Hello! I'm going to try my hand at a multi chaptered fic now. Please keep in mind that I'm open to ideas and constructive criticism is welcome. This is obviously my own take on Sherlock's drug problem with my own twist. Enjoy :) Beta'd by gbheart.

Withdrawal - Prologue

The drugs had been the most gorgeous distraction from the utterly mundane things in life. All the inconsequential little matters ceased to exist, when his mind reached that peak - that seductive high - and raced through everything that he felt had purpose. It was by no means peace and serenity but rather pure rapture, in the form of just being able to think, and not having to pay mind to the static of every other meaningless entity.

It had been the most perfect solution to the most constant underlying problem: boredom.

Boredom meant that there was nothing to focus his intelligence on. The trivial and irrelevant things began to matter, and the psychoanalysis of petty things, like emotions and actions, came to the front of his mind.

Boredom was by far one of the most human things his mind and body could submit to. Boredom meant he felt the need to bring more attention to himself, in any way he could, just for a measly distraction. He would sulk like a child, just so that someone would complain, and he would make meaningless experiments that smelt rather harsh, so that someone would ask what on earth he was doing.

The smallest twinge of a needle led to the most pure and unadulterated rush.

He liked to think that it wasn't the chemical composition of the drugs that held power over him, but rather the power of thinking that it gave him. It wasn't a dependency to be constantly under the influence, but a fear that if he stopped, and the boredom set in, he would do something bad. Life around him would slow to a terrible drone, while he would remain racing ahead, unable to stop, and tearing his mind to shreds.

Donovan said that one day he would become bored, and the only solution to that intense boredom would be through killing.

He'd dreamt about that once. A kiss of steel against an exposed throat, the way the metal would slit through the skin – so easy – and that he'd have to apply more pressure to pass through their windpipe, before finally, with all the force he could muster, their spine. Blood would flow freely, and the art of making sure the evidence would never trace back to him would captivate him.

Killing would likely become boring, one day, but using all of his intellect to make sure that the evidence would lead somewhere completely different? That seemed almost... fun.

People were fragile. It really was only meat and bone, in the end.

He'd tried sex, but people were too willing to commit, to ask for more than he gave, and form petty attachments that he had no interest in. The adrenaline had been perfect, but there was only so much his body could take, before physical limitations set in. Food and sleep really were tedious, disruptive, and an ever present need. The cases Lestrade had given him were a perfect relief. He was solving the murders rather than committing them; two completely different ends of a scale that were balancing out in tandem.

The cases were perfect, until the criminals of London decided to take a well-deserved break, rest their feet, have about fifty cups of tea, and then proceed to gossip about their future heists.

As soon as the cases stopped, the boredom set in, and he felt his mind do something terrible.

Cigarettes were his last resort. They were easy to access, fairly inexpensive and even socially acceptable.

In other words, they were boring.

Drugs had never been factored into the equation but, God, they worked. Cocaine had quickly become his favourite. Injecting the drug was simple and effective – an almost automatic burst of awareness. The drug's effects would pass, often within a 38-44 minute time bracket for him, but that was often just long enough to run himself down and into a blissful sleep.

It was so easy to do. He had no social circle to come knocking with concern, and the 'colleagues' he worked with at the Yard certainly didn't care.

It had been seven months since he and Mycroft had spoken, but, of course, his brother's internal social clock decided to visit him just after he'd finished shooting up.

That had been the end of his bliss.

Rehab was the most realistic depiction of hell on earth that he had ever been forced through. There were too many people, too many little things to focus on, and nothing to distract him. They followed a strict schedule and shoved information about cocaine down his throat, as if the knowledge would stop him from eternally craving it.

He was smarter than every idiotic person in there, and yet he had chosen drugs.

Mycroft kept it all in check: the bills, the crying nurse who had just had her marriage ended because of him, and the other addict who'd tried to swing a punch. Eventually, or three days in, he resigned and took Sherlock home for him to battle the addiction there. At Mycroft's home, he was given a room and a bathroom but nothing else. Meals were taken to him, as were his various forms of entertainment: books and minor cases.

It was a little less than a month, until he was allowed to explore the rest of the house. Mycroft was careful to have him constantly supervised, lest he get his hands on the drug somewhere else. Another month passed before he was allowed back to his old flat, with the rent having been paid by Mycroft, during his absence, and he immersed himself in anything and everything that he could to distract himself.

His control slipped, exactly like it did last time. The lack of options forced him to the needle and, in turn, back into rehab.

This time, Mycroft didn't even bother to force him into one of their permanent facilities; he opened up the old room and forced him to stay. The only rule this time was that he had to attend weekly group meetings.

Once he was free, he told himself never again.

He was clean for four months, until his fear came back and the need for drugs with it.

He was in a new flat now. Four different walls watched him, as the needle slipped past his skin, and he shot up again. The effect was instantaneous; the shame a thing of the past. He took everything he needed and left the rest behind, not caring who found it and what they would do.

The air outside seemed fresher and more vibrant, as he tucked his hands into his coat pockets and faced the chilling wind head on. He set off down the street, knowing that, by morning, they'd have found him, which is exactly why he didn't bother to hide, this time, and the next bout of rehab would be on his to-do list.

AN: Might update today or tomorrow depending on the response (subtle blackmail mwahaha). I've got a few plot ideas in mind already but more are always welcome.