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Summary
He didn't favor drugs made for parties. He sought either oblivion or excitement. The rare complete shut-down of his overfired synapses, or the whirring indulgement of being able to do what he did at a nearly inhuman pace. In another lifetime, perhaps he never would’ve found fondness in either. But this wasn’t that lifetime and Sherlock didn’t have the patience nor the whimsy to want for it.This drug, injected by his suspect as he cornered them in a back alley, felt like neither. It was fast-acting, that was sure, and liquid as it had to be in order to be administered in the way it was. The criminal, a forger who had been killing security guards in his recent, more high-stakes, cons, slipped underneath Sherlock’s arm as the world swirled around him.No. 8, alt prompt: Drugging
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