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It's just a simple diuretic that prevents the empathetic from being just and giving it up.
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Most everything in the flat remained 7% efficient.
To the right of his chair, John's laptop sat docilely, no question baring a number of emails from assorted girls he'd been working on, poetry as a tactic of winning back the hearts of dull and boring women with only a silver lining of symmetrical epidermis.
John's wooing skills- 7% efficient.
Sherlock mused that a particular young woman- Alice, the one who neglected to mention her past two failed marriages, plentiful psychiatric history that arguably was the end of said marriages, and the three children bound in legal throws as they processed their parental rights, was the only positive response out of the numerous women John had swiped right for. A desperately lonesome soccer mom was the trophy of Watson's trials.
Sherlock would question why the man bothered, but the most John ever supplied as verbal data was he'd rather "not spend the rest of his existence married to you, you prick."
Of course Mrs. Hudson would have heard the little domestic, misinterpreting the words to placate herself with happiness for them as a "couple".
And, of course, she would give Sherlock a nudge later, pulling a whisper aside, murmuring that he needed to "lock in on John, before he finds someone else!"
Then with a wink and the clink of china filled with tea, off she went. Delusional.
Mrs. Hudson's deduction skills, as well as her so-called match making- 7% efficient.
He couldn't forget the watch-bird of a brother, Mycroft's twelve bugs and five hidden cameras dismantled with swift severity by the younger Holmes. Mycroft would be arriving soon, but who gave a damn.
Mycroft's ability to keep an eye on his brother- well, to be fair, there was an unspoken agreement that Sherlock would not mess with the equipment and the men patrolling with a close eye under the umbrella of Speedy's, and Mycroft would stay away.
That is, until he had a case for Sherlock. Then, he was more than welcome to drop by.
For the sake of poetic repetition, Sherlock still gave Mycroft a mark of 7% efficiency. The rules of poetry and prose changed the rules of logic when it came to ethos, pathos, and scientific inaccuracy.
Though, when done well. Sherlock didn't believe John's poetry to a horny Alice Brinsburg deserved any pardon, with the simply sickening wording and ABAB verses presenting a lack of ability beyond the average.
He wasn't sure why his mind was floundering over poetics at such a time. Perhaps you could make an argument that cocaine enhanced his emotional capacity as well as his logical.
The flat was empty. A wild goose chase of impossible-to-find ingredients for a "case only solvable once his testing was completed" would keep the eager-to-aid Watson out of 221B for another two hours.
Most likely, he had given up on the supermarket for the two out of ten ingredients, and was on his way Molly's desolate apartment that very moment. She would have the items on the list, but they would have a hell of a job digging them out of inventory in a swift manner.
Especially the left fibula of one deceased Goodman.
A few calls through Lestrade and the judge, who was snoring in a pile of Budweiser bottles, would take quite a while. And the judge would not be happy when woken from the thralls drunken slumber.
Mrs. Hudson was out with Mr. Sunken. Once she had a couple wines in him, she'd keep him busy the rest of the night. Sunken didn't mind playing along one bit.
As for Sherlock himself, well, he was very busy indeed. Laying under the eyes of his skull and the spray-painted face he often called Moriarty when he unleashed John's browning on the bruised wallpaper, the sofa coddled his figure until his imprint was deep within the sagging material.
And everything was absolute bliss.
He felt each and every vein screaming with a liveliness reminiscent of his first high, fingers tucked around his stomach, his body wrapped in his royal blue robe.
221B smelled of cigarettes and drug dens, which Sherlock flaunted with open windows and side-swept curtains.
Any moment now, Mycroft would come rushing in, going through the stages of brotherly affection: anger, defeat, sadness, hopelessness, promises, care, and another ten bugs placed within the apartment while Sherlock waited in the car. It would be ten, because Mycroft would believe he'd keep Sherlock busy from relapse if he didn't think he'd found all of the bugs. Dull.
His mind had been racing through these musings for all of two minutes since the first 7% solution was injected. After three, Mycroft would arrive, talking as if it were all his fault, never recognizing that Sherlock was his own man and made his own decisions.
This decision had been spur of the moment; along with a stash of heroin in his favorite novel of Alexander Dumas's, The Count Of Monte Cristo, (He was a fan of stories containing anything with Napoleon the conquerer, but more so loved tales of revenge), he had hidden small packages of cocaine in multiple settings, including the hollow, metal handle of the bathroom doors, the hollowed hinges of John's bedroom door, tucked inside the smile of the bullet hole in the wall, and the one he dug out today, the one encased underneath the plush lining of the headphones on the bull.
The torn headphones hung loosely on the skinned skull now. A burnt spoon sat unceremoniously on the floor along with a lighter, another white packet, and a dingy glass of water.
He held the needle loosely in his right hand, rising to a sitting position once more on the couch to reach for more material.
Sherlock's cocaine- 7% efficient. But the perfect solution.
He was aware that the high he felt would turn immediately into burning pain once he added the next hit, and was aware that he'd be dead within ten minutes. Neither thought bothered him. He was ready.
Sherlock grabbed the packet and spilled the contents into his spoon, which shook slightly, as he held the lighter underneath and torched the powder.
After mixing and placing, the needle was once again full. He took seconds to tighten the tourniquet even more, and with skillful ease found the bigger vein in the crook of his elbow within seconds.
Those same seconds, he distantly heard footsteps sprinting through the door and up the stairs- Mycroft, of course. He could tell by the lag even in his urgency, the spite of gorging on dessert hours before.
He sunk the needle in before the door crashed open, revealing Mycroft in a cold sweat.
Sherlock sighed, eyes rolling before turning his neck in his brother's direction.
"Four minutes and forty-three seconds since your equipment failed; I'm not sure if it's age or your stomach slowing you down."
Mycroft straightened his spine, taking the supporting hand off of the door frame.
"Remove the needle now, Sherlock," he breathed, half exasperation, the other half what Sherlock and Mycroft could only detect as fear amongst each other. "You know that if you inject that solution, the most likely outcome is a quick drive to the hospital where you'll be drained and assessed before returning here. Why bother."
Sherlock rubbed his thumb on the plastic plunge, looking lazily around the room, his demeanor calm and sure.
"Yes, but there is also every possibility that my resisting will slow your efforts down enough that I will reach cessation of the heart before we even arrive. Might as well try my luck," Sherlock replied, pressing down slightly on the needle. He felt his veins burning from what little was seeping in, egging his system to feed it more.
"You're being ridiculous. What would you have me tell Mummy?" Mycroft seethed, "You'll break her spirit, you know. She might not recover."
A rush in his gut told Sherlock that his ethos was still working underneath the high.
"She'll survive. She has you."
Mycroft walked forward, a few unsure steps. Sherlock noted the caution, smirking to himself that he finally had the upper hand. A frightened Mycroft was a defeated one. He knew Sherlock, but this stage of unpredictability was Sherlock's power in the situation. Neither knew what would happen next. Only Mycroft cared.
"Stop this," Mycroft spat, "You're being incredulous."
"Ah yes, continue to tell me how crazy I am, that approach works wonders for the mentally unstable. If you don't mind, I'd like to die in peace."
Sherlock motioned with a quick nod of the head to the door, as if he were showing out a client in a very boring emergency.
"I know why you're doing this, brother mine."
Mycroft inched forward in what was meant to be a casual lean of the hip. Mycroft was never the smooth one.
"Do tell then," Sherlock spoke, pressing the plunger a millimeter inward.
Mycroft had to restrain himself from running forward, his body jumping at the movement. "It's the fifth."
"What does the bloody date have to do with any of this?" Sherlock inquired, gritting his teeth. It'd been two minutes and thirty six seconds since Mycroft had walked in, and he was already bored with the talking down.
"The fifth of January, Sherlock."
Oh. His birthday. It was tomorrow. Still, though.
"Why does that matter?"
"I was hoping you could explain it to me," Mycroft said, inching forward, nonchalant. There was a space of three feet between them.
"I don't know Mycroft, why does anything matter? Why should a marker of how long I've survived mean anything except exhaustion? I've only ever survived. Never thriving. Why bother seeing what comes next? I don't give a damn. History repeats itself, nothing is ever new, there is nothing worth solving when you have solved the same cases over and over. All I've wanted this whole time was some peace. Sure, maybe the thrill of the case and the high of the drugs help, but at this point, they're not enough. I am done. I don't want to survive anymore," he rambled fast, cocking his head and eyes about at Mycroft in a mock of his intellect.
"It's easy enough to understand, is it not?
"You're not god. You can't be sure that there is nothing left for you here. Even so, you're missing the most important factor."
Sherlock glared at him. "And what is that?"
"There's not any peace in death. You cease to exist, nothing more. There will be no part of you to feel."
"You think I don't know that?"
"No. Only that you've forgotten, deep inside of you, in your efforts to escape."
Sherlock scoffed. "Honestly, I don't care. I'd rather not exist than feel nothing but boredom. Please," he asked, a little of his superior facade shaken in his need for the solution, "Just leave me. This isn't your fault. It's my life, and it belongs to me. I'll do with it what I will."
Sherlock steadily pressed the plunger down.
With surprising agility, Mycroft sped forward, smacking the needle in Sherlock's hand, making the needle split in two. The broken tube fell onto the floor, where Mycroft stomped until the plastic and metal crippled entirely.
Sherlock watched as the liquid seeped out of the destroyed freedom.
"You bast-"
"No, enough!" Mycroft yelled. "Your life is not your own! In case you've forgotten, whether or not it means anything to you, your life sure as hell is important to us." At this point, Mycroft's tone subsided to a tearful pleading. "They call it "taking your life" for a reason, Sherlock. You take it from not only yourself, but those who care about you."
Sherlock stuttered at the emotions Mycroft flooded openly. "Sentiment is-"
"I don't give a damn what you care of our sentiment. Whether or not it's winning or losing, you cannot fight it. Not even you, the superior Sherlock Holmes, can deny that sentiment has ruled your life. John Watson. Molly Hooper. Gregory Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Your death would destroy them. Somewhere in your prowess, you've deducted that John Watson would fall to the same sword as you months after you've departed. Molly would become a recluse, living out her life alone and depressed, as would Mrs. Hudson, who would die a few years after John in age because she longer had any will. Lestrade would bravely continue for a few years until he realizes too that there is nothing left for him. They all suffer, they'll all die suffering. Do you really want to make them suffer as you have suffered, you selfish child!" He cried, breath heaving, heart pounding.
Throughout this monologue, the rush of emotion in Sherlock's gut finally made its way to the surface, clawing its way out through sincere tears.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, "but I can't, I-"
His voice caught in his throat. Mycroft softened.
"I can't do this anymore Mycroft. Please, you have to let me go."
Mycroft knelt down beside Sherlock, delicately pulling the fractured needle out of Sherlock's arm, tossing it aside, before placing two firm hands on Sherlock's shoulders.
"You can, and you will."
They sat staring at each other, tears flowing off Sherlock while Mycroft held a steady stare.
"We will help you."
Growing resentment rose in his throat, gnawing at his hunched shoulders and tearing his shaking limbs.
"I don't want to be helped, especially for your selfish need for me, alive and well."
Sherlock looked back with a dark glare that made the ochre pallor appear even more soured and the dark circles a bruised blue and purple. There was sweat on his brow that glued waving curls to it, and his eyes, they were glazed as if he'd already passed.
He watched as Mycroft stood and offered his hand.
"Have faith, Brother Mine. Let us be with you until you thrive. If within a year you still are in the same position, I will let you do as you wish."
Sherlock raised a brow.
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
Sherlock looked at the hand.
"You're that sure of your case, to bet my life on it?"
Mycroft smiled.
"Do we have a deal?"