Hello! My note to you: I honestly don't really know about how methamphetamine is like, and I have never done it. This is all from research online. Also, this chapter is a bit short because it's fairly late and my mind is becoming poop. I don't have John acting normal because obviously he is under the influence of a drug. I always see fics with Sherlock using, but not John. Also, I'm not from England or anything, so I could get different terms wrong.

I hope the fic is okay! It will have more chapters obviously.

Okay, another thing. I put this up previously but then I took it off and this is the newer one which I have added and edited things from.


Chapter One

It's ten in the morning, a Saturday. 221B is quiet. It's so quiet, that John almost wants to start screaming manically. There hasn't been a case in about two and a half weeks. Life is dull. He laughs at himself. He's starting to think like Sherlock. Sherlock had left, early in the morning, without a word. John doesn't know where he went. Sherlock always runs off.

He envies Sherlock. Envy is not a pretty thing, and John knows. Sherlock is brilliant, and lovely, and wonderful, and all these amazing things. He laughs again. It's just so dull. He wants excitement and he wants confidence. He wants to be out and about with Sherlock, on a fascinating case, chasing after another criminal.

John is a doctor. He knows.

John sits on his bed, his legs crossed like in kindergarten. The door is closed, and he is extremely grateful that Sherlock has gone out. In his palm, lies a crystal of methamphetamine. He stares for a while. A long while. John knows even though he doesn't want to know. He knows that if he injects himself there could be many possible consequences. He knows that he could become addicted very quickly. He knows he could lose his job if anyone found out what he did. But, he feels the need to push away the cloud of worry that is floating over him.

This feels like a test. A test that he could never know what grade he got. It is all a matter of what is right and wrong in this situation. It isn't a logic problem, or maybe at some point it is. It is more of a judgement thing. But Sherlock would always disregard these sort of principles anyways, often hurting people along the way. He is never delicate with things. John forgave him, the same way that he could be forgiven himself.

Then he just does it without thinking. His mind is completely blank as he dilutes the crystal in pure water. He blocks out any thoughts about consequences, and replaces his mind with anticipation. What exactly would he feel? How great would it be? With his thoughts clear and his mind alert, what magical things would he come up with? He was insane. John Watson would never shoot up a dangerous and not to mention illegal drug while sitting cross-legged on his bed at 221B, with the possibility of Sherlock Holmes walking in and possibly forming a fiasco, and with the knowledge of all the consequences that came along with this horrid act. He would never.

But he did.

He fills the syringe with the substance, and his medical training comes oh so handy when he finds an adequate vein to inject himself in. He pierces his skin with the needle, and pushes down the plunger. It's immediate. The rush is amazing. It's unexplainable. John feels just so alive. His heart races, and he just feels so great. His brain releases these brilliant chemicals and he just feels oh so high. He's like a recharged battery and it's like he's taken an insanely fast rocket-ship to Mars and Jupiter and Saturn and the moon and back. He raced through the inside of the sun and didn't receive not one single burn.

The worry is long gone and he just feels so happy and joyful and oh so energetic. The sensation is almost too much to take in. He is unstoppable.

John just closes his eyes for a few minutes, feeling like a whole new majestic world is opened up and everything is waiting to be discovered. He laughs and it sounds surreal. After a few minutes, the rush has faded a bit, and he gathers the objects on his bed, throwing them into his bedside drawer without a care. Oh he feels great. He feels so great. For a moment he thinks of what he wants. He thinks of what he really, really, really, really wants. He sighs with contentment, and grabs his mobile phone, selecting the 'new message' icon.

John is great. He is marvelous. He is just brilliant. He wonders if this is how Sherlock feels, so brilliant, and then he just laughs.

"Sherlock" he says out loud, his voice so wired with feeling. His first word since the night before.

How beautiful, because just at that moment, he hears Sherlock entering the flat. He drops his phone on the bed, and dashes towards the door. A bit of paranoia overtakes him. Sherlock can't know, he tells himself. He takes a deep breath, and brightly walks over to the sitting room.

Sherlock is taking off his coat, when he notices John staring at him, with eyes wide open.

"Jo-" he begins.

"Sherlock.. It was raining, I didn't notice, I was in my room, doing things. Normal things." John says, almost too quick to be casual. Johns hand twitches, and he pulls down on the bottom of his jumper.

Sherlock observes him strangely, and the sides of his lovely lips turn up a bit, smiling that little smile that John has learned to love oh so much. The 'John' smile.

"John. We've got a case! I've just received a text message from Lestrade." Sherlock cheers, and raises up his fists excitedly, like a kid opening presents on Christmas day.

"Yes! Oh my god. Sherlock let's go, I've been waiting for this!" John exclaims, leaving Sherlock unusually perplexed.

"A bit too excited?"

"That was rhetorical, I assume" John laughs, and reaches for Sherlocks hand, pulling him towards the door. Sherlock stops, and grabs his coat, alarmed. John leads out the door, and calls for a cab.


Okie dokie... It was short, I know o-o Please tell me what you think!