always the addict.
( TRIGGER WARNING FOR RECREATIONAL DRUG USE AHEAD )
Another useless, boring night in Hive City.
There was absolutely nothing to do then stare at his wall, and slowly slip into some form of delusional madness. Even his neighbors, usually so easy to draw out with his gun firing, seemed to be gone. Or, they slept like the dead; and either way, he was so very envious of them all the same. He knew a way out of course. An open door that would send him into hours of bliss and excitement and silence.
Sherlock knows he shouldn't, by morality standards. It's frowned upon, dangerous, an addictive agent with consequences down the road. But he's never been one to care about decent or the rules of life. They're wrong, anyway. And that's the mantra thats going on in his head as he arranges the powder into that familiar, one line of salvation, before it's hitting his brain in one, swift breath.
Kaleidoscope eyes flutter, his brain transported somewhere else entirely. Warm, enticing, wrapping his head up in a soothing balm that tickles and stimulates; sparks shudder down his spine as colors dance before his eyes, pupils blown wide. Every cell of him feels alive and breathing. Even the brush of his coat's fabric as he pulls it on feels exquisite. His flat won't do during this high, no, it needs to be experienced. So, the detective head's out, toward the parts of the city that only live during the night.
Food and alcohol mingle in the air, loud music echoing in his hears. But he doesn't mind it, no, because such things that would usually be a bother are so much more interesting now. It's on this sensory high that he nearly runs some poor citizen over in his bee-line walk. "--Sorry!" His hand is already extended ( more contact, more, more more ) to her.