Description: This is a collection of all the moments within my Sherlock/OC fic The Game That You Learnt and its sequel The Game That I Lost, which are too graphic, whether because of dark themes or smut, to be included within their 'T' ratings. These quasi-drabbles aren't necessary for the main story to work, but I felt like they needed to at least be written.

Part One contains chapters relating to GtYL, and Part Two GtIL, the latter beginning on Page 8.

This chapter is dedicated to ScreamsOnScreen who said she was curious as to Melanie's drug habits.

PART ONE
The Game That You Learnt

One
Idle thumbs
Warnings: Drug use

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I barely even recognised his existence.

I was sixteen at the time, and most definitely going through my hormonal teenage phase. A rebel without a cause – that's what my friends used to say, but they didn't really know. No one did. I wasn't a rebel, and I certainly had a cause.

It was all so easy; school, friends, family. Everything was so simple, so utterly boring.

I had finished my GCSEs at least two weeks ago, and not much else had happened since. My parents were both working full time, my dad as an accountant and my mum as an editor in some local paper. My little sister, Nancy, was still at school. Her primary school didn't get out for the summer holidays for another three weeks. My nineteen year old brother was travelling around Europe with some friends after finally finishing his A-levels. It had only taken him an extra year.

So they were all gone, leaving me alone in a nice suburban house for most of the day. We didn't even have a pet to keep me company.

I could always go out with friends, do what everyone else was doing, but whenever I spent more than an hour with those people I found myself drifting off elsewhere. Why didn't they do anything interesting?

But what was interesting? To be honest, I couldn't find many things that were. I liked history, but I didn't want to spend an entire day absorbing myself in textbooks. I would go insane.

So what then? What the hell could I wile away the time with?

The answer had struck my brain a year and a half prior, a few months before my fifteenth birthday.

It was easy enough, not being caught. Any intelligent person could hide it until the cows came home, as long as you didn't do anything stupid. And obeyed the rules of course. The rules were crucial.

1) Never take more than you need

2) Be selective about where you are

3) Learn your family's routines and take advantage of them

4) Use as many different sources of income as possible

5) Destroy all evidence

And most importantly of all;

6) Don't let the cravings overcome rational thought

The first one was simple enough. There was no defining amount, as my tolerance was always rising, but as long as I knew a base figure from my last few uses, and always kept in mind the highest safe quantity, it was fine.

The second one took more thought. Home was safest, it always was. But sometimes it was out of bounds, and other settings needed to be considered. Not a friend's place – they couldn't be trusted with the secret. And the street was never going to be a good idea. That's where Number Three came in. Plan and memorise. Know exactly what times the house was going to be free and schedule around it. If desperate, then an emergency location could be found at the last minute.

Number four was common sense. It wasn't a cheap hobby, six year olds knew that, but if individual members of the family noticed an excessive amount of their money just disappearing around them, it was going to raise suspicions. Pick and choose. Don't take too much at once, and don't take from the same person too often.

Rule Five was trickier. Never leave anything lying about, not even in bags or cluttered cupboards. Get rid of everything as soon as possible, and before that keep it in designated safe places. Don't keep everything together. If worse came to worse, then individual items could be explained away. The whole shebang could not.

Those five rules weren't necessarily easy to maintain, especially with unexpected trips home from work or a rather cloudy state of mind, but it was the final rule that caused the most problems. It was also the most serious. If my judgement and rationality failed me, then the other rules would collapse around me. In the direst of times, when I came far too close to spoiling everything, there was always my last resort at keeping my wits. My parents. Imagining the tortured looks of disappointment and self-doubt on their faces were they ever to find out. The thought chilled me to the bone. They wouldn't be able to take it. And I would not let my actions hurt them.

It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't cool. But it also wasn't that pain-filled journey into the soul that everyone thought it was.

It was just… It was different from everything else.

I had started off small. While ibuprofen and APAP do nothing, some over the counter painkillers contain small amounts of a bigger prize. They're usually mixed up with a whole bag of crap that, when taken in excess, will destroy your liver and stomach. But getting rid of those things was so painstakingly simple with a cold water extraction. At first, this meant it didn't feel wrong at all. You could buy the stuff anywhere, so it must be alright. And it wasn't injecting or snorting, it was a simple drink. What was wrong with that? If it was truly bad, then the drug companies wouldn't make it so easy to access.

But like with anything, it grew. A ceiling dose of codeine wasn't enough anymore, and soon I became bored with the slow burning effect of DHC. I needed to find something else. And then there entered Duck into my life.

I had only admitted to myself three months ago what I was – an addict. Plain and simple. I could see it in me. The longing, the burning. And it didn't make me feel great or special. But there it was, and, sometimes, all you need is a distraction.

This afternoon in June was exactly the same.

I had woken up around midday, my head throbbing and my stomach aching. I had put it off as long as possible, thinking I needed to take a break to chill for a day or two, but TV was hopeless and there was nothing on the radio that wasn't either the Spice Girls, U2 or Oasis. I didn't want to read. That required to much mental activity and my brain was currently still trying to rearrange itself into something more normal. I didn't have any hobbies – computer games were too weird, art and music were out of my league, and sport made my body sore for days.

But I couldn't lie and stare at the ceiling for any longer.

Just a little bit then. Not enough to get me soaring, but just the right amount to make everything slightly less grey. Plus it would help my headache and stomach cramps. Well, it'd make them worse later but that didn't matter, did it? Later was unimportant.

I didn't bother checking my reflection in the hall mirror on the way out. I knew I looked like a mess. No doubt my bleached-blonde shoulder length hair was all over the shot and the thick eyeliner I put on last night had given me a nice case of the panda eyes. And I probably smelt awful. My pasty skin certainly felt greasy and disgusting. But I honestly could not be bothered to shower or change clothes. My plaid shirt and high-rise stone-washed shorts would have to do.

I shoved on my high-tops and slammed the door shut on my way out, only just remembering to lock it before shuffling down the street. The sun was too damn hot and I tried to stick to the shade as much as possible.

I knew exactly where I was heading. At this time in the day, on a weekday, there was only one place to find Duck.

The town centre was kind of quiet. It was only the elderly and teenagers who had already finished their exams that were out and about. I sat on the metal bench and scanned the high street.

I wasn't that observant – I certainly couldn't tell anything about a person by just looking at them – but there was one group of people I could spot a mile off.

Junkies are always stereotyped as young grungers, living in filth and stealing to earn enough money to buy their next hit. But when you were on the inside, you quickly learnt they could be anyone. High-powered businessmen, teachers, lawyers – anyone with a weakness for pleasure. Of course, there's always certain giveaways.

When they're sober, they'll be the ones on the outside of the group, having become too accustomed to letting the drug do the talking. They'll be the ones with that strange grey tone to their skin, not always pale, but dull. They'll have that odd look about them of someone who doesn't eat enough, in order for the rush to hit them harder, but will also be puffy with water retention. They'll also be snacking on something disgusting and sugary. If anything gave you a sweet-tooth, it was a heavy dose of the good stuff.

There was one guy hanging around by the drinks machine who clearly fit all of these categories. He was wearing a suit, so a worker, but it was cheap and nasty, so not a well-paid worker. He was also staring at a door across the road. A door I knew I needed to go through.

I stubbed out my cigarette and stood, slowly making my way over to the large garish building. I pushed open the glass door and walked calmly inside, past the shelves on my left stocked with various types of sweets and the aisles on my right lined with VCRs. God, I hated Woolworths.

I steered past an old lady checking out cheap toys and stopped in front of the customer service desk. The young man behind it looked up.

"Hey, Duck."

"Oh, hey Annie." The boy greeted me. He looked respectable enough. A friendly, blonde-haired, blue-eyed twenty-something year old who was working to get him through his studies. Little did any of the usual customers realise he wasn't studying for anything at all; he already had a better paying side job. "How you doing?"

"Oh, you know," I replied casually, "my stomach's killing me."

Duck laughed. "Yeah, that happens, doesn't it?"

I rolled my eyes. Duck didn't really know. He wasn't a user. And if there was one thing that no one ever mentioned about recreational opiate use, it was the damn constipation.

"You need something?" he asked offhandedly. I nodded. He checked his watch. "Alright, I'll meet you outside in ten."

When I had met Duck in the empty side alley fifteen minutes later, I wasn't alone. The man in the suit had been there too, although he had quickly dashed off when he saw me coming. I barely had time to register the mop of dark curls or the high cheek bones before he had disappeared back around the corner into the main street. I didn't ask Duck about him. He was clearly just another buyer, although I was guessing he was new in town since I hadn't seen him before. And from the fact I didn't see him again, it appeared he had left shortly after. Or he had given up. But no one really did that.

I had used a tenner I had fished out of my mum's purse yesterday to pay Duck. Now I would have to wait another week before getting the cash from her again. Rule number four. At least the amount I had bought would tie me over for a few days, if I managed to stick to some level of self-control. Which I would of course – Rule Six.

When I got home I went straight into the kitchen and grabbed what I needed. The next stop was my room where I slumped down onto my bed, taking out what I needed then and stuffing the rest at the bottom of a crate full of old NMEs under my bed. I reached behind my headboard and pulled forth the small tin hidden there.

I didn't do the whole intravenous thing, although in some of my worst moods I had seriously been tempted, but IVing eventually made your veins collapse, and it would progressively get more and more difficult to sustain a habit. But I still used a needle. And that meant dissolving the base in lemon juice, water and heating over my disposable lighter.

I filled the syringe further than I had thought I would, but at this point I wasn't bothered. The sun had made my headache worse, and the walk into town had only increased my boredom. I wanted to feel something, and a little shot wasn't going to do anything. I needed a rush.

I found that my hands were shaking ever so slightly as I tugged up the hem of my shorts and swiftly plunged the needle into the most muscular part of my thigh. It would take longer than if I had found a vein directly, but that was what I needed. Now I had seven minutes to clear up and complete Rule Five.

After five minutes, the tingling started in my fingers and toes – a warning sign that I needed to hurry up with my cleaning. I had only just managed to put everything back in its rightful place and collapse onto my bed when it started.

My skin was getting warmer and my limbs were getting heavier. It was like I was melting down into the sheets covering my bed, turning into a liquid and yet remaining in my solid shape. And if I was liquid, then why was my mouth so dry?

When you say this, when you actually describe the subtle feelings, it sounds horrendous. No one would enjoy being melted and thirsty at the same time. But it wasn't like that. It wasn't nasty. If it was then no one would become an addict in the first place.

It was euphoric.

There are hardly any words that could actually describe the immense sensations that washed over you. It wasn't happiness. After the initial rush you would feel a strange contentment, but never truly happy. The rush was simply a pure dose of pleasure, shocking your body to the core. The closest I've ever come to feeling it was in the deepest moments of an orgasm, when everything else drifted away. But even that doesn't begin to describe the two minutes of utmost gratification that comes with a nod.

And then, after it fades away and the first jump grinds down to an end, the pain-killers truly work their magic. The drowsiness sets in as all your muscles begin to relax. You can't focus on anything in your mind. It's all cloudy and distant. The outside world isn't important anymore. It can't hurt you here. You're wrapped up inside your own cotton-wool barrier. Your breathing slows as even your lungs unwind and revel in the experience. Soon you'll start to feel alert again, almost excruciatingly so, and everything will be so detailed and significant to you, but the drowsiness will return. You'll fluctuate between these two states, each one pleasurable in its own way, and the flux will mean that neither one gets boring.

You don't see stars. You don't visualise strange colours and patterns in your mind. You don't hallucinate.

With poppies, you feel.

What d'you think? I tried to make the descriptions as honest as possible, and btw yes I do know from experience. I get really annoyed when I read a fic with truly outrageous accounts of drug use. It's like theyre trying to make it cool or something and completely bypassing the whole point.

The coming chapters will skip forward to coincide with The Games That YouLearnt timeline, and yes, there will be Sherlock/Melanie smut.

Review?