A/N: This serves as a prequel to my earlier work, The Road to Hell. They are set in the same universe and deal with the same series of events, although it's not necessary to read that story first. This story is set pre-Study in Pink, probably roughly a decade before that case. (Very roughly. I don't have an exact timeline in mind.)

Chapter 1: In the Beginning

In the beginning, it was all about the boredom.

Boredom—it haunted him, wrecked him, made him want to claw his own eyes out.

Without stimulation, without distraction, his brain would begin to tear itself apart. He was trapped—couldn't escape—even when he had the whole world at his disposal.

(Feeling imprisoned when you have total freedom is the worst of all possible worlds.)

He had his experiments, of course. And he could manufacture other distractions, at times. But it wasn't enough, there wasn't enough, there was never enough for him to do, to keep him going, to keep the demons at bay.

Sometimes his studies were sufficient to distract him, for a few hours at least. Occasionally if he harassed Mycroft, his older brother would find a way to entertain him, but Mycroft was away more and more these days.

But then other days, nothing was enough.

Those days seemed to get more and more frequent with every passing year.

What do other people—normal people, simple people, stupid people—do with their time?

Socialize, probably. Make friends, go out with friends, talk to friends, have relationships.

How common. How dull. How boring.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends.

He doesn't need them, and he doesn't want them.

What he wants—what he needs, what he craves—is a distraction.

Freedom from boredom. A way to escape the suffocating dullness of day-to-day life.

How do other people bear it? How do they go through their lives without collapsing under the weight of this stultifying drudgery?

Ultimately, he found the answer to these questions—the answer to his prayers—while he was on a case.

He wasn't actually on a case, per se. Rather, he had spent all day wandering the back alleys of London, following police cars, talking to the homeless men and women he ran into, in the hopes of scaring up some kind of intrigue, some kind of mystery that he could solve. In the absence of anything that entertaining, he would have settled for something mildly dangerous.

It was in this pursuit that the answer hit him.

Quite literally, in fact.

It was late in the evening, already dark, when he turned around a corner, and collided head first with a man who had been running at full speed. The man went sprawling to the ground, although Sherlock managed to stay on his feet.

Shaking himself off, Sherlock glanced down, recognized the man, and said, "Hello, Walter. Outrunning the police again?"

The man looked startled for a moment, but then the tension left him when he recognized the familiar face. "Ah, Sherlock, didn't recognize ya at first."

"What was it this time? Breaking and entering? A little assault and battery?"

"Nah, nothing like that. Bought some coke off of an undercover officer."

"That seems rather foolish."

"I didn't know it at the time, now did I?"

"Hmm, so now you're trying to outrun them?"

"Yeah, I think I lost them."

"It rather sounds like they're on their way now."

Even with his inferior hearing, Walter could hear the sirens only moments after Sherlock's comment.

His face paled. "Damn it! Cover for me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"I'll give you my stash."

"Ah, trying to frame me, then?"

"They'll never search a posh bloke like you."

"What would I want with your stash anyway?"

"Have you ever tried the stuff?"

"No, obviously not."

"Then you have no idea what you're missing."

"What exactly am I missing?"

"It's the best, the high. It makes you feel like you could do anything, like you're the most powerful person in the world, like nothing can touch you. Everything, it just—"

"It just what?

"It's like, every moment becomes exciting."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but then he heard the sound of sirens coming closer.

"Here, give it to me."

"Really?"

"Yes, Walt, give it over."

Without another word, Walter dug into his pockets and handed the drugs over to Sherlock, who quickly shoved them inside the back pocket of his trousers, before wrapping his coat more tightly around himself.

"Thanks, Sherlock."

"Don't mention it. Really, don't. Now run."

And Walter did just that.

For his part, Sherlock turned the corner, and continued casually strolling down the street.

One of the officers shouted to him, "Sir, did you see a man run by here?"

"What kind of man?"

"Short, balding, no shoes, torn up coat."

"Ah yes, I think he went that way." Sherlock motioned in the opposite direction that Walter had taken.

"Thank you, sir."

And with that, the officer hopped in his car and sped off.

Sherlock didn't go home after that. Instead, he went to the lab, where he let himself in using a key card he swiped off of one of the men in charge. Once he was there, he spent the next hour running various analyses of the substance.

After satisfying himself as to the identity of the white powdery substance Walter left him with—cocaine, fairly high caliber by all measures—he was left with a decision.

No point in selling it. He neither needs nor wants the money, and he certainly doesn't want the hassle.

Does he dispose of it? Devise some sort of experiment? Maybe the effect of cocaine on a colony of bees?

Then he remembers his conversation with Walter—

Every moment becomes exciting

Maybe a different kind of experiment, a quick test—the effects of cocaine on Sherlock Holmes's suffocating boredom.

What would it be like? A little excitement, a little danger, a little distraction.

It was a foolish idea, of course. He knew it from the moment the notion first hit him. But, he was nothing if not reckless, especially in the pursuit of adventure.

And at this moment, after days of nothing, he would do anything to set the world on fire, even just for one night.

And so, right there in the uni chemistry lab, after calculating his optimal intake, he carefully measured out the appropriate amount—using an analytical balance, naturally—and then he deftly arranged it in a thin line along the crease of the weigh paper.

He stared at it for a few moments—his heart was already pounding in anticipation—and then he leaned over, covered his left nostril with his index finger, and insufflated the white powder.

It burned as it rushed past the mucous membranes of his nasal passages—that much was to be expected—and a few minutes later he would feel the tell tale post nasal drip as it made it's way down his throat.

But those minor discomforts were nothing in comparison to the rush—the high.

It came on faster and stronger than he could have ever possibly anticipated. His heart was pounding, his face felt warm—but it was a comforting glow, nothing uncomfortable about it. He felt stronger and faster—he felt powerful.

It felt good.

Whereas a few moments before he had been trapped in a fog, now everything seemed so clear, so bright, so exciting.

The world was interesting again.

A million ideas welled up in his mind all at once—experiments to perform, new avenues to explore—so much to do, so much to plan, so much promise.

But first it was time to finally organize his lab station, a task he had been putting off for months, but now, he figured, why not?

Once that task was complete, he dove into two experiments he was already in the middle of and then got started on a brand new one.

And after 3 more lines—and four more hours—there was only enough of the original sample for one more hit, and not even a full one at that. He should probably save it for later, when he absolutely needed it.

(How quickly this went from being a whim to a want to a need)

But at the same time he could already feel the glow fade, his pulse begin to settle, leaving behind a restless, irritated, gnawing sensation, that reminded him strongly of the feeling that always gripped him after the conclusion of a particularly compelling experiment.

It left him empty, wanting, desperate for more.

With his experiments, with his work, it was never so easy to answer that craving, but now—now, it was at his fingertips, ready to soothe the ache, to quell the boredom. It would be so easy, so easy to dip in again, to buy himself a little more excitement, just a few more moments of respite from the unending drudgery of existing.

He should wait—of course he should. That would be the sensible thing to do. If Mycroft were here—

He would have already called the police and had you hauled off in handcuffs.

Yes, but he's always been such a stick in the mud.

He would be furious about this, of course

Which only made the whole endeavor more enticing.

And so, without any more consideration, he dumped out the remaining powder onto the weigh paper, lined it up—far less precisely than the first time—and inhaled every last glistening white particle.

Immediately after taking the last hit, he grabbed his bag and walked out of the lab, not even bothering to lock the door behind him.

The cool air and the pleasant buzz of the London streets were even more intoxicating than usual. Although he did wonder to himself—

How had it become morning already?

But he couldn't find it in himself to be troubled by the confusingly speed passage of time.

He made his way along the pavement without any explicit destination in mind, although he walked as if he had purpose—and maybe he did have a purpose, albeit a subconscious one, because fifteen minutes later, he found himself on a street corner frequented by several of his homeless contacts.

"What's up Sherl?"

"Looking for Walt. Any idea where he might be?"

"Try the alley behind that Italian sandwich shop. He usually likes to sleep it off by the bins."

Sherlock nodded his thanks, and then spun around on his heel.

When he arrived at the aforementioned alleyway, he saw Walt curled up on a trash bag, dosing lightly.

Sherlock nudged Walt with the toe of his shoe until the other man opened his eyes.

"Hello, Walt."

Walt immediately scrambled to his feet, looking vaguely uneasy.

"Sherlock, did they—"

Sherlock held up his hand to stop Walter mid speech, and then he said calmly and clearly, despite the pounding of his heart in his chest—

"I need more."

And that's how it began.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the opening chapter! It took me awhile to get this first chapter out, but the next couple chapters are already at least halfway done, and I've got the whole story mapped out, and several other chapters partially written. (I have the bad habit of writing like five different stories all at once, completely out of order. I'm trying to be more disciplined.)

Oh, and I know there's no Mycroft appearance in this chapter, but he'll play a major part in this story, starting the next chapter. Although this story is in part about Sherlock's drug use, I really want to make his relationship with his brother a major focus as well.

Oh, and the title of this work comes from these lines in Virgil's Aeneid:

The descent to hell is easy
The gates of dark Dis stand open night and day
But to retrace your steps and go out to the upper airs
That is the work, that is the labor

Anyway, thanks for reading, and if you have a moment, I'd really love to hear what you thought of this first chapter :)