Prescription [ BBC Sherlock ]

Prologue

 His fingers drummed on the cold metal table, eyes dreary as he stared off into the space of the lab, eyes darting around, noticing the smallest differences since he had been there since the morning. Obviously, someone else had been in here, and it wasn't Molly, because she knew better than to move the equipment without his instruction, but that left him to wonder who had decided that the room needed a tidy. The male had to admit that it looked much nicer than it had in the morning, but it was not how he was used to seeing the lab whether he be the experiment or the experimenter. Currently he had been the experiment, and his brother, along with Molly were sampling a cup that he had filled for them, the male knowing that it would come out positive in the end, but if they needed clarification that he was in fact a drug user, then so be it. It was not an area upon which needed to be looked at, for it was their own problem if they found something that they didn't like; after all, they were the ones that practically demanded for the sample. If they had just left him well enough alone, this problem wouldn't have arisen again, and the dull expression that dawned on his face would be directed to the most obvious of cases that Greg would have supplied him with, but no, here he was, sitting in the lab where he preformed a minor section of his experiments, lost in his thoughts.

This was not a safe room for a delusional user, especially when the metals reflected such bright lights. It was as though he were being encased in his own metal coffin, and if he continued on the path that he had been following, constantly increasing the solution from seven percent, to eight percent, to nine percent and higher, the coffin would become a reality upon which the ones that were trying to salvage the torn parts of the detectives mind would find that their efforts were far beyond fruitless. Nothing would properly revive the male from the torments of his hell, one that could only be found in he depths of his mind, hidden among all the thoughts that would terrify even the most well grounded of men. That was the hell that was well constructed from a sociopath's greatest fears, and to grasp that analogy would only bring insanity, for what would drive the insane further into a realm of which they could not return? This is a question that he would often ask himself as he remained in a state of which he was falling further into that delusion of insanity. He was able to bring himself back at the drop of a ball, but when he entered this state, his heart raced and for once he felt fear. Being a sociopath, emotions were difficult to come by, and even if they were met with his ever nearing coffin, he relished every moment that he was able to bask in the wonderful senses, left without consequence when the coffin opened to reveal that he had succeeded and was greeted with another day.

As anticipated, his eyes soon snapped open as he felt a hand strike him across the cheek, and he sat, dumbfounded as he stared at Molly with dead eyes before slipping off of the stool upon which he had been sitting, glancing over to his brother and Greg who stood not even feet away from where he was, a disapproving look in their eyes. It was as though they were expecting it to affect Sherlock in some way, but he just rolled down the sleeve of his tight fitting grey shirt, gave them all one of his cheeky smiles and reached for his coat. "Now that you have all found what you have been looking for..I must really be on my way. There are many cases that you, Greg, and your daft police force are unable to solve. I must admit, someone with half a brain cell would be able to see what was done wrong. Perhaps if all of you at the station put your heads together, you may even form a full neuron." He mused before flipping up his collar and walking towards the door of the lab without a second thought. Just as he reached for the door handle though, there was a click of a gun, the safety obviously being turned off, and when Sherlock gripped the cool metal handle that was set in front of him, he grit his teeth.

Fear flooded through the male, and in the split second that he had turned around, he found himself tangled among the messed bedsheets that were in fact his own. His body was delved in a cold sweat, lips parted as he gasped for air in what seemed to be a constricted space. The bedroom door hung open and the boxes that were lined against the wall cast shadows onto the floor that shifted with the headlights of every passing car that shone through the window. There was a small creak that could be heard in the kitchen, but it was just a comfort as he knew that no one but Mrs. Hudson would have entered his flat. Slowly, the male sat up in his bed and pushed away the tangled mess of sheets, body still cold from the sweat that seemed to pool over his shoulders and body. He shuffled his way towards where his robe hung, the male grabbing a hold of it and wrapping it around himself as tightly as he could, almost using it to comfort himself. He was a sociopath though. He needed no comfort.
As he made his way towards the window, Sherlock looked out among the lively London streets that seemed to be ever flowing with life. He took in a slow breath, eyes still dreary and head collecting the pieces that had been torn away due to his nightmare. Today was going to be different. The recovering detective wasn't sure how yet, but there was going to be a change. After all, he had to locate a flat mate by the next morning, so if the change didn't come from fate, he would have to take it into his own hands.

Not that fate was what provided him with his cocaine.
But fate would provide him with his prescription.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

I know that it's short and a little odd, but it's pretty late here, and I have had a hard day, but I wanted to start this. I will be working on it as often as I can, and I hope that everyone will enjoy reading it. I will make sure that there are many different takes on the situation, but here is the start. Please, enjoy!