Chapter Text
The Trip
By jcporter1
12/22/2010
It’s 10:30 at night in the St. Barts chemistry lab. Christmas Eve, the light from the lab is the only one burning on the entire floor. At his desk, Sherlock picks up a blotter and holds it up to the light, admiring the even distribution of the liquid on the porous square. Lysergic acid diethylamide.
LSD.
Developed as a psychotropic drug by Swedish Doctors to treat mental patients, it had been used as a recreational drug by kids in the 60’s and as a tool in the spy trade by the CIA. It was easily administered through food or drink with the delay before onset of symptoms taking so long that an agent could be long gone before the victim was affected. It could be an invaluable tool for a man in Sherlock's line of work if he could master it.
Of course, if the truth be told -he admitted to himself - the most important question was could it be used to relieve the dreadful tedium that beset him the moment there was the inevitable lull in his case work?
A problem to be solved. And a chemical one at that.
He had mixed this batch himself, from the recipe of Dr. Albert Hofmann no less. Of course Sherlock had made a few “adjustments” to the doctor’s ingredients, ones he imagined the doctor himself would acknowledge as improvements. He was holding a first class sample on this blotter paper.
He was so excited at the prospect of discovery that his heart fairly hammered in his chest. He set the wafer of paper on his tongue- head tipped back as though he were receiving communion. He smiled as he felt the paper dissolving. His chest heaved. He struggled to win mastery of himself. Dutifully he made notes in his lab book. He took his pulse, subtracted a few beats to allow for his excited state and then recorded his temperature. Once he arrived at Baker Street he would make the same recordings again and compare the results.
Then he pulled on his long over coat , turned the lights out and left the lab.
On the street Sherlock hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to Baker Street. He settled back in his seat and waited. Doctor Hofmann, after having accidently absorbed some of his own concoction through his skin, had noticed it's effects on his bike ride home from his lab. Sherlock wondered if he would have the same luck.
“Take the long way, driver. Go about Hampstead Heath. I’m early for my appointment.” There was no appointment, of course, but he didn't want the driver to be suspicuoius.
“Yes, sir.” The cab took the next right and wound them up towards the park. The holiday season flaunted itself all around them in red and green lights, tinsle and bunting, and brightly lit store fronts pandering to passing shoppers. Sherlock found it all mildly irritating. Such fuss. For what?
Tomorrow there would be frozen homeless people and domestic violence calls, just like any other day of the year.
Nothing changed.
Street after street passed them by. Sherlock waited expectantly. Nothing happened. There was no physical reaction. No, warm and fuzzy feeling. No euphoria. No speeding pulse. He must have gotten a bad recipe. Or maybe his adjustments had changed the results. He was surprised at how profoundly disappointed he was.
As they drove around the public gardens, the number of pedestrians walking on the sidewalks and paths increased. A woman was walking a fox terrier. He found himself enthralled with the way the little dog thrust it’s front feet out as it pranced. As his eyes moved up the leash from dog to owner, he was quiet shocked to see her face melting. He actually gasped at the sight. An accident perhaps, a burn victim.?
“Sir,” the cabby asked in response to his gasp.
“ Oh, nothing” Sherlock said. Poor lady, yet bravely out walking, sharing her affliction with the world. And then ten feet behind her he saw a man whos face was also hanging in great jowels from his cheek bones down to his collar. The poor bastard turned to speak to his wife, who’s face dripped down past her collar to her chest, her mouth hung open in a gape like her jaw was unhinged.
Holmes felt nauseous at the sight. Peculiar. Human abnormalities usually never troubled him.
But wait, Dr. Hofmann first noticed the drug's affect when trees started changing shapes as he peddled past them. The LSD must be kicking in. Remarkable. It had come on completely unannounced.
That was the last fully lucid thought he remembered from that night.
As they drove on, he was suddenly conscious of a great need to escape the car. It was close and humid in the cab, while outside there was a faint mist in the air. He was desperate to feel it on his face. The trees in the park were swaying in time with some unheard music. He wanted to speak to some of the melting people, though it appeared they had gone in for the time being. He was finding it difficult to take a breath. He was quite certain there wasn’t enough oxygen in this cab.
“Pull over right now!” He began to search for the door handle. The driver pulled over to the curb. Before the car came to a stop, Sherlock already had the door open.
“Hey! Hey mate!” the driver shouted. “The fare!”
Holmes stopped, curious. “What is it” he leaned into the cab window.
“My money, mate, for the ride.”
“Money. “ Holmes straightened up and began a pocket to pocket search in no particular order until he heard the crinkle, and pulled out some crumpled papers with pictures of an old woman printed on it. “Money.” He handed it to the driver.
“You alright brother,” The cabby asked.
“Yes, great. Thank you “ he walked into the park.