ears, blood rushing through my veins and causing my head to swim. Molly told me that the drug would do that, but I wasn't ready because I had been off of everything for so long...
The call was difficult; I held back my emotions and squinted with the effort to see John down on the street. He was just a blob, but I could imagine his face and the hurt that would be etched over it. As I hung up, I swallowed down any tears that threatened to surface.
...and then I fell.