The Devil's Chord

Chapter Three

The rainy October weather and subsequent traffic made the drive unpleasantly long. Sherlock’s legs twitched with impatience, as if ants crawled beneath his skin. A snore came from the other side of the cab where John lay slumped against the window, drooling.

It never ceased to amaze him how his friend could effortlessly doze off into peaceful slumber, like flipping a switch. Although, he shouldn’t really be surprised. John’s brain was a simple electrical circuit. The current traveled in a continuous loop until it was interrupted by some kind of need. Sleep. Food. Women. Sentiment. Flip the switch and watch Doctor John Watson light up or fade out.

No, Sherlock didn’t envy his friend’s enslavement. Unlike a simple circuit, his own brain was a microprocessor, a central processing unit with integrated circuits. Data flowed in through his senses, each byte processed for significance, the useful information placed in storage and the detritus set aside for deletion. In a sense, he was as much a slave as John, his own system embedded with the need to solve- everything. Not enough voltage and he’d shut down. Too much and he’d overheat. Such was the frailty of genius.

It was twelve on the dot when the cabbie stopped outside an immense iron gate on the sleepy side of West Sussex. Two pillars stood on either side of the entrance, the words 'Aria Estate' carved into the wet granite.

John stirred as the gate slid aside with a clang.

“Have a nice nap?” Sherlock asked.

John rubbed a hand across his face. A red splotch glowed on his cheek from where he had leaned against the glass. “If you hadn’t played the violin all bloody night, I wouldn’t have needed one.”

Sherlock shrugged. John couldn’t understand. Playing the violin helped relieve the pressure in his mind. It didn't work as well as cocaine, but the consequences were far less severe. Insomnia was a small price to pay compared to addiction.

Six years ago, he’d created a 7% solution of cocaine designed to limit the drug's negative effects, but dependency crept into his veins, corrupting his entire system. The change had been so gradual, he hadn't recognized the signs of his imprisonment until it was too late. The withdrawals had been hell, his body and mind consumed by fiery agony.

Sherlock sighed and his breath fogged up the window, exposing smudges from dozens of dirty fingerprints. He knew better than to think he was truly free. Addiction was a cruel mistress, her whispered offers of oblivion still a sweet temptation at times. Mycroft’s relentless pestering for him to find a flatmate had nearly driven him to fratricide, yet in hindsight, his brother’s logic made sense. Sherlock's self-control had been weak at best and John's arrival at 221B proved to be far more advantageous than expected. He’d been clean ever since.

His mouth curved as John stretched and gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Sherlock’s smile faded and he shook his head. “I’m merely pleased you managed to get some rest. You obviously needed it.”

John’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t quite believe his explanation. Fortunately, the man was overtaken by another yawn and he dropped the matter.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, smoothing out the wrinkles in his maroon shirt. Perhaps his faithful friend was more like a power supply monitor than a simple circuit. John ensured he maintained certain limits and never failed to take action when he stepped out of bounds. His friend was utterly predictable, but complex in his own right. John helped ground him, though he’d never admit it aloud.

The cab wound its way down a well-kept road. They passed five Victorian greenhouses, a lake, and a number of gardens before the house even came into view.