Sherlock Short Stories

A change 3/3

Things only got worse for Sherlock thereon. Mycroft and Sherlock's brotherly relationship deteriorated (from an already low starting point, mind you) to the point where neither boy spoke to the other and if one attempted a conversation it began with some form of insult (mostly to the other's intelligence). Everyone in John and Sherlock's year, save a very kind few, grew sick of the strange wizard and soon the bullying began. John, though not present for all instances, was certainly aware of the increasingly desperate situation and was becoming more and more worried for his not-quite-friend.

That was the other problem: John's friends, including Sally Donovan in two years above, were part of the anti-Sherlock cheer squad. John couldn't defend Sherlock - he wasn't entirely certain he was friends with - without endangering his sturdy, well established friendships.

Meanwhile, Sherlock began to descend into one of those weeks; waking up in the morning became increasingly tiresome and Sherlock's self control decreased as the sweet taste of drugs became more and more appealing.

Mycroft made a bet with himself that Sherlock had four days before he broke and smuggled muggle cocaine into Hogwarts.

In the end, Sherlock surprised Mycroft by only taking three.

Sherlock's hands were shaking, though with excitement or fear (or maybe a mix of both?) he couldn't tell. Sherlock began to prepare the powder for injection however as his tremor grew and his excitement peaked he resorted to just snorting the substance with a straw from the school kitchens. One, two, three, snort... one, two, three, short. And the substance was gone, travelling through Sherlock's bloodstream even as Sherlock tidied up the less. He knew he only had a few seconds to tidy himself up before the high would-

Bliss!

Sherlock's mind became a nest of positivity; colours around him dowelled and shimmered mike pearlescent water of the Great Lake and the lingering bitter taste in his mouth began to blossom into fizzing and popping; His hands ceased their insistant trembling and became still, then tingly, then numb; his eyes, once so tired; widened and shone st the wondrous world around him.

Bliss!

Nothing could bring Sherlock down from this-

Silence. The drugs had made their way through Sherlock's system, had drained his cells of their energy, fuelled his high and then abandoned him to venture alone from the summit. Sherlock turned to the clock with bleary eyes: 4.30?! It he'd been over an hour yet to Sherlock it had been seconds. He turned back to his table, ready to grab another dose only to find the tiny bag empty. He kicked himself: why hadn't he bought more?

Like that Sherlock's blissful joy was stamped down abruptly and he returned to a harsh reality. A tear escaped. Then another. Then another until Sherlock was wept dry and raw faced, consumed by unfamiliar emotions which his brother had deemed 'useless' and 'a disadvantage'.

That was how John Watson found Sherlock Holmes: puffy eyed, with sweaty curls, in a pool of snot and tears and spilt remains of the cocagne, desperately grovelling for another high and unable to achieve one.
"Sherlock?" John stoke still over his friends shaking body, "what the hell?"
"Please make it stop!" Fried the trembling boy.
"Stop what, Sherlock?" John asked, secretly grabbing his wand and searching his mind for the correct spell.
"The memories! The emotions! I try to delete them but they keep coming back, John! You're my friend right?"
"Of course," John encourages, entirely confused and even more worried for Sherlock.
"Friends help each other! Help me!"
"Okay, Sherlock," John sighed before, "Prifiscor dormire" Sherlock was knocked out cold, in a silent try still troubled sleep. The shorter boy pulled the worryingly skinnier Ravenclaw to his chest before heaving him to his feet and staggering back to the Ravenclaw tower.

When Sherlock woke (headache free? What luck!) he was confronted by his very angry, short friend (maybe not so lucky after all).
"Good morning John,"
"Actually it's afternoon," John but back, clenching his teeth in a way which only meant one thing: he was pissed off.
"Oh, well, good afternoon then"
"No."
"Sorry?"
"Jesus Christ! I knew you were many things Holmes but never - not once - did I put you as" John broke off, fuming yet unable to fully admit the truth.
"What? An addict?" Sherlock hesitantly supplied, only low fully beginning to realise the dangers of the conversation. He could have just lost his only friend. Sherlock hurriedly added, "I'm not an addict. I'm a user"
"Why?" John's question cut through anything Sherlock was about to say.

Sherlock had been asked countless questions about his drug addiction - no, usage - countless times before: what did you take? How much? How could you do this to yourself? But never before had anyone every asked Sherlock why.

"You were talking to me, you know," John said, "You kept saying you were scared. That you didn't want 'her' to find you, that you didn't want me to get hurt." Sherlock remained silent.
"What has made you so upset that you would resort to-"
"Cocaine," Sherlock supplied regretfully.
"That you would resort to cocaine"

Sherlock wanted to tell him. Never before had Sherlock ever - ever, ever - been inclined to share anything of his past with anyone. To everyone else he wanted to appear the typical, cold and emotionless dickhead that they all rumoured him to be. For the first time, Sherlock wanted to tell the truth.

So he did.

"You know, of course, that I have a sister?"
"Euros Holmes"
"What do you know about her?" Sherlock asked and immediately noted John's discomfort, "be honest."
"Sally said she was a bit... odd."
"I think Sally Donovan's words were a little harsher than that."
"She said something along the lines of: 'the whole family is a freak shoe but crowning ruler of the freaks is no doubt euros Holmes'" Sherlock flinched slightly and John immediately felt bad, "sorry."
"No, no. It's a fairly accurate description," Sherlock paused, a single slither of doubt crawling up his spine... did he want to do this?

Yes.

"Well, my sister was a very violent child," Sherlock swallowed - his throat suddenly felt sticky as if he'd swallowed a jar of treacle, "she'd liked to experiment."
"Like you do?"
"No."
"How then?"
"On ne," the conversation stuttered.
"You?"
"Hexes. Curses. Physical. Verbal."
"Jesus!"
"They locked her up in Azkaban for it."
"The prison?" Clarified John who was still unfamiliar with wizard terminology.
"She escaped last week."
"And you think she's coming here." Recalled John. That argument had felt like a life time ago, somehow John suddenly wished it was. A hesitating nod from Sherlock prompted John into action, springing forward into Sherlock's arms and clinging to him, "I'm so sorry Sherlock!"
"It's quite alright, John. Nothing you can do about it."
"I can help you quit the drugs. We're in this together, okay?" John was suddenly very certain that Sherlock Holmes was the best friend he had ever had, "whatever happens."
"Whatever happens," Sherlock agreed.
A change was coming.
Both boys waited together.
They would remain together.
Whatever happens.