# Can't Rewind Verse: complete edition All 12 works of the series by Basser, in series order, in one file. About 324,000 words. Story text only: no author notes, tags or bylines. ## How this file is organised 1. This guide and the work map (the table below). 2. The chapter index: every chapter has a stable ID such as `CRV-02-C05`. 3. The works themselves, after the line `PRIMARY TEXT BEGINS`. Each work and each chapter starts with a labelled header line beginning ` # Internet Killed the Video Star ## Chapter 1 Following yet another row with Holmes, Sally found herself relegated to the distinctly uninspiring task of trawling through the victim's laptop for possible leads. The email and recent documents had all been useless- just the vapid conversations of a slightly chavvy photographer with a badly-concealed drug habit. Sally was clicking idly through the pictures folder now, which was enormous owing to the victim's profession. Photos of trees, parks, animals... she had to admit most of them were good, but boring. No possible leads and the latest picture was from over a month ago. She figured the more recent ones were still on the camera, which had disappeared along with the woman's body. Sighing, Sally looked up from the screen and caught sight of Holmes haring around like usual, Watson and Lestrade watching him with identical bemused expressions as the freakishly tall man poked his head into spaces by the bookshelves and under tables and everywhere. She scoffed. What a lunatic. Turning her attention back to the laptop, Sally chose a random year from the collection of neatly catalogued photography folders and flicked through on slideshow mode. The woman had to have been in her early twenties during the year these particular photos were dated. They were all shots of bars and uni kids and what looked like a friend's band. Sally scrolled through something like twenty candid shots of the backside of a tall boy with a guitar (*nice arse,* she found herself thinking idly) where the photographer had apparently been trying to get the lighting right. The musician had to have noticed her at some point and turned around, because the next shot was a closer frame of his scowling face and t-shirt clad torso. He had short, dark hair and the unnaturally dilated pupils of someone who spent a lot of time high. Prominent cheekbones stuck out starkly on a too-thin face, and he had his mouth open like he was about to say something scathing to the camera. Sally froze with her finger just about to hit the next button. Was that...? *No, definitely not*, she told herself. *Couldn't be*. Nevertheless, her gaze flicked up and found the 'consulting detective' in the other room. The only part of him currently visible were dark curls bobbing around near the television cabinet. Sally looked back down to the boy on the screen. The hair was exactly the same shade, just much shorter- barely long enough to start curling at the ends and get in his eyes. Eyes which, past the enormous pupils, were a slate grey-blue. She looked up at Holmes again, who had straightened up to his full height and was now staring around at the furniture like it owed him something. Eyes... yes, same indefinable shade. Last but not least, of course, those cheekbones. They seemed slightly less prominent now (*Watson must be force-feeding him*) but still... *Alright no it's definitely him.* Sally bit her lip with the realisation, not sure whether to be amused or horrified. On the one hand, Holmes had apparently once been a pissed-off kid with a coke habit and that was a terrifying thought. On the other, *they had pictures.* She decided that either way she should really let her boss know immediately. "Um... sir?" she called quietly, gesturing Lestrade to come toward her. He said something along the lines of 'keep an eye on him' to Watson and ambled over. "Yeah?" he asked. Sally said nothing, just pointed to the screen. "What... wait, is that-?" Lestrade gaped, leaning over her shoulder to get a better look at the scowling boy in the photo. Like she'd done, he flicked his eyes from the computer to Holmes several times. "Are there any more?" he muttered after a moment, crouching down beside her. "I'm not sure, found this one just now. It's from a folder marked '2005'," Sally said, and hit the right arrow key to advance the slideshow. The following shot was the same boy flipping off the camera, now with a lit cigarette in his mouth. Lestrade and Sally both snorted. "Yeah, that's gotta be him," Lestrade muttered, smirking. "Early 20s I'd guess. Christ, he's thin. Looks like a skeleton." "High on coke, obviously," Sally murmured back. "Hmm, yeah. He was doing about five hits a day back when I met him," the DI replied, frowning at the memory. "What's he doing with a guitar, though?" He nodded to the guitar neck held loosely in the boy's left hand. "Dunno." Sally flipped through some more shots of a stage, the pub it was in and an interesting lighting fixture before she stopped on another photo. This time it was of the band she'd seen earlier, apparently in the middle of a performance on the pub's small stage. A well-built boy with curly brown hair was singing into a microphone, a short blonde girl to his right held an electric bass and behind them was an overweight boy with a crewcut playing the drums. To their left was... Holmes. On lead guitar. "*What*," Sally said flatly. She desperately tried not to notice how good the gangly young man looked in loose jeans and a t-shirt, guitar hanging lazily from its shoulder strap as he fixed the audience with a bored stare. She glanced sidelong at her boss and saw Lestrade's expression stuck somewhere between flabbergasted and amused. "Good lord, he was in a band," the man near cackled. After a second though his more responsible instincts kicked in, and he reached forward to click a few shots back to one of the closer frames of Holmes' face. "Sherlock, over here," he called. Sally huffed in annoyance. "We er... found something you'll be interested in." Holmes looked highly dubious of that, but sauntered over regardless. Watson was closer however- having been loitering in the doorframe between the sitting room and kitchen- and reached them first. Sally watched the doctor's eyebrows climb to his hairline as soon as he caught sight of the laptop screen. Holmes appeared next to him a second later and froze at the sight of his own face. "Where did you get that?" he snapped, sounding startled and a little angry. "Her laptop," Sally pointed out blandly, gesturing to the computer. Holmes glared at her. "Is that *you*?" Watson broke in, turning his gaze to fix his partner with an incredulous stare. Holmes' eyes flicked from Watson's face to the screen and back as he opened his mouth, only to quickly shut it with a glower as he thought better of whatever he was going to say. He instead shoved past his assistant and leaned over Sally to get at the laptop. "Oi!" she exclaimed, not at all pleased with her personal space being invaded by the Freak. He paid her no attention however and flipped rapidly forward through the slideshow viewer. Past the band on stage were various shots of the same young musicians in a shoddy backstage room, a closeup of the drummer talking to a supremely annoyed-looking Holmes, the singer hunched over a tattered notebook, and a few studio portraits of the blonde bassist. The very last image in the folder was a candid photo of a couple sitting side-by-side on a low wall. Sally realised with a start that the one with a lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth was Holmes. The other was a lean, athletic-looking boy with a light spattering of freckles and scruffy brown hair, wearing a school football shirt and fitted jeans. His mouth was open in a laugh as he reached out for the bottle of liquor being handed to him by his smirking companion. Sally noted their bodies were pressed much closer together than necessary in the wide space available. She felt her eyebrows lift as she shot Holmes a devious look. "That your *boyfriend*?" she asked mockingly. "At the time," Holmes muttered in a distracted voice. Sally balked, having expected a scathing retort or insult and absolutely not prepared to think of Holmes *dating*. She saw Watson crack a small smile and Lestrade grin wolfishly. Holmes withdrew abruptly from the computer (*leaving it on the shot of him and his ex, Sally saw with despair; good lord now she couldn't stop imagining the two of them snogging*) and rounded on Lestrade. He either didn't notice the lopsided smile on the DI's face or didn't care. "You didn't tell me the victim had changed her name!" he barked impatiently. "We didn't know," Lestrade replied, hands up in a placating gesture as his expression finally began to sober a bit. "Honestly, Sherlock we found out she was missing less than an hour ago. She's listed on the rent agreement as Ms. Gloria Harwood." "Well her *real* name was Amanda Blake," Holmes insisted, grabbing at his hair. "Ugh! Mandy! Should have known from the wallpaper! Garish pattern, only a woman annoying as *her* could possibly stand it. Oh this widens the list of suspects *immensely*." "Widens?" Watson interjected. "Shouldn't it narrow? If you knew her personally-" "No, no, John! Weren't you listening!" Holmes burst out impatiently. "Amanda was the *most annoying person* I have ever met, which considering current company is impressive." He removed one hand from his untidy mop of hair to gesture vaguely in the direction of Anderson, who was working in the next room. Sally scowled. "Furthermore she was an avid photographer, as you can plainly see. Obviously took a photo she shouldn't have, explains the missing camera and why she was killed." "You know we don't actually have proof she's dead yet," Lestrade put in helpfully. Holmes waved a hand dismissively. "No, definitely dead. Far too much blood," he said without a hint of remorse. Sally rolled her eyes in disgust. Then accidentally caught sight of the photo of young Holmes and his (*distressingly good-looking*) boyfriend and found herself distracted again by unwanted images of snogging. How in the *hell* had Holmes even gotten a footballer interested in him? "If it was a photo they wanted why didn't they just take the memory stick out of the camera? Why bother killing her?" Watson asked. He kept glancing at the image on the laptop with a strangely proud expression, like he was happy to know the Freak had once been human enough to date. Sally found it quite nauseating. "That's it!" Holmes suddenly exclaimed, whipping around and grabbing Watson by the shoulders. "The perpetrator is a luddite! Older, probably late forties or early fifties, doesn't understand how digital cameras work but still fit enough to swing a crowbar. *That's* why he didn't take the laptop, wouldn't have known about backup files. He must have killed her because she knows who- oh! Yes, of course! Come along, John, we have to get to Brixton!" Watson's face was a picture of amused confusion as he allowed the still-nattering detective to drag him off by the hand. The doctor shot an apologetic glance back at Sally and Lestrade. "I'll, er... make sure he texts you," he offered with a helpless shrug. "Sherlock, remember what I said about cornering suspects on your own!" the DI yelled after them exasperatedly. Holmes waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder and disappeared out the back entrance with his lackey in tow. Sally half expected Lestrade to give chase, but he just rolled his eyes and turned back to her instead. "Donovan, I want every picture of Sherlock on a flashdrive. Wait, two flashdrives. Then I can hide one in case he tries to nick the other," her boss ordered. His voice sounded serious but his expression was coming scandalously close to gleeful. Sally found herself grinning too. As disconcerting as the Holmes-and-boyfriend photo was she couldn't deny the perverse pleasure in finding so much possible blackmail material. She nodded her understanding, dug a pair of portable drives out of her police kit and set about copying everything she could find with Holmes' face in it (as well as the twenty-someodd shots of his rear, which she determinedly did not ogle). In total the haul was about fifty photos, most of which seemed to be from various band performances and the afterparties. The most scandalous shot she came across was of Holmes and his ex-boyfriend snogging (*which was every bit as hot as she'd imagined- no no no shut up, that's still the Freak you idiot!*) in the midst of a very crowded and noisy-looking pub. Both were clearly plastered. Holmes held a half-finished drink which was perilously close to spilling and his free hand gripped the bartop for stability as the unnamed footballer held his face in a sloppy kiss. They were grinning stupidly, probably laughing more than making out. Sally found herself thinking the scene would be heartbreakingly adorable if only it wasn't *Holmes*, of all people. "Oh god, that's precious," Lestrade suddenly broke in from behind her, laughing. He'd left earlier to coordinate the investigation while she moved files, and had turned up again just now with Anderson. Sally looked back and was relieved to see a faintly sick expression on her on-again-off-again lover's face at the sight of the laptop screen. "Is that *Holmes?*" he sputtered, sounding horrified. "Apparently he knew the victim years ago." Lestrade smirked. "And she was an *'avid photographer.'*" "Videographer too, looks like," Sally put in, turning back to the computer to click on the folder she'd found a few minutes ago labelled 'VIDEOS'. "I haven't watched any of these yet but look at the thumbnail on this one here- it's the pub band." "Oh good lord, play it," her boss ordered with a grin. She obligingly opened the file. It was a shaky shot, but of decent quality. The girl must have had good equipment even before going professional. The scene was decently crowded for a dive bar and the audience seemed to be mostly uni kids with some older blokes scattered around. Up on the small stage the lead singer approached the microphone. *"Hey, fellow shitheads!"* he bellowed into it. The room promptly exploded in cheers. Sally, Lestrade and Anderson's eyes were all fixed on the guitarist- Holmes. He looked utterly bored. *"You lot ready for some noise!"* the singer yelled. The audience roared again. He looked to the side at his guitarist, who nodded once and plucked a string on his instrument. The note rang clearly through one of the speakers behind them. The bassist then followed suit, while the drummer fired off a quick roll. Apparently they were checking volume. After a pause the singer grinned and started tapping his foot, *"one, two, three, go!"* he counted. Holmes started playing, body unnaturally still aside from a slight bobbing of his head and the rapid shifting of fingers. The bassist joined in a few bars later. She was much more enthusiastic in her movements, bouncing and swaying with the rhythm as her long blonde ponytail swung like a pendulum. Finally the drummer started up with a complicated intro pattern, and the singer's bold tenor rang out over the screaming crowd as he grabbed the mic stand dramatically. The lyrics were hard to make out over the laptop's tinny speakers, but what few words Sally could catch were undeniably dirty. She saw Anderson's eyes widen out of the corner of her vision while Lestrade's grin just spread further. Then suddenly the singer shifted sideways with the microphone stand, making room for backup vocals to come in on the chorus. Sally thought it would be the bassist. She nearly collapsed in shock when Holmes stepped forward instead. Behind her she heard Anderson mutter a *'dear lord'* and their boss laughing in delight. The chorus was easier to make out than the rest of the song, being sung in the dual tones of the singer's tenor and Holmes' deep baritone. *"You better run, run, run and tell someone* *You found a wishing well, the bottom of a barrel of a gun* *You better run, run, run and tell someone, tell someone-"* "It's catchy!" Lestrade exclaimed. Sally grudgingly agreed. Holmes' harmony was decidedly unemotional but he wasn't a bad singer at all, and the sombre tone of his voice offset the more passionate lead nicely. The instrumentals were good too- strong beat and balanced chord progressions with a smooth bass line tying everything together. It wasn't the style of music Sally generally preferred but she found her head bobbing along regardless. "I thought Holmes played the violin," Anderson muttered with a sour face. "You know how he is, probably picked up guitar in a week and deleted it later to make room for bee facts," her boss replied with a flippant wave of his hand. "Donovan, get as many copies as you can. Put one on my iPod, even. We can't let him erase this." "Should I send one to Dr. Watson?" Sally offered with a devious smirk. Lestrade laughed. "*God* yes. But first see if there's more. We'll make him a playlist if we can." Sally nodded and began to scroll through the video folder, scanning the thumbnails. It looked like at least the next dozen files were all band-related. "Oh this is going to be *brilliant,*" she heard Lestrade mutter behind her. "Which one should we watch, sir?" she asked. Her boss grinned. "All of them." ## Chapter 2 Amanda Blake had been found dead in the Thames with a bashed-in skull and the strap of her very expensive camera wrapped around her neck. The camera itself was found buried in pieces in the garden of a middle-aged man in Brixton, who despite being clever enough to avoid leaving personal forensic evidence back at the murder scene had not realised that the memory stick was what actually held the photos and left it intact in the smashed casing. The pictures were easily recovered and showed him in passionate embrace with a much younger woman outside a motel. Sherlock had written it off as dull the moment they saw the upturned dirt in the man's flower patch. "But how did you know he lived in Brixton?" John asked as they made their way back to Baker Street. "Amanda's family still lives there, she would have had reason to return often seeing as how she wasn't financially independent," Sherlock drawled. Then, seeing John's puzzled expression he added, "there was a cheque to cover rent made out to her from her parents on the side table by the television." "Oh," John said, trying to remember if he'd seen that or not. There had been so many bits of discarded paper and trash strewn around the victim's sitting room it had been hard to make heads or tails of anything. He quickly gave up and moved on. "So the girl went home for a visit and saw this bloke with his mistress. Snapped a photo because... well, I guess that's what she liked to do? Take candid shots of couples?" John raised his eyebrows mischievously, glancing sideways as Sherlock's face twisted into a vaguely pained expression. "She was an unrepentant voyeur," the detective confirmed unhappily. "That shot of you and your boyfriend *was* rather sweet though," John pointed out with a grin. Sherlock looked like he might be sick. "I thought Mycroft said you didn't date?" "Mycroft has very little idea of what I did that year." Sherlock smirked a little, evidently relishing the rare gap in his brother's omnipotence. "But surely he'd have noticed a *boyfriend,*" John pushed. "You two didn't exactly seem to be trying to hide it." "Didn't have to, he wasn't looking," Sherlock replied offhandedly. "Back then my brother was content just knowing roughly where I was and whether I was dead or not. There was none of this absurd spying from the street corners." As he spoke the detective glared darkly at a nearby CCTV camera, which turned to follow them as if illustrating his point. John eyed it with a sort of wary resignation. His friend's brother *seriously* needed a hobby. "But, wait," he suddenly spoke up again as another thought occurred to him, "Forget Mycroft, you're always saying you never had friends. Romantic partners *definitely* count as friends, Sherlock." "A mutually beneficial arrangement does not necessarily imply friendship," Sherlock drawled, speaking with the same tone of voice he used when explaining a particularly obvious point of logic. He shot John a *'stop being so thick'* look for good measure. John rolled his eyes. "You must have at least liked him a *little*." "He was... occasionally tolerable," Sherlock conceded indifferently. John snorted. "You're a right romantic, Sherlock." "I do try." They made their way into the flat, having walked back from the Chinese restaurant where John had managed to force his flatmate to eat some chow mein and half an eggroll. "Tea?" John asked once they were up the stairs and hanging their coats. "Lovely," Sherlock replied. He'd pulled off his suit jacket along with the overcoat- possibly accidentally, John couldn't tell- and the buttonup underneath was that odd shade of periwinkle John had come to associate with the detective forgetting to do laundry. As John made his way to the kitchen he heard his flatmate flop dramatically onto the couch with a gusty sigh. When John returned to the sitting room he found Sherlock draped upside-down on the sofa- feet on the back with his head hanging off the edge of the cushions- using his phone to browse the internet in lieu of actually getting up to fetch a computer. John rolled his eyes and held out a mug of tea, which the detective accepted without a word and rested atop his stomach while he continued to scan whatever he was reading. John hoped the man would at least sit up properly before trying to drink, but said nothing for fear of giving Sherlock ideas for some kind of inverted tea sipping experiment. His own mug in hand, John grabbed his laptop off the desk and settled into his armchair. He settled in for a quiet night of checking email and updating his blog while Sherlock worked through his post-case sulk. For several minutes the two men sat (or sprawled) in companionable silence, each busy with their own activities. "Harry says hello," John muttered presently, because Harry had indeed written *'tell Sherly I said hi!'* at the end of her last email. Sherlock didn't respond, too absorbed in dung beetle facts or whatever he was reading. John was just moving on to his next unread mail when a notice popped up on his client alerting him to a new message from New Scotland Yard. It was from Donovan, and the title simply read 'PLAY THIS NOW'. He took a sip of his tea and obligingly opened the attached video file. Instantly the room was filled with loud, garbled noise from his laptop speakers. The video was a shot of some pub, with a band on stage and a young man yelling into a microphone. John winced and turned the volume down to minimum. Sherlock's head popped up at the sudden commotion. "What's that?" he asked. "Dunno, Donovan sent it to me," John answered. The screeching of the audience had died down somewhat so John turned the volume up slightly as the band started playing. *"I got a date, I'm a sword-swallowing whore I'm burning up, I'm burning up so put some water on me..."* John felt his eyebrows climb towards his hairline, and glanced up to see what Sherlock would make of this. The other man had frozen in place, face twisted in an almost comedic expression of shock. John blinked in surprise at the unexpected reaction and looked back down at the video, trying to figure out who was in it and why Sherlock would make that face. He'd been staring at the strangely familiar guitarist for maybe half a second before the penny finally dropped. "Oh god it's you!" John exclaimed with a sharp bark of laughter. He remembered the photos from earlier that day and realised in an instant where Sally must have gotten the video. "John! Give me that! Turn it off!" Sherlock burst up in a sudden flurry of movement and stepped over the coffee table towards John, who clutched the computer protectively to his chest. "Not happening!" he yelled, laughing. He dodged as the detective made a lunge for him and jumped up from his armchair to scuttle to the other side of the room away from Sherlock, turning the volume up to maximum as he went. The song was just now getting to the chorus. *"You better run, run, run and tell someone You found a wishing well, the bottom of a barrel of a gun..."* "Ha ha! This is brilliant!" John grinned and sidestepped another grab by Sherlock. "You're even singing!" "That file is evidence in a murder investigation, it is not authorised for release to the public!" Sherlock snapped as he chased his flatmate around the coffee table. "Come off it, we've been running around London collecting unauthorised information all day!" John was getting a bit winded evading his longer-legged friend, but luckily the song was almost over. With less than a minute left on the player's progress bar he stopped dodging and let Sherlock catch him. The detective tackled him to the sofa, snatched the laptop from his hands and snapped the lid shut, cutting off the music. He fixed John with a fierce scowl. "Don't *ever* play that again," he growled in his best 'terrifying sociopath' voice. The doctor just chuckled. "I thought it was quite good," he quipped lightly, shoving his bony flatmate off his chest so he could sit up. Sherlock slid down to perch on the cushions next to him and gingerly opened the laptop again, only to grimace as the video resumed where it left off. *"I'm burning up I'm burning u-"* "Ugh!" Sherlock closed the media player with as much vehemence as he could imbue in a single click and glared viciously at the email from Donovan. "If I find this on YouTube I am going to have Mycroft destroy the entire infrastructure of the internet." "My blog's on the internet," John pointed out with a frown. "All the better," Sherlock replied tetchily. He deleted the email before John could do anything about it, then handed the computer back. "What makes you think Mycroft will agree to help you anyway? He'd probably be happy to find out what you were up to. Fill the gaps, so to speak." John relaxed into the couch and resumed checking the rest of his emails. He quickly hid the alert for a message from Lestrade with the title *'Photos - don't let him delete!'* and glanced up to make sure Sherlock hadn't seen. The detective was glaring at some point in the middle distance, arms crossed over his thin chest like a pouting child. His hair was mussed from running around, making him look about twelve. John resisted the urge to smile indulgently. "If Mycroft tries to argue I will publish every single embarrassing moment of his childhood to as many websites as possible until he has no other choice but to assist me," Sherlock huffed and looked down at John. "I will start... with the baby photos." "God no," John said with a bemused smirk. "Yes. And following from there the ones where he's too fat for his primary school uniform," Sherlock glowered at John's email client and John laughed at the mental image of a chubby little Mycroft twirling a miniature umbrella. The two of them sat in companionable silence for a few minutes while John checked his blog and Sherlock sulked. Finally John closed the laptop and looked over at Sherlock. "I don't see why you're so embarrassed, it was a pretty good band," he said. Sherlock didn't respond, so he continued with, "I didn't even know you played guitar." "Learned in less than a week; it's a boring, unsophisticated instrument," Sherlock snapped, arms still crossed. "And the band was not *'good',* it was dreadful. Generic structure, pointless lyrics. I hated it." "Why'd you play, then?" John asked. "Devin gave me a discount on cocaine for helping out." John wrinkled his nose in displeasure. He supposed he really should have known it had something to do with drugs. "Devin?" he asked instead, hoping to avoid the more obvious subject. "The drummer," the detective clarified, then continued; "he had a brother who smuggled narcotics for a living." Sherlock's face had darkened considerably, and he brought his legs up to his chest as he glared out at the room. "They were not good people, John. That band was just an excuse to get as many impressionable idiots in a room as possible so the dealers could pass out samples and create more clients." John balked, remembering seeing a few older men milling around in the audience and in the backgrounds of photos. He'd had a vague idea they were older siblings or music enthusiasts- it hadn't even crossed his mind there would be drug dealers at a pub. He glanced at Sherlock and hesitated only a moment before putting a hand on the man's tense shoulder. "Hey, if it bothers you we'll just tell Lestrade to delete it, yeah?" he offered. Sherlock shot him a dark look. "As if the others would pass up the opportunity for ridicule," he spat bitterly. "The entire Yard's seen that video by now, John. And the photos. Delete that email by the way, I saw it on your alert queue," he added with a nod to the laptop. John bit back a sigh- of *course* Sherlock saw- and opened his computer to comply. His flatmate watched him with a look halfway between a pout and a scowl. "There, see? It's gone," John angled the screen towards his friend and Sherlock nodded once, then looked away. The doctor thought about getting up to go back to his armchair, but decided it was probably better for him to remain next to his friend. Talking about ex-lovers didn't appear to have opened any of Sherlock's old wounds, but the band certainly had, and the irascible man seemed to handle emotions somewhat better whilst in proximity to John. "Should have deleted everything back at the crime scene," the detective grumbled to himself. Then, more loudly: "Bloody Amanda and her *bloody* camera!" "Sherlock, it's honestly not that bad," John said, trying to placate the younger man. "Nobody's going to think less of you for-" "I don't care what people *think*, John!" Sherlock interrupted churlishly, fixing him with a glare. "No? What's this all about, then?" John set the laptop on the coffee table and turned to regard the sulking man beside him. Sherlock shifted his attention to scowling at everything that wasn't his flatmate. Tense silence stretched like a wall between them for several minutes. Finally, just when John was beginning to lose hope of getting any sort of answer out of his moody companion, Sherlock spoke. "It's an unpleasant period to remember," he uttered tersely. He shot John a brief calculating glance- probably deciding if he should elaborate or not- and shifted to lean his head back against the sofa with hands pressed together between his knees. John recognised this as one of his friend's many 'thinking poses' and carefully kept his mouth shut. It was a few seconds before Sherlock continued. "John you must understand, I was a very different person back then," he explained. "I *lived* for cocaine. Didn't matter what I had to do to get it. Whether it was playing in a ridiculous band, or-" Sherlock's teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut on whatever he'd been about to say. After a slight pause he added more quietly; "Well... suffice to say I was not the most well-adjusted of individuals." "Glad that's changed then," John muttered sarcastically before he could stop himself. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a wry grin, eyes glancing at the bullet holes in the wall behind them. "Fair point," he conceded. "Still, I no longer endeavour to spend every waking moment in a haze of liquor and stimulants. That's got to be some improvement." John *hmm'*d in agreement. "Could definitely be worse, I'll give you that." Sherlock smiled. They sat in silence again, companionable this time, as each fell to his own thoughts. After awhile John glanced over at Sherlock. He was sitting in a half-curled slouch, hair still mussed from their romp and a reflective expression on his pale face as he studied the cracks in the plaster above them. He looked so young. Seeing him like this made it hard to believe he'd ever been so much as a teenager, let alone some desperate uni kid doing unspeakable things for a hit of cocaine. Words from a case months ago suddenly came unbidden to the front of John's mind: Sebastian Wilkes smirking, saying *'we all hated him'* in that arrogant voice as Sherlock's eyes darted away in silent hurt. John frowned. "Did you start doing drugs at uni?" he asked, breaking the silence. He hoped his friend hadn't already decided to shut down verbally for the day. If they were going to have this kind of discussion John would really prefer it happened all at once, not fragmented and scattered over weeks in their usual manner. Sherlock thankfully still appeared to be in a talking mood. He made a vague affirmative noise. "Mycroft's spies kept distracting me from coursework," he said in a bored voice. "Needed a way to focus." John's eyes widened momentarily, wondering if Mycroft knew about his part in driving his younger brother to addiction. Sherlock glanced sidelong at him and caught the look. "Of *course* he knows," he drawled, deducing his flatmate's train of thought from his expression. "Did he ever apologise?" John asked. He thought he might be beginning to understand some of the motivation behind the brothers' 'childish feud'. Sherlock scoffed. "If kidnapping someone and trapping them in a rehabilitation facility for three months without a word of contact counts as an apology, then yes of course." "He *kidnapped* you?" "Well I wasn't about to go willingly." John shook his head in disbelief. Next to the Holmes brothers he and his sister were practically best mates. "No contact?" "Not even a letter. Too busy running the world to waste valuable time talking to his disappointment of a sibling, I expect." Sherlock was trying to keep his tone light, but his voice had gone low and bitter. This was obviously a sore subject. John made a disgusted noise at the elder Holmes' behaviour. "No wonder you hate him," he muttered. "Indeed." Sherlock sunk lower into the couch and rested his feet on the coffee table as he glowered at the ceiling. "He also... let Father find out," he added in a low murmur. John's face pulled into a gentle wince of sympathy. "And your dad wasn't the understanding type, I'm guessing." "He disowned me," Sherlock confirmed flatly. John grimaced. "You didn't relapse, did you?" he asked, dreading the answer. "You saw the photos, John. Did that man look sober to you?" John felt his heart sink. "Those were... *after* the-?" "After rehab, yes." Sherlock nodded. "Without a trust fund there was no way to continue at Oxford, so I decided my time would be better spent pursuing... other interests. It wasn't all bad of course; street life turned out to be very exciting," he added blandly, as if dropping out of university to become a homeless addict had just been another of his madcap bids to escape boredom. John tried to keep the pitying expression off his face. John desperately wanted to ask his friend to elaborate, but Sherlock's demeanour was quickly growing maudlin. He cast about for something slightly less bleak. "So how'd you end up in a band, then?" he asked lightly, hoping that tale would be a little more cheerful. Sherlock had, after all, managed to find a boyfriend by that point. And acquaintances. Surely things had gotten better. Sherlock turned his head and regarded his flatmate carefully. John stared right back. "Do you really want to know, John?" "Yes," the doctor replied without hesitation. "... Why?" Sherlock sounded genuinely curious. And maybe a little confused. Like he still wasn't used to people being interested in his life beyond the deductive capabilities. John felt his expression soften. "Because I want to know more about my friend," he explained patiently. Sherlock's eyes brightened like they always did at John's use of the word 'friend'. The doctor continued- "I've told you stories about my time in the army, haven't I? Turnabout's fair play." Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment. Then abruptly he sprang up from his slouched position to sit cross-legged on the cushion facing John. He brought his hands up fingertip-to-fingertip below his chin- another 'thinking pose'. "It's not a happy story, John," he warned. One last chance to back out. John didn't bite. "That's fine." Sherlock took a deep breath, eyes falling gently closed. He began to speak. "It started at the end of my first year..." ## Chapter 3 Sally stared at the computer screen in front of her, wrinkling her nose in displeasure as the grainy video shot blurred out of focus a few times. Ugh she hated when the files did this - gave her bloody migraine. Finally the picture sharpened up, the fuzz of distorted audio smoothing out to recognisable sounds. She pressed the headphones tighter over her ears and leant in close as a voice filtered through. "Where the bleedin' hell's the... christ, buggerin' piece a... ah, there!" Thick cockney accent, a young man muttering to himself in concentration. Sally furrowed her brows and watched as the shot of what appeared to be an old, rickety pub table panned swiftly upwards along a brick wall. It focused briefly on the freckled cheeks of some grinning bloke, then blurred with motion again and finally settled on a skinny teenager wearing a dark blue hoodie. The boy was seated on a scuffed wooden chair with his feet up on a dilapidated pub table beside him, eyes glued to his own fingers as they plucked idle notes from a chocolate-brown guitar resting against his stomach. *It's Holmes*, Sally realised with a triumphant smirk. *Finally!* She'd been trawling through the video files from that homicide case with the dead photographer for bloody *ages* now, on the hunt for more scandalous information concerning their ever-aggravating consulting detective. Whenever she had a few moments of free time - could justify wasting police resources snooping through a closed case - she'd be watching file after banal file looking for his face. Because there *had* to be more videos of the 'great detective' playing in that ridiculous pub band on here. Ones he hadn't managed to delete when he'd hacked into their evidence database last month. Granted, of course, she couldn't really prove it had been Holmes who'd done that... but considering the only photos that'd disappeared had been the ones with *his face* in them Sally figured the culprit pretty damned obvious. Lestrade hadn't seemed too concerned about it when she'd brought the security breach to his attention. He'd been more amused than anything, like he fully expected Holmes to both engage in and get away scot free with that sort of behaviour. Sally loved her boss, she really did, but *god* he could be such a doormat. Lacking any better option she'd eventually decided the most she could do was make sure at least *something* survived. (Preferably something stupidly embarrassing she could put on YouTube.) Down at the end of the list on their network copy of the laptop's hard drive contents there'd been a load of un-sorted files, just random things lacking a place in the woman's otherwise meticulously organised system. Sally'd figured Holmes hadn't gone through every single one of those. Certainly not the videos, at least. Would take too long, and Holmes was impatient - he'd just focus on photos, leave the rest. Maybe. Was worth a shot anyway. And oh good lord, but she'd been *right.* "You actually nicked Mandy's camera?" the absurdly young-looking version of Holmes on the screen said, his deep *(though not quite as deep as Sally was accustomed to - how old was he here, then? late teens? early twenties?)* voice sounding utterly bored. He glanced up toward the boy hidden behind the lens frame and raised an eyebrow. "Y'said I couldn't do it so I went an' bleedin' *did*, y'prat." The holder of the camera seemed to have been in the midst of sitting down in a chair as he spoke - the picture bounced and skittered around before finally settling on a close-in shot of Holmes' unimpressed face. "You just politely asked her if you could borrow it, didn't you?" he replied in a flat monotone. A disgruntled sputtering noise drifted from behind the frame. "Wh- *no*, you arse! I *nicked* it, fuck's sake. Y'think I can't steal a damn camera..." Holmes half-shrugged, looking back down to his instrument. Sounds of someone fiddling with settings on the lenses buffeted Sally's ears for a moment, before the shot zoomed out to take in a wider view of Holmes. Pale hands wandering over the neck of his guitar, feet on the tabletop off to the left of the frame with the rest of his body leaning idly back in his chair. Between the dirty trainers and short mop of messy, unkempt hair he looked strangely... human. Like a shiftless runaway, just some lost kid off the streets. Not at all his usual statuesque persona. "I think you're too chickenshit to risk Charley kicking your arse when his girlfriend finds out who lifted her expensive equipment." Sally raised her eyebrows in surprise, which swiftly morphed to delight. Hearing Holmes swear so casually, good lord. The victorious smirk of discovery had yet to leave her face - not a pub band performance, this, but nearly every bit as good as one. Teenage Holmes being a precious little rebel? Calling people 'chickenshit', of all things? Really? *Adorable.* Where'd he even picked up a phrase like that? An arm appeared suddenly in-frame *(it seemed the camera was resting on the tabletop in front of whomever had been operating it, now, because the shot remained steady despite his movement)* and unsuccessfully tried to smack Holmes upside the head. Holmes dodged easily, stuck his tongue out like a child, and the man who'd stolen the camera huffed in annoyance. Muffled sounds of a chair screeching across wood drifted through Sally's headphones. Then out of nowhere the young freckled bloke she'd only seen in a brief flash earlier was sitting right up next to Holmes in the midst of the frame. "Oi, Mandy, I nicked yer camera an' I ain't sayin' sorry!" the boy announced firmly into the screen. Beside him Holmes rolled his eyes. "You're filming yourself confessing to a petty crime, you moron." "Also Sherly's high t'shit on coke!" the other added in his chipper cockney quip. He turned and grinned as Holmes abruptly glared at him. "There, aye? Now I'll be done up on thievery an' you'll get yer arse a drugs offence." "You're a fucki-" "Anyways!" the boy continued, cutting Holmes' rude invective off. "Y'said if I lifted the camera you'd do th'song, 'member? Deal's a deal, mate." "I have no idea what you're on about," Holmes retorted airily as he shifted his gaze back down to the guitar. He set himself to plucking out a series of semi-random notes and seemed to have decided to ignore his companion. The freckled bloke shoved Holmes lightly in the arm, frowning. "Oi, don't be a fuckhead. Y'don't forget shit y'said two bleedin' hours ago." "I'm *high to shit* on coke, according to you. Why shouldn't I forget what I said two hours ago?" Holmes smirked very slightly to himself as his fingers flitted around some sort of little concerto-sounding melody. "I mean really I've probably got brain damage by now, haven't I? Muddled in the head." "Y'ain't got brain damage," the other replied in flat exasperation. Holmes blinked over at him, feigning a look of confusion. "Hang on... what was your name again?" With a gusty huff of a sigh the cockney boy leant sideways and grabbed Holmes' face in a quick kiss. Sally's eyebrows shot straight up towards her hair in shocked delight. She snickered into her hand and hoped to hell none of her colleagues would choose this moment to ask what she was watching. Because oh *lord*, that was right, wasn't it? The freckle-faced kid had been young Holmes' *boyfriend.* She'd forgotten that sordid detail in the time since she'd last looked through these files. And apparently he'd been *cockney?* Holmes had dated some vaguely chavvy little working-class criminal? Beautiful. Completely, sodding *beautiful*. "You're an arsehole," the unnamed-boyfriend announced matter-of-factly as he drew back from the kiss. He added a short pat on the cheek and smiled for the glare shot his way. "So what does that make you, an emotional masochist?" Holmes asked in a bland drawl. The other boy blinked. "A what?" "Good christ your vocabulary's shit." "Yeah get fucked, mate," the cockney kid replied with a light roll of his eyes. He turned back towards the camera and reached out with one hand to reposition it a bit, re-centring the frame so they were both equally in the shot. "Alright, then! Here's what we're on about-" "Who the hell are you talking to?" Holmes cut in, grumbling. His companion ignored him. "So a couple hours back we was talkin' bout the best way to go stealin' shit when Sherly said, an' I quote: *'if you manage to nick Mandy's camera I'll play that entire idiotic song of yours on film'*-" "Was that supposed to sound like my accent?" "- an' now he's tryin' to pretend like he don't remember sayin' that, but he bleedin' *does* cause he remembers fuckin' everythin', so now since I went an' nicked the camera he's gotta do the bloody song." "Good luck making me." The cockney boy smirked somewhat wickedly into the frame. "... and if he *don't* do it then I'm gonna start repeatin' every dumbarse thing he said th'other night when I got 'im stoned t'hell and we-" Holmes' eyes suddenly widened - he scrambled to shove himself forward in his chair and clapped a hand over the other man's mouth. His boyfriend laughed, pushing him off. "Oh not too keen on that'un, aye?" "You're a fucking *extortionist*," Holmes snapped, his glare gone furious, a faint flush to his cheeks. The other boy just laughed again. "Hey like I said, mate: deal's a deal." Holmes held his gaze for a moment more, then finally flopped back in his chair with a gusty, put-upon sigh. Beside him his friend grinned in triumph. "... I don't remember the notes," Holmes muttered unhappily. "Figure 'em out." Another furious glare (met by a sweet, guileless smile) and with a petulant grumble Holmes raised his hands to the guitar once more. Experimentally he played a short snippet of some tune, looking for the correct tones. After a few seconds he seemed to catch on to whatever he was doing and plucked out a more confident melody. "Is that it?" "Yep." The freckled boy was grinning ear-to-ear now, having leant back in his own chair to put his feet up on something (a chair, presumably) just out-of-frame. He tucked one hand into his jeans pockets, the other bent at a strangely awkward angle over his stomach, and nudged Holmes with his shoulder. "Come on, then, get on with it. I know y'remember how it goes." "Extortionist," Holmes muttered again. Regardless of his irritated tone he did, indeed, begin to play. A few bars of some lilting, repetitive tune flowed from the instrument. And then, to Sally's profound, utter shock... he started *singing.* It was in a low, almost sulky-sounding baritone, with the words not particularly loud. But they were definitely *lyrics*. And they were definitely being *sung*. Sally's mouth fell open. *"Please, remember me, happily* The smirk which had been locked in a semi-permanent state on Sally's face ever since discovering this file seemed to have found itself thoroughly erased by the melody now drifting through her headphones. Hurriedly she pressed the plastic muffs firmly over her ears once more, leant forward as she tried in vain to catch all the words. They seemed to slip through her memory the instant she heard them, nothing but a flowing cascade of poetry. What meaning she could catch between the startling (if somewhat hesitantly quiet) emotional undertones was all wistful recollection and... a sort of plea? A repeating request for remembrance? God, what song was this? On the screen Holmes' boyfriend seemed to be having similar difficulties to Sally's - at least where keeping his amused expression in place was concerned. His features had softened into a fond, sad smile as he watched the other man play. Holmes was too busy keeping an eye on the position of his fingers to notice. ... well, this definitely wasn't a *short* song, Sally noted dimly around perhaps the two minute mark. Strangely repetitive, too, though the lyrics kept on changing. She found herself somewhat unwillingly impressed with Holmes' ability to remember the order of so many varied lines. Ugh, but... but then that was just like him, wasn't it? Sodding *freak*, rubbing his smarts in everyone's faces, even as a punk teenager he'd still been showing off... She found her internal vitriol lacking in much of its usual venom. Mostly because she'd just gone and made the mistake of watching Holmes' face - his glare had morphed into something far less annoyed over the course of the impromptu little performance, now resembling a look of concentration more than anything. He seemed to have forgotten about his own adamant refusal to play and had moved on to actually singing with something approaching genuine *feeling*, whilst his guitar accompaniment became more firmly established. It was surreal to watch. Like a proper musician doing a show. On the other side of the frame the freckled bloke had begun to silently mouth along with the lyrics, a smile on his face... though, Sally noted, his eyes had turned downcast. Holmes glanced up at the man and abruptly the song quieted back down to a more uncertain plucking of notes, a hesitant voice. His expression went sort of oddly questioning as he studied his friend. Looking *worried*, almost. His companion looked up, then smiled and jerked his shoulder towards the camera. A gentle reminder that they were on film, apparently. Holmes blinked over, seemed to roll his eyes at the lens, then returned his focus to his instrument. The tempo sped up noticeably for what turned out to be the final few lines. *"My dear, and if I make* *The pearly gates* *I'll do my best to make a drawing* *Of god and lucifer, a boy and girl* *An angel kissing on a sinner* *A monkey and a man* *A marching band* *All around a frightened trapeze swinger..."* With a matter-of-fact plucking of the last notes he trailed off. A few beats of silence, then he huffed to himself and flopped conclusively back into his chair. "Aw, oi!" his boyfriend burst out. "Yer s'posed to do the *naah nah nah* stuff at th'end!" "You just blackmailed me into playing a *six minute long* song and you're miffed I didn't do the idiotic humming bit?" Holmes countered, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You're bloody impossible!" "Alright, fine... I just like that bit, is all." After a pause the other boy smiled, wide and genuine, and leant over to throw one arm around Holmes in a hug. *(Sally abruptly realised she'd not seen the bloke use his left arm at all - in fact the elbow appeared to be locked unnaturally into place under the sleeve of his jumper, a thick lump bulging beneath the fabric... a cast, maybe?)* "Y'did brilliant on all th'rest, though. Knew you'd remember th'words." Holmes returned the hug with a vaguely exasperated-looking pat on the man's back. "I have no idea how you expect me to forget the lyrics to a song you've played about a hundred bloody times this week." "Hah, yeah I dunno." The boy laughed again. "I guess most folks just kinda block that stuff out? Sounded brill, anyhow." The freckled bloke drew away from Holmes and, turning back to the table, reached out for the camera with his good arm. Sally's view of the scene blurred out again as the young man manipulated the object in his grip. "So where's th'fuckin' off switch, then?" "How should I know?" "Yer all good with computers an' shit." "Being able to defrag your laptop's ancient hard drive doesn't mean I'll automatically- oh, it's right there." "What? Where...? This'un...?" "*No*, you idiot, it's next to the-, bloody hell just give it here." More muffled sounds as the device switched hands, then a beat later the screen blacked out. Sally sat and stared vacantly at her darkened computer monitor for several seconds. Well. That had been... hm. Good lord. *Well.* She wasn't entirely sure why, but she was beginning to feel rather like she'd just been sucker-punched in the gut. Like her mental image of Sherlock Holmes had gotten turned squarely on its head, never to be viewed the same way again. But then *why...?* Was it... was it all the friendly banter? No, no, she'd heard Holmes have similar conversations with Watson loads of times - a bit less rude language, granted, but mostly the same dynamic. Nor was it the brief displays of affection between the man and his long-ago ex, as she'd seen that stuff already with the photos. So... so then. God, no... alright, it had been the singing. The *bloody* singing. For all Sally strove to maintain her stoic belief in Holmes as a dangerous psychopath, a walking time-bomb, ready to murder anyone at the drop of a hat... that position was now sorely compromised by the knowledge that the man had once upon a time been able to *sing.* And moreover that he'd sung something like *that.* A wistful, quiet ode, full of haunting melancholy. Resigned and oddly hopeful all at once. Quite frankly an *alarming* mix of emotions for a self-professed sociopath to convey so easily. Psychos... didn't sound like that. Did they? *Could* they? Was it possible to fake such a viscerally human act as *singing?* And to fake it that well? Endless minutes stretched by as she turned these questions over in her head. Finally, deciding she really shouldn't be wasting time like this in the middle of her office, she moved her hand to her mouse and firmly closed the video player. Holmes, christ... who cared. Who *cared*, honestly, he was a lunatic. A second's hesitation, though, as her pointer hovered over the button to close the folder she'd been browsing through. If she clicked on anything else now she'd lose track of the highlighted file - the thing had been named with an arbitrarily assigned designation by the camera, not organised into a tidy set like most of the victim's other recordings were. It could take weeks to find it again. These file copies were housed on a backup flash drive, not the original laptop (which had been compounded as evidence ages ago), so Sally was free to re-name it. Without giving herself time to reconsider she right clicked on the thumbnail to do so... but then sat frozen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What bland, boring, straightforward filename could possibly fit something like *this?* Unbidden her mind strayed once more back to the song, to a very young Holmes with a guitar over his too-thin chest and his freckled cockney boyfriend pressed up beside him, reluctantly giving musical voice to poetry. Shaking her head, she quickly typed in a few words, then closed the folder. # Can't Rewind Now We've Gone Too Far ## Chapter 1: We'll End Up Numb **««** **1. We'll End Up Numb** It started with an experiment. His hypothesis was as follows: *'If the stimulatory effects of caffeine and/or nicotine improve focus slightly, then a more powerful stimulant will improve focus significantly.'* Obtaining the drugs hadn't been difficult. He was, after all, surrounded by university students. The boy in the room across the hall provided him with plenty of contacts, and he'd soon amassed a decent-sized sample set from which to conduct his tests. First were the semi-legal substances. Ritalin was calming, languid. While he appreciated the lower volume his thoughts seemed to take he soon found that without his brain scratching itself half to death against his skull he lost all drive to do much of anything. He spent the afternoon watching a group of squirrels gather acorns outside his window. Quite tranquil. Serene. Unfortunately not much good for coursework. Dexedrine was next. It gave him plenty of energy, incredible focus. He finished three papers and half his maths work before the urge to get up and *do something* drove him to clean his living space, re-alphabetise the bookshelf and write a treatise on perfume scents. Too much, he determined as he came down. Far too much. It would take him *weeks* to get his room back into some kind of acceptable (dis)order. Methamphetamine hardly did anything. He out-smoked three tweakers (whose presence he'd only agreed to put up with for the use of their pipes) and found himself awash in a sort of bland contentment. Peaceful, but disinteresting. Too boring, he decided. Plus it required an enormous amount of product to work. He gave the leftover crystals to his erstwhile lab partners as payment for their assistance and spent the next hour watching them smoke themselves into varying states of psychosis. Cocaine was the last drug he tried. Contrary to what the term 'snorting' might imply, he found inhaling the soft white powder much easier than expected. All it took was a light intake of breath to draw it up the paper roll and straight into his sinuses. The flesh along the way seemed to fall numb on contact, a sharp burning followed by total loss of sensation spreading outwards from his nose and down the back of his throat. He coughed instinctively, rubbed at his tingling cheeks and waited for something to happen. Two seconds, three. Nothing. Was this going to be like the meth? How long should it take? Surely it would have kicked in by now. Maybe he hadn't done enough. Should he try cutting another li-? His eyes widened and he abruptly stopped poking his face. Oh. Oh... hell. *Bloody* ***hell.*** *Holy shit fucking-* It came on like an explosion. Blood was suddenly screaming through his veins, bright spots in his vision danced and faded and flared again. He collapsed bonelessly backwards onto his bed with a gasp as his body went haywire. But his mind... *god*, his mind did exactly the opposite. A million racing thoughts, the backdrop of normal consciousness, all seemed to stutter to a halt and shred like confetti. Torn fragments of ideas and feelings and long-past snippets of memory drifted down in flurries of snow, falling softly to cover his brain in a white blanket of silence. Calm, cool and pristine like a field in winter. January in his brain. He sniggered stupidly at the mental image and closed his eyes with a happy sigh. *This.* This was it. This was perfection. This was *his*. When the initial high wore off he found himself left with an excess of bright, happy energy. He could do *anything*, the world was his to command. So he tidied his room and finished assignments, eradicated the latest batch of his brother's listening devices and waved cheerfully at the MI5 agent loitering in the quad outside, humming a jaunty tune all the while. Good *lord*, this was incredible. He had to figure out how to feel like this *all the time.* As soon as Mycroft's bugs were all safely flushed down the toilet he set out to find the coke dealer again. He was going to need a *lot* more powder. **««** Over the next few weeks he underwent a transformation. Buried in the soothing snowbank of a near-constant cocaine buzz he became a new person. A *better* person. No longer a freak, a psycho, a danger to be avoided. (Unless he wanted to be.) He could *control* himself now, didn't have to be so damned *clever* all the time. Not that he stopped knowing things, of course. Quite the contrary actually, since it was far easier to focus on relevant details when didn't keep getting so distracted by streams of extraneous data. It was just that now he could consciously decide which facts to point out and which to keep to himself. When he saw things nobody else could possibly have noticed - even if they were amazing and smart and quite likely emotionally devastating for the subject in question - he didn't have to *say* anything. It was like waking up to find you'd been missing a limb your whole life. Only instead of finding himself miraculously able to walk or play piano he was just given the ability to control what came out of his mouth. Such a stupid simple thing, but it made so much difference. Back before cocaine he'd lived in constant dread of speaking aloud to anyone. It wasn't that he minded the people (though most of them were idiots and a good majority were obnoxious about it) but that he absolutely *hated* the helpless resignation of knowing that no matter what he promised himself there was no way to stay in the moment enough to monitor what he said. Conversations by their very nature it seemed were incredibly boring. Everyone kept expecting him to pretend to care about so many things that weren't the least bit interesting; pets and children and the weather and stupid subjective rubbish like *hopes* and *feelings*. Acting like he wasn't bored out of his skull was bloody exhausting, and quite frequently damned near impossible besides. His head was just full of so much *stuff*, all connected in complicated impossible infinite ways. The slightest thing could have him a million miles away on a train of thought no one else could follow. How could one possibly stay focused on someone's silly story about a cat after all when the chemical structure of taurine was so much more fascinating? And that led to sulphonic acids, laundry detergents, enzyme inhibitors, kidney disease... on and on because there was *always* something more interesting than listening to ordinary people talk about themselves. But then out of absolutely nowhere it would be his turn to speak again, and he'd be thinking of nothing even close to what they were supposed to be talking about. So his choices were to reply with whatever was on his mind, which was always too tangentially connected for anyone to see the relevance of and made him seem insane, or try to hide the fact that he'd been daydreaming by responding with whatever the last conversation-related thought he remembered having was. Depending on how far off in his head he was this could happen more or less automatically, bypassing any sort of conscious approval and taking him as much unawares as the other person. More often than not he'd snap back to reality at the sound of his own voice pointing out a detail about another person's habits or appearance he'd noticed about a hundred mental cycles ago and resolved not to mention. When the only danger was offending people this was simply a bit of a nuisance. However he frequently had secrets or thoughts that really did need to stay private, and in many situations the complete lack of self-control could prove devastating. So he took to texting and email whenever possible, since the extra step of reading over the message before he sent it assured his thinking-brain could never be overridden by his talking-brain. Drinking obscene amounts of tea and coffee also sometimes seemed to help, and he discovered that putting his body under physical stress could boost adrenaline and make it a little easier to concentrate for short periods. Cigarettes had thus been an experiment to test the hypothesis that stimulants were beneficial somehow, which he'd conceived of after coming across nicotine's effects in a biochemistry book. Swiping a pack off one of the house servants had been simple, hiding the resulting dependency from his brother had not. It didn't matter that Mycroft made him stop anyway since the negligible positive effect hadn't been worth the hassle of obtaining the foul things. Starting up again at uni had been an act of desperation. There were too many people around and too many unavoidable conversations, and while nicotine didn't actually do much to stop his getting *distracted* by everything it at least put a damper on the whole reflexive responding-without-thinking business. In an environment where most would not hesitate to thump him for revealing their poorly-kept relationship statuses even this slight benefit became invaluable. More than worth the loss of lung capacity from having to practically chain-smoke to maintain it. Of course in situations where keeping mum was not an option he was still pretty well screwed, since nothing seemed capable of controlling his general tactlessness. But he'd eventually learned to accept that. It was just one of the facts of life: water is wet, grass is green, Sherlock Holmes says rude things and gets punched. But cocaine... cocaine had changed the facts. In the shimmering white snowfield nothing could move without his knowledge, everything was too clear and clean and uncluttered to let him get sidetracked by stray thoughts. Moreover it was finally possible to stop, sit down and carefully arrange each sentence without worrying about unintended words and tangents butting in when he said them. Statements finally came out exactly as he'd planned, nothing slipped in without being approved first. Suddenly how he presented himself was within his power to decide; he could be heartbreakingly eloquent or callously vulgar, a Shakespearean actor or a polite vicar. He could behave literally any way he wanted. He could even pretend to be *normal.* And he soon discovered something amazing: people *liked* normal Sherlock. Well, strangers did anyway. The folks who knew him already - Sebastian, Adric and Natalie and others he saw regularly at meals or lectures - seemed more disturbed than anything by his new Regular Human persona. He supposed that was understandable - it *was* after all quite a big change, and since he was careful masking the signs of his developing habit there could be no discernible cause for them to attribute it to. He kept the act up around them anyway because their befuddled expressions every time he said something polite were entertaining to watch, not because he gave a toss what they thought of him. No, the people he *actually* cared about fooling were the new ones. People he'd just met, the strangers and casual acquaintances who didn't know he was actually a freakish sociopath under the false charisma. He smiled his Normal Smile and said his Normal Things and they smiled back and didn't seem at all offended. A few even asked to see him again, as if they wanted to have a second conversation, or even a third. As if they wanted to be *friends*. As if they *liked* him. It was such a new and strange way to interact with the world. Not *interesting* in the sense that chemistry was interesting but it captured his attention regardless, it was fun. He thought he might finally be beginning to understand what the rest of humanity saw in this whole being social thing. **««** One Friday night at supper he shocked Seb speechless by asking if there was anything on for the weekend. After a few rather tiresome minutes of convincing the other boy he wasn't planning to run an experiment involving poisonous gas on any crowds of students Sherlock managed to get himself invited to his first social gathering. It was exciting, but probably not for the right reasons - he was mostly just looking forward to compiling more data to add to his ongoing study of normal human behaviour. That night he carefully ensured his brother's spies were all busy following someone who looked a lot like him and had been paid to wear his coat for the evening. Clad in a school hoodie, dark jeans and plain trainers (more or less his default outfit since leaving Eton, those horrid uniforms had put him off formal attire for a good *decade*) he joined up with Sebastian and another boy he didn't know the name of at the door to the residence hall and set off across town to try his hand at the world of university keggers. The club was both very loud and very crowded, conditions that if he were sober would have driven him into an overstimulated meltdown within minutes. Luckily for him and everyone else though he was nowhere *near* sober. He'd done two massive lines before they left, figuring the dim lighting would be enough to hide his dilated pupils and any ensuing nosebleed could be attributed to being elbowed in the crowd. And in a rare moment of foresight he'd even thought to bring extra cocaine in case he was out long enough to start coming down. All in all he felt very prepared. Seb didn't stick around to introduce him to anyone, which was just as well as the econ student's customary method of presenting Sherlock to people tended to be something along the lines of *'this is the freak who lives in the room next to mine, he's a massive prick'* and Sherlock wanted to make a better first impression than that. He wandered the maze of bodies like an explorer in an uncharted jungle, cataloguing everything and taking reams and reams of mental notes. It was all so *fascinating.* People dancing and laughing and talking to each other. None of it looked like it was all that difficult. How had he ever thought himself incapable of this? Pretty soon he was chatting up a trio of giggling fresher girls - not because he found any of them particularly attractive, but because he'd decided an interactive approach to scientific observation would best suit his purposes and they'd been nearby. When one of them broke off from the rest and dragged him over to a dark corner he followed, wondering what on earth she thought might be over there that would interest anyone. Once obscured from the sight of other partygoers she whipped around and shoved him roughly against the wall, and for a panicked second he thought he'd said something to offend her without realising again. He opened his mouth to apologise (for *what?* he *hated* not knowing what he'd done, cocaine was supposed to *fix this* what had-) and suddenly her lips were pressed against his. Oh. He blinked, feeling her fingers tangle in the curls of his short hair as her lithe body pressed closer. She was...? Hm. Well... alright then. Kissing. Apparently they were kissing. Sherlock desperately called up everything he knew on the subject and determined he was woefully ignorant. He decided to just improvise. Couldn't be that difficult, right? He wound his arms around her waist and reciprocated the best he could. It all felt extremely uncoordinated and probably wasn't anything close to correct, but luckily it didn't seem to matter much because despite the hour the girl was incredibly drunk. Snogging, he decided, was not nearly as enthralling as everyone made it out to be. After a few minutes of sloppy making out he was starting to wonder what the actual *point* of all this was, since this couldn't possibly be an end of itself. Far too boring. Then one of her small hands suddenly moved out of his hair and found its way to the front of his jeans. The unexpected contact to a very sensitive area startled him into breaking away, and he stared down at her as she knelt down to fumble with his belt buckle, blond ringlets fluttering as she giggled drunkenly. Oh, he realised. *That* was the point. Well then. He... supposed he could give it a try. It was part of the experiment after all. Had to at least make an attempt. For science. He frowned as she continued to be thwarted by his belt. This should... probably be a lot more exciting. Human males were supposed to get all hot and bothered by the mere thought of sexual contact with a woman, weren't they? But he really wasn't aroused in the least. He was also getting a bit annoyed by the girl's constant, shrill giggling at her own inebriated state as she utterly failed to comprehend the mechanics of a simple square frame buckle. A 'bit annoyed' in this case translated into a prodigious feat of irritation, considering the enormous amount of cocaine in his system. She would be absolutely *unbearable* if his high wore off. And who knew how long this whole business would take, considering he wasn't even slightly erect? No, no. Too much risk, he decided. It would take forever and he refused to be caught anywhere near this woman when he began to sober up. Catching her hands before she could figure out the fiendish contraption at his waist Sherlock made a token attempt at pretending he'd gotten an urgent call on his mobile, then strode quickly away. He stopped on the other side of the writhing knot of bodies that made up the dance floor and glanced through to where he'd been, seeing the girl had already moved on and found another bloke to snog. The two seemed happy enough, so he made a mental note about promiscuity in women and wandered on. He stopped at one of the folding tables dotted around and appropriated a bottle of water, downing half of it in one go. Cocaine had the bothersome tendency to make his mouth extremely dry. Receiving a donation of saliva from some plastered girl had admittedly alleviated the problem somewhat, but was also vaguely disgusting, so Sherlock quickly drained the bottle and grabbed another one as he set off toward the bar he'd spotted. Maybe alcohol would make girls more interesting. If nothing else it would be useful to know how he reacted to it while high. He ordered a vodka mixer at random and sat on one of the tall stools facing the crowd, letting his eyes wander over the throng of bodies and deducing, deducing, deducing. *The girl near the speakers slept with nearly the entire rowing team over the course of last term; the one dancing next to her keeps a yorkshire terrier but only puts up with its incessant yapping because it belonged to her late mother; the boy over by the stairs is dating three different women at once, one a professor and none the girl he's currently flirting with; the two girls to the left think they're fraternal twins but their mother had an affair and one of them is an illegitimate half-sibling.* Sherlock forced himself to stop as the bartender set down a glass of clear red liquid on the bartop behind him. Apparently it was open bar (some wealthy lad's birthday, no doubt) so he grabbed it without worrying about paying and spun back round on the stool to observe some more. He took a careful sip of the drink, not entirely sure if his taste buds had recovered from the cocaine numbness yet. They had. He scrunched his face up instinctively at the disgusting half-rotted taste. Ugh, he could *always* taste the alcohol. "It's not so bad if you just chug the whole thing," a voice said from beside him. Sherlock forced the childish grimace off his face and turned to find a very handsome young man had claimed the next stool over. "I'm fine," Sherlock replied tetchily, unwilling to give the stranger an excuse to ridicule him for not being able to handle a vodka cranberry. He attempted to take a larger swallow of his mixer to illustrate the point and ended up immediately spitting it out again in revulsion. The other man chuckled warmly, shaking his head. "You're alright, mate. Here try this one." He was holding out a stout glass half-filled with some light blue concoction. Sherlock found himself flushing slightly as he realised the man was offering to share a glass he'd already drunk from - something like indirect kissing, he imagined. His groin gave a vague stirring at the implications, making him stop short and blink in confusion as he reached out for the glass. Wait. Waaait wait wait, he'd just had a woman *grab his crotch* without so much as a flicker of arousal and now he was getting excited at the mere thought of sharing a drink with someone? And was it just him or had he described the man as *handsome* earlier? *Oh good lord I'm gay.* He froze. How the- how had he not- no, no he couldn't be. Surely he'd have realised sooner. He was *nineteen* for Christ's sake, that was *far* too old to just now be discovering an orientation. People noticed those kinds of things during the early adolescent years when their hormones were raging... and he'd spent that period of his life in an *all-boy's boarding school*, for god's... he wouldn't have been able to *help* noticing if he was... was attracted to... oh. Oh.. dear. Sherlock's eyes widened. Various buried memories began to shake themselves loose from the snowbanks in his head. *Thirteen years old, trailing unobtrusively behind an older boy named Micah Allen and trying not to blush when the senior referred to him as his 'pet genius'; doing the other boy's assignments even though they were boring because it made Micah smile and pat his head and say 'good boy' in a way that was somehow not as condescending as it should be; discovering confusing feelings and a lot of unidentifiable desires which he'd attributed to puberty and shoved firmly to the back of his mind where they whispered terrible things in the darkness; refusing to sleep at all during the holidays lest his brother deduce the content of his dreams; becoming a target for bullying the following year when Micah left for Cambridge, fair game now that he no longer 'belonged' to an upperclassman; spending the rest of that half learning the hard way how to defend himself, Father finally getting fed up with his slipping grades and informing him he had until next hols to improve; forcing himself to overcome his aversion to the horrific stillness of study hall because he didn't want to find out what the unspoken consequences of failure would be; no more time after that for any thought besides 'shut up' or 'focus' or 'idiot' repeated over and over ad nauseum...* A hand suddenly broke into his flashbacks, waving in front of his face. He blinked. "Alright?" the man next to him asked with an odd sort of half-smile. Sherlock realised he had frozen with his hand still halfway out to take the offered glass and was now leaning awkwardly to the side with his mouth half open, staring at nothing. He snapped himself forcefully out of the swirling eddies of recollection and grabbed the other man's drink, taking a much larger swallow of the blue liquid than he'd intended. *"Ugh!"* he immediately sputtered, clapping a hand to his mouth and nearly retching as he shoved the glass back to its owner. Oh *god* it was even worse than the cranberry - some kind of appalling mix of pineapple and melon juice with the foul rot of liquor permeating everything like a disease. How did people *stand* this stuff? The stranger was laughing good-naturedly at his violent reaction. "No good, eh?" "That's *disgusting,*" Sherlock moaned, digging into the front pocket of his hoodie for the plastic bottle he'd stowed there earlier. Unfortunately the lukewarm water did very little to remove the cloying aftertaste of decayed fruit; he grimaced at the flavour still clinging to his tongue. "Yeah I'm not too fond of it either," the man said, grinning. "But hey, it's better than straight shots. What's your name, by the way? Don't think I've seen you around before." "Oh, er.. no, you wouldn't have. I've... been a bit busy with coursework lately, not much time to go out." Not entirely a lie. He pasted on his Normal Smile and held out a hand in greeting. "Sherlock Holmes." The man took his hand and Sherlock resolutely ignored the stirring in his pants as warm, calloused fingers closed around his. No amount of cocaine in the world could quell the vivid images his brain was conjuring up right now concerning those fingers. "Victor Trevor," the man said. "*Very* nice to make your acquaintance," he added with a wink, and Sherlock abruptly realised he was being flirted with. *Brilliant! I mean, er... how fascinating.* He decided he should really flirt back. The experiment was still on, after all. "And yours," he replied in the same teasing tone of voice as the other had used, smirking slightly to add emphasis. Ha, flirting was *easy.* "This place is a bit loud for a conversation, don't you think?" Victor pointed out with a false air of nonchalance. "What do you say we find somewhere more... private to talk?" More stirrings. This was looking much more promising than the girl had been. "After you," Sherlock said, indicating the other man lead him. The two of them abandoned their drinks and made their way upstairs. They didn't end up doing much talking. **««** He saw Victor several more times over the following weeks, the steadfast young man becoming what Sherlock guessed was his first real friend. Not his *boy*friend, because people didn't date sociopaths and neither of them were much for exclusivity anyway, but they did shag several more times in several interesting places. As far as Sherlock was concerned it was the perfect relationship. He didn't have to worry about Victor breaking up with him over something he said because they weren't together, and he could use whatever persona he wanted around the man because Vic had figured out his act within the first hour of their meeting (to be fair, Sherlock had been a bit too distracted to worry about his cadence at the time) and didn't seem to mind when Sherlock flipped rapidly between various characters. He'd been building a small repertoire of them and needed the practice. They even struck up a bit of a cooperative association at bars. Vic would spot a likely set of targets, Sherlock would deduce their orientation *(his 'party trick', as Vic called it - he'd tried to explain it wasn't a trick and got an eyeroll and a lesson on figurative colloquialisms; Vic was apparently reading linguistics)* and together they'd conspire to seduce every gay man in the establishment. The sea of disappointed faces when they ended up leaving together at the end of the night was extremely entertaining for no real reason he could identify. Vic would laugh though, and he would too. It was simply... fun. For the first time in living memory Sherlock found he was genuinely fond of another person's company. The rest of his life seemed to improve just as dramatically. Studying was easy now that he wasn't constantly compelled to check his surroundings for cameras. Lectures were dull, but he could sit through them without feeling suffocated by the stillness. And the inconspicuous men his brother assigned to follow him from building to building stopped being aggravating and started being a source of entertainment. Mycroft was wasting taxpayers' hard-earned money to pay various agents to tail him around the city, he figured it was his civic duty to at least create a bit of a challenge for the poor sods. Sherlock very swiftly became the worst mark *ever.* He started taking the most convoluted routes he could possibly think of, twisting and turning and ducking in and out of alleys whenever the mood took him. Whenever his pursuer was forced to break cover or risk losing him he'd invariably stop short, turn to face them with a winning smile and perform a deliberately incorrect military salute before walking off again. Once or twice he even managed to get himself flipped off doing this, which was incredibly funny considering the distinguished military histories of those typically sent to shadow him. Eventually he deduced that the Follow-Mr Holmes'-Baby-Brother-Around-Oxford mission was seen as something like a work holiday for more experienced agents, and a safe training venue for rookies. With this in mind Sherlock began keeping a close eye on the approximate rank of his tails and modifying his behaviour according to seniority. Veterans got either the dull routine or an unpredictable combination of both circuitous and direct paths depending on how haggard/bored they looked. Newer recruits invariably ended up dogging him around the most complicated pattern imaginable. After the fourth junior agent got lost he stopped seeing anyone with less than ten years' service shadowing his movements, which was gratifyingly amusing if a little disappointing. Not that it mattered in terms of his privacy of course - he could lose them all equally easily when he needed to - he'd just liked feeling as if he was making a contribution to the training regime. The thought of being watched used to be enough to drive him mad with paranoid anger - his focus on school would shatter as he fought to get out from the path of what he perceived to be constant judging scrutiny. Not so anymore. Now it was just a sort of silly background event. All these *people* scurrying about in some massive undercover operation to watch a nineteen year old swot about in the lab and write essays, it was almost comically absurd. Especially when considering that somehow, for all their being a bunch of proper paramilitary spies, they couldn't even seem to *outwit* said nineteen year old. Granted that was hardly fair to them, as he was a genius. But *still*. Not one of them had caught him buying or using drugs (which he knew because Mycroft had yet to descend from the heavens to smite him), none had managed to tail him all the way to a bar (it seemed he knew Oxford far better than they and could always find a misleading alley) and none had picked up on his frequent trysts with strange men *at* said bars (because, again, lack of smiting. Or a snarky phone call. He wasn't entirely sure which was more likely but neither had occurred so it was a moot point.) It was all rather pathetic. **««** Contemplating the switch from insufflation to injection had ostensibly been an innocent idea to curb nosebleeds. They kept happening more and more frequently lately and for far less explainable reasons. It only made sense, therefore, to find a different way to use the drug before someone figured him out. Simple problem solving, really. That was what he told himself. He knew the real reason was because his tolerance had risen too much to let him feel the rush from snorting lines anymore, and he missed the giddy feeling of a snowstorm in his brain. Sherlock wasn't stupid; he understood what he was doing to himself. His mind and body were already showing signs of breaking under the strain of being on a near-constant coke high. Victor had mentioned several times how starved he'd begun to look, bones sticking out sharp under too-pale skin. He often forgot to sleep for days on end, too buzzed to feel tired but afraid of the inevitable crash if he let himself come down. Going too long without the drug brought on a crippling miasma of miserable desperation and guilt, a vicious migraine and the feeling of being trapped in a thick, soupy fog. It was easier to keep going till he passed out, and that was usually what happened. He hadn't ended up in hospital yet but it was only a matter of time. He had to *slow down*. Start taking smaller doses and wean himself off like he should have done months ago. But it was so close to the new term and he'd need to be- *No. Shut up.* He was too good at nearly convincing himself; had to stop listening to that insistent little voice. Adopting an even more addictive route of administration wouldn't be an appropriate solution to *anything,* he told himself firmly. It would, in fact, be monumentally stupid, breathtakingly dangerous and quite probably borderline suicidal. He wasn't going to try it. Never. Not for anything. The thing about cocaine though was that while you were high it made everything seem like a good idea. Even dangerous, monumentally stupid things. And despite his rising tolerance Sherlock still managed to spend the majority of his waking hours (of which there were now far more than was strictly reasonable) halfway to completely shitfaced. So without really thinking it through one afternoon he swiped a few syringes from the medical department as he went to survey the cadaver storage area *(which he wasn't technically allowed anywhere near, being a chemistry student, but that was irrelevant).* On a whim the next day he looked up instructions and safety precautions on a drug-users' forum, having borrowed *(not necessarily with permission)* a stranger's laptop so Mycroft wouldn't see the search history. And on a quiet Tuesday night the following week he casually shook his ever-present tail *(at the moment a former SAS who now did desk work and low-priority missions for MI5, owned a grey tomcat and recently widowed after a marriage of nearly twenty years, called Darrell, distinctly uncomfortable that Sherlock knew all this)* and found a dark alcove behind one of the science labs where no camera could see. He'd just try it once. Just to see if it was any different. An experiment. For science. Then he'd never do it again. As the needle entered his vein he had a vivid realisation that he'd gone too far. He would never be able to rewind from this moment. The moment when Sherlock Holmes had, officially and without any possible question, become an addict. Everything from now on would be a long, slow spiral to the end. He wanted to pull the needle out but it was too late now, wasn't it? The plunger was already down. A pervasive sense of dread filled his chest as his ears began to ring... he was going to die. Seconds later he no longer cared. **««** Sherlock made it a month before the inevitable happened. The night had been going poorly; he had the new term on, six different papers he'd been trying to write and an experiment running that simply *refused* to react properly, plus Seb was being an annoying git and trying to drag him off to some bar and *fuck off you stupid tosser I'm busy.* Seb left him with a parting shot about psychotic junkies *(Wait, what!? When did he-? Oh, hell, the track marks. Fuck. Well whatever, who was he going to tell, stupid bastard.)* and Sherlock flipped him off before storming back into his room to try and get some work done. He yanked down his sleeves angrily (why did he keep forgetting not to roll them up?) and surveyed the messy space. Disaster zone; clothes and books everywhere. His peacoat was on the floor, expensive wool probably wrinkling but fuck it, who cared. Glanced behind him, at the desk. His pre-mixed 7% solution sat tranquil and innocent in its unlabelled Erlenmeyer flask on the stained wood. Shouldn't, but... no, he *should*. These essays were important. He checked the position of Mycroft's cameras (still pointed where he'd left them) and quickly fished a needle out of the false bottom of his desk drawer. He drew up a moderate amount of cloudy liquid from the flask into the syringe. Maybe just a touch more than usual, since he *really* needed to focus. Not too much though. Just a tiny bit. He'd be fine. Ten minutes later he was pacing. *Nothing* was going right. Couldn't focus couldn't slow down couldn't *think.* This wasn't working, he needed more cocaine. The snow was melting in great patches from the soft white of his mind field until the whole thing was mottled and ugly with mud. Impossible to think around mud. Another quick flurry would fill in the gaps and leave it pristine again, then he'd be able to work. Just one more hit. It had only been a quarter hour since the last but surely he'd be alright? It was only a 7% solution after all, and his tolerance was so high - he'd barely even feel it. He'd just take a few more milligrams. It would be fine. Five minutes later he hit the ground gasping as a savage blizzard tore through his head. **««** Sherlock awoke with a deep groan. His head hurt. No, scratch that, *everything* hurt. It took him a few minutes to muster up the energy to open his eyes. When he finally managed it was only to immediately screw them shut again at the sight of a round, pale face looming over him. *"Pis'ffm'croft,"* he slurred indistinctly. Despite having just woken up he felt exhausted. In his head the snow had all melted. Brain was full of slush now - nothing but a vast lake of frigid wet slop sloshing back and forth. It was painful and wet and way too fucking *cold.* "And a very pleasant evening to you too, little brother," Mycroft's voice quipped in a tone of bland civility. "I trust you slept well." Sherlock cracked one eye open and fixed his unwelcome guest with a baleful glare. Mycroft's voice may have been civil but the rigid posture and tightly drawn face betrayed how utterly furious the man was under his careful demeanour. Under normal circumstances Sherlock might have congratulated himself for that - managing to piss off his emotionless statue of a brother so spectacularly was a rare accomplishment, after all. At the moment however he was having a hard time finding the enthusiasm. He felt like he'd been run down by a bus, and his brain might as well have been swapped for a toaster for all the good it was doing him. He slowly shifted himself around until he managed to manoeuvre into a sort of half-sitting slouch against the pillows, shivering violently. It was bloody *freezing* in here. With a scowl he tugged the thin hospital blankets as far up as they'd go and set about resolutely ignoring his sibling. Mycroft sighed very slightly when it became clear Sherlock wasn't going to acknowledge him. "Perhaps you could explain something to me," he continued in his artificially pleasant voice. Leaning away briefly he retrieved a thin sheaf of papers out of a pale beige folder sitting on the bedside table and made a deliberate show of scrutinising the text, despite having doubtless already memorised it. "I seem to have a report here claiming you were admitted to the hospital following a series of severe seizures, which according to the attending physician appear to have been induced by a blood cocaine concentration in excess of two and a half milligrams per litre - an amount I'm assured is, to use his exact words, 'bleeding ridiculous'." Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling. As amusing as it was to hear Mycroft swear he found he was distinctly not in the mood for his brother's usual prevaricating bullshit. "Do you really," he intoned dully, forgetting about the silent treatment he'd planned on. "I do," Mycroft replied, tone light. "It's very troubling, because the implication appears to be that you've been abusing a highly illegal and dangerous substance behind my back for long enough to develop a tolerance. You and I both know that you would never be so stupid, however, so the only possible explanation is that someone in this hospital is fabricating toxicology results. I have no idea why anyone would do that. Perhaps you'd like to weigh in on the matter?" Sherlock sighed heavily. His brother was such a condescending prat. "It's not my fault your spies are idiots," he muttered, ignoring Mycroft's specious sarcasm to answer the question he knew was actually being asked. "Wasn't even a challenge to hide it. They never check the camera coverage after first placement, just have to shift them by degrees until there's blind spots." He wasn't sure why he'd explained that - now he'd have to find another way to fix the cameras. But Mycroft's face pinched in that particular way that meant he was seriously peeved and oh right, that was why. Hah. Naught-two Sherlock. After a brief staring contest *(during which Sherlock* may *have allowed a bit of a puerile smirk to creep onto his face, which* may *have been specifically designed to piss off his brother, which mightn't have been the best decision in the long run)* the affable politicians' demeanour suddenly evaporated into a look of cold steel fury. Mycroft tossed the papers sharply back onto the table, leaned forward in his chair with a false air of nonchalance and locked eyes with his younger brother. Sherlock's decent mood vanished as he tried not to let himself recoil too obviously. For all his sibling's roundness and pomp the man really was capable of being quite terrifying when he was angry. "For *god's* sake Sherlock, what were you *thinking?*" Mycroft nearly snarled. Sherlock refused to flinch. "It was just a slight miscalculation," he replied more quietly than he'd meant to, eyes sliding away from his brother's gaze to look at the far wall instead. Not because he was intimidated or anything like that, just... bored of looking at that fat face. Right. "I simply overestimated my tolerance, that's all," he explained in what he hoped sounded like flat disinterest. Mycroft looked distinctly unimpressed. "You *know* that's not what I meant." Sherlock shrugged, shivering under his blanket. Fucking *hell*, could Mycroft not feel how frigid it was in here? Was his fat insulating him? For fuck's sake, the man must be part whale. His mind abruptly switched gears on him again as he cast his eyes around in search of a thermostat or some other kind of gauge. "*Focus*, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. Sherlock startled slightly and flicked his eyes back to his brother's face. "What?" he asked irritably. "You nearly *died*, do you even realise that?" "Of course I do." Who cared? Dying was boring. More pressing was the fact that his teeth were actually *chattering* now and it was proving quite difficult to huddle effectively under the blankets with all these tubes and wires sticking every which way. He glared at Mycroft through a violent shudder. "Look, if you're quite through being *concerned* would you mind getting someone to turn up the thermostat? It's *bloody freezing*. I'm aware you can't even feel it through your blubber but do try to remember not all of us were switched at birth with a walrus." Mycroft's eyebrow raised ever so slightly at the convoluted insult but he made no other movement, apparently choosing to completely ignore his younger brother's *really quite reasonable* request. Sherlock was royally pissed off. What, the bastard was going to just let him *freeze?* Fucking git! With a fierce scowl he shifted about and finally managed to extricate his left hand far enough to flip his brother off over the top of the sheets. With an alarmingly quick motion Mycroft's hand suddenly shot forward and grabbed Sherlock's fingers, who yelped as the hand shifted to latch onto his bony wrist with a deft motion and yanked his arm out from under the covers. Ignoring the string of rather creative expletives this elicited Mycroft carefully turned the limb over to expose the underside of the forearm. His expression rapidly darkened as he studied the pattern of tiny scars and puncture wounds scattered over the pale skin. "How long?" the older man asked icily, letting go of the too-thin wrist. Sherlock jerked his limb back under the covers with a sullen glare. "None of your bloody business," he retorted. "I'm checking you in to a rehabilitative facility." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't *dare.* Father would have a fit." "If it's a choice between Father's disapproval and your *death*, Sherlock, I would gladly choose the former." "*Disapproval?*" Sherlock repeated scathingly. "Mycroft, he'll be *furious*. I'll be lucky if I'm just disinherited." "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you began injecting cocaine directly into your bloodstream," his brother sniped back. Sherlock huddled in on himself and scowled at nothing. Mycroft had *no idea* what he was bloody talking about. As if he hadn't reminded himself of every single horrible scenario a *thousand* times, as if he'd *chosen* to let it get this far. And how, exactly, was he meant to have talked himself down when not even the knowledge of certain death had stopped him? A deep pit of anger was forming in his stomach. Mycroft could go *fuck himself.* "Honestly Sherlock, why-" the man started again. "*Why?* Because I couldn't bloody *think,* that's why!" Sherlock cut him off in a half-screeching snarl. The wild-eyed glare he shot at his sibling would probably have been more effective had he not still been swaddled up in his blanket like a child. Predictably Mycroft just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose delicately in a condescending look of exasperation. "Ah *yes,* of course. My security team 'distracting' you again, I imagine?" *"Obviously!"* "And you felt an *illegal stimulant* was your best solution to the problem." "Yes!" Sherlock snapped. "Yes, I *bloody did!* I *tried* everything else, Mycroft!" "Oh?" his brother asked drily, lowering his hand to fix him with a flat stare. "Like what, pray tell?" Sherlock bristled. "Oh I don't know, like perhaps *asking you outright* to stop spying on me so much? *Telling* you how much the cameras bloody bother me and having you completely ignore me like usual? Getting rid of them *myself* only for you to say I was being unreasonable and threaten to go to Father if I didn't stop destroying government property? Any of that ringing a *fucking bell,* Brother *Dearest?"* Mycroft opened his mouth to reply but Sherlock didn't let him get farther than "Sherlock you know why I have to-" before he was shouting again. "But of *course* you didn't listen, did you?" he ranted in a vicious snarl. He didn't want to hear his brother's stupid *reasons.* He'd been given all the excuses before and was bloody sick of it. The lake of slush in his head had begun to bubble and steam with righteous fury. "Why *would* you? After all nothing that bothers me is *actually* a problem, is it? No, it's just Sherlock being a *stupid freak* again! Let's all ignore him until he decides to get over this silly little eccentric phase! Surely he'll have to figure out how to function like a normal human being *eventually*. Why should anyone bother being the least bit helpful in the meantime?" "That's not-" Mycroft started. He looked rather alarmed by the unexpectedly emotional outburst. Sherlock was aware he was breaking every rule of decorum they usually held firm like a protective barrier between them, but he was too far past the point of caring to stop. His head hurt and *everything* hurt and he was *so fucking angry* and he wanted Mycroft to *understand.* "No! *Shut up!*" he screeched. "Look, I was sick of being so *fucking useless* while you ran about with your perfect grades and your perfect manners and your perfect bloody *life* so I did my best to ignore the spying but I just *couldn't,* because I'm *not like you* and I can't just quit *seeing* things so I asked you to stop but you just went *oh* *Sherlock you pathetic idiot why would I ever do* that-*"* "I didn't-" "*Shut up!* So since I couldn't change the environment the only option left was to change *myself* and *guess what* I bloody succeeded! All it took was one little chemical! *And* if I recall correctly, *you* seemed to think it was a massive improvement! After all I seem to remember getting a nice little *congratulations* on my recent upswing in grade point average from a certain oblivious *whale* of a sibling a few months back. How did you even think I managed that? Did you think I'd just *gotten over* being driven mad by your cameras? Were you all smug and satisfied because it obviously wasn't *really* distracting me, I'd just been *whinging* like *usual?"* "Of course not," Mycroft said faintly. *"Liar,"* Sherlock spat. He'd worked himself out of his blankets with furious gesturing during his tirade and the chill on his arms was raising goose pimples. He also felt vaguely sick. Mycroft seemed a little shell-shocked, so rather than maintain the staring contest they'd habitually fallen into Sherlock instead curled forward miserably over his knees, hugged his arms to his chest and shivered for all he was worth. "... fuck's sake turn the bloody heat up," he mumbled after a moment of silence. To his surprise, Mycroft obeyed. The thermostat was hidden behind the bedcurtain somewhere to his right, judging by the footsteps. Seconds later the sounds of a baseboard heater clunking to life filled the room. Mycroft moved back to his bedside but didn't resume sitting. "The room was being kept cold because they needed to keep your core temperature down," he explained quietly. "Cocaine-induced hyperthermia. But I'm sure you knew that." Sherlock didn't reply. He heard his brother step away again, a cupboard on the other side of the room opening and closing, and suddenly another blanket was being tucked around his shoulders with more care than he was prepared to process. A horrifying pricking sensation collected behind his eyes, but he sniffed forcefully to ward it off. He was *not* going to cry in front of his brother. His sinuses were throbbing slightly from the abuse but he ignored them in favour of glaring at the bed railings. Why were they up? And the velcro cuffs... had he been restrained for some reason? "You're bleeding," Mycroft cut in abruptly. Sherlock blinked and looked down at the sheets. They were indeed becoming speckled with blood. "Oh," he realised, his nose had started up again. He shrugged. "Happens." "I'll get a doctor," his brother muttered, sounding slightly nauseous. Sherlock raised his head enough to see the older man's face and quirked an eyebrow at the sight of Mycroft's rapidly paling complexion. "... Does blood *bother* you?" he asked curiously, eyes narrowing in interest. He tried to remember if his sibling had displayed any hints of haemophobia during their childhood, but came up blank. As far as he could recall neither of them had ever been hurt badly enough for it to come up. Not even Sherlock's frequent excursions up trees and straight into multiple hazardous situations had ever necessitated much more than a sticking plaster and a kind word from the nanny. By the time he got to far enough along in school to start getting beaten up in earnest Mycroft had been away at university and he'd been at Eton. "No," Mycroft denied firmly. Too firmly. Sherlock's brow climbed further. "I simply- it's running all down your *face*, Sherlock. It's ghastly." "I don't care." "Well *I* do," his brother snapped, and turned smartly on his heel to walk right out the door. Presumably he was off to flag down half the hospital staff to come stuff gauze up his little brother's nostrils. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed; figured the man who ordered assassinations left and right would be put off by a simple nosebleed. What a *ponce.* A movement by the wall caught his attention, and he looked over to see one of the curtains blowing in a faint breeze. The window was slightly open. Intrigued, he craned his neck but couldn't quite manage to see outside. He looked down at his body with irritation and tried to gauge what exactly he was hooked up to. Heart monitor? No, just the pads. The leads had been disconnected by someone. He'd probably been pulling at them in his sleep. That just left the IV and pulse-ox metre. He ripped the tube out of his right arm and tossed the pulse-ox to the side. A pillowcase made a decent enough rag to stop up his leaking nose as he climbed out of the bed and shuffled over to the window, clutching the extra blanket around his shoulders. He nudged aside the curtains and looked out. Ground floor. Mycroft had put him on the *ground floor*. *Getting sloppy, Myc,* he thought snarkily. It was the work of less than two minutes to locate a set of hospital scrubs from the linen cupboard, change out of his thin gown and hoist himself out the window. He padded silently around the building, keeping a lookout for sentries (not a single one; Mycroft must not have had time to set things up properly, explained why he'd been so tense). He quickly made it off the hospital grounds well before anyone had a chance to stop him and headed for his college. With any luck he'd be back at the hall before the first cravings set in. The slight twinge of guilt at the thought of how distraught his brother would be when he returned to the room to find it empty made him consider turning back for a split-second. He resolutely shook the feeling off. Who *cared* if he worried Mycroft? Bastard deserved it. Sherlock kept walking. **««** For the second time in as many days Sherlock awoke in a strange bed in a strange room. Not a hospital this time, but something very like one. There was a clinical air about the place. Smell of antiseptic. Starchy sheets. Tubes and wires and bed railings. Not normal. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten here. For some reason he had a dark, slightly paranoid theory that his brother had something slipped into his cocaine while he'd been busy walking back to Brasenose. There was after all a rather troubling blank period in his memory stretching from around the time he'd made it back to his room and found his stash exactly as he'd left it (suspicious..? maybe, he'd been too desperate to give it much thought) to, well... waking up here. Wherever *here* was. As rooms went it was pleasant enough, he supposed. Everything was done up in tasteful greens and goldenrods - colourful but understated. Perhaps a hint of wealthy refinement in the artwork and furniture. Quite classy. If he weren't feeling rather like a passenger train had been rerouted through his skull he might have even taken a moment to appreciate the design aesthetic. As it was, however, the room and every single object in it were conspiring to slice viciously at his nerves. Wave after wave of intense, pointless fury ran in a vicious monologue through his aching head. *-landscape paintings are hackneyed what a sickening shade of green who the fuck chose that trim that chair can piss right the fuck off christ what an ugly tile pattern why the lace curtains for fuck's sake what is this a care home how much is that fat bastard paying for this I hope it's bloody exorbitant-* He grit his teeth against his own shrieking thoughts and curled into a tight ball under the covers of the unfamiliar bed. Too much. Feelings, thoughts, sensations. All the things usually muted by the blissful serenity of cocaine were rushing straight back into his consciousness like a tidal wave of perception, and he could no longer swim. He'd spent too long courting a false sense of normality, believing in a fantasy world of self-control while all his careful coping mechanisms atrophied and died under a smothering blanket of white. Now the snow had melted and left a field of skeletons in its wake. No tricks left - just him and the screaming jet engine of his own overactive brain. *-ets smell of bleach someone wearing expensive cologne here not long ago the nurse is left-handed around five foot four room too bright nobody thought to close the curtains don't lift head stay out of the sunbeam migraine ow ow ow someone talking in the next room angry paranoid arguing with a doctor what day is it surely not Friday shit I never got that essay done Thompson's going to be furious should have started it earlier too distracted by Victor wonder if he got that bloke from the rugby team to come out yet christ my head hurts couldn't they at least have left some paracetamol wish I had my violin wait no I don't too loud ugh the last person in this room was a heroin addict how disgus-* His hand shot out from under the blanket, grabbed a pillow and shoved it roughly over his head. It didn't help. *God,* was this really his natural mental state? How had he ever *functioned?* So many thoughts scattered every which way and all of them so vacuously inane. Details registered in a constant buzz of unwanted knowledge through his consciousness but none of them made even the slightest glimmer of sense over all the cacophonous noise. Everything was too close, too loud, too... *too.* Christ, he needed a hit. Needed to slow things down before he went completely mad. Just one. A little bit would do. The tiniest speck. Forty milligrams. No... twenty. Ten. Five! *Anything.* Coffee, a cigarette, any kind of stimulant just make this *stop stop stop dear lord stop turn it off.* But no. No, of course he wouldn't get drugs here. It had taken *far* too long but he finally realised where he had to be. *Rehab.* Mycroft. Bloody fucking bastard Mycroft. He *had* spiked his drugs - cut in some sort of sedative and... and what? *Abducted* him? From his own bloody room? At two in the morning? *My brother is a psychotic despot,* he thought savagely. Another spike of pain shot through his skull and he instinctively curled tighter around himself in search of comfort. A tug at the back of his hand caught his attention. Tape, iodine scent, plastic tube. IV line? Why? No, wait, obvious - more drugs. Mycroft again. Never content to leave him to his misery. Had to be sedatives. Causing the migraine? Probably. Get it out. *Out out out.* He uncoiled just enough to shift his other hand around and ripped the tubing fiercely from his flesh without even bothering to peel back the tape first. Blood oozed from the torn vein and he tucked it tightly under his chin to stem the flow. Refolded his body around the injury, closer than before. Small, safe. Nobody could get him. He'd stay like this forever. Over the next few hours he heard several nurses come and go. They all stopped to talk to him, polite and kind and trying to coax him out of his cocoon. He ignored them. He was never moving again. When he finally gave in and emerged (because it was getting stuffy, *not* because they'd offered him a glass of water and a cigarette) the staff seemed to collectively shift their efforts towards giving him medications. He refused everything. Not because he thought it contaminated; the crippling paranoia of earlier had thankfully run its course. Now his obstinance was down to pride. Sherlock was a *genius*, he didn't need their stupid pills. His body was *his* to command, his brain a masterwork; a little silly withdrawal wasn't going to defeat him. He didn't need *anything.* (Of course when he'd actually said as much they pointed out that he'd been happy enough to accept the cigarette. He'd pointed out that they could go fuck themselves.) He was just settling into another round of sullen brooding when a new nurse stepped into his room. He glared venomously, eyes flicking up and down to pry all the secrets from her form. The last woman had run out in tears after he listed off every last one of her failed marriages (*jewellery, hairstyle, shoe brand, obvious*) and this one looked to have been sent in as backup. *Happily married, at least two children, mid to late forties, no pets, no illnesses... damn.* She was too well-adjusted to torment. He scowled as she deftly fixed the new IV he'd been fitted with *(they said it was just fluids, he didn't believe them because if that was true why did they seem so insistent on constantly replacing it)*, then walked away to fill a paper cup of water from the sink in the en suite. He waited until she was a full three metres away from him before reaching down and tearing out the tube again. She sighed as she turned back around and saw what he'd done. "Please stop doing that." Tiny hint of irritation, mostly just exasperated. *Professional*, he thought. *Used to this behaviour. Some kind of nursing veteran. Twenty year career? No... thirty. Look at the shoes. Hm, necklace, tan lines...* Oh, she was talking again. "Mr Hope, I know you're upset right now and believe me that's very understandable," she was saying. Sherlock only just barely heard her over the chattering of his own thoughts. He realised she'd produced a pink and red capsule from the pocket of her scrub top and was holding it towards him. "If you'd just take your medication I promise you'll start to feel better." "What did you call me?" he asked instead, deliberately ignoring her request. A slight movement out the window caught his attention and without really meaning to he shifted his head to look outside. Leaves falling from a stand of poplar trees; yellow, red, brown, fluttering in the late autumn chill. A large bush of winter honeysuckle just beginning to bud under the windowsill. *(Shouldn't put shrubbery in front of windows, invites thieves. Who would steal from a rehab clinic? I would, resolve to do so at earliest convenience.)* Beyond that were fields and gardens, a stream, several acres of extensive landscaping. Very posh, if a bit rustic. He had a vague feeling he might be somewhere in Kent. "Mr Hope...?" the nurse replied, her confused voice interrupting his musings. Sherlock turned back to blink at her. Why did she keep calling him that-? *Oh*, he suddenly realised. Oh, right. Fake name. Mycroft had booked him under a pseudonym so Father wouldn't find out. How... kind. Almost made up for the drugging and kidnapping. Wait, no it didn't. Mycroft was a bastard. The hand with the capsule had moved forward again and was now nearly butting into his chest with its insistence. He graced it the barest of glances before looking away. "I'm not taking that," he informed the nurse. Studied the clouds; stratocumulus. Dull. Grey. British. "It's nothing dangerous, dear. Just to help the anxiety." "I'm not anxious." He wasn't. He *had* been rhythmically clenching his jaw against the pounding in his skull for the last hour, but that didn't mean anything. His head just hurt, the movement helped. He stopped doing it anyway, to prove he could. *There, see? Not anxious.* He glared at the fields outside and didn't notice when half a second later his teeth clamped together again. "Still grinding them dear," the nurse pointed out rather blandly. Sherlock shot her a venomous look and forced his jaw to loosen. *So what? Just a habit. Not indicative of any sort of mental state. What does she know anyway.* She was speaking again. *Good god, woman, shut up.* "The medicine will honestly help, love. It's a-" "-beta blocker," he finished for her. Obvious. He'd seen the capsules plenty of times in the hands of fellow musicians. Used to calm the nerves, soothe stage fright. He'd never bothered with the stuff. What was the point? Adrenaline made him play *better*, on the rare occasion he even experienced it during a concert. Stage fright was for ordinary people. The nurse had shut her mouth and was now staring at him determinedly. She really didn't seem inclined to back down. Sherlock sighed. *Ugh, sod it. Just make her leave.* "Fine then, give it here," he muttered dully, holding out a hand for the medicine. She flashed him a relieved smile and handed over the pill and cup of water. He let her check under his tongue to be sure he'd swallowed, then waited patiently for her to exit the room. As soon as she was out the door he made his way over to the window (ripping out his IV on the way again; bloody meddling nurses), pried the capsule from behind his back molar with his tongue and spat it out. He watched the casing slowly dissolve in the damp garden soil below and wondered vaguely if it would soothe the frayed nerves of the honeysuckle bush. After a few minutes staring Sherlock sighed gustily, scrubbed both hands through his hair in agitation and leant down to rest his elbows on the windowsill. The cool October air raised goose pimples on his flesh but he made no move to cover his arms. Let them freeze, what did he care. Escape, he assumed with a sort of resigned objectivity, was probably not an option. Not after his stunt at the hospital. Mycroft would made sure to post an entire *regiment* of guards, with cameras, bugs... he turned his head suddenly and peered behind him as if he could spot the devices through sheer willpower. Quickly turned back around. Wouldn't do for anyone to catch him looking nervous. What had he been thinking about...? Oh, escape. Right. Impossible. Well. Perhaps not if he had cocaine *(cocaine god need to think need the snow back god damn it why can't I just have a little aren't they supposed to titrate you off these things).* With the calm focus and heightened energy of his snowfield he could probably engineer a plan to evade whatever measures his brother had taken to keep him trapped here. Where he'd go after that he had no idea, considering everyone he knew was either back at Oxford or connected to his family, but it was a moot point anyway since without the drugs he had no hope of leaving. Planning was impossible; his thoughts kept splintering in a million different directions, he felt more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life and he had no motivation to do anything beyond sit here and marinate in the nebulous mix of swirling hatred and misery that now consumed his brain. Mycroft was just wasting money guarding him. Sherlock couldn't even- no, no he *wouldn't* leave. By... by *choice.* Yes, that was his plan. He'd annoy Mycroft and confuse the hell out of the sentries and camera operators and the listening agents and whoever the *fuck* else his brother had hired to watch him by being all nice and compliant in his lovely little off-putting green room with the lacy curtains and not trying to get away *at all*. Mycroft would waste resources and the agents would be bored and overpaid. *That'd* show 'em. Right. He grumbled indistinctly at his own stupid thoughts and bent himself nearly double to lean his forehead on the windowsill, arms hanging out into the chilly air and brushing lightly against the damp leaves of the honeysuckles. Everything was shit, he decided. Every. Single. Thing. He wanted coke. He wanted the beta blocker back. He wanted... *god,* he didn't even *know* what he wanted. A normal brain. A brother who wasn't a lunatic. A *father* who wasn't a lunatic. A mother who didn't ignore him. A boyfriend who was *actually* a boyfriend and not just some bloke he occasionally slept with. Some decent chips with vinegar. *(Wait, was he actually hungry? When was the last time* that *happened?)* Eventually he gave up on thinking in general as a bad job and meandered back to his bed. He'd just go back to sleep, that was easiest. Maybe when he woke he'd be sane again. He sincerely doubted that but it was always good to stay optimistic. He curled into a ball under the pea-green duvet and tried to silence his brain long enough to drift off. When he finally managed to fall into a light doze his dreams were all about dying. An avalanche rushed down the mountain toward him, impacted like a freight train with a noise like a jet engine and every bone in his body broke simultaneously with a horrifying symphony of cracks. He screamed in pain and awoke with a start. *Fuck,* alright, no more sleeping. A bleary-eyed glance at the clock told him he'd been out for around half an hour, and that was plenty of rest. He sat up, kicked the covers off and leant against the headboard to stare fixedly at the trees outside, thinking he'd keep himself awake by counting leaves as they fell. Around the two hundred mark his eyes started to drift shut. At two-hundred-sixty he finally allowed himself to list sideways and lay in a curled heap on the pillows because sitting up was too much work. He was cold; the window was open and the blankets were on the floor. But that was fine, since he wasn't sleeping anyway. Perhaps he might shut his eyes for a moment, though... they were fatigued. Understandable, as he'd been watching leaves for an hour. He let his lids slide closed. Just for a minute. This time he dreamt of freezing solid, trapped in a block of ice while blood and flesh gradually coagulated into tiny slicing crystals. Death was slow and silent and agonising. Every time it finally took him he would return again, trapped in an endless cycle of freezing and thawing and freezing again. He slept for hours. **««** Sherlock *(and/or 'Sherrington', Mycroft was evidently a bit shit with pseudonyms)* wasn't quite sure if it was more pathetic or depressing the way the doctors were so easily convinced by his acting. All it took was a few carefully-chosen words, the right physical actions and a few fabricated personal quirks to keep them all completely ignorant of the true state of his mental health. Pretend to respond to medications, participate in therapy and recreation and whatever the hell else they threw at him; do it right, play the part. It was harder to coordinate without cocaine but still not completely impossible, especially with literally *nothing* else around to occupy his mind. So he became Sherry, the sanguine, affable biology student who thought he might like to be a veterinarian some day but unfortunately had a crippling phobia of rabbits. He threw in a fake girlfriend to pine over, a best mate who liked books *(he hadn't realised whilst inventing the obligatory 'friend who assists in making bad decisions' for his character that he'd accidentally given the therapist a perfect description of Victor, which was appallingly Freudian of him but now he was stuck with it)* and a gratuitously tragic backstory involving dead parents and a mentally disabled brother. Pretty soon the staff started referring to him as one of their best patients. They all thought him a pleasant young man who'd simply made a poor choice at some party and got carried away, and his peers in group therapy *(which he wouldn't have attended even under threat of torture as Sherlock, but the entire point of Sherry was to be misleadingly oppositive to his true nature so he forced himself to go anyway)* seemed to think he was a bit of an airheaded ponce but nice enough to be around. He hadn't breathed a word about all the snow imagery *(mostly because he found it distinctly embarrassing to admit that his internal metaphors were so generically obvious)* nor of the way cocaine made his thoughts slow down and organize and fall in beautiful perfect patterns. No, Sherry was a bit too dense for all that, he just liked the drug because it made him 'feel brilliant'. Hardly an adequate explanation for imbibing something like fifteen kilos of the stuff over the past four months in Sherlock's opinion, but the staff seemed to accept it with the same gullible confidence they afforded everything else. It was all so pitiful. Fuck's sake, these were supposed to be *doctors*. He was inventing symptoms and motivations out of thin air with ever-increasing levels of sarcasm, how could they not see how fake he was? Was it *honestly* possible to be this stupid? Well, it would hardly matter for long. He fully expected to get caught out. Because no matter how many psychiatrists and nurses he managed to fool with his silly acting lark he knew his brother would be able to see straight through it in seconds. Mycroft's first visit would put an end to this persona of a bland affable idiot and force Sherlock to concoct a new set of lies to keep the doctors chasing their tails. Maybe he'd be a hedonist next, and then perhaps develop psychopathy. He figured he and Mycroft could turn it into a sort of game: Sherlock would make up a personality, his brother would call him on it and tell the doctors, then they'd start the cycle all over again. Mycroft would pretend to be angry at him for not taking his treatment seriously but secretly the older man would be amused, like he always was when Sherlock was being clever. It might even be fun. Sherlock would never admit to *looking forward* to seeing his sibling but he did find himself anticipating Mycroft's first visit. Just a little. Because he was bored, mostly, and Mycroft was always good to alleviate boredom. He was also getting incredibly sick of pretending to be Sherry and a new personality would be a welcome change. So he waited. And waited. And *waited.* It took three weeks for him to finally accept that Mycroft was not going to visit. Or call. Or even text. Sherlock knew what was going on: his brother was giving him the silent treatment. He was *disappointed* and expected Sherlock to come *grovelling* to him and apologise for being so utterly *stupid* as to get hooked on cocaine. Well, forget it. He didn't even *like* Mycroft. The stupid tosser could go and die for all he cared. He refused to try and initiate contact, knowing if he so much as breathed a word of complaint about the lack of communication he'd just get one of those tight, condescending smiles and some sort of perfectly plausible-sounding explanation. Mycroft's snobbish voice drifted through his head at the mere thought. *'Far too busy keeping Father out of the loop, Sherlock. You should really be more grateful. I could have just told him the second I found out, but I didn't. Now you owe me. Not to mention I've got my hands full fooling Mummy into thinking her youngest has taken ill with malaria, and do you even know how difficult it is to fabricate the proper documentation for a potential epidemic pathogen? Obviously nothing too challenging for someone like me, but still so incredibly tedious. Plus I've all these complicated laws to write, nations to topple, worlds to rule, you know how it is - there's a million million people out there for me to concern myself with who aren't you, you useless waste of oxygen, yet I persist in spending incredibly valuable time and resources protecting you regardless. But do you ever show even the slightest ounce of gratitude? No, no of course not. Such a selfish child. It's really no wonder our parents always liked me best. In fact I think you were really just an afterthought, weren't you? Some kind of failed backup plan perhaps; not as good as the original but still something to go on should the worst happen to me. You're probably not even* legitimate*, are you? All that business with Mummy and the stable hand. Do you remember? No, you wouldn't. It was before you were born. Obviously. You really* do *tend toward the gypsy traits you know, nothing like Father and I. Think how upsetting that must have been for poor Siger, seeing his wife pregnant when he hadn't even been home for months. Really explains why he always seemed to hate you so mu-' SHUT UP MYCROFT SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP* With a snarl he clamped his hands over his ears and slammed his face into one of the overstarched pillows on his bed. A long, pathetic whine tore itself from his throat, muffled by the pillow so it came out more of a strangled *'mmmphf!'*. It was the middle of the night and as usual his brain was screaming along too fast for him to sleep. He *absolutely* had to stop thinking about his brother. Actually to be perfectly honest he absolutely had to stop thinking about *anything*. It all just twisted into self-loathing diatribes, leaving him depressed and angry and too fed up with the world to even bother with anything. The staff never noticed, of course. Why would they? His mask was perfect. The only person who'd have even the slightest chance of seeing the truth was one Mycroft *bloody* Holmes, and he was no longer interested in associating with his pitiful younger sibling. With him out of the picture Sherlock's secret identity was guaranteed safe. So really he was *glad* Mycroft wasn't going to visit. Nobody to call him out on his lies. Plus it was far easier to focus on keeping his increasingly-elaborate characterisation of Sherry straight without having to worry about a whale with a brolly fetish showing up and ruining it all. It wasn't like he'd ever *miss* the pompous git. Sherlock was a *sociopath*, he didn't do things like miss people. He didn't miss Victor after all, and they were almost-but-not-really-because-who-the-hell-would-ever-date-you-boyfriends, so all in all he was fine. He was. Just. *Fine.* He shoved his face further into his pillow and wondered if it would be possible to smother himself. **««** In just three short months Sherrington Hope was pronounced fit to return to society. Sherlock Holmes was not, mostly on account of none of the staff having ever so much as met Sherlock Holmes. If they had he would have been retained indefinitely. On a dreary Wednesday morning he was told by the nurse that his family would be by to pick him up in the afternoon. By 'family' he understood she meant Mycroft, so while he waited in the lobby later for the familiar black towncar to pull up he occupied himself by absently wondering how he was going to react to finally seeing his brother again. Anger would be appropriate, he supposed. Maybe relief if he was going to be a sap about it. Happiness was *extremely* unlikely, but he ceded it remotely possible. *Very* remotely. The most probable scenario was probably going to be simple indifference. After all emotional responses generally required at least a semi-reactive cognitive state, and Sherlock's mind had gone quite thoroughly numb something like a month and a half ago. Not the comfortable anaesthesia of cocaine but something dark and stagnant, spreading like rot through every corner of his head until nothing could move for the filth. His brain was literally *decaying*. It had rebelled against the forced dormancy by declaring war against itself and now the battlefield was strewn with putrefying corpses. Sherlock briefly screwed up his face in disgust at the imagery. *Ugh,* what was with him and strange abstract visualisations of his mental space? And *why* was it always either a field or a lake? It would really be better to use some sort of building. Then he'd have a bit more permanence at least, perhaps organised places to keep all his cluttered internal *stuff.* Should try erecting a tower. Have to wait until the corpses cleared out though. And the mud. The rot. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. A noise caught his attention and he looked up as the clinic door opened, catching sight of the smart suit and puffed cap of one of his family's valets. Personal staff instead of a government employee? That was new. Might even have been interesting, had he had any capability to be interested by anything anymore. The most feeling Sherlock managed to dredge up was a faint wave of irritation at the fact that his brother was apparently too much of a lazy arse to walk the ten metres to sign him out himself, but it faded quickly. Too much effort. The manservant handed over a stack of papers, spoke with the receptionist a moment and then initialled a log book before turning to Sherlock and sparing his outfit the barest of distasteful glances. Sherlock looked down at himself but could see nothing particularly troublesome. Jeans, white t-shirt, navy Oxford hoodie, a pair of still decently-new trainers and the dove grey wool peacoat Mycroft had given him two Christmases ago which he only ever wore because it was easy to hide drugs in the lining (not that there was anything in there now, much to his annoyance). They were the same clothes he'd had on the night of the overdose, which he supposed ended up being sent here out of the convenience of having already been in a hospital bag. Perhaps a little casual, but he hardly felt the need to dress up just to meet his *brother.* Besides, the only clothing the clinic provided was their stupid uniform of loose-fitting activewear and that was hardly a better alternative. He conveyed his thoughts to the valet with a bland lift of his eyebrows, and with a very slight look of exasperation the man turned and beckoned him to follow. The shiny black towncar they approached practically screamed 'pompous ass' in its conspicuous display of wealth, and despite the stifling cloud of dysphoria in his head Sherlock felt a jolt of irrational anger flash through him. *Bloody* Mycroft, with his stupid bloody cars and stupid bloody valets and stupid bloody... bloody *everything.* The only reason Sherlock was even *here* was because that fat meddling whale hadn't been able to keep his nose out of other peoples' business. It was all his brother's *fault.* An insult jumped to his lips and as he slid into the back seat he was already speaking. "You're a *fucki-"* The slur died in his throat as he caught a proper look at the man sitting in the opposite seat. That... wasn't Mycroft. *... Oh Christ.* The valet shut the door and walked around to start the engine, locks clicking down automatically. He was trapped. The man across from him flashed a tight, false smile. "Sherlock," his father said mildly. "It seems we have... matters to discuss." **««** Mycroft Holmes had expected, at half past one in the afternoon, to step into the reception area of the unassuming clinic to find a rather understandably pissed-off younger sibling already there glaring at him, perhaps even displaying a rude gesture. He'd have accepted the behaviour willingly. He had, after all, essentially abandoned the boy. It hadn't been his intent to do so, but between the tabloid scandal, American elections (absolute *farce* this year, good lord), terrorist threats, and a bloody *tsunami* last month he'd quite run out of time to do much of anything beyond the demands of his position. As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock had been put on the back burner. He'd assuaged his guilt with the thought that at least the boy was *safe*, and that considering how Mycroft had gotten him to rehab in the first place would probably not want much to do with him for awhile anyway. But instead of his scowling baby brother there was only a receptionist, who calmly informed Mycroft that the only patient by the name of S. Hope had been collected nearly an hour ago. Mycroft allowed an affable smile to flit across his face. It did an admirable job of concealing the very uncharacteristic stab of dread which shot through his gut at her words. "By whom, may I ask?" he asked her politely. "Hm, looks like a Mister, er... Siger Holmes, sir?" the woman replied after a slight pause to look up the information. Mycroft's pleasant expression never wavered, even as he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "Seems to have had all the necessary paperwork," she continued. "Perhaps a scheduling mixup on your end?" "Ah.. yes... of course," he confirmed in a voice only slightly strained. He flashed her a tight smile. "So sorry for the confusion." The woman smiled and assured him it was no problem as Mycroft turned to walk out of the building. There were a million and one troubling questions to answer, chief among them being *how in hell's name had Father found out.* Before he could tackle any of them, however, there was a much more pressing matter to attend to. He flipped open his phone as he stepped outside and spoke the instant he heard his assistant connect on the other end. "Locate my brother *immediately.*" **««** It took nearly five hours to track Sherlock down. The damned clever teenager had removed the batteries from his phone so he couldn't be traced, then led them all on a merry chase through alleys and parks, side streets and gutters, up fire escapes and along rooftops until even Mycroft's team of MI5 agents lost track of where they'd been. The only way they'd even have a chance at this rate was for Sherlock to stop, so Mycroft reluctantly gave the order to stand down. Sooner or later the boy would have to rest, they'd make sure they were ready. Three-quarters of an hour passed before they had a confirmed position. Mycroft refused to let his underlings go in ahead of him (it was his *little brother*, for god's sake, not some terrorist) and so he found himself striding alone down a filthy London alley, expensive suit contrasting sharply with his surroundings as he hastened towards a shuddering figure outlined by the half-light of the street lamps. Sherlock was sitting slumped against the brickwork at the far end of the truncated street, all tremors and exhausted panting - not particularly surprising as he'd just spent the better part of an afternoon running pell-mell across London. Mycroft crouched down upon reaching the apparently insensate form and gently snapped his fingers a few times in front of the boy's pale face to try and rouse him. His baby brother's unnaturally dilated eyes blinked open, startled, and flicked up to meet his gaze. "Oh! *Heeeeeey* Myc, fancy seeing *you* here," the boy drawled. A slow, perverse smile spread across his face as he shifted to lean his head back against the wall. His every movement was just... wrong. Mycroft withdrew his arm and gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly, forcing his face to remain impassive. His brilliant mind kicked into confused overdrive, trying and failing to reconcile his internal paradigm of Sherlock with this... this *stranger* wearing his brother's *skin.* Abruptly he realised he'd never actually seen his brother high before. Mycroft drew a steadying breath through his nose and forced himself to calm. He couldn't get upset. Sherlock needed him to remain level-headed. "Are you alright?" he asked evenly. "I'm *mar*vellous!" Sherlock exclaimed with a grand sweep of his arm. Mycroft eyed the fresh puncture wounds visible under the sloppily rolled-up sleeve of his coat, then focused on visually examining the hands. Scrapes on his palms, very particular pattern, knuckles, thumbs - collapsed, then, not sat down willingly. Possibly tachycardic, almost certainly hyperthermic. Out of his mind on coke. All very bad signs. *If he starts seizing in front of me I will absolutely have a panic attack*, Mycroft determined with a sort of detached air of certainty. *That would be disastrous for my reputation, my subordinates would never fear me again.* Quickly he decided this was a far easier motivation for his analytical brain to accept than the truth of being horrified and sick with worry for his baby brother, so he latched onto the sociopathic indifference like a shield. Crouched down still, he straightened his back as best he could and assumed an air of authority. "Sherlock, you require medical attention. You must come wit-" Sherlock just laughed. "Mycroft, *darling*," he interrupted. "As much as I would *love* to go with you to A&E or back to rehab or wherever the hell you're planning to dump me next I'm afraid I'm *really* going to have to decline. I'm simply *far* too busy, you see," he quipped breezily, indicating the alley around them. Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly. The lofty *wrongness* in his sibling's voice had set his insides squirming again, but he refused to acknowledge it. He glanced around at the bins. "Clearly," he intoned. Sherlock's grin crept another notch towards manic. Mycroft resolutely ignored it. "Nevertheless," he continued, remaining calm, "I am taking you to a hospital." "Hah! Like hell you are." Sherlock laughed. "That was a really good trick you know, sending *Father* to collect me," he went on fluidly, changing the subject without the slightest warning. Despite himself Mycroft cringed. Of *course* he would think... "*Sherlock,* I swear to you I have no idea how-" Sherlock paid him absolutely no attention. "I actually thought it was *you* at first, you know! Nearly called him a *fucking cunt* before I noticed who it was. Can you imagine, swearing at Father! I'd have been killed on the spot! Mind you I very nearly was anyway, he was pretty well livid. Got myself disowned. Have you ever *seen* Father really angry, Myc? It's bloody terrifying. But then no, I guess you haven't, have you? You're *Mycroft*, perfect boy genius. Nobody's *ever* angry with *you.*" Sherlock's detached, airy voice had begun to shift down into something low and bitter. "Me, of course, I just keep on fucking up." "Sherlock..." Mycroft cut in, face drawn and probably gone chalk-white by now. A parallel section of his brain had kicked into high gear at the word 'disowned', already running through the cost/benefit analysis of several different revenge plots to enact on their father. In truth he'd already been planning to remove Siger Holmes from their lives for quite some time now, the man was a walking definition of clinical psychopathy and entirely too clever for anyone's good. But he'd been hesitating to start because the task would no doubt prove difficult, dangerous, and time-consuming, and he had enough on his plate with the government and his brother. So for once in his life Mycroft had let himself procrastinate. *Now* look what had happened. He could practically feel himself forming a complex. Sherlock was speaking again. "You know *frankly* I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner. I mean if I were him I'd have done it the moment I started Eton. Fairly obvious I'd never measure up to their perfect little firstborn by that point. Though *now* I'm thinking you should really just have me assassinated; clean break and all that. Save me the trouble of killing myse-" "Sherlock!" Mycroft suddenly barked, appalled. *Surely he wasn't-!* His brother snickered at his reaction. "Oh *dear*, you *are* upset aren't you? Well, don't worry your pretty little head Mycroft. I'm not *suicidal*. Just self-destructive. You've a few months at least till you find me facedown in a gutter. I expect I shan't feel a thing, if it makes you feel any-" "*Enough*," Mycroft finally snapped. He let his expression harden into a look of cold steel. No more. This was absurd. His brother needed *help*. Deep, uncomfortable emotional discussions could wait for later. When they were both in their right minds. When Sherlock wasn't off his face on coke and Mycroft wasn't beside himself with worry and guilt. "You will accompany me to my car," Mycroft informed his brother, standing up from his crouched position. Sherlock was eyeing him warily. "If you cannot walk I will have one of my men carry you." "Make me." The teenager's deep voice seemed caught somewhere between petulant and defensive. Mycroft fixed him with a stern glare. "Do not attempt this game with me." Sherlock paled slightly at his tone. Mycroft had deliberately made himself sound like Father. He hated to be so crassly manipulative but it was the fastest and most reliable way to get his brother's attention. The boy scowled. "Fine, *sir*, whatever you say." Sherlock made to push himself up from the ground, shaking limbs still weak and uncoordinated after his mad flight through London, and quite predictably stumbled. Mycroft's hand shot out on instinct to grab hold of his sibling's arm before he could fall. He was alarmed when Sherlock jerked away violently at the contact. *"Don't touch me!"* the boy screeched. Mycroft pulled back immediately and frowned. Eyes flitted up and down as he quickly scanned his brother's appearance for any clues he hadn't been able to see while the young man was slouched against the wall. *Hair tangled in back trainers recently scuffed jeans frayed dirt rubbed into knees dried stain on right coat sle-* "Oh," he murmured suddenly, eyes widening in realisation. Sherlock bristled. "*Fuck off!*" the boy snarled. Abruptly he rammed both hands into his elder brother's chest, and Mycroft stumbled back in shock. Sherlock had *shoved* him. One of the two bodyguards he'd allowed to keep watch at the mouth of the alley had already rushed over and caught him before he could hit the dingy alley floor. Mycroft managed to right himself just in time to see his second guard charge towards Sherlock, following standing orders to restrain anyone who might pose a threat to his employer. Anyone *except his brother.* "Stop!" he ordered sternly, but it was too late; the man had already pinned the aggressor against the wall. Sherlock half-screamed in panic, struggling madly, and in less than a second he'd wrenched an arm out of his captor's grip and jabbed a bony elbow straight into the man's trachea, following it with a swift abdominal blow and a kick to the side of the knee. The MI5 agent crumpled. Mycroft was somewhat less than thrilled to find half of his security detail taken out in under a minute by a drug-addled teenager, but had little time to be annoyed as within milliseconds Sherlock had turned around and bolted off toward the mouth of the alley. "Grab him!" Mycroft commanded the remaining guard. The man lunged forward and caught a handful of peacoat, wrenching the young man somewhat violently backwards like a dog on a chain. He then caught hold of Sherlock's forearm and swiftly twisted it behind the boy's back in a secure and efficient grip. Sherlock kicked and struggled like a wild beast for several seconds before finally sagging in defeat, panting. Mycroft's expression was stricken. "I'm sorry. You left me no other choice," he explained. He *couldn't* let Sherlock escape again, not in this state. Even if it took having him restrained like a war criminal. Sherlock was glaring venomously up at him through his fringe. "I *hate* you," the boy whispered. "Sherlock..." Suddenly the teenager was animated again, kicking against the immovable block of a man behind him as he lunged toward his sibling with an incoherent snarl. "This would *never* have *happened* if you'd just kept your *fat fucking face* out of my *fucking* business, Mycroft! *You destroyed my life!*" That was far too close to his own self-recriminating thoughts for comfort. Uncharacteristically he snapped back without thinking. "*I was trying to keep you safe!* You're the one who chose to do drugs like... like some *common person!*" He immediately regretted his words. Sherlock stilled. "... Mycroft Holmes," he announced after a pause, voice frigid. "You are officially my arch-enemy." Mycroft blinked. He... *what?* Leave it to Sherlock to say something so utterly ridiculous in the middle of a tense emotional conflict. He'd almost forgotten the boy was high as a kite. "... Don't be dramatic," he admonished hollowly. Sherlock sneered at him. The alley was silent for a brief second. Then out of nowhere the boy flung his head back with as much force as humanly possible. The back of his skull connected with the guard's nose in a sickening crunch and he twisted in the loosened grip to ram a knee into the man's crotch, ripping his arm free as he did so. The second he was free he was running. "Sherlock! *Stop!*" Mycroft shouted and scrambled-*scrambled!-*after his brother. His personal assistant shrieked in alarm as Sherlock shot past her. Mycroft just managed to get to the mouth of the alley in time to see the boy wave her stolen phone over his shoulder with a vicious grin. "I'll be sure to ring you, Myc!" he called merrily. He spun around to face them and flipped a sarcastic salute before taking a brisk turn and disappearing once more into the maze of London's streets like a rabbit to its warren. It could be *days* before they'd ever find him again. Perhaps weeks. The boy might be dead before the end of the night. For the first time in many years, Mycroft Holmes swore. **««** ## Chapter 2: From Playing Video Games **««** **2. From Playing Video Games** Sherlock awoke hours later under a tree somewhere in Regent's Park, having only the vaguest recollection of how he'd got there and feeling like he'd been hit by a bus. The PA's phone was gone- either sold or bartered, he couldn't remember- and he'd acquired half a gram of cocaine, three syringes, and a packet of cigarettes in its place. His body was a mass of sore muscles and bruises. His left arm ached and his head felt like shards of glass had lodged in his brain. He was tired, cold, and most definitely no longer high. Sherlock groaned as the glare of early sunrise coming off the lake shot stabs of pain through his abused skull. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the dawn. Brand new day. Fresh start, new beginnings. *God*, what utter shit. Turning away he blindly tapped out a cigarette and searched his person for a lighter. He eventually found one hidden in the lining of his coat along with two more syringes and about six quid in small change. He shook the coins out and slipped the rest of his needles and the baggie of coke through the small slit in the seam, then leaned back against the tree to smoke. He'd have to do another hit soon if he didn't want to freeze. For now, though, he was content to enjoy the sunrise. The sky shifted from pink to orange as he watched the trees sway in a light winter breeze. He wondered what time it was. Was it worth risking replacing his phone batteries to find out? Eh, he decided, might as well. Fuck Mycroft if he wanted to trace him. Sherlock would just run away again. He fumbled the battery pack out of his pocket and jammed it into its slot on the back of his mobile. The tiny screen lit up with a welcoming chime while he irritably tapped out another cigarette. Stupid thing took forever to boot up. There, finally. He squinted at the glowing numbers in the murky half-light. It was 7:54 in the morning on the 6th of January, 2005. His mouth quirked into a wry, bitter smile. *Happy birthday to me.* Sherlock Holmes' first day of being a twenty year old was mostly spent pickpocketing. He wandered the streets of Camden and took advantage of his current well-fed, healthy, respectable appearance to put unsuspecting tourists at ease while he nicked as many valuables as possible. Distracting teenage girls was particularly easy, so he soon found his pockets stuffed with a small collection of brightly-coloured mobiles and patterned clutch purses. He'd have to find somewhere to sell the phones. The wallets he simply looted for cash or jewellery and dumped in a bin outside a souvenir shop. Sooner or later he'd have to find a dealer again. A half gram of coke was a decent amount, but probably not enough to get him through more than a few days at the rate his tolerance was building up again. He shuddered at the memory of the man he'd met the night previous, skulking in a dark alley not far from the station where his father had unceremoniously dumped him. The dealer had been called Racer (some stupid pseudonym to do with his long-past love of horse racing, Sherlock hadn't been in any kind of mood to deduce beyond that) and he'd been... extremely accommodating Sherlock's lack of money hadn't bothered him at all, in fact he'd seemed almost thrilled about it. Obviously a very closeted homosexual, probably became a drug pusher just to have an excuse to demand sex acts from other men without calling his masculinity into question. Sherlock didn't much care about the man's psychological profile, however. He just wanted to freeze his overactive mind before he drowned in his own screaming thoughts. It had been quick, rough and very unpleasant, but luckily nothing particularly demeaning. Sherlock had done much worse before and for far less immediately explainable reasons, so the actual act didn't bother him all that much. It was more the loss of control over the situation and general lack of mutual consent that prompted him to endeavour to put the whole episode out of his mind the second it was over. The tiny amount of cocaine he'd received in return helped quite a bit (particularly as his tolerance seemed to have partially reset during rehab) but it was Mycroft's little spy game soon thereafter that provided the best distraction. After all it was easy to avoid thinking of the horrible things you were willing to do for drugs whilst dashing about over rooftops dodging agents, and for awhile he'd even had a little fun with the lot of them. But then, of course, he'd collapsed. Not even Sherlock Holmes could keep up a foot chase through the streets of London for five bloody hours, after all. And Mycroft had shown up, been a huge arse like usual, and then went and *touched him.* Sherlock had still been amped up from the coke and the adrenaline and the maybe-not-quite passing out in an alley only to find his older brother who he hadn't spoken to in *three fucking months, you bastard* standing over him and yes, alright, he'd panicked. For a split second his brain shorted out and it hadn't been Mycroft's hand on him but Racer's, about to shove him roughly to his knees for another go. He'd recoiled on pure instinct. Of course Mycroft had noticed. He'd have to be an idiot not to. So Sherlock had lashed out. Which of course prompted one of Mycroft's stupid bodyguards to go and *tackle him* (admittedly knocking over a high-ranking government official had not been the best of ideas, even if said official *was* his arse-faced older brother) and that had felt *far* too much like an entirely different set of memories for comfort so Sherlock had struggled like a maniac. Actually bested the idiot, too, which was quite brilliant. But of course there'd been another one, and he got caught again. Though to be fair getting the chance to properly bitch out Mycroft had been well worth having his arm wrenched. The look on the git's face! *Arch-enemy,* he remembered calling the older man. Yes, he definitely liked the ring of that. After all, Mycroft had kidnapped him, trapped him in a wretched clinic for three months and refused to speak to him out of some juvenile sense of spite. Then he'd cornered him in an alley and tried to cart him off to hospital when he was (probably) *perfectly fine* and then had his goons tackle him like some common criminal. Definitely an enemy. An *arch-enemy.* But enough of that. He dismissed his reminiscing and set about lighting the last cigarette from his packet. Luckily he had more than enough cash now for another pack, though he'd wait until after he'd scored some more coke to buy it. There was just enough money to buy another half gram outright, and he might be able to throw in one of the nicer stolen phones to bump that up to a full gram or even two. Seeking out a new dealer was tempting, but he already knew Racer and was close to his haunt, so he resigned himself to dealing with the weasel-faced closet case again. At least he had cash this time. "Eeeey, back agin' I see," Racer drawled as Sherlock walked toward him. They were in a shadowed back alley, with the last rays of the setting sun casting dark shapes around them. (Sherlock couldn't help a stray thought flitting through his head that this had actually been a pretty decent birthday, all things considered. He had after all spent most of it wandering around high.) "I need a gram," he said, and drew out a wad of cash along with one of the nicked mobiles. Racer chuckled. "Anovver phone, eh? Must be quite th' theif, love." Sherlock tried not to scowl at the term of endearment. "If you don't want the mobile just take the cash and give me half a gram instead." "Oh nah, nah... I'll take th' phone alright. It's jest, well... I'm afraid th' price's gone up again, love." Racer was eyeing him with a lecherous grin. Sherlock felt vaguely ill. "It's been *one day*," he bit out, already knowing the argument was pointless. "Lot's 'appened today." "*Bullshit.*" "Look, love, I think we both know what yer gonna have to do." "*Fuck you*," Sherlock spat, and rammed the phone and wad of bills back into his jeans pocket as he turned on his heel. He still had enough coke to last the next day or so; he'd be able to find a new dealer before he ran out. Fuck Racer and his sick little fetish. Behind him the older man was chuckling. "Ye'll be back, love. Ye'll be back." Sherlock flipped him off over his shoulder. "Not likely." Racer grinned. **««** Sherlock was in trouble. *None* of the dealers he spoke to would sell to him, all of them scarpering off the moment they saw his face or stammering some kind of pathetic excuse about running out. As if a dealer would run out of *cocaine.* Eventually he'd figured out what the problem was, and he was *much* less than thrilled about it. "You're some kind of kingpin," he accused angrily by way of greeting as he strode into Racer's usual alley. "You've scared them all off dealing to me." "Ain't nuffin of th'sort, love," Racer said breezily. "Just got one o'them personalities, y'ken?" Sherlock was not in the mood. He shoved his hands as deep into his jeans pockets as he could and scowled at the concrete. His head was killing him. He really didn't want to do this. "At least let me have a hit first," he mumbled. "Now what would be th'fun in that?" Racer asked. "I swear to god I will *bite it off* if you don't give me a hit first," Sherlock snarled, looking up. Wouldn't let himself be the victim here, had to have some control. They both had something the other wanted, after all. Racer gave him an easy grin. "Then I'll have t'keep well away from yer teeth, won't I?" Sherlock paled. That wasn't what he'd meant to... "No." "Can't see that y've much choice in the matter, love." Sherlock was breathing a little faster than usual now, but he refused to let himself look as unsettled as he felt. If nothing else the adrenaline was clearing away the fog from his mind. "I'll... I won't... *actually* bite it off," he muttered rather stupidly. Racer didn't seem to hear him. The lithe, dark-haired man had unfolded himself from the bin he'd been perched on and languidly made his way over to Sherlock. "Too much risk now, love," he whispered in Sherlock's ear. The younger man tried to keep his breathing even. "I haven't agreed yet," Sherlock pointed out shakily. "Back off." "But yer goin' to." The breath on his ear was disgustingly humid. Sherlock had the sudden, absurd thought that he wanted his brother. *No I don't.* He shoved the thought out of his mind. Mycroft didn't care about him. Mycroft had abandoned him in a clinic for three months and then let Father find out. He certainly wasn't going to save Sherlock from *this.* Not when it was his own fault to begin with for getting so dependent that he was willing to... to... He swallowed. Racer was right, he needed the drug too badly to worry about things like his dignity. "Fine," he whispered. "Tha's what I like t'hear," Racer chuckled darkly, biting Sherlock's earlobe. Sherlock flinched back but the older man's hands came up and gripped his biceps, forcing him to the wall so he couldn't get away. The bricks dug into his back, Racer's teeth on his throat were sharp and slick and he just wanted to scream. But he refused to show fear, refused to be any more the victim than he had to be. Some primal defence mechanism seemed to kick in and Sherlock's whole body went limp and pliant, gaze distant. His physical shell might have to endure this but *he* certainly didn't. He retreated to the frosted mud-spotted landscape of his mind and curled up under the boughs of a willow tree he'd planted there a few nights before. It wasn't a tower - he hadn't had time to start figuring out how to erect one yet - but it was *something.* When it was all over he emerged from his hiding place to find the landscape of his mind scorched with the bitter fire of helplessness. Racer was tossing a baggie at him, and he caught it on reflex. He was sore in places he didn't want to think about, but thankfully clothed. The one advantage of having two semi-separate minds to handle speaking and thinking meant his body could handle itself well on autopilot. He didn't even need to be conscious to keep himself presentable. "Come back soon, love," Racer was cackling lecherously as Sherlock turned on his heel and left. He didn't respond. It was worth it, he assured himself. After all he had cocaine now, didn't he? That was all that mattered. **««** The next two or three days passed in a blur. That might have had something to do with not having come down once during any of them, but at the very least by the time he was forced to return to Racer again he was so fogged from lack of sleep he hardly felt anything. He took that as a positive and refused to let himself fall anywhere below a buzz thereafter. His arms began to look like pin cushions. The snow in his head piled over and over itself until the drifts climbed well past the top of his willow tree, burying it in frost. He didn't care. The snow was easier to hide in than the branches had been anyway. It was nearing midnight on the 9th of January when he found himself (*found* himself was the correct term, as he had barely any recollection of the journey there or of making the decision to go) picking the lock on the back entrance of a darkened community sports centre, a vague idea of taking a shower and perhaps finding a machine to launder his clothes in driving him along through the fog. It was dark, but he'd stolen a small torch from somewhere and held it in his mouth as he worked. Simple 5-pin tumbler lock, not wired to any security devices, practically an invitation. Now if only his fingers would stop fumbling. After an inordinate amount of time the lock finally gave way. Sherlock pocketed his makeshift picks and stepped through the door into some kind of staff break room, holding the torch low to avoid shining out the windows. Nothing of interest, so he continued on through the lobby and made his way to the member's area in back, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up to shroud his face against the prying eyes of the cameras. Couldn't risk being identified and arrested. The thought of Mycroft finding him, of *deducing* how far he'd been willing to... no, no absolutely not. Sherlock would *die* before he ever let his brother set eyes on him again. He stopped in the tiled washrooms and pushed his hood back to scrub a hand through his greasy hair (there would be no surveillance anywhere near the changing rooms after all), looking around as he did so. Banks of showers to his left, lockers for long-term paid members plus some washing machines and a few dryers to his right. He stripped off his peacoat, paused for a moment as he felt the weight of the drug paraphernalia in the lining shift. Should he do another hit first, or have a shower...? No, shower first. He'd already done one... er... not too long ago? Probably? He couldn't precisely remember when it had been but was almost certain it was within half an hour, so he should be fine. Sherlock tossed his coat onto a nearby bench and emptied his jeans pockets in a small pile on top. Dead phone with its battery pack, several quid in loose change, around a hundred pounds in bills of various denominations, and a collection of foreign currency swiped from tourists which while useless were interesting to look at. He balanced his cigarettes and lighter atop of the haphazard stack of money along with his current set of lockpicks (hairpins and a screwdriver, inelegant but effective) and turned to the business of figuring out how exactly to work a washing machine whilst half-delirious. Load setting should be... small, right? He was only washing one outfit. But it was jeans and a sweatshirt, so maybe... The dials seemed to blur in and out of focus and he decided it probably really didn't matter in the slightest so long as he made sure the water wasn't hot enough to shrink anything. Flicked the knobs to whatever seemed normal enough, stripped off and grabbed a towel from the stack of clean linens to the side to wrap himself in as he started the machine then went off to rifle through peoples' lockers for shampoo and soap. Cracking combination locks was usually entertaining enough, but without the ability to concentrate it quickly degenerated into little more than a frustrating waste of time. The spin dial seemed to stick on every bloody number physically possible, digits constantly getting lost amongst the snowbanks when he tried to memorise them. After the third pass forgetting half a dozen sticking points he finally relented and appropriated a pen and scrap of paper from the equipment sign-out sheet in the far corner, resigning himself to doing things the Ordinary Way. His maths were convoluted and sloppy and probably made very little sense to anyone who wasn't sleep-deprived, but he nonetheless figured out the possible combinations within a few minutes. The lock clicked open on the fifth try and he swiped a bottle of shampoo and some sort of fragrant soap *(strawberries...? did he really want to smell like- oh, sod it who cared)*, then went to have a shower. When he returned (tossing the anonymous woman's belongings back into her locker without bothering to close it) he felt quite a bit better. Incredibly tired, but better. Should do another hit, wake himself up a little but ugh... so much bother, so many fiddly steps. Could smoke but, no, wait... the detector would go off - didn't want a load of firemen showing up to find him starkers in a sports centre. No caffeine around, hadn't been hungry in days, so no food either. With a heavy sigh he used the last of his energy to switch his clothes from the now-finished washer to a dryer and turned it on to what he hoped was a normal setting, then after a moments' debate clambered up to sit on top of the machine in his towel. He'd get his drugs in a minute, for now he just wanted to rest a bit. Not sleep, no... never sleep again if he could help it. Just stop walking around so much. The noise and vibration of the dryer would keep him awake, so it was safe to stop for awhile. Stop and think. Right, so... he needed to come up with a plan. Had to find a new dealer somehow. One without such a wide sphere of influence, and more importantly one lacking a fetish for forcing young men to... to do things. Ugh, alright wait, *stop* thinking. At least about... about that. Didn't remember it anyway, right? Was under the willow tree the whole time. Sherlock frowned at himself and raised his knees up to wrap his arms around them, pillowing his chin on his forearms. The dryer was up against the wall so he leant his shoulder on the tiles and huffed a sigh as the machine shuddered warmth and white noise below. It was soothing in a strange way, but he couldn't fall asleep. Had to keep thinking. What he *really* needed was blackmail material. Then he could twist the situation to his advantage and stop being manipulated so easily. Racer had to have *something*, everyone did. Just had to look, probably a detail he'd seen already, couldn't remember... have to catch it next ti- Sherlock scowled. No. No no no no. There *wouldn't* be a next time. He had to stop interacting with Racer immediately. Find another source of cocaine and wash his hands of the hateful bastard once and for all. ... But Racer was an experienced dealer. He knew all the pushers in this area, had *networks.* The man was going to be exceedingly difficult to avoid completely if Sherlock wanted to continue with his habit. Leaving the district might not even work, since who knew the extent of the dealer's contact base? He could have influences all over London. Might *find* him, might... might... Sherlock's thoughts trailed off to land with a muffled thump in the snowbanks. His internal sight was obscured by white in every direction, cognition was becoming impossible. With a light groan he looked down to the dial on the dryer below him and saw that only five minutes had passed. Good lord, this would take forever. He needed more cocaine. Should get up to get his coat. But it was so far... maybe... just another five minutes sitting here. The end-of-cycle buzzer startled him awake with a gasp and he nearly tumbled off the dryer. *Wait, where-? What!* He cast his gaze around wildly, but it was only the dark tiled changing area, no leering dealers or disappointed brothers in sight. The last few hours came back to him and he rubbed both hands roughly over his face in an effort to wake himself up, sliding off the machine to stand before he could nod off again. Shouldn't have fallen asleep. At least his clothes were dry now, so he could stop being half-naked. Sherlock got dressed. The super-heated metal of the rivets in his jeans scorched his skin, but that was fine as the pain kept him focused long enough to dig out his coke supplies. Wasn't possible to mix up an exact 7% solution but he got close enough considering the circumstances. Even managed to hit the vein on his second try (which should probably have felt like less of an accomplishment but sod it, he'd take what positives he could get right now). Enormous snowbanks filtered down in the ensuing gale to rest more evenly across the landscape. His willow tree stood frosted and motionless, icy but no longer buried. A thought he'd had before falling asleep shook itself free of the white dunes in his head, making him smile with a sudden idea as he gathered up his things and made his way out of the back entrance of the community centre. *Contact base! Yes, that's it - his suppliers! I'll go straight to the source. A narcotics distributor must have plenty of dark secrets. I'll deduce like usual and then use my knowledge to blackmail them into selling to me directly. That way I can avoid the bastard entirely. Yes, this is an excellent plan.* The fact that he was feeling so optimistic meant he was very high, he knew. Must have mixed up a bit more than 7%. Didn't matter, though; it *was* a good plan. All he'd need to do was tail Racer until he found the man's distributor, then work from there until he had his own personal supply secured. It wouldn't be difficult, he *was* a genius after all. Sherlock hummed quietly to himself as he left the sports centre. It seemed the short rest had refreshed him somewhat, and for the first time in a great long while he thought he might even be a little hungry. He adjusted his path to take him past an all-night chip shop, tapping out a cigarette with a smile as he walked. Things were finally looking up again. **««** As he'd predicted, tailing Racer had been depressingly easy. The man skulked about the back streets of Camden for a few hours before finally taking off towards the river. They crossed at Waterloo and walked along the embankment for awhile (Sherlock careful to keep well out of sight) and ended up turning across the train tracks to wind up in Stockwell, where the ferretlike dealer ducked into a ramshackle half-abandoned house off Clapham Road. Sherlock lit a cigarette and loitered a good distance away where he could see the front door, glaring menacingly at any passing thugs who looked like they might make a go for his expensive peacoat. It hadn't taken long to lose the semi-healthy appearance from rehab (four days without eating more than a packet of chips would do that) and he was now back to his usual wraithlike, half-starved appearance. Coupled with the dark sleepless bruises under his eyes and the dilated pupils he cut an imposing enough figure to avoid being harassed. He smoked his way through half the cigs in his packet and observed the drugs den Racer had disappeared into. The building was an old brick Victorian townhouse, three storeys and in obvious disrepair, garden choked with weeds, all bordered by a low crumbling brick wall which sported a large gap where a gate had once been. Despite the air of neglect the place was still clearly inhabited - a welcome mat had been put out not too long ago and the lights were on in multiple windows. The property was most likely inherited, he deduced, and belonged probably to a young man who had been the sole surviving and/or only eligible heir to his parents' modest estate. Instead of making an investment and quite probably turning a profit on the sale of the house despite its dubious location he'd instead chosen to convert it into a headquarters for his distributing business. Sherlock waited some time for Racer to exit the building. Once he was sure the man had gone he stubbed out his current cigarette and made his way up the short garden path to knock loudly on the peeling green paint of the front door. Sounds of swearing drifted from inside and a young man appeared in the entryway. Sherlock's heart seemed to shudder to a stop for a moment. The man was perhaps half an inch shorter than himself, with a scruffy mop of sandy brown hair, wide hazel eyes and a thick smattering of freckles across his cheeks. He was wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans and a faded school football shirt. Despite smelling strongly of cannabis and sporting the glassy, bloodshot eyes of the perpetually-stoned the boy was well-muscled, most likely still had the habits of his football training to keep him in shape and a decent metabolism to stave off whatever weight he might gain from pot smoking. His skin was just beginning to fade from an old tan, with a very light dusting of dark brown stubble framing an angular jawline suggesting he'd only recently fallen out of better upkeep. Overall the effect was really rather unfairly handsome. Sherlock found himself staring. "'Ello?" the man said after an inappropriately long silence on Sherlock's part. "Y'need sommat, mate?" *Oh brilliant,* Sherlock thought dully as he caught the accent, *he's cockney. You're smitten with a chav.* He cleared his throat and set about steadfastly ignoring his treacherous body's urges telling him to snog the stranger immediately. "I need to see the boss," he said, hoping to sound more believable by keeping his motives vague. "Oh, aye? Sorry, 'e ain't in righ' now. Should be round soon, though. Yer welcome ter stay an' wait if ye want." Bloody *hell*, that was a thick accent. Sherlock took a brief second to parse, then nodded evenly. He was fairly sure he was being invited in to wait for the ringleader. "That would be lovely, thank you," he replied in as close to polite as he could get without outright acting. "Well c'mon in then!" The man smiled and stood back from the entryway to allow his guest to walk past, then shut the door behind them. Inside was a small sitting room with scuffed hardwood flooring and a collection of mismatched area rugs scattered around randomly. A very small, threadbare couch was the only piece of furniture, and it was placed in the middle of the space facing an incongruous widescreen television which was held up by milk crates. An old DVD player and a secondhand Xbox were wedged into the crates along with a small collection of games and movies. Through a doorway to their right was a small kitchenette, and the dashing young man made his way in that direction as he gestured for Sherlock to have a seat. "Fink we might 'ave some tea round 'ere sommere. Give us a mo', eh?" Finally out of the man's line of sight, Sherlock scrunched his face up in displeasure at his surroundings. It smelled of smoke and weed and unwashed men. He eyed the sofa distrustfully for a moment, but quickly decided he'd most certainly touched worse lately and moved to sit on the lumpy cushions. It wasn't bad actually, for a skip couch. The telly was paused in the midst of some video game and he studied the menus curiously. Something about mission objectives and checkpoints. The game screen itself seemed to be dominated by a strange-looking gun and several different gauges detailing things like character health and ammunition supplies. "Bah!" the other man exclaimed as he reappeared. Sherlock jumped slightly, he'd been engrossed with trying to figure out the game's objective and hadn't noticed his host reenter the room. "I was wrong, sorry mate. Ain't got nuffin but water. Here ya go." "Thank you," Sherlock said as he took the glass offered to him. He sipped his water (ugh, tap) and wondered how long he'd have to suffer through petty small talk with this unfairly good-looking stranger before the boss returned. "Wanna go a round?" the man suddenly asked. Sherlock very nearly choked on his water. "E-excuse me?" he sputtered. Wha-? How did he-!? Surely he hadn't been *that* obvious! "Th' game," the boy clarified with a gesture to the television and a slightly devious smirk, like he knew exactly what Sherlock had thought he'd meant. He ducked down and produced an extra controller from somewhere behind one of the milk crates. "We could 'ave a match while we wait fer Corey t'git back." "Oh." *Oh*. He'd meant a round of... oh, yes. Right. Of course. *God* he was an idiot. Sherlock took an embarrassed sip of water and willed his heart to slow down as he eyed the bulky controller now being thrust in his direction. Video games were pointless wastes of time. He should tell the other man as much. Should say he wouldn't be caught dead playing one. Should list a million other more productive things to do. "Er... sure." Damn his hormones. "Brill!" the boy exclaimed as he plugged in the second controller. "You'll have to show me what to do, though," Sherlock said in a rush, not sure what he'd just got himself into. "I've never played one of these before." "Serious? Bloody 'ell!" The man looked shocked, like Sherlock had just said something profoundly unsettling. "Never?" "Never," he confirmed. His and Mycroft's childhood hadn't exactly been conducive to idle leisure activities, after all, and he hadn't had the time nor inclination at uni. "Well then I guess yer in fer a treat, mate! Here, take this." Without warning Sherlock found his drink being forcibly replaced with an Xbox controller. He resolutely did not blush as the other man leant in very close to him and moved Sherlock's fingers into the correct positions with his own lightly calloused hands, jabbering a stream of instructions almost directly into his ear as he did so. "Now y'pull the righ' trigger ta shoot an the left one ta lob grenades," he was saying, cockney almost too thick to comprehend. Sherlock made a determined effort to listen despite the rather distracting tightening of his jeans at their unexpected proximity to each other. "Use this stick 'ere ta move about and th' other one to move th' camera." "I'll be rubbish at it," Sherlock warned, voice coming out slightly strangled. He quickly cleared his throat and forced himself not to stare at his companion as the man sat down next to him and began flicking through various menu screens with his own controller. "Tha's alright mate, nobody's great their first go!" He glanced sidelong at Sherlock with a friendly grin, then frowned as he seemed to realise something. "Oh, bugger! I never got yer name! Knew I was forgettin' sommat." "It's Sherlock," he answered automatically, then immediately fought back a grimace. Damn it, he'd meant to use a pseudonym. "Cheers, Sherlock! Th' name's Eric," the other said cheerfully, face turning back to the screen. He didn't seem inclined to shake hands or anything which Sherlock found himself absurdly grateful for; he didn't think his composure could quite handle any more touching. Eric was speaking again. "Alrigh' let's just do basic Slayer on Blood Gulch. Since it's yer first time an' all I'll even letcha take th' warthog." Sherlock blinked and cast a baffled glance sideways. "I have... no idea what any of that meant." Eric laughed and clapped him on the back. "Ye'll see, mate! Just wait!" There was a short pause as the game loaded up. "By th' way, love yer soap. Strawberry's me favourite." Sherlock finally lost the battle to avoid blushing. **««** "No! That's ridiculous! I *clearly* shot you!" "Overshield, mate!" Sherlock was fuming. They'd played through two matches already and he was well and truly *sick* of being shot in the bloody head. Eric seemed to have some sort of sixth sense for knowing exactly where Sherlock was going to be and how to aim to score an instant kill. It was driving him mad. "Y'keep dickin' around in th' caves like y'think I ain't gonna find ya," Eric said with a grin as once again Sherlock's space marine met a grisly end. "I was *trying* to employ an ambush technique," he snapped as he waited for his character to respawn. It was the last round of the match. After he died this time Eric would win. The other boy had yet to lose a single life, much to Sherlock's irritation. Somehow despite his assertion that he'd be rubbish he still couldn't quite bring himself to accept how *utterly terrible* he was at this game. It wasn't fair. He wasn't *used* to being bad at things. Was this how ordinary people felt all the time? No wonder they were all such prats. "Y'were tryin' ta camp me is what y'mean, and doin' bloody awful at it." On-screen Eric's avatar was jumping up and down on Sherlock's corpse. "I don't care what stupid term you have for it, I was ambushing you. And it would have worked beautifully if you didn't have this *absurd* compulsion to chuck grenades everywhere you go." "Grenades'r the gift of life, mate," Eric muttered sagely. Sherlock just scowled. He'd respawned finally, and this time he was *determined* to get at least one kill before the match ended. They'd been chasing each other all over the map for about five minutes when the front door burst open. Eric looked behind him at the sudden noise and Sherlock took advantage of the opportunity to fire a hail of bullets at the other boy's unmoving character. *"Hah!"* he exclaimed as the screen congratulated him on his first kill. Eric looked back around and huffed. "Oi! That ain't fair!" "Crenshaw!" a voice barked. Sherlock startled and nearly dropped the controller. He'd been so focused on actually scoring a point he'd barely registered the sound of the door. "Get off your arse and give us a fuckin' hand, will ya? Bring your little friend, too. There's a load a shit out here needs liftin'." "*Fuuuck*, fine!" Eric groaned and stood up, setting his controller on the couch cushions. He glanced down at Sherlock. "Y'cool wit helpin' out? I know y'said you was here t'see th' boss but there prolly is a *lot* o' shit to carry..." "That's fine, I'll help," Sherlock said quickly. He had a fair idea of what kinds of 'shit' needed carrying and was eager to get more information on the specifics of the organisation and its processes. Eric smiled with relief and the two of them made their way outside. They were greeted by the sight of a large, off-white courier van pulled up parallel to the kerb. Two young men were standing by the rear bumper, one a rather scrawny dark-skinned boy with close cropped hair and the other an overweight ginger with a copper-blond crewcut and a face that seemed more freckles than skin. The latter man was squinting closely at a PDA. The man who'd come in the door to collect Eric emerged from the house a few steps behind them with a notebook and a calculator clutched in his hand. Sherlock eyed him carefully as he pushed past them. Average height, clean-shaven with a mop of extremely curly brown hair and wide eyes of a muddy brownish-green colour. Abdominal muscles clearly defined under an overtight black t-shirt. Athletic, obviously quite vain about his appearance. Biceps and forearms larger than normal, abrasions and a collection of sticking plasters on his hands, unusual scuff pattern on thin-soled, sturdy shoes. Some kind of climbing enthusiast. Parkour? Most likely. Not a drug user, so what was his motivation for being here? Had to be money. Either in business partnership with someone or hired for his organisational skills. "Who's this bloke then?" Sherlock's current target of interest asked of Eric as they all gathered around the van. The thin black boy had opened it and the inside was revealed to be stacked full of boxes wrapped in plain brown butcher paper. "Eh? Oh, tha's Sherlock," Eric said, jerking a thumb back to where Sherlock was hovering slightly behind him. "Special *friend* a' yours?" the black boy asked with a mischievous grin. Eric glared and opened his mouth to reply when the overweight man with the PDA interrupted them. "Shut the fuck up Ben, nobody wants to hear your dumb arse talk," the man snapped, tucking away his device. He cast an appraising eye over Sherlock's frame. "Corey didn't say nothin' about hiring a new guy." "It was a bit short notice," Sherlock said vaguely, filing away the names. The ginger shrugged. "Whatever, not my fuckin' problem. Got any muscles under that poncy jacket?" Sherlock frowned and tucked his hands into the pockets of his *decidedly not poncy* peacoat. "Yes," he replied, thinking it might be best to just speak as little as possible until he'd had more cocaine. It'd been nearly two hours since his last hit and he could feel the drug was waning quickly. His snowfield was more like a light dusting of frost, chilly but not cold enough to freeze errant thoughts in place. "Well good, you can help these faggots move product. You got any idea what we're doing here?" Sherlock glanced at the interior of the van. "Moving drugs," he said. Then his mouth just kept going, "the larger parcels contain marijuana. The smaller are most likely an assortment of heroin, cocaine and amphetamines partitioned by type. The square ones contain medical needles and the rectangular flat box is full of money." *Damn it.* All three men were staring at him. Sherlock nearly swore at himself but managed to keep his face impassive. He felt like banging his head against the nearest wall at his own body's treacherous stupidity. *Why did I do that? This is going to be a disaster. I need more coke. Would it be rude to excuse myself to go shoot up? Probably.* Suddenly Eric burst out laughing. "Hah! Sherly's psychic!" "Please don't call me that," Sherlock muttered. He *hated* the name Sherly. And describing him as psychic was just grossly inaccurate. The muscular parkourist seemed a little unsettled. "How... how did you know all that?" Sherlock debated on whether to explain but was saved the trouble by the fat ringleader. "Obviously somebody fuckin' told him, dipshit," the man snapped irritably. He then spun around to shove a pudgy finger into Sherlock's chest. "Look here Mr. Public School, we're not paying you to be smart. Just to move product. So get. fuckin'. moving. That goes for all of you!" he yelled the last to his three minions as well. The other men grumbled and set to work while Sherlock tried an approximation of an apologetic smile toward their apparent leader. All he got in return was an irritated glare as the fat redhead moved off toward the cab of the vehicle, busily dialling a number on the mobile he'd pulled from his pocket. "Ey don't worry 'bout him, mate. He's always like that," Eric said cheerfully. "Here, you take these." He'd hopped into the back of the van and was holding a stack of three small boxes towards Sherlock. The other two boys were further in, debating which of them would have to carry the needles. Sherlock tried to think of a way to ask for names without looking like he wasn't actually meant to be there, but his new cockney acquaintance beat him to the punch. Eric was quite good for introductions, apparently. "So the fat un's Devin," he said as they carried their respective stacks of boxes into the ramshackle house. "He's a right prat but not too bad once y'get used to 'im. Black kid's Benny, tweaked up on E mosta th'time but pretty chummy for it. An' the crazy bloke with th' jewfro is Charley." Sherlock blinked. "The... jewfro?" "Yeah." Eric quirked an eyebrow at him, realising his confusion. "Oh, geez. Y'know, like..." He shifted the packages in his arms and used his now-free hand to make a vague explosive gesture toward his hair. "Poof! Like an afro. Only s'on a Jew. So it's a jewfro." "That's..." Sherlock trailed off, having no idea what to say to that bit of knowledge. Was this really the state of modern slang? "Er.. right then," he finished lamely. Eric snickered at him. "Yer a pretty weird bloke, y'know that? Y'ain't never played Halo, ain't got no idea what a jewfro is." Eric paused to open the door with his free hand. The other two boys were trailing along behind them, now bickering over rugby teams. "And whatever that was with sayin' what was in th' boxes before anyone said. How'd y'even know that anyhow? Did Corey tell ya?" Sherlock had no idea who Corey was, besides a vague deduction of his being in charge. Thankfully he didn't say as much. "Nobody told me. I just... looked," he half-mumbled instead. The need for either cocaine or another cigarette was getting really quite desperate, but he couldn't afford to give anyone insight into his dependency. Racer had made it quite clear that such vulnerabilities were an all-too-exploitable weakness. "*Looked?* At what? It was all just paper boxes!" Eric sounded a bit awed, which was ridiculous. Sherlock hadn't done anything but notice details and talk without thinking. Which he only did because he wasn't high enough to shut his brain off. He cast a sidelong glance at his erstwhile companion while they stowed the boxes in a spare room and deliberated on what he should say. Explain his methods, and look like even more of a smartarse... or keep silent and look like just a regular arse? *Not really much of a choice, is it?* he mused. Of *course* he was going to pick smartarse. He took a deep breath. "The tape on some of the larger boxes had tiny bits of cannabis leaves stuck to the undersides and as marijuana is relatively light it would have to be in the largest container one of the small parcels had powder residue around the corners obviously somebody forgot to seal a bag and as to exactly what the rest were that was a guess but a good one as there's really only about three street drugs worth trafficking at present the needles were in an easily-recognised box from a medical supply company which had to mean they were hypos because there's nothing else medical you would couple with narcotics in that quantity and the flat rectangular box being singular and set slightly to the side where it was more readily accessible meant that it had to be something small and light which needed to be moved first so it had to be paper money or documents but the ginger man was checking a spreadsheet on his PDA meaning most if not all the paperwork is digital leaving cash as the more probable option and anyway a paper trail would be suicide for a drug smuggler so yes definitely cash and by the way the cocaine is cut with something it's too heavy for a rectangle of that volume I would guess talc or lactose but someone should really do a chemical analysis for anything more toxic before it hits the streets I could do it if you want but I'd need access to some basic laboratory equipment and a few reagents." He cut himself off and stood panting, slightly out of breath. Eric was staring at him. So were Ben and Charles, who had walked into the storeroom almost the exact moment Sherlock started speaking. The space was dead silent for several moments. "Bloody 'ell!" Eric exclaimed finally. Sherlock took a tiny step back. "Sorry," he muttered, habitually bracing himself for a blow. The confined space and the all-male company were giving him rather unpleasant flashbacks to Eton. "Wait, you think the coke's cut?" Charles asked, setting down the box he'd been carrying and moving toward him. Sherlock wanted to retreat but forced himself not to. Nobody needed to know how unsettled he was. He straightened his back and unconsciously channelled Mycroft in an attempt to convey an air of calm authority. "Yes, the weight is wrong. It should weigh slightly less than a kilogram, instead it's verging on one and a half. Clearly one of your suppliers has become untrustworthy." "Devin's gonna have a fit!" Ben piped up almost gleefully. "He's been trying to catch that coke runner out for ages!" "Are you some kinda genius or sommat?" Eric had sidled up closer to him, and Sherlock clenched his jaw in an effort to quell a sudden attack of claustrophobia. Between the three other men he'd become quite effectively boxed in. "I simply notice details," he explained in an even voice, cadence still mirroring his brother's. "Well 'notice' some of the rest of the coke boxes and tell Devin how pure that shit is, we've been having trouble with the supplier for bloody ages." With that, Charles turned on his heel and headed back out of the house. Ben spared a second to flash Sherlock a lopsided grin and ambled after his friend. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and dropped Mycroft's mannerisms immediately. He was vaguely disgusted with himself for having used them in the first place. "Eric, where's the loo?" he asked the other man casually. "Wha'? Oh." Eric had been staring at his face. Sherlock tried not to glare. "It's up th' stairs, to th' right." He jerked his thumb behind him to indicate the direction with one of his usual dopey smiles. Sherlock thanked him politely and made his way up to the room in question, Eric going the other way back out to the van after Sherlock assured him he'd be right down. This impulsiveness was getting ridiculous, he needed to refresh his dose before he completely sabotaged himself. The field hadn't yet thawed completely but it was only a matter of time until the frost melted and mud formed. The bathroom was small, cramped, and smelled strongly of dettol. He took a moment to wonder who in the house was conscientious enough to bother disinfecting anything but quickly dismissed the thought as irrelevant. A quick dig through his coat lining produced an almost-empty baggie of cocaine, one of his least-dulled needles (by now he'd used all of them several times, though he'd been sure to at least make an attempt to wash the blood out), a small bottle of saline eye drops and the broken off end of a metal spoon. He turned on the tap as hot as it would go and set about rinsing the spoon and needle. Not exactly sterile, but good enough he supposed. It wasn't as if he particularly cared about sepsis after all. He tapped what was left of his half-gram into the spoon, dissolved it in a decent amount of saline and drew the cloudy mixture carefully into the syringe through a clean cigarette filter. Barely a 3% solution, but better than nothing. The needle was so blunt it was like trying to stab himself with a fork tine. Somehow he managed, and soon enough everything was fine. He pulled down his sleeve over the fresh injection mark without bothering to find a plaster (the material was dark anyway, no one would see the blood) and leant over the sink as the initial high hit. The dosage was too small to even to make his ears ring, but he still felt a decent bit better. More focused, in control. He smiled at his reflection. "Showtime," he told it. He stowed away his supplies and and walked out of the room. **««** It turned out Devin was not, in fact, the ringleader. That distinction fell to his older brother Corey, who was a relatively short, balding man with a thick blond beard and piercing blue eyes. He was portly (though nowhere near as rotund as his younger brother), but Sherlock suspected the small pudge of fat around his midsection disguised a not insignificant amount of abdominal strength. Overall he had the look of a street thug gone slightly to seed. Which was, Sherlock soon found, exactly what he was. "Who's this then?" Corey asked almost as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock hovering by the now unloaded courier van with Eric and the others. The man had driven up in a sports car and was clad in a well-cut suit - obviously doing quite well for himself with this little venture. "Oh, 'ey there boss!" Eric greeted cheerfully as the man neared them, flinging an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and thumping him gently on the chest. Sherlock wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or pleased by the contact. "This'ere's Sherlock!" Eric informed his employer, "He's like a genius or sommat. Said 'e was here t'see ya." "Good afternoon," Sherlock intoned formally. He extricated himself from Eric's hold and held out a hand, which the older man shook without much thought. Sherlock filed away whatever information he could glean from a quick, unobtrusive scan of the man's body. *Mid-thirties, keeps a flat in Mayfair, no pets, string of ex-girlfriends, accustomed to being in charge, ruthless businessman, former street fighter, had italian for dinner.* Corey was eyeing him critically. "A cokehead, huh?" He said this with the air of someone commenting on another person's hairstyle. Sherlock blinked - as far as he'd seen in the mirror earlier his pupils weren't particularly dilated, nor was he shaking. What little cocaine he'd had hadn't been nearly enough to cause such obvious signs. He assumed there must be some other tell and resolved to find out what it was as soon as possible. For now, though... "Is there somewhere more private we could speak?" Sherlock shot a subtle sidelong glance at Eric, who was still standing next to him. Corey looked to the boy and rolled his eyes slightly. "Crenshaw, get the hell out of here. Tell the others to take off too," he ordered. Eric pouted slightly but did as he was told. He flashed Sherlock a thumbs-up and clapped him on the back as he walked away. "Huh. Don't normally act so friendly, that kid," Corey commented blandly. "Better watch out, think he might fancy you." *Really? Brilliant!* was what Sherlock wanted to say, but what came out of his mouth instead was, "I'd like to propose a deal." *Thank god for cocaine,* was all he could think. "Would you now?" Corey raised one blond eyebrow and eyed Sherlock up and down appraisingly. "And what's a public school dropout got that I might want?" "First of all, I didn't drop out of public school, I dropped out of *Oxford.*" He stressed the institution's name significantly, hoping the prestige would win him at least some respect. Corey didn't seem particularly phased. Sherlock frowned. "And secondly," he continued, "I am, as Eric mentioned, a 'genius'. My primary area of expertise is chemistry, which as I understand it is a skill set you're currently lacking. I am fully capable of performing toxicology analyses on all manner of illicit substances using very little equipment. Think of how much you could raise your prices if every gram were guaranteed pure." Corey seemed to be considering. Sherlock held his breath. Making himself useful would be a far easier and less dangerous strategy than blackmail. Hopefully the distributor took his bait. "Exactly what sort of equipment are we talking here?" Corey asked eventually. Sherlock fought down a triumphant grin. "For a very rough estimation just methanol and a decent scale. If you want the exact percentage and identification of the cut I would need a titration setup and some basic chemical reagents." "And you know how to purify too, I take it?" "Of course." Corey made a 'hmm'ing noise. "Well, we got plenty of scales. Don't suppose you're carrying methanol or whatever around with you, then." "It's easily obtainable," Sherlock assured breezily. "The secondary school nearby almost certainly keeps a stock in the chemistry lab, if you'd like to avoid the paper trail." "You want to steal from a bunch of kids?" Despite his tone Corey looked more amused than affronted. "If you're bothered by ethics simply make an anonymous donation to the school fund later to purchase replacements. Doubtless they could use new equipment anyway, this isn't exactly an upscale community." Sherlock glanced meaningfully at the rundown house beside them with a raise of his eyebrows. Corey just shrugged. "If you want to bugger off and break into a school that's your business, lad. You'll have to find your own lockpicker, though. Far as I know none of my boys are thieves." Sherlock tucked his hands into his coat pockets with a quirked brow. "Not *remotely* a problem." "Oh aye? Hm, right." Corey rubbed one thick hand over his balding crown, then stuck both hands in his pockets and fixed Sherlock with a calculating stare. "Well, what is it you want then?" "All I ask is that you agree to sell to me directly." Corey smirked. "Had a little trouble with your dealer, eh?" Sherlock's stance stiffened defensively but he kept his tone even. "I'm willing to pay full price in addition to the analysis work. The deal is distinctly in your favour." "Alright, alright lad, don't get all stroppy." Corey laughed. "I'll admit it'd be good to have a boffin around for the technical bits. Tell you what, you get me accurate numbers on that cocaine cut and I'll let you buy whatever you want, how's that?" Sherlock nodded. "Excellent, thank you." "Well, go on and break into wherever the hell you're going to," Corey said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Take Crenshaw with if you need a lookout or something. Little blighter needs to get out of the house once in awhile." Sherlock resolutely quelled an upsurge of something alarmingly like glee at the prospect of dragging Eric along with him, and instead raised an eyebrow delicately. "You seem... strangely paternal towards your tenants," he pointed out. He'd already deduced that the three boys he'd met earlier lived in the ramshackle house in exchange for working for the distributor. "And you seem strangely posh for an addict," Corey retorted. "Guess we're none of us what you'd expect." A chiming noise sounded from his trouser pocket and he pulled out an expensive mobile. He continued talking even as he composed a response to the text he'd just received "Listen lad, it's obvious you're planning to kip here if you can." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Corey ignored him. "So here's a quick rundown of the rules: you get caught, it's on you. You don't do what I say, there'll be consequences. Overdose or otherwise incapacitate yourself and you'll get dumped at the nearest A&E if - and only if - there's a car around or you can walk. Otherwise you're shit out of luck; no ambulances allowed anywhere near this place. I don't give a toss about house upkeep, just that it stays standing, and cleaning's your own goddamn business. Got all that?" Sherlock blinked, nodding vaguely. "Er, yes," he added when he realised the man was still looking at his phone. Had he just become a tenant? "Good." Corey sent his message and tucked the mobile away. He flashed Sherlock a rather sardonic grin. "Welcome to the crew, lad." He clapped him roughly on the back and walked away in the direction of his car. Sherlock was left standing alone on the pavement. He'd done it. He was in. All he had to do were a few simple chemical tests and he'd not only have a steady supply of cocaine but a place to live as well. He allowed himself a relieved grin. Now to find Eric. **««** Bringing Crenshaw was a mistake, Sherlock decided. It wasn't that he *disliked* the man particularly - he was after all extremely nice to look at and despite the cockney accent was somehow not a complete moron - it was just that Sherlock hadn't counted on having to deal with him whilst crashing. He blinked at the lock he was fiddling with and scowled as his vision refused to focus correctly. His migraine was getting worse, and the landscape in his head was starting to look more like a swamp than a field. Eric, predictably, was not helping. "It's sorta weird how y'know how t'do all this shit," the man was saying from his elbow as Sherlock picked the lock on the back door of what they were reasonably certain was the local school's chemistry lab. Sherlock grit his teeth. He must have told Eric to shut up about fifty times by now. Maybe if he just humoured him the idiot would wear himself out and stop trying to converse. "What's weird about it?" "Well I mean it's like... why? *Why* do y'know how ta pick locks an' break an' enter an' shit? You sound like y'grew up in Chelsea or sommat and yer coat's worth like, a hunnerd quid at least." "Closer to a thousand. And why would having money keep me from learning how to pick locks?" Sherlock asked, voice irritated. One of the tumblers was stubbornly refusing to catch, which might have had something to do with the fact that he was still having to use a hairpin as a lifter and a small screwdriver as a tension wrench. He resolved to obtain a set of proper lockpicks as quickly as possible. "But y'could just buy anyfin' you wanted. So why would you bother learnin' how t'pick locks?" "Maybe so I'd know how to unlock things?" Sherlock responded in a sarcastic deadpan. The tumbler he was working on finally clicked into place and he made a small satisfied noise as he moved on to the last one. "But what would y'need ta unlock?" Damned Eric. Sherlock sighed irritably. "*Anything*, I don't know. Doors, windows, cabinets. Mother's jewelry boxes, Mycroft's school trunk." "Mike-roft?" Eric parroted curiously. "My *brother*," Sherlock hissed, hoping his acidic tone would convey a not-so-subtle hint that Eric should drop the subject. Of course it didn't. Eric was the most oblivious human on the planet. "Oh, neat! Older er younger?" Sherlock clenched his jaw and cursed whatever gods made him attracted to such a vacuous fool. "Older," he bit out. "Now *shut up*." Surprisingly Eric obeyed him for the next several minutes. Sherlock finally managed to catch the last tumbler and the lock clicked open, revealing a darkened room full of lab benches and chemistry supplies. All of the equipment was used and fairly obviously secondhand, but in decent working condition. Sherlock appropriated several boxes of glassware, a few bunsen burners and a stir plate, placing them all into a convenient plastic tote. Then he went in search of the chemical storage room. Upon finding it his face immediately fell into a pout. The selection was *dismal*. "This is all rubbish," he whinged as he scoured the shelves. Perhaps a decent spread for a school chemistry lab but nothing approaching what he was used to. Luckily he didn't really need anything fancy just to titrate cocaine. That didn't stop a sullen frown from stealing over his face, however. "They haven't even got sodium thiosulphate. What kind of chemistry class doesn't have sodium thiosulphate? Did they run out?" "I dunno what th'fuck that is mate," Eric informed him as he shouldered into the little room behind Sherlock. He looked around at all the bottles and jars with a vaguely dazed expression. "It's a crystalline compound that reacts stoichiometrically with iodine." "Stoitchio... wha'?" Sherlock sighed. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only person who actually cared to know things that mattered. "Nevermind," he said dismissively. "Here, hold this." He handed his partner-in-crime a plastic tote bucket he'd found and began placing bottles into it. "Is this stuff dangerous?" Eric asked with a look of faint trepidation as the tote in his arms began filling with various containers. "Only when mixed improperly," Sherlock assured offhandedly. Eric looked relieved. Sherlock paused and regarded the small bottle of perchloric acid in his hand for a second. "Oh, wait. This is dangerous by itself." He tossed the bottle casually into the bucket, where it bounced off a glass jar and rolled to a stop. Sherlock was already back hunting around the shelves. Eric's face went faintly green. **««** When they got back to the house Devin was waiting for them. "Corey said to give you this," he said irritably, holding up a baggie of white powder. Something alarmingly desperate kicked into gear in Sherlock's subconscious, but he forced himself to calmly set his box full of equipment on the counter in the small, cramped kitchen before reaching for the baggie. "Ah, ah, ah," Devin said, twitching it out of reach. Sherlock grit his teeth as Eric walked into the room behind him carrying the box of chemicals. "Cor' says I'm to make sure you don't *use* any. You get as much as you need to do your little experiment and that's it, understand?" "I'd get my *little experiment* done a lot faster if you'd let me have enough coke to stop crashing," Sherlock pointed out irritably. Seeing the powder so close yet out of his reach was torturous, so he determinedly turned around and set about pulling out glassware. "He said you'd probably say that." Devin grinned wickedly. Sherlock scowled. His migraine flared white-hot for a moment and he stopped to lean over the counter, setting down the burette in his hands before he broke it. "Geez, give him sommat at least Dev," Eric's voice cut in. "He's got a buncha deadly bloody chemicals an' whatnot. Ya wanna strung-out junkie fuckin' around wit' mustard gas in here?" "I can't make mustard gas, I don't have anything sulpherous," Sherlock pointed out in a vague monotone. Both men ignored him. "Corey says he ain't to be getting high," Devin snapped. "If he kills us with his little chemistry setup he won't get any coke, so we're fine." "But..." "Leave it, Eric," Sherlock bit out. He hardly needed some cockney pothead standing up for him. Besides it wasn't as if he hadn't been through this before. The migraine was pushed away to the far corners of his field and he picked up the burette again, slotting it into a ring stand. He would push himself through on willpower alone. "If you're going to hang around *monitoring* me you might as well make yourself useful," he quipped irritably to Devin. "Weigh up 600 milligrams of powder, plus or minus no more than five milligrams. Write down the exact weight to as many decimal places as the scale will go." "Six *hundred?*" Devin squawked indignantly. Sherlock whipped around with a savage glare. "Either you weigh up the correct amount or I attempt to mix a different normality of perchloric acid than I'm used to and kill us all by adding the wrong amount of acetic anhydride *because I am bloody crashing off cocaine!"* "Alright, alright! Jesus," Devin conceded, throwing up his hands. He stalked off into the other room, presumably to find a scale to use. Sherlock huffed indignantly and turned back to his box of pilfered lab equipment. "Could y'really kill us widdat stuff?" Eric asked nervously from over by the table. "Absolutely," Sherlock confirmed in a dull voice. He pulled out the stir plate and a one-litre beaker from the equipment box and placed them in the sink, opening the window all the way before striding over to grab up the bottles of perchloric and acetic acid from Eric's container. Eric followed him back over to the sink, where Sherlock dropped the magnetic stir bar into the beaker and poured several hundred milliletres of acetic acid in after it. "What're y'doin'?" Sherlock set his jaw against the desire to kick Eric in the bollocks. "Making a point one normal perchloric solution," he ground out. "What for?" Eric was staring at the swirling liquid like he thought it might somehow combust. "Do you actually want to know or are you just trying to make conversation in some misguided attempt to be friendly?" Sherlock snapped back. He turned to dig out a small graduated cylinder and measured out perchloric acid. Eric grimaced slightly. "Er... both?" Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Alkalimetric titration." At Eric's blank look he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "This solution is acidic. It will react with cocaine, which is alkaline." Another blank look. "Alka-wot?" "Oh for god's- *basic.* The opposite of acidic?" "Oh! Like milk an' lemons!" Eric suddenly exclaimed. Sherlock shot him a withering look. "Milk and...? *Ugh,* whatever. Look, when you mix an *acid* with a *base* they neutralise each other," he continued, latching on to the excuse to talk as a distraction from his aching head. "The reaction will occur at different rates depending on the chemicals in question, so if you happen to know exactly the rate at which a certain acid will neutralise with a certain base you can find out how much you have of one or the other by adding them together until one is completely gone. Understand?" As he spoke he'd been carefully pouring perchloric acid into the beaker, and Eric retreated a few steps as the mixture bubbled slightly. "Uh... is that stuff safe to be mixin'?" "Oh relax, it's only an explosion hazard when its hot," Sherlock answered irritably, dumping the rest of the perchloric in. The mixture hissed as it reacted, then calmed. "Hand me the acetic anhydride." "Th' what?" "Aceti- oh never mind." He stalked past the other man and plucked the chemical he needed out of the tote, then returned to pour out thirty millilitres into a clean beaker. "Six hundred one point, er..." Devin returned with a cup partially full of white powder, squinting at a scrap of paper in his hand. "... point naught three seven." "Lovely. Set it where I can't see it," Sherlock ordered. He dumped the anhydride into the mixture in the sink and ignored it as it reacted, instead moving on to setting up the titration burette. "So yer gonna add that stuff to th' coke until the coke... what like, dissolves?" Eric asked hesitantly. Sherlock ground his teeth and resisted the urge to stab himself in the eye with the ring stand. He was *not* about to attempt to explain halochromic pH indicators to someone who didn't know what an alkaline was. "Just shut up and let me work," he growled. Eric seemed to get the hint and backed off to sit on the kitchen table, watching curiously as Sherlock (after closing his eyes with a wince) dumped acetic acid into the cup of cocaine. He set the concoction aside to dissolve, moved back to the sink and turned the stir bar all the way up on the perchloric solution. Then he simply stood and stared at it ruefully. "Well?" Devin asked as nothing further seemed to be happening. "It has to mix for an hour," Sherlock grumbled with an unhappy pout, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. He fixed Devin with a sullen look. "Well that sure sucks for you, don't it?" Devin responded snippily. "Come find me when you've got numbers and maybe we can talk. Until then you can fuckin' deal with it, Public School." Sherlock sneered as the rotund man turned on his heel and left, then bent double to set his forehead on the counter with a sigh. He was absolutely exhausted. Every thought felt as if it were struggling along through a vast bog, plus his headache was back. The thought of taking a nap was tempting, except he'd almost certainly have nightmares and didn't want to wake up screaming in the midst of a bunch of strangers. "Wanna play Halo?" Eric piped up. Sherlock groaned. "No," he mumbled. "Wanna sit on the couch an' watch *me* play Halo?" the other boy suggested fatuously. Sherlock lifted his head to shoot him an unimpressed glower. Eric just shrugged. "I guess," Sherlock conceded. It was better than falling asleep with his head on the kitchen counter after all. He trailed moodily after the sandy-haired man and glared around at the sitting room when they entered. The familiar feeling of absolute hatred for the world was back, and he wondered what on earth he was even doing in a place like this. Hadn't he been at Oxford three months ago? What had happened? *You fucked it all up, that's what happened,* his brain told him viciously. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried not to look as miserable as he felt. "I'll keep th' volume low, yeah?" Eric offered as he sat down and flipped on the telly. Sherlock remained standing for a moment, unwilling to sit in case he fell asleep. Something in the far corner by a long-dead potted plant caught his eye and he ambled over to it. "What's a guitar doing here?" he asked dully. It was leaning up against the wall, no case in sight. Acoustic, body stained a dark chocolate brown with some kind of electrical pickup apparatus on the side that meant it could probably be hooked into an amplifier. He poked it with his foot. Eric was blushing slightly. "Oh, uh... that's mine. D'you play?" "No." Sherlock picked it up by the neck anyway and carried it over to the couch. Needed something to keep himself from sleeping and/or thinking. And while a guitar was significantly less elegant than a violin it at least provided something to focus on besides the quagmire in his brain. He shuffled his peacoat off as he walked, tossed it on the back of the sofa then flopped down next to Eric with the guitar resting awkwardly against his stomach. The strings seemed at least mostly in tune, just a bit flat from having not been used recently. He guessed at the correct notes and brought them back up to pitch as Eric alternated between turning on the Xbox and staring at him. "You don't play but y'know which strings are which?" he asked in wonder. "I do have *ears*," Sherlock replied snippily. He fiddled around on the frets of the highest string for a moment, locating the equivalent to a violin's first position, then mentally adjusted for the other strings and began idly plucking out a Vivaldi concerto. Eric was gaping at him. "What?" Sherlock snapped. He was *not* in the mood to be stared at like some sort of sideshow. Without really meaning to he switched from the La cetra piece he'd been playing to Winter's allegro. "I thought y'said you didn't play?" Sherlock ignored him in favour of attempting to do both the melody and harmony parts at once. It didn't work well. "This is a stupid instrument," he griped. "Well yer kinda... doin' it wrong?" Eric didn't sound too sure about that, but shrugged. "Yer supposed t'play chords." Sherlock studied the fingerboard for a moment, considering, then placed three fingers on different strings and strummed all but the low E string, hitting every note of a basic arpeggio at once. "I don't see how that's any better." "Did ya just figure out how ta play a C major by starin' at th'strings for like two seconds?" Eric asked with something like exasperation. He'd finally turned back to his video game, sensing Sherlock's irritation with being watched. "I've been playing violin since I was three," Sherlock explained disinterestedly, working his way through the rest of the major chords. The reclined position was making it hard to keep his eyes open despite the instrument to focus on, but he was far too tired to bother trying to sit up. He let his hands drop and blinked blearily at the television. "Y'can go t'sleep if y'want," Eric said with a sidelong glance. "I'll wake ya up in like an hour." Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Don't want to." He hadn't slept more than an hour since waking up in Regent's Park nearly four days ago. After everything that had happened since then... well, it would be a miracle if he didn't have at least one nightmare. And there were some things he emphatically *did not* want to dream about, especially in front of a near-stranger. "No offence mate but y'kinda look like y'could use th' rest." Eric's on-screen avatar was running through some sort of space ship, shooting aliens with an assault rifle. Sherlock watched the colours bend and shift. He was *so bloody tired.* "Not sleeping," he slurred slightly. His hand came up to grip the guitar neck again, but instead of grabbing hold he just ended up accidentally dislodging the instrument from its place across his stomach. Eric paused his game with one hand and caught the guitar with the other before it could hit the hardwood, shooting Sherlock an annoyed glance. "Go t'sleep mate," he said somewhat sternly. "'Fore y'break everythin' in the house." Sherlock mumbled something about stupid cockney morons as his eyes slipped shut against his will. He was unconscious within seconds. Eric smiled softly as he set his guitar down on the floor beside the sofa and straightened back up to regard the man half-sprawled against the other arm of the couch. The lanky cokehead was just about the rudest, most arrogant sod he'd ever met, and yet... On a whim he set his controller aside and grabbed the grey peacoat off the back of the sofa (pausing slightly to marvel again at how expensive it was - *a thousand pounds*, really?), flipping it over the other man's chest as a makeshift blanket. Sherlock didn't so much as stir, but Eric had met enough stimulant addicts to know the skinny prat probably hadn't slept in days and wasn't too worried. He settled back on the couch and picked up his controller again, keeping one eye on the clock on the far wall and an ear to the man sleeping next to him. If Sherlock started to dream he'd wake him up, otherwise he decided it wouldn't hurt to leave the poor bastard for at least an hour or two. Those chemicals weren't going anywhere after all. "G'night, Sherly," he muttered quietly, and unpaused his game. **««** ## Chapter 3: And We'll Get Sick **««** **3. And We'll Get Sick** *He was seven and a half and he'd stopped talking three months ago. His brother had gone away to France that year, no longer content to stay and study within the confines of the British school system. Sherlock desperately missed the company. Because even if Mycroft didn't seem to quite* understand *his younger brother (he never saw the way things could be so interesting no matter how mundane, didn't care about knowing why, why, why) he was still smart, and kind, and liked having him around. Or at least* pretended *to, which was more than anyone could say for Mummy and Father.* *They were having a dinner party. Sherlock wasn't invited, as he wasn't allowed near dinner guests anymore. That was fine with him of course because dinners were dreadfully boring, but it did mean he never got to interact with anyone now besides the tutor and the nanny. The nanny who thought him a lollygagger and a daydreamer and the tutor who told him he was lazy when subjects were too dull to hold his attention no matter how hard he tried to concentrate. He didn't like either of them, so he hid. Ducked between the willow's drooping leaves and climbed up the gnarled trunk to sit on the highest sturdy branch. No one ever looked for him there. He wasn't entirely sure anyone besides his brother ever looked for him at all, to be honest, but that was alright because he didn't want them to.* *It was peaceful in the willow tree. The fact that he could fall and break his neck at any moment was the right kind of scary, the kind that slowed the world down and made things clear and bright and interesting. He watched the servants move about the grounds through gaps in the leaves and wondered how long he'd be able to stay up here this time. His record was a day and a half, after which he'd been forced to come down for food. Today he'd brought a knapsack with supplies nicked from the kitchen, and books and a blanket. Maybe he could make it a week.* *He was just settling in to read about Blackbeard some more (pirates, he'd decided last month, were bloody brilliant) when a voice from below interrupted him.* *"You can't stay up there your whole life, you know," Mycroft called half-sternly. Only half, because he sounded a bit amused and that negated most of the admonishment. Sherlock tilted his head to look down at his brother. The older boy was at the base of the tree, peering up at him with his usual expression of mild exasperation.* *Sherlock shrugged. "I can try."* *It occurred to him to wonder what Mycroft was doing here, since he should have been at a boarding school in France, but he quickly dismissed the thought as irrelevant. He instead set his book aside to fix his brother with a challenging stare. After a second's hesitation Mycroft sighed.* *"I really do hate climbing," he grumbled and Sherlock smiled, because the older boy had nonetheless hoisted himself up to the lowest bough and begun making his way up the lattice of branches. Mycroft was the only person he knew who would actively do things he didn't like just to keep Sherlock out of trouble.* *"You hate moving in general."* *"Yes, because it's pointless to waste time and energy running about when you can order other people to do it for you," Mycroft sniped back, the teenager managing to look arrogant despite his precarious position clinging to the base of a gnarled willow branch.* *"You'll get fat if you don't run about* sometimes*," Sherlock pointed out. "It's unhealthy to be so sedentary."* *"Oh like* you're *one to talk about health," Mycroft quipped with a roll of his eyes. He'd finally made it up to Sherlock's level and settled himself uncomfortably on a thick branch beside his younger brother. "You started smoking at what, fifteen?"* *"Fourteen. You didn't notice until the year after because you were too busy to come home for the holidays." It was a little ridiculous to be talking about things that would happen in his teens while in the body of a child, but he didn't bother to question it. He looked out over the grounds instead. Mycroft did as well, and they sat in companionable silence for several minutes.* *"I'm going to try to stay up here a whole week," Sherlock eventually announced. He heard his brother heave a light sigh from beside him.* *"You'll get sick," Mycroft replied in a tone of weary resignation. The boy had learned quite early on of course that arguing with Sherlock rarely had any positive effect, but he made the effort anyway because he felt obligated to point out when his little brother was being ridiculous.* *Sherlock quirked a bitter half-smile. "Yes well you're the only person who would care, and you're at school in Bordeaux so I don't see why that should be a deterrent."* *"If you'd have just said something, I would have come home more often," Mycroft told him, voice gone quiet and a little sad. Sherlock scoffed.* *"No you wouldn't have," he muttered darkly. "You had more important things to do than keep me company. You* always *have more important things to do." After a pause he added, "It's... it's lonely here without you, Myc."* *This time it was Mycroft's turn to scoff. "Lonely? Sociopaths don't get lonely."* *Seven year old Sherlock blinked away tears and nodded. "I... right, of course they don't."* *He brought his legs up to his chest and shivered as the blue sky above their heads was obscured by a veil of dark stormclouds. A sudden blizzard kicked up, burying the rolling fields of grass in a thick, smothering blanket of snow. Sherlock's blood was slowly freezing solid in his veins. He looked over to his brother and found the older boy's gaze on him.* "*I do care, you know," Mycroft whispered, lips curved in a soft, regretful smile.* *"Myc, I..." Sherlock started, but the rest of his sentence trailed away. It was too late, his brother had already disappeared. Sherlock was left alone in the tree, surrounded by nothing but frozen white in all directions.* *He wrapped his small arms around scuffed knees and choked a single, quiet sob.* **««** "Sherly, mate. Oi! Wake up, y'silly prat." Sherlock jerked awake with a slight gasp, eyes shooting open only to wince closed again at the harsh light from a television screen directly in front of him. He waited a few seconds, then opened one eye carefully to squint at the face hovering above his head. His brain felt like it was crawling along through a thick vat of treacle, making thoughts difficult to form and leaving him completely at a loss as to who it was he was staring at. *Mycroft?* his brain supplied, but he shook the thought away. No, too thin. And too... brown? Brown eyes, brown hair, brown stubble, brown brown brown. He opened his other eye and blinked groggily. He didn't think he knew anyone with that much brown. Victor's hair was brown-*ish*, but his eyes were blue, and he never had stubble. "Victor?" he mumbled anyway, because he couldn't think of who else it could be. "Nah, mate. It's Eric," the face said, and prodded him in the side. "Yer in Stockwell, 'member?" And like a set of floodgates opening Sherlock suddenly did remember. He groaned lightly and sat up. The peacoat slid off his chest to land with a soft thump on the floor, making the thought of cocaine jump first and foremost to his consciousness. Half a second later he grimaced as he remembered he didn't have any. "Can I smoke in here?" he asked tiredly, rubbing at his face in an effort to dispel the looming cloud of exhaustion. Should find out what time it was. Didn't care enough. Still dark out, so it obviously hadn't been too long. "Yeah mate, go for it." Eric had picked up Sherlock's coat from off the floor and set it on the back of the couch almost reverently, probably still in awe over the price. Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly and tapped out one of his last three cigarettes. Didn't have another pack; he was going to be in a lot of fucking trouble soon if he didn't get that analysis d- "Ah! My perchloric solution!" he exclaimed suddenly, springing up. He paused on his way to the kitchen to light the cigarette clamped between his lips (some things were just more important) and hurried in to look into the sink. The 0.1N solution was swirling sedately away in its beaker. He put a hand to the side of the glass to feel the temperature. Warm, but not hot. It had finished reacting. "It done?" Eric asked from behind him, having followed at a more leisurely pace. Sherlock blew a cloud of smoke in roughly the direction of the open window (being careful to avoid getting ash in the perchloric) and nodded. "Do you have any rubber gloves?" Even as he asked he began opening cupboards under the sink, searching. There didn't seem to be all that much in the way of cleaning supplies. "Ehhh... I don't fink so." "Never mind then," Sherlock huffed. Well, perchloric burns weren't all that bad anyway. He switched off the stir plate and debated on the best way to go about transferring the liquid, finally settling on fetching a smaller 200mL beaker and pouring enough acid mixture into that to fill the burette. "What're y'doin now?" Eric piped up. Between the cigarette and the nap Sherlock was feeling quite a bit less crabby, so he found he wasn't quite as eager to kick the man for asking stupid questions. "Putting this in that," he said flippantly, indicating the small beaker of 0.1N perchloric now in his hand (he'd managed not to get any on his skin while pouring it, somehow) and the long glass burette clipped into the ring stand on the other side of the counter. "To put in that," he added before Eric could ask, pointing at the now-dissolved cloudy mixture of cocaine and acetic in the cup by the toaster. "An' mixin' all that stuff'll tell ya how much coke's in there?" Sherlock nodded. It really was amazing how much better he felt for a little sleep and nicotine. Not that the headache had gone away, but at least he was more prepared to deal with idiots. He filled the burette, fetched the stir plate from under the perchloric solution (managing to find another, smaller stir bar attached to the underside of the ring stand) and set up the cocaine mixture underneath. "There should be a dropper bottle labelled methyl violet in the box of chemicals," he told Eric. The other man turned and dug around carefully before producing a small amber container. "This'un?" "Yes. Add one drop to the cocaine mixture." Sherlock had moved off to locate the scrap of paper with the powder weight on it and was now hunting for a pen in one of the counter drawers. At Eric's hesitation he rolled his eyes. "It's a *coloured dye*, Eric, it isn't dangerous in the least." "F'you say so," Eric muttered. He squeezed a single drop of the indigo liquid into the cup with ridiculous, excruciating care, wincing as the chemicals combined. Of course nothing happened besides the concoction turning bright purple, as it was meant to. "Oh, hey! Neat!" Eric exclaimed. "I told you it was fine." Sherlock waved Eric out of the way and bent down to check the level of solution in the burette, then adjusted the stir rate on the cocaine mixture. He paused to rub his forehead, straightening up and leaning back on the kitchen table for a moment. It would be an enormous pain to screw up at this stage, and he still hadn't finished smoking his cigarette. "Y'can do that explainin' thing again f'ya want," Eric offered quietly from where he was hovering by the counter. Sherlock looked up to find a light blush on the other man's face and gave him a slightly confused stare. "Explaining thing?" "Well just... y'were explainin' how it all worked earlier an' I kinda thought... it were kinda interestin', y'know? A bit." Eric pressed his palms together in some kind of nervous gesture and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Talking out loud *might* help him focus, but it could also be incredibly annoying. "You'd have to promise not to interrupt me." Eric opened his mouth to agree, then snapped it shut again to nod emphatically instead. Sherlock bit back a smile at the stupid way the man's hair flopped over his eyes. Instead he stubbed out his cigarette and clapped his hands together. This was actually the easiest part, so it shouldn't be too difficult to explain. Why a cockney pothead from Stockwell wanted to know about chemical titration was a mystery, but he couldn't exactly begrudge a willing audience to one of his science lectures. "Alright, well. You should already know the basics. Acid neutralises base," he gestured to the burette full of 0.1N perchloric and the cup of cocaine. "The liquid you just dropped into the cocaine mixture is an indicator which changes colour based on pH, so- oh hell, please tell me you know what pH is." Eric gave him a strange, half-sheepish smile but seemed determined not to speak further. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed very slightly. "It's a simple scale to determine the acidity of a substance. A pH of seven indicates neutrality, anything below that is an acid, above is a base. The methyl violet indicator will remain purple at pH levels above 1.6, as soon as the acidity drops below that it will turn green. So we simply add perchloric acid until the pH falls below 1.6, and this will tell us how much cocaine is in the solution." "Wha'? How?" Eric blurted out, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Sherlock shook his head with a small smile and set about checking the exact level of solution in the burette. He jotted the number down on the piece of scrap paper Devin had written the cocaine weight on and turned back to twist the burette's stopcock far enough to let a steady drip fall into the cup below. Eric forgot his earlier question to stare in awe at the burst of green swirling away into the violet liquid every time a drop hit. "It's going to be a very rough estimate, of course," Sherlock went on, watching the chemicals mix with significantly less wonder than his companion. "In ideal conditions the perchloric solution would have reacted for over 24 hours, and should be far more accurately normalised. There's no way to know exactly how much neutralisation potential it has at this point, but it should be close enough for- oh, hell I forgot the blank. Where did I put the-?" He turned and hunted around for the acetic acid, and grabbed up a clean beaker to prepare a blank sample. Eric was still busy staring at the titration setup so Sherlock didn't bother to explain what he was doing. "It's not turnin' back ta purple as quick now," Eric spoke up after a moment. Sherlock glanced over at the solution and saw that, indeed, it was nearing its endpoint. He strode over and turned the stopcock so that a single drop fell every second or so. Together they stared at the swirling liquid. Three or four drops later the entire concoction turned a bright green, and Sherlock turned the drip off to let it settle. When no purple crept back into the hue he glanced at the burette and noted the level on his scrap paper. "Hm, not very pure at all," he commented idly, then shooed Eric out of the way to run his blank. It came out roughly where it should have been, which was frankly remarkable considering the conditions he was working with, so he wrote down the correction factor and switched off the stir plate to go over his numbers. "Y'gotta do maths?" Eric asked with a look of horrified pity. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Obviously," he answered. "I'm assuming you don't want to know how this part works, then," he added drily as he bent over the counter to write out digits and symbols rapidly. Eric shook his head vehemently. "No way, I bleedin' hate maths." "Pity, it's an elegant subject." A few seconds later he had his results, more or less. They could be a lot more accurate but he figured nobody here was particularly likely to call him on fudging the equivalence point. The cut was also narrowed down to one of a very small subset of soluble, non-interfering substances as well, so there was that answered. A thrum of desperate anticipation shot through him with the knowledge that he could finally, *finally* get more cocaine and stop feeling like his brain was trapped in a pit of sludge. "Where's Devin?" "Uh, prolly upstairs, he don't usually kip here but he's got a room on th' secon-" He didn't stay to hear the end of Eric's sentence, just bounded up the stairs two at a time and knocked loudly on the only door with a light on behind it. He stood rhythmically clenching his jaw and was just about to knock again when Devin appeared in the doorway. "What?" the man snapped tiredly. The pattern of indents on his face suggested he'd fallen asleep on a spiral notebook. The sight might have been humorous had Sherlock cared to acknowledge it. "Thirty eight percent cocaine with a plus or minus five percent margin of error would have been less but a kitchen is a rubbish laboratory and the adulterant is probably lactose powder," he rattled off impatiently, thrusting the scrap of paper he'd written his calculations on into Devin's chest along with a crumpled fifty pound note. The man took the items with a confused blink. "What's the money fo-?" he started, then figured it out and cut himself off with an eye roll. "Oh, right. Christ. Fine, just wait here." Sherlock complied, practically bouncing on his feet as he looked in to see Devin place the money and scrap paper on a desk and retrieve one of several small baggies of powder he'd apparently been weighing up. "Don't use it all in one go, huh?" Devin said sarcastically as he tossed the packet across the room. Sherlock caught it with a slight sneer and left without bothering to reply. His coat was still downstairs, so he rushed down and whipped it off the back of the sofa. A brief thought of obtaining a fresh needle entered his mind but he dismissed it as he returned up to the second floor bathroom. Would take too long, too much effort, and he'd been fine last time with an old one. He only had two fags left now so instead of sacrificing one for a clean filter he simply dug out the one from earlier in the day (which he'd habitually stored between the cardboard sleeves of his cigarette pack) and reused it. Shouldn't even have bothered with the filter anyway, knowing the cut was soluble. Pointless motions of habit. Not exactly a habit he needed to try and break himself of, true, but irritating nonetheless. Though to be fair *everything* was irritating right now. The needle was painfully blunt and his veins were practically impossible to hit anymore, but on the third try he drew back the plunger and saw red mix with white. *Finally*, he thought, and drove the mixture into his bloodstream. **««** Eric was still in the kitchen when Sherlock made his way back downstairs. The man was sitting on the scuffed dining table, intently studying the label on the bottle of methyl violet indicator. He looked up with a smile as Sherlock entered the room. "Hey, Shers, y'get yer c-" he started, but cut off with a widening of his eyes as he caught sight of Sherlock's pupils. "*Whoa*, okay yeah guess ya did." Sherlock blinked, turning to catch his reflection in the glass of the open window. Even in the dim, murky image he could see his irises had been practically swallowed by black, making him look even more freakish and otherworldly than he usually did. "Hm, should go away in a bit," he remarked offhandedly and turned back with an unconcerned shrug. Everything was so delightfully languid, snow soft and pristine coating the world with miniature crystals of soothing ice. He honestly couldn't remember why he'd ever been upset with anyone or anything at all. Eric was giving him a strange look, so he tucked his hands in his sweatshirt pocket (the peacoat was now hanging on the back of a chair, as he was much too warm to wear it despite the still-open window) and leant back casually against the counter with an affable smile. "Problem?" he asked pleasantly. Eric made a valiant effort to force the disconcerted expression off his face before speaking. "I uh... I thought coke were supposed t'make y'all... chatty or sommat," he said hesitantly, fingers fidgeting with the dropper cap on the bottle of pH indicator. Sherlock reached out and plucked the container out of his hands before the idiot could spill dye all over himself, absently noting the slight colouring of Eric's cheeks as their skin brushed for an instant. "I believe that is the *normal* reaction, yes," Sherlock replied, screwing the lid back tight on the bottle and placing it behind him on the counter. He replaced his hands in his hoodie pocket and stared expectantly. Eric blinked, confused for a moment, but quickly caught on to the implication with a short laugh. "Oh, a' course. Right. Yer not normal." "Not in the *least*," Sherlock confirmed breezily. He eyed Eric's hands as the man's now-empty palms pressed together in an unconscious habit, then let his gaze wander the rest of his body, picking up clues. After a few seconds' analysis he smirked. "So I guess this means yer done with sleepin' fer awhi-?" Eric was saying, but his words choked off as Sherlock abruptly pushed away from the counter to close the space between them. They were inches apart now, Sherlock peering down at him with a look of idle fascination. "S-Sherlock?" "Stand up," the lanky addict ordered in a smooth, unhurried voice. Eric gave him a confused look but obeyed, cautiously sliding off the tabletop to his feet. "What's-?" he started to ask, but Sherlock cut him off by placing one pale hand on Eric's chest, palm pressing flat over the sternum. His smirk widened into a smug grin. "Are you frightened of me?" Sherlock asked lowly, amused by the way the man's heart rate kicked up a notch at the sound of his voice. He'd noticed from the start, of course, that Eric was nervous around him. But he hadn't been in any mood to bother confirming *why* until now- until the blissful quiet of cocaine let him morph intent into perfectly-coordinated action, gave him such effortless poise and enveloped his fragile self-confidence in an impenetrable shield of ice. God, how he'd missed this. Missed feeling *right*. "Course I ain't," Eric asserted with a steady voice, brows furrowing in a light warning glare as if he thought Sherlock might challenge him. His stance shifted steadfast, but the racing heart and dilating pupils betrayed his discomfort. "Good," Sherlock muttered imperiously. Without warning he curled his fingers to fist in Eric's shirt, pulling the other man's face to his in a forceful kiss. Eric made a surprised noise but didn't pull away. Sherlock only held it for a few seconds before he let go and took a step back, slipping his hands in his jeans pockets with a quirked brow. Taking complete control was no fun- far more interesting to give people their own choice of fate. Eric could either take the reins and reciprocate, or pretend it never happened. It was entirely up to him. The other man was leaning heavily on the table, looking a little dazed. "Did y'just kiss me?" he asked blankly. "Yes." "So y'*do* actually like me," Eric pressed, recovering somewhat to stand upright again. Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. "You're mostly tolerable." Eric gave him an exasperated look, and Sherlock smirked, canting his head to the side with a provoking tilt. *Make your decision, Crenshaw.* The next second he was against the cabinets, Eric's hands pinning him by the shoulders as the man proceeded to snog the hell out of him. By the time they broke apart they were both panting for breath. Eric was laughing, clutching Sherlock with a frankly adorable blush on his freckled cheeks. Sherlock was smiling too. "I *knew* y'were a bleedin' poofter!" Eric exclaimed breathlessly. Sherlock quirked an amused grin and opened his mouth to respond... Only to abruptly realise he couldn't. His expression morphed into a look of startled confusion. Where Eric's breathing had steadied out after a second or two Sherlock's panting gasps were just getting shallower, lungs seeming to lock up while his heart fluttered behind its ribcage like a frightened bird. Gooseflesh suddenly broke out on his arms and legs as the ambient temperature dropped like a stone. Eric's expression shifted instantly to alarmed worry. "Sherlock? Wha's wrong?" Sherlock shook his head wordlessly, fixing Eric with a look halfway between bewilderment and panic. Out of nowhere he began shivering too violently to keep standing. Luckily Eric still had him by the shoulders and controlled his descent to the floor as his legs gave out. The second he hit the linoleum Sherlock gave up on not hyperventilating. *What the hell is happening? Sepsis? No, no no no blood poisoning shouldn't come on this quickly! Something else in the cocaine, something I didn't notice? Poisoned! Father must have changed his mi-* his thoughts were cut off as a bolt of pain spread flashfire through his skull, making his already unsteady breathing catch and trip over itself. Suddenly Eric's anxious face lit up in recognition. "Oh Christ! Y'gave yerself th' shakes!" he exclaimed with a bark of relieved laughter. Sherlock squinted up at him with a furious glare. *What the hell are you laughing about, you sod? I'm dying here!* "Aw don' look like tha'," Eric admonished with a consoling smile and a pat on his shoulder. "Y'ain't never got cotton fever afore? Guess ya haven't been shootin' up long." Sherlock had no idea what the idiot was talking about and didn't particularly care. He was too focused on trying to keep breathing and avoid passing out or vomiting in response to the pain in his head. "Well c'mon, let's find somewhere t'put ya," Eric was saying sympathetically. One of Sherlock's arms was pulled free from the ball he'd unconsciously curled into and he found himself being hauled up to his feet, supported by Eric. The other man was craning his head to look into the sitting room. "Eh, sofa's a bit small, yeah? Y'think y'can manage stairs?" No response but another angry glare- he was *not* enthused by the forced standing position Eric had him in. Eric just smiled. "Yeah ye'll be fine, mate, c'mon." **««** It wasn't *exactly* how he'd imagined finally getting another bloke in his bed after all this time, but Eric found he didn't mind too much. Sherlock had curled up under the duvet like an angry cat and refused to come out, so Eric grabbed his old secondhand laptop from the bedside table and sat on the other side of the mattress. One of the neighbours kept an unsecured wireless signal, so he managed to get on the internet without much fuss. "It says 'ere there's like germs or sommat in cotton that get in yer blood an' make y'sick," he informed the shivering lump of blankets beside him as he scrolled through a website on drug use. "I seriously can't believe y'aven't got th' shakes afore though, mate, all'a th' heroin guys that come through 'ere've had 'em like a million times." "I can't understand your stupid accent." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the duvet but the irritated tone was clear enough regardless. Eric's face shifted to a small smile. Not that he wished the shakes on anyone (he'd never had them himself, being too afraid of needles to even consider injecting himself with anything, but he knew plenty of junkies who described the experience as horrific) but he was honestly quite relieved to have the sarcastic git version of Sherlock back. Being subjected to constant low-grade insults and a lot of eye rolling was *far* better than the terrifying preternatural calm from earlier. "Yeah y'can, yer just lookin' fer sommat t'bitch about," he replied easily, making no attempt to improve the clarity of his speech. Sherlock made a noise that sounded quite a lot like a growling tabby but didn't respond. Eric reached over and sarcastically patted the spot where he figured the addict's head probably was (the man was completely cocooned, Eric wasn't sure how he was even breathing in there but chose not to comment) and earned himself an annoyed grumble about stupid cockney idiots. He smiled again. Yes, this version was *much* better. Perhaps he'd just been watching the man a bit too closely over the last few hours (to be fair to himself he hadn't exactly seen much action in the last year, and a tall, gorgeous genius appearing on his doorstep was extremely difficult not to stare at) but Eric thought he already had a pretty good idea of the lanky boy's natural disposition. The chilling, languid smoothness of Sherlock on a cocaine high had just been *wrong*. It was like the man had been possessed by some kind of demonic spirit that stripped away his core and left a distorted shell in its wake. Because if there was one thing Eric was sure Sherlock should never be, it was still. Even while crashing the man seemed full of a barely-restrained cloud of manic energy. It kept his gaze searching out details and fingers constantly twitching for something to pick up, to examine and dissect and understand. Eric got the feeling the only reason the other boy wasn't a complete jittery mess all the time was because he'd somehow trained himself not to fidget. He seemed to habitually hold his body locked into a rigid, unnatural poise, but it would wane in and out depending on how distracted he got. It had gotten to the point where he'd been practically *vibrating* with activity on their way to steal chemistry supplies. Touching trees and fences, breaking off twigs, fiddling with loose threads on his jacket and eyes darting around to study everything and everyone they passed. He'd seemed a lot more comfortable that way, but of course every time he caught Eric looking he'd tuck his hands into his coat and go stiff again with this weird, angry expression on his face like he was annoyed with himself for messing up. The constant struggle for self-control showed up when he spoke, too. Eric wasn't exactly brilliant (especially with the pot, but he'd much rather be stoned and stupid than sober and terrified so he took it as a trade-off) but he fancied himself a pretty decent judge of character. And anyway Sherlock was a lot easier to read than he probably realised. All that rudeness and lofty attitude was obviously just a ploy to mask the fact that the guy was terrified of talking to people. Eric hadn't missed the way Sherlock had stiffened up after his crazy-brilliant explanation of how he'd known what was in the courier van yesterday. Then he'd gone on to apologise almost immediately, took a tiny step back and tilted his head like he was expecting someone to haul off and punch him for being too clever. Not exactly the behaviour of a truly arrogant sod. But then seconds later he'd put on some kind of act, pretended to be someone else to hide his discomfort. That had been kind of cool to watch, actually, if a bit creepy. And it made Eric feel a little fuzzy inside that Sherlock had dropped the character just as soon as the other two left. Like he didn't think he needed to hide when they were alone together. It was probably just an unconscious decision but Eric found it sweet anyway. When he'd come back from the loo he'd obviously just done a hit, though nobody but Corey seemed to notice. Eric had been a bit creeped out by the way Sherlock's mannerisms seemed to lose all their restless uncertainty. He'd turned from the slightly awkward but well-meaning toff to some kind of frighteningly cunning, impassive robot. Eric didn't like it a bit, but luckily the stuff wore off quickly and he'd soon had the acerbic tactless git back. And then tonight... well, if he'd thought Sherlock on whatever tiny bit of coke he'd had left was creepy it was *nothing* compared to the properly-high version. The guy had been utterly relaxed, every movement precise and deliberate and just... just *wrong*. It honestly looked like he'd been replaced with an android. Eric normally didn't have much problem with peoples' drug-induced altered personalities (he'd be an enormous hypocrite if he did, after all, considering how he was without pot) but Sherlock had been so unrecognisable he'd had trouble not getting freaked out. But then, well... alright, the kiss had been pretty distracting. And, he'd reasoned, just because Sherlock was strangely self-controlled at the moment didn't mean he wasn't still the same lanky, awkward, oddly-attractive supergenius prat, so snogging him back had been an easy decision to make. Not that he hadn't been absurdly, shamefully relieved to see the guy go pale(-er) and start freaking out about not being able to breathe. Eric refused to admit it but when Sherlock's face fell into that panicky expression his first thought had been something like *thank god, he's still in there.* (The second thought of course went more along the lines of *damn it he's gonna die before we can fuck* but nobody really needed to know that.) Thankfully it was only the shakes, though apparently Sherlock was the only IV drug user who'd never had them before and spent the entire trip up the stairs quietly flipping out about it. "How long is this supposed to last?" Sherlock's grumpy, still slightly out-of-breath voice interrupted Eric's musings, and he looked over to see the dark-haired boy peering over the edge of the duvet with a scowl. "Couple'a hours. Most people try ta sleep through it I think." Sherlock didn't look too enthusiastic about that. With another violent shiver he snapped the blankets back over his head and sighed irritably. "Of all the bloody times to shoot myself full of plant bacteria," he muttered from under the layers of fabric. "Yeah, that weren't really romantic," Eric agreed with an amused grin. "*Was*n't," Sherlock grumbled. "Eh?" "It *was*n't very romantic." The cowlicked black hair was visible again as he poked his head out of his nest of blankets to glare balefully. "If you're going to insist on speaking so often you could at least make a passing attempt to employ proper grammar." Eric just shrugged, turning back to his laptop. "It's proper 'nuff." Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue but a fresh round of shivering set in and he instead burrowed back under the duvet with a groan. "Just go t'sleep, mate. Ye'll feel better in th'mornin'." "No I won't, I'll feel like shit," Sherlock mumbled. Eric rolled his eyes but didn't reply. With a slight sigh he turned his laptop off and set it down next to the bed. It was almost two in the morning. "Look, I don' care what you wanna do but I'm goin' t'sleep," he told the miserable lump beside him. He yawned and got up to dig a pair of cotton pyjama trousers out of the basket of clean laundry he hadn't bothered to fold yet. After a brief deliberation he tossed them at Sherlock instead. "Put those on an' take yer bleedin' shoes off, fer fuck's sake," he said by way of explanation as Sherlock's head emerged again with a confused glower at the clothing. Without waiting for an answer Eric turned back to find a t-shirt and changed out of his football shirt, deciding he'd be fine sleeping in boxers, and went off to brush his teeth. When he returned Sherlock had actually listened to him and was now curled up under the duvet somewhat less miserably, with his jeans and trainers abandoned on the floor next to the bed. Eric shook his head with a smile and climbed under the covers on the other side after switching the lights off. "G'night Sherly," he said for the second time that day. "... Good night, Eric." **««** When Sherlock awoke it was to find himself wrapped around another person. He was briefly thrown by this, as he was fairly sure he would have remembered shagging someone last night, but quickly ascertained that they were both clothed and that the other person was Eric. The sandy-haired man was lying on his back, snoring lightly with one arm flung out to the side and the other resting loosely around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock had no recollection of latching onto the man but assumed he'd simply clung to the nearest source of warmth during his sleep. At least Eric didn't seem inclined to mind at all, and the position wasn't all that unpleasant. In fact it was really quite comfortable, if potentially embarrassing for the both of them. Should roll back to his own side. He closed his eyes and told himself he'd move in five minutes. Less than one passed before he'd drifted off again. Fuzzing in and out of the field in his mind until he opened his eyes once more to find himself alone, sprawled across the mattress diagonally with the duvet somehow tangled around his legs. Everything felt blurry and slow; even the thought of getting up to find cocaine seemed utterly outside of his capability. He lifted one arm experimentally only to immediately let it flop down again, groaning. A light weight hit his back, startling him awake again. (Wait, when had he gone back to sleep?) He twisted around to try and see what had been dropped on him but only succeeded in turning his head far enough to catch sight of Eric standing by the side of the bed. "It's like noon, mate," the man muttered around a joint. His face was quirked in a small, slightly exasperated smile, probably because Sherlock was blinking blearily up at him like a child. Sherlock mumbled something that should have been *'what did you drop on my back'* but which came out more like *"whmphbf?"* He frowned at the unintelligible sound and considered lifting his head so as not to be speaking into a pillow, decided that, yes, he should probably do that... and then didn't. It was simply too much bother at the moment. Instead he closed his eyes and felt the world begin to fade out again. The vague presence that was Eric shifted and suddenly the slight weight was gone from his spine. A moment later a small collection of items was dropped on the pillow in front of his face, jarring him back into semi-consciousness. He blinked myopically at the pile and eventually recognised his drugs paraphernalia. A confused expression must have crossed his face then because Eric rolled his eyes. "Been hangin' round junkies fer like a year, mate," he said by way of explanation for how he'd found the items. Sherlock made a noise equal parts understanding and befuddlement and finally got round to properly lifting his head. He leant heavily on his elbows and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. The field wasn't even a field- it didn't seem to be much of *anything*, actually, as he didn't even know where it had gone. Everything was hazy dripping melted into puddles of half-formed thoughts, and all he wanted to do was sleep forever. Was this withdrawal? He didn't remember it ever being so *exhausting*. But then, he'd mostly slept through it last time... or... wait, hadn't he? Oh *god*, he couldn't even remember. Fog, everywhere. "My *brain's* stopped working," he slurred tiredly. Shoulders aching, but he'd already decided further movement was unwarranted and made no effort to shift his weight off the joints. In fact despite the discomfort he very nearly fell asleep again. "Yeah, that's sorta what happens when y'go on a coke bender," Eric intoned blandly. Sherlock didn't have the energy to be annoyed by the sarcasm, but he managed to flip the other boy off anyway in some sort of instinctual reflex. "You too mate," Eric responded with an easy shrug. "Anyway Shers, not that I think y'need more drugs in ya-" Sherlock interrupted with a mumble that might have been *I definitely do*, which Eric ignored. "- but Corey wants t'talk to ya later an' I'm guessin' ya'd rather be halfway awake fer that. I got ya a new needle an' some'o the boiled cotton wool Luce left here last time so at least ya prolly won't get th'shakes again." "Thank you," Sherlock said in a dull monotone. After a second he heaved a heavy sigh and fell over sideways to roll onto his back, arms flopping bonelessly to land on the mattress with a thump. Unfortunately he'd now put another few inches between himself and his supplies, making the distance seem insurmountable. He tilted his head and stared morosely at the little pile. "Too far away," he lamented pitifully. Eric blew out an exasperated huff of pot smoke and fixed the pathetic sod on his bed with an unimpressed stare. "Yer really bloody lucky I been with a speedfreak afore, y'know that? Chuck didn't even think it were *possible* t'sleep for more'n twelve hours straight. He'd a just left ya." Sherlock tilted his head back to frown at the man standing above him, eyes straying to the nearly-gone joint and narrowing in confusion at the lack of rambling stupidity. "Why aren't you stoned?" he asked blankly. Eric rolled his eyes again. "'Cause this joint's mostly tobacco," he replied. He reached out to pluck the baggie of powder off his pillow. "So are y'gonna use this or am I gonna have ta shove it up yer nose?" Sherlock scrunched his face up in displeasure. "Hydrochloric acid," he mumbled. "Right, just gonna pretend that makes sense some'ow." Eric plopped the packet gently on Sherlock's sternum, then patted the dark curls in a sarcastic gesture of comfort. Sherlock shot him a glare that probably ended up looking more like a sullen pout, judging by Eric's bemused snort. "I'll come back in like ten minutes t'make sure y'didn' fall asleep again." Sherlock watched the young man leave the room with a bleary-eyed stare and a short sigh. He really, *really* wanted to go back to sleep. Corey or whoever could just go fuck themselves. For a few seconds he even allowed his lids to drift shut, muscles falling limp once more in unconsciousness. *Sherlock Holmes, wake up this instant!* his brain scolded in a tone alarmingly like Mycroft's. His eyes snapped open to glare at the ceiling. *Get out of my head, you fat whale!* he thought back angrily. *Stop acting childish*, it continued in his brother's arrogant voice. *And remember, arguing with yourself is the first sign of insanity.* "Shut up, Mycroft," he growled to the empty room. With an abrupt movement he launched himself into a sitting position before he could succumb to the temptation to shut his eyes again, catching the baggie of cocaine as it fell off his chest. Dense fogbanks of fatigue still loomed compelling at the edges of his field, but he retreated to the willow tree. Branches thick with leaves in the dense spring thaw veiled the world, a single shaft of focus illuminating nothing but the task at hand. Dangerous to mix up dosages like this, without thought or conscious action. Impossible to worry about it though, so he wasn't bothered when the memory of exactly how much he'd tapped out flitted away through the clouds. Before he'd really gotten a chance to process anything he was knocked flat by a harsh ringing in his ears and the thundering of his own heart. He lay half-gasping on the mattress, managing just enough presence of mind to slide the (thankfully sharp) needle out of his vein before the snowstorm blinded him. *Don't seize*, he willed his brain in a faint, pleading voice. *I'm sorry. That was stupid, I know. Just please don't make us seize. I promise I'll give you adequate food and rest for an entire bloody week if we don't end up in hospital.* Bargaining with his own body was perhaps even more objectively crazy than arguing with the imaginary voice of his big brother in his head, but it still seemed to work. The blizzard calmed somewhat and he was left shivering in snow- cold, but not overwhelmed. At some point he'd curled up in the tangled blanket with his arms wrapped around his head. Needlessly dramatic, he decided, and so shifted them to instead lie loosely across the sheets while the rest of his body slowly re-acclimated to the presence of the chemical. Relax, bit by bit. No danger of falling asleep anymore, so he let his eyes slip closed and just focused on breathing. "Y'alright?" a slightly anxious voice broke in from somewhere above. Sherlock blinked out of the trance he'd inadvertently fallen into and flicked his gaze sidelong up at a rather concerned-looking Eric. "Perfectly fine," he assured evenly, confident tone at odds with his prostrate position and the intermittent waves of muscle tremors. Eric didn't look very convinced. "Too much?" he asked with a worried frown. "Hm, perhaps just a tad," Sherlock answered lightly again, somehow managing to keep the shakiness out of his voice. His heart was thumping a mile a minute, an acute sense of dread telling him he was *absolutely, definitely going to die right this very minute*. He wasn't, of course. His heart was healthy enough and not in actuality going all that fast (perhaps 110, 120 bpm at a stretch, perfectly reasonable) and there was little risk of stroke or aneurysm at his age. Informing his body of all this didn't seem to do much to convince it to stop panicking on him, however. "D'ya need any, er...?" Eric started, trailing off with a helpless shrug when Sherlock just blinked up at him. "I'll be fine in a moment." "Alright, well... I were gonna go an' get sommat ta eat, f'ya wanna come with," Eric said hesitantly. Sherlock considered declining, then decided that being alone whist teetering on the edge of a stimulant-induced anxiety attack was not the best course of action and forced his uncooperative body into a sitting position. "Downstairs?" he asked, hoping he wouldn't have to worry about getting dressed. Eric nodded, watching him warily. Sherlock paused a moment, then resolutely stood up on the bed. He teetered slightly but managed to step down to the floor without so much as stumbling. "Lovely," he exclaimed, pleased with his success. He tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket (apparently he'd slept the whole night in his sweatshirt- the thing was hopelessly wrinkled but he figured it didn't much matter) and smiled. "Let's be off then." And without bothering to change out of Eric's pyjamas he turned and made his way downstairs, the other man trailing bemusedly after him. **««** "Oh hey, he's alive!" Ben exclaimed cheerfully as they walked into the kitchen. Apparently it was lunchtime, as both the other men were sitting at the small table with half-finished sandwiches on paper plates in front of them. Charles was holding a folded newspaper in his left hand and glanced up from the article he'd been reading with an offhand greeting, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's attire. He paused, then seemed to decide not to comment and returned to his paper with a shrug. "Told'ya he were fine." Eric smiled toward Ben and elbowed Sherlock lightly in the side, making the lanky boy stumble slightly. Still not entirely steady on his feet. He gripped a chair back to right himself and glared at Eric, opening his mouth to say something like *don't shove nearly-overdosed addicts you moron* before the object hanging off the back of the chair usurped his attention. "You left my coat down here all night?" he asked with a frown at the item in question. Eric just shrugged, unconcerned, and all but forced Sherlock to sit in the seat he was holding onto for support before bustling off to find something to eat. Sherlock pulled the peacoat off the back of the chair and bundled it in his lap protectively. "Oh relax, Holmes. Nobody's going to steal your coat," Charles intoned in a bored voice. Sherlock's head snapped up at the sound of his surname- he'd been careful not to give it out so far, so how...? Quickly though his gaze narrowed as he felt the weight of his wallet in the lapel pocket shift. "No, but evidently you have no problem going through it in search of my ID," he growled, pulling out the thin leather billfold and flicking through it to make sure he hadn't lost anything. Luckily he never bothered keeping cash in it, but one of his cards was missing. With a scowl he glanced up, taking a brief second to scan the two men across from him for data, then held out his hand to the shorter one. "My bank card will do you little good Ben, considering the account it's tied to no longer exists." The dark-skinned boy opened his mouth to deny the theft but snapped it shut again as Sherlock's expression darkened. Between the enormously dilated pupils and untidy hair Sherlock figured he must look half-crazed, which suited his purposes just fine. Ben made a slightly sheepish face and slipped the card out of his jeans pocket to pass back to its owner. "Sorry," he muttered. "Force of habit, yeah?" Sherlock snorted as he replaced the card. "You've been committing identity theft for less than two months, hardly enough time to develop habitual behaviour patterns." "How did-?" "Fingernails," Sherlock offered vaguely. To be honest he'd mostly just taken a stab in the dark based on the level of wear on Ben's clothing and the speed with which he'd backed down once accused, but it was far more impressive to pretend he'd spotted something inscrutable and mysterious than to admit to guessing. To his amusement Ben glanced down at his own fingers with a baffled expression and began studying them intently. "So I looked up your family," Charles spoke up, disinterested tone tinged with an undercurrent of smugness. "Seat in the House of Lords, peerage title, estate in the country. Real proper aristocrats." He looked up to catch Sherlock's reaction and seemed a bit disappointed when he was met with nothing but an unimpressed stare. "Congratulations, you've learned to work the internet," Sherlock offered blandly. Charley frowned in vague consternation but continued. "It's all a bit tragic, ain't it? Poor little rich lad gets hooked on coke, runs away from home-" "I didn't *run away* from anything," Sherlock quipped, not really all that annoyed but knowing the other man would probably shut up more quickly if he acted like he was. Cocaine was really a wonderful chemical, he thought idly. "If you must know I was disowned. For *perfectly valid* reasons, might I add." He said the last with an air of chilled apathy, slipping just enough of a dangerous edge into his voice to hint at a string of violent offences rather than the truth of simply having been a bit of a fuck-up. Hopefully Charles would assume he'd killed his brother or something and resolve to keep his distance. "*Whoa*, what'd you do?" Ben asked, finally giving up on his fingernails to lean forward eagerly. Eric chose that moment to drop a plate with half a sandwich in front of Sherlock. "He's tryin' ta make y'think he killed someone or sommat but 'e really just got kicked out fer doin' drugs," Eric cut in amusedly as he took the remaining empty seat at the table. He took a bite of his half of the sandwich he'd just made and smirked when Sherlock glared over at him. "How would *you* know?" Sherlock spat somewhat petulantly. "I could be a murderer." Eric just smiled. "Yer like th'least dangerous person I ever met, mate." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "I'll have you know I took out *two* MI5 agents last week." Eric shrugged. "Ya prolly didn't hurt 'em that bad though." "*And* I knocked over a high-ranking military intelligence analyst." Eric didn't seem impressed. "Why would you be fighting government agents?" Ben piped up dubiously. Sherlock opened his mouth to spin some sort of epic yarn about being on the run from the British monarchy, but was cut off as Charles rolled his eyes with a scoff. "His big brother works for the Ministry of Defence or something. Probably tried to cart him off to rehab," the curly-haired man explained drolly. "Shoving your sibling and running away from his bodyguards doesn't count as a fight, Holmes." Sherlock frowned, managing to abstain from rising to the obvious bait by reminding himself that he was more than capable of rendering Charley unconscious if he so chose. The idiot was just making the usual assumptions about wealthy families having no concept of violence. Before he could come up with a suitably clever comeback however Eric was prodding him in the side. "What?" he grumbled when the insistent poking didn't let up. Eric pointed at the half a ham sandwich on a paper plate in front of him. "Eat'cher food." "I'm not hungry." "Eat it anyway." Ben made an exaggerated gagging motion at their admittedly domestic-sounding bickering while Charles smirked. "Guess we know Crenshaw's type now," the curly-haired man intoned in an amused voice, eyes sliding down to focus back on his newspaper. Ben snickered. "Yeah, tall dark and *posh*." "Sure moves fast, though," Charles continued. "Letting him wear your trousers after just one night, Eric? Blimey." Eric's freckled cheeks coloured in a blush as he picked up on the unspoken implications. "Wha- I... no, tha's not- I.. I mean, he just needed somefing t'sleep in, an' we're, um... we're about th' same size so-" "Shared your bed too, huh? I was *wondering* where he slept last night," Ben put in, grinning wickedly. "It wasn'... he was sick! An' th' sofa's too small, it were jus'- we didn't *do* nothin'!" Eric stammered, palms pressing together in his usual nervous habit. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the display. What was the big deal? The other two obviously had no problem with homosexuality, and if he was going to be living here he and Eric would no doubt end up shagging at *some* point. Honestly the fact that it hadn't happened last night was mostly just down to piss poor luck and some malicious plant bacteria. "I believe snogging counts as doing something, Eric," Sherlock pointed out with flat disinterest, poking dubiously at the ham sandwich in front of him. Charles smirked at his paper while Ben's grin widened even further. Eric went bright red. "You... s-sod the lot of you!" He crossed his arms defensively and sunk down low in his seat to scowl at the tabletop. After a few seconds listening to Ben's sniggering he shifted his gaze to instead glare at Sherlock with uncharacteristic sternness. "Sherly, eat yer *bleedin'* lunch fore I goddamn make you." "It's *processed*," Sherlock whinged. "And besides, eating is boring. Chewing and swallowing, *digestion*, it's nothing but a massive waste of t-*mmph!"* Eric had evidently heard just about enough and physically shoved the sandwich half in the other boy's mouth to shut him up. "Quit talkin' an' eat yer bleedin' food," he ordered. Sherlock sputtered indignantly and somehow managed to swallow the bite he'd inadvertently taken without choking. "You're trying to kill me with cheap pork byprodu- *mfph!* Stop that!" *"Eat it,"* Eric pressed, sandwich poised threateningly for another attack. Ben was cackling across the table, and even Charley was snickering a bit. Eric's and Sherlock's gazes locked in a silent staring contest for a few seconds before Sherlock sullenly snatched the food and took a reluctant bite. The ingredients were all cheap and over-saturated with preservatives, but Eric was eyeing him menacingly so he forced himself to ignore the taste. "After this you're taking me to find cigarettes," he grumbled. Eric rolled his eyes. "There's a Tesco down th'street. Finish eatin' an' we'll go." Sherlock *hmphed,* but finished his sandwich. **««** On the way back from the shop Sherlock managed to go through nearly half a pack of his newly-purchased cigarettes without even realising it. He glanced down at the plastic bag swinging from his wrist and frowned at the single carton he'd bought. There'd been enough money for more, but he was trying to be somewhat frugal since he didn't know when he'd get a chance for a run back out to the tourist districts to pickpocket again. Eric of course had no such reservations and had taken it upon himself to purchase a bottle of flavoured vodka for no particular reason besides a cheery exclamation of '*Strawberry booze, mate! Brill!'* As they walked along the street the freckled man was industriously picking at the bottle's plastic seal trying to get it open. Sherlock shot him an exasperated look. "It's barely one in the afternoon. Why on *earth* do you feel the need to drink vodka?" he asked, fighting the urge to snatch the bottle out of Eric's hands and open it for him. "I just wanna see f'it actually tastes like strawberries 'er not." "It most certainly doesn't," Sherlock assured him, then finally gave in and grabbed the other man's hands to twist the cap off properly. "Stop trying to break the seal and just twist it like a normal cap, you idiot." Eric made a small *'ohh...'* of understanding as he realised what he'd been doing wrong, then simply shrugged and took a swig. "Ey, it's pretty alright actually!" he exclaimed with barely a wince for the burn. Sherlock grimaced in disgust. *God,* straight vodka. Who the hell would drink that willingly? "Y'wanna try it?" Eric asked, brandishing the bottle toward him. "Absolutely not," Sherlock snapped. Then, because Eric looked a bit put out, "... oh alright fine." He took the proffered bottle but didn't take a drink right away, instead choosing to sit on the low wall bordering the ramshackle disaster of a house Eric (and now apparently Sherlock as well) called a home. The weather was chilly but the sun had chosen to make an unseasonable appearance, making the shoddy garden halfway decent-looking in the pale light. As Sherlock glared at the bottle (it was going to taste *horrible*, ugh why had he agreed to try it...) Eric took a seat directly next to him and shoved up against his side playfully. "Ah just drink it mate, it ain't gonna kill ya." "How would *you* know? It might," Sherlock grumbled back, finding he didn't particularly mind their unnecessary proximity and shifting so they could sit more comfortably side-by-side. "I am after all coming off a massive quantity of cocaine." "Booze don' make coke worse, it makes it last longer," Eric replied promptly, then hesitated. "Er... wait, at least I *fink* so. Maybe that were speed. Coke might'a been th'one what gives ya an heart attack." "Comforting," Sherlock responded blandly. Luckily for him he already knew full well what mixing cocaine and alcohol did, though in his experience it bore little resemblance to either of Eric's predictions. Usually it just put him in a slightly delirious state of confused pseudo-normality. And seeing as how he wasn't particularly eager to ruin his buzz he took the smallest sip of the clear liquid he could manage. Then immediately spit it back out in utter revulsion. "Oh for- *ugh!"* He leant forward and gagged, still holding onto the bottle, while Eric started laughing. In an act of desperation he jammed his still-lit cigarette between his lips and inhaled, hoping the smoke would overpower the horrid taste of rancid strawberries. "Ah, don't do that, Shers, ye'll catch yer breath on fire!" Eric exclaimed, trying to quell his chuckling at Sherlock's reaction to the alcohol. Despite the lingering disgust Sherlock smirked slightly at the mental image as he handed the bottle back. "Oh yes, a fire-breathing cocaine addict, just what the world ne-" he cut off abruptly as he caught the faint *beep* of a digital camera and whipped his head up to catch sight of a girl standing across the street from them. "Who the hell are you?" he snarled, thinking she might be some sort of paparazzi out to find dirt on the 'disgraced' Holmes heir. "Oh, 'ey Mandy!" Eric greeted happily. He screwed the vodka bottle shut again and waved at the girl now walking toward them. "Tha's just Mandy," he explained to Sherlock, noting how warily the other boy was watching her. "She's datin' Chuck." "Why is she carrying a camera?" Sherlock hissed back, voice full of mistrust as he glared at the too-rapidly approaching woman. Evidently she'd heard him, because she answered with a wide smile. "Cos I'm a photographer, silly!" The girl drew level with them and threw an arm around Eric in a half-hug. She tried to get one around Sherlock too, but he scooted out of her reach and quickly swung his legs over to stand up on the opposite side of the wall with a feral expression. No *way* was he letting some chavvy bint with a camera fetish touch him. The girl didn't seem too put off by his antisocialness, though. "New *boyfriend*, Eric?" she asked with a giggle. "Er..." Eric glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who shot him a wide-eyed glare that hopefully conveyed something along the lines of *for god's sake just say whatever makes her go away faster*. The freckled man raised one eyebrow slightly in a confused look and shrugged in Mandy's grip as he turned back to face her. "I guess?" he tried. Mandy nearly squealed in delight. "*Aww*, Eric! You lot get all the best lookers!" Then to Sherlock's horror she let go of his acquaintance (or wait, friend?... *boy*friend? Was that official, or-?) and vaulted the wall to get to him. He barely had time to sputter a *don't you bloody-* before he was being crushed in a suffocating hug. "Argh! No! Off! Get off!" he shouted, shoving at her. The girl had a grip like a vise though and refused to be dislodged. His face was smothered in her chestnut hair as a pair of oversized hoop earrings dug into his collarbone, the edge of her camera lens jabbed uncomfortably into his sternum and despite the cocaine buzz he was quickly becoming overwhelmed with unwelcome sensations. "Eric!" he screamed half-desperately. Thankfully the other man got over his renewed fit of laughter in time to catch the note of genuine distress in Sherlock's voice and strode over to pull Mandy away from him. "Alright, love, yer scarin' th'man," he admonished in a friendly voice. Mandy giggled again. "Aw, I do have that effect on blokes don't I?" She winked at Sherlock, who'd taken the opportunity to dart sideways so Eric stood between them. (Not that he was *hiding*, of course, just... taking precautions.) Eric glanced bemusedly behind him at the *not cowering at all* Sherlock and turned around to face Mandy again. "So what're y'doin' here, Manda? 'Nother date night?" "Eric, honestly!" the girl chided. "There's a *show* tonight! You didn't even remember, did you?" Eric paled. "Ah... shit, right... damn." Sherlock watched in interest as the other man's hands came together in his nervous habit. "T-tonight? Y'sure?" "Of course I'm sure, silly!" Mandy laughed and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "You mean Charley hasn't hunted you down for practice yet?" "Was just about to, actually," a voice said from the house, and Sherlock glanced around Eric's head to see the front door open to a rather stern-looking Charles. "It's been on the calendar for a bloody month Crenshaw, honestly." Eric shrugged helplessly. "Fergot t'check I guess. Been kinda, er... busy." "Yeah I can see that," Charles said drolly, eyeing Sherlock's unnecessarily close proximity to the other man as he not-cowered away from Amanda. Eric glanced behind him, frowning as Sherlock backed up several steps and tucked his hands in his pockets as if he'd meant to do so all along. He'd dropped his cigarette somewhere during the whole being-hugged fiasco and made a show of lighting another one while Eric turned back around. "So uh, wha' time are we-?" "Show's at six," Charles interrupted. "And practice is *now*, for fuck's sake. Ben just left and we're heading to the pub to get set up after we pick up Ami." "Ah, but..." Eric's palms pressed together as he looked back to Sherlock. "Er, Sherly's gotta meet wit' Corey so maybe I should-" "Corey's meeting us there later." Eric bit his lip. "Oh." "Eric, don't get all shy again!" Amanda exclaimed from beside them, tone a mix of fondness and slight vexation. "I ain't *shy,*" Eric retorted. He seemed to notice what his hands were doing and whipped them away from each other to tuck them into his jeans pockets. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he saw them immediately clench into tight fists beneath the fabric. "You're all in some sort of band?" Sherlock spoke up before Amanda could respond. The question was partly to figure out what the hell the others were on about, but mostly an attempt to shift the subject of conversation away from Eric before the poor bastard had some sort of anxiety-induced aneurysm. "Yeah, it's for the business," Charley replied. "Dealers pay us to let 'em case the audience for new clients, gives old customers a chance to meet with their suppliers in a more public setting. That kinda shit, you know. The band's just how we pull more kids in." Sherlock felt his expression shift into something like vaguely-impressed disgust. The whole setup was rather clever, but... "Gathering a bunch of impressionable young people together for the express purpose of getting them hooked on drugs is decidedly unethical, you realise that." "Of course it's *decidedly unethical,"* Charles parroted the words in a poor imitation of Sherlock's accent. "Cause y'know god forbid the blokes running a *distribution ring* operate under anything but the highest code of *honour."* Sherlock shot him a flat look in response to the insipid sarcasm but the other man just rolled his eyes and strode over to wind an arm casually around Mandy's waist with a peck on her cheek. She let out an annoyingly high-pitched giggle and leant sideways into her boyfriend's embrace. "Anyway Crenshaw, get your shit together and meet us there in like twenty minutes. I don't care what your little boyfriend does but just make sure he stays the fuck out of everyone's way with his poncy toff nonsense, got it?" *"Poncy toff nonsense?"* Sherlock repeated, his imitation of Charley's Essex accent much more accurate than the other man's pathetic attempt at RP had been. "Perhaps you might consider staying out of *my* way with your lowbrow pikey nonsense?" Eric shot him an aggrieved look while Charley froze, seemingly unable to decide whether to be seriously offended or not. Amanda, for some reason, broke into another round of giggling. "Oh my *god*, Eric, he is just *too* adorable!" she tittered breathlessly. Sherlock's gaze snapped to her with a look of vague horror. What th- *adorable?* He was *not*, in *any* way, under any *possible* circumsta- Before Sherlock could gather his wits enough to say something scathing in reply Eric reached back and grabbed the sleeve of his peacoat, physically dragging him along as the other man moved off toward the house. Sherlock had little choice but to follow or risk having his arm dislocated. "Alright seeya there then Chuck mate, cheers Mandy!" Eric was calling over his shoulder, ignoring Sherlock's fiercely indignant expression and futile attempts to tug his arm free. Once at the front porch Eric whipped around, shoved Sherlock through the door ahead of him and slammed it shut on the bemused couple outside. "What was *that* for?" Sherlock whinged as Eric finally let go of his coat. He rubbed at his slightly wrenched right shoulder and tried not to sulk too obviously. To his great chagrin Eric proceeded to ignore him in favour of lighting a joint he'd procured from his pocket. "Dammit, gotta find me bleedin' guitar case..." the man was muttering to himself. He pushed lightly past Sherlock to fling open a hall cupboard which he rummaged around inside for a few seconds before closing it again. "Bloody *'ell*." Sherlock's face pulled into what was most definitely *not* a sullen pout as he tucked his hands into his pockets. "There's a black instrument case leaning against the left-hand side of the chest of drawers in your room," he pointed out irritably. Eric's head whipped around and the man blinked at him through a cloud of pot smoke. "How did- wait, when were y'even awake enough t'*notice-?"* Sherlock rolled his eyes. "*Genius,* Eric." "Oh right, course." Eric shook his head but didn't quite smile. He glanced up the stairs behind him. "*Alright* well... s'pose I'll go'n fetch that. Then I guess we're goin' t'the *bloody* pub." "You don't enjoy performing for a crowd, I take it," Sherlock said blandly. "Ain't too thrilled 'bout it, no." Eric took a drag of his joint and started up the stairs, Sherlock trailing along after him as he had nothing better to do. A stray thought flitted through the light snow in his head, making him smirk to himself. "Maybe you need a beta blocker." Eric, of course, couldn't possibly have understood the reference (nor for that matter the terminology) and looked back at him with a confused, faintly irritated look. "D'you *ever* make sense?" Sherlock shrugged, still smiling at his own personal inside joke. "Not really." **««** The pub was a dive bar several streets over called the White Weasel. Its front entrance was located in little more than an alley between buildings, panelled door opening onto a set of stairs leading to an interior which had quite obviously just been a low-budget refurbishing job of a storage cellar. Still, though, it held a certain curious charm. Eric stalked through the main room ahead of him to a doorway set into the far wall as Sherlock ambled at a more leisurely pace through the deserted seating area. Scuffed wooden chairs, pub tables that had definitely seen better days... and strangely the ceiling and crown moulding were both painted a deep, hideous burgundy. The colour clashed horribly with the dull brown of the brickwork below it but did at least serve to offset the yellowish palette of the various faded photos of miscellaneous ermine tacked haphazardly to the walls. He stopped to blink curiously at a large mural of an albino polecat which had been painted directly onto the brick wall opposite the bar. Stylistically at least the painting was quite good. However someone had inexplicably come along later with a felt-tip marker and added in a little tophat and monocle, rendering the otherwise realistic piece rather silly and cartoonish. "Sherlock, oi!" he heard Eric call from the far end of the room. He looked over to see the man gesturing for him to quit staring at the dapper mustelid and hurry up. "Why has that ferret got a tophat?" Sherlock asked as he turned and strode over to the door Eric was holding open. Eric gave him a confused look before catching on with a brief grin. "Oh! That's ol' Raniel. Dunno who gave him th' hat, prolly one'a th' old timers. Looks proper dashing wivvit though, don't he?" "It has a *name?*" Sherlock tried to glance back at the mural but his sight was blocked by the door swinging shut behind them as they walked down a short hallway beyond. The flooring had switched abruptly from the rough hardwood of the main bar area to cheap berber carpeting in the same hideous shade as the ceiling; it made the hallway seem vaguely reminiscent of the interior of someone's intestinal tract. "Well yeah, th'bloke who painted it named 'im or sommat. People do that." "And 'people' also like to add tophats and monocles to artistic works for no discernible reason?" "Er, well, drunk people do. And y'know, school kids an' stuff." Eric shrugged. "I dunno Sherly, people's just people. They do weird shit." Sherlock *hmm'*ed to himself but didn't pursue the matter further. They walked through a doorway at the end of the short hall and came nearly face-to-face with Devin on the other side. "*There* you queers are!" the fat man exclaimed irritably. "Hello Devin," Sherlock greeted blithely, voice smooth and unconcerned. As a precaution against possible nervous breakdowns in an as-yet-unknown pub environment he'd done another hit before leaving the house. Mixing the dosage correctly whilst taking the low purity into account had proved somewhat fiddly however, and in erring on the side of caution (he'd rather be *too high* than *not high enough* while entering a new social situation, after all) he'd managed to overdo it just a tad. Between the larger-than-expected dose and the cumulative effect of a new high on top of the lingering buzz from his last hit he'd fallen into a state of rather peaceful, airy tranquillity. "Fuckin' *hell* you're high," Devin remarked, apparently catching sight of his pupils. Sherlock hummed a vague noncommital sound in response as he glanced around the room they'd entered. It was a small space, with walls and ceiling done up in the same reddish-maroon as the rest of the building (did the establishment just not own any other shade of paint?) and pushed along the far wall was a severely out-of-place cream coloured leather chesterfield sofa. Amanda was perched rather inelegantly on one of the hard cushions alongside a petite girl with long, honey-blonde hair done up in dual plaits. They were both huddled over the view screen of Amanda's camera, giggling as they clicked through the photographs. Charles was sitting on an instrument case on the other side of the room, hunched over a battered-looking notebook and muttering quietly to himself. Ben was nowhere in sight. Sherlock's study of the surroundings was suddenly interrupted as Eric grabbed him by the hand to lead him around Devin and toward the couch where the two girls were sitting. "You're always *dragging* me everywhere," Sherlock commented distractedly as they walked, still too high to be much in the way of annoyed by anything. "What's wrong with just politely asking me to follow you?" Eric seemed to take no notice of his words. The man actually seemed to be a little miffed over something or other, which was odd as Sherlock couldn't recall having done anything in the last few hours that might have upset him. Must just be Eric's anxiety acting up, he decided. "Ami, this's Sherlock," Eric announced as they came up to the girls on the couch. They looked up, Amanda with a juvenile grin at the sight of their still-linked hands (which Eric dropped immediately upon seeing her expression, to Sherlock's vague disappointment) and the blonde girl with a pleasant smile. "Sherlock, that's Ami. It's short fer Amélie 'cos th'weird French shit's too hard t'pronounce." "Eric!" Amélie chided gently, a small smile tugging at her glossed lips. The girl had a dozen or so piercings up the edges of both ears, but aside from that looked like she'd be right at home in Kensington. Her clothing spoke of modest wealth and her bearing suggested one or both parents were either involved in politics or held some sort of high-powered international position, possibly in banking or fashion. And of course the way her pupils appeared to be locked in a state of unnatural pinpoint contraction and the slight dreamy weave to her posture betrayed the fact that she was extremely high on opiates. *"Bonjour,"* Sherlock greeted, not bothering to offer a hand to shake as he really didn't feel like touching anyone at the moment. The girl was almost completely out of it anyway so she'd hardly be sticking him for manners. "Oh! *Très bon!* Very good pronunciation," Ami exclaimed cheerfully, her smile a bit hazy but still apparently lucid. Must be a habitual user. "Most people say 'boon-joo' or something stupid like that." "Ami love, dinnit I tell you he was a right *dish?*" Amanda cut in, elbowing the other girl playfully in the side. Ami's cheeks tinged pink and she giggled, which subsequently set both girls to tittering together. Sherlock's face pulled into a look of perplexed discomfort, and he glanced sidelong at Eric to find the other man looking back at him with a nearly identical expression. If they had nothing else in common, Sherlock mused, at least they could both agree that women were *unfathomably* strange. **««** The following few hours might have been excruciatingly dull for Sherlock if not for the blissful quiet of cocaine. They'd consisted mostly of wandering about the pub trying not to *'get in the bloody fuckin' way'* (as Devin and Charley both put it) whilst listening halfheartedly to the four musicians that comprised the distribution ring's unnamed band practice a series of strange-sounding songs and do sound checks on the pub's small stage. He'd at first tried to continuously hover somewhere in the vicinity of Eric, considering he had little desire to interact with anyone else present, but that plan had been vexed once he'd gotten bored and begun fiddling with the settings on one of the smaller backup amplifiers. It turned out that creating a feedback loop in the device was ridiculously easy, requiring little more than a microphone jack and a single well-timed high E from Eric (who was now refusing to admit to his part in the experiment, the bloody traitor). The minor explosion had gotten Sherlock banned from the stage by Charley and Devin, and set off a fresh round of giggling from the girls. One of said girls had then been assigned, to his immense displeasure, to *'babysit the poufy toff while we get try and get some fuckin' shit done'* (this delivered in the inspiring words of Devin.) And that was how he'd found himself seated backwards on an uncomfortable pub chair, legs stretched out on either side of the straight seat back with his chin pillowed on his forearms atop the headrest as he stared dully at the stage. Beside him Amanda was industriously snapping photos of the walls and the tables and windows and *everything*. "Why are you photographing a light fixture?" he grumbled, furrowing his brows as she came dangerously close to overbalancing on the chair she was standing on. He wondered if she might be about to answer his silent prayers by falling and breaking her neck. "Cos it's pretty!" the girl exclaimed. She teetered on the chair again, and then for some inexplicable reason chose to steady herself by throwing out a hand to rest *on his head,* of all bloody places. "Lookit these lines here, see, where it makes a shadow? The pattern's gorgeous!" "Stop touching me this instant," he snapped. Amanda looked down at him, blinked once in confusion, and then infuriatingly *smiled* and *ruffled his hair.* It took every ounce of Sherlock's cocaine-bolstered self control to keep from springing up and throttling her on the spot. "Aww, *Sherry!* You're such a prickly li'l hedgehog! It's *adorable!*" *Ugh*, and there was *yet another* thing he was coming to hate about her- she'd decided to use the nickname *Sherry* for him. Out of every bloody *idiotic* variation of his name he'd *ever* been saddled with, why did she have to choose *that one?* It brought vividly to mind the long months in rehab, those wretched group therapy sessions and the fleet of incompetent nurses all cooing *oh that Sherry, he's such a good lad!* over and over. If he never heard that name again as long as he *lived* it would be too soon. "For the last bloody time will you *stop calling me that*." "Callin' you what? 'Sherry'?" she asked, inadvertently pressing his head down so his chin stabbed painfully into his arms while she used him as a climbing aid to get down from her precarious perch. She beamed winningly at him when he glared up at her. "Why not, don't you like it? I think it's cute!" He raised his head the instant the pressure of her bodyweight came off it and slapped her hand away from him. The only reason he hadn't belittled her into a sobbing mess already was because he didn't want to deal with the inconvenience of Charles trying to deck him for making his horrible excuse for a girlfriend cry. Unfortunately that deterrent was rapidly becoming less and less effective as the minutes in her company dragged on. "You may refer to me as Sherlock, Sher, Holmes, or *if you absolutely must*, Sherly. Any other variations on my name are unacceptable." She laughed. "Well you keep callin' me *Amanda*, love. Seems like it's only fair game I get t'call you Sherry." "Amanda is your *name,"* he bit out angrily. "Only on me birth certificate." The girl flopped down into the chair beside him and reached up to flip her shoulder-length hair out from under the camera strap she'd replaced around her neck. "Look, just call me what I like and maybe I'll call you what you like, yeah?" He was *so tempted* to dub her Chavvy Bint and be done with it, but a glance at the stage told him Charley was keeping a close watch on them. The muscular man would no doubt vault down to thrash him if Amanda looked the least bit upset. And while Sherlock was confident he could win in a fight against the older boy (he'd scrupulously memorised every possible weak point of the human body, after all, and read literal *volumes* of fighting techniques during secondary school) he was wary of developing any bitter adversarial relationships with his new housemates this early in his tenure. He'd spent long enough at Eton living in silent fear of nighttime attacks, being falsely accused of all manner of wrongdoing and catching violent, disproportionate retribution for every minor misdeed he committed. Call him a coward, but Sherlock found he just wasn't willing to go back to that sort of lifestyle yet. He set his jaw. "Very well... *Mandy.*" "Thank you very much, *Sherlock.*" They stared each other down for some seconds, Sherlock glowering venomously and Ama-*ugh, 'Mandy'-* smirking like the smug, vapid idiot she was. "Oi, Public School!" Devin's voice bellowed, drifting toward them from up by the stage area. Mandy's smirk widened into an amused grin when Sherlock automatically glanced over at the other man. He immediately snapped his eyes back to her face with a scowl. *"Don't you bloody dare,"* he hissed. "Dare what, Pubby?" she asked innocently. Sherlock's acid retort was cut off by Devin striding up to them with a sour expression on his round face. "Fuck's sake, Public School, you fuckin' deaf?" Sherlock sneered up at him. "What? Sorry, didn't quite catch that." The ginger rolled his eyes. "My brother wants to talk to you. He came in like ten fuckin' minutes ago, dumbarse." "Oh." Sherlock really hadn't been paying much attention to the door, mostly because he couldn't see it at all. He and Mandy were tucked next to a small stand of unused tables in a far corner of the establishment in an apparent effort to get Sherlock as far away from the stage and its expensive sound equipment as possible. "Over by the bar," Devin said with an irritated eye roll and a dismissive flap of his hand in that direction. He was obviously eager for Sherlock to get out of his sight. Feeling much the same sentiment Sherlock stood and tossed Mandy a perfunctory parting glare (she just smiled sweetly in response*, ugh*) as he strode off. When he found the distributor it was only to stop short at the sight of who he was with. "Ah, and here he is now!" Corey was saying... *to Racer*. Sherlock resolutely kept his features blank. "Over here lad, then, don't be shy!" Corey laughed, beckoning him over. Racer's eyes had lit up with recognition and were now fixed on him with a leering grin. Sherlock did *not* want to venture within twenty feet of the wretched man, but he hardly had a choice. He stopped short of the proffered bar stool at least and stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets in what he refused to acknowledge as a defensive posture. "Good evening, Corey," he intoned, determinedly ignoring Racer's gaze on the side of his face. Corey was looking back and forth between the two of them. Suddenly a knowing smirk appeared on his round, freckled face. "Ah, so *that's*-" "I assume you're planning to ask me to purify a portion of your stock," Sherlock interrupted rather more snappishly than he'd meant to. Corey's smirk never wavered, but he did clear his throat and continued in a more sedate tone. "Aye, lad, that's the long and short of it. Lactose ain't too bad a cut, of course, but it won't do to be selling off impure shit to those that pay for the good stuff. You got all you need to purify five kilos?" Sherlock considered for a moment, then nodded. "Easily." "Brill then, you can get started tomorrow. As for tonight..." Corey trailed off, shooting a friendly, slightly conspiratory look at Racer. "Well, you've got some options, I guess." Sherlock didn't like the sound of that. He allowed himself a brief, decidedly *not* wary glance at Racer (whose expression seemed incapable of settling on anything besides a lewd grin) then looked back to Corey. "Options?" he hedged, hoping for the best. "Aye," Racer spoke up finally, meaning Sherlock was forced to shift his gaze back to the bastard's face lest he give away his discomfort even more obviously than he already had. Luckily the cocaine kept his hateful glare confined to a passably-polite expression of mild distaste. "Y'kin either cock about watchin' th' show or y'kin earn some dosh helpin' me an' me boys out." Well *that* wasn't much of a choice. "I'll watch the show," Sherlock answered immediately. *No* amount of money was worth spending a minute more in the abhorrent man's presence. Besides he could always replenish his dwindling funds later with a quick trip out to the tourist districts. Racer chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, thought ye'd go fer that'un. Still, love, always happy t'ave th'extra *h**ands*, if y'ken what I mean. Jes' in case yer ever strapped fer cash." The man raised an eyebrow suggestively, making Sherlock's stomach flip. *God*, he hated Racer. "I'm quite alright, thank you," Sherlock replied archly. Then, to Corey, "Will that be all?" Corey nodded, smirk still firmly in place. "For now, lad. Go on then and find your little boyfriend. I'm sure he's in a right state by now." Sherlock didn't stick around to find out what Corey meant, or how the distributor even knew about he and Eric's not-quite-yet-relationship. (Presumably Devin had texted him about it.) He gave his landlord/employer a quick nod of acknowledgement and turned on his heel to leave. As per Corey's recommendation (though not *because* of it, of course) Sherlock did indeed seek out Eric almost immediately. Nobody else in this stupid bar was halfway tolerable, after all. The cocaine in his system kept the tense, angry expression off his face, but Eric seemed to pick up on his disquiet regardless. "Bad news?" he asked, left hand resting on the neck of his guitar as he fished yet another joint out of his pocket with the other. "Bugger," he muttered, apparently realising he'd misplaced his lighter. Sherlock produced his cheap blue plastic one and handed it over without being asked. Eric looked up with a smile of thanks and lit his joint as Sherlock answered. "No, perfectly fine. He just wants me to purify a few kilograms of cocaine." "Then what 'appened?" Eric was frowning at him, watching as Sherlock accepted his lighter back and tapped out his dozenth cigarette of the (thusfar scarcely four hour long) day. "Nothing," he snapped. For once Eric seemed to get the hint and let the subject drop. The other man was having anxiety troubles of his own, Sherlock noticed. As soon as the lit joint was safely between his lips he was pressing his palms together again. They stood in silence for a brief moment before Sherlock finally sighed. "I'm sure you'll do fine, Eric, stop worrying." Eric startled slightly and looked up. "Y'fink so?" "Absolutely," Sherlock assured. "It's pointless to get so worked up about a silly band performance anyway." Eric bit his lip and let his hands drop away from each other. "Yeah," he mumbled quietly. "Yeah... guess yer right." "I'm *always* right." Sherlock met Eric's slightly annoyed look with an imperious stare, daring him to challenge the assertion. A further moment of silence passed between them, before Eric broke off to shake his head with a small grin. "Yer a right prat, Sherly," he said, chuckling. Sherlock smirked. "I do try." **««** The band actually turned out to be fairly decent. Not that Sherlock had much of anything to compare it to, having little to no interest in any music that wasn't orchestral, but at the very least they all were all in tune. Eric seemed to be a fairly capable guitarist as well, even if he did tend to shrink back toward the amplifiers and huddle over his instrument whenever his solo parts came up. Amélie made up for his lack of showmanship however by moving enthusiastically in time with the music, making her blonde plaits sway in graceful arcs under the stage lights and rather obviously betraying the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra under her black lace camisole with every quick switch in direction. It was clearly calculated to capture the attention of the predominantly-male audience which had trickled in group-by-group over the last few hours, though Sherlock really couldn't see the attraction in a couple of bouncing mammary glands. He'd stripped off his peacoat some time ago and stowed it in the back room with Eric's guitar case, figuring he'd rather avoid the possible hassle of a confrontation should some drunk street thug decide to try and jump him for it, and sat at an unused table near the back of the room with his hands tucked in his hoodie pockets. Mandy, to his great chagrin, was sitting next to him. "*Woo! Go Charley!"* she was yelling. Thankfully Sherlock had thought to do another hit of cocaine before he put his coat away, or else her shrill screeching combined with the dull roar of a room full of drunken morons might have pushed him to commit homicide. As it was he was mostly high enough to block it all out. *Mostly.* Every so often a spark of burning irritation would burst through his careful shields of ice, and he'd have to force himself not to punch someone. Now was one of those times. "*Shut. Up."* he bit out. Mandy didn't seem to hear him, just yelled again with a burst of drunken laughter. He contemplated shoving her off her chair and claiming she'd fallen by accident, but decided the cost of having to actually *touch* her outweighed the benefit of silencing her annoying bleating for the five seconds it would take her to get back up again. As he looked away with a pained grimace an abandoned-looking booth on the other side of the pub caught his eye. "Where ya goin', Sherry!" Mandy shouted as he got up to leave. He snapped some excuse about needing the loo and resolutely marched off through the throng of young twenty-somethings, dodging bodies as he made his way to the booth. It was back in the corner a ways, meaning he could probably conspire to hide behind the tall dividers until all this nonsense was over. As he neared salvation a flash of dark hair and pinched, pale features caught his eye, and he nearly bolted out of the way of Racer walking past with a group of his cronies. The men were busy passing out samples of what Sherlock was reasonably certain was some sort of heroin/cocaine mixture, precisely calibrated to convert as many people as possible into addicts after one hit. He'd made a few passing attempts to warn some of the attending idiots off trying it, but his dilated pupils and half-emaciated appearance seemed to have rendered his advice more than a bit hypocritical. After the third group of twats told him to *"quit trynna keep all th'good stuff to yerself, mate!"* he'd given up and left them all to their fate. Bloody morons. Sherlock ducked hurriedly into the booth and pushed back as far as he could toward the wall, waiting for the sound of Racer's raucous laughter to fade. As soon as it did he let out a breath. If that weasel-faced bastard was going to be at every show he might have to reconsider his nebulous decision to try and be supportive of Eric by attending these stupid things in the future. "Er... um... this... this booth is, er... I-I mean," a quiet voice stammered, startling him quite badly as he'd thought himself alone in the little alcove. He whipped his head around and saw that a petite girl with mousey brown hair was huddled on the seat across from him, so unobtrusive he'd failed to even notice her. A glass full of some fizzy orange drink was clutched tightly between her hands. "Sorry, I'm sharing your booth for a bit," he informed the girl. She didn't seem the type to protest, and he was *not* going back out there with the possibility of Racer still being anywhere nearby. "Oh," she muttered. "Er... alright then. H-hello." "Hello," he replied dismissively, not really interested in interacting any more than he had to. Females bored him at the best of times and this one in particular appeared exceedingly drab. He turned his head away to look up at the faded photograph of a weasel pinned to the wall next to them instead, drumming his fingers idly on the tabletop as he wondered why the pub couldn't seem to be bothered to fit any frames for their artwork. "Er... I'm Molly," the girl spoke up again after a pause. Sherlock blinked back over at her. Why on earth would she think he cared what her name was? "... Okay." "What's... what's your name?" she asked hesitantly when it became clear he wasn't going to say any more than that. In lieu of answering he flicked his gaze quickly over her features, fixing her with a slightly confused look in response to what he saw. "You're some sort of medical student, what are you doing at a shitty pub in Stockwell?" Molly looked a bit startled. "I'm... I'm not a medical student," she muttered warily. Probably thought he was going to try and mug her or something. "Yes you are," Sherlock asserted. "You've got indents on your thumb and index finger from using a scalpel, the skin of your hands is dry from wearing gloves all day, there're faint needle marks in the crook of your elbow suggesting some sort of phlebotomy practice and your blouse was purchased from a shop in Whitechapel. You're obviously an undergraduate at Barts. I'd say... second year of pre-clinicals? Can't be the first if you've done IV work already and you don't look old enough for third year." The girl was staring at him wide-eyed, mouth open in shock. "That's... h-how did..." Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed a short sigh. He'd *literally* just explained himself, why did she look so bloody awestruck? "I suppose a few of your friends must have dragged you here," he continued in a bland voice, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on one hand. "You agreed to go because you're curious about illicit substances, but you lost your nerve once you arrived and now you're hiding from the pushers while you wait for the performance to be over." Molly shook her head slowly, then to Sherlock's vague horror suddenly choked on a small sob as her eyes filled with tears. "It- it just seemed *interesting* but th-then I thought *what if I have a heart attack* and I d-didn't know if anyone knew CPR and it was so f-f-frightening so I ran back here and hid!" she wailed, beginning to cry in earnest. "Oh god I'm such a *wimp!"* Sherlock hurriedly leant away from her with an alarmed expression. Argh, what the hell was he supposed to do with a sobbing *girl?* He couldn't even deal with emotional displays in the gender he actually dated! "Don't cry, er... Milly? It's... fine. I mean, you're fine. Everything's... fine." "It's *not!"* she sobbed. "Jenna was right, I'm too much of a coward to do *anything!*" "Well I think you might be a little drunk, so... that's something," he offered. "No I'm not!" Molly cried. She took a sip from the glass she'd been clutching with a morose little hiccoughing noise, then held it up toward him. "It's *orangeade!* God, I'm so *p-pathetic.*" Sherlock really had no idea what to say to that. Instead he turned his attention to tapping out a cigarette and lighting it while the girl worked through the rest of her crying fit. After a few moments she seemed to calm somewhat, and Sherlock had an idea. "Here," he said suddenly, plucking the fag from his lips and holding it toward her filter-first. "Nicotine. You can tell Jenny or whoever you tried something potentially addictive." Molly's eyes flicked from the slightly-damp cigarette end to his face and back again, her cheeks flushing a bright red. "Er... y-you... I mean... what about..." "I haven't got any diseases, if that's what you're worried about," he snapped. Molly went even redder, if that was possible, and hesitantly reached out for the fag. "How do I...?" "Just inhale," he explained with a slight eye roll. Molly paused for a few seconds in trepidation, then warily raised the filter to her lips and took a tiny drag. Immediately she started coughing violently and nearly dropped the cigarette. "It- it tastes *awful!*" "You get used to it," Sherlock informed her, leaning forward to snatch the lit fag out of her hand before she could set the booth on fire. As if demonstrating his point he inhaled a much larger lungful of smoke than she had and blew it lightly toward her face. She waved a hand in a futile attempt to clear it and let out a watery little laugh. "T-thanks," she muttered, wiping her tear-streaked face with a forearm. "For letting me try, at least." Sherlock just shrugged. "You should just get a taxi out of here, your friend's probably off her face by now." "I... I guess so," Molly sighed. After a moment's debate she finally stood with a small smile and grabbed her purse up from where it had been resting beside her on the seat. "Er... maybe I'll see you again sometime?" "Doubtful," Sherlock intoned, raising his eyebrows to convey just *how* doubtful it was. After all he was likely to be dead of overdose within a year or so, while the little mousey girl was bound to move on to some sort of promising medical career. The only place they'd ever meet was a morgue. "Oh, right... alright. Well... bye." The girl gave him an awkward half-wave and walked away through the crowd. Sherlock rolled his eyes, stretched his legs out to rest his feet on the now-vacated seat across from him and leant forward over the tabletop with a bored sigh. All memory of the girl's face flitted out of his head within seconds as he closed his eyes and decided to focus on trying to build his mind-tower again. **««** Half an hour later the blaring stage music finally stopped, and Sherlock was roused from the semi-comatose trance he'd fallen into by Eric insistently tugging at his arm, saying something about needing a drink before he *'bleedin flipped his shit'.* Sherlock obligingly trailed after the other man toward the bar, deciding he could probably do with some sort of caloric intake anyway. He ordered a plain cranberry juice while Eric paid several pounds for what looked like a large glass of iced chocolate milk. "What on earth is that?" Sherlock asked, sipping at his juice. Eric took a swig of his own drink and grimaced slightly, presumably at the burn of whatever alcohol was in it. "Chocolate white russian," he answered. "Wanna try?" Sherlock shook his head firmly. "Absolutely not. The last drink you gave me tasted of decayed strawberries." Eric quirked a grin at him, taking another long draught of his cocktail. "Well this'un ain't got no fruit innit, maybe it'll be better?" "Maybe," Sherlock conceded, but made no move to take the glass. Eric pouted a little. "Still don't wanna try?" Sherlock huffed. "I'm quite comfortably high, thank you, why would I want to ruin that with alcohol?" "Cause it'll make this place halfway fun stead'a crowded an' hot an' gross," Eric explained. As if illustrating his point he knocked back the last of his drink and immediately ordered another one. "Besides, bein' th'only sober person inna room fulla drunks is bleedin' awful." "Given current evidence I find it hard to believe you've ever been in such a situation," Sherlock quipped blandly. Eric shot him a look which really didn't convey much of anything for the mix of annoyance and slight befuddlement. Sherlock figured the other boy was already feeling the effects of the alcohol and rolled his eyes, preparing to withstand an onslaught of drunken stupidity. "Do y'ever quit bein' so goddamn *smart* all the bleedin' time?" the other man suddenly burst out angrily. "I mean seriously, Shers, I like ya an' all but yer a real bloody prat sometimes." "*Some*times?" Sherlock replied, tone dripping with sarcasm. Eric's face pulled into a frustrated expression. "*All* th'time," he amended. "Fuck's *sake*, can't ye just try bein' normal for *five goddamn minutes* an' git plastered like th'rest of us?" Sherlock hunched over the bar, glaring sidelong at Eric. *"Normal?"* he repeated. "That's what you want, is it? Normal Sherlock?" He leaned back and fixed the other man with a level, probably slightly terrifying stare. Even through the snowbanks he was becoming more than a little bit angry, and he wasn't entirely sure why. A feeling not unlike betrayal had begun to blossom in his chest. Stupid Eric. Stupid alcohol. Stupid *people.* Eric, for his part, had the good sense to look slightly abashed. He stuck to his point regardless however, apparently already tipsy enough to lose his usual compulsion to be amenable to everyone. "Well, just every once in awhile it might be nice t'not be th'dumbarse tryin' ta figure out what *th'fuck* yer talkin' about alla fuckin' time." "There's not exactly much chance of *that* happening," Sherlock sniped back archly. Nonetheless, he raised a hand to get the bartender's attention. "Three vodka shots," he ordered, pulling out a few bills from his pocket and slamming them on the bartop. "What're y'doin'?" Eric asked, expression confused as he watched Sherlock pick up one of the shot glasses with a vicious (and perhaps very slightly trepidatory) glare at the clear liquid within. "Being *normal.*" And with that he slammed back the shot. *Ugh, christ* it was *vile.* But he fought down the grimace and immediately drank the other two. Eric looked a little flabbergasted. *Be careful what you bloody wish for, you moronic chavvy git,* Sherlock thought savagely, taking a swig of cranberry juice to wash away the taste of alcohol. The familiar spinning sensation of early intoxication pulsed through his brain, kicking up snow into unnatural eddies and whorls of strange, wavelike patterns. Nausea followed soon after, and suddenly his rash decision to get drunk didn't seem like such a good idea. "Alright?" Eric asked hesitantly as Sherlock let his head sink down to land on the bartop with a soft *thump*. "I feel sick," Sherlock mumbled, voice slurring very slightly. "Y'just kicked back like half a bottle a vodka," Eric pointed out. Sherlock flipped him off, then groaned as the movement made his head spin. "Er.. try drinkin' some more juice, maybe?" That sounded like a fucking *stupid* idea, but he tried it anyway. To his surprise the juice actually did help marginally. Well, alright, *more* than marginally if he was being honest. By the time he'd finished the glass he'd somehow transitioned into that rare stage of drunkenness where he was just as stupid and irrational as the rest of them. Eric seemed ridiculously thrilled by this and bought him some sort of strawberry-flavoured milk cocktail in celebration. Sherlock was much less enthusiastic about the situation. Despite how often he seemed inclined to giggle like a schoolgirl being drunk *really* wasn't all that much fun. His natural lack of inhibition when it came to saying or doing stupid things had been the catalyst for the ruination of his entire bloody life in the *first* place, so why on earth would he want to go and *induce* such a state? Every time his body did something without his approval- swayed on the spot, said something stupid, laughed at a joke that wasn't even the least bit funny- he'd be shot through with a thrum of sick dread. No matter the evidence to the contrary he'd find himself thinking he'd somehow reverted for good, that cocaine would no longer fix whatever was wrong with his brain and he'd be stuck like this *forever*. It was horrifying. But as much as he hated being drunk he could hardly play take-backs at this point. He was, if not completely plastered, at least quite well on his way. And Eric for some reason seemed bound and determined to send them both under the bloody table by the end of the night. Not liking the sound of that outcome Sherlock had been trying to discreetly dump out most of his drinks on the floor (earning himself dirty looks from the bartender in the process), but it was becoming rather difficult to remember to be subtle about it. "Bl- bleedin' *h**ell* Sherly y've shpilled more'a that shit'n y've drank!" Eric slurred. "I'm trying, er... trying not to get anymore drunk," Sherlock replied, then immediately grimaced. "*Shit*, wait, wasn't s'posed to tell you that." Eric blinked at him with a bewildered expression, leaning heavily on the bar. "Why don'cha wanna git anymore pissed?" "Because I don't like it, it makes me feel like I'm... like I'm screwing up constantly." He snapped his mouth shut and frowned at himself. "*Bloody hell*, see?" he continued angrily, levelling an unsteady scowl toward Eric. "You *see?* Why did I s... why did I *say* that? I shouldn't have said that. *Bloody* alcohol." Sherlock set his glass on the bar with a loud *clink!*, followed by his head which he pillowed in the crook of his left arm. Eric was just staring at him. Sherlock wished he'd stop - he already felt like enough of a freak as it was without people gawking. "Fucking hell..." he moaned into the fabric of his sweatshirt. He was *severely* regretting his decision to order those vodka shots. "'Ey... I don' think yer sc... think yer screwin' up," Eric half-mumbled from beside him. Sherlock raised his head to squint blearily at the other man. "You've known me for *two days,*" Sherlock pointed out. "You hardly have the persp... perspic... perspicaci... oh fuck it. You don't know what you're *bloody talking about,* you wanker." Eric suddenly clapped a hand to his mouth, snorting in a valiant attempt to reign in an abrupt fit of sniggering. *"What?"* Sherlock snapped irritably. "Ya... ya said *wanker,*" Eric sputtered gleefully. What little composure he'd had left him in a rush and he collapsed sideways against the bar in hysterics. Despite his mood Sherlock started up too. "Oh f-fuck you!" he exclaimed through gasping laughs. "I was- hah! I was being *maudlin!"* "I d-don' even know whaddat *means!* Hahahaha!" They collapsed toward each other in peals of raucous laughter. God, Sherlock *really hated this*. There was nothing for it, though. Maybe if he just kept drinking *more* he'd pass out and wake up sober again. That was probably an absolutely bloody terrible idea but he really wasn't in any fit state to come up with a better plan. With this in mind Sherlock extricated himself from the clutching hold Eric had on his shoulders and picked up his half-finished mixer. "I though' y'said y'weren't gittin more sloshed!" Eric burst out in a voice of false betrayal. "Y'*liar!"* "I'm an... an *adult* and I'll lie whenever I damn well *please,*" Sherlock responded snootily in the best imitation of his brother's voice as he could manage between fits of sniggering. He took another swig of his mixer, then spun around on his bar stool to face Eric. "By the way, you are *bloody gorgeous.* If we're both going to be massively inebriated I might as well say as much while I've got impunity." Eric's mouth fell open. "Y'... y'think I'm good-lookin'?" "Of course I do," Sherlock snapped. "The accent, however, could use work." All at once Eric was laughing again. "F-fuckin *'ell*, Sherly, y'can't even go *five bloody minutes* wivvout-" "*Wivvout wot?*" Sherlock replied in a rather decent imitation of cockney he thought. Eric started laughing even harder. "Aw fukkit commere y'bloody awkward prat!" the man suddenly yelled, and grabbed Sherlock's face in an *extremely* uncoordinated kiss. They were both still laughing too much to actually snog properly, and Sherlock had to grab the bartop with the hand not holding his drink lest he topple over backwards off his stool. Dimly he thought he heard the sound of a camera beep through the dull roar of the other patrons, but he wasn't sober enough to care. As they broke apart (and somehow regained their balance) Sherlock took the chance to ask something that had been bothering him for some time now. "Are we dating?" Eric blinked at him. "F'ya want ta be." "I..." Sherlock hesitated. He'd never actually had a proper boyfriend before. Victor had been *close,* but... "Eric, I'm... you should know I'm a sociopath." Bewilderingly, Eric just laughed. "No yer not, mate." Sherlock felt like he should argue. After all he had little in the way of general human empathy, was completely hopeless in all but the most basic of social situations and practically guaranteed to be a *terrible* long-term romantic partner. It was only fair to let Eric know before the other man made a decision he might regret. The alcohol in his system seemed to have other ideas, though, and instead of defending his self-diagnosis Sherlock just smiled softly. "... I know," he murmured, and finished his drink. **««** ## Chapter 4: Of Having Sex **««** **4. Of Having Sex** He'd tried sex without cocaine exactly once. Back when he'd still been doing lines, testing his new limitations under the drug's influence and trying to figure out the dose. Withdrawal hadn't been so bad then (just a sort of dull fatigue, *nothing* like the intolerable desperation it grew into over the following months) so he frequently took breaks from the chemical to give himself a chance to sleep and eat on a more normal schedule. It was during one of these breaks that Victor requested assistance with his physics paper. Victor, being a linguistics student, wasn't taking a physics course. Neither of them felt the need to point this out to the other, and the night thus rather predictably ended up heading in a quite different direction to studying. Sherlock was perfectly fine with that. He rather enjoyed the rush of endorphins, and if nothing else the excitement would probably distract him from the nebulous cloud of withdrawal-induced fatigue he'd been trapped in over the last day or so. Within minutes, though, it had become very clear things weren't going to go as planned. *"Fuck! Get off!"* he'd screeched, jerking away from Victor's sudden, unexpected touch with enough force to smack his head against the headboard. Snogging had only just *barely* been tolerable - his thoughts kept getting sidetracked wondering about the average microbial content of human saliva but he'd been mostly able to keep himself focused enough to enjoy it. *Touching,* however... he curled forward over himself protectively, thankful they hadn't gotten to the removing clothes bit yet as it meant he could tuck his exposed arms against the fabric of his t-shirt and tear fitfully at the material in an attempt to calm himself down. Too much. Far, *far* too much sensation. "What? What's wrong?" Victor asked, bewildered. He'd have had no idea, of course, that Sherlock was currently in the midst of withdrawal. Nor that cocaine had been the only thing keeping the cacophony of his world filtered down to a manageable level. Sherlock *himself* had practically forgotten what it was like, not having the snowbanks to act as a protective barrier between him and physical reality. Plus he'd never so much as *attempted* contact on this level whilst sober, had no idea what to expect. Probably just a bit more feeling than usual, he'd nebulously theorised, along with the vague notion that he might become slightly overwhelmed. He certainly hadn't counted on the lightest touch producing so much stimulation it morphed into actual, physical *pain*. Like a freight train hitting his brain, lighting up every single panic centre simultaneously and forcing him to recoil before he even knew what was happening. It had *hurt*. Not like a wound but something deeper, more primal, a visceral and *utterly* intolerable cascade of signals. No, *christ* no... this was *not* going to work. "It's nothing," Sherlock muttered into his little ball. "I just..." He raised his head to speak more clearly, but immediately regretted it. Suddenly every miniscule detail of the room was vying for his attention. Victor's breathing was *far* too loud and the lights flickered, buzzing flourescent as the blinds on the window rattled ever so slightly and noises from the hall the smell of laundry detergent deodorant the books papers scattered about and all he could think was how *close* it all was. "... got startled..." he finished in a quiet mumble. Victor was saying something but he couldn't hear it, too busy staring into the middle distance. When this sort of thing happened it was usually easier to just tune the world out than to try and make sense of the jumble of conflicting signals the environment threw at him, so he frantically willed his brain to shut off... but for some reason he couldn't anymore. It had simply been too long since he'd needed to - didn't remember how. He'd been right on the verge of hyperventilating when Victor waved a hand in his face to get his attention, making him jump. "Sherlock? What's going on?" the other man asked carefully. Sherlock blinked at him, mind racing, utterly incapable of coming up with a plausible excuse for his behaviour. How did one explain they were *sensing* too much? And of course even if he managed to convey the concept it would only bring up the question of why he'd never seemed to have any problems until now, which would come around to the cocaine... Abruptly he shook his head, lurched sideways to clamber off Victor's bed and headed for the door to the hallway. "I'll be right back," he tossed over his shoulder. His and Victor's colleges were right around the corner from each other, he'd be able to get to his residence hall and back within ten minutes. He grabbed his peacoat and left. Less than a quarter hour later he'd returned, all smiles and an easy apology now that his brain was once more comfortably muted under a thick blanket of snow. And if Victor noticed the way his pupils seemed to have doubled in size... he didn't say anything. **««** "Oh goddamn it, the queers are sloshed," Devin grumbled as Sherlock and Eric walked (well, stumbled more like) toward the back room. "*Inebriated,*" Sherlock clarified very seriously. "The proper term is *inebriated.*" Eric started sniggering, nearly causing both of them to topple over. They'd managed to stay upright through a rather complicated system of mutually hanging off each other's shoulders. "Oh hey guys!" Ben exclaimed from the door behind Devin. "Haven't seen you two all night!" "Benny, love!" Eric practically crowed. "Benny, I got Sherly *fuckin' smashed!*" "I'm not... not *that* smashed," Sherlock objected. His argument fell a bit flat however, as he still couldn't seem to stand under his own power. Ben looked between them and laughed. "Good on ya, Eric," he offered. Eric beamed. "Oh yeah, good on 'em. They're gonna get fuckin' mugged to shit walking back to the house, but good on 'em," Devin put in irritably. He turned and pushed past Ben into the back room, returning a second later with Eric's guitar case and Sherlock's coat. "I'm not fuckin' escorting you shirtlifters back, I got shit to do." "We don't need an *escort,*" Sherlock snapped. As if trying to prove his point he pushed himself away from Eric to stand on his own. Predictably they both stumbled sideways into the wall within half a second. "I'll make sure they get back," Ben said, smiling at the now silently bickering drunks. Eric was less than pleased with the sudden loss of stability and Sherlock was refusing to re-institute their previous leaning arrangement out of some sort of misguided sense of pride. Devin rolled his eyes with an annoyed grunt and handed the items to Ben, then stalked off with a mutter of *'fuckin queer-arse homos.'* "Aw, that were a bit mean," Eric mumbled unhappily at Devin's retreating back. "It's alright, the girl he's going home with has chlamydia." Sherlock, regaining his footing somewhat, took a mostly-steady step forward and accepted his coat back from Ben. Getting it back on however was a bit more of a challenge. "I fink yer tryin' t'use th'wrong sleeve," Eric pointed out. He didn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knew about Devin's date, which was just as well because Sherlock really didn't remember how he knew either. Ben just chuckled warmly at the both of them and slung Eric's guitar case over his shoulder. "Alright, well, I guess we should get going." Sherlock managed to get his peacoat on in the proper direction and he and Eric trailed obediently after Ben, linking arms in an attempt to not fall sideways. The effect was more than a bit fruity but Sherlock figured it didn't much matter. They'd been snogging at the bar, after all. Anyone with half a brain should know they were gay by now. The chilly night air did a fair enough job at dispelling most of their giddy stupidity. Within minutes Eric at least was superficially back to normal (even if he did burst into a fit of drunken giggling every once in awhile) and Sherlock, well... Sherlock's definition of 'normal' worked on a bit of a sliding scale, dependent mostly on how much cocaine he'd had. *'Buzzed'* was the ideal (though slightly difficult to maintain) state. *'High'* could get a bit uncomfortable but was generally worth tolerating. *'Crashing'* was terrible for everyone involved... and *'sober'* was to be avoided at all costs. At the moment, he was verging toward sober. Sober, irritable, and *bloody nauseous*. "Oh *fuck* alcohol," he moaned, leaning into Eric's shoulder as they walked. He was having to work much harder than he'd like to avoid being sick all over the pavement. "Why the hell did you let me drink so much?" "Y'seemed 'appy enough earlier," Eric said, shrugging with the shoulder not currently being used as a pillow. "I wasn't happy, I was *drunk.* There is a *massive* difference." "There is?" Ben put in, looking back at the two men trailing along after him with an amused grin. "I thought drunk and happy were pretty much the same thing." "Me too!" Eric exclaimed cheerfully. Sherlock scowled into the rough fabric of Eric's faded brown overcoat. "Well bully for you then, if that's how your stupid biology works," he mumbled irritably. "Some of us have slightly more complicated neurochemistries." "He's half-smashed and hung over and still uses five syllable words," Ben pointed out, laughing. "Seriously Eric he's like some sort of- oh shit, hang on." The scrawny boy's phone had begun to ring loudly from his jeans pocket, making Sherlock flinch as the sudden screeching tones of some poorly-rendered pop song shattered the otherwise tolerable background noise of Stockwell at one in the morning. Eric apparently felt the movement through his shirt because he looped both arms around Sherlock and patted his back in a consoling sort of half-hug. Mercifully though the noise didn't last long, as Ben answered his mobile within half a second of checking the caller ID. "Yeah? Ah *shit*, really? Fuck, I'll be right over. Nah man, it's fine. Yep. Sure, meet you there." He flipped his phone closed and shot Eric an apologetic look. "You think you guys can make it back on your own? One a Racer's runners just scarpered on him." "Aye, we're fine," Eric replied reassuringly. Sherlock grumbled something to the affirmative as well but didn't bother lifting his head to make himself audible. Not moving, too nauseous. A brief thought crossed his mind to wonder what good he'd realistically be in this state if they *did* happen to get jumped between here and the house, but he ignored it. Presumably Eric could hold his own in a fight or he wouldn't have answered so promptly. "Brill, sorry 'bout ditching on you." Ben unslung Eric's guitar case from his back and handed it over, making Sherlock growl in annoyance as he was dislodged from his makeshift pillow. Eric somehow managed to get the case's strap over his shoulder and secured in time to tug Sherlock (who had started to move away in a huff) back against his side. "S'alright mate. Do wot y'gotta, yeah?" "Haha, yep! Seeya!" Ben grinned and waved as he turned to jog back the way they'd come. "Ugh, of *course* he works for Racer," Sherlock griped irritably. He made a single halfhearted attempt to push himself away from Eric but gave up and let his head flop back onto the other man's shoulder as the movement made his head spin. "Y'know Racer?" Eric asked curiously. They'd begun walking again, Eric with one arm pinning his friend *(... boyfriend? did it still count if both parties were plastered at the time of agreement? Sherlock had no idea how these things were supposed to work, honestly)* to his side and the other steadying his guitar with a loose-fingered grip on the shoulder strap. Sherlock's hands had somehow once again made their way into the pockets of his peacoat. "No," Sherlock replied entirely too quickly. He frowned at himself. Since when was he such a terrible liar? Eric huffed a short breath, predictably unconvinced. "*Sure* y'don't." "I just bought cocaine from him a few times, *that's it,*"Sherlock asserted in a low half-snarl, grimacing at the way his voice seemed to crack at the end. Ugh, he hadn't meant to sound so... *vulnerable.* The combination of alcohol and having gone more than ninety minutes without cocaine was poking massive holes in the wall of apathy he generally relied on to keep his emotions in check. He scowled and ducked his head, trying to wrestle his mind back into some semblance of order. The soft white of his field was marred by strange vortices of spinning nausea and a dark, creeping *something* he couldn't quite identify. Rot, maybe? A resurgence of the stagnant mire from rehab? But no, it was different somehow. Festering and painful like the blackened skin around a burn. It seemed to be emanating from the place he'd buried his experiences with Racer; oozing sickly from the mound of half-melted snow. Ugh, but that was stupid - he *didn't care* about Racer and his little control fetish*.* All that... stuff... didn't upset him. It wasn't anything he hadn't done before, and more importantly he'd *agreed to it.* His shoulders tensed involuntarily as he scowled at the pavement. *Stop thinking,* he ordered himself firmly, shoved the whole topic back under the rock it had escaped from. The only reason it was bothering him was because he wasn't high anymore. Just needed more cocaine, then he could bury the problem and get back to forgetting anything had ever happened. Suddenly Eric came to an abrupt stop, forcing Sherlock to as well since they were still tangled up in a strange half-hug. Sherlock raised his head to see why, only to find himself being turned rather forcefully toward the other man. "Sherlock." Eric was staring him right in the face. It was more than a bit unnerving, so Sherlock dropped his gaze and studied the man's torso instead. Brown canvas jacket, partially unzipped with a football shirt underneath - horizontal stripes of faded blue on white, logo in the upper corner, some youth team... *Stepney F.C.?* Christ, he really *was* dating a chav. "Oi, lookit me." Sherlock flicked his eyes back up with a slight glare. "What?" Eric opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. With another huffed sigh he simply grabbed Sherlock's face and kissed him. "Yer alright, yeah?" he said as he pulled away, patting him on the cheek with a fond smile. Sherlock jerked his head away from the pat with a childish grimace. "I'm *fine.* Stop treating me like a fluffy animal. All this patting and dragging me about, honestly." Eric grinned and reached up to ruffle his dark curls. "Y'are kinda though. Fluffy that is." Sherlock scowled. "I am *not-*" "Cute too," Eric added, cutting him off with a teasing smile. Sherlock huffed and tried very hard not to pout. Apparently he failed as Eric laughed and kissed him again, more deeply this time. "We're in the middle of the pavement in Stockwell at one in the morning, this is *not* the ideal place to be snogging," Sherlock mumbled into the other man's mouth. Eric just shrugged. "Th' house is like, twenty minutes off." "Hm. That *is* rather far," Sherlock conceded. "Still, though-" He didn't get to finish his sentence, as Eric had apparently had enough of conversation and tugged them both backwards against the brick wall of a boarded-up townhouse behind them. They were in a back street somewhere, though Sherlock's still half-inebriated state left him at a loss as to exactly where. Near Clapham or Bedford, he assumed, but- His meandering thoughts were cut off as Eric deepened their kiss, pressing Sherlock gently to the wall by his shoulders. The feel of rough bricks digging into his back through the thick wool of his coat sent a sudden, sickening bolt of panic shooting through his nervous system. Memories and sensations burst up like fireworks through the light dusting of frost that was all he had left of his snowfield. *Slick teeth pale fingers leering eyes cackling laughter-* *"No!"* he yelped, shoving Eric roughly away from him. The other man stumbled back, looking shocked. "Sherly?" "I..." Sherlock hesitated. What was *that?* A flashback...? His face pulled into a vicious scowl. For *fuck's sake.* He was acting like some sort of pathetic, traumatised rape victim. "F'ya don' wan-" Eric started, but Sherlock cut him off with a growl as he grabbed the other man's jacket and whipped them around so Eric was pinned against the wall instead. There. No more bricks, no more unpleasant mental associations. Problem solved. "I'm *fine,*" he hissed lowly, not entirely sure if he was addressing himself or Eric. He *was* fine though, honestly, just because some perverted dealer had... *ugh*, no. He shook his head with a quick jerking motion, burying the thought before it could finish. Ridiculous, had to stop thinking about it. Needed a distraction. Snogging Eric was the quickest available, so that's exactly what he did. "Sher*mmph!"* the man shoved halfheartedly at his chest, but gave up after less than a second and simply reciprocated. "Yer shovin' me bleedin' guitar case inter me back, y'prat," he grumbled when they were forced to stop for breath. Sherlock blinked down and saw that, indeed, Eric's guitar was trapped between his spine and the bricks. "Oh... sorry." "No yer not." Sherlock shrugged. "You're right, I'm not." Eric rolled his eyes but simply unclipped the strap, letting the case drop gently to rest behind his knees. Then he tugged Sherlock's face back to his. "Prat," he mumbled. "Moron." A shadowed back street in Stockwell was *really* not the best place for snogging (nor anything else, for that matter), but being as neither of them were entirely sober they didn't much care. All Sherlock could think of was how long it had been since he'd felt another human's body heat against him as they struggled briefly for dominance. Eric won, mostly because Sherlock was becoming too distracted by the tightening of his jeans to focus on gaining the upper hand at snogging. Eric chuckled into his mouth. "Don't take much t'git you bovvered, do it?" "Shut up," Sherlock growled. He had no idea how Eric was planning to coordinate this, considering where they were and how bloody cold out it was *(middle of January at one AM, brilliant timing)* but the sound of two belts being undone and a sudden, rather unexpected hand around him answered that question. A *very* undignified, strangled noise escaped his lips as they pressed together. *"Christ,"* Eric mumbled. "Been ferfuckin'*ever-"* Sherlock was incapable of speech, having had to break off their kiss to press his face into the other man's shoulder with a choked gasp. It dimly registered that he'd bitten down on the thick canvas of Eric's coat collar, which was more than a little embarrassingly girlish but *fucking hell* he hadn't been *expecting-* and he only *barely* had enough of a coke buzz left to- argh *fuck* it was like walking a knife-edge between pleasure and agony. *"Eric,"* he squeaked inelegantly, not entirely sure if he was trying to get him to stop or keep going. His brain had gone up in a firestorm... somewhat troubling, as fire was usually reserved for fear or pain, helplessness but this wasn't- he had *no idea* what- *argh.* A brief thought of retreating to the willow entered his head but he couldn't muster up the concentration to manage it. Trapped with his senses, the world closing in too fast and too close in a chaotic maelstrom of nerve signals. Eric was kissing him gently on the side of his neck, mumbling something like *quit thinkin' so much*. Sherlock *tried*, he really did. Focused all his senses on the fabric he was biting, clenching between his fists as he gripped Eric's arms. It didn't work entirely but it was enough to stop him falling into a full-on panic attack, and seconds later it was over. He released Eric's coat with a shaky breath and immediately went boneless against him. "Alrigh'?" Eric asked, voice a bit tremulous as well but undoubtedly amused. He supported Sherlock's sudden dead weight and slid them both down to rest awkwardly next to his guitar case against the wall. "Not enough... *cocaine,*" Sherlock mumbled, face still buried in Eric's jacket. "Brain overloaded." "Wha', like a computer?" Eric was trying to be subtle about doing up their belts, which was more than a bit pointless as there was no way Sherlock could fail to notice a *single bloody thing* in this state. He slapped the man's hands away and fastened the buckle himself. "I don't know, probably," he snapped, grimacing as he failed to avoid sounding upset. He really *wasn't*, just... a bit overwhelmed. With a short sigh he leaned back and scrubbed a hand over his face. Eric was watching him with a confused, wary expression. "It's fine, Eric, really. Just... make sure I'm high next time." Eric huffed. "I don't like it when yer high. Y'git all creepy." "Creepy...?" Sherlock repeated blankly, fingers unconsciously moving to fiddle with a loose thread on the sleeve of his coat. His head was swimming - thoughts and sensations all jumbling together in a confusing mess. He felt rather like a snowglobe that had been shaken and set down the wrong way up. "... I don't get 'creepy', I get *normal.*" Eric glared at him. "No y'don't, y'git like a goddamn *robot* and it's weird as hell." Sherlock frowned at him. "I do not get like a robot." Through the slowly settling flurries of leftover snow and adrenaline he abruptly noticed what his hand was doing. He glanced down with an annoyed look and clenched his fingers into a tight fist to stop them fidgeting. Alright no he *definitely* needed more cocaine. The headache and dense fog of withdrawal hadn't risen up to claim him yet (probably had endorphins to thank for that) but his impulsive nature was forming pools of slippery mud throughout the frosted landscape of his mind. Had to cut it off before he ended up mired in swampland. "Yeah y'do," Eric asserted, cutting into his thoughts. "Like a bleedin' android." Sherlock scowled. "Well you're just going to have to deal with dating an *android*, because I'm doing another hit before I drown in imaginary mud," he replied tetchily. Eric gave him a strange, bewildered look for the 'imaginary mud' comment, then bit out a short sigh and leant back against the brick wall with his arms crossed. He made no move to interfere as Sherlock retrieved a capped needle from his coat lining. The syringe was already partially-filled with the solution he'd mixed up earlier, being far more convenient to carry around that way. He pulled back his left sleeve and huffed irritably as he squinted at his veins in the half-light from a nearby street lamp. They were practically invisible. This was going to be a *massive* pain. Eric looked down at Sherlock's distinctly vein-less arm and rolled his eyes before reaching up and plucking the syringe out of his hand. "Hey!" Sherlock yelped indignantly, trying to snatch it back. "Relax, geez," Eric grumbled as he jerked his hand out of Sherlock's reach. "Gimme yer other arm." "Why?" Sherlock asked warily, tucking his arms against his chest. Eric just grabbed his right wrist and pulled the limb toward him. "Cos y'ain't got no veins left on that'un an' I don't feel like sittin' out here for half an hour waitin' for ya t'find one." "Oh." Sherlock watched as the other man shoved the sleeve back and tapped at the crook of his elbow, then bit the cap of the syringe off and slid the needle into his arm with a quick, efficient motion. "Why do you know how to-?" "Bin wit' a speedfreak, 'member?" Eric cut him off irritably, pulling the plunger back slightly to make sure he'd actually hit a vein. The solution in the syringe went pink with blood and he slowly pushed the plunger back down with an annoyed expression. "Dunno why I keep endin' up with stim users, seriously s'like th'stupidest kink ever." Sherlock hurriedly used his free hand to pull the needle out before Eric could inject the whole damned syringe into him. "Bloody hell, not *all* of it. Are you trying to give me a seizure?" Eric capped the needle with a shrug and a slightly apologetic smile. "Maybe?" "Hospital trips are *not* romantic." "Yeah well," Eric replied offhandedly. He handed the hypo back and tugged Sherlock around to lean against his chest while they waited for the high to kick in. "I'm a shitty romancer, ain't gonna lie." "Me too," Sherlock admitted. His ears were starting to ring, heartrate picking up as the chemical permeated his brain. "Then I guess we're bleedin' made fer each other," Eric muttered. Sherlock made a vague affirmative noise as the snowstorm whipped frigid through his skull. **««** Eric really *had* given him a bit too much, but Sherlock was doing his best not to let on to that fact. It was a bit difficult when his thoughts felt like they'd been set on hyperdrive. At the very least he felt mostly confident he wasn't acting *anything* like an android... though what exactly the alternative was turning out to be he didn't know. They were finally back en route to the house after their brief detour, having turned toward Clapham High Street rather than remain with their original route through the labyrinth of residential backroads. This would add around ten minutes to the journey but came with the benefit of more functioning street lamps and a slightly reduced chance of being stabbed for their wallets. As they walked along Sherlock abruptly thrust one of his hands in Eric's face and flapped it around a bit. "Look at that, see? I'm *not* a robot. Robots don't have compound synovial joints." "Er... okay," Eric replied, blinking at the arm in front of his nose. "But I didn't say y'*were* a robot, just y'act like one." Sherlock tucked his hand back into his coat pocket and frowned. "I'm not acting like a robot now, am I?" "Nah, guess not. Now yer kinda actin' like a nutter." Eric grinned as Sherlock shot him an affronted look. "Which's fine, I mean, y'ain't bein' creepy or nuthin'. Just annoyin'." "Well if you would make up your bloody *mind-*" Sherlock huffed. He'd been trying to avoid 'acting weird', whatever that meant, and in doing so had admittedly ended up a tad on the manic side. But honestly it was either that or frigid apathy, he wasn't even sure he *had* a middle ground between the two. "I could just imitate someone," he offered. "Then I wouldn't be a robot *or* annoying... *well* unless I imitated Mycroft in which case I'd be both." "Mycroft's yer brother, right?" Eric asked curiously. "Th' government spy bloke?" Sherlock snorted at the sudden mental image of Mycroft's tubby arse trying to break into a foreign embassy. "He's most *definitely* not a spy, that would require about a hundred times more physical activity than he's capable of." "What's he do then?" Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "Controls people. *Officially* of course he's an intelligence analyst, but that's just the title he uses to fool the public into thinking he isn't secretly running the entire Joint Intelligence Committee. I mean *honestly* he uses MI5 agents like they're his own bloody personal staff, it's ridiculous." Eric shot him a baffled sidelong glance. "Is yer whole bleedin' family a bunch'a crazy goddamn geniuses?" "No," Sherlock replied promptly - then paused to reconsider. "*Well...* perhaps? I'm not sure if Mummy's a genius or not. Should I act like her, maybe? She's a bit boring." "How 'bout you just act like *you* 'cept with less talkin'?" Eric suggested with a roll of his eyes. He'd nicked one of Sherlock's cigarettes earlier and was finally getting around to lighting it now that they were nearing the main road with its functioning street lamps. "*You* talk all the bloody time," Sherlock grumbled irritably. Eric blew out a cloud of smoke as he shoved his lighter back in his jeans pocket. "Yeah but when *I* talk I ain't high as shit on coke." "That's hardly fair." "Life ain't fair." Sherlock huffed in annoyance but shut up anyway. He considered following Eric's example and smoking a cigarette but quickly decided being amped up on cocaine *and* nicotine on top of whatever endorphins and alcoholic byproducts were already swimming around in his system would be unlikely to improve his behaviour. Instead he bounced slightly as he walked and cast his gaze around for something to study. "There's a group of men over there who're trying to decide if we're worth attempting to mug," he pointed out after a moment's silence, forgetting he was supposed to be shutting up. Eric didn't seem to mind his lapse in memory, however - he whipped his head around to look in the direction Sherlock had indicated. A group of three men in their mid- to late-twenties were grouped together by the street corner ahead of them, staring as they advanced along the pavement. "Y'sure?" Eric asked quietly. "Of course I'm sure," Sherlock quipped, too high to be much in the way of concerned about the possible danger. "Look, the one with the giant ears is keeping track of our movements while the bloke with the knife concealed in his front left trouser pocket is signalling to the one with the fake gun that he shou-" His words were cut off as Eric grabbed him round the middle and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Jesus *Christ* shut th'fuck up." "Oi! What'd 'e say 'bout me ears?" one of the thugs suddenly yelled. Sherlock realised he'd been speaking loudly enough to be overheard. "Oops," he mumbled around Eric's hand. "Oh fer fuck's *sake*," Eric groaned. Then more loudly, "Sorry mate! He's tweaked t'shit on coke, didn't mean nuffin' by it!" "He said me gun's fake!" the other thug snapped. The trio began advancing on Sherlock and Eric, who'd stopped in the middle of the pavement some five metres away. "It *is* fak-*mmph!*" Sherlock found himself nearly smothered to death as Eric's hand pressed more firmly over his mouth in an attempt to shut him up. "Seriously mate he's off 'is bleedin' face, don't worry 'bout it," Eric said placatingly. "Off his face on *coke*, y'said?" the third - and thusfar silent - hoodlum asked, a calculating look creeping across his gruff features. Eric seemed to realise he'd made a mistake and backtracked quickly. "I meant, ah, *speed!* Dexies, y'know? Didn't know how many t'take an' now he's off th' walls." "He don't *look* like he's on speed," the other man replied dubiously. "He looks like he's on *coke*. An' wit that accent..." His face suddenly split into a knowing grin. His two companions caught the look and started cackling. "We got ourselves a li'l rich lad 'ere!" the one with the fake pistol exclaimed. "Yeah! Lookit 'is bleedin' coat!" the third crowed. "That's like a hunnerd quid a'*least!*" "It's a *thousand,*" Sherlock mumbled irritably behind Eric's hand (which had mercifully let up enough for him to be able to breathe.) "Why do none of you chavvy idiots know how much clothing costs?" "What'd 'e say?" the big-eared thug snapped. The three men had advanced down the street and were now standing in a semi-circle in front of them. Eric bit out a resigned a sigh and dropped his hand from Sherlock's mouth. "He said yer all'a buncha chavvy idiots an his coat's worth a thousan' quid not a hunnerd," he clarified in a rush, grimacing. "*Christ*, see? I *told* you he's high as shit... an' also kind've a *dumbarse*." He shot Sherlock a scowl (which was met with nothing but a blank, innocent look) then turned back to their would-be muggers. "*Anyhow* we're wit' Flanagan's crew so y'prolly don't wanna fuck wit' us, aye?" The tallest thug pulled the knife from his pocket and flipped it around idly between long, agile fingers. "Flanagan? Th'fat ginger bastard? What makes y'think I give two shits 'bout 'im?" "'Cos 'is brother's got all th'pushers in Central London on his client list," Eric snapped back hotly. "Includin' goddamned *Racer*, so *back th'fuck off*." The man just scoffed. "I kin take Racer any damn day. 'Specially wit a thousand quid off some rich lad's poncy coat." "My coat is *not* poncy," Sherlock cut in. "It's a *perfectly normal* wool peacoat, honestly. Just because you morons all wear cheap knockoffs-" He was quite rudely interrupted by a fist flying toward his face from the thug standing nearest them. Eric's shout of alarm beside him morphed into a startled cry as Sherlock instinctively jerked sideways, ducked the punch, and tugged them both out of striking range of Big-Ears in one fluid motion. Abruptly the whole group stopped to blink at each other - all five of them (including Sherlock, who was still more than a little out of it) taken off-guard by the perfect dodge of a surprise attack. "Hah!" Sherlock exclaimed after a brief pause. High as a kite and more or less *drunk* and he *still* managed to out-class a bunch of street th- He didn't get a chance to finish his thought as he was subsequently punched in the head. "*Ow!* Fuck!" he yelped, clutching his suddenly-wounded forehead. There was a cut just starting to bleed above his eyebrow - the man must have had a ring on of some sort. Without pausing to think he ducked a second blow aimed toward his nose, then launched himself at the idiot's now-unguarded midsection, managing to catch the man's solar plexus with his shoulder. He then immediately straightened up and used his momentum to fling an elbow down on the back of his winded opponent's skull. The man crashed face-first into the pavement with a startled shriek and a sickening crunch as his nose met concrete. Sherlock smirked but didn't get much time to celebrate his victory - the sound of a pained cry caught his attention and he whipped his head around to see that the other two muggers had gone for Eric. Fake-Gun had managed to get the freckled man in a choke hold of some sort while Knife-Wielder brandished his weapon with a wicked grin. Sherlock snarled like a rabid animal and flung his fist toward the back of the ringleader's head, only to find himself having to pull back quickly and dodge as his attack was anticipated and countered by the other man spinning around and attempting to stab him in the midsection. "Bit *violent* fer a rich lad, ain't ya?" the thug asked cheerfully. Sherlock's reply was to make a grab for the hand holding the knife, thinking he'd break the bastard's wrist, but the wiry man saw it coming and danced out of the way with an amused cackle. "Oi, whad'ya want me t'do wiv this'un, Ace?" Fake-Gun cut in, voice strained as he tried to keep hold of a fiercely struggling Eric. Sherlock quickly abandoned his standoff with the knife-wielding thug in favour of whipping around and attacking the other man with a quick blow to the side of the head. The mugger's skull jerked sideways with enough force to dislodge his grip, and Eric broke free with a bark of surprise. As positive as that outcome was it unfortunately meant that Sherlock hadn't been watching the other assailant. The sound of rushing footsteps alerted him just in time to twist his body to the side, barely managing enough of a dodge to take the knife to the edge of his left arm instead of straight through his back. *"Shit,*" he hissed angrily, clamping a hand to the slash wound as he stumbled backwards. Hurt like hell, but didn't feel like it was bleeding too badly. Probably superficial then. He glanced over at Eric and huffed in annoyance as he noted the idiot's complete lack of defensive posture. The other boy was just staring at their attackers with a horrified, panicked look. So much for being able to handle himself in a fight. The knife-wielder was laughing at them. "*Hah!* Yer pretty good there, toffee-nose! Light on yer feet, I like that!" Sherlock flicked his eyes back to the thug and sneered. "*So* nice to be appreciated. Care to back down, then?" "Nah," the man grinned. "I got me some skills too, f'ya didn't notice." "*'Skill'* is a relative term," Sherlock replied archly. Behind him he could hear Big-Ears - the one with the broken nose - beginning to stir, and the man he'd just punched in the ear was struggling to his feet as well. This wasn't looking too good. He took a brief second to consider his options: go down swinging, and probably end up dead, or... Without making any attempt to signal his intentions Sherlock removed his hand from the sluggishly bleeding cut on his bicep, shot past the leering thug in front of him and grabbed Eric by the forearm. He'd *meant* to make a sprint for one of the open back streets to their left, but was forced to skid to a halt as the path was suddenly blocked by Big-Ears. "Fucker! Y'fuckin' brode me dose!" the man snarled at him though the hand he'd clamped over his bleeding face; the other was clenched in a tight fist. Sherlock glanced around as he heard the other two thugs come up from behind. Beside him Eric seemed to be seconds away from hyperventilating, palms pressing together fitfully as he stared around them like a frightened rabbit. "Eric you are *bloody useless*," Sherlock growled as he quickly tugged the freckled man back toward a wall in the only direction available for retreat. He deftly maneuvered Eric behind him and stood with his fists raised defensively as the three men surrounded them. "I ain't a fuckin' *fighter* you psychopath! I'm a goddamn *gay stoner!*" Eric hissed back over Sherlock's shoulder. "What th'*fuck* were you expectin'?" "Well at least make an *effort!"* Sherlock snapped. "And I'm not a psychopath!" Then suddenly the man to his right lunged forward with an incoherent bellow, forcing Sherlock to step to the left so he could catch the blow and counter it with a knee to the man's abdomen. Unfortunately that left his injured left bicep open to attack - he cried out in pain as the thug he'd inadvertently shifted toward managed to land a punch directly on the wound. *"Sherlock!"* Eric screeched. Sherlock ignored him in favour of whipping around and ramming his fist into the other man's already-broken nose, knocking the idiot out cold with the fresh agony of a multiple compound fracture on top of the previous break. He took a step back, shaking his bruised hand, only to abruptly find out exactly what Eric had been screeching about when he realised the other boy was no longer behind him. "Eric?" he barked in alarm, whipping around. The third thug ('Ace', he vaguely recalled him being called by his associate) had his friend in an armlock, knife poised threateningly at the younger man's throat. "Lookin' fer this?" the man asked beguilingly, yellow teeth flashing through a wide, perverse grin. *"Let him go,"* Sherlock growled. He took a step forward but stopped short as the man pressed the edge of his knife to Eric's jugular, eliciting a strangled whimper. Ace grinned. "Or wot?" "Or I'll *kill you*." Sherlock's stance was taut with fury and adrenaline, but his voice came out deadly calm. It registered dimly in his mind that he'd shifted into a perfect imitation of Father - flat and emotionless, with a hint of frigid steel. It was the most dangerous persona in his arsenal. "If you don't release him immediately I will relieve you of your weapon, puncture both your lungs *and watch you drown in your own blood*." *"Jesus fuck!"* Eric squeaked in alarm. Ace paled as well, clearly unnerved but determined not to show it. "J-just *try it*, toffee-nose," he challenged with a very slight stammer to his voice. Sherlock sneered. In a sudden flash of inspiration he quickly scanned the man's appearance. A dark smirk crossed his face as details coalesced. *Perfect.* "Do you want to know why she left you?" he asked quietly, menacingly. "W-wot?" "She was tired of living like a beggar," Sherlock went on. "She wanted more, she *deserved* more. You couldn't provide for her. She wasted years of her life waiting for you to shape up. To *change*. But you never did, did you? You just let her wallow in her misery, watching as she raised your children, never offering a shred of help. And they *were* your children, weren't they? Not the neighbour's like you pretended. How often do you get to see them now, hm? Twice a month? Twice a *year?* Little Michael's going to grow up without a father, just like you did." *"Holy fuckin' Christ!"* Ace exclaimed. He whipped his knife off Eric's throat to brandish it shakily toward Sherlock instead. "Whath'*fuck!* Who- wh-what... what th'*fuck* are you!" Instead of answering Sherlock shot forward, wrenched the knife from the man's fingers and thrust it directly into the thug's face, stopping just short of stabbing him in the eye. *"Let. Him. Go."* With a terrified yell the man jerked backward, wrenching Eric's arm with the abrupt motion and causing the younger man to cry out in pain. Sherlock snarled at the sound and lashed out with the knife, but the thug had already shoved Eric roughly away from him and turned to flee down one of the darkened side streets. *"Fuck!"* Eric yelled with a pained grimace. He stumbled forward into Sherlock, who immediately dropped the knife to catch him, they sank to their knees as he cradled his left wrist protectively with his good hand. "Oh fuckin' *fuck* I think he fuckin' broke it. *Fuck!*" "Let me see it," Sherlock ordered. A groan from one of their fallen assailants to his right suddenly caught his attention. He glanced over with a wary look and instead moved to heft a loudly protesting Eric to his feet. "Actually on second thought let's get out of here first." "Fuckin' *hell,*" Eric moaned as they made their way toward a well-lit shopfront some ways down the street. He was leaning heavily on Sherlock's shoulder - the injured one, as it happened, but Sherlock wasn't about to say anything. Eric was upset enough as it was. At least the pain was doing a fair job of keeping his cocaine-and-adrenaline-addled brain focused. "Why th'*fuck* did y'ave t'go an piss those guys off?" Sherlock flinched as Eric's agitated movements put pressure on his wound, but quickly masked the expression before the other man could see. "They would have jumped us whether I pissed them off or not," he replied in what he hoped was an indifferent tone rather than a strangled choke. "Y'don' fuckin' know that, christ!" Eric half-wailed. "Y'just wanted t'piss off a buncha blokes cos yer a goddamn mental case!" "I'm not a mental case," Sherlock snapped irritably. He tried to shift his arm out from under the brunt of Eric's weight without letting on how much it hurt to do so, but gave up after the first attempt shot a bolt of pain up his arm. *Fuck,* he'd just focus on ignoring it. "And I *do* know they would have jumped us, because they were a load of bloody *street thugs* and I look like I've got money." He paused for a second, grinding his teeth in an effort to centre himself, then added blandly, "Also you've said the word 'fuck' eight times in the last two minutes." *"Fuck you!"* "Nine times." As they neared the shop it became clear the business was closed for the night. Sherlock grit his teeth in irritation. The next well-lit building was blocks away so rather than pressing on he lowered them to the kerb to catch their breath. After briefly checking his shoulder (bleeding still, but not overmuch; his peacoat would stain horribly) he turned to the business of coaxing Eric's wrist free from the man's white-knuckled grip so he could examine it. "I think it's just dislocated," he decided after a few moments of gentle prodding at the rapidly-swelling limb. Fingers still functional, grip seemed weak but no loss of sensation so that ruled out nerve damage at least. "Radio-ulnar, maybe?" he hedged uncertainly. His knowledge of medical science was relatively basic compared to the depth of expertise he held in more interesting topics. General human anatomy was all well and good but when it came to things like first aid and surgical techniques he'd never cared enough to retain the material... yet another situation where his ability to obsessively stockpile thousands of obscure facts about fascinating topics while discarding information he found dull proved itself more of a curse than a blessing. Instead of answering properly Eric just mumbled something indistinct about blood. He was curled up over his knees miserably, looking pale and shivering in the cool night air. Sherlock desperately hoped the man wasn't going into shock; he'd have *no idea* how to deal with it. He fidgeted nervously with a loose thread on the sleeve of his coat as he regarded his miserable companion. "What did you say?" he asked after a pause, vaguely recalling that keeping the patient talking was supposed to help somehow. "I said y'got blood all down yer face," Eric repeated more clearly. He raised his head a fraction and gestured toward Sherlock's forehead with his good arm. "From a cut or sommat." "Oh." Sherlock grimaced slightly and raised a hand to rub at the drying trail of blood leaking from the cut on his forehead. "... Yes, I'm aware," he replied as he let his arm drop back down, where his fingers immediately started worrying at the thread again. "It's only a scalp laceration." "Prolly needs stitches," Eric muttered, then huffed a tired sigh. "We should find an' A&E." Sherlock's face twisted into a displeased wince. *Ugh*, he *really* didn't want to go to hospital. Especially via anything resembling public transportation. But Eric could be seriously injured, so... After a moments' hesitation he grumbled an annoyed *'sod it all'* and resignedly dug his mobile and battery pack out of his jeans pocket. Using his phone was a *massive* risk, but calling a cab was the easiest and least exhausting way to get to a hospital and he had no idea where the nearest phonebooth might be. At the very least he had the benefit of it being the middle of the night; if he was lucky he could make the call and remove the battery again without his brother so much as noticing the signal return. The operative phrase there being *'if he was lucky'.* More likely he'd end up in MI5 custody within the hour... he figured he should probably warn Eric ahead of time. "If you see a black towncar anywhere nearby within the next twenty minutes, run," he ordered gravely as the mobile in his hand booted up with a cheerful chiming noise. "Why?" Sherlock scowled as he quickly dialled the number for a taxi service. "Because my brother will have a triangulation on my wireless signal in around thirty seconds, and he's not above having you sent to Belmarsh on fake terror charges if he thinks it might get me to cooperate with him." Eric lifted his head and fixed him with a faintly horrified look. "Yer family is *seriously* fucked up, Shers." "I'm quite aware, thank you," Sherlock deadpanned. Finally the line connected. He quickly ordered a cab to meet them at the shop they were sat in front of, then hung up and immediately flipped the phone over to remove the battery. Before he could even get the back cover off the device started ringing. He sighed angrily and turned it back over to glance at the caller ID on the lid display. *'MYCROFT HOLMES - PRIVATE LINE.'* "Of bloody course," he growled. "Maybe y'should just answer it?" Eric suggested before Sherlock could hit the 'ignore' button, staring down at the letters flashing on the tiny LCD screen with a wary expression. "I mean cos otherwise he's gonna come out here wivva buncha agents all guns blazin', right?" Sherlock glowered at his mobile. "He's going to do that anyway." Nonetheless, he reluctantly hit the key to accept the call, then pressed a second button to put it on speakerphone - if he had to endure his brother's insanity Eric might as well endure it along with him. "What do you want?" he growled at the handset. "Hello to you as well, Sherlock," Mycroft's bland voice responded, tone dripping with polite sarcasm. Despite the late hour he sounded wide awake - probably pulling another all-nighter coordinating some massive government conspiracy. "Evidently I can take the city morgues off notice." "I'm not *dead* you prat, I just needed a cab." As he spoke Sherlock glanced over at Eric, finding the other man watching him bemusedly. He was still cradling his wrist but no longer looked quite so ready to pass out. Probably a good sign. "I'm sure you'll understand my fearing the worst, considering the circumstances." Sherlock bit out an angry sigh and turned his attention back to the phone. He could hear Mycroft shifting on the other side of the line, leaving a room, opening a door. Probably walking into his office for privacy. Been in a meeting, then? Some sort of conference? Most likely a liaison with Asia if the time was any indication. "I'm *fine*, Mycroft. Leave me alone." Mycroft *hmm'*ed dubiously. "Calling a cab to take you to King's College in the middle of the night doesn't strike me as an indication of fine-ness," he intoned. "What on *earth* are you doing in Stockwell, by the way?" "None of your bloody business," Sherlock growled. "And stop tapping my calls!" "*Seriously* fucked up," Eric muttered beside him. Sherlock shoved him lightly with a silently mouthed *'shut up!'* - the *last* thing they needed was Mycroft getting all snarky over him hanging about with 'commoners'. "Who was that?" Mycroft asked curiously. Sherlock's face pulled into a slight grimace. Of *course* the git heard. "Nobody. Just a friend." He shot a sidelong glare at Eric and got a not-quite-apologetic shrug in return. "A *friend*?" his brother repeated, tone condescendingly incredulous. "Has he known you for more than an hour?" Sherlock's gaze flicked back to his mobile with a vicious scowl. "Fuck you." "Apologies, Sherlock," Mycroft replied blithely in a voice that didn't sound the least bit contrite. "It's simply a bit... unexpected is all. Are you absolutely sure he's not just trying to steal your wallet?" Sherlock raised a hand and flipped off the phone on the off-chance his brother had tapped into the camera function. Beside him Eric's eyebrows had furrowed in a vaguely affronted look. "That's hardly necessary, I was only making sure you'd taken all possibilities into account," Mycroft's over-patient voice responded. Sherlock lowered his hand and glared at the phone for a split-second before covering the camera with his thumb. "Go choke on a croissant and die you fat bas-" he started angrily, but Eric cut over him with a hissed *"tell 'im no kidnappin'!"* Sherlock reluctantly bit back the rest of his retort with a cross huff and put his hand over the microphone. "*I know, I'm getting there. Now shut up before he gets a voice match on you,*" he grumbled to Eric, who went slightly pale and clapped a hand over his mouth with a nod. Sherlock rolled his eyes and uncovered both the camera and microphone to address his brother once more. "Alright look, I'm bloody tired and I don't want to deal with your bullshit right now. Just tell me what I have to do to convince you not to send a team of agents out to abduct me again." "Abduct you? I'd never-" Mycroft started. Sherlock interrupted him with a vicious sneer. "Never *what?*" he half-snarled at the mobile. "Never have me drugged and spirited off to some godforsaken clinic in the middle of the night? Or maybe you'd like to try cornering me in an alley again? That went *so* well last time." Mycroft's voice cut off in apparent chastisement. Sherlock could hear the man nervously tapping a pen against his desk on the other end of the line. "... Fair enough," he conceded after a moment. "I assume you're planning to bolt again if I attempt to have you brought in?" "Too right." His brother breathed a short sigh of resignation. "Very well, if there's no other choice... I suppose leaving the battery pack in your mobile would be sufficient for now." "Fine," Sherlock snapped. "*As well* as actually carrying it with you, and keeping it charged," Mycroft added mildly, pre-empting Sherlock's plan to just toss the device in a bin somewhere. Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed an irritated breath through his nose. "I don't have a power cord." "I'm sure you can locate one." "By which you mean you're going to bloody send one to me through some sort of sinister government parcel post?" he sniped. Eric was now staring blankly between his face and the phone's LCD display, looking somewhat torn between awe and horror as the conversation proceeded. "I was thinking more along the lines of your simply purchasing one from a shop, but whatever you think is best." "For *fuck's sake*, Mycroft-" "Your cab is pulling around the corner, by the way," his brother interrupted. Sherlock flicked his eyes up and saw that, indeed, there was a taxi heading toward them. "I hope you don't mind but I've already taken the liberty of paying the fare," the man added in a semi-polite drawl. Sherlock growled in irritation and stood to signal the cab before it drove past them. "Does the ministry know much money you waste psychotically stalking your sibling?" he asked his brother acidly, hitting the button to turn the speaker function off so he could clamp the mobile between his shoulder and ear while he bent down to help Eric up. "Oh most certainly," Mycroft quipped. "There's a budget set aside and everything." "Brilliant," Sherlock grumbled. "I'm hanging up now. If you send one of your goons after me I'll shove my mobile up his arse and you can trace it backwards through his digestive tract." "Charming as always, little brother." In leiu of replying Sherlock simply flipped his phone shut with a loud *snap!* and glared venomously at it. "Stupid git," he muttered. "At least we ain't gettin kidnapped," Eric put in consolingly. Sherlock sighed. "*You* aren't. I probably will be." They managed to clamber into the back seat of the waiting taxi without injuring themselves further. As soon as the doors were shut the cabbie took off toward the hospital, having doubtless already been fed instructions by whatever shady method Mycroft had used to identify the car and pay in advance. "Wh- serious?" Eric asked. "Even after y'agreed ta let him track ya an' shit?" "The only reason he agreed to compromise is because he's busy with something," Sherlock explained in a dull, tired voice. Mycroft had still been in his office at half past one in the morning, so obviously he was embroiled in some sort of massive government operation which had kept him late. His need to get back to whatever he was doing was the only explanation for why he'd backed down so fast. Sherlock leant his head against the window with a short huff and stared out at the passing streets. "As soon as he's finished supplanting whatever government position he's decided to usurp this month he'll get back to the business of making sure I can't so much as breathe without him knowing about it," he continued. "He's probably got a satellite tracking our movements already; doubtless a team of agents will be in position to monitor me by morning." Beside him Eric was slowly shaking his head in disbelief. "I take back everyfin' I said 'bout you bein' a nutter," he muttered. "Yer brother's *way* worse." **««** They made it back to the house around three in the morning, having gotten in to see a doctor suspiciously quickly (Sherlock's stream of grumbled complaints about his brother's meddling had been cut off by a well-timed kick from Eric during their ridiculously brief wait in the examination room). The slash wound on Sherlock's arm had needed stitches, but the cut on his forehead had just taken a couple of butterfly bandages and some gauze. Eric's wrist, meanwhile, had somehow been x-rayed, reduced and splinted in just under than an hour. (Sherlock had briefly considered sending Mycroft a text to thank him for arranging *that* at least but then immediately discarded the notion as absurd. A single kind gesture did not make up for two decades of being a git.) "Six weeks in a fuckin' cast, goddamn it," Eric was grumbling as he dug his house key out of his jeans pocket. "At least you won't have to play in the pub band for awhile," Sherlock offered with a vague shrug. He scrubbed a hand through his hair with the arm not currently benumbed by local anaesthetics and tried not to yawn too obviously. The creeping exhaustion of early withdrawal was stealing across his mindscape, making the world start to go foggy again. Should probably do another hit before he ended up having to deal with migraine on top of a stab wound and scalp laceration. "Eh yeah, I guess there's that," Eric conceded. "Devin's gonna be pissed *right* th'fuck off though." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So? He's an idiot." Eric quirked a small smile. "Hah, yeah 'e is. But he's also an idiot who gets ta decide f'I got a place t'live 'er not." With a sigh Eric kicked the door shut behind them while Sherlock stared blankly around the darkened hallway waiting for his eyes to adjust. One drawback of existing with one's pupils in a state of perpetual dilation was the tendency to end up temporarily blinded by even relatively dim light sources, and he'd (rather stupidly, in hindsight) been staring at street lamps and lit shop signs out the cab window for the entire trip back from King's. At the moment his visual field was little more than a mishmash of fluorescent white afterimages over velvet black and grey blobs. "If Devin attempts any sort of eviction you have permission to use my brother as a threat," he told Eric in a slightly distracted voice as he stood watching the drifting photonegative of a chip shop's neon 'OPEN' sign slowly fade. "Oh aye?" Eric asked amusedly as he moved off toward the stairs without bothering to turn on a light. Sherlock followed closely behind him lest he trip over any unseen obstacles. "Well I s'pose datin' the little bro of a creepy government agent's gotta 'ave *some* perks." Sherlock felt himself flush slightly at the word 'dating', finding himself unsure how to respond. He still wasn't entirely convinced they were classifiable as a couple yet - not because of any concrete reasoning or evidence, but because it almost seemed like it had to be some sort of trick... he kept half-expecting Eric to finally sober up and announce he'd just been kidding the whole time. Paranoid or not the doubt left Sherlock wary of making any rash presumptions about their relationship status. Instead of replying properly he settled for making a vague noise of agreement in response to Eric's statement as they ascended the stairs to his room, fingers unconsciously tugging at the loose thread on his sleeve again. "Y'should cut that string off fore y'pull th'weave apart," Eric pointed out, glancing behind him while he flipped on the light in his room. Sherlock's gaze flicked down to his hand and he quickly jerked his fingers away from the thread with a glower. "I don't need to cut it, I just need to stop *fiddling* with it," he huffed. Slipping his peacoat off he set about checking the extent of the damage incurred by his injury. The left sleeve was marred by a large patch of blood spreading piebald around a ragged tear. "Ugh, the coat's ruined anyway," he mumbled. He wasn't really sure if he was upset by that fact or not; on the one hand it *was* his favourite coat, on the other its obvious quality had been the catalyst for its getting ruined in the first place... but then on a third hand he also didn't exactly have another one. Eric blinked over at him. "Eh? No it ain't. Blood comes outta wool right easy." "One can only imagine how you came to have such knowledge," Sherlock intoned in a sarcastic deadpan as he set the coat aside to check his sweatshirt. "Ah come off it, I ain't a slasher or sommat," Eric huffed, rolling his eyes. "Little sister used t'git nosebleeds. All down 'er jumpers an' everything, huge damn mess." He smiled slightly to himself as he turned to tug his splinted arm carefully out of his overcoat and hang it on his closet door. Sherlock paused in his assessment of the state of his hoodie sleeve (stained as well, but not as obviously thanks to the darker colour; and the fabric would need to be sewn where it had ripped) to regard the other man curiously. "You have a sister?" The smile abruptly vanished from Eric's face. "*Had*," he replied curtly. After a second's silence he seemed to shake himself and turned back around with a yawn, scrubbing his uninjured hand through his hair tiredly. "Look Sherly, I'm like seriously stoned t'shit on whatever th'fuck they doped me up wit' for that whole bone resettin' thing. Les just go t'sleep an' we'll talk about whatever in th'mornin, yeah?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "But I slept *yesterday*." "And...?" Eric shot him a confused look... which after half a second morphed into flat exasperation. "Oh. Sleepin's s'posed t'be a *daily* thing you nutter." Sherlock huffed and flapped his hand dismissively as he turned to dig through his coat lining. "For *you* maybe," he quipped. "I, however, have cocaine." Eric threw his one good arm up with a resigned sigh and turned back to the bed. "Whatever floats yer boat, Sherly. Just don' start bitchin' when y'crash again." "I won't," Sherlock promised, shaking out the pre-loaded syringe from earlier. "Er... good night," he added somewhat awkwardly. Eric yawned again and moved to turn the light off. "G'night, mate." Sherlock watched as Eric kicked off his shoes and jeans and curled up under the duvet on his right side with the sling still pinning his left arm in place. His breathing indicated he'd fallen asleep almost immediately. Regardless, Sherlock waited a few minutes to be sure, then cautiously moved over to the bed and sat down on the unoccupied side of the mattress. He wasn't *entirely* sure if he was welcome to stay in the room while the other man slept... but then at the same time he didn't really feel comfortable enough with the other tenants to go wandering about the house uninvited. They might see it as an invasion of territory or some equally incomprehensible social slight. Eric at the very least seemed more likely to simply get annoyed by his presence rather than resort to outright violence to get rid of him, as Charles or Devin likely would... so best to take his chances staying put. He leaned his back against the headboard and stretched his legs out on top of the duvet as he hunted for a vein in the dim half-light from the window (still couldn't see a bloody thing, but he wasn't about to turn the light back on). It took a few attempts but he finally found one, injected the last bit of pre-mixed solution from the syringe he'd been carrying around all night. It wasn't really enough to do much more than stave off withdrawal, but then he didn't exactly need to be high right now. Once the slight rush wore off he cast about for something to do. Eric's laptop was sitting on the floor by the side of the mattress, so he scooped it up and turned it on. Not locked, thankfully, as he didn't have nearly enough information on the other man to make a guess at his password. The desktop background was a small, grainy mobile photo of two little girls beaming ecstatically into the camera. Identical twins - primary school age judging by their school uniforms, perhaps eight or nine years old. They were tangled together in a slightly awkward hug, matching manes of curly blonde hair partially obscuring their freckled faces as they each held two fingers up behind the others' head like rabbit ears. The one on the left sported a tiny spot of faded blood on the white collar of her polo shirt. Sherlock stared at the image for a moment, then glanced over at Eric sleeping next to him. A light frown crossed his features as he looked back to the screen. Under ordinary circumstances he'd be jumping at the chance to hunt for data, perhaps opening all the image folders in a flurry of rabid detective work... but something was holding him back. Idle curiosity seemed like a poor justification for intruding on Eric's privacy. Strange, since he was usually perfectly happy to pry into peoples' personal lives for no reason whatsoever. Maybe it was because he actually cared what Eric thought of him... or perhaps he just didn't want the man to wake up and punch him for snooping around on his computer. Difficult to tell. After another few second's staring Sherlock simply huffed and pulled up the internet browser instead. Sod it, he'd just find a chemistry article to read. **««** Somehow over the course of the next hour or so Sherlock managed to unconsciously shift himself close enough to Eric to have his side pressed up next to the man's back while he read. The contact was *entirely* unneccesary (and probably a little uncomfortable for the other party, considering Eric hadn't any room to so much as roll over like this) but for some reason despite being annoyed with himself for carelessly instigating the situation Sherlock still couldn't quite bring himself to move. He couldn't help it - he liked the sensation of body heat against his thigh and the even, steady movement of Eric's breathing. It was very calming. Quite a different sort of calm to cocaine though. The snow still coating his internal space after his last hit kept him collected, focused, but it was the rigid stillness of ice rather than a placid lake. Emotions were so muted in this state he sometimes had trouble remembering he even had them at all - everything just blended together under the frost into a matte background of featureless complacency. But physical contact... dull, uninteresting, plain old *touching* did something to his mental space that was unlike any drug he'd yet tried. It was... warm. Not the searing heat of helplessness or anger which sometimes scorched across his landscape, but a gentle sort of perfusion of quiet sunlight. Tranquil, but not in a boring way. He liked it. Of course as nice as this was, cocaine still won out. Besides the fact that keeping in constant physical contact with people was both ridiculous and unfeasible there was the added complication that the effect only seemed to take hold if he was actually *comfortable* with the person he was touching... and *very* few individuals had ever managed to find their way into that category. In fact for the vast majority of his life the list of humans permitted to touch him without provoking an acute anxiety response had begun and ended with his brother. Back then it hadn't even been a list, just a rule: *if Mycroft, do nothing; if other, panic.* The directive hadn't had any cause to change for well over eighteen years, and then he'd gone off to uni. Well... more specifically had gone off to uni and discovered *cocaine*. Prior to his fateful experiments with stimulants he'd been scrupulously walled off from any and all contact with his classmates. Then, over the course of his last few drug-fuelled months at Oxford, the List of Allowed Touching had quite suddenly gone into a state of near-constant flux - growing and shrinking as the heady combination of cocaine and alcohol temporarily stripped Sherlock of his usual inhibitions. Strangers were added for a few hours here and there, perhaps a whole night, then immediately struck off again as he forgot them by the next morning. Only Victor had ever achieved the dubious honour of a permanent placement. Sherlock's comfort around him had somehow persisted even in the absence of mind-altering substances. He'd thought it something of a miracle at the time, enough that since leaving Oxford *(and especially after meeting Racer, though he refused to think about that)* he'd rather given up hope of ever willingly touching another person again. But Eric, it seemed, had inexplicably managed to earn a place as well. Sherlock honestly wasn't quite sure how it had happened. After all, they'd only just met less than 48 hours ago. And the freckled idiot wasn't *exactly* the type of person he generally preferred to associate with. Still... the man was quite kind, and not a *total* waste of oxygen, and... well... With a quick shake of his head Sherlock pressed his lips together and forced the growing flurry of thoughts from his mind. Too much introspection, he'd drive himself *(further)* insane if he wasn't careful. The online article about forensic chemical analysis he'd been haphazardly skimming through was suddenly not very interesting, so he closed the laptop's lid and set it aside. He really wasn't sure what he wanted to do. His cocaine buzz had settled into that strange, meandering state where he knew he wanted to focus on *something,* but couldn't for the life of him figure out what. It was very frustrating. With a quiet huff he glanced briefly at the slumbering form beside him, considering the benefits of curling up under the duvet with Eric. Couldn't exactly *sleep* in this state... but lying down might be nice. A minute later he was stripped down to his boxers and one of Eric's t-shirts he'd pilfered from the hamper of clean-smelling clothes (his own had been worn for a good three days straight now, and was badly in need of a washing.) He climbed under the covers, and after only a moment's hesitation wrapped his arms around the other boy's chest (being careful to avoid jostling the cast on the injured wrist). On a whim he buried his face in the man's sandy hair. It smelt of marijuana, hospital antiseptics and cloying smoke from the pub, with just a faint trace of some generic shampoo scent underlying the rest. Not all that objectively pleasant as far as scents went, but something in him liked it anyway. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was warm and comfortable, making everything seem nicer than it should have been. As he'd expected, actually falling asleep was impossible; he was still far too high. But with the soothing rhythm of another human's breathing pushing steadily against his chest and the somehow-not-terrible scent of pub smoke and weed in his nostrils he found himself lapsing into a meditative, trancelike state. It occured to him that this would be a perfect time to get around to building that tower. The willow tree had so far proven itself useful enough, but it was something of a symbol of his childhood and therefore came bundled with a lot of associated memories. He wouldn't do away with it (not yet at least) but he'd much rather create a structure less steeped in past experiences. A tower would be best - he'd always liked being up high, and the stonework would hopefully resist erosion by his frequent, turbulent changes in mood. It should also be possible to put different things on different levels; facts in one place, memories in another, and so on. Then he could just walk up and down the steps and find whatever he needed, no more digging about in the snowbanks looking for buried information. Quite suddenly he frowned to himself. *God*, listen to him. Treating his silly little mental abstractions as if they were tangible places and things. For perhaps the millionth time in his life he wondered if he might be mad. Surely brains weren't actually meant to function like this? He had a *field* in his *head*, for god's sake. With shifting weather patterns to represent emotions, and a bloody great *tree* in the midst of it all where he went and hid when the world got too stressful. It couldn't possibly be normal. And sure, yes, of course he *wasn't* normal. He was a *genius*... but, well... so were Mycroft and Father. What were the odds that his brother had a... a sodding *mental office building* (or something equally boring, surely) in which he stored all his collected volumes of dull political strategies and techniques for being a nosey, patronising git? Or that Siger kept some kind of horrifying *mind dungeon?* The very idea was absurd. Neither of them would ever indulge in something so pointless as an imaginary landscape in their heads. No, Sherlock was fairly certain he was alone in this. A freak among freaks. He huffed a sigh into Eric's hair and gave up on the tower before he'd really even started. Sod it all, he'd gone and worked himself into another brooding sulk. Why couldn't his moods ever seem to stay consistent? At least the dysphoria probably meant his high was wearing off, so he might be able to sleep. A quick lift of his head to squint at the alarm clock on the side table told him it was going on six in the morning. He had no idea what time the occupants of the house usually got up. It hardly mattered anyway, he supposed, since Eric certainly wouldn't be awake for a good while yet. The idiot was out like a light on whatever cocktail of drugs they'd given him. Sherlock blew out another short sigh and lowered his head back down to press his face into the mop of sandy brown hair. Dimly he realised this would be his second time sleeping in as many days. *Christ*, he thought with a small smile as he drifted off. *I really* have *gone mad.* **««** ## Chapter 5: And We'll Get Fat **««** **5. And We'll Get Fat** Mycroft was seven years old when his brother was born. He'd known the child was illegitimate from the start, of course. It wouldn't have taken a genius to figure out, but the fact that he *was* one rendered the fact rather blindingly obvious. The biology textbook in the library quite clearly stated that human gestation was nine months from the time of conception. And nine months ago Mycroft's father had been in Peru on a business trip. The young boy wisely said nothing, however, preferring to keep his silence rather than upset his mother any further. Because she did seem upset. Mummy had never really been the *happiest* of people, but for the last few months - as her tummy swelled bigger and rounder and the looming date of Father's return home after having spent the last year abroad drew nearer - she began to show signs of depression. Fatigue, altered mood, lack of interest in hobbies or pleasurable activity... Mycroft had memorised the entire list from his copy of the DSM-IV and knew without a doubt that his Mummy fit nearly all of them. What he didn't know, however, was how to fix it. "The foetus is considered full term between weeks 37 to 40, and by this time has developed all necessary structures for life outside the uterus," Mycroft informed his mother. They were sitting in her room, leaning against the pillows on her enormous featherbed. Mycroft had his favourite biology textbook propped open over his lap. "That's nice, dear," Mummy murmured softly, apparently not listening to him. She was halfheartedly sketching a design in her drawing pad - some sort of flower. It looked almost like a lily but some of the structures were spaced incorrectly. "Mummy, lilies have *six* stamens arranged symmetrically around a central pistil, not *seven*." He'd read that in the chapter on plants. Mummy glanced down at him with a strange expression, then sighed and flipped her pencil over to erase one of the lines. "Of course," she muttered, "silly me." Mycroft watched interestedly as she added a few lines here and there, repositioning the remaining reproductive organs. The end result was an *almost* anatomically accurate reproduction of the flower of a *Lilium auratum*. He told her as much and she flashed him a quick, sad smile. Despite the undertone of melancholy it was the happiest he'd seen her in days, so he grinned back. "How you manage to fit so many facts into that little head of yours, I'll never know," Mummy said, voice layered with quiet amusement. She set her drawing pad aside and reached out an arm to draw him closer to her, resting her head on his. Her long, dark curls fell over his face and he pushed them out of the way, only for her to playfully shake them back again. "Mummy!" he squealed indignantly. She just chuckled as Mycroft huffed and crossed his arms over his chest like he'd seen the groundskeeper do when he was annoyed by gophers. After a few seconds' hugging she raised a hand and flipped her hair out of both their faces. The moment of levity seemed to melt away as she sighed again. "I'm thinking of naming the baby Sherrington," she told him quietly, "after his grandfather." "Grandfather's name is Ingolf," Mycroft pointed out. They both knew she hadn't been referring to Siger's father; he felt it wise to pretend to be fooled regardless. "I meant *my* father, dear," Violet corrected. Mycroft, of course, had looked up their family genealogy several months ago and knew that his maternal grandfather was called Alphonse. He said nothing, however. "Or perhaps a derivative would be better...?" Violet continued thoughtfully. "Sherrington *is* a bit of a silly name, I suppose." "I thought you *liked* silly names," Mycroft grumbled. "Oh hush. Mycroft is a perfectly respectable name," his mother admonished. "Your father thought it up... you should be proud to have it." At the mention of Father her voice dropped slightly, becoming quiet and melancholy once more. Mycroft frowned to himself and glanced up at her. She was looking toward the far door, gaze distant. He followed her line of sight and saw nothing of interest. There was the cream-coloured wood panelling, the ornate handle with its old-fashioned skeleton key lock still installed below it in deference to the artistry of the original construction, the more modern electronic locking system hooked up just under the ancient device... As he stared at the keyhole an idea occurred to him. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed. Mummy startled a bit, having evidently been lost in thought, and looked down at him. "Pardon, dear?" "*Sherlock*," Mycroft repeated. "As a derivative of Sherrington. It still has the 'sher' but doesn't sound so much like the name of a country parish." His mother blinked at him, then up to the door. A smile flitted across her porcelain features as she apparently caught on to where he'd gotten the 'lock' part from. "Sherlock..." she hummed to herself. "Yes, I like it." Mummy chuckled again, pressing him closer to her side in a hug, and Mycroft beamed. Less than a week later he found himself pulled out of primary school in the middle of the day, bundled off in one of his family's expensive towncars to the hospital where Mummy had been taken. By the time he was finally ushered into the private suite his mother was already sitting upright, a tiny bundle in her arms. Father was standing by the bed with his usual unreadable expression. "Hello Father," Mycroft greeted. The man inclined his head very slightly toward him and turned his attention back to Mummy. Apparently they were in the midst of a conversation. "Your decision to go through with the birth was... courageous, if foolish," Father said in his low, emotionless voice. Mycroft cautiously made his way to the side of the bed opposite his father and craned his neck to look at Mummy. She looked exhausted, and yet... happy, somehow. Her face was flushed with exertion and the rush of endorphins from delivering. In her arms the tiny baby was sleeping peacefully, it's tuft of dark curls sticking cowlicked out from the soft hospital blanket. "You can't take everything from me, Siger." She raised one hand and softly brushed the newborn's fringe from its forehead before pressing a kiss to its brow. "He's your son now, whether you like it or not. I've already arranged for the paperwork to go through." Father curled his lip slightly. "Yes, Violet, I'm quite aware. 'Sherlock', really?" "That's right. Sherlock Holmes." She lifted her head and smiled down at Mycroft. "It's a lovely name, isn't it dear?" Mycroft shot a timid glance toward his father - expressionless as ever, but some instinctual sense of danger told him to avoid taking sides here. "It's... *a* name," he hedged uncertainly. Mummy's face seemed to fall, then twisted in irritation as she caught on to the source of her son's discomfort. After a second she huffed an angry sigh and rounded on Father. "Siger, leave us," she snapped. Father's eyebrows shot up. "You presume to order me?" "I *presume,*" Mummy growled, "to have a moment of well-earned privacy with my sons. You're perfectly capable of orchestrating your disgusting little schemes from the hallway. Now *leave*." Siger snorted very slightly, but nonetheless stepped away from his wife's bedside and strode toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. "Take care of your mother, Mycroft," he droned in a voice which was as close to sarcastic as Mycroft had ever heard from his father. Then he was gone. Mummy seemed to deflate, her features softening in obvious relief. "*Christ*, that bloody-" she abruptly cut herself off with a shake of her head; her dark curls brushed gently across the sleeping child in her arms. "Never mind," she sighed after a moment. Smiling down at Mycroft, she patted the blankets beside her. "Come up here and meet your brother, dearest." Mycroft obligingly clambered up onto the mattress beside her and sat in the space between her and the bed railings. He stared down at the baby with interest. Its head was very large for its body, skull rounded and distinctly lacking the strange, lopsided cone-shape he'd seen detailed in the obstetrics book he'd found in the library last month. "Was it born by caesarean section?" he asked curiously. Mummy shifted in surprise and blinked down at him. "How did you figure that out?" "Its head isn't deformed," he explained patiently. After a second's hesitation he reached out and prodded the baby gently on the nose. The tiny face wrinkled in annoyance but it didn't wake up. "You're such a smart little boy," Mummy said, smiling again. Mycroft couldn't help a stray thought crossing his mind that this was the most he'd seen his mother smile in months. She turned her gaze back to the infant. "You'll have plenty to teach your brother when he's old enough, I'm sure." "Will he be a genius too?" Mycroft asked. For some reason Mummy started chuckling. "Oh goodness, dear, I should think so," she exclaimed with a quiet laugh. "After all his father was-" she cut off again, then shook her head with a small, wistful smile. "Well, maybe I'll tell you when you're older." Mycroft huffed but said nothing. He wasn't sure where this unspoken agreement to pretend they weren't both fully aware of the situation had come from, but he wasn't about to break his mother's trust by pressing for details. Instead he stared down at the baby with a dubious look. "He doesn't *look* like a genius," he said slowly. Because really, the thought of this little pink ball of pudge and fluffy tufted hair carrying on any sort of intellectual discussion struck him as highly unlikely. He knew all about the process of maturation, of course, but at this stage of development it all seemed very far away and difficult to believe. Mummy laughed again, a pleasant, tinkling sound. "No, he doesn't does he?" she flipped one of the baby's curls away from its brow again. "But he's only small, my love. Give him time." "I guess," Mycroft conceded. Mummy shifted her torso toward him and lifted the little bundle of sleeping infant a fraction away from her chest. "Would you like to hold him, dearest?" Mycroft cringed slightly - from what he'd read babies were supposed to be *disgusting.* "Do I have to?" he mumbled. Mummy just smirked and held the child with one arm while she used the other to move Mycroft's into the correct position to support it. "Yes you do," she quipped matter-of-factly, smiling as Mycroft suppressed the urge to whinge about the unfairness of being given the illusion of choice when there really wasn't any. "Now mind his head, dear." And with no more warning than that, Mycroft found himself cradling an armful of newborn. He stared down at it and watched as the infant's eyes blinked open - enormous in its tiny face, with irises of a pale grey-blue. They locked gazes for a split-second. Mycroft furrowed his brows as the little creature seemed to give him an appraising look... then abruptly opened its mouth and *shrieked*. Mycroft jerked his head back away from it with a terrified expression and looked to his mother, who was holding a hand to her mouth in a poor attempt to hide an amused grin. *"Mummy!"* he cried indignantly at the sight. The baby was screeching its ruddy *head* off and Mummy was just *laughing?* "Mummy it obviously doesn't like me! Take it back!" "Oh hush dear, he's only a little frightened that's all," she replied with a chuckle. With a pleasant smile she reached out and softly smoothed the baby's hair back with a quietly hummed rendition of Vivaldi's Spring. Mercifully the infant stopped screaming seconds later. Mycroft wrinkled his nose as it fell to squirming fitfully against his chest instead. "Mycroft dear... I want you to promise me something," Mummy spoke up, suddenly serious. Mycroft glanced away from the wriggling bundle in his arms with a questioning look. "What?" he asked. Mummy lifted her hands, placing one on the top of each of her sons' heads. "Promise me that you'll keep your little brother safe, even if I can't." "Why wouldn't you be able to-" Mycroft started, but Mummy's face hardened into a warning look and he shut his mouth. He looked back down to the baby. It was blinking at him owlishly. With the giant eyes it looked a bit like a frog. "... I promise," he mumbled finally. It wasn't that he had any *problem* with agreeing to protect his sibling *(half-sibling, some dark part of his mind muttered grumpily)...* but for some reason the act of officially instigating such a pact felt ominous. Maybe it was just the way Mummy was looking at him, like she'd been waiting all morning to hear those words. Like she'd been *worried.* "Thank you, Mycroft," she murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Now how about we give Grand-mère a call, hm?" She moved to take the baby and Mycroft handed it over with relief. As he followed Mummy's instructions and grabbed the telephone from the bedside table to dial his grandmother's number he glanced over. The infant was still staring at him. He stared back for a moment... then tried a smile. The little face scrunched up comically like it was trying to reciprocate but couldn't quite manage. Mycroft grinned as his mother laughed. Maybe having a baby brother wouldn't be so bad. **««** Mycroft was ten years old when his brother started following him. It was the second-to-last week of holidays before the Autumn term. Father was out of the country again on a business endeavour, and Mummy had been holed up in her room with migraine all day, leaving Mycroft to entertain himself. This meant he was free to spend the afternoon studying in the manor's large, well-stocked library. He'd just popped off to the kitchens to get a drink *(he didn't mind asking the servants to fetch things for him, but he'd noticed that if he occasionally did simple things for himself - pouring his own juice, picking up his room - then the staff would be more inclined to go out of their way to assist him with anything he asked of them, including larger tasks than they were normally employed to handle. What exactly those larger tasks would entail he wasn't sure yet, but he felt it prudent to foster their loyalty anyway in case the need should ever arise.)* and was now walking down the hall to the library, minding his own business, when he became aware of a presence behind him. He stopped short, glanced around at the potted plant he'd just passed, and bit out an irritated sigh. The ficus tree was staring at him. "Sherlock I can see you through the branches," he informed the toddler peeking at him from behind the stout, well-manicured topiary. Sherlock startled slightly and ducked behind the planter, then after a split second his tousled head of dark curls bobbed up again as he rushed out from his hiding spot with an ecstatic grin on his tiny face. Mycroft noted with alarm that the child was clutching an enormous dead toad between his hands. "Myc'off look what I got!" he chirped happily, thrusting the amphibian in his brother's face as he hopped up and down like a kangaroo. "Look look look look look loo-!" "Yes I see it!" Mycroft snapped. He hurriedly leant away from the unfortunate animal with a grimace of disgust. *Ugh* it was *dripping.* "Why are you wandering around unsupervised? Were's the nanny?" he asked the three year old sharply. Sherlock lowered his toad slightly and pouted. "She was *boring*," he whinged, bouncing on the balls of his feet in agitation. The toad's legs flopped around with his movements - Mycroft's face twisted in revulsion at the sight. "Boringboringboringboring so I asked t'go outside an' then I found a frog look!" He shoved the carcass in his brother's face again. Mycroft cringed as a bit of pond scum flew off and landed on his shirt. "Sherlock, that is a *dead animal*," he said slowly. "We do not play with dead animals." "Why not?" "Because they may have diseases." As he spoke he cast his gaze around somewhat frantically for the nanny, but saw no sign of her. He looked down to Sherlock instead. Suspicious smudges of dirt on his knees and face (to be fair his brother managing to coat himself in dust or mud wasn't exactly an uncommon occurrence, but this was rather more filth than usual), bits of grass and spots of flower pollen stuck to his slightly-too-big jumper, twigs caught in his wildly tangled hair. The boy must have lured poor Mrs. Hartford into one of the back gardens and crawled under a hedge to evade capture... *again.* This would be the third time he'd managed to escape from under his caretaker's nose in less than a week. Sherlock was frowning up at him. "It doesn't have *diseases* Myc'off," he asserted. Before Mycroft could object the toddler launched into an explanation: "It *doesn't* cause it wasn't dead 'til I saw the groun'keeper's cat attack it an' then it died cause th'cat broke its neck but I chased her off an' now I got a frog see!" He brandished the amphibian yet again with an excited grin, then a split-second later seemed to remember he'd been clarifying something and continued with, "but it can't have *diseases* cause if it was sick then it wouldn't've been all normal before th'cat killed it an' also cause dead things don't start dec- deco- er... what's th'word when dead stuff breaks up?" "Decomposing," Mycroft supplied in a faint voice, slightly bewildered by his brother's rapidfire monologue. "Decoposin'!" Sherlock repeated enthusiastically. "Right, it's not *decoposin* yet so it hasn't got diseases so I can play with it all I want an' *look!"* "Alright, yes! I've *seen* it!" Mycroft cried as the toad launched toward his face again. "Stop shoving it at me!" "But it's neat!" The toddler was bouncing again. Mycroft fought the urge to grab the boy's shoulders and force him to stay still - the little monster would no doubt take advantage of the required proximity to try and thrust the frog down his big brother's shirt or something equally horrid. He took a cautious step back out of range of the animal's flailing legs and tried to force the disgust off his features. "'Neat' is *not* the word I would use to describe a dead toad," he said flatly, then before Sherlock could start in with a rebuttal, "We're going to go and find the nanny now. And then you're taking a bath." Sherlock abruptly stopped bouncing and hugged the toad to his chest in horror. "No!" "Yes." "Don't wanna!" Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off an encroaching headache. "Sherlock you're covered in filth and clutching a fresh carcass. There is *no way* you're not going to end up taking a bath." The toddler scowled and looked down at his frog. After a second he glanced back up at his brother through the tangled strands of his fringe with a calculating expression. "If I take a bath... can I go with you?" "How do you mean?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. He reached out and hovered a hand slightly above his brother's head, unable to determine how exactly to go about herding the boy in the probable direction of his current caretaker without actually having to touch him. Sherlock seemed to catch on to what Mycroft was hesitating about (with frankly alarming speed for a three year old, but then he'd always seemed to know far more than his age should have realistically permitted) and turned around to amble toward the garden entrance under his own power. "I don't wanna go with Nanny again she's boring an' she said I don't pay attention but I *do* pay attention only she's really really boring an' she never does anything int'restin' so can I go play with you instead?" "You think I'm likely to be any more interesting than Mrs. Hartford?" Mycroft intoned disbelievingly. Sherlock's definition of 'interesting' tended to include things like, well... things like dead toads. Mycroft's went more along the lines of classical music and quiet evenings in the library. He was fairly certain their tastes did *not* intersect. Sherlock shrugged. The toad's head flopped forward in his arms (he was holding it to his chest like a teddy bear now - utterly horrifying, but Mycroft wasn't about to risk touching the animal to remove it). "You talk t'me like a person." Mycroft's brow furrowed. "And how does the nanny talk to you?" Sherlock scowled and tugged at one of the toad's forelegs as he walked. "Like a stupid baby." He sniffed, blinking rapidly as his large eyes abruptly pooled with tears. "An'... an' she says I'm a troublemaker but I'm *not!* I didn't *mean* to break her stupid 'broider loom or tear all th' threads out it just *happened!*" Mycroft sighed. Mrs. Hartford had been working on an embroidery pattern for the last four months, only to find it torn to bits by her over-curious charge in the space of five minutes. She'd understandably been far less than pleased. "Well I'm sure Mummy will find you a new nanny if you ask." "I don't *want* a new nanny!" Sherlock wailed, rounding on his brother. The toad's eyes bulged slightly as he squeezed its midsection in agitation. "How come I can't just stay with you?" "Because I have to go to school during the day. There'd be no one to watch you," Mycroft explained patiently. After a moment's hesitation he reached out and patted his little brother gently on the head. Sherlock didn't seem inclined to attack him with the carcass, so he felt relatively safe in moving to stand slightly closer to the toddler. "You're not at school *now,*" Sherlock pointed out with a sudden frustrated scowl - he'd snapped from distraught and nearly crying to childish annoyance in less than a second. Yet another instance of his tendency to flip chaotically from emotion to emotion without warning (or, frequently, any discernible reason). For perhaps the hundredth time Mycroft wondered if there might be something seriously off-kilter in his baby brother's head. True, toddlers weren't exactly the most *stable* of age groups... but surely cycling through thirty different moods in half a minute wasn't normal? Mycroft huffed a short breath through his nose, dismissing his musings. Much as he hated to admit it Sherlock actually did have a point. "That's true, I'm not," he conceded reluctantly. "I... suppose you could sit in the library with me today. If you're *quiet.* And only after you take a bath." "Yay!" Sherlock cheered. Without a second's delay he whipped around and scurried down the hall to the door, stood on tiptoes to reach the knob, and disappeared into the garden. Mycroft watched him go with a bemused expression. "What did I just get myself into...?" he muttered to the empty hallway. Sherlock spent nearly every evening and holiday thereafter trailing around behind his brother like a hyperactive second shadow. Despite the annoyance of having to deal with more or less nonstop chattering from the little boy Mycroft found himself really quite pleased by the arrangement. Sherlock's brain was like a sponge, soaking up information without the slightest bit of effort. And where he generally ignored the nannies and tutors *(Mummy had decided, during one of her rare periods of liveliness, to have Sherlock homeschooled until secondary. Mycroft couldn't exactly disagree with the decision - subjecting some unfortunate primary school classroom to the storm of restless energy that was his younger sibling would be nothing short of an act of abject cruelty to everyone involved.)* he seemed to hang on to Mycroft's every word with a sort of fanatical devotion. It wasn't long before they were holding impromptu lessons every day on subjects ranging across all manner of topics from chemistry to politics to botany. Sherlock latched onto the physical sciences like a dog with a bone, and by the time he was five years old could rattle off the entire periodic table of elements both frontwards and back. And as Mycroft watched his brother grow from a toddler to a child, gaining knowledge with the momentum of a speeding bullet train, the young man realised something very important: he loved his baby brother. More than anything. The promise he'd made to his mother all those years ago still stood firm, but now it was more than a promise - it was instinct. He'd protect Sherlock with his life if he had to... and be glad to do it. He'd been sitting on the grass underneath a large willow tree on the grounds of the family estate when the revelation first hit him. He raised his head from the book he'd been reading and glanced over at the five year old attempting to catch grasshoppers a few feet away. "Sherlock," he said, hooking a finger between the pages of his book to mark his place as he lowered it to his lap. "Huh?" His brother didn't even look up, too busy staring intently at the unfortunate insect he was about to pounce on. Mycroft watched the boy for a few seconds more - edging ever closer, preparing to strike. Between the childishly fierce expression and mop of flyaway curls he looked a bit like a fluffy kitten. "I love you," he said finally. Sherlock suddenly shot forward, but the grasshopper was faster and flew off through the boughs of the willow to safety. The child pouted after it for a moment before looking up at his brother. "I love you too, Myc," he replied offhandedly. After a pause he suddenly hopped to his feet with a wide grin. "Hey! Can we go see if there's any frogs in the pond?" Mycroft huffed a bit. Going anywhere *near* the duck pond with Sherlock usually meant ruined shoes and at least one water stain on his shirt. Nevertheless he set his book down and stood up. "Alright," he agreed resignedly. Sherlock beamed and grabbed Mycroft's hand to drag him off. The older boy let himself be led with a small smile. Yes, he loved his brother. No matter how annoying or irrational the boy became, or how undeniably insane he sometimes seemed, that simple fact would hold true. **««** Mycroft was fourteen years old when his brother stopped talking. Continuing his secondary education in France had been Father's idea, and one Mycroft had wholeheartedly agreed with. British schools were too structured, too reliant on test scores and endless reams of useless trivia. He was much more interested in *people* than he was in facts, in learning to control and manipulate their natures to suit his needs. France had been a positive experience so far in that regard, and he was eager to continue touring as many foreign countries as his family's robust fortune would allow. Unfortunately this did have the side effect of keeping him away from home for most of the school year. Travelling to and from the continent was too inconvenient to make more than a few trips per season, and anyway he utterly detested both train rides and flying. Too many people, all pressed up against one another like sardines in a can, and the *motion sickness...* ugh, no, he'd much rather remain in one location, thank you. Sherlock had *not* been pleased by this. He'd practically thrown a tantrum when Mycroft had announced his departure last autumn, and it'd taken the combined efforts of the nanny and three house servants to wrestle him into some semblance of calm again. Mycroft had promised to write, however, and call (though Sherlock had never appeared to be too fond of speaking on the phone) so honestly it wasn't like he was *abandoning* the boy. They'd just be separated for awhile. And if Sherlock slowly stopped returning his letters, or came up with pretences to limit telephone conversations to mere minutes, well that just meant the seven year old had found something more interesting to occupy himself with. It was a good sign. The sky was grey with a light drizzling of rain as Mycroft stepped out of the sleek black towncar after his father, who'd picked him up from the airport earlier that day. They'd had a pleasant conversation on the way back, going over everything Mycroft had learned in France and what steps he could take to put that knowledge into practice. As always Father had been a bit frosty, but unerringly courteous and seemed quite legitimately pleased with his son's success overseas. It was nothing like the cold, uncaring apathy Sherlock had (very hesitantly) described in one of his letters a few months back. To be fair though the boy *did* have a penchant for being over-dramatic, so the wary mistrust he'd gathered from his brother's writing had probably just been childish exaggeration. As they neared the house he instantly knew something had changed. Mummy was standing in the entryway, smiling serenely in the way she always did now. A slight haziness to her expression suggested she wasn't entirely lucid (must have increased her dosage of Valium again) but otherwise she seemed fine. Sherlock, however... The boy was standing ramrod straight, to the left of and very slightly behind Mummy's skirt as if he'd stopped himself from hiding behind her at the last minute, with his hands tucked behind his back in perfect imitation of Siger's usual idle posture. The sight was unnerving. Over the last few years Mycroft had grown used to defining his brother as a hurricane in child-form. The boy was on a neverending quest to seek trouble, dashing about the house like a lunatic, climbing trees and furniture, taking things apart, opening drawers and cupboards and poking his head curiously into any crevice that seemed large enough to fit (which had resulted in more than a few incidents of getting himself trapped between the stair rails, much to the nanny's displeasure.) It was practically impossible to get him to stop talking long enough to follow *any* sort of order, and on the rare occasion someone got him to remain in one spot for more than five seconds he'd inevitably start up twitching and fidgeting as if enveloped by a storm of manic energy. Which made his sudden stillness all the more alarming. Mycroft stared at his baby brother. The little boy didn't meet his gaze, eyes riveted to the stone slabs of the flooring beneath him. He wasn't moving a *single muscle.* It was incredibly unsettling to witness. Disturbed, Mycroft glanced up at his father. "Is Sherlock... on some sort of medication?" he hedged, hoping his parents had perhaps finally taken his advice and had his sibling tested for ADHD. Father's deep disdain for the psychiatric profession rendered that scenario rather unlikely, true, but he supposed more unexpected things *were* known to have happened. Siger just chuckled. "Oh no, nothing of the sort. I simply had a short conversation with the boy about manners. Coming along quite nicely now, isn't he?" The unspoken implications were ominous, but Mycroft instinctively knew better than to press for details. "He seems much... calmer," he conceded instead. Siger made a vague sound of agreement and touched Violet's arm lightly as they reached the entryway. It was an offhanded gesture, meant to appear affectionate but somehow it came off as more of a warning than anything else. Mummy, medicated as she was, just hummed lightly in recognition. "Welcome home, dear," she said to Mycroft, who'd come in behind his father and handed his coat off to one of the servants. "Did you have a pleasant holiday?" "I was at school, Mummy, not on vacation," Mycroft reminded her. She just hummed again, evidently disinterested, and moved off toward the dining room after Siger. Mycroft frowned and glanced down at his brother. Still not moving, though he had seemed to relax a fraction or two once out of Siger's sight. Mycroft tried not to dwell on what that might mean. "Did they increase Mummy's dosage again?" he asked lightly, hoping to kick off one of Sherlock's rambling monologues. As annoying as the boy could get with his nonstop chattering his powers of observation were really quite fascinating - Mycroft had always rather enjoyed listening to him piece together facts and scenarios from the unlikeliest of details. Strangely, though, Sherlock just shrugged. A short silence stretched between them, Mycroft waiting for some sort of elaboration and Sherlock still staring at the floor with a shuttered expression on his small face. "Sherlock...?" he tried again. His brother finally glanced up at him, then looked away. Mycroft noted a small bruise where the boy had been biting his lip. "Are you alright?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. "Did something happen while I was at school?" Mycroft pressed. Sherlock shook his head. "Then why are you refusing to speak to me?" Another shrug, this one accompanied by a slight glare his direction. Suddenly it clicked. Ah, so *that* was it. Sherlock was angry with him for leaving, and had decided on the silent treatment as his punishment. Nothing but a childish tantrum after all. A small sigh escaped Mycroft's chest as he smiled with relief. For a moment there he'd thought Father had done something *drastic.* "Well, shall we go and get washed up for dinner, then?" Mycroft asked pleasantly. Sherlock shot him a slightly quizzical look - probably wanting to know why the line of inquiry had been dropped so abruptly - but then huffed a short breath through his nose and nodded grudgingly. "Oh don't be petulant," Mycroft admonished lightly as they made their way toward the restroom. "Just because you don't like the feeling of soap doesn't make it any less important to stay clean." Sherlock scrunched his face up in displeasure but nonetheless allowed his brother to needle him into washing his hands properly. The whinging *"Myc!"* that nearly made it past the boy's lips when Mycroft flicked a bit of water at him was extremely reassuring. That settled it, his brother was *fine.* Father must have simply given him a lecture on social etiquette - Sherlock had probably been bored senseless, but had taken the lesson to heart enough to try it out on his big brother. Everything was perfectly normal. And if Sherlock snapped back to rigid attention the second they entered the dining room where their parents were, and if he refused to make so much as a single noise while in the presence of their father... well, what could Mycroft say? He wasn't exactly about to *complain* that his brother had suddenly become less irritating. The rest of the holidays passed without incident. Soon enough it was time for Mycroft to leave again, his next school term having been relocated to Germany. As he left the house and walked toward the waiting car he was stopped by a small hand grabbing his trouser leg. "Sherlock, honestly," Mycroft muttered, sighing. He smiled toward their parents still standing in the entryway (Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder at Father, looking wary but seemingly determined) and crouched down to his little brother's height. "What is it?" he asked. Sherlock opened his mouth, looking like wanted to say something, but snapped it shut again. He fidgeted nervously for a second, then abruptly flung his arms around his big brother's neck in a desperate hug. Mycroft smiled, returning the embrace. "I'll be back before you know it, don't worry." Sherlock nodded wordlessly against his shoulder. **««** Mycroft was twenty-two years old when he caught his brother smoking. Holidays at the Holmes estate were never really what one might call 'festive' - Father generally liked to host a Christmas or New Year's party to keep up appearances, but between social events the manor remained as pristine and lifeless as it usually was. Mycroft hadn't really seen much point in taking the time out of his schedule to return home last year. Between his final year at Cambridge and his new position with MI5 he'd been practically drowning in work. Sherlock had made his displeasure *more* than apparent, however, having hung up on his brother more than once when Mycroft tried to apologise and refusing to reply to his emails with anything besides a long assortment of vicious (and really rather creative, truth be told) insults. And so it was that Mycroft found himself standing in the entryway to his family home the next year, his father's hand on his shoulder as the man instructed the servants to have the table set for a formal meal. "We really needn't go to the bother," Mycroft said as the last valet bustled off. "It's not exactly a special occasion-" "Nonsense," Siger intoned, cutting him off. "You've made quite a name for yourself, child, and it's only proper to bring the family together in acknowledgement of your success." Mycroft smiled slightly, feeling himself flushing from the praise. "If you insist, sir," he conceded. "I'll fetch your mother, then," Siger said, his voice uncharacteristically jovial. It was a tad strange. But then again Mycroft *had* noticed his father getting quite a bit more animated over the last few years. He'd sometimes wondered if it had anything to do with his brother - was Siger... *learning* from Sherlock? The thought seemed absurd. However there could be no denying that Father *did* tend to act rather a lot like his younger son when he was being... well, not quite *happy*, but whatever his approximation of the emotion was. It was slightly unnerving to watch. Like an overdramatic teenager had suddenly taken up residence in the body of a middle-aged businessman. He quickly turned his thoughts away from the topic, however. There would be no use dwelling on such idle speculations. Though speaking of his brother... "Is Sherlock home already?" Siger flapped a dismissive hand. "Oh, I expect so," he replied indifferently. "Doubtless he's off skulking about the grounds somewhere. Perhaps you wouldn't mind locating the boy?" Mycroft smiled and turned to retrieve his umbrella from the hat stand he'd hung it on. "Certainly." "Wonderful. Until dinner then, Mycroft my boy." His father patted him on the shoulder once more and moved off toward the grand staircase, presumably to locate Mummy. The smile dropped from Mycroft's face as he huffed a short sigh. His father hadn't ever been what one might call *affectionate* toward him (or anyone, for that matter), but at the very least he'd taken a legitimate interest in Mycroft's welfare as a child. Sherlock, it seemed, had fallen off the man's radar entirely - it was like he didn't care about the boy in the slightest. Still though, Father *was* a busy man these days. Perhaps it was just a case of extenuating circumstances. Best not to jump to conclusions. He flicked his umbrella open as he walked out into the slight drizzle of mid-winter rainfall. Locating Sherlock when they were at home was essentially just a matter of checking three places in order - the tree, the pond, and his bedroom. The odds were invariably stacked in favour of the tree, so Mycroft turned to make his way leisurely across the grounds to the clearing where the ancient willow stood towering over the surrounding landscape. Sure enough, he could just barely make out a dark shape amongst the leaves on the topmost level of sturdy boughs. "You can't stay up there your whole life, you know," he called as he ducked between the willow's dropping leaves and shifted his umbrella so he could peer past the edge to look up through the lattice of gnarled branches. "I can try," a flippant voice drifted down. Suddenly Sherlock's face was visible through a gap in the foliage. "What are *you* doing here?" Mycroft frowned as he gazed up at his brother's features. There were dark circles under the boy's eyes from lack of sleep, and high cheekbones stuck out prominently on his pale, too-thin face. The outer edge of his left eye socket was marred by a large, fading bruise. "What happened?" Mycroft asked, gesturing to his own face to illustrate his meaning. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What do you *think* happened?" the fifteen year old quipped. "I got punched in the face, idiot." His head disappeared behind the tangle of willow branches for a moment, then seconds later Mycroft heard the sound of him dropping down on the other side of the tree. There was a wet squelch and a short yelp as he apparently slipped on the damp grass and fell. "How many times have I told you to *climb* down rather than jump?" Mycroft bit out irritably. He moved around the willow's trunk and regarded his baby brother sprawled inelegantly in the mud-spattered grass. "Climbing's boring," Sherlock mumbled, face-down on the lawn. He huffed into the wet mulch, pushed himself up on his arms and then hopped to his feet. There was a large splotch of mud now stretching across the boy's face, but Mycroft was more interested in the rest of his brother's appearance. The teenager had shot up another few inches since the last time they'd seen each other and now resembled a beanpole more than any sort of reasonable human anatomical configuration. His black school jumper was rolled up to the elbows, the white buttonup underneath already hopelessly discoloured with mud, bark, and grass stains. At the very least he'd deigned to change out of his uniform trousers and dress shoes before embarking on his tree-climbing excursion, though the alternative of dark jeans and scuffed black-and-white plimsolls was rather unexpected. "Father agreed to let you wear jeans?" Mycroft asked dubiously. Sherlock smirked. "Oh, sure," he replied with a flippant wave of his hand. "I mean I didn't exactly *ask*, but he hasn't said anything about the receipt, so..." "Would that possibly have anything to do with his not having *seen* the receipt?" Mycroft inquired flatly. Sherlock had a remarkable knack for figuring out ways around their father's meticulous financial monitoring systems to sneak forbidden purchases. The boy just shrugged. "Maybe. How should I know?" Mycroft rolled his eyes but didn't press the matter. "Well, find something else to wear. Apparently we're having a family dinner." "Are we? How *lovely*." Sherlock sneered over his shoulder as he turned to push his way through the damp curtain of willow branches, pale hands moving to tuck into his trouser pockets as he went. Mycroft followed, making a gesture indicating they could share his umbrella... which Sherlock of course completely ignored in favour of letting himself get soaked by the rain. The teenager spun on his heel to walk backwards in front of his elder brother as he continued speaking. "So! This delightful little get-together wouldn't happen to be in *your* honour, would it?" he asked, voice layered with sardonic charm. Mycroft sighed. "It was Father's idea," he confirmed in a resigned tone. "I had no part in the decision." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in sarcastic disbelief but said nothing. Mycroft's gaze flicked to the bruise spreading faded green and purple across the side of his brother's face once more. "You've been fighting at school again?" he asked with a disapproving frown. The amount of disciplinary letters he'd intercepted over the last few years of his brother's education could have papered the entire Holmes manor twice over. Honestly sometimes it seemed like Sherlock was just *actively refusing* to get along with his peers. "Eh. Wasn't much of a fight," Sherlock quipped offhandedly. "I mean I told him his girlfriend was shagging his best mate and he decked me. That was it, really." "It wouldn't kill you to be *tactful* for a change, you know." Mycroft watched as his brother's expression darkened, pale face pulling into a scowl as he whipped back around to walk properly once more. "We can't all be manipulative bastards like *you*, Mycroft," he responded in a vicious snarl. Mycroft sighed at the sudden shift in demeanour. Frivolous to angry in mere milliseconds, *as usual* - Sherlock hadn't ever really grown out of the mercurial moodswings of his toddler years. Between this apparently natural instability and the ravages of puberty the boy had developed into a veritable maelstrom of wild, unpredictable emotions. "I'm merely suggesting you refrain from informing people of things which will obviously distress them," he explained calmly. "Deducing a fact about another person's life doesn't automatically necessitate your calling it to their attention." Ahead of him Sherlock's shoulders hunched. "I know that," he muttered toward the grass. "*Do* you?" Mycroft asked dubiously. "Because from what I understand the last *twenty* infractions on your school record were all down to your telling classmates uncomfortable truths about their home lives." Abruptly Sherlock spun around to face him again. "I can't help it if they're all *idiots* who can't see what's right in front of their faces!" he snapped. "Fuck's *sake* Myc I'm not *trying* to piss them off, it just happens!" "*Language*, Sherlock," Mycroft admonished. The teenager just glared and raised a hand to flip him off. Mycroft's eyes flicked immediately to two patches of discoloured, yellowish skin marring the sides of his brother's middle and index fingers. "What's on your skin?" he asked sharply. The stain pattern looked like... but no, no that was ridiculous. His brother was *fifteen* for god's sake. Sherlock startled, gaze catching his own fingers, and quickly clenched his hand into a fist which he then shoved into his jeans pocket. "Nothing," he replied far too quickly. "It's... from chemistry class. Nitric acid. Keratin breakdown, causes temporary yellow discolouration." Mycroft frowned, not the least bit convinced. "Oh? And how exactly did you manage to spill acid along the sides of only two fingers?" Sherlock glowered. "I just *did,* okay? Piss off." Without waiting for a rebuttal the teenager turned and practically bolted into the manor through the side entrance they'd come upon. Mycroft sighed heavily as he closed his umbrella and followed his brother indoors. Dinner was a quiet affair, full of polite conversation between Mycroft and his parents. Sherlock of course kept silent as the grave, as he always did when he found himself occupying the same room as Siger. He'd changed his outfit to a dark purple buttonup with black slacks, washed his face clean of mud and even appeared to have made a passing attempt at taming his mop of dark curls. (Probably in an effort to be allowed to keep his hair at its present length; Father invariably forced him to cut it short when it grew much past his ears, citing it as looking too unkempt.) The look was overall rather charming, even if Sherlock didn't seem too enthused by it. "How have you been getting along with your piano playing, dearest?" Mummy asked with a soft smile toward her eldest son. She seemed much more lucid than usual, which was a pleasant surprise. Mycroft figured she must be in one of her more cheerful periods - her moods tended to run in cycles lasting from a few months to a year. Depressed to outgoing to depressed again. He'd long since grown used to it. "Well enough," he replied lightly. "I haven't had much time to practice lately, but the deficit doesn't appear to have caused too much of a loss in skill." Across the table Sherlock was using his fork to prod disinterestedly at his filet mignon, expression caught somewhere between tense discomfort and boredom as he hunched over his place setting. Mycroft frowned when he realised his brother hadn't eaten more than a few bites the entire meal. Was he *trying* to starve himself? Or just having another one of his sulks over some flavour or texture he found disagreeable? Honestly the boy was thin as a rail already, he could hardly afford to be picky about his food. "Sherlock," Father suddenly cut in. The teenager went rigid and flicked his gaze sidelong toward the head of the table. "Sit up properly and eat like a respectable human being." "Yes sir," the boy mumbled and immediately did as he was told. Siger spared him a single annoyed glare before turning back to Mycroft. "Sounds to me as if a recital is in order, my boy," the man said genially. "What do you say to some after-dinner entertainment?" "Oh yes!" Mummy exclaimed happily. "I haven't heard my boys play a duet in simply *ages*." "A *duet?*" Sherlock spoke up suddenly. He turned his head to fix his mother with a pained look. "Mummy why do *I* have t-" "*Sherlock*," Father snapped again, voice dangerous. "Were you asked to speak?" Sherlock hunched down in his chair but quickly straightened up again as Siger's gaze darkened. "S-sorry sir," he muttered nervously. Mycroft glanced between them with a worried frown. His father and brother had never really been on the *best* of terms, admittedly - but this seemed almost... alarming somehow. He'd never seen Sherlock behave this timidly toward *anyone*. Suspicions he'd buried years ago began to rise unbidden to the surface of his mind once more, making his stomach clench with apprehension. But no, no. Surely not. Sherlock would have *said* something if... His thoughts were interrupted as his father turned to him once more. "Well, Mycroft?" "A recital sounds delightful," he responded without thought, forcing his expression to remain placid despite the dark theories blossoming through his consciousness. Across from him Sherlock was scowling into his dinner plate. "Saint-Saëns?" he asked his brother pleasantly. "Fine," the boy grumbled. The rest of the meal passed without incident, and barely an hour later they found themselves in the main drawing room. Sherlock was attempting to tune his violin as violently as possible, perhaps in the hope that a string would break and give him a plausible excuse not to play. Unfortunately for his apparent plan however he'd evidently been using the instrument mere hours before, meaning the strings hadn't had a chance to shift so much as a step out of pitch. He fiddled with the fine-tuner on the D regardless, nudging it flat to sharp to flat again as Mycroft set up his sheet music on the piano stand. "This is bloody stupid," the boy muttered to his brother. Their parents were on the other side of the modestly-sized room being tended to by a servant with a tray of drinks and after-dinner desserts. "If you'd like to play a different piece..." Mycroft started, thinking Sherlock was annoyed by the choice of music. They'd decided on Op. 28, which was a notoriously difficult violin composition. "What? *No*, god," Sherlock snapped, looking up. He noted Mycroft's more or less ready state and reluctantly twisted the peg to bring his D string back up to pitch. "Rondo is fine, I don't care. I meant *this* is stupid. Why do we have to get up and play a sodding *concert* just because you decided to show your fat face this year?" "Because our parents asked us to," Mycroft clarified patiently. "It's supposed to be a bonding activity." "I don't want to bond with *you,*" Sherlock griped. "God, this is nothing but an exercise in *pointlessn*-" He was cut off by Father loudly clapping his hands together on the other side of the room. "Ready when you are, boys!" he called merrily. Mummy was sipping gingerly at a glass of brandy beside him. Mycroft shot Sherlock a quick look to be sure he was ready (to which he received an annoyed scowl over the top of the boy's violin) before moving his fingers into position for an A minor chord. "Just think of it as practice," he murmured over the introductory notes. Sherlock scoffed but nonetheless played his part flawlessly. Mycroft glanced over from his (relatively simple) harmony arrangement as the teenager practically attacked his instrument during the 32nd note intervals. He really was a *spectacular* violinist. Mycroft felt a bit inept in comparison, rusty as his piano technique had become over the last few months. The song ended with a flourish and Sherlock, despite his earlier objection to the performance, actually broke into a small smile when their parents applauded. "Bravo!" Mummy cried enthusiastically. Father afforded them a few polite claps, then stood to walk over. "Excellent technique, Mycroft," he intoned. "Sherlock, you missed a few notes just before the interlude, and your scales were a bit flat." Sherlock stiffened, the smile dropping from his face, then hunched over to pluck at the violin now held tucked up against his stomach. "Yes sir." Siger gave a single, short nod, then turned toward the large grandfather clock on the far wall. "Goodness, is it that late already?" he exclaimed with a false air of surprise. "I'm afraid I'll have to dash, everyone. I have a call with a business partner." "Good night, Father," Mycroft offered. Siger nodded once more and strode out of the room. Sherlock's expression darkened into a sullen glare as he watched the man leave. Against his abdomen his fingers were fitfully plucking a series of jarring, dischordant notes from the lower strings of his violin. "Oh that was lovely, dears," Mummy crooned from her spot on the elegant floral sofa across from them. "How about another one?" Mycroft glanced over to his brother, but the boy was still glaring in the direction their father had gone. He quickly pasted on a pleasant expression and turned back to his mother. "I think I'm a bit too tired to really give it my all at the moment, Mummy," he said, adding a note of apology to his voice. "Perhaps tomorrow night?" "Perfectly understandable, dearest," Mummy replied affectionately. "I could do with some rest myself. Until the morning, then!" With a gentle smile she rose and strode across the room, planting a single kiss on each of their foreheads (Sherlock screwed his face up in childish displeasure at the contact) then glided blithely out the door toward her quarters. The two brothers were alone once more. "That really was an extraordinary performance, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he closed the piano cover. Sherlock just shrugged. "Whatever," he mumbled. He set his violin in its open case without bothering to remove the chin rest and loosened the bow only a fraction before placing it inside as well. "You shouldn't leave your bow like that, the fibres will stretch," Mycroft pointed out as he rose from the bench. Sherlock was already stalking off toward the main doorway. "Then I'll have it rehaired, who gives a shit?" he snapped. Before Mycroft could so much as reprimand him for his language he'd vanished out into the hall. Mycroft sighed and plucked up Sherlock's violin bow to loosen it properly. He placed the implement gently back into the case and after a brief second's deliberation turned to follow his brother. Doubtless he'd gone off to do something ridiculous like climb the tree again despite the late hour. Mycroft had an obligation to at least make sure the boy hadn't broken his neck. Sherlock wasn't in the tree, however, and so Mycroft was forced to trudge all the way out to the pond in the murky twilight of a nearly-set winter sun. As he neared the small body of water he stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw. His baby brother was sitting half-slouched on one of the large, decorative stones that circled the pond, arms curled around one leg as the other kicked against the side of the boulder. His chin rested on his knee as he stared out over the softly rippling water... with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. *"Sherlock Holmes!"* Mycroft barked angrily. His brother startled, slid off the boulder to land in a stumble on the moss below and whipped around to face the unexpected intruder. "Myc! Jesus *Christ* what the *fuck* are y*-*" he suddenly cut himself off as he realised what the older man was glaring at. The boy snatched the fag out of his mouth with a guilty wince and ineffectually tried to hide it behind his back. "Er... I mean. H-hello Mycroft. How's... how's your day been?" Mycroft stalked over and plucked the cigarette out of his brother's hand. "What is this?" he asked icily, holding up the item between them. "Erm... a cigarette," Sherlock mumbled. "And what exactly is a *fifteen year old* doing with a cigarette?" Sherlock's face scrunched up as he tried to come up with a plausible lie. A second later he seemed to give up and just grit his teeth. "Smoking it, obviously," he admitted in an irritated deadpan. "Can I have it back, please?" In reply Mycroft dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. "Where did you get them?" "I only had the one," Sherlock responded immediately. The lie was *far* too easy to spot. Mycroft grabbed one of his brother's hands from where they'd tucked protectively into his trouser pockets and pulled it free quickly enough for the packet of cigarettes to come tumbling out after it along with a cheap plastic lighter. "Hey!" his brother exclaimed indignantly. "These are the cook's brand," Mycroft accused. Sherlock sneered at him, masking anxiety with disdain. "Are they? What a coincidence." Mycroft just frowned deeply and, in his anger and frustration with his brother's behaviour, uncharacteristically snapped out the first thing that came to mind; "I'm telling Father." The effect was as spectacular as it was telling. Sherlock's face morphed into an expression of utter terror as all the blood seemed to drain from his features. "W-what?" he stammered. "For- for *what?* For *smoking?* No, you *can't-!* I mean... y-you don't... have to tell- fuck, just punish me *yourself,* why would you-" His words came out in a tangled jumble, voice tripping over itself as his breathing picked up speed. Mycroft noted with alarm that his brother's pupils were dilating in a panic response. Any notion of denial concerning a possible unhealthy relationship between his sibling and father quite immediately vanished. Mycroft found himself sick to his stomach with guilt and a sort of vague horror. This... this was very bad. How had he missed the signs? Oh lord, he'd been too busy with *work...* "Sherlock," he cut in quietly. The boy was pressing his fingertips together hard enough to turn the skin white, holding them up to his lips as he blinked rapidly at the ground. He was still breathing *far* too quickly. Mycroft frowned as his brother seemed to take absolutely no notice of him. "*Sherlock*, look at me," Mycroft tried again, more insistently. Sherlock blinked up at him, eyes suspiciously wet. "You *can't* tell Father," he choked out. "What will Father do if I tell him?" Mycroft hedged. Sherlock shook his head violently and backed up a few steps to press his back against the decorative boulder he'd been sitting on earlier. His hands left his lips to tangle in his hair instead as he sank down and curled up into a ball. Mycroft swallowed reflexively, trying to come up with something appropriate to say. There was nothing. He simply wasn't *meant* for this kind of... *ergh.* He resolved to simply drop the topic as quickly as possible, finding he'd actually much rather not know the specifics - though they were easy enough to guess anyway. All that really mattered was that his brother was... ugh, no he hated to even *think* of the word... more important was figuring out what he could *do* about it. "Calm down. I won't go to Father," he assured the near-panicking teenager in front of him. Sherlock blinked and flicked his gaze up to stare in disbelief, then wariness. He knew there would be a modifier to that statement - they could read each other *far* too well by now. "... *If* you agree to quit," Mycroft dutifully added, doing his best to keep his voice authoritative and free of the wavering tide of guilt creeping through his chest. Stern, aim toward stern. (Ah but no wait, not *too* stern, because... well he's going to know you know in about half a second *anyway*, though that's still no reason to... *bloody emotions!)* As expected, Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That's it...? That's all you're going to do, make me quit?" "You'll also..." Mycroft started, but had to break off to clear his throat. He gave himself a fraction of a second to regain his composure, then continued. "You'll also be moving to London with me. So I can, er... monitor your progress more easily." They stared at each other for a tense moment. The lie was palpable. Sherlock looked like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He finally settled on neither. "I wasn't aware your office had a spare bedroom," the teenager muttered in a voice which fell rather drastically short of the intended tone of withering sarcasm. Mycroft let his expression settle into one of bland exasperation, though inwardly he was beyond relieved. Back to their usual sniping, no sign of an encroaching emotional discussion or ugh... *confessions*. No, just sarcasm. He could deal with this. "Hilarious," he replied drolly, forcing the relief out of his features. "We will remain at the manor until Christmas, after which I'll arrange to have your things moved to my flat in the city. You'll live there for the remainder of the holidays, and every school break thereafter." "What if I don't want to live at your stupid flat?" Sherlock grumbled, trying very hard to sound annoyed. More than a bit pointless, since Mycroft could see straight through the disinterested facade to the hesitant gratitude hidden beneath. He played along regardless. "I believe I've already put forth the alternative." Sherlock wrinkled his nose to cover a frightened wince. "Suppose I haven't much choice, then." He began picking idly at one of the buttons on the sleeve of his shirt, head ducking down to hide his face. Mycroft could nonetheless read the tiny smile by the way his ears and hairline shifted. "Not much, no," Mycroft quipped. He bent down to retrieve the packet of cigarettes and lighter, then held them in his palm for a moment in deliberation. After a short pause he turned and tossed them into the duck pond with a light underhand throw. Sherlock looked up at the sound of a splash and frowned at the cardboard packet bobbing lazily on the pond's surface. "That was a bit dramatic." The boy shifted his eyes - dry once more, thank goodness - up to his brother. "Weren't you going to return those to the cook?" "I'll reimburse him," Mycroft responded. He gestured for the teenager to get up and follow him and was pleased when Sherlock actually deigned to obey him for once. "You'd have just pickpocketed them if I'd kept the packet on my person." Sherlock smirked, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets. "Maybe." A short silence stretched between them as they walked back toward the house. As they came to the side entrance Sherlock stopped. Mycroft turned and found the boy staring off into the darkened grounds. "Thank you, Myc," he spoke quietly. Mycroft hesitated, his hand on the door handle. There were a million things he could say, a million things he *wanted* to say, but he didn't know how. Didn't know what words would be appropriate, what his brother would accept or what might push the boy further away. Of all the men and women he'd ever manipulated, predicted and controlled... Sherlock remained an enigma, forever leaving him at a complete loss. After a short deliberation Mycroft reached up and put a hand on his brother's shoulder to steer him indoors. "Don't thank me yet, you've still got nicotine withdrawal to look forward to," he said flatly, dispelling the moment of candidness with sarcasm. It was simply the only safe course - they were too used to sniping at each other, exchanging veiled insults and witticisms to mask their true feelings. Any deviation from the norm would just leave them both embarrassed and uncomfortable. Sherlock glanced over at him. A flash of something like disappointment seemed to cross his young face before he huffed and rolled his eyes. "What fun," he responded in a bland voice. Then, sardonically, "By the way, did you know you're getting fat again?" Mycroft glanced down at his own midsection (maybe a little rounder than usual, but not *that* much more) and frowned. Admittedly he *had* been neglecting his diet of late, but it was hardly fair to expect him to find the time to count calories between government work, sowing influential networks of business contacts and making sure his brother retained some semblance of sanity throughout the emotional landslide of puberty. He looked back up to find Sherlock smirking at him. "Oh, shut up," he snapped, self-consciously adjusting his suit jacket. "You're a *beanpole*, it's hardly a fair comparison." Sherlock just shrugged and turned to head toward his room. "Whatever you say, Whale Boy." Mycroft rolled his eyes. Just what he needed, a new nickname. "Good *night*, Sherlock." "Night, Mycroft." His brother flipped him a sarcastic salute, and walked off down the hallway. **««** Mycroft was twenty-six years old when his brother overdosed. It was going on seven in the evening when he got the call informing him that Sherlock had been admitted to the hospital. Within minutes of receiving the report he was on his way to Oxford from his flat in London, not bothering to so much as set up a security crew or proximity monitoring around the institution in his haste. His PA would take care of it, he'd thought, surely. Forgetting, of course, that she was out on holiday this week. By the time he arrived at the hospital he'd realised his oversight, but by that time it was too late to do much of anything about it. Well, no matter, it would be permissible this once. No threats to his safety had been identified anywhere in the area for a good fortnight, and the trip was short notice enough to thwart any would-be assassins. It was all fine. When he arrived Sherlock was already stabilised, lying motionless in the stark white of a hospital bed with cooling packs draped over his chest. Mycroft didn't have his usual clout here, nobody so much as batted an eye when he listed his position or clearance level, and he was forced to wait patiently by his baby brother's bedside while the hospital lab ran toxicology analysis. It was the first time he'd seen Sherlock in months, and the change in the teenager's appearance was startling. The boy had never exactly been what one might call *robust* - his metabolism appeared to run at approximately the same rate as a meadow vole's, and he'd always been absurdly sensitive to the taste or texture of certain foods which cut down on what he was willing to eat - but now... god, Mycroft could practically see his brother's *skull.* Cheekbones protruded more sharply than ever, and there were dark circles under the young man's eyes giving the impression he hadn't slept in days, which along with the translucent, paper-white skin made him look like nothing so much as a wasted corpse. It was horrifying. How had he *missed* this? Such a stark change, he should have *seen...* But lord, no, it did make sense. He simply hadn't been watching. Work had been too hectic lately, and Sherlock had seemed to be adjusting well enough to university life to be allowed some measure of independence... *some* measure. Much as Sherlock protested the invasion of his privacy, a degree of monitoring was unavoidable. Mycroft had simply become too powerful of late, there were all manner of organisations who were quite willing and able to abduct a teenager from the relatively unprotected campus of Oxford. And of every possible weakness Mycroft had scrupulously cut out of his life over the course of his climb through the ranks of MI5, Sherlock was the one point of leverage he could never erase. If someone captured his brother, Mycroft would fold. There was no question, he would do whatever they asked without hesitation. A single assigned agent and surveillance equipment felt like far too little protection for such a potentially devastating bargaining chip. But Sherlock had practically begged him to mitigate the 'spying' (as he termed it) and so Mycroft had relented to the bare minimum. And the insufferable teenager had, predictably, managed to undermine the entire setup. Mycroft stared dumbly at the toxicology report which had just been thrust into his hands by a rather tall, obviously overworked attending physician. "Two and a *bloody half,"* the man was saying angrily, Australian accent thick with some kind of incredulous outrage. He'd been on shift for over fifteen hours now, and had been just about to head home when this newest emergency arrived to keep him late. His blond hair stuck up at odd angles suggesting he'd just been woken up from a short kip on a sofa in the doctor's lounge, and the faint smell of tobacco overlying the aroma of stale coffee betrayed the fact that the man was only coherent thanks to a liberal dose of caffeine and nicotine. Mycroft deduced all this habitually, though his attention remained fixed on the sheet in front of him. "Two *and a half* milligrams per litre of *cocaine*, bloody christ." "I take it that's... rather a lot?" Mycroft asked, his voice coming out far more shellshocked than he'd been expecting. He just couldn't seem to wrap his head around this. Sherlock had been... but *how?* ... and *why?* The boy had been doing so *well*, he'd thought- "Rather a lo-? It's *bleeding ridiculous!"* the physician exclaimed, cutting into his thoughts. "You're damned lucky your son's even *breathing* right now, sir." Mycroft blinked, finally lifting his eyes from the computer printout. "Brother," he clarified vaguely. "He's my... younger brother." The doctor didn't even pause to look abashed, just flapped a hand dismissively. "Brother, then. Either way he's done a right number on himself. *Four* seizures that we know of, 'least two of which were down to hyperthermia - controlled for now, thankfully, but we're keeping the room cooled for at least the next few hours in case the antipyretics don't take - and he's more or less *emaciated*. Got no body fat to speak of. Which is of course more than likely what triggered the repeat episodes. Drugs kicked off the first seizure, malnutrition took over and kept the whole bleedin' cycle locked in. You're looking at a good few months before he's anywhere *near* a healthy weight again, and that's only if you can manage to keep enough of an eye on him to avoid a relapse." "A... relapse?" Mycroft muttered, feeling slightly overwhelmed - a distinctly foreign sensation within his hyper-competent mind. But good god, what was he supposed to *do* in this situation? His baby brother had nearly *died*. It wasn't a circumstance he'd been mentally prepared to deal with. The physician shot him a flat look. "Yeah, a relapse. Your son- *brother*, sorry- is a cocaine addict. Has been for a fair few months at least, to have built up enough tolerance to manage this." "That's not possible," Mycroft asserted. "I've been-" he cut himself off before he could say something ridiculous like 'spying on him', and cleared his throat instead. "... I would have noticed." "Well it looks like you must've missed something, sir," the doctor told him, voice layered with weary exasperation as he strove to retain what was left of his dwindling sense of professionalism. "There's really no other explanation for this kind of blood concentration. By rights he should be dead." Mycroft shook his head slowly and lowered himself to sit in the chair by his brother's bedside, still staring at the report. The physician breathed a short sigh and scrubbed a hand through his cropped blonde hair. "Look, mate- *sir,* that is. He'll be out for another hour at least. When he wakes up he's gonna be sore as anything - every muscle in his body's been overworked to hell and back. And he's gonna be crashing. That means exhausted, moody, probably pissed right the hell off, *massive* headache. We've got meds on standby to calm him down if he gets too worked up, but I'd just as soon let him get clear of the cocaine before we start pumping him full of benzos. Just try to be understanding, right?" "... Right," Mycroft echoed distantly. "I... right, yes. Alright." That proved to be more difficult than he'd imagined. He *tried*, really he did, but the boy's flippant attitude set a spark of fury alight that proved impossible to keep in check. Mycroft had snapped at his brother, fallen back on his usual cold facade to deal with the confusing, conflicting emotions of rage and worry and guilt. He shouldn't have, he knew that now. Sherlock completely shut down in response to verbal or physical reprimand, he always had. It was an instinctual, defensive response, drilled into the boy since childhood; one that should never have had cause to even *exist* if Mycroft had only been a little more observant. The knowledge of his continual failure to accomplish a task so simple as protecting his younger sibling only made him more frustrated, more prone to sharp sniping jabs picking at topics he *knew* shouldn't be touched upon. But then... something rather unexpected happened. As the doctor had predicted, Sherlock was *extremely* moody - moreso than ever, really, and apparently *far* past the point of caring to maintain the implicit buffer of sarcastic apathy they'd always relied upon to keep their emotions walled off from one another. His face when he'd been *screaming*... shouting, ranting pouring out all the things he'd been keeping tamped down under the usual mask of aloof, frivolous nonsense. For the second time in as many hours Mycroft had found himself speechless. The phrases his brother had willingly used to describe himself... *'stupid freak', 'fucking useless'.* Not to mention the decision he'd been forced to make - to conclude that the only option, the *only way* to cope with his situation was to *change himself...* using *drugs*. The notion was so outlandishly horrifying as to seem absurd. Who would ever want to change their *brain?* Mycroft had grown up under a shower of constant praise for the way his mind worked. Told he was a genius over and over, striving to live up to new expectations he continually set for himself with each new accomplishment. But Sherlock... lord, Mycroft had never given it much thought before now, but Sherlock had experienced almost exactly the opposite. Still a genius, yes, but an *eccentric* one. Not an object of envy or respect as Mycroft had always been but instead one of sordid curiosity - everyone lining up to gawk at the strange, erratic oddball with more smarts than sense. And the more Mycroft attempted to understand his brother the more he began to realise how badly he'd failed the boy by never taking the time to assess the state of the world through his eyes. The chaotic flipping of moods which had always seemed so silly, had struck Mycroft as perhaps a touch annoying but never anything to worry about... what must it be like to *live* with that? To never know what emotion would steal over your thoughts next; to find yourself suddenly angry, scared, elated or miserable with no obvious cause, no way to predict your own behaviour or to prevent your actions? And the way his brother seemed incapable of ignoring certain stimuli: the rattling of window blinds or the consistency of foods, how he utterly *hated* the feeling of soap on his skin or the smell of toothpaste... he wasn't simply being petulant, throwing a fit for the sake of being irritating - he *literally couldn't stand those things.* A deep sense of guilt began to take root in Mycroft's chest. When one looked at it that way, practically Sherlock's *entire existence* had been a constant barrage of fear and uncertainty, unable to trust anyone or anything, not even *himself.*.. and no one had ever taken so much as a second to notice. No *wonder* he'd become addicted, cocaine had probably given him the first sense of security and control he'd ever known. In light of these revelations, the sight of his baby brother's face marred by twin streams of sluggishly-flowing blood from his nose had set Mycroft's stomach turning. He'd never been too overly fond of blood in the first place - disgusting, potentially disease-ridden and prone to forming abhorrent lumps of clotted *mess*, it should stay firmly inside the body where it belonged. But he'd always been able to repress the urge to be sick on the rare occasion he found himself confronted with the substance. Not tonight, however. His emotional state was too frazzled, too worried about the lack of military protection and his failure to help his sibling and... and lord, just *everything.* And now his brother was *bleeding* and he very suddenly needed to be out of the room. Sherlock was derisive, of course he was, but Mycroft really didn't care. He left on some flimsy pretence of locating a physician and quickly exited into the hallway. Once outside he took a brief moment to compose himself, then dutifully tracked down the on-duty nurse. She seemed a little nonplussed, which he supposed was understandable considering the only complaint he'd come to her with was a cocaine addict *(a cocaine addict who was also his* little brother*, for god's sake, and honestly how had this even happened)* with a benign nosebleed. Not exactly a massive emergency, but something in his demeanour must have betrayed his general state of distress because she wasted only a few scant minutes replacing the contents of the file she'd been working on before rising to follow him back to his brother's room. Which... was empty. Mycroft very nearly swore, but held his composure for the sake of the nurse, who'd immediately gone into crisis-mode and rushed to contact security via the room's private phone line. Well, that would never do. The thought of Sherlock, nosebleed and all, being taken into custody by a squadron of uniformed officers was nothing short of obscene. It would drive him into a full-on panicked breakdown. After all the teenager was already in the midst of withdrawal, emotionally distraught, crashing off an enormous amount of... oh. Oh lord. *Sherlock was crashing*. Of course. Mycroft took a millisecond to solidify the plan already in place in his mind, then retrieved his mobile from the lapel pocket of his suit jacket. "Agent Pierce?" he asked when the call connected. After a short confirmation, he continued. "Are you equipped with sedative rounds? Excellent. My brother will be arriving to his residence hall within the next quarter to half an hour. Before he gets there you are to enter his room, locate an unlabeled beaker or phial containing a cloudy white mixture - *yes*, Pierce, it's cocaine. I'm well aware. Break the seal on a single cartridge and add a few millilitres from the canister into the solution. Yes, thank you. I'll be in touch shortly." He hung up his phone and tucked it back in his pocket, then bit out a short sigh. This was *not* how he'd wanted to go about doing things, but his brother had really left him no other choice. At the very least rendering the boy unconscious should go some way toward mitigating the initial unpleasantness of withdrawal. Following that, well... He turned to the nurse, who'd been hovering for the duration of his conversation with his employee and had now fixed him with a look of faint horror. Evidently ordering a government agent to arrange for one's sibling to inadvertently tranquillise themselves was one of those things ordinary people found distasteful. Mycroft filed this fact away for future reference, then set his mind to more pressing matters. With practised ease he allowed his expression to shift into a polite smile, tucking his hands casually behind his back. "Terribly sorry for the bother, but would you happen to have a list of local rehabilitation clinics on hand?" **««** Mycroft was twenty-seven years old when he decided to destroy his father. Well, that sounded dramatic. The simple truth was that Siger Holmes was a psychopathic, criminally-inclined, ruthless and potentially devastating enemy to the British monarchy, and it was Mycroft's responsibility to see such a threat neutralised. The fact that said threat happened to share half of his genetic code was irrelevant. As was the fact that Siger had, over the last twenty years, systematically dismantled his youngest son's sense self-esteem to the point of driving the child to chemical dependency, and had then saw fit to further traumatise said boy straight into a possibly-fatal relapse. No, Mycroft's decision had nothing to do with any of those things. He was simply removing the ringleader of one of the largest political extortion rings in world history. That was all. Mycroft sighed slightly to himself as he regarded the young man across the table from him. A mousey sort of fellow, not in looks but demeanour. He was huddled over himself nervously and seemed to feel a need to adjust his glasses every ninety seconds, regardless of whether or not they'd shifted in that time. "And you're certain you can provide documentation for these transactions?" he asked the informant dubiously. The dark-haired man nodded; a jerky, twitching sort of motion. "H-he asked me to design a letterhead, logos... it was a fake airline, I'm sure of it. And then the... the payment came from the Holmes estate, it says so on the bank statement, see?" He reached out and pointed to a line on the paper between them, then like clockwork drew back to adjust his glasses again. Mycroft regarded the document in front of him sceptically. It clearly showed a payment of several hundred pounds having been wired to one Conrad Achenleck on the fourteenth of October, a date which coincidentally fell less than one month prior to a staged aircraft disaster in one of the smaller African countries. The details matched up quite well, but Mycroft was having a difficult time believing his father would be stupid enough to wire funds from his private account for a job which would so obviously lead back to him. Some sort of trap? Was the young graphic designer a spy, a plant meant to lure Mycroft into a false sense of security while Father orchestrated a counterattack? He flicked his eyes up to stare at the antsy young man in front of him, looking for signs of subterfuge... there was nothing. The fellow was quite obviously nothing more than a simple artist who'd found himself caught up in something much bigger than he'd anticipated. Still, one could never be too careful. As evidenced by their meeting in the middle of the night, in a wing of the building not generally open to the public, with every security device in the room disabled. Mycroft was taking no chances with this. After another moment staring (during which Mr. Achenleck grew ever more anxious and obviously disturbed) Mycroft allowed himself to relax, leant back into his chair and steepled his fingers. The pose was slightly melodramatic, but then he'd never denied sharing *some* characteristics with his brother. "Thank you for calling this to my attention, Mr. Achenleck," he intoned smoothly. The graphic designer gave him an odd, befuddled look - most likely because he hadn't, in fact, called the transaction to *anyone's* attention. Mycroft's field agents had traced the letterhead to his work through a complicated paper trail of font matching and vector analysis. Still, no need to let the other party know that. "Rest assured your assistance has proved invaluable. You will be comp-" His words cut off as his mobile vibrated in the lapel of his suit coat. First instinct was to ignore it - he was in a meeting with an informant, after all - but a microsecond later he'd already pulled it out to check. This was his private line, texts usually indicated that an issue of critical importance required his attention. Their over-anxious guest would just have to wait. The text was from his assistant. *'S.H. SIGNAL ID 0124HRS SW LDN'* He blinked once, not sure if he was reading the message correctly. An identification? Now? It couldn't be... but a second later he'd pressed his third speed dial, held the mobile up to his ear and waited as the ring tone picked up. Attempting to call was a long shot, but... "Er... are we... done, then?" The young man across the table asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Mycroft ignored him. He had more important things to focus on - like for example the fact that the line had connected. "What do you want?" his baby brother's voice grumbled. Mycroft very nearly smiled in relief. He hadn't had a single confirmed report of Sherlock's whereabouts in well over five days now - had almost given up hope of ever seeing the boy again. "Hello to you as well, Sherlock," he greeted in as bland a tone as he could muster, careful to mask any possible emotional undertones. "Evidently I can take the city morgues off notice," he added drolly. Sarcasm was good, sarcasm was safe. And he *needed* to keep things safe, because he absolutely did *not* want his brother to hang up on him. Not before he determined the boy's state of health. On orders from his assistant, one of his employees entered the room to deal with their informant while Mycroft stood and walked toward a spare office. Sherlock's voice was slightly distorted, miscellaneous background noise of London at one in the morning filtering loudly through the connection. Speakerphone, then. Why? Was he unable to hold the phone, or-? His question was answered as soon as his assistant appeared with the report from the automatic phone tap on the boy's mobile, which Mycroft dutifully cited to his sibling. The quiet *'seriously fucked up'* muttered in a cockney accent which followed, the sound of rustling clothing, someone being shoved... his brother was *with* someone. And evidently he trusted the individual enough to allow them to listen in on their conversation. Sherlock's claim of having found a friend seemed... dubious. The boy had never gotten along with *anyone*, as far as Mycroft could tell. Was he being taken advantage of? An enterprising theif gaining a rich boy's trust to make off with his bank card? "Fuck you," was all his brother had to say to such concerns. Mycroft fought the urge to sigh as he heard the boy's clothing shift. He was more than likely making a rude gesture toward the phone, perhaps thinking Mycroft had somehow magically gained the ability to tap into camera devices within the space of a few minutes. He responded as if he had, because he was not in the habit of admitting his shortcomings, and heard Sherlock cover the camera with his hand. Paranoid, or honestly not aware of the limitations on Mycroft's phone-tracing abilities? Perhaps a little of both, he decided. Still though, his little brother *sounded* well enough. And this cockney companion of his didn't seem to be taking any action which would indicate corrupt motives. Against all odds, Sherlock was fine. More or less. And... apparently didn't want to be abducted again. Mycroft absently retrieved a pen from the desk in front of him and tapped it against the wooden tabletop as his brother snapped at him. Alright, fair enough, he *had* been behaving a bit like a... well, like a 'lunatic' as Sherlock would no doubt put it. Leaving his brother out on the streets, high on cocaine and hanging about with god-knew-what types of people was by no means a palatable course of action, but lacking a decent alternative (Sherlock would only run if confronted again, that much was obvious, and Mycroft had little desire to put the boy through that kind of scenario a second time) he supposed he would have to settle for simply knowing his location. He gestured for his PA to locate the cab (she already had, as it turned out - extraordinary woman) and had her pay the fare in advance while he exchanged a series of somewhat-less-than-pleasant jabs with his younger sibling. By the time Sherlock hung up in a huff Mycroft was convinced his brother would be alright on his own for awhile. Long enough to take care of a few more pressing issues, in any case. "Have we got a full trace on Father's transaction history yet?" he asked his assistant as he lowered his mobile. She tapped a few buttons on her PDA while he stared thoughtfully at the device in his hand. "Not yet, sir," she replied. "Did you want me to arrange priority A&E for your brother?" "Please." After a short pause, silent but for the clicking of his PA's palm pilot, he added, "And his friend as well, if you would." The girl didn't even look up. Just nodded once, then turned to leave the room in search of a stronger signal. Mycroft was left alone in the office. He breathed a short sigh. Well, the night hadn't been a *total* waste. No closer to bringing his father to justice, but at the very least he now knew his brother was alive. Not *safe*, perhaps, but breathing, lucid, and capable of defending himself. That would have to be reassurance enough for the time being. Mycroft flipped the cover of his mobile down and regarded the lid display wearily. Half past one in the morning. He really should head home and try to get some sleep. Before he could so much as rise from his chair, however, his phone began buzzing. He glanced down from where he'd been about to tuck it back into his lapel pocket... and froze. His features smoothed blank as he slowly flipped the phone back open. "Mycroft, child, how lovely to hear from you," a deep, emotionless voice droned on the other side of the line. Mycroft leant back in his chair. Apparently the night wasn't quite over yet. "Hello, Father." **««** ## Chapter 6: From Eating Candy **««** **6. From Eating Candy** "Cortana is a *harlot.*" "Ah shaddap yer just bitchin' cause y'blew yerself up again." Sherlock scowled at the television screen as he navigated his over-armoured space marine through some alien-infested space ship for what felt like the millionth time. He was leaning against Eric's right side, feet propped up on the back of the shitty skip couch while the other man tried to walk him through completing the story missions on his pathetic excuse for a hobby activity. It wasn't going well. "Bloody *grunts!"* On the screen Master Chief had yet again managed to find himself overrun by three-foot-tall blue monsters. Eric huffed an annoyed sigh. "I ain't never gonna see th'end a this bleedin' game am I?" "I don't see why you care what happens to some prissy computer programme and her meathead lackey anyway," Sherlock snapped as he frantically swapped through guns looking for one that wasn't out of ammo. "Oh fer fuck's *sake* don't use th'needler!" Eric cried, then threw his head back in exasperation as Sherlock's sub-par weapon completely failed to save him from the horde of pygmy aliens. Sherlock glared venomously at the telly as the corpse of his character flew into a wall and collapsed, having taken a plasma bolt to the face. "Right, sod this," he exclaimed after half a second, dropping the controller before his avatar could pop back to life at the beginning of the section. He was *not* in the mood to go traipsing about that bloody spaceship again. Eric raised his head and pouted slightly as Sherlock extricated himself from the strange leaning/hugging arrangement they'd ended up sprawled in and stalked off toward the kitchen to check on the progress of his purification setup. "Y'checked that shit like ten minutes ago!" Eric called after him grumpily. "Git back here! I wanna see what bleedin' 'appens with th'Flood!" "Here's a guess: they all die!" Sherlock quipped back sarcastically. "Because it's a game about *shooting things until they die!*" "Not fer you it ain't!" Eric griped. "Fer you it's a game 'bout blowin' yer dumb arse up with plasma grenades!" Sherlock huffed. The fact that he *continued* to be terrible at Halo despite having spent the better part of the day playing it (at Eric's behest, since the other man couldn't exactly manage an Xbox controller with his arm in a cast) was becoming a point of serious irritation. It didn't help that he'd actually become slightly (*very* slightly - and mostly out of abject boredom) interested in the storyline, meaning his utter failure to avoid being slaughtered by Covenant forces was doubly frustrating as it impeded any possible progress through the narrative. He resolved to ignore Eric's annoyed grumbling from the other room for now, and instead grabbed up a glass stir rod from his small collection of nicked chemistry supplies and carefully stirred the large beaker of cocaine and acetone mixture on the counter. Drawing a small amount of liquid up the side of the beaker he sighed irritably as a trail of fresh crystals formed. This bloody setup was taking *ages* to finish reacting. Ordinarily this would be an excellent time to start another set of cocaine through the process, but his stock of powder was being severely limited until such time as he could prove his method was functional. That meant hours of wasted productivity waiting for the initial test run to complete. "That shit done yet?" a voice asked from the back entrance to the kitchen. Sherlock straightened up and turned to regard Charles stepping indoors. The older man's cheeks were flushed from the cold but he wore a short-sleeved shirt - most likely he'd been out climbing. "Another half hour or so, then it needs to be filtered a second time and dried." "It were another 'alf hour *last* bleedin' time y'checked it!" Eric's voice cut in from the sitting room. Apparently he didn't feel like getting up from the couch - rather understandable as he was still doped up on a combination of oxycodone and a probably-unhealthy amount of marijuana. "Quit fuckin' wit' it and maybe it'll get done faster!" "Oh shut up!" Sherlock snapped. Charles rolled his eyes. "You two are goddamned adorable," he said blandly. Sherlock resisted the urge to flip him off (though the acid glare he shot the other man's direction probably got the message across regardless) and walked back into the sitting room somewhat reluctantly. He didn't want to go through another round of get-shot-by-aliens-like-a-bloody-idiot, but there really wasn't much else to do. Charley trailed into the sitting room after him, shooting an unimpressed glance at the television before moving to sit on the ledge of the bay window. Sherlock attempted to take up a more dignified pose on the sofa than he'd been sprawled in previously but ended up being tugged sideways by Eric again. After a brief struggle (which Eric won, having the benefit of a functioning hunger response and thus far greater muscle mass than Sherlock's half-starved frame could manage) he gave in with a short grumble and resumed sitting with his legs propped on the back of the couch and his back to Eric's chest. "So did y'find anovver guitarist?" Eric asked Charley as Sherlock unenthusiastically picked up the Xbox controller again and resumed his doomed trek through a Covenant spaceship. Charley bit out an angry sigh. "Nah. Justin's got himself another group, and Whitley ODed last month. Stupid bastard." Eric winced. "Ouch. Dead or in rehab?" "Ugh, *dead* of course." Charley threw up his hands in exasperation and leant back against the windowpanes. "I don't know who the *fuck* would be stupid enough to inject shit right into their arm like that. I mean seriously how moronic do you have to be, right?" Sherlock cleared his throat loudly as he felt Eric's chest quiver in a badly-suppressed laugh behind him. Charley shot them a confused look. "What?" he asked blankly, then a second later seemed to catch on as his face shifted into vaguely-offended disbelief. "Oh *bullshit*. Nobody shoots up cocaine, that'd be retarded." Sherlock glared at the television as he narrowly avoided being blown to bits by a grenade-flinging grunt. "For a narcotics distributor you display a *breathtaking* lack of knowledge about your product." Eric was snickering slightly in an attempt to avoid bursting into laughter, so Sherlock elbowed him in the stomach. Charley scoffed. "Hey, I'm just in it for the money. I don't give a shit what you dumbarse junkies do to your bodies." After a pause he leant forward slightly and added, "... Wait, *seriously?* IV coke?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and hit the button to pause the video game. He set the controller down, pushed back the left sleeve of his sweatshirt and held his forearm up toward the other man with an annoyed glare. "Jesus!" Charley exclaimed, looking somewhat horrified by the collection of track marks. "How the hell can you do that to yourself?" Sherlock ignored him in favour of tugging his sleeve back down and returning to his ill-fated mission to rescue Captain Keyes. He felt Eric huff a light sigh behind him. "Snortin' coke fer too long gives ya really bad nosebleeds an' shit," he explained patiently. "Switchin' to needles means y'can keep usin' wivvout meltin' yer face off." Charley made a disbelieving noise. "Why not just stop using it?" Both Eric and Sherlock shot him withering glares. Charley held his hands up in surrender and leant back against the windowpanes again with a not-quite-apologetic shrug. "Hey, I'm just saying it's an *option*," he continued. "It's not like you're on anything *proper* addictive. It's just coke, not heroin or whatever." "Did you have an actual *reason* for being here or are you just attempting to insult as many individuals as possible before sundown?" Sherlock snapped acidly, turning back to his game. On-screen Master Chief had somehow managed to avoid any grievous bodily harm for going on five minutes now. He decided to focus on keeping that winning streak going rather than waste brainpower entertaining thoughts of stabbing Charley in the eye with a used needle. Charley sighed. "Yeah, yeah. I was gonna ask you guys if you know any other guitarists." Eric shrugged. "Got me, mate. Whitley was th'only bloke I knew." "Holmes...?" Charley pressed, sounding a little desperate. "I highly doubt anyone in the Oxford University Orchestra is available for irregular engagements with a nameless pub band," Sherlock responded blandly. "Right, well thanks for being *useless,*" Charley grumbled. He scrubbed a hand down his face tiredly. "*God* this is going to be a huge pain in the arse... half the pushers already paid for the next show." Suddenly Eric seemed to perk up. "Oi! Sherly! *You* can play guitar!" he exclaimed excitedly, nudging Sherlock's shoulder with his good arm. Sherlock scowled. "Absolutely not." "Wait, he can?" Charley asked, sitting straighter to glance between them. "Seriously?" "*No*," Sherlock snapped. "Yeah he's got like alla th'major chords down an' I think he were fuckin' around with th'minor ones earlier," Eric replied, completely ignoring his boyfriend's protests. "I could teach 'im the progressions real easy." "Christ, that'd be a lifesaver." Charley glanced at Sherlock, who was glowering viciously at the television as he shot down yet another squadron of Covenant forces. "Holmes, seriously if you could-" "I am a *concert violinist*," Sherlock growled. "I am not going to perform your idiotic music to entertain a pub full of pathetic shiftless twats." "*Sherly*, c'mon," Eric whinged. "Don't be a prat." "I'll stop being a *prat* when you all stop being idiotic," Sherlock snapped. "I was principal second in the London Youth Symphony at age thirteen and *concertmaster* at fourteen. And you want me to get up and produce a series of banal chord progressions in time to an off-tempo drumline. No. You're both morons." "Just cause yer good at violin don' mean ya can't help Chuck out," Eric pointed out irritably. "Yer just bein' a prick cause y'don't like him." Sherlock bared his teeth angrily at the screen as another bunch of aliens fell victim to his assault rifle. "I'm *being a prick* because you're asking me to *degrade myself* for the sake of a bunch of-" "Fucking *hell* never mind!" Charley burst out, throwing his hands up. "I'll find someone else, jesus!" "Chuck..." Eric started, but the older man had already gotten up in a huff and headed off toward the stairs. Eric glared down at Sherlock. "I fuckin' hated playin' in th'stupid band an' I still did it, so what's *yer* fuckin' problem?" Sherlock frowned at the screen. "It's degrading, unpleasant, and a blatant manipulation of impressionable youth. I want no part in it." "Like *you* care 'bout impressionable youths," Eric accused irritably. "Y'said y'were a bleedin' *sociopath*, 'member?" "And *you* didn't believe me," Sherlock snapped. "Choose a position and stick with it." Abruptly Eric snorted with amusement, making Sherlock blink in confusion. "What?" "*'Choose a position,'*" Eric repeated with a slight snicker. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Shut up." **««** Purifying five kilograms of cocaine using a shoddy kitchen and secondhand lab equipment was proving to be slightly more time-consuming than he'd anticipated. Sherlock frowned irritably at a large plastic funnel (pilfered from an automotive repair shop nearby) full of ever-so-slowly filtering liquid. He was sitting on the kitchen table, watching absolutely *nothing* happen with anything. He'd come around to that step in the process where his little assembly line of reduce-dry-dissolve-filter-crystallise left him without anything to do. Finding a more interesting activity to occupy his time *(as in, anything besides continuing this or attempting to play Halo again)* was tempting, but he couldn't get up and leave because the freebase concoction might bubble over. And he couldn't take a break from reducing the cocaine to freebase unless he wanted the rest of the steps to get out of sync and leave this whole business taking twice as bloody long as it was already going to. He was sat cross-legged on the tabletop, scowling into his lap as he re-counted his money for the third time in ten minutes. Thirty pounds, sixteen pence. Not exactly a fortune. He'd been meaning to go back out to pickpocket tourists again, but over the last few days he'd somehow managed to find himself just as busy as he'd ever been at Oxford. First it was the purification setup - accumulating all his supplies and getting the whole business operating efficiently, finding ways to work around the fact that he was using a *bloody kitchen* as a laboratory and trying not to melt holes in the cheap plastic countertops. Then there were the arguments with Devin over how much powder constituted *'too fuckin much'* (Sherlock had eventually gotten his way and now had unrestricted access to the entire stock of cocaine, though with the express caveat that if any turned up missing he'd be in serious trouble.) And on top of it all Eric was down one arm and needed help with practically everything. Even finding enough time to keep his cocaine levels steady throughout the day was proving difficult. Speaking of which... he glanced at the old secondhand clock on the kitchen wall and calculated it had been nearly an hour and a half since his last hit. He'd be crashing soon. And this *stupid* freebase concoction was nowhere *near* finished cooking, so he couldn't leave. He huffed to himself and fished around in his hoodie pocket for a needle. During a break yesterday he'd taken the opportunity to properly mix up several syringes full of 7% solution, freeing him from the time-consuming task of mixing every individual shot. He was just shaking his head to clear it of the residual effects of the cocaine rush *(getting progressively less intense, his tolerance was rising again)* when he was startled by the sound of the doorbell. Not that he identified it as a doorbell at first - it was more of a tortured, half-screeching symphony of cracked tones. The fresh dose of cocaine kept his brain cushioned from the pain such a noise would usually provoke but he winced anyway out of habit. "Sherly! Git th'fuckin door," Eric groaned from the direction of the sitting room. Sherlock frowned and leaned back on the kitchen table so he could see through the doorway to where Eric was curled up miserably on the sofa watching a DVD. "But I've got to watch the-" Sherlock started. "*No*, fuck yer science horseshit. Go git th'door," Eric growled, cutting him off. "I ain't gettin' up wivvout bein' sick." Sherlock sighed and untangled himself from the lotus position he'd been seated in. He reluctantly lowered the heat on the freebase concoction - ugh it was going to take *forever* now - and stalked into the other room. A glance over the back of the sofa as he passed confirmed Eric was indeed half-asleep and almost definitely not capable of walking at the moment. That didn't make Sherlock any less annoyed about having to leave his chemistry setup unattended. The doorbell continued its intermittent ringing for the entirety of his trip to the front entryway, meaning that by the time Sherlock flung the door open he was scowling with a combination of frustration and a blossoming headache. *"What?"* he snapped. The boy on the other side took a small step back in surprise as he dropped his hand from the buzzer. "Er... hi," the young teenager said uncertainly. He was a small, scrawny lad with a head of close-cropped brownish hair, dark eyes in a pale, thin face. The smell of aerosol paint and stains on his fingers marked him as a vandal of some sort, while the short stature and awkwardly-proportioned body frame along with a swatch of a blue school blazer under his overcoat meant he was no older than his early teens. Sherlock fixed the boy with a flat stare. "No." "I... what?" The teenager was blinking up at him with a mixture of confusion and vague terror. "I said 'no'," Sherlock repeated irritably. "You're a fourteen to fifteen year old graffiti artist from one of the neighboring districts who recently dropped out of school to become a homeless vagabond due to troubles at home and issues with bullying and now you're scouring the area looking for a group to get in good graces with in an effort to obtain protection from street gangs. No. Go away." The boy's mouth dropped open. "Fuckin' christ Sherly I said *git th'door* not give 'em a speech," Eric's voice drifted in from the hall. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder to see his maybe-probably-boyfriend making his way woozily toward them. Eric stopped just behind Sherlock and threw his good arm over the taller man's shoulder to steady himself as he leant against his side for support. "Who're you with and whadda y'need?" he asked the boy in front of them in a tired monotone. The teenager looked between them for a second, evidently trying to judge what he should say, then finally shrugged. "Ain't with nobody, and I need somewhere to kip that ain't freezin." Eric sighed and let his head drop onto Sherlock's shoulder. "Sorry mate, this ain't no charity house. Yer gonna 'ave t'find sommere else." "I heard I could maybe get a job here," the teenager tried again, looking nervous. "I mean like, running drugs or something? You guys do that right?" "Yer like thirteen, kid," Eric mumbled. "He's fourteen," Sherlock corrected automatically. The boy flicked his eyes away from the man draped over Sherlock's shoulders to give him a disconcerted stare. "Fourteen, whatever," Eric replied. He lifted his head again and blinked blearily at the teenager. "Y'should jes go back t'school. This ain't no place fer tykes." Suddenly the boy glared. "I can't fuckin' go back to school, you shitheads!" "Why not?" Sherlock asked at the same time Eric said "bullshit." The teenager apparently chose to ignore Eric and focused on Sherlock instead. "I got kicked outta the place fer tagging. They said I was vandalisin' shit but fuck's sake they've got nothin' but grey walls far as the eye can see, I figured it could use some colour, yeah? And anyway they don't teach nothin' but borin' shit nobody needs to know. Who cares if the earth goes round the sun, right? I got better shit to learn about." Eric suddenly huffed an annoyed sigh and threw his good arm up as if to walk away, then seemed to think better of it and collapsed against Sherlock again. "Right, no, sorry kid. Yer gonna 'ave t'find sommere else." He turned his face and buried it against Sherlock's shoulder with a mumble of, "Sherly, git my arse back to th'sofa." "Why did you walk out here if you felt sick?" Sherlock asked irritably. He shot a bland look and a half-shrug to the boy still standing on the front steps, who flipped him off before turning to stalk out of the garden. "Cos y'were doin' that thing where y'talk a mile a minute about a buncha crazy bullshit an' I hadda make sure y'weren't about t'git punched in th'face by a dealer." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he closed the front door and wound an arm around Eric's torso to prop him up as they made their way back to the sitting room. "I am capable of defending myself, you know." Eric smirked slightly. "Yeah but mosta th'dealers ain't." "Fair point," Sherlock conceded, quirking a smile. They managed to get Eric re-settled on the sofa with a minimum of fuss. Before Sherlock could make his way back to the kitchen however Eric tugged him down by the drawstrings of his sweatshirt and kissed him. "Can't y'quit fuckin' about wivvat stuff fer a bit?" he wheedled, trying to drag Sherlock onto the couch with him. Sherlock failed to keep his balance against the insistent tugging on his hoodie and ended up sprawled half on top of the other man. "Eric for god's *sake-*" he grumbled into the fabric of Eric's t-shirt, trying to shove himself back into a standing position. "Y'been workin' fer like ten hours straight," Eric pointed out in a voice somewhere between annoyed and sulking. "Y'gotta take a break *sometime.*" "No, I really don't," Sherlock retorted. "The sooner I finish the sooner I can move on to more important things." "Like what?" "Getting more money, for one." He finally gave up trying to extricate himself from Eric's hold and let himself go limp with an irritated huff. Even one-armed and stoned the other boy had the advantage in strength - his frame was made up of far denser muscle mass than Sherlock's constant near-emaciated state could ever facilitate. Eric blinked. "I thought y'were rich or sommat." Sherlock turned his head sideways to fix Eric with a flat glare. "Ignoring the fact that I was *disowned*," he said irritably, "it would be *utterly suicidal* to attempt to withdraw the amount of cash I would need to purchase a steady supply of cocaine and cigarettes from my trust fund without access to the proper resources to fabricate purchase documents." "Er... wot?" Eric asked blankly. Sherlock bit out an irritated sigh and reminded himself that the other man was completely stoned. "Father keeps track of every single transaction made with the family fortune," he explained regardless. He was at that stage of cocaine buzz where he just felt like *talking* for some reason. And if Eric was going to insist on keeping him trapped here he'd just have to put up with it. "If my brother or I used our trust fund accounts to purchase anything Father didn't specifically approve we'd be punished." Sherlock suddenly frowned to himself. "... well, *I'd* be punished. Mycroft probably just got a lecture or something, stupid git." Eric's brows furrowed. "Punished how?" A deep bolt of something like primal fear burst through the otherwise pristine landscape of Sherlock's snowfield. He buried his face in Eric's shirt again before the other man could catch his half-panicked expression. "Doesn't matter," he asserted in as flat a tone as he could manage. "The point is *no* I'm not rich. And I've never *been* rich, not personally. My parents however are multi-millionaires, and I used to be exceedingly good at finding clever ways to nick money from them. I can't do so anymore without access to a bank account, and thus the entirety of my fortune at the moment totals thirty quid and some change. Which is not enough to buy both cocaine and cigarettes, and so I am as one would say 'screwed' unless I get out to the tourist districts within the next few days to pickpocket pedestrians." Eric made a disapproving noise and patted Sherlock on the back. "Well maybe Devin'll give ya a discount or sommat." "Right, because *that* seems likely," Sherlock responded sarcastically. Eric shrugged. "Y'never know." Sherlock huffed into the other man's shirt and shoved himself sideways, managing to slide out from under Eric's grip and land more or less gracefully on the hardwood. "I have freebase cocaine cooking," he explained in response to Eric's pout. "You should go back to sleep." Eric sighed and rolled over to face the back of the sofa, flapping his good hand in some sort of 'go on then' gesture. Sherlock obligingly meandered back into the kitchen. Barely an hour later he was immersed in the distinctly uninspiring task of chopping freebase crystals into powder. It was boring. *Extremely* boring. But unfortunately quite necessary - leaving the chemical clumped up in crystalline form would protect possible adulterants from reacting out of the solution. Knowing that didn't make him any less irritated by the task, however. Eric was sound asleep in the other room, though even if he weren't he wouldn't have been much help with only one good arm and a brain full of opioids. Sherlock looked up from the plate he was hunched over and stared in the direction of the sitting area anyway. Not that he was getting *lonely* or anything, but it would, he thought, be nice to have some sort of conversational partner. Maybe someone to ask what he was doing. Explaining how things worked always made them seem less dull, somehow. After a few seconds' staring he huffed to himself and set back to chopping. Barely a minute passed, however, before he was distracted again. Someone was outside. The razorblade in his hand froze in mid-air as Sherlock cocked his head to the side. Footsteps, the sound of... aerosol? Low muttering, a young man's voice. Sherlock put down his cutting implement and turned to regard the door to the house's small back garden. A half-second passed before he smirked to himself. *Brilliant.* **««** Rhys was having a shit day. First he'd bolted from home like a dumbarse. Didn't even stop to get a different jumper - no, he'd just tossed on his coat over his school shirt and ran off. Mum was being a bitch again as usual, and as much as he told himself he was used to her coming back all hours plastered to shit - that he didn't care how much she screamed at him and yelled and threw dishes - he still didn't like being alone with the woman. She'd been in a particularly foul mood today, so he'd figured what the *fucking hell*, right? Street life couldn't be any worse than having some drunk bitch on your case all the time. Of course he wasn't about to just go out and try to sleep rough in the middle of goddamned January. No, Rhys wasn't a moron, he knew how shit worked. And the first thing anyone did when they struck out on their own was find someone to watch their back. He'd been wandering around the city for the better part of six hours, asking around for any crews that might be hiring. And that was how he found himself standing in front of a shitty rundown drugs den in Stockwell. Nobody answered when he knocked, so he rang the doorbell. Probably a lot more times than he really needed to, but they were drug addicts, right? Not like they'd give a shit about manners. He was just getting ready to start hollering when the front door was wrenched open. "*What?"* Despite himself, Rhys balked. The man in the door was a good few years older than himself - and damn near three foot taller. Lean and willowy, with a short mess of tangled black curls and an impossibly thin, pale face. Rhys couldn't even tell what colour the man's eyes were supposed to be past the biggest damned pupils he'd ever seen in his life. As the frighteningly-tall drug addict fixed him with a steady, almost psychopathic glare Rhys began to think he might possibly have made a mistake. But *fuck,* it wasn't like he could go back now. "Er... hi." Things didn't go that great. The creepy addict had turned out to be some kind of genius or something, rattled off every detail of Rhys' life in half a bloody second. (Psychic, maybe? No, no that was retarded. Just... really smart. Probably.) Rhys tried not to dwell on the conversation as he stalked away and headed toward the back alleys of the district. He had a couple cans of paint on him. Nothing fancy, just some corner shop shit, but he figured he might as well do something with the last few hours of life he had left before he goddamn froze on the streets. He wasted about an hour or so tagging a rundown house with a rough sketch of some kind of dark archangel/demon thing. It only occurred to him when he was halfway through that he'd painted a pretty good approximation of the frightening junkie from the drugs den. Frowning to himself, he lengthened the dark hair a tad (keeping it curly, because fuck it, angels just looked weird without curly hair) and added a long, dramatic coat. There. Still pretty recognisably the junkie, but at least he could claim plausible coincidence now. Last thing he needed was the guy's stoner boyfriend coming after him thinking he had some kind of dumbarse crush on the guy. He added a few more highlights to the black-feathered wings and stepped back to regard his work. Pretty fuckin' awesome, if he did say so himself. Not like anyone would ever know it was his. He never signed his shit - who cared? He wasn't getting paid for any of it, and it wasn't like anyone could rip the fucking *bricks* off the wall and sell it as their own. He shrugged to himself, idly tossed his can of paint a few times, and tried to decide what he wanted to do next. As he stared at the gaunt face of the archangel he'd painted an idea started to form. Those fuckheads at the drugs house had shooed him off like a goddamn stray cat. Didn't even give him a chance to explain himself (well, the terrifying one nearly had, but then he'd gone and deferred to his boyfriend like a bloody ponce). Fuckers deserved some artwork, Rhys figured. And hey if one of them came out and stabbed him, that'd get him packed off in an ambulance and he'd get to spend the night somewhere warm. Win/win, right? With this in mind the young man made his way back to the dilapidated townhouse. It took less than a minute to scale the ramshackle back fence, and with a mischievous grin he located a likely-looking blank expanse of wall and set to work. He was just putting the finishing touches on his masterpiece (a rendition of the creepy junkie and the stoner guy as cute animals - he'd gone with a stupid-looking otter for the junkie and a fluffy bunny for the stoner) when a voice from the shadows by the townhouse's back door nearly gave him a heart attack. "I look nothing like an otter." "*Jesus fuckin' fuck!"* Rhys screeched, whipping around and taking a stumbling step backwards. He shakily brandished his paint can in the direction of the intruder. The lanky addict was leaning on the frame of the open back door, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket as he regarded Rhys with a flat, bemused stare. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips as he turned his over-dilated gaze back to the artwork on the wall. "I will concede that Eric bears some resemblance to a rabbit, however," the junkie continued languidly. Rhys said nothing. He was too busy backing slowly in the direction of the fence he'd jumped earlier. Despite his half-formed plan to get sent to A&E he found he *really* didn't want to press his luck with a bloke who seemed like he probably knew fifty different ways to kill you with a biro. The addict was watching him again, noting his growing proximity to the fence. "I wouldn't do that," he drawled. "I'm about to offer you a job." Rhys froze and regarded the man warily. He didn't *look* like he was taking the mick, but then again Rhys hadn't yet seen much more emotion on the guy's face than your average tombstone. He was like a fucking statue. A *really goddamned creepy* statue. After another few seconds' staring the junkie sighed. All at once the icy demeanour seemed to evaporate as he rolled his eyes and took the cigarette out of his mouth to flick the ash off. "Chopping up freebase is *boring*," he said, sounding almost... what, *whingeing**?* Rhys found himself distinctly wrong-footed. The man had gone from terrifying to fucking *childish* in about half a bloody second. "Assist me and I'll convince Eric to let you sleep here." "Y-you will?" Rhys slowly lowered his can of paint and stared at the older man - who was now frowning at him with obvious impatience. "Are you going to stand out here asking stupid questions or are you going to agree?" he snapped irritably. Then without another word he pushed off the doorframe and went back into the house. Seeing no other course of action, Rhys reluctantly followed. Inside was a kitchen which had seen *far* better days - the majority of which presumably had not been spent doubling as a laboratory. Rhys stared around at the intricate collection of beakers and funnels dominating the countertops and stove. "I'm purifying cocaine, it's *unbelievably* dull," the addict informed him as Rhys stepped into the house. "I'm sick of doing the dullest bits, so you'll be doing them instead." The man pointed offhandedly to a plate with a razor blade and a half-chopped-up lump of crystals and powder. Rhys shut the back door behind him and blinked at the little pile. "Is that crack?" he asked blankly. The junkie shot him a flat stare. "It's freebase. I *just* said I was purifying cocaine." He rolled his eyes, then turned around with a flip of his hand. "Nevermind, you're an idiot, it's to be expected. Chop up those crystals into as fine a powder as you can manage, and *don't* lose any." Rhys startled at the word 'idiot' and opened his mouth to retort, but the older man beat him to it. "Don't bother trying to defend your intelligence. You'll only make yourself look foolish." "Well aren't you a ray of fucking sunshine," Rhys grumbled to himself. "What are you then, like the world's smartest crackhead?" he added more loudly as he moved to sit at the kitchen table where the plate of freebase was. The man scoffed. "Crack is *disgusting*," he asserted. "I'm a cocaine addict. One who also happens to be a genius." He paused, tilting his head as if thinking. "Or perhaps a genius who happens to be a cocaine addict...?" After a few seconds he shrugged and went back to whatever he was doing with the beaker in his hand. "I suppose it doesn't matter." Rhys eyed the man curiously. He was carefully pouring some sort of chemical into a plastic filter funnel. The sleeves of his dark hoodie were rolled up, clearly showing several dozen track marks in various stages of healing, the bones of his wrists sharp in what looked like near-starvation. Rhys didn't know much about hard drugs - he and his mates had done pot a few times back at school, but none of them had ever had the money (or guts) to go for anything stronger. Looking at this poor bastard, he couldn't help but feel somewhat thankful for his lack of experience. A few minutes went by in relative silence. Rhys dutifully chopped up his plate of crystals as fine as he could, and the addict busied himself with whatever crazy chemistry shit he was doing. "So what am I supposed to call you?" Rhys spoke up finally. The junkie blinked over at him. "Hm?" Apparently he hadn't been listening. Rhys rolled his eyes. "A name. You know? I'm Rhys, by the way." "Oh." The cokehead regarded him for a moment, then turned back around with another shrug. "Call me whatever you like, I don't care." "Oh yeah?" Rhys grinned somewhat childishly. "What'd that other guy call you then...? Shirley, was it?" "I might point out that I made no guarantee that I wouldn't *injure you* in response to whatever title you choose," the man responded blandly. Rhys paled somewhat. "Er... right." Swallowing reflexively, he turned back to his task. Silence fell in the kitchen once more. **««** A few hours later, Sherlock was surveying the results of his efforts. Nearly four kilograms purified, the last kilo well on its way, and all within a day and a half of starting. Recruiting the tagger had been a brilliant idea, really. One of his better ones. He glanced over at the boy, who he'd dismissed for a meal break some twenty minutes ago. Rhys was apparently not too keen on wandering the house by himself (despite Sherlock's assurance that he and Eric were the only ones there - Charley had gone out to hunt down another guitarist and Ben was nowhere to be found) and was sitting at the kitchen table munching contentedly on a sandwich he'd cobbled together for himself. Sherlock, of course, hadn't eaten in... what, a day? He frowned slightly as he turned his gaze to the cupboards beside him. Not hungry in the slightest. Eh, he'd just smoke another cigarette. "You know you've smoked like nine fags in two hours, right?" Rhys spoke up suddenly. Sherlock glared at him over his hands as he flicked the spark on his lighter. "And...?" he mumbled irritably. Rhys shrugged. "I dunno. You're gonna get like fuckin' lung cancer or something." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I regularly inject *cocaine* into my bloodstream, I'm hardly about to concern myself with the state of my lungs." Rhys' reply was cut off by a loud stream of grumbling from the sitting room. They both looked up as Eric appeared in the entryway, looking tired but no longer quite as incredibly stoned as he'd been earlier. The man rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Please tell me y'didn' get chemicals in th'fuckin' orange juice," he mumbled in Sherlock's direction. "Not that I'm aware of," Sherlock replied. Eric made a half-dubious noise and made his way to the fridge. He opened the half-finished carton of juice, apparently deemed it safe, and took a swig before turning to regard the rest of the room. His eyes almost immediately settled on Rhys. "Sherlock," Eric said flatly. "Eric," Sherlock responded in a bland monotone. Eric sighed. "Why's th' kid in our kitchen?" "I'm doing all the boring shit he doesn't want to do," Rhys supplied. Sherlock shot him a slight glare. "He's my *lab assistant*." Eric glanced between them a few times, scrubbed a hand tiredly through his hair, and sighed. "Fukkit, I don' even care," he grumbled. "I'm almost finished, by the way," Sherlock informed the other man. "Oh aye?" Eric asked, yawning again. "Tha's good, s'pose." A few seconds' silence stretched between them, before Eric finally turned his head toward Rhys with a calculating look. "Oi, kid. You play Halo?" Rhys grinned. "Hell yeah." "Well thank *fuck* fer that," Eric exclaimed in a tired huff. "C'mon then, yer playin' through th' bleedin' story mode fer me." "Hey! He's *my* assistant!" Sherlock cut in. "Not anymore, I'm borrowin' 'im." And without waiting for a rebuttal Eric marched over, grabbed Rhys by the arm with his good hand and physically dragged the teenager off toward the sitting room. "That's not fair!" Sherlock groused after them, but to no avail. Eric had already abducted the boy. After a moment's sullen glaring he frowned to himself and turned back to his chemistry setup. Bugger all, now he'd have to chop crystals again. **««** A young couple stood together on the pavement, staring up at Tower Bridge with the typical awestruck expressions of a couple of tourists. "Haha, damn! Tacoma Narrows ain't *shit* compared to this!" the girl exclaimed in some utterly nondescript American accent, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet as she grinned up at the structure. Short brown hair teased into a semi-vertical mess through the liberal application of hair gel, multiple ear piercings, light application of eyeliner but no other cosmetics. Sherlock noted all this habitually as he allowed himself to drift closer to the two tourists. As expected, they completely failed to note his approach - too absorbed with the landmark in front of them. "It's bigger than I thought it would be," the male counterpart agreed, voice significantly less exuberant than his girlfriend's. He wore thin wireframe glasses and a dark green pullover. Definitely the more sensible of the pair. "Also stop swearing so much, we're in public." "Why the fuck does being in public mean I shouldn't swear?" the girl retorted. "You're making us look like loud, annoying tourists." Sherlock snorted slightly to himself, privately agreeing with the sentiment even as he sidled up nearer the girl. The pavement was decently crowded; people filing past in scattered groups while the two tourists stood oblivious near the railings at the side of the street. "So!?" the girl exclaimed. "Dude I'm in fucking *England!* Shit's exciting! I'll swear like a motherfucker if I goddamn want to." The boyfriend heaved a resigned sigh. Sherlock took the opportunity to take a step forward and purposefully bump into the girl from the side. At the moment of contact he slipped a hand into her half-open messenger bag, grabbing the first thing that felt like a wallet and tucking it up into the sleeve of his coat. "Oh! Terribly sorry!" he cried with a false air of surprise. The girl stumbled slightly into her partner. "Ow! Fuck's sake!" she snapped, whipping her head around to glare at him. "What the hell!?" "Sorry," Sherlock said again. He flashed an apologetic smile and tucked his hands into his pockets - safely depositing the nicked wallet as he did so. "It's cool, we're fine," the boyfriend assured. Sherlock nodded, stepped around them and continued down the pavement. "What a dick!" he heard the girl yell after him. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took a moment to ensure he'd walked far enough to avoid being chased down by the American couple should they realise their loss, then drew the thin leather billfold out of his coat pocket. Sixty pounds, along with around thirty American dollars and, somewhat bafflingly, an unscratched lottery ticket. Out of idle curiosity he dug a coin out from his jeans pocket and rubbed the foil from the surface of the thin paper card. Evidently he'd just won twenty dollars from the Washington state lottery. "Ey, Professor!" a voice exclaimed. Sherlock looked up from his inspection of the rest of the contents of the nicked wallet *(driver's licence for the state of Alaska, employee identification badge granting access to some sort of mining site, proof of medical insurance, membership card to a place called 'Costco' - the third of its kind he'd seen so far, leading him to deduce the establishment must be some manner of chain specialty shop)* and caught sight of Rhys jogging toward him. "You're still calling me that?" Sherlock asked blandly as he studied the girl's insurance card, mentally comparing it to those he'd pilfered from other Americans. The line marked 'copay' was lower than average - good coverage, then? It would obviously have to be, coming from a mining corporation... that *was* how it worked, wasn't it? Companies provided medical coverage for their employees? He made a mental note to research the structure of American health insurance when he returned to the house. The whole system appeared to be a tangled mess of fascinatingly backwards policies and regulations. Rhys gave no indication of having heard the older man's question, just launched into excited babbling. "I got like eighty quid off some fat Aussie fuck, lookit this dumbarse plastic money they got!" The boy produced a handful of Australian banknotes and shoved them in Sherlock's direction, grinning stupidly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've seen Australian currency before." Rhys was not put off by his lack of enthusiasm. "How much've you got then, Prof?" he asked as he shoved the wad of bills back into his pocket. Sherlock took a moment to mentally tally his earnings so far. "A few hundred pounds. Enough to be getting on with, I think. We should head back." Rhys pouted up at him. "We've only been out a few hours!" "Yes, and it's nearing noon. Eric will be wondering where we've got to," Sherlock replied offhandedly. As they turned to walk down the pavement together he discreetly dropped the American girl's wallet, making sure to leave it in a conspicuous enough area to be hopefully picked up by a passing pedestrian. The cash (and lottery ticket) he pocketed along with the rest of his pilfered currency. "You know, for bein' some creepy sociopath you're sure attached to your boyfriend," Rhys pointed out with a wry, mischievous grin. Sherlock set his jaw in an irritated expression. For all that the boy had proven himself useful Sherlock was still finding himself having to smother near-constant impulses to strangle the little moron. "I'd also like to replenish my dose of cocaine before I start crashing," he said in a bland monotone, disguising his annoyance with the teenager under an expertly-applied mask of cool indifference. Rhys scoffed. "I bet you don't even *need* that stuff." The boy bounced on his feet a bit as they walked, tucked his hands into his coat pockets in a mirror of Sherlock's posture and flashed him a smug look. "You just like the whole mystery of bein' addicted to sommat. Makes y'seem like more of a badass." Sherlock deadpanned. "Yes, Rhys, I maintain a constant near-life-threatening blood concentration of an illegal narcotic because I think it makes me *cool.* Excellent deductive skills." Rhys just shrugged. "Man I didn't say it had to be a conscious thing or nothin'. Maybe you just like the metaphor - walkin' death, whatever." "You are aware you're meant to be a shiftless teenaged runaway?" Sherlock snapped, shooting the boy a sidelong, vaguely annoyed look. "Psychophilosophical inquiry is just a *tad* above your station." "Hey, I might've been dealt a shit hand so far but that don't mean I'm retarded," Rhys retorted with an arrogant jut of his jaw. "I read that Nietzsche crap you know, god is dead and all." "Oh brilliant," Sherlock drawled. "An existentialist vandal, exactly what the world needs." "Better'n a nihilistic cokehead." Sherlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance but chose not to respond to the barb. Instead he concerned himself with scanning the crowds around them for possible MI5 agents. It had been ages since the telephone conversation with his brother and he had yet to see a single operative assigned to track him. The lack of spying was... well, not exactly *ominous*, but at the very least decidedly strange. It just wasn't *like* Mycroft to back down so easily. Without really meaning to Sherlock came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the pavement, pondering. What exactly had his brother gotten involved with? "Professor?" Rhys piped up. Sherlock blinked down at the shorter boy and found the teenager looking up at him with a curious expression. He realised he'd stopped for no apparent reason and resumed walking, glancing away from Rhys with a faintly annoyed huff as he did so. "You come up with the *stupidest* nicknames," he informed the boy. Rhys just shrugged and flashed him a blithely unconcerned grin in response. "Y'ain't stabbed me yet so I'm guessin you like it," the boy quipped back. Sherlock rolled his eyes again as they turned towards Stockwell. **««** When they finally returned to the house it was to find a very annoyed Eric waiting for them in the entryway. "Sherly fer fuck's sake!" the man snapped as soon as they set foot in the door. "How hard is it t'leave a note or sommat? Thought y'got yer arse kidnapped!" "Rhys and I went to Camden," Sherlock explained in a disinterested tone, unable to indulge in his desire to apologise to Eric while the teenager was still hovering behind him. He decided to go for the next best thing and attempted to explain his actions instead; "I assumed we'd have returned before you awoke but the trip ended up taking longer than expected." "Yeah, cos *someone* kept stopping every five minutes to look through peoples' wallets for stupid bullshit medical cards," Rhys put in irritably. Sherlock glared at him. "I was comparing relative rates of coverage between American insurance plans, it seemed like a potentially interesting field of research." For some reason he felt an urge to walk over and hug Eric *(an impulse he attributed to the fact that he was coming perilously close to crashing off his last hit of coke and hadn't eaten or slept in going on thirty hours now; certainly nothing to do with the nebulous cloud of vague worry for his brother that had begun to accumulate over the course of the walk back from Camden)* but Rhys was still standing nearby. Not wishing to leave himself open to being taunted by a fourteen year old he restrained himself to a simple offhand nod in Eric's direction as he moved off toward the stairs. Eric glanced between Sherlock and Rhys with a frown before pushing himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against and following his boyfriend down the hall. "Oi! What am I s'posed to do then?" Rhys called after them. Sherlock heard Eric make an annoyed grumbling sort of sound from behind him. "I dunno, kid, watch telly or sommat! We ain't yer bleedin' parents!" Rhys laughed. "Yeah? Maybe I oughta call me mum and tell her I got myself adopted by a couple'a queer junkies." Eric bit out an irritated sigh as they ascended the stairs, ignoring Rhys as the boy made his way into the sitting room. Sherlock glanced back at the other man. "Why are you following me?" he asked blankly. "Cos that little bugger annoys th'piss outta me." Sherlock shot him a quizzical look. "I'd have thought you'd be used to the antics of young people, considering you raised your-" he cut himself off as Eric frowned and pushed past him into his *(their?)* bedroom. "Just cos I took care of a couple'a little kids fer half me life don't mean I like *all* kids," he snapped, then turned and regarded Sherlock carefully for a moment. "Y'saw me laptop screen." "Yes," Sherlock confirmed. There was really no point in lying. "But I didn't look at anything else," he hastened to add, finding himself concerned for some reason that Eric would be angry with him for prying into his business. "The assumption that you were their primary caretaker was just conjecture." Eric huffed and rolled his eyes. After a moment's pause he quirked a small half-smile at Sherlock, obviously noting the other man's discomfort. "'Ey, I ain't gonna get all pissed off just cause y'figured sommat out about me," he assured in a friendly tone. Sherlock tucked his hands into his coat pockets and remained standing at the doorway, unconvinced. Eric's face fell a fraction at his lack of response. "Do people really just haul off an' wail on ya fer bein' too clever?" the man asked quietly after a moment. Sherlock kept his face impassive. "I'm capable of defending myself," he replied stiffly. "Just answer th'question." Sherlock looked away, hands shifting uncomfortably in his pockets, then shrugged. "Sometimes," he conceded. Eric sighed, shaking his head. "People are shitheads." This time it was Sherlock's turn to smile. "Not all of them." Eric grinned and closed the space between them in a few short strides, reaching up with his good hand to tug Sherlock's face toward his. Their lips had barely touched when a voice from downstairs interrupted what could have turned into a very promising round of snogging. *"Oi! Who let this fuckin' kid in here!?"* Sherlock bit out an annoyed sigh as Eric let his head drop forward onto Sherlock's shoulder in resignation. "Guess we should prolly go rescue th'kid," he muttered unenthusiastically. "We could just let Devin kill him," Sherlock suggested. Eric smirked, then smacked him lightly on the chest in admonishment as he drew away. "C'mon now, that ain't nice," he chided, turning to head toward the hallway. Sherlock followed him. "Though, yeah, I'm tempted an' all," he continued blithely as they made their way down the stairs. "But then someone'd have t'clean up th'blood an' I ain't in no shape t'be buryin' a body anyhow." "Did you faggots tell this kid he could stay here!?" Devin snapped the second Eric and Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the sitting room. "Yeah, mate," Eric replied easily, cutting off the less-than-pleasant remark Sherlock had been about to deliver by jabbing an elbow lightly into his side. "Didn't he tell ya who 'e is?" Behind Devin's bulk Rhys was standing awkwardly by the sofa. The teenager shot Eric a quizzical look and mouthed something like *'what the fuck are you on about?'* Devin glanced over his shoulder, quirking one copper-blond eyebrow at Rhys. "Who is he, then?" Eric tucked his good hand into his jeans pocket and shrugged. "Eh, just Wechsler's lil brother." "W-Wechsler?" Devin stammered, looking suddenly pale. He looked back at Rhys again, who made a valiant effort to hide his confusion behind a semi-confident grin. "You're Vince Wechsler's brother?" "Uh... yep!" Rhys confirmed nervously. "Good ole Vince!" "He's checkin' out th'place for his bro, maybe start a deal on th' smack in a few months." Eric shot a rather smug, sidelong look at Sherlock, who smirked back. For all his semi-stoned nonsense Eric could be *delightfully* devious when he wanted to be. "If you'd like us to escort him off the premises regardless..." Sherlock put in helpfully. Devin sputtered and turned back to face them. "No, no, I... no, that's fine," he assured quickly. He cleared his throat and waved a not-quite-dismissive hand over his shoulder in Rhys' direction. "Just... stay as long as you need to, kid. Tell Wechsler we've got a shipment coming next month should be a good one, if he's looking to expand his business a bit." "W-will do." Rhys raised his eyebrows questioningly at Eric, who subtly signalled him to sit back down. Devin failed to notice the exchange, being too busy arranging his expression back into something approaching furious authority. "*Hem!* Anyway," he snapped as he strove to draw himself up into what he obviously considered a threatening posture. "Holmes, Chuck says you can play guitar." Sherlock regarded the older man blandly. "And?" "*And* we don't have a fuckin' guitarist thanks to you queers gettin' yourselves mugged like a couple a nancies, so you're gonna play in the show this weekend!" "Am I now?" Sherlock asked. Eric had moved over to the sofa and tugged Rhys over to sit down with him, obviously feeling a need to ensure the teenager remained at least passably in-character until such time as the older man could fill him in on the details of whatever role he'd concocted for the boy. Sherlock glanced over at his boyfriend and found the man glaring at him over the back of the couch. Devin glanced between them, then moved forward to stand mere inches from Sherlock's chest, glaring up at him. The portly idiot stood at barely five seven, meaning Sherlock towered over him by nearly half a foot. "Look, Holmes, I'm bein' nice to you right now. *Real nice.* Piss me off and that's gonna change right quick, we clear?" he growled. Sherlock made a concerted effort to stop himself bursting into laughter. Compared to the subtle, frigid calm of Siger Holmes in a rage Devin seemed like nothing so much as a petulant toddler. "Of course," he quipped. Devin regarded him carefully. "So you're playing." "No." Devin bared his teeth. "Look here Holmes you *fuckin' fairy faggot*, you're gonna play in the *goddamn* band or-" "Or what?" Sherlock suddenly intoned, letting his expression harden into a mirror of his father's usual cold indifference. He hadn't done a hit of cocaine recently so his pupils weren't abnormally dilated, but his face was still gaunt and there were almost certainly dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep. The effect was apparently daunting enough to cause Devin to falter. "Or..." the older man trailed off. After a second's staring he seemed to shake himself and straightened his posture once more. *"Fuck's sake..."* He ran a hand through his crewcut and huffed angrily to himself. "Alright, *look*, Public School. This ain't no time for a fight, I, er... I might *hurt* ya and then you wouldn't be worth shit." He crossed his beefy arms in a vain attempt to seem more menacing. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in condescending disbelief, expression still locked in one of Father's imperious stares. Devin's eyes darted away from his gaze as the man tried and failed to avoid looking intimidated. (Eric and Rhys, meanwhile, were watching them over the back of the sofa. "You know your boyfriend is like the most terrifying psycho I ever met, right?" Rhys murmured quietly to the man beside him. Eric was staring at Sherlock, expression caught between amusement and a sort of horrified fascination. "... I know," he muttered back.) At the sound of a mumbled exchange Sherlock flicked his eyes toward the couch, frowning as Eric's brows furrowed in obvious disapproval. They held each other's gaze for a moment before Sherlock sighed. Ugh*, fine*. But damned if he was going to back down without at least getting something worthwhile out of this whole absurd mess. "Free cocaine," he said, turning back to Devin. "What?" Devin's eyes snapped up to meet his. "Free co-? For *what?* Playing guitar? Fuck you!" Sherlock kept his stare level. "I'll be interested to see how you manage a stage performance with nothing but a drum kit and a bassist." Devin ground his teeth in annoyed anger. "I'll give you a... a *ten percent* discount." "Free," Sherlock insisted. "Twenty percent!" "Ninety." "*Twenty five*, Holmes, and that's the best you're gonna fuckin' get!" Sherlock regarded Devin for a moment longer, making the shorter man's face twist in slightly disturbed frustration. Finally Sherlock huffed a sigh and let Father's chilly poise melt out of his posture. Devin took a small step back in confusion as the man in front of him switched from coldly intimidating to sullen in less than a second. "*Fine,*" Sherlock agreed with only the barest hint of a whinging pout in his voice. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and turned to walk away into the kitchen. As he made it out of view of Devin he let his face fall into a vicious scowl. Sod it, he really hadn't meant to go along with any of this stupid nonsense. But he hadn't had a hit of coke in going on a few hours now, and between the rising headache and impulsiveness he'd quite run out of patience to continue arguing. Well, at the very least he'd gotten a discount out of it. He tugged his peacoat off and dug around in the lining until he produced one of his half-filled syringes. Whatever, he didn't care. It was all fine. Playing in the band would be *unbelievably* irritating, yes, but he had cocaine. And cocaine, as always, would get him through it. **««** Days later he was in the pub again, irritably tuning Eric's guitar while the man babbled on about chord progressions and keys and other things of absolutely no consequence whatsoever. Sherlock was bored. The songs were boring, practice was boring, his housemates were *boring.* The only thing keeping him from tossing Eric's guitar aside and marching straight out the door was cocaine. Cocaine was making this bearable. Cocaine was keeping him here. And cocaine was the reason he'd agreed in the first place. Because no matter how useful he might have managed to make himself, there was always the threat of being cut off if he refused to follow his employer's orders. Devin had conceded to a discount only because Corey hadn't been on hand to mete out threats. Sherlock was under no illusion that he'd retain his relative privilege of buying as much powder as he could want the second he stopped being cooperative. And so he found himself standing on a shoddy stage in a shoddy pub, sweating uncomfortably under the heat of the lighting and debating the merits of removing his sweatshirt. His track marks would be clearly visible... but then again he was about to play lead guitar in a nameless rock band for the sole purpose of luring in a fresh crop of drug users. In light of that, he decided, having an arm full of needle scars probably didn't matter in the least. He stripped off his hoodie and tossed it over an amplifier as Eric was beckoned off toward the bar area by a widely-smiling Ben. Amélie and Charles were busy over by one of the amplifiers, trying to get the pickups organised correctly, and in a fit of boredom Sherlock picked up Eric's guitar and slung the strap over his shoulder to make another attempt at the Saint-Saëns piece he'd been trying to transpose. After the third time mucking up the allegro he huffed to himself and dug out a cigarette, watching the other two band members idly as he lit it. Amélie was trying to convince Charles to stop trying to colour-code the stage wires. Sherlock rolled his eyes and rested his left arm on the guitar neck, staring blankly out at the empty pub tables and wondering what was taking Eric so long. A series of soft beeps suddenly caught his attention, he turned his head looking for the source and finally realised it was coming from behind him. He whipped around just in time to catch a camera flash in the face. "Amanda you *bloody harlot!"* he snarled, trying to blink the stars out of his eyes. Overdilated as they were he'd probably be seeing spots for hours. "Aw, Sherry! That was gonna be a brill one!" the horrible woman pouted. "Now it's all blurred, hang on, I'll delete that one..." She fiddled with her camera for a brief second while Sherlock tried to melt her skull with the heat of his glare, then brought it up again. "How many times do I have to bloody tell you to *stop photogr -*" He was cut off by the camera flash again, and with a vicious growl clamped his cigarette between his lips and flipped her off. She just giggled and took another photo. "Sherly, be nice!" Eric admonished with a laugh as he walked up to them. "She's taking photos of me again!" Sherlock cried as he pointed angrily in Mandy's direction. She flashed Eric a winning smile and snapped a picture of him as well. Eric grinned for the photo, then waved Mandy off with a small chuckle. "Mandy, c'mon. Y'know he don't like it when y'take pictures of 'im." "That's what makes it fun!" Mandy exclaimed with a laugh. She winked, snapped one last photo of Eric (with a scowling Sherlock in the background) and sauntered off. "I *utterly detest* that woman," Sherlock spat as Eric hoisted himself up on the stage. "Aw, she ain't that bad." Eric walked over to plant a kiss on Sherlock's cheek, then drew a small green-and-orange package out of his jeans pocket. "What's that?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Some kinda foreign sweets or sommat, Ben's mate brought a buncha stuff back from Asia." He tipped a few colourful bits of candy into his hand - they looked a bit like tiny, multi-pointed stars - and held them up to Sherlock. "Want some?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose but took one of the pastel confections anyway. It disintegrated almost the instant it touched his tongue. "This is just sugar," he realised after a moment. Eric shrugged. "Yeah pretty much," he conceded. "Kinda good though, eh?" Sherlock didn't reply, just grabbed the bag from Eric to study the packaging. Large, white letters in a friendly Japanese hiragana typeface along with the usual nutrition facts (as he'd suspected - nothing but sugar). Eric grabbed another handful from the packet, not resisting when Sherlock stole a few. "Can y'read that shit?" the freckled man asked with a raise of his eyebrows. "It says *'konpeitō',*" Sherlock informed him. He'd taught himself to read the basic Japanese alphabets several years ago in a fit of extreme boredom during one of his many holidays spent more or less alone in the Holmes manor. Unfortunately he'd lost interest with the language well before learning much in the way of useful vocabulary. "An' in English?" Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. It's probably just a brand name." "Oh." Eric moved to sit on one of the amplifiers behind them, scooting over to let Sherlock take the spot next to him. For the next few minutes they simply stared out over the pub tables together as the bag of star-shaped sugar bits slowly disappeared in intermittent handfuls. "Charles writes *disturbing* lyrics," Sherlock pointed out eventually. Beside him Eric chuckled. "Y'actually remember th'words?" He glanced sidelong at Sherlock and popped a sweet into his mouth with an amused grin. Sherlock scoffed. "How could I help it?" he griped irritably. "We've only practised these terrible songs about a *million bloody times* now." "Eh, well at least they're all pretty easy, yeah?" "They're *boring*," Sherlock whinged. "Honestly, the compositional structure is the most simplistic tripe I've ever heard." Eric rolled his eyes. "Yeah well..." He shrugged. An idea seemed to occur to him and he glanced over at Sherlock with an amused smirk. "Hey, y'know, they *might* sound a bit better wit' more'n just Chuck doin' the singin'." His smirk widened into a playful grin. "Yer a great singer, Sherly, y'should do backup vocals." "Not a chance in *hell*," Sherlock snapped. Then, after a pause, he shot a quizzical look toward Eric. "Wait, how..." "Heard ya in th'shower," Eric said, flashing him an impish grin in response to the unspoken question. Sherlock half-choked on the sugar-star he'd been eating and very definitely *did not* blush. "I do *not* sing in the shower," he asserted with a flustered glare, even as he thought back desperately to the activity in question trying to determine if his statement was true or not. Eric just giggled. "Uh huh," he agreed blithely, not in the least bit convinced. "Well *somebody* was singin' some French song th'other day an' it were really good." Sherlock tried and failed to force the embarrassed expression off his face. Oh lord, he *had* been trying to remember the words to an old French folk song, and the best way to remember a set of lyrics was to... *ugh.* In lieu of responding to Eric's jab he snatched the bag of sweets out of the other man's hand and began digging through the package in search of the few remaining green-coloured ones. "Y'know all th'colours taste th'same, right?" Eric pointed out with an amused grin. "I remain unconvinced," Sherlock snapped. He managed to collect the last of the green candies, stuffed them all in his mouth at once as an excuse to avoid further conversation, then crossed his arms sullenly in front of his chest. Eric shook his head with a laugh at his partner's behaviour. "Yer somethin' else, Sherly." **««** Sherlock really wasn't sure how it had happened. One minute he'd been derisively pointing out every possible point of compositional failing in Charley's music set, which he'd by now begrudgingly memorised over the course of far too many rounds of this nonsense, the next Eric had piped up about the backup vocals and the minute after *that* Sherlock had been beset by what felt like a bloody *flock* of people demanding he sing behind Charley on the chorus. "Oh, yes! It'll sound great!" Ami gushed with an excited giggle. Beside her Mandy was clapping her hands like some sort of demented sealion. "Do it, Sherry!" Sherlock shot a look toward Eric, hoping to find backup, but the freckled man was just grinning mischievously around a lit joint. Sherlock glared at him. The onslaught proved to be more than even his cocaine-bolstered patience could tolerate. After nearly five minutes of high-pitched wheedling from the girls (interspersed with the occasional jab from a sniggering Ben and Charley's disinterested opinion of *'it don't fuckin' matter to me'*) Sherlock had finally had enough. *"Alright!"* he half-snarled, shoving Mandy's hand off him where she'd latched onto his arm like a leech. "Fine! I will sing the *bloody chorus*, just *stop bothering me!*" Mandy stumbled back a step, shaking her slightly-wrenched wrist (Sherlock hadn't meant to actually harm her, but *fucking hell* if she was going to go and bloody *grab him* that's what she should damn well expect). After a short pause to make sure her arm was alright she looked back up to him with an enthusiastic grin. "I knew we'd convince ya!" she crowed happily. Ami cut in with a triumphant cheer, and predictably both girls fell to giggling again. Sherlock fixed them both with the most venomous glare he was capable of. "Welp! Glad that's settled then," Charley spoke up from the other side of the room in his usual bored tone. "Shall we?" The curly-haired man gestured to the door of the back room, where they'd all gathered to wait for the pub to fill up (sans Devin, who was out consulting with his brother over something or other). Sherlock bit out an annoyed sigh and reluctantly nodded. "Break a leg, Sherly!" Eric called in a merry tone. Sherlock whipped around with a furious, hopefully-menacing growl. "This is all *your doing*." Eric just grinned. **««** Sherlock was seething. He was bored, uncomfortable, frustrated, and above all else *bloody pissed off.* Not just with this stupid band nonsense but with absolutely *everything*. The stage and the pub and the *whole fucking world in general.* He hated these songs and he hated Charley's stupid lyrics and he bloody *hated singing.* Plus he could barely see anything past the glare of the stage lights, and the amplifiers were *too loud* and the idiots in the crowd kept *screaming* and *ugh.* He had to get out of here. Out out *out.* More than that, though, he needed cocaine. A two-and-a-half hour show with a barely five minute intermission between songs left very little time for certain rather essential drugs-related activities. Which of course meant that Sherlock was crashing. Hard. The second the set was over he ripped Eric's guitar strap from his shoulder, vaulted off the short stage and stalked off through the crowd toward the back room. "Ey, mate! Brilliant vocals!" some pissed thug yelled as Sherlock passed, clapping him on the back with a drunken laugh. Sherlock turned his head just far enough to *snarl* at the unfortunate man (who snatched his hand away as if burnt and quickly backed off) before resuming his trek to his goal. Back room. Peacoat. Cocaine. He was less than six feet away from the door when another hand (on his shoulder this time) made him whip around in abject frustration. "*What!?"* he yelled... straight into Eric's face. "Whoa, calm down." Eric held his uninjured hand up placatingly. Sherlock's furious mood deflated somewhat as he struggled to force the vicious glower off his features. "I. Need. Cocaine," he bit out. Eric raised his eyebrows in a look of slightly bewildered concern. "Christ, yeah I noticed." Carefully the other man put his hand back on Sherlock's shoulder. When the action didn't elicit another attack he gently steered him toward the hall door. Sherlock huffed a short sigh and rubbed at his forehead in an ineffectual attempt to ease a growing migraine. The transition from the loud pub to the marginally-quieter hallway helped somewhat, and he leant sideways into Eric as they walked. "Ugh, I can't believe you ever put up with this nonsense," he groaned. "What an utter *farce.*" Eric patted his shoulder. "It ain't that bad," the man said soothingly. After a brief pause he continued, "I'm sorry fer eggin' everyone on like that, by th' way." Sherlock made a questioning noise, not in any sort of fit state to decipher what the man was on about. "When Mandy an' them were tryin' ta get ya t'sing," Eric clarified. "I should'a done sommat, I dunno. It were just funny t'see y'all -" His words trailed off as they reached the end of the hall. Both of them stopped short at the sight that greeted them through the open door of the back room. "Holy..." Eric muttered, hand dropping away from Sherlock's shoulder. "Shit," Sherlock finished for him in a vague monotone. The cheap berber carpeting before their feet was stained dark red with a pool of slowly-spreading blood, emanating outward from the crumpled body in the middle of the room. A glance at the dark skin, close-cropped hair and chequered trainers told Sherlock it was Ben, though the face was too badly damaged to make out any of the man's usual features. "*Oh jesus christ I'm gonna be sick*," Eric moaned, clapping a hand to his mouth. He'd gone deathly pale and seemed to be leaning on the doorframe for support. Sherlock glanced over at him, determined there was nothing he could do, then cautiously made his way closer to the body. A quick brush over the carotid artery with his fingers confirmed what he'd already suspected. "He's dead," he stated simply. "Has been for a few hours at least, judging by the -" He cut off as Eric made good on his threat and vomited against the wall. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the sound and straightened up to dig his mobile out of his jeans pocket. Even as he dialled 999 he was staring down at the fresh corpse with a look of undisguised intrigue. Something deep in his subconscious told him this was wrong. He shouldn't be *interested* by something like this. He should be every bit as disturbed as Eric was right now. But... he wasn't. He was *fascinated.* All at once the world seemed to slow down on him, thoughts calming and headache ebbing away without aid of so much as a drop of chemical intervention. This was... this was *exciting.* Ben's nose was smashed into his skull and his eye socket had been fractured in several places, suggesting a direct assault with a hammer or other blunt instrument. Had to have been someone fairly strong to wield a weapon with enough force to produce those injuries, ruled out a woman, crime of romantic passion significantly less likely. The door had been open as well, standing slightly ajar as if it had been smashed open in a fit of rage (and on that note were there - *yes,* a dent in the plaster, someone had definitely been chasing him) and the location of his demise, right in the centre of the room, no attempt to hide the- "Oh *fuck me*," Devin's voice exclaimed from the hallway. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see the portly drummer standing at the door looking shocked, a horrified Charley behind him. "*Ben!?"* Charley choked out in a voice of sickened disbelief. Sherlock realised he'd never actually got round to pressing 'send' on his mobile, too distracted by the corpse. "Should I call the police?" he asked now and held the device up with a look toward Devin. The question seemed to snap the man out of whatever sort of shock he'd been falling into. He opened and shut his mouth a few times before finally shaking his head. "N-no," he stuttered. "No, just... just wait. I gotta find my brother." And with that he turned on his heel and practically bolted back the way he'd come. "*Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck,"* Charley began muttering to himself. The man had slid down the wall beside the door and now sat next to Eric, both of them staring at the body before them in shock. Sherlock frowned as he slipped his mobile back into his pocket. He... really had no idea what he was expected to do. Should he fake being disturbed, maybe? But, no, they'd already seen him unaffected. Putting on an act now would only make his behaviour seem more obviously unnatural. Seeing no reasonable course of action he turned to study Ben's corpse instead. *Minimal onset of rigor mortis, slight capillary pooling, dead for at least two hours - slightly after the show started? Killer must have planned to use the band to cover up the noise, means it was someone in the audience, a regular most likely, knew when to time it for maximum opportunity of escape. One of the pushers then, who was missing? Did anyone come back here after the performance started? Damn it, couldn't see past the stage lighting.* A flash of something metallic by Ben's outstretched hand caught Sherlock's attention, and he shifted forward to see more clearly. *What's that...? Foil? Wait, don't touch it - murder investigation. But... yes, yes, definitely foil. Traces of powder; heroin residue. Packaging off one of Racer's samples? Ben doesn't pass those out, he works with pre-existing clients, not high enough in the pecking order to be trusted with so much product. Must have grabbed it during the scuffle. Was there a scuffle? Had to be, Amélie's instrument case was upright when we left, someone knocked it over. Murderer chased him back here, slammed the door with enough force to dent the wall, then assaulted him with a blunt object. Pipe or hammer. Ben grabbed the assailant's trouser or coat pocket at some point and caught a bit of foil. Any other...? Ah, yes, denim fibres under the fingernails, must be old fabric to have come away so easily. So whoever did this is well-muscled, wearing faded jeans, just slightly taller than Ben judging by the angle of the blows, either one of Racer's pushers or a recipient of one of their drugs samp- wait, no, no, can't be a client, they don't give out drugs to returning patrons, only a regular would have known about this room or how to time the murder, so it must have been-* "Sherly?" Eric's voice interrupted Sherlock's internal monologue and he turned his head to see the freckled man watching him with a pale, frightened expression. He tucked his hands into his jeans pockets and straightened up from where he'd crouched down next to the dead body. "The murderer was one of Racer's dealers," he explained smoothly, trying to keep the slight hint of smugness out of his voice. A flash of something like pleased excitement shot through him at the knowledge that he'd pieced so much together from random details. It was a feeling not unlike the one he'd gotten from the Carl Powers incident - that story he'd read in the newspaper so many years ago and spent a solid month trying to puzzle out. Only this was so much more *electrifying*, because the evidence was *right here* and there was a *murderer* loose, and, and... "Five foot eleven inches, at least twelve stone, pronounced upper body strength, keeps his undistributed samples in the front left pocket of his jeans which are significantly frayed at the seams," he rattled off quickly. "S-sounds like McDowell," Charles muttered in a faint voice. Eric, for some reason, fixed Sherlock with a furious glare. "Ben's fuckin' *dead* an' yer busy doin' yer freak deducin' thing!?" he choked out, sounding almost scandalised. Sherlock's brows furrowed at the use of the word 'freak'. Despite his brain's insistence that he'd become used to the moniker over the course of his school career the insult still stung. Particularly, it seemed, when said by Eric. "I just-" he started. But Eric shook his head violently, cutting him off. "No! Christ, Sherly, d'you even *care?*" He tucked his good arm around his midsection, eyes very determinedly fixed on Sherlock's and avoiding the sight of the corpse. "Someone just got *killed* an' yer just starin' at 'im like he's a goddamn... a goddamn *puzzle!*" "Well it is, sort of," Sherlock pointed out, feeling like he should try to explain himself but having absolutely no inkling as to where he should start. "There's... details, and things. Clues. It's interesting." "Jesus *Christ*." Eric ducked his head down to his knees and, alarmingly, began to sob. Charley put an arm around the other man's shoulders and shot a look in Sherlock's direction that quite obviously said *'leave'.* Sherlock hesitated, but Charley's look hardened into a scowl and he finally relented. With one last glance back at Ben's body he turned and made his way through the open door to the hallway. Devin was jogging briskly toward him. "My brother's clearin' all the dealers out," he puffed. "And the police are on their way. If you got any shit on you you'd better fuckin' trash it quick cause they're gonna wanna talk to the blokes that found the body." Sherlock nodded. His coat had a few loaded syringes tucked into the lining, but he made no move to go and retrieve the garment from the room he'd just left. The odds of it being searched were low anyway, and even if he did find himself being arrested he could always count on his brother to have the charges dropped. Devin pushed past him into the room (presumably to pass his message on to Eric and Charles) and left Sherlock standing alone in the hallway. The brief thought of Mycroft brought a sudden, rather absurd impulse to the forefront of Sherlock's mind. It occurred to him, as it had several times in the last few weeks, that he had seen absolutely *zero* evidence of his brother's meddling since that first phone conversation. Decidedly strange. And he wasn't *worried*, of course, that would be ridiculous. But... well, maybe a quick text wouldn't go amiss. Especially considering the circumstances. Fair warning and all that. His phone was in his hand before he'd really even had a chance to think about it. **To: MYCROFT HOLMES - PRIVATE LINE** '*About to be questioned by police, may require bail.'* A brief deliberation - did he really want to give Mycroft the idea that Sherlock might be preemptively asking for *help?* - but no, it was bland enough to be interpreted as sarcasm. Mycroft would reply with some form of exasperated comment, giving Sherlock assurance that his brother was perfectly fine and that all was well between them. *(Or at least as well as it had ever been, which was admittedly not saying much.)* Without giving himself time to think it through further Sherlock hit 'send', stowed the mobile in his jeans pocket, then turned to peer through the still-open doorway into the room behind him. Ben lay motionless in a pool of blood, eyes staring sightlessly out from his ruined face. Sherlock regarded him blankly. *Eric's right... I don't care.* He felt his expression shift into its usual neutral facade as he studied the pattern of impacts on the victim's skull. Three blows, each spaced approximately one and a half inches apart, obviously placed by a right-handed assailant. The clinical detachment with which he noted such facts quite abruptly turned inward, and he saw his lack of reaction through the lens of his own careful scrutiny. This... wasn't normal. *He* wasn't normal. Not in terms of genius but in terms of *insanity.* Because sane people did not walk into a room containing the corpse of an acquaintance and immediately start scanning their surroundings for details without so much as a pause for any sort of emotional reaction. Sane people did not calmly text their brothers about bail whilst waiting to be questioned by police. Sane people... sane people *cared.* Sherlock's eyes flicked away from Ben's injuries, meeting what was left of the dead man's gaze. He waited for his brain to come up with some sort of appropriate reaction to the sight before him. Regret, horror, *shock.* But seconds passed... and he felt nothing. *There is something very wrong with me,* he finally determined. A sense of vague resignation accompanied the thought. Well, what had he expected? People had been telling him he was mad for *years*. Refusing to believe them had been nothing but hubris on his part - a vain hope that somehow, by some grand unknown metric, he could be *normal.* He tucked his hands into his pockets and took a few steps back to lean against the wall behind him, still staring into the eyes of the corpse in the other room. *... something very, very wrong.* **««** ## Chapter 7: As We Drink Ourselves To Death **««** **7. As We Drink Ourselves To Death** After nearly a decade with the Met, Greg Lestrade liked to think there was very little that could honestly surprise him anymore. That was, of course, until he met Sherlock Holmes. It hadn't been much of a case – just a simple murder investigation. Seedy pub full of drunks and drug addicts, someone got in a fight, poor kid took a hammer to the face. Awful as it was these sorts of things happened all the time in London, and at this point in his career Greg was more than used to it. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets as he regarded the mutilated corpse of one Benjamin Jones, age 22, lying motionless in the middle of a back storage room. Too young. *Far* too young. But this was all too often the outcome when stupid kids got mixed up with the wrong sorts. Tragic, yet depressingly common. Greg sighed very slightly to himself and turned away to leave the room, giving the forensics team space to do their job. He headed down the hallway (mostly empty save for a few officers milling about, keeping the area cordoned off) and emerged into the main pub area. The majority of his investigation team were dotted around the tables, busy conducting field interrogations of the scant few pub patrons who hadn't fled to the streets the second the squad cars pulled up. "Sir!" a voice called. Greg turned to find one of his younger detective sergeants jogging towards him, a faintly disturbed look on his face. "What's up, Dimmock?" "Er… sir, this kid…" Dimmock jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, where a very tall, very bored-looking twenty-something was leaning against the far wall watching them. "This kid says he knows who did it." Greg quirked an eyebrow. "So take his statement and add the name to the suspects list." "No, no, it's…" Dimmock shook his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Look, sir, I think it might be best if you'd just talk to him yourself. You'll see what I mean." Greg sighed very slightly to himself and tried not to look too annoyed with his subordinate. First instincts told him it was just a rookie officer getting spooked by some kid playing mind games, but this was Dimmock. The sergeant was young but he generally had a good head on his shoulders. "Alright, fine," Greg ceded. He fished his notepad from the lapel pocket of his jacket and started toward the young man, Dimmock at his side. "What's the name?" he asked his underling. "Sherlock Holmes, sir. Just turned twenty, refuses to give an address or phone number." "Probably homeless then," Greg guessed in a slightly melancholy undertone as they came close enough to the kid to make out his features; he knew a street junkie when he saw one. The boy was tall, around six foot, and ludicrously thin. The navy blue Oxford hoodie he wore was a bit ragged but decently well cared-for – a tear on the left sleeve had been sewn shut at some point, and it seemed to have been laundered recently. The jeans had the look of having once been expensive, and the tops of his trainers sported plenty of scuff marks but hadn't yet faded to that off-tan colour of old rubber. Not been on the streets for very long then, Greg surmised. That or he took exceptionally good care of his clothing. The young man was stood leaning against the far wall opposite the stage with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, watching Greg and Dimmock approach with an expression somewhere between abject boredom and irritation. At the very least, Greg thought, he looked sober. That was good; he hated trying to deal with intoxicated witnesses. "I'm not going to repeat what I said," the kid informed them the moment they were within speaking range. "Either you take my advice or you don't, recruiting a series of ever-higher persons of authority to question me won't change facts." Posh accent, Greg noted, and imperious tone. Some wayward trust fund kid, then. Explained the Oxford sweatshirt and nice jeans. "Evening, Mr Holmes," Greg greeted semi-formally. He pasted on a not-quite-sincere smile and casually flipped open his notepad as if he hadn't heard the boy's earlier statement. "Care to tell me exactly what happened here tonight?" Holmes fixed him with a flat look. "I've told *three separate officers* the exact same story. Get one of them to repeat it." "I understand, Mr Holmes, but I'd really prefer to hear it in your own words," Greg explained, slipping just enough sympathy in his voice to hopefully win the witness over. Holmes did not look impressed. Greg resisted the urge to let an annoyed expression flit across his face – god he *really* hated dealing with these spoiled rich kids – and instead tried to maintain an air of professionalism. "Look, I promise this'll be the last time. I'm the Detective Inspector in charge of the case, there's no one above me to repeat yourself to." Holmes rolled his eyes and bit out an aggravated sigh. "After the band's set finished I went to the back room to retrieve an item I'd stored there. I was met at the door to the hallway by my-" he cut off suddenly, darting a glance across the pub. Greg followed his gaze and saw a freckled young man with his left arm in a sling being checked over by one of the medics. He identified the kid as the one who'd started having a panic attack during questioning and nearly passed out. Holmes' eyes flicked back to stare at the floor in front of his feet and he seemed to shift uncomfortably before going still again. "Eric joined me," he continued in a flat voice. "We walked down the hallway and saw the corpse through the open door of the back room. Eric was… distressed, significantly enough to be indisposed, so I checked the body for signs of life and found none. Then our housemates arrived and the police were contacted." "And that's it?" Greg pressed, wondering why Dimmock had bothered calling him over here for what sounded like a perfectly normal witness statement. "Tell him the rest of it, please," Dimmock cut in. Holmes huffed an annoyed sigh and tilted his head back to thump gently against the brick wall behind him. "You were taking notes, why don't *you* tell him?" the kid groused. "Isn't it supposed to be *your* bloody job to notice such things anyway, *detective?*" Greg glanced at Dimmock and raised an eyebrow questioningly. The younger officer grit his teeth and dug out his notebook, flipping it open to a page covered in hastily-scrawled notes. "He, er… he said he noticed a trace of heroin residue under the victim's fingernails-" "No no no! *Foil!* There was *foil* with heroin residue clutched in the victim's *hand!*" Holmes interrupted, his head snapping back upright with a fierce scowl at Dimmock. "Did you listen to a word I fucking said?" "Well it was a bit difficult to take accurate notes with you talking a mile a minute!" Dimmock retorted in a flustered tone. Holmes sneered and turned his gaze to Greg. "Your underlings are bloody *incompetent*," he informed the older man imperiously. And then with a long-suffering roll of his eyes and a heavy sigh he proceeded to launch into, quite frankly, the most incredible train of logic Greg had ever heard in his life. Something about strike angles and foil wrappings and denim fibres, and then somehow a complete physical description of their killer along with approximate age and a probability distribution of likely current whereabouts. Greg found himself speechless. "Shut your mouth, you'll catch flies," Holmes snapped when he was finished talking. He drew a long breath through his nose (Greg quite suddenly realised the kid hadn't inhaled once during his entire speech) and took his hands out of his hoodie pocket to cross his arms in front of his chest with a glower. "I hope you've got a better memory than he does because I am *not* repeating all that again." Greg snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat rather awkwardly. "How… how did you-?" "Oh piss off!" the kid suddenly exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "*Every single time*, for fuck's sake! I just explained *exactly* how I came to *every sodding conclusion*. Were you even *listening?*" "Right, no, no… I was listening!" Greg backpedaled, holding his palms up in surrender. "It was just… a bit overwhelming, sorry. So you're definitely sure it was this McDowell bloke that did it?" "Yes, he's the only one that matches the physical characteristics and had the opportunity. As for motive I have no idea, but it was probably something to do with drugs." After a pause Holmes sighed irritably and looked away (in the direction of the freckled boy, Greg noted). "Are we done here?" "Not, er… not just yet." Greg cast about for a plausible excuse to keep the young man from leaving. "We, uh… need some sort of contact information. A phone number or family member who can get in touch with you if we need to speak to you again." Holmes ground his teeth in annoyance. "I already told your sergeant, I don't own a pho-" He cut off as a chiming noise sounded. Greg raised his eyebrows as the boy whipped an expensive-looking flip mobile out of his jeans pocket. He opened the lid and studied the screen intently, pale features pulling into a worried frown in response to whatever he'd read. Greg cleared his throat loudly. Holmes glanced up at him with a scowl and quickly rattled off his mobile number, which Greg dutifully wrote down. "I should probably warn you that all conversations going through this particular device are recorded and monitored by the British Secret Service," Holmes quipped blandly as he snapped his mobile shut and replaced it in his jeans pocket. Greg raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Was the kid some sort of paranoid schizophrenic? Holmes apparently read his thoughts from his expression. "I am not mentally ill, though in the absence of definitive proof I'll leave you to believe what you like. Just be aware that anything you say to me over a telecommunications network will inevitably find its way into the hands of MI5 at some point." "Er… sure." Greg tried not to let himself look too obviously skeptical. "Thanks for the heads up." Holmes flipped a hand dismissively. "Of course. Are we done?" Greg glanced sidelong at Dimmock and, getting no response besides a tiny shrug and a baffled expression, turned his gaze back to the kid in front of them. "For now, but I may need you to come into the station and give a statement to be recorded. Just be sure to check your voicemail, alright?" Holmes had already begun walking away before Greg had even finished his sentence, waving a hand over his shoulder as if to say '*yes, yes, of course'.* And that was the last Greg saw of the kid for months. **««** "Did you give Rhys my mobile number?" Eric looked up as he approached, and almost immediately Sherlock regretted asking his question in such a snappish tone. Eric looked bloody *exhausted.* Shellshocked, even. Sherlock stopped awkwardly in his tracks a few metres away and stood uncertain, waiting to see if Eric would be offended by the rude tone of voice. He honestly hadn't meant to sound so frustrated; it was just the too-busy atmosphere and looming cloud of withdrawal making him nervous, antsy. Eric didn't get upset though. Instead he just… sighed. "Yeah. Thought it'd be best if th'kid had a way to ring us if sommat went down at th'house. Sorry, shoulda asked first." The man flashed him a tired smile, clutching an orange medic-issued blanket tighter around his shoulders, and Sherlock felt the stirrings of something very much like guilt take root in his chest. "It's… no, it's fine," Sherlock muttered. He cleared his throat and plucked his mobile out of his pocket one-handed to brandish it in vague explanation of his next sentence. "Er… apparently the milk's run out." Eric chuckled very quietly, shaking his head. "That kid's a bleedin' lil twat." Sherlock tried a smile. "Indeed." After a moment's hesitation he crossed the distance between the two of them in a few long strides, took a seat next to Eric on the stage steps. Not close enough to be touching – the situation was still too uncertain. Eric had gone from familiar and trusted to… not *enemy*, not by a long shot… but the affection Sherlock felt for the other man had now become tainted with a creeping sense of animalistic wariness. The man had used *that word*, after all. And in Sherlock's experience, the usage of *that word* almost invariably led to violence, hatred… rejection. He didn't want to be rejected, not yet. But things had spiralled out of his control; he'd reacted entirely the wrong way to something Eric (and the rest of humanity, really) felt very strongly about. If there was a clearer way to broadcast his abnormality to the only person in the world whose opinion of him Sherlock actually cared about he didn't want to know it. The silence between them was stifling. Eric sat huddled over himself, blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, staring into the empty space between his trainers and the wooden slat of the stair below them. Sherlock glanced sidelong at him and tried very hard to ignore the distracting murmur of sounds and coloured movements of the investigation team all around them. Finally he could bear the tension no longer. "Are you… alright?" he asked hesitantly. Eric huffed out a laugh that was more of a sob. "No." He raised his good hand to rub at his face, shaking his head wearily. "No… I ain't alright, Shers." Sherlock bit his lip – an entirely too-vulnerable expression, so he stopped immediately. Instead his fingers began tugging at the fabric of his sweatshirt sleeve, the motion hidden by the front pocket where he'd habitually buried his hands. He had… absolutely no idea what to do. What was he supposed to say? *I'm sorry?* But he wasn't… not for the right reasons anyway, and Eric knew it. Sherlock was only uncomfortable right now because *Eric* was upset, a fact which only served to highlight his own inherent selfishness. A man had *died* tonight. Murdered, in as horrific and violent a manner as possible. And all Sherlock could muster in the way of relevant emotion was a cloud of neurotic worry about the possibility of his boyfriend hating him. Even he, with his chronic lack of social skills or tact, could see the fault in that. Knowing his feelings were *wrong* didn't do anything to make his mental landscape rearrange itself, though. No, he had just as little control over what his brain did as he always had. At the moment far *less*, actually, because he'd now gone a record five waking hours without a hit of cocaine. Withdrawal had settled in with dense fogs of fatigue and self-doubt, the white-hot edges of a migraine pulsing through his head in intermittent bursts. He very carefully schooled his features into a blank mask against the pain, however. Refused to let on to any hint of discomfort. What would be the point, after all? His peacoat was still in the back room – he hadn't been willing to claim custody of it in case the police had already searched the item – so he hardly had any way of solving the problem. All he'd be able to do was complain. And Eric was clearly in no mood to listen to Sherlock whinge about such a petty concern as crashing off coke. Minute after agonising minute passed by. Eric was still staring at the stairs, good hand now tangled in his hair rather than clutching at the blanket. Sherlock glanced over at him again and out of nowhere found himself stifling the irrational urge to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him. A bolt of frustration shot through his chest. Suddenly all he wanted to do was yell, scream at the other boy questioning *what!? What do you want me to do!? How should I act, what should I say? I can be* anyone*, Eric, can pretend to be anything at all. Just tell me what's right, tell me what's expected. How am I supposed to know? Why is it so easy for you, where did you learn? How did I miss so much?* But he only kept still. Silent and motionless but for the constant worrying of his fingers on the frayed sleeve of his hoodie. Beside him Eric took a long, shuddering breath… and began to cry. *I'm sorry,* was all Sherlock could think. *I don't know what to do… I'm sorry.* **««** Eric was drunk. Ordinarily that fact wouldn't have bothered Sherlock – the other man was an adult, after all, and entitled to his own decisions. It was just that trying to speak to a drunk Eric frequently felt very much like interacting with a complete stranger, and Sherlock wasn't sure if he was comfortable with this new person the man had become. All the predictability was gone – Sherlock no longer knew with any certainty what his friend would do or say. And while he (unwillingly) tolerated a certain amount of inevitable uncertainty within the confines of his *own* mind Sherlock found he absolutely *did not like* having the same feeling of helpless confusion in regards to other people. Especially in regards to Eric. Eric was supposed to be *friendly, kind, safe.* Utterly predictable but in a way that somehow felt comforting rather than boring. Always a slightly silly mix of jokes and devious smirks and occasional innuendo. But at the moment he was precisely none of those things… and Sherlock hated it. "You shouldn't mix alcohol and oxycodone, there's potential for fatal respiratory depression," Sherlock pointed out, glancing over his shoulder to see Eric washing down one of his prescription pain pills with a swig of what looked like whiskey. They were in the kitchen, Sherlock working on a new method of reliably determining the ratio of MDMA to amphetamine salts in the distribution ring's latest acquisition of ecstasy while Eric prepared some sort of macaroni dish for lunch. Not that Sherlock was in the least bit hungry, but he'd been lectured about his dwindling weight often enough lately to know he'd more than likely force himself to eat anyway. "So?" Eric snapped with a slight scoff. "Ain't nobody gonna care f'I die." That stung. Sherlock frowned and turned fully to face the other man. "I'd… be upset." Eric shot him a flat stare. "Yeah? For how long? Like two seconds? Then it'll be all *cor, lookit' th'pattern a chunks in his sick, y'kin tell exactly 'ow many bleedin' drinks 'e had!*" "I wouldn't be able to determine that from vomit alone," Sherlock replied before he could think to stop himself. "I'd need a blood analysis and an accurate estimate of weight first." Eric rolled his eyes angrily and turned back to whatever he was doing at the stove. "Christ, yer fuckin' batshit." There was no levity to the sentence, no joking smile – just frustration, annoyance… complete sincerity. Sherlock looked away. "Is it really so important that I care about death?" he asked quietly after a moment. His hands toyed idly with an unused pH strip as he spoke. The mixture of oils and acid residue on his fingers shifted the pigments of powder on the paper's surface, pink and tan to hazy goldenrod - evidently his skin had a pH value of around six and a half. "Yeah, Sherly, it kinda is," Eric replied in a curt voice. Sherlock set aside the now-useless pH strip and looked back up to his boyfriend. "Why?" Eric sighed. "People need t'care about death, Sherly," he hissed lowly, still facing the stove with his back to Sherlock. "They *need* to, cos that's what keeps 'em right. Th'ones who don' care, those're th'ones who… who stab little kids in their fuckin' *necks*, bleed 'em dry like a couple'a *stuck pigs* an' then leave 'em in th'middle of their goddamn bedroom fer their big brother t'find when he comes home from work." Sherlock stilled. "Your… sisters were murdered?" he asked in a somewhat hollow monotone. He hadn't considered… he'd thought perhaps a messy divorce, a childhood disease, not… Eric shook his head with a grimace like he was fighting back tears. "Mum was like you, Sherly. Didn't give a single shit when 'er last boyfriend got killed. Talked about me dad dyin' like it were a bleedin' bedtime story." He finally turned back to Sherlock with a watery glare. "She didn't care… an' when she finally snapped it weren't just her bein' a weirdo no more, were it? Bailey an' Rosie ended up… I shoulda got 'em out sooner, shoulda realised our mum would…" He shook his head with a choking noise and reached out for the bottle of whiskey he'd abandoned on the counter. Sherlock took a step forward and snatched up the bottle before the other man could grab it. Eric had taken an oxy some five minutes ago, had already been tipsy and half-stoned before that, and Sherlock had little desire to see someone he cared for passed out on the linoleum. "I'm not like your mother," Sherlock said, deftly shifting the whiskey behind his back before Eric could make a lunge for it. Eric half-snarled and locked eyes with him in a vicious expression. "Yeah? An' why th'fuck should I believe you? Y'told that thug the other week you was gonna *stab both 'is lungs an' watch 'im drown in 'is own blood.*" Sherlock took a small step backwards, shaking his head slightly. "That was just a threat, I wouldn't… I'm not a killer." Eric was staring at him with an unreadable expression. "What about yer dad?" he asked lowly. Sherlock's heart seemed to stop cold in his chest. "What?" he muttered, though he already had a feeling he knew where this was going. "F'you could kill yer dad… would you?" Eric clarified, his face a flat mask of disappointment and anger. "Y'never really talk about it but it's damn easy t'guess what went on, ain't it? You hate th'guy. So would y'kill him?" Sherlock could feel his breath catch slightly as he stared at the other man. He'd been backed into a corner and they both knew it. After an interminable silence he finally swallowed. "Yes," he admitted in a quiet voice. "If I had the chance." Eric seemed to choke on another strangled sob. "An' that's why I said yer a goddamn *freak*, Sherlock. Murder ain't a fuckin' thing y'can just talk about like it's a means t'an end. Y'can't say you'd kill someone like it's all up t'you to decide who lives an' dies." Sherlock's expression grew frigid at the sound of an all-too-familiar insult. Behind his back his grip on the bottle of whiskey tightened. "You've never met my father," he bit out in a sudden spike of cold anger. "You'd agree with me if you knew him." "No I fuckin' *wouldn't*," Eric retorted savagely. "There ain't nobody deserves t'die!" "Your mother!" Sherlock's voice was creeping up in volume, on the verge of shouting really, but he didn't care. "Wouldn't you destroy her, given the opportunity? Slaughter her, like she slaughtered your sisters!?" Eric grit his teeth and shook his head. "No. I'd chuck 'er in th'fuckin' madhouse where she belonged. It weren't her fault what her fucked up brain made her do." He paused to shove his good hand through his hair in agitation. "When people do shit tha's wrong they should get *caught*. Sent t'jail t'do their time, or hospital if that's what they need. Killin' em won't solve a single goddamn thing." "That's a simplistic worldview and you know it," Sherlock snapped. The bottle of whiskey sloshed as he brought his hand around in a furious motion, gesticulating as he always did when he was upset. "Sometimes there's no other choice, if killing a man prevents the suffering of others then the death is inherently justified." "Is that what yer brother says when he orders people shot?" Eric retorted acidly. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut with a quick intake of breath, realising but unwilling to admit that, indeed, he'd just quoted one of Mycroft's explanations of his government duties verbatim. "Y'know, just cause he's older'n you don't mean everythin' he says is right. Big brothers can be bad people too." "He's not a *bad person*." Sherlock repeated the words with a sneer for the childishness of the phrasing. "Perhaps he's just smarter than you, did you ever think of *that?* Your moronic little average brain can't process the bigger picture, too cluttered by your *empathy* and *kindness*. Caring… caring's not an advantage!" Eric regarded him quietly, a stormy expression still pulling at his features. "Did he say that too?" All at once Sherlock snarled, whipped around to walk out of the kitchen before he did anything he'd regret. His grip on the glass bottle in his hand was white-knuckled and painful, but he didn't loosen it. Just marched resolutely toward the door, ignoring Eric as the man yelled something angrily and followed after him. Sherlock had longer legs, though, and made it out the front door and through the garden well before the other could catch up. Eric jogged the last few metres and stopped short at the open door. *"Sherlock!"* There was no reply. Sherlock had already disappeared into the streets. **««** He took a swig of whiskey and immediately spat it out again, grimacing at the taste. *God damn it, can't even drink like a normal person,* Sherlock thought savagely to himself. He was walking quickly down Clapham street – *storming* really, but that was a stupid, overdramatic term – still holding Eric's half-finished bottle of liquor. It was absolutely *freezing* and he hadn't bothered to grab his peacoat on the way out, but fuck if he cared. He was still feeling the effects of his last hit of cocaine anyway, along with the swirling fires of hurt and frustration and rage, and that was plenty to keep him warm. *Fucking* Eric, thought he knew *everything* about the world and life and about *Sherlock.* Utter bullshit. After all how could Eric possibly know the first thing about Sherlock when Sherlock *himself* had no idea why he did or didn't feel things and why the sightless eyes of a dead man failed to affect him? And then to go and bring up Mycroft… call him a *bad person?* Ridiculous. Yes, Mycroft was an annoying git and a meddling arse and an absolute *prat*, but he did important work, he kept people *safe.* Not all people, no… but he still tried, did the best he could… even if it *had* taken him *fifteen bloody years* to realise that Father was… Argh but *no* that wasn't fair! That wasn't Myc's fault, he'd been *busy.* Working towards more worthwhile goals than defending his useless brat of a little sibling - protecting the country and dignitaries and *royalty.* What was Sherlock compared to that? That was why he'd never said anything, never complained. Mycroft had better things to worry about, and Sherlock wouldn't, *couldn't* be the one to pull his brother away from what was obviously a driving passion. One word and Mycroft would have swooped in to rescue him at any time, Sherlock knew that without a doubt. But it would have come at a price. Ruined plans, interrupted meetings. And even if Mycroft said it didn't matter it always, *always* did. Even as a child Sherlock had been able to sense the note of irritation in his brother's voice every time he'd phoned the man to ask why he couldn't come home for the holidays. A spark of masked resentment. Because they both knew that while Mycroft had grand designs for his life and the world, there would always be something holding him back; one pathetic little human connection tying him down like a chain. Sherlock couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he'd become aware of the restrictive nature of his role in his brother's life - he'd been young, that was all he knew - but it had *terrified* him. All he could think was that Mycroft would one day grow tired of his shackle, cast Sherlock aside with a stern reminder that *caring is not an advantage* and leave him to face the world alone. So he'd done everything he could to limit how annoying he was. Father had punished him for ignoring table manners when he was seven, the first time he ever remembered fearing for his life… but it was the mention of Mycroft that drove him to silence. Father had said something about how *your brother and I are irritated by your nonstop chattering* and Sherlock had immediately shut up. Not just for that moment but for *months.* Nearly a full year where he spoke only when spoken to, using the barest minimum of words and limiting himself to body language as often as was feasible. And Myc had seemed worried at first but then he'd smiled, joked that *this is the quietest holiday I've ever had* and so Sherlock kept it up for as long as he could. Of course eventually the terror wore off, transformed bit by bit into festering hatred and anger and frustration. No matter *what* he bloody did he would always find himself in violation of some rule or another, so Siger's lectures and punishments stopped being something to be avoided and instead became an inevitable part of life. It turned into a cycle – teased and bullied at school, tortured and tyrannised at home. Nowhere was safe. Mycroft was the only person in the entire universe who could be counted on to be supportive and helpful and *there*. But it wouldn't last, surely. Eventually his brother would realise what a burden Sherlock was and abandon him. Because Mycroft valued logic above all else, and *logically* there was no reason to care what happened to his overdramatic screw-up of a little brother. And if *Sherlock* had figured that out then it could only be a matter of time before it occurred to Mycroft as well. It had seemed to Sherlock that the loss of his only guardian might not be as painful if it happened all at once, like pulling off a plaster. So he'd switched from being as unobtrusive as possible to doing everything in his power to push Mycroft away. Insults and yelling and destroying his things… but none of it worked. Mycroft would get *annoyed*, yes, sometimes even angry. But he never left. *Never*, and it was *infuriating* because the longer Myc withstood Sherlock's onslaught of appalling behaviour the more Sherlock began to believe his brother might actually be impossible to drive away. The concept of *unconditional love* had never been something Sherlock took seriously – his mother's love was only ever valid if she was lucid enough to remember who he was, after all, and the thought of Siger expressing affection for another living being was ludicrous. But Mycroft… Mycroft might *actually love him*, and that was a terrifying thought. Because if he let himself believe that and turned out to be *wrong…* No. Mycroft *hated* him, that was that. Sarcasm and bitter sniping and cruel jokes, that was their relationship. Not *love.* They detested each other. Absolute *hatred* and neither would care if the other went away because it *didn't matter.* Nothing mattered. With a sudden, incoherent scream Sherlock whipped around and hurled the half-empty bottle of whiskey at a brick wall. Glass shattered with a satisfying crash, the liquor inside burst out and splattered to drip in sluggish streams to the pavement below. He took a single step away from the destruction he'd created and simply stood staring. His arms hung slack at his sides, chest heaving puffs of frozen air in thin clouds before his face. Whiskey slid in slow rivulets down the bricks, rich amber mingled with red. It looked like sickly pale blood. Blood didn't bother him. It never had, really, because when you were a child like Sherlock being raised by a man like Siger you got used to losing the stuff frequently. Not to mention school, where he'd always sported an ever-changing, continuously-updated collection of cuts and bruises. Blood was a fact of life. Allowing oneself to become upset at the sight of it would be foolish. Death didn't bother him either. Hadn't since he was about twelve, in fact, crying over a dead cat. Mycroft had been there, when the kitten Sherlock had stupidly allowed himself to get emotionally attached to was killed by a wild fox. *Calm down, Sherlock, it was only a cat.* Derisive, contemptuous… but *right*. Absolutely right. Sherlock had been an idiot. He'd ignored the cardinal rule of his existence – *trust nothing*. There was no such thing as permanence, nor security. Such concepts were illusions clutched by idiots who couldn't see how heartless and cruel the world really was. Seeking comfort in a dumb animal was only cathartic for as long as the creature survived. But all things inevitably died, and soon enough whatever comfort you'd gained from the relationship would shatter into a million splinters of pain and grief instead. It was the same with people. They always either left or attacked him, taunts and threats, revealing with a laugh and a sneer that they'd actually just been egged on by a friend to pretend to be nice to him before they went back to being bullies like everyone else. Don't trust a *single one*, nothing but a bunch of liars. He forced himself to learn to be completely self-sufficient instead. Relying on nothing but his own mind because the alternative would only ever result in disappointment. But even that strategy had failed in the end, hadn't it? Avoiding disappointment, that had been the goal. But wasn't he *always* disappointed? With his life, the world… with *himself?* Things he said or did or felt or *didn't* feel, always wrong or stupid, seemingly out of his control. And his *decisions*… Slowly he raised his left arm, crooked his hand to look at the veins of his wrist peeking out under the hem of his sweatshirt. A single pinprick marked the place where he'd attempted to use the delicate carpal vessels to shoot up, the larger veins of his forearm too weakened by the constant stress of injection to risk puncturing. A flash of realisation hit him – he *hadn't* been relying on himself. Cocaine had become his crutch, a wall of ice he hid behind because he was too scared of the world to stand on his own. Always running from the threat of rejection, frightened by the thought that people would hate him, attack him, mock him. But why? Mycroft *needed* to be liked. The man was a chameleon to the bitter end; he'd rather bite off his own tongue than drop the mask of careful perfection that earned him the respect of kings. Sherlock had tried to play perfect too. Imposing and aloof like his big brother and father always were. It hadn't worked, and without any other example to follow he'd thought himself a failure for not being able to erect the same careful barriers between his mind and reality. Now suddenly he found himself wondering why he'd ever wanted to be like them in the first place. Cocaine had brought him as close as he'd ever been to the studied poise of his brother, the closest he'd ever gotten to *normal.* But he hadn't been any happier that way. No, the happiest he ever recalled being were in these last few weeks with Eric. Laughing and playing stupid video games, drunken snogging and uncoordinated sex in back alleys in the middle of the night with no care given for dignity or composure. And yes, in the end Eric had rejected him like everyone else… but maybe that was just inevitable? Maybe Sherlock simply wasn't a *likeable person*. Did that really have to be a bad thing? Did he have to let it *bother* him? Or could he cut out that worry, erase the desire to *belong* like he'd erased his reaction to death? If he could find a way to accept his inherent freakishness and just do what he liked, *be* what he liked, without giving a damn whether anyone else supported him or understood... christ, but wouldn't everything be so much *easier?* No need to keep trying to force himself into a mould that never fit. He'd simply shape his own reality. He let his hand drop to his side once more and looked back to the wall. The whiskey had stopped dripping, a shining wet stain above a pile of broken glass. There was some kind of poignant metaphor in that, probably, but he wasn't in the mood to dwell on it. Instead a mantra of sorts had taken up the majority of available space in his head. A single sentence looping round and round, repeating but gaining volume each time. *I'm Sherlock Holmes…* it said, echoing off half-melted drifts of snow and sheets of thawing ice. … *and I'll be whatever I want.* **««** Sherlock didn't know how long he stood staring at the drying whiskey stain on the wall in front of him, but by the time his mind finally deigned once more to register the world around him he found the sky had begun to darken with rolling storm clouds and his thin frame was shivering violently. With a grimace he snapped fully out of his trance, hugged his arms close for the scant warmth and took a few steps back to take shelter under the awning of the building behind him. Freezing rain was beginning to pour from the sky, washing away the evidence of his emotional breakdown and chilling him to the bone in the process. He longed for his peacoat – not just for the warmth it would provide but for the half-dozen loaded syringes tucked into the lining. Yes, cocaine might have been his *crutch*, but having illuminating epiphanies wouldn't make withdrawal any less hellish. And anyway didn't *being whatever he wanted* include the option of being a drug addict? If it didn't it would have to, at least for awhile yet. Quitting cocaine would be a long, arduous process; something which quite frankly he didn't feel up to dealing with right now. Thinking he might have stashed a needle somewhere on his person he quickly patted down his pockets. All he found was a half-smashed packet of cigarettes and a nearly empty lighter, but *fuck it* that was good enough for now. He straightened out one of the two salvageable fags from where it had been partially crumpled and swore vehemently at the cheap plastic lighter until it consented to hold a brief flame. It winked out after half a second but that was long enough to get the stick alight, which was all he'd needed anyway. Warm smoke filled his lungs and helped to drive away some of the cold. Nicotine chased through capillaries up to his brain. He'd been a smoker for far too long to feel much in the way of a head rush anymore, but the familiar, repetitive motions took up the slack in calming his psyche. Soon enough the world ceased to feel quite so much like it was shattering to pieces around him. He leant back against the brick wall behind him to simply watch the rain fall. The fleeting moment of tranquility was broken by the sound of running feet and splashing puddles. Sherlock leant a bit to the side to glance up the street and found the rain-soaked form of Rhys dashing along the pavement toward him. "Professor!" the boy yelped, spotting him. "Jesus fuck where the fuck have you been I've been fuckin' running around looking for your dumbfuck arse for fucking *ages!*" "Five 'fuck's in a single sentence is a bit much, don't you think?" Sherlock asked blandly as he relaxed back against the wall. Rhys slid to a halt and stood panting in front of him. The teenager made a wild, indecipherable flailing sort of gesture and pointed back the way he'd come. "They're doing a fuckin' drugs bust or something! At the house! There's like a million cop cars and shit all down the bleedin' block!" A sudden stab of adrenaline tore through Sherlock's chest. "Are you sure?" "Yeah I'm fuckin' sure!" Rhys half-wailed. "What the fuck are we supposed to do!? Run? Is this when we run off, yeah, like outlaws!?" Instead of answering Sherlock pushed off the wall, tossed his half-finished cigarette into a puddle and took off running down the road in the direction Rhys had come from. "Whoa whoa, hey! Wrong way! Wait!" the teenager called after him. Sherlock heard the sounds of the boy's footsteps following him, falling behind thanks to Sherlock's longer strides, but he didn't slow down. Had to get back in time to keep Eric from being arrested; the man would never survive a prison sentence. Not of the length he'd be facing. Couldn't abide the thought of him panicking under some detective's ruthless interrogation technique, either, nor of how he'd fare in the midst of hardened prisoners. Too awful to even imagine. As Sherlock ran some illogical impulse drove him to dig his mobile out of his jeans pocket. Mycroft had never responded to his text; maybe the stupid bastard would deign to answer a call instead. His brother had to be directly involved in this, after all - timing was far too perfect to be a coincidence. "You sodding fat *fuck*!" he yelled into the handset as the over-polite tones of Mycroft's answerphone instructed him to leave a message. "If you wanted me brought in you could have bloody well managed it without *fucking over my friends!*" With a vicious snarl he snapped the mobile shut, not even registering precisely what he'd said, and sprinted the last few metres to swing round the side of a townhouse just down the street from the distribution ring's headquarters. He stopped short at the sight of three squadcars pulled up to the kerb around the house. "*See!?"* Rhys exclaimed from behind him. The boy caught up in a few exhausted steps and leant against the bricks beside them, panting. "I f-fuckin' told you! Now let's get the fuck out of h-" Sherlock stopped listening, too focused on the man he'd just spotted loitering by the side of one of the police vehicles. Close-cropped hair - military cut - dark suit, leather gloves, transparent earpiece. Holding himself like a soldier but clearly not in active service judging by lack of tan lines or recent injuries… had to be an MI5 agent. Mycroft was dead bloody serious this time. Suddenly the man seemed to startle. He took a mobile device out of the label pocket of his suit, looked down at the phone, then glanced up… right in the direction of Sherlock and Rhys. A bolt of panic shot him through as Sherlock instantly realised the cause – he was still being traced. Mycroft's lackeys would know exactly where he was at all times so long as his phone retained sufficient power to broadcast a signal. Quickly he backed away around the corner, tugging Rhys with him, and hurried to remove the battery from his mobile one-handed. "What the fuck's going on!?" Rhys yelped as Sherlock physically dragged him along the pavement. "My phone's being tracked by a government agent." Finally the battery was free. Just to be safe he popped out the SIM card too. Then in a split-second decision Sherlock stopped short and shoved the phone along with its power cell into Rhys' hand. "What…?" Rhys asked, baffled. Sherlock pocketed the SIM card and took a step back. "I have to leave, you can't come with me and I probably won't be returning. That model's worth a few hundred pounds at least, sell it and find a place to stay." Without waiting for an answer Sherlock shoved the boy into an alcove to their left, then ducked back out into the street. He flipped a jaunty little wave to the agent just now coming round the corner. "Looking for me?" he quipped with a deliberately infuriating grin. "Mr Holmes?" the man replied, looking slightly startled. He swiftly regained his composure and produced an ID badge from his trouser pocket to brandish with his next words. "Sir, you need to come with-" "Yes, yes, come quietly or the entire Secret Service will be down on my head. I *have* been through this before, you know." "Well then, if you'd please just follow me…" the man had stopped a few metres away in response to his quarry's apparent compliance, which was exactly what Sherlock had been expecting him to do. Sherlock tucked his hands into his pockets and smirked. "You've been warned I might become violent, I imagine?" The man was watching him warily. "Yes." "Excellent." In a flash Sherlock darted forward, aimed a punch directly for the other man's head. At the last moment he jerked his fist back and twisted out of the way, then took advantage the man's momentary confusion *(vaguely threatening banter, surprise attack, expecting a fight that never came)* to instead dart to the side out of reach and sprint down the pavement. The MI5 agent yelled something after him but Sherlock was already too far away to hear it clearly. Rather than look back he simply focused on running, knowing the man would miss Rhys in his haste to pursue the primary target. If all went well Sherlock could… *aha!* a fire ladder hung off the side of a building in front of him, and he quickly scaled it to reach the rooftops. Tiles slick with rain, but he ignored the danger and pressed on until he was well out of sight. With any luck the agent would assume he'd continued to run down the pavement, wouldn't even think to try climbing. After a few minutes of frenzied roof-hopping Sherlock felt safe enough to stop and take stock of his location. He was still within sight of Clapham Road, clinging somewhat precariously to a heating unit on the top of a business some hundred metres from where he'd started. The rain had soaked straight through his clothes ages ago and withdrawal was beginning to make him tremble with fatigue. Didn't care, though - better things to do than wallow in self-pity over his miserable condition. He squinted through the storm, trying to find the right… *ah!* That way! With only a slight slip in the puddles on the roof Sherlock made his way to the awning and hopped down to a lower part of the building, then finally to the street. After a short pause to get his bearings he took off again. Vauxhall was only a scant mile or so off, he could make it across the river in twenty minutes. The rain began to fall in earnest. Sherlock ignored it. He had business to take care of. **««** Bursting through the front doors of Thames House, soaking wet and shivering with a furious expression on his face and the gaunt, half-starved frame of a crazed drug addict was not, in all honesty, the most reasonable plan of action Sherlock had ever concocted. He was a bit past the point of giving a damn though, and so with nary a pause for the startled adults around him he stalked toward the front desk where a secretary was seated. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am classified as a priority one protected asset and I demand to speak to my brother immediately." He punctuated his sentence by slamming his ID card onto the counter in front of her, which he'd thankfully been carrying around in his jeans pocket rather than his peacoat ever since realising the presence of his billfold alongside several syringes full of cocaine would be enough to charge him with a drugs offence. The woman jumped slightly, leaning back, but quickly recovered her composure. "You need to speak to…? Oh, er… I'm… sorry, sir, but Mr Holmes is in a meeting at the moment." "Fuck his meeting!" Sherlock snarled. "Tell him his little brother is *requesting an audience* and if he doesn't get his fat arse out here *right bloody now* I'm going to tear his fucking head off!" The secretary blinked once, then coughed nervously. "I'm… I'm afraid you'll have to wait in the lobby, sir. I'm not authorised to interru-" She cut off with a small shriek of alarm as Sherlock lunged forward. A few of the men milling around nearby started toward them to restrain the dripping-wet junkie accosting their secretary, but Sherlock had already gotten a glimpse of the office dossier on the woman's desk and whipped around to sprint for the side door. Mycroft had a corner office on the third floor*, of course he fucking did.* Sherlock ran for the stairs. Breaking into the headquarters of MI5 should probably have been significantly more of a challenge than simply running in like a maniac, but he seemed to have caught the advantage of surprise on his side. Nobody expected a psychotic cocaine addict to come crashing down the hall during the middle of an otherwise-dull workday, after all, so he managed to duck and twist his way around the scant few agents who tried to stop him. Finally he crashed into the stairwell and rocketed up the stone steps to the third floor. Nameplates and numbers flashed by as he ran down the hallway. At last he spotted an etched plaque bearing the words *MYCROFT HOLMES* on a rich mahogany door at the end. He burst into the office at a dead sprint. "*Mycroft!"* The man in question startled and looked up to the door, visibly surprised. "Sherlock! How-?" he started, but cut himself off. Abruptly his eyes flicked to the only other occupant of the room – the figure sitting across the desk from him. Sherlock turned his gaze to the man as well and felt his furious expression drop into a look of cold shock. *What…?* Siger Holmes set down an ornate teacup he'd been just about to drink from and turned to regard him bemusedly. "Ah, Sherlock," the man droned with an affable smile. "What a pleasant surprise." Sherlock stared at his ex-father for a split second more, then shifted his eyes back to Mycroft with a questioning *(betrayed!)* look. His brother's face seemed to flash pained regret for an instant, but within milliseconds the flat mask of emotionless poise returned. Mycroft turned to their father with an air of unruffled composure. "It appears you were correct, sir," he commented blandly as he leant back in his chair. "Of course I was," Siger intoned with a false chuckle. "The boy is utterly predictable. You know that as well as I do." Sherlock's gaze shot back and forth between the two men, his hand still flat on the wood paneling of the door where he'd shoved it open. He was soaked to the bone and shivering, but he doubted it was the rainwater making his chest feel as if ice were creeping up through his lungs. *This isn't happening… it's not what it looks like this can't be happening no christ no…* Finally his eyes settled back on his brother. The man was watching him impassively. "You…" Sherlock started, but that was as far as he got before an unexpected hand on the side of his head and a prick at his throat cut him off. He jerked forward in surprise and whipped around to see a dark-suited man draw away from him holding an empty syringe. Sherlock clapped a hand to his neck, felt the blood oozing from his carotid artery. He blinked once and turned back to stare at Mycroft in disbelief. "Myc…" he muttered blankly, stupidly. The drug was already permeating his brain, the world seeming to slow down as colours bent and blurred together. As he watched his brother's face Sherlock imagined he saw guilt written there… but the grey haze beginning to creep around the edges of his vision made it hard to know for sure. The world went dark. **««** ## Chapter 8: We Are **««** **8. We Are** Mycroft forced his expression to remain neutral as he watched his baby brother's eyes *(full of confusion, pain, betrayal… lord no don't dwell don't analyse don't think about it)* go hazy and roll back into his head. Sherlock's hand fell away from his neck as the boy's too-thin, haggard body crumpled beneath him to fall in a heap on the expensive carpeting. The agent who'd been assigned to incapacitate the intruder stepped forward and placed two fingers on Sherlock's wrist. "Pulse is stable, sir," the man announced after a pause. Siger smiled serenely and set down his untouched tea. "A well-orchestrated attempt to hide him from me, I'll give you that," he said with a slight chuckle to his voice. Mycroft took a microsecond to ensure his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever before responding. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Siger smirked. "Oh come now, child. Let's not forget who held your position before you, hm? You've had passive tracking on his wireless signal for well over a fortnight." "A signal is no guarantee of whereabouts, as I'm sure you're aware," Mycroft responded evenly. Siger just smiled. "Quite true, my boy. Unless you've expressly ordered him to carry his mobile at all times, which you'd have done the moment you re-established contact." He leant back in his chair with a look very close to smug amusement. "If it were anyone else I'd have assumed immediate disposal of the device regardless of instructions. But with Sherlock, of course, we have to take into account certain... emotional aspects." Siger shook his head, smirking, and looked back at the heap on the floor which was his former son. "Trusts his big brother not to betray him. How touching." Mycroft held his tongue - biting back the childish retort *(I wouldn't have!)* before it could escape. Turned his mind to other matters instead. Assessment of plans, predicting outcomes... Sherlock had quite obviously dodged the agent Mycroft had sent to intercept him. Should have known it would happen, of course; perhaps sent in more than a single man. But on short notice and under scrutiny it had been the most he could do. At the very least he'd hoped his brother would deign to exercise a modicum of foresight for once in his life and take to the back streets again, evade Siger's pursuit just as efficiently as he'd always slipped out from under Mycroft's nose. But then no, clearly that was *far* too much to ask. As their Father had so succinctly put it, the boy was utterly predictable. In a flash of anger he'd go straight for the source to accost the perceived instigator, take physical action rather than pause for five minutes to stop and bloody *think.* And that, of course, led directly to a sopping-wet teenager *(no, wait, he'd turned twenty now, hadn't he?)* bursting into Mycroft's office in the midst of a clandestine meeting, shouting like a lunatic. Bursting into his *supposedly-secure* office which was located in the middle of *MI5 headquarters*, no less. Of all the ways to make an entrance. With this thought Mycroft leant back in his chair slightly and regarded his father. "You arranged for him to be allowed access to the building." It wasn't a question - it didn't need to be, they both knew what had to have happened. Siger smiled benignly and confirmed the statement with a small incline of his head regardless. "Of course. Why go to all the bother of chasing down and cornering the boy when he's willing to present himself on a silver platter?" Mycroft had no real answer for that - nothing he could articulate, in any case. More than anything he was finding himself angry. With himself, for allowing what should have really been a simple investigation-leading-to-arrest to blossom into something more befitting a spy drama than anything; with his father, for... well, for *being his father*, mostly. Siger Holmes was a force all to himself, Mycroft had accepted that long ago, but it would be nice once in awhile if the man could be just a *tad* less of a raging psychopath. And above all angry with *Sherlock*, for failing to have any sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Granted he could hardly be faulted for that, considering the circumstances, but still the utter lack of common sense remained aggravating. Everything was building up into a very uncharacteristic tangle of raw emotion. Not something Mycroft could afford right now. Leaning forward slightly he rose from his seat, allowed the usual wall of frozen apathy to guard his words and actions before he turned his gaze to the body on the floor of his office. The room was silent - everyone waiting for his decision to inform their next move. Siger sat slightly to the side, unruffled as ever and smiling with the air of a man watching a mildly amusing play. The agent *(not one Mycroft recognised - most likely MI6, recruited through one of Siger's old contacts... perhaps not even a government employee, have to keep watch on him)* stood at attention above his downed target, hands tucked neatly behind his back in a parade rest posture. And Sherlock, of course, lay unconscious at their feet - soaked through by the rain, paler than death, and far too thin. Mycroft regarded his little brother for perhaps a microsecond longer than necessary, (causing Siger's smile to deepen into a smirk) then turned toward the window behind him. "Have the boy transported to a holding cell," he ordered in a bland monotone. "I will deal with him later." "North block, second level," Siger put in before the agent could act on the instruction. Mycroft didn't bother to belay the (technically invalid) locational order - it hardly mattered what he said at this point, Father had obviously been planning this for quite some time and would ensure things went his way. The most Mycroft could hope for was that the distraction of abducting Sherlock had been sufficient to keep Siger's attention away from more important matters. As if reading his thoughts, Siger rose and made his way around the desk to stand by his son. "You allowed this to happen," he intoned quietly. "Don't forget that, child." And with that he turned, flipped a nonchalant wave over his shoulder (which Mycroft could see in the reflection off the windowpanes)... and was gone. Mycroft waited a few seconds to be sure the man had really left, then, his poised stance deflating, rubbed a hand down his face and sighed. *Damn it, Sherlock...* was all he could think. **««** Consciousness did not come gradually. No, one moment he'd been staring at his brother's face, watching the haze of grey creeping around the edges of awareness like static on a television. It seemed to Sherlock that he'd blinked - just the once - and immediately found himself sprawled across a hard surface. Plastic, cold when he shifted his hand, the barest hint of cushioning. He reluctantly opened his eyes *(when had he closed them?)* and regarded what appeared to be a hard slat of an institutionalised mattress under his face. It took a moment to register the significance. Not that he really had any idea where he might be, but as bits and pieces of the last few hours (?) began to coalesce in his head the picture became clearer. Hard, easily-washable mattress, grey cinder walls, heavy bolted door. He was in a holding cell of some sort. With a very slight groan he attempted to push himself into a sitting position – more difficult than it really should have been. His head felt like a lead weight hanging off his neck, brain reduced to nothing so much as a dense coagulation of fog and swampland. Sticky, viscous mud and clinging wreaths of mist circling round the intermittent vortices of sickening nausea. No room for thinking, just the vague, subconscious directive to get upright. Finally after what seemed an eternity he managed to sit up. Braced himself with his arms and slowly looked around him. Cell, definitely. No identifying features whatsoever – at least none that he could make sense of right now. He stifled another noise of discomfort and raised a hand to his head. What the *hell* had he been drugged with? Didn't feel like an opiate, though to be fair his experience with such substances was rather limited. That left… wait, fuck, he didn't actually know what alternatives that left. Of course he didn't - he was a bloody *stimulant addict*, why would he care about depressants? Fucking idiotic thing to even be thinking about. The upsurge of pointless, desperate anger at so stupid a topic told him he was very definitely in the midst of a cocaine crash. Nothing in the way of a headache, though, so he'd either slept through the initial withdrawal symptoms or whatever he'd been knocked out with had been an analgesic of some sort. Not that he particularly cared either way – no, more important was finding out what the hell was going on. He carefully leant back against the concrete wall behind him, ignoring the way his vision twisted and bucked with the movement, and made a token attempt to drag his legs into a lotus position. Couldn't quite manage – muscles didn't seem too enthusiastic about working correctly – so instead he made due with tucking one leg under his thigh. A sharp corner poked into his flesh through one of his pockets. Cigarette packet. They'd left it on him? Nicotine would help the nausea, probably. Assuming he could even manage to light a fag in this state... or retrieve one, for that matter. His arm was frustratingly unresponsive but he forced it to reach down and retrieve the little cardboard box from his jeans pocket. Alright, one step covered. Next...? Oh, right. Lighter. Found it, other pocket. Oh *fuck's sake*, it was out, wasn't it? He flicked the spark experimentally regardless, was irritably unsurprised when nothing happened. Why the *hell* had he even been carrying around a near-empty lighter? With a slight growl he attempted to chuck the useless thing at the far wall. It only flew about half a metre. Muscular weakness. Distressing. Not much he could do about it, however, so he just scowled impotently at the cheap blue plastic case resting incongruous against the hard grey cement in front of him. Whatever, fine. So he could barely move and nicotine was not an option. Didn't matter, focus on other things. Figure out how he'd gotten here - *think.* Facts first: Mycroft. Been in a meeting with Father? *Why?* Working together? Unlikely, they were on opposite sides of legality. More likely a plot of some sort. Both attempting to manipulate the other for political gain. But set in motion by whom? Mycroft had a vested interest in destroying Siger, thanks to his rising position with MI5, but he hadn't made any moves to do so yet. No reason to start *now*, of all times. Siger, on the other hand, could very easily have been developing a new criminal venture of some sort for which he required Mycroft's cooperation. In that case conspiring to have Sherlock on hand as a bargaining chip made sense. But then again, the drugs bust on the distribution's headquarters had to have been orchestrated by Mycroft - Siger didn't have enough influence in domestic intelligence to deploy MI5 agents. Why would Mycroft want to drag Sherlock into the thick of a squabble with Father? He'd only be inconveniencing himself. Unless it had been some sort of attempt to… no, that didn't... but then… or wait… *ugh* christ why the *fuck* did his family have to be a load of bloody scheming masterminds? Sherlock groaned to himself again and thumped his head gently on the wall behind him, which turned out to be a poor idea as the action made his vision seem to fuzz out for a moment. He blinked a few times to clear it, realising as he did so that he'd somehow ended up collapsed over onto his side on the stiff cushion. How in hell had *that* happened? He didn't remember falling. Scowling, he pushed himself upright again. Head swimming with nausea, but he ignored it. Christ, this was getting ridiculous – someone would no doubt be coming through that door any moment to… well, he wasn't really sure. Collect him or interrogate him (about *what?*) or any of a million other things. All depended on who'd decided to capture him and why. Whatever the case he needed to be at least somewhat capable of defending himself should things take a poor turn. That meant staying upright, moving, keeping his blood flowing so the drug would clear out of his system faster. Should probably try to walk, then. Door had a large viewing window, wired glass, reinforced – anything of interest outside? Hallway, might be useful information. Worth a shot anyway. He stared determinedly at it and without giving himself a chance to think further forced his legs to haul his body into a standing position. Floor. That was his very next thought – also unfortunately his very next sight. He blinked at his hand splayed out on the concrete beside his face, feeling as if a section of memory had been surgically removed from his brain. That or the universe had quite suddenly decided to stop behaving in a logical manner. Stand up then floor? Didn't make sense, not right at all. There were supposed to be intermediate steps in there somewhere. After a few seconds' staring at his own hand he eventually came to the conclusion that, in all probability, the universe had not in fact chosen to take a holiday from logical progression of action. No, the problem was that his head was scrambled. And while that perhaps should have been somewhat comforting *(drugs would wear off, after all, while the universe likely wouldn't deign to return to normal circumstances once changed)* Sherlock instead found it rather terrifying. For god's sake all he bloody *had* was his brain. What was he if not his intelligence? Without wits and logic he was *nothing*, just a common worthless lunatic, burden on society - and oh god, wait, but what if this was just the final stage of a process they'd started *ages* ago? He'd been steadily losing hold of his mental stability at an ever-increasing pace over the last few months, after all; had that really all been down to the cocaine? They'd knocked him out that night before rehab, remember - no idea what he'd been duped into injecting himself with, could have been *anything...* On from anger to paranoia, then, and while in a strictly clinical sense Sherlock understood what his mind was doing right now – buckling under the combination of cocaine withdrawal with an unknown substance, lack of nicotine and god knew what else – it still didn't help to ease the gnawing fear that he'd been permanently damaged somehow. With a grimace he shut his eyes. Alright, no, stop thinking in circles... calm down, *breathe*. Take a moment to reorient. Soon enough the world would filter back down into a more manageable state, just had to wait for his brain to reboot. Everything was fine. "Having a rough time of it, are we?" a voice broke in to the otherwise-oppressive silence of the holding cell, and Sherlock blinked out of the inadvertent haze of twilight sleep he'd somehow drifted into upon closing his eyes. He craned his neck to regard the cell door *(realising as he did so that he was no longer quite as horrifically dizzy as he had been, and that his joints were now feeling stiff and achy rather than fluid and unresponsive - sedatives starting to wear off, then... how long had he been lying on the floor...?)* and spotted a dark-eyed, brown-haired young man watching him with a look of amusement. Sherlock scowled. "Fuck off," he mumbled irritably. Without really even registering what he'd said he set about shoving himself into something approaching a sitting position. A careful shake of his head didn't produce the same spinning nausea as the action had earlier, was even able to raise a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose with a grimace against a blossoming headache without much issue. And oh good *god*, there was the cocaine withdrawal - fucking hell, he'd almost preferred the sedative. Maybe if he antagonised the guard or whoever it was they'd knock him unconscious again. "Well that's not a very nice way to say hello," the unidentified man at the door said with a slight whingeing pout to his voice. Sherlock scrunched his face up in confusion and finally turned his head to get a proper look at the stranger. It wasn't just a *young* man, he realised, but a *very* young man - around Sherlock's age, perhaps even a year or so his junior. And through the wired glass of the door's reinforced windowpane Sherlock could see that the boy was clothed in a casual blue buttonup and trousers. Expensive, yes, and visibly bespoke, but not a uniform of any sort. This wasn't a guard - he wasn't even an *employee.* "Who the hell are you?" Sherlock asked somewhat blankly. Not the most eloquent line of questioning, true, but then his head was still muddled. The boy in the window grinned, shrugging his shoulders with a slight bounce. "Oh, nobody." Sherlock scowled at the non-answer and set about grabbing up his lighter from the floor in front of him, then his cig packet off the cot behind. Both useless to him at the moment, unfortunately, but he felt better having them in their correct places in his jeans pockets regardless. He resolved to ignore the grinning twat in the window for now - either it was someone's wayward son attempting to rile up inmates *(and that begged all sorts of questions concerning where exactly this was)* or a hallucination of some sort, and Sherlock had little desire to interact with either option. "More interesting, I think, is who *you* are," the stranger went on when it became clear Sherlock wasn't about to pick up the thread of conversation. His over-perky accent carried a hint of an Irish lilt. "A twenty-something junkie in the custody of MI6? Rather strange. *And* you're a British citizen too, obviously, so not likely a terror suspect... maybe even *related* to someone. Actually, did you know you and Mycroft Holmes have the same eyes?" Sherlock's gaze snapped up at the sound of his brother's name, and he glared as the boy in the door grinned even wider. "That's a *yes,* is it?" he crooned with a slight snicker to his tone. "So big bad Mister Holmes had his own little brother locked up? Oh, that's *tragic.*" "What are you, then, the warden's son or something?" Sherlock finally got round to hauling himself to a standing position (using a not-insignificant amount of assistance from the steel frame of the cot beside him, though he chose to ignore that little detail). "Hah! No, I wish though!" the boy replied with a chuckle. "Can you imagine the sort of things you'd have access to with a dad in Military Intelligence? Oh, well, actually I guess you don't have to. What was Siger Holmes when he retired, some sort of senior MI6 commander?" Sherlock just glared again, though this time with a slight hint of confusion creeping into his expression. Siger, as far as he knew, had been an unrevealed asset for the majority of his government career. *(Most likely because admitting to employing violent psychopaths in key foreign affairs capacities would not have been an advisable public relations tactic.)* And yet this person appeared to know accurate information about his prior rank. And had also at the very least an approximation of Mycroft's physical appearance, detailed enough to identify shared family traits. Strange. Even somewhat worrisome, perhaps, though of course Sherlock wasn't exactly of a mind to give half a shit about his brother's possible security leaks. "Oh I know all about the Holmes family." The boy in the window once again seemed to read Sherlock's thoughts. "Well, *almost* all about them. I didn't know who you were, of course... looks like they cut you out of a lot of documentation. But isn't that *fascinating?* A whole son they kept out of sight! Though, granted, I can see why. Oxford dropout, drug addict... not exactly much to write home about, are you? Plus I'm pretty sure you're gay and that can't have helped anything." Sherlock fixed his unwelcome visitor with a flat stare, carefully masking the sense of creeping unease his words were beginning to instil. This stranger knew *far* too much about him and and his family, all apparently out of nowhere. And, yes, there was always the possibility that he'd looked up the details in a file system somewhere... but for some reason Sherlock was getting the distinct impression that he hadn't. It was unnerving. Also vaguely irritating - stupid bastard thought he knew *everything,* did he? Well, two could play at that game. "And you're the son of a self-made businessman, moderate wealth though you try to give the impression of having more means than you really do, high intelligence and the ability to con your way into and out of dangerous situations - obviously you aren't meant to be in here, but the fact that no one's raised an alarm yet means you either slipped in undetected or fabricated a reason to be allowed access - and you've dropped out of university too, only you still keep up the pretence of attendance to appease your parents who know nothing of your illicit wanderings through secure facilities and in fact think you're a pleasant young man with an interest in... mathematics, I'd guess? Not an applied field, something theoretical." The boy laughed, clapping his hands and bouncing on the balls of his feet like a giddy schoolgirl. "Oh, yes! I *like* you, you're fun!" Sherlock grit his teeth against a burst of hot pain through his skull at the shrill tones of the other man's voice. "*Wonderful*," he bit out. "If you're quite through watching me like a goldfish I would be much obliged if you'd either open the door or fuck off." The young man blinked, then looked down at the door in front of him with a half-startled, somewhat-bewildered expression, like he hadn't even realised it was there. "Oh!" His confused expression split into a grin again. "You want out? *Hmm*... alright, hang on." Sherlock let himself fall back to sit heavily on the cot once more as the irritating stranger disappeared from sight. He huffed a tired sigh to himself. Well, this was just *brilliant*. Taken into custody by the bloody *government*, under sedation no less, and now about to break out of a secure holding cell with the aid of what for all intents and purposes appeared to be a complete lunatic. This day just kept getting better and better. Without even thinking about it he fished his cigarette packet out of his pocket, then scowled at the single, un-lightable fag rattling around within. What a fucking stupid way to quit smoking. **««** Within a quarter hour or so there was a soft beep, followed by a whirring noise, and the cell's locking mechanism clicked as it shifted. Sherlock blinked out of the semi-trance he'd lapsed into (still feeling the effects of the sedative, and above all else absolutely *exhausted* thanks to the lack of nicotine or cocaine) and forced his uncooperative body to stand. The dark-eyed stranger appeared seconds later and tugged the door open with a flourish. "*Ta-da!*" he exclaimed happily. "Sorry about the wait, took some doing with the overrides. But then you know these people don't ever really have half the network security they think they do. *Especially* when they leave their terminals logged in over their lunch break - can you believe it? Message windows open and everything! Idiots, *honestly*." Sherlock stepped forward and regarded the other boy carefully for a second, then exited the cell. No alarms went off, no guards came running... no, just an empty corridor lined with numbered doors, all lit with industrial bulbs spaced evenly down the hall. He glanced around, then over to his erstwhile partner-in-crime. "What were you doing here in the first place?" The young man grinned as he shut the cell door, then tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and began to stroll down the hallway. Sherlock followed. "Oh, not much. Just looking around, really." He shrugged. "Dad always drags us off to London over the holidays, *family vacation*, I guess. Boring as anything. Thought I'd see what trouble I could get into while everyone's off down the shops." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So you broke into a military holding facility... because you were bored." "Yep!" the stranger chirped happily. He spun on his heel to grin at Sherlock, raising his hands to indicate the space around them. "Isn't it brilliant? All I had to do was forge some paperwork, pretend like my Dad worked here, then I just found a computer and... well, that wasn't so easy, actually, but I got it sorted. The thing is you can't just switch off *all* the security, then they'll know something's up. Got to go in bits and pieces." "Obviously." Sherlock tried not to sound as blankly bewildered as he was beginning to feel. For some deranged reason he found himself wondering suddenly if this was how other people saw *him*; rambling on about seemingly-incomprehensible nonsense, acting as if things like *hacking into a bloody MI6 network from inside the building itself* were just another amusing diversion. A brief burst of denial - no, no, surely not, he wasn't nearly this strange... but, then, after a seconds' deliberation he was forced to come to the conclusion that, indeed, this was quite likely an accurate example of how he tended to appear to the average human being when not off his face on cocaine. The knowledge was somewhat distressing. Although, sadly, it did explain rather a lot; this little bastard was bloody *irritating.* If Sherlock was half as much of an annoyance... well, it only made sense for people to seek out ways to shut him up, didn't it? Couldn't blame anyone for wanting to end a load of rambling nonsense. And if violence happened to work well for that purpose... well, whose fault was that? He was the one who'd decided to respond to pain by going quiet and unobtrusive, after all. No one but himself to blame. So really then it had all been justified, hadn't it. Always known it was. He quickly shook his head to dispel a buzz of self-loathing before it could fester any further. Ugh, this always happened when he was crashing - lack of dopamine, serotonin and god-knew-what-else rendered his brain prone to anxiety attacks, bouts of maudlin dysphoria, *depression*. Wouldn't work this time, though... no, not when he was aware of it. Just because his mind liked to function in an uncontrollable scattered mess of thoughts and emotions all the damned time didn't mean he couldn't at least make an effort to keep hold of the reins. "You know, you don't seem very pleased with your freedom," the hacker suddenly said with a pout, interrupting Sherlock's vicious internal diatribe. "Actually you look a tad *grouchy*. Did you want to go back to your cell and have a nap, maybe?" Sherlock glared at him. "I'm coming off multiple classes of drugs and I haven't had a smoke in..." he paused, realising he actually had no idea what time it was and no means of finding out; "... *far* too long. I'm not going to be pleased with *anything*." "Oh. Well... fair enough, I guess." His companion shrugged. "Just seems like you could show a *bit* more gratitude to the dashing gentleman who so graciously decided to facilitate your escape from MI6 custody." "Thank you," Sherlock responded in a supremely unimpressed deadpan. The other boy grinned, apparently pleased with himself, and sauntered on ahead of him. As they walked along the hall Sherlock again pulled out his lighter, scowling down at it as he flicked the spark. Nothing. Not that it would really be a good idea to attempt to have a smoke in the midst of escaping from a military prison anyway... but good god the lack of nicotine was starting to make his skull feel like it had cracked in half. Maybe if he just *ate* the tobacco...? Ugh, no *christ*. He wasn't *that* pathetic. "I think there's a shipping exit this way," the other boy said over his shoulder. "Though I can't imagine how on earth you're planning to dodge your brother once you're out. I mean you do realise Mycroft Holmes is just about the most powerful man in the world right now?" "He is not," Sherlock countered irritably, slipping his useless lighter back into his jeans pocket. The hacker *hmm'*ed in disagreement. "No... I'm pretty sure he *is.* I've been trying to figure a way to get close to him for *ages*, you know. Practically impossible to get within a hundred metres of the man." Sherlock scoffed. "I ran into Thames House and up to his office without much trouble, can't be *that* difficult." "Right, and that obviously ended really well for you." The boy rolled his eyes, then his expression shifted into something a bit more thoughtful. "Though, granted... getting yourself criminally detained *is* a rather good way to come into contact with the higher-ups. But then of course you'll only ever get the attention of someone like *Mr Holmes* if you're related to him..." He trailed off for a moment, then looked back toward Sherlock with a vaguely menacing smirk. "... or if you *associate* with someone related to him." Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion - was that some sort of *threat,* or...? But his thoughts were derailed as What's-His-Name quite suddenly stopped in his tracks and grabbed Sherlock by the forearm to tug them both backwards against the wall. "What-?" Sherlock started, but the other boy put a finger to his lips in a *shush*ing motion. A meaningful glance above them drew Sherlock's attention to a security camera panning directly over their heads. "Can't disable *everything,* remember?" the hacker whispered, a childish grin playing at his lips. Sherlock nodded his understanding as they watched the camera continue to scan the hall. "We're in a blind spot?" "No, I've just got a thing for standing stock-still against walls." Complete deadpan. Sherlock frowned at the insipid sarcasm but managed to bite back his retort. Now wasn't exactly the opportune moment for trading barbs. A few more seconds passed before Sherlock's companion apparently deemed the coast clear and tugged them both towards a branch in the hallway a few metres down from where they stood. Sherlock obligingly hung back as the shorter boy stuck his head round the corner to check for further surveillance. "*Whoops!* Wow, alright, maybe not that way..." he exclaimed suddenly in a startled half-mumble, jerking his head out of the line of sight of the other hallway. Sherlock backed up a step as the other nearly collided with him in his haste to retreat. The hacker turned to shove lightly at Sherlock's chest in indication that they should go back the way they'd come. "Nevermind, we'll just try the south... oh, er..." He abruptly cut off and glanced at something over Sherlock's shoulder. His dark eyes flicked back to meet Sherlock's questioning look, expression shifting into a strange, half-delighted, half-guilty sort of wince. "Seems we've been rumbled, honey." Sherlock shot the other boy an alarmed glare and made to turn around. Before he could complete the motion however he was stopped dead in his tracks by the feeling of cold metal on the back of his neck. *Gun barrel.* His eyes widened and he looked back to his erstwhile companion, who responded with a vaguely sheepish smile and a shrug. "Hands up, no other movements," a voice commanded in clipped military tones from behind Sherlock's back. He really didn't need to be told twice. In front of him the insane boy had obeyed as well, pale hands rising aloft over his shoulders as yet another manic grin began to spread across his face. He eyed what was presumably the government agent holding Sherlock at gunpoint. "Oh *dear*, done the rounds early have they?" he asked the man with a bit of a false pout to his voice. *"Seems someone missed you!"* he added to Sherlock in a mock-conspiratory stage whisper, nearly giggling. Sherlock fixed him with a furious glare. They'd just been caught red-handed trying to escape, why the hell was the idiot *laughing!?* First chance he got he was going to bloody *strangle* the little-! "Hm, sounds as if we've had a small incident." Sherlock felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. A new voice had come drifting around the corner from the hall ahead of them, and he'd recognise its low, flat timbre anywhere. He tried to ignore the sensation of blood draining from his face and forced himself to look up as Siger Holmes stepped around the corner from the hall Sherlock and the other boy had just been about to head down. Sherlock's ex-father stopped in the middle of the walkway and raised a single eyebrow at the two youths frozen before him. An older, besuited gentleman stepped into view a split-second later, having apparently been walking alongside Siger in conversation; the distinguished cut of his suit coupled with the clear, wired earpiece and lapel pin marked him as a probable military official of some sort. His expression mirrored Siger's look of bland incredulity as he too took in the scene. "Your boy been making friends, Siger?" the man asked casually after a pause, an amused smirk beginning to pull at the edges of his thick moustache. Siger appeared to be significantly less entertained by the situation. His gaze slid away from the still-grinning hacker to meet Sherlock's eyes with a frigid glare. "It would seem so." Every corner of Sherlock's mind was screaming at him to stand up straight, glare right back, be *defiant* - Siger held no authority over him. Not legally and not physically; that old handicap of Sherlock being too small to defend himself was a thing of the past. He could fight, now. Perhaps not quite as skillfully as Siger but he could still hold his own, do some damage. He wasn't just a frightened little boy anymore. Reminding himself of this didn't seem to matter in the slightest, though, because with no drugs to bolster his confidence and trapped with a gun to his neck he felt his body shrinking into an instinctive cringe. Horrifying. Especially so when he found himself having to smother the ridiculous instinct to start stammering apologies *(he refused to admit how close he'd come to blurting out an alarmed 'sorry, sir')*. Normally he'd not be this cowed - he *knew* he was capable of standing up to his father *(though admittedly doing so had never ended well),* but despite every attempt to put on a brave front it seemed the combination of stimulant withdrawal and general mental stress had forced some sort of behavioural default. He'd become trapped in the submissive mannerisms of his childhood. The government official at Siger's side had apparently chosen to ignore the man's near-cowering ex-son. Instead he was busy eyeing Sherlock's lunatic partner-in-crime with an appraising look. "How in hell's name did you get in here, lad?" The hacker shrugged, his mad grin shifting into a deliberately-infuriating smirk. "Magic." The official raised his eyebrows and glanced sidelong at Siger. "Not one of yours, I hope?" "I know nothing of the Irish boy," Siger replied in a bland monotone. "Doubtless a worthwhile source of inquiry, however." His companion nodded, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. After a pause he gestured to someone standing behind the two young men. Sherlock felt the cold steel of the gun barrel leave his neck as the agent instead pointed it toward the hacker. "*Ooh*, am I to be *interrogated?*" he exclaimed cheerfully as the gun levelled on his face. Siger's military associate raised his eyebrows again, but apparently didn't deem that question worth answering. Instead he looked back to Sherlock. "You'll be taking custody of this one, I expect?" he said, addressing Siger even as he continued to study Sherlock's face. Sherlock tried not to swallow convulsively as he caught sight of his ex-father's offhand nod out the corner of his vision. He hoped his expression didn't look quite as helplessly terrified as he was beginning to feel. "I was planning to collect him in a few moments anyway." Siger's voice was its usual emotionless deadpan. No attempt at faking levity - usually not a good sign. Another half-seconds' staring at Sherlock *(who felt himself begin to shrink backwards despite all determination not to)* passed before he turned to extend a hand to his companion. "Much obliged for the assistance concerning the new enterprise, Montgomery." Montgomery shook the proffered hand with a warm smile. "Always happy to help an old friend, Siger." As their hands dropped he shot a quick nod to the armed agent, who stepped forward and prodded Sherlock's erstwhile companion into taking a step forward. "Now, lad," Montgomery said with an appraising look to the boy. "I'd wager we've quite a few questions for you." The lunatic grinned. "Oh, I'm *sure*." As he was herded away down the hall by the agent the hacker twisted backwards and flipped Sherlock a teasing little wave, adding a wink for good measure. Sherlock returned his enthusiastic grin with a wide-eyed glare. What the *fucking hell!?* Was that madman *pleased* by all this...? He'd been planning to get them caught the whole time, hadn't he!? *Little bastar-!* His furious thoughts were quite abruptly cut off as Siger took a calm step forward and laid a hand on his ex-son's shoulder. A spike of ice-cold adrenaline seemed to shoot through Sherlock's body from the point of contact. Muscles stiffening he flicked his gaze back to his father's face. "Lower your hands, child. You look like a fool." Siger's tone was deceptively casual but carried a clear note of dangerous annoyance. Sherlock immediately did as he was told. He tried to take a step back - get out from under the unwanted contact - but his retreat was halted by Siger's grip tightening on his shoulder. Fingers dug into a pressure point at the joint between Sherlock's spine and scapula with clinical precision and immediately a bolt of white-hot pain shot up the side of his neck. He flinched, frozen in place, and failed to force the wince off his features before his father's grip mercifully loosened once more. Siger seemed to snort to himself in vaguely bemused irritation. Without removing his hand from Sherlock's shoulder he turned to walk back the way he'd come. Sherlock found himself being forced into step alongside him. Their pace was deliberate and unhurried - apparently they were in no rush to get wherever they were headed. Between the slow gait and sudden frigid silence it felt very much like being led to the gallows. "You realise Mycroft will never cooperate if you kill me," Sherlock blurted out after a few tense seconds' walking. For some idiotic reason he found himself terrified by the thought that perhaps he really *was* being marched off to his death. He caught Siger's look of mild exasperation out of the corner of his vision. "I'm well aware of that." "Then why-?" Sherlock started, but couldn't get any further before cutting off with a startled choke of pain - Siger had hit the pressure point again, more firmly this time. Sherlock cringed and grit his teeth. Argh, *fuck...* alright, so maybe he should just keep his mouth shut. Rebellion in the face of impossible odds was all well and good but there had to be a point where defiance morphed into stupidity. As they neared the end of the hallway Siger stopped at a terminal set into a recess by a large set of double steel doors. A swipe of an identification card from his pocket flicked the red lights on the electronic locks to a flashing green, and he hit another button to open them before forcing Sherlock through alongside him. "Your brother cares very deeply for you, Sherlock," Siger informed him in a bland monotone as they continued through what looked like a suite of conference rooms. "This is a weakness he's permitted to fester, hindering his efficacy as an impartial overseer. And I, for one, do not intend to sit idly by as my heir's career is allowed to stagnate in deference to his illogical concern for a delinquent half-sibling." "So you *are* going to kill me," Sherlock supplied before he could think not to. Another flash of pain raced up his neck and he grimaced even as he mentally swore at himself for the slip-up. *Fuck's sake*, could he honestly not manage to shut up for *five bloody seconds!?* "Unfortunately, no. Revenge is not a path I wish to engender." Siger flipped the ID card out of his pocket once more and swiped it through a reader by the side of a wood-panelled door they'd come to. He put his hand on the knob and turned to meet Sherlock's wide-eyed stare with a false smile of geniality. "Far better to beget realisation than to force retaliation, don't you think?" Sherlock didn't get a chance to answer, nor to even figure out what the hell that was supposed to mean, as in the next second he found himself shoved through the doorway ahead of his father. They'd stepped into a large conference room - to one side of them were windows looking out over the river *(... so they were still in Thames House? or perhaps a building nearby...?)*, to the other a large bank of television monitors. Dominating the middle of the space was a large mahogany table, around which were seated a handful of imposing, dark-suited intelligence officials. The youngest of the men rose from his seat... Mycroft. His eyes found Sherlock's, who held his brother's gaze as steadily as he could manage whilst the hand on his shoulder tightened into the pressure point again. If Mycroft saw his little brother's pained half-wince he didn't acknowledge it. Instead he looked to Siger with an expression caught somewhere between incredulity and anger. "What are you doing?" he practically snapped. His fellow officials seemed to be observing the family squabble intently, faces morphing into varying levels of interest or disapproval. Siger just smiled. "Negotiating." **««** Mycroft met his brother's gaze, carefully keeping his expression neutral against the emotion he could see cracking through the boy's stoic façade - fear, confusion... *pain.* Sherlock's flinch when Siger tightened his grip wasn't pronounced, barely perceptible even, but to Mycroft it flashed like a beacon. Fraternal instincts jumped at the thought of his baby brother being hurt, sent signals screaming to attack the perpetrator. But that would never do, would it. He'd be at every disadvantage. And so he resolutely quelled the urge to launch himself into a rampage. Thoughtless violence would solve nothing. Better to remind himself that he'd planned for this. Or, well... if not *this,* exactly *(in the middle of a meeting, really?)* at least he'd successfully gathered all the necessary resources. Father had foolishly preoccupied himself with Sherlock, assuming the boy to be the key to forcing Mycroft's hand, leaving himself blind to several crucial events playing themselves out directly under his nose. Mistakes allowed to slip through only because, for all his calculating schemes and infallible poise, Siger was sorely lacking in one critical advantage to this mind-game of theirs - empathy. Siger's mind worked on cold logic, robotic to a fault. If protecting a sibling became too much of a detriment, simply cast them aside. He'd be dumbfounded as to why Mycroft hadn't done so already. Which meant that this little stunt - dragging Sherlock, visibly terrified, into a clandestine meeting, attempting to embarrass Mycroft in front of his peers - had most likely been calculated to induce a realisation of some sort. Drive the point home that this *pathetic emotional bond* Mycroft shared (however unwillingly on Sherlock's part) with his brother was nothing more than fragile human weakness. As if he weren't fully aware of that already. Two decades of sleepless nights and worried circling self-analysis had long ago brought Mycroft to a definite conclusion regarding his brother - Sherlock was a mitigating factor in his life. No one had ever taken control of the world, shaped governments, or ruled kings with a *baby brother* to fret over. It was tantamount to having a child. Everyone who knew of the existence of his sibling would deduce immediately that such a relationship took emotional precedent over matters of international security. It was leverage of the most devastating variety; forcing him to stay his hand when ruthlessness might be the better option, to work around negotiating parties rather than mercilessly dispatch any and all threats to the nation. His tether. But along with that understanding he'd also come to a decision: he *needed* to be reigned in by compassion. The thought of one day losing himself to the demons of his own ambition had troubled Mycroft for much of his younger years - one read the stories of great kings, pharaohs, men with untold and incredible power. Each and every one of them succumbing eventually to the cruel insanity of complete dominion. *Power corrupts*, it was said, *and absolute power corrupts absolutely.* What, then, could he ever hope to accomplish with his burgeoning desire to control an entire nation? Was he fated only to drive himself mad? He aimed for the ability to ensure safety - to know that never again would anyone he cared for suffer needlessly, assistance just out of reach for the simple fact that no one had noticed. Mycroft would be the one to notice. Always, forever, and whether they damned well liked it or not. During the course of pursuing this goal, however, he'd somehow lost hold of the very impetus which drove him. He strove to protect those he cared for... and yet somewhere along the line he'd stopped caring for anyone. Mummy was a lost cause - depressed, half-mad, more scattered than ever in the wake of whatever Siger had done to her after Sherlock's birth. Seeing her lucid had become a rarer and rarer event, until finally she'd become no more than a broken husk of a being, floating about the manor like a ghost. He cared for the memory of who she'd once been, perhaps, but no longer for the woman herself. Father, of course, had never really required even a passing thought of protection. Back when Mycroft had still idolised him it had been with the fervour of a child looking up to their hero - a devotion born of awe, not parental love. And a bond which, ultimately, crumbled away in the light of understanding. This left only Sherlock. His one remaining thread, keeping him tied down through this love for an insolent, over-dramatic, emotionally unstable, *utterly brilliant* baby brother. And somehow the very fact that he was incapable of controlling the boy served to keep him anchored to something like sanity. Mycroft's peace of mind over the years had slowly come to rely on the knowledge that, no matter what - no matter how absolutely he seemed to able to bend and shape the world to his will - there would always be at least one person on whom his authority had no effect. If Sherlock didn't feel like following orders, he wouldn't. Simple as. No amount of threats or coercion on Mycroft's part could ever change that. *Absolute power corrupts absolutely*... a truth, perhaps. But as long as Sherlock lived there was *no such thing* as absolute power. There was only the majority; control everyone you like, Sherlock Holmes does as he bloody well pleases. A continual reminder of Mycroft's personal fallibility. To a lesser mind, perhaps, that might have seemed like weakness. Certainly to someone like Siger it must appear the height of folly to allow such a relationship to continue to sway thoughts and actions. Mycroft saw it for what it truly was, though - not a broken shield but the tempering of steel. An obstinate rock in the form of a rebellious child, against whom the destructive power of Mycroft's manipulative skill could be either blunted or honed, but never effectively wielded. In no way an *advantage*, then... at least not in the sense that it allowed him to gain ground in his career. Exactly the opposite, if he were to be perfectly honest. He'd turned down quite a few promotions to positions overseas for the simple fact that being forced to relocate so far from London would put him out of reach of his brother. But that was acceptable. Because in certain cases, he believed, and few and far between... a disadvantage could serve to keep one grounded. Keep one *human.* So it was with very human anger that he rose from his seat and met his father's gaze. "What are you doing?" he snapped in a low growl, voice tight and clipped. Knowing Siger would most likely attempt a threat of this nature did nothing to quell the upsurge of protective rage at actually *witnessing* it. Having to see his little brother helpless, shrinking in on himself with poorly-concealed fright, pale and faintly trembling in the grip of their father. Siger's cruel answering smile was all Mycroft needed to see to erase any doubt concerning which plan to proceed with. "Negotiating," the man said simply. Beside him Sherlock seemed to have defaulted to some sort of stoic, white-faced shock. Mycroft couldn't even imagine how stressful this all must be - no drugs, no cigarettes, thrust into the midst of a situation he had no real hope of understanding *(science and observational deductions were all well and good, but the boy really had no instinct for political machinations)* and probably reliving a collection of very traumatic childhood memories to boot. Hopefully the combination wouldn't trigger a panic attack. Turning his thoughts from his brother before any of them could become apparent on his face, Mycroft instead carefully regarded Siger. "I've already informed you of my decision." "Indeed you have," Siger replied with a flippant smirk. "And I've informed *you*, numerous times, that I don't support it." No one in the room had any clue what they were talking about - which was entirely by design, of course. The subtext of the conversation alluded not to an individual event, but to many, scattered over the last few months and years. Siger could be referring to any of a million different choices Mycroft had made in the name of protecting his brother. Every time he'd chosen Sherlock over his career, put family before progress, failed to forcefully reign in his erratic misanthrope of a sibling despite having all the resources necessary to do so at his disposal. He'd made no secret of his intention to maintain this for the remainder of his natural life. And Siger, for his part, made no secret of his disapproval. Mycroft's recent activities, however - namely his launching an investigation into Siger's affairs rather than uphold the unspoken truce of non-interference between them - had apparently been the final straw. The obvious message on Mycroft's part being that, despite Siger having until this point explicitly remained clear of Mycroft's political sphere when conducting business, freeing his son of any obligation to oppose him, they were now enemies. At odds not because of any grand scheme nor criminal infraction on Siger's part, but simply because *he'd endangered Sherlock.* As political actions went that motive was childish, vengeful, foolishly emotional... all concepts Siger could neither understand nor accept. Putting an end to such weak-willed lapses in judgement would have seemed the only logical course of action in his mind. But of course one could never simply *kill* Sherlock - Siger may not have been capable of truly comprehending the force driving his son's inexplicable attachment to his sibling, but he was quite equipped with the intellectual faculties necessary to analyse it. He understood the potential danger of Mycroft enraged, stripped of his last tether to emotive empathy. Murdering the younger son in cold blood would lead to nothing but a swift and brutal retribution. Perhaps a hollow threat, once, but no longer. Too many in military intelligence had turned on Siger in recent years - Mycroft had no qualms about exploiting his inside knowledge of his father's activities to shift loyalties. And so the population of statesmen willing to work with Siger had dwindled. The man was left mostly to rely on his legacy of authority within MI6 as his main defence; and one did not, as a general rule, trust spies to protect them. Better, then, to attempt to force Mycroft to come to a realisation of his own weakness. Perhaps he'd deign to dispose of the hindrance himself, or, having finally seen the error of his ways, agree to put all thoughts of his brother aside for the benefit of his career. In either case Siger would be spared, Sherlock would be taken care of, and Mycroft would be redeemed. A perfect resolution for all parties involved. These were the sort of outcomes only a mind like Siger's could find remotely probable. A mind like *Mycroft's*, with frigid logic tempered by low-burning emotion, could see the truth. The *real* conclusion, inevitable, inexorably creeping toward them as the seconds ticked past. Siger Holmes would die. Keeping his countenance neutral, Mycroft pushed back his chair and walked around the conference table. Peers watching him with obvious disapproval - a family squabble in the midst of a security meeting, how disgraceful - but he ignored them. Each and every one of the men gathered were well-represented in Mycroft's personal file of political blackmail, after all; he could dispatch the lot of them with a few well-chosen words if he so chose. And the majority, of course, knew this. A further majority were also currently not of a kind disposition towards Siger Holmes, a circumstance fostered by careful cultivation on Mycroft's part, and thus were unlikely to intervene on his behalf. They'd sooner let a literal fight play out than risk putting a stop to something Siger might lose. Holmes the senior had perhaps taught his son a bit *too* well in the art of manipulation. With deliberate slowness Mycroft strode toward the door to the meeting room. He kept his eyes locked on Siger's gaze, well away from any sight of Sherlock's ghost-white face. "What, then, is your negotiation?" he asked his father in a tone of faux amicability. Siger raised one eyebrow delicately. "I should think that would be obvious." Subtext, again - addressing a thousand different conflicts at once. Mycroft tucked his hands behind his back and sighed very slightly in a gesture of not-entirely-false annoyance. With studied detachment he glanced away toward the monitors on the far wall. "Of course." "If you'd prefer a *demonstration...*" Siger intoned. His falsely jovial tone was becoming marred with a dark streak of impatience - he hadn't expected Mycroft to draw things out. "*Fuck*," Sherlock hissed, grimacing as Siger's grip tightened once more and refused to let up. One of his hands twitched involuntarily as he fought the instinct to reach up and claw at the pressure on his brachial plexus. Despite himself Mycroft glanced back toward them, expression darkening. "That's quite enough," he snapped, looking to his father. "The point's been made." "Has it?" Siger flashed him a flippant smile. "And yet we continue our impasse. No, I'm afraid I rather doubt your sincerity." Still, his hand relaxed once more. "And how would you have me prove myself?" Mycroft replied in as flat a tone as he could muster while coiling wisps of anger crept through his chest. *Keep calm... it's going to work...* As expected, Siger chuckled darkly. The man turned his glacial blue eyes to one of the men seated to their right. "I believe my associate here has the answer to that." Mycroft feigned surprise as he turned his gaze to the newly-exposed double agent. "Rutherford?" A silent nod as the senior agent rose from his seat. With no pomp whatsoever he drew a small pistol from a holster concealed within his coat. "An old contact of mine, I'm afraid," Siger confirmed with a smirk. "Quite *loyal*, if you'll pardon the abstrusity. He knows what's to be done. Simply give the order, child." Beside him Sherlock seemed to have at least partially caught on to the implied meaning in that statement - his eyes widened in a bolt of terror as he glanced from the gun in the agent's hand to his big brother's face. Mycroft carefully avoided the boy's gaze. "Indeed," he murmured, keeping his eyes instead locked with Siger's. "Rutherford... if you would be so kind." Out of his peripheral vision Mycroft saw Sherlock take a tiny step back - thwarted by Siger's grip on him - as the agent obligingly raised the gun toward the young man's face. **««** *Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck-!* Sherlock's thoughts weren't arranging themselves particularly eloquently at the moment. A pistol trained on his head for the *second bloody time* today, the iron grip of Father's hand on his shoulder, lingering stabs of pain from the abuse to the nerve cluster there... and hell quite frankly the fact that he was about to die should have been a fucking *relief* at this point. At least he'd know this pileup of absolute shit his life had become would finally be at an end. But the imminent expectation of a bullet tearing through his skull was not, he found, providing any sort of comfort at all. Actually it was *completely* *bloody terrifying.* He didn't want to die - he'd *never* wanted to die. What was there after this, after all? Nothing. *Forever!* Fuck the notion of heaven or hell - useless fairy tales. No, the tenuous collection of misfiring synapses he called a consciousness would simply be obliterated and then he'd *cease to exist.* NO! ***Not*** *alright.* Not in the fucking *slightest.* All he managed in the way of self-preservation, though, was a tiny step back. The movement was immediately halted by Siger, and with that Sherlock's body seemed to just give up entirely and accept its fate. Brain screaming at him to *move, fight, run away you stupid bastard get the hell out!* but his muscles simply refused to cooperate. Instead he was left staring dumbly at the barrel of the pistol before his face, deafened by the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears. An interminable pause seemed to stretch through the room - mere seconds warped into hours through the distorted lens of Sherlock's racing, panicked thoughts. Would this be the rest of his life? Would his perception of time just continue to slow, preserving his last fleeting instance of awareness for as long as possible? Jesus fucking *christ* he hoped not - this was *torturous.* In a sudden rush, however, time seemed to reorient itself. Back to normal for a brief instant as, inexplicably, the man lowered his pistol, flipped it so he was holding the barrel... then handed the weapon to Mycroft. "Thank you, Rutherford," Mycroft intoned blandly as he accepted the firearm. Sherlock was too busy staring at the transaction like a dumbfounded idiot to register the look of smug amusement on Siger's face. "Oh *very* clever," Siger crowed, chuckling. In a rare moment of mercy he released his grip on Sherlock's shoulder, instead choosing to bring his hands together in a few claps of sarcastic applause. "Turned my best against me, child. I'm simply bursting with pride." The second Siger's fingers were off him Sherlock found himself being yanked rather forcefully aside by the agent standing to his right - Rutherford or whatever the hell his name was. Meant to bundle him out of danger, probably, but in terms of protection it didn't do much good as the movement seemed to startle Sherlock's reflexes out of whatever shock they'd been frozen in. Instead of letting himself be passively dragged off he wrenched himself out of the man's hold with a lightning-quick twisting motion, then stumbled back away from the lot of them to press his back against the wall, panting. *Fuck* if he was going to let anyone else get their hands on him! Mycroft spared his brother's uncoordinated retreat the barest of glances before locking his eyes back on Siger's face. Siger was smirking. "So this is your solution, then? Surrendering wholeheartedly to weakness?" "No," Mycroft replied, voice frigid. With fluid detachment he raised the gun to Siger's forehead. "This is not a solution." A pause, seconds once again spiralling off into convex distortions of themselves. Sherlock's heart felt as if it were trying to crack his ribcage in two. Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "This is revenge." The explosion of a gunshot. Then... silence. **««** For a time it seemed as if the entire world had frozen. The body of Siger Holmes jerked once as the bullet entered his skull, then, hideously slowly, sank to the floor and collapsed. A handful of seconds trickled by in which neither movement nor sound broke through the torpid glass of the room's collective shock. Finally someone spoke. "A bold move, Holmes." One of Mycroft's colleagues leaning back in his chair, smirking. Others joined in with body language, shifting postures, political games and grand plots beginning to form. None looked particularly fazed by a murder having just been perpetrated in front of them. Happy enough to have the blackmail fodder, perhaps; or pleased by the removal of a mutual threat. Load of cold-blooded lunatics, either way. Sherlock couldn't have cared less if he tried. All he was capable of focusing on right now was his brother's face. Beyond that the murmur of rising conversation and jagged details faded to nothing but static. Mycroft remained still for a moment longer, then quietly closed his eyes. Opening them once more he turned to the agent beside him, handed the gun over with a curt nod, and walked over to where Sherlock still stood motionless against the wall. Words weren't needed - just a light touch to the arm, a silent *we're leaving* communicated through some unidentifiable signal, and without even knowing quite what was happening Sherlock found himself herded through a door opposite the one he'd come. It felt very much like wading through a dream. On one level he *knew* what had just happened - he'd been standing right there, after all. But at some point his brain seemed to have just given up on processing information. The thick swampland of his long-melted snowfield had coagulated into tar, smothering anything even remotely resembling conscious thought. Mycroft wanted him to go somewhere... follow Mycroft. That was the furthest extent of cognition possible. Flashes of being in a lift, of trailing along after his brother until they reached a door of some sort, an underground carpark... nothing really made sense, but that was fine. For the first time in his life he wasn't thinking about *anything*. It was as if the screaming crescendo of the last few hours had finally broken him for good; all the cluttered minutiae of his brain had poured away through the torn cracks of his mind field, leaving blessed quiet behind. The silence couldn't last, though. Soon enough, with a sensation like shattering glass, reality rushed back in. Sitting in the backseat of a towncar. Mycroft beside him staring thoughtfully out the window, his face calm and posture relaxed, somehow managing to avoid betraying any hint of emotion after having just *murdered his own father*... And with that realisation came the firestorm. He took a sudden, sharp breath - meaning to speak, he'd thought, but the words never formed. Instead he inhaled again, and again, each breath cutting shorter and shallower until he found he'd begun to hyperventilate. The sticking vat of tar in his head lit up with streaks of shock, fear, stress, running along like the sparking wisps of electricity before a lightning bolt. Then all at once the sludge ignited in a fireball of sheer, unadulterated *panic*. "Sherlock?" Mycroft's careful mask of cool indifference abruptly dropped as Sherlock brought his legs up on the seat to curl into a ball and clutch at his hair, burying his face against his knees. This hadn't happened in a *very* long time - having his brother there to witness such complete breakdown of all vestige of dignity or composure. "Sherlock, *breathe.*" Mycroft actually sounded *worried.* Sherlock would have laughed hysterically had he any breath left to do so. What in hell did Mycroft have to be worried about? The man could kill a man in cold blood without so much as a slap on the wrist in repercussion. No trial necessary, no evidence or investigation. He was judge, jury and *bloody executioner.* "Y-you killed your own *f-father*," Sherlock managed to gasp. "You... *you just fucking shot your dad in the face!*" "Because he..." Mycroft started, but his explanation cut off when Sherlock lifted his head with a glare of wild-eyed fury. After a pause Mycroft's anxious features had hardened back into their usual facade. "It was necessary." "*Necessary,*" Sherlock repeated in a gasp that fell drastically short of the intended tone of disbelieving scorn. "Bleeding *necessary!*" Mycroft's cold mask thawed once more - he seemed a little confused now. "You're *upset* by his death?" "Yes! No, I'm... I don't... *g-get fucked!*" Sherlock was quickly losing any shred of eloquence he'd ever had. Nothing he could do, though, as his respiration refused to slow down and the firestorm was only gaining more ground with each passing second. A flash of freckles, of warm brown eyes and a stupid accent flickered through the growing inferno and with the last of his coherency Sherlock whipped his hands off his head and screeched at his brother. *"No one deserves to die!"* Mycroft's expression was quickly becoming alarmed. "Sherlock, you need to calm down." "*I am bloody calm!*" he shrieked, nearing the verge of hysteria with every gasping breath. "I'm p-perfectly *fucking f-fine!*" Even as he yelled the assurance, though, he could feel something going wrong: not enough oxygen, too much adrenaline, every single signal in his nervous system spiralling out of control. He was going to have a heart attack or a stroke or burst an artery *oh god oh god oh god stop stop stop we're going to die in the back of a car with a murderer turn it off stop!* "Sherlock!" His brother's hand on his arm. Trying to provide comfort, ground him, *something* but whatever the intent it only made things worse. Mycroft was *far* too much like Siger, now... in so much more than just appearance. He'd calmly *shot his own parent* in front of his colleagues and then been allowed to walk out like nothing had happened - what was stopping him from dispatching of Sherlock with equal ease? Nothing but an overdramatic, useless crazed addict of a sibling... remove the hindrance, only logical next course of action, *oh god he was going to die.* In a flash of terror he jerked himself forcefully away from his brother, pressed against the car door like a frightened animal. The abrupt movement turned out to be the last straw for his brain's tenuous grip on consciousness. Limbs heavy and numb he felt himself begin to pitch sideways, then knew no more. **««** Sherlock awoke to the smell of leather, of books, expensive fabric. Faintly somewhere a whiff of alcohol. For a moment he imagined himself back home - wasn't this the exact scent of Father's study? Oh christ, what had he done *now?* Had he been knocked out? Was he *dead?* It took more effort than he'd have liked to admit, but with the assistance of a bolt of adrenaline he managed to open his eyes and shove himself into a sitting position. A frenzied glance around - but, no, no... not the Holmes manor. Alright... well, good. That was good. ... so where, then? That question was answered almost immediately as, looking to his left, he spotted his brother sitting in a very familiar leather armchair. Mycroft smiled as their eyes met - Sherlock's gaze wide, confused, Mycroft's a simple look of weary exhaustion. "I thought the flat might be a better alternative to a hospital," the man said quietly, setting down the barely-touched glass of scotch in his hand. "I've already had you checked over by a personal physician, of course. No damage done." Sherlock stared for a moment more, then glanced around to the rest of the sitting room. Not much had changed since he'd last lived here. *(And how long was that, now...? A year? Less? It seemed like an eternity.)* A few new additions to the bookcase, another pointless bauble of a gift from some foreign diplomat on the shelf. A picture-perfect showroom display for a man with more power and money than he could possibly find any use for. Abruptly he found himself disgusted by the decadence. "Your flat looks like a bloody catalogue photo." For some reason Mycroft smiled and leant back into his chair. He huffed a tired sigh before speaking. "Yes, I suppose it does." Silence stretched between them for a few moments more. Finally Sherlock spoke. "I'm not staying here." Mycroft's smile faded as he glanced sidelong toward the window. He took another shallow sip of scotch before responding. "These... *habits* you've developed-" Sherlock cut him off before he could finish. "Are none of your business." A brief urge to smack the scotch out of Mycroft's hand, but he repressed it. Behaving childishly would get him nowhere. Mycroft had turned his gaze back to his little brother. "I cannot sit idly by and allow you to kill yourself." "Oh, you're interested in *protecting* family members now, are you?" Sherlock snapped with a vicious sneer. "Not planning on blowing my brains out as well? Don't forget to pencil in Mummy for next week, can't have anyone feeling left out." A dark frown, but Mycroft didn't react any further than that. He simply set his glass down and steepled his fingers - melodramatic pose, probably thought it imposing or sagacious. Didn't realise he was mirroring a habit of Father's. Sherlock glared venomously. Nearly an entire minute passed by in tense silence. Finally Mycroft sighed and looked away. "At the very least allow me to reinstate your trust fund. I won't abide you living on the streets." Sherlock very nearly allowed a dark smirk of victory to cross his face. Attempting to restrict his activity would be an exercise in pointlessness, and they both knew it. Despite the dense mire of hatred and exhaustion and anger seeping like fog through Sherlock's brain the concession to his ability to undermine anything Mycroft might do to curtail his freedom brought a certain sense of accomplishment. Finally proven himself impossible to control, then - a force of his own, no longer worth the trouble to even attempt to reign in. About bloody time. "Unrestricted cash withdrawal," he demanded immediately. No way in *hell* was he about to let himself be tracked through a purchase trail; it would be cash or nothing. "I have no say in banking procedures." Mycroft's expression was slowly verging back toward its natural state of bland exasperation, tinged with a hint of fatigue. Long day, apparently. Sherlock might have empathised, had he any sympathy left. "You have say in bloody *everything*, you manipulative fuck." A tense pause as he shoved himself to his feet and took a second to regain his equilibrium. As soon as he could see straight again he took a step away from his brother and fixed the man with an acid glare. The scene before him was appaling. Immaculate suit with a tasteful, understated tie, shoes matching the fine leather of the armchair, over-shined dark oak furniture, the unrestricted classism of the room itself and above all the glass of bloody *scotch*... all of it together formed a perfect living snapshot of the now-late Siger Holmes, mirrored in the too-similar face of his son. Another stretch of almost painful silence stood between them. A burning wave of anger had begun to creep through Sherlock's chest at some point. Culmination of stress, fear, betrayal... loss. Everything leading to a single sense of hatred for the one man who'd had the most chance to stop any of this, to notice, to *help...* and who in the end had instead chosen murder as the best solution. Kill Siger and it all goes away, does it? Out of sight, out of mind? So much easier to lift a gun than to seek compromise, the simplicity of politics over taking the time to *talk,* to ask after him, to just stop and realise... *fuck's sake*, just... With a noise of frustration Sherlock shook his head. No, fuck this. Fuck *everything -* he needed a bloody cigarette. He turned away from his brother and stalked toward the flat's front door. Hand on the doorknob, however, and he found himself pausing to look back. Mycroft was still sitting in his armchair, for once in his life making no move to interfere with his little brother's actions. Sherlock hesitated only a second before stepping through into the hall. A quiet mutter - just loud enough for Mycroft to hear - and he was gone. "Father would be proud." **««** ## Chapter 9: Very Busy People **««** **9. Very Busy People** The last thing Eric expected was to be released. Why would he? After all, there was no one willing to post bail - no friends or relatives around to take pity on him. And above all else there was no question of his guilt. He'd been with the distribution ring for *months*, was listed in all their (scant, but still very much present) documentation as an employee and a tenant. There was absolutely no way he wasn't going to find himself imprisoned for a very, very long time. So when the guard came by his holding cell with a plastic bag in one hand and a set of keys in the other, Eric wasn't quite sure what he was anticipating. "Alright, kid, you're out," the man said gruffly. Eric just blinked. "I'm... wha'...?" he trailed off, but the guard just shook his head with something like irritated exasperation and unlocked the cell. "*Out*, kid," he reiterated. He didn't seem keen on arguing any further, so Eric gave up on further questioning. Probably off to meet with a lawyer, or something... he wasn't quite sure how the whole system was supposed to work, actually. Probably best to just keep his head down and do as he was told. Obligingly he followed the man out of the cell and to the front office of the jail. When they got there a woman was waiting for them. She looked the inmate up and down, then glanced to a clipboard in her hands. "Eric Crenshaw?" "Er... yeah," Eric answered, finding himself growing very confused. "What's...?" He was cut off before he could finish his question by the guard shoving the plastic bag into his arms and walking away. Eric startled, nearly dropping the parcel, but managed to keep hold with his good arm and blinked back over at the woman. "It has come to light that the circumstances of your arrest were based on false evidence," she informed him in a clipped, no-nonsense voice. "You have been cleared of all charges and are free to go." And with that she nodded once, tucked her clipboard under her arm, and walked away. Eric was left standing in the front lobby of a London jail, still dressed in a regulation inmate jumpsuit, feeling very, very confused. Anxiety began to creep up his spine - what exactly was going on here? Was this some sort of trick? Entrapment, to see if he'd actually leave? Could the police even *do* that...? As he bit his lip his hands drifted unconsciously toward each other, but the nervous habit was thwarted by the cast on his left arm and the plastic bag gripped in his right fist. He blinked, glanced down. Oh, right... he... should probably see what was in there. Still shaking with nerves he held one handle of the bag and let it flop open, glanced inside. Clothes. Not his usual faded attire but an entirely new set - jeans, a shirt (striped, he noticed, in blue and green - his favourite colours) and underthings. There was also a coat. A... *very familiar* coat. Oh god. Frantically he glanced around for somewhere to sit before he keeled over from shock. There! A bench by the wall. Taking a seat on the hard wood he gingerly set down the plastic bag, then drew out the dove grey woolen peacoat from where it had been neatly folded at the bottom of the bag. An envelope fell out from one of the pockets as he held it up over his lap. Stunned, Eric carefully set the coat down on his knees and lifted up the small square of paper. Taped to the front was a note: *'Find something productive to do with your life.* *P.S. You're not a total moron.'* Eric choked on something very close to a surprised half-gasping laugh, and with shaking fingers opened the envelope. It was stuffed with £50 notes. He immediately dropped it in shock - letting it fall on top of the coat bundled up in his lap - and covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a sob. With a watery smile he slowly took his hand from his mouth and swiped the back of his arm across his eyes instead, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sherly, you bleedin' prat," he muttered to himself. Hands still trembling he carefully tucked the envelope away into the pocket of the peacoat, shoved everything back into the plastic bag, and stood up. First a restroom or somewhere to change his clothes. And after that, well... He had a life to find. **««** A light dusting of snow covered London in a white veil, powder-thin flakes drifted down from the clouds above. Sherlock stood upon the frosted grass of a hill and stared silent out over the city. His last hit of cocaine had begun to wear off nearly half an hour ago. He wasn't doing another one. Instead he lit another cigarette, adjusted the knapsack on his shoulder. A box of nicotine patches rattled in the side pocket. He'd bought them as a stopgap measure, emergency backup in case withdrawal got the better of him. Two or three patches, augmented by caffeine... terrible for blood pressure, yes, but doubtless a better solution than the alternative. It had taken a herculean effort of subversive tactics on his part to orchestrate the release of Eric, obtain a fake identity, and ensure his safe departure from England all while dodging the ever-watchful eye of his brother. Impossible under ordinary circumstances, but with Mycroft occupied covering up the death of their father and his trust fund reinstated he'd managed to collect everything without incident. Amazing what iniquitous doors could be prised open with obscene amounts of cash. He'd spent the majority of it, of course - black market passports and bribed travel visas didn't come cheap. Gave the rest to Eric. Let the freckled dolt figure out what to do with it all; Sherlock certainly had no further use for it. Thirty pounds for small travel expenses, nothing more. He'd travel light, and he'd travel frugal. A pocket full of disposable income would only pave the way for poor decisions down the road. And a long road it would be. He held no illusions about his own fortitude when it came to cocaine. Already he could feel the desire for more creeping up his spine. The last hit. No more. Forever. It was a daunting proposition; almost monolithic in its finality. Wisps of self-doubt clawed whispering through his brain, an incessant chatter of nervous static. *We can't survive without it, what's the point of stopping now, just buy another half-gram, you can get more money, no one will ever know.* He would know, though. And while a feeble deterrent at best that would nonetheless have to provide enough accountability to keep the impulse in check. These last months had been a lesson in the value of isolation. For perhaps the first time in his life he'd felt a tangible connection to others - networks of tangled threads like spider's silk weaving him in, however briefly, with the rest of humanity. Victor, Eric... all whom he'd known or been known by, their good graces bought with a false front of normality and parroted affable demeanour. But it had all been a mask, hadn't it? They'd accepted him for his ruse, nothing more. A barrier of ice keeping his aberrant motivations hidden. Break through, however, and the truth lay bare: his was a mind unfit for integration with society. It was time he accepted that. No more games, no more hiding. Sherlock Holmes was a pillar all to himself. A fortress, impregnable. Relationships and friends... even family would be banished to the cold wilds beyond the edges of his mindscape. Too easily had he been drawn in with honeyed words and promises of acceptance. But in the end the hope would always prove a false light, and with the severance of ties a piece of himself would die as well. Each loss chipping away at his resolve to fight until nothing could survive within his psyche but a hollow shell of hatred and self-loathing. He wouldn't let that happen. There was more to life than such pathetic desires to belong... there *had* to be. Other sources of happiness, of fulfillment - ones that didn't involve all the mess and illogical suffering inherent to human ties. And if none existed... well then he'd damn well *create* one. Because what good was genius, after all, if one didn't use it to shape their own reality? Sherlock would find a better path to meaning. Or die trying. The cigarette winked out in his hand, ember blown asunder by the winter wind. Rather than re-light it he simply dropped the butt into the snow. It was time to leave anyway. As he walked toward the city a break in the clouds uncovered the sun. Winds calmed and flakes slowed their fall. By the time he made it to the train station the pavement had already become slick under his feet with half-thawed slush. Patch by patch the city revealed itself in swaths of grey and brown. The snow was melting. # Rabbit Song ## Chapter 1: Heartbeats **««** Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and chemicals, of borrowed soap and fabric softener... and still, faintly, of strawberries. Eric catalogued all this as he lay quietly in the pre-dawn twilight of his room, pinned to the bed by the skinny prat of a supergenius who'd apparently decided to use him as a pillow sometime during the night. Anyone else, and he'd have most likely shoved them off by now - grumbled something about *keep to yer own side* and resolutely scooted as far over to his half of the mattress as possible. Not that he necessarily had a problem with *touching* people, of course... it was just that ever since breaking up with Luce he'd been *(pretty understandably, he figured)* more than a bit wary of any sort of intimate contact not expressly initiated by himself. But as he lay there, listening to the soft breathing of the man curled around his chest, he found he really just didn't *want* to push Sherlock away. True, they'd only met about eight hours ago... but in that time they'd played several (hilariously one-sided) matches of Halo, committed half a dozen crimes together, and then went and bloody *snogged.* How in the hell things had managed to progress that quickly or in that *order* Eric honestly had no clue. Did it really matter, though? *Live in the moment*, that's what he'd been repeating to himself over and over for months now. Life was too short, too fleeting, too *cruel* to waste precious time worrying about the *what ifs* and the *whys.* Sherlock was a drug addict - that much was *completely* bleeding obvious. Visibly underweight, dependent on cocaine to function and probably well on his way to some sort of fatal lung disease if the chain smoking was anything to go by. And if Eric were looking for anything like a long-term relationship that would be just about the holy trinity of *things to damn well avoid.* But 'long-term' as an attainable goal was a concept Eric had abandoned years ago. Now he just drifted, hoping for a flash of something like happiness before the inevitability of death finally got round to his number. Eric was *frightened* of dying, of course, didn't like to think about it... but that fear was little more than the basic backdrop of his life at this point; the constant dread of something you had no hope of changing, no chance of ever avoiding. Weed could take the edge off the tangled knot of anxiety, make it halfway *bearable*... never erase it completely, though. Still there always loomed the knowledge that he was *nothing*, no one, a near-useless castoff of society, tenuously employed by a criminal organisation, alone and *defenceless* just waiting to be arrested or shot or stabbed or any of another million *horrible* *horrible things...* A sudden spike of terror shot through his gut, an all-too-familiar rising tide of anxiety creeping along his lungs in its wake. Without really meaning to he raised his arms and hugged Sherlock closer to his chest. Probably tighter than was comfortable for either of them, really, but since Sherlock was almost certainly out for the count *(crashing plus the shakes never worked out great for anyone, genius or not)* he figured it was permissible, just this once, to hug the living daylights out of him. He only held it for a second or two though, then let his grip relax and just lay there cradling the bony, awkward prat who'd so inexplicably chosen *him*, of all people, to latch onto. Because, yeah, maybe they were both gay and maybe finding other homosexuals their age was a bloody nightmare around this district... but hell Sherlock was bloody *gorgeous*, he could probably convert half the fucking neighbourhood if he set his mind to it. Eric had been hovering around the man like a schoolgirl with a crush for the last few hours, honestly just hoping he'd be noticed. Certainly not *kissed -* no bleeding *way*... he'd have been happy enough with a passing glance, a word or two. But strangely, *incredibly*, Sherlock had not only accepted the undue attention but seemed to take it as some sort of invitation to *hover right back*. The two of them had spent the afternoon orbiting each other like the universe's most socially inept pair of satellites. And somehow or other that had all managed to lead right to... well, to *this.* To lying in bed, legs entwined, Sherlock half on top of him and Eric hugging the other boy to his chest like a goddamned stuffed bear. Would Sherlock come to his senses when he woke up? *(Okay, well actually probably not... he'd be hung over from the cocaine bender - likely not even halfway coherent for another ten or twelve hours unless he did another hit... but still, metaphorical musings and all.)* Or would perhaps some dashing young dealer or junkie knock on the door tomorrow and steal him away? Eric wouldn't exactly have a snowflake's chance in hell to compete for the genius's attention against someone else, timid and useless as he was. No... the best he could really hope for was to try to keep himself from overthinking this and ruining it all like he usually did. Had to accept the inevitable - that life goes on, people leave, he'd end up alone - but not let that knowledge upset him. Enjoy this while it lasted. Sherlock would be a fleeting moment in his life - like a comet, streaking across the sky before it either disappeared forever or impacted the ground to leave a smoking crater where they'd both once stood. That was really it, then, wasn't it? In the end it would all come down two possible outcomes: abandonment, or death. And as he lay there listening to Sherlock's soft breathing, feeling the thump of their heartbeats in tandem, watching the shifting shadows on the ceiling above... Eric found that, somehow, he wasn't afraid. Oh, the dull thrum of anxiety that followed him everywhere was still very much present - but for once it wasn't worry for the future or the pointlessness of life or senseless tragedy that knotted up inside his chest and stole his breath away. In fact all he could really think to be nervous about right now was how on *earth* he was going to manage to keep this thing with Sherlock going for as long as possible. As far as goals went that was a bit stupid, honestly; no *live happily ever after*'s or *find true love*'s... just a simple, flat, *try not to fuck up.* But hey, even a stupid goal was still a *goal*, wasn't it? With a quiet chuckle at his own silly thoughts he let one of his arms flop down to rest on the mattress beside him, leaving the other loosely curled around Sherlock's shoulders. It was probably a decent enough time to get up - find something for breakfast, maybe, and see what sort of business needed doing today. Getting up would mean moving, though... and moving would mean shoving Sherlock away. Eric glanced down at the sleeping boy on his chest. *... not a chance.* With a smile he shut his eyes, letting himself be lulled back to sleep by the quiet pulse of two heartbeats. **««** ## Chapter 2: Distraction **««** Waking up with a cast on one arm and a pounding headache wasn't, as far as Eric was concerned, the picture perfect way to greet a morning. Upon opening his eyes, however, he quickly decided he wasn't all that upset. Mostly because along with the pain and discomfort there appeared to be a pair of grey-blue eyes staring intently into his face, the press of a warm (if somewhat uncomfortably bony) body against his, and the distinctly foreign sensation of being... *safe.* Why he should feel *safe* when a bloody nutcase with terrifying fighting skills was staring him right in the face Eric had no idea. But he did. Really quite sound and secure in general. Compared to the usual knot of undefined neurotic worry that tended to dominate his existence it was practically heaven. ... but it was also really, *really* weird. He was so preoccupied with this puzzling lack of anxiety that he didn't immediately notice Sherlock had been saying something. "Wha'...?" he asked, blinking back up into the other boy's gaze. Sherlock frowned in vague consternation and poked him in the side *(evidently they were tangled up in an awkward half-hug, half-sprawl again; Eric really had to figure out how Sherlock kept managing to get him in this position)* before not-quite-irritably repeating himself. "I *said* it's almost ten," he reiterated, gesturing toward the bedside clock with his shoulder. "Your arm is going to start hurting very badly if you don't get up and take a pain reliever soon." "Oh... yeah, I guess so." To be honest his arm was *already* hurting pretty badly, but Eric wasn't all that bothered by it. He'd broken his fair share of bones back when he was younger, after all, and had a couple bad dislocations thanks to football. But with Rose and Bailey to look after there really hadn't been much time to fret over his own health, so he'd gotten pretty good at ignoring things like lack of sleep, hunger and injuries. Sherlock didn't seem inclined to let him sweep this one under the rug, though. He pushed himself up on one arm *(Eric noticed with some amusement that the skinny prat had stolen one of his shirts out of the clothes hamper sometime last night)* and turned to regard the rest of the bedroom over his shoulder. "Where did you put the pills they gave you at the hospital?" Eric scrunched his face up trying to remember. Everything from last night was sort of... hazy. "Er... in me coat pocket, I think," he finally recalled. He and Sherlock both looked over at Eric's coat, hanging on the closet door a good few metres away. After a moment Sherlock huffed to himself and let his arm give out, flopping gently down on Eric's uninjured side with a sullen frown. "I don't want to get out of bed," he muttered petulantly. Eric shrugged, ignoring the twinge of pain the action produced in his wrist. "So don't." "But oxycodone has a biological half-life of four hours, and it's been nearly seven since you took any." That was a valid enough point, but Eric was more interested in how completely weird it was for anyone to just know something like that off the top of their head. "Is yer brain like a giant library?" he asked somewhat blankly. For some reason he was picturing just like... stacks and *stacks* of books all crammed into the other boy's skull. No *wonder* the prat always seemed so distracted - his whole head must be full of little bits of knowledge all constantly clamouring for his attention every which way he looked. Sherlock blinked at him with an expression of vague confusion. "What does that have to do with pills or not getting out of bed?" Eric shrugged again. "Nothin', just wondering." "Oh, well..." Sherlock trailed off, glancing away with a sort of thoughtful look on his face. "I think a library implies some degree of *organisation*. So no, not really." "What's it like, then?" Sherlock frowned at him. "What's *your* brain like?" "I... dunno? I never really thought about it," Eric admitted after a slight pause. "Maybe like... shelves, I guess? Wit' stuff on 'em?" That really didn't cover the spaces *around* the shelves - the writhing storm of anxiety and fear and buried terror of old memories... but he figured that wasn't really the sort of stuff you talked about with someone you'd just started dating *yesterday.* "Shelves," Sherlock repeated flatly. He rolled his eyes and let his head flop down onto Eric's chest. "How utterly boring and practical." "Well I ain't exactly a big thinker, am I?" Eric countered with a quirked smile for Sherlock's obvious exasperation. Sherlock didn't reply besides a halfhearted *hmph*, evidently halfway to falling asleep or zoning out or whatever it was he did when he was tired but still half-tweaked on coke. Taking that as a cue that they were more or less done with conversation Eric let his eyes drift shut. True, his arm was actually starting to hurt like a right *bitch...* but maybe if he just focussed on something else he could force himself to go back to sleep anyway. He decided to work on keeping his breathing as even as possible - that usually did the trick. After a few moments, though, Sherlock raised his head again. "I *told* you your arm would start hurting." "Who says it's hurtin'?" Eric replied in a sleepy grumble. He opened one eye to find Sherlock regarding him with an odd, sort of half-stern, half... *something...* expression. "You're attempting to breathe at regular eight-second intervals, an obvious distraction technique." Eric huffed an annoyed sigh and opened both eyes, scowling slightly. "An' it were workin' just fine until you went an' bothered me 'bout it." They stared each other down for a brief moment, before Sherlock's face abruptly shifted into a devious smirk. "If it's *distraction* you're after I can think of a few more effective options than breathing patterns." "Can y'now?" Eric responded, trying to contain a snort of laughter. Not that Sherlock was all that bad at flirting, really - because granted that *was* a rather sly come-on, and quite hot besides - but it was just, y'know... *Sherlock.* Making an *innuendo.* The very thought was hilarious simply for how completely impossible it should have been. Still, Eric found his smile creeping into a grin. Sherlock smiled too, then leaned forward to kiss him. And what followed after *that*, Eric had to admit, was a pretty damned good distraction. **««** ## Chapter 3: Human **««** Sherlock was, yet again, prodding at the basin of cold water in the sink where his coat and sweatshirt were busy soaking. Eric thought about telling him to stop, or perhaps walking into the kitchen and physically dragging the git back into the sitting room... but decided against it, choosing instead to simply continue lying on the sofa. His head was swimming a bit thanks to the oxy, and he really just didn't feel like doing much of anything at all. Let Sherlock fuck with the wash as much as he wanted - they were his clothes to mess up anyway. "Does the salt help break down the serum proteins?" Sherlock asked as he finally wandered back into the sitting room. "It must, I suppose, but then how are the wool fibres spared? There's a stark difference in scale of course but you would think the underlying principle would result in degradation at a fundamental level regardless." "Sherly, I ain't got no fuckin' clue what yer talkin' about," Eric muttered from under the arm he'd flung over his eyes. He was really starting to wish he'd just foregone the oxy entirely and smoked himself into a stupor instead. At least then he wouldn't be feeling so bloody *ill.* "I'm trying to figure out how your stain removal technique works," Sherlock clarified, sounding ridiculously cheerful about what really should have been the most dead-boring topic imaginable; obviously he was quite high. Eric didn't really mind, though - ever since he'd told Sherlock about being creeped out by the whole *bleedin' android* thing the other boy had tended to default to talkative and happy instead of frigid stillness whenever he did a hit. But of course that only applied when it was just the two of them. No matter how giddy he'd managed to get himself on coke Sherlock would, without fail, *always* snap back to his cold façade the second anyone besides Eric was in earshot. As if the universe was reading his thoughts Eric heard the sound of the front door opening. He looked over to Sherlock (who'd been hovering by the arm of the sofa, hands tucked into the front pocket of the dark green jumper Eric had leant him while his Oxford sweatshirt was soaking) and watched as, sure enough, the lanky prat immediately locked right up into his chilly *robot aristocrat* persona. Ben strode into the room a second later. "Hey, guys!" he greeted cheerfully. "Benjamin," Sherlock intoned in a bland monotone, quite suddenly looking as if he couldn't care less where he was or who he was with. Eric just barely managed to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the act. That was just how Sherlock dealt with social anxiety, he reminded himself, and it was hardly fair to judge the guy for what was obviously an effective coping technique... even if it *was* a bit two-faced and occasionally disturbing. "'Lo, Benny," Eric mumbled as he lowered his arm back over his eyes. Ben ambled over and poked his head over the back of the sofa. "You still feelin' like shit, mate?" "Yup," Eric replied. Ben clicked his tongue slightly in disapproval. "Ah, well... just remember to hit me up if you need anything with a bit more *pep*, yeah? Racer's got the good stuff right now, post-holidays and all." "Thanks, Benny. Think I'll be fine wit' what I got," Eric mumbled back. It was a nice offer and all, but he *really* hated stimulants. They always put him on edge, even *more* terrified of mundane shit than usual, prone to panic attacks... plus they tended to make his heart feel as if it were seconds away from exploding. He'd never once experienced the sort of energetic euphoria Ben seemed to derive from the stuff, and *certainly* never got... well, whatever the hell it was Sherlock got off coke. Hyper-calm? *Roboticised?* Speaking of the prat, though... Eric shifted his arm a bit to watch as Sherlock's face darkened imperceptibly at the mere mention of Racer *(and jesus christ, of all the dealers to get on the bad side of...)* while Ben just smiled genially at them over the back of the sofa. "Right-ho, then!" he exclaimed with a laugh. "Thought I'd offer anyway. So, what're you kids up to today?" He said this last with a glance up to Sherlock, who stared impassively back before shifting his gaze away toward the kitchen with a slight shrug. "I'm purifying cocaine." Ben quirked an eyebrow. "Huh. Well... that sure sounds like fun." "Not really," Sherlock responded in an unimpressed deadpan as he looked back to them. Eric honestly couldn't tell if he'd missed the sarcasm or just chosen not to acknowledge it. Ben hesitated, apparently also confused by the reply, and Eric decided he should really speak up before this ended up any more awkward than it'd already gotten. He let his arm flop off the side of the couch with a heavy sigh and stared morosely up at Ben. "Me, I ain't doin' shit but lyin' here." "Well yeah, I kinda figured *that*." Ben smiled again, chuckling, and took a step away from the couch as he tucked his hands into his jeans pockets. "Welp, anyway! I been up since like yesterday, gotta get some sleep. You two lovebirds stay out of trouble!" He flashed them a roguish wink and a grin, then turned to amble off toward the stairs whistling to himself. Eric scowled at the word *lovebirds* but felt too ill to really do anything about it. Ben was already on his way to his room anyhow - well out of kicking range. "*Lovebirds?*" Sherlock repeated a few seconds after Ben had gone, his chilly façade evaporating as quickly as it had come in favour of scrunching his face up in abject, almost comical disgust. Despite the general shit state he was in Eric smiled and huffed a short laugh - of *course* Sherlock would go and drop his android act with a look like *that*, of all expressions. "He's just teasin' us," he assured, still smiling. Ben *always* said that kind of stuff - innuendos and silly jabs about Eric shacking up with anyone they even remotely interacted with, laughing like a jackal whenever his younger friend got embarrassed. Presumably Eric having *actually* slept with someone after god-knew-how-long would be a source of constant amusement to their housemate for weeks to come. Sherlock looked like he didn't know quite what to make of that. After a short pause he half-rolled his eyes and turned toward the kitchen, apparently deciding to change the subject. "How long until my coat is clean?" *Ugh*, back to the bleeding wash again. Eric sighed and let his head flop sideways into the couch cushions. "Y'asked me that ten minutes ago." "Did I?" "Yeah," Eric shifted his head to glower up at Sherlock. "Y'forgot already?" "No," Sherlock replied with a vaguely affronted look. A beat later though he frowned to himself and looked away. "I thought it had been longer than that." *Oh*, Eric realised, that was right - for all his crazy genius superpowers, Sherlock actually seemed to have serious difficulty keeping accurate track of the passage of time. He'd think fifteen minutes had been an hour, a couple hours a whole day... and apparently a large portion of the morning spent filtering his cocaine solution had somehow registered to him as no more than a few seconds, judging by how startled he'd looked when he finally caught sight of a clock. Must be confusing as hell. Eric felt his expression soften. Beyond all the aristocratic poise and impossible wealth of knowledge it was nice to know Sherlock still had *some* shortcomings. "It's noon," he supplied helpfully, nodding toward the ancient plastic clock on the wall behind the telly. Sherlock glanced over. "Oh." Another pause, then he huffed to himself and looked back to Eric. "Don't tell anyone I didn't know that." "Won't breathe a word," Eric promised with a bemused smirk. Sherlock regarded him dubiously for a moment, then seemed to accept the assurance and nodded once in a matter-of-fact way. "Good," he quipped, and went back into the kitchen - probably to fuck around with his coat and sweatshirt again, but who cared. Not like he could do much more damage to the items than they'd already sustained anyway. Eric smiled and leant back to throw his arm over his eyes again. If Sherlock wanted to continue pretending to be perfect around everyone else, that was fine. Keep up appearances, throw on the android act... whatever helped him deal with things. But between the two of them, he'd always just be human. **««** ## Chapter 4: Pasts **««** There was an unspoken rule in the distribution ring: don't talk about pasts. None of them were really there by choice. Each tenant had come to the organisation through a series of personal tragedies - lost loved ones, driven from their homes, abused or abandoned or any number of terrible situations. Asking about someone's family, their life before the distribution ring... it was just another cruel reminder of everything they'd lost. But still, Eric wondered. Ben, he knew the most about. They'd been friends for a couple years now, actually, having met just a few weeks after Eric finally gave up on everything. Marijuana had been just about the only thing keeping Eric from jumping off a bridge at that point - smoking let him forget, and forgetting made it stop *hurting*... even if only for a little bit. Those fleeting moments of empty-headed bliss became his sole purpose for living. Of course then he'd quit his job, dropped out of anything even remotely resembling civil responsibility, and in doing so had rather abruptly found himself without the means to buy weed. A few days of unwilling sobriety, lacking even the medication he'd been forced into taking after the whole "incident" *(which at the time hadn't seemed to help him one fucking bit, but then maybe that was just because illegal chemicals were so much stronger)*, and taking a dip in the Thames had started to seem like a pretty decent alternative. Luckily he'd decided to at least make an *attempt* to get some quick cash before going for the more permanent solution. Ben had been a plucky young dealer back then, grinning like a loon as he flirted with any remotely female-shaped figure heading past his street corner. Pretty obviously straight, but Eric figured even if *he* wasn't interested he could at least point him in the direction of someone who might be. Ben hadn't given him directions to any other dealers, though. No, he'd taken one look at the miserable kid huddled in front of him, palms pressing together fitfully in an attempt to keep from breaking down in hysterics, and promptly offered to buy him a stiff drink. From there Eric had found himself shepherded into one crew after another, always dogging along in Ben's shadow. Apparently having grown up learning to maintain his sanity while trying to raise a couple of rowdy little girls and look after his frequently-deranged mum had given Eric something of a golden touch when dealing with drug addicts. Not much anyone could say to phase him, after all - not when the most frequent dinner conversation back home had been a spirited discussion between his seven year old sisters and his schizophrenic mother on the merits of clingfilm versus tinfoil in keeping the alien signals out of your brain. He'd quickly found his niche as a sort of mediator. Dealer having trouble with a client? Call in that freckle-faced gay kid, he'll get it sorted. Someone threatening to shoot the place up if they don't get their shipment? Nobody can stay mad at the little faggot, throw him in there to peace-talk. Eric wasn't entirely convinced of his so-called 'skills' now being passed around as some sort of recruiting beacon, but Ben took care of the advertising for him. Got him a job with Flanagan's crew, smoothed things over with Luce even when the brief romance he'd shared with the half-mad speedfreak collapsed into a smoking ruin. Eric honestly owed his life to Ben several times over. It had taken him awhile to figure out why someone like Ben would even *do* any of this - why take some neurotic little stoner under his wing, stick his neck out for him over and over, with no hope of repayment? But he'd caught on eventually: Ben was just as alone as he was. A few drunken conversations and late-night talks had pried the majority of the story out of him. Ben's dad had been in the military - overseas, deployed and returned a half dozen times. Whenever he was home, he'd teach his young son all about the importance of responsibility, kindness, generosity. Ben's mum had been your typical doting military wife, proud of her husband, supportive of her only son... really just the perfect little family unit. But then came the last deployment... the one where Dad didn't come home. The one where a crisp letter and a phone call broke the news instead - shot through the heart, dead in seconds. Ben's mum held herself together for nearly a year afterwards, long enough for her son to take his GCSEs... then she'd succumbed to the depression with a fatal vodka-and-valium mixer. Ben hadn't had any other family to turn to. He'd tried to continue his education, perhaps go on to uni, but for one reason or another it hadn't worked out. Dealing drugs had been a quicker, easier alternative. *Especially* when he discovered how much better he felt tweaked than sober. Sell a little weed, buy himself some Ecstasy - instant happiness. He'd never forgotten the sense of belonging he'd had with his mum and dad alive, though. Nor the lessons his dad had taught him, the stories of bravery and compassion. So when a sad, trembling little wreck of a traumatised stoner came looking for help in the worst way possible, he'd taken him in as a friend. They became each other's family - brothers, sometimes annoying and *always* looking for a way to get under each other's skin, but bound in blood regardless. Charley was a little bit more difficult, mostly because Eric didn't know him all that well. Chuck and Ben had gone to the same school when they were younger, which was how they knew each other, but aside from that the muscular parkourist didn't seem to have much in common with *any* of them. Obsessed with personal health, to the point of refusing to eat or drink anything he hadn't prepared himself, and choosing to use his formidable maths abilities to help a distribution ring balance its finances instead of, say, getting a proper job. Ben said Chuck did it for the money - Eric really couldn't see what on earth would make *this* a more lucrative option than legal employment. Surely taxes weren't that much a drain? One day he caught sight of a stack of outgoing post, though, and suddenly Charley's almost fanatical devotion to healthy living and saving every last scrap of his money made a lot more sense. An envelope, stuffed with cash by the looks of it, addressed to a hospital room. The name had been covered up by a handful of postcards piled on top of it *(Ben liked to send unsolicited mail with dirty messages written on to his mates in other parts of the city, just to piss them off)* but Eric didn't really need to know who it was. Family or friend, parent or sibling... hell maybe a *child?* Whatever the case it was obviously personal. Eric didn't pry. Sherlock was the easiest to figure out. (Though granted, it was a bit of a cheat to puzzle out the history of someone who willingly let you see them naked. But hell it wasn't like Eric was trying to get some sort of high score with all this nonsense.) Bullying in school was a given, just based on how Sherlock locked up around people. And the fighting skills, obviously... nobody learned how to throw a punch like that unless they needed to know how to defend themselves. So, fine, he'd got the shit kicked out of him a few *(dozen)* times. Judging by how utter crap he was with basic social graces and his general level of impossibly frustrating knowledge that wasn't too much of a surprise. Maybe even enough to lead to dropping out and developing a coke habit. But that wasn't all of it... No, because then there was the whole *mimicking people* business. As far as Eric could tell, Sherlock had three basic personas he used regularly: there was the 'normal' version, apparently reserved for conversations with Eric - the personality he used when he didn't have to worry about offending anyone with his strange, frequently off-putting rambles about whatever-the-hell and random jumps in topic as his brain out-paced his mouth. Eric liked that one the best, of course. Next up was the *android aristocrat*, which he used around people he either didn't know or didn't like. Eric wasn't too keen on that one but he could tolerate it well enough. The last, however... his last persona was *fucking terrifying*. Eric had only seen it in full force once now - when Sherlock had frightened off that thug on the night Eric's wrist got dislocated. There'd been hints here and there before then however. Used it on Ben when the enterprising thief had nicked his bank card *(Eric was convinced Ben just did that to screw with the new guy, but it was always difficult to tell*), and again toward Devin before he'd snapped and started yelling instead. On the surface it was nothing more than a sort of frigid calm; his robot act ramped up a notch, perhaps, or just a trick he'd learned to scare people. Take a longer look, though, and there was obviously something much deeper - something dark, cold, and *horrifying.* Because Sherlock was *definitely* imitating someone when he did that. Eric could see it in the way his whole demeanour shifted, speech patterns and diction changing... he even held his body differently. This wasn't a set of tricks he'd come up with himself, but a *person* - someone he'd been around long enough to learn how to mirror. And, judging by how he seemed to use it as a last-resort tactic... someone he was *scared to death of.* Pinpointing who this *mysterious person* might be wasn't exactly difficult. In fact the 'disowned' comment over lunch that first day pretty much settled it. What kind of parent kicks out their kid over a drug addiction, after all, but a supremely awful one? What confirmed it once and for all, though, were the scars. Not many, and not very big - honestly just a few short rough patches of skin on his back. He'd waved them away as some sort of childhood tree-climbing accident. Eric pretended to accept that. Easier than pointing out how falling from a tree didn't generally leave perfectly horizontal marks in the exact diameter of a cane, or asking how crashing through a trunk full of branches only left a handful of faded cuts right in the middle of one's shoulder blades. And anyway for all his social ineptitude Sherlock was actually something of a master at changing the subject *(subtly or not)*, meaning that every time Eric so much as *mentioned* child abuse or scars or poor parenting he'd somehow suddenly find himself dragged into a conversation about bees, dirt samples, genetics, chemistry... all stuff Eric had absolutely *no hope* of keeping up with; which, he supposed, was probably the point. Sherlock was trying to confound him with facts, make him forget what they'd originally been talking about through sheer mental overload. Embarrassingly enough that tactic worked brilliantly. Eric's eyes tended to glaze over at the merest hint of anything related to academics, *especially* anything resembling maths; Sherlock had of course picked up on that escape route almost immediately and had no qualms about using it to his advantage. But still, when all was said and done, when Sherlock's nattering on about physics equations had finally forced Eric's brain into a full systems shutdown and he was forced to ignore his boyfriend or go mad... still, he wondered. Wondered about families, about life, about the future. About how random fate and human cruelty could conspire to bring two lost souls together, and about whether the chance to find someone you truly cared for could ever be worth the heartbreak that forced your separate paths to cross. Mostly, though... he wondered about pasts. **««** ## Chapter 5: Films **««** In retrospect getting Sherlock to sit still long enough to watch a film should probably have struck Eric as a bit more impossible than he'd originally bargained for. Still, sometimes he liked to believe his boyfriend was at least *somewhat* capable of behaving like a normal 20-something adult. So while the mysterious collection of beakers and tubes in the kitchen was busy doing whatever magic it did to get stuff out of other stuff and leave pure cocaine behind Eric thought it might be fun to watch a DVD together. Sherlock, of course, was much less than enthused by the idea. "I hate films," he groused as Eric muddled his way through the menu screen of his Xbox one-handed. "Sitting in one spot for hours just to observe some contrived, encapsulated little story play out. It's the very *definition* of a waste of time." "Sherly, you spent like forty minutes this morning lookin' at a goddamn spiderweb," Eric pointed out half-irritably as he glared at his selection pointer skittering about the screen. Stupid bleeding controller was just so bulky, it was practically impossible to work the joystick and hit the right buttons all with one hand. "It was an *interesting* spiderweb." Apparently catching on to Eric's issues with the controller he leant forward with a short huff of a sigh and grabbed the device himself. "What am I doing, then?" "Select th' little DVD thing an then hit 'play'," Eric supplied. Sherlock obeyed, and soon enough they managed to get the disc up and running. Despite this minor success Sherlock still seemed extremely annoyed. "I could be re-organising my beakers," he grumbled as Eric took the controller back and set it on the floor. As usual they'd ended up sprawled half-on, half-off each other on the undersized sofa. "Just shut up an' watch th' film." Half an hour later and Eric was beginning to realise that, just maybe, he should perhaps have chosen a different movie. Because introducing someone like Sherlock to modern cinema with a film like *Donnie Darko* was going exceedingly... well, not quite poorly, but at least very strangely. "Does this *ever* start to make sense?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost indignant as on the screen Donnie started to dream again. "What's he got an axe for!?" Eric elbowed him lightly in the stomach in a futile attempt to shut him up. "If ya quit askin' questions and *watch* maybe you'll find out." "Or maybe I won't," Sherlock retorted hotly. Still, he stopped whingeing long enough to hear the next scene, which did in fact explain the axe. A further half hour managed to pass by in relative peace... punctuated, of course, by Sherlock's random outbursts in response to whatever he percieved to be plot holes and Eric intermittently elbowing him in the midsection. "So the whole plot of the film is set in a tangent universe which split off from the moment where he wasn't crushed by the jet engine," Sherlock finally decided a little after the midpoint of the film. "How th'*fuck* did you figure that out?" Eric replied, blinking. They weren't even to the last section yet and Sherlock had already pieced together the entire thing? "It's said as much about four times now, hasn't it? And if you read the book pages between scenes it's practically spelled out for you," Sherlock pointed out in an unimpressed monotone. "Can I go back to my chemistry setup now?" "No," Eric asserted, shoving the brunt of his bodyweight on top of Sherlock to make sure the lanky prat couldn't escape. "We're watchin' a bleedin' film together and we're gonna watch *all* of it." Sherlock sighed heavily, but didn't try to get up. "Fine. He's only going to get flattened by the engine at the end though." Sure enough, Donnie ended up dead. Sherlock seemed ridiculously smug about this, until Eric pointed out that he hadn't been able to figure out ahead of time exactly who Frank was nor that Gretchen would be killed, which seemed to put him in a bit of a sulk. "I can't deduce things without sufficient data!" he'd snapped, shoving Eric off him. "And anyway who cares what happens to a load of fictional people in some American film? It's not important." Eric grinned and let himself flop back onto the couch cushions as Sherlock made to storm off in a huff. "Yer just grumpy cause y'ain't quite as clever as you think y'are." "I am *every bit* as clever as I think I am," Sherlock retorted. "Your choice of entertainment is simply *moronic.*" Yawning slightly - between half an oxy and perhaps one too many joints he was actually starting to feel a bit exhausted - Eric raised his good hand in a sarcastic salute. "Whatever y'say, mate." Sherlock paused in his retreat to the kitchen. After a brief moment of apparent indecision he turned back around. "If you can find something less ridiculous to watch I'll be done with the next purification step in around fifteen minutes." Eric grinned. "Oh aye? Gonna spend the whole time figuring out th'end before the story's halfway through again?" "Probably." Sherlock shrugged and turned to amble off toward the other room. "You didn't actually mind me doing so the first time, however, so I expect you're fine with that." And with a flippant little wave over his shoulder, he disappeared. Eric huffed to himself, pretending to be irritated. "It were really bleedin' annoying, actually!" Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. Eric frowned, then shifted his head toward the milk cartons they called shelves in their run-down little rat's nest of a house. A grin split his face as he caught sight of the DVD furthest from the left. *Hah!* Ignoring the faint twinge of protest from his wrist Eric clambered off the sofa and retrieved an old, battered copy of *The Matrix.* Let's see Sherlock deduce all the fun out of *this* one. Forty minutes later they were both shouting at each other like idiots as Sherlock proceeded to pick apart every single possible plot hole in the story, no matter Eric's insistence that it was *just a bleedin' movie, yer not supposed to think about it so much!* And maybe that should have been completely annoying, infuriating, downright bloody stressful. But somehow it wasn't. No, Sherlock had (as bleeding usual) been entirely correct in his assessment earlier - Eric didn't actually mind one bit. Because no matter how much they irritated, confused, or pissed each other off... they were still together. Two halves of a pair, not just a couple of scattered lonely hearts. And that, Eric decided, was enough to keep him content. ... even if Sherlock *did* ruin films. **««** ## Chapter 6: Dreams **««** Sherlock seemed to prefer to keep to something like a 36-hour-to-a-day schedule as a general rule. Most stimulant addicts were like that, Eric knew, but it didn't stop the vague worry that one of these mornings he was going to wake up to find the stubborn idiot facedown in one of his chemicals, dead asleep. So he did his best to try to drag Sherlock off to bed whenever it seemed remotely possible to persuade him to rest. This usually happened between doses of cocaine, when Sherlock was too distracted by his chemistry or fiddling around with Eric's guitar or failing miserably at Halo to remember to shoot up. Eric would watch for the heavy blinking, the furrowed brow against a growing crash headache, slight slurring of speech... it was all really pretty obvious when you knew what to look for. Then he'd begin with that particular brand of gentle but persistent nagging he'd perfected so many years ago with his baby sisters. Always *suggestions*, never orders - that way they thought it was their idea. The method seemed to work equal wonders on both primary school girls and twenty-something geniuses. Actually in honest truth rather a *lot* of Eric's techniques regarding keeping an eye on Sherlock stemmed from his skills in looking after young children... and that was probably quite a bad sign when discussing someone you were meant to be *dating*. But hell whatever worked, right? "Y'should sleep sometime soon," he pointed out as Sherlock yawned for the second time in ten minutes. Eric had actually succeeded in getting the prat to eat a halfway-decent meal and they were now sitting at the kitchen table, Sherlock fiddling with the last dregs of his chicken soup and Eric debating the best way to do dishes while the sink was full of lab equipment. "I've got things filtering," Sherlock objected halfheartedly. Finally Eric decided to simply dump their two bowls in the basin alongside the beakers and figure out how to go about washing them tomorrow. He plucked Sherlock's mostly-finished dish out from under the prat's idly prodding spoon and stacked it on top of his own. "I don't see why shit filterin' means y'gotta stay awake." Sherlock frowned as his food-based entertainment was washed out into the sink. "Something might... knock them over. Or get stuck, I guess... I don't know." Eric half-smiled to himself. And there was the most obvious sign of Sherlock-sleepiness: complete inability to string together a sentence. Apparently even geniuses could get too tired to talk. "I think they'll prolly be fine overnight." Eric turned back around to find Sherlock leaning his head heavily on one hand, spoon tapping listlessly against the scuffed tabletop. "Maybe," he mumbled. Eric raised an eyebrow in mild exasperation and grabbed his boyfriend's arm to drag him into a standing position. "Bed," he ordered simply. It was a testament to how completely knackered Sherlock must have been that he didn't bother arguing - just grumbled something indistinct and wandered off toward the stairs under his own power. Soon enough they were both in their pyjamas (which in Sherlock's case just meant he'd taken his jeans and sweatshirt off - he still hadn't bothered to obtain any clothes of his own, instead preferring to perpetually ransack Eric's wardrobe for t-shirts and underthings). Eric, for his part, was quite ready to fall asleep the second his head hit the pillow. Hours must have passed in an instant, because the next Eric opened his eyes it was to the twilight darkness of his room. His scant collection of secondhand furniture stood bathed in the half-light from the streetlamp outside, the muted sounds of Stockwell's night life filtering like phantom noises through the walls. Eric lay still under the covers and blinked at the far wall with a slightly quizzical furrow to his brows as he tried to figure out what in hell had woken him up. He didn't usually have vivid dreams on oxy - the stuff knocked him out far too fast and way too heavily for any real images to form. So probably not a nightmare... but what, then? That question was answered when he finally mustered the willpower to shove himself over onto his back, looking around the rest of the room - and more specifically to the other side of the mattress. Beside him Sherlock was sitting up ramrod straight, legs tangled in the duvet as he stared at the darkness of the room with an expression of blank terror. Eric pushed himself up on his good arm and regarded the other man with concern - the skinny prat was trembling very slightly, panting like he'd just run a marathon... and good christ he looked bloody *scared.* "Sherlock...?" Eric asked hesitantly after a moment. He wasn't entirely sure if Sherlock was awake or still trapped in some sort of dream world. Sherlock startled, head whipping around to look down at Eric. His skin glowed a deathly pale white in the weak light. "Who-?" he started, then abruptly cut off as he seemed to realise where he was. With a jerky shake of his head he scrunched his face up and pinched the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. *"Fucking hell..."* "Nightmare?" Eric guessed, quirking a sympathetic smile. Sherlock scowled under his hand and let his arm drop as he turned to glare out the window. "No," he uttered tersely. The lie was dead obvious, but Eric didn't press the issue. Instead he just smiled again, expression soft and tinged with a hint of pitying sadness *(and hopefully Sherlock would miss that in the gloom, else Eric was in for a solid day of stoic robot instead of the usual spastic nutcase - if there was one thing Sherlock absolutely hated it was pity).* Well, that was probably it for sleep tonight then. Even though it was barely half past two in the morning, and they'd gone to bed at eleven... but really four and a half hours was about as good as anyone could ask for with a coke habit like Sherlock's. Quite decent actually. "You gettin' up, then?" Eric asked with a half-stifled yawn. Most likely the prat'd go do another hit - chase off the lingering wisps of fear in a chemical haze then spend the next twenty hours happily immersed in his chemistry work. That was just fine with Eric; he rather fancied having the whole duvet to himself again anyway. Sherlock didn't immediately answer him. Instead the fierce glare of his expression slowly melted into a blank, faraway look. Still staring out the window he spoke again. "Do you think I'm insane?" Eric blinked. Where the hell had *that* come from? What, had Sherlock been dreaming about some sort of fucked-up acid trip magic adventure or something? Eric snorted softly to himself in amusement at the mental imagery and let himself flop back onto the pillows. "Yer a bleedin' nutter," he replied without hesitation. Sherlock seemed to startle a bit and turned to blink down at him with a somewhat affronted look - apparently he'd been expecting a denial or some other sort of reassurance. Eric just smirked back. "But so's everyone else. Ain't nobody quite right in the head, s'what makes 'em all different." Sherlock regarded him for a few seconds, an expression of vague confusion creeping over his face. Finally his features settled into a perplexed sort of half-glare. "That doesn't make any sense." "No?" Eric frowned to himself. He made a token effort to analyse what he'd said - thoughts meandering along through the half-stoned, still-sleepy haze in his head - but almost immediately gave up. It hardly mattered anyway; Sherlock would just argue circles around any explanation Eric could possibly think up. With an unconcerned shrug and a yawn he rolled over onto his uninjured side and flapped a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "Eh, I dunno then. Yer prolly fine." He heard Sherlock huff a quiet breath of bemusement, but there was no sign of a clever comeback. Instead another few minutes of companionable silence passed between them. Sherlock had apparently chosen to continue sitting upright on the mattress staring at whatever-the-hell, still and unmoving in the darkness. Beside him Eric found himself beginning to slip back into slumber under the warm blankets. Eventually Sherlock's voice broke into the settling fog of sleep. "Do you mind if I stay here and read for a while?" The question was accompanied by shifting weight, the soft clicks and whirring of a computer booting up - he'd evidently retrieved Eric's laptop from beside the bed. Eric didn't even bother opening his eyes. "Y'know I don't." "Thought I'd ask anyway," Sherlock replied in a low mumble, voice slightly distracted as he clicked around whatever website he'd pulled up. Seconds later he added on a muttered; "... good lord, your browser layout is *completely* inefficient." Eric pressed a fond smile into his pillow, content to let Sherlock's litany of quiet complaining follow him into his dreams. **««** ## Chapter 7: Protecting **««** Eric huffed an annoyed sigh into the soft fabric of Sherlock's sweatshirt, feeling the body under him flinch slightly as the screeching sound of the doorbell drowned out the noises from the telly. The two of them were curled up on the sofa, with Eric's face buried against Sherlock's chest while Sherlock unsuccessfully tried to avoid getting killed every five minutes in Halo. "Your problem," Sherlock muttered distractedly. His tongue poked out from between his teeth in concentration as he navigated his endless one-man crusade to be the absolute worst Halo player in all existence. Eric grumbled something indistinct (*'lazy arse ponce'*, or the like) and reluctantly propped himself up on his good arm. Sherlock, still holding the controller, raised his hands to let Eric wriggle out from under his arm, then resumed playing without having bothered to so much as pause the game. "Yer gettin' the next one," Eric tossed over his shoulder as he plodded towards the front door. "Not my job," Sherlock replied. Eric rolled his eyes. True enough, that, but sod Sherlock for being enough of a prat to point it out. With a heavy huff of a sigh Eric finally reached the entryway and tugged open the door. "'Lo?" he mumbled tiredly. Upon spotting the man on the front porch, however, he was forced to do his best to hide a grimace. Oh, *brilliant*. In front of him Racer flashed an easy grin, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded brown trousers. An unlit cigarette dangled from between the man's lips as he eyed Eric up and down appreciatively. "Ello then, love," he drawled. The tone of his voice was enough to make Eric's skin crawl. Racer had a bit of a reputation for chasing after street kids, young blokes especially, with an enthusiasm bordering on the disturbing. It was a habit Eric had fortunately yet to find himself on the wrong side of, due in large part to his status as an employee of Corey. Devin's elder brother controlled the bulk of Racer's supply lines, and it wouldn't do well for business to be interfering with the workforce of his distributor. Racer knew that well enough, meaning Eric, Charley and Ben had all been thusfar spared any serious advances from the man. Didn't stop him coming off as a massive creep, of course, but one had to take what positives you could get in this business. And so, leering creep on his doorstep or not, Eric resigned himself to doing his job. And that was to assist clients. He pasted on the friendliest smile he could manage and stepped back to open the door wide enough for his guest to enter. "Hey, Racer. Restockin' again?" "Aye, lad, same as always. Toss us a pinch'a that pure snow, too, f'ya got a gram or two. We'll see wot we drum up wit' that." "Right." Eric smiled again, less forced this time *(Racer wasn't in too much of a teasing mood, it seemed, which might keep his usual lewd comments to a minimum)*, and turned toward the storage room about halfway down the hall where the majority of their stockpiled drugs were kept. Easy enough to toss together a packet of Racer's usual assortment; though as far as the pure stuff went he'd have to find a baggie somewhere, see if he could pester Sherlock into weighing up a few grams of his freshly-processed batch. Ordinarily Eric would do it himself, of course, but the cast on his arm made for a slightly difficult time with the scales. As Eric made his way down the hall Racer trailed along behind him. "Got yerself a bit roughed up there, eh love?" "Oh, er…" Eric glanced down at the sling on his arm. He shrugged, faintly embarrassed, and shot Racer a sheepish grin. "Yeah... s'just dislocated. Me an' Sherlock got jumped by a couple tossers walkin' back from th'pub after the last show." At the mention of Sherlock's name Racer's eyes seemed to light up - not an entirely pleasant expression to witness. Belatedly Eric was reminded of the way Sherlock tended to go all odd over any mention of the weasel-like dealer and wondered whether he should have avoided mentioning his boyfriend altogether. "Ah, did ya now!" Racer was grinning like he'd just discovered something hilarious. "I heard about that one, I'd wager. Lowell's boys been runnin' round screechin' their fool heads off 'bout a toffee-nose cokehead wot clobbered 'em all. That'd be yours, would it?" "Erm…" Eric hesitated - partly because he wasn't sure if he should confirm or deny the question, and partly because Racer's accent was fucking impossible to decipher. The man had apparently been Scottish at one point, but years spent skulking about the alleys of London had infected his lilting brogue with all the worst elements of Cockney. "Lad's a *fighter* though, eh?" Racer went on smoothly, not bothering to wait for a response from Eric. "And a proper boffin by Flanagan's talk." Grinning, he shot a lewd, meaningful glance towards the front of Eric's trousers with his subsequent words. "Boy sure as hell's got himself plenty a *skills*, then, hasn't he? Imagine you've had yerself more'n a few demonstrations by now, y'timorous dog you." Racer's lecherous tone and teasing wink made it plenty clear what sort of 'demonstrations' he was referring to. Eric's face immediately went beet red as Racer cackled. "W-we're… I mean, I'm not… it ain't none'a your business!" Eric tried to set his expression in an affronted glare but failed miserably as his cheeks were still burning crimson. The sling on his injured arm kept his hands from their usual nervous habit of pressing together, which wasn't at all helping him regain his composure. In desperation he cleared his throat and turned resolutely round to begin gathering Racer's supplies from the storeroom. Racer was still chuckling. "Now, now, there ain't no shame innit, love. Though… may wanna be wary there, y'ken? Couple grams'll get ya damn far with that'un. No tellin' who all's had 'im on his knees for a quic-" "Right!" Eric exclaimed suddenly, cutting Racer off by shoving a brown paper bag in the man's hands. "Usual stuff, best quality we got, good t'go!" Ears and cheeks still flushed a fiery red, but he'd resolved to ignore it in favour of getting Racer the hell out of their house. Priorities, here. "And th'pure shit?" Racer opened the bag to glance inside, idly checking for the correct contents. His expression remained locked in a sort of faintly vulgar smirk as he glanced back up toward Eric. Eric baulked a bit. Ah *fuck*, right, the purified cocaine… he had no idea where it was being kept, either, as Sherlock had been the one in charge of storage. That meant he'd have to go and ask, which would probably mean letting Racer tail him into the sitting room, which would lead to Sherlock having to interact with a bloke who'd pretty much just flat-out admitted to having blackmailed him into… oh *christ*, no, fuck all aspects of *that* plan. Find a way out of it, quick, quick! "Actually I, er… just remembered I ain't s'posed t'sell that lot until Corey gets a client list set up for it an' all. Y'know, high rollers and th'like? All them's got first dibs." Racer quirked a dubious, slightly annoyed brow. "Think I damn well qualify on *dibs*, love." "W-well yeah! Course you do," Eric stammered. Ah shit shit *shit*, he'd accidentally offended *Racer*, of all people. All traces of jovial silliness were quickly vanishing from the man's demeanour, replaced by a dangerous sense of impatience. Not good. "I just… wanna make sure y'get the right price an' all, yeah? Corey'd have me head f'ya got overcharged." A few seconds of silence passed between them, Racer fixing Eric with a cold, calculating look and Eric doing his best not to look utterly terrified. Finally, with a sudden smirk (which very nearly caused Eric to pass out right there in the hallway out of sheer fright) the dealer tossed his paper sack of drugs a few inches into the air and caught it again, chuckling. "Ah, Crenshaw…" he muttered with a fond chortle. "Yer a real piece o'work, love. I do wish ye'd take me up on me offer sometime, eh? Have a bit of a go street-side? Be a bleedin' natural, y'would." Heart still hammering away, Eric forced a shaky smile. "I… I'm good where I'm at for now, thanks." "Ah well. Someday, yeah? Always a shame t'leave ya, lad." With a roguish wink and another light toss of his bag Racer turned to amble down the hall. Eric followed after, shutting the door behind the man after offering a passably-polite parting wave, then turned to lean against the wood panelling in mixed terror and relief. His heart had kicked into high gear some five minutes ago, whole body gone icy hollow and trembling with excess adrenaline. He wondered if it would be too ridiculous to just sink down and curl into a ball right there in the entryway. Would anyone be likely to stumble over him before he managed to work himself back out of panic mode...? Probably, he determined. Ben was due back soon, as was Chuck. And besides which, he reminded himself, he had a *boyfriend* in the other room. And skin-and-bones or not the prat'd be far more comforting to lean up against than a cold wall. All Eric had to do was make his way to the sofa. Not difficult, that. Well worth the effort. Limbs still a bit shaky he managed to pull himself up to his feet, then navigated the short stretch of house back to the sitting room. "Have you actually taken the time to look at these sodding spaceships?" Sherlock exclaimed almost the instant Eric came within his field of view. "None of them make the slightest ounce of sense within the context of the narrative. I mean what are the odds of architecture featuring a *sheer drop* in the midst of a *corridor* making it past health and safety inspections? There's not even a guard rail or anything! Complete rubbish." Despite the trembling fear still working its way out of his limbs Eric smiled and huffed a small laugh. Evidently Sherlock had been too engrossed with the logical inconsistencies of Halo to take note of who'd been at the door. Probably for the best, considering. With a frown Eric flopped down on the worn cushions, then after a moments' hesitation shoved his way back into the position he'd been in before - practically curled up in the space between Sherlock's chest and the Xbox controller in the other boy's hands, face pressed against the cigarette-and-laundry scent of Sherlock's jumper. Sherlock let him without much fuss, engaged as he was with his sorry attempt to play video games. Eric tried not to dwell on the implications of Racer's words earlier, but of course it was impossible not to. Wasn't much of a surprise anyway, really… it was a well-known fact round the back streets that any junkie Racer took a shine to would end up doing whatever disgusting thing the man asked of them, lest they find themselves cut off for miles around. The dealer boasted a web of influential pushers spanning nearly a dozen districts' worth of drugs trafficking all grovelling at his feet. Clearly Sherlock had run afoul of that whole mess and gone with the only option he'd have had available to him. Awful, yes, but understandable. … still, though. Eric shifted around a bit, repositioned himself so his head was resting in Sherlock's lap, and blinked rather forlornly up at the other boy's face. Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion and glanced downwards. "What?" "… Nothin'," Eric muttered after a moment. He turned his head sideways to glance at the telly, watched as Sherlock's pathetic iteration of Master Chief scarpered behind an energy shield to escape a horde of Covenant grunts. "You really suck at this game, mate." "Shut up," Sherlock snapped with a scowl. Eric smiled, then turned back over to curl up on the sofa cushions. He pressed his face against the warmth of Sherlock's stomach and tried to will his body to stop feeling so cold and panicky. *Calm down*, he told himself. Honestly. Nothing had bloody happened - Racer got his drugs, Sherlock hadn't so much as registered the guy's presence, whole business went as well as could be expected. And yet still he couldn't help this feeling of dread creeping up through his guts... bleeding *hell*, stupid sodding fear response. Racer was terrifying enough, yeah, and by all appearances he'd targeted Sherlock as one of his sick little playthings quite some time ago. That was probably legitimate reason to fret, Eric figured. But, still... in the end of it all Sherlock was an adult. Capable of looking out for himself. Moreso than most, really, considering he'd soundly beaten the tar out of a trio armed blokes without a seconds' hesitation. Eric shouldn't have to worry about him. Whatever Racer had forced him into… it was all in the past. Only to be brought up if it happened again. Which it wouldn't. Ever. Because even if Sherlock didn't need the interference - even if he didn't *want* it or so much as know about it… Eric decided he'd do his damnedest to keep Racer away from now on. Evils of the world abound, and perhaps Eric wasn't much of a fighter. More of a worrier, really. Fretting over everything without doing anyone much good. But in this, maybe... in his own small way, perhaps he could help. Or try to, anyway. Sherlock, after all, was well worth protecting. **««** ## Chapter 8: Joint **««** "Have you ever even smoked weed before?" Eric smiled bemusedly as Sherlock, nose wrinkled in disgust, coughed and handed back the joint which he'd just taken a drag off of as if it were a cigarette. *Way* too much, of course, but Eric wasn't planning on saying anything. Honestly he was dead curious to see what Sherlock would be like whilst massively stoned. And an entire bleeding lungful of pot smoke would certainly do the job. Sherlock covered his mouth with his sleeve and coughed hard, grimacing. "*Yes*," he spat defensively once he could speak again, voice a bit strangled. "Just... not that strong. How much tobacco did you use?" Eric grinned mischievously. "None." As he'd expected, Sherlock shot him a startled glare; they'd agreed to a 20/80 split, owing to Sherlock still technically being high on cocaine. Not wise to mix too many mind-altering chemicals in one go. Of course that had been the justification put forth by Sherlock - Eric was fairly sure the *real* reason behind this newfound sense of caution was because Sherlock knew full-well he had no tolerance for marijuana and would end up stoned out of his mind if the bud wasn't heavily cut with something. Since that scenario was exactly what Eric wanted to happen he'd secretly foregone the addition of any tobacco at all and just rolled up the weed straight. Bit underhanded, maybe, but he figured it wasn't like Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell what he'd done with a glance. Had to have known before they lit up, right? Some impossible little clue giving the prank away. And, to be fair, he'd *really* not expected Sherlock to be stupid enough to treat the thing like a filter cig anyway. The moron. Said moron was now blinking at him rather dazedly. Eric quirked a grin at him and took a short drag of his own. Not enough to do much, of course - wanted to keep mostly sober. Both because he needed to be able to supervise, make sure Sherlock didn't do anything too outright stupid or embarrassing, and because he knew he'd definitely want to be able to remember every detail of this little scene. "You still with it, mate?" he asked after a short silence between them. He couldn't help but snicker a bit along with the question; Sherlock's normally-poised features were currently arranged in an uncharacteristic look of bewildered, innocent confusion. "Er..." he replied slowly, then scrunched his face up as if thinking very hard about something. "I... yeah? Yes, I mean. Yes. Sort of." A quick shake of his head, looking like he was trying to hold on to a tiny last scrap of sobriety, and he glared Eric down somewhat unsteadily. "You did this on *purpose,* you arse. You wanted me incoherently high." Eric just shrugged. "Yeah, I did. Sorry. Too good a chance t'pass up... you *do* know you're s'posed to just take a quick puff an' hold it, though, yeah? It's not a bleedin' cigarette." "That would have been excellent information to have about five minutes ago," Sherlock replied, tone sounding like he'd gone for snippy but got lost somewhere and just ended up a bit bewildered. He frowned and looked around the room - they were both sat criss-cross on top of Eric's duvet, with the rays of a setting sun through the window casting odd patterns on the bedspread. Sherlock regarded those for a second but then quickly appeared to lose interest and glanced up to Eric instead. He opened his mouth, blinked once, and then closed it. "I... completely forgot what else I was going to say," he remarked perplexedly. "That... hang on, that shouldn't happen. I'm s'posed to be able to..." He made some sort of strange hand gesture, apparently at a loss for the right words. Eric just grinned at him. "You're stoned, mate," he helpfully reminded his befuddled companion. "You're not *s'posed* t'be able t'do much of anythin'." As if demonstrating his point he took a pull off the still-smouldering joint, careful not to draw too deep or hold the breath long enough to have any real effect, and blew the smoke playfully in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock scowled and waved his hand to try and clear it, making a noise like an indignant child. Then he promptly got distracted by the swirling eddies of smoke in the window light and spent a few seconds watching those disappear with a look as if he'd never seen something so fascinating in his life. "That... theoretically you could write an equation to calculate precisely where every particle in that cloud of smoke is going to be at any arbitrary point in time, you know... can't find the velocity though, obviously, because if something's got a velocity then it's moving and if it's moving then by definition it's not at a fixed point. Never understood why that's got to be a principle with a name and everything. S'just common sense, really..." Eric blinked and fixed Sherlock with an extremely bemused look. Was he... rambling about *science*? Was that seriously the sort of thing he thought about whilst high? Maths shit? Christ what a nutter. "I dunno what th'hell you're even on about," Eric replied, mostly because Sherlock seemed to have gotten sidetracked again by some internal thought process, staring into the middle distance as if contemplating something, and Eric didn't want him to go all catatonic rather than talk. Thankfully this tactic worked; Sherlock abandoned whatever he'd been pondering to instead look to Eric with a disapproving frown. "You should do, though. You're not stupid." Eric snorted in disbelief. "Well that's a marked change of opinion, ain't it?" "There, see!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at him like he'd just done something scandalous. "See? *A marked change of opinion?* That's a complex... erm, word... grammar... oh, you know what I mean. It's *smart*, is the thing. Like what I'd say. You talked like *me.*" He paused, looking vaguely alarmed, then shook his head. "Spoke, rather... I meant spoke. Oh god now I'm talking like *you*. We've swapped." "We ain't swapped, mate, you're fine," Eric assured him, laughing in response to Sherlock appearing genuinely distressed at the thought of his posh rich-boy accent being infected with cockney. A second later though he seemed to forget all about it and instead began to wilt sideways until he'd flopped face-down on the bed. Exhausted, looked like. Probably the cocaine was wearing off, or he'd not had a cigarette within the last hour. Doubtless a bad sign, Eric supposed, that the guy needed to be on some sort of stimulant just to retain consciousness. Textbook definition of dependency. Not that either of them could really do anything about it now. Quitting cold-turkey would just put Sherlock out of commission for a few weeks, during which he wouldn't be able to purify any drugs, which would likely get him kicked out of the house. And Eric in his current state wasn't exactly up to earning enough money to feed and shelter two fully-grown men. Especially not when one of them would be literally starving with a sudden loss of stimulant-induced appetite suppression, and probably not capable of doing anything but sleep for a good fortnight besides. Trapped where they were, then, probably until one of them died. Sherlock, most likely... considering he seemed about half there already. Eric frowned and, in an effort to drive such thoughts out of his mind, took another quick drag off the joint. He blew the smoke towards Sherlock's head as a sort of gentle reminder that he could have more if he liked. Wake himself up a bit. "Y'gonna just fall asleep, then, or...?" Sherlock shoved his face into the duvet for a second, doubtless unhappy about the smell, but held out his hand anyway. He propped himself up on his elbows once Eric had handed the smouldering bit of paper over, and, once again, seemed to completely forget it wasn't a cigarette. Eric rolled his eyes as he accepted the joint back (Sherlock having got himself into a massive coughing fit, predictably) and leant over to stub the thing out in the ashtray he kept by his bed. Right, then, no more of that. Not if Sherlock couldn't figure out how to not smoke it like a complete dumbarse. The dumbarse in question had flopped back down on his face, groaning in response to what Eric presumed must be quite the impressive head rush. Served him right, god's sake. "I *told* you it ain't a damned cig, y'moron." Eric's exasperated tone was mitigated somewhat by Sherlock having chose that moment to lift his head a bit and give him a pathetic, half-terrified look. It was hard to decide whether the expression was more worrying or hilarious. Accordingly Eric's response ended up caught about halfway between the two reactions. "Y'alright?" he asked with an amused snort. After a pause he decided it probably wasn't nice to just start laughing over the poor bastards's self-inflicted predicament and did his best to straighten his face. Sort of a difficult proposition when Sherlock was blinking vacantly up at him like a child. "I, er... dunno?" Sherlock responded very slowly. In a somewhat rare display of unprompted physical affection he suddenly shifted himself to be more or less hugging Eric round the midsection, upper body draped half over his lap. Eric smiled a bit and patted the miserable sod on the head. "Yeah. Pretty sure y'just fucked yerself over there, love." Immediately Eric snapped his mouth shut, cheeks going faintly red - *shit*, hadn't meant to use that word. He tended to call people 'love' rather frequently, just as a sort of friendly nickname, but he'd been determinedly avoiding doing so towards Sherlock. It just... didn't seem like something one should use to refer to a new boyfriend without it being meant seriously. Certainly not something one should say in reference to *Sherlock Holmes* without first thinking through every possible facet of what you could mean by it, because god knew *he* would. Or... he would if he weren't currently stoned to high hell. Eric's burst of internal panic faded quickly as he looked down to the very muddled supergenius now occupying the majority of his lap. Sherlock had just had his face shoved into Eric's thigh the whole time, shoulders all hunched up like a hedgehog. Didn't seem to have even processed the words. "Every minute's stretched to *eons*, good god," the man mumbled half-incoherently into the silence between them. "Shouldn't've... whatever you did to make me think this was a good idea... left out the tobacco... *christ* you can be such a manipulative bastard." Eric, still trying to fight back the blush over his accidental slip, smiled with fond, if somewhat apologetic, amusement. "Yeah, well... who's the one who keeps on lettin' me pull that shit, eh? Ain't like you're not clever enough to spot when I'm messin' with you." "No, that's the thing. M'really not." Sherlock was actually stoned enough to be slurring, now, which Eric had to admit was just about the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. Luckily the juvenile grin on his face was quite thoroughly wiped away by Sherlock's next words. "I trust you too much." Eric blinked, mouth gone slack in surprise. That... what? "You're *safe*, is what I mean," Sherlock continued on, not even seeming to realise he'd just candidly admitted something he'd be absolutely mortified to say if he were sober. "Never going to be a threat. So there's no reason to bother sussing out if you're planning anything." He finally lifted his head a bit, frowning out at the room in what looked like utter confusion. "Which is... entirely stupid of me, f'course, because you bloody always *are*. But I s'pose even when you're being a deceitful arsehole there's no sense worrying over it because you're not going to... er..." He trailed off, obviously disgruntled. "Oh, no, I've forgotten the word. How did I forget a *word*? I don't forget words. Eric, I've become an idiot. You've made me *stupid*." With that he seemed to give up on talking entirely and just let his head flop into Eric's lap, covering it with his arms as if blocking out the world might help him sober up faster. Eric, for his part, was a bit too stunned to really say anything. He... had no idea how to react. Sherlock *trusted* him? The bloke who was suspicious of literally everyone he met, lest they turn out to be spies or assassins or just regular old arseholes waiting for an opening to attack... had been dropping that hyper-vigilant caution in regards to anything Eric did? *That's* why he'd been able to play his silly little pranks and tricks and convince Sherlock to go along with things so easily? There was no immediate way he could think to respond to that, so he just let a few minutes drag by in silence. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, of course - he was still curled up half-draped over Eric's lap clinging to his abdomen in what might very well have been a desperate attempt to keep hold of some last piece of reality. Certainly he was hugging him hard enough to make the contact seem like it must be vitally important. Eric hesitantly shifted his weight - he'd been leaning back on his good arm - and had a complete loss for what to do with his now-free hand before he settled on just patting Sherlock's head like a puppy. "I, er... trust you too, you know," he said after a long pause. Tried to force the words to sound sure and honest and not a hesitant stammer. Sherlock wasn't listening anyway, he reminded himself. Too busy with the terrible eon-minutes or whatever he'd been complaining about. He'd not even remember any of this. Still, Eric wrinkled his nose and glanced elsewhere before adding a quiet, "... a lot." "Good, because there's about a dozen different ways I could murder you and get away with it." Sherlock's flat tone was clearly meant to be a joke. Eric startled badly anyway (though that was more because he hadn't expected any sort of response, let alone a completely coherent one) and glared. He shoved Sherlock's head lightly, eliciting an indignant grumble and half-hearted swat at his hand. "That ain't fuckin' funny." "Sorry." Despite the apology Sherlock's voice was absurdly cheerful, even giggling a bit. Clearly still out of it. Eric was a bit baffled, regardless - the idiot shouldn't have been anywhere *near* sober enough to carry on a coherent conversation, inappropriate giggling or no. Not with how much he'd inhaled. Had he just been...? No, no Sherlock wouldn't be able to fake being stoned that well. Not enough to fool Eric, at least, who was intimately familiar with the effects. He must be... but, no, christ. That was crazy. "You're seriously soberin' up already?" he asked, incredulous. It had only been twenty bleeding minutes - there was *no way* someone with no tolerance could process that much THC in less than a half-hour. Being a supergenius couldn't change basic human biology. "Oh *god*, no. Not at all," Sherlock half-mumbled, half-moaned. He'd gone back to burying his head under his arms, making his words slightly difficult to decipher. "I just put my speech centres on autopilot - stopped trying to assemble conscious responses. I don't actually know what we're talking about." "You..." Eric trailed off, making an extremely confused, dubious face. "How can you *not know* what we're talking about, *while* we're talking about it?" For some reason Sherlock started laughing. "I have no idea!" Eric smiled, still incredulous. Not sceptical, though... no, he actually had no trouble whatsoever believing Sherlock could pull a trick like that. Talking like he was perfectly clear-headed yet having no idea what he was saying. And without the slightest clue as to how it worked, either, because of course he wouldn't. More and more Eric was beginning to suspect his friend's brain might as well be functionally magic. Sometimes uncontrollable, frightening, *destructive* magic, yeah... but by all rights a thing of extraordinary power. Made one wonder just what Sherlock might have been capable of, had he ended up on a different path. Given the chance to actually be someone instead of beaten down at every turn. After a long minute of listening to Sherlock try and fail to stop himself giggling over absolutely nothing, Eric smirked and reached down to ruffle his hair. "Yeah, mate... we really gotta teach you how t'properly smoke a joint." **««** ## Chapter 9: Cat **««** "If ya feed it it'll just keep comin' back." Eric frowned out the back door at Sherlock, crouched down near the edge of the garden trying to coax something out from under a bush. It was, Eric was fairly certain, the same mangy cat that'd been skulking around the place since Christmas. Not being particularly fond of animals (cats especially) Eric had been rather meticulous of late in making sure no scraps of meat or any other edibles got left out where the strays could get them. One just didn't go around inviting disease-ridden animals anywhere near their living space, simple matter of common sense. And then here, of course, was Sherlock. Feeding a damned alley cat in the back garden. "It also won't die," Sherlock intoned blandly, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. Eric huffed an annoyed sigh and reluctantly strolled out from the warm(ish) kitchen into the frigid air of early morning. Sure enough, there was a ragged-looking brown tabby curled up under the bush, hackles raised and tail all puffed out. Eric regarded it with an unimpressed stare. Sherlock had made a little pile of torn-up lunchmeat near the edge of the shrubbery and had apparently decided to just sit and wait until the thing came out to eat. "It's probly got rabies or some shit, y'know that," Eric pointed out in a supremely unenthusiastic deadpan. Sherlock waved him off over his shoulder. "Rabies is only transmissible when the animal is symptomatic," he rebuked with a slight huff. "And anyway it's easy enough to treat with appropriate prophylaxis, no danger of systemic infection." Eric didn't know what half those words meant, which was generally par for the course when speaking to Sherlock, granted, but still a bit irritating. Especially when a cat was hissing at them. "Well leave it the hell alone so it can eat or whatever, then. Y'don't gotta sit there an' watch it," he grumbled, adjusting his cast in its sling before shoving his right hand as deep into his jeans pocket as he could manage. Bloody freezing out here, christ. "It was limping, I want to know why," Sherlock objected. He very deliberately didn't budge from his spot crouched down in front of the cat. Eric rolled his eyes. "It's a street cat, some kids probly kicked it about or somethin'. Why does it matter?" Instead of answering, Sherlock just frowned. In front of them the cat had stopped hissing and now had them fixed in a frozen glare, hackles still raised. Eric eyed it warily. If it lunged at them he was getting the *hell* out of dodge, sod helping Sherlock – prat could deal with a scratched-up face all on his own. After a moment of silence Sherlock sighed very slightly to himself. He shifted his crouch a bit to rest his chin on his forearms, pillowed atop his knees, and regarded the cat with a pensive gaze. Very nearly sitting on the dew-soaked grass, but of course he didn't seem to notice or care if his jeans got wet. "Shouldn't really matter at all, I suppose," he muttered. Something seemed a bit off in his tone, but Eric was far too cold and in far too close proximity to a vicious animal to feel much like analysing it. "It's just that it sort of looks like..." He trailed off with a deep frown and stared at the cat for a few silent, thoughtful seconds. The animal's seafoam-green eyes flashed in the morning light as it opened its mouth to hiss again. Eric unconsciously leant away with a grimace – he'd been taught fairly firmly from early childhood on that one just didn't bloody go around bothering with stray cats. People lost hands that way, fingers all rotted off from infection. It went against every fibre of his being to just stand there without chasing the thing off. "Looks like a mangy cat with a limp t'me," he ground out somewhat more spitefully than he'd intended. Sherlock glanced up at him with an odd expression – a sort of half-confused, half-forlorn look. Eric just scowled in response. He took step back, his movement making the cat growl, which did not at all improve his disposition towards it. "Look, it ain't even friendly," he pointed out, trying (and mostly failing) not to sound too tetchy. "All it wants to do is bite the shit outta us. There's no point bein' nice to it." "It's just scared," Sherlock rebuffed in a rather petulant tone as he turned his attention back to the stray. "Trying to look intimidating so we'll back off – it doesn't know we're not going to hurt it." "I might," Eric mumbled crossly. Sherlock shot him a sharp glare, something very nearly verging on dangerous in his eyes, and Eric backed off with an apologetic hunch of his shoulders. "Not *really*, christ... I just don't like cats, alright? They're mean little bastards." "Only the frightened or aggressive ones. Well-socialised cats are perfectly companionable," Sherlock countered. Mercifully he'd dropped the flash of anger, though he still didn't look particularly happy. Eric wasn't sure if it was to do with his comment or if Sherlock just didn't like the idea of having to leave the stupid alley cat alone after he'd gone to all the trouble of feeding it. "Yeah, well, anythin' with knives on its feet an' a mouth fulla bleedin' fangs can stay the hell away from me, companionable or not." Sherlock didn't deign to respond to that. Finally, after several more seconds' staring, he straightened up from his crouch. As soon as he took a step backwards the cat bolted – nothing but a streak of brown fur in a straight shot over the fence, gone in a blink. Sherlock tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket and gazed after it with an unhappy look on his face. "It'll be back soon enough," Eric assured. His resentful tone wasn't perhaps the most sympathetic, he acknowledged, but then this was one of the very few things he found he honestly couldn't tolerate – luring diseased animals off the streets near to where people lived, practically inviting a bite. Dangerous and irresponsible, even by Sherlock standards. As was beginning to be a habit when he was upset about something, Sherlock chose to very pointedly ignore Eric as he turned and stalked back to the house. Drama queen. Eric failed to avoid rolling his eyes at the theatrics and followed along behind. Honestly, pissed off over a stupid cat. How ridiculous could you get? Fully prepared to let Sherlock's little freeze-out run its course (he was fairly sure the prat would just forget he'd been angry in a few hours, anyway, so it wasn't like this would be a permanent thing) Eric shut the kitchen door behind him and made to head back up to the bedroom. Maybe waste time on the internet for awhile or something, he didn't know. Whatever got him far enough from Sherlock to avoid being scowled at for the next however-long. Sherlock had stopped near his counter full of chemistry things, meanwhile, and as Eric glanced back at him he was unsurprised to find he'd already lit a cigarette. But, then... ah, hell. Frowning, he paused and stared at Sherlock for a few seconds. The man was looking moodily out the window, watching to make sure the cat returned for its meal. Clearly upset that it'd run off. He was, for whatever unfathomable, irrational Sherlock-reason, legitimately concerned about the wellbeing of a mangy half-dead stray. After a minute or so Eric sighed. He rubbed his good hand through his hair, then let it flop down again, defeated. The nonsense he was willing to put up with, bloody hell. "We'll go an' find some proper cat food later, alright? Don't keep feedin' it the damn sandwich meat." Sherlock startled slightly and glanced over, apparently not having realised Eric hadn't yet left the room. He blinked, confused, then opened his mouth to ask a question. Something outside seemed to catch his attention first, however, and his gaze quickly darted back to the window. "Ah, it came back," he exclaimed, sounding honestly delighted by that. Eric, now more or less resigned to his fate in enabling all this, moved to stand next to the sink and followed Sherlock's line of sight out the window. There was the cat, alright – inhaling the little pile of shredded ham like it hadn't seen a meal in days. Damn thing'd never leave now. "It's *not* comin' in the house," was all Eric could think to say, unhappy scowl firmly in place. Beside him Sherlock wasn't paying any heed whatsoever – he was far too busy watching the animal eat. A faint, probably unintentional smile had crept onto his face. Eric glanced over to him, bit back a sigh for the injustice of it all, then settled his gaze back toward the scrap of fur and claws lurking in the garden. Of all the stray animals Sherlock could've taken an inexplicable liking to, it just *had* to be a bloody cat. **««** ## Chapter 10: Trauma **««** Sherlock dissociated with alarming frequency. Of course he'd never admit that's what was happening. Or, perhaps more likely, didn't know. Eric did, though, because Mum had lived her entire life on the razor's edge between lucidity and madness and he'd learnt to break her out of staring spells by the age of four. He wasn't sure quite how to feel about having to do the same for a romantic partner. On the one hand it was lucky he had the skillset, else Sherlock would've been dead ten times over by now with how often he'd space out in the middle of the road or whilst handling some dangerous chemical. On the other hand, it was hard not to get nervous over needing to mind someone similarly to how he'd done for Mum. Scared of what might happen if he fucked it up again. Eric sat in a pub booth now across from Sherlock as they waited for their housemates to finish up after a show. Sherlock was sat sideways on the seat with his back pressed up as far as possible against the wall and was making a tremendous effort to pretend it was for some reason other than trying to avoid being spotted and recognised as the guitarist by folks who liked their music. Not an unrealistic concern, to be fair - their little trash pub band may not have earned itself a name yet, but Charley's compositions were catchy and unique enough to have developed a small local following. So, while the crowd tended to be made up primarily of folks attending for drugs-related reasons, there were always at least a few genuine fans of underground punk rock milling about. And many of them were admittedly very interested in chatting with Sherlock, as his symphony experience leant his guitar an unusual sense of precision which meshed remarkably well with Ami's more chaotic bass. Eric had always found chatting music theory with random strangers to be the least stressful bit of this whole pub band experience - dreaded being up on stage with the vast sea of eyes watching him, but mingling with fans afterwards was usually a bit of fun. Sherlock, of course, felt exactly the opposite. Performing to a raucous crowd in an unfamiliar genre on an instrument he'd picked up less than a fortnight ago somehow didn't bother him in the least; a couple friendly punk scene blokes asking him about chord progressions may as well have been literal torture. Yet another instance of an amusing pattern Eric had started to notice where Sherlock turned out to be confident in all the areas Eric wasn't, and vice-versa. Perhaps if they could somehow merge they might form a single functioning adult. Had this been a typical show night Sherlock would've retreated to the back room ages ago and likely fell asleep on the sofa until it was time to go, as had become his habit. (Eric had no quarrel with this - much more convenient knowing exactly where the prat would be, with the added benefit of keeping him well away from Racer.) Tonight, though, Corey had claimed the space for a private meeting, so Sherlock was stuck out here with the commoners. And Eric was, for the moment, stuck sitting here with him, because he could tell the prat was coming perilously close to exceeding his stress limit and wanted to be nearby to snap him out of the dissociated trance he'd fall into when that happened. "We should come up with a disguise or sommat, steer folks off tryna chat with ya," Eric mused, idly working his jaw to flip the end of the joint between his lips up and down. He'd have offered a puff to Sherlock, of course, but every time they'd got stoned together the silly bastard had worked himself into a panic attack over the flow of time having broken, whatever that meant, so he wasn't allowed to have weed anymore. "There's no good way to disguise an emaciated giraffe," Sherlock grumbled back. His hands were folded between his knees in that odd prayer-like gesture he adopted sometimes, gaze directed past the end of the booth as if scanning for threats in the dwindling crowd. Eric snickered, then quickly collected himself to deliver his rebuttal in a comically serious tone. "C'mon now, a giraffe? Wit' hair like that? Yer clearly more of a starved llama." That elicited an amused snort, which sounded enough like an actual llama to set them both giggling. One of the things Eric liked best about Sherlock was his willingness to laugh together over incredibly stupid jokes. "I'm fine on my own if you'd rather hang about with Ben. You don't have to sit here with me," Sherlock eventually offered, once they'd quieted down. His attention seemed to have been caught by something off across the room, and his voice came out a bit distracted as he watched whatever it was. Eric shrugged. "Eh, nah. He's been after some girl all night, I'm no help for that. No harm bein' antisocial with you for a bit." That was a lie, but only partly. Ben had indeed been after a girl most of the night but had got himself rejected nearly an hour ago. In truth Eric had only come over here because Sherlock hadn't yet taken to trailing around after him like an aloof second shadow, which had seemed to imply he'd already got overwhelmed enough to go hide somewhere. "Victor used to drag me out to clubs all the time and I'd just put on the extrovert act and be fine. I don't know why it's so difficult now," Sherlock muttered glumly. Eric flicked a bit of ash from his joint and frowned over at him - wasn't like him to get so down about stuff like that, was he starting to check out? Quickest way to tell was to tease him a bit - if he got angry or annoyed instead of flustered he was either crashing or about to dissociate. Or both. Probably usually both, actually. "Bah, ain't no need for social skills with an arse that cute." Didn't get flustered. Nor angry or annoyed, either. In fact he'd not seemed to register Eric's words at all. He was still looking out into the pub, but his gaze had shifted into a fixed, unfocused stare. Eric's stomach flipped unpleasantly - the too-still posture and vacant expression Sherlock got during these absent spells always brought to mind that sick sense of dread he'd felt as a kid when Mum would do something similar. Never sure if it meant she'd gone off her meds, if they'd stopped working again, if she'd still be herself when she came back. Following Sherlock's gaze was a good excuse to look away from his face, avoid the terrible emptiness there, but Eric almost immediately regretted doing so. Near the brick wall directly across the room from them Racer was stood smoking a cigarette. A dark smirk played on the man's lips as he eyed them with predatory interest. Eric replied with a hateful glare, but dropped it quickly in favour of swinging himself round to the other side of the table so as to block Sherlock's line of sight with his body. Should've sat there from the beginning, probably, but he'd not thought to as he'd assumed Racer would be at Corey's meeting. Experimentally Eric reached out and jostled Sherlock's leg a bit, checking if he'd actually dissociated or just got caught up thinking about something - it could be hard to tell. No reaction. Checked out, then. Eric had seen this happen quite some few times by now, starting from that first night just before they'd got jumped. Benny mentioning Racer had put Sherlock into some sort of dead-eyed trance as they walked, not seeming to register anything Eric said. After a few minutes of awkward, then vaguely concerning silence he'd brought the both of them to a stop and forced Sherlock round to face him. That had driven a bit of the vacantness out at least, got him to briefly glance up, though he'd still not seemed all there. Eric had instinctively gone with a tactic he'd used often on Mum and ordered the idiot to look at him. That had done the trick. It had been tempting, once the spark of consciousness returned, to demand Sherlock explain what the *fuck* that had been - try to quell the coiling worry of whether this new bloke was just like Mum. But as he'd studied Sherlock's confused (and vaguely annoyed) face he'd realised the poor bastard didn't actually seem to be aware anything had happened. Not worth the argument to try to convince him right then, if that were the case, and besides which they'd both still been quite drunk. Snogging seemed a better option. Over the course of the next few days Eric had witnessed a half-dozen or so more of the vacant spells, of varying length and with varying degrees of automatic behaviour. He also determined that, for the most part, Sherlock had no awareness of them whatsoever. Eric had worried that might mean he'd get offended when Eric finally figured out how to broach the subject, ask if he knew how often he spaced out, but he'd done nothing of the sort. Instead he'd got all anxious and bloody *apologised* . Like he'd thought Eric would be cross with him. Plainly then he'd had this issue for some time and been scolded harshly for it in the past. Yet another clue as to how fucked up his home life had been. Thankfully the tactic Eric had used that first night turned out to be an extremely reliable method of breaking Sherlock out of trances. With repetition it turned into a bit of a silly little ritual: say his name to get his attention, make some sort of skin contact, gentle order to look at Eric. Probably didn't matter where he looked, to be honest, but it was nice to feel like the sight of one's face was helpful. Turning his back on Racer, Eric grabbed light hold of Sherlock's nearest wrist with his good hand. "Sherlock," he said, enunciating as clearly as possible, aiming for that particular firm yet calm tone. "Look at me." As with every other time, the trance broke immediately. Sherlock's eyes snapped back into focus and he blinked, frowned, then shifted his gaze to Eric. "Weren't you on the other side of the table?" he asked, suddenly confused. Yep. Zero awareness. Despite the dour circumstances Eric quirked an exasperated smile. "Yeah, mate. Turns out I could teleport this whole time." Sherlock frowned for the sarcasm but seemed to deem it not worth acknowledging. Instead he huffed a frustrated sigh and drew his knees up to bury his face against them. "Fuck's sake, why does this keep happening?" he mumbled into the little ball he'd created. Eric took the opportunity to glance over his shoulder - Benny had moved in, engaged Racer in conversation, seemed to have convinced him to go off somewhere. As he drew the vile man away Eric's friend glanced back at him with a little wink and a smile. Eric smiled back. Good ol' Benny. Back to the more pressing matter, though. Eric had a fairly good guess as to why this kept happening, especially why it kept happening whenever Racer turned up, but telling Sherlock his problems were the result of failing to process trauma seemed unlikely to help. Bit hypocritical, too. "I dunno, mate," Eric answered instead. Sherlock was on the wrong side of him to be able to hug, on account of the cast, so he did the next best thing and just scooted close enough to share body heat. "Could be worse, I guess? Least you snap out of it easy enough." "Only if you're around to do it. Eventually it's going to happen while you're off somewhere and I'll be stuck staring like a fucking idiot and get murdered or something. Miracle I've not been already, considering there's no bloody way to predict it." Eric gave an amused snort, causing Sherlock to lift his head and shoot him a perplexed glare through his fringe. This just made Eric laugh properly instead, both because Sherlock now looked like a sulking toddler and because he couldn't believe the idiot seriously hadn't noticed how Eric always managed to be around for these spells. "Sherly, why th' fuck do you think I came over here to sit with you instead of stickin' with Benny?" "Because he was… after some girl?" Sherlock hedged, his glare dropping into a look of vaguely annoyed confusion. Eric just laughed again. "Jesus christ, you daft ponce." Finally Sherlock seemed to catch on. "Wait… can you tell when I'm about to freeze up?" "Nah, mate, I just conveniently happen t'be right next t'you every single time." Eric's bland sarcasm earned him a childish pout, made even funnier by Sherlock still being sat curled up in a sad little ball, and then funnier still when his response to Eric snickering was to go to all the bother of extricating an arm just to swat at his shoulder like a petulant cat. "Stop laughing! Tell me how you know when it's going to happen!" "I just can! It ain't somethin' explainable!" Sherlock huffed, but had thankfully by this point learnt that sort of answer meant there'd be no use trying to argue. Instead he rested his chin on his knees with a thoughtful sort of frown. "Could you… say something ahead of time, maybe? When you notice? There might be a pattern I can spot." Eric was still smiling from his laughing fit, but it drifted a bit towards melancholy. Well, there was definitely a pattern, but likely not one he'd be able to spot. Not until his defences lowered enough to let him see how badly he'd been hurt, at any rate. Still, though, no harm letting him try. "Sure. I'll warn ya." That earned him a smile - one of those rare, genuine ones that smoothed over all the cracks and hard edges and let Eric pretend for an instant they were just regular blokes having a laugh. In a fit of silly fantasy he allowed himself to imagine them being like that for real, someday. Far in the future, perhaps, having somehow skipped the bitter end to all this. How might they both look, fully grown into their awkward height? Would they have proper jobs? Families? Bills to pay and businesses to manage? Would Sherlock ever take full stock of the horrors he'd buried? Could Eric face the part of him still stood frozen over lifeless bodies, screaming? He shook his head to clear it and huffed a rueful laugh. Fuck's sake, how absurd. Burnouts like them living actual lives. Sherlock shot him a curious look but didn't bother asking what was funny. Instead he shifted around until he'd got himself sat in a more proper direction, then flopped sideways to rest his head on Eric's shoulder. Eric turned and pressed a kiss to tangled curls. Nah, they'd never be adults. Growing up was something real people did, not walking collections of trauma. **««** # The Trapeze Swinger ## Chapter 1 **««** Days of the week held very little meaning when one made a habit of remaining awake through several of them at a stretch, but Sherlock thought vaguely that it might be a Thursday. Impossible to be sure, and he certainly didn't care enough to check. But wondering vaguely about it still took up some amount of processing power as he allowed Eric to succeed in dragging him off towards the stairs to bed. Wasn't tired in the least, of course, and ordinarily he'd have whinged on that theme until the other man gave up and left him to his own devices. But it seemed they'd spent enough time in each other's company now for Sherlock to have gained the ability to tell via some nebulous, illogical sixth sense that Eric wasn't actually trying to get him to sleep. He just wanted to spend a bit of time together without Rhys constantly butting in. And, fair enough, the boy had been more of a nuisance than usual today. Sherlock decided he could probably afford a few hours away from his purification setup, especially given it was his fault anyway they'd found themselves sheltering a shiftless 14 year-old. Eric had lit a joint on his way up the stairs, and upon entering the bedroom propped it between his lips as he switched on the small guitar amp he'd connected to a beat-up mp3 player. A song he'd been inexplicably playing on repeat the past few days started up - some meandering lyrical folk piece Sherlock hadn't bothered to ask the name of. Despite Eric having only downloaded the file a few days ago he'd already played it enough times for Sherlock to have inadvertently memorised both melody and lyrics. No idea why he felt a need to keep playing a single song over and over like this - asking directly had elicited one of those vague non-answers Eric used when he wanted to signal that a topic was off-limits without having to explain any further, so Sherlock had let it drop. Took instead to conspiring to switch the music to that Irish punk group Eric hated whenever the repetition got to be too annoying, as a form of civil disobedience. Meaning to follow Eric's lead on smoking, Sherlock went for his own pocket but found only an empty cardboard box. Oh, right. He'd smoked the last fag in this pack. Must have forgot to grab a new one. Carton was in the kitchen cupboard with all his lab glassware. Bit of a walk. Well, no matter, just improvise. As Eric straightened back up Sherlock caught him round the waist from behind, leant around the man's shoulder and with the deft ease of a pickpocket lifted the joint from between his lips whilst distracting him with a kiss. Drew away towards the bed with the now-stolen joint hanging from his own lips instead, casual as if it had been there all along. This time of day Eric was usually smoking something more tobacco than weed, and petty theft was far less hassle than walking all the way back downstairs. "Careful," Eric warned, sounding irritated by the brazen crime but not enough to actually do anything about it. "That ain't a spliff, it's one o' the joints Benny rolled up fer me wrist. Shit kicks like a horse." "I'll be fine." Sherlock flipped a hand dismissively. Managed to take a drag without coughing, which felt like a grand accomplishment, and grabbed Eric's guitar from beside the bed where he'd last left it. Eric rolled his eyes and fished another joint out of the flip case he kept in his pocket, apparently deciding to just let Sherlock keep that one. They both fell to their own activities sat on the bed together; Eric doing something on his laptop, Sherlock idly playing along to the looping folk song whilst doing his best to pretend his perception of reality wasn't beginning to warp out of coherence. Eric had been right, as usual - whatever Ben had added to this joint was ridiculously potent and Sherlock had nowhere near enough tolerance to handle it. Damned if he'd admit to that, though. "When did you learn the words to this?" Eric suddenly asked. Sherlock blinked over at him. "What?" "Yer singin' along. Didn't think you even liked this song." Sherlock hadn't been aware he'd been singing, but then he wasn't especially aware of anything at the moment. He wondered vaguely where the joint in his mouth had gone. Eric must have confiscated it. Obviously not before letting Sherlock's predictable pigheadedness drive him to smoke himself stupid, of course, the conniving arse. "I don't. It's boring and repetitive." "But y'learnt the whole thing." Eric's face had crept towards a fondly exasperated smile as he continued to focus on whatever he was doing. Sherlock turned back to the guitar with a shrug. "Not on purpose." Some indeterminate length of time (which felt like a horrifying stretch of endless eternity, but which Sherlock had by now learnt to remind himself was really only a few minutes) passed them by. Eric had switched the amp-turned-speaker off at some point in favour of listening to the guitar adaptation of Saint-Saëns Op. 28 Sherlock had shifted into playing. The complex virtuosic arrangement had once upon a time been his best audition piece, and was therefore so thoroughly seared into his brain he'd been able to transpose nearly the entire thing from memory over the past few weeks. "You always make that song sound so normal at first and then it just goes right off the fuckin' rails," Eric said with a laugh after Sherlock managed to get through most of an entire rendition at-speed, only needing to slow down for a few of the longer runs. "That's how it's supposed to be, the composer deliberately made it as infuriating as possible to piss off his violinist friend." No idea where he'd heard that, or honestly if it was even factually true, but his childhood self having found that scrap of trivia incredibly funny nevertheless comprised most of the reason he'd settled on *Introduction & Rondo Capriccioso* as his showpiece performance in the first place. Eric laughed, apparently also finding that funny, which was a nice bit of vindication. With no real intent to do so Sherlock switched back to playing Eric's lyrical folk song. Became aware this time, dimly, when he started singing, but Eric's response to it was to go still and smile softly down at his laptop, so Sherlock made no effort to stop. Decided instead to see if he knew all the words. "How th'hell do you remember every single line in order like that?" Eric asked with a note of faint awe in his voice. He shifted around to show his screen, where he'd apparently pulled up the lyrics and had been following along. "Dunno, just do." Sherlock's voice came out a bit of a poorly-enunciated mumble. Cognition was growing unreasonably difficult, couldn't quite figure out how to talk and play guitar at the same time. "Probably I'll forget it all again when m'not so bloody *stoned*." Navigating an instrument would doubtless become impossible soon, so he reluctantly set the guitar aside. Spent his last few relatively functional mental processing cycles regretting the rash decision to steal Eric's joint - hadn't thought it'd hit this hard, going off how little Eric seemed to be affected. Always managed to forget how vast the gap between their tolerance levels was. Eric smirked at him. An undertone of smugness betrayed that he had, in fact, intentionally let Sherlock smoke way too much. "Yeah well maybe that's what y'get for nicking other people's drugs, dumbarse," he admonished with a light shove to the side of Sherlock's head. Sherlock was a bit beyond being able to respond to that in any capacity besides pushing Eric's laptop out of the way (eliciting an affronted "oi!") and replacing it with himself instead, slumped face-down in an inelegant heap across the man's legs like an uncomfortable blanket. Eric grumbled something about how he could've just asked, but rather than object to the new arrangement he simply set his computer on top of Sherlock's back, which was fine. Didn't mind being used as a table so long as it meant he could remain draped over Eric. Needed the grounding effect of physical contact as a tether whilst he tried to get a handle on what in god's name his brain was doing. It was as if the gossamer threads connecting his thoughts to one another in their usual intricate tapestry of tangential branching spiders' webs had all suddenly vanished. Ideas coalesced, were briefly acknowledged, and then... nothing. No triggered avalanche of related concepts, no rambling internal monologue. He just had a head full of orphaned bits of useless knowledge all rattling around in a bewildered jumble, bereft of their sprawling mental latticework. Of course he couldn't very well put such realisations to words, organise the problem within a framework of language as he usually would, as no sooner did he grasp the root of the issue than he immediately forgot it once more - thoughts pushed aside for the next random kernel of an idea his brain queued up. Like an assembly line, almost. Thoughts coming along in an orderly procession one after another instead of each spawning a hundred simultaneous tangents racing off into eternity. It... wasn't *unpleasant*, he supposed. Certainly a change from what he was used to. But... also not particularly enjoyable? He felt oddly as if he'd been hobbled in some way; like a rocket with a speed limiter. On some level he could still *feel* his brain functioning with the same multi-process hyperefficiency as it always had, but the information was being restricted to fleeting glimpses through a pinhole. He was naught but a passive observer to the bright coil of terrifying complexity lodged within his skull. "Time git stuck again?" Eric's voice eventually cut in after some unknowable duration. Felt a hand brushing his fringe aside, trying to get a better look at his face. Checking for whatever signs Eric used to deduce whether the unstable mess he called a boyfriend was about to have a panic attack or freeze up or otherwise descend into madness, presumably. Sherlock didn't think he was, or at the very least not over the time distortion thing - he'd more or less figured out how to cope with the way every second seemed to hang motionless in the ether. No, his main problem at the moment had more to do with not being able to participate in his own cognition. "I think my... brain is functioning independently of my conscious will," he explained in a bewildered mumble. For some reason Eric laughed. "Your what is *what?*" "My brain... conscious..." Sherlock trailed off, blinking, then screwed up his face as the thought he'd been trying to convey abruptly disappeared through the pinhole in his head. "... oh my god I have no idea what I'm even thinking about," he continued. Then, struck with a new idea (which had apparently usurped the old one), he shifted to properly look up at Eric. "Is this what it's like to be *stupid?*" "Er... I dunno, maybe?" Eric quirked a smile at him. "What's yer brain usually doin', then?" "Normally there's... I can..." Sherlock's right hand (the left was currently pinned under his chest) was making a strange gesture, which was probably meant to be aiding his point, but at the moment he hadn't the faintest clue what he was trying to convey by it. "I can only think of one thing at a time!" he finally managed to blurt out, voice gone faintly scandalised. "I mean *now*, that is, because of the... there's supposed to be... it's like a spiderweb." "Are you tryin' to say you normally think of like a hundred different things at once?" Eric clarified for him, inexplicably snickering. "And now y'can't?" "Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed. Then, because Eric was still grinning like a complete arse, "It isn't funny!" Eric just sniggered harder. "It sort've is, though." "No it's not!" Sherlock objected. "I can still feel all the... all the *genius* nonsense going on but I can't access any of it! What if something happens!? I'm completely useless like this!" "You ain't useless, mate. Calm down." Eric was plainly trying to be reassuring but Sherlock was having none of it. Quite suddenly he found himself filled with a pervasive sense of terror - a deep-seated conviction that he *needed* to be able to think multi-procedurally right now, that all those bits of data hovering just out of his reach could mean the difference between safety and yet another round of excruciating pain. Father could be *anywhere* and Sherlock wasn't able to hold enough simultaneous thoughts in his head to both keep track of the man's movements and predict what behaviour he'd be expecting next. Sherlock's facial expression must have morphed into some sort of barely-constrained panic, because Eric's amused smile shifted towards vague (if somewhat exasperated) concern. "Hey, really. It's fine. Shit'll wear off in a bit, you'll be alright. No harm done." Eric patted him on the head but Sherlock wasn't paying the slightest attention. Too important to keep on the alert for heavy footfalls round the corner. "No, no no it's *not* fine it's- I have to be able to think so I can- what if he's angry, I won't be- have to figure out what he wants me to- whatever I did this time-" Sherlock muttered in a daze. His single channel of thought had become thoroughly overrun by a fragmented cascade of distorted memories. **««** Eric frowned and set his computer aside (already found the album he'd been looking for anyway - just waiting on the download to finish now) then shifted his legs to try to get Sherlock to roll over a bit so as to properly see his face. Grey eyes empty with a sort of blank fear - an expression Eric knew very well at this point. That familiar stab of unease shot through his gut, and he instinctively went to snap him out of the dissociative state. Wasn't actually sure if their silly little ritual would work while the moron was this stoned, but had to at least try. But, then… as the man kept mumbling, Eric realised this wasn't actually one of his disconnected spells. Or at least not *quite*. Seemed more like a panic attack… but also not quite that either? Christ, Benny's high-potency strain must've scrambled the poor bastard's brain so badly it produced some bizarre combination of the two. Best take stock and try to figure out how to untie whatever mental knot the daft fool of a genius had got himself into this time. He seemed to have lost track of when and where he was, like he'd often do just before spacing out. But was also keeping up a running stream of disjointed muttering around a central theme, which usually happened when he'd done too much coke and/or got himself into an anxiety loop about something. Wasn't stuck on any of the usual topics like time flowing wrong or Mandy taking photos of him, though. Instead it all seemed to do with figuring out how to appease some all-powerful, vengeful man whose rules made no sense and whose wrath knew no bounds. Well. No prizes for sussing out who *that* might be. "Sherlock, hey," Eric said gently, cupping the other's face. Sherlock seemed to startle at the contact and blinked up at him, eyes wide and a bit lost. "Yer dad's not here, mate. It's just us." They locked gazes for a long moment, and, mercifully, Sherlock seemed to centre himself a bit. "He… he knows where I am, though," he countered, still looking disorientated but at least aware of his surroundings. Getting better at breaking himself out of drug-induced feedback loops. "Always does." Eric shrugged but didn't argue the point. Always best to just go along with paranoid fears rather than create more stress trying to disprove anything. Though one did have to admit that in this specific case the concern likely wasn't paranoid at all - Eric had pieced together enough offhand remarks by now to conclude that the Holmes patriarch was more or less a real-life James Bond, impossible spy gadgets and all. Bloke almost certainly *did* know exactly where his children were at all times. Even (perhaps especially) the one he'd disowned. Whether that was an actual *problem* however seemed more a question of if the man wanted to do anything with the information. And if he could somehow show up here without alerting them well ahead of time. Both seemed dubious. "So what if he knows?" Eric replied, scoffing. As he continued he intentionally leant into his accent a bit, aiming to sound like a brashly over-confident chav. "Ain't no proper gentleman like him gettin' within a mile of this fuckin' rat's nest without some tosser outside bein' all *'oi, what's this fella in the suit about!',* and then we'd just run out the back afore he found ya." Sherlock stared him down a beat longer. Then, just as Eric hoped might happen, he burst out laughing. He curled his body around further and hugged Eric round the midsection, trying to stifle a giggling fit by burying his face against Eric's stomach. Eric smiled and ruffled the idiot's hair. Felt a bit bad now about letting him smoke so much of that joint, even if he *had* stolen the damned thing and therefore deserved to suffer the consequences. Just hadn't intended the consequences to be quite this severe - he'd figured Sherlock would've built up at least *some* tolerance to marijuana by now, with how often he nicked Eric's spliffs and just generally existed near a continuous cloud of pot smoke. At this point it seemed like it had to be a biology thing. Related to whatever strange quirk of his brain allowed cocaine to calm him down, perhaps? Wondered vaguely if he had odd reactions to any other drugs. A few companionable moments passed, both of them occupied with their own thoughts. Unbidden, Eric's mind went back to the song he'd been playing over and over the last few days. He'd stumbled across it in one of the batch files of random obscure music he liked to download off the internet, and found himself transfixed by the lyrics. Desperately wished he could grab his guitar and learn the whole thing, but given that his left arm was out of commission he'd instead made due with putting the file on repeat in an attempt to memorise the song. Wanted to be able to pick it up easily later, when his wrist healed and the cast finally came off. Sherlock had asked why, of course, and Eric had very nearly told him; that the meandering lyrics made him think of the two of them, of how they'd inevitably be separated by some awful outcome soon, how he hoped they might still remember each other afterwards, even if the outcome turned out to be death, and how the *trapeze swinger* lines in particular brought to mind Sherlock with his constant precarious balancing act between high and crashing. But, as he'd tried to think of how best to word all that, he'd realised Sherlock's response would doubtless be the blank confusion of someone who'd never in a million years waste brainpower reflecting on silly things like how song lyrics applied to his life. And that had seemed like it might take away a bit of the magic. So Eric had decided to keep his musings to himself instead. Replied with a non-answer and hoped Sherlock got the hint to drop the subject. Which he had, thankfully. What he'd also done, somehow, was memorise the entire bloody song. And then, directly after calling it *boring and repetitive,* had seen fit to *sing* the damned thing to him. Trapeze swinger, indeed - vacillating wildly between oblivious arse and incredibly sweet. Eric huffed a small sigh to himself and considered the man curled up over his lap. Looked deceptively innocent, for now. Soon enough he'd be up to some manner of insane horseshit, and Eric would once again be left wondering what he'd ever been thinking agreeing to date a psychotic junkie. They'd bicker, Sherlock would calm down, they'd find a compromise that allowed Eric to convince himself their relationship wasn't quite as dysfunctional as it seemed. Things would swing back to fine for a while, then slowly come unhinged again. And on and on it would go like that, until they reached the inevitable end. Because the trapeze act was wonderful, but never meant to last. **««** ## Chapter 2 **««** Peaceful coexistence, of course, could never last long where Sherlock was involved. Even with his hyperactive brain hobbled by medical-grade THC. Barely five minutes of companionable silence had elapsed before his usual inability to tolerate prolonged inactivity manifested itself in abruptly lifting his head from Eric's stomach and peering up at him with a devious, calculating look. "... what?" Eric asked after a frankly inappropriate amount of time being stared at. In a sudden frenzy of motion, Sherlock attacked. Managed to tackle Eric against the mattress with an alarmingly coordinated display of strategy for someone stoned off their face - straddled Eric's hips first to limit available core strength, prevented effective use of the cast as leverage by pressing across the width of his shoulders with a forearm, then finally caught his good arm and held it down near the elbow to keep it from lifting. The overall effect was that Eric went from sitting upright to pinned flat on his back, completely unable to move, in a tad under three seconds. Barely enough time for the spike of panicked fear to finish shooting through him. He stared wide-eyed as Sherlock fixed him with a smirk which was deeply confusing for how it toed the line between seductive and dangerous. Probably meant to be seductive, Eric guessed. After all, this was the same bloke who not twenty minutes ago had been singing a song he claimed not to like apparently solely because he'd noticed Eric smiling over it. Still, though, it was difficult not to acknowledge that despite Sherlock's current state of being utterly trashed on at least three different drugs the lunatic remained quite capable of killing a man. "Alright, um… are ya tryin' to shag me or murder me?" Eric decided to try asking. Mainly in hopes of getting Sherlock to realise that had been a bit terrifying. To his credit, he did seem to catch on, and with a smile halfway between apologetic and embarrassed shifted to rest his forearms on either side of Eric's head instead. "Shag you," he clarified, ducking his head for a kiss. Eric let him do so, and reluctantly accepted that their current position was doing a fair job of making his jeans uncomfortable, but managed to remain somewhat on track. Felt like he had to at least *attempt* to make it clear that sudden physical aggression from a mentally unstable cocaine addict with a known capacity for extreme violence was not appreciated. "Rather y'just said as much, yeah? Instead of scarin' the piss outta me." Sherlock drew back and pouted at him slightly. "You know I wouldn't hurt you." "I know y'wouldn't *mean* to hurt me," Eric corrected in as stern a tone as he could muster given the increasingly difficult-to-ignore effects of a cute bloke straddling his hips. Predictably, all this admonishment got him was a playful bite to the side of his neck, doubtless intended as a cheeky deflection of the point he'd been trying to make. Which would've struck him as unacceptably flippant had it not put him well past the point of being able to pretend he wasn't nineteen years old and incredibly hard. Sherlock abruptly straightened up and stripped off his hoodie and shirt in one motion, which ratcheted the *incredibly hard* point a few ticks higher up the priority list. Tossing them aside he leant back over and kissed him again. "It's not just shagging for shagging's sake, though," he said in a comically serious tone given the wording. "It's an experiment." Eric could only manage a questioning noise as he tugged his own shirt off, having to be much less graceful about it owing to the cast. Unfortunately Sherlock didn't seem to be in a mood to elaborate. Or, perhaps, had simply become distracted getting Eric's trousers undone, which admittedly was very distracting to Eric as well, and then became exponentially more distracting by means of slick heat and a probing tongue. "*Jesus*, slow down if you wanna do anything else," he bit out in a strangled choke, clenching against the rush already starting to bubble up. In reply he felt the sudden disappointment of cold air on wet skin, tasted himself on warm lips. They'd agreed from the start - that far-off, hazy morning - not to bother with rubbers, as neither of them expected to live long enough for the risk to matter. And so, once they'd both got properly undressed, managed to figure out all the little logistical steps despite the constant wandering diversion of each other's bodies, the uninhibited sensation of pressing past resistance into silken heat was almost enough to finish things before they'd even got started. He managed to hold back, distracted himself by grabbing at tangled curls and pulling his lover's face down to his own. Captured a deep kiss and a glimpse into eyes shining with lust and excitement and a strange manic glee. This wasn't the second or third or even the fifth time they'd done this, but it still felt like a tiny stolen secret. Some precious scrap of joy snatched out from under from reality's nose. Despite preferring to receive he always wanted to be on top; liked to pin Eric down with his whipcord muscles and negligible weight, entire body setting tempo. But today, it seemed, he'd much different plans - after just a brief taste of the usual position he stopped, captured Eric's lips in a teasing bite of a kiss, pulled back to flash him a manic grin and shifted off to the side. Eric let out a questioning grunt for the sudden absence of heat, then found himself being hauled off his back. "Come on, get up. Get up!" Eric let himself be pushed and tugged into whatever configuration his insistent lunatic had in mind. This turned out to be mostly upright, needle-scarred forearms braced on the headboard, Eric behind, both their knees on the mattress. And while this new angle was *unimaginably* hot he kept enough wits about him to hesitate - knew that the unspoken violation he'd gone to such lengths to keep buried would've likely happened in a similar position. He was only afforded a brief few seconds of pause, though, because with an almost unnatural flexibility the skinny prat twisted his upper half around and grabbed at his face with an impatient kiss. A nonverbal *it's fine, stop worrying.* And, again, being nineteen leant significant weight to the immediate temptation. So he lined himself up and pressed smoothly back into tight heat. Heard a choked-off, startled gasp, froze, worried he'd misjudged. But the sound morphed into an impatient growl as bony hips pressed backwards, forcing him deeper, demanding he start moving. Didn't need to be told twice. He found a rhythm, adjusted to comply with breathless urging of *harder* and *faster*, until he was panting with exertion and struggling to quell the rising tide of release. Finally there came a strangled cry, dense muscles spasming under his hand, and the searing embrace around him began to pulse with rhythmic spasms, drawing out his own climax as if claiming ownership. Immediately they collapsed in a boneless, panting heap. Hot flesh slid apart, making a mess of the sheets. Through the post-orgasm haze he found Sherlock's face, turned it towards him so as to steal another kiss, gazed into eyes now sparkling with giddy euphoria and an odd sort of triumph. "What're you so bleedin' smug about?" he asked once he felt capable of drawing the breath required. "I was right, my brain couldn't process anything else. Being fucked from behind didn't trigger any flashbacks." "*That's* what yer experiment was?" Despite the heady lull of afterglow the revelation that he'd come this close to triggering a potentially violent flashback in the middle of sex launched a sudden stab of outraged alarm through his chest. Sherlock at least had the good sense to look contrite about it. "Sorry. I meant to explain but got distracted and forgot. You *did* go along with it even after it should've been obvious what I was doing, though, so..." Eric huffed a resigned sigh and willed his heart to slow down a bit. Alright, true enough. Sherlock had been an irresponsible idiot, Eric had failed to overcome being a horny teenager. Perhaps they were both as bad as each other. Still. Unwelcome. "Fine. But don't ever pull that shit again," he muttered grumpily. "Wasn't planning to. Just wanted to overwrite the negative association with a positive one while we had the opportunity." Being referred to as a 'positive association' went a long way towards quelling Eric's anger, but he still tried to keep a bit of pique going on principle. Sherlock, of course, simply carried on talking with cheerful indifference, head presumably now thoroughly muddled by endorphins on top of all the other chemicals he'd already been high on. "I had thought I preferred that position, but in retrospect I think I'd actually more just got used to it? Most of the blokes Victor and I picked up together just wanted a quick shag so it was more convenient, I guess." "*Most* of them?" Eric asked faintly. Noted with faint irritation that, as usual, Sherlock had managed to derail Eric from being justifiably cross by the simple act of saying something strange or confusing to bait him into asking after it. Debated on calling attention to the tactic. Ugh… no. Not worth it. Better to just let the stupidity slide. Wasn't like his continuing to be angry had any chance of improving Sherlock's future behaviour anyway. "... just how many blokes have you been with?" Sherlock blinked, shifted his gaze away as if trying to remember. Frowned. "Erm… I don't know? Victor and I went out most weekends for a couple months, usually got a few per night so I guess maybe call that twenty, and then he talked me into going to a gay sauna with him that one time and I wasn't really keeping count there but at least four. So about two dozen all told seems a reasonable estimate. Give or take." Eric fixed him with a baffled stare and tried not to let the confusing mix of feeling both alarmed and utterly outdone show on his face. Bloody hell, he'd thought his grand total of three quite decent at his age. How in god's name was anyone supposed to compete with *about two dozen, give or take?* Luckily the idiot was still incredibly spaced out and didn't seem to be paying Eric's conflicted facial expression any mind. "I don't know that I typically *liked* it all that much, mind you. Especially not the group stuff. But Vic said experimentation was the entire point of uni and to stop being so boring so I went with him and tried not to be boring. Which for the most part meant letting him and whoever we'd picked up that night fuck me." "Sounds… sounds like he kinda took advantage of you?" Eric replied, still a bit wrong-footed but trying to stay with the conversation. Sherlock blinked at him again, quirked an exasperated smile. "Well, yeah, obviously. I didn't mind too much though if it meant we could keep being friends." Eric's face twisted into a light scowl and he opened his mouth to disapprove, but then realised there was hardly much point bringing up any trite notions of self-worth or whatever. Developing a crippling drug addiction and dropping out of one of the most prestigious universities in the world to do kitchen chemistry for a drugs distribution ring wasn't exactly something a person did if 'well-adjusted' had ever been part of their vocabulary. Plus it wasn't like Eric had much room to talk, what with how often he'd let Luce boss him around on similar motivations. "Wait," he realised instead, his inadvertent thought of Luce having brought to mind one of the more unpleasant aspects of that relationship. "You always had to bottom, then? I'd be fine wit' swapping, if you-" Sherlock cut him off with a light press of fingertips to Eric's lips. "You're such a bloody moron," he muttered fondly. His fingers shifted to draw delicate patterns on his cheek as if tracing the freckles there, eyes idly following the movement. "I can barely tolerate being touched, what makes you think I'd ever want to try being *inside* someone?" "I… dunno? I definitely like it better. Always hated when Luce wanted to top." "Then why the fuck would you suggest *I* do it?" Under normal conditions Sherlock might have said this in an irritated tone, but at the moment it just came out sort of affectionately bemused. He remained quietly fascinated by Eric's freckles. "Um, I… I s'pose it just seemed like I should? If you'd not had the choice?" Sherlock's fingers stopped tracing patterns on his cheek and shifted to cup his jaw instead. "How about no more stupid suggestions and just go along with whatever I say, since you've obviously no idea what you're doing," he said in a tone just a tad too silly to come off as arrogant, then drew their faces together for a kiss. Somewhere amidst their tangled bodies his other hand had gone searching, evidently curious to see if Eric's refractory period had already passed. Seemed quite pleased to discover it had. The mixed cocktail of drugs in both their systems made for a heady combination with adolescent hormones, affording the stamina to go another round. This time lazily tangled together, slow and indolent to where his wandering hand found its way places usually too overstimulated to touch. Rather than be pushed away as he'd expected, he was permitted to explore. To touch and stroke and tease. Careful not to grip too tightly and break unspoken trust. Climax rose quickly after. Then, languid exhaustion. Sleep fell over them, bodies pressed so close as to become one. **««** # Running Like A Wildfire ## Chapter 1: Sherlock **««** On a dreary Wednesday morning he was told by the nurse that his family would be by to pick him up in the afternoon. By 'family' he understood she meant Mycroft, so while he waited in the lobby later for the familiar black towncar to pull up he occupied himself by absently wondering how he was going to react to finally seeing his brother again. Anger would be appropriate, he supposed. Maybe relief if he was going to be a sap about it. Happiness was *extremely* unlikely, but he ceded it remotely possible. *Very* remotely. The most probable scenario was probably going to be simple indifference. After all emotional responses generally required at least a semi-reactive cognitive state, and Sherlock's mind had gone quite thoroughly numb something like a month and a half ago. Not the comfortable anesthesia of cocaine but something dark and stagnant, spreading like rot through every corner of his head until nothing could move for the filth. His brain was literally *decaying*. It had rebelled against the forced dormancy by declaring war against itself and now the battlefield was strewn with putrefying corpses. Sherlock briefly screwed up his face in disgust at the imagery. *Ugh,* what was with him and strange abstract visualisations of his mental space? And *why* was it always either a field or a lake? It would really be better to use some sort of building. Then he'd have a bit more permanence at least, perhaps organised places to keep all his cluttered internal *stuff.* Should try erecting a tower. Have to wait until the corpses cleared out though. And the mud. The rot. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. A noise caught his attention and he looked up as the clinic door opened, catching sight of the smart suit and puffed cap of one of his family's valets. Personal staff instead of a government employee? That was new. Might even have been interesting, had he had any capability to be interested by anything anymore. The most feeling Sherlock managed to dredge up was a faint wave of irritation at the fact that his brother was apparently too much of a lazy arse to walk the twenty feet to sign him out himself, but it faded quickly. Too much effort. The manservant handed over a stack of papers, spoke with the receptionist a moment and then initialled a log book before turning to Sherlock and sparing his outfit the barest of distasteful glances. Sherlock looked down at himself but could see nothing particularly troublesome. Jeans, white t-shirt, navy Oxford hoodie, a pair of still decently-new trainers and the dove grey wool peacoat Mycroft had given him two Christmases ago which he only ever wore because it was easy to hide drugs in the lining (not that there was anything in there now, much to his annoyance). They were the same clothes he'd had on the night of the overdose, which he supposed ended up being sent here out of the convenience of having already been in a hospital bag. Perhaps a little casual, but he hardly felt the need to dress up just to meet his *brother.* Besides, the only clothing the clinic provided was their stupid uniform of loose-fitting activewear and that was hardly a better alternative. He conveyed his thoughts to the valet with a bland lift of his eyebrows, and with a very slight look of exasperation the man turned and beckoned him to follow. The shiny black towncar they approached practically screamed 'pompous ass' in its conspicuous display of wealth, and despite the stifling cloud of dysphoria in his head Sherlock felt a jolt of irrational anger flash through him. *Bloody* Mycroft, with his stupid bloody cars and stupid bloody valets and stupid bloody... bloody *everything.* The only reason Sherlock was even *here* was because that fat meddling whale hadn't been able to keep his nose out of other peoples' business. It was all his brother's *fault.* An insult jumped to his lips and as he slid into the back seat he was already speaking. "You're a *fuckin-"* The slur died in his throat as he caught a proper look at the man sitting in the opposite seat. That... wasn't Mycroft. *... Oh Christ.* The valet shut the door and walked around to start the engine, locks clicking down automatically. He was trapped. "Sherlock," his father said mildly, brows slightly raised at the way his son had nearly spoken. Sherlock felt his body start to lock up in a sort of frozen horror. Oh god this was most definitely Not Good, he was going to die. Or worse. *So* much worse. He very nearly shuddered. Couldn't panic though, not here not *alone* with this man. He forced his breathing to remain even and wrestled his expression into something approaching calm composure. "Father," he replied in a voice that was most definitely not strained. *Oh god, Mycroft, why? What did I do? Was it the walrus joke? I'm so sorry about the walrus joke.* His father's head inclined ever so slightly in polite greeting. "It seems we have... matters to discuss." Sherlock forced his face to stay neutral, only to ruin the effect by clenching his fists in his lap like a child. "Yes, sir." Father flashed him one of Mycroft's false tight smiles and glanced down at Sherlock's hands with Mycroft's usual slight lift of the browline and the entire effect was *horrifying* because Siger was just about as far away from his eldest son in terms of morality as it was possible to get. Mycroft at the very least had a *soul,* even if it was a slightly misshapen one. Siger was a hollow shell which had learned to act human. The fact that they looked nearly identical seemed like the universe's cruel idea of a joke. Sherlock realised what his father's gaze was hinting at and immediately unclenched his fists. "Smoking again, are we?" Siger said in a bored tone, noting the nicotine stains. "Yes," Sherlock muttered, because there was no point in lying. Feeling the car's engine start he wondered where he was being taken. Back home? Oxford? His grave? "... sir," he suddenly added when he realised he'd forgotten. *Oh god there's no way I'm leaving this car alive.* "Neglecting manners as well as dress sense, I see," Siger intoned; it was not a question. Sherlock didn't trust himself to breathe. "You *are* aware of the role reputation plays in the success of this family, are you not?" "Of course sir." The correct way to interpret Siger's sentence was, of course, *'I will not tolerate anything that might get us mentioned in the papers.'* The man was obsessed with keeping a low profile, presumably because he had several schemes of a less than legal nature running and couldn't afford to find himself a tabloid celebrity. The fact that one of his sons had become a rising star in government and the other was both eccentric and visually striking just made him all the more ardent in his refusal to allow scandal of any kind. "Then I wonder why, given such knowledge, you've deliberately gone against my wishes and drawn attention to yourself?" "Attention?" Sherlock repeated, forgetting again to add 'sir' in his confusion. *What* attention? He'd been ridiculously careful not to let anyone catch on, not even his brother's spies had- Without warning Siger tossed a newspaper in his lap and Sherlock's face drained of all colour as he saw the front page. Across the top of one of last month's issues of the Daily Mirror was the headline *'HOLMES HEIR ON DRUGS - CLASSMATE TELLS ALL'* printed in bold black lettering above a grainy mobile photo of himself, Seb, and Victor gathered around a tall pub table looking mostly plastered. From the fact that both of his acquaintances were present at the same time he guessed the picture to have been taken a bit less than four months ago. He'd reluctantly introduced them at Seb's request just before the new term, and hadn't gone out drinking with them more than once or twice. Sherlock didn't remember being present for the photo, but that wasn't particularly surprising since a closer examination revealed his pupils to be roughly the size of pencil rubbers, meaning he'd just done a *massive* hit of coke and was probably well on his way to blacking out. (He'd gotten less able to judge his own sobriety after the switch to mainlining, having lost the numbness of his face to remind him when it wasn't safe to have another drink.) The 'classmate' part of the headline coupled with Victor's image made Sherlock's heart constrict in a sickening twinge of betrayal for a moment, but as he quickly skimmed the article he realised the informant was actually Seb. *Wilkes you backstabbing fuck,* he thought savagely. The 'anonymous source' essentially just described his abrupt personality shift at the start of Trinity term, relayed a few extremely scant accounts of social events (thankfully nothing about his sex life, as he tended not to chat anyone up unless out with just Victor), and went into frankly lurid detail about the night of his overdose. Apparently *Seb* had been the one to find him seizing, which Sherlock hadn't realised or even thought to inquire about. According to the article the man had forgotten his wallet and gone back to retrieve it and while leaving his room had heard someone collapse next door. Nobody answered to his knocking but luckily his absentminded neighbor almost never remembered to lock up, so he'd let himself in and found the lanky boy convulsing on the floor with a used needle lying a few feet away. He'd dialed 999 with his mobile, tucked a nearby jacket around Sherlock's head to try and keep it from slamming into anything too hard, (which explained how Sherlock had managed to get hold of his peacoat, he *had* been wondering about that) and stayed with him until the paramedics showed up. The vaguely touching account was quite thoroughly invalidated by Seb's having sold the story to a news rag a few weeks later. *Greedy money-grubbing bastard.* Sherlock re-folded the paper and stared blankly at the photo of himself and his sort-of-friends. "I... hadn't seen this." "Yes, I'd imagine that would be because your... *brother*-" Siger said the word as if he wasn't entirely sure it was the appropriate way to describe Mycroft in relation to Sherlock. "- appears to have been largely successful in suppressing the incident. I'm sure I don't need to inform you however that even a single obnoxious headline is far too many. I have already received several... *concerned* queries regarding your health from associates who happen to follow such matters." Translation: *Mycroft removed the issue from circulation, a few of my criminal contacts got hold of it anyway and now they're trying to use you as leverage against me.* Sherlock swallowed reflexively. Evidently he'd just become known as a possible weakness to a man who had no weaknesses. That did not bode well for his continued existence. "I... I'm very sorry, sir," he offered in a futile bid to save himself. As expected, Siger looked supremely unimpressed. "I'm sure you are. Be that as it may, I have already taken steps to ensure that your... *proclivities*," (the stress he put on the word made it clear he knew about the sleeping around too, which meant Sherlock was *absolutely* going to die) "do not affect the family image negatively." "Meaning you're going to have me killed," Sherlock uttered flatly. No reason to continue being polite; he was done for anyway. A spark of courage flared in his chest at the realisation that he could finally say whatever he liked to his father without the possibility of digging himself any deeper. Siger gave him a withering look. "You really think I'd assassinate my own son?" "Yes," Sherlock asserted without hesitation. Siger didn't seem inclined to dissuade him of his confidence, but Sherlock nonetheless continued; "But I'm *not* your son, am I? I'm the son of the horse groom you hired and then had quietly murdered because he was sleeping with Mummy behind your back." Despite the surge of bravery Sherlock's heart was still going a mile a minute, and it kicked up another notch when Siger's face darkened fractionally. "I suppose I should have expected your deducing that," he said in a bored voice. "You always do seem to notice the most useless of details." "How is knowing my parentage useless?" Sherlock snapped. "Because it makes no difference." Siger quirked a brow delicately. "Violet's infidelity has *long* since been dealt with, and any paternity test you care to order will be well within my ability to alter as I see fit. All your discovery of your illegitimate status has done is make it easier for you to accept what I'm about to do." Sherlock was working very hard to keep from hyperventilating at the unspoken threat. He reminded himself he had nothing to lose and soldiered on. "Oh? And what'll that be? Going to snap my neck and toss me in the Thames? I had hoped for something a bit more creative." Siger gave a terrible, amiable chuckle. "Dear me, no. I have much more expedient methods of disposing of a body than the Thames, child." Sherlock's mind instantly jumped to about eighty different conclusions at once, all of them awful. "Unfortunately, as much as I'd prefer to be conclusively rid of you, there is the small matter of your brother to keep in mind." "What's *he* got to do with anything?" Sherlock asked, hoping he sounded less unnerved than he felt. Siger sighed very slightly. "It would seem young Mycroft has secured himself quite a sphere of influence within the British government. While I am of course *extremely* pleased with his success the circumstances have made it rather dreadfully inconvenient to go around killing his relatives. No, Sherlock, I'm afraid you'll have to live." The implication seemed to be that he would not necessarily have to live *well.* Visions of being blinded or paralysed flickered horrifically through Sherlock's mind and he started speaking again without thinking. "Then you can't *torture* me either," he pointed out somewhat frantically. "He'd be really miffed about that, he gets upset when I have nosebleeds. And... and no permanent damage, or he'd go spare." Siger's brows rose in another one of Mycroft's condescending looks. "My boy I assure you I have neither the time nor inclination to physically disable you in any capacity." At Sherlock's slightly wild look he rolled his eyes. "Or *mentally* disable you, though goodness knows you seem to have managed that well enough by yourself." "Wh- I am not *brain damaged!*" Sherlock sputtered. "Your choosing to argue with me would seem to suggest otherwise," Siger informed him evenly, a hint of cold steel to his voice that carried with it a subtle threat. The icy tone alone was enough to make Sherlock's mouth snap shut instinctively. His father gave a false smile at his son's forced reticence. "Much better," he affirmed. "Now, Sherlock, the entire point of this little excursion was to secure us time to speak privately without your brother overhearing. Since this leaves us a very narrow window in which to have our discussion I will jump straight to the point: upon leaving this vehicle you shall henceforth be legally disinherited from the Holmes family estate. In addition the Holmes family no longer recognises you as kin and will deny any assistance should you fall into financial or legal trouble. Your actions thus far have been formally repudiated and will continue to be stripped of any official affiliation with the family title for as long as you choose to retain your surname. Do you have any questions?" Only the fact that Sherlock had been expecting *much* worse allowed him to keep what was left of his composure. His chest still fluttered too quickly and his hands had clenched into tight fists again, but he nonetheless raised his chin defiantly and met his ex-father's gaze. "No." "Excellent. In that case I do believe we've reached our destination." Sherlock startled slightly and glanced out the tinted windows, finding they'd made it all the way to London and were now idling outside a tube station. The clinic must have been nearer to the city than he'd thought. "You're leaving me at Charing Cross?" he asked blankly. That seemed a little... charitable. He'd half expected to be ditched out in the country somewhere. "I see no reason to part on poor terms." Siger gave him a look that expressed exactly the opposite. Sherlock put a hand on the door handle (the valet certainly was not going to open it for him) and sneered. His last chance for a final parting shot, might as well take it. "You know you're a real fucking bas-" A sudden force slammed him bodily into the door, the feel of crushing fingers on his windpipe alerting him to the fact that Siger was holding him to the window by his neck. He kicked out wildly and scrabbled at the hand on his throat, choking. *Oh god oh god no no no-* "I have been *extremely* lenient with you today, child. I'd suggest you not try my patience further." Siger's voice was deadly calm. His face betrayed no emotion whatsoever as he remorselessly strangled the life out of his former son. Sherlock had no choice but to go limp and acquiesce his submission as spots danced in his vision. Without another word Siger reached behind the younger Holmes with his free hand and unlatched the door, pushing Sherlock onto the pavement with a light shove. The teenager hit hard on his left elbow and immediately scrambled to his feet, heaving great wheezing gasps as he stumbled backwards to clutch a lamp post for support. He glanced up just in time to see Siger Holmes resume his seat, flip a nonchalant parting wave and slam the door. The car drove off. Sherlock was alone outside Charing Cross station. People were rushing busily to and fro in a sea of bodies around him but none gave so much as a second glance to the teenager who'd just been literally tossed to the kerb. Shivering with adrenaline Sherlock steadied his rasping breath and shakily relinquished his crushing hold on the lamp post. The world seemed to expand far too rapidly as his briefly oxygen-starved brain reoriented itself, and he felt sick to his stomach with a sudden vertigo. The skin of his arms and chest broke into a cold, tingling sweat and his heart refused to slow its frantic hammering against his ribcage no matter how steadily he breathed. As an acute sense of impending doom washed over him he rather abruptly realised he was having a panic attack. Sherlock sat down heavily to tuck his head between his knees and gasped heaving, jagged breaths. People moved past him in an uncaring miasma of faces and clothes. The numb doldrums of his mind seemed to have gone up in a raging firestorm. Suddenly a face broke free of the crowds, was by his side, touching his arm. He flinched away violently and reeled with the spinning nausea the action produced. "Hey, it's alright. I'm just making sure you're okay," the face said. Sherlock stared wild-eyed at it and watched as shapes coalesced into the plain sturdy features of a very average-looking man in his late twenties. "It's alright, I'm a doctor." "P-piss off!" Sherlock stammered. He hated anyone seeing him like this, least of all some *stranger*. "I'm *f-f-fine!"* "You don't sound too fine," the doctor pointed out. Sherlock bared his teeth and forced himself to stand. The hands that gently steadied him when he inevitably stumbled felt like knives even through the thick wool of his coat sleeves. "Here, let's just get out of the walkway." "I don't need your pi-" he broke off to swallow heavily with vertigo as the shorter man steered him into the lee of a fence where the space was free of pedestrians and guided him to a sitting position against the moulding. "It's not pity, it's common sense. Leaving someone out on the pavement who's having a fit's potentially dangerous. Someone could've tripped over you and then where would we be?" Sherlock was too busy curling into a ball and hyperventilating to come up with any sort of witty retort. "Whoa, hey, alright. It's okay. In, out. In, out." The doctor was rubbing small circles into his back, which in his heightened state was all he could focus on. It was a solid presence in the flames otherwise consuming his head and strangely soothing. After a few minutes he finally calmed down enough to start breathing normally. "Okay?" the doctor asked. "No," Sherlock intoned, because he'd just been thrown out of a car by his neck after being disowned by a psychopath and he was pretty certain none of that qualified as okay. "Fair enough. Can I have a look at your face for a minute? Check pupils and such, you know," the very ordinary man asked. He kept lightly touching Sherlock on the arms and shoulders which was annoying, but the small soothing circles on his back never stopped so he accepted it as tradeoff. "I had a panic attack, not a seizure," he mumbled into the centre of his tightly curled ball. "Do you get those too?" the man said in some sort of generically authoritative Doctor Voice. "Only when I've done an enormous amount of drugs," Sherlock replied blandly. "Bit not good then, huh?" He was very gently tapping the top of Sherlock's head in an effort to get him to lift it, so Sherlock finally raised his face to squint balefully at the good samaritan. "Pupils look fine," the man assured him. *They won't for long,* Sherlock thought, and hoisted himself roughly into a standing position. He felt a bit weak still but no longer nauseous, which meant he now had one objective and one objective only. "Whoa, oi! Slow down there," the doctor was saying. Sherlock rounded on the smaller man and threw the full force of his sociopathy behind a vicious glare. "Thank you for your assistance. I am going to find a cocaine dealer now, I suggest you allow me unhindered passage out of this alcove to do so." His voice was low and menacing, helped along by his three months of illicit chain smoking and the recent near-strangulation. The little doctor simply raised his eyebrows. "You think I can't stop you?" he asked, wholly unmoved by Sherlock's psycho-stare. Sherlock frowned. "I *know* you can't stop me." The doctor regarded him for a moment, seeming to size him up, and Sherlock did his best to appear as physically menacing as possible. It wasn't hard, considering he had about half a foot on the man and the three months in rehab had temporarily cured him of his usual wraith-like appearance by virtue of being forced to eat on a daily basis. The man still didn't seem suitably intimidated, but he did raise his hands in a sort of exasperated placating gesture and took a step back. "Alright, alright, but only because I think it would do more harm than good to fight you right now." Sherlock sneered at him. "How conscientious of you. Good day." He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and sidestepped neatly past the doctor, feeling the man's doleful eyes on him as he strode quickly away. It didn't matter. All he could think about was the scorched field of soot his brain had become in the wake of the firestorm; how ugly it was, and how beautiful the snow had been. The memory of the doctor soon burned up in the residual heat and scattered away. **««** ## Chapter 2: John **««** His leave was up in a few days. Ostensibly he should have been taking advantage of his last bit of free time before deployment to catch up with friends and spend time with his family, but instead John found himself wandering alone through the crowded streets of central London. All his real friends were back at base camp, and he didn't *want* to hang around his family. Harry was drinking again for one thing, and Mum wouldn't stop shooting him these sad little looks like she was expecting him to get his head blown off the second he touched down on his next tour. Clara of course was being practically insufferable with her constant coddling questions after his mental health and Dad kept boasting about his son's lengthening service record to anyone within earshot like it was a personal badge of honour. John was really getting a bit sick of it all. So he'd joined the army, who cared? Thousands of other people his age had done the same thing, it was a career path just like any other. He didn't see why everyone had to kick up such a fuss. He was meandering aimlessly around Westminster, having somehow made his way to the Charing Cross area and debating whether to bother taking the tube somewhere, when a rather out-of-place black towncar nearly ran him down as he was crossing the street. Flipping it off was severely tempting, but it wasn't likely to do much good so he stifled the impulse. Instead he continued along to the other side of the road and resumed his leisurely stroll. The station was just up ahead, maybe he would take a tube after all. The light crowd of mid-afternoon commuters around Charing Cross bustled along in shifting patterns of faces and bodies and instead of heading directly for the gates John let himself be carried along by the current. On second thought he might just find a takeaway and bring it over to Harry's. Clara was away on that overnight trip for work, and it would probably be a good idea to make sure his sister ingested something besides liquor while her girlfriend was out. With this in mind he turned toward the kerb, intending to cross the street again, and practically tripped over some kid curled up under a lamp post. Alright, well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. More like he stopped just short of trodding on a rather distraught-looking teenager sitting half-slouched under a lamp post. The particulars didn't really matter though, as none of them changed the fact that the young man was fairly obiviously having some sort of anxiety attack and could do with assistance. Instantly John's medical training kicked in and he crouched next to the youth, who appeared to be focusing very hard on not hyperventilating. It was difficult to place an exact age - the boy was definitely in his late teens (or perhaps *very* early twenties at a stretch) but even hunched over John could tell he was quite tall, and he had a thin, aristocratic face that seemed to make him look both older and younger at the same time. Pale, spindly musician's hands were clutched protectively over his head, fingers getting tangled amongst a bird's nest of shortish black curls while he stared fixedly at the pavement with his face tucked between his knees. Panic attack, John identified quickly. Easy enough to treat. Just had to get the patient to a safe place and provide reassurance. "You alright there?" he asked. When the teenager didn't respond he reached out and gently tapped the boy on the arm to get his attention. The young man flinched violently and whipped his hands off his head to scuttle back into the lamp post, going faintly green with what John assumed to be vertigo. Grey-blue eyes snapped up to stare at him with a sort of blank, feral look. "Hey, it's alright," John said, trying to sound soothing and authoritative at the same time. "I'm just making sure you're okay." The boy kept staring, a slight edge of wariness creeping into his expression. "It's alright, I'm a doctor," John added quickly, hoping to ease any mistrust concerning his motives. All he got for his efforts was a savage glare. "P-piss off!" the teenager sputtered, practically snarling up at him. "I'm *f-f-fine!*" Well obviously he wasn't, if he was stuttering like that. John pointed this out as kindly as he could but the kid was having none of it. He bared his teeth like some sort of wild animal and visibly struggled to haul himself into a standing position. John straightened up as well in preparation for... *yep,* there it was. Predictable as anything the boy pitched forward, unable to keep his balance between the vertigo and muscle tremors. John reached out and caught him lightly by the biceps before he could collapse onto the pavement. "Here, let's just get you out of the walkway," he said, glancing around with what he hoped was a reassuring expression as a few passersby shot them curious looks. "I don't need your pi-" The teenager's sentence choked off as he went green again and swallowed. John made a concerted effort to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he began leading the stubborn kid over to one of the wrought-iron fences by the station where there was less chance of their being trampled by the mid-afternoon foot traffic. "It's not pity, it's common sense," he quipped, thinking the boy would probably respond better to a bit of mild sarcasm than any sort of sugarey platitudes. "Leaving someone out on the pavement who's having a fit's potentially dangerous. Someone could've tripped over you and then where would we be?" The teenager didn't respond, and John managed to steer him into a sitting position against the concrete moulding of one of the fences. Once seated the young man immediately grabbed at his hair again and tucked his knees up against his chest in a protective ball. John noted with alarm that his breathing was becoming dangerously erratic. "Whoa, hey, alright. It's okay. In, out. In, out." The kid didn't seem to be listening to him, so John went for the next best thing and started rubbing small, light circles into his back through the thick wool of what looked like a very expensive peacoat. After an initial flinch at the contact the the boy relaxed somewhat, and within a minute or so his respirations evened out into a more normal rythm. He still didn't seem to want to uncurl from his little ball, however. John gave him another minute or so, then quietly asked if he was okay. The dull *'no'* he got in response was a little breathless, but distinctly sardonic, making John grin slightly in relief. Yeah okay, the kid was fine. Still, he'd best be absolutely sure. "Fair enough. Can I have a look at your face for a minute?" He wanted to check for any signs of stroke or other neurological symptoms, just in case the incident had been more than a simple anxiety response. Unobtrusively as possible he tried to get a quick gauge of the boy's heartrate (having to make due with the subclavian artery when he couldn't get access to any of the usual pulse points) all the while maintaining the steady circular pattern in case of a rebound episode. The kid mumbled something about having had a panic attack, not a seizure, and John frowned in concern. If the boy knew what pupil response checks were for he probably had some prior knowledge of brain disorders, which could mean he was a possible epileptic. "Do you get those too?" he asked, voice coming out more sternly than he'd meant it to. Well, he *was* used to dealing with soldiers. The boy's back jerked a little, like he'd tried to snort derisively but was still too out of breath to do more than huff. "Only when I've done an enormous amount of drugs," he muttered in a dull, sarcastic monotone. John grimaced slightly. Sarcasm aside, the kid didn't sound like he was joking. John hated to think what that meant for the boy's home life - teenagers generally didn't just start up drug habits without good reason, as much as the media would love to pretend otherwise. But all he said on the matter was a vague, "bit not good then, huh?" He wasn't a counselor, and it wasn't his place to try and meddle in the life of some kid he'd just met on the street. Thinking it might get the boy to lift his head a bit, John turned his attention to very lightly tapping the mop of dark curls with a forefinger. After a few seconds his efforts were rewarded with a stony-eyed glare from under a very messy fringe. He quickly studied the pupils; contracting normally for the ambient light level, nice and equal. Everything looked fine. He conveyed as much to his patient and got a strange, slightly sardonic sneer in return. Then all at once the boy reached behind him to grab hold of one of the fence bars and physically hauled himself to his feet. "Whoa, oi! Slow down there!" John admonished. The teenager blinked once and teetered very slightly, then seemed to find his footing and *glared* with such venom that John very nearly took a step back. "Thank you for your assistance," the boy bit out, voice a bit husky from what sounded like a pretty heavy smoking habit. "I am going to find a cocaine dealer now, I suggest you allow me unhindered passage out of this alcove to do so." John raised his eyebrows. Cocaine, huh? Well, that made sense. Expensive coat, posh accent... obviously from a rich family, he'd likely folded under the pressure of too-steep parental expectations and fell back on drugs as a coping mechanism. Definitely an ongoing problem too, if he'd managed to build up enough tolerance to get to the point of inducing seizures. He met the young man's gaze with a level stare and carefully kept the pitying expression off of his face as he responded. "You think I can't stop you?" "I *know* you can't stop me." Well the kid had confidence at least. John eyed the lanky form, noting the rigid posture and the way the boy was trying to draw himself up to look more threatening. It didn't work, of course. True the kid was a few inches taller than John, but he obviously didn't have much fighting experience beyond schoolyard scuffles and was skinny as a bloody rail besides. For a brief moment John considered incapacitating him - surely it would be better to disable the kid and call an ambulance rather than let him escape into the streets to get high? - but one look at the boy's face and he tossed the notion aside. There was a spark of frightened desperation behind the young man's careful, frigid glare. A tenseness to his stance betraying loud and clear that for all the chilly apathy this was really nothing more than some scared kid having a *really* shit day. John didn't like the idea of letting the kid run off to find a dealer, but adding another stressful situation on top of what was obviously already a bad set of circumstances would just exacerbate the problem. He raised his palms in surrender and stepped back, unable to keep the slightly exasperated look off his features as he backed down. "Alright, alright, but only because I think it would do more harm than good to fight you right now." The boy shot him a sneer which was tinged with just a faint undercurrent of relief. He hadn't wanted to fight either. "How conscientious of you," he snapped. "Good day." And without so much as a backward glance the willowy youth stepped past him and stalked off into the crowds, head ducked low and shoulders taut as he shoved his pale hands into the pockets of his peacoat. John watched him go with a morose expression and shook his head sadly. He hoped the boy found help before it was too late. Heaving a sigh, John turned to head back toward the street. Forget going to Harry's, he'd just keep walking. **««** # And All For One **««** The groundskeeper's cat gave birth in the spring. At the time Sherlock hadn't been particularly interested - it was only a cat, after all, and he fancied his time a bit too valuable to waste following a dumb animal about the grounds watching it care for its young. Moreover he had school work to complete, and experiments to run, and was just generally far too busy to bother with a bunch of kittens. And then Father came home. Sherlock *hated* it when Father took holidays at the manor. The situation wouldn't be nearly so bad if Mycroft were home as well, but the stupid git had (yet again) chosen to remain at Cambridge over the mid-term break rather than make the trip out to the family's country estate. So Sherlock was left to fend for himself, entirely alone save for the servants, his mother (who had been in one of her bleak periods for well over a month now and refused to emerge from her quarters) and Siger Holmes. Remaining anywhere near the manor itself was not a sensible option when Siger was home. *Far* too many opportunities for Sherlock to get himself into trouble - vases and paintings and priceless antiques all breakable and left out in the open to be either accidentally knocked over or, worse, picked up and studied without thinking through the consequences of being caught touching a hundred-thousand-pound trinket. No, Sherlock really had no choice but to make himself scarce. So he spent his days wandering the grounds instead. Nothing he could muck up out there, and Father might very well simply forget he even existed so long as he managed to stay out of sight of the study's windows. It was a foggy English morning when he found himself meandering around near the stable area, letting his mind wander as it would and wondering vaguely if it would be worthwhile to make his way back to the kitchens for breakfast. A mewling sound caught his attention, and he stopped short to peer sidelong into the semi-darkened rows of stalls he'd been walking past. There was a shuffling, another pitiful mew, the sound of a horse snorting and shifting its hooves in agitation. He glanced around and, seeing no staff anywhere near (whom he could have enlisted to deal with the problem instead), Sherlock huffed slightly to himself and ventured into the main stable. It smelled strongly of horse manure, making him wrinkle his nose, and the bloody great beasts were all either snuffling in their sleep or turning to watch him curiously with the expectation of food. Pointless; they should all have known perfectly well by now that they'd never get anything from *him*. Sherlock had been nursing a grudge against the entirety of horsekind ever since he'd been bitten by his brother's gelding at the age of six. Scowling faintly with annoyance at the proximity to so many disgusting equines Sherlock quickly glanced into each stall as he passed. Finally at the third stall from the last he looked in to find an aging yellow mare standing stock-still with her ears laid back, snorting as she flicked her tail in anger. At her feet was a loudly-mewling bundle of fur. Sherlock eyed the horse warily for a moment, then crouched down to peer between the slats of the stall door. One of the kittens from the cat's litter was huddled near the horse's front hooves, looking lost and pitiful. The cat looked up at Sherlock's movement with a frightened hiss, causing the horse to whinny in alarm. Sherlock flinched at the too-loud sound and hunched his shoulders up around his ears. *God* he hated horses. The kitten seemed to hold a similar sentiment - it jumped and scuttled quickly away from the mare's lifting hooves, mewling all the while. Sherlock frowned, wondering why the stupid animal didn't simply remove itself from the dangerous area, then realised the problem: the bottom slat on the stall door was too high for the tiny kitten to climb over. It had likely snuck in when one of the stable hands put the horse away last night and ended up trapped. Meaning, of course, that the bloody thing had been stuck in there all night. The fact that it hadn't been trampled yet was a miracle. He glanced up at the mare again - agitated, but not looking quite inclined to violence yet - and carefully reached an arm between the slats of the stall door toward the cat. It hunched up its back and hissed at him again. Above them the horse whickered in fear. "Shut *up* you stupid furball," Sherlock growled quietly to the cat. "You're making her think you're a snake." Talking to a kitten was, in retrospect, a completely moronic thing to do; but considering no one else was around Sherlock decided he didn't care. It seemed to have been the right course of action, anyway, because the animal flicked its ears forward and mewled curiously at him. "Yes, I'm a human," Sherlock informed it. "The same sort of thing that brings you food. Now come over here and let me grab you before you're flattened by an angry horse." The cat seemed to consider him for a moment, indecisive as to which was the greater threat, but the horse snorted again with a stamp of her hoof and the kitten shot forward toward the stall door with a pitiful mew. Sherlock snatched it up the second it was within arm's reach, then stood up and backed quickly away from the mare's stall with the cat clutched protectively against his chest. "Er… Master Holmes?" a voice called from the end of the stable hall. Sherlock looked over to see one of the stable hands watching him curiously, mucking rake in one hand and a bucket in the other. Sherlock cleared his throat and tucked the squirming kitten into the folds of his slightly overlarge jumper (one of Mycroft's , actually- he'd gotten acid on his usual pullover during the last round of oxidation experiments) where it would hopefully go unnoticed in the dim light of the stable. "This horse was behaving in an agitated manner," he told the stable hand in an imperious tone. "I thought it might have contracted some sort of prion infection and came to observe it in its death throes." The young man fixed him with a flat look (all of the stable staff were well aware of Sherlock's aversion to their charges) and, raising an eyebrow, glanced past him to the rapidly-calming yellow mare. "I'd wager she just got a rat in 'er stall, sir," he explained, trying and failing to avoid sounding exasperated. "Horses don't take well t'little buggers skitterin' about their feet, y'know?" Sherlock waved a hand dismissively as he turned away from the man. "Well, be sure to inform me if the animal perishes regardless. I'd like to conduct an autopsy." "O' course, sir," the stable hand drawled in an extremely unimpressed monotone. Sherlock ignored him in favour of walking quickly out of the building. It smelled of horse manure and musty hay, and wanted to get back to the fresh air before his clothes absorbed the scent. Against his chest the kitten was clawing at him through the thick material of Mycroft's jumper. Once he was a good fifty yards from the stable he stopped and extricated the writhing ball of fur from the knot of fabric it had tangled itself into. He held it aloft - slightly away from his chest to thwart it latching onto him again with its tiny claws - and regarded the animal curiously. It was blinking at him with a pair of seafoam-green eyes set in a longish, delicate face. *(Some sort of siamese ancestry, perhaps… ? Sherlock rather abruptly realised he knew very little about cat breeds and resolved to rectify that as soon as he could safely return to the house.)* Its fur was striped in a tabby pattern, alternating bands of brown and grey with darker portions of near-black, growing lighter toward the head. The head which, oddly, sported a tuft of cowlicked brown fur sticking straight up from its scalp like a feather. The tuft, along with the memory of the particular horse he'd found the kitten trapped with, made Sherlock quirk a small, bemused smirk. Not that he particularly *cared* at all about some dumb animal, of course… but, well… perhaps it would be appropriate to give the cat a title. Just in case he ever needed to refer to it in the future. For convenience's sake. "Henceforth your name shall be D'Artagnan," he informed the kitten quite seriously, ignoring the fact that he was talking to an animal again. Doing so was no less ridiculous the second time around; but, as before, there was no one nearby to witness his insanity and so he figured it didn't much matter. D'Artagnan mewled at him, squirming as he tried to get free, and Sherlock rather reluctantly knelt down to set the kitten on the grass. "Well… run off and do whatever it is cats do I suppose," Sherlock said. For some reason he was feeling a bit disappointed with the knowledge that the animal would no doubt bolt the second he released it. He took his hands away from the soft fur regardless, then straightened back up and watched D'Artagnan expectantly to see where he would go. Strangely, though, the cat didn't leave. It merely sat down, licked the fur on its back a few times, then looked back up to him with a curious expression. Sherlock frowned to himself. "Go," he ordered, flapping his hand to indicate the direction it should scamper off in. "Do cat things. Catch mice or something." D'Artagnan just meowed. "Well fine then," Sherlock huffed after a few seconds. "If you want to just sit there waiting to get eaten by a hawk then be my guest." He rolled his eyes and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets as he turned to leave. He'd only gone a few steps before a loud '*mew!*' made him stop short. He glanced down toward his feet. D'Artagnan was following him. "I believe the term 'dogging my steps' is generally meant to be reserved for the species it refers to," he told the kitten. It meowed again and rubbed up against his leg. "Well, alright," he conceded after a moment. "I suppose if you'd like to accompany me you're welcome to do so. I'm not really doing anything interesting though, just avoiding the house until Father goes to bed." D'Artagnan butted against Sherlock's leg again and began to purr. Despite himself, Sherlock felt his expression soften. After a brief internal debate he bent down and carefully picked up the small kitten to hold it against his chest once more. D'Artagnan purred in his arms, rubbing his face against Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock obligingly patted the tiny animal's head. "I suppose you're not the *worst* cat I've ever met," he muttered. D'Artagnan's purring seemed to grow louder at the sound of his voice. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sherlock smiled. **««** Running wasn't allowed in the house. Sherlock was coming perilously close to breaking that rule as he strode as quickly as possible down the lavish hallway leading away from his father's study. Down the stairs, quick left turn, a right, through the drawing room and he'd be outside. He clenched his fists at his sides and bit the inside of his cheek the entire way. The second he set foot on the cobblestone path of the back garden he was off like a shot. Fast, *fast* as he could get away from the manor. He had no idea where he was going. Somewhere nebulously in the direction of his favourite willow tree, probably. That was usually where he ended up. Sure enough within minutes he was shoving his way through a thick curtain of hanging boughs, smacking leaves aside with enough force to strip them off their branches. One of the thin wisps of wood sliced the side of his hand, but that was fine. It was *good*, really, because it gave him something to focus on besides the maelstrom in his head. He grabbed at the injured limb, pressed his thumb against the cut as he slammed his back against the willow's gnarled trunk and sank down to curl up into a ball. For the next several minutes he simply focused on breathing. He wasn't crying. He *wasn't.* There were tears, yes, but none had yet escaped from the confines of his eyelids and therefore they didn't count. Crying was for babies. He wasn't a baby. He was *twelve* for god's sake. And twelve was far too old to ever cry again. He sat with his face pressed into his knees for an interminable length of time, just listening to the breeze in the willow branches, birds singing somewhere far away and the sound of his own slowly-evening breaths. By and by he became aware of a vague presence at his side. He reluctantly lifted his head and looked around. There, to his right. A tuft of grass was watching him. "Oh," Sherlock mumbled after a moment's blank staring at the pair of seafoam eyes peeking out from behind a patch of green stalks. "Hello, D'Artagnan." With a loud meow the eyes disappeared, and suddenly a set of claws were scrabbling on his arm. The next second his shoulders were being pressed down by the negligible weight of a three-month-old kitten. "Hey!" Sherlock ducked his head out of the way of D'Artagnan's snuffling inspection of his hair. "Do I look like a climbing post to you?" D'Artagnan mewled again and bit at one of Sherlock's ears. "*Ow!* Stop that, you mangy cat, I'm not edible." He reached up, plucked the kitten from his shoulders and shifted his legs so he could deposit the animal in his lap instead. D'Artagnan immediately began to purr and press up against his hands in hopes of petting. "Fine, fine," Sherlock grumbled, but there was no real venom to it. He slowly stroked the soft fur of the cat's back as he leant back against the willow tree. It was nearing mid-afternoon, the warm summer sun cast the grounds of the Holmes estate in an idyllic golden light. Silence stretched for several minutes, punctuated by Sherlock's intermittent sniffles (he *hadn't* cried, really, but his nose was still plugged for some reason) and D'Artagnan's loud purring. "They're sending me to boarding school next year," Sherlock murmured eventually. D'Artagnan didn't seem to hear him - just rolled over onto his back and nibbled playfully at Sherlock's fingers. "Ow! *Stop*," he snapped, tapping the kitten lightly on the nose. D'Artagnan blinked up at him and mewled. Despite his dismal mood Sherlock quirked a small smile as he returned to petting the soft fur of the cat's stomach. "I suppose I should try and bring you some food next time. What do you even eat, anyway? Does the groundskeeper set food out for you or does your family just survive by catching mice?" D'Artagnan had no answer for him, but that was alright. Sherlock found he was honestly just content to have something to talk to. "I forgot to do my schoolwork again," he continued, expression falling. His voice settled into a sort of vague resignation. "I *started* it, of course, but then I had to go to the library to look up information, and I found a book about Jack the Ripper. Still had a few hours before the paper was due so I decided I'd just skim through the first few chapters... and then when I looked up it was already noon and the tutor was here." He huffed a small sigh and frowned to himself. In his lap the kitten seemed to have fallen into a state of dazed bliss. "I still don't see why she had to go to Father about it. This is only the second time it's happened since the old tutor quit, that's a few months! I was doing well." He tilted his head back to rest against the willow trunk, blinked up into the sun-speckled canopy of the tree. "Father says I lack self-discipline. Apparently Eton's supposed to help that, I don't know." Another sigh. "At least I'll get to meet more people my own age, I suppose. Maybe I'll make some friends?" D'Artagnan meowed loudly and batted a lazy paw in the direction of Sherlock's hand. "You're right, doesn't seem likely," he conceded with a self-depreciating smile. "None of our cousins can stand me... suppose I shouldn't expect school to be much different. Still, perhaps if I just act less... like myself, maybe? I mean plenty of people seem to like *Mycroft* and he's a massive prat. It must be possible to fool someone into thinking I'm worth being friends with. At least for a little while." Abruptly the kitten in his lap sprang up and attacked the front of his jumper, only to start flailing around comically when one of his claws became stuck in the fabric. Sherlock smiled and grabbed the animal's tiny paw to untangle it. "Well," he muttered as he worked - D'Artagnan had somehow managed to catch about five different strands which had all woven around each other - "at the very least I'll always know *you* approve of me. If only because I'm willing to pet you." A second later his paw was finally free, and D'Artagnan tumbled out of Sherlock's lap with a loud meow. Struck with an idea Sherlock reached out and retrieved one of the many fallen willow branches littering the ground around them, stripping off all but a single leaf. He dangled the makeshift lure just above the kitten's head. D'Artagnan shot upwards, but Sherlock flicked the bough out of the way just before the animal's paws could close on it. With an amused grin Sherlock leant forward and rested his chin on one hand, elbow to knee, and swished the willow bough to and fro. D'Artagnan frantically hopped and scrambled after the twirling leaf at the end. "Here's me then, playing with a kitten," he remarked blandly to himself as he watched the animal scamper about. "How utterly plebeian." Still, his expression had settled into a fond smile. "Suppose there's worse ways to waste an afternoon," he admitted after a moment. D'Artagnan finally caught the willow bough, ate the leaf in one exuberant mouthful, and immediately began sputtering as he tried to spit the foliage out. Sherlock grinned, trying to hold back his amusement. D'Artagnan rolled onto his back and pawed wildly at his mouth in an attempt to dislodge the flecks of green stuck to his teeth. He blinked up at Sherlock with a pitiful meow. Finally the boy gave up on maintaining his dignity and burst into laughter. **««** It was the last week of summer before the start of the Autumn term. The weather was gorgeous, the first day of school and the beginning of a new life loomed just days away. And Sherlock was busy looking for a cat. D'Artagnan had several siblings, all of whom Sherlock had dutifully bequeathed with appropriately-themed titles according to their physicalities or temperaments. Not necessarily their *genders*, as he had no idea how to determine such a thing at a glance (D'Artagnan was the only one of the litter who would suffer being picked up and examined), but being as they were all just dumb animals anyway he supposed it didn't much matter. He walked past two of said siblings on his way into the main house; the muscular gray brindle had tackled his willowy, black-and-tan sibling to the cobblestones with a playful growl and now they were locked in a vicious scuffle of claws and fur. Neither were D'Artagnan, so Sherlock continued on into the manor. Hallway after hallway turned up empty, and he eventually came to his brother's room. He poked his head around the slightly-open door and glanced around the tidy space in search of a familiar tuft of brown fur. Highly unlikely the cat would have wandered into the house without being immediately shooed out again, but he had to check. A loud *'ahem'* caught his attention and Sherlock looked up from his visual inspection of the space under the bed to see Mycroft staring at him. The teenager was seated at his desk with a pen in one hand and what looked like some sort of textbook propped open with the other. Sherlock blinked. Oh. He'd forgotten his brother was home. "Have you seen D'Artagnan?" he asked the older boy. Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow. "D'Artagnan?" "The brown tabby cat," Sherlock clarified impatiently. "Porthos and Aramis are in the garden and I saw Athos by the pond with Bonacieux but I can't find D'Artagnan anywhere." Mycroft regarded him blankly for a moment. "You've named the groundskeeper's cats after characters from *The Three Musketeers*," he eventually remarked in a tone of flat disbelief. Sherlock's stance stiffened in embarrassment. A second's awkward pause stretched between them before he huffed and fixed his brother with an annoyed scowl. "Have you seen the cat or not?" Mycroft rolled his eyes slightly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I don't generally make a habit of keeping track of the whereabouts of the staff's pets." "Right, well thanks for being *useless*," Sherlock snapped. "Try the Bastille, perhaps?" Mycroft suggested sarcastically as he turned back to his studying. Sherlock glowered at him. "Just tell me if a brown tabby comes through here." Mycroft waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder - a wordless *'yes of course'* - and Sherlock glared at the older boy's back for a moment longer before turning to stalk off down the hall. He still had the kitchens and the servants' quarters to check, and then he'd start looking around the edge of the grounds just in case the cat had gotten lost. Finding no sign of the kitten indoors he made his way back out to the grounds through a door on the opposite side to the one he'd entered, heading toward a storage shed by one of Mummy's flowerbeds. The cats usually didn't venture into this area - the gardener had treated the soil there with some sort of herbal concoction to keep the moles out, and the cats (as well as Sherlock) hated the smell. It was one of the only places he hadn't checked though, so Sherlock wrinkled his nose against the pungent odour of the mole repellent and half-jogged to the shed. As he approached he caught sight of a brown, tufted tail sticking out from around the other side of the small building. "*There* you are!" Sherlock exclaimed, a ridiculous, relieved grin on his face. He reached the edge of the rough wall and poked his head around it. "What are you doing all the way out here? You stupid... furball..." His words trailed off. The smile dropped from his face. D'Artagnan was surrounded by a puddle of dark, stagnant blood. Fur matted slick against his side around a deep gash, nose and teeth stained red. The kitten lay cold and unmoving, wide eyes staring sightlessly at nothing. "Master Holmes? Did you need somethin' from the shed?" Footsteps, a pail being set down, the groundskeeper approaching. Sherlock didn't look up. *Couldn't* look up - his gaze refused to stray from the dead cat at his feet. "Ah, hell, looks like we got ourselves another fox," the man grumbled as he came up behind Sherlock's frozen form. "Thought I'd got the last o' them damned buggers with the vixen last month! Must have had herself a mate skulkin' about." Sherlock said nothing. The groundskeeper sighed and knelt down to pluck up the corpse by the tail. "W-wait," Sherlock spoke up suddenly. He'd never been particularly bothered by dead animals, but for some reason the sight of D'Artagnan hanging stiff and lifeless from the older man's hand was sickening. "I... can I have hi- I mean *it,* that is... c-can I have it?" He cringed at the broken sentence. Not exactly the most eloquent he'd ever been. It didn't seem to matter though, as the groundskeeper just quirked an amused, slightly quizzical smile down at him. "What d'ya want a dead cat for?" he asked, raising one greying eyebrow. "If you need more toads for your experimentin' there's plenty round the duck pond, young sir." Sherlock shook his head. "N-no, I..." he swallowed, casting his mind about for a plausible excuse. "I'd like to study the decomposition rate of mammals, not amphibians. The cat's been, er... d-dead... for less than a day, it would be an ideal test subject." He clenched his fists at his side and tried not to let the lie show. Apparently it worked, as the man simply shrugged. "Whatever you like, sir," he said with a bemused shake of his head. "S'pose you'd best have me spare gloves, then. And probably don't want t'be trackin' this round the house, alright?" "Of course not," Sherlock assured, doing his best to straighten his posture and maintain the imperious tone he usually used when interacting with the staff. He accepted the overlarge set of workgloves the groundskeeper had produced from one of his pockets, tugged them on and practically snatched D'Artagnan out of the man's grip. Sherlock turned and marched resolutely away, ignoring the semi-sarcastic *'have fun then, young sir'* called after him. As he passed one of the outlying flower beds he shifted the body in his arms to free up a hand and plucked up a trowel from the damp soil beside a rose bush. He clutched the dead cat to his chest and headed toward the willow tree. **««** Sherlock had never dug a hole in his life. It was one of those things you simply never realised you hadn't done. Not until you found yourself hacking away at solid dirt with nothing but a trowel and a flattish rock, wondering how something that seemed so *pathetically simple* could possibly be so difficult. Of course it didn't help that his vision kept blurring, or that his breathing was becoming impaired by a mysteriously-stuffy nose. Didn't let it slow him down, though; just rubbed the back of his forearm across his eyes and set himself to his task with all the strength a scrawny twelve year old could muster. Finally, *finally* the hole was big enough. Not all that deep, unfortunately - the twisting roots beneath the willow tree had impeded his progress on that front. He'd collected a few large stones from the stream nearby, though, with the hope that a barrier of solid rock would be enough to deter any scavengers. D'Artagnan was lowered into the makeshift grave (the act somewhat lacking in ceremony as Sherlock's exhausted arms shook and his nose refused to stop running no matter how hard he sniffed) and Sherlock very carefully covered the animal with alternating layers of dirt and stone. "What are you doing?" Sherlock didn't look up, too busy fitting the last rock into place on the top of his little burial mound. Despite (or perhaps because of) his lack of response he heard the footsteps of his big brother draw up beside him. Mycroft was silent for a moment, then sighed. "You found your cat, I take it." His tone was an impossibly condescending mix of exasperation and vaguely resigned acceptance. This was obviously just the latest in a long string of ridiculous antics he'd been forced to put up with ever since Sherlock had dared to be born and ruin Mycroft's perfect existence as an only child. Sherlock tensed and fixed the flat stone under his dirt-coated hands with a smoldering glower. "Go away, Mycroft." He heard his brother's stance shift as the nineteen year old leant forward slightly to try and see his younger sibling's face. "Are you *crying?*" he asked in quiet disbelief. Sherlock suddenly snarled; a broken, furious noise. In a flash of blind rage he grabbed up the trowel from beside his leg and whipped around to hurl it at his brother. "I said *GO AWAY!*" he screamed in Mycroft's direction. The movement of his face let tears leak from his eyes, down his cheeks to track mud in the dirt there. He didn't care. *"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, YOU SODDING FAT GIT!"* Mycroft backed away several steps (managing to move his head just in time to avoid taking a trowel to the face) and held his hands up in a gesture of vaguely-alarmed conciliation. "Calm down, Sherlock, it was only a cat." The teenager was clearly trying to keep his voice free of any sort of judgement, but the impatient scorn leaked through in the way his brows furrowed, the contemptuous tilt of his mouth. *"Go. Away."* Sherlock repeated, words a frigid growl. Mycroft dropped his hands with a long-suffering sigh. "Well, at the very least I expect you've learned a valuable lesson about not becoming attached to small animals," the older boy remarked blandly over his shoulder as he turned to walk off. Sherlock had the brief urge to throw a rock at the back of his brother's head, but the teenager had already made it through the willow boughs and out of sight before he could act on the impulse. He glared after his sibling's retreating back, then turned back to the pile of stones that made up D'Artagnan's grave. He felt like he should say something. A moment passed, silent but for the shifting of the willow leaves and distant birdsong. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the topmost rock. Eventually he shook his head. Mycroft was right - it was only a stupid cat. But still, as he turned to leave a phrase flitted unbidden to his mind. *One for all...* # Lion's Teeth ## Chapter 1: We Hold On **««** "Keep still, child, for god's sake." Siger touched his son's shoulder, pressed downwards in a gentle warning to stop fidgeting. The man's expression was doing a fair job of conveying a sense of harried concern. Sherlock reluctantly halted the slight swaying motion he'd habitually fallen into. Forced himself to sit still even though doing so made it feel like ants had taken up residence under his skin. Better to suffer a bit of discomfort now than face reprisal later. "Well, it looks like the lad took quite the tumble, Mr Holmes," Dr Morris, a personal physician called out to the manor on emergency basis, said as he examined a copy of Sherlock's x-ray from yesterday's hospital trip. "The splint will need to stay for a day or two. After that I'm afraid I'll have to recommend a hard cast." Sherlock scowled to himself and ducked his head, picking angrily at the gauze-and-bandage wrapping encasing his left wrist. That would put him out of symphony for a few months at least. Wouldn't be able to practise, either, which would lose him his position as concertmaster next year... probably for good, if he were being honest about it. What were the odds he'd be able to pass auditions after a prolonged lack of playing, after all? Let alone make first chair? Fat chance. Not like he gave a toss, though... one less bloody activity to keep up with. Meant he could focus more on studying. Get into uni early, maybe. Music wasn't important, didn't matter. Nothing did, really. ... he didn't care he didn't care *he didn't care*. Above him Siger had set his mouth in a decent approximation of a worried frown. He was definitely getting on well with this whole 'responsible parent' act, wasn't he? Sherlock wondered if he'd just stop bothering once he felt he'd mastered the role. "And his chances of long-term impairment?" Siger's tone carried a near-perfect mixture of concern and disapproval. He glanced down at his son with a look of mild exasperation, as if to ask 'how do you keep managing to find trouble like this?' As if he didn't bloody well know *exactly* how Sherlock's wrist had ended up broken. As if yesterday afternoon had simply never happened. Or perhaps he'd honestly forgotten? Rewritten history to suit him? Could he *do* that? Sherlock wouldn't put it past the bastard. Still, though, *Sherlock* remembered. All too clearly. He met his father's gaze with a faint glare and was relieved to see the man's expression harden into frigid annoyance for a fleeting instant. Still just an act, then. Good. "Well the lad's still young." Dr Morris leant back in his chair and slipped the x-ray safely into the envelope he'd brought it in. "I'd say with a bit of physical therapy he'll be right as rain." The man punctuated his statement with a friendly wink towards Sherlock, who responded with nothing but a blank stare. Smile and a wink for a broken wrist? Thanks, sir, very helpful. Let's just forget all about the bruised ribs, the faded black eye, the utter silence and stone-faced dispassion from a fourteen year old. Probably not normal, that. Perhaps something wrong, something worth looking in to. But then he wouldn't, would he, because who cared? Wasn't this man's problem. Wasn't anyone's problem. Sherlock dealt with it all on his own. Always had and always would. Dr Morris' smile dropped a few notches, confused by Sherlock's lack of response. Beside them Siger huffed out a nigh-imperceptible breath of annoyance and reached out to lightly tap his son on the shoulder. Sherlock startled badly at the contact. A quick glance sidelong revealed the warning on his father's face - *keep up the act,* glass-sharp eyes said wordlessly, *or else*. Reluctantly Sherlock looked back to Dr Morris. What was the appropriate reaction, then...? Smile, he supposed. The forced upturn of his mouth felt painfully fake and hollow but the doctor seemed to accept it regardless, beaming back with a friendly tilt of his head. After a short pause the man stood up, tucked his manilla envelope into a briefcase, and held out a hand towards the Holmes patriarch. "Suppose that'll be all, then," he said genially. "Give us a ring if anything seems to be going wrong." "Much obliged for your prompt assistance," Siger offered politely. He moved away from his son to escort Dr Morris to the hall. The instant the adults' backs were turned on him Sherlock let the false smile drop from his face. Ducked his head and went back to picking at his splint instead, thin body hunched low on his stool. Hated his life. Hated the world. Hated his dad. Hate hate *hate*. Impotent and useless, this silent storm of loathing, nothing but a buzz of static chasing vengeful little circles round his skull. It wasn't as if he could realistically *do* anything about the sorry state of his existence, after all. But anger felt better than emptiness so he kept on fuelling the flames til his whole chest grew tight and hot with rage. He was a collapsing star of pointless fury. One day he'd go super-nova and take the whole planet out with him. Across the room Siger had shut the door on their guest. He stood silent for a brief moment before turning back around, his face now smoothed back into its usual glacial mask. Sherlock eyed him warily. Couldn't recall having done anything egregiously *wrong* in the last few hours - nothing that would beget severe punishment in any case - but then one could never be sure. Rules often changed without warning; new codes of conduct could spring up overnight, taking him unawares. Only safe course was to always assume he'd cocked up somehow. That way the inevitable failures could never blindside him. "Well then," Siger remarked casually. Bland, very near sarcastic... clearly didn't intend to elaborate any further. Sherlock sat frozen in the subsequent silence. Sodding hell, what did that mean? *'Well then, you're in a shitload of trouble...? Well then, I'd best just kill you now? Well then, I suppose I'll go have a bath?'* No, had to be something awful. Some mistake Sherlock had missed. He clutched his injured wrist tightly enough to be painful and braced himself for imminent disaster. Distressingly, though, Siger didn't look the least bit annoyed. Instead of speaking again he wandered over to the window, glanced out over the grounds with a slight roll of his shoulder, then looked back to Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. Completely meaningless expression; not the slightest fit to context. Sherlock tried not to respond with a look of confusion but of course his facial muscles shifted of their own accord. "No?" Siger asked. Mercifully he dropped back into his usual impassive mask. "Still getting the hang of that one, then." Should just keep quiet, Sherlock determined. Less likely to get himself in trouble. *Don't say a word don't say a word don't say-* "What were you trying for?" He grit his teeth against his own traitorous tongue. *Goddamn it.* Forced the look of frustration off his face - the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he ever seem to control what his stupid body did? Bloody christ it was like he was *hardwired* to subvert himself at every turn. Well, at least Father didn't look angry. Not that that necessarily meant much. Siger often hid savage fury behind a placid mask. The man shrugged and waved a hand. "Bland exasperation, I suppose." "Oh." Sherlock glanced away, then remembered he was supposed to *look* at people when he spoke to them and dragged his gaze back upwards. Hated meeting anyone directly eye-to-eye - made his stomach flip and his shoulders hunch like a curling hedgehog - so he focused on his father's nose instead. Easier to deal with, less likely to short-circuit his thought processes. "I think you need to move your mouth as well. Erm... sir." Was this a proper-manners conversation or a get-away-with-being-informal-for-no-discernible-reason conversation? Sherlock had no idea. Better safe than sorry. Siger looked vaguely amused rather than annoyed by the lapse in respect, however, so... informal, then. Apparently. "So tell me, child." Siger tilted his head a bit and flashed one of his utterly soulless smiles. "Was it worth the price?" Sherlock knew exactly what the man was referring to (obvious, had to be yesterday's debacle) but for some inscrutable reason his stupid mouth decided to make him look like an idiot instead. "Was what worth the price?" Siger snorted very slightly to himself. With deliberate, unhurried ease he reached into the left pocket of his crisp black slacks and drew out a ten pound note. A tangled bolt of raw stabbing emotion shot through Sherlock's chest at the sight - guilt and embarrassment and fright and a creeping sense of self-loathing. For all Siger's subtle ineptitude when it came to mimicking appropriate reactions he was nevertheless something of a master at reading them on the faces of others, and so caught Sherlock's inner conflict easily. The man's mouth edged upwards in a very slight smirk as he glanced down to study the money in his hand. "Enough for, what, a single pack?" he asked in a casual voice. Sherlock froze in a flash of terror - oh no oh christ how did he know about the-!? Siger looked back up and met his son's eyes with a *(meaningful, this time)* lift of one eyebrow. "Really now, child. It's been nearly six months since you picked up your little smoking habit. You can't have honestly thought I wouldn't notice." Sherlock, mercifully, said nothing. His brain had sputtered out in a mantra of *ohshitohshitohshit*, leaving him with little room for anything resembling cognition, let alone the concept of speech. Siger raised his other hand to fold the banknote neatly in half and strode calmly over to his rather obviously panicking son. A pause while they stared each other down - cornered anxiety to hollow emptiness - and with absolutely no pomp whatsoever Siger dropped the ten pound note into Sherlock's lap. "Your mistake was making the decision to steal from me," Siger explained in a bored monotone. "As for the cigarettes themselves, I couldn't care less. Your personal health is your own to destroy as you see fit. However, now that you've proven yourself incapable of exercising self-restraint in regards to your chosen vice, I will be enacting severe reprisal if I find you've resumed the habit within these walls." Sherlock's heart was thumping faster than a cornered rabbit's - had to be verging on a damned fibrillation by now - but he managed to keep his expression mostly stoic *(belied by the ashen pallor of his face, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that)*. Siger began to hum a sonorous, dirgelike tune to himself and resumed his leisurely stroll toward the room's exit. "Oh! Yes." Siger stopped as if struck with an afterthought, pausing with his hand on the doorframe. "Your brother's been in touch, I suppose you might care to know. Seems he won't be making it back for the holidays. Just the three of us this year, then, hm? Assuming Violet's in any mood to grace us with her presence." A disturbing imitation of a smile *(to which Sherlock responded by staring wide-eyed like a spooked deer)* and then with a flippant parting wave Siger was gone. Headed for his study, by the sound of his footsteps. Still, just to be safe Sherlock remained frozen in place for at least a minute more. Never quite sure if he'd been dismissed to do as he liked or just left to suffocate on his own adrenaline until Siger showed up again to tell him off for having dared to move. Seconds ticked by, however, and it soon became apparent Sherlock had been granted implicit permission to leave. A maid had glanced into the room, spotted him, and bustled away again. Cleaning staff wouldn't be passing through if Siger had indicated plans to return to this wing any time soon. Shakily Sherlock slid off the stool he'd been perched on and made his way upstairs, ears straining for any sign of his Father. His heart refused to slow down so much as a tick until he'd safely sequestered himself behind the antique skeleton lock of his bedroom door, folded his gangly legs to sit in a curled-up ball in a chair by the desk. His computer was still on - bulky monitor balanced precariously beside the permanently-open PC tower he'd taken to tinkering around inside whenever he got bored enough to wonder how exactly the thing worked. Mycroft had been the one to get it for him; a birthday present last year, ostensibly for the facilitation of schoolwork. Sherlock had pretended not to care. Then he'd secretly spent a solid week figuring out how to research facts on the internet without alerting his parents to his overuse of the manor's sole cable connection, finally got the whole system working perfectly, and passed every subsequent spare second engrossed with his newfound wealth of knowledge. The entire concept of *hacking* had proven particularly interesting. Enough so, in fact, that the eventual implications of having an entire worldwide network of secrets to unravel had led him to briefly consider actually *thanking* Mycroft for his gift like a giddy child with a new toy. Discarded the notion immediately, of course. Absurd, sentimental, useless. Mycroft would only scoff and tell him to stop being dramatic, like the man always did when Sherlock made the mistake of expressing anything resembling emotion towards him, so what would be the point? As if reacting to the content of his thoughts the e-mail client on his browser made a sudden, obnoxious bell-chiming noise, a notice popping up in the corner alerting him to a new message from his brother. He frowned into his knees and reluctantly extricated his good arm from the tight ball he'd curled into to click the link to his inbox. His frown only deepened as he skimmed over the glowing words. *Sherlock, terribly sorry, won't be able to make the trip back home this year, Cambridge, government, piles of work, natter natter blah blah blah, excuses upon excuses.* Sherlock drew his arm back to his chest and for several long seconds simply sat there glaring venomously at the screen. A thousand possible replies composed themselves in his brain. Each one rang just as stupid and hollow and useless as the one before it. There was no acceptable way to convey exactly *why* he needed Mycroft home for the holidays - couldn't bring himself to admit that the protection afforded by his brother's presence was the only thing that could make family gatherings feel halfway safe, didn't want to invite the possibility of Mycroft telling him off for being melodramatic should he attempt to blame Father for the broken wrist, *definitely* had no intention of mentioning the whole smoking issue nor of getting caught stealing money to sustain the habit... No, it would be best to just say nothing. Ignore the message. Use the mental space to figure out how best to go about his holidays with as little interaction with his parents as possible whilst resigning himself to another two weeks of borderline-panic whenever he came within ten metres of Father. Wouldn't last forever, he reminded himself - just a fortnight. He'd survive. Then of course he'd be packed off back to school, where he could trade in fear of his father for fear of his classmates instead, which wasn't *ideal* but also not nearly so bad as home. Because, yes, granted there were loads more arseholes to run from at Eton but at least he was smarter than everyone there, could usually duck out of danger well before getting ganged up on. Nothing like the futile exercise of trying to outwit Siger Holmes in the man's own house. Didn't matter. Whatever happened in the coming weeks... Sherlock would bloody well handle it. Just had to rely on his wits to keep out of danger like he'd always done. Complaining about his brother's absence wouldn't do anything but make him seem a whingeing, over-dramatic brat, so he simply wouldn't deign to bring the topic up. Clear a plan as any. He huffed a flat sigh to himself. So it was down to the silent treatment, then. Ignore the message, refuse to acknowledge his brother's existence. Fine. Mycroft deserved it. Sherlock scowled into his knees, then slouched down to press his forehead against them instead in an angry, miserable sulk. Two seconds hadn't passed before a sudden, savage bolt of fury shot through him, and without really meaning to he'd extracted his good arm again, found the keyboard, hit the 'reply' button on the e-mail client in a mad flurry of indignant clicking. One-handed he laboriously typed out a long, rambling run-on collection of all the worst expletives, swear words, lewd remarks and insults a decade of reading through every single book in the manor's library could possibly dredge up. French, German, Latin... on and on until he'd quite run out of languages to properly express the knot of vicious fire in his chest. The message stretched out to fill nearly half a page, packed full of random profanity in nearly a dozen different tongues. He hit 'send' in a savage click of the mouse then flopped back into his chair with a furious snarling huff of a noise. *Fuck* Mycroft. Him and his sodding work. All this important government *bullshit.* Sherlock hoped the git got sacked his first day for being too much of a fat whale to squeeze through the office doors. Bastard. In a fit of pointless rage his gaze dropped to the splint against his stomach; he tried for some asinine reason to clench the fingers of his broken arm into a fist. A shock of white-hot pain raced up the bone like lightning and he immediately gave up on the action. *Shit*, okay, no... not a good idea. *(Why had he even-? Bloody idiot.)* The throbbing ache he'd been successfully managing to ignore up til now seemed to worm its way deep into his brain; splintering knives up the entirety of his arm, radiating out to the surrounding muscles and *good christ make it stop*. With a grimacing wince he went instinctively for his trouser pocket in search of the thin cardboard box he'd so quickly learnt to rely on. Of course it wasn't there. Sherlock may have been the absolute *king* of moronic, impulsive, monumentally poor decisions but even he wasn't stupid enough to carry a pack of fags around in the house whilst *Father* was home. One would have to be actively suicidal to even contemplate such a thing. Though, really... in terms of self-preservation Sherlock supposed he couldn't very well count himself an exemplar of the concept. Maybe he *was* suicidal. Or self-destructive at the very least. Nicking ten pounds off Siger had been a pretty sound guarantee of violent retribution, after all, and yet he'd still given it a go. Ended up with the money in the end, too, somehow. So... honestly it hadn't been all bad, had it? Ten quid richer if one arm short. Decent enough odds. Gave him options. He glanced down as he tugged the tenner out of the trouser pocket he'd stuffed it into, stared at the visage of the Queen smiling serenely up at him. Could go buy a new pack. Just had to sneak out of the house, walk the mile or so to the nearby town, fool the shop boy into selling to him underage like he'd done during summer hols. Idiotically reckless to break more rules so soon after being reprimanded... but, hell, he was in for the long-haul anyways, wasn't he? Better to be murdered with a brain comfortably benumbed by nicotine than try to force himself through both tobacco withdrawal *and* a bout of extended co-habitation with Siger all in one horrific go. There was really no other plausible way to survive the holiday. Not without Mycroft's company, at least. Not alone. Twenty minutes *(and several harrowingly close calls with creaking stairs)* later Sherlock was ducking out the back garden in the safe embrace of mid-afternoon shadows, broken wrist tucked carefully against his abdomen. Keeping to the cover of trees and buildings he jogged quickly for the short stretch of woods which separated his family's grounds from their far-off neighbours. A stolen ten-pound note sat heavy in his pocket, the fake ID he'd forged ages ago tucked up beside it. Miles away, the inbox of one M. Holmes received an e-mail. *Get fucked*, was the entirety of the opening greeting, followed by an impressive litany of insults. With an exasperated sigh Mycroft deleted the message. **««** ## Chapter 2: For Dear Life **««** He'd never thought of himself as suicidal. It was odd, though, he supposed, that he wasn't more preoccupied with the idea of death. An escape, wasn't it? Always touted in his books as the last resort of the downtrodden and oppressed. An ascension to some higher plane where suffering faded and hardships begot reward. Martyrs, all of them, death giving meaning to their horrid lives. Sherlock had always thought the concept of an afterlife ridiculous, so he'd never had much cause to give the idea of death more than a passing acknowledgement. Religion, entangled as they were, followed in a similar vein. The notion of gods who cared for the piddling nonsense of humanity's anthill just seemed so absurdly self-aggrandizing. And why pray to some supreme being, anyway? Begging for help from a creature who, despite being ostensibly all-knowing, hadn't yet bothered to save you... pointless. Still, though... Sherlock had tried praying. Once. When he was very young. Years ago Mummy had taken her sons to church for Easter services in some sort of half-hearted attempt to observe a family tradition. As they sat in the hard pews surrounded by murmuring, lavishly-clothed aristocrats Mycroft had leant over and quietly explained to his baby brother how the stories were nothing but fables, an ancient way to keep the weak-minded masses docile. Sherlock, six years old, had asked why listening to an old man tell lies required them to dress up in suits. He'd spoken too loudly, as he often did at that age, and Mummy had overheard. Her furious expression as she snapped at Mycroft to keep his father's views to himself had stuck in Sherlock's mind for years. A few months later Mycroft went away to France. Remembering Mummy's insistence that the Lord would provide for anything so long as one was faithful, Sherlock had trawled through the library looking for books that explained how one went about praying. That night he'd knelt down by the edge of his bed, hands clasped, and felt very foolish. But he kept at it anyway, asked for Mycroft to come back, because if it worked he wouldn't be alone. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it? Getting his brother back. Well worth looking like an idiot. Every night for two weeks he repeated the same silly motions, requested the same favour of the same faceless deity. Nothing changed. Mycroft wrote letters of how lovely France was. Sherlock spent each day wandering the grounds by himself. Then something new happened. Sherlock had been forced into attending one of his parents' dinner parties - said something incredibly rude to a woman he barely knew. Moments after speaking he'd already dismissed the look of indignation on her face as boring, unimportant, forgettable. Later, though, he'd remember all too clearly. Siger made certain of it. He'd given up on praying that night. From time to time he'd wondered if dismissing the notion of religion so thoroughly at such a young age had perhaps brought some sort of vengeful retribution down upon his person. Were the heavens angry with him? Was that why his life had descended to such turmoil? But, no... because Mycroft had exactly the same views concerning church, didn't he? And everything went perfectly well for *him*. Mycroft never got hit or yelled at, not even lectured*.* His life was *lovely*. No... the universal hatred humanity seemed to hold for Sherlock had to be down to some other reason. Probably due to him being insufferable. Wasn't that what the nannies always said? And the tutors? What an *awful* child, always causing trouble, completely uncontrollable. Who could ever put up with that little hellion? Sherlock huffed a sigh to himself and flopped over to lie on his back, spread-eagle over the fluffed duvet. Dropping his head to the side he stared at the bottle of oxycodone on his bedside table. Orange plastic stood tall and imposing like a silent, judging sentinel. Hadn't taken any in a few hours now - didn't like the way it made his brain go all fuzzy, set his skin itching. Beside the pills sat a mostly-full bottle of brandy, which he'd nicked off Mummy in the hopes that alcohol would be a slightly less unpleasant way to dull the sharp ache from his wrist. It hadn't been. But returning it to the liquor cabinet would have to wait until his parents went to bed, so he was left with the stuff stinking up his room for a few hours yet. He knew exactly what the combination of pain medication and a bottle of alcohol implied - the clichéd imagery had been what set him thinking about his own puzzling lack of suicidal ideation in the first place. Because he honestly *hadn't* been planning anything dramatic when he'd stolen the brandy, just wanted more options to experiment with. It'd been an entirely innocent scientific endeavour. But... now that he had both... perhaps he should... Abruptly he shook his head. No, what th-? *God*, no, ridiculous. Why in hell was he even thinking about this? Suicide? Utterly pathetic. Dying wouldn't solve anything, you idiot. Except it *would*, wouldn't it? That was the entire *point* of death. Nothing more to fret over. Only the living had to bother with worry, pain, fear or stress. If he were dead he wouldn't need to plan for his eventual return to school, face the looming prospect of defending himself against bullies one-handed. Wouldn't have to worry about keeping track of Siger's location in the house every second of the day. Wouldn't care if Mummy called him by his brother's name for the fifth time in a week because no one had been able to convince her Mycroft hadn't come home this year. None of that would matter in the slightest. Of course it wouldn't, because he'd be *dead*. No coming back from that. Not a sodding solution, bloody moron. But then why *not*? What else did he have to look forward to? A week more of the manor's never-ending roulette of terror and boredom and loneliness, then back to Eton to get shoved into broom cupboards and punched in the face by idiots. Brilliant. And, oh, right, just a few more years until he could graduate and move out. *Years.* Probably damned near half a decade, if he were honest about it, because what were the chances he'd be able to keep his stupid brain on-track enough to enroll in a decent university at sixteen? Low to non-existent. No, he'd be trapped in this hell for sodding ages. An eternity of torture. But still... *after* that eternity... there was bound to be something else. A life, a career, a... what was it normal people hoped for? A family? A wife? He wrinkled his nose. Ugh, girls. Not interested. Not even in a reproductive sense, apparently, as his infrequent musings on the subject tended to revolve more around... well. With a quick shake of his head he shoved himself to a sitting position on his bed. *Stupid*, god. Quit thinking about pointless rubbish. His wrist really was starting to hurt like hell. Alcohol had tasted horrific, also hadn't numbed much of anything, so he supposed it was back to the oxy. Meant to take two pills, but he'd only followed that instruction once before deciding the dull ache of a half-medicated injury was far preferable to being left without the ability to think. On a full dose his brain felt boxed in by fog, leaving him anxious and terrified, jumping at the slightest sound. Intelligence was the only thing he had going for him in this awful world - he relied almost entirely on his wits to keep himself safe, his quick thinking letting him piece together the movements of the house through tiny clues and footsteps so he could disappear when he needed to, allowing enough foresight to duck out of bad situations before they blew up in his face. Having that ability, his lone safety net, dismantled by creeping tendrils of medication had been nothing short of horrifying. So, frowning in trepidation for the haze which would soon descend over his thoughts, he grabbed the bottle of pills off his table. Just the one. Wouldn't make his wrist stop hurting entirely, but also not as likely to leave him a neurotic mess... acceptable trade-off. He'd be fine. Ten minutes' staring at the ceiling, however, and he was starting to feel that familiar gnawing terror of not being able to think properly. He screwed up his face and threw his arm over his eyes, trying to block out the sensation. Of course it just kept growing. Some vague amorphous dread, hollowly painful and suffocating, impossible to stop. All the arguments he'd been having with himself over the last hour quite suddenly seemed moronic. *Don't die, not a solution, not worth giving up*... fuck that, why the hell *shouldn't* he? What was he fighting for? Even if he somehow lived through his teen years he'd still have nothing to look forward to but more people hating him, because he wasn't likeable in the slightest, because he screwed up more often than he succeeded at anything and who could be expected to put up with that? More bullies, then, more people attacking him over incomprehensible social rules, his inevitable failure to conform. And, what, he'd been thinking things were likely to improve once he'd escaped *Father*...? Fucking idiot. *Nothing* ever got better. Should know that by now. And above all this *stupid* cloud of dread caused by this *stupid* medicine that he only fucking had to take because he'd been enough of an idiot to steal money from Siger *bloody* Holmes. Didn't matter how much the broken wrist hurt, either, because the punishment wouldn't stick. He knew he'd do something equally moronic soon enough and get beaten to hell again, he always did. It was just going to be the same cycle over and over again until someone finally got fed up enough with his nonsense to put him down for good. Glaring *(and, perhaps, blinking through a watery sheen... but he wasn't about to acknowledge the possibility of tears, so, no, nothing but eye irritation)* he threw out his good arm and grabbed the pill bottle again. Dragged himself to a sitting position and scowled down at the label. Brandy was disgusting but it was all he really had to wet his mouth enough to swallow another pill. And another. More and more until the entire supply was gone. He dropped the empty bottle to his bed and took another swig of liquor, grimacing at the awful taste, glaring at the glass bottom. Wasn't even entirely sure what he was doing anymore but *damned* if it didn't feel like taking control. Master of his own destiny for once in his bloody life. Even if that destiny was a massive fucking overdose of pain-killers. And with that thought he abruptly realised what, exactly, he'd just done to himself. A burst of sheer terror shot through his gut as he stared down at the empty pill bottle. Fuck. *Oh, fuck.* Hyperventilating... but then, no, he wasn't, because he couldn't seem to breathe correctly. Lungs weren't listening to him. With the last of his waning composure he set the near-empty bottle of brandy back on his bedside table, then blindly scrabbled around for a wastepaper bin. Knocked it over at first, scattering crumpled papers, but finally he managed to grasp the edge and brought it up to his face just in time to retch violently. His body seemed to rapidly lose all muscle function then, and he slumped helplessly into a boneless heap over the edge of his bed. Everything was spinning. Desperately he fought the urge to fall asleep, knew he had to keep breathing, don't close your eyes, don't no stop stop stop *stop.*.. But, then... christ. He was so tired. Just... just fucking sleep. Too late to fight it now, wasn't it? He'd made his choice. Not entirely on *purpose*, but he'd still gone and made it. And nobody would care in the end, so what was the point of struggling? Nobody would... Mycroft would be... happy, even... wouldn't have to... deal with all the bloody... e-mails... full of swear words... hadn't made much sense... that last one... have to look up... serbian... or something... else... Sherlock's eyes slipped shut, arm still hanging limp over the side of the bed. Breaths slowed to the barest whisper of air as consciousness trickled away like so much water. A shaft of bright, stabbing light hit him in the face. For a single absurd moment he wondered if he might be in heaven *(and fuck's sake why in blazes was heaven so sodding bright, christ, wasn't this place supposed to be a fucking paradise)* but upon cracking his eyes open he quickly realised the source of the discomfort wasn't a divine ray of wisdom. No... it was the sun shining through his bedroom window. Must've left the curtains open. Morning light stretched in a long band across the room, illuminating his motionless form on the bed. Birds chirped in the rustling winter trees outside, a steady patter of light rain on the roof. All around him the stillness of early morning hung thick like a swaddling blanket. Sunlight. Birdsong. Dawn. Fucking hell... he'd actually *lived*. Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was pleased by that fact or very, very upset. He grit his teeth against a pounding headache and decided that, for the moment, he'd settle on upset. Mostly because literally *everything* hurt - his wrist was on fire, lungs felt water-logged and his mouth might as well have been full of cotton for all he could tell. He coughed weakly and tried to get an arm under himself to roll over. Couldn't manage it. The broken one was too painful to move and the other had gone completely numb from lack of blood flow, pressed up against the mattress as it was. With a groan he shifted his head to his shoulder so at least his neck wasn't being compressed, then simply lay there in misery. Alive. Breathing... god, *why.* An interminable length of time crept arduously past as he lay waiting for the heaviness to ebb from his limbs. Respiration was difficult, enough so that the struggle to keep on inflating his lungs occupied most of his mental space. How the hell he'd managed to avoid suffocating overnight he had no idea... stupid body's iron will to live, he supposed. Christ. Should have just died and avoided all this nonsense. Couldn't stop breathing now, though. Too scared. Horribly aware of the closeness of death. Another laborious inhale. Maybe he'd just pass out again? No, christ no, *don't*. A sudden knock at his door startled him; he choked on a panicked half-gasp and darted a glance up toward the other end of the room. Father finding him like this... oh god, no. No no no no. "Master Holmes?" a quiet voice called - and oh thank hell, not Father. Just a housekeeper. "M'awake," Sherlock mumbled weakly. With the help of a waning burst of adrenaline he managed to shove himself up on useless limbs, grimacing in pain from the broken wrist. Free of the weight of his ribcage his lungs seemed to properly expand for the first time in hours. "I'm... m'fine," he croaked again, more loudly this time, interrupted by a cough. "*Up*, I mean... I'm... up." "Oh, erm. Well, your parents will be expecting you for breakfast soon, sir. It's nearly eight." "Yes, f'course... thank you." Sherlock coughed again and winced for the burn of his too-dry throat, then leant his head on his good arm and grit his teeth. Outside in the hall he could hear the maid walking away. Good of her to wake him, he'd have to figure out which one it was and... and do... something. Oh christ now his brain was fogging out again. What in *hell* had he been thinking, downing a whole bloody bottle of pain pills? And the liquor, god. Attempted suicide...? Pathetic. And of *course* he'd mucked it up. Couldn't do a single damned thing right, not even... ugh. No, no, forget it. Stop. Not going down *that* path again, good god. Dismissing all thoughts as best he could Sherlock huffed an exhausted sigh and dropped his eyes to stare blankly down at the duvet. Sunlight rippled in strange patterns of light and shadow, playing along the folds like shimmering water. Birdsong continued unabated in the trees, rain still danced on the roof. Alive, then, truly. Against all odds. He screwed his eyes shut again and grimaced. Ugh, headache. Parents were waiting... they only ever insisted on family meals for major holidays. Had to mean it was Christmas. Fuck. Of all the days to do something this *stupid*. Another unsteady breath to steel his resolve, then finally, and with an almighty effort, he managed to shove himself upright. The room spun in giddy circles round his head but he grit his teeth against the sickening lurch, stumbled for the chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Just had to shower, get dressed, act normal... play the part. No other choice. Attempting escape had ended in failure, this must be his punishment. Sherlock made it about three steps before his legs gave out. He fell hard on his rump and then just sat there, breathing, elbow to one knee and forehead heavy in his uninjured hand. Outside the door he could hear a maid's footsteps walking down the hall. Probably to hurry him along. Parents were waiting, after all. A hitch caught his breath. He buried his face against still-weak knees. Life, whether he liked it or not, continued on. **««** ## Chapter 3: Epilogue **««** John frowned at the pill in his hand. Standard pain medication, nothing at all to worry about. He'd have foregone the stuff entirely if it were possible, but he'd managed to crack a rib on that last fiasco of a case and the sharp ache from his side wasn't going to let up without a bit of chemical intervention. That didn't mean he had to be happy about the situation, of course. "Oh just swallow it, John, it won't kill you," Sherlock droned, catching sight of John's hesitation. Or sensing it *somehow*, at any rate, because as he looked up John realised Sherlock was actually standing by the window staring out into the street, with no direct line of sight to his actions. How…? No, nevermind. Didn't matter. John scowled back down to the white tablet on his palm. "It's a heavily restricted chemical for a reason, Sherlock," he countered. "I've seen more than enough fatal reactions for anyone's comfort. So give me a sodding moment, will you?" Sherlock scoffed. "Please. I swallowed an entire *bottle* of the stuff once, you'll just vomit it back up. No harm done." John suddenly stopped, hand halfway to his mouth with the pill he'd been just about to take. "Why the *hell* would you swallow an entire bottle of oxycodone?" he asked, blankly horrified. Over by the window Sherlock stilled - his body language abruptly went taut, as it often did when he seemed to realise he'd said something he hadn't meant to. "Hm? Oh." He cleared his throat, then turned around. Tried for a casual shrug, missed the mark rather badly and ended up with something more like an uncomfortable fidget. "An… experiment." "An *experiment?*" John repeated, flabbergasted. "What, to see if you'd die?" Sherlock's eyes widened a bit at that, but he quickly masked the expression with a look of disinterest. He turned his gaze away and pointedly occupied himself with the business of shuffling papers. **««** It was days later and John now glanced sidelong towards Sherlock, raising a single eyebrow for the look of ridiculous impatience on his friend's face. The both of them were stood with their hands tucked idly behind their backs, cordoned off at the very edge of a buzzing crime scene investigation. Sherlock hadn't yet been granted access - something about securing forensic evidence and preserving the integrity of what was evidently quite a literal bloodbath inside the house. And, as usual in these sorts of situations, the man was *supremely* displeased about it. Seeing nothing he could immediately do to stem the inevitable tide of bored-genius-whingeing, John turned his gaze back forwards. His rib twinged with the movement, and suddenly a thought hit him. A vague kernel of curiosity. Something which, to be honest, had been niggling at his mind all day - ever since he'd taken his dose of painkillers this morning to soothe the discomfort of a slowly-mending rib. Oxycodone overdose. Sherlock admitting to it. Interesting. Granted, it wasn't *too* rare an event for Sherlock to casually mention having done something incredibly reckless or stupid to himself in the past. He had an admitted history of drug abuse, after all, and enthusiastically led a life full to bursting with random danger. But in this particular instance the act seemed... rather more deliberate than usual. It would take someone a proper bloody effort to down an *entire* bottle of pills, wouldn't it? Not something you did on a whim. Had he been after some sort of high? Surely he'd been aware of the danger, right? No one could possibly be *that* self-destructive. Lestrade had disappeared a few moments ago, off to coordinate some portion of his team, and now popped back into view again. A solemn shake of his head and a harried expression in response to Sherlock's questioning glare gave clear indication it'd be awhile yet before they were allowed free reign. Sherlock scowled deeply, huffed a world-weary sigh to himself and briefly allowed his posture to sag in a petulant slouch. Oh, yes, rotten state of the world, this. Not allowing him in to traipse about in a pool of gory entrails. John's stance, of course, remained level as ever, despite his giving in to the urge to roll his eyes. Soldier's training. Indispensable. For a few moments a stretch of companionable silence hung between them. Lestrade ducked away once more, and this time didn't reappear. Off to his duties, then. Leaving them to their own devices. Eventually, seeing absolutely nothing better to do with their time and frankly getting a tad sick of standing around like a pair of mismatched statues, John cleared his throat to speak. "So... how old were you?" Beside him Sherlock blinked, straightened his spine out somewhat from the ridiculous slouch he'd still been stood in and shot his companion a quizzical look. "What?" "When you took a whole bottle of oxycodone at once," John clarified. He kept his eyes straight ahead, calmly observing a team of forensics experts as they trooped in and out of the crowded murder scene. "How old?" A bit preposterous to be asking this now, certainly. They were in the midst of a *case*, after all. But then, of course, that very fact also meant Sherlock was now caught in a trap of sorts - no matter how averse he was to this conversation happening the man wouldn't be able to leave. Not if he didn't want to lose access to his puzzle, at any rate. Fool-proof tactic for John to get some of these nagging questions answered and out of his head without undue fuss. Plus to top it all off he wouldn't have to listen to his friend whinge about not being permitted to slop about in a pool of blood for the next half hour. Wins all round. Honestly he felt rather pleased with himself for managing to twist the situation to his benefit so easily. Whilst John was busy being chuffed with his own cleverness Sherlock had been staring sidelong at him. "I have absolutely no idea what you're on about, John," he finally remarked blandly, turning back to the rabble of police. John frowned. Oh, no. Not getting away with *that*. Denial? Oldest trick in the book. "You said, and I quote, that you once *'swallowed an entire bottle'* of pain pills. Don't pretend you've forgotten." "Did I?" John shot his flatmate a look that could send a dragon scurrying for cover. Sherlock quickly relented. "Oh, yes. That. Well." He sniffed in an oddly aristocratic way, raised one shoulder in a shrug. "I was lying." John tilted his head with a bemused half-smile, turning back to face forwards again. Liar... right. Not born yesterday. "Nope. You weren't," he asserted calmly, tone buoyed by a false veil of amicable friendliness. "Because you did that *thing*, didn't you? The thing where you go all taut like you can't believe you just said whatever nonsense you just said. You don't do that when you're lying. You only ever do that when you've accidentally told the truth." Beside him Sherlock went silent again. Something in the general intensity of his presence told John the man was scowling darkly at the tableau of police presence before them, though he still didn't turn his head to look. This was a discussion best held sans eye contact, he'd decided. Keep on staring forward. "If I tell you will you drop the subject?" Sherlock asked after several beats of silence. There was perhaps a tiny hint of a petulant whinge to his tone. John just smiled to himself. "Maybe. Depends on what the answer is." "Well in that case I haven't much incentive to play along, have I? If you're just going to be annoying regardless." "Guess not. Thing is, though..." John shifted a bit where he stood, absently stretching the muscles of his injured shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain from his ribcage. "If you *don't* tell me, I'll keep harping on about it until you snap in front of a load of forensics boys. So if you're fine with that..." "I'll just ignore you." "Like you ignored the cabbie on the way here?" "That was different, he was-," Sherlock cut himself off and huffed, plainly growing annoyed. Good. Everything going according to plan. A vaguely pissed-off Sherlock was far preferable to a whingeing one, and if John were very lucky he might even get round to having his question answered. He really was getting to be quite the old hand at this whole *manipulating geniuses* business, wasn't he? Silence enveloped them for a few long seconds. "Why do you care how old I was?" Sherlock eventually asked in a low grumble. John shrugged with his good shoulder. "I dunno. Just curious, I guess. Were you trying to get high or something?" Finally he darted a glance towards his flatmate, was unsurprised to find Sherlock's hands had migrated to the side pockets of his greatcoat. Often did that when he was uncomfortable - defensive posture, old habit. Not that the Great Detective would ever in a million years admit to having such obvious tells, of course, but John knew his idiot friend well enough by now to have picked up on more than a few of the man's mannerisms. "You don't aim to get *high* by just swallowing prescription oxycodone, John," Sherlock responded, half-rolling his eyes in exasperation. "You grind it into a fine powder first and then insufflate it. Elsewise you risk losing half the active dose to digestive enzymes." "Oh. Er... good to know," John said slowly, blinking. Sometimes he managed to forget Sherlock had once upon a time been an honest-to-god junkie - bloke knew *far* more about illicit drug usage than was healthy or reasonable. Still, though, that tactic wasn't going to work either. Clear as day: trying to distract from the original point, obfuscate the topic with uncomfortable subject matter. Not happening. John was bloody determined to get his answer now. Mostly out of a sense of pig-headed stubbornness than anything else, to be honest, as he'd long since really stopped caring about the information itself. Just wanted to get one up on his flatmate. "Anyway, your age?" he prodded again. "You know my age," Sherlock quipped blandly, sarcastically. With a hint of smugness. Hrmph, right. Thought he'd won? The idiot. "Your age when you overdosed," John dutifully clarified. Then before Sherlock could speak he quickly added a modifier, because the git had just smirked in that way that meant he'd spotted a loophole and was likely-as-not about to list off whatever age he'd first OD'ed on cocaine or some rubbish, which John already knew was around twenty. "On oxycodone," he reiterated. "By swallowing an entire bottles' worth. Don't dodge the question." Sure enough Sherlock huffed a bit, annoyed to find his escape route rudely thwarted. "Why do you care so much?" "Why don't you want to tell me?" John retorted. "Because it's none of your business." "No, it's not. And my middle name was none of *yours* but that doesn't seem to have stopped you sussing it out anyway. I still want that copy of my birth certificate back, by the way." "Already returned it to your mum. Hamish." John ground his teeth in frustration but swiftly reminded himself of the task at hand. Oxycodone overdose. Age. Answers. Clearly information Sherlock didn't want to part with, which had to mean it was valuable in some way. And that meant John was bloody well going to find out about it, because *damned* if he was losing yet another verbal battle with this arrogant sod. "Shall I start guessing, then?" he quipped lightly, training a faint frown in the direction of the crime scene as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Twenty...? No, wait. That one was cocaine, wasn't it? Twenty-four? No, hang on, that was morphine." Sherlock startled a bit and shot an affronted glare his way. "Stop memorising my medical files." "Stop hacking into mine." Finally the detective huffed a very put-upon sigh, then glanced elsewhere in abject irritation. Perfect - served him right. John was just opening his mouth for another go at guessing when he was mercifully cut off. "Fourteen," Sherlock muttered, voice nearly too quiet to be audible. John blinked. *Fourt-?* Bloody hell. No, no... had to have heard it wrong. Had to have. "Sorry?" He shot a bewildered look towards Sherlock, who was very determinedly glaring elsewhere. "... Did you say *fourteen?*" "Nearly fifteen," Sherlock amended in a bland quip. "It was Christmas." "You... swallowed a bottle of pain pills. At fourteen. On Christmas." "Yes." John slowly shook his head, opening his mouth a few times, then just snapped it shut again with his eyebrows raised. Well. That was... unexpected. Also... also, *wait*. Undocumented? He furrowed his brows. Just a moment, now... hang on. Sherlock hadn't been wrong about his memorising the medical records - John had indeed had a quick flip through them during one of his flatmate's semi-frequent hospital visits a few months back, taking careful mental note of all the major chemical-related incidents he could find. It'd been shortly after realising Sherlock may not have been as entirely clean as he said he was *(the blown-out pupils and mad rambling during the midst of a child abduction case a few weeks beforehand had been a bit of a red flag)* and he'd wanted to know exactly what sort of substances he might be dealing with should worst come to worse. Cocaine, occasional morphine, isolated case of amphetamines... but, as John recalled, *definitely* no prescription painkillers. Not in his teens, at any rate. "You're lying," John decided flatly. And, yet, with the declaration he also frowned in confusion, because Sherlock hadn't displayed any of his usual 'talking out his arse' tells. Still, though, lying. Had to be. "There aren't any records of you being treated for overdose at that age." Sherlock breathed out a short, exasperated huff through his nose. "Naturally not, I wasn't taken to hospital." "You weren-? No, you'd have had to've been. Would've needed a stomach pump, at least, activated charcoal..." "No, I told you already - I vomited it all back up." Sherlock removed his hands from his pockets, unconsciously mirrored John's posture as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Doubtless the brandy, never could handle more than a few ounces of sweet liquor without being ill. Disgusting stuff." "Brandy!" John sputtered. "You- *brandy!?* With painkillers? You honestly *were* trying to kill yourself!" "*No*," Sherlock asserted, beginning to sound frustrated. He lifted a hand and scrubbed it through his hair a few times in agitation. "I wasn't, not... not *deliberately*, there was no forethought to it. Was just an impulsive act, teenage stupidity. It... seemed like a reasonable solution at the time. Somehow." Grimacing slightly he lowered the hand to instead rub at his forehead. "In any case I assure you I later paid dearly for the moment of caprice; spent the entire rest of the month medicating a broken wrist with nothing but paracetamol. Not exactly the most pleasant way to kick off Lent Half." John just stared wide-eyed, still not quite believing any of this. A question floated past in the confusion and he latched onto it for no good reason. "Why was your wrist broken?" "Because I was an idiot." John blinked, furrowed his brows. "What do you mean by-?" "Lestrade!" Sherlock barked suddenly. "Honestly, how *bloody* long can snapping a few photos take?" With an annoyed grumble he strode forward, ducked under the strip of yellow tape with a crisp, efficient swoop and swiftly made his way across the short stretch of garden towards their waiting investigation. John startled, his arms dropping from where he'd still had them crossed over his chest as he stared after Sherlock's retreating back. The long hem of the greatcoat disappeared round the edge of the house's squat door, and within seconds the sounds of a surly, over-frustrated detective berating a room full of forensics experts could be heard drifting along through the breeze. John grit his teeth and quickly shook his head of all thoughts. Sod the history drama, then. Time to solve crimes. Without a second's pause he rushed off after his friend. **««** # Shot Birds, Falling Fast ## Chapter 1: Sherlock **««** Knuckles scraped bloody, shoes a complete loss and his tailcoat ruined, he stood at the brink of a fatal drop and smiled. Far below the masses bustled to and fro, leading their silly little pointless lives, completely unaware of the figure lording high above them all. Their new king, grinning like a giddy child for the recklessness of it all. Because he'd done it. He'd honestly *done* it. He'd climbed a bloody building. No one had stopped him. No one even *knew.* Stood there on the very edge he could look down and see the pavement far, far below. Imagine the consequences should he fall - all the torn flesh and smashed bones, the pain, the near-certainty of death. And with those thoughts a bolt of adrenaline shot through his system. One which, for just that brief instant, made everything feel clear. Thoughts normally scattered to the winds began to take recognisable shapes. Things he'd been avoiding for so long now seemed so reasonable, linear, simple. He leant as far forward as he could without falling, then jolted back before he could overbalance, laughed for the first time in months. Real, genuine laughter. Sparked by the utterly alien feeling of being... well, *happy*, he supposed. If this was what happiness felt like, anyway. He didn't have much to compare against. Felt fine with both himself and his place in the world, though, and that was enough. He wasn't a Freak, not up here. Up here he was absolute, the all and the one of reality. Up here the world was an inconsequential diorama of tiny ants. Soon, though… soon he'd have to go back down. His smile dropped a few notches, and he glanced back over his shoulder, the crumpled heap of his uniform coat discarded on the roof. All this clarity and optimistic sense of purpose would diminish gradually with the altitude until he hit the ground. Always did. Back to the hard shell of his usual existence. Bullies and brothers and grades. Everything that didn't matter in the grand scheme of things because there were buildings that, yes, *were* possible to climb. And the sunset over London. Human beings like insects far below. All the misery of the world was naught but a passing daydream. Only on the cusp of death could he ever seem to remember that. He shook his head and turned back to stare out over the city instead. Said a mental farewell to the vestige of contentment which, sure enough, began to dissipate the second he stepped back from the ledge. Had to leave, even if he never wanted to. The sun was beginning to set and he needed the light to pick the lock on the stairwell. Not quite at the level yet where he trusted himself to do it blind. And he'd exhausted all his strength climbing up, nothing left for down, so the stairs were really his only option if he didn't want to fall to his death. Which, honestly, he didn't. No, he'd had quite enough close brushes with his own mortality to know he *really* did not want to kill himself. Even if the world was horrible and cruel and full of utter bastards. A low, constant grind of misery seemed better overall than that stabbing terror of nearly dying. The animal instincts thrashing about screaming *no no no no* whilst your brain shut down all function... ugh, never again. Not if he could help it. Shaking his head at his own useless thoughts he turned to the business of picking the roof's door lock. A disappointingly short time later, without even a close call getting caught to break the solitude, he found himself back to his natural level. Hollow and angry once more, and now for some reason besot with a sense of directionless annoyance for the world at large. Christ, why couldn't he just have the adrenaline, the clarity and peace, whilst safe on the ground? Without having to be dangling half over a precipice? There had to be some way to replicate that contented feeling. Something he'd not thought to try yet. Thoughts were pushed aside as he came to the door of the flat he'd been sharing with his brother since last year, not far from the office block he'd decided to scale. Back to the dull routine of life. Still… maybe he could wring *some* amusement out of it. "I climbed a building today." Mycroft looked up from the packet of papers in his hand, gaze flicking once over Sherlock's scraped knuckles and battered coat, and paused only a microsecond before turning his attention back to whatever he was reading. "Apparently so," he remarked blandly. "You do know you're meant to be at school right now?" Sherlock shrugged. He tossed his coat off to the side, not caring where it landed, and let himself fall backwards over the arm of Mycroft's leather sofa so he was lying draped across the cushions, staring up into the shadows of the ceiling. After a short moment of silence he turned his head to instead regard his brother. Still sitting in his armchair, reading. So much for providing amusement. "Don't you want to know how I managed to skive off without you finding out?" Sherlock asked, voice somewhat teasing. He'd been utterly brilliant this time. Mycroft would *have* to acknowledge it. But the man only lifted a brow, eyes ever scanning his document. "You changed my contact information in the school directory. Pickpocketed cleaning staff for keys to the administrative offices and made use of an unsecured computer terminal during morning assembly. I'm sure whatever lewd joke you overwrote the data with was very clever." Mycroft's voice was a flat, disinterested monotone. Sherlock's triumphant little smirk evaporated. Fuck, how'd he-? But he'd thought… he'd been *smart* about it, hadn't he? "What gave it away?" Sherlock refused to acknowledge the undertone of disappointment in his voice. "Mostly the fact that you haven't yet smugly corrected me," Mycroft replied drolly. He finally deigned to look up from his document and fixed Sherlock with an unimpressed look. Abruptly Sherlock frowned, a flash of insulted anger shooting through him. "That's not fair!" he snapped. "You can't just *guess*." "A correct guess is no less the truth than a deduced fact." Finally Mycroft exhaled a breath that wasn't quite a sigh, and glanced over to Sherlock's abandoned tailcoat in the middle of the entryway. An expression that might have been exasperation crossed his face before it smoothed away once more to leave his countenance its usual bland mask. "You couldn't have at least left the coat at school? It's rather tiresome to replace." "It's rather tiresome to wear," Sherlock retorted petulantly. Mycroft half-rolled his eyes. "As if you'd even know. You've been written up for improper dress eight times this month." Sherlock allowed a bit of a smile for that, admittedly somewhat proud of himself. *Hah* - finally Mycroft verbally acknowledged something as annoying. Have to remember to ditch the coat more often, now. Maybe he could actually manage to piss the man off. That would have to be a long-con sort of game, though. Not interesting at the moment. Sherlock shifted his head back to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds more. Didn't really have a good comeback for Myc's jab. And anyway he was a bit sick of snide sniping - that was the only sort of conversation they ever seemed to have these days. Getting repetitive. Perhaps they could do something else. "Want to play a board game?" He ignored the note of pathetic hopefulness in his own voice. Like he even *cared*, really... Mycroft could do whatever. It was just that a game might be sort of fun, that was all. And maybe Mycroft was bored as well. Wouldn't be a big deal if he refused. But then, "Has it completely escaped your notice that I'm occupied?" Mycroft's tone had dropped to one of uncharacteristic frustration. He flicked his gaze up towards his little brother and fixed him with a flat, irritated look. "Go read a book. Or maybe do your coursework, for a change. I'm sure your professors would have a collective heart attack if you were to actually complete an assignment on time for once." Sherlock had been about to speak again – suggest which game would be best, actually – but immediately snapped his mouth shut. Mycroft went back to his report without so much as a second glance. A minute or so of silence passed. Finally Sherlock hefted himself up on his arms, wincing for the soreness of abused muscles, and glanced over at his brother. No need to mask the hurt expression, pretend to be haughty or sarcastic or angry. Mycroft wasn't looking. With a quiet sigh Sherlock got up off the sofa and headed for his bedroom. **««** It was curious, he supposed, that the more he found himself being ignored the unhappier he got. Should have been the opposite, shouldn't it? He was finally free to do whatever he liked. Even smoking, the transgression that had sparked this whole debacle in the first place, never elicited more than a few mocking words about his having an appalling lack of willpower. And under a barrage of sarcastic derision from his brother Sherlock had, indeed, managed to kick the habit. Mostly. Which was good, he supposed. But now he had nothing to dampen the gnawing sense of boredom and isolation that continued to writhe unabated in his chest. Naively he'd thought… or *hoped,* maybe, that things would change living in London. He wouldn't be as crushingly lonely, wouldn't need nicotine to make the emptiness bearable. He'd have his big brother instead, wouldn't he? Someone to talk to, play games with, trade snide jokes. But of course things hadn't really worked out that way. Mycroft was busy. Sherlock was annoying. They rarely had any conversation that didn't end in Sherlock being summarily dismissed from the room. Which was fine. Obviously it was. Sherlock understood that his brother had a demanding position, and that he himself was an irritating sixteen year old. Nobody could reasonably expect a career-oriented twenty-something to waste time entertaining the stupid whims of a teenager. And besides which Sherlock had a lifetime of practise with solitude, didn't he? Hardly needed *Mycroft* to keep himself occupied. But he'd just thought that… you know, maybe he wouldn't have to be so alone anymore. The ceiling above his bed was speckled with tiny glowing dots in the darkness. Stars and planets – childrens' toys, just stupid decorations meant for toddlers. He'd found them in a corner shop during one of his semi-frequent bouts of wandering away from school and decided to steal them. Something a bit ironic in that, he figured. Stealing a toy. Innocence and corruption all in one. He didn't really know why he liked the stars so much. Maybe it was the soft glow, warm and friendly despite being an odd, otherworldly shade of green. Or just that they gave him something to look at. Whatever the reason he often found himself staring at them for hours on end. Should have been sleeping, really. It was late, he'd exhausted himself with pointless physical exertion, and he'd have to go back to school tomorrow. But... sleeping would probably mean dreaming. And dreaming hadn't been a very pleasant experience of late. With the nicotine withdrawal had come the expected period of neurological upset, which carried with it... well, *nightmares*, he supposed. The term sounded childish, but then he *was* currently staring at a festoon of little plastic glowing stars on his ceiling, so maybe that wasn't so far off the mark. Eventually he'd fall asleep without meaning to, jolt awake two or three hours later utterly convinced he'd heard Father passing down the hall. Go through the same tired routine of berating himself out of being frightened, keeping his head buried under the blankets to block out whatever evils he still felt lurking about. It was just the autonomic nervous system, he'd remind himself. A glitch, that was all. Adrenaline cycle tripped by false signals. And just like a computer one should theoretically be able to debug their body's faulty software. Somehow. He'd not yet found a method to do that, however, and so he was reduced to simply doing his best to avoid the problem. Never sleep. Obviously an impossible goal, but at least he could usually manage to draw out the safe periods between wakefulness and a hellish dream-world to several days at a stretch. This practise left him feeling constantly half-dead of exhaustion, of course, but that was fine. Hardly anyone noticed. He'd managed to build such a bubble of infamy around himself at school as to be functionally invisible, so it wasn't as if his being quiet and withdrawn would arouse any suspicion from students or faculty. They didn't care. Mycroft, though, he'd thought might catch on. Had to eventually. And at the very least he'd have a go at Sherlock for being ridiculous, right? Avoiding sleep altogether just to dodge a few bad dreams. Melodramatic nonsense. But... Mycroft hadn't said so much as a word about it. He'd been too busy with work. Sherlock sighed and tossed an arm over his eyes, blocking out the soft glow of the stars. It didn't matter. *Really,* it didn't. He was entirely capable of dealing with his own problems. Should just be thankful to Mycroft for letting him live here. Being ignored was an acceptable trade-off for finally escaping Father, wasn't it? Shouldn't bother him. *Didn't* bother him. Only... it did. A lot. And he couldn't seem to make it stop. He took a deep breath, held a moment, then let it out again. One of these days he'd learn not to care. **««** ## Chapter 2: Mycroft **««** It must have been some exceptionally cruel joke of the universe that Mycroft should find himself having to deal with this *now*, of all times. Right at the cusp of everything he'd soon become, poised to take hold of the entire country. With the work he'd put in over the course of university, the contacts he'd made, he was beginning to think he might very well be able to place himself in unofficial command of MI5 within the decade. Conceivably in as little as a few years, even, if he played his cards right. Mycroft rarely got excited by anything, but this was shaping up to leave him positively giddy. Now, though, there was this. Right there in the bloody middle of it all was his brother. Usurping Mycroft's time and attention with a storm of drama, as usual. Such sentiments were unfair, Mycroft knew that well enough. Obviously Sherlock hadn't meant to intrude upon his life. But where one might be technically innocent by intent, there was still the reality to deal with. And that reality now consisted of a maladjusted sixteen year old quite abruptly thrust into the sole care of a man with neither the time nor inclination to look after him. Surely, though, Sherlock was old enough to fend for himself? He was only a few years away from legal adulthood, honestly. Didn't need someone dictating his every action. Regardless of said actions tending to be spectacularly stupid or dangerous. Like climbing a bloody building... how in hell's name had the idiot even managed such a stunt without falling to his death? Mycroft sighed irritably as he found his gaze straying away from the report. Settled on the crumpled tailcoat in the entryway. And there lay yet another impossible dilemma. Because whilst one would have to be blind not to recognise all this poor behaviour as a bid for attention, one would also require the patience of a saint to avoid getting fed up with it. And Mycroft, with his career goals growing ever-more complex, severely lacked such patience. Wasn't sure he'd ever had it to begin with. Perhaps he should work on building that virtue, then. Provide a steady constant in resolving whatever issues his brother might have. That would likely be the more adult path. But then for *god's sake*, he was trying to read up on current international surveillance networks. Defending the strategic interests of an entire nation was about as adult a path as one might take, wasn't it? Seemed a *bit* more important than playing board games with his little brother, in any case. As if anyone would choose the mental health of a single teenager over the security of sixty million people, honestly. And yet. There was still the bloody Problem. That being that no one else on the planet was willing to put up with Sherlock long enough to help him. If helping him were even possible. Which, to be fair, might be a rather debatable point. Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps he was only fooling himself into believing as much. A convenient loophole to slip through, because if Mycroft had already done the most he could in giving his brother a safe haven to call home, then he'd be absolved the responsibility of dealing with anything else. Not beholden to monitoring a teenager for signs of psychosis or self-destruction or whatever else might reasonably afflict a, er... mistreated... child. Oh good lord, but he was ridiculous. Avoiding the word even in his thoughts. *Abuse.* There, christ. Such a hollow term, though. Nothing but a distant stereotype. Images of television PSAs showing some doe-eyed urchin overshadowed by a caricaturized demon of a parent. Child abuse was the sort of thing that only existed in clichéd dramas and waiting room pamphlets, shoddy government budget films made for schoolchildren. It didn't happen to anyone you *knew.* Certainly not one's irritating younger brother. Some small mercy, he supposed, that he didn't know any particulars. Sherlock would sooner die than discuss the matter, and Mycroft had no desire to press things, which had resulted in a strangely comforting dearth of information. With no solid facts to work with he'd never have to take imagery of what he knew his father to be capable of and apply it to a nine year old version of his brother. Only... well, now he had, because he'd just thought it. Bollocks. Still, in his head the child wasn't *Sherlock.* Just some nameless unfortunate. Couldn't be his brother, could it, because a child in such a scenario would have to be terrified, and Sherlock was always haughty, annoying, petulant... never *scared*. Mycroft wasn't even sure the daft idiot was *capable* of fright, considering his complete lack of a sense of self-preservation. Except. Yet again with the *except...* he'd seen his brother and father interact countless times. Family trips and dinners, school events, concerts, a few odd educational outings. And to his great chagrin he couldn't, in hindsight, conjure up a single situation where Sherlock hadn't spent as much time as possible hovering anxiously at Mycroft's side like a second shadow. At the time Mycroft hadn't given much thought to the behaviour beyond finding it slightly irritating. His brother was neurotic at the best of times, flatly insane at worst, and so his going inexplicably nervous on occasion hadn't seemed cause for worry. Especially since, yes, Father did tend to get a bit snippy when either of them did something he found improper or annoying. Sherlock was improper and annoying by very nature, so of course he'd prefer to keep his mouth shut and hide behind his big brother when Father was around. Didn't want to get snapped at. Understandable. Much more understandable now than Mycroft was strictly comfortable with, knowing the truth of things. And abruptly that line of thought shot off of its own accord down a tangent; unhelpfully he found himself reminded of one of the handful of times they'd been told off over something together. A long-ago holiday in France when Sherlock had wanted to go explore a cave he'd spotted near the seashore, and Mycroft had tagged along because he wasn't particularly keen on hanging about with Grand-mère all day. Evidently they'd neglected to tell anyone where they were going. Siger, already annoyed by having to interact with Violet's relatives, hadn't reacted well upon their return. But it had only been a *lecture*, honestly. Mycroft had found it all a bit dull. Yes, thank you, he understood the importance of adults knowing where you were. He was *fifteen*, however, which at the time had seemed very grown-up, and so it didn't seem reasonable to be so cross over his disappearing for an hour or two. (In retrospect, he now realised, Siger had most likely been concerned about possible retaliation from associates in the area – having his sons killed or abducted would doubtless pose some measure of inconvenience to the man.) Sherlock, meanwhile, had seemed downright *petrified* by the whole ordeal. Which in the moment Mycroft had thought rather silly. They'd just got a stern talking-to, for goodness sake, nothing to panic over. Only now, years later, did that particular instance of melodrama make sense. And it was terrible, because in some petty, childish way, Mycroft wished it didn't. He wanted to go back to the simple explanations, back to when his baby brother was just prone to overreacting, a bit melodramatic. No reason for any of it beyond a few crossed wires in his odd little brain. Now, though... now there were reasons. And now Mycroft had years of historical evidence he was forced to re-examine. Memory after memory tainted by the reality of what must really have been going on. How his brother's inexplicable bouts of anxiety or uncharacteristic reticence almost exclusively occurred when Father was home. That in all likelihood his various overreactions hadn't been overreactions at all. That Mycroft had told him multiple times to stop being dramatic over petty transgressions that, for Sherlock, may have easily amounted to a death sentence. It was utterly infuriating. That was the only term he could put to it. And bloody unfair. To the both of them, because Mycroft didn't want to know these things, and Sherlock shouldn't have had to live them. But lacking a functioning method of time travel they were stuck with their history. No rewinding reality. With a heavy sigh Mycroft looked back to his intelligence report. Wasn't like him to get distracted, yet he couldn't for the life of him keep focus. Sherlock's scattershot thought processes must be contagious. Luckily Mycroft seemed to know instinctively how to combat such an infection. Easy enough to take the entire disorganised jumble of concepts relating to his brother, mentally bundle it up into a wad of neutral apathy, and tuck the result into a quarantine zone. There, perfect. Partitioned away from everything else, he'd address it later, when he had the time to untangle the mess. Some point soon. Not now, though, obviously. Because at the moment he had a duty to his nation to tend to, building with it a career and a future. Vastly more important. Turning the page on his report, he settled back into his usual state of placid disengagement. **««** "A month without incident, that's all I ask," he droned tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just one. Or a week, even. Two days." "It wasn't my fault." Mycroft dropped his hand and fixed his brother with a flat, unimpressed look. Sherlock was glaring up at him. The boy was somehow managing to convey a sense of indignant petulance despite the large-ish wad of cloth obscuring most of the lower half of his face. Over the past few minutes a rosette of blood had begun to seep out from the centre of the fabric, growing steadily larger with each passing second, and Mycroft was doing his best to ignore a faint sense of nausea over the sight. "It *wasn't*," Sherlock insisted. His voice came out muted and nasally thanks to the kerchief. "All I did was point out how his-" "No. There. Stop precisely there," Mycroft snapped. "You *pointed out* some inane personal fact which had absolutely no business being stated aloud, and were punched in the face for the trouble. Can you see how one might, under such circumstances, consider the incident to be *entirely* your fault?" "I didn't *mean* to, though." Sherlock's voice had gone a bit sulky, peevish. He'd trained a sullen glower on the far wall. "I just... said one more than I was expecting. It was supposed to stop before I got to the bit about his mum." Mycroft rolled his eyes with a frustrated sigh. "Your speech capacity is not a separate entity from your *brain*, Sherlock." "I think mine might be." Sherlock's tone was an odd mix of angry and despondent. Plainly unhappy with his own conduct. Most likely telling the truth, then; hadn't meant to start a fight, probably quite upset that he'd done so, victim once again to his own impulsivity. Unfortunately Mycroft was in no mood to sympathise. Far too frustrated. He'd been phoned by the school at half past nine in the bloody morning with an urgent message that his brother had run off. Sherlock had made something of a habit of doing this, of course, particularly since relocating to London where he could get home and back within an hour, but he generally kept his escapades low-key enough to avoid triggering any alerts. The fact that he hadn't bothered this time had seemed to Mycroft a sure sign that something must be seriously amiss. Addled by concussion, maybe, or off doing something stupidly self-destructive. Against all logical judgement Mycroft had excused himself the second he reasonably could and hurried back to the flat. Surely he'd headed there first, always did. In a rare moment of fallibility Mycroft had found only one of two deductions proven correct. Sherlock had indeed gone straight home. Instead of being severely injured or otherwise in some sort of significant distress, however, the boy was just sat cross-legged on the kitchen table nursing a bloodied nose. And that was it. By his own admission absolutely nothing else was wrong. Far from being a relief the good news was utterly infuriating – Mycroft had gone to all the trouble of leaving work on the assumption that his brother wouldn't have bolted over something as minor as a nosebleed. Which meant he'd just cut short a private audience with an influential intelligence official over the *'sudden family emergency*' of his little brother being an overdramatic twat. It was entirely possible he'd never get another chance at that security position now. Months of work wasted on some foolish sense of fraternal concern... ugh, this was precisely the reason key agents were screened for a lack of personal ties. "Do you have *any* idea what this has done to my schedule?" he snapped. For some reason his voice came out somewhat uncharacteristically irate. Sherlock's glare sparked with a hint of wariness but quickly switched back to indignant. "How the hell is that my fault?" He'd lowered the cloth from his face in order to speak more clearly, though the nosebleed hadn't quite stopped. A trail of crimson crept nauseatingly towards the floor. Mycroft glared and opened his mouth to reply – explain, in excruciating detail, precisely *why* every single irritating thing in the world right now may well have been Sherlock's fault. His fault for getting himself into yet another childish fight, for not bothering to cover his tracks skiving off, for being a socially maladjusted delinquent, for continually intruding on Mycroft's life, for sparking this sense of leaden guilt over a justifiable level of resentment, for... god's sake, for *existing.* None of this would be happening if the idiot hadn't been born, would it? Or if Father had just done the logical thing and offed him in infancy. There was no cold, rational way to explain why he'd just horrified himself by thinking that. Somewhat disconcerting, because the *irrational* explanation was that he'd somehow made himself ill by deeming it logical to murder a baby. Even though that really would have been the most straightforward solution. Easiest. Bloody hell now he felt worse. But no, honestly. He... obviously he was only queasy because of the *blood*. That was all. Nothing but an automatic, phobic reaction, hardwired into his circuitry. Certainly had no psychological underpinning, no far-off, hazy memory of accompanying Father on a business trip and watching a man plead for his life, the flip of a knife and a slit throat, crimson pouring out like – *no*, stop. He was fine. Perfectly, entirely, *fine.* Abruptly he took a step back, away from his brother, from all the awful mess of thoughts surrounding him. This was getting ridiculous. His mental space had somehow become a minefield of emotional detritus in response to Sherlock doing something mildly inconvenient. Why...? Stress? Frustration? Didn't matter. Had to switch it all off before he completely overreacted. A moment passed in silence. Finally, in an almighty effort of willpower, Mycroft managed to shove the whole knot of intrusive inner turmoil straight into a mental quarantine. There, lord. Problem solved. Or avoided, at the very least, which was close enough for now. He shook his head to rid the last scraps of upset clinging like cobwebs to his brain, then checked his pocket watch. Calmly, deliberately. Back to his usual self. Nothing at all interesting had happened. Perfectly normal. Plenty of time to make the eleven o'clock, it seemed. Have to reschedule the ten, though... perhaps next week? When he glanced back up Sherlock was staring at him. Probably confused by the abrupt shift from angry to neutral without discernible cause. But then he should be used to that, shouldn't he, as Father regularly did the same. "Myc...?" the boy hedged after a few seconds. A pale vestige of a glare, but most of the energy fuelling his outrage seemed to be swiftly draining. Mycroft idly flipped his mobile out of his pocket and began composing a text to his PA as he turned to leave. "I'll have the school notified to excuse your absence." Succinct, business-like, dismissive. Exactly as he was meant to be. Behind him Sherlock made a noise of angry disbelief. "Wh- hey! You can't just-" But Mycroft very much *could,* in fact, and was doing so. Abandoning the conflict entirely, because he hadn't the time for useless arguments sparked by teenaged stupidity, and he wasn't the type to entertain theatrics. If they couldn't remain mutually calm enough to come to a logical compromise they'd simply have to shelve the discussion. He only got about halfway to the door before he heard Sherlock scramble off the table after him. A second later he found himself yanked nearly off balance by his brother grabbing his arm. With only the barest hint of frigid irritation Mycroft turned back round. "I started a fight, ran off from school, made you skip a meeting, and you're not even-?" Sherlock shook his head, frustrated, and took a halting step away. Fidgeting, distraught. His expression when he looked back up was oddly desperate. "You can't just *walk away*." "No?" Mycroft asked blandly. As if proving otherwise he slipped his mobile back in his pocket and began to do just that. "*No!*" Sherlock abruptly shouted. Literally *shouted*. Mycroft stopped and looked back, if only to turn a disapproving frown for the unnecessary volume. Sherlock, of course, didn't care in the slightest. "For *god's sake*, what the hell does it take to get you to *care!?*" Mycroft had no immediate answer. He told himself that was deliberate, however – withholding a response simply because Sherlock had chosen to yell at him. Childish. Wasn't going to reward that sort of behaviour with an acknowledgement. No matter that the question, and the implications underlying it, came dangerously close to dragging a tangled knot of thoughts straight out of quarantine. With a deliberately unimpressed stare he turned, casual as anything, and left the room. Sherlock didn't follow this time. In the reflection off the door of a glass cabinet Mycroft could briefly see the boy instead just standing there, stock still in the space where the kitchen met the hall. Blood had made a thin line down his chin to drip onto the crisp white of his shirt. Shocked. He looked shocked. Or... devastated. If one were inclined to drama. Which Mycroft was not. No, all he was inclined to for the moment was leaving as quickly as possible. Because he was running late. Or perhaps because his schedule might still be salvageable. Or because this really wasn't his problem in the first place, and he should have never left work over some foolish sense of fraternal worry. Or, perhaps, because he didn't want to face his brother staring at him like the world had come undone. **««** ## Chapter 3: Sherlock **««** As a child he'd learnt not to bother crying. No one ever reacted positively, if they reacted at all, and crying to oneself just felt pathetic, so in the end tears amounted to nothing but a waste of energy. Wouldn't change anything, certainly never helped... at some point he'd just sworn the act off entirely. And so, despite a pitiful, juvenile instinct to start bawling, his face remained dry. Save for the blood, of course... and perhaps in some macabre way that might count instead. Slow drip of liquid hitting the floor, wasteful and empty. Same end result. The sharp sound of the front door slamming shut made him flinch, but aside from that small movement he remained rooted in place. Subconsciously waiting for Mycroft to change his mind, perhaps. Thinking he'd return for whatever reason... could've forgotten something, maybe, or reconsidered? But it wouldn't happen. Mycroft never changed his mind and he never forgot anything, and reconsideration implied the initial decision was at fault. No, that had been it. His final dismissal. Sherlock was well and truly alone. With a tremble in his limbs which he might have attributed to stress or exhaustion or blood loss were he so inclined, he allowed himself to list to the side. Hit the door jamb with a soft *thunk* and slid down it until he was sat slumped on the floor with his back to the wall. There was a spattering of blood on the hardwood where he'd stood, another now forming below him. Nose was still bleeding. On autopilot he wiped at his face in an effort to stop the irritating sensation of fluid trickling down, but didn't accomplish much besides smearing blood everywhere. He took his hand away and stared at his skin coated crimson for a moment, then let it drop to the floor. Gazed instead into the middle distance. Somehow his head felt empty. It was an odd sensation, since ordinarily he could never tell up from down in the chaotic mess of sound and colour he called a mental space. But now there was just... nothing. Total, profound silence. Under better circumstances that might've been something of a relief. Wasn't often he managed to think of precisely nothing without the aid of nicotine or adrenaline, after all. But, this... no, god, this was just too hideously different. Nothing at all like the pristine clarity of his hyper-excited state. Instead it was muted, hollow and sluggish, marked by a dead void in his chest and a rushing in his ears. Via faint, remnant wisps of cognition he found himself wishing rather fervently for normality to kick back in. And so by some tiny hidden spark of willpower he forced his mind to reboot. Pieces of data reluctantly came back to life, realigned and shifted until soon enough he found himself sinking back into his brain's familiar cloud of chattering static. Loud and chaotic and exhausting, just like always, but better by far than the silence. Shouldn't have shouted. Why'd he even...? Ugh, disgustingly emotional. And what a *pathetic* question, christ, who in their right mind would...? But then for fuck's sake why hadn't Mycroft *done* anything? Father would've flung him across the room for half as much... In a sharp, awful stab of longing Sherlock suddenly found himself missing home. Wanting to go back to his old, harrowing existence, not out of masochism but of a desperate desire to feel like he *mattered* again. Siger had always cared, hadn't he? Arguably to an unreasonable degree. It had been a dark, toxic, misshapen parody of the concept, yes, but at least it had meant something more than outright dismissal. Hatred had to have a *reason*, after all, and with reason he'd always be important in some way. His existence had consequence if only as a thorn in someone's side. And good *christ* but how was it even possible to have become so insignificant as to not even warrant threats, a lecture, disapproval, *anything...* Amongst the scattered mess his brain was making of itself he somehow managed to register a warning from his lungs. Abruptly he realised he was beginning to hyperventilate. Oh god no, fuck, absolutely *not*, he wasn't going to fucking *panic* over something so stupid as- no no *no no*, stop, breathe. Deep breath, remember to breathe. Don't pass out. This was idiotic, his body was an utter moron. *Breathe.* Forcing himself to calm down was a hit-and-miss endeavour at the best of times, but in this instance it mercifully seemed to work. Sort of. At the very least he hadn't fainted or started crying, which were the primary concerns, so that was more or less a win. If he was still struggling to fight off a sense of cold shakiness and the urge to be sick it didn't have to mean anything. With another deep, steadying breath he shifted so his elbows rested on his knees, head supported by fingers tangled in dark curls, and set a fixed stare on the hardwood. An unending chasm of time crept past as he willed himself to stop feeling like the world was about to eat him alive. At some point the spatters of his blood on the floor began to dry, the rays of morning sun through the windows had shifted towards noon. By degrees he realised he couldn't feel anything beyond the dull ache of bruises and a grating protest from joints held in place for too long. But he refused to move. For some stupid reason he felt like disturbing the silence now would jolt reality into a state of sudden actualisation. Everything would crash in on him at once and he'd surely drown. But so long as he kept perfectly still he could remain safe in the illusion, right? Nothing ever changed here, always fine, normal, boring. Not overwhelming or hopeless or fatal. Existence was a simple quiet moment frozen in perpetuity... Impossible to stay on the floor forever, though. No matter the edicts of any stupid pseudo-metaphysical comforts he'd invented for himself. Standing up and soldiering on was going to be the same tired inevitability as it always was. Reluctantly he let go of his hair, allowed his hands to drop, and raised his eyes to meet a blank wall. Somehow it felt like giving up. **««** So this was the truth of it, then. He was a flea. Just some tiny, insignificant irritant skulking through the hide of the world, of no interest to anyone beyond pausing to crush him flat should opportunity present itself. It was a revelation that seemed like it really should have been evident far earlier than this. Wasn't it patently ridiculous, after all, to think he'd ever fancied himself important? Sheer height of hubris, really. Narcissistic. And besides which it was just plain insulting to ask any member of his family to suffer such a crippling disadvantage as *caring*. Selfish to even consider. He took a deep drag off his cigarette and dully let his head thunk back against the bricks behind him. Some ways off one could just about hear the sleepy bustle of mid-morning foot traffic, but sequestered in a small side-lane amongst two squat residential buildings the sounds of Eton were barely audible. He had a bubble of peaceful quiet to himself instead. A sturdy wall to lean against, half a pack of fags and a patch of sunshine to take the edge off an early spring chill. Life wasn't ever exactly *good*, per se, but at the moment it at least wasn't all that terrible. Verging on neutral, perhaps. Decent enough, he'd take what he could get. His state of placid existence was quite rudely broken with the intrusion of a stone. One travelling quite quickly through the air with just the right trajectory and force to ricochet off his skull with a sharp *crack.* Sherlock yelped loudly and clapped a hand to the side of his head (which he hoped fervently wasn't about to start bleeding), bent over in sudden splitting pain. Grimacing, he looked up to find a small group of boys he vaguely recognised as his school mates standing a few metres off where the side-lane met the road. "Aright, Holmes!" the one more or less in front called out with a cheeky grin. Sherlock's chest seemed to twist in a ridiculous stab of betrayal at the sight of his face, which was the height of stupidity considering he now knew what the arse had been up to all this time. He couldn't quite stop a glare in response to the boy's wide, mock-friendly smile. Bastard. The three boys alongside Davies Sherlock only knew by face. Except for that kid who looked like he might be a D or E-blocker – short and awkward, had to be in his early teens. Why'd they have a younger year with them? Someone's little brother? Didn't really matter. Surnames of the C-blockers, though, right... erm... Trask and... Leyton, or something? God, he was rubbish with names. Much more reliable to function on models and associations over stupid arbitrary noises, was the thing. People weren't their *names*, after all. They were snippets of memory and concepts and colours and scents and sounds all tangled up around the vague idea of a face. Only if they were very lucky would their name ever have anything to do with that. Names didn't carry any information, usually, and kernels lacking data got erased. Concepts, on the other hand, were far too complex to ever fade completely. Those branching concepts relating to the two boys in front of him now went something along the lines of *'blond hair average build plays cricket definitely pissed him off at some point might've had something to do with a dead dog? Or no that one was the divorced parents...'* and *'dark large heavy-set hiding an effeminate nature behind aggression pretends to hate girlish things but keeps a pressed flower in his maths book really should try not to piss him off cause he's fucking massive but it's actually pretty funny how scared he is of anyone finding out how much he loves ballet...'* Nothing in those impressions was particularly helpful, nor did they provide him with anything non-suicidal to say, so Sherlock took a few steps back and tried to keep stoic instead. The whole goal here was most likely to get him to betray some sort of emotion, make him embarrass himself. Poking holes in his usual bubble of stone-faced apathy tended to be a favourite pastime of anyone with an hour to kill these days. And for those who happened to hold a grudge it seemed to have become something of a sport to go out of one's way to pull that off in spectacular fashion. Doubtless been a motivation for that whole *false friends* thing... Sherlock grit his teeth at the inadvertent reminder. Damn it, still couldn't swallow how easily he'd fallen for that, fucking idiot. Bloody Davies with his impish grin over there had spent the entire past month maintaining a stupid, bewildering campaign of friendliness towards Sherlock. Greeting him in passing, buddying up in class, asking if he wanted get a coffee or if he could bum a cig or whatever other ludicrous nonsense. Sherlock had been thoroughly confused. And justifiably suspicious, because there was no way he wasn't up to something. But... a month was a long time. And after two solid weeks of sustained, positive attention, unable to come up with any reason why someone would want to *pretend* to be extending an olive branch, Sherlock had warily begun to reciprocate. Said hello back a few times, agreed to help with an assignment. Against all odds there'd seemed a small sliver of hope that he might actually be able to get on with someone for a change. Of course then he'd gone and been enough of a bloody idiot to start lowering his guard. Mentioned at one point that he'd always thought frogs were interesting. Just one muttered comment, utterly inane, hadn't even really been participating in the conversation... but it was enough. It gave Davies an excuse to ask Sherlock to follow him to the riverbank on insistence that there was an enormous toad down there he'd want to see. Sherlock had been suspicious at first. Didn't seem quite sincere. But, then... well, who the hell would lie about finding a stupid toad? There couldn't be anything to gain by that. Might as well go have a look. Except there was *absolutely* something to gain by lying about a stupid toad – that being the ability to lead Sherlock Holmes into a trap. Davies had hung back cackling like a hyena whilst a gang of his halfwit friends attempted to chuck Sherlock into the water. Maybe trying to drown him, or perhaps just ruin his school dress, who knew. Didn't matter. Had to focus on saving himself. Wasn't much of a challenge to distract them with a few deductions, set them against each other, but, shit... one too far. Slipped past distracting into enraging. And the straw-haired cricketer had retaliated with an unanticipated right hook to the nose, which had nearly gotten Sherlock trampled by the others, but luckily if there was one thing in the world he was good at it was getting the hell out of dodge. Even with a bloodied face he managed a perfect duck and roll into a full-pelt sprint, securing his freedom. Easy enough to flee the physical conflict. But much more difficult, it turned out, to escape the mental. That image of Davies cackling at him... he tried to beat down the sick sense of irrational, sinking disappointment at the realisation that he'd been right all along. That the only person who'd been halfway amicable to him in *months* had only been doing so in a bid to get him drowned... fucking hell... it didn't matter, really, it *didn't*... Going back to face them just hadn't been bloody possible, not then. He couldn't stand the thought of them gloating over how easily he'd been tricked, how everyone else would react when the news inevitably got round, what new strains of mockery they'd invent. Fuck. Just... no. He'd left. Run home like a little kid. A terrible choice, as it turned out, considering the mess he'd made of things there. But then the point of buying cigarettes had been to block all that out, hadn't it. So don't think. Don't think, don't react, just stare at Davies and his little friends and pretend like nothing mattered. "Is that him?" the younger of the four boys piped up dubiously. Probably he'd been fed some over-embellished version of events from the day previous and built up a mental image of Sherlock Holmes as some sort of threatening menace. Must've been quite the disappointment to instead see some lanky, rail-thin berk smoking Marlboros alone in a side-street get beaned in the skull with a rock. Terrifying. In lieu of answering, Trask *(or was that one Leyton...?)* grinned wickedly. "Been hiding from us, Holmes?" Sherlock responded with a vaguely confused look – hiding? He was stood here perfectly visible from the street, leaning against a pale brick wall in a patch of sunlight, wearing full tails. That wasn't exactly what he'd call *hiding*. Though if Trask/Leyton was attempting to make some sort of snide reference to the fact that he'd scarpered from school yesterday... well that wasn't really hiding, either, was it? Retreat, if anything. Strategic withdrawal. If he'd wanted to *hide* he wouldn't've run straight for the first place he knew his brother would look for him. "Did you... have trouble finding me?" he asked, thinking he'd go for a mocking tone but ending up somewhere more in the vicinity of faintly nonplussed. He'd *really* not expected to find his morning interrupted by getting smacked upside the head with a stone. And, speaking of, it was proving something of a challenge now to pretend that hadn't hurt like hell. *Just leave the bruise alone, christ, stop wincing.* Whichever of the Trask/Leyton superposition was the one with the pronounced musculature had stepped forward and was now cracking his knuckles in what he evidently thought was a menacing gesture. Sherlock, for his part, responded by taking a perplexed drag off his cig. How was that supposed to be a threat...? Popping air out his joints? Someone'd been watching too many gangster films, looked like. "I'll give you five seconds," the bulky idiot growled. Definitely too many films. Sherlock tilted his head and blankly studied the four of them, all smirking in varying degrees of smug self-assuredness. The hell was the point of all this, then? Hadn't they already had their fun trying to drown him yesterday? He couldn't possibly have angered anyone enough to incite violence in the scant few hours since morning assembly. "So... have I actually pissed someone off," he risked asking, "or are you lot just bored?" Didn't know if he expected an answer, but it seemed more imposing to calmly chit-chat in the face of oncoming violence than to immediately turn tail. Running wasn't exactly a valid option right now, anyway. For one because it'd be pathetic, and for another because he'd just smoked two and a half Reds on an empty stomach and wasn't sure he'd be able to sprint without falling flat on his face in a haze of nicotine vertigo. "Five... four... three..." As their cohort counted down the two elder boys behind him were wearing identical smug smirks. The younger lad with them looked expectant, interested... ah, so *that* was it. Putting on a show. Kid must be related to someone influential, one of the C-blockers was looking to get in good graces by impressing him. They'd apparently chosen to accomplish this by making themselves out to be a group of daring vigilantes exacting revenge for whatever crime they'd declared Sherlock guilty of. Quite the audacious plan. Couldn't really blame anyone for choosing him, of course. If you were going to do that sort of thing Sherlock Holmes made a perfect target. Underweight, distractible, often hurt or overtired; and he never really fought back. Preferred instead to weasel out with long-winded distractions and running away, because he'd learnt ages ago not to retaliate. Too dangerous. Just one hit to the wrong person's son leading to a key politician or wealthy socialite ringing Father up in a rage... god, no, that scenario had only needed to happen once. He'd immediately sworn off self-defence as not remotely worth the risk. Now, though... Trask *(he was very nearly sure the other one was Leyton)* had gotten close enough now to grab Sherlock's collar, and though they were nearly the same height he made out like he was looming ominously over some smaller prey. Sherlock regarded him with flat dispassion. Usually at this point he'd start talking. Surprise his aggressor with a psychological analysis, probably point out the floral scent of his deodorant, the attention paid to his hairline, shiny chip of red varnish still clinging to the side of a fingernail. That'd almost certainly create enough of an opening to bolt. Easy escape down the other end of the lane, and from there it'd be a simple matter of keeping himself out of their sight for a few days, sticking close to areas frequented by the beaks so they couldn't attack him without getting punished. Nice and straightforward, like always. But, then... that familiar strategy had been born of having to ensure his primary guardian wouldn't be contacted in the event of an altercation, hadn't it? An effort to avoid pissing off his father. But Siger Holmes wasn't his guardian anymore. Mycroft was. And Mycroft... didn't care. A sudden bolt of ice-cold anger seemed to explode through his chest. Something dark and painful and empty and incomprehensibly heavy came spreading in its wake, pressing down on his lungs. Shouldn't have to fucking *run* from them, should he? Shouldn't even have to cope with this shit, the incessant threat of violence, ignored half the other time, and he hadn't even fucking *done* anything, just... god's *sake* he'd just asked a *bloody question!* That was all, a stupid question, and *yes* alright maybe he'd shouted it and maybe Mycroft hadn't ever approved of raising one's voice but it wasn't like he'd *meant* to and he hadn't known it'd come out like that wasn't planning to ask something so inappropriate didn't mean to sound angry either it'd just *happened* and maybe he'd have apologised if he'd been given half the chance but bloody christ *how could he have just turned and left!?* Uncertain if he was even occupying the correct version of reality Sherlock abruptly snarled. He grabbed hold of Trask's wrist and dug into a pressure point between the joints at an angle he knew from experience hurt like hell, then in the same movement wrenched the limb around so the fingers would be forced to loosen. Trask screeched like a shot hare. Hadn't expected Sherlock to defend himself, much less to actually know *how.* It wasn't hard to decide what to do next – every possible action may as well have been printed in neat white text over Trask's form, loudly as he broadcast his movements. The great ape went for another grab, meaning to follow with a right hook, but Sherlock easily dodged. As he straightened back up he caught hold of an elbow and twisted the joint down the wrong way, eliciting another inelegant shrieking noise, then used Trask's now-thrown balance to fling him head-first into an unforgiving stone wall. Went down like a sack of bricks. Sherlock stared down at the crumpled heap of a body at his feet, panting slightly. He felt hollow and light and strangely powerful all at once. Ice forming like a shield through his veins – didn't remotely care that he'd likely just given someone a severe concussion. He'd do it again in a heartbeat, make an example of anyone who touched him, because he *could* and he should've been able to years ago... "Y-you fucking killed him!" someone, perhaps Davies, shrieked. Sherlock glanced up from the groaning heap below him – wasn't dead, just stunned, hadn't hit the wall hard enough – and regarded the other three with a steady glare. In his head he imagined a barrier of frigid steel forming between him and them. Go ahead, you fucks, try something. Sherlock Holmes was entirely of ice and metal and somewhere deep inside a pit of white-hot anger, and he'd destroy the next idiot who so much as moved. Davies chose to be that idiot. He took a few steps forward, furious, like he was meaning to avenge his friend. Wouldn't happen. Sherlock closed the distance first in a few long strides and slammed Davies' head sideways with a solid punch before the other could think to block. A swift kick to sweep the legs out, a knee directly to the lowest rib, he felt the crunch of what might have been cartilage tearing. Davies collapsed. The fight was over in seconds. Sherlock looked back up, see who'd volunteer to be next, but when he met the eyes of the last two boys all he saw was terror. The D-blocker had paled and made a strange sort of squeaking sound. A second later he'd fled. Leyton was left alone. Wide-eyed he shook his head and backed away. "Look, Holmes, I... I didn't even want to go along with this, really..." Liar. Body language betrayed it like a neon sign. And compounded with things Sherlock had seen yesterday, what he knew of the three of them... all the pieces slotted neatly together. Leyton had been the one to suggest the fake kindness strategy – only one of them devious enough to come up with it. And of course he'd been the one Sherlock pissed off yesterday, hadn't he? Accidental slip about his mum filing for divorce, picked up in some half-forgotten skim over a letter left on a table... bastard had reacted to a simple unpleasant fact by punching Sherlock square in the face like the hyper-aggressive neanderthal he was. And then not even a day later he'd decided to coerce all his halfwit friends in for another go? The arrogant prick. It'd be so ridiculously easy to take a few strides forward, knock the arsehole down with a blow straight to the nose in an exact mirror of what he'd done to Sherlock yesterday. Beautiful symmetry. With steel glare darkening Sherlock took a step over Davies' prone body. But the moment was lost. Leyton turned tail and ran. Off to fetch an adult, most likely. Would doubtless accuse Sherlock of being a murderous psychopath out to kill them all. And of course he'd lie and claim the fight was unprovoked. *Clearly* they'd not done anything wrong, couldn't have brought it on themselves, ever the good lads. Holmes was just a violent lunatic. Yet more evidence for why everyone was right to despise him, keep their distance, wall him off from any chance at normality and never ever let him forget he was an utter freak of nature. And it'd work, too, because nobody was about to listen to anything Sherlock might say in his defence. Couldn't risk putting themselves on his side. But that was all fine. He didn't care. Because his veins were solid ice and his mind was cold steel and nothing in the universe fucking mattered. Except for him, now. Two people's lives had changed from today onwards thanks to Sherlock's existence. A concussion, ripped tendon, wrenched elbow... they'd remember what he'd done for *years*. And the rest would soon find out just how dangerous he could be, too, with no one left to judge his actions. Wouldn't take more than a few violent confrontations before the whole school finally learnt to leave him well and truly the fuck alone. A throbbing pain had begun to radiate slowly up his arm. Glancing down, he found he'd been clenching his hands into tight fists at his sides for the past several minutes; the sustained tension was making some sort of pulsing, stabbing ache creep out from the bones of his right hand. In the silence between two fallen foes he loosened his fingers. Blotches of vivid red were spreading out like an ugly stain under paper-white skin. He'd smashed his knuckles, he realised, against Davies' skull. Deep bruises were forming along the impact line. They'd take forever to heal. **««** ## Chapter 4: Mycroft **««** Mycroft had been phoned by the school three separate times over the day, two of which his PA had fielded, the last she'd practically bullied him into taking, only for him to find himself immediately pulled away by urgent business. Something about an incident between Sherlock and a group of schoolmates. Another fight? For god's sake, it hadn't even been a day since the last one. Surely they'd no need to be ringing up the boy's guardian over every minor scuffle. And so it was that he came to his flat at the end of a very long day, mind so abuzz with work matters that he hardly registered the doorman saying something about a guest having come round. Ugh. Well, whoever it had been they'd simply have to drop by tomorrow. He certainly wasn't in the mood for company tonight. As he entered his flat, however, he realised with a sickening jolt that the doorman hadn't meant he'd turned anyone *away* - he wouldn't have been permitted to, because the guest had been accompanied by a resident. Sat by the coffee table overlooking the flat's overlarge skyline windows were his father and brother. Mycroft stopped short for an interminable beat as he entered the room. Met his father's gaze. The man was sat in Mycroft's favourite chair, foot hooked over one knee and a glass of scotch in hand. Exactly as if he were in his own sitting room back home. He was afforded a polite smile, but some primal part of Mycroft's psyche could sense a sharp edge of irritation hidden underneath. Knew it was directed at him, at least partially. And though he'd never been threatened by any adult in his life, was in fact now an adult *himself* and thus hardly in any real danger, he was still struck through by a bolt of fear. Siger may have never harmed his eldest son, but he'd made no secret of the harm he was capable of doing should the need arise. Mycroft had spent his life subconsciously ensuring such a day would never come - perfect manners, perfect marks, the right uni and prescribed career. Safety in the form of slotting neatly into place. Others, of course, hadn't the luxury of fitting into such a mould. Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from Father, trained them on the other occupant of the room. Sherlock sat upon the sofa, locked into the familiar state of tense discomfort he always took up around Father. He spared Mycroft a single glance, then dropped into a vacant stare. Nausea bloomed at the sight of blood - a cut on the boy's forehead which had been patched up some hours ago and begun to soak through the plaster. Focussing downwards revealed a crumpled shirt collar, a button near the top hanging by a thread, specks of blood and dirt on his sleeves… but the only sign of further injury was a splash of angry red over the knuckles of his right hand. Strike points. Won the fight, then, clearly. Must have been against the son of someone with the means to contact Siger directly. Someone Siger considered useful enough to agree to see to the matter himself. Which meant someone devastatingly influential, of course. And within Mycroft's sphere, as Siger's decision to return Sherlock to his care with such needlessly dramatic pomp meant the man must have managed to twist the situation into a deranged test of his eldest's diplomacy skills. Placed blame on Mycroft's shoulders somehow, ensuring his professional reputation would suffer should he fail to bring his intransigent sibling to heel. Fantastic. As if he hadn't enough on his plate already. He kept the anger off his face as he turned back to Father. Packaged all the roiling emotions up and locked them away. No need for theatrics. Siger took a calm sip of scotch and raised a brow at him. "Well?" "Well, what?" Mycroft replied archly. He went to set his papers in their usual spot, determined to go about his normal routine as if his father hadn't invaded his flat. "A bit of thanks would seem to be in order." A dozen childish retorts sprang to mind, but he managed to pack them away with the rest. Calm. Collected. "You weren't asked to intervene." "Unfortunately I very much was," Siger said drolly. Another sip of scotch. "Your brother put two boys in hospital this morning, one of whom happened to be Richard Davies' eldest son." Ah, and there it was: Davies. Diplomat involved in the Moldova affair. Must have phoned Siger in a rage and demanded resolution in exchange for his continued cooperation with intelligence operations, hence why Siger had seen fit to go to all the trouble of travelling out to Eton. Which, all else being equal, actually meant that Mycroft's failure to anticipate or prevent the incident had uncovered valuable information regarding Davies' activities. One doubted his brother would consider that sufficient trade-off for having let the situation default to Father's oversight, of course. Speaking of his brother… "Are you-?" Mycroft started, turning his attention to the boy. Siger cut him off. "He's fine." Mycroft turned an acid glance to his father, received a raised brow back. A placid sip of scotch. Unspoken message that he wouldn't be permitted to speak directly with his brother, and should stop trying lest the order be enforced by other means. A sick bolt of anxiety - he was drawing perilously close to breaking the pact, straying beyond the safety of perfection. Had to regain favour. "Well, I trust your handling of the situation was… efficient." As he spoke his gaze strayed around the room. Wrinkled throw rug, a pen knocked off a side table, smudges on the windowpane where a hand might land to break a fall. Reluctantly calculated how long his brother would've been alone with the man. A few hours, at most. An eternity. "I should hope so, by this point," Siger replied with a snort. "Talked those morons out of expelling him a half-dozen times already, what's one more on the pile?" He turned his gaze to Sherlock, who was still staring at nothing. A brief flash of something vicious in Siger's eyes made Mycroft's stomach flip, but it was gone in an instant. Replaced by easy nonchalance. The man snapped his fingers as if summoning a dog, and Sherlock blinked, refocussed, then in response to a small hand gesture reluctantly stood. "Tell your brother what we've agreed upon." Sherlock answered robotically. "I will remain in Mycroft's custody until such time as his negligence results in another behavioural incident, at which point I will be returned to Father's oversight." Mycroft did his level best not to become unnerved, but it was a losing battle. He shifted focus to Father instead. Made a reasonable attempt at a glare despite primordial parts of his brain screaming to appease the man. "I will *not* be relinquishing guardianship." Siger's only reply was a bemused smirk, which was somehow more terrifying than any reaction Mycroft might have braced for. The man raised his glass to both take a sip and gesture lazily towards Sherlock. "Tell me, Mycroft - what do you imagine led to your brother beating two schoolmates into the ground?" Mycroft blinked, tried to think how to regain control of the conversation and quite soundly failed. "He… picks fights. He's always done." Siger chuckled. "No, my boy. Quite the opposite - his social incompetence drives others to violence, but he doesn't *fight* them. He knows the consequences of kicking up too much of a fuss." Implications sat heavy. Mycroft swallowed. Siger carried on speaking without a care in the world. "Evidently, however, his short time under your guardianship has managed to shift his balance of motivation. He's lost all concern for punishment." Siger swirled his glass, considering Sherlock as if he were a puzzle to be solved. Sherlock, for his part, had slipped back into a dead-eyed stare. Swiftly snapped back to awareness however when Siger addressed him. "Sherlock. Explain your actions." "I…" Sherlock hesitated, glanced at Mycroft. Swallowed. A tense silence, then he shook his head as if to say he couldn't. A flash of cold fury in Siger's eyes, quickly masked by an exaggerated look of long-suffering exasperation. With one last sip of his scotch he set the empty glass down and got to his feet. Shifted towards Sherlock with an arm raised as if to give a friendly pat on the arm. Sherlock's flinch when the man's hand entered his field of view was gut-wrenching. No blow came, however. Not even a pat. Instead Siger draped an arm across the boy's shoulders and drew him in close in a bizarre facsimile of a fatherly side-hug. Sherlock appeared to have no idea what to think of this. He fell to a fixed stare straight ahead, the faintest hint of baffled confusion. Mycroft, of course, went on high alert. Sudden change of character, disarming friendliness. Setting up a trap. "Well, it's no great loss for the moment," Siger remarked, giving Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze which might have passed for affectionate in any other circumstance. "Davies was never mission-critical, and I daresay that obnoxious brat of his deserved the lesson in humility." He flashed a bland smile to Sherlock, getting no reaction beyond a pale-faced stare. Siger behaved as if he found this quite normal, however, and turned his smile back to Mycroft. "We can't overlook the liability of your brother's unpredictable behaviour, however. If you continue to coddle him I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to step in." Mycroft was beginning to feel nearly as powerless as his brother. Nevertheless his brain conjured up the correct response, delivered in an appropriate tone of mild offence. "I've not coddled him." Siger snorted. "No, of course not. I'm sure this recent turn to delinquency has nothing whatsoever to do with your childish refusal to implement proper discipline." "And what would you consider proper discipline?" Mycroft asked, his acid delivery transforming the question into a snide prompt for the man to confess his sins. Knew in all truth he wanted no such thing; much preferred to let the details stay buried, sketched out only by their lingering effects. His mind had got ahead of him, however, and supplied the only decent response to maintain even footing. Siger was aiming to unsettle him, that much was obvious. One found themselves obliged to pretend it wasn't working. Rules of the game. Even if Siger doubtless saw straight through the false bravado. Sure enough, Father gave him an indulgent smirk. Proud of his boy for saving face. The pleasant flush of satisfaction through Mycroft's psyche for having met expectations was, in retrospect, sickening. "What *would* I consider proper discipline?" Siger spoke as if he'd just been asked an interesting question about some minor news event, or perhaps the local sports team. "Difficult to find anything that sticks in a child so recalcitrant, of course," he went on casually, his grip round Sherlock's shoulders tightening in a way which seemed to carry a subtle edge of threat. "The boy's got the attention span of a gnat, you see, so swift consequence is of utmost importance. Verbal admonishment would be simplest, except that he's prone to quite literally not listening to a word anyone says. Inflicting pain becomes the only real option for day-to-day affairs." Mycroft was becoming rather distracted fighting back the urge to be ill - between the blood on his brother's face and the boy's thousand-yard stare in response to Father's monologue he found himself scarcely able to breathe. Made a valiant effort to quash the roiling emotions, however. Had to keep control of *something,* even if only himself. "I won't be inflicting pain on *anyone,* thank you," he bit out. Father chuckled. "Ah, yes. Your unfortunate distaste for violence. Inefficient, but… workable, I suppose. Always the option of psychological pressure instead - exploit his phobia." "Phobia?" Mycroft repeated, baffled. What could his brother possibly be *phobic* of? Lack of fear was arguably the child's core personality defect. The boy had gone and climbed a bloody *building* within the past week alone, for god's sake. But Siger's smile took on a dark edge, his hold around Sherlock's shoulders now firmly unyielding, and suddenly Mycroft understood. From early childhood his brother had always been irrationally averse to anything resembling physical restraint, often pitching childish fits over basic necessities like being asked to wear a seatbelt. Just another of the boy's irritating quirks, he'd always thought. Now, though… well, now he really was fighting the urge to vomit. He hoped the compulsive swallow didn't come off as vulnerable as he felt. "Let him go." Predictably, Siger did no such thing. The three of them stood in stalemate for a long moment. A shift from the corner of Mycroft's vision - his brother's expression hardening, empty gaze set alight by a gathering storm of emotion. Anxious, then annoyed, frustrated, angry. A sidelong look to Father before a flash of white-hot rage. Hands abruptly clenching. Mycroft could only watch with mounting dread. Knew his brother well enough to guess what was about to happen. Siger evidently knew as well, because as he glanced towards his youngest the mask abruptly dropped. False geniality to frigid steel. Quick as lightning the boy whipped his arm up and drove the butt of his hand into Siger's nearest shoulder. Site of an old bullet wound which had left lasting damage to the joint, a fact Mycroft only knew from reading the man's personnel file. Couldn't imagine how his brother had learnt of that particular weakness, let alone how best to exploit it. Upon landing the hit Sherlock immediately dropped out from under Father's arm as the man recoiled. Only managed to put a scant few steps between them before Siger's decades of hand-to-hand combat kicked in - lost hold of the teenager for just an instant before catching the edge of Sherlock's shirt, then his arm. Redirected his momentum to throw the boy into the hardwood, where he landed hard on his back. Siger then pinned him there by means of a heavy foot on a narrow, heaving chest. All of this had transpired in an instant, meaning Mycroft had only the chance to shout *"stop!"* and nothing else. He stood now in sudden stillness, trying desperately to quell a surge of panic. "G-get off him," he was somehow able to stammer. To his great chagrin his father paid him no heed whatsoever. The man's face had twisted into a demonic snarl, a remorseless predator gazing down upon its prey. This was the monster Mycroft had spent his life trying to avoid by means of impossible perfection. His body felt paralysed. On the floor Sherlock had managed to catch a few shallow breaths despite the weight on his ribs. He swallowed down a grimace and glared, defiant, up at Father. Absolutely inconceivable. To be *defiant* in the face of a visage like that? To know the man could kill you without a thought and still find the bloody audacity? And, yet, Sherlock had locked eyes with their father without so much as a flinch. Ruthless fury to bitter hatred. There was absolutely nothing Mycroft could do - he could only stand petrified and hope he wasn't about to witness a murder. An eternity passed before, mercifully, Siger's face smoothed over. He stepped back, straightened his coat, and turned a pleasant smile Mycroft's way. One could just spot the red-hot ember of rage burning bright beneath his mask. No words were exchanged. Merely a polite nod to Mycroft's stunned silence, and Father turned smartly and left. For a small eternity he continued to stand frozen, staring at the space where his father had just been. The sound of his brother coughing finally caught his attention. He snapped himself out of what felt very much like a trance, looked down to the floor to find the boy had let his head flop back onto the hardwood, arms draped boneless over his stomach, eyes closed with a slight wince. The plaster on his forehead had come loose in the scuffle; a trickle of blood leaking from the reopened cut. Swallowing back a flood of nausea, Mycroft knelt down and reached out to his brother. He'd meant to touch his shoulder, a silent offer of help getting up, but the second his hand came in range Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he caught Mycroft's wrist in a visegrip. They both froze. Mycroft found himself looking into the same vicious, hunted glare the boy had turned on Father. Paralysed, again. In a question of fight or flight he'd always defaulted to freeze. Thankfully the stalemate broke within a few tense beats - Sherlock's glare dissolved, shifted to something far more world-weary than a sixteen year old should have been capable of. He released Mycroft's wrist with a muttered, "sorry". Rubbed a hand down his face, then shook his head and set to pushing himself upright. Mycroft resisted the impulse to try to help again. Clearly the boy preferred a bit of space. "What on earth are you apologising for?" he heard himself ask. The words came out sounding strangely detached, as if said by another. He felt unmoored, set adrift in a numbing sea. Sherlock didn't answer. He'd stopped at the stage of having got himself sitting mostly upright, slouched forward over his knees. He'd fallen to staring at the floor between his feet, and the deep exhaustion in his eyes felt like a knife to the gut. Doubly so when Mycroft could think of nothing whatsoever to say. All he could do was kneel there, useless, as his baby brother took a quiet breath and let it out again. "I didn't think he'd leave me here," he muttered, almost too softly to hear. He sounded almost… disappointed. Mycroft frowned. After a brief pause to consider he let himself drop down from the half-kneel he'd been in to instead sit on the floor. Uncomfortable, especially in the suit. And horribly undignified. Some things were more important, however. He'd thought Sherlock might glance his direction, make some snide comment about sitting on the hardwood like a child. But he didn't even turn his head. "Did you… *want* to go with him?" There was a long pause before Sherlock answered. "I don't know." Not the response he'd been expecting. Internally he was running through every psychology text he'd ever read, trying to understand why an abuse victim would want to return to their tormentor. Pages upon pages of theories and explanations but none of it felt like it could possibly apply, not to his baby brother. In the silence Sherlock closed his eyes, took as deep a breath as bruised ribs would allow. When he opened them again he appeared to have detached once more. No emotion beyond profound exhaustion. "May I go to my room?" he asked quietly. Still hadn't lifted his head. "... no one's stopping you," was all Mycroft could think to say. As the boy painfully pushed himself up to his feet, he remained sat on the floor. Paralysis had set in once more. Couldn't bring himself to move, to speak. To take any action which might risk a turn for the worse. All he could do was watch this brother leave. **««** It was half past eight in the evening by the time he finally returned home the next day. He'd not meant to be out so long, but his current skillset and focus area tended to demand his presence for any discussions related to the Chechnya conflict, of which there had been several. Being roped in to consult with the Americans about their bloody spy plane hadn't helped matters, but he was glad of the opportunity regardless. Always eager to expand further into Chinese relations, given the trajectory of Russia's current regime. Scraps of political intrigue swirling about his mental space were enough distraction to temporarily put the events of the previous evening out of his mind. It wasn't until he'd stepped through the door of the flat and saw his brother's coat on the hook that he was hit by recollection of yesterday's scene in full detail. A knot of sudden anxiety in his gut. Where was his brother? Had he been wrong to leave the boy on his own all day after such a traumatic event? What if he'd run off? With the very thought, of course, he realised it was absurd. Sherlock hadn't anything to gain from absconding into the city. They both knew Father had the means to track the boy down no matter how far he fled. No, he would be home. Skulking about the flat somewhere, sullen as any other teenager. Working through his emotions in solitude. Hopefully. Details jumped out as Mycroft ventured into the sitting room. A spot of blood on the floor from yesterday had been wiped up, the smudged window cleaned and throw rug straightened. Laundry set aside to be collected by the housekeeping service. Smell of coffee from the kitchen. As he approached the latter room he spotted his brother stood leaning against the counter. The boy's face was in profile, leaving visible his expression of quiet weariness. He held a cup of coffee in his hands and was staring into the middle distance, clothes the loose shirt and trouser affair he typically wore round the flat. Without the defining structure of a shirtcollar his shoulders seemed far too thin for his frame. Willowy. "Ahem," Mycroft cleared his throat, just to make his presence known. Sherlock startled and looked over to him. The cut on his forehead had progressed to the beginnings of an ugly bruise. "Oh, erm… hello," he muttered. Dropped his gaze for a fraction, then gave a jerky little shake of his head and raised it again as if forcing himself to maintain eye contact, expression a mask of polite neutrality. Mycroft frowned. For some reason Sherlock was behaving as if Father's strict code of social conduct suddenly applied between the two of them. Despite his formidable interpersonal analysis skills he couldn't make sense of it. "Kindly drop the false decorum. It's unsettling," Mycroft drawled as he moved to examine the coffee pot. Wanted to know who'd prepared it. To his surprise he saw no evidence to suggest anyone but Sherlock had been in the kitchen all day. "Did you make this?" His brother just nodded in silent confirmation. Mycroft poured a bit into a mug and took an experimental sip. Didn't drink coffee regularly enough to have strong opinions on the matter, but it seemed quite good, especially for a dark roast. Which itself was baffling, really. "When did you learn to make coffee?" Sherlock blinked, shrugged. "I don't know." Belatedly the penny dropped. Father was fond of dark roast. "Father taught you," Mycroft concluded unhappily. Did his best to keep the tide of anger in check. No reason to get snippy over coffee, of all things. Sherlock fidgeted with his mug. "Oh… yeah, probably." "You don't remember?" Another shrug, dropped eye contact as the boy took an awkward sip of coffee. Buried in his mannerisms was the implication that there were a lot of things he didn't remember. Or, perhaps more accurately, had managed to forget. Alongside that dark thought came a tide of others - all the things he'd been successfully burying whilst distracted by work. He'd witnessed the violence now, or at least a snapshot. Saw the ease with which Siger threw his son to the ground, the resigned acceptance in the way Sherlock had picked himself back up. No trace of shock, surprise, anger. That had been a fully normal interaction, to him. Precisely what he expected. As usual, Mycroft's gut met such revelations with a wave of nausea. "It was… wildly inappropriate, you know," he started, for once in his life having failed to plan his words before he said them. Sherlock glanced up questioningly, so he valiantly struggled to clarify. "Father hurting you like that. I'm… sorry I let it happen." Sherlock just blinked at him. Didn't look to know quite what to do with that statement. "Um… it's fine?" he tried, looking baffled. "I deserved it." Good lord. What an absolutely hideous thing to say. And, yet, the boy didn't look like he'd been fishing for a reaction - just sipped his coffee again and studied Mycroft's appalled expression with mild puzzlement, as if the horrifying nature of his own words hadn't occurred to him. "You did *not* deserve that," Mycroft snapped. Sherlock shifted to looking very confused. "I… what? You saw what I did, you were standing right there." "Justifiable self-defence does not warrant-" Evidently his brother wasn't finished speaking, however, as the boy just carried on directly over Mycroft's words. "... honestly it's lucky you were, I got off really light for that. Last time I went for his shoulder he-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. Mycroft, having cut himself off when he realised his brother wasn't listening, now watched with faint alarm as his expression dropped into a vacant, empty stare. The concept of traumatic dissociation was nothing new to him, of course - he was an intelligence analyst, for god's sake, he'd more than enough psychiatric knowledge to grasp on an intellectual level what was happening. Primal defence of the human brain, shutting down surface-level affect to prevent a panic cascade. Not a surprise to find his brother had developed such a coping mechanism. He'd have been trained into it from earliest childhood by Father. Ever disdainful of emotional displays. And then had it further reinforced… by Mycroft. In his brother's absent gaze he now saw a hundred little moments between them. Every time Mycroft shushed him, told him off for snivelling, every moment he'd dismissed concerns and refused to engage with outbursts. How his brother had become more withdrawn over the years, stopped having tantrums, stopped showing any emotion at all really beyond annoyance or bitter sarcasm. And how grateful Mycroft had been watching it happen, thinking the boy was growing more mature. Hesitantly he reached out to touch his brother's arm. Sherlock blinked with the contact, life returning to his gaze, and took a sip of coffee as if nothing had happened. He spared a bemused glance down to Mycroft's hand before shrugging it off and wandering over to lean against the edge of the kitchen table. "Erm… anyway," Sherlock continued. No hint of concern, nor even acknowledgment of what to him must have seemed a brief gap in awareness. Plainly he'd grown so used to it he hardly noticed anymore. "Sorry for shouting at you the other day, Myc. That was inappropriate." "You don't-" Mycroft cut himself off, frustrated, and shook his head. He'd somehow only just clued in to what was likely going on. "For god's sake, stop." A hint of anxiety flitted across his brother's face. "Stop what?" "Being so bloody agreeable!" Mycroft snapped. As if confirming his unvoiced deduction his brother dropped the casual stance almost immediately, fell to something much more guarded. This only served to make Mycroft feel worse. He did his best to prevent the unease translating into anger, as was his usual habit. Wasn't even sure why he was upset, to be honest - wasn't this exactly what he'd wanted? His brother being pleasant for once? But it felt horrific, somehow. He wanted the petulant brat back. His *real* brother, not this wretched automaton. Sherlock was staring at him. All trace of affability had gone from his stance, leaving him tense and guarded like a cornered fox. Silence stretched far too long between them. Finally Mycroft could bear it no longer and bit out an angry sigh before turning to set his mug smartly atop the counter. As with countless prior spats between them he turned to head off down the hallway. Get clear of this mess of destructive emotion and reorient himself in solitude. Same as the last time, though, he looked up and caught the reflection of the kitchen in the cabinet down the hall. A ghostly mirror image of his brother suspended in the glass. Watching Mycroft leave with an expression far worse than any glare would've been - resigned acceptance. This was what he expected, now. What he thought he deserved. Mycroft stopped. Every instinct in his body told him to flee from the gathering storm of anxiety. With an almighty force of will he forced himself to turn back around instead. Found his brother watching him. Tired, faintly puzzled. Holding the coffee mug in both hands like a shield. Wine-red stain of bruised knuckles stark over white ceramic. Feeling as if he were taking a stand against some towering foe, he drew a deep, steadying breath, and met his brother's eyes. "Do you… want to play a board game?" **««** # Treasure **««** "Qu'est-ce que tu fabriques ?" Mycroft raised a brow as Sherlock glanced up at him. The boy was sat on the back garden steps in the midst of tying his shoes, and after a brief blink at his sibling went right back to doing so. "Looking for pirate treasure," he answered. In English, of course; Sherlock rarely deigned to respond to anyone in the correct language whilst staying with their relatives. The habit was an ongoing ploy, as far as Mycroft could tell, to frustrate their French-speaking grandmother out of ever attempting to hold a conversation with him. After a morning spent listening to Grand-mère's endless interrogations over school assignments, career goals, and far-off romantic prospects Mycroft was sorely beginning to wish his childhood self had thought to try the same trick. "What, in the garden?" Obligingly Mycroft swapped languages as well. Sherlock had finished tying his shoes and was now frowning up at him like he thought perhaps his brother had gone simple. "No. There's a cave near the beach, I saw it from the road." Even as he spoke he'd hopped off the steps and begun heading for the gate. Mycroft tilted his head slightly – well, then, that... sounded somewhat dangerous? As a responsible older sibling he should probably intervene and insist Sherlock wait until he'd secured some sort of adult supervision before he went off traipsing about in sea caves. With this in mind, and definitely not looking for a convenient excuse to avoid Grand-mère a few minutes longer, Mycroft followed after his brother. "Sherlock, hang on-" Sherlock stopped and turned round questioningly. Just then a voice drifted through the garden from the house. "*Mycroft!* *Où es-tu parti ?**"* Both brothers glanced up. Sherlock's eyes darted mischievously towards Mycroft as the latter made an aggrieved face. "Grand-mère wants you," the boy pointed out, innocent expression at odds with the hint of sing-song mockery in his tone. Mycroft turned an unimpressed glower on the boy. Before he could snipe back, however, footsteps became audible in the hall leading to the back door, and with a sudden bolt of intense aversion to the thought of yet another bout of questioning from his grandmother Mycroft jumped the last step leading off the porch. He took off at a determined pace across the garden and grabbed his little brother's arm as he passed to drag him along. The two of them made it through the gate and behind the fence just barely ahead of the rear house door opening. Grand-mère's confused, irritable grumbling faded as she moved back into the hall to continue searching. Mycroft breathed a relieved sigh and glanced over his shoulder through the slats of the fence. If he stayed anywhere near the house she'd figure out where he was within a quarter-hour, tops. And he was beginning to run out of plausible excuses to duck out. As he turned back to face the road he noticed his brother was now frowning quizzically at him. "I, er..." Mycroft started, rubbing the back of his neck. Where had Sherlock been going? Down to the shore? Might work. She'd certainly never think to look for him there. With a clearing of his throat Mycroft stood a bit straighter. "I'll just... accompany you, then, shall I? Two's the merrier." Sherlock was dubious. "You hate the beach." "When did I ever say that?" Mycroft made to start off along the lane, then abruptly realised he didn't actually know how to get down the steep, rocky hill leading to the shore. He glanced back at Sherlock instead; the boy half-rolled his eyes and headed off in the other direction, Mycroft having to hurry a bit to catch up. "She's just going to lecture you when you get back, you know. She'll be cross." Mycroft grimaced. God, if only to have a bit of whatever it was that made the family seem to collectively ignore Sherlock in most situations. "I really don't understand why she can't natter on at *you* for a change. It's like she's completely forgotten she has more than one grandchild." Sherlock smirked over his shoulder. "Eh bien, je ne parle pas très bien français, alors..." "Oh shut up. You're a manipulative little bastard," Mycroft snapped, scowling. He really *had* convinced Grand-mère he couldn't speak French, the scheming brat. Sherlock just smiled sweetly before ducking into a space between houses, wherein there appeared to be a path running through a rusted iron trellis. Short trees and low, scrub-like ground cover stretched out to either side, broken occasionally by backs of houses or the odd garden fence. They wound their way down the side of the hill their grandparents' house stood atop. Sunlight trickled down through the dappled leaves of the trees, birds sang somewhere far off and the sound of waves echoed from below. Mycroft was distinctly unenthusiastic about the steep grade of the trail they were on. Not liking the thought of falling face-first into gravel he elected to take his time picking the safest route amongst the loose rocks and various bits of fallen trees. Sherlock, of course, was merrily bounding rock-to-log-to-rock ahead of him like a mountain goat. "You're going to crack your skull in two and die and everyone's going to blame me," Mycroft eventually groused as he turned round a bend to find his little brother, who'd again run off ahead, stood atop a large, craggy outcropping waiting for him. "I'd have to fall first." As if daring gravity itself to challenge his fearlessness Sherlock jumped right off the top of the boulder and landed on the path. Not so much as a stumble for the feat, and he grinned for his success. With Mycroft once more in view behind him he marched off through the trees. "Come on, Myc, you're slow!" "There's nothing wrong with having a bit of *caution*, thank you." Sherlock didn't answer, instead having chosen to rush ahead once more. By the time Mycroft managed to catch up again they'd made it all the way down to the beach. Waves rushed in a steady rhythm over the rocks, lapping at the sand whilst the sun lit everything sparkling with the typical scenic beauty of the Côte d'Azur. Being a rather out-of-the-way locale they found the shore free of tourists – the only other person visible was a man with his dog, far away past the heat-haze and only distinguishable by the canine loudly barking as it dashed into the water. "You'll have to climb a bit." Mycroft startled, having not noticed his brother sat a few metres up the side of what looked like an old road abutment beside the end of the path. He flicked his gaze up and frowned as Sherlock lobbed a small pebble at his head. It bounced off his skull harmlessly but the boy still snickered like he'd accomplished something. "I'm not going up *there*," Mycroft snapped. It was practically a sheer wall, broken only by a few tiny ledges just big enough for his scrawny eight year old brother to fit on. Sherlock rolled his eyes and, yet again, jumped off to land on the ground. He stumbled this time but quickly righted himself and took off down the beach towards a rocky outcropping near the water. "That way!" he called merrily, pointing thusward with a stick he'd picked up somewhere along the trail. Mycroft bit out a sigh, considered just turning back – why'd he even come along on this venture, anyway? He never participated in Sherlock's ridiculous shenanigans. But then abruptly he remembered Grand-mère stalking about in search of him back at the house and grimaced. Ugh, no... climbing a few rocks seemed a far less arduous task than spending an entire afternoon alone with *her.* Despite the rough, uneven terrain, and multiple slippery patches where the waves rushed through gaps in the stone, Sherlock had somehow managed to bound up to the top of the rock pile in a matter of seconds. Lord, the child really must be part goat. Mycroft, meanwhile, was left to pick his way hesitantly around loose rocks and false handholds as he tried to figure the least hazardous way up. "You know it's easier if you just sort of run instead of climb," Sherlock chimed in. Probably he thought he was being helpful, but his little demonstration wherein he nimbly skipped down to where his big brother was and hopped back up again within a few seconds was less than inspiring. "You don't have to use your hands so much." "I might remind you, Brother Mine, that I have significantly more body mass to shift about than you do." Sherlock laughed. "Did you just call yourself fat?" "No," Mycroft snapped, colouring a bit. "I... I called you *scrawny*, you beanpole." "Oh, right." Sherlock was still snickering, which rather belied his acquiescence. Mycroft just glowered and resolved to ignore his lunatic goat-brother until he'd safely made it to the top of the rock pile. That took perhaps a minute, which he thought rather good for someone who'd been steadfastly avoiding physical exertion for the majority of his fifteen years. Upon reaching the topmost boulder he shakily stood up, mindful of a loose rock under his left foot, and regarded the scene around them. Lapping waves, sunlight playing off the shining patches of moisture and foam dotted over rocks and sand. And ahead of them, true to Sherlock's word, there was indeed a small sea cave extending into the hillside. Sherlock hopped easily down the other side of the rock jetty and resumed strolling along the beach, letting his stick drag behind him to leave a long furrow in the sand. Mycroft followed the boy's path down the shifting stones much more slowly. Once safe on solid ground he was forced to catch up to his brother by lightly jogging. With a sense of vague embarrassment he found himself a tad winded when he finally came up alongside his sibling. Sherlock shot him a mischievous smirk. "Did you want to have a rest or something?" "Shut up," Mycroft snapped. He set his jaw and straightened up. Alright, deep breath, he was fine. He could handle at least as much exercise as an *eight year old*, for god's sake. Sherlock trailed behind sniggering to himself as Mycroft set a determined pace down the beach. Finally they reached the cave. As far as Mycroft was concerned it wasn't all that interesting – small channel of sea water lapping in and out the middle, rocks piled haphazardly up the edges with damp sand filling in everything else. The whole thing extended barely ten metres deep. Still, Sherlock's face had lit up in pure glee. And for that, Mycroft supposed... well, it wasn't unpleasant, really, the waves echoing off the cave walls. Perhaps he could count it marginally worth the trip. "Mycroft, look, look!" Sherlock had already bounded his way halfway down the central channel and was crouched down next to the water. Mycroft grimaced slightly – if anything fell from the ceiling, ugh – but obligingly walked over to his brother. At their feet was a tide pool in which several small fish swam in lazy circles. Sherlock sat stock-still and watched them with rapt fascination. Honestly, between that and the whole bouncing nimbly about over rocks business Mycroft was sorely tempted to wonder if his brother mightn't secretly be a house cat. "Congratulations," he droned after a silent moment, unimpressed. "You've found some fish." For no clear reason Sherlock reached out and prodded said unfortunate animals with the end of his stick. The lot of them sped away, which apparently had the effect of rendering them uninteresting, as instead of continuing to observe them the boy hopped to his feet and turned to venture further into the little cave. Mycroft reluctantly followed. Not as if he had much of anything else to do, really. "Pirates always bury their treasure under some sort of mark," Sherlock said very seriously. "So we've just got to find the one out-of-place thing and then dig there." Mycroft baulked. "I'm not going to *dig*. Have you lost your mind?" "Well then *I'll* dig, it doesn't matter." Sherlock pouted slightly, but seemed too preoccupied with crouching down to look under a large stone to really be annoyed. "You should look for things up high, since you're taller. Like on the tops of rocks and stuff." "You do realise we're not actually going to find any treasure." Despite saying this Mycroft did deign to wander over to a large-ish outcropping of wave-slicked rocks and glanced over the top of them. Nothing interesting. Sherlock paused for a beat or two, having been upturning a flattish rock, and shot Mycroft an odd sort of look. Not quite upset, nor sad, or annoyed, but some blending of the three. Evidently pirate treasure was some sort of real point of emotional attachment for him. Mycroft met his gaze with a bland stare. Sherlock fiddled with his stick a bit, then turned away to upend a different rock. "If you always just assume there's nothing to see then you'll never see anything, you know," he said over his shoulder. Mycroft scoffed. Oh, what was *that* supposed to be? Some sort of primary-school-aged philosophising? "Yes, but if I *just assume* there's nothing in situations where *logically* there wouldn't be, then I'll have saved a lot of wasted time and effort looking for things that don't exist. It's called resource management." "But what if they do exist?" Sherlock seemed oddly plaintive about this. "You can't know anything's for sure until you observe it. Assumptions aren't always right." He'd gotten his rock turned all the way on its side and let it tip over backwards so he could inspect the sand underneath it. Mycroft just rolled his eyes. "Mine are," he quipped blandly. Sherlock frowned back at him with yet another odd look, but Mycroft ignored it. "What do you even want treasure for, anyway?" he continued on, "We've six-figure trust funds. A few thousand pounds in pirate gold isn't going to amount to anything." Once again he moved off to inspect the tops of a few nearby rocks, seeing no reason to refuse something so trivial as looking for non-existent smuggler's marks. And, once again, there was nothing more interesting to look at up there than a few bits of seaweed. Behind him Sherlock had abruptly stopped what he was doing. By his body language it was clear the question of their family's wealth somehow hadn't occurred to him. Mycroft huffed an exasperated scoff. All this obsessive fixation on treasure and the idiot hadn't even realised he was already rich, why was that not the least bit surprising. "I, er..." Sherlock hesitated, thinking carefully. A beat later he went back to inspecting sand as if having made a final decision. "I'll just give the gold to someone else. It'll still be worth looking for." Mycroft scoffed. "Who would you give it to? You don't know anyone." "Well someday I'll have friends and everything, won't I? I'll give it to one of them." "For a boy who's managed to drive off three separate tutors and a nanny in the space of a year I'd say you're being rather optimistic about your social prospects." Sherlock frowned up at him. "I can make friends." "How would you know?" Mycroft rolled his eyes again and ambled off further towards the back of the cave, still idly in search of anything 'out of place'. Sherlock abandoned his third overturned rock and got up to follow him. "Because you're my friend." He pushed past Mycroft's legs to hop a few steps up a large stone-and-driftwood formation. "And having one friend obviously means it's possible to find more." Mycroft slowed to a stop and stared at his brother. For some reason he was finding himself strangely at a loss for what to say to that. Sherlock didn't seem to take any notice, of course. He'd scrambled up the apex of a craggy boulder and was busy prodding at some sort of disgusting anemone-looking creature with his stick. A few silent moments passed between them. Eventually, perhaps on instinct, Mycroft stepped forward and plucked his little brother up off the wave-slicked outcropping he'd shifted onto. Sherlock had gotten a bit too big to be carried these days, but he was still plenty light enough for a quick relocation to the much safer sand-coated rocks a metre or so to the side. "Hey!" the boy exclaimed, indignant over being moved. Mycroft didn't respond. Instead he turned a bit to look out to the sun, sky, and sparkling ocean visible through the mouth of the cave. He huffed a small sigh to himself and glanced back to his brother. "What do you say to walking back to town and finding an ice cream shop?" Sherlock lit up at the suggestion, but then almost immediately narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Aren't you supposed to be on a diet?" Mycroft sputtered – of all the, he was trying to be *nice,* for god's- "A single cup of ice cream isn't going to affect my weight," he snapped. Sherlock looked extremely dubious, but began to climb down off the rocks regardless. Mycroft self-consciously straightened his shirt – was doing *perfectly well* on his waistline, thank you. As he landed on the sand Sherlock frowned and looked back into the shadows. "What about the treasure?" "We'll come and look again later." The boy paused at the mouth of the cave, just behind his brother, who was already out on the beach. His expression was decidedly mistrustful. "Promise...?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. What a juvenile question, honestly. As if he'd ever enter into a verbal contract with an eight year old. "I don't make promises." But, then, he glanced back to find Sherlock's face had shifted into a look that seemed somehow... let down. Though he shouldn't have been, really. It wasn't like he didn't know his brother's opinion towards childish things like pacts and promises – entirely out of line with personal ethos, led to extraneous obligations. And Mycroft was hardly about to set a precedent of making exceptions in behaviour for his baby brother, was he? Who knew where inconsistency like *that* might lead. And yet... Sherlock still looked upset. And all it would take to appease him was a simple, silly word. Nothing egregious. After a few seconds Mycroft huffed a sigh. "... I promise." **««** # We'll Keep Running For Our Lives ## Chapter 1: First **««** It was far too bloody hot for this nonsense. Sherlock scowled to himself as he crashed headlong into a thicket of damp shrubbery, nearly stumbling over the roots therein, and grabbed the thin trunk of some sort of fern-looking tree to swing himself round in the other direction. Here he was, quite possibly running for his *life*, and all he could concentrate on was how disgustingly warm the weather was. Excellent focussing abilities, brain. Very helpful. After a short pause to get his bearings he took off once more through the tangled leaves. Behind him he could clearly hear the sounds of his pursuers tearing through the foliage as well; to be honest this really hadn't been a well thought-out escape plan. In his defence, however, it did have the advantage of being in the fucking *shade*, which was a stark improvement over his previous path across bare city pavement. Not that the lack of direct sunlight was providing much relief from the sweltering humidity... ugh, bloody horrendous swampland. Why in hell had he ever thought venturing this far south would be a good idea? "Heeeeere, faggot! Here boy! Come on out, ya faggot-ass white boy!" Another deep scowl - when had he even *hinted* that he might be gay? Or were they simply using it as an all-purpose insult? Morons. Under more favourable circumstances he might have been tempted to stop short and treat them all to a lecture on proper heckling techniques whilst dodging blows. That would have to wait for a day when he wasn't feeling so perilously close to passing out with the heat, though. Also preferably when he wasn't being chased by a half dozen enraged behemoths baying for his blood. Displaying an uncanny knack for fucking him over his mind of course took that opportunity to focus on entirely the wrong aspect of his surroundings. Running through mud and scrub-brush under a canopy of unfamiliar leaves, the crash of a half dozen angry Americans behind him, and the one thing he found most interesting to look at was a goddamned abandoned tyre off to his right. What was it doing there? Twenty metres from the nearest roadway at *least*, how on earth did a car tyre end up in the middle of a swamp thicket? Someone must have- His frustratingly off-topic thoughts were cut short as, having not been watching his feet, he stepped squarely in a patch of slick mud and went sprawling face-first into the dirt. "Aw shit, white boy fuckin' caught his own damn self!" A chorus of laughter above him signalled in no uncertain terms that Sherlock was about to have an extremely unpleasant experience. Likely one which would end in either death or permanent disfigurement. He took a moment to wonder what in hell's name had ever possessed him to bother with these idiots in the first place before reluctantly propping himself up on his elbows and lifting his head to regard his adversaries. Above him a well-muscled young black man had crouched down to Sherlock's undignified level; white teeth flashed between dark lips as the man grinned smugly down at his cornered prey. "You gonna regret fuckin' with us, white boy." Well he already did regret that quite a lot, to be honest, but Sherlock couldn't exactly voice such sentiments aloud. Instead he canted his head slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow in a condescending look. "Perhaps if you didn't make yourself such an obvious target for ridicule you'd have escaped our little confrontation with your fragile ego intact." The man barked out an amused laugh and turned toward one of his nearby companions. "You fuckin' hear this shit? All a sudden this faggot's talking like the goddamn Queen of England." Sherlock glared as the two bulkiest of the group grabbed him by the biceps and hauled him to his feet. Their apparent leader took a step forward and smacked him not-quite-gently on the chest. "You puttin' on a show for us now, cracka? Wanna go out sounding fancy?" "I'm British. This is my natural accent," Sherlock explained in an irritated deadpan. Gratifying to know his attempts to mimic the American vernacular had apparently fooled a group of natives, but half-dead of heatstroke and about to have the piss kicked out of him he found this minor success really didn't cheer him in the slightest. "Huh," the other man nodded slowly in understanding, faking a look of intrigue. Half a second later he dropped the false sagacity and grinned again. "I ain't never beat the shit out of a foreigner before." "First time for everything, Jay!" one of the others yelled. "Damn straight!" Next thing Sherlock knew he was bent double, an wave of acute pain spreading flashfire from his abdomen alerting him to the fact that he'd been punched in the stomach. He choked as his suddenly-frozen diaphragm refused to draw air. Almost immediately the first blow was paired with an uppercut to the jaw, where the side of his tongue made unfortunate contact with the space between his teeth. The cloying metallic taste of fresh blood filled his mouth as white stars exploded in his vision. Grimacing, he lashed out with his foot and managed to catch the shin of one of the bastards holding him upright. The young man yelped in pain but didn't loosen his grip; instead he jerked Sherlock's shoulder roughly to the side, nearly dislocating the joint as his cohort on the other side threw his weight in the opposite direction. Sherlock grit his teeth, just barely remembering to avoid his injured tongue, and summoned all the willpower at his disposal to remain as stoic as possible. Idiots might very well kill him, but damned if he was going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. Next blow was a right hook to the face - far too predictable. He managed to shift his head enough to let the fist glance off his cheekbone, saving himself from a probable fracture, and took advantage of the leader's momentary skewed balance to try kicking again. This time he caught the idiot square in the groin; the man let out an agonised screech, followed by a string of rather colourful curses. Raucous laughter and a flurry of goading catcalls erupted from the small group now gathered around them. "Hahaaa, holy shit!" "Faggot's in for it now!" "Fuckin' shank his ass, Jay!" "Stick him like a hog!" Jay seemed to force himself back upright, slowly returning to a standing position. All trace of joviality had vanished from his features as he advanced toward Sherlock with a furious, almost psychotic-sounding snarl. Sherlock made a token attempt to yank himself free of the men holding him in place. They just pulled the near-dislocation trick again, forcing him to stand still or risk having his shoulders popped out of place. Seeing no alternative he did his best to fix an unimpressed expression on his face and tried to ignore the cloying sensation of stagnant blood beginning to pool in his mouth as Jay approached. "That," the man said, face a mask of pure unadulterated rage, "was *not* a good idea." From the back pocket of faded jeans the man produced an ivory-handled switchblade. Sharp steel flashed dangerously in the speckled light filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead. Sherlock eyed the weapon warily. A sense of irritated resignation began to settle in his chest - so this was how it was all going to end, was it? Not assassinated by some terror group or kidnapped for use as blackmail against his brother; not even graced with the brief giddy thrill and final spectacular flare-out of a massive cocaine overdose. No, he was simply going to be stabbed in the gut by some two-bit criminal in a bloody swamp on the outskirts of Tallahassee. What a poignant fucking legacy. Jay was within inches of Sherlock's face now. The man's features split into a wicked half-smile as he brought his knife up to Sherlock's throat, pressing the point into the space under his chin. Sherlock forced his expression to remain neutral and met his soon-to-be murderer's gaze in a level stare. "Any last words, white boy?" Sherlock sneered. Milliseconds stretched by in static silence. Then with a sudden jolt he wrenched himself forward and spat a gob of blood straight into Jay's face. The man reared back with an angry yell, swiping at his eyes, but almost immediately lurched back forward with another savage snarl. Quick as lightning he grabbed Sherlock by the right shoulder and rammed a knee solidly into his diaphragm. Sherlock choked again and instinctively tried to curl in on himself. Before he could so much as gasp for breath the hand left his shoulder to instead fist in his hair; he grimaced as his skull was yanked upwards by the scalp, cold press of the knife now at his jugular. *Going to slit my throat, then, not stab me,* he found himself thinking in a sort of detached, stress-fogged daze. Jay was saying something - probably a threatening speech of some sort, cement his status as the leader. Meant to intimidate his victim and impress his cohorts. Sherlock was far too busy being distracted by his own brain to bother listening. *... suppose that's really the best option, anyway. Quickest death. Acute blood loss should be interesting to experience firsthand - is it like falling asleep, or more drawn out? Likely won't be conscious for long either way, vasculature probably dilated thanks to elevated temperature. Should speed up the bleeding. And oh good lord speaking of the heat that bastard's wearing a bloody leather jacket, how is he not dead of hyperthermia!? It feels like we're in a damned oven! Who in god's name would choose to live in this atrocious excuse for a habitable climate?* A brief scowl crossed his face as it occurred to him that he was spending his last few precious moments of life being annoyed by the weather. That would be him, then: chronically off-topic right to the bitter end. From somewhere off to their left came the short, clipped wail of a police siren. Jay's hand jerked away from Sherlock's neck as the man stiffened up and whipped his head toward the tree line like a spooked gopher. All around them other members of the group did the same. *"Fuckin' cheese it!"* one of the boys near the back shouted, and with a suddenness that felt very much as if the ground had dropped out from under him Sherlock was free of his captors' grips. Startled, he collapsed into the dirt in a graceless heap. Above him he heard the group of men scatter in frantic retreat. Merciful serendipity. Would have been nice to have it arrive a bit sooner, though, Sherlock mused... like perhaps before he'd been kneed in the stomach. He turned his head to the side so as not to be inhaling mud, coughed up a thin trickle of blood - hopefully stemming from his cut tongue rather than anything more serious. Ugh but *god* , wouldn't that just make this day one perfect fuck-up? A sodding internal bleed on top of everything else. Oh well. At the very least a police officer would likely come through the area within a few minutes, probably pack him off to a medical facility of some sort. That meant an easy meal, proper bed, clean clothes... all alarmingly scarce resources of late. Silver lining to the whole mess, he supposed. Of course he'd still have to escape the hospital in a day or so to avoid having his forged travel documents scrutinised too carefully, but that wouldn't be difficult. Far preferable to going to the bother of evading detection right now, at any rate. Best just lie here and wait. A stretch of seemingly-endless time later, however, and Sherlock was forced to come to the conclusion that the police were not, in fact, headed his way. Evidently they'd chosen to pursue the crowd of fleeing men instead of venturing into the small wooded area. Made some level of sense, considering the lot of them had run off toward the city and not further into the trees, but it was still rather unfortunate. Meant Sherlock was going to have to pick himself up. Alright, well... that was fine. He'd manage. Sod the police anyway. Sore, bloodied, exhausted and covered in mud Sherlock slowly forced his uncooperative body into a standing position. Good start. Next, walking. Stumbled into a tree here or there as he made his way to the pavement, nearly tripped over a rock. Probably looked like a drunken idiot. Not that anyone noticed, of course - no sign of either law enforcement or street gangs anywhere nearby. Probably for the best, really. Though he'd have appreciated the cops hanging around to check for potential victims at the very least. Wasn't that their job? Protecting citizens? True he wasn't *technically* a member of their jurisdiction, being a foreign national, but they'd have no knowledge of that. Might have left a true-born patriot to bleed out in the mud for all they knew. Incompetent morons. Upon reaching the street he staggered sideways and leant heavily on a telephone pole as his knees threatened to give out on him. Dizzy, starting to feel faint. Hadn't eaten in around a day and a half now, likely wasn't doing himself any favours expending so much energy to remain upright. Not much choice in the matter though. Keep moving or die. Despite the grim finality of this mental ultimatum his legs decided to choose that moment to fold underneath him. He slid down to land in an undignified slouch on the pavement, spine digging painfully into the black-tarred wood of the pole behind him. So much for walking, then. With a slight groan of pain he tilted his head back, stared up into the perfect blue of a clear sunny sky. Cloudless, empty save a lone passing bird... nothing at all like England. And how could it be that even the *atmosphere* looked different here? It was the wrong shade of blue. Everything about this place was just so alien and unwelcoming... christ, should have never left New York. At least among the skyscrapers he'd been nearly able to fool himself into thinking he was back in London. These thoughts occupied him for about a minute before he closed his eyes and let his head loll to the side. Sod it all, might as well fall asleep where he sat. Maybe the gang would come back and finish what they'd started. Sherlock doubted he could even muster the energy to flip them off at this point. Fog drifted in tendrils through his mind as his brain began to lose its grip on consciousness. Still frankly dying of heat, but that was a minor complaint in comparison to the sour taste of blood in his mouth and the dull ache of a million bruised muscles. Perspiration dripping down his chest, too, soaking through the thin cotton of his t-shirt… he wondered vaguely if it were possible to sweat to death. Likely to find out in an hour or so. He huffed a tired sigh and waited for oblivion. "Oh good graces, dear! You've had a rough time of it, haven't you?" Sherlock blinked his way out of the clinging wreaths of lethargic mist and squinted up into the dark shadows of a figure standing haloed by the sun overhead. Above him the form shifted, bent forward slightly. Out of the glare of the sun he could now see it was an older woman, perhaps late fifties or sixties, with brownish-auburn hair and a friendly, care-worn face. She smiled down at him and reached out with the arm not holding a shopping bag to place a cool hand on his forehead. "Goodness, you're burning up! What on earth are you doing sitting round out in the sun on a day like this?" Sherlock stared blankly up at her. It took an inordinate handful of seconds for his brain to finally catch up to the fact that the cadence of her voice actually sounded halfway normal to his ears for a change. "… you're English," he remarked in a bit of a dazed mumble. The woman gave him an odd sort of look and patted him on the shoulder. "Last I checked, yes. Now, where do you live? Nearby? Is there someone I can call for you? Oh, well, I haven't got a phone on me… but I suppose you must do, hm? Young folks with their technology these days." Sherlock made a halfhearted effort to push himself into a more upright position but was forced to give up as his bruised stomach protested the movement. He curled an arm around his midsection instead and drug one of his legs up to lean his head on his knee. "Not from the area, haven't got a mobile," he replied to the woman's semi-rambling inquiries in a faint monotone. Ugh, he was starting to feel sick to his stomach. "Oh! Bless my stars, but you're a London boy!" the woman exclaimed - apparently she'd failed to catch his accent in the slurred mumble of his first words. "Well what are the odds of that, I wonder?" "Doubtless astronomical," Sherlock responded wearily. He grimaced against the pain now radiating up from his abdomen and hugged his arm more tightly round his stomach. *Fuck* , maybe he'd sustained an internal injury after all. Regarding him with a concerned look on her face the stranger shifted her hand to briefly grip his shoulder in a sort of comforting gesture. "You are in a right shape, aren't you?" she murmured, seemingly to herself. After a short pause she nodded in a determined sort of way and moved round to hook an arm under Sherlock's armpit. "What're you-?" he asked, confused, and lifted his head to blink sidelong at her. She flexed her knees in an ineffectual attempt to lift him up. "Well come on, then, don't make me do all the work!" she quipped when it became apparent he wasn't going to budge on her strength alone. Sherlock stared at her for a second more, then slowly, obligingly shifted his legs into a better position for standing. Between the two of them they managed to get him mostly upright, though he swayed rather badly and was forced to lean the majority of his bodyweight on her shoulders. Hopefully she was somewhat stronger than her appearance would suggest else they'd both soon find themselves facedown on the pavement. "Oof! You're a bit heavier than you look, dear," she exclaimed in an amused huff. "My car's just round the corner, then. Off we go." Sherlock's brain seemed to be spinning itself round in little dizzying circles inside his skull. He tried not to grimace too obviously. *Ugh* , he was going to have to escape from hospital in this state, wasn't he? Bloody hell. "I don't need medical attention," he lied, hoping to head off the inevitable debacle of a crowded American A&E and subsequent deportation over his long-expired travel visa. "If you could just drop me off at a hostel or something…" "Oh nonsense!" the stranger cut over him. "You're dead on your feet, we're getting you to a doctor." "I really can't afford a hospital visit," he objected. Not strictly true in a logistical sense (he'd simply refuse to pay – on principle if nothing else) but financial hardship made for a far less damning argument than ' *I'd like to avoid being arrested'.* "Good job we're not headed to one, then, isn't it? Now mind your head, roof's a tad low." Without giving Sherlock a chance to ask what on earth she was on about the woman reached out and unlocked the small hatchback they'd come upon. Opening the passenger door she all but shoved him into the seat. He complied with a slightly startled noise of complaint as the door slammed shut beside him. There was a thump as the old woman stowed her shopping in the backseat, then a tick later she came round to the driver's side. With a friendly smile in his direction (which was met by a confused half-glare) she deftly started up the vehicle. "Mrs Hudson, by the way," she informed him in a chipper, genial tone. Sherlock quirked a brow - no mention of a first name? - but was distracted from any of a million possible responses by the road they'd pulled onto. Passing cars from the wrong side, entire street completely backwards, everything looking just distressingly off-kilter. No matter how many bus rides he took in this blasted country he still always found himself expecting to crash headlong into oncoming traffic at any moment. "It does take a little getting used to, driving on this side," Mrs Hudson spoke up. Apparently he'd been obvious enough for her to catch on to the source of his discomfort. "Comes well enough with practise, though, just like anything." She smiled sidelong at him again, then raised her eyebrows in slight disapproval as she turned back to the road. "You know it's polite to introduce yourself back, dear." "Huh? Oh," Sherlock looked away from the traffic, tried to remember what his current alias was. It had been so long since he'd had a non-confrontational conversation with anyone, let alone been asked for his name… he'd quite forgotten his pseudonym. What had it started with…? An R, maybe, or… "Not a fake name, if you please," Mrs Hudson said, cutting into his thoughts. She flicked the turn signal and calmly checked her wing mirror as she changed lanes. "Not that I mind, of course, but it's in case you pass out. You'll not answer to whatever silly thing you're thinking up now and it'll be a dreadful hassle." Sherlock frowned at her. How did she even know what he'd been-? A guess, had to be. He wasn't *that* easy to read. "I wasn't-" "You clearly were, dear." He scowled and shifted his head to look out the window. Well… maybe the injuries had undermined his usual façade. Didn't mean he had to admit to it, though. Give her a pseudonym anyway, just out of spite. Glaring irritably at a passing lorry he supplied the first name off the top of his head. "Frank." Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue in disapproval. "No, try again." Sherlock turned back to fix her with an affronted look. "That's my name." "It isn't, though." "How would you know?" he snapped with a slight huff. Mrs Hudson quirked a wry smile. "I was a schoolteacher for a very long time, dear. I know when a young man's lying to me." He turned back to the window with a glower. Keep trying random names until she gave up, then, or… he caught sight of her vaguely bemused, expectant brow raise out of the reflection off the glass. No, she'd be waiting for that tactic now. What would be the least obvious…? Ugh, *fuck's sake.* How was he being predicted so easily? After an interminable pause Sherlock finally crossed an arm over his still-aching stomach and slouched down grumpily in his seat. "It's Sherlock," he supplied, voice gone flat and vaguely petulant. Well… whatever. Not like she could get much information on him with just a first name anyway. Even a unique one like his still required a surname to pinpoint family connections. Mrs Hudson smiled. "Much better, thank you." A second passed, then she smirked to herself. "Fair enough, though… with a name like that I suppose I'd make up an alias too." "Pleased to meet you as well," Sherlock growled back at her, insulted tone making it clear he'd taken offence to the jab. Mrs Hudson just chuckled. "Best see if you can rest, it's a bit of a drive yet." With that she turned her attention back to the road. Sherlock glared at her for a moment, but dropped the expression in favour of wincing at the twinges of pain flashing through his nervous system. He slouched down lower in his seat and blinked away a sudden wave of fatigue. Shouldn't sleep, not trapped alone with a stranger. Focus on breathing instead. In, out, in… out… Consciousness began to slip from his mind like so much water. Couldn't quite force himself to sit up straighter to ward off the drowsiness - too much work, too painful. He rested his head on the cool glass of the car window instead. Without really meaning to he closed his eyes. Awareness soon scattered away amid the steady hum of a car engine. **««** ## Chapter 2 **««** Sherlock drifted back to consciousness with the cut of the engine. Devoid of the constant low drone of traffic he found himself confused by the sudden silence. *Where...?* He blinked around dazedly for a few seconds before the car door opening with a jolt beside him nearly sent him sprawling out of the vehicle. "Oops! Sorry, dear, didn't know you were still leaning on it," the cheery voice of Mrs. Hudson said with a laugh. She reached out to steady him before he could fall sideways, but he waved her off. Grimacing for the abuse to his bruised abdominal muscles Sherlock slowly shifted himself to climb out of the car on his own. "You live here," he deduced after a pause to take in his surroundings. It wasn't much of a guess, really. The house was a two-storey bungalow with a sloping roof and rustic brick-and-mortar construction. Close neighbours on either side were hidden by a thick buffer of trees and well-tended shrubbery, with the main body of the garden taken up by a variety of flowers and berry bushes. Dominating the centre of the lawn was a large shade tree of some variety Sherlock couldn't identify, a whitewashed rope-and-wood swinging seat hanging from its thick branches. All in all it looked a picture-perfect rendition of the quintessential elderly domicile. Mrs. Hudson *hmm*'ed in warm confirmation. "Been working on the garden this year. Aren't the blueberries lovely? Only the birds make off with most of them, you know. They say you're meant to put nets up to stop them but that just looks so dreadful amongst the petunias." She was supporting Sherlock by the left elbow now, something he'd have found intolerably annoying were he not in a sorry enough state to actually need the stability. As she spoke she began to gently guide him in the direction of the house's arched entryway. "Yoohoo!" she called as they walked. "Harold, dear! We've a guest!" "Maude decided to visit after all, did she?" an American-accented voice replied from somewhere near the open front window. Sherlock noted the shift of patterned lace curtains as whoever was inside moved away from what was presumably a sitting area towards the front door. "Oh, no, she's still sick off those Mexican pears," Mrs. Hudson replied, sounding as if she didn't entirely sympathise with this 'Maude' character's plight. "I did tell her not to buy anything from that Hispanic fellow, but what can you do?" she added to Sherlock, who merely blinked down at her in blank confusion. What did pears or old womens' purchasing decisions have to do with him? "Who're we entertaining, then?" Ahead of them the screen door of the front porch opened, revealing an elder gentleman with a head of thick white hair, wire-frame spectacles and a close-cropped, sand-and-pepper beard. He raised his eyebrows skeptically as he caught sight of Sherlock leaning unsteadily into Mrs. Hudson's side. "Trading me in for a younger model?" the man asked with a wry, teasing glance to his wife. Mrs. Hudson flapped her hand in amused exasperation. "Oh hush, you. This is Sherlock, lad's had a dreadful time of it. Make some use of yourself and have a look at him while I get some tea on, won't you?" "I'm fine, really," Sherlock piped up. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably as if he'd been thrust into a situation he hadn't signed up for. Who the hell was this man...? Mrs. Hudson's husband, doubtless... but then who exactly was *she*? Just some elderly lady who'd plucked him up off the street and decided to cart him off to her home without so much as a by-your-leave... he should *really* get the hell out of here before everything had a chance to go pear-shaped. "He isn't at all," Mrs. Hudson corrected as her husband's eyebrows lifted once more in a questioning look. "Boy's just being stubborn." She turned to Sherlock with a kind smile. "Harold's a doctor, dear, he'll have you patched up in a blink." With that she patted Sherlock on the shoulder and all but forced him into the support of Harold. "You'll be wanting milk and sugar, I expect? Oh I haven't had anyone round who could appreciate a good cuppa in ages!" Her cheerful voice trailed off as she disappeared into the house with her shopping swinging merrily from one arm. Sherlock blinked after her, then glanced over (and *up*, he was somewhat disgruntled to find) to meet the eyes of the man now assisting his balance. Harold flashed a tight smile down at him, one shoulder lifting in a vaguely resigned shrug. "You'll have to forgive the wife. Stubborn as hell, that woman." Releasing Sherlock's arm he indicated a plastic seat on the porch to their left. "Sit there, then. I'd invite you in but you're covered in mud." Sherlock didn't bother replying, too occupied with the business of lowering himself to sit down without making it obvious that his stomach muscles were sending spikes of hellfire through his abdomen with every movement. And ugh good lord the bloody *heat*... though, mercifully, the shade of the Hudsons' front deck seemed to be doing a decent job of keeping the ambient temperature at a near-tolerable level. Harold clicked his tongue in disapproval as he observed the slow progress of the young man in front of him. "You look beat to hell, son. Get yourself mugged?" "I, er... may have insulted a street gang," Sherlock explained with a slight grimace. He'd finally managed to arrange himself somewhat comfortably in the plastic-padded deck chair and was now trying to stifle the impulse to curl his legs up to his chest. Muddy trainers on the furniture... probably not a good way to ingratiate himself to his hosts. "Oh! Well, then, that explains why Bunny dragged you home," Harold exclaimed in surprise, apparently catching his accent. "British?" Sherlock nodded. "London." "Great city, met Bunny when I was over there for an immunology conference. Could use less traffic, though... Wait right there a minute, I'll grab the first aid kit." He vanished into the house after his wife, rolling up the sleeves of his smart plaid buttonup as he went. Sherlock waited until the man was out of sight, then curled over on himself in pained discomfort. Argh, if his stupid abdomen would just quit *whingeing* for a moment perhaps he could gather the strength to make a run for it before this elderly couple abducted him like some sort of disturbing foster grandchild. Not that the thought of a cup of tea and perhaps a bed wasn't unreasonably tempting right now, but he'd been wandering the streets of foreign countries long enough to have developed a healthy wariness of any sort of volunteered kindness. Especially toward the likes of him. What did they want? What were they hoping to accomplish with their help? Nothing, maybe... actions most likely rooted in pity for the moment. But when that sympathy waned, what then? After all Sherlock was only being halfway amenable at the moment because he could do literally nothing else. Give him time to heal up a bit and he'd doubtless be right back to his usual impulsive, tactless brand of fuck-up social interaction. Kicked out of their home, fine - he didn't care about that. But he'd really rather they not take it upon themselves to call the authorities... "Alright, son. Sit up and let me have a look at you." Sherlock craned his head slightly to regard Harold, who had returned without his noticing and was now standing over him with a professional-looking first aid kit in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other. Around the man's neck was a worn stethoscope. "Now, to be fair I'm an oncologist," he informed Sherlock as the younger man reluctantly straightened up from his pathetic curled-up position on the chair. "So patching up vagrant kids isn't exactly my specialty... Bunny's adamant, though, so we'll do our best." "Thank you," Sherlock offered, feeling like he should probably at least make an *attempt* to not be a complete arse right off the bat. Best to remain civil until the doctor determined whether or not he was likely to die of internal injuries, at any rate. Harold didn't reply right away - he was too busy studying Sherlock's left arm, which he'd taken hold of to check for a pulse. A look of intense disapproval pulled at his aged features as he regarded the pale limb. With a start Sherlock realised his skin was still marred by a small collection of faded needle scars, clearly visible in his current short-sleeved attire. He made to tug his arm back and was relieved when the man released it without a fuss. "First stray cats, now she's dragging home junkies," Harold muttered irritably to himself as he turned to dig through his medical kit. Sherlock's expression darkened. "I'm not a junkie," he snapped defensively. Harold huffed a sigh as he turned back to his erstwhile charge. "No? Injecting insulin straight into your radial vein, then?" he said in a tone of withering sarcasm. "Listen, son, I've been on city ER rotation more times than I care to remember. You're a drug addict if I ever saw one." "*Ex*-addict," Sherlock asserted. "I quit four months ago." "Oh, four whole months!" Harold snorted, plainly unimpressed. "Yeah, yeah. Listen: if I find anything even *resembling* dope in my home I'll have you locked up faster than you can blink, got that? My wife might have it in her head everyone's a good soul in need of her tender care but I'm not about to end up on the wrong side of a drug war for the sake of some roughed-up street kid." "I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock retorted with a sneer. The insulted, defiant expression on his face unfortunately lost a lot of its impact when he was forced to drop it in favour of a pained wince - he'd shifted his upper body too quickly and set his muscles cramping again. Harold's stern features softened marginally. After a short pause he gestured to Sherlock's t-shirt. "Strip that off so I can see, then. Where exactly were you hit?" A few acutely uncomfortable minutes passed during which Sherlock found himself poked and prodded in a not-entirely-gentle manner as Harold checked him over. The doctor *hemmed* and *hawed* over whatever information he was managing to pick up through his stethoscope and probing ministrations, disinfecting cuts here and there and applying sticking plasters where appropriate. Sherlock, for his part, simply tried to remain as still as possible. "Tea, dears! How goes it?" Mrs. Hudson's over-chipper voice cut in. The elderly woman had appeared in the front doorway with a tray full of what looked like tea and biscuits. "Badly bruised diaphragm but nothing to suggest an internal bleed. Definitely dehydrated, and I'm guessing half-starved." Harold leant back on the stool he'd perched on and nodded matter-of-factly to himself as he accepted a chocolate biscuit from his wife. He flashed Sherlock a smile that didn't quite seem to reach his eyes. "Think you'll live, son." Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond and settled for a vague nod in lieu of speaking. What now, then...? He didn't suppose he'd be asked to stay, considering the less-than-warm reception of Mrs. Hudson's husband upon catching sight of the needle scars. Would it be rude to ask for a lift back to something approaching a city centre, though? Didn't fancy having to find his own way out of some labyrinthine American suburb. Not in this weather. His internal questions were promptly rendered moot however when he realised with a start that Mrs. Hudson appeared to have made off with his shirt. Harold laughed good-naturedly at Sherlock's sudden scandalised expression and passed over the tray of biscuits and tea his wife had left with them. "She'll be back with one of mine, don't worry. Not that you really need a shirt in this weather, eh? Eighty seven degrees last I checked." A bolt of alarmed confusion shot through Sherlock's brain at the absurdly high number - *eighty seven!?* - but it waned as quickly as it had come upon remembering the existence of the Fahrenheit scale. Oh, right... Harold meant it was around thirty out. Bloody Americans. With a slight annoyed frown for his own lapse in memory he leant carefully forwards and plucked up what looked like a glass of ice water *(hot tea in this climate... ugh, no thank you)* and a biscuit. Trapped here for the moment, it seemed, unless he wanted to abscond shirtless into the blistering afternoon sun. Might as well make the best of things. "So how old are you, then? Late teens I'm guessing?" Harold had settled back into his deck chair and was now watching Sherlock eat. A somewhat disconcerting look of intense speculation pierced sharp through the lenses of his spectacles - almost as if he were waiting for his guest to screw up somehow, give him an excuse to toss him out... or worse. Sherlock swallowed and tried not to let the creeping sense of wariness show in his body language. "Twenty," he supplied. Harold clucked in disapproval. "And already hooked on heroin? Didn't waste any time, did you?" "It was cocaine," Sherlock corrected, an offended scowl stealing over his features. "And I only started last year, I was clean before then." "Except for the cigarettes," Harold countered with a bland nod to the half-empty pack of Marlboros beginning to work its way out of Sherlock's jeans pocket. Sherlock glanced down and shoved the box back out of sight. "Nicotine doesn't count." Harold chuckled humourlessly to himself, shaking his head in clear disagreement. Before he could reply however a beaming Mrs. Hudson bustled through the open doorway carrying a small stack of clothing. "The shirt'll be a bit loose on you, dear, but the trousers should fit. I found an old pair of Joshua's." She said this last to her husband, whose expression darkened fractionally before smoothing back to something more neutral. Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to catch the shift in his demeanour, too distracted by her self-appointed mission of dragging Sherlock out of his seat and towards the door. "Trainers off, then, so you don't track mud in. Now the bathroom's down this way..." Sherlock was too bewildered to really object as he was led rather forcibly down the hall *(white carpeting, powder blue walls, a multitude of framed photographs and a crimson vase on a table holding a bouquet of white carnations and ferns)* and found himself deposited in a tidy little guest lavatory at the back of the house. Mrs. Hudson patted him happily on the shoulder before turning to leave the room. "Just set your things on the counter and I'll add them to the wash later!" she called through the door as she closed it behind her. Sherlock was left alone in a strange bathroom clutching an armful of unfamiliar clothing, blinking at a framed arrangement of pressed flowers on the back of the white-washed wooden door now shut in front of his face. Er... alright then. Apparently he was to have a shower. Figuring out how the damned tap worked proved to be a bit of an ordeal, but with a bit of finagling he managed. Half an hour later he emerged feeling much less like he was about to drown in his own perspiration. Clean clothes, too, which proved to be an unexpectedly welcome change. He'd been forced to wear the same outfit for going on three days now, having lost his knapsack to some enterprising young thief during a night spent unadvisedly sleeping on a park bench. Luckily being an accomplished pickpocket himself meant he'd long since taken to carrying his passport and other important documents tucked securely into the waistband of his jeans, money and cigs stowed in a front pocket where he'd be likely to notice them missing. Didn't mean he hadn't been *severely* miffed over the loss of his nicotine patches, clothes, and the scant collection of books and other knickknacks he'd been toting around, however. Though to be perfectly honest he'd been most dismayed to lose his Oxford sweatshirt... ragged and in desperate need of repair it had been, yes, but the thing held some measure of sentimental value. He and that hoodie had been through a lot together, after all. Accepting the reality of never seeing it again had formed a large portion of his dawdling in finding a thrift shop to replace his belongings. Perhaps he could find the thief, he'd thought - accost them and get his things back...? Couldn't be *that* difficult. How far could they have gotten? But of course Tallahassee was an enormous, spread-out jumble of a city, and no matter how much Sherlock wandered the back streets looking for a likely suspect he'd come up empty-handed. Sniping back at a heckling street gang as he passed their corner had been an act of frustration in his final hours of fruitless searching. An impulsive choice which, as per usual, had landed him in far more dire straits than he'd started out with. Say what one would about the numerous downsides of cocaine, but the longer Sherlock went without the stuff the more he found himself desperately missing that blessed peace of knowing he wasn't about to do something enormously stupid with each and every decision. Without the enforced self-discipline of drugs he was back to that age-old game of roulette; just waiting moment by moment to see how badly he'd fucked himself over this time. Being on his own and thus relatively free of the hassle of human interaction mitigated the usual bouts of crippling social anxiety, granted, but a certain baseline level of stress still lingered. Too many opportunities for him to ruin things, too many thoughtless actions sneaking through before he could exert enough willpower to stop them. Seemed there was nothing for it, though... he'd simply have to get used to living in constant dread of his own idiocy. But that was fine, really... he'd dealt with it well enough before discovering coke, hadn't he? That feeling of sick trepidation and wary mistrust of himself had defined his life for *years.* Just because he now knew how easy things could be didn't mean he wasn't still fully capable of accepting the inherent difficulties of his existence. The trousers Mrs. Hudson had foisted on him were actually quite comfortable - loose khaki-type things - and the t-shirt was indeed oversized but softer than the one he'd been wearing before and not entirely unbecoming. *(Though the logo of some cancer foundation emblazoned on the front was a rather distractingly garish shade of violet on white.)* He didn't bother trying to find a comb for his hair, which had by this point grown long enough to actually need one, and instead did his best to pick out the tangles with his fingers while he cautiously stuck his head around the open bathroom door in search of his hosts. Within minutes of the shower tap shutting off Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hall. "Oh, much better!" she exclaimed cheerfully, catching sight of him. "You do make a handsome sight without all the mud." He furrowed his brows slightly (*handsome...? was she mocking him?*) and turned his attention toward the laundry bag in her hands. She smiled blithely and bustled past him to scoop his discarded garments into it, leaving the small pile of miscellaneous objects he'd emptied out of his pockets untouched on the tiled countertop. "Now I expect you're knackered, so don't worry about sitting down for supper. I'll bring something in for you." Gesturing for him to pick up his belongings (cigarettes, lighter, passport and travel documents along with a scant few dollars in change and a handful of random baubles) she herded him down the hall once more and into what appeared to be a spare bedroom. The décor was mostly done up in pale blues and greens, with the same white carpeting as the rest of the house and a tan quilted bedspread. He paused in the doorway, only just now noticing that the air indoors was a very comfortable 20-odd degrees and that the sweltering humidity that had plagued him ever since his first ill-advised foray toward the southern states seemed to have vanished. *Air conditioning*, he realised... christ, what a godsend. "This is Joshua's old room," Mrs. Hudson informed him. For the first time since he'd met her the energetic smile on her aged face seemed to droop a few notches. She took a step forward and gently touched a framed photograph sitting on the nightstand. Sherlock followed her into the room (slowly, still, as his stomach hadn't stopped aching) and regarded the picture over her shoulder. A young man in perhaps his late teens or early twenties, with short reddish-brown hair, wide celery green eyes and a face full of freckles stood grinning in a set of graduation robes with a rolled-up diploma clutched in his hands. The freckles and general shape of the face sparked an unexpected flash of memory in Sherlock's mind, and he spoke without really meaning to. "He looks like my ex-boyfriend." Immediately he scowled at himself and resisted the urge to smack his forehead in exasperation. *Fuck's sake*, what had prompted him to say that? His short, doomed foray into romantic prospects was none of this woman's business. *Particularly* considering the country he was in, which boasted an exceptionally poor track record of tolerance when it came to same-sex couples. *Learn to keep your bloody mouth shut, idiot.* Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to acknowledge his gaffe, though. Instead she just smiled wistfully and hummed a little to herself. "He was a good lad, Joshua. Harold's sister's boy. We took him in when his parents passed, bless their souls. Lived here for about five years before, well..." "He died?" Sherlock asked, forgetting in his lingering irritation with himself to try and be tactful. "Oh no, dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed with a short laugh. "No, no... well, not that I know of, anyway! Last I heard he was in Michigan. He and Harold had a bit of row, you see, and he left last August. I do miss the boy terribly." "Oh." Sherlock frowned and wondered if this meant he was being appropriated as some sort of bizarre replacement nephew. Supposed it didn't matter if he was... still meant free food and a bed, after all. "Now Sherlock, you just lie down and get some rest." Again with the steering him about, Mrs. Hudson all but forced him into a sitting position on the bedspread. If she weren't a pleasant little old lady he'd have verbally eviscerated her by now for all the uninvited touching. As things were he was merely starting to get a tad annoyed... not quite enough to say anything, though. Too tired and sore to bother. Humming to herself, Mrs. Hudson left the room with her laundry bag. Presumably she was off to see to the wash. Sherlock watched her until she was gone from his line of sight, then glanced over to the photograph of Joshua again. In all objectivity the man really didn't look *that* similar to Eric. It was just the freckles... perhaps the shape of the eyes at a stretch. Sherlock frowned deeply and reached out to turn the frame so it was facing the other way regardless. He'd been doing well these past few months in avoiding any thought of the brief period he'd spent in Stockwell. Resisting the all-too-frequent temptation to look up how his former partner was faring, find out what he was doing with his life. Had he invested the money Sherlock had given him wisely? Gone back to school, or perhaps bought a house... started a business? There had been more than enough cash to do any of those things and more. Discovering the answers wouldn't be difficult - commandeer a library PC for a few hours, break into some government records, (perhaps screw around with one of Mycroft's projects while he was at it) - but it wouldn't help anything. Sherlock would only be reminded of the life he'd left behind... too tempted to book the next flight back to England, seek out Eric and apologise until they could be together again. For good, this time. Ugh but *no.* It would never happen, you bloody idiot. Stop dwelling on stupid nonsense. Removing his hand from the photo frame he dumped his collection of items on the table beside it and let himself flop (gently) into the fluffed pillows of the unfamiliar bed. Eric hadn't liked *him*, he reminded himself sternly - he'd only liked the person Sherlock was with cocaine. Same as everyone else did. Without drugs Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than an impulsive, tactless git with a head full of useless knowledge and zero common sense. Bullied and shunned for the majority of his life, and rightly so, because he tended to behave like a complete lunatic while sober. Eric would tire of his eccentrics within a week and then he'd be right back where he'd started: facing the inexorable choice between social isolation and chemical dependency. He'd already been down one of those paths. And being an addict hadn't worked in the slightest, so he was left with the former option as his sole recourse. Which meant that thinking of Eric - or anyone back home, really - was nothing but a pointless waste of time. Only logical action was to stop immediately. Sherlock rolled over onto his side with his back facing the nightstand and forced himself to do maths in his head as a distraction. Chemical reactions, physics... He barely made it through half a dozen equations before his eyes began to slip shut of their own volition. For the second time in as many hours he lost himself to slumber. **««** ## Chapter 3 **««** The first thing Sherlock became aware of was a disgusting, metallic taste in his mouth and a niggling itch in his throat. Following that there was the sensation of a blanket tucked neatly around his shoulders, a pillow under his head, weak light filtering through his eyelids... and above all else a deep, insistent desire for a cigarette. He frowned and reluctantly opened his eyes. All around him the soft palette of an unfamiliar bedroom stood bathed in the cheerful bright light of an early spring morning. Sunshine fell in stripes over his midsection through the slats of half-opened venetian blinds, a sense of peaceful tranquillity seeming to cloak the very air. The entire house was quiet and still, faint chirping warble of birdsong outside the only sound to break the silence. At some point during the night someone had covered him with a thin, sage-green quilt, which for whatever subconscious reason he'd tugged partially over his head in his sleep. The fabric now draped across his face smelled vaguely of moth balls and that peculiar earthlike scent of wooden storage chests. Not entirely unpleasant, but he shoved it away regardless. Too strong a sensation to process this early in the morning. Moving turned out to be a rather poor idea - every muscle in his body seemed to have gone sore and stiff overnight. He gasped a tiny hiss of pain upon attempting to uncurl his midsection and immediately went still again. Alright, wait, wait... probably best to take things slowly. Or... perhaps not at all? The thought of simply refusing to move ever again was sorely tempting; he could just tug the blanket over his head again and go back to sleep, wouldn't that be easiest? Ignore the whole problem until it went away of its own accord. Maybe then this uncomfortable scratch in his throat would fade away as well. The portion of his brain responsible for being absolutely dependent on nicotine didn't seem too keen on that plan, however. Barely a minute had passed before he found himself grimacing against the stabbing ache caused by rolling over onto his back. Blindly he tossed out an arm for his cigarettes and lighter abandoned on the bedside table the afternoon previous. Just one fag, his nicotine-starved brain insisted, then he could curl back up in bed. Instead of the smooth cardboard of a cig packet, though, his hand bumped into what felt like a ceramic plate. He opened one eye from the squinting wince his face had twisted into and glanced over, trying to figure out what exactly he was touching. It was indeed a covered serving dish, with a note neatly folded atop it. Confused, he snatched up the small card from its place on the white china and rubbed his eyes tiredly as he tried to decipher the lines of tidy, over-embellished handwriting decorating cream-coloured paper. *Sherlock -* *Harold's off to the hospital for the day and I've some errands to run. I'll be back in an hour or so - make yourself at home. And do try to eat something, you're far too thin for a boy your age!* *Mrs. Hudson* He blinked at the message a few times in blank befuddlement *(what did his weight matter to anyone?)* then turned his attention to the serving dish. A careful upward nudge of the lid revealed a tray full of sliced fruits, a small bowl of some sort of oatmeal mixture and what appeared to be a boiled egg. A glass of once-chilled orange juice stood on a woven coaster next to it. Sherlock wasn't particularly hungry - he rarely was first thing in the morning - but he grabbed a few slices of fruit and the glass of juice regardless as he retrieved his cigarette pack. Muscles protesting vehemently but he managed to drag himself to a sitting position without undue fuss. Mrs. Hudson had gone to the trouble of attempting to feed him, might as well take advantage of it. He scrubbed a hand through his hair *(fluffed up in messy ringlet curls now thanks to having slept on it wet... Mycroft used to tell him he looked like a sheep when it did that)* and, yawning, stood up to shuffle blearily toward the front porch. The morning was admittedly rather gorgeous. It seemed he'd slept for a ridiculous length of time - it was now well past sunrise, the light shimmering over dew-coated grass, air not yet given the chance to heat up to that unbearable sweltering temperature he'd grown to so thoroughly despise. Must be going on seven in the morning, he guessed... could have found out for sure but he wasn't motivated enough to bother finding a clock. Not like the exact time was important, anyway. All that mattered was that it was early, quiet... and cool enough to bloody *breathe*. He ate the few slices of apple he'd picked up, listening to the birds chirping high in the trees. Swatting irritably at a passing mosquito he leant his elbows on the railing of the deck and finally got round to lighting a cigarette. With the first inhale a tide of blessed nicotine washed through his consciousness; dense fogbanks of fatigue and a small fraction of general aching soreness from his muscles ebbed away with the flow of chemicals. He took a sip of juice to rinse out the general disgusting taste of sleep, stale blood, and tobacco from his mouth, coughed into the crook of his elbow, then slouched his body forward over the deck rail to stare out at the garden. Over in the far corner a small flock of sparrows were busy making off with the majority of Mrs. Hudson's blueberries. He took another drag off his cig and idly watched their antics. One of the larger ones appeared to be trying to browbeat a younger bird out of the way of the largest berry clusters, all frenzied chirping and sharp talons. Violent little bastard. "Hey! Who're you!?" Sherlock startled badly and snapped his eyes away from the bickering sparrows, the entire flock taking flight in a sudden flurry of wings in response to the shout of a childish voice. There in the middle of the stone walkway off to his right stood a young girl, perhaps six or seven years old, with honey blonde hair cut in an off-centre bob and a grass-stained yellow sun dress. She was holding a flower-patterned knapsack in her arms and frowning at him suspiciously. "Are you Mrs. Hudson's grandson or something?" she asked without giving him a chance to answer her initial question. Her short hair bounced slightly as she looked him up and down with an appraising expression on her small face. "No, just a houseguest," Sherlock explained. He glanced to the cigarette in his hand and shifted his wrist so it was at least partially hidden from sight - didn't fancy having to explain what it was to a primary school child. "Er... Mrs. Hudson's not in right now." For some reason the girl's expression brightened at the sound of his voice. "You talk funny just like she does!" Sherlock frowned. "It's not 'talking funny', it's an English accent." "*Towk*-ing," the girl mimicked with a giggle. "What's your name?" "... Sherlock," he replied, voice slightly distracted as he attempted to surreptitiously pinch out his half-finished fag behind his back and tapped the unburnt tobacco out into the flowerbed below. He hesitated a moment before shoving the spent filter into his trouser pocket - didn't want to drop it into the garden... hopefully the fabric wouldn't absorb the scent of smoke. "'Sherlock'...?" the little girl repeated dubiously. "That's a weird name." "I'm aware," he deadpanned. Looking up, he realised she'd been walking forward the entire time they'd been speaking and was now standing on the grass just below him. A set of wax-and-wire orthodontics flashed like metal scaffolding on her teeth as she fixed him with a wide, enthusiastic smile. "Sounds kinda like a superhero! *Sherlock, the Avenger!*" She giggled again and shoved her knapsack onto the porch through a space in the railings, then followed it up by climbing through the adjacent slat. "I like it!" "... Really?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his brows with a puzzled blink. That... wasn't quite the reaction he was used to. "My name's Hayley," the girl informed him. She'd unzipped her bag and was now pulling out what appeared to be a florescent pink tea set made entirely of moulded plastic. Each piece was set reverently on the small patio table standing between the Hudsons' deck chairs. Sherlock turned and leant on the porch railing as he watched Hayley unpack her satchel. She seemed to have an entire collection of tiny pink china. "What are you doing?" "Mrs. Hudson said we could have a tea party today so I brought my tea stuff!" Hayley explained cheerfully. "You're a boy and boys are icky but you can be in the tea party too cause you talk like Mrs. Hudson." "It's... nowhere near tea time," Sherlock countered, beginning to feel a bit bewildered. Who was this girl and what on earth was she doing here? Belatedly it occurred to him that perhaps asking her directly might be the best way of finding those things out. "Why are you wandering about the neighbourhood at this hour? Do your parents know you're out?" Hayley scoffed childishly up at him. "*Duh*, yes! Mrs. Hudson teaches me reading and stuff on Thursday mornings." "You don't learn that in school?" The girl rolled her eyes and took a few steps toward Sherlock to take uninvited hold of his hand. He startled as she began tugging him insistently toward her tea set with enough force that he nearly overbalanced. "Daddy says school fills your head with Satan's lies," she informed him matter-of-factly. Sherlock blinked and tried not to look too unsettled... *was she bloody serious...?* A half second later however he gave up and just fixed her with a disturbed expression. Oh sod being age-appropriate. This wasn't *his* child - he had no responsibility to entertain religious delusions for the sake of not traumatising her. Particularly not when she was now literally *forcing* him to have a seat at her garishly-coloured tea set. "Your father is an insane person," he told her seriously. Hayley had finally succeeded in getting him to sit in a deck chair and shoved an undersized plastic teacup into his hands. The accompanying saucer was moulded to look like a circlet of tiny flower petals. "Nah, he just loves Jesus a whole lot." She smiled blithely up at him, completely ignoring the disgusted, vaguely alarmed look on his face, and bent down to produce a teddy bear wearing a frilly lace dress from her knapsack. With reverent care she placed it on his right thigh and patted its furry head with a self-satisfied little nod. "This is Clarabelle, she's a real Southern lady so be polite." Sherlock had no idea how she expected him to offend a stuffed bear. Neither, for that matter, could he fathom why the thing had to be *on his lap* of all places. His attempt to relocate it to the table was met with a savage glare from Hayley, however, and fearing she'd retaliate with a tantrum he quickly put it back where she'd left it. Far too early in the morning to deal with a small child screeching at him over moving her toy, he decided. Best just go along with things. With the bear safely replaced Hayley turned her attention to pouring the contents of a butterfly-patterned thermos into the pink teapot, humming a happy tune to herself. "Mister Sherlock, would you like some tea?" she asked in an extremely poor imitation of an aristocratic accent. She held the now-full teapot out to him with her hands arranged in what she evidently thought was proper pouring form - obviously parroted from some television programme or the like, it mostly just looked ridiculous. "You're doing that all wrong," Sherlock told her before he could think not to. When Hayley's ecstatic expression melted into a pout he deliberated for an awkward second before setting his little plastic teacup down to take the pot from her. Sod it... might as well show her how it was meant to be done. Wasn't like he had anything better to do with his time. "You have to hold the lid so it doesn't spill, see? Like this." Hayley's eyes lit up as he properly poured the tea *(was it, though...? no, couldn't be, it was some sort of cloudy off-yellow liquid; juice, maybe)* into her cup for her. She hopped up and down a few times in excitement. "Oh! Neat, do it again!" Sherlock couldn't quite stop a small bemused smile as he poured a cup of whatever-it-was for himself as well, then handed the pot back to Hayley. She mimicked his actions with a huge grin on her face and poured out a third cup, which she then shoved abruptly toward her teddy bear. Sherlock was forced to grab the saucer with his unoccupied hand before it could spill all over his trousers. Hayley nudged at the cup until he'd relented to holding it in place at approximately the level of the bear's forelegs. "You gotta stick your pinkie up like this when you drink so it's fancier." In demonstration Hayley took a sip of her beverage with her smallest finger extended comically out like a flag. Sherlock bit back a small laugh and, deciding it couldn't hurt anything to play along for the moment, obligingly copied her. "This is grapefruit juice," he realised as he took a small sip. Hayley shot him an offended look from her place across the table. "Nuh uh, it's *tea*," she asserted haughtily. "Cause we're having a tea party." "No... this is definitely grapefruit juice." Sherlock took another sip and scrunched his face up a bit for the sour taste. "It's not even very good grapefruit juice." Hayley opened her mouth to retort, but was distracted by the sound of a car pulling up at the other end of the house. Sherlock looked up and was vaguely mortified to see Mrs. Hudson climbing out of her vehicle. The elderly woman was busy patting out the wrinkles in her floral-patterned dress as she walked up the path to her front door. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson!" Hayley exclaimed cheerfully. In reply Mrs. Hudson looked up toward the porch with a smile... then stopped in her tracks and put a hand to her mouth in a poor attempt to cover a burst of laughter. Sherlock could feel his cheeks flushing. Here he was sat in a deck chair in his bare feet, hair fluffed up like a bloody sheep, holding a pink cup of juice with one hand while the other supported a flower-shaped saucer for the benefit of a frilly-dressed bear. *Oh lord please don't let her have a camera handy.* Mrs. Hudson started walking again, still chuckling, and fixed an indulgent smile on the both of them. "Having a tea party, dears?" "It's a grapefruit juice party," Sherlock corrected in an embarrassed mumble. He coughed slightly as he set aside his garish pink cup along with the bear's. Across the table Hayley huffed indignantly at him. "It's *tea*," she snapped, then turned to Mrs. Hudson instead. "Sherlock's bad at pretending." "Oh I'm sure he just needs practise is all," Mrs. Hudson assured the little girl. She stifled another laugh at Sherlock's aggrieved look and, reaching their spot on the porch, bent down to pick up Hayley's miniature teapot. "How about we fill this with something more proper, hm?" "Yeah!" Hayley exclaimed happily. "I'll, er... just go back to-" Sherlock started, making to rise from his seat, but Mrs. Hudson cut him off with a sharp tut. "We'll be having none of that, young man. Did you eat your breakfast?" "Um," Sherlock paused... couldn't exactly *lie*, not when the tray was still clearly full back in her guest bedroom... "Of course not," Mrs. Hudson answered for him with a small exasperated shake of her head. "Well, come on then, both of you inside. We'll cook up a nice proper meal together." "Cooking!" Hayley echoed in an excited shout. She sprang up from her chair, grabbed Sherlock's hand and proceeded to drag him bodily off toward the front door. Once again he just barely managed to avoid landing face-first on the wooden deck - the girl's centre of gravity was far lower than his and apparently perfectly calibrated to pull him right off balance. "Be polite, please, Hayley!" Mrs. Hudson admonished from behind them. "You'll have poor Sherlock's arm off if you tug any harder." "Oh." Hayley glanced over her shoulder, meeting Sherlock's annoyed glare, and flashed him a sheepish grin. He extricated his hand from her viselike grip and straightened up into a more normal standing position, only to have her latch onto the side of his trousers instead. Mrs. Hudson just chuckled again at their subsequent silent bickering over what exactly constituted not being an obnoxious leech of a child *(why did she feel a need to be grabbing him at all times!?)* and herded them both into the house ahead of her. Sherlock soon found himself set with the task of slicing fruit in the cool morning atmosphere of the Hudsons' kitchen. Beside him Hayley was enthusiastically stirring a bowl full of pancake batter. Mrs. Hudson had bustled off to retrieve something or other - related to Hayley's reading lesson, he'd gathered, but she hadn't really explained beyond that. "Is Mrs. Hudson teaching you how to read too?" Hayley piped up. She was seconds away from knocking her bowl of mix over with the frenzied intensity of her stirring - Sherlock reached over to steady it before it could topple off the counter. "I already know how to read." He frowned as she continued with the manic insanity of what she apparently thought 'stirring' looked like. "Stop flailing like a lunatic, you're going to spill batter all over." Hayley stopped her activity and looked up at him with a confused expression. A second later she turned back to her bowl and began to stir the batter again in excruciatingly slow, careful circles. "Is she teaching you math, then?" she continued. Her tongue had poked out from between her teeth as she apparently concentrated all her efforts on stirring properly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to slicing up an apple. "No." "French?" "I'm fluent in French." Hayley was starting to look confused. "Why're you here if she's not teaching you stuff?" "I have no idea," Sherlock admitted in a vaguely irritated monotone. He stopped slicing apples for a moment to sneeze into the crook of his elbow, grimacing for the accompanying painful spasm of his abdomen. Ugh... the scratchy discomfort from earlier had progressed into a full-blown sore throat now. Of all the rotten bloody luck, he just *had* to come down with a cold on top of everything else. "Daddy says sneezing is when the devil leaves your body," Hayley informed him cheerfully. He fixed her with a disgruntled expression. "You're going to grow up to be one of those psychotic evangelical tragedies of a human being, aren't you?" Hayley just blinked up at him, bewildered. After a pause she seemed to give up on deciphering what he'd said and just answered the bits she understood. "I'm gonna be a zoo keeper." Sherlock snorted to himself. "Clearly." "What do you wanna be when you grow up?" "I'm already grown up," Sherlock replied blandly, moving on to slicing up an orange now. Hayley seemed to have completely forgotten about stirring her pancake batter and was just holding onto the wooden spoon like some sort of boat rudder. She looked him up and down again. "So what are you then?" Sherlock paused. "I'm..." he trailed off, looking down at her. What *was* he...? A chemist, once, but he'd abandoned that path ages ago. A drug addict...? Not anymore, not if he could help it. A traveller, then... a vagrant. Some sort of ghostlike, wasted potential of genius. ... nothing. With a shake of his head he swallowed down another cough and turned his attention back to the fruit on the cutting board. "... I don't know." Hayley gave him a miffed look. "You can't *not know* what you are, that's dumb." "*You're* dumb," Sherlock retorted childishly. Hayley stuck her tongue out at him and in a fit of pique he retaliated in kind. "Oh honestly! Am I going to have to separate you two?" Mrs. Hudson's amused voice drifted into the kitchen behind them. She'd finally returned bearing a small stack of books and a tape recorder in her arms, which she deposited on the patterned cloth of her dining table. "Sherlock started it!" Hayley cried, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I did not, you liar," Sherlock snapped. Mrs. Hudson just shook her head. "Go on and set the table, then. I'll finish up here." She shooed her guests away from the counters with a stack of cutlery, and Sherlock was reduced to the task of trying to get Hayley to stop rearranging the forks and knives so every place ended up with multiples of the same implement. Soon enough everything was in order, and Mrs. Hudson presented each of them with a plate of blueberry pancakes, sliced fruit, and cottage cheese. Hayley dug into her meal like a starving waif while Sherlock merely picked at his with a fork. He *really* wasn't hungry. "Sherlock, dear, if you don't start eating properly I'm going to have to ask Harold to bring home one of those feeding tube contraptions." Sherlock looked up from where he'd been prodding at a pancake. "I'm fine." "Nuh uh you're super skinny!" Hayley chimed in. Sherlock shot a glare her way. "No one asked you." "*Behave*, both of you," Mrs. Hudson said sternly. Sherlock and Hayley both shut their mouths and snapped their gazes toward her, only to be met with a fond smile. "Let's just have a nice meal and then get on with our reading lesson, shall we?" "Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Hayley chirped, returning to her food. "Why would I need a reading le-" Sherlock started, but Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows in clear disapproval and he cut himself off. With a frown he looked back down at his breakfast, huffed a bit, and speared a square of pancake. Well... at the very least it tasted better than his usual bin-scrounged fare. Twenty minutes later their plates had all been cleared away and Sherlock was trapped at the table with Mrs. Hudson and an overenthusiastic little girl as they got to the business of choosing a book to read. Stifling the intermittent coughs of his irritated throat was beginning to get the better of him, much to his displeasure. If there was one thing he hated more than being ill it was *letting on* that he was ill - but try as he might the bruised diaphragm and sore jaw were making it difficult to be subtle. "Oh Sherlock, are you not feeling well?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a pitying pat of his hand. He'd been right in the middle of trying not to cough and ended up jerking his limb away from her in an instinctual startle reflex - forcing back the accompanying vicious glare took an enormous amount of willpower. Ugh, was there a polite way to ask someone not to touch you unexpectedly? "It's nothing," he answered a bit more snappishly than he'd intended. Across the table Hayley grinned; the metal wires on her teeth made her face seem oddly mechanical. "He's got a *cold!*" she crowed happily. "Daddy says-" "That a benign viral infection indicates some sort of demonic possession by Satan, thank you for the scintillating insight," Sherlock sniped before she could finish her sentence. Mrs. Hudson shot him a sharp look and he slouched down in his seat in vague chastisement. Hayley didn't seem the least bit perturbed, however. "No it's cause you didn't pray enough." Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly *(though the expression seemed a tad forced)* at the girl before turning back to Sherlock. She'd just opened her mouth to say something when a shrill ringing cut through the quiet background noise of the house. "Oh! That'll be the phone," the elderly woman exclaimed. She rose from her chair and paused to wag a finger at them. "You two *behave yourselves*." With that she disappeared into the other room. "What book do you wanna read?" Hayley piped up immediately. "I like the one about the fish." Sherlock bit out a sigh and let himself slide further down in his chair. God, he was beginning to get a nicotine headache. Shouldn't have wasted half that cigarette. He covered his eyes with a hand and tried not to dwell on the looming prospect of having a smoke while his throat felt like sandpaper. "I don't care." *"Oh my lord, is he alright!?"* Sherlock and Hayley's heads both snapped up at the sound of Mrs. Hudson's exclamation. They glanced back at each other in tandem before Hayley jumped up from her seat to rush toward her tutor. Sherlock bounded after her and caught the girl around the midsection before she could burst screeching in on what sounded like a fairly serious conversation. "Lemme go!" Hayley smacked ineffectually at his arm. Sherlock shushed her with an annoyed scowl and carefully poked his head round the edge of the doorframe. In the hall Mrs. Hudson was standing with the phone pressed tight to her ear, covering her mouth with a teary-eyed expression. Hayley twisted around in Sherlock's grip and peered around the corner as well. "What's going on?" she asked in a whisper. Sherlock furrowed his brows as details picked themselves stark white out of the kind old woman's appearance. *Posture, facial expression, stricken tears... touching her wedding ring.* "Something's happened to her husband." **««** ## Chapter 4 **««** "It'll just be a few hours, dear, they said he'd likely be free to leave by noon." "But I don't think-" "Oh hush, honestly. You'll be fine." "But-" Mrs. Hudson turned, purse in one hand and keys in the other, and fixed Sherlock with a stern, no-nonsense expression. He snapped his mouth shut on instinct, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his borrowed shirt as he stood awkwardly in the hallway with Hayley clinging to the back of his trousers. "Sherlock, I'm not about to bring a little girl into a hospital where there's all manner of diseases lurking about. Not to mention you're coming down with something and we hardly need to be spreading a cold round to all those sickly patients, now do we?" "You're planning to leave *someone else's child* in the care of a twenty year old vagrant you just met *yesterday!*" Sherlock's voice came out a bit of a scandalised yelp, overwhelmed by the absurdity of it all. "That's insane! I could be a... a murderer, or something! I could be mad! I *am* mad!" "You're not *mad*," Mrs. Hudson replied with a half roll of her eyes. "You're a very responsible young man and I've utmost faith in you." Sherlock opened and shut his mouth a few times, trying to come up with a coherent response besides *you're bleeding mental*, while Mrs. Hudson bent down to address the girl hiding half-behind his legs. "Now Hayley, dear, be a good girl for Sherlock, won't you? I'll only be gone a few hours. You can show him round the house, hm? Read a few of your books?" Hayley nodded shyly. "Okay Mrs. Hudson." "I- I could just leave!" Sherlock tried, his last ditch effort to get the woman to see sense. Because *honestly* this was *not* an acceptable solution to Hayley's parents being unavailable - trusting a bloody *homeless ex-junkie* with criminal tendencies and a forged passport to look after a little girl was a horrendous act of negligence. "I could walk out right now and no one would ever even know I was here! She'd be all alone!" "You won't, though." Snatching up a light crochet jumper *(the hell did she need one for in this weather?)* the elderly woman bustled off toward the front door. Nothing Sherlock said could seem to penetrate past her single-minded mission to see her husband. "Ring the hospital if you have any trouble, dears, the number's by the phone! I'll just be a tick!" And with that she was gone. Sherlock remained standing in the hall, expression caught between sheer outrage and a sort of creeping horror. Oh no oh god he'd been left alone with a *child* and it was entirely *his responsibility* to make sure she didn't die or injure herself or burn the place down and no no *no no no* who ever said he was cut out for something like this!? "I hope Mr. Hudson's not hurt too bad." Hayley's chirping voice cut into the short stretch of silence which had settled over them in the wake of Mrs. Hudson's departure. Sherlock barely heard her, still staring at the door. The girl looked up to her erstwhile caretaker with a frown and tugged on his trousers to get his attention. "Hey, what's *ass-all-ted* mean anyways?" "It means someone attacked him," Sherlock explained vaguely. He glanced down at the little girl, then back up to the door, brought an arm up to his face to smother a cough and grimaced. Oh *hell* talk about a bloody pile-up of shit... alright, but, well... fuck, hang on... first things first, right? But then no no no oh god he didn't even *know* what should come first! He'd never looked after a child in his life! This was completely mad! Dropping his arm Sherlock bit nervously at his lip, scrubbed fingers through tangled hair, then looked down to Hayley. She was blinking up at him with a curious, slightly confused expression on her round little face. "Is that bad, then?" she asked when it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate on the definition. "Cause you look kinda freaked out." "I- what?" Sherlock realised his hands were currently tangled up in his hair like a nutter. Self-consciously he shifted them to his trouser pockets instead, tried to appear less like he was about to have a panic attack over something so stupid as being entrusted with the care of a young person. This *wasn't* a big deal. It wasn't. *Really.* "I'm not *freaked ou-* why would I be... ugh, no. I'm... fine. Everything's fine." "If you're scared you can just say so, you know." Hayley gave him a concerned look and patted his thigh in a childish gesture of comfort. "Daddy says it's important to let the demons out when they get inside your brains and the only way they can get out is if you tell somebody they're there. So you should just say so if you're scared." Sherlock scrunched up his face in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. "Are you suggesting *emotions* are caused by...? Ugh, no, don't answer that. Your entire sense of reason's been tainted by parental psychosis." Hayley didn't react to his words beyond a slightly befuddled smile, apparently her default response whenever he said something she couldn't quite process. And, hrm... but she *was* rather resilient in the face of most anything he said to her, wasn't she? Maybe it would be easiest just to speak to her as a fellow adult, then... treat her as if she were an accomplice in this whole absurd situation? Was that even *allowed?* Probably not. Should try regardless, though, as it was just about the only way he could think of to find a second opinion on what to bloody *do* with her because damned if he had any clue whatsoever. "Alright... look," he started. As he spoke he finally took a step away from the spot he'd been rooted to for the last five minutes, cast about for a direction to move in. Where...? Kitchen, back to the kitchen. That was closest. "I'm not... freaked out, or *scared*, or whatever, because there's nothing to be scared of and that would be moronic." Reaching the dining table he all but shoved the girl into the same seat she'd occupied for breakfast, then took the chair across from her. "But you're acting super freaky," Hayley pointed out with a frown. "I am not- that's-" Sherlock huffed, ruffled his hair again, then leant his elbows on the table and rubbed at his forehead. Ugh, christ, he was really going to need a cigarette before too long. "That's *anxiety.* And I am justifiably *anxious* because I've never been called upon to look after a child before, I have no idea what to do, and I don't feel it was wise of Mrs. Hudson to put her trust in me so quickly." Hayley just gave him a confused look. "You're scared 'cause you don't know how to take care of kids?" "Yes!" Sherlock threw his hands up. Thank god, she actually seemed to be able to understand a portion of what was said to her. "There's this whole mess of *rules* and things concerning how you're supposed to interact with children but I don't know any of them and it's not like I can just copy what my *parents* did when I was your age because that would be horrendous and my brother and I spent most of our time together having *science* lectures which would probably classify as Satanic under your mad little indoctrinated mental paradigm so that's out too and I just..." He huffed and dropped his arms to his sides, fixing Hayley with an aggrieved look. "I'm *really* not the right person for this." Hayley scrunched her face up and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. "Well... usually when I have babysitters and stuff they just play games with me. So I guess do that?" Sherlock shook his head and grimaced around another cough. "*Children's* games, I'm guessing? Which I've never played. No. *God* this is ridiculous." "You never...?" Hayley echoed with a bewildered look. "You mean like tag and hopscotch and stuff? You never played those?" "Of course not." Sherlock shoved a hand through his hair again, then leant partially forwards as he tried to elaborate. How much of his intended meaning was actually managing to get through Hayley's juvenile little mental processor was a complete mystery, but he didn't much care. So long as she got *some* of it, that was good enough. "Look, I had a... a *less than ideal*, shall we say, childhood. I didn't have regular contact with anyone my own age until I was sent to boarding school at thirteen and no one there would have been caught dead playing *tag*, or conkers or whatever it is normal children do to waste time between classes. Not with me at any rate." Hayley's face was now a comical picture of exaggerated pity. "What about hide-an-go-seek?" "Hide and what?" Sherlock asked, blinking. Had he ever...? No. Read about it, though, maybe... that was the one where you had to find people, right? Across from him Hayley's mouth had dropped open in shock, appalled by his apparent lack of knowledge. Then abruptly her expression shifted into a look of staunch determination. Before Sherlock could say anything else she'd hopped out of her chair, grabbed him by the hand and threw her weight backwards in an ineffectual attempt to drag him from his seat. "If you don't know how to play hide-an-go-seek then I gotta teach ya 'cause *everyone* knows how." For some reason this whole issue seemed to be a point of real distress for the girl. Sherlock furrowed his brows and reluctantly allowed her to tug him out of his seat. "I don't think it's wise to play a game involving *hiding* when I haven't learnt the layout of the house," he pointed out quite reasonably. Hayley, however, didn't appear to be listening to him - she was far too busy rattling off the rules of hide-and-go-seek over her shoulder as she herded him towards a far wall. "Okay so you gotta be the seeker first so you can see how to hide good and it's super easy you just cover your face so you can't see nothin' and then you count to a hundred but *no peeking* and if you don't know how to count to a hundred you can just count to ten ten times and when you're done counting you gotta come find my hiding spot!" She shoved him face-first into a bare corner of the kitchen. He looked down at her with a flustered, slightly irritated look of exasperation - when the hell had he even indicated that playing a game was the appropriate-? He'd just been asking for her opinion on what to do! But beside him the little girl had put her hands on her hips and was now *glaring* with such venom that Sherlock relented to pressing his face into his forearm against the floral pattern of the wallpaper without daring to object further. Sod it, fine, just avoid sending her into a tantrum. "If you manage to get yourself injured-" Sherlock started, but Hayley cut over him. "Count to a hundred!" she ordered sternly. The shift in volume of her voice indicated she'd already darted off toward the hallway. "And no one's allowed to go outside so don't even think about it mister!" "Why would I-" *"A hundred!"* Sherlock bit out an annoyed sigh but reluctantly did as he was told. It was this or continue to sit around fretting about not having any idea what to do with children, after all... might as well go along with things. Counting turned out to be rather unbearably boring, so to keep himself on-task he began switching languages at every tenth digit. Finally some few minutes later he'd at last gotten to '... *dziewięćdziesiąt dziewięć**...* *sto**'* and with an irritated huff shoved himself away from the wall. Well *that* had been utterly tedious. Game was certainly off to a brilliant start, then. What had she said to do next? Oh, right... apparently now he had to find her. Of course. Couldn't be too difficult. He turned to lean his back on the wall he'd been counting against *(stifling another cough, ugh his throat might as well be sandpaper)* and scanned the room around him. Scuff marks from her shoes on the floor, arranged in such a way to suggest she'd sprinted for the hall... he made his way in that direction. Carpet fibres misaligned just *there*, another few to the right, the decorative cloth on that table sported a slight wrinkle where it hadn't before. She'd tried hiding under the vase arrangement, then, and decided it was too open. Moved on to...? Ah, second door on the left - smudge marks on the handle, hadn't been shut at the same time as the others judging by the divots on the carpet. Had to have gone through there. Opening that door turned out to lead to a small office-like area Sherlock hadn't seen before. Several framed documents lined the walls above a bookshelf to his right, stacked high with medical texts. A desk dominated the centre of the room with a modestly-sized window to the right open to receive a shaft of morning sunlight. This was clearly Harold's study. Sherlock paused in the doorway and scanned the area. Very slight shift of the leather rolling chair behind Harold's desk... obviously Hayley had curled up on the seat to stop her legs being visible in the gap between the desk's back and the floor. She was hidden underneath the desktop, then. This wasn't a very challenging game. Biting back a sigh Sherlock made his way over to the desk. He'd *meant* to yank the chair out and tell Hayley her idea of hiding was complete rubbish... but before he could do so he found himself distracted by the papers strewn haphazardly over the glossed wood of Harold's workspace. A small pile of documents; patient case studies, it seemed, though none of them recent. The latest was from a few years prior. And every one of them had "outcome: deceased" written in the subject header. That was interesting. Odd, perhaps? What had Harold been researching? Slight snickering coming from below; Hayley evidently thought he'd failed to notice her, perhaps under the impression her clever hiding spot had left him lost and confused. Not bloody likely. Sherlock's face settled into an annoyed frown - focus still trained on the papers strewn across the desktop - and with a free hand he shoved the chair back to reveal the little girl curled up in the seat like a cat. "Hey!" she cried indignantly. "No fair, that's cheating cause you heard me laugh!" "I already knew you were there." Sherlock's voice had gone a bit sidetracked as he flipped carefully through the case files, being sure not to move any too far from their original positions. They all seemed to be write-ups of patients who'd had adverse reactions to a particular brand of chemotherapy drug. In red ink Harold had gone through and circled all the dosages mentioned, scrawled notes alongside with comments like *'reasonable? check double',* and a scattering of other illegible fragments hovered around all the passages detailing the progress and possible causes of fatal side-effects. Probably all to be expected on the desk of an oncologist, cancer treatment research. But then, strangely... a large section in nearly all the papers had been left free of written commentary; the suggestions for alternative treatments were all conspicuously skipped over. And off to the side, a list of pharmaceutical vendors... "What're you looking at?" Sherlock blinked over to Hayley. Abruptly he realised he was standing round snooping through some doctor's paperwork for no good reason - probably not the best of behaviours to be role-modelling to a child. He dropped everything back into the exact places he'd found them and took a step away from the table to thwart himself getting distracted by anything else. Honestly, what was with his brain latching on to anything that looked even remotely like a pattern? Fuck's sake he didn't even have a working knowledge of cancer treatments - this was not only none of his business, it was nigh-incomprehensible besides. Idiot. "Papers. Nothing important." He flipped a hand dismissively, then quirked a questioning brow down at Hayley as something occurred to him. "I've won the game, then?" Hayley scoffed. "Uh, *no.* I still gotta find *you*, dummy. Then whoever found the other faster is the winner." "I found you in less than two minutes, you're not likely to do better than that," Sherlock pointed out, but Hayley was already pushing at his legs to get him to walk towards the hall again. "Don't be a butt-face!" she snapped. Sherlock obligingly let her herd him back to the kitchen. Once there she positioned herself against the same wall he'd been stood by earlier and shot him a stern look. "Okay so now *I'm* gonna count and you hide and *don't* go outside, remember!" "Alright, alright." Sherlock raised his hands placatingly, rolling his eyes as Hayley shoved her face into her hands against the wall and started counting. Ugh, right then... hiding... in an effort to amuse a child foisted on him by an old lady whom he'd met in the street less than a day ago. Obviously. Good lord this whole situation was absurd. Hayley was taking her sweet time just getting to ten so Sherlock leisurely ambled out into the hall, considered his options. Well, the room he'd been in this morning had had a closet, hadn't it? He supposed he could... stand in there, or something. It was the only place he could think of right off hand and he didn't much feel like dashing about the house looking for another likely spot. To Joshua's room, then. The covered meal Mrs. Hudson had left for him still sat on the bedside table next to the rumpled pile of blankets he'd left, so he appropriated another few slices of fruit from the tray to nibble on in hopes they'd take some of the edge off his sore throat. Coughing would doubtless give away his location, after all. Not like he cared, of course... *(though damned if a little girl was going to beat him at such a stupidly simple game - he was four times her age he'd bloody well better win.)* Opening the sliding closet door without it squeaking proved to be a bit of a trick, but he managed. Closed the mirrored panels behind him, stood in the darkness therein leaning on the far wall with a slice of apple still half-out his mouth. Beginning to feel a bit of a pillock, really. Nothing for it but to wait though... at least it didn't smell too badly of moth balls in here. His opponent, predictably, was taking bloody *forever* to figure out where he'd gone. Thankfully she was loud enough in her frenzied dashing about that one could deduce her location in the house just from her footfalls, so Sherlock felt relatively safe letting her wander about where she would. Not like it was his problem if she destroyed any breakable objects, anyway. Idly he picked at a bit of peeling wallpaper next to his hand and wondered how long he'd have to remain cramped up in this stupid closet before Hayley either found him or admitted defeat. The piece of plaster he'd been picking at shifted, pulled free from the wall with a soft *shuff* noise and he startled, thinking he'd actually torn the entire section off. *(Bloody hell he hadn't been pulling* that *hard!)* But when he looked down it was to find instead that a square section of the wall *itself* had actually come loose in his hand - some sort of jerry-rigged trap door? The plaster was cut in straight corners all the way through, as if by a knife or box cutter, and behind it... Intrigued, Sherlock crouched down to peer into the little alcove he'd inadvertently uncovered. Pitch-dark inside, but with the scant bit of sunlight filtering through the cracks in the closet door he could almost make out a bundle of objects. A hidden stash? This had been their nephew's room, hadn't it? Contraband, then? Interesting. Fascinating, even. He grabbed the bundle and squinted at it in the half-light. Couldn't see a thing. Too dark... *Get out of the closet, then, you idiot.* Oh, right. "Hey! You're supposed to stay hidden!" Hayley exclaimed indignantly as Sherlock re-emerged into the bedroom. She'd been on all fours searching under the bed, apparently not having considered that his height would make it impossible for him to fit under there, and was now glaring up at him like he'd committed some horrid atrocity by breaking cover. "You've lost anyway, it's been longer than two minutes." As he spoke he moved over to the bed and dropped the little bundle onto it. The string holding the makeshift pouch together came loose and a small assortment of items along with a rolled up sheaf of papers tumbled over the quilt. "Where'd you get that?" Hayley asked curiously. Sherlock picked up a small photograph of a dog. "It was hidden in the wall." "Neat!" He let her fiddle with the odd little handful of plastic cars and dinosaurs from the collection while he unfurled the stack of papers. Rolled fairly tightly, some yellowing at the edges - clearly they'd been behind the plaster for quite some time. The topmost item was a note: *Aunty H - if you've found this I'm sorry. I know you said I should stop prying into this stuff, but I can't just ignore it. Someone's gotta do something. He needs to be stopped. Even if it means I-* (the next few words had been hastily scribbled through in black ink by a shaking hand) -... *I know he'll try to convince you I'm crazy again. And maybe I am a little. But please, aunty, I know it's hard but you have to believe me this time. I've got proof now. If he finds out I got this stuff I'm dead but I'll make as many copies as I can before he notices. The police won't listen, but someone needs to know. Someone has to...* The rest of the missive had been torn off, the paper crumpled and worn. Sherlock flipped wide-eyed to the next page and found a thick stack of what looked like official medical documents - purchase orders, dosages, nurse logs... and buried at the very bottom a summary of Harold Hudson's malpractice insurance pricing. He scanned that page in particular, noting the number of patient fatalities. Was that high, for an oncologist? How was one to know what constituted a normal death rate? The insurance premiums, maybe... abnormally raised? Damn, couldn't tell without a baseline to draw from... "Did Josh leave this stuff here?" Hayley piped up, cutting into his thoughts. Sherlock glanced down to find her pretending to ramp a toy car off the rear end of a dinosaur. "Apparently." Besides the troubling sheaf of papers there didn't seem to be much else of interest in the stash. Half a dozen small toys, a short glass pipe *(still smelt of marijuana - he grabbed that and tucked it back out of sight before Hayley could do something stupid like lick it)*, a few photographs of school friends and a newspaper clipping of a smiling couple with a dog. Presumably all normal hidden treasures of a teenage boy. Hayley's expression had fallen as she continued to push the toy car around. "I miss Josh... he was really nice. He used to read books with me and do all the monster voices." "How long ago did he leave?" Sherlock asked as he flipped back to the nurse logs, trying to decipher the hasty notes scrawled into the margins. Mrs. Hudson had already mentioned something about the boy disappearing last August, he recalled vaguely - it would be interesting to see if their stories matched, though. Hayley shrugged. "I dunno. A long time ago... like a year I guess? He said he'd call me when he got to Michigan but he never did." This fact seemed to dampen her spirits considerably. Without warning she dropped the car she'd been holding onto the quilt and looked up to Sherlock with a slight quiver to her lip. "Do... do you think he doesn't like me anymore?" She sniffed forcefully, eyes welling up - oh christ *she was going to cry.* Sherlock baulked and cast about frantically for something to say that might mollify her. Think, think... she wanted to know Joshua hadn't forgotten her, right? Why hadn't the man called, then? Had to be some explanation, something that would... "He didn't mean to abandon you," Sherlock realised in a flash of insight as he shifted the papers in his hands, caught sight of the note on top. "He's probably been killed." Hayley fixed him with a horrified expression, choked on a strangled little gasp, and Sherlock's eyes widened in response his own words. *Shit*, wait, that... hadn't come out right. Why had he-? Argh, no, try again you daft idiot! "That is, er..." He brandished the papers in his hand, trying to force back the wince for his own utter lack of tact. "These documents indicate he was collecting sensitive information, so it would make the most sense to assume he's been... erm. Well either that or I suppose he may have gone into hiding? But that's generally quite tricky to pull off without significant resources to fabricate a new identity, so..." "J-Josh isn't *dead*!" Hayley screeched, her expression gone furious. "Why would you-!? H-he went to Michigan like he said he was gonna!" "Do you have any proof of that?" Sherlock asked before he could think not to. Would be quite enlightening to find out the answer, actually... perhaps Mrs. Hudson had a phone number on hand? Could it be cross-referenced? How had they been informed of his whereabouts, anyway, before losing contact? Or *had* they lost touch, even? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had spoken to him recently? And what about Harold? If this was all in relation to some malfeasance perpetrated by the doctor, then he could be... "You're one of Satan's *liars*!" Out of nowhere Hayley hurled a toy car at his head, sobbing, then bolted out of the room in tears. Sherlock was taken off-guard enough to forget to dodge - he yelped in surprise as a plastic wheel hit him square in the face, clapped a hand over his nose with a pained grimace. Oh fucking *fuck,* why had she-!? Right on the sodding *bone*, christ, if it was bleeding he'd-... Oh no, hell, where'd she gone!? "Hayley, hang on... wait!" Sherlock dropped the sheaf of papers onto the bed and turned to chase after her. A coughing fit stopped him mid-step, however, forcing an arm round his spasming abdomen as he doubled over in pain. Argh, *fuck*, just ignore it, ignore it... find the girl. Injuries weren't important. Down the end of the hall he finally stumbled into was the front entryway of the house - a screen mesh with a heavier wooden panel for security, veranda and garden beyond. Mrs. Hudson hadn't bothered to lock either of them when she left. Both doors had been flung open, now, swinging on their hinges. *Shit.* ***««*** ## Chapter 5 **««** He bolted out into the garden and almost immediately realised he'd forgotten his shoes. No time to retrieve them, however, and they were still coated in mud besides. Instead he simply vaulted off the porch into the soft grass and cast his gaze about for any clues as to where Hayley'd gone. Crushed grass in the shape of small footprints leading off towards the tree with the wooden swing. Said swing swaying in an anomalous figure-eight pattern, as if someone had shimmied up one of the ropes... ah, she was in the tree. Hadn't gone far, then, thank hell. Cautiously, his heart hammering in his chest for some ridiculous reason, Sherlock made his way across the still-damp grass. Worst-case scenarios flitted through his mind - Hayley deciding to jump to escape pursuit, breaking a bone or hitting her head, the parents blaming him for killing their child... he wasn't sure why exactly he *cared* about any of that, since after all he could always just skip town, but it was alarming regardless. Mostly the mental imagery of a kid with her skull smashed open. Unsettling. Shoving such useless thoughts out of his mind he came to the base of the tree and peered up into sun-speckled branches. Hayley appeared to have deftly hidden herself somewhere up amongst the foliage. Sherlock couldn't so much as make out a shadow of where she might be. He grimaced, lifting an arm to stifle a cough. With his physical health in the state it was in he *really* didn't want to have to climb a bloody tree. Perhaps he could coax her down instead? Make her do all the work? Worth a shot. "Hayley!" he called, but of course found himself met with no answer. He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck, casting his gaze about for anything that might plausibly help him. There was nothing. Fucking hell, how did he even keep getting himself into these ridiculous situations? Trying to talk a little psychotic American girl down from a tree, christ. With a short huff (and a wince for the effect that action had on his injured abdomen) he looked back to the mass of leaves overhead. "I, er... I'm... sorry?" he said hesitantly. *Apologising*, really? When was the last time he'd willingly done *that?* Still he grit his teeth and soldiered on. "I didn't mean... well, that is, I shouldn't have said things so... bluntly, I suppose? I'm... not always the most tactful of... well, but then to be fair it *was* the most logical conclusion so really I... erm." He cut himself off and in a moment of complete loss bit his lower lip, an expression of baffled helplessness. Good lord, he *really* wasn't much good at this, was he? Best quit while he was vaguely ahead. Maybe he'd done well enough to assuage her anyway...? From above came the faint sound of someone hiccoughing. Ah, no, Hayley was still crying, then. He frowned and shifted his weight uncomfortably. After a long moment of deliberation Sherlock finally sighed to himself. He took a second to size up the tree - straight trunk, mostly bare with few lower handholds... but there was a branch around ten foot up he could probably reach if he jumped. Would doubtless be quite painful in his current state... but then, sod it, he'd been through worse. A bracing breath through his nose *(leading to a poorly-stifled cough - god he hated being ill)*, then in a burst of action he launched himself towards the trunk. Bare feet made for much better traction on the bark than he'd otherwise have had and so it was a simple matter to run a few steps up the side to catch hold of the low-hanging branch. Of course the next part of the whole process would be hauling himself up to a place where he could start to properly climb, which would require rather extensive use of his abdominal muscles, which would be fucking hell on earth. Wasn't going to let himself be thwarted by a few stupid bruises, though. He grit his teeth against the stabbing protests of his stomach, pushed the pain to the back of his mind to be steadfastly ignored, and forced himself upwards. A second or so later he'd gotten up on the branch, grabbed the one above it, and with a few more decidedly uncomfortable metres upwards finally found his miserable little charge. She was sat curled up in the fork of two branches close to the tree's trunk. Obviously been up this tree many times before, knew exactly where the best spot to sit was. Sherlock, meanwhile, was left to hastily glance around looking for a limb that might plausibly hold his weight. A few inches to Hayley's right and perhaps a foot below her he spotted one, and gingerly perched himself as close to the base as possible so he could lean on the trunk and catch his breath from the uncommonly-difficult climb. *Not* doing that again anytime soon if he could help it. In fact, not doing *anything* for as long as he could possibly manage, upset six year olds be damned. Should have stayed in fucking bed this morning, god's sake. Silence stretched between them for several moments. Sherlock, of course, had no plans to break it. Hayley sniffled a bit and buried her head in her arms, then finally spoke. "Josh showed me how to climb the rope to get up here," she mumbled, her voice a quiet, sad little muffle. Sherlock glanced up from where he'd had his aching head pressed against the tree and frowned at her. "Er... good on him," he replied blankly. Wasn't quite sure what conveying that information was supposed to accomplish. What did it matter to Sherlock how she learned to scale a tree? Before he could say anything more on the topic however the little girl was glaring over at him, face tearstained, a sudden snap of childish rage clear in her expression. "When Gramma died, Daddy said it was because we didn't pray enough for her," she informed him, tone startlingly cold for such a young child. "Josh can't be dead cause I prayed for him *every day*. I prayed a lot! He's alive 'cause God wouldn't let him get killed. Saying he's dead means you're a liar and you're evil." Sherlock opened his mouth, brows raising in bewilderment, but quickly shut it again. His gaze flitted elsewhere for an instant as he strove to come up with an appropriate response to that jumble of madness. Christ, what was he supposed to say to refute something patently insane? Finally he gave up and, looking back to the girl, just shrugged. "I have no idea how to respond to that," he admitted in complete honesty. Predictably Hayley's eyes seemed to well up a bit, her glare becoming more unsteady with unshed tears. "Say you're sorry for lying!" she insisted angrily. "Say you take it back and Josh isn't dead!" "I..." Sherlock trailed off, grimacing a bit, and rubbed at a sudden stabbing ache in his temple. Nicotine withdrawal. If he'd just thought to bring his cigarettes... ah, but! A spark of memory lit up in his brain at the thought - had he ever put them back in the bedroom? Hastily he patted down his pockets. Relief flooded like a tidal wave through overwrought neurons the instant he felt the hard corner of a familiar cardboard pack under thin fabric. He shifted his body so he was sitting straddled across the branch, his back to the tree's trunk where previously he'd been leaning against it sideways, and with a little tricky maneuvering managed to complete the whole process of lighting a fag without dropping anything or falling. Hayley was watching him the whole time, her face a cross between frustration and curiosity. "What's that?" she snapped, trying but mostly failing to sound stern. Sherlock coughed into his elbow and grimaced for the burn of his throat, then propped the cig in his mouth to re-adjust how he was sitting. "A cigarette," he answered, then promptly remembered he wasn't exactly supposed to be introducing children to narcotics and added, "Er, they're bad for you, don't... copy me or whatever it is impressionable children do." "If they're bad for you why are you eating one?" Hayley countered dubiously. Sherlock exhaled, blowing the smoke as far away from her general vicinity as he could manage, and rolled his eyes. "I'm not eating it, I'm smoking it, and if I explain any further I'll doubtless get shouted at by someone so kindly stop asking." Hayley didn't seem to have a response for that. A short silence passed between them. Sherlock smoked a good quarter of his cig and internally vowed to never go more than two hours between smokes again. Blessed nicotine had smoothed over the jagged edges of illness and injury to leave him feeling more or less like his normal self again. That a simple chemical could have such power... remarkable, truly. A wonder of creation. Beside him Hayley had drawn her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her lower legs. She kept darting little smouldering glares Sherlock's direction like she expected him to say something. After about the third or fourth round of this nonsense Sherlock finally frowned at her. "What?" he asked, flicking the ash off his cigarette to be swept away by the morning breeze. Hayley huffed unhappily. "You didn't take it back. You're supposed to say you're a liar and you're sorry," she spat somewhat bitterly. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes in disgust. Instead he took a drag, continued to contemplate the effect of acrid tar filtering through lung tissue, the swirling sensation of nicotine round his skull caused by direct manipulation of neural structures. Fascinating. As he let his thoughts meander his gaze strayed in a similar idle manner off over the Hudson's well-manicured lawn. "Would an apology really change anything?" he asked after a long pause. "I wouldn't even mean it, you know. I'll just say whatever I think might stop you crying." Hayley seemed a little confused by his words. She knit her brow indecisively, then shook her head. "It... if you don't say it then God's gonna be mad at you and you'll go to hell." Sherlock smirked in a small laugh. "Fairly sure I've been there already." "No you haven't," Hayley countered in an offended tone. "Hell's where sinners go when they die. You can't be in hell until you're dead." "Now which of us is the liar?" Sherlock muttered, watching the smoke off his dwindling fag dissipate into a thousand microscopic specks of air pollution. Before Hayley could come up with some stupid reply he huffed a flat sigh and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Look, I already said I was sorry for being insensitive. I don't feel a need to be coerced into any more ridiculous apologies." "But-" Hayley started, but Sherlock interrupted her by suddenly standing and hoisting himself up onto a branch overhead. He'd spotted a likely-looking series of thicker limbs bunched up close to the tree's trunk above them and wanted to see if he could reach a spot where the leaves were sparse enough to get a decent view. Shuffling behind him made him turn just in time to spot Hayley attempting, for whatever absurd reason, to follow him. She wasn't nearly tall enough to reach the branch he'd grabbed and was now pouting up at him like a pathetic little urchin on a street corner. His cigarette was as good as out anyway so he stubbed the ember on a patch of rough bark and slipped the spent filter into his trouser pocket. After a brief deliberation he reached down a hand for the girl below him. "Come on, then," he said with an unimpressed look, though perhaps tinged with a hint of amusement. Hayley eyed him dubiously. A second later though and she'd grabbed on with both hands. It took a bit of a heft, which did not at all help Sherlock's general pain level, but between the two of them they managed to get her up on the highest branch they could both plausibly fit onto. Once there she nervously balanced herself by leaning back into Sherlock's abdomen, sitting directly in front of him on the gnarled wood. Complaining about the uninvited close proximity was sorely tempting, but Sherlock swiftly decided it wasn't worth bothering over. He'd been the one who'd offered to help her get up here in the first place, after all, so he really had no one but himself to blame. And besides which it was just some silly little girl. Not exactly a threat. It was far more productive to spend one's energy taking in the view, anyway. Closer to the tree's top the leaves were spaced much more sparsely, and from this particular vantage point one could see clear out over the Hudson's sprawling suburban neighbourhood to the city beyond. "It's pretty," Hayley mumbled. She sounded a bit unsure, preoccupied - perhaps warring with her own lingering sense of indignation, the fear of being up so high, something Sherlock had done or said to upset her again. Any of a hundred childish things. Who knew, really. Sherlock just hummed in vague agreement as he set about committing the surrounding topography to memory. If he could get a sense for how the neighbourhood was arranged he might be able to get back to the city without needing to beg for a lift. "Are you gonna leave?" Sherlock blinked, distracted from the road he'd been trying to trace out to a main street. He glanced down at Hayley, who'd by now ensconced herself securely against his chest. She was staring questioningly up at him. "Not until Mrs Hudson gets back," he replied, thinking that was an obtusely obvious question to ask. Even for Hayley. Of *course* he'd be trapped here with her until the adult of the house returned. Hayley's expression seemed for some reason to go uncommonly sad. "When she gets back you're gonna leave, though." "Well I'm hardly going to be welcome for more than a night or so," he answered with a shrug. His gaze flitted back upwards to study the far-off buildings of Tallahassee. "I've enough money to get out of Florida, I think. Buy a bus ticket to some other state. I suppose a freight car would be cheaper, though, if I could find an unguarded rail yard. Bit more dangerous that way but safety's not really important." "You should stay," Hayley mumbled. Sherlock furrowed his brows and looked down to the girl again. She was pressing her back firmly into his chest, clutching the branch with both hands, and seemed to be staring morosely out at the view ahead of them. Sherlock glanced up, then back down to her, then frowned. "You want me to..." he trailed off, shook his head in utter confusion. "No, hang on - ten minutes ago you were crying because of me. I'm an evil liar, remember?" Hayley sniffed and rubbed at her face with one hand, expression crumpling. Sherlock felt a flash of alarm. Oh bloody hell she was going to burst into tears again, wasn't she? And halfway up a tree this time... without really meaning to he shifted an arm to pin her lightly against his chest. Wary of the girl falling to her death should she be stupid enough to repeat her insane attack-and-retreat strategy from earlier. It occurred to him only belatedly that the action might be construed as one of comfort - Hayley had immediately clutched onto his arm and buried her face against his shoulder. Gah, no, that was *not* what he'd- "Er... I wasn't... I hadn't meant this to be a *hug*, actually, I was just trying to make sure you wouldn't fall if you did something stupid," he said awkwardly, feeling this point very much needed to be explained. Hayley didn't seem to hear him. Mercifully, though, she also didn't seem to be crying. She was just... sitting there, snuggling into him like an oversized stuffed bear. Sherlock swallowed nervously. His brain had chosen that moment to remind him, quite unhelpfully, that this was the longest bout of unbroken contact he'd had with another human being since leaving Eric. The resultant pang of loneliness through his chest was both starkly unpleasant and entirely unwelcome. He hunched his shoulders a bit and glanced elsewhere, doing everything in his power to beat down the familiar sense of isolation beginning to creep up his spine. The inexorable knowledge that the entirety of the species lived interconnected by spider-silk strands of social connection; all but him, standing alone at the untethered edge. Usually it was enough to remind himself that he'd willingly separated from the lot of them. Just a load of useless morons anyway. He'd cut ties for the mutual good of all involved parties. Moments like this, though. It was difficult, that was the simple truth of it. A cruel reminder of those few he'd been able to fool into liking him enough to offer brief companionship. Friendly human contact. Something he'd sworn off months ago and, frankly, something he didn't particularly appreciate being reminded of the existence of. Better to never touch anyone ever again than to have to constantly cut out these pitiful social instincts and nagging desire for company. There wasn't much he could do about any of his human-contact-related issues at the moment, however. Shoving Hayley away would only result in her breaking her neck on the grass below. And for all that Sherlock may have been a complete, remorseless arse, he drew the line quite firmly at ever harming a child. Imitation of Siger Holmes was not a path he'd suffer treading. Hayley sniffled again and snuggled further into his shirt, making him wince and determinedly glance elsewhere. "You're nice," the girl muttered, breaking the minutes-long silence between them. "Like Josh was." "I'm not nice," Sherlock objected somewhat exasperatedly. Hayley didn't respond, and rather than continue to argue such an obvious point he cast about for a change of subject. "We should really get out of this bloody tree..." Noise from the street below suddenly caught his attention and he trailed off to look for the source. A vehicle slowing down in the road. Mrs Hudson was home already? She'd said a few hours, not... oh, but it was too large to be her car anyway. Who, then? Keeping careful hold of Hayley he leant forward to shove a sprig of leaves out of the way in an effort to see the kerb more clearly. Down below them a nondescript brown van was pulling into the Hudson's driveway. Emblazoned on the side of the vehicle was the logo for a pest control service. "Did Mrs Hudson say anything about exterminators coming round?" he asked quietly, frowning at the two men who were now climbing out of the cab. They were both heavily muscle-bound, though one was much thinner than the other, and appeared to be of hispanic descent. The uniforms they wore were obviously ill-fitting and seemed to be causing the both of them some discomfort. Clearly not clothes they wore on a regular basis. Whomever they were they certainly weren't professionals of any sort. "... no?" Hayley answered. She'd finally taken her face away from Sherlock's shirt and was now also looking at the two men, though with a far less wary eye than Sherlock. Together they watched as the strangers approached the door. The shorter one was griping at his companion. *"Más vale que sea la casa correcta, idiota gorda."* Sherlock leant so far forward on his branch trying to hear that he very nearly overbalanced, causing Hayley to squeak in alarm and grab onto his shirt. Distractedly he muttered a quiet *sorry* and steadied them by gripping a nearby branch with his free arm, still focussed on the muffled conversation taking place below. Spanish wasn't a particularly difficult language for him, similar enough to English and French to pick up quickly, but he'd never had much of an ear for the various dialects. Especially not those of the Americas. And though he'd been learning some of the nuances of Caribbean Spanish over his last few weeks of wandering southwards he'd somehow not heard this form spoken before. "What accent is that? Cuban?" he mumbled, mostly to himself, though of course with their current proximity to each other Hayley overheard him. "They're dirty wetbacks," she answered promptly. Sherlock blinked, distracted from one of the men now fiddling with the Hudson's front door, and looked sharply down at her. "They're *what?*" Hayley shrugged, sniffed and rubbed at her still-damp eyes. "That's what Daddy calls people who talk Spanish like Mexicans do." "Mexican! Of course!" Sherlock whispered excitedly. Trying to keep his voice down, since he had no clue what the 'exterminators' might really be here for, but the thrill of figuring something out made it hard to remember to be quiet. Discovering even more information wouldn't be too difficult, of course, just had to... without further thought he swung his leg over the branch he'd been perched on and made to climb down, unintentionally leaving Hayley stranded up on their high perch. "Hey! I can't get down!" the girl hissed. Apparently she'd caught on they were meant to be quiet now and was whispering just as Sherlock had done. Sherlock paused, half hanging off a branch just below, and looked up at her. Ah, hell... she'd not be able to reach any other handholds without his help. He glanced back over his shoulder at the Hudson's mysterious home intruders, frowning in anticipation of finding out who exactly they were, then impatiently regarded Hayley again. What would be the fastest way to...? "Here, just..." he gestured vaguely towards his shoulders, reaching out for her hand. Hayley seemed to get the hint and gingerly lowered herself from her branch, only to slip at the last minute and find herself saved by Sherlock grabbing her tightly round the midsection. He glared slightly - *christ sake be more careful!* - but Hayley had already scrabbled around and latched onto him like a monkey. With a bit of awkward shuffling he managed to get her in a position where he could climb down without dislodging the death-grip she now had round his shoulders. Less than a minute later he dropped silently *(if somewhat painfully - adding the full weight of a little girl on top of his own body mass wasn't exactly doing his bruised abdominal muscles any favours)* on the soft grass. They'd come down specifically on the far side of the tree from the door, and he leant sideways to glance around the trunk. The so-called exterminators were nowhere in sight, presumably having disappeared into the house. "What are they doing?" Hayley asked curiously. Sherlock hadn't the slightest, of course, and shrugged in response. "No idea. Doubtless something nefarious, though. The whole exterminator van thing's really a bit cliché." Hayley's only reply to that was a blank stare, prompting Sherlock to sigh and grudgingly amend his language. The undertone of withering scorn in his demeanour was clear as day, however. No matter if she was a young child - why couldn't people just have a bit of *vocabulary?* First it was Eric not knowing the meaning of half the bloody dictionary and now this, ugh. "Probably doing something bad," he drawled flatly. "Because pretending to be working in someone's house is a stupid trick that lots of robbers use." "Ohhh," Hayley replied, eyes wide. Sherlock scoffed a bit and began making his way towards the house. Belatedly he realised Hayley was trailing along behind him. Stopping in place he frowned, looked back at her, then to the house. He'd meant to sneak in and eavesdrop on whatever the intruders were doing, but that would be difficult to pull off with a young girl in tow. And he didn't trust the little nutter not to dash off after him the second she heard a loud noise, orders to remain behind the tree be damned. Needed to come up with some alternative... Less than a second later he perked up as an idea came to him. Ah, yes. That would work wonderfully. He reached down to grab Hayley's hand. "Huh?" she asked, tugging her arm slightly as if to free herself. Sherlock just held firm and dragged her towards the Hudson's front door. "Shut up and go along with whatever I do," he hissed. Hayley nodded, though still looked terribly confused. Upon reaching the porch they could already hear evidence of someone moving around inside. Muffled cursing, two men arguing in low voices, the bangs and rattles of furniture being moved around. Sherlock glanced down to Hayley one last time, then, steeling himself, raised his fist and knocked smartly on the door. Instantly all movement inside the house ceased. A brief, unintelligible argument broke out (Sherlock listening closely to pick up any words, but unable to do so) and then the sound of footsteps down the hall. With a startlingly quick motion the door opened to reveal a very pissed-off looking young man with dark olive skin glaring out at them. It was the thinner of the two burglars. "Get lost, gringo, family's not home!" he shouted in Sherlock's direction. As Sherlock had hoped would happen, however, the man made no move to draw a weapon or threaten physical violence - his dark eyes had flicked noticeably towards Hayley for a split-second. By the man's expression Sherlock deduced he most likely had children of his own. Wouldn't risk exposing a little girl to a bloody fight scene. Excellent. Bolstered by this minor success, Sherlock grinned, doing his best to make himself look a daft ponce. "Oh, hi! Sorry for interrupting you," he greeted cheerfully. Beside him he felt Hayley shift in a surprised movement, most likely in response to his having suddenly switched to an upbeat American accent. "Mrs Hudson called a little bit ago and asked me and my sister to water her houseplants for her. Guess she forgot to do it before she left this morning?" He shrugged and kept his airheaded smile in place. Inwardly his brain had already gone off dissecting the short stretch of dialogue, berating him for errors, picking out all the tiny failures. *D's instead of T's, idiot, christ, and you mucked up half the bloody vowels again.* Luckily the British-tainted muddle of an accent didn't seem to matter too much, as the Mexican man appeared to lack enough of an ear for English to catch the inconsistent pronunciations. Instead of suspicion his expression had set into a look of sheer aggravation. "Come back later!" he snapped. Sherlock winced apologetically and tried to act as much like a nervous teenager as possible. "Um, yeah, I would... but my sister's got to get to school soon. Can we just... er..." He hesitated, struggling to come up with an American-sounding phrase. A million snippets of overheard conversation flitted through his mind as foreign terminology quickly cobbled itself together. "... come in real quick?" *(Was that right? Sounded stupid. No time to dwell on it just keep talking.)* "To water them, I mean. It'll only take a few minutes." He grimaced slightly, hoping his brief stumble had come off as a simple lack of self-confidence rather than someone making an obvious mess of American vernacular. A brief moment of indecision on the Mexican's part made Sherlock's hand unconsciously grip Hayley's a bit tighter, to which she responded by sidling closer to his leg. Perhaps this hadn't actually been the best of ideas, Sherlock reluctantly admitted to himself. Just boldly knocking on the door like an idiot. Who knew what these two men wanted, after all? Simple burglary, one assumed. That's what Sherlock had thought, anyway. And his plan had thus been to get inside the house by whatever means, lock himself and Hayley in Harold's study and ring the police. Easy enough. But if their motive was something else, something more serious... *what* else, though? What could a couple of rough-looking Mexican men want with an elderly couple? Had to be thievery, no other option made sense. All through Sherlock's internal deliberation the other man had apparently been considering his options as well. Finally with an extremely put-upon sigh he stepped to the side and gestured for them to enter. "Water the fucking plants then, chamaco. Be quick though, eh? We got shit we're doing in here." "Thanks! It'll just be a mome- er, minute." Grinning like a complete ponce Sherlock sidled his way past the dour-faced man, Hayley in tow. He'd meant to make a beeline for the study - the only room which he knew for certain had both a lock and a phone - but as they passed the open entryway leading to the sitting room Sherlock instead stopped short. The fatter of the two burglars was sitting on the floor, carefully affixing a square, smallish bundle of plastic and wires to the underside of a chair he'd upended. A remote-like device rested next to his leg. A device Sherlock had seen before. Some ten or twelve years back Father had for some unfathomable reason decided it vitally important to teach his children how to operate various firearms. Perhaps in the assumption that at least one of them would follow in his footsteps as an active duty spy. It was a lesson which, predictably, had gone rather poorly - Mycroft had deemed the very concept of armed combat beneath him and flatly refused to participate. This left Sherlock, around eight at the time and thus thoroughly incapable of objecting to anything he was told to do, nervously holding a pistol, trying to remember all the instructions despite a distracting cloud of anxiety induced by Siger's piercing gaze drilling into the back of his skull. It wasn't the gun lessons themselves that were relevant to the current situation, however. No, it had been the room before that, the one containing safety equipment. They'd been doing all this in some sort of classified military compound. One of Siger's old stations, clearly not a facility generally open to the public, probably granted access through shady connections. The room wherein all the earmuffs and vests used for soldiers' shooting practise were stored had also (quite alarmingly, in hindsight) housed a massive stash of plastic explosives. Stacks of C4, casual as you please, just tucked right up next to the spare hazard signage. *Somewhat of a contradiction,* Mycroft had jokingly pointed out. Siger had chuckled. Sherlock had been too busy wishing he were literally anywhere else to react properly. Instead he'd fallen to staring fixedly at a row of square plastic things on a shelf next to him. Olive green with a rough texture, buttons and an antenna, obviously electronic. He'd not really been looking at them, of course. Just setting his gaze somewhere neutral whilst he struggled to drown out the angry buzz of static in his head. Jumbled up feelings. Dread for how horrifically loud the sound of a bullet exploding from the hollow tube of a gun would no doubt be. How he'd not be allowed to flinch or be hesitant about it if he wanted to avoid utter disdain from Father. Whether or not Mycroft would notice how scared he was, and if he'd care or if he'd start in on another lecture about how emotional weaknesses cripple the mind. Siger had at some point spotted Sherlock's apparent interest in the neatly arranged boxes and, perhaps assuming the fixed stare meant the boy wanted to know what they were, gamely explained their use. Remote detonators. Electronically set off explosives from a distance. Terribly useful. Like most things that happened in the presence of Father, Sherlock remembered the detonators uncommonly well. Well enough to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the plastic device sitting next to the overweight Mexican man's leg was absolutely identical to them. Right down to the colour of the casing. In such a drastically different context to the setting of his memories the sight was downright eerie. Abruptly the man looked up from his work to wave Sherlock away, scowling and cursing in Spanish. Down the hall the other criminal had started toward them with an annoyed glare. Sherlock swallowed and resumed his earlier path down the hall, Hayley stumbling along behind him. "Slow down!" the girl whinged. Sherlock did no such thing. He marched straight down the hall, past the wall-mounted phone, and in a quick motion that might have been a mere shift of his arm palmed the pad of notepaper off the small table. Probably didn't need to be so furtive about it, really, but the Mexican bloke was still watching them and Sherlock didn't want to give him any more reason to be suspicious than he already had. The fact that the man hadn't asked about the fact that neither Sherlock nor Hayley were currently wearing shoes was a miracle in itself. Best not push their luck. They reached Harold's study within a few seconds and Sherlock flashed the man down the hall a quick, bright, completely moronic grin before shoving Hayley in ahead of him and slamming the door. He engaged the lock as quietly as possible (wouldn't want the criminals to notice he'd barricaded them out), then turned and leant for a moment with his back on the thin wood panelling. For some unfathomable reason he found his limbs had begun to tremble very slightly. The tremor left his already-overworked body feeling distressingly weak and helpless. "You're scared again?" Hayley piped up. Sherlock startled a bit, realising he'd been staring wide-eyed at the carpet, and shook his head. It was a jerky, truncated sort of motion. With a grimace he grabbed at his hair and pushed off the door towards the desk where Harold's phone was. "Scared? No, of course not... why would I... t-there's nothing to be scared of," he asserted, ignoring the way his fist compulsively clenched around the pad of paper in his hand and how his voice quavered the tiniest bit. He shook his head firmly, *get it together, moron,* and resolutely dropped the pad onto the desk. Mrs Hudson had jotted down a number on it - hospital line, so she could be reached in case of emergency. Sherlock was *fairly* certain this situation qualified. A secretary answered on the second ring and he initially got nowhere trying to locate the couple, as he had no idea what Mrs Hudson's first name was. Thankfully she quickly put him on hold and it only took a minute or so before the kindly voice of the elderly woman greeted him from the other end of the line. "Hello? Sherlock, dear, is everything alright?" She sounded concerned. Damned well she'd better be, *christ.* "Yes, hi," Sherlock replied, his voice flatly unamused. Much calmer now, thank god, no longer tremulous. At least he could still count on himself to maintain his trademark bland sarcasm even in the face of possible death by firey explosion. "There's a couple of Mexican blokes wiring your house up with C4." Jarringly, Mrs Hudson just laughed. "Oh good gracious, dear, this really isn't the appropriate time for jokes, is it? A clever one though, I'll give you that." She hummed a little, sounding as if she were smiling, and then just carried on speaking. "We're just about finished in the ER, by the way. He had to get stitches! Half a dozen, should've seen the-" Sherlock grit his teeth, glanced back toward the door where Hayley was hovering, then rolled his eyes to the ceiling in frustration as Mrs Hudson went on about the *bloody* stitches. He stifled a cough and turned his attention back to the phone. Before Mrs Hudson could transition over to some other inane topic he interrupted her. "*Mrs Hudson*," he bit out angrily. The woman stopped mid-word with a little startled *'oh'*. Sherlock's free hand migrated upwards to tug fretfully at his hair. "I am currently locked in a small room with a six year old-" "I'm seven!" Hayley interrupted indignantly. Sherlock let his hand slide down over his face with a frustrated growl. "- a *seven year old*," he amended. "And I've just seen a rather large block of what was unmistakably a plastic explosive being affixed to your husband's armchair. I'm *really* not in the mood to listen to you natter on about fuck-all." "Oh," Mrs Hudson replied. There was a long pause, during which Sherlock could hear the woman's clothing shift, and then she let out a rather unexpectedly shaky breath. "Oh, my... you are serious, then?" "Of course I'm *bloody-!*" He cut off at the sound of someone pounding angrily on the door, a burst of Spanish which Sherlock could only decipher enough of to identify as incredibly pissed off. His eyes widened and he went back to the phone. "I'll do what I can to incapacitate them if I have to but I swear to god if you don't tell me what the *fuck* you and Harold know about this I'll-" His words left off abruptly once again as his attention was usurped by the doorknob rattling. Sherlock whipped his head towards it, quickly hung up the phone behind him without even bothering to listen to whatever Mrs Hudson was saying. Much more pressing matters at hand. Striding past a wide-eyed Hayley he practically leapt to fling open the door, the daft smile once again firmly in place. "Oh wow, hi! Was that locked? I'm *so* sorry, my sister must have been fiddling with it!" Accent was worse than ever, but that wouldn't be an issue for long. The older man was glaring hatefully and shot a sneer towards the interior of Harold's study. His dark gaze settled on the single, lonely potted fern tucked into a corner. "You fucking take ten minutes to water one goddamned plant?" he snapped furiously. Suddenly his black-brown eyes widened. Sherlock didn't even need to follow his line of sight to tell he'd spotted the phone on the desk. The man's lips parted in a snarl. "Did you use that phone!?" he snapped. Pushing past Sherlock with a rough shove he stalked quickly to the object in question and ripped the cord out the back of it. He dropped the frayed end onto the carpet and rounded on Sherlock. At long last the man finally caught sight of their complete lack of shoes, his eyes narrowing in a mixture of confusion and suspicion. Sherlock maintained the false act of bewildered teenage fear regardless. Suspicions weren't solid. They could still get out of this. "Oy, gringo... why you got no shoes?" the man asked slowly, dubiously. Sherlock forced himself to look befuddled. "What on earth are you on about?" The Mexican man tilted his head slightly, brows knitted. Perhaps catching the abrupt shift in accent - Sherlock had completely forgotten to do an American one that time. *(Idiot... oh, well, it hardly mattered now.)* He stalked closer, narrowing the distance between them to a scant metre, and glared from their feet to their faces and back again. "You walkin' around barefoot to school?" "What? No, of course not. That would be ridiculous," Sherlock replied airily. His accent wasn't even remotely American now. "If you'd just take a closer look I'm sure you'd see we've clearly got-" *Hah!* The man had stupidly leant forward to comply with Sherlock's request, putting his collar within dangerously close range. Without warning Sherlock grabbed a fistful of starched fabric and in a flash of movement used his weight to unbalance his adversary from the top whilst hooking a leg round his shin, sweeping his footing out from under him. The result was one very startled Mexican slamming hard onto the floor. A secondary result, unfortunately, was a rather displeased Sherlock *also* slamming into the floor, as he'd badly overestimated his current available core abdominal strength. He grimaced against the throbbing pain of abused muscles, sensation of burning knives through his gut paired with a nice new bruise from his elbow smacking against hard carpet. No time to cry about it, though. Get back in the game, keep the upper hand. Luckily the criminal had landed square on his back, Sherlock's weight having slammed into his stomach, and was now effectively winded. His retaliation was little more than a few weak slaps between gasps. Sherlock straightened up to find himself more or less straddling the bloke. Awkward, yes, but also quite convenient. Made landing a solid blow much easier. Dead aim for the temple, then, hard enough to snap the head sideways, and... "*Fuck*," Sherlock swore, panting as he shook out the fist he'd just smashed willingly into the side of a rock-hard skull. A few seconds' wait proved the man was out cold, though, so at least there was that. Still breathing hard Sherlock swallowed, winced, shoved himself sideways off his fallen assailant's legs. Gingerly he attempted to get to his feet without stumbling or blacking out. Argh his fucking *stomach*, christ. Like the sodding muscles were tearing in two. Shouldn't have yanked the bastard to the floor like that. One of his arms had unconsciously curled around the injured area and Sherlock found himself leaning heavily on a nearby wall for support, grimacing as he tried to catch his breath. God, this whole week just kept getting better and better, didn't it? "Did... you... I... is he *dead*?" He glanced up to find Hayley standing wide-eyed by the half-open door. The girl was looking from the unconscious man, to Sherlock, then back again with a look of horrified fascination on her face. By the looks of things she was having trouble deciding whether to condemn or idolise Sherlock's actions. Exasperated, he let his head droop slightly, then lifted it again and forced himself to stop leaning on the wall. Walk over to Harold's desk. Not difficult. Ignore the stabs of pain. "Not dead, just knocked out," he assured his young companion, then quickly continued. "Help me find something to tie him up with. We've still got to deal with the other one." Even as he said this he grimaced in anticipation of what would likely turn out to be a very one-sided fight. The fallen man's accomplice was nearly twice Sherlock's size. Even uninjured he'd have had doubts about his chances. As things were, well... odds weren't in his favour. Nothing for it, though. Had to secure the house *somehow*. And with the room's sole phone put out of commission the police were hardly an option. Not unless they made it to another room unmolested. Not to mention that, barring the one in the hall, Sherlock had no idea where another phone might be. Hayley had managed to find a spare necktie in one of the drawers of Mr Hudson's desk and Sherlock reluctantly acknowledged the necessity of dragging their incapacitated intruder over to a piece of furniture they could tie him to. The process was every bit as painful as he'd expected it to be. He ended up sat on the floor next to the desk afterwards, curled up with his arms on his knees miserably cradling his head whilst he instructed Hayley on how to bind a man's wrists securely to a table leg. He had no clue how good she was with following directions and quite frankly didn't much care at the moment. Self-pity was taking extreme precedence right now. Fucking hell, the worsening head cold and the bruises coupled with what he was beginning to suspect might actually be a torn abdominal muscle... nothing in the whole bloody world now but stabbing, burning *pain*. Maybe the second thug would take mercy and just shoot him. "Is this right?" Hayley asked. Sherlock reluctantly raised his head and squinted at the knot she'd tied. He reached out and tugged part of it, was vaguely surprised when it held fast. "Decent," he ceded. No need to inflate the girl's ego. With an unenthusiastic huff of a sigh he pushed himself to his feet. Physical discomfort had to be ignored for now, more important things to focus on. At least his brief respite curled up like a pathetic child next to the desk had given him time to come up with a plan. "Alright," he said to Hayley, who reacted to the stern tone of his voice by straightening up like a tiny soldier and adopting a comically serious expression. Despite everything Sherlock couldn't help a very slight twinge of amusement. He quickly shook his head and carried on. "Here's what we're going to do..." **««** ## Chapter 6 **««** "Now?" "No, not yet." "... *now?*" "For god's sake!" Sherlock snapped, looking up. Hayley was blinking innocently at him. "Could you be patient for *five bloody seconds*? I'm nearly finished." Mercifully the girl shut her mouth. Sherlock huffed and turned his attention back to the task at hand. Not a beat later, however, he growled to himself at the sound of the little moron talking again. "It's been five seconds," the girl pointed out in her obnoxious chirp of a voice. Sherlock grit his teeth. "Hayley I swear to *christ* if you weren't a small child I'd-" He cut himself off. Ugh, no. Threats of violence weren't warranted. Just ignore her, focus on more important matters. Taking a bracing breath through his nose (or as bracing as one could get when every inhale caused a whipfire stab of pain), he looped the last length of telephone cord into a solid knot, gave it a sharp tug and was relieved when it held fast. Hayley stared at him for a long moment. Then, not ten bloody seconds later, took a breath as if to speak. Sherlock growled and cut over her before the airheaded girl could ask the same sodding question for the dozenth time. "*No*, not yet. Just shut up until I tell you otherwise," he snapped. Hayley abruptly closed her mouth but didn't look too chastised by the angry tone. Instead she was watching Sherlock with interest as he took several steps backwards to find the right position for their set-up to work. Once he'd settled on a spot just out of sight of the door frame Hayley's expression turned to one of impatient excitement. His loyal assistant, ready and *(over-)*willing to participate. Lovely. Sherlock glanced around one last time, checking that everything was in place. Nothing jumped out at him as obviously wrong. With a short sigh he rubbed at his forehead and stifled another cough. Well. Best get things over with. It was do or die... with the latter option being significantly more likely. "... alright. Now. Go," he grumbled reluctantly. Hayley's face lit up in sheer delight. She took a deep, ridiculously over-dramatic breath, and then bloody *screamed* at the top of her lungs. Sherlock winced as the shrill screech sliced a bolt of pain through his skull. God's *sake* how could one little girl be so loud? Of course a piercing shriek had been the ultimate goal, so he should probably have been grateful of her being up to the task, but christ... mercifully Hayley ran out of breath within a few seconds. In the subsequent ringing silence she looked to Sherlock with a wide grin, eager for further orders. All Sherlock could do in response was meet her eyes and shrug - he had no way of knowing if the plan had worked. They'd just to have wait and see if their target took the bait. Luckily they didn't have to sit around for long. The sound of heavy trundling footfalls soon echoed down the hall, drawn by Hayley's distress signal. Sherlock's attention shot over to the door, instantly on high alert as he signalled to Hayley to get on with the next bit. Hopefully she hadn't forgotten her part already. The girl seemed to have a better memory than one might be tempted to assume. That or her enthusiasm for being asked to make an obnoxious amount of noise had temporarily boosted her powers of recollection. Either way she followed instructions to the letter. Sherlock nodded, and right on cue her eyes welled up, expression crumpling as she burst into a flood of crocodile tears. "*Daddy!*" she wailed pitifully. Sherlock winced again at the shrill tone but kept his eyes on the door. Had to get the timing right - if he fucked this up they'd both be in serious danger. *"¿Qué diablos está pasando aquí?"* Someone speaking loudly in oddly-accented Spanish, sounded as if the man was right outside. A hand appeared on the side of the slightly-ajar door and pulled it the rest of the way open to reveal the portly intruder's stout frame. His face pulled into a puzzled expression at the sight of Hayley apparently standing in the middle of an empty room sobbing to herself. *"Niña, ¿qué pasa? ¿Estás herida?"* the man asked carefully. Wanting to know what was wrong, if she was hurt. His tone of voice carried that note of obvious concern that betrayed this man as having a family as well. Weakness of parenthood, making otherwise reasonable people abandon all caution over anything vaguely resembling their offspring. Wonderfully useful where exploitable. The man began to move into the room and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Just a little more... Finally the man took the fateful last step over the door's threshold - passing, unbeknownst to him, directly over the loose phone cable hidden in the carpet. Sherlock yanked back on the length of cord, drawing the line taut, and smirked in triumph when the man's left shin caught at exactly the right moment. Their quarry yelped in surprise as he crashed face-first into the unforgiving floorboards. Instantly both Sherlock and Hayley were on the attack. Sherlock, grip still tight on the phone cord, shot forward and seized one of their fallen victim's hands before the man could get an arm under to right himself. Hayley threw herself bodily over the head, using her weight to both block vision and impede lifting the shoulders. Unfortunately the bloke turned out to be rather strong (and surprisingly mobile for having his skull pinned to the floor by a fair-sized child) and his wildly flailing limbs were proving difficult to keep hold of. Sherlock lost his grip on one and found a hand shoved hard into his face. Eyes, *agh* - he was going for the bloody *eyes*. Desperately he tried to yank his face out of reach whilst still trying to wrangle control of the man's wrists. A finger strayed near enough his mouth and he bit it, hard. There was a sharp yelp as the man instinctively drew his hand back towards his chest, where Sherlock quickly looped a bit of wire over it and yanked the pre-tied slip-knot tight, pulling both arms together in a tight bind. Panting hard - the pain in his stomach had reached 'unbearable' several minutes back - he did as thorough a job as possible lashing the intruder securely to the door hinges where the cable end was fastened. Once satisfied of the integrity of his makeshift restraints Sherlock grabbed hold of Hayley and stood up, lifting her bodily away from the man. Best get them both out of range quickly, didn't fancy having to deal with a young child taking a boot to the face. Of course a second later Sherlock was forced to drop the girl, having lost all core stability as his injured muscle chose that moment to spasm. He stumbled back into the desk and slid down the back of it to a slouched sitting position where he instinctively curled around the injury like an infant. Agh, fuck fuck *fuck* he *really* needed to stop with all this physical exertion before he ended up doing himself irreparable damage. A short, insulted *'hrmph!'* noise made him reluctantly look up, finding through one squinted eye that Hayley had picked herself up from her short tumble and was now giving him a stern look - apparently not at all pleased with being unexpectedly manhandled. Rather than attempt some sort of asinine lecture on the matter, however, she instead glanced over to their newly-captured prisoner. All trace of annoyance left her posture as she cocked her head like a puppy. Sherlock glanced followed her line of sight and was absurdly relieved to see that the man appeared to still be held fast to the door frame. Telephone cord was resisting breakage admirably. The bloke was spouting obscenities in Spanish, nose bloodied from the fall, raging against his binds like a rabid beast. The sight did indeed look rather strange, all things considered. Worth staring at. Whilst they both watched the man struggle Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath. Also a convenient moment for their prisoner to tire himself out. As the man's furious ravings began to wind down Hayley, for whatever ridiculous reason, moved back a few steps to sit leaning against the desk next to Sherlock. Without asking she shoved herself into the space between his right arm and his torso, cuddling up to his side as she continued to stare wide-eyed at their captive. Sherlock frowned in annoyance but wasn't in any fit state to fight her over the unwelcome contact. He shifted his arm to rest more comfortably around her small shoulders instead and tried everything he could think of to put the issue of his now almost certainly torn abdominal muscle out of his mind. Knew he was capable of it, just had to remember... what had he done to push through these sorts of situations as a child? He'd had some sort of technique, surely. A mind game or something. Hadn't been seriously injured since going to live with Mycroft, though, and had spent the past four months determinedly avoiding any notion of his old life. Forgotten all the tactics he'd invented to mitigate pain... "He seems sorta mad," Hayley remarked after a few seconds, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts. He opened one eye from the wince apparently frozen on his face to glance at the Mexican man. Sure enough the bastard had them both fixed with a hateful glare. "Yeah, er... if that cord snaps I'm fairly sure he's going to try to kick our heads in," Sherlock replied, voice gone rather strained. "You'll probably want to run in that case." Hayley frowned. "What about you?" "Well, in the most dire scenario I suppose I'll have to heroically sacrifice myself for the good of your..." He paused, making a pained noise as he shifted his posture into something vaguely more upright. "... doubtless rich and fulfilling existence. Though of course you're likely going to grow up to be every bit as alarmingly bigoted as your father which will render my legacy somewhat disappointing." "... what?" Hayley asked blankly. Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing, I'm not explaining that. Do you know how to work a phone?" Hayley looked a bit affronted. "*Duh,* yeah. I'm not stupid." "Debatable," Sherlock countered flatly. Before she could rebut he continued. "Go use the one in the hall to ring the police, then. Tell them there's been a break-in or something, I don't know. Whatever you think will get them here faster." "How do I ring someone?" Hayley asked, looking suddenly confused. Sherlock growled in abject frustration. "You *just said* you knew how to use a phone!" he snapped angrily. Hayley scowled up at him. "I do! I know how to *call* people! I don't know how to ring!" After a seconds' baffled glaring between them - how did any part of that sentence make sense...? Sherlock finally figured out the problem. Oh christ's sake. "Ring means the same thing as call," he explained through gritted teeth. Hayley gave him a dubious look. "Are you sure? Cause I don't think-" "Fuck's sake, go and *call* the police then!" he spat, shoving her away from him in hopes of getting her moving. "There's two tenuously-disabled criminals in the room and I'm half bloody dead, you moron!" "Hmph! You don't gotta yell," Hayley retorted haughtily. Regardless of her snippy tone she still got up, dusted off her dress in a matter-of-fact way, and then flounced off into the hall. Sherlock was left alone with one insensate burglar-slash-possible-terrorist-assassin-type-bloke (cumbersome, but he hardly had any way of knowing their official job description) and another tied to the door glaring daggers at him. He tried a bland smile at the conscious one. The man bared his teeth in rage and swore again. Hm. Reacting to the situation with blind fury, not the stoic silence someone with a bit more training in hostage scenarios might have offered. Probably not a soldier, then. Excellent. More likely to give out sensitive information. Sherlock took as deep a breath as he could manage and stared the captive level in the eye. *"¿Por qué son los explosivos?"* he asked in as decent an approximation of Spanish as he could figure, having not used the language in some time. Needed to know what the C4 was meant to accomplish, why they'd apparently wanted to kill the Hudsons. Asking their erstwhile prisoner was almost certainly the only chance he'd have of getting any satisfying answers out of this mess - didn't quite trust the Hudsons not to lie or sidestep the issue (assuming, of course, that they were directly involved - which by Mrs Hudson's reaction seemed likely), and of course the authorities wouldn't be willing to share. And Sherlock was *not* leaving without answers. If there was one thing he hated most in the world it was not knowing why things happened. Especially when those things involved such blatant anomalies as bombs in kindly old peoples' houses. The criminal was visibly startled - obviously not expecting some pale white kid with a funny accent to speak his language. And, sure enough, his answering question was distinctly uninspired. *"¿Hablas español?"* "Sort of," Sherlock answered, then realised that responding to a question of 'do you speak Spanish' with an English phrase was more than a bit stupid, and amended his phrasing. "Er... *sí."* And then, because the man had just cocked his head at him rather than respond in any verbal manner, he irritably repeated his first question. *Explosives*, god's sake. Focus. At the sound of Sherlock's second attempt at Spanish the Mexican's face scrunched up in confusion, or perhaps disgust, making Sherlock frown. What? Had he got the phrasing wrong? Swapped out vocabulary? Was that why the idiot wasn't answering him? *"Tu acento es una mierda,"* the man remarked flatly a few seconds later. Sherlock huffed in exasperation and rolled his eyes. Oh, god's sake. His accent was shit. Well the idiot speaking like a half-speed record could bloody well talk, couldn't he? Glass houses. *"¿Cómo supiste de los explosivos?"* the man spoke up again after a pause. Apparently he'd decided to skip straight to the point, that being why on earth Sherlock knew about the explosives. Sherlock just shrugged. "Recognised the detonator," he replied without thinking. Wait, bollocks - English again. Damn. He tilted his head a bit, brow knitting, and tried to think of how to say that in Spanish. All his brain was coming up with was *'reconnu le détonateur'*, which was not helpful. Finally he just gave up. "I don't know how to say that in Spanish," he admitted with a half-shrug. Quite pointlessly, it turned out, as the other man didn't seem to understand a word of English. Sherlock frowned and flapped a hand in a dismissive gesture. Body language to reinforce the meaning of his next sentence. *"No tienes que saber*. None of your business." The man was staring at him, apparently trying to parse whatever of that utterance made sense. Which, by the look on his face, was very little. After a few silent seconds, however, during which Sherlock did his level best to look cold and intimidating and not at all like an injured twenty year old kid stuck several thousand miles from home, the man's expression seemed to shift into worried comprehension. *"¿Avila te envió para probarnos?"* Sherlock blinked. *Avila?* What in blazes did that mea... oh, wait, no. Grammar. Most likely a name? Had Avila sent him to... test them... Sherlock tried to keep the look of bewilderment off his face as he cleared his throat and forced uncooperative muscles to let him sit up a bit straighter. Alright, then, er... sure, whatever. If this idiot was going to assign him convenient identities it'd not exactly be wise to correct the misconception. Sherlock had no idea what might have prompted the man to think he was any sort of hired agent, though. Not like either of the intruders had been particularly difficult to disable - managed to take them both down despite a worsening injury and with the dubiously-helpful assistance of a young child. Perhaps he just happened to resemble someone the man had been expecting? As Sherlock both puzzled over this and strove to cobble together a marginally-comprehensible reply, the man had begun to quietly mutter to himself. *"Dijo que esto iba a ser fácil... puta mierda, no debimos confiar en él..."* Sherlock tilted his head slightly, trying to parse the meaning. Before he could make much sense of it, however, the distant wail of police sirens caught his attention. Both he and his captive looked towards the far wall with identical spooked expressions. Sherlock glanced back to the man and tried not to dwell on the fact that he evidently had the exact same reaction to the sound of approaching law enforcement as a violent criminal. But, then again, that reflex had been imprinted into Sherlock's psyche for very good reason - experience had taught him well that a police presence rarely heralded anything positive. And that pattern would be no different now, because it had just occurred to him in the space of about a microsecond that, oh right... he was technically an illegal alien. Emphasis on the *illegal* bit. Shit. And even if that weren't so pressing a problem, the authorities would no doubt make it a top priority to question the skinny wraith of a boy who'd somehow managed to incapacitate two dangerous men bare-handed. He very much doubted they'd believe him if he explained he'd learnt how to do that through a combination of library research and years of involuntary fighting experience. Interrogations, then, until they arrived at something they'd accept as the truth. And said interrogations would doubtless commence with a demand for identification. Which, even if he refused to give it, they'd easily be able to find back in Joshua's old bedroom. Everything he'd had in his pockets was still on the table there, right out in the open - UK passport, travel visa, wallet with two different driving licences, one of which was forged... and the other... well. But then *really* it hadn't seemed like a good idea to destroy *every* piece of legitimate identification he'd ever had, right? And it wasn't like he had anywhere else to keep it... Sherlock grimaced at the revelation - oh good lord, he'd actually, seriously left a wallet with his *real driving licence* in it on a bedside table in an unfamiliar house whilst on the run under an assumed identity with an expired visa. For *fuck's sake*. Could he honestly not go a single day without doing something unfathomably stupid? As aggravating as that whole issue was there wasn't exactly time for self-flagellation over it, because *oh hell.* They'd do a background check on both aliases. They'd have to. And it was unthinkable that any inquiry concerning the name *'Sherlock William Scott Holmes'* wouldn't set off several dozen high-level MI6 alerts. Not only would Sherlock have to deal with all the hassle of deportation under suspicion of being an international criminal, but he'd then find himself in immediate custody of the British Government upon arrival in London. No. *No* no no, not acceptable. Vaguely thankful for the speed of his mental processing - all of those thoughts had taken scarcely half a second - he shoved himself to his feet with the aid of a sudden shot of adrenaline. Right. Time to get the hell out of here. Unanswered questions be damned, he was *not* going home. Not whilst Mycroft Holmes still controlled a significant portion of the government. The man's relentless surveillance had been the original catalyst, after all - the force driving Sherlock's need to find a chemical that could change how his brain functioned. Could make the cameras and the stalking agents seem okay, make it possible to ignore the sense of being watched, of never finding a moment alone, knowing his every action could be recorded and scrutinised. A return to England would mean a return to the unending paranoia. Sherlock could either go completely mad under the stress or fall back on cocaine to cope. He already knew full-well which option he'd choose if given the slightest chance. Granted, a surveillance-induced cocaine relapse might very well serve Mycroft right - finding himself personally responsible for his baby brother's eventual fatal overdose? Lovely, a count of fratricidal manslaughter to complement the patricide. Perhaps the guilt would drive him to psychotic break. But, as vindictively satisfying as that scenario might have been, there was the small matter of it requiring Sherlock's death. And he was quite attached to being *alive*, thank you. Even with the frequent downsides of that condition. Because no matter how incredibly shitty his life managed to be, it was still vastly preferable to oblivion. Misery was better than nothing. No option then but to find a way to remain nameless, unseen. If hidden he could count himself safe. For a given value of the word, anyway. Headed for the hall, Sherlock hesitated a moment before passing by the door frame. The Mexican was watching him with a dark, calculating expression. Planning something? Being tripped or otherwise molested would likely slow Sherlock down quite a lot in his current physical state. Find a way to avoid aggression. Needed to instill fear, respect. The bloke thought he was some sort of proxy agent for his boss, right? Probably wouldn't attack a holder of superior rank. Best keep that charade going, then. *"Informaré esto a Avila,"* Sherlock intoned in a cold, dangerous voice. Or as cold and dangerous as one could get whilst trying to speak a language they weren't particularly fluent in. Hopefully the intended message of *I'll be reporting this to Avila* had gotten through. He paused a microsecond, then decided going for full-blown melodrama couldn't hurt anything and added a few more layers to his current Siger impression before adding, *"Tratan de no hacerse más avergonzado."* Hm. Alright, then, perhaps attempting a quintessential villainous sendoff of *'try not to embarrass yourselves further'* hadn't been the best of ideas. Mostly because all he got in return was a confused, vaguely incredulous look. Like he'd just said something patently ridiculous. Sherlock grimaced slightly at his own linguistic ineptitude but managed to take advantage of the moment of bewilderment to step neatly over the man's legs. Out of range of being kicked, now. That was all that had really mattered anyway. Right, so - plan of action. Shoes first, that would be most efficient way to go about things. Still on the front porch where he'd left them yesterday. No time to waste, get moving. Hayley flashed him an excited grin as he strode quickly by her. For some reason she was still on the line with the authorities; trying to keep her talking so she'd not wander back into danger, Sherlock guessed. He faked a smile for her benefit as he made for the front entrance - no need to let her catch on to what he was doing, she'd only get upset, make things inconvenient. It took only a second to duck out the door, grab his still-muddy trainers, and glance up to see the flashing lights of a police car not far down the road. A burst of panic shot through his chest as he darted back inside. Bloody hell, that was an *impressively* quick response time compared to London. Must be a station or something nearby. Or was it just because a child had called? Either way it left him with a very narrow window of time in which to abscond. Hayley's grin had shifted into a quizzical look as she tracked his progress back past her towards Joshua's room. He'd have liked to say something in parting to her *(though why he should have that impulse he had no idea - she was just some irritating little American girl, after all; shouldn't care, she'd forget him in a week)* but that would take too long. Instead he gave her another really rather obviously fake smile, the insincerity of which she was hopefully much too young to spot, and disappeared from her line of sight. Passport, wallet, assorted random odds and ends he'd had in his pockets... would be nice to get his jeans back but Mrs Hudson hadn't- ah, no! She had. They were folded at the end of the bed. Must have brought them in while he'd been asleep. He grabbed the small stack of clothing and looked around rather frantically for a bag of some sort he might be able to nick on short notice. An old knapsack was shoved under the bed, still bearing Joshua's name in thick black marker on the handle alongside a crude drawing of a dog. Sherlock tossed everything into it, slung the thing over one shoulder and set about removing the insect guard from the window as quickly as possible. He'd just barely managed to re-position the screen in its frame, having made a painfully uncomfortable exit through the window, when he heard the distinct sound of multiple squadcars pull into the driveway on the other side of the house. Fuck, fuck fuck, *leave*. Now. He was *not* going back to England. Back to being watched every second of his life. Couldn't put himself within tempting reach of certain persons he'd sworn never to contact again, surrounded by the spectres of buried memories... no, no no no, failure simply wasn't an option. Pounding of the policemens' boots on the porch. Sherlock scrambled to pull his shoes on, not bothering to tie them, and took off for the small copse of trees separating the Hudson's yard from their neighbours. Within seconds he'd vanished amongst the foliage. Whilst up in the tree with Hayley an hour or so back he'd managed to make a fairly decent mental map of the surrounding landscape. The neighbourhood was a veritable warren, of course, but luckily not completely impenetrable. All he had to do was find the nearest main road, follow the pavement for a mile or so, take a few turns, and then it'd be a straight shot along the highway back to Tallahassee. Once there he could catch a long-distance bus and leave this whole miserable place behind him. Listening closely for sounds of policemen searching for him - Hayley would've pitched a fit the moment she registered his absence - he risked wasting a half-second to tie his shoes, then took off at a brisk pace in search of a street that led towards the city. Adrenaline had begun to drain from his veins, leaving him in significant pain, coming perilously close to dropping from exhaustion, but he set his jaw and soldiered on. *Been through worse*, he reminded his brain sternly. Lived through broken bones and fractured ribs and a semi-accidental suicide attempt. He'd survive. Always survived. Sherlock coughed into the crook of his elbow, grimaced, and with a free hand fished out his cigarettes. Nowhere near the energy boost of cocaine, of course, but they'd have to do. Wouldn't be able to rest until he was as far from here as he could get. Hours of walking just to get out of the residential area. And then who knew how long after that. It was midday now, the sun heating stiflingly humid air up to unbearable levels. He shook his head and bit hard into the filter of his cig as he walked. Ignore it. *Ignore it.* Buoyed by a cloud of nicotine he forced himself onwards. **««** ## Chapter 7 **««** There had to be a point where the human body would simply fail. It was like a machine, wasn't it? A transportation system for his brain. One comprised of brittle flesh and bone rather than solid metal. And if a contraption made of immutable iron could fail if not given sufficient fuel and upkeep, then it would stand to reason that one of flesh could as well. Logically it should fall to pieces that much more quickly, in fact, given its inherent fragility. As things were, though, Sherlock had yet to drop dead. Which was surprising for a number of reasons. Considering everything he'd put himself through in the last... well, hell, actually now that he thought about it he'd not really had a respite from stress, injury, illness, or self-destruction since around the age of six. That was a bit depressing. So what did that make, then? Fourteen solid years of reality doing its damnedest to destroy him? And yet he continued to stand. Or walk, in this case, which he was still managing to do despite wanting very much to fall flat on his face in the middle of the pavement and never move again. Perhaps that would be inspiring in some other context. His indomitable will, or spirit, or whatever. But at the moment Sherlock was finding himself more than a little irritated by the whole business. Thanks to his own pig-headed stubbornness he couldn't quite bring himself to stop walking until such time as he was literally incapable of doing so. Anything short of passing out felt too much like giving up. Weak-willed, whingeing, just as unreliable as everyone had always claimed him to be. Can't keep on task, never commits to anything, never pays attention. But he was *quite capable* of paying attention, thank you. Of applying himself wholeheartedly to a single task. Did so often, in fact, and frequently with such an intensity as to be a detriment of his ability to acknowledge the world around him. One might even say he was uncommonly *good* at focussing on small problems or details for extraordinary lengths of time. Better than most. A skill, perhaps. The only problem with calling that a *skill*, of course, was that he'd never been able to choose what he set his mind to. It was always something random and unpredictable. Insect facts or the origin of the Greek alphabet or walking miles through suffocating humidity for no real reason other than a vague dread for how viciously his own brain would reprimand him if he were to give in to the temptation to stop. Even though it was probably quite safe to do so, now. He'd gotten far enough away from the Hudson residence to avoid being implicated in any crimes there. Could probably just sit down in the shade for five minutes without much trouble. But then, no, he wouldn't. Because there was a small suburban shopping complex not too far ahead and for whatever asinine reason he'd made that his goal. He wasn't capable of giving up on the task of reaching the closest corner shop unless it proved literally impossible. Why couldn't he have trained this pinpoint perseverance in the face of multiple distractions on something useful? Like, say, his studies. Back in university. If he'd been able to just ignore the stupid cameras none of this would ever have happened. But school work had never been interesting enough - other things always butted in, demanding his attention. Solving stupid puzzles no one cared about, researching things like crime scene forensics even though he was a bloody *chemistry* student and had no plans whatsoever of going into law enforcement. A wave of dizzying fatigue sloshed through his brain and he wondered dazedly if perhaps *this* was the final breath, the moment he'd pass out and not have to suffer through this hell any longer. But it wasn't. He forced himself to inhale another lungful of too-humid, disgustingly warm air and kept going. Always kept *bloody* going. When the fuck would his system learn its lesson and just fail, already. Lord knew it'd had plenty of opportunities. Could've just died peacefully at fourteen under a heavy veil of painkillers, but *no*, he'd had to go and wake up. Fatal bloody overdose, and he'd still woken up. Forced, then, to spend Christmas morning feigning polite deference to the man who'd casually snapped his wrist two days prior. Fight back the urge to pass out or be sick over breakfast. Of course he'd succeeded. Always did. Got back to his room in one piece, spent the next six hours drifting in and out of consciousness, woke up to find his arm wreathed in a haze of excruciating pain with absolutely no way to mitigate it save curling up in the corner and trying not to cry. That had been lovely. Happy Christmas. Mycroft had phoned, then, a few hours before nightfall. Sherlock had very nearly ignored it. Shouldn't have answered, really. All he'd ended up with was a very one-sided conversation wherein Mycroft vaguely apologised for not coming home before launching into a boring discussion of what exactly he was doing that had kept him too busy to travel. And, yes, wonderful, Sherlock was very happy for him and his exciting new job. But he'd spent the whole phone call biting back the urge to interrupt. Tell his brother everything that had happened in the past three days and beg to be saved from the hell of his miserable existence. In the end he'd said nothing, of course. Mycroft sounded too enthusiastic, too pleased with his own position and rising rank and grand accomplishments. Sherlock hadn't been able to bring himself to ruin his brother's good mood with his own stupid litany of problems. Not on Christmas. Instead he'd faked his usual attitude, engaged in their normal banter, tried not to make himself sound bitter or upset or in pain. And in the back of his mind he hoped, as he always did, that Mycroft would pick up on some tiny clue, see past the facade and ask what was wrong. Surely he was capable? He was *Mycroft Holmes*, for god's sake, he could deduce anything. But Mycroft hadn't noticed. He never did. Sherlock was too bloody good at acting like he was fine. Mycroft hung up and didn't call again for nearly a month. Too busy, he'd said. Always was. Sherlock shook his head and once more focussed on walking. Five or ten or maybe twenty minutes later he half-stumbled into what looked like a small corner shop near a petrol station. Or a 'gas' station, according to the sign. Whatever. The clerk glanced up, loudly chewing a wad of gum, and gave him an extremely unimpressed once-over. Reluctantly Sherlock straightened up from where he'd been doubled over against a shelf by the door, shot the girl behind the counter an imperious glare, and tried to retain some manner of dignity as he made his way back towards the refrigerated drinks section. Not that he really had any plans to buy anything (money was tight enough as it was without wasting any of it... though water might not go amiss) but the cool breeze from the AC vents back there looked heavenly. He glanced over his shoulder to check that the shop girl didn't have a direct line of sight to his actions, and, seeing her occupied with a magazine, turned and opened the glass sliding door just far enough to grab two bottles of water and close it again. One of them he slipped inconspicuously into his knapsack - no reason to pay for something as basic as a bottle of water - and the other he opened and took a swig from before sinking down against the cool glass doors to just sit for a while. Sooner or later the shop girl would remember he'd come in and kick him out for loitering. He was perfectly content to wait around until that happened. The jingling of the bells on the shop door caught his attention and he glanced up from where he'd been staring blankly at the floor tiles, but found he couldn't actually see anything past the shelf full of crisps in front of him. Eh, who cared anyway. Just another patron. Likely they'd wander back in search of a drink and spare an odd look for the dishevelled youth slouched against the freezer. Unless they tried to have him arrested he really couldn't care less. Sure enough, footsteps approached along the tiles. Sherlock took another swig of water and resolved to ignore whomever it was. Set his thoughts instead to the long trek from here to Tallahassee. Perhaps he could catch a bus? Were there any routes running through this area? Had to be, it was a residential zone. Deciding he'd just deal with that eventuality when he came to it, he let his head tilt back to rest against the cool glass behind him. Probably not a good idea to fall asleep whilst loitering in a shop he'd just stolen product from. So he wouldn't sleep, then, just… rest a bit. Close his eyes. The next second he opened them again when he realised someone was standing over him. Sherlock straightened his head back up, staring at the elderly gentleman who'd apparently come round the corner of the nearest shelf and was now looming above the pathetic heap that, for the moment, was Sherlock. It was Harold Hudson. After a tense few seconds the doctor finally spoke. "You're in the way, boy." "Oh, erm… yes, sorry," Sherlock muttered. Reluctantly he hoisted himself to his feet, made to back away, but Harold halted the retreat with a firm grip on Sherlock's upper arm. Sherlock instantly froze. As much as he'd like to believe he'd firmly overwritten the habits and mannerisms of his childhood, being grabbed by a man both taller and older than him whilst he was already injured seemed to tap right into some deep seated instinct of self-preservation, making him lock up like a spooked deer. Harold appeared to take note of this and raised a brow somewhat bemusedly. "What, son, you think I'm going to hit you?" "I… n-no," Sherlock replied, hating the way his voice stuttered a bit. He made a valiant effort to regain some measure of his usual poise. The state of his health was making that rather difficult, however, and he found himself painfully stifling a cough instead. Harold was still holding on to his upper arm. Sherlock opened his mouth to object to this, attempting to tug his limb free for good measure, (he didn't quite manage - muscles still refused to function, stupid body convinced he was about to be badly hurt despite logical evidence to the contrary), but Harold cut over him. "I'm going to buy what I came in here for, and then we're headed back to the car, where you and I are going to have a little chat about what went on at my house today. Understand?" he said in a low, no-nonsense tone. Sherlock tried very hard to look like he wasn't fighting off a creeping sense of terror. "And if I refuse?" he retorted in what might have passed for a snippy tone were it not laced with a distinct note of alarm. Harold just smirked. With a slight lift of his browline he shifted his overshirt, revealing the distinct bulk of a gun holster affixed to his belt. "Then you'll get a bullet through your skull, kid, and I'll claim self-defence." Alright, then. That… was a fairly convincing argument. Sherlock glanced elsewhere for a moment, weighing his options, but before he could come up with a suitable rebuttal Harold was already dragging him off by the arm. Struggling proved fruitless - as ever, Sherlock found his own lack of weight or appreciable muscle mass working against him. And of course it didn't help that any sudden movements involving his abdomen sent a white-hot stab of pain clear through his gut. Harold plucked up a bag of ice from a nearby freezer with his free hand, hefted it onto his shoulder and walked the two of them to the front of the store to pay. The clerk gave them a brief, vaguely curious look but seemed to decide not to bother wondering about their odd arrangement. Though on second thought, Sherlock realised, it probably wasn't odd at all - he knew full-well his body proportions hadn't quite filled out yet (doubtless his past year or so of unintentional self-starvation hadn't helped the process) and that he thus still looked like nothing so much as a gangly teenager. Harold, meanwhile, was a stern-faced older man in approximately the right age bracket to be either a parent or grandparent. Anyone who saw them would most likely assume a simple family dispute and not interfere. Wonderful. No reason for anyone to attempt to come to his aid. Walking back out into the heat of the outdoors felt like being slammed in the face by a solid wall of scorching humidity. Harold didn't seem to take any notice, completely at ease as he not-quite-gently lead Sherlock on towards an unfamiliar vehicle. "That's not the car Mrs Hudson was driving yesterday," Sherlock said for no real reason besides having thought it, which in his current predicament transferred almost immediately into speech. Mental processing power was diverted into survival strategies, not bothering with the brain-to-mouth filter. Harold just huffed a noise that might have been a laugh, or a scoff, it was difficult to tell. This was a much larger vehicle than his wife's, some sort of modern looking pickup truck painted all in white. Sherlock was unceremoniously deposited in the back seat along with Harold's bag of ice. The man climbed into the driver's seat and started up the engine, flashing an insincere, yet somehow disturbingly sociable, smile into the rearview mirror. "Doing alright there, son? Look pretty worn-out." Sherlock glared, unsettled by the sudden switch to amicability but unwilling to show it. "I'm fine," he snapped, though in all fairness he very likely wasn't. Too many sharp stabs of pain all vying for his attention, the overall exhaustion of the heat (though the truck's AC was at least helping that), and a vague sort of mental weariness for the insanity of his life. Why on earth couldn't he just be a normal twenty-something who didn't continually find himself in life-or-death dramatic situations? Was that too much to ask of the universe? Harold was now pulling the truck onto the highway, in the opposite direction to where Sherlock had been headed. Passing all the half-remembered landmarks he'd trudged by over the past few hours was a fairly nihilistic reminder of just how much misery he'd put himself through for absolutely no reason. He scowled out the window, then over to the man in the front seat. "What, then, you're kidnapping me?" Harold chuckled. "What? No, of course not. Just giving you a place to stay, that's all. Thought we'd take a trip down to the vacation house. Lovely place, right down by the water." "Are suspicious Mexican men going to try to blow that one up, too?" Sherlock asked snidely. Harold just smirked to himself. "Straight to the point, eh, boy? Fine by me," he remarked in the same genial tone he'd been using since they entered the vehicle. He shot another smile towards Sherlock. "This is pretty simple, then - you tell me what happened at my house today, down to every last detail, and in return I won't hand you over to the cops." A small bolt of alarm shot through his chest, brain inadvertently flashing through all the worst-case outcomes of that scenario, but Sherlock quickly smothered it. Instead he managed to scoff dismissively. "Delivering me to the safe hands of law enforcement? Hardly much of a threat," he retorted, throwing in an unimpressed glare for good measure. Being turned in to the authorities would be *inconvenient*, yes, but he was fairly confident he could find a way to escape. Deduce all the secrets of a few of the officers, pit them against each other if possible and make a break for it whilst the lot of them were disoriented. Wouldn't be difficult, he'd done similar before... though admittedly never with such stark consequences on the line. And, he had to remember, fucking around with American cops could very well get him killed. As could the current debacle, though, to be fair. Neither option was really shaping up to be the better one here. Harold looked up and smiled again, the warm expression at odds with the sharp glint of pale eyes behind thin spectacles. "Ah, well, maybe I wasn't so clear - specifically I'll give them this. *Then* I'll turn you over." On the word 'this' the man flipped an item out of the chest pocket of his shirt, holding it up over his shoulder between two fingers so Sherlock could see. The sun's glare off the plastic shifted with the vehicle's movement, leaving Sherlock staring blankly at his own driving licence. Instantly his hand shot towards his wallet - he'd checked to be sure he had everything before he left, surely!? But the motion halted mid-way as he realised it would be a pointless endeavour to look. The card was right there, after all, clearly in Harold's possession. Sherlock had to have overlooked something, somewhere... allowed the one piece of crucial identifying information he'd permitted himself to keep *(for stupid, sentimental reasons, damn it all)* to fall into the hands of a stranger intent on blackmailing him. Forgot to double-check his belongings, blanked the entire necessity of doing so, even - always so bloody scatterbrained. He grit his teeth in a mixture of frustration and rage, trying and failing not to let either emotion show on his face. Harold hummed lightly to himself and flipped the card back into his pocket. "None too happy about that, I take it," he remarked casually, letting out a soft chuckle at the palpable fury Sherlock must have been exuding. Before Sherlock could come up with a suitable scathing answer another blasted coughing fit rose up unbidden, and he was forced to duck his head to try and stifle it. The floor of the truck below his face was littered with bits of leaves and grass, a few brown stains, patches of sand and dirt. He fixed a vicious glare on the debris as if it could somehow be blamed for his life's numerous problems. And, hell, perhaps it could - messy floor of a truck seemed a perfect encapsulation of his general mental state, a disorganised debris field, completely unnavigable without a cushioning blanket of snow to smooth the jagged terrain. If he just had a bit of coke, christ... even just the barest layer of frost and this would all be so damned *easy*... But *argh*, no - *no*, fuck's sake, don't think about that. That period of his life was done, over, finished. Had to learn how to pick through the scattered wastes of his head on his own, not just bury it all and forget the chaos existed. Don't take the easy route, lazy arse. After what seemed an interminable silence Sherlock finally took as large a breath as he could manage without hurting himself, then leant back again to train an imperious scowl out the window, blurs of scenery zipping past. Pointedly he shifted to sit half curled up in his seat like a child and let his muddy trainers track dirt all over the upholstery. Well, then... best just go along with things. Cooperation was the least dangerous solution, for now. "Two men, Mexican judging by their dialect, one thin and the other heavy-set," he started reluctantly. "The thin one spoke English, not well enough to notice I was foreign by my speech patterns, but held a fluent conversation. Heavy accent in both languages. They were posing as pest exterminators-" Harold cut in with a snort, plainly unimpressed. "Didn't waste any time in the imagination department." Sherlock shot the man an acid glare for interrupting him, but nonetheless continued. "It was an obvious ploy, yes." He huffed irritably and turned his attention to the window once more. "Hayley and I gained entry to the house by posing as neighbours, whereupon I spotted one of the men affixing a block of C4 to your armchair. This was rather alarming, as one might expect, so I quickly sequestered us in your office... and, er..." Sherlock trailed off, realising he was about to confirm himself as even more of a probable criminal than he already had, or a complete moron. Both, most likely. He looked elsewhere and smothered a painful cough before continuing in what was definitely not an embarrassed mumble. "Er... I phoned Mrs Hudson." "You called my wife first instead of the cops," Harold clarified, voice carrying the anticipated undercurrent of flat, disbelieving mockery. Sherlock scowled. "It seemed logical at the time," he snapped defensively. In retrospect he had no idea why he'd made such a reckless decision - not when the more sensible choice had been so dead obvious. But, somehow, contacting the police hadn't even occurred to him in that moment. He couldn't remember so much as having had the notion to do so until later, when he'd been left with no other option. That was troubling in its own way, really, not having thought of something so basic... but, fuck, it wasn't exactly something he could afford to dwell on right now. Had to move on. Up front Harold just shook his head, not disappointed so much as bemused. His false air of geniality had all but evaporated over the course of their conversation. "Just get on with the rest of it, kid. We'll sort out what an idiot you are later." Frowning, Sherlock nevertheless nodded. No real point in arguing that. He was of much the same opinion, after all. Turning to look out the window at the flashes of green amid the distortion of heat haze, he proceeded to explain, in as concise a manner as possible, how he'd disabled the intruders, spoken to (or attempted to, at least) one of them, and ultimately fled the scene. Harold kept a brooding silence for a few moments afterwards. Finally he spoke, fingers tapping thoughtfully on the steering wheel. "You know, if I were to take a stab in the dark here, I'd say you've got a pretty impressive array of skills for being some gap-year junkie off the streets." The man went briefly quiet in feigned contemplation, drawing out the tense static between them. "Almost like, oh I don't know... maybe there's a good reason you've been carrying around a fake passport, hm? Foreign, multi-lingual, fighting ability and a valid forged identity..." He smiled knowingly. "I'd just about wager someone's after you, boy." He punctuated this with a meaningful glance through the rearview mirror, which Sherlock met but didn't respond to with more than a level stare. His personal history was none of this bastard's business, fuck off. He did his best to convey said sentiment through his expression, mostly succeeding judging by Harold's bemused snort. Within a few seconds Harold broke the brief staring match to look back to the road. His expression shifted smoothly from vague amusement to an oddly pensive reverie. "Let me tell you something, then, son," he spoke up after another long pause. "It never lasts. The snatches of security, thinking you're out of the fire, undetectable? Never for long. You'll keep on running til the day you die." "Better to spend a lifetime running than lay down and surrender," Sherlock countered immediately, yet again without having really meant to. He scowled for the accidental response, about to be cross with himself, then quite abruptly found himself no longer giving a shit. Instead he just sighed a bit and let his head drop onto his knees, leant against the seat back beside him, all sense of rebellion melting away to be replaced with resigned weariness. Oh, fuck it, hardly mattered what he said at this point. Everything would go to hell in a handbasket soon enough. If it hadn't already. Harold actually smirked for the line, though, humming in what sounded like amused agreement. "Can't argue with that," he said, chuckling. "Don't let the bastards keep you down, huh?" "You're one of them, you do realise that," Sherlock muttered irritably. Honestly, the man was in the process of abducting him to god-knew-where, for any number of nefarious purposes, and was holding massive blackmail over him to boot. If there was any clearer definition of a complete bastard he couldn't think of one. "Hah. Ah, son, I've been one of them for a long, long time," Harold replied, his voice gone strangely calm, subdued. "Just part of life - you don't get anywhere being nice. Take what you need, give nothing back." "You're a bloody *doctor*," Sherlock snapped, looking up with a glare. "How does that not constitute 'giving back'?" Unsettlingly, Harold just smiled. His bearing remained utterly, unnaturally relaxed. As if he'd reached some internal decision and was now settling in to follow through with a simple, linear plan. In a casual gesture the man reached over and flipped on the radio - the warbling tones of some 50's classic settled in around them and Sherlock groaned for the injustice of it all. Injured, kidnapped, and forced to listen to awful mid-century American pop music, god. Life, he thought, couldn't possibly get any worse. **««** ## Chapter 8 **««** "Is it bad form to ask one's kidnapper to stop for a smoke break?" Harold glanced up from the road and quirked a brow at Sherlock, who'd over a sudden, extended period of stillness begun to seriously take notice of the amount of pain his body was in. Abdomen, jaw, knuckles, ribs... practically every part of him was either bruised or overworked or both. Plus he could feel the onset of a fever, that deep internal ache heralding a worsening infection. And on top of it all he was edging into tobacco withdrawal. A fraction of this misery was in his power to mitigate, that being the acute lack of nicotine, but it seemed a rather poor idea to just light up a cig in someone's car. Especially whilst that someone was in the business of abducting you. "It's only a two hour drive, son, think you'll make it." Sherlock was well past the point of maintaining his usual imperious façade by now. Too many random sources of pain and discomfort throwing the whole concept of dignity out the window. In a fit of desperation he allowed himself to make an utterly pathetic face into the rear-view mirror. Everything hurt and his abdomen felt like a knife had got lodged in the muscle and all he wanted was a bloody cigarette. That didn't seem too much to ask. Have heart and take pity on the poor, downtrodden homeless boy. Unfortunately Harold didn't seem in a compassionate mood. Instead he just snorted. "I'm not about to let you run off into the wilderness, kid. I'm not that stupid." Run off…? Sherlock frowned. He'd actually not considered that possibility. In retrospect an obvious plan... or it *would* have been one, anyway, if he were capable of standing upright long enough to implement it. And if Harold didn't have a gun on his belt. And if the weather weren't fatally hot. And... what, alligators? Were there alligators this far north? No idea. Wasn't about to take his chances, though. Being eaten by a giant carnivorous reptile was not a fate Sherlock was willing to risk under any circumstances. "I can't even sit up properly," he pointed out, making sure to add a note of pained desperation to his voice. "And you've got a gun besides. How am I supposed to escape without getting my brains blown out?" Harold seemed to purse his lips in thought. Sherlock redoubled his efforts to look as pathetic as possible. That wasn't very difficult, unfortunately, as he'd not been bluffing about the whole *can't sit up* situation – every attempt to straighten his abdomen came with a lance of stabbing fire. "Didn't bother to wrap that abdominal contusion before you went off fighting Mexicans, I gather," Harold eventually remarked in an unimpressed monotone. "Well I didn't exactly have a lot of lead time, did I?" Sherlock's attempt to be snippy lost rather a lot on the delivery thanks to the strain still in his voice. Alright, then, he really wasn't putting on an act at all now. This was problematic. "It takes all of five goddamned minutes to-" Harold cut himself off with a sigh. After a quick glance in his wing mirror he slowed the truck to a stop by the side of the road. They were in some forsaken country highway, thick walls of vegetation all lit up in the verdant green of a tropical climate seeming to box them in on either side. Definitely not an environment Sherlock would have any chance in hell of surviving by himself. The unexpected slam of a car door was startling, though not nearly as much as what followed next, which was the door next to Sherlock *opening* and a well-built elderly American man yanking him out of the truck by his arm. This had about the effect one might expect. Sherlock yelped, both in pain and for a sudden wall of stifling heat outside the AC compartment, and managed perhaps half a second of standing before he collapsed face-first into the grass. Harold let him fall, evidently more interested in fetching something from his back seat than in keeping his erstwhile captive upright. Thoroughly undignified, this. Sherlock's newfound posture crumpled up on the ground. Wasn't really capable of caring about it. Good *god* if only he could just turn the whole fucking pain system *off* – yes, thanks, brain, he'd hurt himself badly. Message received. Didn't need to be reminded of it on a constant, excruciating basis. Just the once would be fine. A sharp, but not unduly harmful, bit of what felt like plastic bounced off his head, the sound of pills rattling within. He uncurled slightly to find Harold had tossed a prescription bottle at him. The man was now rifling through the rest of the contents of what looked like a well-stocked medical kit. With a myopic squint Sherlock discovered that the label on the bottle proclaimed it to contain morphine sulphate. "Martha quit taking 'em after we found a good indica strain," Harold explained distractedly. "Popped her hip out doing a pole dance years ago. Now she's got arthritis like you wouldn't believe." He turned back towards Sherlock for a moment, raising a brow. Tossed a roll of bandages lightly into the air and caught it again. "You know it's a bit funny, actually. Back when we were your age we figured all our injuries would just heal themselves and that was that. Never dreamed they'd catch up with us. Now it's all arthritis and muscle cramps, cursing that dumb kid from forty years ago for all the breaks he didn't bother to splint." "If you're trying to suggest-" Sherlock cut off with a hiss of pain, trying and failing to shift into a less absurdly vulnerable position than curled up in the dirt. "- trying to suggest that I'm setting myself up for misery in later life, I'd point out that concerns about old age are entirely irrelevant to someone who shouldn't expect to see thirty. Did you intend for me to *take* one of these?" He rattled the pill bottle, glaring at it, and then up at Harold as if a good stare-down could tease forth the answer of why on earth a man would offer him painkillers in the midst of a kidnapping. Harold just took a step forward as he unwound a short length of his bandage roll. "Unless you think a cigarette's going to help after what I'm about to do. Word of advice: it won't." Well that was fucking ominous. Sherlock glanced between Harold and the pill bottle a few times, then in a split-second decision twisted the cap off and dry-swallowed a tablet before he could think better of it. Possibly he'd just poisoned himself like an idiot. Didn't care. Wasn't keen on playing the usual *remain stoic in the face of agony* game for the next eternity, and if it really *was* morphine... well, he'd be better off taking the risk, right? Harold made a noise that might have been approval, or amusement, before grabbing Sherlock's arm and roughly hefting him upwards. He didn't *quite* black out. But the sudden, hellfire stab of pain when he was forced to stretch his injured muscle by sitting up was enough to grey his vision for a beat or two. Luckily Harold actually did seem to have the skill of a trained emergency physician – or at least it seemed that way to Sherlock, who admittedly wasn't in any state to keep track of time – and had a tight compression bandage secured before Sherlock could so much as fully regain his senses. "There, now. Wasn't so hard, was it?" Harold's tone was one of derisive mockery. Sherlock made an odd sort of helpless noise in response and began to wilt forwards into the grass again. Whilst the bandaging may indeed have been helping to immobilise the area, which was good, it was also partially constricting his diaphragm, which was bad. Between the reduction in lung capacity, the suffocating heat of too-humid air, and a veritable symphony of lingering pain he was fairly sure he was going to pass out in a few seconds. "What the hell's the matter *now?*" Harold asked, exasperated. He bent down and dragged Sherlock to his feet, which he was only able to manage by virtue of being much taller and heavier-set than him, as Sherlock was nothing but dead weight at the moment. "Oh for- breathe from the *chest*, you damn idiot. You've got intercostal muscles for a reason." Ordinarily Sherlock might have chosen not to obey that order out of pointless rebellion. For now, though, he very much wanted to be able to breathe, and Harold's advice very much sounded like a reasonable solution, so he did his level best to try. Wasn't sure how well he was succeeding, but he didn't get much more of a chance to evaluate the situation before Harold all but hefted him bodily into the back seat of his truck and gave Sherlock only a second or two to move his legs before slamming the door shut. The next several minutes existed in an odd space between awkward and tolerable. No further conversation, partially because Sherlock was too busy trying to figure out how to obtain adequate oxygen, and partially because Harold looked extremely irritated. He kept checking his watch. For a moment Sherlock pondered over what that could mean – they'd stopped for ten minutes, tops. Probably much less. So why was he suddenly on such a tight schedule? Had he wasted more time than he anticipated? Couldn't have been related entirely to Sherlock, though. Perhaps something he'd been doing before discovering Sherlock in that corner shop had got him tied up longer than he'd have liked? Look around the cabin, then... streaks of mud on the carpeting, sand, some older stains, twigs and other debris. Something to do with dirt and the woods, probably. Burying a body? No, that was a bit dramatic. Burying something *else*, though, maybe. Or digging something up. Sort of pointless, mulling over this. Not like it made much difference to Sherlock if he knew why Harold had been mucking about in the dirt two hours ago. Wouldn't change his situation at all. Still, he didn't have much of anything better to do. Even the distraction of concentrating on breathing seemed to have faded away, possibly because there was no longer any discomfort from expanding and contracting old fractures on odd-healed ribs, which had been the reason he'd instinctively avoided breathing that way in the first place. Random pains from elsewhere were becoming little more than a whisper as well. As he sank down in his seat to sprawl half across the leather he realised fuzzily that the morphine must be kicking in. Both drugs were opiates, so in theory it shouldn't have been much different to oxycodone. But where the painkillers he remembered taking years ago for bone fractures always seemed to leave him uncomfortable and anxious, this stuff was doing nothing of the sort. Just an odd sense of quiet sunlight permeating through the long-abandoned meadow in his head. Quite surprisingly serene. And christ, but he hadn't seen this place in ages. His ridiculous little mindscape. Half-built tower there, he'd forgotten what it was meant for, and of course the willow tree. Leaves sparse, drooping branches seeming somehow limp and lifeless where once they'd been an elegant veil. Gloomy, discomfiting. But of course the gentle caress of warm sunlight more than made up for it. Grass overlying damp soil, occasional patch of mud where perhaps there might be a frog or two, everything well and in order. Vaguely he remembered how all this used to be covered up in snow. Wondered how he could ever have thought that ideal, smothering everything under a uniform white. How boring. Sun was much better. Harold had glanced over the seat at some point and seemed utterly exasperated by the sight of Sherlock flopped over on his back gazing blankly into space. "How much do you weigh, kid?" the man asked as he turned back to the road. Sherlock blinked over at him. "Hm...? Oh, er... I dunno?" He didn't, really. Why would he ever bother to weigh himself? Could maybe make a decent estimate, though, remembering the last time he'd known his weight, plus whatever other variables he knew his brain was factoring in but which he had no current capacity to identify nor care about. "Erm... a bit less than nine stone, I think," he eventually decided. Somehow. Harold made an irritated noise. "*Stone.* British lunatics. So what's that in English, then...?" He paused, apparently to do the maths in his head. "Around 120 pounds?" "Probably?" Sherlock wasn't in any sort of mood to try the arithmetic to check that answer, and anyway wasn't quite sure what the point of this was. Who in hell cared about his weight, of all things? "So I just gave thirty milligrams of immediate release morphine to a severely underweight adolescent with no opiate tolerance." "I guess...?" Sherlock was still not entirely sure who cared or why, but Harold seemed some mixture of aggravated and concerned, which was interesting. He tilted his head slightly. "Why is that a problem, though? You wanted me dead anyway. No one would question an obvious junkie ODing on morphine tablets, they'd just write it off as self-inflicted. Perfect homicide." He paused, then frowned at himself. "Wait, why am I giving you advice on how to murder me?" "Because you're stoned out of your mind, that's why," Harold supplied blandly. "And I don't want you dead, son. No sense getting rid of you if you might be useful. Have to figure out who exactly's after you, at least. See if they're willing to negotiate." Sherlock huffed a laugh for some reason. What, extortion? Really? What kind of banal tactic was that? "You're thinking you can use me as leverage?" He snickered and waved a hand towards the ceiling in a gesture whose meaning he'd forgotten in the millisecond since he started it. "I mean, you can, absolutely. No question. But it isn't going to help you at all. In fact you'd be far worse off for trying." "And why's that, then?" Harold hedged. Thankfully Sherlock, out of it as he was beginning to feel, managed to retain some shred of self-preservation. "If I answered that question then you'd not have much reason to keep me alive, would you?" "I don't have much reason now, if you're saying you're no use." "Ah, but you can't be sure I wasn't *lying* about extorting the person you can extort by using me as leverage not helping you... or... that I even have any idea what I'm saying right now. Which considering the incoherency of that last sentence seems highly unlikely." Rather than try to answer that mess of logic with any sort of verbal response Harold just sighed, not so much out of weariness but frustration, and once again checked his watch. Sherlock noted this with interest. "Why do you keep doing that?" Harold glared up at him through the rear-view mirror. "What?" "Checking your watch. Are you late for something?" Harold didn't reply. Just dropped his hand back to the steering wheel and continued driving. Evidently he'd made the decision to ignore anything else Sherlock said until he'd sobered up a bit. Rude. But then, eh... no, that was perfectly fine. Not a big issue. *Everything* was perfectly fine, in fact. Nothing whatsoever hurt. For the first time in living memory he wasn't worried or scared or anxious about anything, and his head seemed to have filled with a haze of pleasant sunlight. Morphine, he decided, was *delightful*. Some vague, far-away part of his mind was becoming rather cross over this. Off in a dark corner somewhere, lurking behind the chaos of everything, that intrepid spark of personal responsibility that always seemed to get smothered by the harsh grind of reality was now complaining that for *god's sake* they'd *just* managed to convince themselves to give up on the cocaine. That had been hard enough to justify, a struggle to ignore the pangs of longing. And now he'd gone and discovered this new drug with the power to temporarily erase the misery of existence? Fucking hell, that was going to be absolutely *impossible* to resist using if he ever got hold of more. Which of course he would. Somewhere down the line he was going to get overwhelmed, like he always did, and just want the whole awful world to go away for a bit. And now instead of being forced to cope with things he'd know there was an easy escape just a tablet away. Fucking chemicals. On the other hand, though, he really did feel *fantastic.* So maybe it wasn't all that bad. These conflicting viewpoints were creating a bit of a scuffle in his head. Well, that wasn't relaxing at all. Maybe if he very firmly promised the angry voice that he wouldn't let himself get dependent on any more drugs, it might...? Ah, but, no. That didn't work at all. He'd just gone and made it angrier. *Yes you will,* the disembodied thought snapped. *Of course you will. No resolutions you make now are going to affect your future actions, they never do. This is going to become a massive problem eventually. And when it all blows up in our face like usual it'll be me who's forced to drag us out kicking and screaming because I'm the only part of this malfunctioning brain that seems at all concerned for life and dignity.* It occurred to him that this voice was beginning to sound a lot like Mycroft. Accordingly, he chose to stop listening to it. That turned out to be easy enough to accomplish. Because as the minutes dragged by, and the world got ever more hazy and disconnected, he found he'd begun to drift off. Possibly not a good idea to fall asleep *(again – honestly it seemed like he'd been sleeping near-constantly over the last few days)* whilst being kidnapped... but he was very much drugged. And injured. And ill. Probably developing a fever. No realistic way he was going to be able to stay awake. Harold might kill him in his sleep, granted, or he might stop breathing and die all on his own. There was no fear of that, though. Just blithe acceptance. It was fine. Dying was fine. Everything else was fine, too. He was taking a nap. Waking up felt less like a return to consciousness and more like shifting into some sort of bizarre dream state. For one thing he was absolutely certain, now, that he did indeed have a fever. Felt that deep sort of not-quite-coherent ache that signalled one's brain was near to boiling. And for another he appeared to have magically teleported from the back seat of Harold's truck to a plush leather sofa. Two sets of sensory information seemed to war with each other for a moment. Sofa, car seat, sofa again. He shook his head and decided he'd had just about enough of that. Brain was overheating, must be. Couldn't think straight. Best course of action would be to first get a solid idea of where he was, then work from there. Possibly find a cold compress as well. Resolutely he took a deep breath and forced himself to sit up. It was a leather sofa he was on now, apparently, not the car seat. Someone must have moved him. Around the room were walls lined with ornate bookshelves full of tomes on political theory, espionage, war, hemmed by a few expensive baubles. There was a large globe set off to the side of a hand-carved mahogany desk, spinning slowly. A faint scent of scotch hung in the air. For several seconds he just stared blankly. This was... home? He was back home. The Holmes manor. Father's study, to be exact. Feeling very lost Sherlock stood carefully from the sofa. Behind the great wooden desk was Father's familiar swivelling armchair, facing away from him. He frowned and walked towards it. "Sir...?" he muttered quizzically. Not that he could really see any proof, but he knew by some sixth sense that someone was sitting in that chair. They should have turned round by now, right? Had to know he was there. With a slight glare – what, was the bastard ignoring him now? – he reached out over the desk and roughly shoved the seat sideways. "*Excuse* me, then. That was bloody rude." Sherlock froze. The man in the chair was in all respects exactly what he knew to be Siger Holmes. Bespoke suit, white shirt with an open collar for the informal setting of his home office, posture that particular deadly-casual comfortable lounge, usual imperious, mocking expression firmly in place. This was *absolutely* his father. Had to be. But... the proportions were wrong. Everything was off. Too thin at the waist, narrower shoulders, a more angular face. Hair too long, too dark... too... curly? Oh, christ, it wasn't Siger at all. Sherlock was looking at himself. "Well?" the doppelganger asked, raising a brow. The voice was a bit deeper than Sherlock knew his own to be... because this version of him was older, he realised. *Years* older. Too many lines etched into his face, too deftly confident in his movements to represent Sherlock's current awkward state of fading adolescence. Had to be in his mid-thirties, at least. "Did you have something you wanted to say to me," the man continued. "Or were you planning to just stand there gawping like an idiot?" The raised brow climbed further in expectant mockery – a sickening reflection of one of Father's usual expressions. Sherlock snatched his hand away from the chair as if burnt and stepped back. This wasn't... no, this wasn't right at all. Why would he grow up to be like *this*, of all... In a snap of anger he felt his stance abruptly shift. No, christ. He'd not calmly accept something this ridiculous. It must be some sort of prank. "The fuck are you supposed to be?" He bared his teeth, clenched his fists at his sides. "A copy of *him* with my face? That's just-" "I am *not*," the older him said coldly, cutting him off, "A copy of *anyone*, thank you. I am entirely my own person." He paused, seeming to reconsider. "Well... generally, anyway. At the moment I seem to be a figment of your delirious imagination. You are *incredibly* stoned right now, by the way. Good job on that." Sherlock was now distinctly nonplussed. He blinked, unsure how to parse the sudden shift from menacing to frivolous. "I, er... took too much morphine, I think," he found himself muttering, purely from a lack of anything more relevant to say. "Harold didn't warn me about the dose." "Yes, I know. I was there." Rolling his eyes, the strange being masquerading as an older Sherlock leant back into his seat as if bored. He lightly swivelled the chair side to side as his gaze flicked idly over Sherlock's attire. "You look like a homeless person." "Well, I'm... fairly sure I am one, so." Sherlock blinked again, then scowled. No, hang on. Still angry. Siger with his face, absolutely unacceptable. But then it was difficult to maintain that sense of outrage whilst he was also very confused. Some sort of movement caught his attention and before he could think further on the matter he glanced around the room instead. Things were changing. The books on the shelf were now about chemistry and forensics instead of warfare, and the coat of arms over the mantelpiece had morphed into a glass-fronted case of pinned bat specimens. The faint whiff of scotch became tea. Older Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, please. No you aren't. You've an entire *city* to call home. Perhaps you might have have realised that before you left if you'd not been such a pathetic coward." "Get fucked," Sherlock snapped, shifting his attention back with a savage glare. Call him a fucking *coward*, the bloody- The other Sherlock just smiled at him like one might a barking puppy. "Eloquent rebuttal." With what seemed a long-suffering sigh he made the chair swivel sideways once more before bringing it to a stop. Leaning his elbows on the polished mahogany he let his chin rest pillowed atop clasped hands. "Let's have a look at the facts, then, shall we? The primary excuse you gave yourself for leaving home was to evade Mycroft, was it not? Except that reasoning is, of course, completely moronic – it would have been much easier to slip detection by taking a fake name and disappearing into the countryside. International travel was by far the riskiest path you could have chosen. You did it anyway." "What're you-" Sherlock started, but his counterpart raised a hand for silence. "We can deduce, therefore, that you're not *actually* trying to get away from Mycroft at all. Nothing you've done so far indicates a desire to even try. I mean for god's sake you've not so much as bothered to forge a new travel visa. How exactly were you planning to leave the country without getting caught on the expired one, hm?" "I..." Sherlock trailed off, confused by the rapid monologue. "I'll figure something out, I guess. I don't know." Older Sherlock snorted in derisive amusement. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. No you won't. You're going to let yourself be detained and deported back to the UK, because it'll be the only way to get home without having to admit how much you've missed England." The man leant back in his chair with bored sigh, as if this were all very tedious. He put his legs up on the desktop and folded his hands casually over his stomach. "But then none of that's important, really. The main thing to note is that if your actual goal was to avoid Mycroft you'd have been much more clever about it. Nor is any of this an effort to get away from the drugs, either, because you've mostly been sticking to major cities with well-established distribution rings, and have broken that pattern only to travel to *Florida*, of all places. You are aware proximity to Cuba renders cocaine almost laughably easy to obtain in that region?" Sherlock didn't respond. Didn't really know *how*, to be honest. Instead he stared at his unwelcome companion, partly annoyed, partly wary. Perhaps a faint twinge of anger left over. Didn't particularly want to know where this whole monologue was headed. Knew he'd not be able to escape hearing the rest of it. "The most logical conclusion, then," Older Him finished in a grand, decisive tone. "Is that you've been fleeing something else entirely." Semi-translucent images seemed to flicker to life all around them. A titration setup suddenly covered the desk, flasks of chemicals lined up neatly by a stir plate. A violin was propped up on the mantle. Dead frog pinned to a dissection tray, a stray cat eyeing him for scraps... and there, just behind the chair, stood the faint ghost of a person. Something very heavy seemed to lodge in Sherlock's chest. He found himself staring wordlessly into warm brown eyes and a smile on a friendly, freckled face. Older Sherlock's condescending smirk had dropped into a more solemn expression. He allowed his chair to swivel gently side to side as he observed whatever mortifyingly candid emotions must have been warring for control of his younger self's face. Nearly a full minute passed between them in silence. Finally he spoke again. "You've been running from everything that makes you who you are." That... it wasn't... Sherlock took a step back, shook his head, grimacing. Tried to ignore the choking near-sob of a noise he'd just made. He *wasn't*... it was... he hadn't... it didn't *matter*... he'd *chosen* to... to... His older self huffed a quiet breath halfway between amusement and melancholy. "Nothing ever really changes," he put in after a long pause, perhaps giving Sherlock a chance to regain some composure. "Human nature least of all. You'd do well to accept that sooner rather than later." Unable to talk for fear of looking like even more of a pathetic child than he already did, Sherlock looked up with a furious, half-desperate glare. Fucking... who was *he* to show up and act like some sort of, the fucking... bastard... damn it he'd almost made the choking noise again. Stop stop *stopstopstop...* "Oh and, also." Older Sherlock smirked, waved a hand in gesture to the room around them, which was beginning to blur at the edges. "This has all been patently insane. Never combine that much morphine with a fever again." Sherlock had no way to respond. All he could do was watch as the entire world seemed to fade out to static. And then he jolted awake. This time on a bed. With a stuccoed white ceiling and the scent of an unfamiliar house. Instinctively, perhaps trying to escape the lingering wisps of what may have been the strangest, most distressing dream he'd ever had in his life, or perhaps just to help get blood back to his limbs, he made to sit up. Only got most of the way there before he was stopped short by a sharp tug on his right arm. Baffled, he glanced down. Silver links of a narrow chain had been fastened around his wrist with a small padlock. Some sort of makeshift restraint? Why? Wait, hang on... where the hell was he, even? Hadn't he been...? Ah, damn... the morphine. He must have passed out. In a kidnapper's vehicle. Whilst half-dead of overdose. Brilliant, Sherlock, fantastic survival skills. And then to wake up chained to a *bed*, of all- But then, no. Surely not. This couldn't be as cartoonishly literal as it seemed. Just a scare tactic, had to be. No one would *actually...* With a faint sense of dread he yanked the chain taut. It held fast below the bed frame. He was trapped. **««** ## Chapter 9 **««** Sherlock definitely didn't panic. Not at all. He *may* have spent a minute or so flailing against the chain in a frantic attempt to free himself, feeling a sharp spike of adrenaline slice through the lingering haze of feverish morphine like a hot knife. That might very well have happened. And he *might* have damned near dislocated his own wrist with the sheer force of tugging against the manacle. But one didn't have to call that *panic.* Just… a bit of an overreaction. Thing was, Sherlock really hadn't ever done well with being restrained. There were many reasons for this, and most all of them had to do with having been held down or locked up or otherwise confined dozens of times over the course of his life by people who invariably proceeded to kick the shit out of him. Maintaining an avenue of escape had thus become something of a psychological necessity. Absolutely *always* needed to know he could get away if he needed to, no capacity to tolerate imprisonment. And at the moment, he was very much imprisoned. Which was very, *very* much not okay. Not not not *not not NOT* okay at all jesus get it off get it off *getitoff* yes alright he was perhaps panicking quite badly now. If he'd had the ability to bite his own hand off he might very well have done it. He was devolving into the instinct-driven mentality of a fox with its leg in a trap. At the very least he was still physically exhausted, which limited the amount of damage he was able to do to himself. Within a few minutes he was too tired to really do much of anything beyond curl up on his side and stare balefully at the little padlock keeping him prisoner. Could pick that. Easily. But he'd not been able to find anything of use within reach. Supposed he could attempt to prise loose a length of wire from the box spring, at a stretch, but just the thought of expending that much energy on a plan that might not even work at all was soul-crushing. Couldn't afford to waste the effort. Too drained of motivation to even try. If one were going with the trapped fox analogy he supposed he must have now transitioned to the phase where the animal goes stock-still and growls at anything coming near. He'd seen this happen several times back home, in the course of the groundskeeper's personal unending war on all carnivorous wildlife. Even tried to free a few of the foxes, on the rare occasion he got a chance to intervene, but of course all that usually got him were painful bites and scratches and a scolding from whichever adult caught him in the act. Always seemed so transcendently cruel, though. Those proud, sleek animals reduced to quivering lumps of fur, hiding their terror behind bared teeth and a snarl. He'd hated seeing the traps out, made a point of disabling any he came across even if he caught hell for it. And now here he was absolutely vindicated in his childhood actions, because this was awful. Some indeterminable length of time passed, wherein Sherlock did nothing but glare at the padlock and wallow in his misery. It had come to his attention at some point during all this that he was again shirtless. Which, to be fair, did make sense as his shirt had been rendered filthy by a combination of sweat, humidity, bark, grass, and dirt stains. Probably been taken for washing. Or removed out of convenience, as when he shifted his glare briefly from the padlock to his own body he realised the bandaging around his midsection had been re-wrapped. Less haphazard than before, done in neat overlapping rows. There was also a new sticking plaster affixed to the underside of his left arm. Being intimately familiar with his own venous configuration he recognised the placement as having most likely been an injection into the cephalic vein. Fabulous. So he'd been drugged again. That meant he had no way whatsoever of knowing how long he'd been out. As he was contemplating just how willing he'd actually be to dislocate his own thumb in an effort to slip the chain off his hand, he heard the sound of a door opening, and looked up to see a smiling Mrs Hudson bustle into the room with a serving tray. "Oh! Dear, you're awake! How lovely." She beamed and, setting down her tray on a nearby chest of drawers, walked over to touch the back of her hand briefly to his forehead. Sherlock glared venomously up at her. "Seems that fever's gone down, then. Lucky thing Harold had some medicine on hand for that. Ibuprofen, I think... oh my, is something the matter?" She appeared to have finally noticed the acid glare fixed on her. Rather than be at all perturbed she simply turned back round to fetch something off her tray, which appeared to hold a teapot, cup, plate with food, a glass of water and what looked like a cold compress. Sherlock kept silent. Shouldn't have to explain what he was furious about, god's sake. She could see plain as day he'd been chained to the bloody bedframe, surely she'd not failed to notice such an obvious... "Well, if you're not in the mood to talk that's alright," she said pleasantly. Without asking permission she pressed the cold pack to his stomach, making him jump. "Hold that there, then, else it does no good. Harold says there'll be permanent damage if the swelling's not addressed." "What does he care?" Sherlock snapped. Forgotten he wasn't going to speak, as always. Why did he ever even bother trying that tactic? Mrs Hudson seemed mildly affronted. Though of course with her kindly demeanour that translated into nothing more than a disapproving frown. "Well, now. He is a doctor, you know. Taken an oath and all that." "He's also *chained me to a bed*," Sherlock growled. He brandished his wrist to punctuate this, displaying both the chain and the somewhat impressive ring of bruising he'd given himself trying to get it off. Mrs Hudson looked completely unperturbed. "Just a precaution, dear. Nothing to worry about." "No, I'm fairly sure it's a *lot* to worry about. One doesn't generally find themselves taken hostage by iniquitous elderly people without good cause for worry." Jarringly, Mrs Hudson just laughed pleasantly. "Hostage? Oh, now, don't be so dramatic! No, no, Frank just wanted to be sure you didn't go wandering about the house off your face on morphine, that's all. I'll admit the chain's a bit much but it's all we really had to-" Sherlock frowned. "Who's Frank?" he asked, cutting her off. "Oh, er..." Mrs Hudson looked slightly flustered. She patted down her skirt and made to stand, behaving like she'd just realised she needed to be somewhere. "I'm sorry, dear, I've got to go take care of a little something. Just remembered. There's supper on the tray, there, though. Help yourself!" And with that she hurried off. Sherlock glared, confused. Wait, so did that mean there was another player to the whole mess? Some man he'd not met yet? But one who evidently saw enough value in his (relative) safety to allow Harold to continue to treat him. Was this the new bloke's house, then, maybe? Ah, but no, hadn't Harold said... or perhaps he'd *not* said he owned it, just that they were going there... bloody hell this was bewildering. Ugh, forget it, just don't bother. Didn't matter anyway unless it helped him escape. And, speaking of, food actually sounded like a fantastic idea. Regain some strength, stop feeling so muzzy-headed. Ah, but... alright, then. Looking for the tray, he realised Mrs Hudson had left it on a chest of drawers over by the door, which was a good two or three metres away. His tethered range was perhaps a foot and a half. The woman had *(inadvertently, one hoped)* left him to starve with a meal just out of reach. Rather than waste energy having any strong opinion on this state of affairs Sherlock simply huffed a small, irritable sigh. Well, whatever, that was fine. Not like he wasn't used to the world finding new and inventive ways to torment him. He returned instead to the business of figuring a way to get free and resolved to put the thought of sustenance out of his mind. Unfortunately the brief expectation of food seemed to have reminded his body he was (at this point in time likely quite literally) starving, which combined with a distinct lack of appetite-suppressing chemicals in his system meant he now had to contend with the utterly foreign sensation of being hungry. And that just wasn't fair in the slightest – he could deal with pain or illness or exhaustion or fear, that was all fine. He'd spent the vast majority of his life existing in one or more of those states on a daily basis. *Hunger*, though, he rarely had to bother with. Even back before he'd started smoking cigarettes his instinct to consume food just hadn't ever been very strong. Possibly a trait borne of the combination of his being eminently distractible (to the point of often literally forgetting that eating was necessary) and of the off-putting nature of most edible substances he encountered. Everything always tasted horrible to him, or the texture was intolerable, or it was the wrong temperature, or he'd start contemplating the manufacturing process and thereby disgust himself to the point of being ill. Finding a dish he could eat without having to force himself was a frustrating and often futile endeavour. Now, though, Sherlock was feeling something akin to what he supposed Mycroft might feel all the time, namely the instinctual drive to find and consume nutrients at all costs, taste or texture be damned. An extremely unpleasant sensation. Not painful in the way that a wound was but intolerable all the same. Especially for someone with so little practise ignoring it. Frowning, he considered making an attempt to stand. Would he even be able to, with the negligible length of his tether? Possibly. But then again quite possibly not. And even if he could, would he be able to reach far enough to grab the tray, with his physical health in such a state? Ugh... maybe. At a long shot. But, then, that plan carried with it the same defeating sense of pointlessness that the whole 'prising a spring from the mattress' idea had, namely that he didn't want to waste the energy on something with there being even a slight chance of it not working out. This lack of motivation left him with very few options to try. No solid, workable plan beyond lying around in wretched helplessness. After a brief minute or so spent wallowing in a cloud of self-pity Sherlock finally hit upon something resembling a clever idea, and busied himself for a bit tearing off a few strips of the bandage around his midsection. Winding them together for strength, he'd soon fashioned a passable little rope. This he then threaded through a link of chain and used as leverage to prise the thing apart. Just a tiny gap would do – enough to slip the next link. Easy... right? Theoretically, anyway. *Oh please just work, for god's sake.* It was difficult, but he thought he might be making progress. And even if not he at least wasn't thinking about food. Small enough mercies. A shuffling noise from somewhere above him caught his attention, and Sherlock looked up from his (likely pointless) efforts to see a fine dusting of plaster drifting down from the ceiling near what looked like a door for attic access. Seconds later a face appeared in the gap between the panel and the ceiling. Freckles were the first thing that stood out in Sherlock's view, and for a heart-stopping minute he thought he'd dropped back into some sort of fever dream. Hallucinating *him* in the bloody *ceiling*? Oh christ he'd done it, he'd gone and lost his damned mind... With a stab of emotion that was one part relief and one part sheer confusion, though, his brain finally deigned to register the rest of the facial features. Red hair and green eyes and skin far too pale. Not him at all. No one Sherlock had ever met in his life, in fact. Which was a bit of a hollow comfort as it now meant there was a strange ginger man watching him from the ceiling. Their eyes had locked, and the other's expression mirrored what Sherlock figured must have been on his own face, which was a look of nonplussed bewilderment. Then the boy frowned, however, and disappeared. A few thumping noises later he'd dropped down to the floor off some sort of folding ladder. "God damn, seriously? He's taking hostages now?" American accent, young, perhaps Sherlock's age. And... he looked strangely familiar. Sherlock furrowed his brows, trying to place where he knew the facial features from, and responded on autopilot. "... do I know you?" Possibly an odd question to receive from someone chained to a bed looking beaten and half-dead, but it was at point the most pressing matter in Sherlock's brain, and with his usual lack of a speech filter this translated into the first thing out of his mouth. The other boy gave him a bemused tilt of his head. "Um... pretty sure no? I mean I guess we could have met somewhere before but I don't-" He cut himself off, looking slightly frustrated, and huffed an impatient sigh. "Okay no wait, that's not important. Did you get, like, kidnapped? Is someone gonna come looking for you?" "Someone's *been* looking for me for quite a while, but he won't be coming here any time soon." It was a bit awkward to be speaking to someone looming over you like some sort of overdramatic half-lit movie scene, but Sherlock couldn't exactly stand up or anything. He settled for shoving his upper body upright, at least, sitting criss-cross with his back against the headboard, and tried to look like he was doing so by choice and not because he was currently chained to a post like a dog. Meanwhile, his erstwhile companion's face had gone a bit alarmed. "Whoa, hey- is that your normal accent or are you, like, concussed?" Sherlock shot him a withering glare. "I don't know, is that *your* normal accent or are you trying to sound like a moron?" The other boy's expression was oddly difficult to parse. Some mix of confusion and wariness and in large part disbelief. "How the hell did my uncle manage to kidnap a British guy?" "Your uncle?" Sherlock repeated, and upon doing so the pieces of the puzzle clicked suddenly into place. Oh bloody hell so *that* was where he remembered his face from. "Oh! You're Joshua!" He exclaimed with the usual burst of excitement for having figured something out. And then immediately became confused, because... "Wait, you're dead. Harold killed you." "Uh, did he? Wow, um... okay, cool. Spooky ghost, I guess." Josh blinked, then half-glared at him. "How do you know who I am?" Sherlock glared slightly in return but answered anyway. "Mrs Hudson let me stay in your room for a night in Tallahassee. Hayley was quite enamoured with you, as well, so I got an earful of that." "You know Hayley?" Joshua seemed genuinely surprised, then a bit regretful. "Aw, geez, is she okay?" "She's worried that you hate her or something because you'd moved to Mississippi without a proper goodbye. Otherwise fine, I suppose." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. For want of anything else to do with himself he returned attention to trying to prise the chain apart, because if he was going to sit here talking he may as well also be doing something useful. Or at least something that *felt* useful. "Mississi...? Um... you mean Michigan? Cause I was supposed to be going there for college." "Yeah, that one. Same thing," Sherlock snapped impatiently. Ugh, the bloody weld on this chain was some sort of diamond-strength armour job. "That's... they're not, at all." Josh seemed to shake himself, and quirked a quizzical look down at Sherlock. He seemed to have finally taken real notice of the chain. "What kinda lock is that?" "A regular Master pin-tumbler. Find me a sturdy length of wire and I can-" Sherlock cut off as Josh dug into his jeans pocket and produced a worn, but serviceable, tension wrench, along with a half-diamond pick. "Okay so if I bust you outta that thing you're not gonna, like, attack me or anything, right?" "On my honour as an Englishman." Too impatient to even be intrigued by Josh's apparent knowledge of less-than-reputable skills, Sherlock brandished his wrist. For god's sake get the bloody thing *off* already, he'd about lost all feeling in his hand. Josh proved to be a passably competent lockpick, though of course on so simple a lock it would have been difficult not to be, and within a few seconds the bolt popped free. Sherlock wasted no time getting the thing the hell off and away from him, then scooted off the bed and several feet further besides, as if the lock could somehow re-trap him if he stayed near it. He rubbed gingerly at his now-throbbing wrist and fixed the chain with a feral glare. Josh watched this in some bemusement, then tilted his head towards the door for a moment. "So... my aunty's around, right? Thought I heard her talking in this room." At the mention of Mrs Hudson Sherlock recalled what she'd been in here for, namely feeding him, and took advantage of his newfound freedom by retrieving the sandwich off the woman's abandoned serving tray. Didn't even care what kind of meat it was, just that it was food... although, then, upon biting into it he realised it was tuna, the taste and smell of which he'd always found nauseating, so that made for a rather torn opinion on the matter. Swallowing *(with a grimace – ugh, revolting)* so as not to be talking with his mouth full, Sherlock leant his back on the chest to face his current companion and waved a hand in vague confirmation. "Yes, she's here. Left the room about..." He trailed off as he realised he'd somehow blanked out the entirety of his interaction with the woman. All he could conclusively remember was that he'd spoken to her, but not what about nor how long ago. The fine details had been reduced to static. "... oh... I guess... I don't know. I've deleted it." "Deleted what?" Josh asked, confused. Sherlock took another bite of his unappetizing yet wholly irresistible sandwich and shrugged with a slight wince of what may have been self-recrimination. Should have been used to his brain doing this to him by now, really, but it still made him feel like a feeble-minded moron every time it happened. "Er... when she was here last. I've forgotten what happened," he admitted, then glanced around the room, quickly scanning for clues. At the very least he was lucky to be clever enough to compensate for any gaps in his memory by deducing missing information. Small blessings. Ah, there, the cold pack – not quite all the way melted. Factor in his body heat, how long ice should usually take to melt, and... "She must have been here around twenty minutes ago. Left suddenly, judging by this tray being over here rather than beside the bed, so either I said something rude or she had something important to attend to. Possibly both. I'd guess she'll be back within half an hour to replace the cold pack." "Should I ask why you forgot a thing that happened twenty minutes ago?" Josh looked slightly concerned, like he thought perhaps Sherlock might have suffered a concussion or other mental trauma. Sherlock just glared at his sandwich and forced himself to eat more of it before answering with a question of his own. "I'm going to assume by your lack of concern for keeping a lookout that Harold's left the premises?" Josh tilted his head a bit, plainly still suspicious of some sort of brain injury, but nodded. "Wouldn't've come out if he wasn't gone. Can't let him know I'm here. And I mean I guess he killed me or whatever, according to you, so that'd be a double-bad idea." A thought suddenly seemed to occur to him. "Hey... you know I don't actually know who the hell you are." "Join the club," Sherlock replied cynically. No need to go introducing himself to even more people who might seize upon his name as blackmail material. Plus it wasn't as if anyone was going to need to be able to refer to him by name much longer anyway – he'd finished eating *(in record time, having wanted the abhorrent fish-taste part over and done with as soon as possible)* and now had no other goal besides escape. Get away from all this nonsense and stay the hell out of the American South all the rest of his days. Of course, on second thought... leaving meant he'd never know what in blazes was going on here. Who exactly Harold was and why Mexicans wanted to blow up his house and why Joshua was hiding in the attic of his relatives' summer home instead of being either dead or in Montana. He glanced over at Josh and eyed him critically. How much information would the boy have, then? And would asking him get Sherlock anywhere or would he just have to suck up his curiosity and leave without answers? Could... could he even *physically* do that? Well yes, clearly... could just leave. Didn't have a compulsion to solve any puzzle he happened to stumble upon, that would be absurd. And yet... "How much do you know?" "What, in general?" Josh stepped over to the bed Sherlock had been trapped on, picking up a bundle that turned out to be Sherlock's identifying paperwork. (Sans authentic driving license, one assumed.) He flipped through Sherlock's fake passport and answered his question with clear sarcasm. "I dunno, about the same as anyone with a public education, I guess. Kinda wonder about the American school system sometimes, though, so..." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, very clever." Josh smirked blandly at him, so Sherlock tried again. More direct this time. "Why do a load of Mexicans want your aunt and uncle dead?" There was a bit of a spark of intrigue in Josh's eye as he looked back up, an odd half-smile making it clear he was quite further embroiled in this than he might have let on with his facetious attitude. He opened Sherlock's passport to the visa stamps and held it up slightly for inspection. "Why've you been to so many different countries in the past three months?" "I love to travel," Sherlock retorted in a tone of withering scorn. Josh seemed to get the hint – namely that the topic was not, and would never be, any of his business – and closed Sherlock's passport to instead study the gold relief on the front. He then huffed a slight sigh and tapped the little booklet against his hand a few times in thought. "Okay, hey, look – I dunno who you are, or what you're doing here, or what my uncle's thinking keeping you all prisoner or whatever. For all I know you might be the enemy. So if you want my trust you're gonna have to do something to earn it first, right? Then I might tell you stuff." "And how do you propose I earn said trust?" Sherlock hedged. Josh smiled at him. "Wanna help me find a computer?" Sherlock blinked. That was... an odd request. Also one he had no way of fulfilling. "I have no idea where one might be." "Neither do I, that's the problem. I have some shit I need to look up, but..." He stopped, hummed a thoughtful noise to himself, and gestured to Sherlock's arm by nodding his chin that direction. "Look, not for nothing, but I'm pretty sure you're some kinda low-life junkie." "Thank you for the assessment," Sherlock replied drily. Josh just shrugged. "Hey, that's a compliment right now. I mean if I'm looking for someone to help me break into a house I'm not gonna go for the preppy asshole with a popped collar, am I? I'd want someone who looks like you – someone who obviously knows what he's doing." "You're assuming I'm some sort of career criminal based solely on the fact that I've got track marks," Sherlock snapped, justifiably offended. That was just bloody *profiling*, christ. "Am I wrong?" Josh asked blandly. After a long, pregnant pause Sherlock was forced to grit his teeth and bite out an annoyed sigh. "I'll need to find a shirt first before I do anything," he grumbled. Josh made a small *pfft* noise that was half amusement, half incredulity, and quickly undid the scant two or three buttons done up on the light overshirt he was wearing. He had a t-shirt with some band logo on underneath, in roughly the same blue-and-white colour scheme as the plaid buttonup he now tossed in Sherlock's direction. "Back door's right out down the hall there, let me make sure Aunty's not headed this way first. Don't wanna freak her out." Josh walked over and carefully opened the door, evidently knowing how to do so near-silently, and peeked out into the hall. Sherlock took the opportunity to button up his newly-acquired shirt and collect his passport plus other belongings. His cigarettes and lighter were among these, and he breathed a short huff of relief for that. Second they got outside he was going to chain-smoke the whole rest of the bloody pack. "Coast's clear," Josh announced quietly. He smirked back at Sherlock. "Keep it silent, right? Just a couple'a spooky ghosts." "You're the ghost, not me," Sherlock grumbled. Wasn't the one meant to have been murdered, here. But Josh just made a short noise of amusement. "Yeah? You sure about that?" Without waiting for an answer Josh slipped out into the hall, jogged a short distance to a door at the end, staying well clear of the decorative shelves or photos on the walls. And behind him Sherlock frowned, because it struck him that in truth he wasn't sure about that at all. How would he know, really, if he were dead? What if he only *thought* his brother had saved him that day, chosen his life over Siger's, because it was the less painful scenario? Perhaps Mycroft had in reality done the sensible thing and shot Sherlock square between the eyes? Everything since then had felt so static and disjointed, after all. He'd thought that a symptom of the cocaine withdrawal, stress... but what if instead his entire current existence was just a series of synaptic misfirings as his brain tried in vain to repair its obliterated neural pathways? Shutting down around the violent destruction of a bullet? It would all make an alarming amount of sense... This sudden new theory was disturbing enough to have wrenched his attention entirely away from the situation at hand, which as usual he only discovered upon blinking. He realised he'd stopped dead in the middle of the hall like an idiot. Josh was hissing at him to hurry up from the screen door ahead. Behind them the hall had begun to echo with the sound of footsteps. Sherlock bolted a second too late. **««** ## Chapter 10 **««** *"Hey!"* A man’s voice down the end of the hall. Sherlock stumbled a bit, caught himself, carried on with a decidedly undignified scramble for the screen door, which had just snapped shut in his face as Joshua had apparently chosen not to wait for his erstwhile partner-in-crime to stop standing around like a moron. Fair. Aggravating, but fair. Just as he’d grasped the door handle, however, he was stopped short by the sound of a woman’s startled shriek. Then the man growling, gravelly, in a voice Sherlock belatedly realized he knew already, "Turn around right now, or she’s dead." *"Frank!* Oh for god’s-!" "Quiet, Martha." Sherlock reluctantly paused in opening the door, turned his head to look back over his shoulder. Behind him Harold *(Frank…?)* stood in the middle of the hall holding his wife by the upper arm, handgun pointed directly at her temple. Sherlock blinked, then glared in a mixture of surprise and angry disbelief. Really? What a stupid bluff, for god's sake. What did he look like, an amateur? Well… probably, at this point. He'd fucked up rather a lot over the past few days. But still. "Oh fuck off," he snapped after a brief pause. "You’re not going to shoot her." Harold smirked. Sherlock frowned, confused. He was struck with the distinct impression that he’d just made a grave error in judgement, but couldn't immediately see what it was. Brain was running on fumes, lacking the sharp clarity of his usual inference speed. "Never," the man said with a smile, which briefly cracked into a tiny wince for the way the action caused a large, dark bruise on his face to shift. He released Mrs Hudson, who looked a tad offended but no worse for wear, and in the same motion shifted his firearm to aim down the hall instead. "But I’d sure as hell shoot *you,* kid." Ah... and that would be the error made, then. Sherlock had stopped exactly where he’d needed to be to line up a straight shot for his ribcage. Oops. He stared at the gun barrel for a long few seconds, trying to decide if he really thought he was about to die here. Seemed like… probably not? Harold hadn’t killed him yet despite ample opportunity, after all. Had in fact taken rather distinct pains to keep him alive. Bandaged him up and treated him for infection. Wouldn't make sense to undo all that work just to stop Sherlock escaping. Waste of good leverage, if nothing else. "You're bluffing," he asserted. Took a cautious step backwards towards the night air outside. No shift of the trigger finger. Good. True to prediction, Harold didn't react to Sherlock's movement beyond gritting his teeth in frustration. Finally the man lowered the gun. His free hand crept towards his midsection as if cradling an injury there, and all at once Sherlock's brain caught up with his eyes. Injured? When did that happen? Had those bruises been there when Harold had him in the truck earlier? Didn't think so. Bruises looked a day or so old, too, so - wait, how long had Sherlock been unconscious? Christ, he had no idea. Hopefully not *days.* Sherlock realized, with an enormous delay which seemed to be becoming the norm for him in this surreal hellscape of a week, that he'd stopped dead in his tracks staring at nothing important again. Fuck's sake. Survival skills of a gnat. "Fine, you clever little shit. Run off into the woods, then," Harold snapped, breaking into Sherlock's tired self-recrimination. "Don't forget we still have your ID, though. And I know *exactly* who you're related to." A thrum of alarm shot through him - ah, hell, had the man run a search already? Had Mycroft been alerted to his location? How long ago? Fuck, he was going to have to keep watch for British Secret Service agents on top of cops and Harold-Frank and whatever other fucking- ugh, this *bloody* week, for fuck's- He internally cut himself off and did his level best to deliver an imperious, "Oh, and who might that be?" Felt patently ridiculous, given the circumstances, but old habits died hard. Obligated to save face to the bitter end. Harold graced him with a dark smirk, and then dropped an ominous, carefully-enunciated name… "Violet Cauchois." Sherlock's brain stuttered to a halt. His haughty stare dropped immediately into a perplexed blink - first because Harold had actually pronounced his mother's maiden name correctly, which was bizarre to hear in the man's broad midwestern American accent, and second because... *what?* His mum? What in hell did his *mum* have to do with anything? "What in hell has my mum got to do with anything?" he asked blankly, because his brain-to-speech filter had shut itself down some dozen crises ago. Harold seemed to have been expecting a very different reaction. His menacing expression dropped into confusion in much the same way Sherlock's had. "What do you mean what's she-" he snapped, tone an odd mixture of baffled and angry. "The Kestrel? Heroin?" Sherlock could offer nothing beyond an utterly bewildered stare. Mercifully their little standoff was interrupted at that moment by a cacophony of what sounded for all the world like gunshots. With a sensation like cracking ice Sherlock felt his brain kick to life with the sudden spike of adrenaline. Barely paid any mind to the sight of Harold and his wife startling and turning around to look behind them down the hall; didn't matter what they were up to, who they knew or thought they knew, whatever the hell was going on here - fuck all of that nonsense, he'd dawdled plenty long enough. Time to get the hell out of this stupid bungalow and back to the business of leaving Florida behind forever. He finally bolted out the door after Joshua. The air outside was disgustingly warm and full of bugs, which in his current state was very nearly enough to turn him right back round into the shelter of air conditioning. Powered through it, of course. This was fine. Nowhere near the sweltering sauna of daylight hours. He'd manage. Just run, keep running. Don't stop until the treeline at minimum. Had to hit cover before Harold came back out with the gun. Halfway through the back lawn he was startled into nearly overbalancing by the sight of Josh appearing from around the back of a shed nearby, waving frantically to get his attention. Sherlock thankfully clocked him in time to change course mid-stride, skidding slightly on damp grass in his trainers. Managed to hit the shed corner and swing round it to thud against the back wall next to Josh just as the screen door of the house slammed open. Sounds of Harold telling his wife not to bother doing something or other - couldn't catch enough to process language. Too busy trying desperately to get enough air into a torso still rendered mostly immobile by a tight compression bandage round what had by now doubtless worsened into something like a torn abdominal muscle. Fantastic. Spared death by bullet only to die anyway of suffocation or internal bleeding. That would be just his luck, wouldn't it? He was dimly aware of Josh craning his head around the corner to check something or other, but paid it very little mind. Instead he let himself slowly slide down the shed wall until he'd landed on his rump in the damp grass below, trying to negotiate a war between his body's need for oxygen and his diaphragm's objections to moving. Trick of it was to check out, he thought. Like he'd done as a child. Pretend he wasn't here and let the meat-husk sort itself out. Tried to retreat to the landscape in his head, but it was fuzzy. Couldn't get a bead on anything, every image kept distorting and falling apart with every whipfire stab of pain from his gut. Fuck, this wasn't working at all… "What the fuck, dude?" Sherlock jumped, then grimaced for the stab of pain. Squinted up at Josh with what he hoped was a sardonically apologetic look instead of the more probable appearance of an idiot falling to pieces on the ground. "Sorry," he mumbled, dropping his head back down. Too much bother to look upwards. In lieu of trying to explain himself (what was there to explain, anyway, beyond his being a distractible moron who'd frozen like a spooked hare) he simply rested his forehead on his knees and focussed on pulmonary concerns. In, out, in, out. Josh paused a moment, perhaps considering the pathetic state of the sod he'd made the mistake of rescuing from captivity. Sherlock heard the man breathe a tiny, exasperated sigh, and then respond with a tired, "Yeah, well you're lucky I still had those firecrackers." Sherlock had no answer to that readily available and absolutely lacked the air to deliver it even if he had, so he remained silent aside from the continual agonising labour of trying to breathe. All around them the unfamiliar ambiance of an unfamiliar ecosystem hummed like a menacing conceptual aura. Hated it. Hated Florida. Missed home. Longed for the banal predictability of London. The coolness of an ocean fog. The lack of swarming bugs. God, but he'd give anything for fewer bloody *bugs.* Must have inhaled a dozen tiny midges and things in the past few minutes alone. His meandering insect-based thoughts were interrupted, yet again, by Josh. "... okay, dude, get up. We can't hide behind the shed all night." "I like the shed, we should stay behind the shed," Sherlock mumbled into his knees. Knew that sounded pathetic, but he was a bit beyond giving a damn. Running had exhausted the sliver of strength gained by his morphine-induced nap and moving now seemed outright impossible. He'd die here and be happy for it. Josh made an irritated noise, and to Sherlock's great displeasure bent down, grabbed him by the bicep, and hefted him up to his feet. Pain. Quite a lot of it, all concentrated to a stabbing spike through his abdomen. Knees immediately gave out, followed by the rest of him as a hollow ringing in his ears kicked up and his vision greyed out. Dimly heard Josh bite out a small curse, felt the man shift his grip to hold Sherlock upright by both arms. Wasn't entirely sure if he was still conscious - probably? If he could think about whether he was or not? Oh, and he was aware of having listed forward into Josh's shoulder, and then aware of the other man shoving him backwards to brace against the shed, and… yes, alright, he was still cognizant. Barely. "You good, dude?" Josh asked in a tight, somewhat irritated-sounding tone. Sherlock squinted one eye open, found vision tolerable, and then opened both eyes and shook his head groggily. No. Not good. Terrible, actually. Josh looked away for a moment - towards some noise Sherlock had missed. The man seemed to chew at the inside of his cheek in thought, then moved. Shifted one of Sherlock's arms over his shoulder and proceeded to half-drag him towards the woods just behind the shed. Venturing into some muggy Florida jungle in the middle of the night with a strange man who'd popped out of his captors' ceiling felt like one of the stupider things Sherlock had done in his life, but disabled as he was there was hardly any choice to be made about it. Either he walked along with Josh through the undergrowth or he passed out in the American swamp-wilderness and got himself eaten by some horrific megafauna. Option one involved fewer alligators. Hopefully. Josh shifted under Sherlock’s not-quite-dead weight, fished around in a pocket, and came up with a small torch. He held it low, the beam slicing forward just enough to reveal a narrow strip of dirt threading into what looked to be less 'woods' and more… foliage. Aggressive foliage. Plants that looked like they belonged in a prehistoric diorama or a child’s drawing of a jungle. Nothing familiar. Nothing polite. Just a dense, humid wall of green things bristling with shapes his elite British education afforded no vocabulary for. Some leaves were huge and fan-like, others spiky in a way that felt personally threatening, and tangled vines lay over the lot of it like a nest of coiled vipers. The path, if it could be called as much, looked uneven - the kind of root-twisted surface purpose-built to roll an ankle, and somewhere off to their right he heard something wet gurgle ominously. *We cannot possibly be about to trek through-* he thought, and then stopped thinking because a wet leaf slapped him in the face as Josh pushed them forward straight into the undergrowth. Didn't even pause for Sherlock's disgruntled noise, which was quite rude. Still, the man was being… kind enough, in a manner of speaking, to keep Sherlock from faceplanting into the mud for the second time that week. So he begrudgingly adjusted, did as much as he could to support his own weight, and allowed this strange ginger man to drag him into a foreign, hostile jungle which he fervently told himself was not full of large predatory reptiles. Finally, after what felt like a small and nauseatingly damp eternity, they reached what seemed to be their destination, though there was nothing immediately visible to explain why Josh had pulled up short next to some stout, vaguely tree-like plant with wildly oversized leaves. Sherlock had so far seen no alligators, but there had been a snake or two slithering away through the foliage, and he was distinctly unhappy about how close he'd come to making an undignified squeak of fear over each one. They'd just *startled* him, alright, that was all- wasn't scared of- look, he just wasn't *used* to snakes, hadn't anything but tiny garters back home, not his fault this place was a bloody nightmare of- His internal rambling was cut short by Josh letting go of his midsection, by which he'd been supporting Sherlock's weight all this time. Sherlock managed to keep his own balance, thankfully. Watched as Josh pushed one of the enormous leaves aside, revealing some manner of man-made cave behind, ducked inside, and then reappeared beckoning for Sherlock to follow. Gingerly, he did so. Sherlock realised as he stepped over a partially-buried steel frame that what had seemed to be a cave was actually the back compartment of an ancient, rusted-out van. It had been consumed by vegetation so as to be fully concealed from above, and someone (presumably Josh himself) had converted the space into a makeshift hideout. A faded beach umbrella stripped of its frame was spread out on the floor like carpeting, fine mesh netting hung in gaps where doors and windows had once been, keeping out the bugs. Several plastic bags piled into a corner seemed to contain things like a sleeping bag and cookware, and a string of fairy lights had been affixed to the ceiling for illumination. As they made their way inside Josh flipped the switch on a large battery which powered the fairy lights, bathing the space in a weak ethereal glow. A small fan mounted near the front windows also kicked on to provide airflow, which was an unexpected godsend. Sherlock hadn't remotely got used to the stifling, cloying feeling of humid air filling his lungs with every laboured breath. "Welcome to Fort Hudson, I guess," Josh announced tiredly. "Used to hang out here a lot. Makes for a pretty good bolt hole when the house isn't safe." Sherlock didn't bother trying to come up with a reply. Hiking through a swamp draped halfway over a stranger had been odyssey enough, not to mention having a gun pointed at him (again), and all of this laid atop the vague, lingering memory of that bloody morphine-induced fever dream, which he hadn't remotely had a chance to process yet. Not that he especially wanted to try, considering the turn it had taken, with his older self conjuring that stupid ghostly image of… ugh. Why the fuck was he thinking about this!? Josh glanced back at him, probably watching Sherlock's wavering stance to see if he looked liable to collapse again. Didn't think so. Maybe. Unsure. Watched Josh's freckled cheeks in the weak light morph into a face he very much did not want to risk thinking about at the moment and decided yeah no he should probably sit down. He lowered himself down into a slouching heap against the furthest wall, and in an effort to avoid the sight of freckled cheeks in too little illumination to stop them morphing into imagery he couldn't afford to dwell on right now, closed his eyes. He must have seemed as if he were meaning to fall asleep, because Josh made a disgruntled sound and gave him a rough shake by the shoulder. Pain, yet again. And a flash of sick nausea. Snapped his eyes open to fix Josh with an acid glare, and at the same time, mortifyingly, let out a pathetic half-whingeing growl of a noise. Not so much for the severity of the pain (which seemed to have lessened somewhat compared to what he recalled from… what, yesterday? this morning?) but for the sudden mental cascade of a thousand fragmented images of a different freckled face with a different stupid accent. Imagery from the dream overlaying the present overlaying memories which really needed to stay buried right now, thanks. Absolutely not the time for this shit. "Oh, shit, sorry. I forgot you're all messed up," Josh said, drawing his hand back as if burnt. He gave Sherlock a quick, vaguely concerned once-over with his eyes, then seemed to shake himself and put on a more stern expression. "But, hey, this ain't nap time though, okay? We're just laying low until the heat's off a bit. Don't fall asleep." Sherlock closed his eyes again and briefly dug the heels of his palms into them in an effort to stop the torrent of memories. Didn't help, just made his face hurt. Shifted his hands to tangle in his hair instead, then miserably curled up into a ball. That helped a bit. Made his stomach feel less like a throbbing pit of pressure and hot fire. "Not sleeping," he growled into the little cocoon he'd made for himself. "Right, sure, of course not. You just happen to look exactly like a guy getting ready to keel over and pass out." Josh shoved him again, a bit more roughly this time. Too much, all of a sudden. The contact and the aching pain and the humidity and the sweat and the *stupid bloody freckles* and- fuck. Piss off! Who the fuck was this bloke anyway to be bloody *manhandling* him like this!? Lifted his head and abruptly snarled at the man to get him to back off. Full force of every scrap of danger he'd ever picked up from his father, projecting as threatening an aura as he could manage - *I'll fucking kill you if you touch me one more bloody time for fuck's sake, try me you bastard, fuck off.* Josh did not, in fact, fuck off. Instead he failed to react at all. Just watched Sherlock's little display of aggression with a bland, unimpressed stare. An awkward silence stretched between them. "My guy if you wanna fight me that's your prerogative, I guess, but I gotta warn you I would fuck you up," Josh finally informed him. By his tone this clearly wasn't meant as a threat, just a flat statement of fact. Sherlock let the chill bleed out of his expression and blinked quizzically at the man. Didn't think he'd ever tried that trick and had it fail before. Usually people at least faltered. Was he really that badly off? Or was Josh just… not susceptible? "Real mean mug, though, I'll give you that," Josh added with an offhand shrug. Moving away, he shifted one of the plastic bags out from the pile in the corner and flopped down on it like a beanbag chair. The two of them regarded each other curiously - Sherlock in an effort to figure out what the hell made this random American so unmoved by his best imitation of a violent psychopath, and Josh for his own inscrutable reasons. At the very least, Sherlock found himself musing, the man's unruffled reaction in the face of impending violence had thoroughly dashed any associations between him and Eric, enough to where the intrusive memories had ebbed back into tolerable background noise. Small mercies. After a few moments' scrutiny Josh finally huffed a tired sigh to himself and let his head loll back into the bags behind him. "Alright, look," he grumbled towards the ceiling in a voice drained of the slightly-forced levity Sherlock had begun to expect of him. "I don't know what's going on with you, like, at all. And honestly I wouldn't even give a shit except for Frank went to all the trouble of bringing you here like he thinks you're important, and I want to know exactly why that is before I decide what to do here." He lifted his head again and fixed Sherlock with a hard stare. "So, here's the deal - tell me who the fuck you're actually working with, what Frank wants with you, and what you're trying to accomplish. And then if your goals don't run completely counter to mine I promise I'll do my best to help you out." Under normal circumstances Sherlock's brain would have jumped down about a hundred separate paths of rabbit-warren crosslinking intrigue at once, unpacking every nuance of that statement. At the moment, however… well, between failing to fully process the words and deleting what little he did catch he somehow only managed to retain next to nothing. Could only stare blankly at Josh and voice the single idiot detail he'd managed to catch hold of. "... who's Frank?" Josh's stare morphed into a look somewhere between baffled and intensely frustrated. "Who's *Frank?* The guy who almost just fucking shot you!" Sherlock matched Josh's frustrated glare with one of his own. "You mean Harold?" "What? No, dude. Frank. Harold left. Pretty sure I told you that, like, less than an hour ago." A pregnant pause passed, during which Sherlock felt very lost, then slowly caught on as his waterlogged brain meandered round to connecting the dots, and then found himself even *more* lost because the answer he'd come to was fucking stupid. "Your uncle has a twin brother," he concluded, finding himself offended by the very notion. "Both my uncles have a twin brother, yes," Josh confirmed, dry as paper. "They also have completely different facial hair right now and one is beat to hell, so I gotta admit I'm not totally sure how you thought they were the same person." "Oh fuck off," Sherlock snapped, not at all in the mood to be criticised at the moment even if he objectively deserved it. "I'll not be belittled over failing to notice if a man pointing a gun at me had a beard or not." Josh held his hands up in an exasperated, placating gesture. "Okay, okay, fine. Doesn't matter anyway. You good with that deal, then?" Sherlock huffed a sigh and shifted himself to be leaning back against the van wall with his eyes closed. "What deal?" "The deal I just - holy shit, dude, how do you keep forgetting stuff that just happened?" Josh's voice was an outraged mix of aggravated and concerned. "Did you get hit in the head or something?" Sherlock huffed a tiny, dispirited sigh. Hadn't been hit in the head - not hard enough to concuss him, anyway. Just the abdominal contusion and a bruised jaw, and the lingering pain of having bitten his tongue at some point. Despite the general floaty confusion of his mental space at the moment he could nonetheless track the shape of what Josh was no doubt reacting to. Sherlock kept forgetting things he'd just heard, obviously. No working memory. Distractible. Spending far too long in his head between sentences, thoughts skittering around and through and on top and below each other. No internal landscape to speak of. He knew this state. Intimately well. Wasn't brain injury, unfortunately. Something much worse. "No. I just… haven't had any stimulants in a while. Keep getting stuck in spiderweb thoughts. Sorry," he grumbled. Hated to admit that, both to himself and this bloke he'd just met an hour ago. Wouldn't do either of them any good to let Josh think he'd some sort of neurological crisis brewing, though. God forbid the man decide to ring an ambulance on suspicion of a brain bleed. "What the hell are 'spiderweb thoughts'?" Josh asked, looking as if that explanation had only served to further spike suspicion that the man in front of him might be dying of a stroke. Sherlock grit his teeth, let his head tap against the rusted wall behind him for a moment, then with deep reluctance clarified with, "Being this forgetful and distractible isn't… it's not… abnormal, for me." Saying that out loud felt like knives to the chest. Or perhaps he'd just moved wrong again. Kept going because he still had to explain the main issue. "When I haven't got any stimulants or adrenaline to run off of I'm just… like this, I guess. Default state." Josh gave him a confused, dubious look. One raised brow and a hint of doubt. "Okay. And… what are you like with stimulants, then?" "Ah… not this," Sherlock replied. Tacked on a silly little helpless shrug and hoped it did the job of making him look less pathetic than he felt. "Or not as bad, anyway. I should get a bit less insufferable as soon as I find a chance to have a smoke, that'll clear up the worst of it." "Oh. Well you can light up in here if you've got em, dude, I don't care. Fan pulls it all out anyway." Josh hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the little whirring fan in the van's smashed-out front window. He paused, expression shifting as if remembering something, then turned to dig around in one of the bags beside him. "Oh, hey, wait, did Penny leave her-? Hang on, probably in one of these…" With a flourish he pulled out a small, thin container. Shook it a bit to hear the contents rattle and grinned as he flicked it Sherlock's way. "Knew she left a box of these damn things in here!" Sherlock picked up the packet from where it'd bounced off his side and tilted it towards the weak light to read the label - generic nicotine patches. Despite everything he felt himself quirking a tiny, bemused smile. Wouldn't help much given the circumstances but… well, better than nothing. And it was… oddly kind of Josh to think of. Josh was odd in a lot of ways, he was starting to realise. And strangely familiar in others. Almost like a distorted reflection of traits Sherlock knew in himself. A sort of coiled poise, a stance which seemed capable of shifting fluidly between violence or stealth, the calm, collected wariness of someone habitually scanning the exits… "Girlfriend's been trying to quit smoking for a while now. Forgets to put the patches back in her purse, like, every single time," Josh rattled off casually. Far more casually than Sherlock had yet heard from him, almost chipper, even, which was yet another oddity to add to the pile. Sherlock glanced up curiously and caught Josh's expression as the man paused a moment, looking somewhat pained, then muttered, "... well, ex-girlfriend, I guess." Despite himself, Sherlock huffed a sympathetic breath through his nose as he set about trying to get into the fiendish little box. Everything felt unreasonably difficult right now, even something so banal as opening a bit of packaging. Fiddling with the thing took up enough processing space in his mind in this state that he, predictably, found himself replying to Josh without realising what he was actually saying. "I did that for a while, too." Josh looked up from where he'd glanced away, frowning. "Did what?" Sherlock replied with a questioning blink because he'd truly no idea what he'd said. "Hm?" "You did what for a while too?" A hint of frustration in Josh's voice. He was clearly getting sick of Sherlock's scatterbrained nonsense. Fair enough, Sherlock was too. He huffed in annoyance, firmly resolved not to answer, and then heard himself mutter, "... kept forgetting the ex part." God. And that would be the linguistic centres of his brain firing off without so much as a by-your-leave, then. Brain in an absolute shambles - desperately needed a drug of some sort before he thoroughly fucked himself over. Thankfully he'd finally got the box apart, tore into the pouches, slapped a nicotine patch on his forearm with rather more aggression than necessary. Then followed it up with another for good measure. Considered a third, but… no he probably didn't want to risk vomiting with an abdominal contusion. Josh watched all this with an unreadable expression. Continued watching as Sherlock dug the slightly-smashed pack of cigs and lighter out of his pocket and set about trying to decide which fag was the driest after their humid march through the wetlands. Sherlock, for his part, tried to focus on not grimacing too obviously with every tiny shift of his upper body. At least he wasn't coughing anymore, that would've been a bloody nightmare. Wondered vaguely what he might have been dosed with to help the nascent cold, before recalling that morphine was a cough suppressant. Oh. Right. Well. Josh was still looking at him. Sherlock met the man's scrutiny, made a tiny 'what' sort of movement. Josh shook his head faintly, leant back on his makeshift beanbag chair and seemed to make a conscious effort to shift back to a more flippant tone. "Guess we got some shit in common then, huh," the man said as if trying to force some other emotion down with whatever this one was. Bitterness? Something like bitterness. "Don't suppose yours also broke up with you for no goddamned reason and took off for Cali?" "Uh… no," Sherlock mumbled as he retrieved the battered cigarette pack from his pocket - patches were all well and good as a means to maintain a steadier dose going forward, but he had no intention of sitting around waiting for the slow percolation of nicotine through skin to build up to a functional level. His stupid mouth of course took advantage of the distraction of fishing out his lighter to carry on talking without conscious approval. "Actually come to think of it I guess we never formally broke up." "So what happened, then?" Josh asked. Genuinely curious, by his tone. Strange. Why would he want to know? Wasn't even an interesting story. And yet, treacherous mouths being what they were in this state, Sherlock heard himself answering anyway. "Father had him arrested as part of some scheme to manipulate my brother into offing me," his voice nattered out, words tumbling along in an unbroken stream of consciousness. Dimly he put some effort into shutting up, failed to note any change, and then with a sensation of utter helplessness just gave in and let himself keep going. "... I was able to get him cleared of all charges and released from jail without too much trouble but I didn't think he'd want to see me again after I'd shouted in his face like that and anyway I did need to get out of the country before Mycroft had a chance to work out my misdirection chain on the forged travel papers or traced the last trust fund withdrawal so I just left but it seemed like the breakup was implied I think or at least it must be by now since it's been a few months." Josh blinked, drew his head back with a baffled little shake. "Uh, wow, okay. You, uh… gonna help me unpack any of that or am I on my own?" Sherlock scowled. Determined he'd be far better served keeping his mouth firmly clamped around his cigarette so as to absorb as much nicotine as possible. Stupid fucking brain with its stupid fucking broken impulse control. "On my own, I guess. Cool." Josh drew a long, centreing breath through his nose, then turned and dug a small notepad and pen out of the same bag he'd found the nicotine patches in. He spent several seconds scribbling, frowned at the page in an oddly scrutinising way, then held the pad up to read back aloud what he'd written. "Okay. Your dad got your boyfriend arrested to try to get your brother to kill you. Then you somehow got your guy cleared and fled the country after acquiring forged documents even though you're like barely an adult, with a trust fund in there somewhere? And you're super casual about all that. So you're either schizophrenic as hell, or you're from a background where that kind of stuff is normal. Frank wouldn't go to all this trouble over some crazy homeless kid, so I'm gonna guess your family's involved in something like deep state politics or organised crime?" Sherlock was only barely listening. Enough nicotine had worked its way into his system to let him conjure up his silly little mind-field again, so in the midst of Josh talking he'd shifted over to trying to take stock of the state of his brain after this latest round of physical insult. Seemed a far higher priority than keeping track of whatever the other man was on about. Memories and information lay scattered haphazardly across great swaths of his internal space, aftermath of the hurricane his mind became in the absence of chemical restraints. Christ, what an absolute bloody *mess.* He'd have to pick through the debris piece by piece just to start trying to make sense of anything he'd done or learnt in the past few hours. "Er... both, I think," he heard himself say. In response to what, he wasn't sure. Something about criminals? His family? Oh! Wait, hadn't not-Harold said something important related to that? "Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed. "My mum!" Josh rubbed at his forehead as if fighting a headache. "Sure, dude, your mom. Who needs context anyway." Sherlock waved him off impatiently, scrubbing hands through tangled curls. *Think, damn it, get it together.* What had the man said? Damn it, couldn't recall enough detail, everything kept scrambling… brain was still a disaster zone of loose scraps of data and misfiled recollection, getting it all back in order by means of his little mental abstractions would take ages. No time for that right now. Needed a more efficient way to organise, slow thoughts down enough to sort through them. He eyed Josh dubiously through his fringe. While the man's freckled face no longer triggered a painful torrent of glass-sharp memories, it *did* remind him of the way Eric had always been happy enough to play audience to Sherlock's cocaine-fuelled rambling. How helpful it had been just having someone willing to listen whilst he worked through all the information in his head. And how Eric seemed to instinctively know when to reign him in before he got too worked up or off-topic. Josh wouldn't have the same stabilising effect *(no one would, never going to have that kind of comfort again, stop thinking about him for the love of god not going down that path right now stop it stop it stop)* but it might be better than nothing. "If I were to dump an absolute deluge of tangentially-related information on you right now, probably in a manic ramble, would you be able to… I don't know, listen, or write some of it down, or something? Help organise things?" Josh, to his credit, didn't look especially fazed. With an air of a man resigned to his fate he balanced his notepad on one knee, pen at the ready, and lifted one shoulder in a silent *get on with it, then.* Well, that would have to do. No proper way to collect anything otherwise. He took a deep breath. "Har— *Frank* lifted my ID back in Tallahassee and threatened to 'find out who's looking for me' - but any public records search should've pointed him directly towards my brother, or, if his sources were badly out of date, our late father. Both prominent names in British military intelligence, both with a vested interest in knowing where I am at all times. Instead he cited my *mother,* by her maiden name no less, which doesn't make any sense because if you've dug far enough to find that name you've surely already come across Siger Holmes multiple times. Who skips over *him* to focus on a retired French spy? Not to mention he also said something about kestrels and heroin and that makes even *less* sense - I mean, not that I'd put Mummy past having been addicted to heroin, I guess, that might make a lot of sense honestly, but the other thing was presumably one of her codenames and why would some American bloke know anything about that? Unless he was CIA or something? Specialised in infiltrating the Soviets like my parents did, maybe knew her from before she married? But even if that were the case what the hell would any of that have to do with *me?* Surely anyone who knew Mummy personally wouldn't think her likely to give in to blackmail. She'd just tell them it was my own fault for getting caught like a bloody idiot and to dispose of the rubbish or something, assuming she were lucid enough to even remember I exist." Several seconds stretched between them punctuated by nothing but Josh's scribbling. Finally the man dotted a final line with a bit of a flourish, then flipped his notepad up to regard it with an odd sort of pride. "You know, Aunty was right, shorthand really *is* an undervalued skill." Sherlock had no idea how to respond to that, and therefore didn't. Took a last drag off his dwindling cigarette instead, down to the acrid filter, and reluctantly stubbed it out on the metal wall of the van interior. Really would've liked to smoke another, but god knew when he'd be able to get more, and he couldn't be sure if the patches were going to be strong enough to rely on. "Alright, so let's see what we got here… well, you pegged Frank right away, that's pretty impressive. Former CIA agent, yeah. Got up to a bunch of shady shit in Russia during the Cold War. So I guess he must have known your mom, then? Cause he sure as hell hasn't looked anything up. His secure computer's busted into a million pieces right now." Sherlock felt something misalign at that - one of those quiet internal clicks that meant the puzzle pieces weren’t actually fitting, just been shoving them together by force. The filter aftertaste clung to his tongue, metallic, sour. Right. If Frank hadn’t researched anything, then- “That doesn’t track,” he cut in, sharper than intended. “If he recognised her, it wasn’t from files.” His fingers twitched against his knee, compulsive, counting backwards through years he didn’t actually want to picture. “She was long retired by the time I existed. And no one in that world would mistake the surname for anything useful. If he knew her, he would’ve known her married name. So why use the maiden name instead?" Hated how thin his voice sounded at the end. Like the sentence wanted to keep going but his mind hit something it had tripped over. He frowned into the murky blackness around them and tried to think what he was snagging on. Was it… his mother being an actual person? Hadn't ever really thought of that before. The idea of his mother having had an entire life outside the limited scope of what he could imagine her being… jarring to think about, really… that she'd been anything like him, running about with thoughts and contradictions and everything. Felt and cheated and loved. Something more than the hollowed-out shell playing housewife he'd always known her to be. Josh raised a brow at him, unimpressed. "Uh, probably to see how you'd react? Pretty basic intel-gathering tactic, dude." Sherlock shifted out of the mum-shaped hole in his thoughts. Paused for a long beat to parse Josh's statement and let it sink in. Then groaned with the realisation. Ah, fuck. Josh was right. That had been an obvious operational trap and he'd walked straight into it. Dropped the word 'mum' and confirmed her relationship to him without a single scrap of resistance. *Fuck,* what an idiot. Shouldn't have stung so badly, really - he'd been used to this at one point, hadn't he? Spent the majority of his existence in a constant state of dread, just waiting to discover how badly he'd fucked up this time. Not like this was any different to a hundred other mistakes. But it had been so much easier to accept that reality when it was all he'd ever known. Before that brief respite of a field of sparkling white in his head. Now he knew how easy all this shit could be if he could only muster the bloody strength to force his mind into the more functional shape it took up under chemical bombardment. Or failing that if he could just manage the intake better, perhaps, not run himself ragged with the sine wave of highs and lows. He'd been getting better at it, hadn't he? Near the end. Could have found a balance if he'd kept up. With a tired huff of a sigh he let his head drop onto one knee and closed his eyes. "Should've never gone off coke," he heard himself mutter. “Not super sure how that’s relevant, but okay,” Josh said. A buzz erupted in his pocket, sharp enough to jolt them both. Sherlock lifted his head in time to see Josh dig out a battered flip-phone and squint at the screen. “Welp, Frank knows we’re out here. Guess that was inevitable.” Sherlock tensed, a dark pulse of adrenaline trickling unpleasantly down his spine. “Do we… need to go, then?” Didn't fancy venturing back out into the bug-infested woods, but mosquitoes were less dangerous than bullets. “Nah.” Josh shook his head and, for whatever reason, angled the phone toward him. *Go ahead and keep him until morning, I’ll clean up your mess in the meantime.* Sherlock read it in a glance. Remained largely nonplussed. Keep him? What, like a dog? What mess? Why did all this just keep getting more bloody complicated the longer things went on? “Any suggestions for pithy one-liners?” Josh asked drily. His thumbs hovered over the keypad. “No,” Sherlock grumbled, folding back over his knee. Then, a beat later, “Wait. Yes. Tell him ‘Siger sends his regards.’ Turn his stupid trick back on him. If he knows the name, it narrows context.” Josh snorted. "Sure, whatever. Let's get fucking esoteric," Josh quipped as he typed. He flipped the screen towards Sherlock once more to confirm the spelling, then send it. "You know you never answered the question I actually cared about. Or told me your name." "Sherlock Holmes," he replied flatly. Despite the nicotine he was beginning to feel profoundly exhausted. "Forgot the other question." "Who you're working for, and what your goals are. Which is two questions, I guess, but whatever." "I think at this point we've established I'm far too incompetent to plausibly be *working* for anyone." Sherlock hoped the cynical tone was enough to cover how deeply his latest string of unforced blunders had left him feeling hollowed out and useless. "And goals… I don't know. None, I guess." "None?" Josh repeated dubiously. "You just randomly travelled to Tallahassee, from England, with no goal? Zero reason?" "Yep," Sherlock replied in a falsely upbeat quip. "You know I don't believe that for a fucking second, right?" Sherlock sighed. Lifted his head off his knee to instead lean back against the wall of the van with his legs stretched out. Christ, fuck being cagey. He'd about run dry of anything resembling social energy. Best just say whatever he had on tap and hope that got Josh to leave him alone for a minute. "Not… zero reason, I guess," he admitted dully, voice quiet, distant as he stared straight ahead into the murky glow of the fairy lights. "I was in New York for a while when I first got here, but… it felt too much like London. Kept tripping over associative triggers. So I started heading south, thought a drastically different environment might solve the intrusive memory problem." Shifted his gaze to look at Josh's face, watched with resignation as his mind once again rearranged the man's freckles into more familiar constellations. Let a cascade of imagery and association tumble through. Eric's lopsided smile, foreign sensation of safety in vulnerability, the heady musk of his skin after sex. Wondered dully if this sharp stab of regret would diminish over time or if he'd spend the rest of his life pining over a month-long fling with a cockney stoner. He looked away again. "... hasn't really worked." “Jesus, man,” Josh muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You could’ve just said you were running. Didn't need a whole trauma map." Sherlock flashed him a tired, faint smile. "Sorry." Josh seemed to hesitate. Opened his mouth, shut it again. Breathed out a short sigh through his nose. "I… it's fine, dude. I just…" he trailed off and scowled as if in thought, then jumped about a mile as his pocket buzzed again. "*'Alphonse sends his back'*?" he read off his mobile screen quizzically. "Who the fuck is Alphonse?" Sherlock raised his brows in bemused disbelief. Well, then. What a bizarre way to stumble upon new family ties. "My grandfather." **««** ## Chapter 11 **««** *He was sat on the hard sofa in Grand-mère's sitting room, waiting for Father to return from seeing Mycroft off. The older boy was leaving early, since his first term at Cambridge was due to start. Sherlock knew he'd be in trouble when Father returned, because he'd collected a load of rocks and shells and things from the beach earlier and, in his distraction over Mycroft's departure, had accidentally left them in a little pile on the garden path where Father had tripped over them on his way to the waiting car. In the moment the man had laughed it off, waved Mycroft ahead while he paused to brush a bit of dirt from his shoe, but the dark look he shot back at Sherlock signalled he'd not be escaping reprisal.* *Sherlock should have been old enough to know better than to leave stones and shells on a garden path, so he knew there'd be hell to pay. He was also old enough to know not to try to run away or hide before Father returned, as that would only make things worse. Instead he'd found the most conspicuous place he could think of, right in the middle of the sitting room off the front entryway, so it wouldn't seem like he'd been meaning to avoid being found. And then he simply waited. It was torturous, stewing there in silent trepidation, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Breaking the stillness felt like it might lift some secret spell and bring his doom crashing down upon him.* *A quiet sound off to the other side of the room caught his attention, and he looked up without meaning to. Heart in his throat for a moment thinking Father had returned through another entrance. But, no. It was only Grand-père. The tall, severe man paused in his journey down the hall and regarded Sherlock through the entryway. Pale eyes an unspoken question:* What on earth are you doing? *Mycroft had complained to Sherlock once that Grand-père never communicated with anyone. Sherlock had thought that a very strange and silly thing to say, because he communicated with Grand-père all the time. So he'd laughed. But Mycroft had reacted with annoyance, as if he'd not been trying to be funny. 'Grand-père talks by staring at you', Sherlock had eventually explained once he realised his brother somehow genuinely didn't know, and Mycroft had told him to stop being ridiculous. Sherlock knew that reply meant there'd be no point bringing the topic up again, so he didn't. But he did find himself wondering how it could possibly be that his brother didn't understand the strange, intuitive non-language Grand-père used, when for Sherlock it came so easily. Mycroft was so much smarter than him, how could he have missed something like that?* *He met Grand-père's eyes and conveyed his answer by whatever hidden means instinct had given:* Waiting for the inevitable. *They held each other's gaze for a few seconds more. Finally, Grand-père abandoned his original path and entered the sitting room instead. With no pomp whatsoever he took a seat on the sofa next to Sherlock. And then just… waited with him. Side by side. Utterly silent.* *This was extremely strange, of course. Beyond family gatherings where they were always the only two people in the room not participating in conversation, and therefore often passed the time trading looks over silly things the others said, Sherlock hadn't actually interacted with his grandfather all that much. Certainly hadn't ever exchanged a single actual word. But now here the man was sitting quietly next to him waiting for hell to arrive. Was he… expecting Sherlock to say something? Start a conversation? With proper talking?* *Sherlock glanced over. Grand-père seemed to sense this, and looked down to him. Their eyes met.* *No. Wasn't meant to speak. Only sit. Wait.* *Really should have been quite awkward. But it wasn't. Somehow he found sitting in silence with his grandfather to be… oddly companionable. As if they'd both mastered this strange art of remaining perfectly still for hours at a time and could mutually appreciate the finer points of technique.* *Eventually, of course, the silence had to break. It always did. The door in front of them opened, and Father strode through it with a tightness to his face that spoke of how much he utterly loathed visiting Violet's parents. Meant he'd likely been accosted by Grand-mère on his way into the house over some nonsense she'd decided to fret over. Didn't bode well for Sherlock. That, on top of having misbehaved, along with Mycroft having left… god, no, didn't bear thinking about. Just try to put on a stoic face. Have a bit of dignity.* *Just one step past the doorway, though, Father froze. He stood with his hand still resting on the handle behind him and regarded the two figures on the sofa - grandson and grandfather, twin living statues.* *"... Alphonse," Father said after what seemed a very long pause.* *"Siger," Grand-père replied without the slightest inflection. Sherlock had only ever heard the man speak a handful of times, but every one of those utterances had sounded thoroughly bored. His default state, apparently.* *Father held his gaze a few beats longer, then looked to Sherlock, who simply stared back. Had absolutely no idea what was going on. But he'd still done as he was supposed to, though, hadn't he? Or was he meant to have handled Grand-père deciding to sit next to him differently? Asked the man to leave, perhaps? That didn't seem like it would have worked. Hoped Father wouldn't be angry about this, too.* *Father looked back to Grand-père and seemed to deliberate. Finally, as if having arrived to some important decision, he turned his icy gaze back to Sherlock.* *"Come along, child."* *Swallowing down a sick spike of dread, Sherlock shifted to slide off the sofa. A hand on his shoulder stopped him - just the barest hint of a touch. He froze in place with the contact, and as soon as he did the hand left him again. He turned to see Grand-père returning to the same placid position he'd been sat in all this time. The elderly man fixed a supremely disinterested stare on Father with his piercing grey-blue eyes, as if Siger Holmes were a bit of dull wallpaper, perhaps, or a misplaced houseplant. Sherlock turned his own grey-blue eyes on Father as well, though his expression was doubtless far less intimidating - more confused and panicked than anything, probably. No idea what he was supposed to do, which man he was meant to obey first. Anxiety was eating him alive.* *Father worked his jaw a tick, seeming spectacularly annoyed, then huffed a clipped breath through his nose. Not quite a frustrated sigh, but something very like one.* *"Never mind, Sherlock," he bit out. "Evidently your grandfather has… need of you."* *It was one of those sentences where it seemed like the real meaning was something very different to what had actually been said. Sherlock had never been much good at parsing those, not the way Mycroft could. Rather than attempt to understand he simply remained frozen in place, hoping that might somehow be the correct choice, and watched as Father returned the way he'd come. Silence fell upon the room once more.* *Just a short minute or two later, Grand-père stood. He turned to fix Sherlock with a meaningful stare:* He'll not trouble you here again. *Sherlock stared back with a small, bewildered smile:* Thank you. *Grand-père simply nodded. He turned, headed towards the hall to his original path, and was gone.* **««** ## Chapter 12 **««** Mycroft stared grimly at the screen before him. Should have assigned one of his staff to this task, really - trawling through surveillance clips collected from Father's estate was work meant for a junior analyst, beneath his paygrade for years now. And yet here he sat, trying to decide which recording to watch first. As if he were back in his rookie days. For the most part, of course, he'd delegated this project as expected. Hand-picked a team to comb through Father's extensive archive of home security footage looking for evidence of illegal activity, damning conversations, unknown contacts. Any information worth integrating into the ever-expanding dossier on his late Father's various political extortion enterprises. One dataset stood starkly apart from the rest, however. The team processing these recordings in preparation for more detailed analysis had found that, with very few exceptions, the only notable events taking place in Father's private study involved Mycroft's brother. And for whatever nonsensical reason it had felt… indecent, somehow, to assign some underling to examine this footage. As if he'd be avoiding an act of penance. And so, with a stiff drink at hand should worst come to worse, Mycroft loaded up the database of digitised footage and told himself he wasn't going to have any trouble watching through a few banal surveillance videos. Done plenty of this sort of work in his early days, after all. Analysing a handful of recordings collected from a single room in his childhood home would be of no consequence whatsoever compared to the scale of projects he'd typically been assigned back then. Bit of a dull morning, maybe. Nothing more. All of the files in this batch had been processed already - trimmed of dead footage, cropped and sorted with incident time and location tags. Simple matter to filter for recordings from Father's private study, then sort by date. Considered going in order from oldest to newest, then internally recoiled at the thought of witnessing a small child subjected to the whims of Siger Holmes, and instead chose a file at random from down near the very bottom of the list. Late nineties, when he'd have already been a teenager. Easier to process. Unfortunately, the instant the feed came up Mycroft realised he'd made a poor choice. Because, as he spotted the full date printed in the bottom corner of the main camera, it registered that this would have been the year he'd not come home over the holiday season. He'd been embroiled in a complex project in his new position with MI5 and hadn't wanted to risk losing grip on a few key contacts he'd recently developed. Despite having found this much more enjoyable than the usual routine of tedious family meals and hollow pleasantries, he'd nevertheless made a point of clearing his schedule to make the trip the following year. Sherlock had directed far too much vitriol towards him over his absence to risk skipping out again. And that next year, of course, had been the year the blinders fell away. When he'd finally been forced to confront the reality that all the little troubling signs he'd cleverly rationalised over the course of his brother's life added up to one inescapable, monstrous truth. Leaving Sherlock at the mercy of their father hadn't been an option after that, so he'd convinced Siger to allow the boy to live with him in London for the remainder of his teens. They'd not made more than a handful of visits home thereafter. Which meant, then, that this recording was very likely to depict whatever incident had caused Sherlock to treat Mycroft with such bitter contempt over the following months. An event which would alter the course of both their lives irreversibly. Lord have mercy. On the flickering screen before him a video feed of excellent picture quality, given its age, depicted Father's study. Or, at least, the feed label proclaimed it to be STUDY-SOUTH-o1. Meaning the study located on the south side of the main house. Mycroft hadn't ever found much occasion to venture into this room, so the space was unfamiliar to him. Father's desk was a large mahogany affair in the late Georgian style he typically preferred, matching the rest of the office furniture. The security camera of highest image quality was mounted on the wall behind and slightly to the left of his desk chair, affording a mid-angle shot of the space directly in his working line of sight, with a clear view up to the leather chesterfield sofa and coffee table some metres off towards the bay window. A large, decorative world globe stood off to the side of the desk, partially cut off by the frame edge. To the right of this primary camera feed were several smaller inset frames, each depicting wide-angle shots of lower image quality covering different sections of the room, carefully arranged to ensure no blind spots. Microphones hidden around the space afforded a clear audio feed, with additional high-fidelity devices embedded directly into the desk and filing cabinets to detect any subtle movement of drawers or their contents. It was the surveillance system of a man whose wastepaper bin contained enough secrets to topple a dozen regimes. Father's desk sat empty, for the moment, and a nervous-looking fourteen year-old Sherlock stood in front of it. By the slightly-too-short shirtsleeves Mycroft guessed the boy to be in the midst of one of the rapid growth spurts he'd had around that age, leaving him even lankier and more awkwardly-proportioned than usual. A fading bruise marred the skin around his right eye - not unusual at this age, he'd nearly always sported a facial injury of one sort or another throughout his teens. Mycroft had initially thought this to have been the work of their father, but when the bruises kept appearing following Sherlock's relocation to London it became clear he simply managed to get himself hit in the face by other students with impressive regularity. Troubling in its own way, of course, but perhaps less abhorrent. Over the course of around ten minutes' quiet standing (which Mycroft had fast-forwarded through) the tense anxiety in Sherlock's stance had shifted by degrees into fidgeting boredom. An undercurrent of dull resignation in his expression implied being made to wait like this was nothing out of the ordinary, though he was still clearly growing ever more annoyed as the silence dragged on. Finally a door opened on the other side of the room, and Sherlock snapped back to attention from where he seemed to have been idly running through a violin composition using his right wrist as a stand-in fingerboard. Siger strode through the room at a leisurely pace, cutting in and out of view of the various cameras, and took a seat at his desk. In this position the primary camera was behind his head, and the only secondary feed with a view of his face was quite a distance away, making his expression difficult to make out. Regardless, by his body language it was clear he'd chosen for the moment to behave as if Sherlock were invisible. The man took his time producing and arranging several items from the leather-bound folder in his arm: paperwork, stack of money to be counted, a pen. By Sherlock's poorly-concealed look of frustration it was clear this was an ongoing habit of Siger's - summon the boy to his study, proceed to ignore him as a test of patience. Mycroft wondered vaguely how he himself might respond to such treatment, was forced to conclude he'd fail miserably. Probably would've made some scathing remark within the space of a minute; he'd never had much tolerance for time-wasting. Sherlock, of course, was operating under much different risk/reward conditions than Mycroft would've been in his position, and was thus far more motivated to hold his tongue. Though doing so was clearly still quite a struggle, because by the time Father deigned to acknowledge his presence the boy's expression had slipped from polite attention into an indignant scowl. Such impertinence would surely be a punishable offence, Mycroft thought, but when he glanced to the smaller wide-angle feed the grainy image of Father's face just seemed amused. "Well, get on with it, then," the man said in a jarringly upbeat quip. Between his tolerance of Sherlock's disrespect and the friendly tone of voice Mycroft found himself distinctly nonplussed - he'd not thought Father capable of being so… normal. He'd known the man to speak casually or engage in a bit of lighthearted banter on occasion, of course, but typically only for purposes of manipulation or some other obvious ploy, and never towards those he considered subordinate. Seeing him behave like this towards *Sherlock,* of all people, was extremely disorientating. Sherlock, for his part, didn't seem fazed by Father's bizarre frivolity. He also didn't appear to have any expectation of being able to guess what the man was on about, because he asked for clarification almost immediately. Another clue to their usual dynamic, perhaps - Siger must have regularly opened with intentionally confusing or out-of-context statements to force an information disadvantage. Basic intimidation tactic. "Get on with what, sir?" "Explaining your marks this half, obviously." Father's tone remained uncharacteristically glib. Sherlock's complete lack of surprise over this brought Mycroft to an odd revelation that he and his brother must have had wildly different concepts of who Siger Holmes was as a person. To Mycroft, their father had been a picture of cold austerity, defined by authoritative calm and the subtle threat of danger. To Sherlock, apparently, he'd been a bit of a cheeky git. Sherlock's brows furrowed in a perplexed, wary look. Evidently not a topic he'd been expecting. "I, er… all A's? Sir?" Siger chuckled warmly, which was somehow exponentially more disturbing than the upbeat voice had been. "Indeed! Quite an *abrupt* upswing in academic performance, wouldn't you say?" Ah. He was toying with the boy. Mycroft knew his brother must have started smoking around this age, likely having built up from the occasional nicked fag to outright dependency sometime around the start of the previous school term. A steady intake of nicotine would have driven a dramatic improvement in his ability to tolerate tedious lessons and coursework. Reflection of this in his end-of-term report was an unexpected tell he'd apparently not thought to account for. Siger must have known of his youngest's new habit early on and chose not to intervene, likely seeing it as a convenient way to assess the boy's aptitude for long-term subterfuge. And now, after several months' observation, he'd decided to bring the exercise back round to lessons learnt. In his own cruel, psychopathic way, it seemed the man was trying to impart some sort of wisdom about consideration of unexpected variables in the execution of clandestine operations. How utterly strange to think he'd taken such an active role in parenting. Of course, to Sherlock, this line of inquiry probably felt more as if he were being criticised for earning high marks, which must have been deeply confusing. He stared at Father for several long seconds, glanced away as if trying to decide how to respond, then reluctantly shifted his gaze back to the man's face. "Um… a bit, I guess?" he finally hedged. Then a beat later added, "Sir." Siger laughed again. "And what, may I ask, has prompted this sudden dedication to scholastic pursuits?" Giving the boy an out - hinting he should take this opportunity to craft an excuse plausible enough to maintain cover. Sherlock, unfortunately, didn't appear to have any idea what Father was on about. Mycroft had assumed, at this point in time, that Siger would have long since made clear to Sherlock his intent to mould him into a field agent to complement Mycroft's desk role. Plainly the man had done no such thing. Perhaps he'd thought it best to keep the boy in the dark as a means to deny him the opportunity to render himself unfit for service should he object to that career path. Hadn't banked on harsh teaching methods driving him to substance abuse instead, leading to the same outcome. As was typical when demands on his impulse control exceeded some arbitrary internal threshold, Sherlock's patience with whatever nonsense Father was playing at quite abruptly snapped. His face dropped from passably polite deference into a venomous scowl. "Threats of being tortured to death tend to be quite motivating, sir," he replied in a voice gone flat with undisguised contempt. Rather than the anger Mycroft might have expected in response to such insolence, their father simply… laughed. Not his usual coldly amiable chuckle, either, but something which sounded for all the world like genuine amusement. This dynamic of theirs just kept becoming more and more surreal. Without bothering to reply Father stood up and looked down the pager clipped to his belt, making as if he'd just received some important message. "I'll be gone five minutes, child. You are *not* dismissed," he said over his shoulder as he strode from the room. Sherlock watched him go with a vaguely bewildered glare. Atop Father's vacated desk, Mycroft could now spot the trap - he'd left a stack of ten-pound notes alongside supplies as if intending to count the money, implying he'd not know how much he'd started with. He'd then needled Sherlock until he'd hit his self-discipline limit, got him to drop out of the obedient son routine, and promptly left the boy to his own devices for an explicit duration of five minutes. Overall an insultingly obvious ploy to tempt him into thievery. Mycroft felt faintly ill. Surely his brother would've caught on? It was such blatant entrapment. But, then, the child was fourteen. And likely either already well into nicotine withdrawal or facing the looming threat of it shortly. *And* he'd never possessed more than a threadbare scrap of impulse control to begin with. Of course he fell for it. To his credit, at least, the swipe was subtle. Clearly knew where all the cameras were and took pains to mask his action under the guise of a bored fidget. Wouldn't matter, of course. Siger would have marked the notes somehow. He'd spot the loss immediately. A duration of near-exactly five minutes passed, during which Sherlock looked to have quickly come to regret what had doubtless been an impulsive act, but didn't appear able to figure out how best to undo it without being too obvious. He kept glancing up at the primary camera (straight into the lens, which made it seem unnervingly as if he were meeting Mycroft's gaze), then down to the desk again, scowling at the polished surface. Clearly indecisive on the risk. Then, once he'd determined there was no good way to reverse his choice, he moved on to an internal debate on whether to be more angry with himself or with Father. It was strange, seeing Sherlock's facial expressions so easy to read. Every thought seemed childishly exaggerated compared to the mannerisms Mycroft would come to know just a scant few years later. He'd really not interacted with his brother much at this age at all, he realised. Spent most of the boy's awkward early teens away at uni. At this point in time they'd have practically been strangers. As Mycroft had predicted, Siger took only a passing glance at his desk when he finally returned, then settled back into his armchair. By the tilt of his head and Sherlock's apprehensive expression he'd likely fixed the boy with one of his cold, predatory smiles. "Bold of you," he remarked casually. Sherlock's only reaction was a single, resigned exhale. Must have learnt over the years not to bother with denials or apologies. Logical, knowing Father's usual disposition towards grovelling. Without waiting to be told Sherlock flipped the banknote out from where he'd palmed it into his left hand and reached out to return it to its original place. Quick as a flash Siger grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist the instant it moved into range. Startled, Sherlock let go of the money and fixed Father with a questioning look. Siger shifted forward and, with painfully deliberate slowness, placed both hands in a precise configuration to either side of the boy's arm. Sherlock didn't seem to recognise the intent of that hand placement. Mycroft, unfortunately, did. A flash of dread shot through his gut. Father's arms jerked with sudden twisting force, and the high-fidelity microphone hidden under the desktop picked up a dull, sickening *crack!* The silence was deafening. Mycroft watched wide-eyed as his baby brother, face so impossibly young, went chalk-white and turned a shocked, uncomprehending stare down to his own limb in Father's grip. "Your stupidity never ceases to astound, my boy," Siger quipped with a surreal degree of levity given he'd just snapped a child's wrist. Sherlock said nothing. Father released his grip, then leant casually back in his chair as if waiting to see what his victim would do. It took a few long, motionless seconds before anything happened. Sherlock's brain rebooting after the sudden shock, one assumed. Once he'd regained the ability to move he took a few steps back, instinctively cradling the injury against his chest, then stood in stunned silence as if still trying to process what had just happened. In his time with MI5 (and occasionally before, though one hated to dwell) Mycroft had witnessed many horrific acts of violence. Typically via surveillance videos such as this one, in later years perhaps more often displayed on the screens of live operations centre feeds, very rarely in person. He'd always found the wide range of human reactions to deliberate injury quite fascinating. There were those who screamed. Those who wept. Those who begged, or swore, or fixed their captors with a silent, vengeful glare. And then there were the most fascinating group of all - those who did nothing. The stoics. Men and women so accustomed to pain it became second nature to shrug it off, dissociate fully if necessary, to deny their assailant even the minor satisfaction of drawing a reaction. Mycroft had always found himself torn between a sense of deep intrigue and feeling vaguely unnerved when confronted with those rare individuals. The way they could retreat so far from conscious awareness as to become empty shells struck him as uniquely disquieting. He'd often wondered what experiences might impart such a skill, the ability to snuff the light from one's own eyes. Here, apparently, was some part of his answer. Because Sherlock was a stoic. In retrospect, of course he was. Mycroft should have deduced that already, having witnessed his brother's face go abruptly blank in response to overwhelming stress several times by now. But, even still, it was an unexpected depth of horror to witness a young teenager, his *baby brother,* display such a profound underreaction to traumatic limb fracture. Sherlock hadn't made so much as a sound so far. Hadn't done much of anything, in fact, beyond remain standing ashen-faced before the desk. The light in his eyes had dimmed to a vacant, unfocussed stare. Behaving as if all of this were perfectly normal, Siger hummed a tune to himself and set about clearing away the remains of his trap, then turned his attention to other business. He seemed content for the time being to let Sherlock remain frozen like a statue in front of his desk. "Movement and sensation?" the man asked after a few silent minutes. Sherlock startled, blinked at him, then seemed to register the question and obediently shifted the fingers of his left hand. Despite this no doubt being excruciatingly painful his wince was limited to just a small twitch of facial muscles, nearly too subtle for the camera to pick up. "Yes, sir," he said quietly, almost inaudible from the desk mic. Siger's head lifted. Mycroft could easily picture one of the man's bland, unimpressed stares, with the slight condescending brow lift. After a seconds' pause he went back to his work, flipping a hand dismissively. "Well, go and have a seat, then. No sense bothering Vasily." Vasily being Siger's long-time friend and colleague, who during this period in time would have been living in a detached servants' cottage on the estate. During the Cold War the man had primarily served as a torture-based interrogation specialist, utilising the skillset of his prior career as an orthopedic surgeon to devastating effect. He and Siger had met during Siger's time working as a double agent for the Soviet Union, struck up as close a friendship as two men such as themselves might ever hope to find, and maintained their bond throughout the subsequent decades. For a period of several years following the fall of the USSR Vasily had even lived with them at the estate, Siger having offered him refuge in one of the old cottages while the political dust settled. This arrangement meant that Mycroft had, at one point, considered the man something of a beloved uncle. An illusion shattered with age, of course, but it remained difficult to shake an odd sense of nostalgia on hearing his name. Father, here, would have meant he didn't consider the fracture severe enough to go to the trouble of summoning Vasily to evaluate it. He intended instead for Sherlock sit and wait until such time as Siger deigned to do something about the disabling injury he'd inflicted. Looking to be operating on some sort of auto-pilot Sherlock moved back to take a seat on the edge of the chesterfield's hard cushion, still cradling his arm. After a long moment spent staring robotically straight ahead his blank mask finally cracked. No doubt the break was rapidly growing more painful as adrenaline subsided and swelling set in. He grimaced whilst leaning forward into a curled slouch over his knees, hiding his face from view. Several silent minutes crept arduously past. Siger busied himself examining documents with an air as if he considered this a perfectly reasonable activity to prioritise over his son's urgent need for medical attention. By the slight movement of Sherlock's back visible against the dark leather of the sofa Mycroft could see he'd begun to draw a series of deep breaths, which looked to be becoming progressively faster and less evenly spaced. He'd seen his brother descend into full-blown panic enough times by now to recognise the signs of impending hyperventilation. Siger apparently knew this signal as well, because he lifted his head to look at the boy. "Oh for god's sake," he snapped, apparently deeply annoyed by the sight of a child slipping into traumatic shock in front of him. "Have the good sense not to fall on the bloody fracture, at least." Hearing Father swear was jarring, but Sherlock was either used to it or too preoccupied to care, as he just nodded faintly. He let himself list to the right until he'd flopped over with his face pressed into the sofa's leather seat, wrist clutched tightly to his chest, then promptly brought his legs up to curl into a ball around the injury. Default protective reflex. Siger breathed a supremely put-upon sigh and reached down to a panel on the side of his desk to press one of several intercom buttons there. "Василий, мальчик снова получил травму," he intoned when the connection beeped to confirm receipt. A deep voice on the other end replied by immediately launching into a very rude, very Russian diatribe on the theme of being interrupted in the middle of work, but Siger cut the connection without waiting for the rest. Seemed he'd decided to bother Vasily after all. Small mercies. Almost twenty minutes of nearly-identical footage followed. Logically, Mycroft should have fast-forwarded again, but an irrational sense of guilt stayed his hand. He couldn't quite suppress a ridiculous thought that his baby brother on the other side of the camera lens hadn't had the luxury of fast-forwarding through this. He'd spent every second of those twenty minutes under the judging scrutiny of Father, curled into a miserable ball in a vain attempt to mitigate a worsening injury. What right did Mycroft have to speed things up? Ease a bit of his own suffering watching these events unfold? He'd survive a bit of a wait, just as Sherlock had. Instead, during the idle time, he reflected on Siger's motivations. An injury of this nature was too significant, and inflicted with too much precision, to have been some simple sadistic whim. No, Father must have been planning to do this from the start, and likely whether Sherlock fell for the trap or not. To what end, though? Sherlock had, around this time, taken extraordinarily well to symphony. Made principal second the previous year, concertmaster that year, and had even recently expressed some interest in carrying on to play professionally. Not a career trajectory Siger would have found amenable to his plan of pushing the boy into espionage. Siger had never held much respect for music, despite having once been a reasonably talented violinist himself. He'd also been of the staunch belief that a good spy must have some manner of practical education in an area not directly related to the craft, such as science or politics. Perfectly reasonable on his part, then, to force Sherlock off this burgeoning virtuoso path before he became too invested in it. Redirect him towards academics. Couldn't simply forbid the boy from playing, though. Even Siger must have acknowledged Sherlock's capacity to become fundamentally uncontrollable if pushed into outright rebellion. Better to engineer a way to make him feel responsible for his own fate, then. Put him out of practise long enough to kill the ambition by means of some ostensibly avoidable punishment, thereby leveraging self-loathing to undermine the boy's natural recalcitrance. It was a logical, if revoltingly psychopathic, plan. And it had worked. Sherlock had indeed dropped out of symphony and applied himself to school with enough dedication to eventually attend Oxford. Mycroft hadn't known the impetus for this, at the time, apart from Sherlock's vague claim of violin having been 'too boring'. He'd had little motivation to pry further; this had been the period where Mycroft's attention had been near-fully consumed finishing university and launching his career, and Sherlock hadn't said anything to him about a broken wrist. They'd not seen each other in person until holidays the following year, by which time the fracture would've fully healed, leaving Mycroft none the wiser. What a horrifying implication regarding what other injuries he might have overlooked throughout his brother's life. Back on screen Sherlock remained folded up in his protective ball, favoured defence mechanism since childhood. Over the past few minutes his breathing had begun to hitch every few breaths, as if drifting back towards a panic state. But then with a single deep breath he abruptly went still again. Hadn't passed out - muscles still tense. Must have managed some trick to force himself to calm down. And with that innocuous detail came a fresh stab of guilt, because the idea of his brother being able to do such a thing reminded Mycroft of their conversation when he'd phoned the boy on Christmas that year, just a day or two after this incident. Sherlock's breathing had kept catching oddly before he'd go silent for a moment and return to sounding normal again. He'd claimed he was suppressing the urge to yawn because Mycroft was very boring. Mycroft had bought the lie, self-absorbed idiot that he'd been back then. Though, perhaps in his very minor defence, Sherlock *had* gone to significant effort to mask any obvious signs of distress. Deflected personal questions, engaged in their usual banter. Hadn't tried in the slightest to tell his big brother anything was wrong. … because he'd not thought telling him would accomplish anything. And the terrible thing was that Mycroft knew, deep down, it wouldn't have. At twenty-one years old, how would he have reacted to his baby brother claiming Father had snapped his wrist with the casual ease of a man cracking an egg? *Stop being dramatic.* Blinders still fully engaged against the reality of the situation, he'd have thought it nothing but an absurd lie invented in an effort to make him feel guilty over skipping out on family Christmas. He'd not be able to bring himself to entertain the notion of his father being physically abusive until the following year, when every clever explanation he'd invented to paper over the unthinkable truth burnt away. Sherlock's behaviour around their father between the ages of thirteen to fifteen, when Mycroft largely hadn't been present in his life, had undergone too dramatic a shift to be dismissed any longer - from the silent discomfort of their childhood to blatant, undeniable fear. A change likely driven in large part by this very incident. From the boy's timid behaviour at dinner, to his hateful glare in response to Siger's criticism of a piece Sherlock must have worked enormously hard to regain the ability to play, to his panic over Mycroft thoughtlessly threatening to tell Father about having caught him smoking. All of it could be easily attributed to the events depicted in this scant hour of surveillance footage. Good lord, of all the files to have chosen. A new voice drifted into the scene, finally breaking the horrific stillness. Mycroft felt a preposterous wave of relief on recognising Vasily's deep rumbling bass - as if the arrival of a former KGB interrogator might somehow *improve* the situation. Obviously he understood now, with age and access to classified intelligence, that the man had been every inch as cruelly sadistic as Siger. As a child, however, all Mycroft had known was that Vasily gave him gifts of Russian sweets whenever he visited and was always happy to spin outlandish tales of Soviet political intrigue. What to do with fond childhood memories irreversibly tainted by the reality of who the adults in one's life had been was a problem he'd not yet mustered the strength to address. Vasily was a stout, muscular man with a thick black beard, bald head, and sharp brown eyes under bushy eyebrows, and though his English was reasonably fluent he nearly always chose to speak Russian, as he was doing now. *"Alright, I am here. Convincing our friend downstairs to wait nicely was no easy trick, but he should be fine for a time."* Vasily strode into view of the camera, clad in sweat-damp vest and trousers as if pulled away from some strenuous physical labour. He casually wiped a spatter of what may have been blood off one of his bare arms as he spoke. *"So what stupid thing have you done now?"* Siger turned to him and leant back casually in his chair. He raised a hand in vague indication of Sherlock, who was still curled up in a pitiful ball on the sofa. *"Tried for a clean radius fracture, may have splintered a bit,"* he replied, also in Russian. Vasily made a noise of disgust. *"Splintered! Look at you, Siger, nothing but a shit amateur."* *"What can I say, I'm out of practise,"* Siger conceded with distinct amusement. *"No, no. You've always been shit at fractures,"* Vasily replied dismissively. *"That's why I got so good at setting them, to save us the embarrassment of anyone else seeing your work."* Vasily took a heavy seat on the sofa next to his erstwhile patient and attempted to pull Sherlock's arm out of his protective ball, but succeeded only in triggering the boy to curl up more tightly like a prodded snail. The man clicked his tongue in annoyance and turned instead to dig through the medical bag he'd brought along. *"You want him awake? I have some new paralytics."* *"No, use something reliable. Not in the mood to discover another paradoxical reaction."* Vasily chuckled to himself as he drew up a syringe of some medication. *"Ah, no? But that was so funny! Little scrap of a boy trying to fight the both of us."* Casual as anything the man injected whatever drug he'd chosen directly into Sherlock's upper arm through his shirtsleeve, eliciting a startled flinch. He then stowed away the syringe, retrieved a pad of paper from his bag and began industriously taking notes - whether on Sherlock's injury, or their 'friend' downstairs, it was impossible to tell. After a minute or two broken only by the rustling of paper picked up by the desk microphone, Vasily spoke up again. *"You know, I had actually been thinking more about that recently. We really should have predicted such a reaction to that sedative class. Exact same as the father - becoming savage instead of docile. Do you remember?"* *"Yes, Vasily, I remember,"* Siger bit out irritably. *"I'm sure you do!"* Vasily laughed as he bent down to retrieve a stethoscope from his bag. Balancing his notepad on one thigh, he set the bell of the scope against Sherlock's back in a few places, jotting down whatever he'd heard - evidently not taking notes on the condition of their 'friend', then, but creating an impromptu patient chart. Mycroft would have to ask the document recovery team if they'd come across any handwritten Russian medical records. *"The look on your face when he got you with that scalpel, ha! You nearly snapped his neck!"* Vasily went on, chuckling to himself fondly. *"Ah, I am glad you didn't, though. That would have been such a waste to kill him so quickly."* Siger didn't seem interested in reminiscing with his friend over shared fond memories. Instead he returned to the documents he'd been reviewing, allowing Vasily to busy himself once more with his charting. Mycroft, meanwhile, found himself obliged to perform a tiny bit of actual work in recording a timestamp and brief description of the past few lines of conversation - Vasily and Siger alluding to having personally tortured Sherlock's biological father to death was exactly the sort of information which made watching these recordings worthwhile. After another short silence Vasily finished whatever he'd been documenting and set aside his notepad. Beside him Sherlock's tight ball had relaxed considerably as the sedative took effect, allowing Vasily to extract the boy's arm without resistance. He set to examining the broken wrist with the air of a man grading a student project. *"Bah, Siger! A whole piece broke off, you clumsy bastard,"* he groused as he manipulated the nauseatingly flexible bone. *"This will need imaging if we're to avoid loss of function."* *"Ah, well. Curse of overconfidence."* Siger replied with an offhand shrug. *"Have you time to see to it?"* *"In truth, no! Our friend downstairs needs attending to."* Vasily huffed a long-suffering sigh and bent down to retrieve materials from his bag. *"But it seems that task I must now hand off to you, my friend. Your British doctors will insist on plate fixation or some useless shit for this, we will be stuck undoing their mistakes if I don't go."* With that, he splinted Sherlock's arm with deft confidence, then hefted the boy up into his arms bridal-style. Knowing Vasily's usual mannerisms, Mycroft had half-expected the man to throw the child over his shoulder like a sack of produce. Vaguely grateful to see Sherlock had been afforded some small measure of care, at least. *"Since I am so kindly doing you this favour, however, you will get someone else for followup,"* Vasily said as he headed towards the door. *"This boy's Russian is dogshit and I will not practise medicine in English."* *"Reasonable,"* Siger conceded. *"Morris should be reliable enough."* He appeared to be packing away his work in preparation to take over care of whatever 'friend' Vasily was referring to - doubtless a captive from some rival group or agency. As Siger joined his friend in leaving the room Vasily bumped into his side playfully and said something inaudible. Just a pair of old mates off to handle errands. Daily lives of psychopaths. The surveillance feed fell still. Mycroft sat silently, filing away all the new information. Amending his understanding of the ultimate fate of Mummy's affair partner, refining his mental models of his brother's psychological profile. Trying to suppress a suffocating upsurge of guilt for having not removed his brother from that environment sooner. A gentle *ahem* from his office entrance interrupted his increasingly-despondent thoughts. He glanced up to see his assistant standing in the doorway. She was eyeing him blandly over the top of her mobile device - doubtless knew exactly what grim task he'd set himself to, didn't approve in the slightest. Not that she'd ever drop decorum to say as much, of course. "Your cousin's requested a meeting with you," she informed him without preamble. "Given the current… situation, I've taken the liberty of pencilling her in for this afternoon." Mycroft furrowed his brows slightly. She had to be referring to Reine, his eldest maternal cousin. None of the others were in a position to be requesting formal meetings. And - his heart leapt a bit - it had to be something to do with Sherlock. Nothing else would have prompted such a dramatic rearrangement of his schedule without prior approval. "Thank you," he breathed in a tone perhaps more sentimental than he'd intended. "Reine's agreed to our security requirements?" "No." His PA fixed him with a level stare, as if challenging him to criticise her judgement. He would never. "We're leaving primary site control to her team. Given her relationship to you and the urgent nature of the matter to be discussed I felt it a reasonable concession." Mycroft let out a quiet breath and nodded. Under normal circumstances he'd never entertain taking such risk - meeting sites had to be cleared by his own security staff as a matter of basic protocol, absolute lunacy to leave his safety in the hands of anyone else. His assistant was right, however. In this singularly unique circumstance, bending the rules would be permissible. Reine Cauchois was the first of five grandchildren on his mother's side, just over a year his elder. Mycroft's status as her 'little cousin' would drive familial interest in his personal wellbeing, and her current role within the family hierarchy would ensure she'd not risk any action liable to compromise his government position. In recent years she'd successfully manoeuvred herself into the position of protégé to their grandfather, and was now poised to take control when the elderly man finally let loose his iron grip over the family business. A simple shipping logistics firm, according to most paperwork - in reality a multinational enterprise specialising in smuggling, assassination, and contract espionage. Mycroft had utilised their services to complete missions of a more politically sensitive nature on several occasions now, when ties to the British government needed to be kept minimal, and naturally preferred them over similar groups due to the family connection. Reine understood the benefits of this nepotism perfectly well, and also knew that the relative lack of interference she enjoyed from the British government relied on Mycroft's influence. She could be trusted to protect him. Hopefully she planned to let him know she'd taken it upon herself to protect Sherlock, as well. Preferably without having already recruited the boy. Mycroft had hoped to avoid his brother being drawn into that lifestyle. With a very small sigh he flashed his assistant a tired smile to signal his silence hadn't anything to do with her. She already knew, of course. "Very well," he replied. "Keep me apprised of any changes." With a curt nod, she turned and disappeared back through the door. Mycroft leant heavily back in his chair and allowed himself a moment to close his eyes. Well, that would be one worry off his plate at the very least. Reine would've contacted him through less formal means for news such as a death. Calling a professional meeting implied there were delicate logistical matters to discuss. Which meant Sherlock must, if nothing else, be alive. Unfortunately, it also meant Reine must have decided Sherlock was no longer too risky to recruit. Despite a clearly developing interest in the boy's abilities over the past few years they'd been holding off approaching him while Siger still held potential sway, out of prudent concern for how easily he might be used as a mole. Mycroft had hoped this arrangement might continue under the assumption he'd hold a similar level of influence over his brother, but of course Reine would have unique insight into the fact that Sherlock really didn't give a damn what Mycroft had to say about anything. Moreover she'd know exactly how much Mycroft could be made to buckle under threats to Sherlock's safety, rendering him an even more lucrative asset. The only saving grace was that, in theory, the woman's own protective streak should keep her more ruthless tendencies in check - Sherlock was her youngest baby cousin, after all. She'd never let him come to harm. Or so one would hope. Straightening back up, Mycroft finally took a resigned sip of the glass of scotch he'd been holding this entire time. Good lord, what a mess. **««** ## Chapter 13 **««** Conversation hit a lull for a time. Sherlock hadn't had much information to offer about his grandfather - the sum total of his knowledge amounted to the man's full name (Alphonse Cauchois), his rough age (mid-80s), that he had three children (Bernard, Hubert, and Violet), five grandchildren (Reine, Mycroft, Alethea, Corin, and Sherlock), was wealthy enough to own a home on the French Riviera, and that on the rare occasion he spoke aloud it was always limited to short one- or two-word phrases. Josh had no good theory as to how his uncle might know the man, and didn't recognise any of the names, so they'd hit something of an impasse. Seemed as good an opportunity as any to turn to the business of trying to sort though the disaster his mind had made of itself over the past several hours, so Sherlock had stretched out on the uneven floor of the van and stared at the fairy lights until he fell into a detached, trancelike state. Amongst the debris littering his mind-field he found an old memory, something shaken loose by the mention of Grand-père's name. Recollection of the time the man had somehow intimidated Siger into leaving Sherlock alone for the remainder of the trip, which Siger inexplicably continued to honour every visit thereafter. Holidays in France thus gained an unfamiliar (and to be honest sometimes quite confusing) quality of feeling safe. Debated mentioning this to Josh. No, too difficult to explain without discussing a load of childhood trauma. Didn't understand it himself, anyway, as he'd never been able to figure out why Father should care what Grand-père thought of his parenting methods. Could've asked someone, maybe, but a dark streak of paranoia had slithered into his brain and convinced him that verbally acknowledging Grand-père's protection would anger the man and prompt him to rescind it. Hadn't seemed worth the risk. Conjured up a box and packed the memory neatly away. Still accessible, so he'd not have to go digging later. But nothing to be bothered with for now. Over the next however-long Sherlock made decent progress sorting things out. Hit a bit of an annoying snag when one of the memories scattered about turned out to be all the words to that bloody folk song Eric had played on repeat for a few days, and picking that up caused the song to begin playing in the background on loop. Couldn't figure out how to turn it off, so he set to tolerating it the same way he'd tolerated Eric playing it over and over the first time - by relegating it to a subconscious section of neural circuitry where it could meander around without bothering him. Shifted instead to trying to collect together any relevant information he could find on his other maternal family members, starting with trying to remember what his uncles did for a living. "Is that Iron & Wine?" Josh asked suddenly, voice cutting through Sherlock's mental space like a jagged knife. Sherlock blinked and shot the man a questioning, irritated look. Josh was still sat on his plastic-bag-turned-beanbag-chair, but rather than scribbling in his notepad as he'd been doing when Sherlock lay down, he'd produced a set of pencils, a sketchbook, and a small lantern from somewhere and seemed to be drawing something under the stronger light. "The song you were singing to yourself just now," Josh clarified, not looking up from his sketching. "It's by that Iron & Wine guy, right?" Sherlock scowled deeply in an effort to mask a flash of embarrassment. Hadn't been consciously aware of having started to quietly sing the words until Josh pointed it out. With short huff of a sigh he painfully propped himself up on one elbow and dug his cigarettes and lighter out. Clearly one fag's worth of nicotine hadn't been enough to stop his body acting of its own accord when he wasn't watching it. *"Trapeze Swinger,* I think?" Josh went on, apparently not caring in the slightest if Sherlock failed to participate in the conversation. "Penny dragged me to a couple of that guy's shows last year trying to hear that song cause it was, like, mad hipster cred to learn the words before the EP dropped. You in that scene?" "No," Sherlock grumbled, having only the faintest idea what Josh was even on about. Sherlock had by now caught on to the man's immensely irritating habit of responding to one-word answers with a stream of vapid chatter, so before Josh could become seized by the urge to speak again he reluctantly elaborated. "I don't know what song it is, Eric found it on the internet or something and I never asked the name. Just gets stuck in my head sometimes because he kept playing it on loop for whatever reason." Having got his cigarette lit, he lay back down again and turned a petulant scowl on the fairy lights above. Hoped that had been enough information to satisfy Josh's bizarre compulsion to engage in pointless conversation. "Who's Eric?" Josh asked idly. Fucking talkative bastard. Sherlock grit his teeth but answered anyway. "My ex." "The one your dad got arrested?" *"Yes,"* Sherlock spat. "Stop asking so many fucking questions." His tone came out far more pissed off than he'd intended - couldn't help it, ever since seeing him in that surreal morphine dream earlier every thought related to Eric had been accompanied by a piercing bolt of complex emotional pain he'd no hope of understanding. Josh had triggered that stabbing wound so many times by now it had begun to feel like an icepick lodged in his chest. Sherlock resolutely ignored Josh's bemused smirk his direction by taking a drag of his cig. Smoking whilst lying on the floor was a little awkward, but he wasn't about to sit up if he could help it. Needed to give his bruised abdomen as much rest as possible before he inevitably found himself running for his life again. After a few silent beats Sherlock saw Josh shake his head out of the corner of his vision. The man made a small, frustrated noise, then leant back on his seat to fix Sherlock with a hard stare. Sherlock waited a few seconds to see if he'd stop, then with a roll of his eyes finally deigned to turn his head to meet the man's gaze more properly. Matched Josh's intense stare with one of flat disinterest. "Alright, fine," Josh said after a long stretch of silence. "Look, the reason I keep… I dunno, trying to chat or whatever, is cause I've been trying to figure out how to ask something that's gonna come off really fucking weird and… well I guess I was just looking for an opening. Trying to make it less, you know. Fucking weird." Sherlock's flat look morphed into a mix between baffled and deeply annoyed. "You've been interrupting me every ten bloody minutes over not wanting to come off *weird?"* he snapped, wincing for a spasm in his battered abdominal muscle as he moved his head to glare more directly. He absently stabilised it with a press of his palm to the throbbing knot of pain under the bandage. "What exactly gave you the impression that I give a shit?" Josh huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Yeah, fair enough. Then… fuck it." He took a steadying breath. "So, you said both your parents were in foreign intelligence. Did they… try to make you like them?" "What the fuck are you talking about?" Sherlock retorted as he let his head thump back down. Kept pressure on his gut with the free hand - it had gone back to hurting like hell over the past few minutes. Pain relief fully wearing off, probably. Wished he had more morphine. Josh made a small, frustrated little noise. Sherlock heard the tapping of a pencil. Then… "Were you raised to be a spy?" This wasn't asked in a tone of idle curiosity, but instead one of flat desperation. Sherlock frowned, absolutely baffled, and opened his mouth to reply with a scathing *'What kind of ridiculous question is that? Of course not'.* But before he could transfer thought into speech… something deep in his brain broke free. Like a cracked dam blowing through its last fragile facade, unleashing a sudden deafening torrent on an unsuspecting landscape. Awareness shifted with a sensation like stepping through a patch of thin ice and plunging into frigid water. Sinking down through a kaleidoscope of different, yet horrifically similar memories. Eight years old, nine, ten, eleven. Different versions of himself stood nervously next to Father trying very hard to pay attention and not forget any special instructions beyond his usual role. Always to keep himself as unobtrusive as possible and observe every person they encountered - on the lookout for blackmail material, ways to thwart security, identifying tells of foreign intelligence agents. Siger's trained rat. In Sherlock's early childhood, back before Mummy retreated fully into herself, she'd set time aside to teach him various skills she'd deemed 'fundamentally necessary for the sort of life you're going to lead'. First was how to turn his tendency to pick up a constant stream of extraneous details into a habit of deducing things, something she'd also taught Mycroft. This was very important, she'd said, because without it people like them would go mad. Next came pickpocketing, and then lockpicking, which were things Mycroft hadn't needed to learn. Mummy said they'd only be useful to Sherlock, because his brother hadn't inherited the storm of restless curiosity which filled up all the spaces in his head and drove him to the sort of situations one might need to pick or steal their way out of. Lastly, how to avoid being seen. Because, Mummy told him, being good at disappearing was going to be his only means to protect himself. From what, she'd not explained. After Mycroft left for boarding school Mummy's interest in interacting with anyone fell sharply away, leaving Sherlock quite suddenly alone. Being too young to know better he'd sought out companionship in the other parent. At first Father had simply ignored him, but with persistence Sherlock managed to severely annoy the man - not yet to the point of physical violence, as that wouldn't start up for another year or so, when his impulsive chattering began to reveal the secrets of houseguests. Instead he'd found himself locked in a broom cupboard. That was alright, of course, because he always carried his lockpicks. But in letting himself out, and then in trying to appease the anger caused by doing so, he'd revealed what Mummy had taught him. Shown his potential to be useful. A mistake, of course, but then he'd only been six. Didn't yet know to be wary. Over the next few years he found himself conditioned into the role of Father's little spy, accompanying the man on any business endeavour he could plausibly drag a child into. Sherlock hadn't ever known quite how to feel about this. Because while many of the places they went were dangerous or frightening, paying attention to so many details for such long stretches of time was profoundly exhausting, and being near Father felt like waiting for a viper to strike, doing well on these outings sometimes earned him a word of praise. So on balance it came out a bit of a wash. As Sherlock got older Father and Vasily became more open about what exactly they did with the agents and assassins he spotted for them. Perhaps they'd thought he might find it as entertaining as they did. He didn't. He'd been cursed with far too much empathy to find it anything but horrifying. Learnt instead how to retreat to a far-off place in his head where he didn't have to process what was happening and wait for them to finish their business. Thankfully this translated into a vacant stare Vasily found unsettling, which meant he usually ordered Sherlock to go wait somewhere else. Small comfort, since even if he didn't have to bear witness he still knew he'd condemned some stranger to a terrible fate. Lying to protect people hadn't ever been a plan that was going to work, but he'd felt obligated to at least try. Father caught on immediately, of course. Reacted as expected. Tried for a time to break Sherlock of this ridiculous compassionate streak, but it turned out he couldn't turn off his empathy without also turning off the ability to see people's secrets, so that hadn't worked. Declared him instead too unreliable for fieldwork, shipped him off to Eton where he'd been tasked with spying on his schoolmates. Those with well-connected fathers knew exactly what he was, they'd warned the rest and soon enough he'd become a pariah. For a brief moment his perception seemed to wage a small war between realities. One in which he was currently frozen in place fixing a blank stare on the roof of a rusted-out van whilst his cig burnt down between his lips, the various injuries he'd taken to ignoring having arisen from being beaten half to death by a load of pissed off Americans in a swamp. Another where his wounds had been inflicted by means much more painful, to a body much smaller, and he was lying on his back in the grass under the willow tree, staring up into the gnarled branches and wishing he could vanish into cracks in the bark like the insects did. These two offset planes rippled and touched but couldn't quite merge, leaving him caught in motionless suspension between the two states. In a spark of clear cognizance he realised he must have fallen into one of those dissociative fits Eric always used to break him out of. Couldn't usually tell when they were happening - impossible to distinguish from having simply got caught up in his thoughts. But Eric had always known, somehow. And knew how to get him back out again. If only he were here. With that thought his perception lurched again, shifted rapidly towards the willow tree reality. He found himself suddenly in his mind-field, lying under the willow in his head. And the ghostly apparition of Eric lay in the grass next to him - same strange, translucent figure as in the dream earlier. Sherlock looked over to him quizzically, and ghost-Eric met his eyes with a smile. "Hey, Sherly. Git stuck again?" Without thinking Sherlock shifted his hand in search of Eric's, was deeply relieved to find it rendered solid by the memory of their fingers intertwining. Watched as the hazy translucence of the rest of Eric's body coalesced into a faithful recreation of the man by the same mechanism. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe." Not-Eric gave him a look of fond exasperation. "Well, did y'get tossed in here cause y'got overwhelmed or did y'do it on purpose to avoid sommat?" "I… the first one, I think," Sherlock recalled in his strange wordless mind-voice. "Josh asked about something I must have buried, I guess. Got hit with a load of memories all at once. Too much to process." "So yer stuck," Eric not-said with a shrug. "And yer gonna stay that way til yer brain thinks it's safe t'come out." Sherlock sighed, looked out through the willow boughs to the roiling sea of emotion looming beyond. Didn't want to go out in that, but he knew he couldn't stay hidden in his head forever. If nothing else because his cigarette would sear his lips when it burnt down. "Well, that's unfortunate. I've a lit cig in my mouth." Eric laughed at him. "How many times did I tell ya t'stop fuckin' holding 'em in yer lips if y'were gonna keep spacing out? Daft prat." Despite his unconcerned tone not-Eric hefted himself up, rolled over so he was half on top of Sherlock and cupped his jaw in one hand to kiss him. Sherlock realised it was the left hand on his face and drew away slightly to glance down - this dream version of Eric didn't have a cast on. Wondered vaguely how he remembered the pattern of freckles on skin he'd only briefly seen uncovered. "Sherlock, hey. Look at me." Eric's ghost commanded. Sherlock looked back up, met warm brown eyes, and the world around them vanished. Sherlock blinked. Looked around. Fairy lights casting a weak glow in the darkness, background hum of an unfamiliar forest, cigarette filter burning acrid between his lips. Had… had he just summoned Eric's ghost like some sort of deranged spirit animal to break himself out of a dissociative episode? Was that *allowed?* Before he could dwell much further on this new development in his general state of insanity, Josh spoke up. He appeared to have teleported from his seat on the far side of the van to kneeling next to Sherlock, apparently having been shaking him by the shoulder. "Oh thank *fuck,"* he barked in a tone equal parts relieved and upset. "Thought I triggered a sleeper agent or some shit." "You triggered *something,"* Sherlock growled, hoping the tone would convey he'd very much prefer Josh never ask him anything like that again. He angrily took the burned-down cig from his lips and stubbed it out as he pushed himself into a sitting position. Josh, of course, was not an especially empathetic individual, and either didn't catch the intent of Sherlock's tone or (perhaps more likely) didn't care. "Is that your way of saying 'yes, I was traumatically raised to be a tiny little child spy and I don't want to talk about it'?" "Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Well, great." Josh huffed a sigh and rocked back on his feet to land with a soft *thump* on the floor, now sitting on his bottom with his legs bent loosely in front of him. He leant his elbows on his knees. "I mean… not great, obviously. But… kind of a relief? I mean cause the reason I even wanted to ask is-" "Because Frank subjected you to harsh training in preparation for a career in the CIA, resulting in a traumatic childhood, and you wanted to confirm I've a similar background before committing to telling me anything of actual substance," Sherlock supplied irritably. Didn't need it spelled out, for god's sake. He'd enough nicotine in his system now to piece things together. Josh flashed him a flat, humourless smile. "Yeah, pretty much." Before Sherlock could reply he elaborated further, nattering on in a way that seemed oddly nervous, "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I get that it was a fucked up thing to ask, especially with all this stressful shit going on, it's just… I dunno, I guess I wanted to be sure you'd understand before I explain what I'm aiming to do." Sherlock knew what Josh was hinting at before he'd even properly registered the man's words - there was only one realistic goal a person could have whilst stuck under the control of a hyper-competent psychopath, after all. One he himself had fixated on at various points in his life. He set a resigned stare straight ahead and stated the obvious in a flat monotone. "You're trying to get Frank killed." Josh didn't react with surprise, or dismay, or any of the other things people usually did to prove Sherlock's wild leaps of logic correct. Instead he just confirmed with a quiet nod and a determined glare. "It won't help," Sherlock went on without really meaning to. Instinct was to drop the topic and try to deflect, not reveal deeply personal emotional struggles, but for some reason his brain felt a need to warn Josh what success would mean. "Nothing gets better afterwards. It just… creates a void. Where the anger was. Consumes everything else like a black hole." "... leaves you wandering foreign countries with no goals?" Josh asked blandly. Sherlock said nothing. Silence stretched heavy between them. "I don't fucking care," Josh finally said, voice gone low and bitter. "Doesn't matter what happens to me. He'll get what's coming to him and won't be able to hurt anyone else. You're not gonna convince me to give that up." "Wasn't trying to. Just letting you know." Another silence. As was apparently his habit, Josh tolerated only a scant minute of quiet before attempting to fill it with a stream of nervous chatter. "Look, it's not like I've got, like, a solid plan or anything at this point. I only really started thinking about it when Allie showed up. Because when a literal French assassin gets involved that's when you know shit's gone significantly sideways, right? And I figure, since Frank still thinks I'm on his side, that puts me in a good position to catch him off-guard. Like right now as far as he knows I only helped you escape as a way to establish trust and get you alone to build up a rapport or whatever. Won't be expecting anything else." Sherlock's brain had jumped to a ludicrous conclusion over the combination of the name 'Allie' with 'French assassin', but he resolutely quashed it. No. He was *not* going to entertain the notion of one of his cousins roaming about Florida with a rifle taking out hits on people. Instead he shot Josh a disgruntled look, because he'd just realised the man had said something profoundly stupid. "You're hoping to catch the man off-guard by… doing exactly what he thinks you're doing? Helping me escape and establishing rapport is literally all you've done so far," Sherlock pointed out irritably. Josh went abruptly still, met Sherlock's gaze, flicked his eyes down to the floor as if considering his own actions. Then muttered a quiet, disbelieving "fuck". Despite the tense atmosphere Sherlock couldn't help a small laugh. "Well now I don't trust you at *all."* "God damn it, you shouldn't," Josh said with a groan. He brought his hands up to cover his face. Perhaps it was just Sherlock projecting his own experiences, but he actually found himself fully inclined to trust that Josh hadn't meant to follow Frank's script for him. How many times had Sherlock found himself played similarly by Siger, after all? Become all too familiar with that crushing feeling of realising far too late you'd been dragged along on puppet strings. And come to think of it… oh. Well. That thought actually slotted a piece of the grand puzzle of his life into place. Hadn't even realised until just now. "… suppose that must have been the point," he muttered absently. Josh peeked out from behind his fingers with a questioning noise, so Sherlock took pity and elaborated. "Moulding a child into your own little… agent, or whatever. Creates something predictable, easy to control. That's why he decided to get rid of me after rehab. Addiction created too much volatility." "Are you trying to say I can free myself from my uncle's influence by getting hooked on hard drugs?" Josh asked in a tone of flat, dejected sarcasm. He'd dropped his hands from his face and leant back into the wall as if exhausted. "Er… yeah, probably?" Sherlock conceded. "For a bit, anyway. Father did get back round to me eventually. And if I'm honest about it, being controlled by dealers instead was… quite a lot worse." A small, sardonic smile flitted across Josh's face, then dropped. The space fell quiet for a few moments before the man spoke again. "Well now I'm fucking paranoid anything I decide to do is gonna be exactly what he's predicting." Sherlock had just been nebulously thinking around that issue. Trying to imagine how he might go about trying to outmanoeuvre Siger in a similar scenario. All he could come up with was the vague idea that Eric had always seemed to approach problems exactly the opposite way to anything Sherlock might consider logical, and how that usually ended up creating something like a workable solution between the two of them. Feeling very silly, he turned his focus inwards for a moment and let the ridiculous apparition of Eric materialise in his mindscape again. Gave his absurd construct access to all available knowledge regarding the situation and received a faintly alarmed, bewildered stare in response. "Why th'fuck are you in bleedin' Florida?" Eric asked in the strange, indefinable not-voice afforded by being a figment of Sherlock's imagination. "I conjured you to help me come up with a plan, not ask stupid questions," Sherlock snapped back. Hoped he'd done so only in his mind, and not aloud, since having to explain who he was talking to would be absolutely mortifying. "Alright, christ, calm down," Eric not-said with a roll of his eyes. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and bit his lip in thought. "Er, well… I reckon that old lady seemed nice enough? An' she didn't seem too pleased wit' the Frank bloke fer acting like he were gonna shoot her, but weren't all that upset neither, like maybe she expects that kinda shit from 'im. So I'm guessin' she don't like him much. Plus she's been decent t'you even when she didn't have t'be, more'n you'd expect for just bein' nice. Might mean she knows yer family too, somehow, recognised your face on the pavement back there. And nobody's gonna stop and help out a kid what looks like someone they hated, so, um… I guess find a way to lure th'Frank bloke out so y'can talk to her alone? See if she's secretly on yer side, or get her to answer a few questions at least." Sherlock stared blankly ahead as he shifted focus back into the material realm. Spent several long moments trying to decide if he was seriously about to suggest a plan he'd come up with by consulting the imaginary ghost of his ex-boyfriend. "We should lure Frank out of the house so we can talk to your aunt alone," he finally said. Continued to stare at the far wall. No, shut up. It was fine. He'd still come up with the plan himself, he'd just done it through a bizarrely convoluted mental abstraction driven by a stupid sentimental attachment to an idiot he'd never see again. Didn't matter. Just never breathe a word of it to anyone. Josh lifted his head to fix him with a dubious look. "Why?" "She has information we're missing, and being caught talking to her seems unlikely to arouse suspicion about your loyalties in the event things go awry." Josh stared at him a few beats. Finally he lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug. "You know what, fuck it. Not something I'd think of, Frank might not expect it. Worth a shot." "We'll need a plan to get him to leave the house." "Already on it," Josh said. He'd flipped to a new page of his sketchbook, laid it on the floor, and began drawing a layout of the house. "Alright, so this window over here is the best way to get in without being seen…" **««** ## Chapter 14 **««** "Ready?" Josh whispered. Sherlock nodded, eyes fixed on the house. Josh pressed a key on his mobile. They waited. It took a long, silent minute, but his mobile finally buzzed softly with a reply. He read it and grinned. "Says he's on his way." Stowing his mobile again, Josh clapped Sherlock lightly on the back. "See ya in a bit, Casper." "Casper?" Sherlock repeated, confused, but Josh had already moved off towards the spot they'd decided he should start from. Who the fuck was Casper? Oh, well. Couldn't waste brainpower on it. Had a very narrow window in which to slip into the house. He waited with bated breath for the back door to open. As soon as it did, and Frank stepped out, Josh appeared from behind a tree nearby and feigned being out of breath. "Uncle Frank! H-holy shit, I'm so sorry, fucker's way faster than I thought he'd be." Frank turned a dubious glare on Josh, but after a tense few seconds seemed to accept his dishevelled appearance as evidence of a fight and subsequent mad chase through the woodland. With an irritated noise the older man moved off towards the treeline, away from the spot where Sherlock was hiding. "For fuck's sake Josh he's a skinny British kid in Florida, probably passed out in a ditch somewhere and you ran right by him." Sherlock furrowed his brow, vaguely offended. But then a beat later shrugged to himself instead, because on second thought, yeah, that was fair. Also meant they'd be spending a while combing the underbrush, which would give him more time to find Mrs Hudson, and hopefully give Josh better opportunity to slip Frank's notice doubling back. Against all odds they seemed to be pulling this plan off remarkably well so far. As soon as Frank was out of sight Sherlock darted out from his hiding spot behind the shed again, then made his way across the garden to a set of tall windows set low enough down the outside wall to where it was a simple matter to slide one up and step inside. Josh claimed to have sabotaged this window's latch intentionally to facilitate a quick exit point from the attic hatch in the laundry room. Inside was, as promised, a small space taken up by laundry machines and shelving. Sherlock was now supposed to navigate to the sitting room, as Josh said Mrs Hudson would most likely be there. If she weren't asleep, anyway. It was after all going on something like three in the morning. Thankfully Josh's hand-drawn map turned out to be accurate, and Sherlock was able to find the sitting room easily. Could see from the hall that a light was on. Good sign, one hoped. "Sherlock, dear! Well, goodness, you're a bit early," Mrs Hudson said pleasantly as he poked his head around the doorframe. Despite ostensibly having been looking for the woman she still managed to startle him quite badly, though he did his best to hide the jumpy flinch under a cough. She was sat in an armchair near a large bay window, apparently sorting through a pile of documents and photographs spread out over the coffee table in front of her. Sherlock approached her warily. Found her lack of surprise vaguely confusing, though honestly he wasn't sure why he continued to be caught off guard by this woman's underreactions. Mrs Hudson apparently read his thoughts in his expression and smiled indulgently at him. "Oh, I knew you'd be back round soon enough. You'd be too curious after Frank went on about your mum like that." "It, er… did raise quite a lot of questions," Sherlock conceded. Sherlock tried to sidle close enough to see the documents without losing sight of the hallway entry. Awkward angle, couldn't quite manage. Didn't get a chance to decide on what to do next - Mrs Hudson had plucked up a photograph the moment he came near enough her armchair and, leaning over the arm towards him, waved the thing insistently until he reluctantly accepted it. As he looked down at the picture all thought was driven abruptly from his mind by the sight of his own face staring back at him. "Goodness, you poor child," Mrs Hudson murmured sadly as she observed his reaction. Presumably his expression had dropped into something approaching stunned confusion. "You've not been told a thing about him, have you?" Finally Sherlock's brain managed to process details of the image. He realised he wasn't, in fact, staring at his own face. Or not quite, anyway. Hair too light, eyes the wrong colour, differently-shaped ears. But the bone structure and facial expression of bored annoyance were like looking into a warped mirror. It felt very much like the moment of startled confusion he'd had upon recognising his own face in Father's chair in that bizarre dream earlier, though of course this incongruous replica of himself hadn't yet called him an idiot. As he stared he realised dimly… ah, right. This had to be the man his mother shagged to produce him. The affair partner. He'd always known, on some level, that he wasn't a true son. Not like Mycroft was. On paper Sherlock had been your standard spare, the much-younger second-child afterthought. Reading between the lines of layered implications threaded through their family, however, had suggested early on that he'd really just been a bastard-child permitted to live for Siger's amusement. This presumption had coloured much of his childhood and teens, though he'd never discovered any hard evidence to prove the suspicion one way or the other. Here was that evidence staring back at him, then. In full, high-resolution colour. It took him far too long to realise a name was printed underneath the headshot, and then finally to read it. *Lochlann Faulkner.* Sherlock stared at the neat, typewritten letters. Tried to decide how he felt about his mother having often used the pet name 'Lockie' for him as a child. He felt extremely weird about it, was all he managed to determine, before Mrs Hudson was speaking again. "What a tremendous bloody idiot that man was," she muttered fondly. She'd picked up another photograph and was regarding it with a wistful smile. Her sentimental tone was badly at odds with the words, causing Sherlock to glance up with a brief, confused look. Rather than reply, she simply handed him the photo she'd been looking at. This one was a washed-out polaroid, perhaps dating back to the mid-70s, depicting a vaguely familiar young woman alongside Sherlock's uncanny doppelganger. They were stood in front of what he was fairly certain was the Baker Street tube station in the bright sunlight of some summer's day, both of them making ridiculous faces into the camera. Apart from the couple's absurdly 70s fashion sense, and the fact that the man had his arm around his companion's waist in a way that seemed more intimate than Sherlock could imagine being with a woman, he might have been convinced it was a photo of himself. "A gorgeous idiot, though, mind you," Mrs Hudson went on. "And terrific in bed." Sherlock blinked. Stared at Mrs Hudson, who just smiled blithely back. Looked back down to the polaroid instead. Realised the woman was her. "Oh," he said stupidly. Mrs Hudson put a hand to her mouth, a slight flush to her cheeks. "Sorry, dear. That was a terribly odd thing to say to you, wasn't it?" Sherlock was mercifully saved the trouble of trying to find a reply by the slamming of a door nearby, followed by heavy footsteps approaching. He barely had time to spin around before his planned escape route back through the laundry room was blocked by a steely-eyed Frank. Josh trailed along behind him, shooting Sherlock a look that seemed equal parts apologetic and terrified. "See, kid, what'd I tell you? Little trained rat came scurrying back," he growled to Josh. Really should have bolted for a window, but Frank's choice of insult caused Sherlock's brain to stutter to a stop before he'd got his legs to move. A thousand different explanations for why the man might call him that. Didn't have to mean they'd met before. But a nebulous wisp of recognition made him suspect they very much had. Whether by means of his having sold the man out to Father, or in some other capacity, he couldn't know without going back through the memories and risking becoming trapped in a vortex of childhood trauma again. Even the mere thought was beginning to draw him inexorably towards dissociation like water spiralling around a drain. In an act of desperation he conjured up his stupid imaginary Eric again, let the memory of their fingers intertwining act as a tether to keep from falling in. Didn't know how to feel about the fact that it seemed to be working. Frank quirked a dark smirk at him and stepped forward, which Sherlock of course matched by stepping back, until he unfortunately hit a wall. Frank closed the remaining distance and pinned him there with a firm grip on one shoulder, thumb ready to hit the brachial pressure point at first hint of provocation. This did not at all help the issue of trying to avoid being sucked into childhood trauma. He froze in place like a spooked deer. Parsing speech had fallen sharply off his cognitive priority list, so he had no idea what Frank snarled in his face. Instead focussed on the phantom presence of Eric at his side, which thankfully hadn't disappeared, and with that as a lifeline managed to at least claw himself back into remaining aware of his surroundings. Still locked up like a statue, of course, but some things couldn't be helped. "Frank, unhand that child this instant!" Mrs Hudson's uncharacteristically irate voice broke in. "He's not a fucking *child,* Martha." "Fine, you're right, he's a twenty year-old junkie just barely off a coke habit. Does that sound better to you?" she replied snippily. Sherlock managed to tear his eyes off Frank's face long enough to see her standing beside her armchair with her hands on her hips. "Now take your bloody hand off the boy before he faints, I'll not have him hitting his head on the hardwood." Frank scowled. Despite having not taken his eyes off Sherlock's face whilst speaking to Mrs Hudson, he seemed to only just now realise the dramatic effect he'd elicited. With a vaguely concerned frown he released Sherlock's shoulder and stepped away with both hands raised in a placating gesture. "God damn it. Alright, kid, calm down. Didn't mean to spook you that bad." Sherlock remained pressed against the wall. Tried not to acknowledge how badly he was shivering with adrenaline nor how rapid his breathing still was. The only thing keeping him from making good on Mrs Hudson's worry and cracking his skull on the floor in a dead faint was Not-Eric pressed up against his side, shouting furious insults at Frank. Same as he'd done once in a crowded pub, towards a man much different but no less threatening. Frank couldn't hear any of it, of course, but it still seemed to help. Made him feel less alone. "Thank you," Mrs Hudson said archly to Frank. Then, to Josh behind him, "Joshua, it's lovely to see you again." "Uh… you too, Aunty," Josh muttered. "Can we save the fucking pleasantries?" Frank snapped. He turned a dark glare back on Sherlock, who managed to meet the man's gaze with a glare of his own for a brief few seconds before his brain threatened to overload and he was forced to look away again. Despite how pathetic a display of defiance that was he still felt oddly proud of himself. "Look, kid," Frank continued in a tone as if he were trying very hard not to sound excessively threatening. Wasn't succeeding in the least. "I thought I knew who sent you, but I've since been informed otherwise. So, as a gesture of goodwill, I'm going to ask you what the fuck you're doing here, and you've got ten seconds to give me a straight answer. If you don't, I go back to being an asshole." "I'm not doing anything," Sherlock answered immediately. Grimaced for how much of a blatant lie that sounded. Sure enough, the frigid glare Frank gave him in response said in no uncertain terms he'd just fucked up. Panicked a bit. Scrabbled for Eric's hand in the sliding space between reality and the field in his head. "Really not in the mood for this, kid," Frank growled. "It's the truth!" Frank did not appear convinced. "You're the bastard son of Faulkner and Cauchois, spent half your fucking life helping Siger Holmes exterminate my colleagues, and now you happen to show up on my doorstep right when shit starts going sideways. And you're expecting me to call that a coincidence." Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "Er… yes?" Frank was predictably not impressed. "Cut the bullshit. Obviously Holmes sent you, just fucking tell me what he wants." A sharp bolt of confusion gave Sherlock enough confidence to meet Frank's gaze with a baffled, faintly insulted glare. "Father didn't *send* me," he retorted. "He's been dead for months." Belatedly he remembered the text he'd told Josh to send. Rushed to try to explain, so as not to seem even more dishonest, and as he did so the burst of composure melted away again. "T-the text was just to see if you knew who he-" "Holmes is *what?"* Frank barked over him. He sounded some mix of alarmed and angry. Sherlock cut himself off, had a brief moment of internal upheaval trying to reroute his train of thought. "Er… dead." Frank growled in a way that seemed oddly frantic. "And who the fuck told you that?" "Um, no one? M-my brother shot him in the face. Right in front of me. So… I mean, I suppose I didn't personally confirm it, but he did seem quite dead." Apparently incensed by Sherlock's unintentionally flippant tone, Frank stormed forward and grabbed him roughly by the collar. Adrenaline tore through nerves already frayed near to breaking and he made a valiant effort to avoid hyperventilating. "Don't fucking lie to me!" "N-not lying," Sherlock mumbled. Screwed his eyes shut against the situation, tried to will his heart to slow down. *"Frank!* For the last time take your *bloody* hands off him!" Mrs Hudson's voice cut in, sounding closer than she'd been before. Frank mercifully let go of Sherlock's collar and backed away. Sherlock drew a sharp breath he didn't know he'd been holding, snapped his eyes open, then promptly slid straight down the wall as his legs gave out. Resisted the urge to curl up in to a ball for a brief moment, lost that battle very quickly. Couldn't help it - without cocaine his only reliable means to block out enough stimuli to stave off a panic attack was to fold up small as possible and press his face against his knees. That this made him look like a pathetic child was a very distant concern compared to the firestorm beginning to kick up in his head. Blocking the world out wasn't enough this time, unfortunately. Found himself yanked inwards, directly towards the flames. A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed his wrist, dragged him away from the storm, through the veil of leaves into a safe bubble of calm beneath the willow tree. Eric, of course. Or his memory. As soon as they'd made it past the willow boughs Eric turned and grabbed him up into a crushing embrace. Sherlock let himself be hugged (or let the memory of being hugged play out, he wasn't entirely sure how this worked), but did so with a deeply confused frown. "Erm… what?" he asked eloquently. Eric drew back with a fondly exasperated look. "Y'been callin' me up this whole past while tryna keep yerself afloat, ain't ya? Course I'm gonna keep at it even if ya forget to do it on purpose." "No. I refuse to be this patently insane," Sherlock decided. Tried to extricate himself from the hold Eric still had on his arms, meaning to leave the willow and find a way back out into reality, but Eric held firm. "Oi, slow down. Ain't gonna be able t'leave just yet." Sherlock frowned at him. Should reply with some scathing insult, but it was hard to muster up the will to be intentionally cruel. Couldn't bear the thought of hurting him, even if only a copy. "It's my head, I can leave whenever I like," he objected instead, ignoring how his abstract not-voice came out sounding highly uncertain of that. "Ideally as soon as possible, because I need to get back out and deal with-" Eric put a finger to his lips to shut him up, shot a meaningful glance through the leaves in an indication Sherlock should follow his gaze. Sherlock obliged. A demonic tornado of fire was tearing through the landscape beyond the willow boughs, leaving a scorched hellscape in its wake. Oh. Well. Alright, then. "I don't think tryna get yerself out is gonna work until that calms down some," Eric explained as they watched the devastation unfold. "Or, well, I mean it might, I guess. But you'd just come right back in." "As if you have any better idea how all this works than I do," Sherlock groused. Eric turned away from the firestorm to give him another exasperated look. "I'm your own fuckin' brain, dumbarse. Just, like… wearin' this bloke's memory or sommat." With a nonplussed shrug he moved off towards the willow's trunk, dragging Sherlock along by one arm. Sat them down next to a small mound of stones covering memories of a dead cat. "He understood yer panic shit better'n you do, though, so I reckon I got about as much of a handle on what's goin' on right now as any part of you ever could." Sherlock shook his head in vague disbelief for his own madness. "God forbid the real Eric ever finds out I'm doing this." Not-Eric scoffed. "He's out there doin' th' exact same bleedin' thing with his memories of you." At Sherlock's dubious look he rolled his eyes, dialled back the confidence a bit. "Alright, fine. Obviously I can't know that. But I'm the mental model you built of 'im, and if *I* were stuck havin' t'figure out how to get on without you I'd sure as hell be imagining yer voice in me head." Sherlock huffed a bitter, humourless laugh. "Nobody would want me in their head." Not-Eric smacked him lightly on the thigh in admonishment. "Don't be a prat, fuck's sake. Y'know damn well he leant on you much as you on him. He's a terrified wreck right now, out there on his own. Yer ghost in his head goin' on about bees or whatever'll be the only thing keepin' him from breakin' down." "That seems… incredibly presumptuous to just assume." With a small sigh, Sherlock took not-Eric's hand in his, let memory make the touch seem real. He looked out to the firestorm beginning to die down beyond the leaves and added, quietly, "... I hope his imaginary version of me is kinder to him than I was, at least." "It ain't," not-Eric assured him. "Kindness weren't what he needed you for." A lump rose unexpectedly in Sherlock's throat and he swallowed heavily against it. Eric's memory-made-ghost glanced over to him, then briefly rose, shifted, sat down directly in front of him so they were face-to face with their legs bent around each other. Kissed him with the weight of a hundred memories. "I can't drag him into my life again. Not if it's always going to be like this," Sherlock muttered. He moved his hands to either side of Eric's waist in a loose hug, let their foreheads rest together. Breathed in the faint scent of pot smoke clinging to freckled skin. "Yeah," not-Eric replied. "Poor bastard would jus' get used as leverage. Or live in terror of you bein' killed. Better to let him just forget." Sherlock said nothing. Had sort of hoped ghost-Eric might disagree with him, but of course they had the same knowledge. Knew the parade of random danger he constantly found himself in wasn't a lifestyle Eric could survive for long. Hell, Sherlock wasn't sure *he* was likely to survive it much longer - nearly died a dozen different ways this week, after all. And things didn't seem likely to get much safer. After a long, silent moment, he reluctantly voiced what they both knew. "I have to go back." Eric huffed an unhappy sigh, but nodded. He straightened himself back up so their heads weren't pressed together and grabbed Sherlock's face with both hands. "Look at me," he said softly. And Sherlock did. **««** ## Chapter 15 **««** "You're not going mad." "Will you *please* just shut th'fuck up?" "Not until you acknowledge what I'm telling you." Eric whipped around angrily, but of course all he found was an empty field. Rolling expanse of vibrant green, capped in the distance by a squat stone wall. No houses to be seen from here - for reasons he didn't understand he'd begun to feel their windows as judgemental, staring eyes, so he'd set himself the goal of putting as much distance between himself and civilisation as the English countryside allowed. Or at least enough distance to avoid being seen. Succeeded on that front, for now. Though he'd not thought through the consequences of running out of cigarettes so far out from a shop. Been off the weed for a while now, so that bit was fine. Hadn't really meant to quit nicotine as well. Rabbits were dotted about the grass all around him, long ears swivelling to track him. He huffed a frustrated sigh to himself and turned back to continue in the direction he'd been going. Just ignore the voice. Don't engage. Avoid contemplating the horrifying prospect of losing himself to the same disease which had swallowed Mum. "That's not what's happening." Bloody fucking thing was reading his *thoughts* now and why did it have to keep using that voice and couldn't he just be fucking normal for one day in his entire bloody life and just- "SHUT UP!" Every rabbit nearby scattered for the sudden noise. Save one which had been directly in front of him - brave little bastard, speckled brown and white, which stood on its haunches to stare him down reproachfully. "Um… s-sorry," he told it. The rabbit flicked an ear. "You're talking to a rabbit," Sherlock's disembodied voice pointed out. Eric grit his teeth against the urge to ask how that was any worse than talking to a schizophrenic hallucination of one's ex. "This isn't schizophrenia," the voice insisted. Fuck. He'd forgot it could tap straight into his thoughts now. "It's temporary psychosis. You knew this was a risk of quitting nicotine." "I didn't fuckin' know I might get harassed by a fuckin' ghost." "A benign auditory hallucination," not-Sherlock corrected, sounding utterly bored. "Fine, I don't fuckin' care! Piss off anyhow!" Eric snapped. A wave of directionless anger rose up, making him shake his head violently and redouble his pace. He'd spotted a large, solitary tree stood tall down the field a bit. Good a place as any to post up. He'd enough supplies in his knapsack to survive just about anywhere. "Ugh, really?" the voice asked as Eric's goal apparently became clear to it. "A willow in a field?" Eric stared straight ahead into memory. **««** *"Where d'ya go when you're like that?"* *Sherlock grimaced, shaking his head to clear it as he usually did after being snapped out of a trance. Thankfully he'd set the chemicals down before spacing out this time. He glowered to himself and returned to setting up whatever step of his purification process he'd been at before his brain froze.* *"The willow, usually," he grumbled. Eric blinked, raised his brows. Considered whether he was going to ask the obvious question or let it slide by without comment.* *Sherlock had glanced sidelong to him and apparently caught the confused look. He huffed a frustrated sigh. Cross with himself for saying too much, perhaps, or with Eric for stumbling upon an unexpectedly complicated question. Impossible to tell. Whatever the case he apparently thought it best to explain without waiting to be asked.* *"It's an abstraction technique I came across in a book about human cognition once. You're supposed to visualise a familiar location and use it as a sort of, I don't know… like a mental short-hand? Meant to help utilise the visuospatial portions of the brain to induce better recall ability."* *Eric continued to keep his brows raised. He knew most of what those words meant, and honestly didn't have much trouble sussing out those he didn't through context clues, but it was more fun to play stupid. Usually got Sherlock to talk more, in any case, which was always good. Bloke's voice had captured Eric's fancy from the moment he'd first turned up on the doorstep.* *Sure enough Sherlock frowned at Eric's blank look, and carried on trying to explain. "I'd messed about with it a bit when I was younger but it never really worked properly. And then when I started doing cocaine I had another go, and it worked that time, and then sort of got out of hand? Can't really turn any of it off now."* *"And a… willow tree's involved somehow?" Eric asked, because he wasn't sure if Sherlock forgot to explain that bit or if he didn't want to.* *Apparently he'd just forgot, because he shrugged and clarified gamely. "You're supposed to use a familiar location as an anchoring point, so I went with the tree I always used to hide in back h-" He cut off, scowled to himself, shook his head. "At my family's estate. Old-growth weeping willow stood alone in a field, with a little stream nearby. Seemed a simple enough visual to start out with. Stupid book never discussed the perils of using a setting fraught with childhood association, of course."* *Eric didn't miss the self-correction of the word 'home', but as with most such details let it slip past. By this point in their relationship it had become clear (to Eric, at least - he was relatively certain Sherlock didn't think about such things at all) that a large part of why they got on so well came down to a mutual instinct to sidestep topics too painful to discuss. Unhealthy avoidance, perhaps. But also… oddly comforting? Made it easier, somehow, to get near the difficult things, knowing they could trust one other not to stray too near the raw edges hidden in the details. Things like feeling you ought to call the place you'd grown up something else besides 'home', or why you might use the word 'hide' instead of 'climb'.* *So rather than call attention to any of that, Eric just gave an easy shrug.* *"Good to know you're someplace safe when you get stuck, I s'pose."* *Sherlock shot him a baffled look. "Were you… worried that I wasn't?"* *Eric made a noncommittal noise, which had come to be shorthand between them for not knowing how to answer and not really wanting to try. Unlike anyone else Eric had ever been close to in his life, Sherlock accepted this without question. He returned to his work, and they fell easily back into peaceful coexistence.* **««** Back in the present moment, Eric shook his head trying to dispel wisps of memory. Had to quit doing this to himself. Yes, alright, so he'd spent a brief, surreal month with a bloke miraculously fluent in all the little tricks Eric used to keep himself from falling into the suffocating pit of trauma in his head. Someone whose own pit was just as deep, and who thus understood the lengths one went to keep well clear of the edge. All that was past now, though. Good while it lasted, a collection of memories to fall back on, but he'd not be risking forming such a close bond again. Fallen to an itinerant existence specifically to avoid it, in fact. Never lingered in any one place more than a night or two, limited human contact to the bare minimum, fled like a spooked hare the instant anyone learnt his name or he theirs. Every person he'd ever cared for had died a horrific death and left a scar on his psyche, and if he was doomed to keep living he refused to let anyone get close enough to hurt him that badly again. "You don't know if I'm dead or not," Sherlock's disembodied voice said, drifting from the empty fields. "All you know is that I left you." Eric ignored it. He'd come upon the tree now (which was indeed some manner of willow stood alone in a field, and the association felt like a jagged knife to the soul but he wasn't about to dwell on such bullshit) and slung his bag off his back as he took a heavy seat against the trunk. Exhausted, empty, terrified. Stupid brain always with the slow drip of adrenaline. Fear and anger and regret and anxiety and crushing loneliness all mashed up together in the shape of one useless idiot. "You don't get extra points for self-reproach, you know." "Shut up," Eric tried again, plaintively. "Please. Just leave me alone." He brought his knees up and buried his head in his arms as if that might somehow muffle a voice his mind had invented to torment itself. "No." Fuck. Well, perhaps another tack. Maybe he could convince it to stop fuelling memories of the only man who'd ever got him seriously contemplating the concept of romantic love? Would it be more bearable that way? Seemed worth a try. "At least use a different fuckin' voice, then?" "Like this?" the voice asked, and suddenly it was Benny's instead. "Sure, mate. Happy to accommodate." A grisly, burnt-in image of Ben's face all smashed in, blood pooling in a halo round his head. Eric made a high-pitched keening noise and curled in on himself. "Ah, right, sorry." The voice, still Benny's, sounded genuinely apologetic. "Er… how 'bout this'un, yeah?" The voice became Rosie's, and that was *infinitely* worse - Benny's ruined face transformed into her lifeless eyes and ashen skin, blood soaked through her hair, dripping off the tips of the plaits he'd done for her that morning. Bailey nearby with her wild curls fanned around her like a lion's mane, face and arms all cut up because of course she'd fought back. Mum on the floor and the knife in her… "No no no nono STOP!" He screeched the last word out into the empty field, scattering a handful of rabbits who'd crept back. The spotted one he'd apologised to earlier carried on being unfazed, but shot him a reproachful look. He met its deep brown eyes with savage glare. The rabbit didn't appear to give a shit. "God's sake, stop being so dramatic." Sherlock's voice again. Mum's empty gaze transformed into his, but the scene wasn't of him lying dead - just stuck staring into space like usual. Eric felt the ghost of his past self reach out to touch him and saw the spark of life return. A dozen tiny snippets of memory - giggling over a stupid joke, a coy little smirk, a questioning frown for some social concept gone over his head. And it was confusing because, of course, Eric had awful memories of the bloke as well. His demonic visage in the street fight, the snarl on his face when he'd left. But somehow those didn't eclipse all the happy moments like the corpses did. "How kind of him to leave before you had a chance to stumble upon his lifeless body," the voice remarked blandly. Eric didn't reply. Sat and stared out over the field instead. Watched the rabbit tearing up a dandelion and imagined the anxiety eating him alive as its teeth ripping into his brain. "I don't think that's how the visualisation tactic is meant to work." Considered imagining the rabbit eating the voice, but of course if he tried to give the thing a proper form it would have to be with Sherlock's face, and he couldn't bring himself to picture that. Best just resign himself to living with it, then. He huffed a tired sigh and stared dully out over the field. "Where's he at right now, d'ya think?" "Decomposing in a shallow grave." Fuck's sake. Even his imaginary version was a tactless shithead. "Ain't funny, mate." "Sorry." A silence threaded by the whisper of the wind in the tree above, the gentle noises of springtime around them. Eric couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. Or ate. Or what time it was. Wasn't sure what time even meant anymore. "Well… let's deduce, then, shall we?" Sherlock's voice started up. Eric quirked a small smile for the wording - 'deducing' had been the term they'd eventually settled on for what to call his manic coke-fuelled logic trains no one had asked for and no one besides Eric wanted to hear. "Start with the parcel he left you: given the vague wording of the note and omission of any names, we can assume he'd been trying to avoid including any details which might have drawn a connection to him should the package fall into the wrong hands. We know he worried about you being threatened as a means to control him, since that was a common theme of nightmares. Most likely a tactic his father is known to use. His being concerned with avoiding being extorted that way, however, implies he must not yet have fallen under the man's control. Wouldn't have risked drawing attention to you if he were already caught. Furthermore, the fact that he left you his peacoat along with a frankly absurd amount of cash would seem to indicate he intends to get sober. Doesn't want to have disposable money nor the association-laden item on hand. Therefore the only logical conclusion we can draw is that he's off wandering the streets alone somewhere trying to go cold turkey off coke. Which doesn't actually mean he's not dead, of course, but it does leave open the possibility that he isn't." Eric had shifted into a full, proper smile as the diatribe progressed. "Still don't understand how you do that shit, Shers." "That was all *you,* moron," the voice corrected irritably. "I'm not Sherlock, I'm an auditory hallucination triggered by a combination of grief and tobacco withdrawal. *You're* the one deducing all this." Ah. Right. That… that was true. Probably. Dwelling on that was overwhelming, so he shook his head, felt his expression fall. Imagined the idiot sat next to him and then regretted it immediately for the spike of painful longing. "Why couldn't he have just taken me with?" "Eric, you are *not* suited to a life on the run from a load of rich psychopaths." "W-well maybe I coulda learnt t'be!" The sudden surge of emotion in his outburst startled both himself and the rabbit, which resentfully hopped a few feet further down the field away from him. Eric glared after it, found the words still pouring out his mouth. "Maybe if he'd fuckin' *asked* I'd have told him I'd rather die in terror by his side instead of-" He was forced to stop and swallow heavily around sudden tears. Carried on regardless, because even if he wasn't really talking to anyone it still felt important to force the words out. "... instead of being left alone again." "That went without saying, I think." Eric choked out a laugh or a sob, he couldn't tell anymore. "Why'd he leave me, then?" "You know why." **««** *"What nonsense mental abstraction are you stuck in, then?"* *Eric blinked. Realised he'd been staring into space there for a bit and smiled to show nothing was wrong.* *"Weren't stuck, mate."* *Sherlock made a dubious sound. "You've been stood there staring at nothing for…" He glanced at a nearby clock, paused, then turned back with an awkward air Eric could by now interpret to mean he'd forgot what it said when he last looked and thus had no idea how much time had actually passed. "Er… a while."* *"Bit over three minutes," Eric supplied automatically.* *"Right. A while."* *This was funny enough to draw out a chuckle - both for the bland delivery, and the fact that they both knew Sherlock's concept of 'a while' really just meant any arbitrary amount of time he happened to have noticed passing. Which, on reflection, implied that he probably wasn't actually concerned about how long Eric had been staring. Must have picked up on something else that worried him and not known how else to ask.* *"I'm alright," he replied in answer to the unvoiced question. "Just tired, is all."* *"Seemed like you'd got lost in thought."* *Definitely not been worried about the length of time staring, then. Eric cracked a small smile. Was nice to have someone looking out for him, he supposed. Even if it felt strange to be on this side of the caretaking equation. And even if Sherlock was rubbish at communicating.* *"Nah. Ain't got deep enough thoughts to be gettin' lost in."* *A flash of irritation cut through the coke-induced placid calm Sherlock had been in since his last hit. Eric raised his brows curiously. Figured he must have just mucked something up with the chemistry, so he asked after it in hopes of triggering one of the usual rambling science lectures.* *"Somethin' get fucked up?"* *"What?" Sherlock frowned at him, then down at the beaker he was holding. "Oh. No. I was just… I don't understand why you keep doing that."* *"Doing what?"* *"That!" he exclaimed, waving a hand impatiently. Eric blinked down at himself.* *"Standing?"* *"No," Sherlock snapped. "Saying things like… that. Like you haven't got deep thoughts or whatever. It doesn't make sense why you keep up the idiot act when it's just the two of us."* *Eric was now very puzzled. "You think I'm… pretending to be stupid?"* *"Obviously."* *"You call me a dumbarse, like, all th'time."* *"Yes, but not seriously! And you do the same, so that doesn't-" Sherlock cut himself off with a frustrated noise and appeared to try a different tack. "Look, it's ridiculous to keep up such a farce when it's clear you're at least as clever as I am."* *Eric had to laugh for that one. "You fuckin' what?"* *Sherlock looked about as insulted as Eric had ever seen him.* *"I'm serious."* *Regardless, Eric was still giggling over the idea of a thick pillock like him being anywhere near the level of a bloke who'd been attending bloody* Oxford *a few months ago. Sherlock appeared to find this deeply frustrating.* *"Eric, you've been stoned literally the entire time I've known you, and yet with very few exceptions you've had no trouble whatsoever keeping up with me in conversation."* *"Does that mean I'm smart, or does it mean you ain't half as clever as you think you are?"* *Sherlock whipped around to point at Eric's face with a pair of tongs, which he clacked together as if to punctuate his accusatory scowl.* *"There, see!? Firing off a devastating repartee like that without so much as a pause to think? You're not some common idiot, you're a mastermind hiding behind freckles and a stupid accent!"* *"Mastermind," Eric repeated, scoffing for the sheer absurdity.* *"How many strings did you have to pull to get Corey to offer me a job?"* *Eric opened his mouth, shut it. Met Sherlock's accusing stare for a beat, then glanced sheepishly away to the far wall. Fuck. Hadn't thought he'd caught on to any of that.* *"I just… made a few comments here n' there. Weren't anything clever."* *"And then you convinced him to let me have access to the whole stock even when he said absolutely not, you smoothed things over with the crew those idiot thugs were from even though I nearly killed two of them, you got permission for Rhys to stay…"* *Sherlock wasn't angry about any of this, of course. Smug, if anything. Eric met his triumphant look with a peevish little huff.* *"What're you tryna get at?"* *"Just want you to acknowledge your latent potential for greatness," Sherlock said airily.* *Eric was unimpressed. "Why? So you can pretend you didn't settle for th'first dumbarse willing t'put up with you?"* *Sherlock didn't respond with the expected teasing banter - instead he became unusually serious, staring down into the beaker of acid now swirling away on the plate he'd set up.* *"So you won't settle for less than you're worth."* **««** He sat a long time under the willow. Listening to birds slowly return after his shouting had driven them off, the rabbits creeping back over the grass. Wondered dully if he even existed anymore. If he'd ever been real at all. It had been so long since he'd spoken more than a handful of words to another human being. Felt like he couldn't be sure. "You could shout at the rabbits again," the voice suggested. "Prove you're real by scaring the piss out of them." "Wouldn't prove shit, rabbits get scared over nothin' all th'damn time." "True." They sat in silence for another while. Unwilling to voice the obvious. How he'd fallen to such a spectral existence, and what he'd have to do to resolidify. "There was a music shop with a 'help wanted' sign back in the village," the voice offered, somehow a quiet mutter despite echoing from within his skull. Eric felt like he should object. On principal, if nothing else. "Don't need money." "No," it agreed. "You don't." He breathed an exhausted sigh and leant his head back to stare into the willow boughs above. "... I can't do it." "What do you mean you can't?" Sherlock's voice was all baffled disbelief, like he'd just said something profoundly stupid. "I mean I fuckin' *can't,* Shers. I can't get attached to someone again and just… watch 'em disappear." "So don't get attached," the voice said in a tone as if this were dead obvious. "Fuck's sake," Eric huffed. Brought his knees up again and ran his fingers through his overgrown hair, pushing it back from his face. Shook his head and pulled the elastic from his wrist where he'd put it out of long-dead habit; always used to keep a few extra for his sisters. Tied his hair back just for something to do with his hands. "It's a perfectly reasonable strategy," the voice went on. "You packed a lifetime's worth of romantic passion into one whirlwind relationship with a lunatic, then cut yourself off all human contact like a junkie going cold turkey. And that's clearly not gone well, as evidenced by the fact that you're being counselled by a hallucination." "Yeah well nobody fuckin' asked you to-" The voice carried on speaking straight over him. "So split the difference. Go for surface-level connection. Pop round the shop, say hello, ask after the job. Not aiming to make friends, just colleagues. It'll be like a test run." Eric frowned into the tree limbs above. Felt right on the verge of agreeing, just to get it over with, but fear rose up like a smothering fog. Couldn't. Too much risk. Too much pain and loss and grief to open up again. "Sleep on it," the voice suggested, sounding rather irritated but doing its best to stay supportive. "Haven't in days anyway." Hadn't he? Felt like he'd slept recently enough. Days all blurred together now, though. Perhaps he'd not slept last night. Or the night before. Just kept walking. Reluctantly he let himself list to the side and lay stretched out in the grass under the willow. **««** *"You shoulda said sommat, though. I coulda hurt you," he heard himself protest, words distant and dreamlike. Felt both the grass beneath him and another, parallel experience, where he was back on the ratty, threadbare mattress in the tiny bedroom in Stockwell. And his stupid boyfriend was rolling his eyes at him as he hunted for a pair of clean pants.* *"It's fine, Eric. You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to, let alone by accident."* *Well. That was… hrmph. He frowned, tried and failed to fight back against the deranged teenaged instinct to defend his masculinity. Still felt bad about having got a bit rough when they'd been fooling around earlier, of course - hadn't meant to wrench his arm round like that. But facts did need to be set straight. Eric wasn't weak. God's sake, likely twice Sherlock's weight by now with how often the idiot skipped meals.* *"I'm well stronger'n you are, mate."* *Sherlock shot him a bemused smirk over his shoulder as he finished pulling on the pants he'd retrieved from the floor. Then, still mostly nude, he flopped back down onto the mattress and sat criss-cross facing him.* *"Hit me," he ordered simply.* *Eric scowled. Knew the proper response was probably confusion, refusal… but, nah. Wasn't about to play that game. Eric wasn't some limp-wristed fairy - he'd been a footballer, found himself in a few scraps back in his school days. Of course he'd never done much of the actual fighting, preferring to hang back and try to negotiate whilst his mates got into it, but still. Bloody well knew how to punch a bloke. He threw a swift right took at Sherlock's shoulder.* *His fist deflected smoothly off a bony forearm, which had shot up at just the right angle to clip the back of his hand. Sherlock then did some clever twisting movement to flip his arm round Eric's, caught his wrist with a firm grip, and in the space where a counter blow might have gone he instead leant in and kissed him. His face when he drew back was the sort of unimpressed smile one might give a small child.* *"If you'd managed to connect you would've dislocated your thumb," he pointed out. Shifted Eric's wrist to where his finger placement was visible, then let go and made a fist of his own to demonstrate how it ought to look. A line of fading bruises across his knuckles fell in step with each other to mark the strike points.* *Eric grumbled a bit for how easily he'd been blocked - wouldn't admit it, of course, but the speed of that counter had been bloody impressive. Despite keeping up his annoyed front he dutifully shifted his fingers to mimic Sherlock's example. Thumb out, not tucked under the others. Once he'd got it Sherlock nodded, then threw a slow-motion, demonstrative punch at Eric's shoulder, thumping into him lightly but with enough force to still shove him back a bit.* *"Extend, twist, follow through. Always try to hit with the middle knuckle first."* *Eric dropped his good arm to catch himself before he fell over backwards. Stabilised, then re-made the proper fist he'd been shown. Experimentally tried the punch again, slowly - Sherlock reached up to guide his arm into the correct form and had an oddly proud little smile when he managed to connect with the middle knuckle. Of course Sherlock hadn't budged a fraction from the weak blow, even sat criss-cross as he was.* *Eric absently tried it a few more times as he thought back to that first street fight. How seamlessly Sherlock had shifted from giddy drunk to ruthless fighter, the deft confidence in his movements. At the time Eric had vaguely assumed the bloke's thoughts just moved so fast he could read opponents and plan his attacks lightyears ahead. Now, though, he understood that Sherlock really didn't think at all whilst shitfaced as he'd been that night, let alone plan things out - turning his brain off was the entire point, after all. Must have been acting on instinct instead. Pure muscle memory.* *"You're proper trained at this," he eventually concluded.* *Sherlock huffed a flat little laugh. "If getting the shit kicked out of you until you learn to defend yourself is proper, then sure."* *He paused, glancing away with a bit of a thoughtful, reflective expression. Didn't even blink when Eric aimed another weak punch at his shoulder.* *"At school, y'mean?" Eric asked. "Picked a load of fights tellin' folks shit they didn't wanna hear, right?"* *"I… yeah, at school." Sherlock's voice came out distant. Eric stopped the silly punches to study his face. Not checked out, thankfully, just got distracted. Finally he shook his head. Furrowed his brow as if trying to piece together several loose scraps of thought. "No… I think that's a lie? I keep telling myself I learnt it on my own, to deal with bullies, but… I'm pretty sure I actually had to teach myself* not *to fight. Or to… do it less viciously. Read a load of books on self-defence trying to learn less aggressive techniques, to avoid putting other boys in hospital. But then I pretended like that was where I learnt it to begin with? I don't know. It's confusing."* *Eric, too, was confused. But he'd plenty of practise with that. Knew it was easiest to just ask questions until he could catch hold again. "Y'mean you think you were taught t'fight as a little kid?"* *Sherlock nodded. "If I'm not paying attention I'll default to the same style Father uses, so he's probably the one who trained me, but I've no idea when or how. A lot of my childhood is just… blank. Whole sections I can't remember."* *A memory of Mum's face flitted through Eric's mind - back when he'd been small, and she'd been younger than he was now. Explaining why she couldn't tell him stories about his grandparents.* *"Mum used to say that's how brains protect themselves. Blank out the really bad shit so it don't get in the way."* *Sherlock gave him a morose little half-smile. "Don't think my brain's much interested in protecting me."* *"Maybe it's doing its best wit' what it's got," Eric offered. He tried another soft punch again.* *"Or maybe it's trying to get me killed so it'll finally be rid of my nonsense."* *"Or that," Eric agreed.* *The fond smile on Sherlock's face seemed rather more sentimental than was usual for him, so Eric let his own smile shift a bit questioning in return - no idea what he could've possibly done to elicit a look like that.* *"Would that we could all have your fortitude, Eric," he muttered, looking away into the middle distance.* *"Fortitude?"* *Sherlock shrugged. "You're always so… calm, I guess. Even when we're discussing awful things."* *Eric laughed and shook his head. "Mate I'm freakin' out, like, all th' time." He stopped, frowned to himself thoughtfully. "Or I used to be, anyhow. I guess with you around I'm more like how I was back home? Before everything happened, I mean. Benny says it's weird."* *Belatedly Eric bit his lip over the 'before everything' comment, hoping Sherlock wouldn't ask him to elaborate. As usual, though, Sherlock seemed intuitively able to tell when simple words were hiding demons, and kept well clear.* *Sherlock had looked off towards the far wall thoughtfully. After a few seconds of silence Eric tried one of his little punches again, thinking he'd try to put a bit more force into it so he could knock the bloke over and maybe pin him down for a cheeky snog, but in the distraction of not looking his direction Sherlock's mysterious training seemed to have kicked back in. He caught the punch easily, blinked down at it, then over to Eric with an unimpressed expression.* *Eric gave him a silly, apologetic smile, then leant forward and kissed him. Sherlock met this with the same passive acceptance he afforded any sudden physical affection - as if he weren't sure why it was happening but saw no reason to object. Let the kiss deepen into something more passionate, and then allowed himself to be pushed backwards until he was lying on the mattress with Eric on top of him. They'd been vaguely intending to sleep at some point, before they'd got distracted by each other. Probably best to try to actually get some rest.* *But, of course, being the age they were, hormones had far more power than they'd any right to. And the physical reaction to lying atop a cute, mostly-naked bloke was both immediate and difficult to ignore. With an almighty effort of willpower he managed anyway and drew back to regard the boy below him. Looking for the first signs of any shift in mental state, making sure he had enough cocaine in his system - all the little things he'd begun to make a habit of checking for before they did anything.* *"Eric, I just want you to know I find it incredibly weird how often you stare at my face," Sherlock said blandly. Eric huffed a small laugh and briefly stuck out his tongue at him.* *"It's cause you're hot."* *Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, it's because you're looking for signs that I'm about to have a psychotic break."* *Eric bit his lip, considered denying it. Realised he'd have absolutely no luck even trying and shrugged. "Yeah, sorry."* *"No, it's fine. Probably warranted." Sherlock sighed and looked away again. "Sometimes I worry that... ugh, nevermind."* *Eric frowned. "You worry that what?" When Sherlock didn't answer he insistently prodded at the bloke's face, whingeing "say it" in an irritating tone until he huffed and reached up to grab Eric's hand.* *"That Father was right about…" He trailed off, let his hand flop down onto the rumpled duvet. Closing his eyes, his voice shifted into the cold, clipped tones Eric had learnt to associate with him mimicking his dad. "'You're a weapon forged in brutality, doomed to mirror that which created you.'" He opened his eyes again and let the chill drop out, replaced by quiet resignation.* *Eric tried to parse the meaning of this, but must have looked utterly lost because Sherlock gave him a smile and a tiny laugh.* *"He meant I'll only ever hurt people, because that's all I've ever known."* *"Oh. Well that's fuckin' stupid," Eric replied easily. Earned himself a bemused look.* *"Stupid?"* *"Yeah," Eric affirmed. "Really just callin' himself a shit parent, ain't he? People get over shit parents all th' damn time."* *Sherlock sniggered, then laughed, and then, quite suddenly, kissed him.* *"You're such a fucking idiot," he said as he buried his face in Eric's shoulder.* *He'd said it in that way which actually meant he appreciated Eric's habit of poking fun at awful shit, so Eric let the jab pass without comment. Thought back to his own life instead. To the things Luce had done to him. To feeling so helplessly terrified whilst a man held you down and hurt you. But people got over shit boyfriends all the time too, didn't they? And shit upbringings and all the shitty consequences of their shit decisions. People always found ways to keep living.* *Perhaps he'd more hope for the future than he'd thought.* **««** When he came back to himself, to the moment which might have been the present but which felt more like a dream than the dream had, it was to find he'd already dragged himself to his feet. Walking was pure automation, now. Done so much of it lately. And so the whole distance back to the village passed by in a blink. Might have still been asleep, for all he knew. Afternoon sun danced merrily over the window before him, a handwritten sign behind glass. He caught sight of his own reflection above it. Beard he'd given up shaving months ago had grown past the patchiness stage now, begun to look mostly intentional. He'd let his hair get long enough to where tying it back was easiest - currently bundled into a bun as he'd always done to keep his sisters' curls more manageable. And with the posh cut of the peacoat offsetting the ragged condition of the rest of his clothes one could hardly tell he'd been wandering homeless for the better part of four months. "Doesn't matter even if they notice the stains," the voice in his head piped up. "Just win them over like you always do." "Won't have a chance if they toss me out soon as they hear me talk." "So talk differently." Dropped eye contact with his own reflection to stare instead at the pavement. Considered whether he'd be able to pull off an Estuary accent well enough to fool anyone. They were a long ways from London. Possibly no one would notice even if he mucked it up a bit. "If you're interested in the position you'd do far better coming in and asking about it!" Eric startled quite badly, looked up to find a young woman had poked her head out the shop door. A twinkle in her eyes said she'd meant her words playfully. Eric tried a smile. "… I think I might be, yeah." **««** ## Chapter 16 **««** "Mycroft, dear! Oh, how lovely." He blinked, looked up from the printout in front of him to regard his expected guest - Reine, his older cousin - alongside the somewhat less expected presence of his mother. Dimly he recognised his brain running through the analysis of why this wasn't actually all that surprising, given Mummy had gone to stay with her family following her husband's demise and subsequent investigation of his estate, but the sound of her voice was nonetheless jarring. Reine picked up on his discomfort immediately, of course. Smirked for the small victory. She'd always been fond of finding ways to unsettle him. "Mummy," Mycroft intoned politely. He slid the report back into its file, a signal Reine would understand to mean its contents were classified but could potentially be 'misplaced' given sufficient motivation. The addition of Mummy, of course, threw something of a wrench into his plans for the meeting. One assumed this had been the entire point of bringing her along. Rather than take a seat across the table alongside Reine, Mummy made a beeline directly towards him and planted a loving kiss upon his forehead, exactly as she'd done when he was a child. He allowed this with only a modicum of exasperation. "Oh, look at you! It's been simply ages!" Mummy exclaimed as she drew back to look at him, holding his face in both hands. He politely reached up to extricate himself. Thankfully she deigned to have a seat, though her insistence on scooting her chair up to be directly alongside his was… grating. He resolved to ignore it. "Reine," he said instead as his cousin took a seat across from the two of them. "You're looking well." It was true, at least - her new position of authority within the family business had clearly been to her liking. In contrast to the harsh, awkward girl she'd been in their youth, she now cut a rather imposing figure: short, dark hair; bespoke business-casual attire; spectacles of a thick, cat-eye styled frame betraying her family flair for the dramatic. She flashed him a pleasant smile. "And you, Myc. Hope you don't mind my bringing Aunt Violet along." "Not at all," Mycroft replied, though he very much did - hadn't spoken more than a fleeting handful of words to Mummy over the past few months. Not that he'd been avoiding her, necessarily, but the reality of having unceremoniously executed her husband, and then promptly losing track of her youngest son, left him feeling an uncomfortable emotion very much like guilt in her presence. Ah, speaking of the son, though… he raised a brow at Reine. "One imagines the matter at hand involves Mummy and I rather equally." Sure enough, Reine's smile shifted to a smirk. Without taking her eyes off his face she snapped her fingers as if summoning a dog, and one of her assistants appeared from a side entrance to hand Mycroft a small manila envelope. He slid its contents out, which turned out to be a printed photograph, and couldn't quite help a long pause as he stared wordlessly down at it. It was a shot captured via telescopic lens, cropped close to mask any location-identifying features. What remained of the image depicted two figures sat on some sort of veranda. One was an older man; beard, spectacles, collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He appeared to be in the midst of examining the other figure: an emaciated adolescent wearing a pair of faded jeans, trainers, shirtless. The boy's face was visible only in profile, and marred by a large splash of mud… but it was unmistakably Sherlock. Mycroft resolutely quelled an upsurge of relief as he passed the photo over to Mummy. "My word, is that Frank Hudson?" Mummy exclaimed as she took in the image. Mycroft blinked, frowned at her - one might have expected the woman to acknowledge the sorry state of her own child before any other matters. Reine gave a performative shrug. "Perhaps. Who can really say, in his case?" Violet's brow furrowed. "Ah, right… he was the one with a twin brother, wasn't he? Always made target confirmation a nightmare." Mycroft bit back a childish huff. Hated feeling out of the loop, and though his mind was racing through reams of knowledge it hadn't yet pulled up anything related to the name. Based on Mummy's words, however, one might safely assume he'd been among her general cohort of Cold War era spies. Evidently an asset whose twin had been used to strategic effect, which a parallel thread of his mind had already seized upon in relation to his work. Assessing the feasibility of targeted recruitment, testing as a possible explanation for a handful of unsolved incidents. All well and good, of course. But he found himself far more focussed on the matter of his mother failing to comment on the state of *her own bloody child.* "Perhaps we might focus on the more relevant subject?" he put in archly, hoping to nudge her into at least giving him some modicum of faith in her ability to recognise her offspring. A short staring contest ensued. Finally Mummy glanced down to the photo again, gazed at it a long moment. Mycroft watched her face for some emotion. Relief or anguish or worry or *anything,* really. But there was nothing. A mask of perfect neutrality. She finally took a short breath, seemed to shake herself, and handed the photo back to him. Mycroft failed to smother a disgusted glare. Wasn't new behaviour for her, obviously. In Sherlock's early years she'd been every bit as attentive as she'd been towards Mycroft. A better parent in some ways, even - taught her youngest troublesome skills no child should possess, encouraged his endless stream of chattering so long as he made efforts to do it in French. But as the boy grew she'd slowly become more distant. By the time his brother turned eight Mycroft had grown accustomed to never seeing the two of them interact beyond surface-level formalities. Like so many other troubling aspects of his childhood, Mycroft hadn't paid it much mind. Sherlock hadn't ever seemed to care whether Mummy paid attention to him, and during her frequent depressive episodes she'd be similarly aloof towards everyone, so it hardly seemed a pressing issue. He'd far more important business to attend to in his life - grades and exams and choosing a university. Perfectly reasonable to assume one's parents could be trusted to know what they were doing in regards to raising children. They *had* known, he supposed. In a manner of speaking. Because Siger had clearly developed an action plan for both his sons. Implemented to perfection in Mycroft's case, as he found himself content to follow the path intended for him. And in Sherlock's case… "You might at least *pretend* to care about his wellbeing," he spat. Perhaps he'd been expecting Mummy to react as if he'd slapped her, or to give any indication at all that she'd strong feelings on the matter, because her response of a placid lift of the brows was infuriating. Enough to where he no longer cared that Reine sat just across the table from them, watching. "This has always been your strategy, hasn't it?" he continued acidly. "Years of your life spent refusing to acknowledge the situation directly in view." Mummy's brows lowered, but she betrayed no clear emotion. Which only incensed him further. "What was your preferred approach, then? Did you sit across the table every meal carefully overlooking the obvious? Or was avoiding him altogether the easier solution?" In her silent stare he saw his brother's face. And then his own. Recognised with a sickening lurch what she was about to do, because it was what he himself would do in her place. An exact mirror of what he'd done to Sherlock countless times. Mummy stood, silent, and left the room. He was left to suffocate on his own outrage. Reine remained mercifully silent. Giving him time to process, or perhaps giving herself a moment to reflect. … or, perhaps, internally gloating. Given how obviously she'd set this up. Mycroft clenched his jaw once - just the once, for just an instant, and then forced himself to relax back into his usual air of collected calm. "Touché," he bit out. Calmly. Reine flashed him a bland half-smile which didn't reach her eyes. An acknowledgement, nothing more. Several beats of silence stretched between them, both waiting for the other to break. Mycroft settled back into his seat, fully intending to drag this into a staring match, and then caught the faintest smirk creeping into Reine's expression. Instantly bristled, realising she was baiting him into a childish game. Not the time. They'd far more important matters at hand. He shifted forward again and leant his elbows on the table between them, picture of collected poise. Apart, of course, from the deeply irritated spark he knew must be dancing upon his face by its reflection in Reine's spectacles (and her widening smirk). Ignored it. Not important. "What are your terms?" he asked her levelly. No point beating round the bush, playing at polite diplomacy. Not with her, of all people. "Terms?" Reine repeated, tone a picture of innocence. Mycroft felt his expression hardening into perhaps the most venomous face he'd worn in months. Trust an elder cousin to draw such pique out of him. She'd acquired skills of exquisite, targeted irritation aimed at his very core in their shared youth, and then proceeded to spend the next two decades refining them into an art form. "Reine I am *entirely* not in the mood," Mycroft found himself snapping. Mercifully, Reine's smirk broke into a full, very slightly apologetic smile. She huffed an overdramatic breath of a sigh and with a roll of her eyes gestured to the photo laying face-up on the table. "Have another look at that, then. Get all the details." He did so. Details jumped out - warm climate, likely tropical; texture of the mud on Sherlock's face and trousers suggested a tumble into a bog or swamp; length of his tangled hair timed it to within the past few weeks at earliest. Thanks to Mummy he now had a name to put to the unfamiliar face, could infer he'd been a Cold War field agent with a twin brother. Should be simple to pull up intelligence records and determine the man's last known whereabouts. The photo was plucked from his hands. Reine gave it a glance, then flicked it away like a playing card. Her expression made it clear she considered herself to have just done him an enormous favour. "Up to now, Uncle Siger's control over the boy rendered him too dangerous for Grand-père to consider recruiting. Obviously that is no longer the case, thanks to your recent actions. I'd been relatively successful these past few months convincing relevant parties you'd replaced Uncle's influence with your own… but here now we've found the boy alone, far outside your sphere, under absolutely no surveillance, within easy reach of several key Cauchois agents. I have no choice but to act on this." His heart sank. He'd been hoping to avoid this. "He's… ungovernable. Even if you manage to capture him, you'll never be able to-" "It's not about what *I* am able to do, Myc. It's about what Grand-père can do." Reine said this with absolute flat dispassion. Unspoken implications along a dozen vectors - if there was anyone who could bring Sherlock to heel with minimal fuss, it would be their grandfather. The boy had always gravitated towards the man during family holidays for some unfathomable reason. Two silent statues watching the rest of them with matching grey-blue eyes. Control by a man whose methods were kinder than Siger's might have been a relief, of course. Except for the small manner of Grand-père's actual business… he'd press Sherlock into the position of infiltration and assassination specialist, no question. It was the only role within the Cauchois ecosystem the boy was suited to, and he'd be a natural at it. Might even excel, for a while. Wouldn't take long at all, though, until… well, Reine thankfully seemed to share Mycroft's awareness of just how brittle Sherlock's psychological stability could be under certain conditions. This was a boy so averse to suffering he'd once had a habit of freeing foxes from traps round the Estate, after all, bites and punishments be damned. He'd never acclimate to the moral code Reine and their other cousins lived by. But, gods, he'd try, wouldn't he? For their grandfather? Absolutely. He'd cut himself to the quick trying to perform. Mycroft did his level best to suppress a sigh, failed, then gave up and allowed himself to wilt a bit. Leant an elbow on the table and kneaded at a headache beginning to blossom through his temples. "How long can you give me?" he asked her. "Three days. Maybe less. Depends how Alethea's loyalties shake out." He blinked, shot her a look halfway between appalled and aggrieved. "You've put Alethea in the thick of this?" Reine answered with a raise of one manicured brow over the rim of her spectacles. "I've put one of my most reliable field assets on a target she's intrinsically motivated to protect, yes. You're quite welcome." A thick silence took hold, both of them drawn to their own thoughts. Reine sat watching him impassively. Mycroft let his eyes drift, caught sight of the photo where it had come to rest near the table leg. Sherlock's face in profile. Some deep-vault of a memory chose that instant to serve up a flash of a holiday long ago, sitting on the beach at the Cauchois' property on the Côte d'Azur. Looking up to catch sight of Sherlock's profile in the same orientation, over a decade younger - the little boy had bounded up to a wholly disinterested teenaged Reine holding a long strand of seaweed and was gearing up to subject her to a rambling lecture on the particulars of the species. Deciding to take pity on his elder cousin, Mycroft had interrupted his brother with the easiest means to get the boy to shut up - threatening to tell Father he'd been irritating people. It worked, of course. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and dropped the seaweed. Mycroft had considered this an empty threat, at the time. Just a reliable way to get Sherlock to stop and reassess his behaviour, nothing more. Reine had given him such a *look* in that moment, though - a sharp, almost disgusted glare. He'd glared back, having no idea what her problem could possibly be. She'd stood, taken his baby brother by the hand, and left Mycroft to watch in perplexed annoyance as she led the boy down to the water and encouraged him to tell her all about the different types of kelp. The memory hit now with a different timbre. A realization, one amongst a cascade of the blasted things today, that he'd lived his entire childhood blind to more than he'd ever thought possible. "... did you always know?" he found himself asking. Quietly. Horrifically, appallingly quietly. Hated himself for it, but… well, this was his cousin. Known him his entire life, and he the majority of hers. Lord knew they'd seen worse from each other. Reine graced him with yet another raised brow. "You'll have to be more specific." "About… my father. The sort of parent he was. To Sherlock," Mycroft clarified, each word feeling like a small shard of glass. Reine regarded him for a long moment, her expression betraying nothing. Then she shrugged. Mycroft glanced up to her, and imagined her expression to have softened the tiniest fraction. "It was really never subtle," she replied. Her words fell like a knife to the chest. Mycroft felt himself freeze, then a fraction later relax back into the chair, exhausted. For once his mind seemed to go silent. No thoughts, no recriminations, no spiralling deductions, no fractal branches of plans upon plans. Simply a pause, allowing the ambient enormity of the day take hold. Reine watched him again, unfazed. When next she spoke it was to offer the tiniest of olive branches. "If Uncle Siger had meant for you to see, you would have." Mycroft shifted his eyes to meet hers, searched for something to reply to that, but found nothing. Instead he breathed a small sigh and shook his head, letting his gaze drift away and down. Reine seemed to take this as her cue; she flashed him a tight smile, and then with no fanfare whatsoever rose to her feet and left the room. Mycroft remained for a few minutes more. Stared dimly at the photograph of his brother askew on the floor below. Finally he took a deep, bracing breath, leant over, and plucked it up. **««** "For a period of several years, spanning from roughly 1992 to 1998, Siger Holmes was known to conduct unsanctioned intelligence operations featuring the frequent deployment of a juvenile field asset, provisionally identified as his youngest son. The child appeared to have been purpose-trained to identify foreign assets, serve in a basic-to-advanced infiltration specialist role, and to engage in hand-to-hand or weapons combat as necessary. "Frank Hudson of the CIA served as head of a limited task force charged with the elimination of this child, formed in response to Agent Holmes' success in leveraging the boy's anomalous observational capabilities to identify and neutralize foreign assets involved in MI6 operational theatres. "MI6, of course, maintained that any allegation of their awareness of such a dynamic, and indeed the existence of the child asset at all, were 'fanciful nonsense'. They also maintained a list of foreign operatives known to have been eliminated by Siger's ongoing activities. And another of those they'd like to see targeted next." "Meeting with your cousin went well, then?" He fixed her with a look he knew must be doleful as a kicked hound. A pause, trying to collect his thoughts, before he found his voice again. Quiet this time, no longer reading off the legal pad in his hand but instead staring blankly into the scene of a memory. "He evaded a full retrieval team for five hours at nineteen years old whilst high on cocaine, disabled two combat-trained agents without so much as a bruise to show for the trouble… of course he was developed as a juvenile asset. Father didn't just set him on a career path, he had the boy fully operational by age eight. How could I have overlooked the extent…?" His PA raised a brow at him. Polite irritation. He'd left her bereft of context, as usual. With a sigh he handed the document he'd been reading from over to her - his handwritten summary of the results of the past several hours of obsessive poring over files, cross-referencing between intelligence databases and his own late father's meticulous records. A few joints in his spine popped as he leant back in his chair, reminding him he'd scarcely moved since returning from Reine's meeting. Considered standing up for a stretch as he watched his assistant skim his notes. Then considered instead pouring a stiff drink. Both seemed far out of reach beyond an ocean of physical effort. Better to simply sit. Stare at nothing. "Well," his PA said primly as she finished reading. "That explains some things." Mycroft didn't reply - couldn't think of anything to say. A scant beat passed, and then his assistant carried on with a brisk, "Removes a concern, however. He won't be needing a full recovery team. We can treat him as a rogue asset rather than a hostage, simplifies the extraction process." "He's a *child*-" Mycroft started, aggrieved. "He's a young man," she corrected sharply. "A mentally unstable twenty year-old with comprehensive field ops training, a record of high-stakes conditional deployment, and a substance abuse problem. If he weren't your brother we'd have already contracted out the hit." Mycroft opened his mouth to object, then shut it again. He rubbed a hand down his face and leant further back into his office chair, huffed a tired sigh, and found himself staring blankly at the ceiling. She was right, of course. She was always right. That was why he'd kept her on as his assistant all these years. Could count on her to slip blades of hard truths straight between his ribs without blinking. "My cousin's already deployed a Cauchois Syndicate asset to the area, extraction timeline depends on that asset's loyalty profile. We've a few days at most before he's drafted into the family business," he relayed dully, dimly aware he'd not yet got around to relaying the contents of the meeting to her. "And you're wasting time compiling a historical dossier?" she replied, dry as paper. He drew a deep, theatrical sigh, and fixed her with a glower which would have doubtless been far more intimidating had he not been clad in rolled-up shirtsleeves, chair back leant at a perilous angle, looking up at her with an air of death warmed over. As expected, all he got for his efforts was a bland stare. A beat, then she politely snapped the document back towards him. He took it. Looked once more at the words on the page. Shut his eyes and rubbed in vain at his aching forehead. His PA was already turning towards the open door of his office, typing rapidly on her mobile device. "I'll have a list of deployables to you in an hour," she informed him. "Only those capable of non-fatally neutralising a rogue asset." And with that, she was gone. Mycroft watched after her a few beats, then huffed a breath. Should go after her. Help with team selection. As he went to set aside the intelligence summary, however, his hand brushed against the photo he'd got from Reine. His little brother in profile, covered in mud, sat across from the twin of a man once tasked with eliminating the boy. He decided to pour that drink after all. **««** ## Chapter 17 **««** Reality reasserted itself, as it often did, with very little fanfare. One moment he'd been in his head, with the willow and the firestorm and the ghost of a past left behind. And then the next he was on a hardwood floor in an unfamiliar house in some godforsaken jungle-swamp, body breaking out of its curled-up ball with enough of a startled jolt to set his bruised abdominal muscle spasming. This forced out a yelp and dropped him back into a ball, curled forward over his knees this time, pressing his forehead to the cool hardwood with a grimace. Fuck. "Ah, there you are, dear. Knew you'd come round soon enough if we just left you be," Mrs Hudson's cadence drifted in, pleasant as always. Sherlock lifted his head just enough to seek the source of the voice, found the old woman sitting there in her armchair with a cup of tea in hand and an open file folder resting across her lap. Behind her sat a squat coffee table laden with similar folders, a few scattered papers, packets, and a potted cactus. He blinked at the tableau, then belatedly recalled the more salient concern and pushed himself as close to upright as he could get without pulling his abdomen. "Where's Frank?" Mrs Hudson gave him an unconcerned hum, took a sip of tea whilst dropping her gaze back to the documents in her lap. "Other end of the house with Harold. Joshua's off on a bit of an errand, should be back soon I imagine," she told him, tone light as a sunbeam. And then… nothing. She offered not one single scrap of further information. No threats, either, or directives, or… whatever the hell else he'd been expecting. Just carried on reading. Started up a few seconds later humming a tune to herself. Sherlock stared at her. Some part of him tried to classify the interaction as a standoff but it really wasn't much of one, considering he was still stuck pathetic on the floor and she was… ignoring him, apparently? Well… fine, then. That was fine. Let her read her stupid file and hum her rubbish little tune and not pay him any mind. Better setup for escape. Or the start of an escape, anyway. Which for the moment consisted of a very slow, careful shift into a slouching seat with his back against the wall. Kept one arm clamped gingerly round his throbbing core muscles to stabilize over the compression bandage, successfully fought off the urge to be sick. Alright… great. Good progress. Doing well. Relatively speaking. Step one complete. "Everything alright with that bruise, dear?" Mrs Hudson cut in. Sherlock resolutely did not startle, cracked open an eye to glare her direction. She glanced up towards him over a placid sip of tea. "... hurts," he begrudgingly admitted. This earned him a sympathetic smile… and absolutely nothing else. No micro-tells, no fidgets, no soft hint of sadness. Nothing by which to deduce intent, motivation, opinion, plans. Bloody woman was a platonic void in a cardigan. He tried not to scowl. "Ah, well, you have been running yourself a touch ragged," Mrs Hudson told him. Voidishly. Like a black hole of pleasantness. A pause, then she continued with, "can you manage standing on your own, do you think, or will you need a hand?" "Checking if I'll be able to run?" Sherlock replied in a tone as close as one could come to snide whilst slouched against a wall like a pillock. Mrs Hudson offered no clear reaction. Very mild amusement, if anything. Infuriating. "Checking if you'll be able to come join me for a spot of tea without my having to go over there and try to help you up," she clarified, tone catching a bit of light inflection nowhere near enough to get a read on whether she was lying. "I've a dodgy hip, you see," she added, patting the offending joint. Sherlock frowned at her. Could be a trap. Luring him over for… something. Repositioning the captive or drugging him or whatever else. Should stay put. But, then… the hard floor was putting his arse to sleep. And everything was sore. And he could really bloody go for some caffeine. Prospect of having it in the form of actual proper English tea really just rendered the offer impossible to reject. So. Fine. Getting up. He could handle that. Definitely. Bracing against the wall was just good sense, not a sign of imminent collapse. And if he made the entire few-metre journey partly hunched over in an attempt to avoid stretching his screaming abdomen any further than absolutely necessary, well. That was also sensible. Aggravated the thing enough over the past few days. Best have a bit of caution, avoid further damage. Mrs Hudson didn't seem to mind him collapsing into the other armchair and instantly drawing his legs up, muddy shoes on the cushion, which was a relief as he wasn't confident in his ability to sit like a civilised adult without being sick all over her files or the stupid cactus. The woman had been busying herself with a tea set during his slow trek over to her. With an absentminded air she added milk and sugar without asking, which would have been annoying but for the fact that she'd somehow got the ratio exactly as he preferred, so he accepted it with only a very brief flash of open confusion. "Hm? Ah, sorry!" she exclaimed upon catching his expression. "Wasn't even thinking! Here, let me pour another-" "Er, no, it's fine. Perfect, actually," Sherlock assured her. Mrs Hudson seemed to go still for a beat and quirked a strange, bemused smile at him. "Is it really? Well, fancy that." A scattered burst of attempted deduction skittered through his mind, but the lingering throbbing of his abdomen was proving quite a damper on cognition. Finally enough pieces managed to settle into place - not a threat, not coded meaning, just… "You accidentally made it how that Faulkner man liked," he intoned dully. Took a resigned sip of his tea and settled his weight more comfortably in the chair. For a given measure of comfort, anyway. Everything around the central-gut area felt rather like a pulsating inferno. Ignoring it was taking more energy than he preferred to admit. Mrs Hudson's smile drifted a touch apologetic. "All this reminiscing, dear. Got my poor head thinking we're decades back." He huffed a noise which had been meant as a scoff but which came out more like a sigh. Recalled the polaroid still lying on the floor where he'd dropped it. The one depicting this woman decades younger, stood in casual embrace with some bizarre echo of himself in vintage clothing. Ah, right. Personal connections. A web of nodes linking all these people together. Should probably get on trying to map that out. "So, what, then? You dated my… er, father?" Stumbled over the last bit - not sure how to handle that word. Too inextricably linked with Siger. Mrs Hudson laughed. "Dated! Oh goodness, no. He usually just turned up at my door like a stray cat." Tried to parse this intelligently, slot the information in his head somewhere, but the majority of his brain was still a scorched wasteland. Fell instead to a bit of an unfocussed stare, gazing into space without a single concrete thought beyond the stabbing in his gut. Shook himself with a quick grimace and a gulp of tea. Caffeine. Needed more stimulant in him. Nicotine patches weren't doing more than taking the edge off a creeping cognitive fog. Mrs Hudson apparently took his silence as invitation to carry on. "He'd do that same thing, you know - get overwhelmed and curl himself up like a hedgehog, wouldn't be budged for anything. Always came round soon enough if you just let him be, so I guessed you'd likely do as well. Isn't it strange what turns out to be genetic?" It *was* strange. And… unsettling, somehow. His brain's propensity to trap him in a paralysed trance state whilst the system rebooted had always been one of those absurd facets of his existence so alien and nonsensical he'd given up hope of ever meeting anyone else who experienced it. The idea some man with his face and his mannerisms and this same idiotic problem to deal with had lived before him, could have lived *alongside* him, even, if not for having been killed… … well, he didn't know how to feel about that. Confused, perhaps. Maybe closer to upset if he were being honest. But this really wasn't any time for honesty. Still stuck in a strange house with a strange woman and a man in the other room who probably wanted to hurt him. Had to get a hold of himself. He shook his head again as if that might help dispel the eddies of whatever detritus had set to swirling in his mind. "Fascinating," he droned, flat as paper. Knew the instant he heard himself that he'd landed more on the side of exhausted than derisive or imperious. Oh well. Gave it his best shot. Mrs Hudson's expression shifted to an odd smile he put absolutely no effort to deciphering. "I suppose I should say something like he'd have loved to meet you, but… as far as I knew he was dead-set against having children. I don't suppose you've any idea what changed his mind?" Sherlock had no answer. Frankly didn't even feel up to starting the process of finding one. And so, in silence, he budgeted a bit of painful movement to lean forward and snatch up one of the files on the table. Data. Sidestep conversations with information-gathering, keep his mind off degradation of the physical shell, avoid dwelling on anything too complex for current processing. That was the tactic. Mrs Hudson made no move to interfere, nor (thankfully) to press him into an answer. Just raised her brows a tiny bit, then took another sip of tea and looked back down to her own file. The first thing visible as he flipped open the battered folder was a photograph affixed to the page as part of what looked like a mission briefing. Grainy, perhaps a still from a surveillance video. A young boy staring at something off-screen, dark curls neatly trimmed but still somehow cowlicked in the back, ice-pale eyes… ah, fuck. He was looking at himself. At ten. Next to the word 'TARGET'. He stared into his own time-displaced gaze for a long moment. "Drink your tea, dear, before it cools," Mrs Hudson piped up. He definitely didn't jump, of course. Just gave himself a tiny shake, barely a shiver really, and followed her suggestion of another sip of tea. And then his brain caught up and he turned a deep scowl. "What the fuck is this?" he snapped, tilting the page so she could see it. She gave him another of those patient, raised-brow looks he was beginning to find deeply aggravating. "Well I imagine it's a briefing packet, hm?" She gestured to the rest of the files on the table, smiling with her usual air of pleasant calm. "Harold went out and dug up Frank's old cache earlier, brought back anything with you in. Quite a lot more than we expected!" She laughed, then abruptly shifted to a more sombre tone as she continued, "Though of course it's all terribly upsetting, isn't it? How frightened you must have been." Sherlock blinked, furrowed his brows. Wasn't… really the response he'd been expecting. Not after Frank having called him 'trained rat' earlier. "I… it wasn't that bad," he heard himself mutter. Hadn't meant to say anything but of course his mouth never much cared what he meant. "Wasn't that bad!?" Mrs Hudson repeated, sounding near to scandalised. "Forcing a child into covert operations?" "I don't remember most of it," Sherlock clarified. Sipped his tea again. Felt the vortex of repressed memories start to creep up as if to prove his statement wrong and wondered if he still needed to summon Ghost Eric or if that would just happen automatically now. At this thought his mind conjured an image of Eric sat on the sofa across from him, smiling blandly around at the sitting room, and that actually didn't answer the question at all. Right. Well. Back to the moment at hand, no use traipsing through psychological minefields in the midst of being… whatever he was. What *were* these peoples' intentions at this point, anyway? Was he the subject of some sort of revenge plot? Or a hostage, maybe…? It occurred to him that he could just ask, and so he did. "Am I a hostage right now?" Mrs Hudson's affect again dropped to a void of perfect banal pleasantness. "Hm? Oh, yes, I'm afraid so. You're simply far too valuable at the moment, you understand." Sherlock blinked, then scowled. Supposed that was honest, at least, but also sort of insulting. "And you imagine yourself capable of keeping me here?" he asked snidely. "You can barely walk, dear." A brittle silence stretched between them. Well, brittle on Sherlock's part - Mrs Hudson just kept reading. Started up humming a little jaunty tune as she returned to reading the file in her lap. Finally he huffed and shifted back deeper into the embrace of the armchair. Not pouting. Just annoyed. Glaring at the sofa where his mind's ghost-construct of a freckled idiot continued to flicker in and out, currently smirking over Sherlock's predicament. So what if he'd a bit of trouble standing upright earlier. Didn't mean anything. He could leave if he wanted to. Gathering information remained the only cognitive tool he felt relatively capable of wielding, so he turned his focus back to that. "So… what, then? You're sort of ex-agent too? MI6, one assumes?" Mrs Hudson laughed, a bubbly sort of noise. "Agent? My, how lofty!" She shook her head, still chuckling. "No, no, nothing so grand. I ran a little escort service out of my rental property in Westminster, back in the 70s. You see all sorts in that line of work, especially those days. Had a handful of spies in the client list, all the different agencies. I suppose I may have picked up a thing or two beyond my station, but… no, I wasn't ever one of them." She glanced up and must have caught a look on his face, because her eyes set to twinkling again. "It's a lucrative business, you know - knowing people. Knowing what sort of things they want," she explained with what might have been a wicked smirk were it on any other face. "Got to where I could size anyone up with just a glance, over the years." "Size them up how?" Sherlock found himself asking before he'd any real chance to assess how to play this. Mrs Hudson laughed again. Really more of a chuckle. "Well how do you think, dear? All the usual things one might find useful in that line of work. Orientation, preferences, secret needs, what sets them to talking and what brings them crawling back." She paused for a sip of tea, giving him a little wink as she did so. "Bottom," she added with no context whatsoever. Sherlock froze. Felt his cheeks flush hot through an affronted glare. How did- how *dare-* ugh no she was just *guessing* there was no way she could have- what information would she even be- Across the coffee table his bizarre construct of Eric gave a delighted sputter and laughed like a bloody hyena. Sherlock's brain offered up nothing whatsoever to say to that, so he dropped the whole conversation like a hot iron. Ugh, no. Back to… something else. Literally anything else. His gaze landed on the file still in his hands, flipped past the cover page to the next. He'd meant to read the mission overview there, but one of the accompanying photos drew focus like a magnet - his child self stood next to Vasily, the man's hand resting atop his head, glaring directly into the lens. Barely visible behind them was a lavish garden of some country estate and shapes of milling guests in formalwear. Something about that image felt like it stood out, somehow. And not just the fact it was his own face. Should recall this moment, shouldn't he? A normal person would, he thought. Anyone with a functioning brain. He stared into his own eyes and hunted for anything which felt like a spark of memory in the pattern of the image. Could deduce things about it, of course… though he wasn't sure if that counted as remembering. Setting wasn't any of his parents' gardens, so they'd probably been attending some socialite function. At this age Sherlock knew he'd have had all focus on Father if the man were nearby, so Siger must have been occupied elsewhere. Vasily's hand on his head. Meant to look like a sign of affection to fit whatever role they were playing. A tense discomfort in the boy's stance betrayed the reality of it. Internal battle between the instinct to duck out from under the touch and knowing he'd be made to regret it if he did. Nothing in any of that seemed to be triggering a memory of any sort. Must not be approaching it right. He frowned, sipped his tea and tried to come up with a new tactic. "Try lookin' for it in the field?" his imaginary Eric suggested, which was startling enough to drive a tiny jolt - hadn't expected the vision to speak. Sherlock glanced up at him, but of course he wasn't actually there. Just an empty sofa, and Mrs Hudson to his right, gone back to reading her own document. The suggestion, though… well, not the worst idea. Worth a try. He gazed back down to the image of the angry, mistrustful child he'd once been. His field remained a scorched wasteland - cinder and smoke. Hadn't had a chance to recover after the firestorm. So much for his attempt at organisation back in the van. Not that a tidy system would've helped him here anyway, granted; hadn't exactly run across any repressed childhood memories in the reshuffling earlier. Didn't know if he even *had* any, or if he'd deleted the lot of them. Hopefully not. Though if they were hidden somewhere he'd no idea where to start looking. "Up there, reckon," Eric's voice cut in, his presence suddenly at Sherlock's side. Eric met his questioning look with a smile, then nodded towards the 'up' he'd been referring to. The willow tree. "S'where you went to hide as a kid, right? Up the tree. Seems the place to look for kid stuff, then." Sherlock frowned, considering. Shrugged. "Sure. Makes as much sense as anything, I guess." "S'pose the question is if you're gonna get all fucked up f'you run into something real bad prodding around up there," Eric went on thoughtfully. "I think the really bad stuff is all, you know…" He gestured towards the field around them. Knew without knowing that, yes, a graveyard of things too sharp or misshapen to process lay buried. Not to rest, they'd rise at night like the undead. But… hidden, for now. For sanity. "Ah. Yeah." Eric cast a sad look out over the field, then seemed to shake himself and deliberately flip melancholy over to optimism, as he'd so often done. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and set to dragging him off towards the willow. "Well, tha's good, then, aye? Means we ain't about to hit nothin' too awful. C'mon!" Climbing the thing was as simple as Sherlock remembered - which, well, of course it was. He was literally remembering it. Shook his head to dispel the meta-thoughts. This was all confusing enough without getting himself tangled up in what was and wasn't real. "Look," the Eric-shape ahead of him said and gestured towards a strange artefact tucked amongst the willow's gently swaying fronds. Some sort of… glitched region. Like a void in the air where light misbehaved and folded in on itself. A glance around whilst settling himself on a thick bough next to Eric revealed there were dozens of these things dotted around, all different shapes and suggestions of colour. Phantom texture overlaid atop snags in the substrate. "Is… that what memories are supposed to look like?" he asked, confused. Vaguely unimpressed. Seemed a tad abstract. Eric shrugged. "In here? Yeah, reckon so." He paused, then reached out with one hand. "What happens if we touch 'em?" And before Sherlock could so much as make a disgruntled noise he'd grabbed hold of the nearest light-knot. **««** *He was smaller, shorter - knew in that way one does that he was nine years old and very tired. Hadn't been sleeping much lately; nightmares. Didn't know what to do about them. Asking Father wasn't an option. Mycroft hardly spoke to him these days, being busy with school. And trying to talk to Mummy about anything but her horses or the weather invariably resulted in her ignoring him until he gave up. So he'd been stuck muddling through on his own.* *Might get better over the annual summer holidays at his grandparents' property, he'd hoped. Always calmer there, didn't have to spend so much time keeping track of Father. And Vasily never went on these trips, claimed he couldn't abide the climate, so that was one less variable to account for. Spared all those little stabs of mixed fear and familiarity over every nearby footstep or snatch of baritone Russian.* *But, no, three days in and he'd been having just as much trouble here. Hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time so far. Stupid brain kept replaying bits of last winter, shards shaken up like a snowglobe every time he'd thought himself settled past it. Survival, resistance… whatever the rest of the acronym was. Filtered through Russian and Serbian and whatever else his father's men spoke. Not even proper memories at this point, really, just jumbles of color and sound and pain slicing through sleep like a knife. No idea how to stop it.* *Perhaps if he just leant in? Vasily had said that if you never stopped for rest you'd eventually just pass out. Sherlock had passed out before, plenty of times. Never had any dreams during. Maybe that would be enough like sleeping, then, and-* *His thoughts were shattered by a jolt of adrenaline - arms around his waist from behind, hefting him up. A flash of a dozen other moments all layered over each other in his mind and a shout tore through his chest ahead of suffocating panic. No, not here, not- no nononon-* *Muscle memory slammed into activation and he twisted, aimed a kick at the attacker's shin and flung an elbow back as he'd been taught. Missed the elbow but landed the kick, felt his bare feet drop back into soft sand and immediately whipped around with his fists up in the defensive posture he'd learnt for grapple scenarios.* *There was no hulking, well-muscled opponent back there, though. Just his teenaged cousin Alethea. The girl was fourteen, loud, brash, and spent most of her time thoroughly confusing Sherlock with the utter incomprehensibility of every single thing she did.* *"Ow! Lockie, merde! Uncalled for!"* *She gave him a pouty scowl and bent down to rub at her shin where he'd kicked her.* *"Why did you grab me!?" he snapped. Tried desperately to settle his pulse. Shakiness was trickling in as the adrenaline ebbed; wasn't supposed to, just him forgetting the process. Do better, idiot. Breathe. Deep breath.* *"Because I've two skinny little boys here to toss in the water, and Corin's already accounted for."* *Alethea said this with a roll of her eyes as if it should be obvious. It wasn't. She gestured towards where the waves lapped against a rocky outcropping, where Sherlock's other cousin Corin - Alethea's younger brother - was currently standing, visibly soaked, atop a rock, scowling and trying in vain to wipe the saltwater off his spectacles with the corner of his sodden shirt.* *Sherlock frowned at Corin, then back to Alethea. Bewildered. These two always left him thoroughly lost.* *"... what?" he finally managed, stupidly.* *Alethea made a noise of outraged disbelief and regarded him hands-to-hips like she was judging a mismanaged foal.* *"Mon dieu! Your brother's been negligent in his duties, hm? You don't even know what big siblings are for."* *Well that made even* less *sense. What on earth did Mycroft have to do with anything?* *"What are you talking about?" Sherlock insisted. Threw in a little glare so she'd know he was serious. Never quite knew what signs she used to decide what things were jokes and what things mattered.* *He got no answer, because in the next instant the girl lunged for him. Another bolt of panic, but Sherlock didn't have a chance to strike back - she was the wrong size, too much smaller and faster to fit into the sparring patterns he'd drilled, and he found himself hefted up before he knew what was happening. Heart pounded in his throat as his mind scrambled through the likely next moves, what she might do to him, anything he'd learnt to defend against-* *Cold, suddenly. Wet. Sputtering around an inadvertent mouthful of brine.* *She'd dumped him into the sea.* *He managed to shove himself into a sitting position on the wet sand, surf swirling around his hips, and fixed her with a disbelieving stare.* *Alethea had doubled over laughing, saying something breathless about his face. Corin wandered up behind her, took one look through his smudged lenses, and sighed heavily before turning to trudge further up the beach.* *"... what?" Sherlock repeated.* **««** Sherlock blinked, and in an instant was no longer nine. Back in his twenty year-old body, all sharp angles and too-long limbs, sitting in an imaginary tree with the imaginary ghost of his ex. "... what?" he said, for either the third or first time, depending on how you counted. "Neat," Eric remarked. In his hand the light-glitch-thing they were calling a visualisation of memory seemed to shudder, then slowly unwound itself like a knot coming undone, until the space there returned to a regular absence of form. Sherlock watched this alongside Eric, frowning, then shot his companion what was most definitely not a petulant scowl. "A bit of warning next time," he snapped. Eric turned a lazy shrug, unrepentant. He was already moving, shifting up to grab a new branch. "Did warn you, innit? Asked what happens if we touch ’em." "That's not a-" Sherlock cut himself off, realising he was about to argue semantics with a figment of his own battered psyche. Huffed a frustrated noise instead and amended with, "Just… try to have a bit more caution, would you?" "Why?" Eric asked - he was halfway through clambering up another level. "We're in your head, love. Ain't nothin' here wants to hurt you." "That's not even a little bit true," Sherlock retorted, though in truth it lacked enough heat to really qualify as a retort… hadn't been expecting his mind-construct of Eric to drop the same casually-accidental 'love' slip he'd done a few times back when… well. When it might have mattered. He followed the apparition of a man he'd never managed to say the right words to up the branches of his childhood. Higher up in the canopy, the light-knots clustered denser, pulsing with faint echoes of colour and shape. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. There was… a pattern here. He was sure. Some of the knots flickered with the frozen static-white of winter. Others breathed soft gold like sunlight. Still more shone flat orange, or shimmering blue, some were mixtures, and a handful pulsed in strange, fractalizing patterns laced with shifting gradients like an oil slick. What did the variables map to? Age? Category? Emotional tonality? His brain flipped through every possibility on autopilot. A categorisation system he of course must have already known because, as Eric had just pointed out, they were inside his head. And the entire reason they were there in the first place had been to find… "The memory connected to that photo in Frank's file will be…" he let his mind fill in the details, "... dark green with black, sort of… mixing around itself like a paint swirl." Had no idea why he'd settled on that, but it felt correct. Eric, for his part, went along as if this made complete sense. Supposed to him it must; he was an avatar of the mind, after all. "Loads of green ones over here," the avatar in question piped up. He'd shuffled out near the end of a branch which looked too flimsy to hold him, unbothered by expectations of gravity. Sherlock followed and considered the cluster of greens there. All different shades, some mixed with blacks, greys, a few pulsed through with red which he instinctively gave a wide berth. And then, over near the very tip of the branch… "Ah, there! That one." He shifted to a sort of monkey-climb across the disconcertingly-thin branch, and reached out for the thing. **««** ## Chapter 18 **««** *They were meant to be uncle and nephew, or something like that. He'd not fully understood what the plan was - Vasily and Father always spoke Russian too fast and with too many unfamiliar words for him to follow. Asking for clarification would've got him accused of not paying attention, so his only real option was to guess at the gaps. That was alright, though. He was good at guessing.* *Working with Vasily was far less stressful than with Father, apart from the man's grating habit of wanting constant physical contact. Lower expectations, as Vasily thought him too stupid to handle anything complicated, and small mistakes tended to be forgiven for the same reason. Unfortunately this lack of tension also made it far easier to get distracted. As he was doing right now, staring at a man chatting with a woman a few feet off.* *A hundred tiny details marked him as a spy. American. Active-duty CIA. Under normal circumstances Sherlock would've been expected to signal this, but when he'd flagged the German earlier Vasily had seemed annoyed and waved him off. So now Sherlock wasn't sure if he was supposed to keep bothering the man or hold his tongue.* *The American looked down to him as the woman walked away. Sherlock watched as the man smiled, crouched down to his eye-level. Glint off a tiny lens - micro-camera hidden in the lapel pocket. Sherlock frowned as he caught the near-imperceptible shift of the man's foot, pressing a concealed switch. Taking a covert photo. Arsehole.* *Suddenly Vasily's hand was gone from his head, and Sherlock looked over to see his guardian moving off into another room after the Uzbek woman he'd been speaking to. Sherlock started to follow, but Vasily flashed the hand signal which meant to wait in place, so he stopped. Scowled to himself - Father had specifically told Vasily not to leave Sherlock unattended. Now he'd have to decide whether it was safer to tattle on the man for leaving him when they got back, or to pretend nothing had happened. Hated choices like this.* *"No worries, kiddo, he's not going far," a voice said in American-accented English. Sherlock jumped, whipped his head around to glare at the man who'd somehow snuck up on him. Piss off.* *All he got for his vicious glower was a chuckle as the man leant up against a decorative tree next to him. They were now standing together a short distance away from the other guests, under a trellis of vines.* *"Oho, fierce! Way more spunky without your dad around, huh?"* *Sherlock felt his expression shift before he could do anything to stop it - thrill of confusion, wariness. How did this man know Father? Was he planning a kidnap? Worse? Were there any hidden weapons beyond the penknife? The cufflinks, maybe, tie clip…* *The man picked up on Sherlock's alarm, of course he did. His smirk turned darkly amused.* *"Relax, kid. I'm not running ops on a ten year-old."* *"I'm eleven," Sherlock replied, still focussed on the man's tie clip. Immediately snapped his mouth shut with a frustrated click of teeth. Gah, stupid! Don't talk to foreign agents, don't volunteer details, don't speak in your native bloody accent whilst under cover as a Russian child. Moron, idiot.* *Hadn't meant to speak at all, of course, but as always seemed to happen when his attention got split the words had tumbled out before he had a chance to intervene.* *"Good for you," the man remarked with a bland lift of one brow. He glanced up and nodded in the direction Vasily had gone. "Saw you get ditched just now. Figured I'd better come hang out and make sure you don't wander off, that's all."* *Sherlock frowned, insulted. He wasn't about to leave. Knew better than that.* *"I'm not going anywhere."* *As before, he really hadn't meant to say anything. Mouth kept firing on impulse. Supposed it didn't much matter now, anyway. Already set to be in a world of trouble the instant Father found out - which he would, of course. Father always found out.* *The American quirked a flat smile. "Wouldn't be up to you."* *Sherlock blinked as he parsed the meaning. The man's tone was dark, faintly sardonic, implying… Sherlock caught on with a sickening lurch and shifted to scan the other guests. Ah, there! A heavyset man watching them with a clenched jaw. Short beard, poorly-matched makeup over a hand tattoo, strange scuff patterns on the shoes. Private mercenary. Turkish. Likely sent to capture or kill him whilst Father was occupied with the Moldovan thing. Probably why he'd made such a point of telling Vasily not to leave him on his own this time, had a tip on a planned hit.* *He swallowed heavily. Looked back to the American. The man appeared to have followed his gaze and was now giving him a look Sherlock couldn't even begin to understand the provenance of. A bemused smile and a furrowed brow? Impressed? What was there to be impressed about?* *The man shook his head. "God, wish my nephew could pull off that kind of focus. Swear all that kid pays attention to these days is Mario. What about you, huh? Got a Nintendo?"* *"I don't know what that is," Sherlock muttered, having no idea how else to proceed. The man's presence was apparently the only thing standing between Sherlock and certain death, so he obviously wanted to keep him talking so he'd not leave until Vasily got back. But… he also wasn't especially keen on idle chitchat with a foreign agent. Very much forbidden under normal circumstances. Probably forbidden under this circumstance, too, but Sherlock couldn't see any immediate alternatives.* *The man grinned. "Ha! I bet that's the trick to it, right? Holmes doesn't let you waste time on any of that stupid kid shit."* *That was accurate, more or less, but hearing it voiced in such an upbeat tone was strangely upsetting.* *"The trick to what?" Sherlock asked instead, hoping to move past the uncomfortable sensation in his chest without giving too much away. Glanced nervously at the mercenary again, saw he'd moved a yard or so closer. Ugh. This was shaping up to be a nightmare of a tightrope walk between following his father's rules and not getting himself killed.* *"How your dad made you," the man explained, sounding bemused. Sherlock blinked at the oddity of the wording and looked back with a furrowed brow, to which he received another strange variant of a smile as the man deigned to elaborate. "Built himself a trained little observation machine, you know? Most useful damn ethics violation I've ever seen in my life. Been trying to recreate it with mine over the past year or so, but…" The man huffed a performative little sigh. "Kids are tough."* *Sherlock stared up at the man, deeply confused but trying his best not to let it show. Father 'made' him? Father hadn't built him out of clay or some rubbish, he'd just imposed a load of exhausting training schedules and maintained unreasonable expectations for as long as Sherlock could remember. Couldn't see how that amounted to 'making' anything. And what 'mine' was the man talking about - the nephew he'd mentioned? Another child like Sherlock? Also, ethics violation…? Whose ethics? Did the CIA hold their men to some sort of special code of conduct? That didn't seem very efficient.* *Before he could gather his thoughts enough to respond, the sudden weight of a large hand atop his head derailed all focus. Vasily had come up behind him.* *The American tucked his hands into his pockets, met Vasily's glare with an easy smile.* *"Gotta keep a better eye on your kid, Suvorov."* *"Who let in such scum as you?" Vasily barked. The hand on Sherlock's head tightened, gripping his skull, and he froze still as a statue. Very much hoped he wasn't about to be dragged off by the hair.* *"I know, right?" the American agreed with a smirk and a roguish wink. "Security team's just been waving any old asshole through. Who knows what kinda trash might be milling around in here?"* *Vasily scowled as the man flipped them a jaunty little wave, turned on his heel, and sauntered off.* *The hand on Sherlock's head didn't relax - instead it did as Sherlock had feared it might and balled into a fist in his hair. He winced and tried very hard to keep still as Vasily crouched down to his eye level.* *"What did you tell him?"* *Speaking English, still, so Sherlock wouldn't have any excuse of misunderstanding the question. Which meant he'd screwed up. Badly.* *"N-nothing!"* *"You are lying."* *"I'm not!"* *With a growl Vasily let go of his hair, gave him a light smack upside the head as he stood back up.* *"Fine. We will see what you tell your papa later."* *Still had a job to do, even if Vasily was angry with him now. So he swallowed the bitter knot of fear and put on the obedient child act and did as he was told. Found the microfilm they were after, swapped it with the fakes, didn't get caught. A perfect little rat.* *He'd expected none of it to matter, of course. How well he'd done or not done. Vasily would complain to Father when they got back to the hotel and Father would doubtless be angry and everything would go right to hell. As usual.* **««** Sherlock blinked, suddenly no longer eleven. Twenty again, still perched on the thin branch, Eric just behind him peering over his shoulder at the little knot of green-black light twisting slowly in his hand. "Is that it?" Eric asked curiously. "It ain't unfolded and disappeared like th' other one did." "It's… no, not done. There's more to it. But…" Sherlock hesitated, but didn't know what in god's name he was hesitating over. This one wasn't pulsing with any sort of warning - nothing awful lurked in the depths of it. Not in his childhood self's estimation of 'awful', at any rate. There was just… something… he didn't want to look directly at. Not quite yet. And of course at that thought not-Eric, being perhaps the most dedicatedly-intrusive mental construct Sherlock had ever accidentally instantiated for himself, took the opportunity to lean over his shoulder and give the swirling knot of light-color-association a smart, open-palmed *smack*. **««** *Father hadn't been angry at all, in fact.* *Which… really hadn't been that unexpected, he recalled thinking at the time. Sherlock hadn't been following the logic properly back at the garden party; been a bit frazzled after the American incident, fallen to his usual habit of assuming the worst.* *In truth, Father (or Dad, rather - he was meant to be called Dad during the upcoming operation to fit the roles they were playing, and Sherlock had been trying to adjust how he labeled the man in his thoughts ahead of time so as to reduce the risk of flubbing it in speech and blowing cover) hadn't been angry because he hadn't blamed Sherlock. Instead he'd clocked Vasily's omission in a microsecond and said something deeply unimpressed in Russian Sherlock was fairly sure translated to, 'how did he end up speaking to an American with you watching him the whole time?'* *Vasily had replied with a performative, silly sigh. A flippant 'bah, you cannot expect eyes on a child the entire day! It was only five minutes, he was fine, our little fox is very resourceful.' And the argument had sort of fizzled out from there. Father never stayed angry at Vasily for long.* *Dad, rather. Right. Had to keep on that. Didn't want to slip up in conversation later.* *Anyway, Dad had mainly just been pleased that a complicated operation hadn't descended into outright chaos, and even expressed satisfaction with how Sherlock had handled himself. That was nice. Didn't often get told he'd done well.* *But the reason all this wasn't unexpected, of course, was that the man usually got like this after successful ops phases - slipped into that mode where standards softened, frustrations slid off him like water, and odds of violence remained steadily low. A rare version of Siger with little regard for formality and a high tolerance for Sherlock nattering on at him out of boredom or curiosity or sometimes just for company.* *Sherlock liked this version. Felt almost like having the sort of dad he read about in books. Strong, protective figures who actually seemed to like their children and wanted them to be happy. A novel concept. Mystifying, really. He couldn't imagine having a dad who just… stayed like that. All the time. Never flipping to a new face or a different ruleset. Endlessly safe and predictable.* *Seemed… nice? Or… well, maybe not. Maybe it'd get boring over time. Nothing ever changing and all. You'd get used to the one set of rules and then what? Chat about football or something?* *Ugh, how dull.* *So that must be the trade-off, then - Sherlock didn't get a nice-all-the-time dad, he got a not-boring one.* *Deeply, unavoidably, oftentimes very dangerously… Not-Boring.* *Siger's moods were fickle things. Sherlock knew that perfectly well. Even with the man in a pleasant state the conversation could just as easily end with a cracked rib as a pat on the head if one wasn't careful about tracking. Had to watch the microexpressions, that was the trick - all the tiny clues in his face before a sudden shift, the hints between his words. A constant game of spot-the-pattern where screwing up meant consequences.* *And that was fine, of course. Sherlock was good at this game. Knew how to play the odds, easy as breathing.* *"So he hung around to protect me from the Turkish asset, according to him, and he said something about how I'm an ethics violation and that he was trying to recreate whatever you'd done with me, and, er… 'kids are tough'?" Sherlock related, sitting criss-cross in boxers and t-shirt at the foot of the hotel bed. It was late, going on 22:00, and that would ordinarily have meant sleep except there was a minor threat of attack tonight so they were staying up until the local team radioed all-clear. Vasily was in the adjoining room, already in bed after having said he'd leave his fate to fortune and a sharp blade.* *"Well, best of luck to him," Siger intoned, bemused. He handed Sherlock one of the two mugs he'd brought from the kitchenette area. Sherlock took a sip, wrinkled his nose at the bitter taste of coffee, and his dad blinked and switched round the mugs. Cocoa. Right, that was more expected.* *"Definitely don't need you caffeinated," Dad muttered to himself, taking a sip of the mug meant for him.* *Sherlock blew on his cocoa and watched as Siger took at seat at the room's tiny table, where he'd already set a stack of whatever documents he'd recovered from his arm of today's operation. Took one from the top of the stack and began skimming through it.* *"So which agent was it?" Siger asked idly after a moment of companionable silence. "Vasily skipped straight past target identification in his bluster over the audacity of it all."* *"Er… not sure. I didn't get a name. Was one of those blokes who kind of looks the same as all the rest," Sherlock answered. He finally tried taking a sip at the cocoa, gingerly for the temperature, and still managed to singe his tongue.* *Ducked his head to hide a childish wince, then shook himself and called up all the details he could find from earlier. Rattled them off the way he'd been trained to do since he was small. "Caucasian, a few inches over six foot, blue eyes, brown hair, military cut. Square jaw, clean-shaven, no ring, didn't see any pet hairs, midwestern American accent… oh!" Sherlock recalled suddenly with a pleased smile, because aha, right! That would be an identifying detail, had to be. "He said he had a nephew! And something about, uh… a Nin-ten-do. I told him I didn't know what that was."* *"It's a video gaming console," Dad replied offhandedly.* *Sherlock had no reaction for that but a blank, uncomprehending stare, sipping his cocoa with both hands. Absolutely no idea what sort of object those words were meant to map to.* *Father glanced up, caught the look. Frowned and dropped focus for a searching beat as if considering how to define the thing more clearly. Then, finally, he seemed to give up and shrugged.* *"I don't fully know, to be honest. Some sort of idle leisure activity."* *"Oh," Sherlock replied. Bounced one knee a bit, then risked a followup question, because Dad was in a good mood and Sherlock was, frankly, quite bored. Normal for him on these sorts of travel-based ops, really. Always tore through the one book he was allowed to bring within the first few days and wound up with nothing to do during downtime for the rest of the trip.* *"So… physical description, has a nephew? Is that enough information to pin agent ID?"* *Siger hummed in thought. "Hm… possibly Frank Hudson. Had a tip placing him in the region last week."* *"One of the usual idiots, or an actually interesting sort?" Sherlock volleyed back. He'd become aware he was bouncing both knees now - didn't mean to, just antsy. Wanted to go run about outside or explore the hotel maybe but it was late and he was still technically working so he was meant to keep sight of Fath- Dad, ugh. Slipping.* *He did his best to still. At least keep his legs from moving, if nothing else. Sort of worked.* *Dad quirked a small smirk, eyes on his document. "You've a more recent interaction with him than I have. What was your assessment?"* *Sherlock blinked, tilted his head. What did he think? He'd been more preoccupied with the mercenary than with assessing the agent. But… well, the man had seemed at least moderately clever. Had annoyed Vasily quite a bit. And knew about the threat vector, how to defuse it without drawing attention. Oh, and he'd recognized Sherlock as belonging to Siger, which was an intriguing detail.* *"He seemed interesting," Sherlock eventually concluded. "Knew I was your son right away, so I suppose he must at least be good at deducing things. Can't be a total idiot in that case, right?"* *Siger actually chuckled at that, which Sherlock found mildly confusing. He sipped his drink and, after a beat, risked asking, "What?"* *"He didn't deduce anything. He recognised your face because he has orders to kill you on sight," Dad informed him, bemused.* *Sherlock froze.* *He took a long moment to study the man's face, trying to pick out whether he was joking - hm... none of the usual tells. Just placidly reading the document, taking a sip of coffee. No crinkle of the eyes, no head tilt, no glance up to see if Sherlock was reacting properly.* *He was serious, then. Alright.* *"Well… he didn't seem like he wanted to kill me," Sherlock countered slowly. "He was protecting me from a mercenary." Knew he'd told Father that already earlier in the debrief bit, but still. Seemed important to reassert.* *"Because avoiding major incidents at today's event would've been deemed higher priority than snapping your neck. Basic risk calculus."* *Father's tone was that offhand sort of voice he got when he wasn't really paying attention to the conversation, just going through the motions of speaking whilst he absorbed information from the document in his hand. Sherlock huffed and looked away. Frowned out the open window overlooking the twinkling lights of some unfamiliar European city.* *"... maybe he just didn't feel like it," he muttered, a tiny bit peevish. Didn't need to know the bloody Americans wanted him dead, thanks. Sort of knowledge one seemed better off without. Now he'd have to work not to act nervous every time he spotted one.* *Siger smiled, raised a brow without looking up. "Sure, why not," he agreed in idle bemusement. "Doubtless close enough to correct, knowing how Langley tends to operate."* *Sherlock turned the unfamiliar word over in his head. He’d seen it written in cables and briefs, but it'd never caught quite right in his memory. Too many nouns attached to too many places. Worth the chance to ask? Probably.* *“Langley?” he echoed, aiming for casual curiosity. “Is that a man or a building?”* *“Building,” Father replied without missing a beat, still in that tone of not really paying attention. “Town, technically. Headquarters. Shorthand for the CIA as a whole.” He flipped the page on his document and carried on speaking absently with, “A cluster of nervous Americans signing off on the same handful of stupid ideas repeated with minor variations, ad nauseum, all billed under the erroneous heading of a functional intelligence agency.”* *Sherlock snorted into his mug before he could stop himself. Some of the tension in his shoulders loosened. He bounced his heel against the mattress again, gentler this time. “So… worse than MI6.”* *It wasn’t really a question, but Siger answered anyway. “Barely,” he droned. “Worse discipline, primarily. They break half their toys with poor operational standards and then draft long reports on the tragedy of it all.” A slight curl at the edge of his mouth suggested bone-deep contempt. “It offends one's sense of craft.”* *Sherlock hesitated. Several possible next questions lined themselves up in his head: how men like that might go about ending him, whether he needed to be more vigilant, how many agents he must have ratted out to Father and Vasily for the body count to reach 'kill order' levels. His tongue sat heavy behind his teeth. Did he actually want to know?* *He watched Father instead. The man’s face had gone neutral again, eyes moving steadily across the text. Coffee, document, the occasional casual glance to check whether the room was still doing as it ought. He didn’t look concerned. If anything, he looked… comfortable. As close to relaxed as Siger Holmes ever got.* *Sherlock took another sip of cocoa, now just on the tolerable side of too hot.* *“So Hudson’s too undisciplined to get worked up over?” he ventured, testing the water. Seemed the most operationally relevant thing to ask. Father always appreciated operational relevance.* *Father hummed. “Less than most.” He finally took another sip of the coffee in his hand. “He’s capable of following an order, but reserves the right to decide whether it’s worthy of him. Serves him well in some respects, poorly in others.” A beat. The corner of his mouth twitched again. “Which, in fairness, is more than I can say for half my current colleagues.”* *Sherlock let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if he’d felt braver. The prickling unease hadn't ebbed, of course, but that was the normal state of things with Father… Dad. Right.* *It always went like this - coiled nerves under banter, comfort and anxiety swirled up together like a vortex. You went along with talkative moods until they stopped looking safe, then you played by ear until you figured out where he might be headed next, what the risk vectors were. And if any looked bad you paid attention and tried to catch the shift before it happened. This was life. Familiar, easy, safe… well, sort of safe. Most of the time, anyway. So long as he didn't screw up.* *Siger seemed to register Sherlock's actual implied question somewhat belatedly. Though, to be fair, he was in the midst of reading and talking at the same time. Sometimes caused a bit of cognitive drag. Sherlock had learnt not to point that out.* *"Hudson's a known quantity. He heads up a small task force on you, doesn't run the ops himself. If he's out here on his own, it means you're not his current target."* *Sherlock made an odd sort of face - half consternation, half vague concern. "There's a task force on me?"* *"Yes, apparently," Dad replied blithely, more entertained than anything. "Brilliant, hm? Some orderly group of men convened for the sole purpose of eliminating an eleven year-old. American fieldcraft at its finest."* *"I don't… I don't really like that at all," Sherlock admitted. Felt both deep awkwardness and a sick stab of adrenaline at the very thought.* *"Oh relax, you'll be fine," Siger quipped, flapping a hand. "I've been dropping those idiots like flies since the 60s."* *Sherlock gave a tiny little huff, which might have been annoyance, or acknowledgement, or maybe even a tiny laugh if one were so inclined. Felt a strange mixture of disorientation for having found himself a target, apparently, but also… safety? Or some vestige of the concept. Because after all Dad could be counted on to handle things like this. Always did.* *"Yeah, alright, I wasn't that worried about it," he thus tossed out easily. Finished the last of his cocoa and slid off the bed to go rinse out the mug in the sink. He padded back in his socks, skidded a bit on the hardwood, and caught his balance on the table Dad was sitting at. On a whim he grabbed up the topmost document on the stack there, but it turned out to be written in Ukrainian rather than Russian so he set it back down again.* *"What's on for tomorrow, then?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Still antsy.* *Dad didn't look up, just flipped a map out from the bottom of the document stack and handed it over.* *"Draw up a path assessment," the man droned, bland and unconcerned. Trusted Sherlock to be able to tackle such a thing. Which of course he did, because Sherlock had always been good with the maps stuff. Picking out relevant patterns and tiny little clues in the shape of the roads and geography was one of those rare tasks he never ever messed up.* *Sherlock leant forward, plucked up a pencil from beside his dad's hand, and happily got to work.* **««** As with the others so far, he simply blinked, and was no longer eleven. Back in the willow tree with Eric. Or the mental construct of Eric. Whatever he was. Said mental construct was staring into the undulating, fractal light-knot of the memory with a strange expression. Sherlock looked back to the thing as well. Didn't really know what to think. Or perhaps just didn't want to think anything at all. The structure of the knot unravelled itself before their eyes like a tangle in the air smoothing out, and then was gone. "... yeah, alright, that one were a bit fucked up," Eric said eventually. Sherlock frowned. "What's fucked up? He was being nice to me for a change. Isn't it better to realise he wasn't always… you know…" Lacking any workable phrasing for what he meant to convey he just gestured towards the ground instead, meaning all the memories buried under scorched soil. Eric glanced down, made an even stranger face than before, and huffed a sigh before looking back up to him. "Let's just… climb down, yeah? You've probably been sittin' out there starin' into space for half a bleedin' hour by now." "Ugh, probably," Sherlock agreed, and followed the construct of his ex down the familiar path of branches. Dropped to the ground off the last limb and stumbled the landing, which was odd. Whiffed a drop in his own head? What sort of logic was that? Eric had an arm out to steady him, drew it back when Sherlock managed to catch himself. The man's face had gone… melancholy, almost. For some reason. "Keep hold of yourself out there, love," he said quietly. And before Sherlock could so much as open his mouth to ask after the tone shift, he was back sat in an armchair in Florida. **««** # Though We Went Our Separate Ways ## Chapter 1 **««** It was the usual bedlam of a recent crime scene, the smouldering ruins of a block of flats in the background, officers milling about the premises, everything ensconced by ubiquitous yellow tape. John meandered along in the wake of Sherlock's billowing coat and tried not to let his eyes dwell too long on the ambulances parked helter-skelter amongst the debris. No fatalities, thank god, but the tenants of the unfortunate building all seemed to be in various states of treatment for injuries ranging from mild burns to smoke inhalation. Sherlock, in his usual manner, completely ignored the chaos around him. He made a beeline for the figure of Lestrade standing near a cordoned-off patch of pavement. John was quite certain they weren't welcome here - Sherlock hadn't even been contacted about this case, after all; he'd just caught a mention of it on the news and decided for whatever inscrutable reason that the flat fire had to be connected to an ongoing investigation of his. As John had expected, Lestrade wasted no time in making a half-hearted attempt to shoo the both of them off his crime scene. "Sherlock, honestly, you can't just-" he started, exasperated, as Donovan glared from behind him. Sherlock promptly cut over the imminent lecture. "Witnesses?" Lestrade worked his jaw a tick, looking like he wanted to argue, then simply sighed and indicated a man sitting on the bonnet of a parked squadcar some metres off. "Just the one." Sherlock didn't even wait to hear the witness' name, just sauntered boldly toward the car and the figure seated atop it. The bloke had his head down, rummaging through his trouser pockets for something, and thus didn't immediately notice when Sherlock started in with his usual condescending clip of an interrogation. "You were a personal friend of the chief suspect, present in his flat from the time of four in the morning to seven in the evening, ample opportunity to observe his behaviour hours before the fire," Sherlock rattled off impatiently as they neared the witness. Finally the man looked up with a confused expression on a soot-streaked, freckled face. His gaze darted toward John first before flicking over to Sherlock... whereupon his round, amber-brown eyes seemed to widen in shock. He froze in place with his hand half out of his pocket. Sherlock, of course, merely carried on speaking, his gaze having flitted off into the clouds of smoke some seconds ago as if actually paying attention to the person he was talking to were beneath him. "What precisely did he say in reference... to..." John shot a startled look sidelong as Sherlock abruptly trailed off mid-sentence. Beside him the detective had finally shifted his gaze away from the smoke and trained it on the witness' face. Their expressions now mirrored twin looks of abject shock as they stared each other down. "What's wrong?" John flitted his eyes back and forth between the two men, instantly on the alert. What? Was there a hidden weapon? Did the bloke have a gun on him? "... oh," Sherlock muttered after a rather long pause. He seemed to have frozen with his hands tucked neatly behind his back, posture a picture-perfect image of calm poise. The collected stance stood in ridiculous contrast to the look of stunned surprise on his face. "Bloody..." The witness' voice faded out as he slowly moved his hands away from his pockets. Freckled cheeks bunched up a bit in a tiny, half-bewildered smile, one hand going to rub nervously at the back of his head as he tried again with a more appropriate reply. "Er... hi?" Sherlock just kept staring. John, for his part, was beginning to feel very out of the loop. Lacking anything to say, however, he held his tongue and watched with interest as Sherlock's ramrod-straight posture seemed to melt into an awkward, fidgety quest for something to do with his hands. "What are you doing at a flat in Islington?" the detective asked rather suddenly, sounding a tad bit scandalised. He'd finally shoved his fists into the front pockets of his greatcoat in an odd sort of defensive-looking posture and stood half-glaring at the man in front of them. "I, er... my friend lives here?" The witness gave them a slightly confused shrug and another befuddled smile. His accent was difficult to place - estuary, mostly, but with buried hints of a cockney drawl and some vague northern influences. "Or, I mean... he did, anyway. It's a bit burnt now." Sherlock frowned. "You've relocated to Lancaster. Bit of a trip just to visit a *friend.*" "Well it was more for business, mostly. London's got a better import selection on woodwinds so I figured I'd..." The man's words cut off suddenly and he shot Sherlock a vaguely affronted look. His accent seemed to slip a few notches toward cockney in apparent annoyance. "Oi hang on - you been keepin' tabs on where I live?" Sherlock's arms stiffened in his pockets as he hunched his shoulders slightly. "No." The two of them stared each other down for a few seconds. Finally the witness snorted, and, laughing, allowed his expression to crack into a wide grin. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" "Is that a bad thing?" Despite the bland monotone of Sherlock's voice his bearing remained rigid, defensive almost. John glanced between the two men again. Clearly they knew each other from somewhere. Former friends, maybe? But then Sherlock had always been quick to assert that he didn't *do* 'friends', so... Rather than answer Sherlock's question the man merely shook his head, a smile still playing at his lips. He shoved a hand through short, soot-stained hair and glanced behind them at the tangle of police officers milling about the investigation scene. "Bit of a career change, this, ain't it? Never expected you of all blokes to be a cop..." "I'm not a *cop*. I'm a private detective." Sherlock's expression flitted towards an annoyed frown. "The Met recruits me for consultation whenever their stupidity gets the better of them. Which is *always*." "I think in this case you more recruited yourself," John pointed out, feeling as if he should at least try and keep the facts straight. Sherlock shot him an irritated sidelong glance. "Eric," he intoned blandly, still fixing John with an annoyed look. He turned his head back to the witness and gestured to his flatmate before continuing. "This is John Watson, my... assistant. John, Eric Crenshaw." "Cheers," Crenshaw greeted and flashed a wide, cheerful smile as he accepted John's handshake. After a pause he glanced between the two of them, expression gone a bit odd but still firmly on the side of friendly. "Er... so you two are...?" John fought the urge to sigh. Yep, and there they went again - because *clearly* he and Sherlock were shagging each other. John forced back an exasperated expression and opened his mouth to correct the ubiquitous mistake. Why did everyone always guess that? Did he and Sherlock really look *that* much like a gay couple? Before John could say anything, though, and for the first time in living memory... he was beaten to the punch. "Flatmates," Sherlock cut in quickly. Rather *too* quickly, all things considered. John startled, shot him a baffled look *(Sherlock giving a damn what people assumed about them? What parallel universe had they stumbled into?)* and Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly before continuing in a less abrupt tone. "... *just* flatmates. John accompanies me on investigations because he's an adrenaline junkie." "Oi," John objected, frowning. Neither of the other two seemed to be paying him much heed however. "Oh! Well that's gre- I mean, erm..." Crenshaw coughed and looked elsewhere, a slight flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. "That is... thought he looked a bit old for you? Ah, no offence there, mate," he added toward John with a wince. John shrugged. "None taken." He glanced back to Sherlock, who appeared to be having a great deal of trouble deciding what to say next, and furrowed his brows in bemusement. Well that was odd, wasn't it? Considering the great prat nearly always had a scathing reply at the ready... honestly if John didn't know better he'd classify this whole interaction as an awkward meeting between exes. Turning back to Crenshaw *(who was also looking rather tongue-tied; good lord this was just going nowhere fast, wasn't it?)* John decided he'd best try to salvage a shred of professionalism. He dug his notepad from the inside pocket of his coat and flipped it open with a matter-of-fact clearing of his throat. Both other men seemed to startle a bit and shifted their attention towards him. "About your friend, then?" he asked amicably. Crenshaw pressed the palms of his hands together in a strange gesture and nodded somewhat absently, glancing to the ruined building behind them. "Mick, y'mean... right, er..." He cleared his throat, and with his next words the slur of cockney which had begun to creep into his speech over the last few minutes had morphed back into a more business-like Estuary clip. "Well he was acting a bit strangely most of the day, really. Pacing round muttering to himself. He's a pretty weird bloke normally though so I didn't think much of it. I left at ten or so this morning, was out meeting with suppliers until around four, then I came back to fetch some paperwork. When I walked in Mick was carrying this little red horse statue about - he usually kept it on the coffee table, you know, decorative thing - and he was shouting how he had to get rid of it right away or something terrible would happen. And then-" "You heard alarms or cries from the other tenants indicating that the building was on fire and evacuated, obviously," Sherlock cut in. His mysterious fit of nerves earlier seemed to have subsided into something more approaching his usual aloof attitude. "Mick disappeared in the chaos and hasn't responded to any calls or texts. The police will have found the horse statue shattered on the pavement nearby, revealing it to have been concealing detailed notes concerning the arson in his handwriting, leading to his declaration as the primary suspect." John waited for the inevitable baffled look, questions of *'how did you know that'* or some otherwise bewildered reaction from the witness. Jarringly, though, Crenshaw just carried on with the conversation unruffled, behaving as if Sherlock's interjection were perfectly normal. "Yeah. Only it's weird 'cause Mick was about the last guy you'd expect to be an *arsonist*, of all things. Bloke's seriously phobic of fire. Won't even touch the stove, panics if he sees a box of matches. I can't imagine how he managed to set a whole *building* alight..." "Clearly he was framed." Sherlock had pulled his mobile from his pocket and flicked a few keys to bring up a photo. He handed the device to Crenshaw. "Same horse figurine?" "Yep." Crenshaw raised his eyebrows at the phone and turned it over to look at the back casing. "Is this the new Blackberry? What'd you pay for it?" "Nothing. Mycroft foisted it on me." Sherlock rather uncharacteristically allowed his phone to remain in Crenshaw's possession as he turned to beckon Lestrade over. It took a few tries to get the DI's attention, but the man soon caught sight of Sherlock's impatient waving and raised his arms in a *'can't you see I'm busy?'* posture. Sherlock just beckoned him again, glaring, and with a put-upon roll of his eyes Lestrade left a few parting words with the officer he'd been speaking to and started toward them. "Sherlock, I've got an investigation to run. If you've tied everything up in a neat little bow that's great but I still have to manage the-" "The next target will be an odd-numbered home in Hackney's St. Elphin's Park development. Your arsonist will arrive near midnight tonight to lay incendiaries and will walk with a pronounced limp. Use the manufacturer's seal of the horse figurine to find others who purchased the same item within a two-week timeframe of the first incident." "What first incident?" Lestrade's expression was set in its usual mix of confusion, grudging respect, and mild exasperation. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The hotel fire in Haringey, clearly." "Clearly," Lestrade repeated in a flat voice. He shifted one hand to his hip while the other scrubbed tiredly through his hair. "Right, I have no idea what fire you're referring to... but well enough, we'll look into it. Hackney's next, you said?" Sherlock nodded. Lestrade dropped the hand from his head and retrieved a notebook from his coat pocket to jot down the instructions. Once done he looked over Sherlock's shoulder to Crenshaw still sitting on the bonnet of the squad car behind them. "Sorry if he's given you any trouble, sir. Consulting detective for the arson case... gets a bit abrasive, but he's the best we've got for this sort of investigation." Crenshaw smiled and glanced toward Sherlock with something like fond pride. "I'm alright," he assured brightly. He'd been fiddling idly with Sherlock's phone for the last few minutes and, seeming to remember he was holding it, now handed it back. Sherlock accepted it without much thought and slipped it into his trouser pocket. Lestrade watched the exchange with a slight lift of his browline and shot a questioning glance to John, who just shrugged. Old mates from somewhere, apparently, but beyond that John really had no clue what had prompted Sherlock's trust in the bloke. "Am I free to go, then?" Crenshaw asked of Lestrade. Free of an object to fret with his hands shifted to lightly pressing his palms together instead. "It's getting a bit late and there's not too many hotels nearby, so..." Lestrade tucked his notepad away in his coat pocket. "You spoke to someone about lost property?" Crenshaw nodded. "Long as we've got contact information you're welcome to leave, then. Be sure to check any messages. Sherlock, I'll be e-mailing you later and if you've put me in your spam filter again I swear to-" "Go and oversee your minions, Lestrade. You'll find Donovan's police badge caught on a fence railing near the east entrance." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the milling officers and turned back towards Crenshaw. Lestrade paused a moment, likely meaning to ask after the badge comment, before a voice crackled through the handset on his belt. *"DI Lestrade, sir, I think I've lost my-"* Lestrade sighed irritably to himself and turned to walk off, barking a *'fence railing, east entrance'* into his radio as he went. John was left with Sherlock and Crenshaw once more. "Well then, shall we-" John started, but Sherlock's attention was elsewhere. "All the hotels within reasonable distance will have filled up with displaced residents by now," he said to Crenshaw, expression gone somewhere oddly stern mixed with what John could only describe as vague embarrassment. Honestly, his cheeks were even colouring a bit. Whoever this freckled bloke was he'd certainly cornered the market on eliciting uncharacteristic reactions from Sherlock Holmes. Crenshaw grimaced and rubbed at the back of his neck. "God, yeah... I hadn't really budgeted for it but I s'pose I'll have to-" "Our flat has a sofa." John startled and looked over to Sherlock, who seemed every bit as taken off-guard by his own words as John was. His eyes widened in alarm but he'd fixed his gaze determinedly on Crenshaw's face, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge that his cheeks had flushed pink and his posture had gone taut again. Crenshaw's hand froze at the back of his neck and he looked over to Sherlock. "Er..." "It would be the more logical option considering you're planning to remain in the city for at least a week and don't have the finances for an extended hotel stay nor excessive cab fare," Sherlock rattled off quickly. Trying to save face, it seemed. He was still blushing, though, which rather ruined the attempt. "John and I live in Westminster by the Baker Street tube station." "Christ, that'd... that'd actually be really convenient?" Crenshaw glanced at the pavement, biting his lip - and bloody hell, but now *he'd* gone red too? John tried to force the juvenile smirk off his face. Good lord if this was some sort of ex-boyfriend he was never going to let Sherlock hear the end of it. "It's fine by me," he put in helpfully. "I'm scheduled clinic hours for the next few days anyway, flat'll be empty." Crenshaw opened his mouth, but Sherlock seemed to have decided already. "Settled, then. I'll fetch a cab." And without waiting for a reply he marched resolutely off to hail a taxi. John looked after him, then back to Crenshaw. The poor lad's cheeks had gone bright red, palms pressing together in what appeared to be a nervous habit. Despite all efforts not to John found himself smiling in amusement. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet and casually allowed his hands to fall into an idle parade rest posture behind his back. "You two knew each other quite well, then, I'm guessing?" he asked with perhaps a *tad* more of a teasing inflection to his voice than was strictly necessary... but *really* now, this was bloody hilarious. Sherlock was behaving like an awkward teenager over some freckled bloke from Lancaster with a working-class accent and sensible trousers. Whatever the history was here it *had* to involve something scandalous. "Y-yeah. We were..." Crenshaw glanced up toward Sherlock, now hailing a cab by the kerb several metres off, then looked back to John with a sheepish smile and a shrug. "Erm... housemates? Just for a month or so, back when we were kids." "Kids?" "Nineteen, twenty-ish." The young man quirked a small smile to himself and pushed off the bonnet of the squadcar to finally stand on his own two feet, grabbing as he did so the grey coat he'd had lying beside him. "It was a pretty weird time in my life, to be honest. In both our lives." John wanted to ask him to elaborate, but Sherlock shouted something indistinct, beckoning them impatiently by the roadside where a cab was now pulling up to the kerb. Crenshaw tugged his wool jacket on over his shirt and together they set off toward the taxi. **««** Sherlock was stuck somewhere between being very cross with himself and pleased giddiness. On the one hand what in *hell's* name had prompted him to offer their sofa to someone he hadn't spoken to in nearly a decade, and whom he'd originally known for less than a month!? ... On the other it was *Eric* and Eric was more or less technically speaking the only serious romantic relationship Sherlock had ever had in his *life* and for some asinine reason his brain refused to stop falling all to pieces over that fact. And so there he was, trapped vacillating randomly from one emotion to the other like a broken metronome. Eric grinned as he and John came within speaking distance. "So do you have some kind of obsession with poncy coats, or what? That thing's got to be worth more than my house." He'd learnt to mask the cockney quite well, hadn't he? Barely perceptible now. Presumably he'd done so for business reasons, make himself sound more trustworthy to clients and employees, facilitate better relationships with investors. A vast improvement over the nigh-incomprehensible jumble of speech Sherlock remembered. Which made this vague sense of disappointment over the lack of slurred nonsense coming out of the man's mouth rather frustratingly confusing. Why did Sherlock *care*, honestly? He'd hated that stupid accent. The jab about coats, though... He raised a brow at Eric's attire - brown trousers with a grey woollen peacoat. That jacket had to be at least as expensive as Sherlock's greatcoat, well over the thousand pound range, so the man was hardly in a position to throw stones. "No more than you, apparently," Sherlock retorted blandly as they climbed into the cab *(John on the end and Eric in the middle seat, somehow, and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why that pleased him so much)* and let John give the driver directions. Sherlock glanced toward Eric, meaning to ask after his business in London, but was distracted by the man's sleeve. A tear there had been sewn shut at some point, and the material was slightly discoloured, frayed... oh *bloody hell*, that wasn't just an expensive coat, that was... "That's- you *kept* it?" Eric shot him an embarrassed sidelong look and shrugged. "S'a nice jacket." "It's been *eight years*," Sherlock snapped, disgruntled. How in hell had he even managed to keep the thing in wearable condition after so long!? On the far side of the cab John raised his eyebrows but didn't bother asking what they were on about. "So what do you do in Lancaster?" the doctor inquired instead, falling easily into his usual role of facilitating elements of social interaction which Sherlock had declared intolerably dull, like small talk. In this case, though, Sherlock found he was rather interested in the answer. Not that he hadn't picked up quite a few clues from Eric's speech and appearance already *(t-shirt from a Lancaster music programme under his half-buttoned overshirt, brief mention of 'woodwinds' and of meeting with suppliers)* but it would be good to know what he'd been up to. For curiosity's sake, obviously, nothing but a healthy interest in facts. "I run a music school for kids, teach 'em how to play instruments and sing. It's done really well, actually." Eric smiled, all modest pride, and Sherlock found himself completely lost for what to say. That was... well, it was exactly what Eric would do, wasn't it? And damned to hell if it weren't distressingly endearing. He told himself the pleased flush through his chest was a response to the knowledge that his leftover trust fund money had been put to decent use. Certainly nothing so sentimental as happiness for Eric's success. "You're a musician, then?" John continued. He'd either not noticed the odd expressions warring for control of Sherlock's face or chosen not to acknowledge them, something Sherlock was rather grateful for. "Guitarist, yeah. I've picked up enough piano to get by, though, and most everything else in the school. You kinda have to know your way around the basics at the very least if you're looking to hire anyone competent enough to teach." The conversation from there veered towards things Sherlock was relieved to find extremely dull. Seemed no amount of being disgustingly happy for Eric could make a discussion of financial structuring and client relations halfway interesting, so at least he knew his brain was still functioning normally on *some* level. By the time they arrived back at the flat he was even beginning to settle back into his usual anti-social mental patterns. Bored, annoyed, crowded. More than ready to be done with all this interacting-with-people nonsense and get back to his work. Eric trailing after them into the stairwell, though, and John introducing him in passing to Mrs Hudson, somehow conspired to set Sherlock back into a state of awkward fidgeting once more. Concerned for what Eric would think of the flat, of the half-tidy disaster of a sitting room, of the haphazard pile of chemistry supplies on the table. Ugh and the couch was too small to expect someone to sleep on comfortably - why had he offered it in the first place? This was ridiculous, he shouldn't have- "Hah! Is that a cow skull with headphones on?" "It's a bison," Sherlock corrected vaguely, speech stuck on autopilot while his brain chased itself in circles. He hung up his coat beside John's and had a brief loss for what to do with his hands before shoving them roughly in his trouser pockets. "... the headphones were a gift from a client." Eric laughed. "I gotta find one of those things for the school lobby, that's brilliant." And Sherlock found himself smiling, because *hah* - someone else thought the bison was funny. John had been after him to take the headphones off at the very least *(some nonsense about professionalism when clients came round)*, Mycroft had deemed it unbearably childish while Lestrade seemed to regard it with the same bland exasperation he afforded any other strange whim of Sherlock's. Well sod the lot of them and their stupid opinions - it *was* brilliant. Eric was now looking bemusedly to the spraypaint smiley-face on the wall, and Sherlock quickly took it upon himself to explain where *that* had come from. And the bullet holes. Eric snickered the whole way through. "Well I mean what else are you gonna do with a can of paint but vandalise a wall?" Eric agreed, grinning. "Good aim on the eye holes though, blimey." "John was upset about me discharging a weapon indoors." Eric made a *pfft* noise and shrugged one shoulder. "Stuff 'im, didn't hurt nobody." "That's what *I* said, and Mrs Hudson deducted damages from the rent the next month to cover the plaster repair on the other side so I still don't see what all the fuss was about." Eric laughed again, and Sherlock smiled. And for just a moment he forgot about the arson case and the nicotine patch starting to wear off on his arm. For a moment he was twenty years old again, not a shred of responsibility to his name and nothing to concern himself with besides making sure he had enough cash to buy a half-gram and a pack of cigs. And perhaps he could bring himself to admit that those times hadn't been entirely unpleasant. Oh, make no mistake, he'd never want to go back; *nothing* excused the hellish roller coaster of highs and crashes, constant danger of living amongst criminals, being led around like a dog on a chain on nothing but the promise of more drugs... never, ever again. But there *had* been some bright points... one in particular, really. A single upside amidst the disaster of his life back in those days. Freckles and a silly accent, laughing over stupid things they both found funny even when everyone else called them childish. Dark alleys, nicked cigarettes, the smell of marijuana clinging to a mop of messy brown hair... Sod it all, he'd actually missed this. He'd missed *Eric.* **««** John wasn't sure he'd ever be able to stop smiling to himself like an idiot. Off in the other room Sherlock was busy explaining where every single odd or out-of-place object in the sitting room had come from, sounding for all the world like an excited little boy, while Crenshaw chimed in with snickering and amused comments every other sentence in a tone every bit as enthused as Sherlock's. Against everything John had come to expect of his flatmate it seemed Sherlock Holmes was actually managing to get on *famously* with someone. It was both adorable and strangely unsettling all at once. He wondered if he shouldn't just abandon the tea and disappear to his room, give the two some space to catch up. No sooner had he had the thought, though, than he found himself instead crowded into the kitchen by two exuberant twenty-eight year olds. "She lets me take body parts from the morgue so long as I promise to bring them back. I've even gotten a severed head before." "What'd you need a severed head for?" "Nothing, I just wanted to see if she'd let me have it. Made up some excuse about testing saliva... Here, see, eyeballs!" Sherlock had been rummaging around in the fridge as he spoke and now emerged with, as promised, a baggie full of eyeballs. Crenshaw laughed and reached out to take the bag. "Ah gross, they squish!" "Don't pop them," Sherlock admonished, then squeezed one of them himself and snickered along with Crenshaw when the pupil bulged out. John leant against the countertop behind him with his arms crossed, watching the display bemusedly. Hadn't even been re-acquainted with the bloke for two hours and already Sherlock had progressed to the rare *'behaving like a schoolboy on a sugar rush'* level of friendly interaction. And Crenshaw had said they'd been *housemates*? No way. Something more than that, surely... "John, what did you do with the tongue?" Sherlock was back in the fridge again. John grimaced slightly - that *bloody* fixation with body parts, good god. "I gave it back to Molly after you left it in the crisper drawer again," John explained with an annoyed frown. "I told you I was going to." "What!? No you didn't!" Sherlock stuck his head over the door and pouted at John. Beside him Crenshaw was smirking, expression almost fond. "You know I did, and I made sure you were paying attention this time so if you've forgotten that's on you." Sherlock huffed but didn't pursue the matter further. Instead he grabbed the bag of eyeballs back from Crenshaw, tossed them in the fridge *(on their proper shelf, John was relieved to see)* and turned to drag their guest off toward the rest of the flat. "Never mind, there's a skeletonised rat in my room-" Crenshaw's face went faintly pink, making John smirk to himself. Sherlock, of course, completely failed to pick up on the possible implications of leading someone by the hand to his *bedroom* and remained blithely unconcerned as they left the kitchen. John lingered behind, shaking his head bemusedly. *Kids.* **««** ## Chapter 2 **««** Sherlock's bedroom was a fair bit tidier than one might have expected. That was a boring, uneventful, entirely non-scandalous thought, and Eric was doing his best to keep it at the forefront of his mind where it would hopefully drown out other things. Things like finding himself quite unexpectedly hand-in-hand with a bloke he hadn't spoken to in a very, *very* long time, to whom he owed practically every current success of his life to, and whom he'd honestly expected to never set eyes on again. It was all getting a tad overwhelming. It seemed like he was only just now beginning to register the reality of who exactly he'd bumped into at that squadcar. For a time there it hadn't been much more than a series of surface reactions - old acquaintance, fine, yes, slip back into friendly banter. *(And slip back into the old accent, irritatingly enough, hadn't done that in bloody years...)* Being shown around his flat hadn't set the whole thing in stone either; mostly because it was all new things and Sherlock's explanations of everything, while genuinely entertaining, still made it all-too-obvious that he'd moved on from Stockwell just as thoroughly as Eric had. It was reminiscent of meeting a man who only coincidentally looked and sounded like someone you'd once known - the same person, perhaps, but only by technicality. But this... now suddenly they were holding hands. And personalities evolved, circumstances improved and new careers were built... but the way two peoples' fingers interlocked could never really change. And that, for Eric at the very least, served to snap the whole absurd situation into alarmingly sharp focus. *Jesus fuckin' christ, it's really Sherlock*, his brain informed him *(and oh for god's sake, even his thoughts were reverting to cockney now?)* and with a sensation of having been thrust out of his own body to watch some surreal play take place he looked away from the framed chemical chart he'd been focussing on. His eyes found Sherlock's, and met what seemed to be an equally shocked expression mirrored in marbled grey-blue. Wordlessly they both dropped their hands, taking a step apart. "Er..." Eric started. He hadn't actually thought of anything he might say beyond that, though, and so the sound trailed off into awkward dead air. Beside him Sherlock's look of vaguely alarmed discomfort seemed to morph all at once into one of studied disinterest. The man wrinkled his nose, glanced pointedly elsewhere, then slipped his hands into his pockets as if he'd meant to do so all along and leant back on his heels. His bearing dropped into a casual, indifferent posture. "Payback for all the times you dragged me off by the arm," he droned sarcastically. There was a slight flush to his cheeks, belying his aloof routine, which made the charade all the more pointless. Eric furrowed his brows in a sudden burst of exasperation. "Still doing the whole 'bleeding robot' thing, then," he retorted flatly. Not a question - didn't need to be, the facade was completely sodding obvious. Sherlock startled a tiny bit in response to his angry tone and turned back to blink at him. "Doing the-?" He cut himself off as Eric just continued to scowl. Sherlock frowned and for a brief, searching second looked to the far wall, lips thinning as if he were mentally weighing some decision. Finally after a pause he set his face in some undefinable expression of sullied annoyance and let all the false poise melt out of his stance. It was just a series of tiny movements, really - loosening of the shoulders and spine, slight tilt of his head, muscles repositioning - but somehow each shift came together to give the effect of him transforming from an imposing aristocrat to a sulking teenager with the flip of a lightswitch. Mystifying. And every bit as disturbing as Eric remembered. He huffed a quiet laugh. "Creepy as hell." "It's a useful tactic," Sherlock snapped defensively, seeming a little embarrassed but no less miffed at having been caught out. "Unless you expect me to somehow intimidate suspects whilst... fidgeting." As if illustrating the very concept he did some odd thing with his hands and shifted his weight back and forth. Which, granted, did look a tad silly and definitely wasn't ideal for questioning murderers or whatever. Still, though. Eric half-rolled his eyes. "That don't stop it bein' goddamn unsettlin' t'watch you switch like that. Lay off." For some reason, instead of countering with an annoyed rebuttal, Sherlock just smirked. Eric blinked and responded with a slight glare. "What?" "Your accent's slipped," Sherlock pointed out, his tone just this side of teasing. Eric coloured a bit. For god's- of all the things to change the *bleeding* subject with it had to be- ugh. Flustered, he nonetheless managed to keep his expression serious, slipped his own hands into his trouser pockets and sized up their current predicament. They now stood rather awkwardly facing each other, stock-still in the middle of the floor beside Sherlock's bed. Things had evidently taken a bit of a turn somewhere. When he glanced back up Sherlock was still smirking at him. Eric scoffed. "Never said I was trying to hide it." "No," Sherlock agreed, then fixed him with a supremely smug look. "But of course you've just switched back to Estuary for no particular reason, haven't you? Which along with the way you've been shifting in and out of Cockney speaking patterns at random for the past few hours indicates rather strongly that you've become accustomed to-" In a flash of annoyed pique Eric reached out and shoved the git's head lightly sideways, cutting off his condescending monologue before it could get properly started. Not hard enough to hurt, of course - just startle the guy, perhaps muss up his hair a bit so he'd look ridiculous. It was something he used to do back in Stockwell on those occasions when Sherlock's coke-fuelled rambling got to be too manic for anyone to follow. Quick jolt to the side of the head, shut the idiot up for long enough to reboot and derail himself from whatever train of thought he'd gotten stuck on. Pretty much always guaranteed to work. Doing it now hadn't been a conscious action, really, more of a reflex. And the second he drew his hand back Eric found himself worrying if perhaps he'd just crossed a line. That, admittedly, had been *very* forward... not to mention easily construed as a threat. Subconsciously he braced himself to defend against any forthcoming blows, wary of Sherlock lashing out in anger. He'd never reacted negatively when they were kids, of course, but this was quite a bit different, wasn't it? They were bloody *adults* now. One didn't go round smacking other grown men upside the head instead of just politely telling them to be quiet, christ. Far from being provoked, though, Sherlock just blinked, shot a rather petulant glare Eric's way and then brought a hand up to smooth his curls back into place. "Uncalled for," he grumbled. "Brought it on yourself," Eric countered with a shrug. A small, faintly relieved quirk of a smile made its way unbidden to his face, the brief jolt of tension melting out of his stance. Sherlock, of course, picked up on his waning discomfort with barely a glance. The man rolled his eyes as he patted down an errant ringlet. "Oh relax, I'm not going to punch you for messing up my hair," he droned, unimpressed. Eric, unsure of what to say, just shrugged. Couldn't deny being concerned, really; it'd been a legitimate fear. Hazy recollections of a night years ago swam to the forefront of his brain, making Eric frown to himself - a thug's knife to his throat, thrum of sheer terror in his chest, the boy he'd agreed to date mere hours before standing wraithlike in the street with blood down his face and the hollow gaze of a killer. Stuff of nightmares. Up to that point Eric had been mostly confident in defining Sherlock as an awkward, fidgety mess. Clearly doing his best to hide behind an aristocrat act, often failing at it. Because at his core the guy was really nothing more than an overgrown child, wasn't he? A kid playing grown-up? He could never be anything *dangerous.* But in those few minutes in the street, as he watched Sherlock's restless warmth be eclipsed by cold steel fury, cowered whilst the coke-addled toff proceeded to dispatch three armed thugs without the slightest pause for fear or mercy... suddenly Eric hadn't been so sure. Sherlock in that instant had been bloody *terrifying*. And Eric couldn't help but wonder... was that the man's true face? Which was the act, here: the childish prat or the soulless monster? How could one ever be sure they weren't being fooled by the mask of a psychopath? For the next few days he'd fretted over the problem like a nervous tic. Eventually, though, he'd been able to convince himself to calm down. Sherlock's bouts of behaving like a robot were comfortingly predictable and quite plainly guileless. Mostly centred around avoiding social anxiety, it seemed, harmless enough to spark a sense of fond exasperation. Eric had soon found himself reassured enough to stop worrying about the threat of unexpected violence. His boyfriend wouldn't snap - the bloke was *quirky*, yes, but not insane. Everything was fine. For a while he'd even allowed himself to dream of a future together. Something like mutual happiness, he supposed, unsullied by the grim reality of lengthening criminal records and the looming threat of prison. It could happen. Then, of course, Ben had been killed. And Sherlock had... christ. With a small sigh Eric took a few steps backward and let himself drop to a seat on Sherlock's bed. The brief atmosphere of levity drained from the room like a punctured flask. Sherlock shifted, expression going a bit nervous. "Really, I wouldn't." "I know." Eric huffed and flipped a hand in vague explanation for some abstract idea he couldn't quite convey. All the excitement of the last few hours seemed to be catching up to him at once. He managed to dredge up a tired smile to show Sherlock nothing was seriously wrong, though it dropped after a short beat. "If it were anyone else, though..." "Anyone else and I'd have dodged." Sherlock frowned with an air as if he thought that point should have been obvious. He rocked back on his heels in doubt for a second, then, seeming to decide something, strode over to his chest of drawers and began rummaging around. "What're y'doin'?" Eric asked, watching as Sherlock dug around in what appeared to be an excessively well-organised sock drawer. "Accent," Sherlock replied teasingly. Eric scowled, spent a brief moment resisting the impulse to chuck something at the git, then flung the nearest pillow. "What. Are. You. Doin-*g*," he repeated in as clear a pronunciation as he could possibly force out his windpipe. Sherlock smirked and, presumably in retaliation for the pillow which had just hit him in the spine, turned to toss a bundle of clothes directly towards Eric's face. "You stink of wood smoke and you're getting soot all over my duvet, go and have a bloody shower." His tone was clearly meant to be snippy but lost quite a bit on the delivery as he failed to suppress a snicker over the fact that the pyjama trousers he'd thrown had landed with one leg draped over Eric's head. After quickly composing himself he turned towards his window and gestured dismissively to the hall. "Down the hall to the right, shouldn't be difficult to find." Eric gathered up the scattered clothes and rolled his eyes. "I'll pretend that's you bein' considerate." Jabs aside, though, the thought of a shower did sound bloody heavenly. He dragged himself to a standing position and, stifling a yawn, made his way out the door. **««** Sherlock watched Eric's blurry reflection disappear into the hall, then turned to lean with his back against the glass. His hands had found their way back to his pockets somehow while his heel shifted to rest on the wall, toe of his shoe tapping against the hardwood a few times as he stared down at the floor pattern in thought. "Erm." There was a slight knock on the open panel of the door, someone clearing their throat. Sherlock lifted his gaze to find John standing just outside the room looking vaguely awkward. "I was going to ring for a Chinese or something, there's not much in," the man offered in explanation for why he was hovering there. He glanced around the room, apparently searching for their guest, then looked back to Sherlock. "Everything alright?" "Fine," Sherlock replied easily. He felt his own posture begin to shift into aloof poise; default behaviour when speaking to John. *Why*, though? He'd told Eric the tactic was for intimidating witnesses, not... ugh. Ridiculous. As if proving some internal point to himself he mentally switched the whole process off, felt his stance drop back into whatever graceless nonsense he'd been standing in before. There. Perfectly normal. Not using an act on his flatmate. As if he'd ever need to. In the doorway John blinked. "Right, then..." the doctor hummed, drawing out the 'R' - plainly he'd noticed Sherlock's odd shifts in bearing, deliberated on a reaction then chosen not to comment. Instead he glanced over his shoulder toward the hall. "Crenshaw's gone off somewhere?" "I told him to have a shower, he smelt like a chimney sweep." Hm, well. This was actually quite disconcerting, wasn't it? Speaking casually to John without doing the whole... what did Eric always insist on calling it? *Robot thing?* Moronic. Nevertheless Sherlock was finding himself having to actively avoid letting his mannerisms creep into a pre-built persona of any sort. Which was absurd as there was no plausible reason to need to keep up appearances for a man he *lived* with - not when he often wandered about the flat in his pyjamas whingeing about boredom, at any rate. John hadn't had reasonable cause to be intimidated by Sherlock in bloody ages. But then again there *was* a rather stark difference between dashing around being royally ticked off at the world for not producing enough excitement and... whatever this was. Standing about by the window looking probably quite pathetic, tapping his foot with his hands in his pockets and staring at the floor. Definitely abnormal. John would think him lost or confused, preoccupied... emotionally compromised. Which was ridiculous, of course, as Sherlock didn't *do* emotions. He had complete control over his mental space, didn't he? Sociopath. Yes. And *being* a sociopath meant that he could choose not to feel anything at all. He could *choose* not to be tempted to dwell on Eric's brief flash of fearful wariness and he could *choose* to forget their whole history together and he could *choose* to go back to being the impregnable fortress of disinterest John expected him to be. All it would take was a mental flip of a switch. One quick shift and he'd be back to his usual self, easy as anything. Or... he could also choose to keep leaning on the window looking like a pillock. Which his brain had apparently somehow declared the better option, because despite all efforts to do otherwise his posture didn't shift out of a casual slouch and he kept on tapping his foot. Aggravating. John, for his part, hadn't yet moved from the door frame. Sherlock was too busy being nebulously frustrated by the actions of his own physical shell to really pay the other man much heed. Eventually, though, he heard John clear his throat. "You two weren't just housemates." Sherlock glanced up from where he'd been studying the hardwood again and furrowed his brows at John's odd expression. It was a look more appropriate to a sarcastically-teasing Lestrade than any of the doctor's usual moods. "Sorry?" he asked, not immediately seeing the point of John's statement. John shifted to lean on the door frame and crossed his arms, smirking. Which was a very strange expression to see on John's face; hopefully he'd stop in short order. Actually, no... scratch that, he should bloody well quit right now. Sherlock frowned in vague disgruntlement and spoke up before the other could answer. "Stop making that face." John's distressing smirk widened into a fuller, far less unsettling smile *(vastly more appropriate to his facial features)* and he shook his head with a small chuckle as he shifted his weight against the door. "Housemates," he repeated, getting back to the topic he'd broached. "Crenshaw said you'd just lived together. But it was a bit more than that, wasn't it?" Sherlock frowned. Eric had spoken to John alone? When? "I don't think it's really any of your business." "Oh, no, course it isn't." John held up his hands and smiled, poorly stifling another chuckle. "Still, though... nice to see. Great Sherlock Holmes, reuniting with an ex. Same old silly drama as the rest of us." "There hasn't been any *drama*. I just leant him some clothes and told him to have a shower. Aren't you the one always going on about being hospitable?" "That'd be Mrs. Hudson, actually." John lifted his good shoulder in a bland shrug... then smirked again. Equally disturbing the second time round. Sherlock glared in response. "And no, clearly there's not been drama," John continued. "You're only standing about your bedroom looking like a lovelorn teenager. Nothing odd there." "Shut up." John just snorted mirthfully to himself and turned to amble off toward the sitting room. After a scant few steps though he paused mid-stride and turned back round. "Oh, I really was going to ring for a Chinese. Is the regular alright, or...?" "It's fine. Eric's fond of pork fried rice so add it as a side dish or something." Abruptly John was grinning again. "See, the fact that you *know* that..." "I'm an observational genius, why wouldn't I remember someone's culinary preferences?" Sherlock finally got round to pushing himself off the window to stand upright, training a look of general annoyance on the world at large. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and tried not to acknowledge the undertone of defensiveness in his posture or voice. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you deleted the entire *solar system* and constantly mix up what year it is?" John, mercifully, had resumed his travel to the sitting room, which meant Sherlock could now indulge in his juvenile temptation to silently flip the man off without being spotted. "What was it you said about memory, though?" John added over his shoulder. "Only keep the things that matter?" Sherlock scowled but chose not to dignify that with a response. Glaring at the chuckling, retreating form of his flatmate he took a few long strides forward, grabbed the edge of his bedroom door and smartly snapped it shut. A split-second later, however, he reopened it a crack. "Let me know when the food arrives." "Expect you'll deduce that when the doorbell rings." With an irritated huff Sherlock snapped the door shut again. After a few beats glaring petulantly at the panelling he took a few steps to the side, let himself flop backwards onto his bed, and glowered instead at the ceiling. His hands came up to rest fingertip-to-fingertip under his chin in a habitual posture. *Drama*... there hadn't been any bloody drama. Stupid. **««** ## Chapter 3 **««** John looked up from the phone in his hand just in time to catch the tall form of what he could only assume to be Crenshaw shuffle blearily into the sitting room. Making a definite identification was a bit difficult, as the lad had one of Sherlock's dark blue towels over his head and was busily scrubbing it through his hair. Dotted constellations of freckles up both his arms were clearly visible in his new short-sleeved attire, however, which consisted of a faded old t-shirt and a pair of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, so he was fairly certain in his assumption of who it was. As he set the phone down John had a bit of a double-take at the choice of shirt - it bore the logo of some vaguely punk-looking music group, stark green and black against a brown backdrop. Was that a spare Crenshaw'd had with him, or...? "Tch... he bleedin' knows I hate these sods and he goes and digs one'a their shirts out anyhow," Crenshaw muttered grumpily to himself as he tugged the towel off his head. His hair now stuck up in all directions round his skull, a halo of damp brown tufts. "I... didn't realise Sherlock listened to anything composed after the 18th century," John replied with a blink. "That's really his shirt?" Crenshaw scoffed slightly and rolled his eyes. "Course it's his. That or he's taken to nicking clothes off folks with the same awful taste in music as he has." John quirked a bewildered smile. Secret life of Sherlock Holmes, he supposed... clandestinely listening to strange rock groups, apparently with enough enthusiasm to hunt down band logo shirts which he then never deigned to wear in public. Good *lord*, John had learnt more distressingly human facts about his flatmate in the last few hours than he'd managed to pick up over the course of an entire bloody year co-habitating with the man. While John's mind was occupied being helplessly amused by the thought of Sherlock having musical interests beyond the scope of romance-era classical composers, Crenshaw had fallen to awkwardly glancing around the sitting room. "Er... I don't suppose you'd have any spare blankets, then?" the man asked after a pause. John jumped a bit, realising that was *probably* something he should have thought to fetch earlier, and hurriedly set down the phone to make his way to the linen cupboard in the hall. "Right, yes! Sorry. Just in here," he tossed over his shoulder in passing. Crenshaw turned to amble after him, the lad's hands fidgeting idly with the towel still gripped between them. "Don't bother," a deep voice cut in. John and Crenshaw both looked up to see Sherlock emerge from his bedroom. He stopped a few steps out of the doorframe and gestured back the way he'd come with his shoulder. "I've got a case on anyway. Less bother to use a bed already made than faff about with the spare linens." John raised his eyebrows, unable to keep the amusement off his face - inviting a bloke to sleep in your *bed*, Sherlock? Housemates indeed. Beside him he caught Crenshaw's cheeks colouring in a vaguely indignant look. "I ain't sleepin' in your *bed*, christ." The boy's accent had slipped quite a few notches into cockney in flustered annoyance - a fact Sherlock seemed to find highly amusing judging by his expression. "We shared a room for several weeks without incident, I don't see how this is any different." "We, that was-" Crenshaw sputtered, face going a deep beet red, but quickly seemed to collect himself with an exasperated glare. "We haven't spoken in *eight years*, you twat, that's a *bit* of a bloody gap to just ignore. Especially when we only dated a month!" Hah! *Dated!* They *were* ex-boyfriends! John did his best to smother the childish grin but of course Sherlock spotted it. The man fixed him with an annoyed glare. "John, if you don't stop making that face I'm going to spike your morning tea with capsaicin." Crenshaw seemed to startle a bit and shot a look towards John, whereupon the lad's indignant expression morphed into something much more anxious. "Ah... sorry," he muttered, darting a glance to Sherlock. "I wasn't sure if y'were-" Sherlock cut him off with a dismissive flip of his hand. "I'm not, or wasn't, but that's irrelevant as John would have pieced things together in short order regardless. He's evidently got the whole picture now and is behaving like a juvenile moron because he finds the idea of my having been romantically involved with someone hilarious." "That's not true," John objected, though it very much was. "I'm just pleased to know you've been, er... active, so to speak. Mycroft did sort of imply you were a-" "*Mycroft*," Sherlock snapped, cutting John off. "... does not have the faintest idea of what I did during my early twenties. And I'd appreciate his remaining ignorant on the matter." "You just don't want to have to tell your brother you dated a cockney bloke with freckles," John countered with what definitely wasn't a snort of mirth. Beside him Crenshaw's expression quickly drifted towards the affronted end of the spectrum. "I'm standing right here, you know," the boy pointed out. "Sorry," John offered in a tone anything but. Sherlock huffed a put-upon sigh and turned back to his ex. "Do you want my bed or not?" "Not with you in it." Crenshaw's answer was decidedly stern but his cheeks had flushed crimson, making John wonder how firm his stance on that really was. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously not. I said earlier - I've got a case on." "He doesn't sleep when he's working," John offered helpfully. "Nor eat," he added with a disapproving frown towards Sherlock, who met him with a flat look. "Puerile infant or clucking mother hen, John. Kindly choose one or the other." "Bleedin' christ," Crenshaw breathed in a tired huff, one hand going to shove through his still-damp hair. He quickly lowered the limb to rub at his eyes instead. "I... s'pose I'll take the bed, if no one's usin' it. You stay the *hell* out, though." He punctuated the order by jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction. "This ain't turnin' into a repeat of... everything." "God forbid," Sherlock drawled. "John, the door." John blinked. "The-?" He was cut off by the buzzer ringing loudly from the other room. "... door. Right, I've got it." As he descended the stairs he glanced back over his shoulder - Sherlock and Crenshaw were staring each other down with an intensity that bordered on the obscene. John snickered to himself. Oh, this was *definitely* going in his blog. **««** Sherlock frowned and flicked a glance sidelong towards the distinct sound of John sniggering from the stairwell. Eric, he noted through some odd peripheral sense, mirrored his actions almost exactly. They both looked back to each other in near-tandem. "Your flatmate's kind've..." Eric started, then trailed off with an unsure half-grimace. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed gently past the other man to head into the sitting room. "Just ignore him," he grumbled over his shoulder. Eric would follow him, obviously, so he carried on speaking without bothering to turn around to check if he still had an audience. "John's an incorrigible gossip, especially when it comes to anything I happen to be involved with. You should see his bloody *blog*, for god's sake - the whole thing's nothing but write-ups of my cases." Behind him Sherlock heard Eric snort in bland amusement. "So pretty much exactly your type, then?" "What?" Sherlock finally reached the music stand he'd been headed for and shot a quizzical look at Eric. "The man's over a decade my senior, I'd hardly call tha-" "No, no! Not like that," Eric clarified, making a disgusted face. "I meant he's obsessed with you and willing to have his ear talked off. Which you damn well *love* cause you're a bleedin' narcissist." "Oh... well, yes, in that sense I suppose he fills a certain role." Sherlock paused in the midst of picking up his violin to raise a brow at his guest. "Since when do you use words like 'narcissist'?" Eric looked vaguely offended. "I do *read*, you arse." "Didn't used to." Plucking at a string to check the pitch, Sherlock parroted a ridiculous sing-song version of cockney. *"Oh, no, I never bovvered with Shakespeare, all them bleedin' words!"* "That doesn't count, I was stoned to hell when I said that. And your cockney's utter crap." "Better than your RP." "Like I'd ever wanna sound like a poncy-" "Here we are, then!" John interrupted, appearing at the doorway with his head down as he rummaged through the takeaway bag in his hands. "Er... this one's yours, I think." Eric blinked and accepted the styrofoam container being thrust in his direction. Sherlock waved his off. Not eating, obviously. He had a, er... case on. Yes. Well... didn't *really*, of course. Not technically speaking, anyway. Arson was solved, more or less, just waiting on an arrest now. But who cared, that was irrelevant - surely he could find something else to occupy himself overnight. Give Eric a chance to get a proper rest in a *bed* instead of the stupid sofa, thing was far too small for a grown adult to find comfortable. Why he'd ever offered it in the first place he had no idea. Realising he'd picked up his violin for no real reason Sherlock glanced down to his hands, frowned, then set the instrument back in its case. Wandered over to his laptop instead. He'd perhaps had a vague idea he might play a concerto, but with the room occupied by... well. No, checking his email would be a far more productive use of his time. "Aw, I thought you were gonna play something," Eric piped up from the spot he'd taken on the sofa. "I prefer not to serenade a crowded room," Sherlock explained vaguely as he flipped the lid of his laptop up. John snorted from his armchair. "Bollocks you don't, you love an audience." After a short beat the doctor grinned to himself, then leant forward in his chair to point his fork in Sherlock's direction. "No, *you* just don't want to accidentally start playing something sappy in front of-" "How's the *girlfriend*, John?" Sherlock broke in, tilting his head quizzically towards the man. "Broken up with you yet? Oh, no, you've still not found another one since Big-Nose. Sarah's still available, you know. Pining over you." John's expression was darkening into an angry glower, which was exactly the reaction Sherlock had been going for, so he quirked a deliberately infuriating smirk and turned his head fully to face his flatmate. Hah, found *just* the right sore spot to jab, as usual - served John right for being such a bloody juvenile over the last few hours. A distinct hint of smugness crept into his voice as Sherlock continued on. "Can't imagine *why*, of course, you were clearly a poor match. But then she always did show an alarming tendency towards- hey!" "Can I use this? Thanks." Eric had risen from his seat whilst Sherlock was busy speaking and, leaning right over Sherlock's shoulder, plucked the laptop out from under his hands. The freckled man set it down on the opposite side of the table and took a seat in the chair there, casually eating from the styrofoam takeaway box while he used his unoccupied hand to operate the machine. Sherlock fixed his guest with an affronted glare, but Eric just smiled politely at him over the screen before going back to whatever he was doing. "Carry on, mate, just checkin' my email," he said, waving a hand in preoccupied dismissal. "Use your phone!" Sherlock snapped. John, on the other side of the room, had swiftly gotten over Sherlock's attempt to offend him and was now grinning to himself as he ate his meal. "Nah, laptop's easier." Eric glanced across the table again, then used his fork to gesture vaguely towards John as he quirked an amused smile. "Carry on, then." Sherlock scowled. Eric knew full-well he'd already lost his train of thought, the meddling arse. "If you wanted me to shut up you could have just said so." Eric took another bite of rice. "No, I really did need to check my email." Sherlock huffed a short, grumbling sigh, then with a petulant glower he leant forward to pluck Eric's meal container and fork out of his hands in retaliation. Eric frowned up at him as Sherlock flopped back in his chair and took a bite of the other man's fried rice, expression making it clear this was payback. From John's end of the room came the distinct *beep* of a cameraphone, and Sherlock whipped his head up just in time to see his flatmate lowering his mobile to chuckle at the photo display. "Is this that blog you were talking about?" Eric piped up before Sherlock could lob any scathing remarks John's way. Sherlock looked back around, brows furrowed - how...? Oh, wait, right. He'd had John's blog open in another tab. Eric must have switched windows and seen it. "*'A Study in Pink'*...?" Eric went on bemusedly. "That was-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off. "Oh let me tell the story, John, you always muck up the details." He leant forward to set Eric's food back on the table, then steepled his fingers. He flashed a rather egotistical little smirk over at Eric when the man glanced up at him. "It began," Sherlock intoned grandly, "with a series of suicides..." **««** Sherlock's bed smelt like him. Eric frowned into the pillow, then huffed a tired sigh and rolled over onto his back instead. He let one of his arms flop over the side of the mattress while the other rested loosely over his chest. Above him the ceiling loomed dark and indistinct, shifting wisps of ambient light making the walls look like a vast expanse of living shadow. Dr Watson, as Sherlock's flatmate was apparently called, had extricated himself from the animated conversation they'd all three fallen into after Sherlock started telling stories about his detective cases nearly four hours ago. It'd taken about forty-five minutes for Eric to even notice the man had gone. And then another half hour after *that* he'd finally clued in to the fact that it was going on midnight and he still had business meetings scheduled for the next day. Losing track of the time wasn't something Eric did often - even back when he'd spent the majority of his days stoned out of his skull he'd still somehow always managed to keep a consistent internal clock. Because knowing how long he'd been doing things, the when and where and why of the world, had always seemed to give him that tiny sense of stability he otherwise found lacking so often in his life. It was his safety net; a tether to sanity. Over the decades only a very small number of things had ever taken that all-important awareness of time away from him. One was the medication he'd been forced into taking after Mum finally snapped, which was why he'd so quickly abandoned the stuff in favour of weed. The other was... well… The other was being smitten. Really, properly, head-over-heels, *falling* for someone. In love. Like a giddy schoolgirl. He scowled viciously to himself and brought his hands up to cover his face, sighing in exasperation. Alright, mate, *no*. Get it together. Starting to sound like one of those bloody teen gossip rags Missy was always reading. He was not about to *fall in love* with a bloke he'd dated for all of a month, had met while *stoned*, even, and whom he'd only been reunited with for a few hours *eight sodding years* later. That was absurd. No, Sherlock was just distracting him from keeping proper track of the time because the guy was a complete nutter, not because Eric still felt anything for him. Plus there'd also been the fire, hadn't there, and Mick disappearing so really it was no *wonder* Eric's head was falling a bit to pieces right now. Nothing whatsoever to do with the giant prat in the other room. Just normal everyday nerves, that was all. With a glower for his own scattered thoughts Eric rolled over to his side and flopped his head down on the *(Sherlock's, shut up, damn it all the fabric smells like his bloody hair)* pillow. He glared into the darkness of the room for a moment - then gasped as a sudden spike of terrified panic shot through his chest. The shadows were staring back at him. "*Je*-sus fucking *christ!*" he yelped, scrambling up into a sitting position and scuttling backwards to the other side of the mattress. The eyes in the shadows blinked. "Sorry," a deep voice said. Sherlock's willowy form seemed to coalesce out of the aether as he stepped forward into a pool of weak light from the streetlamp outside the window. He looked vaguely irked by Eric's shouting. And, despite his apology, not the least bit contrite. "Forgot I'd left a file in here." "So instead'a knocking on th'door you fuckin' *snuck in* while I slept!?" Eric barked, scandalised. Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't seem worth waking you." He strode over to a table on the far end of the room and began shuffling through a pile of papers and folders there. "Though I suppose that concern was rather unwarranted, seeing as how you appear to be suffering from a bout of insomnia. Anxiety?" "*No*," Eric snapped. He leant one elbow on his half-bent knee, pinched the bridge of his nose in tired vexation. "No. I'm on meds for that now, thanks. Not that it's any of your business." "What, then?" Sherlock picked up a sheaf of looseleaf print and idly flipped through it. "*Nothin'*, god. I was thinking about..." A pregnant pause as Eric forced himself not to say the trite, and very embarrassing, *'you'* which would have ended that sentence. He cleared his throat instead, dropped his hand from his face to scowl awkwardly toward the window. "Er... finances." Sherlock turned and raised a brow at him, clearly unconvinced. Eric met his gaze with a glare, cheeks flushing, and wordlessly dared the git to challenge his lie. After a second Sherlock seemed to catch on to some hidden detail; his mouth opened in a small *oh* of realisation as a slightly surprised look crept over his features. Eric's glare immediately shifted into flat exasperation - oh for christ's *sake*. He'd forgotten Sherlock could damn near read peoples' thoughts in their body language. Not remotely fair. "Is it even worth telling you not to do that?" he grumbled, lowering his face to rest the side of his forehead heavily in the palm of one hand. "Really can't help it when you're broadcasting like a neon sign," Sherlock replied with a half-shrug of his shoulder which had probably been intended as flippant, but which came off more like an awkward fidget than anything. He cleared his throat and fiddled with the packet of paper he was holding as his eyes flicked back to Eric's tired gaze. Eric sighed again, rubbing at his eyelids in exhaustion. *Sherlock*, god. What an arse. "... the sodding bed smells like you," he finally admitted in a flat mumble. "It's my bed," Sherlock pointed out. Eric opened his eyes again to shoot the man an unimpressed stare, which was met with nothing but a look of blank confusion. "... I really don't know what else you were expecting." "I wasn't- *god.*" Eric threw his arms up, letting himself flop backwards onto the mattress. He sighed angrily at the ceiling. "I weren't expectin' anything *different*, I dunno. It's just... bloody distracting, is all. Can't sleep." "You could move to the sofa," Sherlock offered. "Yeah, because bein' *in the same room as you* is definitely gonna help." "Would it?" Sherlock asked, sounding a bit bewildered. "I thought you were-" "Sarcasm." "Oh." An awkward silence stretched between them for several seconds. Finally Eric lifted his head, catching sight of Sherlock staring at him with a look like he thought Eric might spontaneously combust if he said anything untoward. They held each other's gaze for a few quiet beats before Eric finally dragged himself back upright. He leant his forearms heavily on his knees and eyed his long-ex boyfriend with a calculating frown. God, this whole ridiculous situation... what was a bloke even supposed to *do*? Though of course, the frank truth of the matter was that Eric knew exactly what to do - or knew what he *wanted* to do, anyway. Pretty much what he'd wanted all bloody night long. But he couldn't be sure if he'd be making an enormous mistake by going with that immediate gut impulse. This wasn't some drug-addled uni dropout anymore, after all, but a respected detective. Not a man to be trifled with. And, yet, he was also... he was also *Sherlock*, so... ugh. Damn it, why did this all have to be so difficult!? As Eric's internal debate with himself waged on the silence around them continued unabated, creeping out to fill all the spaces of the room like an overstretched balloon. Sherlock, doubtless made antsy by the stillness, fidgeted with his papers. "... I won't punch you," he finally muttered in a quiet voice. Eric blinked and, glancing up, huffed a small laugh. Sherlock answered with a smile. His expression still looked a bit confused and uncertain, perhaps even wary, but his hands were no longer compulsively fiddling with the printouts in his hands - probably a good sign, that. Meant he wasn't really on-edge or nervous anymore, just alert. Trying to figure out what was going on. And, well... sod it, then, Eric decided with a shake of his head. Might as well take this opportunity while he still had it. He'd be furious with himself for *ages* if he didn't. With a determined set to his jaw he leant forward to grab Sherlock firmly by the hand, threw his weight backwards and physically *dragged* the idiot down on top of him. "Oof!" Sherlock exclaimed as his papers went flying. He landed hard on the mattress in a jumble of limbs, huffing a surprised expletive, plainly unenthusiastic about his new predicament. Eric ignored his flailing attempt to get back upright and instead grabbed the git round the midsection in a tight, almost desperate hug. "I missed you, you goddamned prat," he mumbled into Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock coughed, apparently a bit winded by the fall *(or the hug, which admittedly may have been cutting off his air supply)*, and snaked an arm round to awkwardly pat Eric on the back. "I, er... missed you too," he replied in bewilderment. "Is there a reason you felt a need to-?" "Shut up, we're hugging," Eric grumbled. "... Alright." **««** ## Chapter 4 **««** "This is going to wrinkle my suit coat," Sherlock pointed out after a good minute or so of letting Eric hug him. Not exactly the most appropriate thing to say given the context, but he'd found the subsequent stretch of silence between them too confusing not to break. Sherlock honestly had no idea what had prompted this whole business, the chain of consequences leading up to it... and that was nothing short of disconcerting. What had been the order of events, here? Accidentally scare the living daylights out of the man, apologise for doing so, proceed to have a vaguely awkward conversation, and then... hugs? No, that didn't seem like a logical progression of action at all. Something had to have gone terribly wrong. Perhaps Eric had suffered a small brain aneurysm? Temporary insanity? Still, though, whatever the reasoning, their current predicament wasn't exactly... unpleasant. Far from it, actually. Sherlock was surprised to find himself rather pleased by the situation. But then that was ridiculous, wasn't it? He was Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath. He didn't *do* affection. Hugging, hand-holding, human contact... all pointless rubbish. Should put a stop to this right now, had no need of such nonsense. On the other hand, however, perhaps *Eric* needed it. He'd initiated this after all. What, then, a comforting gesture of some sort? Seeking solace after all the stress of the arson and being questioned by police? Seemed likely. In that case... well, it would probably be more altruistic to let him carry on. And if that particular brand of altruism happened to carry with it a not-insignificant desire on Sherlock's part to continue being pressed up against the warmth of one of the very few human beings in the world he'd ever deemed worthy of trust... well, it didn't have to mean anything. Just a basic biochemical response to human contact, wasn't it? Serotonin, dopamine... nothing but neurochemicals. He was fine. His *suit coat*, though, really. Rather not have to iron it in the morning. "Take it off, then," Eric replied, face still buried against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock huffed. "Difficult proposition when you're busy clinging to me like a koala." Eric finally loosened his grip and leant back to blink at Sherlock bemusedly. "... a *koala*?" "Like those... the things on the pencils, you know," Sherlock explained, not entirely sure what he was even on about. Quickly he shuffled out of his jacket, tossed it in the approximate direction of his closet, and toed his shoes off at the same time. Sod it, might as well lie down properly. "Pencils?" Eric repeated, his tone suggesting serious contemplation of the theory that hugging Sherlock may have perhaps driven the man mad. "Wait, hang on... I just thought it were weird you'd reference a koala. Now I ain't got no bleedin' clue what you even think the things are." Sherlock scowled. "I know what koalas are." Eric looked dubious, but before he could reply Sherlock let himself fall sideways over the other man's legs to land with a soft *fwump* on his pillow. After a pause to consider the propriety of his next actions *(and then to immediately decide he didn't care)* he grabbed Eric's arm and dragged the freckled moron down beside him. Eric made a disgruntled noise as he was forced to quickly disentangle his legs from under Sherlock's, lest he end up with a joint or two out of place, but within seconds they'd managed to get comfortably situated in a far less haphazard position than they'd been in previously. "This really isn't a proper solution to the whole *bed smells like you* issue," Eric mumbled in half-hearted objection to their new arrangement. He'd ended up with his head on Sherlock's chest again, the top of his skull just under the curve of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock rested his chin on the other's hair and frowned to himself. Hang on a moment, now wait... how'd he ended up in bed with Eric? Had he really just chosen to escalate the situation? *Why*? Wasn't the least bit dignified, this - limbs tangled up like a pair of teenagers, spread out across a bed that'd never had occasion to house more than one occupant, rumpling both their clothes and the sheets in equal measure. Such complete loss of decorum should be bothering him *far* more than it currently was. Over the course of his life Sherlock had grown accustomed to always keeping up appearances. Accepted without thought the bevy of small, inconsequential lies he maintained for the benefit of those he interacted with. He knew how most people perceived him, could usually deduce what they wanted to hear, determine which words or behavioural patterns would be most advantageous for his reputation... predict what he'd be mocked for. Prior experiences had given him a fairly solid idea of which aspects of himself needed to be hidden for the purposes of sanity, what gave him the best chances of survival in a social climate. A clear framework for the personality he could safely present to outsiders. Being frequently bewildered by his own actions was one of those unfortunate facets of his existence which he'd learnt early on to conceal at all costs. Who would ever respect a man who kept finding himself having to use context clues to piece together why in blazes he'd got up and walked into another room, after all? Or who couldn't seem to maintain a consistent sense of the passage of time no matter how often he checked his watch? Absent-minded, scatterbrained... no, *god*, unacceptable. Best to just hide it. Let them all think him in control, even when he felt like a blind rat stumbling through fog. No one's business but his own. Hardly needed to be giving out any more ammunition against himself, anyway, what with the constant derision of *freak* and *psycho* still being flung in his face on a regular basis*.* Those insults he had ample practise with - barely even acknowledged them anymore, lifelong repetition having long ago stripped the words of all meaning. But others... if someone were to catch on to the ruse, realise he'd never been quite as self-assured as he made out to be, found an invective to encompass that personal failing... he didn't even want to try predicting his reaction to such a scenario. Likely sheer panic. Not an appealing mental image. Keep the secret under careful guard, then, never let it slip. Thinking of all this, and without really knowing what he'd meant to say, Sherlock found himself opening his mouth. "I have no idea how this happened," he admitted. Then scrunched up his face in utter confusion, because why in *hell's name* had he let Eric know that? Hadn't he just...? Oh for god's sake, why was he still talking? "... I'm fairly sure I just came in here to fetch the case file with the eye-maggots. Now suddenly I'm in bed with you. This doesn't make any sense." "Life's a bleedin' mystery," Eric countered blandly. No attempt whatsoever to twist the admission into mockery. Nor even to question why Sherlock, by all rights a bloody supergenius, would have trouble following a chain of events which had occurred less than five minutes ago. Just... casual acceptance. Unconsciously Sherlock's arms tightened around the other man's shoulders in a hug he hadn't meant to give. After another silent moment between them Sherlock frowned. Eric's breathing was growing suspiciously regular, settling into a steady pattern of slumber. He drew back to try to get a look at the man's face but couldn't quite manage the proper angle. "Are you falling asleep?" he asked instead. "Dunno," Eric mumbled. "Maybe...?" Words slurred a bit, poor enunciation - definitely slipping into unconsciousness. Well that wasn't bloody fair at all, Sherlock was still pinned to the mattress. How the hell was he meant to get up without waking Eric later? "Let me up," Sherlock demanded, trying to shove his companion off. In response freckled arms tightened more firmly around his torso to trap him decisively in place. "No." Another half-hearted shove, then he simply huffed a frustrated sigh to himself and let his body go limp. Eric snuggled into his chest like a child with a teddy bear. Sherlock grumbled something indistinct about *clingy juvenile morons*, but try as he might there was no real venom to the words. He just couldn't seem to bring himself to be all that upset by any of this. Perhaps because this was the longest bout of sustained contact with another human being Sherlock could recall having had in several years, which was causing the ancient social primate portions of his brain to release a flood of dopamine. Or... perhaps because Eric was really quite warm, and there'd been a bit of a draft out in the sitting room? Or maybe because it would be too much bother to move. One of those, anyway. He'd explain it all to himself later on, he knew. Always did. Stripped his more distressingly human actions of all sentiment to make it easier to slot into a mental paradigm. Fit the careful persona he'd built. For now, though... well, sod it, he'd not actually been planning to stay up all night anyway. A quick kip would accomplish the same task whether he took it on the sofa or his bed. And in an hour or so Eric would have sunk deep enough in slumber to make it possible to slip out the room without waking him. So Sherlock would simply take a brief rest now, no longer than absolutely necessary, then wake up a short time later to extricate himself before morning. Easy. With a soft huff of a sigh he let his eyes slip closed. An hour's nap, that was all. Then he'd leave. **««** "Sherlock, put a pot of tea on would you?" John grumbled his words blearily into the silence of early dawn as he shuffled into the sitting room the next morning. He cracked a wide yawn, stretched his back and rubbed at his eyes. Needed a cuppa. Caffeine, spot of breakfast, get himself going for the day. With a frown John realised his flatmate hadn't yet responded to him. He opened both eyes and blinked several times to clear his vision of the haziness of sleep. Before him the sitting room stood jarringly empty, the remains of Sherlock's work strewn across various tables like a maelstrom of paper. The detective himself was nowhere to be found. Expression flatly confused, John turned and glanced toward the kitchen. No one there. Bathroom was open, as well, so the man wasn't in the loo. Oh, but... his bedroom door was ajar? Was Crenshaw awake, then? Had the two of them gone off somewhere? Perhaps a visit with Mrs Hudson... As he formulated these theories John had been moving towards the bedroom, meaning to have a peek through the open door - just to be sure the flat was empty, mind, and that no one needed anything resembling medical assistance. A quick glance showed him the jumbled outline of a figure asleep on the bed and he drew back. Oh, Crenshaw hadn't gotten up yet. What was his door doing open, then? Thought for sure he'd heard it close last night... John frowned and reached out to gently shut the door for the sake of the lad's privacy. Quite suddenly his sleep-addled brain seemed to catch up with processing the signals from his eyes, however, and John froze with his hand on the knob. A shock of dark curls splayed out on the pillow. Freckled arm draped over a thin chest clad in a sleep-rumpled buttonup. *Sherlock's shoes* discarded at the side of the bed. A sharp bark of laughter nearly burst out from his throat but John clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Quietly as possible he crept away from the door and snatched up his phone from the table where he'd left it last night. *Don't wake up, don't wake up...* he pleaded silently as he padded back to the door. Oh thank hell, they were still out. Grinning like a loon he snapped a photo of the scene. The sound of his mobile's automatic camera-shutter noise seemed to startle Crenshaw quite badly. Out of nowhere the boy sucked in a panicked breath, eyes flying wide open, and flailed around comically before managing to shove himself up on one elbow. "Wha'ver 'appened it weren' me swear t'christ," he slurred in a hasty jumble of cockney. John winced apologetically. Oops, bollocks, he'd forgotten about the shutter noise. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," he offered, lowering his phone. Crenshaw blinked owlishly at him. After a second or so the boy seemed to recall where he was and fixed John with a faintly confused look. "Oh, er... mornin', Dr Watson. What're you doin' in...?" His words trailed off as he appeared to realise that John was in fact stood in the half-open door, not in the room itself, and that the childish smile on the doctor's face was being directed equally towards him and someone else. With a blink Crenshaw glanced down to the warm lump of unconscious detective curled up next to him. Instantly his freckled cheeks went bright pink. "Slept well, then?" John asked brightly, unable to smother his delighted expression in response to Crenshaw's obvious embarrassment. Not remotely fair to keep teasing the poor boy like this, he knew - but *really* now, how could one help it? He and Sherlock were like a couple of goofy kids together, all fidgety gestures and awkward blushing... hilarious and strangely adorable all at once. Below Crenshaw's chest Sherlock, in his usual habit of refusing to be roused from slumber by anything less than a magnitude ten earthquake, frowned and mumbled an indistinct complaint for all the noise. He shifted to wrap his upper body partially around his bed-mate's torso like a prodded cat and buried his head under a pillow. "W-we didn't, I... really, I *swear* this ain't what it looks like," Crenshaw stammered. With a self-conscious clearing of his throat he attempted to move away from Sherlock, only to find himself pinned firmly in place by the other man's grip round his midsection. John just grinned. "Fry-up alright for breakfast?" he asked after a brief pause to commit the scene to memory. Turning away from the door he set himself to the business of gathering ingredients from the fridge, hoping the change of subject would make it clear he had no problem with the situation. John had brought girlfriends round the flat before, after all, and Sherlock had always been decent enough to (more or less) put up with them. Wouldn't dream of complaining in the opposite scenario. Best mates, right? Certain codes of conduct to adhere to, both of them obligated to be civil to romantic partners. Behind him he heard Crenshaw mutter an embarrassed affirmative. By the sounds of things the boy was attempting to extricate himself from Sherlock's grip without waking him. Needn't have bothered being so careful about it - if Sherlock hadn't stirred by now between all the talking and movement then it most likely meant the man was in the midst of one of his haven't-slept-in-days, dead-to-the-world comas. No amount of effort would rouse him from that. John had gotten the pan nearly all the way heated up when Crenshaw finally stepped sheepishly into the kitchen and closed the bedroom door behind him. "Er... Sherlock says he's not hungry," he informed John in a flustered mumble. John turned and regarded him with a half-amused, half-impressed sort of look. "You managed to get him awake long enough to answer a question?" Facing back toward the stove John chuckled to himself, struck with a sudden thought: *Eric Crenshaw, Detective Whisperer.* Friend to all consulting lunatics. "Y-yeah...?" Crenshaw was carefully taking a seat at the table, looking helplessly anxious. His hands had strayed towards each other to press palm-to-palm in that strange habit of his. John quirked an exasperated smile in the lad's direction as he turned to grab the carton of eggs. "No need to be nervous," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Crenshaw startled and seemed to realise what his hands were doing. He whipped them away from each other to tuck them under his thighs instead. "Oh, er... sorry," he muttered, biting his lip. "I'm just, uh... not sure if I, well... I mean I don't want to make things awkward or noth- *anything,* erm. Or anything." Having trouble keeping his accent straight, apparently. John smiled to himself and cracked an egg into the pan on the stove. Supposed it must be true, then - opposites attract. Because he couldn't very well think up a more polar opposite to the cavalier insanity of Sherlock Holmes than a meek, kind-hearted worrier. Why the boy was acting like one wrong move would be the death of him, though, he had no idea. "No chance of that. Really, I'm just pleased to see him getting on with someone for a change," John explained as he moved on to the sausages. "And the whole exes bit... kind of a relief, to be honest. We'd all thought perhaps he'd taken a vow of celibacy." Crenshaw snorted in disbelief. "Celibacy? *Him*?" "I take it we were wrong?" John smiled to himself, flipping a few links in the pan. Oh yes, this conversation was progressing in all the right directions. Absolutely brilliant. *Bad job you couldn't be bothered to wake up, Sherlock...* he thought impishly. Perfect opportunity to gather some choice material for teasing the man. "Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure he was a bit of a- erm..." Crenshaw trailed off, going faintly pink again. "That is, from what I'd gathered, he'd *got around* quite a lot during uni. If you, er, know what I... mean." He coughed awkwardly and rubbed at the back of his neck. "... certainly wasn't inexperienced, anyway." John made a strange, sputtering *pfft* noise in an attempt to stifle an inappropriate burst of cackling laughter. *Not inexperienced...?* Oh lord, but the million implications of that simple statement. Sherlock using his absurd deductive powers to go sharking about some late-night uni club - he could just picture it. And he didn't even *want* to imagine the man's idea of pillow talk. Did he even do the whole quintessential romance bit? Or had he been one of those clingy, overprotective types? Though, perhaps the most important question... "Was he a good boyfriend?" Crenshaw looked to have been taken completely off-guard by that. He fixed John with a befuddled stare as the older man set a plate laden with eggs and sausage down in front of him. "A good...? Er..." The lad's brows furrowed in thought. He glanced back over his shoulder to the bedroom, seeming to deliberate for several long seconds. John took a seat on the opposite side of the table and studied him with interest. Rather complicated history there, it seemed. Fascinating. Though not the least bit unexpected, of course, considering the man involved... In a spark of clear cognisance John suddenly found himself struck by just how little he actually knew about his flatmate. Who *was* Sherlock, really? And what precisely did Crenshaw see in him? There had to be something there besides all the snark and vain posturing, after all. Something more... human. John had seen glimpses of that hidden empathy from time to time, obviously, but now he couldn't help wondering at the depth of the man Crenshaw knew. Sherlock almost seemed to be a completely different person around him - all soft edges and enthusiasm. Finally Crenshaw turned back round again. A small smile flitted across his face. "Yeah," he decided. "Yeah... I guess he was." **««** ## Chapter 5 **««** Eric ate his breakfast slowly, trying and failing to avoid jumping like a skittish hare over every slight movement in the room. Wasn't very mature behaviour, this. Quite probably making Dr Watson think him some sort of lunatic... but then Eric couldn't exactly help it. Meeting new people invariably put him on edge, as did staying as a guest in others' homes, and to make matters worse he'd lost his bottle of anxiety medication in the fire. Combined with Watson's apparent, vaguely bewildering glee over everything Eric and Sherlock did together this was all turning into a rather perfect storm of nervous static buzzing through his skull. Of course he supposed he really couldn't fault the doctor for reacting like a kid at Christmas over all this nonsense - one could only imagine how Sherlock normally behaved around the man, after all. What few blog posts Eric had managed to read (before Sherlock had nicked his laptop back and taken over the storytelling) had painted a bit of an inconsistent picture. Generally one of fascination and mystery, building Sherlock up like some sort of amazing creature to be studied, but also doing things like calling him 'spectacularly ignorant' in the same breath. It was confusing. And that 'ignorant' line in particular... that had bothered Eric a bit. Not because he *disagreed* - he was after all fairly certain, after their conversation last night, that Sherlock genuinely had no idea what a koala was - but because it just seemed a tad mean-spirited to write something like that in public where everyone could read it. Sherlock, the bloke Eric remembered, the one he'd been getting reacquainted with over the last several hours, would be downright mortified by such things being made widely known. The fact that he wasn't perfect, that he forgot silly things like how the solar system worked, that he sometimes felt more comfortable behaving like a child than an adult... back in Stockwell he'd always done his best to hide that stuff. And that didn't seem to have changed. In fact he appeared to have fallen into the habit of keeping such things firmly under wraps at all cost, no matter who he was with. Watching the two flatmates interact over the last half-day or so, Eric had noticed quite a lot of obvious showmanship on Sherlock's part. Playing himself up to fit into what seemed like a fairly well-established act. Trying to make sure he didn't end up being called 'ignorant' or the like in a blog post again, if Eric had to hazard a guess. That had to be a stressful way of life, didn't it? Never quite comfortable being yourself, knowing any weird thing you did might end up published on the internet for a load of strangers to laugh over... Dr Watson really did seem like a nice enough bloke, though. Perhaps he just didn't realise the effect his actions might have on Sherlock's behaviour? It wasn't as if Sherlock was likely to have said anything, after all. Idiot *never* spoke up about being made uncomfortable, stoic to the bitter end. It wouldn't be the least bit odd if he'd simply never objected. Eric paused with his fork halfway to his mouth to eye the man across from him critically for a moment. Dr Watson glanced up with a smile, a bit of a questioning tilt to his brow, a genuinely friendly expression on his face. No, Eric decided, there clearly wasn't any malice there. This wasn't a *bad* bloke, just a... well, a *spectacularly ignorant* one. "Something wrong?" Watson asked, and Eric winced a bit in deliberation of what he should say. He really wasn't sure how to go about broaching this topic without it being massively awkward. "Oh, er... no," he muttered. Then cleared his throat, frowned at himself, and set his fork down determinedly. Sod it, Eric, can't be a bloody doormat *all* the time. "Is there a reason y'keep laughing at everything Sherlock and I do?" There, brilliant. Sort of... not at all what he'd meant to say, but... yes. Brilliant. Somehow a question instead of the statement he'd been aiming for, a lot less self-confident than he'd hoped. But then *god's sake* this really wasn't a conversation he'd even wanted to have in the first place. Best take baby steps. Watson seemed a bit surprised, but smiled. "Oh! That, sorry. Not very professional, I know." He chuckled a bit in a self-depreciating way. "It's just... Sherlock usually puffs himself up as being better than all the rest of us, like some sort of machine. And now here after all that talk on the uselessness of sentiment and romance it turns out he dated someone like- er... well." Watson cut off with a slightly embarrassed cough, turning to the business of cutting his eggs. Eric frowned. "Someone like... what? Like *me?*" "Well... yes." Watson seemed aware he was heading into potentially-offensive territory, but soldiered on regardless. "I mean you've got to admit it's a little unexpected. What with him being all... you know." "What...? Posh? Smart?" Eric felt his expression going flat, unamused. His accent had doubtless slipped several notches in annoyance. But in a sudden flash of something like deranged cultural pride, he decided he didn't care. Why should he have to pretend to speak with a 'proper' accent, anyway? Cockney should be good enough for anyone. It'd always been good enough for Sherlock, hadn't it? Once they got over the requisite good-natured mutual teasing, anyway. "No, no of course not!" Watson backtracked, his smile a bit forced. "Well, that is, yes... I mean *he* is, but that's not to say you're not also... that. Those things." "I ain't nowhere near as clever, nor as well-mannered," Eric objected flatly. His accent had by now lost all pretence of being anything but the low-class drawl of an inner-city lad off the council estates. "But I don't need t'be, do I? I just get along with folks. I find out what makes 'em uncomfortable an' then I *don't do that.* An' your flatmate's been really uncomfortable with you giggling like a kid over everythin' we do so if y'could try t'keep a bit of a lid on that I'd appreciate it." Watson blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. "He told you he was uncomfortable?" "*No.* Course he bloody didn't," Eric countered in a vaguely exasperated tone. Honestly, how long had this bloke lived with Sherlock? A year? And he didn't yet realise you had to read between the sodding lines? "You've gotta watch how he acts if y'wanna know what he's thinkin', he won't just bleedin' *tell* you." "Well in that case how can you be sure you're right?" Watson replied. He didn't seem angry at all, just intrigued. And perhaps a little amused - though, to his credit, he looked to be making an effort not to let that show. "I've asked him about it, by the way, and he said he didn't mind." Eric just scowled. "He won't *tell* you he minds, christ, he'll just-" He cut himself off and huffed. There wasn't really a good way to explain any of this. Not without giving away far more about Sherlock's childhood than was appropriate, anyway. Fairly sure the man wouldn't appreciate having the darker elements of his past laid bare without consent. "Look, I know I'm right, yeah? I've... I mean we were really goddamn close, way back when. An' I know it's weird t'say we still *are*, cause it's been such a long time, but..." "No, I get it," Watson broke in. He was still smiling, though not in merriment - more like an odd sort of patronising fondness. One of those kind looks older folks give to confused or troubled teenagers. Eric furrowed his brows and tried not to seem affronted; he really bloody hated those looks. "You're good for him," Watson continued. "We've all spent ages trying to get the daft idiot to act like a human being and here you've gone and done it in a few hours! Nice to see, honestly." Eric opened his mouth, meaning to retort with something like *he acts the way he does because you're making him*, but thought better of it. No, god... didn't need to get in an argument on his first morning here. Not over something like this. He was damned lucky Watson hadn't blown up at him already, anyway. Best just back out while he was still ahead. Reluctantly he forced a smile. "Erm... yeah. Thanks." Watson gave him a slightly odd look, like he could see the hesitation there, but declined to comment. Instead he finished the last few bites of his breakfast and stood up to take the plate over to the sink. "I do locum work at a nearby clinic, scheduled the morning shift today... should be back around noon-ish. Make yourself at home." "W-will do, thanks," Eric muttered in response. He poked at his sausage and smiled as Dr Watson waved on his way out of the kitchen. Sounds of the man slipping on his shoes, grabbing his coat, shutting the door... the flat fell silent. Eric huffed to himself. Well *that* had been complete rubbish. He frowned down at his mostly-finished breakfast, then glanced up round the kitchen. Had no idea where the bin was, nor who usually handled the washing-up... oh sod it. He'd just deal with it later. It would've probably been a better choice to have a quick shower, or look into finding clothes he could wear to the meeting he had to attend in a few hours, but Eric found himself flopping back into bed instead. Sherlock, still asleep, grumbled over being disturbed. "I think I might've offended your flatmate," Eric admitted into the stillness of the bedroom. He was lying on his back now, staring at the ceiling, and on a whim reached out to ruffle Sherlock's hair. The lazy swat at his hand in response made him smile. "You didn't, John's impossible to offend," Sherlock mumbled back. "I should know I've been trying for a bloody year." Eric plucked at a particularly bouncy black ringlet, making Sherlock growl in annoyance and shove his head under a pillow again. "He thinks y'don't mind him writing stuff on his blog about all the weird shit you do," Eric divulged after a short pause. Bloody hell, what was he even hoping to accomplish here? Some sort of absurd communications therapy? Playing matchmaker for two grown-arse men? "I don't." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the pillow, but still clearly audible in the otherwise silent room. Eric rolled his eyes at the undercurrent of defensiveness. Liar. "Yeah you do," he responded blandly. "You're just not sayin' anything cause that would mean you've got proper feelings t'be hurt and we can't have *that* now can we." Sherlock finally poked his head out from under the pillow, propped himself up on his elbows, and glared blearily at Eric. "What are you, then, some sort of bloody couples counsellor?" he sniped. Apparently going for an angry tone, but the sleepiness still layered under his voice made it come out more of a tired monotone and he seemed to give up. With a huff he let himself collapse again. "Ugh. It's not worth bothering over. Just let him do what he likes." Eric shrugged. "Hey, I don't really care. S'your business. I just think if someone's being an arse to you maybe you should say sommat." "I *have*," Sherlock snapped back, a bit of a whinge to his words. "I got all miffed about the first one but he wouldn't shut up about the bloody *solar system* for some asinine reason so I tried explaining why I'd forgotten but apparently it's *primary school stuff* and, ugh... sod it. Who cares, anyway. It's not important." "Did you even go to primary school?" Eric asked, aware that had nothing whatsoever to do with the topic at hand but finding himself too curious not to change the subject. He vaguely remembered something about *tutors* and not having met other children until secondary but couldn't for the life of him recall what conversation it might have come up in. They'd probably both been stoned, come to think of it. "No," Sherlock mumbled into the pillow below his face. Eric huffed a small laugh. A sidelong glance showed Sherlock's back twitch slightly in a small bemused snort. Finally, with a yawn, the man shoved himself into a sitting position and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Planets are utterly boring," he announced to no one in particular. "I dunno. This one seems alright," Eric countered with a shrug. "Y'know... most days." "No, boring, the lot of them." Sherlock stood up directly on the mattress, stepped carefully over Eric's torso, and hopped down to the floor on the other side of his bed. "Have a look through my closet for trousers and a shirt, then. We've a few stops to make before your meeting." "*We?*" Eric repeated, blinking. "Hang on-" Sherlock was already out the door and headed for the shower. **««** "Ugh, what's *he* doing here?" Philip moaned to Sally as they walked into the lobby of their workplace holding twin cups of too-hot coffee. Sally looked up from the phone in her hand to find the Freak standing by a potted plant over by the lifts, clearly waiting around for Lestrade to show up. God, *one day* without that lunatic in her hair, was that so much to ask? "It's Lestrade's day off, Freak," she pointed out with a frustrated glare. Holmes blinked and glanced over at her, but before he could speak an unfamiliar bloke appeared from the nearby hallway where the loos were and strode up to them. "This *bleedin'* shirt, mate. Why d'you even own a buttonup in royal purple?" Ignoring Sally, Holmes turned his attention to the new arrival. "You're the one who chose to wear it." "Cause none of th'rest were clean!" The man rolled his eyes and shuffled on a grey wool peacoat he'd had slung over his arm. "At least it goes well with the grey, s'pose." "Everything goes well with grey, that's the entire point of a neutral colour." The other bloke snickered as he did up the buttons on his coat. "Be gayer, Shers." Holmes frowned in a vaguely exasperated manner but apparently chose not to respond to that. He turned towards Sally and Anderson instead, who were both in varying states of reaction to the casual use of a pet-name for their mutual least-favourite psychopath. *Shers*, really? Sally tried not to snort in bewildered amusement. Holmes gave the two of them a flat look before carrying on speaking as if nothing at all strange had happened. "I need access to long-term evidence storage," he announced without preamble. "Lestrade won't answer my texts, so one of you will have to assist me instead." Sally was too busy eyeing the man standing next to Holmes to really pay the detective much mind. Freckles and a more-or-less cockney accent... she could've sworn she'd seen that combination in conjunction with Holmes before. Some old case file or something, perhaps? She furrowed her brows as she stared at the bloke, feeling as if she were teetering right on the verge of some momentous realisation. Who *was* this guy...? "Erm... hullo," the man spoke up awkwardly in response to Sally's fixed gaze on him. "Finally replaced Watson, have we?" Philip sneered from beside Sally, indicating the newcomer with a tilt of his coffee cup in that direction. "Nice to see the good doctor's come to his senses and left you." Holmes half-rolled his eyes as the unnamed man next to him frowned. "John's at the clinic for the morning. I'll tell him you said hello," Holmes said blandly, then turned to Sally. "The evidence, please, Sally. I'd ask Anderson but he's left his keys and ID badge on the bookshelf by your hearth." "I have not- oh..." Philip patted down his pockets, suddenly alarmed. "Damn it!" Sally heaved a resigned sigh and dug her keys out of her pocket. She unclipped her house key from the ring to hand it over to Philip, who took it and hastily bustled off toward the entrance muttering obscenities to himself. "Interesting..." Holmes started in with a smirk, plainly about to rattle off a million little facts he'd just pieced together via god-knew-what stupid innocuous detail. Sally quickly cut him off, scowling. No, *far* too early in the morning for that nonsense. "Save it, Freak," she snapped. Beside Holmes the freckled bloke startled a bit from where he'd been bemusedly watching Anderson's retreat and shot her a dark look. Sally ignored it and headed for the side hallway that led to their secured evidence area. "They've just entered into another 'on' portion of their on-again, off-again adulterous affair," Holmes muttered behind her, just loudly enough to be overheard. She grit her teeth and resolved not to respond. "How charming," the cockney bloke replied in an unimpressed drawl. Sally risked a glance back over her shoulder and found Holmes and the other man walking comfortably side-by-side, watching her like some sort of terribly fascinating zoological specimen. She flicked her head back round haughtily - what business was it of *theirs*, honestly- and flung the door at the end of the hall open. Whatever, god. Just had to let Holmes in to fawn over whatever blood-spattered nonsense he felt the need to see, then she could kick his arse out the building and get back to her actual job. "Go on, then," she ordered Holmes with a less-than-enthusiastic wave of her arm after unlocking the specific room he'd indicated needing access to. The freckled bloke tried to walk inside as well, but Sally stopped him with an outstretched arm in front of his chest. "*One* unauthorised civilian snooping round at a time, thanks," she explained in a flat grumble. "Oh, er... right. Sorry." The bloke smiled, took a step back and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets to wait. Sally remained in the doorframe, arms crossed, and glanced in to make sure Holmes wasn't doing something absurd like trying to disassemble a sodding handgun. Luckily he seemed to be in a fairly tame mood today and was merely picking through bagged samples of bloodied fabric, studying each one intently for microscopic signs of whatever-the-hell. "So you're the new pet, I take it?" Sally asked of Holmes' companion, turning back round to face him. "Excuse me?" The man's eyebrows furrowed in an insulted look. Sally just rolled her eyes. Brainwashed, plainly - damned Holmes and his bloody mind games. "He's a psychopath, you know," she warned in a stern tone of voice. Watson was a lost cause, but maybe she could still get through to this one. "Whatever he told you to get you to follow him? It's a lie. You're probably just a replacement for Watson." Out of nowhere the freckled bloke actually *glared* at her, which wasn't an entirely unexpected response to her words but still managed to look unsettling on his otherwise open, friendly face. Sally held her ground regardless. Damned if she was letting Holmes corrupt another innocent soul. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop talkin' now," the man remarked flatly. Then, apparently resolving to ignore her, he turned his attention to the rows of shelves they could see through the open door of the evidence vault. Sally wasn't about to be dissuaded so easily. This could very well be a matter of life and death, after all - who knew what Holmes would do to this poor bloke? Hell, who knew what he'd done to *Watson?* "I'm serious, he's dangerous," she insisted, matching the dark scowl now trained sidelong on her. "He investigates all these gory homicide cases because he *gets off* on it - we don't even pay him! One day it'll be you or Dr Watson dead and bloodied on the floor with that lunatic standing over your corpse and-" "Lady," her conversation partner broke in, his hateful expression having practically transformed his face into a furious mask. "I will punch you in the *fucking gob* if you don't shut up about my boyfriend." Sally baulked, thoughts skittering to a sudden confused stop. "Your...?" Before she could say anything further Holmes appeared at the storage room entrance, grinning like the complete nutter he was. He held a bagged clothing sample in one hand and waved it in the freckled bloke's face. "Eric, look! Maggot remains! I was right, the victim's clothing was swapped for an artificially-aged shroud post-burial." Eric, as he was apparently called, glanced over with a bright smile. "Is that what you were doin' with the eye-maggots business last night?" "Yes, until you distracted me," Holmes confirmed. He took one last careful look at the plastic-encased fabric, then dismissively handed it over to a startled Sally. "You can return this to its proper place, thank you. I'll be e-mailing Lestrade later today with the correct solution to yet another bungled case of yours." Sally opened and shut her mouth a few times, but didn't get a chance to retort to the snide insult. Holmes had already started off down the hall, followed closely by his... his *boyfriend*, really!? God, no. That was *horrifying*. Had to have been a lie. But then why in hell's name would anyone lie about dating *Holmes*? And their conversation... *'yes, until you distracted me'*? Eugh. No, no no. Grimacing in disgust at the unwelcome mental imagery flitting through her head, Sally ducked into the storage room to return Holmes' fabric sample to the correct filing box. Once done she locked the door behind her, took an enormous swig of her hereto-abandoned coffee and hurried for the lifts. Forget it - forget *all* of it. She had work to do. **««** ## Chapter 6 **««** "I think I accidentally told that policewoman we were dating." Sherlock blinked, glancing sidelong. He opened his mouth to respond but Eric was already speaking again. "Not on *purpose*, I mean, it just... she was being a massive bitch and I told her I'd punch her in the gob if she didn't shut up, and I think I called you my boyfriend for some dumbarse reason?" The man winced and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Christ... sorry. I dunno why I'd-" "You told Sally you'd punch her in the face?" Sherlock cut in, finding himself terribly amused by that mental image. "Well, yeah. She called you a psychopath and then she started goin' on about how you'd murdered Watson or something." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, *that* again. She tried the same routine on John when he first started following me about, it's nothing to be concerned over." "I wasn't *concerned*. It were just sodding rude, that's all," Eric countered with a deep frown. "... so did you miss the bit where I'd called you my boyfriend or do you not care?" he continued after a pause - not in a tone of irritation, however, but of genuine inquiry. Apparently he still fully expected Sherlock to filter out parts of his speech without meaning to and for some deranged reason didn't find it annoying or inconsiderate. Sherlock smiled slightly, then in a fit of illogical embarrassment masked the expression by glancing down at his phone. "If she brings it up in future I'll convince her she has a faulty memory," he replied with a shrug. Making a show of ostensibly checking the time he slipped his phone back into his pocket. "The wonderful thing about Sally is that she's tremendously susceptible to psychological manipulation." "Is that why she thinks you're a psycho?" Eric asked blandly. "Er... probably, come to think of it." Sherlock tilted his head in thought, trying to recall what he'd done to pit Donovan so militantly against him. Details escaped him. Most likely a case back in the beginning of his time with the Met - perhaps he'd charmed her into letting him in to see a crime scene or something? "Can't remember what exactly I did," he admitted. "Doubtless something to do with chatting her up for the use of her access badge." "Ladies' man," Eric chided with a small snicker for Sherlock's faintly disgusted look. "What time was your sales meeting?" Sherlock asked, pointedly changing the subject. Eric shrugged. "Ten-ish, still a few hours yet. Wanna do sommat?" "I have no idea what we could do," Sherlock replied. As they walked aimlessly down the street from the police station he'd taken to idly tapping every fence railing they passed by, which was odd but amusing. "It's London, not like there's a shortage of coffee shops or... I dunno, restaurants? Do you still not eat breakfast?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Not unless John forces me to." "Right," Eric ceded, smiling. "Well then I s'pose that's coffee, then? Or tea, whatever." "Going to a café? Isn't that what people do on *dates?*" Sherlock's tone was blandly sarcastic, but he'd adjusted his path to turn down a side-street and beckoned Eric to follow, apparently having already decided on a shop and the quickest route to get there. "It's what people do when it's eight in the morning and they want a cup of coffee." Sherlock smirked but didn't respond. Instead they wandered down a few more streets in companionable silence until they'd reached a cozy-looking little café tucked up between some shops. Evidently a place Sherlock knew well, as the man working the counter looked up and grinned enthusiastically when they entered. "Ah, Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed happily. Sherlock nodded in polite greeting as the man immediately busied himself preparing a drink. "Cleared up his insurance fraud charges," Sherlock explained disinterestedly in response to Eric's questioning look. Eric snorted in amusement - of course the idiot went round meddling in all the local businesses' legal problems. "Why'd you do that, then? Bored?" "No, I was hoping he'd give me free coffee if I helped him out." As if on cue the little balding man showed up with a large paper cup and with a wide smile handed it over to Sherlock. "And for you, sir?" he asked, looking to Eric. "Ah, just... y'know, whatever's easiest?" Eric replied with a slightly worried smile. Didn't want to put the poor guy out any expensive ingredients just because he'd happened to walk in with Mr-Free-Drinks over there. Sherlock, of course, had already wandered over to one of the windows and stood staring out over the sparse pedestrian traffic, sipping his coffee. Eric accepted a (much larger than he'd have liked) cup of black coffee and turned to find Sherlock actually watching something outside with an alarming intensity. He raised a brow and strode over to him, trying to follow his line of sight, but it was just a couple blokes standing on the corner and a woman strolling by with a pram. He turned his gaze to Sherlock instead - looked a bit like a pointer dog just caught sight of a bird. Eric huffed a small breath of bemusement and blew on his drink to cool it. "What're you lookin' at?" he finally asked. "Those men are planning something." Sherlock nodded his head to the blokes on the corner, who seemed to simply be having a conversation. Eric took an experimental sip of his coffee and found it still way too hot to drink. "Loads of people plan things," he pointed out, wincing a bit for his mildly burnt tongue. Doubtless Sherlock meant some nefarious scheme or whatever, but it was more fun to bother him by pretending to have no idea what he was on about. Sure enough Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I mean they're planning something *illegal*, obviously." Without warning he thrust his coffee cup in Eric's direction, who took hold of it with a startled noise, and marched off toward the shop door. "Stay here, I'll see if I can find a closer vantage point. Won't be a minute." "Wh- oi, that's not very date-like behaviour, mate!" Eric yelled after him, but Sherlock just shot an unimpressed look over his shoulder for the admittedly silly joke and pushed his way out into the street. Eric scoffed a bit in exasperation and wandered over to take a seat at one of the tables by the windows. Might as well watch what Sherlock did, he figured; though that turned out to be nothing more interesting than loitering near the corner where the soon-to-be criminals were huddled together and pretending to light a cigarette. When his targets moved up along a side street Sherlock followed, disappearing around a corner. Welp, so much for that, then. Eric leant back in his chair, sipped his coffee (or Sherlock's, maybe - he'd gotten them a bit mixed up in transit to the table) and idly checked his watch. Give the prat fifteen minutes to remember he'd been doing something besides stalk people, then if he'd not returned Eric would just flag down a cab for himself and head for his meeting. Not like Sherlock wouldn't figure out where he'd gone. As he glanced back up to the street he found his view blocked by a shiny black towncar pulling up to the shop's kerb. He tilted his head, bemused - odd thing to see round here, wasn't it? Maybe some rich bloke had a specific liking for this café. A woman in a smart pencil skirt emerged from the car, however, and strode purposefully into the shop. She made her way directly to Eric's table and loomed over him with a Blackberry in hand. "Come with me," she said simply. Eric furrowed his brows. "Um... if I say no is something very bad going to happen?" "Yes, probably," the woman replied disinterestedly. She'd turned her attention to tapping out some message on her phone, all but ignoring Eric, who was beginning to feel a sharp coil of panic creep through his chest. He glanced outside to the ominous black car, then over to the woman, and reluctantly got up from his seat. "Can... can I bring my coffee?" he asked in a somewhat lame attempt to stall. Instead of replying the woman just reached out, took not-quite-gentle hold of his arm and led him out of the shop. **««** Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then leant on his umbrella and checked the time on his pocketwatch. If all had gone according to plan, which of course it had, because everything he did went according to plan, then Anthea should be arriving with his guest just about... now. He glanced up and, sure enough, a car had pulled into the deliberately-gloomy warehouse. Not particularly inventive to use the same location to interrogate every potential threat to his brother, but then again it was awfully convenient this way. Didn't even have to give the driver new directions. He slipped his watch back into his pocket and straightened up to stand with his umbrella resting in front of him, a picture of calm, elegant, dangerous poise. Unlike the last time he'd done this, the target of Mycroft's inspection didn't immediately stride toward him. Instead the young man appeared to have frozen in petrified fright next to the open door of the towncar. Mycroft furrowed his brows in confusion - what, should he... beckon him? Weren't Sherlock's associates generally a bit more forward? John had practically gone for a blow at this point. But luckily within a second or so the freckled man stumbled forward, apparently shoved by Anthea, and approached with the reluctant air of a convict being sent to the gallows. Mycroft tilted his head slightly, studying the boy, and soon determined that he was rather profoundly uninteresting. Aside, of course, from the fact that he was wearing one of Sherlock's shirts. And a pair of his trousers. And... oh. Was that…? No, it couldn't possibly be the same coat. Sherlock hadn't worn it in *years*, didn't even own the thing anymore as far as Mycroft knew. Perhaps he just happened to own a similar one. Dismissing his thoughts, Mycroft calmly gestured to the lone chair in front of him. "Please, have a seat." To his vague surprise Crenshaw immediately did so. The man glanced around the darkened warehouse like a cornered rabbit and pressed his palms together a few times before looking up toward Mycroft nervously. Mycroft waited a moment for the boy to speak - perhaps ask why he'd been abducted, or glare maybe, just show a bit of a spine about the whole business - but all that ensued was a markedly silent staring match between them. Crenshaw seemed to be drawing closer to hyperventilating with every passing second. Finally Mycroft cleared his throat. "Do you know why I've brought you here?" Perhaps going for the cold, imposing tone of voice hadn't been the best of ideas. Crenshaw's shoulders curled up like a hedgehog and his eyes went wide as saucers, head jerking side to side in a terrified but silent *'no'.* Mycroft furrowed his brows slightly. Alright, he'd honestly just meant to *question* the man, not give him a heart attack. Best tone down the melodrama a bit. He made a concerted effort to soften his voice with is next question. "How do you know Sherlock Holmes?" There, not a particularly threatening inquiry, easy enough to answer, should be a simple... Crenshaw went chalk-white and seemed to be on the verge of being sick all over the concrete. Mycroft leant back on his heels, vaguely concerned. Was the boy going to *faint* on him? He'd not thought to have an ambulance on standby. "I'm, er... w-we... I m-met him... a... a while ago...?" Crenshaw stammered. Good god but he really was absolutely terrified, wasn't he? Mycroft took as non-threatening a step back as he could manage and tried to let the majority of the intimidating aura dissipate from his stance. "If you could make an effort to calm down, I think we'd both have a far easier time of things," he pointed out. Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say, because Crenshaw just squeaked something that might have been meant to be an apology, but which came out more like the sort of noise a mouse might make, and went more pallid than ever. Mycroft considered just calling the whole business off right then, allow the poor overwrought man to settle down a bit, but quickly dismissed the notion. No, he'd come this far without having a stroke, it would be fine. And they only had a few more questions left anyway. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" That had come out a bit more authoritative than he'd intended, mostly because Mycroft had momentarily forgotten he was attempting to not thoroughly terrify his victim. Habits, terribly difficult to break. Crenshaw made another odd mouse-like noise and seemed to be trying to subconsciously shove himself straight through the wood of the chair back. "I, er... I d-dunno? M-maybe?" he stuttered, pressing his palms together again. "Sh-should I not...?" "He does tend to attract a significant amount of danger to his person," Mycroft answered, tone a perhaps not-quite-subtle note of flat exasperation. Right, then - casual, remember, scale back the theatrics. This was an absurdly frightened young civilian, not a terror suspect. Nor an ex-army medic. Which, come to think of it, would have been quite welcome to have on-hand at this point, because he was fairly sure Crenshaw really *was* going to faint within the next few minutes. Before Mycroft could continue with his interrogation, hoping fervently that he'd not have to conclude the session by instructing his driver to speed for the nearest A&E, a loud bang on the far side of the warehouse made the both of them jump. Well - *jump* was a bit of an over-dramatic term for what Mycroft did, which was to lift his eyebrows slightly and turn his head towards the noise. It was however an entirely accurate description of Crenshaw's movement, which consisted of launching himself from his seat with such haste that the chair toppled over with a clatter. Mycroft glanced back to him and frowned. Oh, honestly. No need to dent the furniture. "*Mycroft!*" a deep voice snarled, echoing off the distant walls. A moment later the distinctive silhouette of Sherlock condensed in the shadows outside the carefully-constructed circle of half-light. Mycroft spared the barest of glances for his furious little brother, a slight, bland smile on his face, then looked back to his erstwhile captive. Crenshaw still had the air of a terrified rabbit, but upon looking over to spot Sherlock approaching them the boy's shoulders had loosened, body uncurling from its instinctive hedgehog cringe in obvious relief. And well, but wasn't *that* interesting. Relief was not a common human response to the sight of Sherlock Holmes. "Yes, hello," Mycroft greeted in a polite quip. Turning his attention away from Crenshaw and back to his brother he furrowed his brows quizzically. That had been an awfully quick pursuit, especially factoring in the time it would have taken him to realise his companion had gone missing. Had to have used GPS. "Which signal did you track?" Sherlock made a noise that was very reminiscent of a petulant housecat and half-rolled his eyes. "Yours." Mycroft stared for a microsecond, watching for signs of a forthcoming elaboration, but there were none. Sherlock wasn't going to explain how he'd gotten around the signal triangulation block. Which meant, of course, that he hadn't done anything particularly clever; plainly reluctant to reveal the simplicity of his methods for fear of looking like a dullard. And the absolute *least* clever way to access the means to track Mycroft Holmes' mobile signal was... "You are aware impersonation of a government official is a serious crime," he remarked blandly. Sherlock scoffed and flicked a bit of white plastic at him, which was of course Mycroft's security badge. Mycroft watched it land at his feet with an unimpressed frown and resolved for perhaps the millionth time in his life to double-check his pockets after every passing interaction with his brother. "What a coincidence, so is kidnapping," Sherlock sniped back with acid sarcasm. "Erm," a meek voice spoke up, and both Mycroft and Sherlock looked over to a wide-eyed, still alarmingly pale, Crenshaw. Instead of going on to verbally comment on whatever he'd been meaning to the young man turned a rather desperate questioning look towards Sherlock, who huffed an aggrieved sigh. "Calm down, it's just my brother," he said, voice somewhat uncharacteristically lacking any obvious undertones of scorn or judgement. Mycroft blinked. Was... that his brother's version of being *comforting?* Crenshaw looked dubious, but nevertheless his posture relaxed another notch. Mycroft raised a brow at the interplay. Interesting... very interesting. "Oh stop," Sherlock snapped upon glancing Mycroft's way, presumably catching the calculating expression. Mycroft arranged his features into an innocent mask and leant back on his heels. "I've not done anything," he remarked, adding a casual shrug for emphasis. Sherlock fixed him with an unimpressed glower, then turned back to Crenshaw, took a step forward and seemingly without thought grabbed the man by the arm to drag him off the way he'd come. Mycroft watched them go bemusedly. Oh, well that was a bit cute. They were very nearly hand-in-hand. "Shall I tell Mummy to plan for another guest this Christmas?" he couldn't quite help calling after them in a teasing voice. Sherlock didn't even bother to turn round. "Get back to running the bloody world, Mycroft." Mycroft smiled to himself. Twirling his umbrella, he turned and set a leisurely pace back to his waiting car. "Surveillance level on Eric Crenshaw, sir?" his assistant asked the moment he came within earshot. He hummed lightly, amused by the situation in general, and glanced back the way his brother had gone. "Maximum." **««** ## Chapter 7 **««** "What th' *fuck* was all that!?" Sherlock couldn't quite suppress a flinch at Eric's shrill tone, mostly because the sound was almost directly in his ear at the moment - Eric had gotten spooked by the slamming of the warehouse door behind them, and for whatever deranged reason had reacted by latching onto Sherlock's shoulders like a clingy child. This made walking vaguely difficult, but going to the bother of dislodging the cumbersome weight would likely just upset the man further. And that, Sherlock swiftly determined, would almost certainly lead to more shouting. Which he was not at all in the mood for. As a compromise he not-quite-subtly shifted his head away from the source of all the noise, hoping Eric would get the hint. He didn't, of course. Glancing back over his shoulder the freckle-faced moron instead tightened his grip around Sherlock's shoulders and made a strange squeaking sort of noise in response to the distant roar of a car engine. Sherlock sighed, wondering vaguely if it were possible for someone to literally die of fright. Eric seemed to be doing his damnedest to find out. "Who the 'ell was he, an' th'lady with th'phone, they didn't even- who the *hell!?*" Sherlock rolled his eyes at the meaningless jumble of nonsense masquerading as English. God's sake, this couldn't possibly be such a difficult concept to grasp. Was Eric's intelligence regressing along with his accent? Or had Mycroft truly frightened him straight out of his wits? What a ridiculous overreaction in either case. Still, best answer anyway. If only to get the annoying panic-rambling to stop. "I told you already, that was my brother. The woman with the phone is his PA," he explained in what perhaps may have counted as a patient voice were it not laced with a distinct undercurrent of condescension. "They bleedin' kidnapped me!" Eric yelped, not put off in the slightest by Sherlock's patronising tone. His accent had now slipped so far back into cockney as to be almost incomprehensible. Sherlock huffed a rather put-upon sigh and, deciding this whole walking business really was *not* going to work with a six foot limpet attached, finally made an attempt to extricate himself from Eric's grip. It was about half-successful - Eric ended up clinging to an upper arm instead of clamped round his shoulders. Sherlock frowned but reluctantly capitulated to the new arrangement. That would have to do, he supposed. At least they'd be less likely to end up face-first on the concrete this way. "Mycroft abducts and questions anyone who he thinks might pose a potential security threat," he explained yet again as they continued walking. "He did exactly the same thing to John when we first met, it's not a big deal." "Wh- *not a big deal!?*" Eric barked, scandalised. He drew slightly away from his death grip on Sherlock's arm to glare disbelievingly. "How the *'ell* is abductin' blokes inta thin air like laws don't mean nothin' *not a big deal!?* He coulda offed me wivvout anyone so much as noticin' I'd gone!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nobody's going to off you. Don't be dramatic." "It ain't bein' *dramatic* when you've just got interrogated by a bleedin' shadowy evil government agent what plucked you up off th'street in broad daylight! And then a goddamn *abandoned warehouse* for chrissakes! Gah!" Eric punctuated this statement by frantically shoving his face against Sherlock's shoulder, apparently an attempt to hide from whatever danger he still perceived himself to be in. Sherlock rather exasperatedly reached up and patted the man on the head. The condescending gesture was coupled with an accompanying shift of his trapped right arm, hopefully conveying something along the lines of, '*There, look, I've pretend to care that you're upset. Now kindly get the hell off.'* Eric, predictably, did no such thing. Instead he pressed himself even further into Sherlock's personal space, so much so that the both of them were forced to come to a halt in the middle of the road lest they trip over each other's legs. "Well you hardly need to worry about it happening again, do you?" Sherlock snapped with a futile, half-hearted attempt to reclaim some of his breathing space. "He's doubtless put you under full military surveillance by now, same as John and I. If you start to look like a threat they'll just neutralise you without bothering to ask questions. No more interrogations." He wasn't sure if he'd meant that to be comforting or not. Whatever the motivation it certainly produced an interesting reaction in Eric, whose body completely froze except for his head, which he raised just enough to stare at Sherlock in mute horror. Sherlock responded with a bland, unconcerned look. They both held position for a beat before Eric's gaze flitted elsewhere, staring into the middle distance. He seemed to drop briefly into some sort of odd, stress-induced fugue state. Gone all hollow-eyed and lost. "I'm gonna be walkin' down th'street one day an' just get shot in th'bleedin' head wivvout ever seein' it coming," he muttered to no one in particular. Sherlock made an exasperated face and tried once more to tug his arm loose - it was beginning to go numb. "Don't be ridiculous. You won't be shot," he replied more tetchily than was perhaps necessary. Eric blinked back over to him and loosened his hold the tiniest fraction. Only to snap it right back to viselike as Sherlock unintentionally elaborated. "Obviously poison's the better option. Much easier to pass off as suicide. And no one does the 'mysterious accident' nonsense these days, what with modern prevalence of social media. Too risky. Staged domestic homicides are the secondary standard now. Usually blunt force head trauma or strangulation, depending on gender." *"Jesus fucking christ,"* Eric moaned fearfully as he buried his face once more against Sherlock's coat. Sherlock grimaced as the belated realisation of what he'd just said registered in his brain. Ah, damn... he'd meant to keep those last few bits of information to himself. Mouth had kept going without his permission. Now they'd be stuck standing here *forever*. Not enthusiastic about the prospect of loitering in the middle of a freight road until Eric either passed out or they were run down by a lorry, Sherlock decided to try a different tactic. Appeal to authority, maybe? Nearly always worked on John. Try issuing orders, see if that had any effect. "Stop panicking," he commanded sternly. Eric, irritatingly enough, did nothing of the sort. In fact his response was quite nearly the exact opposite, which was to make a strange keening noise and hunch his shoulders protectively round his ears. Sherlock sighed. So much for that plan, then. In hindsight he really should have known it was only a valid strategy towards John, military background and all. Predisposed to follow orders. Eric wouldn't last half a second in the Army. Speaking of, the man was actually *shaking* now. Lacking any better idea Sherlock reluctantly raised his free hand to pat him on the back. This turned their strange arrangement into much more of a hug than he'd have liked, especially whilst standing right in the middle of a road, but sod it. Not like there was much else he could do until the idiot calmed down. Oddly enough the contact seemed to be helping that effort quite a lot. Sherlock had no idea why it should do so - he was just *patting* him, god's sake. Like a bloody dog. Why would that be comforting? But he kept it up anyway. Despite having calmed somewhat, and thankfully no longer trembling, Eric continued to refuse to act anything like his normal self for the next minute or so. Sherlock was beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable by proxy. Bloody hell, was anxiety somehow contagious? Ugh. No, this was ridiculous. Had to be some simple solution to the problem. What was he missing? Unfortunate that John wasn't around to consult with on the matter. *He* was the one with all the relevant experience in this area of social interaction, after all. As a doctor he'd even had proper, official *training* regarding the matter. Crisis counselling and controlling the effects of shock, that sort of thing. Sherlock, meanwhile, had been actively avoiding the scenario all his life. He was *not* a comforting individual. In fact if anyone besides Eric were to have latched themselves childishly to his arm like this he'd have knocked them out cold by now. Not a situation he'd ever permit under ordinary circumstances. In the current circumstances, though... well, he couldn't quite reach his phone to text John. And waiting for a reply could take ages anyway. Best just treat it like a puzzle, then. That generally served him well enough. Try different solutions until one stuck. So what methods had he already tested? Physical contact had been mildly effective, reassurance seemed neutral at best, authoritativeness actively detrimental. That left... er... damn. He no idea what options that left. Perhaps simply explaining things? The rationale behind Mycroft's overdramatic little stunt? Would that help? Having more information was generally conducive to a greater sense of security, at least in Sherlock's experience. Had a better chance of controlling things if you knew what was going on. Might as well try. With this plan in mind he took a short breath, then began to speak. "Mycroft Holmes holds a position of frankly *absurd* power within the global political sphere. In effect he controls the intelligence agencies of every major western power. MI6, CIA, DCRI, that sort of thing. He's entirely capable, if he ever wanted to, of initiating a third world war in the space of a week. As you might imagine this makes it a highly enticing prospect to coerce him into working for your side. But no one's clever enough to manipulate him outright, of course, which just leaves blackmail." "Th' hell are you on about?" Eric mumbled into Sherlock's coat. Sherlock perked up a bit and glanced down at him, not even registering the slight, silly smile on his own face. Hah! Look at that, he'd found the right tactic after all. No puzzle was outside his ability to solve, it seemed - not even people-based ones. Brilliant. Bolstered by his success he gamely continued on. "Ordinarily a man of such power simply wouldn't be susceptible to crass extortion. The shadow puppeteers and grand manipulators of the world rarely attain their rank without systematically removing all personal ties, after all. But Mycroft..." Sherlock trailed off, frowning to himself. Not entirely sure he wanted to give voice to the next bit. But, then... well, he was already this far along. And the explanation wouldn't make any sense without revealing the crux of the problem. Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably, breathing a short sigh through his nose. God, this was all so stupid. "Mycroft... has me," he continued reluctantly. "For whatever reason, he... doesn't want me hurt." He wrinkled his nose slightly in distaste. Ugh, that had been alarmingly close to sentimental. Quickly he shifted on into the next portion, cover up the moment of infirmity with scathing sarcasm. "Touching as that fraternal concern no doubt is, it effectively renders my personal safety an incredibly useful bargaining chip. If I'm captured or threatened, Mycroft will find himself in the position of having to either follow orders or allow me to be injured. He... has yet to choose the second option." Eric had actually deigned to lift his head now, which seemed like a good sign. Sherlock took a final huff of a breath and finished his idiotic little explanation. "So you can see his insistence on vetting anyone I come in contact with is really no more than a preventative measure. He's just trying to avoid the inconvenience of having to negotiate with terrorists again. It's got nothing whatsoever to do with you personally." Despite the discomfort of having to explicitly discuss such matters, Sherlock was still rather proud of himself. The explanation seemed to have almost entirely distracted Eric from the issue of panicking. Worth the bother, then. At long last the man released Sherlock's arm *(causing the blood to flow back into it well before the nerves were ready, gah, pins and needles)* and shoved a hand through his hair as he took a very small step back. Still standing much closer to each other than casual acquaintances should really be, of course, but no longer stuck together like a pair of magnets. Good start. "He couldn't've just checked my records or something?" Eric asked in a weary grumble. Still rather frustrated, even perhaps verging towards pissed off, but no longer fearful. And his accent had gone back to something approaching comprehensible. Sherlock forcefully smothered a strange, unbidden jab of disappointment which shot thorough him over the switch. No, god, shut up. He did *not* have any absurd sentimental attachments to a stupid cockney slur. Vaguely northern-ish estuary was a much better alternative. Easier to decipher. But back to the topic at hand. With a casual shift of his shoulders to resettle his coat Sherlock turned and resumed walking down the road, Eric following behind at a distinctly slower pace. "He might've done, yes," Sherlock conceded, shrugging. "But last night I used his security credentials to hack in to the government's primary database, scrambled any attempted background checks on you. He wouldn't have had access to any reliable data." Abruptly Eric stopped walking. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder and found the man glaring at him in disbelief. "So it's *your* fault he decided to pluck me off the bleedin' street?" Sherlock's self-congratulatory mood faded quickly and he paused mid-stride, spun fully around to face Eric. "What? No, of course not." A pause to reconsider. Ah, that might have been a... bit of a lie. Reluctantly he amended his statement. "Er... maybe. I don't really know, to be honest. I've no idea what he was planning to do if I hadn't interfered." And there he was, yet again, casually admitting his lack of functional omniscience without even a pause for thought. He made an exasperated face for his own foolishness and moved to elaborate before Eric could break in with some sort of angry reprimand. "But hacking those files wasn't just for *amusement's* sake, obviously. Though, granted, it's very funny to mess around with Mycroft's-" He cut off as Eric's glare turned flatly unimpressed, a clear warning. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Anyway. I gave you the remaining balance of my trust fund, remember? The last time we met. Or... well, I suppose we didn't really meet. The last time I left you an envelope full of money in a mysterious bag which was actually *very* difficult to get delivered with any degree of-" "Sherlock," Eric interrupted, plainly not in the mood for rambling nonsense. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and shifted awkwardly. "Right. Well... the point is Mycroft never found out what I did with that money. And your financial history happens to reveal a surprisingly accurate estimate of how much I had left prior to leaving the country. Using that value he'd be able to deduce roughly how much I spent. Which he would then further be able to break down into a list of probable purchases." Eric was beginning to look confused. And, for some reason, vaguely alarmed. "And...?" "And, I'd rather he not know exactly how many fake identities I acquired." "Your brother can figure that out just from how much I deposited in a bank account eight years ago?" Sherlock flashed a quick, humourless smile. "One doesn't gain control of a nation without a few singular skills." With a quiet, disbelieving exhale of breath Eric took a few steps backwards to lean against the wall of one of the warehouses surrounding them. He shook his head somewhat dazedly and shoved a hand through his hair. Oddly enough Sherlock hadn't seen the man's palms come together in his nervous habit even once since leaving the warehouse. Perhaps he'd just chosen to latch onto Sherlock instead, traded one neurotic behaviour for another. Interesting that the tic could apparently be swapped out like that. Also... interesting that Sherlock was apparently a valid thing to swap it with. Hm. "Christ... I forgot how bloody insane your life was," Eric mumbled, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts before they could turn deeply confusing. The man's tone wasn't too encouraging, however... too unsettlingly reminiscent of the last days in Stockwell. Those silent hours directly after Ben's murder, when Eric's patience with Sherlock's incessant peculiarities had begun to wear thin. The man had revealed a distinct upper limit for the amount of ridiculous nonsense he could tolerate. Evidently that hadn't changed. For a long moment Sherlock could think of no appropriate response. His indecision led to a rather awkward silence between them. Finally his brain conjured up the proper course of action. He glanced away before speaking. "He might drop the surveillance if you leave." Eric looked up, questioning, and Sherlock met his gaze for a second before shifting his line of sight towards a faded patch of concrete off to his right. "The only reason he's monitoring you is because he thinks we're... friends." He shrugged, didn't know whether that was true or not. Probably didn't matter. Moving on. "Prove that assumption wrong and he'll likely decide not to waste the resources. Just... go home. Back to Lancaster." Sherlock wasn't even quite sure why he was endorsing such a plan. Cowardly, wasn't it? He'd never so much as consider telling John to bugger off just to escape the stupid cameras. But then John hadn't ever cared about them. The danger amused him, even. Eric, on the other hand... he definitely cared. Knowing he was being watched at all times couldn't possibly be tolerable long-term, not for a man for whom 'paranoia' was a lifestyle. He'd crack within days. And while John - brave, sturdy, thrill-seeking John - actually *revelled* in the parade of life-or-death situations Sherlock continually found himself in... Eric was entirely a different story. Lacking a shred of anything one might charitably define as bravery, prone to bolting from danger without thought, patently unequipped to deal with any sort of acute stress... in short, unfit to function in Sherlock's world. It would be in his best interests to cut ties while he still had the chance. That thought was unexpectedly rather disappointing. Though *why*, Sherlock had no idea. What on earth else had he been hoping for? Literally the most that could ever have come of this brief reunion would be a long-distance acquaintance. Pen-pals or something useless like that. He'd not expected anything more. Still, though. Giving voice to the obvious benefit of Eric removing himself wasn't particularly uplifting. Eric seemed to be having roughly similar thoughts; or at least his face seemed to be running through an identical gamut. Contemplating the clear sensible option, finding it entirely unpalatable, going on to being confused as to why that should be. Finally he glanced up to Sherlock with an uncertain, dissatisfied expression. "D'you... want me to leave?" he asked slowly. Oh, lovely. Pawning the decision off on someone else. Arsehole. Sherlock stared at him. Should lie. Say *yes, of course, you idiot. You're the most annoying man I've ever met. Go away.* Would be the best course of action to shield Eric from any further insanities of Sherlock's existence. So childishly easy, too. Just say the words. Flip the switch in his brain and become the callous sociopath everyone knew him to be. He took a breath, determined to take the reasonable path. When he opened his mouth to speak, however, all that came out was, "No." They stared each other down for a brief moment, rooted to the spot both by the inadvertent confession and their own better judgements. Certainly it was absolutely stupid to risk anyone's safety, privacy, or peace of mind for the sake of what most likely would turn out to be a passing re-acquaintance. Because of course it wouldn't go further. They both had their own lives to return to. Sherlock had John, by all rights the perfect counterpart to accompany his deductive process, the work. Eric had a music school to run. No eight-years-dead brief flame of a relationship justified abandoning two entire careers. But it seemed neither of them could really find it in themselves to admit that. Sherlock couldn't suppress a bland, humourless smirk over the ensuing stalemate. Predictable, wasn't it. Just like old times. They'd met as a couple of idiotic young criminals. Utterly destitute, reduced by their own stupid decisions to working for a drug lord. Neither had put any stock in the concepts of responsibility or good sense. There was no planning ahead, no considering the repercussions of their actions, no concept of a future. Why should they have cared? They'd not expected to live long enough for any of it to matter. Drug-addled miscreants were meant to die on the streets, shot or stabbed or overdosed, their short lives a perfect illustration of meaningless hardship. They'd made peace with that hollow end early on, because it had seemed the only path left to follow. Sherlock knew well enough to keep these thoughts to himself. Wouldn't do any good to voice such inane musings. And yet, for whatever reason, he took a quiet breath and turned his gaze towards a cloud-mottled sky. Words formed of their own volition as he watched the heavens shift. "We were never supposed to grow up," he muttered, idly tracking the flight of a passing bird. Eric glanced up as well and the animal darted swiftly out of sight. Brown eyes met grey as they both looked back down. Sherlock didn't even bother to mask the look of quiet melancholy he knew must be on his face. Who *cared*, honestly. "Everyone knew I'd die of overdose sooner or later. You were going to smoke until your lungs gave out. We wouldn't live to see twenty-one." Eric huffed a quiet, sad laugh. "Yeah..." He trailed off. Breathed a sigh. "Never gonna have to be an adult... guess that worked out about as well as anything, didn't it? We're both sodding adults now." Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I've never felt like one." "Me either," Eric replied, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Is that a bad sign, y'think?" "I have no idea." Another long silence passed. Not uncomfortable, this time, however. Just... contemplative. Considering actions, weighing priorities. There were still too many choices to be made. Responsibilities to care for. Adult problems to face. Eric was right - what few plans they made hadn't ever really worked out. From the mundane task of getting home safely to the grim resolve to die before reality had a chance to set in. Despite all efforts to do otherwise they'd still moved on with their lives. So much for promises. Finally Eric shoved himself off the wall he'd been leaning against. He checked his phone, then quirked a bland smile. "I've missed my meeting," he remarked in a wry tone. Sherlock didn't react beyond a slight lift of his shoulders. "Reschedule it," he replied, even though he really couldn't care less. Seemed like the proper thing to do; suggest a solution to the problem. Eric just made a vague noise of what might have been agreement, or perhaps just dull acknowledgement, before slipping his mobile back in his pocket. He looked up to the sky, just as Sherlock had done earlier, and after a brief moment lowered his gaze with an odd, melancholy smile. "Wanna do something fucking stupid?" he asked suddenly. Sherlock gave him a faintly quizzical look, not sure what the man could possibly mean by that. What, was he suggesting they go get shitfaced? That wasn't likely to end well. "Like what?" "Like..." Eric took a few steps forward to stand next to Sherlock once more, dusting off his trousers as he walked. He looked back up, then away, seeming preoccupied with some internal deliberation. Finally he huffed a breath through his nose and shook his head. His glance back towards Sherlock seemed oddly hesitant. Wary, even. "What?" Sherlock grumbled. Hell, what was the problem *now?* He wasn't doing anything even remotely threatening. Just standing there. In a flash of annoyance he glared. *Eric*, christ. Afraid of literally nothing. Before the other could reply he snapped at him. "God's sake, stop being such a bloody coward." For some reason Eric laughed. He glanced away, smiling to himself. "Yeah... s'pose I should." Sherlock was about to reply, a sharp query along the lines of *will you explain what you meant by 'something stupid' already? I'd like to get out of this bloody warehouse district by nightfall.* But Eric had chosen that moment to shift his eyes back to Sherlock's. The man leant towards him, grip tight on his arm once more, and in the next second Sherlock found the words he'd been about to utter quite effectively smothered. Because it was, after all, rather difficult to speak through a kiss. **««** ## Chapter 8: Epilogue **««** ***I'm not going to hire you to investigate some made up case you nutter*** *It would be a more plausible justification for travel. - SH* ***How is visiting a friend not a plausible justification*** *I generally claim to have no need of friends. Going out of my way to visit one would run counter to the established paradigm and confuse people. - SH* ***Did you really just use the word paradigm in a text message*** *Yes. - SH* ***OK well god forbid you mess up that whole business then, very important things those paradigms*** *Are you being sarcastic? - SH* ***Yes*** *Stop omitting full stops. - SH* ***Stop signing your texts*** *I can't, it's an automatic message setting. - SH* ***Oh hey neat look my phone does it too--EC*** *Really. - SH* ***Really what--EC*** *Stop. - SH* ***Stop what--EC*** *Fine, you win, I turned it off. Can we please get back on track?* ***We were on a track?*** *Yes, we were discussing meeting up in Lancaster. And plans thereof. You're the one who brought up the topic in the first place.* ***Oh, it wasn't really meant to be a topic mate I sort of figured you could work a train schedule by yourself*** *Okay then, I'll just show up completely unannounced in the middle of some random weekday like a door-to-door salesman.* ***Sounds good*** *Seriously?* ***Yeah of course why would I care*** *People generally like to plan for these things.* ***Does pretending to be a responsible adult make you feel smart or something*** *Sort of.* ***Well stop you're smart enough already*** *One can never be too intelligent.* ***Yes they can you're living proof*** *Rude.* ***No really you could probably stand to lose about 10 thousand brain cells*** *Was that your motivation for getting me drunk every chance you got, then? Culling excess neurons?* ***Nah you're just hilarious when you're pissed, the brain damage was a side benefit*** *Glad to be of some entertainment then.* ***You've never been boring, shers*** *Nor have you, Eric.* ## Chapter 9: Missing Chapter Posted Many Years Later **««** John returned to the flat around half past noon, having had a rather uneventful morning at the clinic and looking forward to a nice cuppa and the remainder of the newspaper he hadn't finished reading. His plans were somewhat vexed, however, when he got to the landing just before the entrance to the sitting room. Sherlock and Crenshaw were in there. Ordinarily of course he'd just walk in - wasn't exactly worried about interrupting a conversation in his own home. But this... well, this could be a rare opportunity to see how the two of them interacted in private. And he had to admit he was curious. What was their dynamic like, really? When they thought themselves alone? He had the perfect chance now to find out. Because by some stroke of luck (or perhaps just down to his being distracted) Sherlock hadn't yet noticed his presence. John was still hidden just out of sight around the doorframe. Quickly and quietly as possible he shifted to press his back against the wall, craned his neck to peer through the gap between the jamb and the door. Both men were standing near the window in the sitting room a few feet apart from one another, appearing for the moment to be lost in their own thoughts. With confusion that morphed quickly into shocked glee John noted that Sherlock's hair was clumped up in that way it did when partially wet, and that Crenshaw had a towel draped over one shoulder as if he'd paused in the midst of drying his currently-shirtless torso. Oh lord... they'd both just showered. John failed to fight down a juvenile grin over the implications. Sherlock and his bloody holier-than-thou attitude regarding anything to do with sex, hah! He'd just been bluffing the whole time. “Realistically, though...” Sherlock started, glancing up from where he'd been staring at the fireplace. Crenshaw sighed and rubbed at his neck, other hand going to his hip as if exasperated. “Realistically, yeah. That's what I bleedin' meant by *fucking stupid.* But then you had to go an' reciprocate, you arse.” “Oh *I'm* the arse, am I?” Sherlock retorted, rolling his eyes. “Remind me again, which of us was the one who decided to snog the other without warning in the midst of a bloody conversation?” Crenshaw scoffed. “*Remind me again*, how exactly did our first kiss go? Back in Stockwell? Cause I'm pretty sure it involved a certain someone being high as a damned kite and pinning me against the table outta nowhere. Turnabout's fair play, mate.” “I didn't pin you,” Sherlock grumbled. “Not for long, anyway.” John had to exercise quite a lot of self-control to avoid snorting in a mixture of amusement, disbelief, and a sort of vague wonder. The thought of Sherlock doing something so bawdy as pinning a bloke down and kissing him… unreal. Hilarious, surely, but incredibly difficult to imagine. Crenshaw huffed another short sigh. “Look, it don't matter now, do it? Th'point is we really shouldn't've let it go that far, cause I've still got to leave, and you're… well, I mean…” “Not willing to relocate. And neither are you, understandably. I do believe we've gone over this.” “Yeah, we did, right before deciding not to shag. And then doing exactly the opposite.” Crenshaw sounded extremely irritated about this. John exercised all his self-control to avoid snorting in mirth - mixed, again, with something like… well not quite disgust. He didn't actually mind in the slightest. But the inadvertent imagery now running through his brain was definitely something he could have done without. Rather than react to the word 'shag' in any way John might have expected him to, Sherlock instead just gave a casual shrug. “Can't resist my charm." A distinct smirk was audible in his tone. Crenshaw snorted. "Yeah alright, Casanova. Whatever you wanna believe there." Shaking his head, he turned to look out the window. Sherlock followed his line of sight and shifted uncomfortably, seeming to hesitate over his next words. "We… I mean there is the whole, I don't know… visiting, whatever people do. Keep in touch." "Well obviously there's that, yeah, but I'd rather-" Crenshaw cut himself off, making a frustrated noise, then abruptly turned to Sherlock and grabbed the front of his shirt. The subsequent kiss was as casual as it was abrupt, leaving John in a bit of a state of shock. Even more so when Sherlock didn't react beyond shifting his head a bit so their noses wouldn't bump into each other. "I ain't actually… dated anyone, you know. Since then," Crenshaw muttered as he drew away, glancing toward the window once more. "Well I mean not long-term. None of 'em were… er…" "If you end that sentence with '*you*' I'm going to officially declare you the most disgustingly sentimental moron in the universe." "Shut up," Crenshaw snapped, smacking Sherlock lightly on the chest as he turned back to him. "What's your excuse then, huh? Gonna fall back on the whole *being of pure logic* bullshit, no point findin' someone cause it's all just a massive waste of time?” "Uh... yeah, that was more or less my reasoning." Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned as his ex's expression turned flatly annoyed. "Look, I don't see why you're so worked up about this. We've already agreed on the sensible decision." Crenshaw huffed another frustrated sigh. "It were a sensible decision until we decided not t'be sensible in th'least and made it all bleedin' complicated and confusing instead." "It's been that way the entire time," Sherlock pointed out. "No more so now than yesterday." "No, *a lot* more so now. Yesterday it were still just some old acquaintances thing. Now it's... I don't know, rekindled flame or whatever." He frowned to himself and added, quietly, "... Now I don't want to leave." "Well, you're in the city another week. So there's no need to think about it for the moment," Sherlock pointed out with a shrug. "Just carry on as normal." Crenshaw let out a frustrated growl and, in a gesture which John wouldn't have thought anyone could get away with, grabbed both Sherlock's upper arms and gave the man a little shake. "Oh my *god* , you thick ponce, that's the *problem* - what the hell is normal? Are we dating? Friends with benefits? A casual fling?" "I don't know, why does it need a label?" Sherlock countered with a bit of a whinge to his tone. He'd made no effort to extricate his shoulders from Crenshaw's grip, hadn't even seemed especially annoyed with the shaking. How bizarre John found this small detail served to create a jarring disconnect between what John had thought was simply Sherlock's inherent aversion to physical contact (with exception, of course, for Mrs Hudson, whose affectionate gestures he'd just seemed willing to tolerate for her sake), and this new reality where the man evidently didn't mind being touched at all so long as the person doing the touching occupied some hereto-unknown special category. A category which thusfar appeared to contain just this one single unassuming bloke from Lancaster. Said bloke now paused, glanced away for a moment in thought, then seemed to realise he had no answer to Sherlock's question. With a defeated sigh he dropped his grip on Sherlock's arms and allowed himself to list forward. Sherlock caught him round the middle in a casual embrace and gave the man a slightly exasperated pat on the back. This was perhaps much more strange than his consenting to be shaken, though John didn't get a chance to dwell on it as a beat later Sherlock looked up and appeared to catch some detail. "John, how long have you been standing out there?" John cringed to himself and considered the merits of bluffing. Likely no point trying. Reluctantly he squared his shoulders and pushed the door open. "Sorry, sounded like a serious conversation. Didn't want to interrupt." Sherlock looked highly dubious of that excuse. Crenshaw drew back from him somewhat hastily and turned to smile at John with a faint blush on his cheeks. "Oh, er... hullo, Dr Watson," he muttered, sounding a tad embarrassed. "Ah, you'd said you'd be back around now, hadn't you? Completely forgot, sorry." "That's alright, I'm sure it's been quite the morning." John tried to keep the amusement out of his voice so as not to betray how much he'd actually overheard, but didn't quite manage. In an effort to push past the awkward moment he set himself to his own banal activities - stowing his bag, putting the kettle on. Tried to make it clear he'd no intent to be an arse about things. He hadn't forgot Crenshaw's little lecture from earlier. And, while he had to admit he was still a bit sceptical over the idea of Sherlock not speaking up about being made uncomfortable (the man complained loudly and continuously about everything else, after all, surely he'd have no problem putting his foot down over a silly blog) one did have to admit that the conversation he'd just eavesdropped on made it hard to deny Crenshaw must have *some* degree of special insight into Sherlock's inner workings. How he'd come to occupy that privileged position, of course, remained a mystery. Oh, speaking of, though… John had actually remembered something very important during clinic hours. He turned towards the other two with a small smile of victory, empty tea mug in hand. Sherlock and Crenshaw were still stood in the middle of the sitting room, watching him. Sherlock's bearing had gone taut with a sort of frigid poise, not an uncommon sight when he was expecting to be teased about something. John had no intent of doing so (mostly, one had to admit, because he didn't want to piss off Crenshaw - he'd probably not have been able to resist a bit of ribbing otherwise) but he still paused to collect his thoughts before speaking, just to be sure not to word anything poorly. It had only been at the very end of his shift that John's brain finally shook loose an errant scrap of memory - a simple case they'd wrapped up ages ago, his recollection of which had been near-fully eclipsed by the excitement of a string of high-stakes cases they'd picked up directly after. Bog-standard homicide, photographer victim, old photos of Sherlock as a shiftless young delinquent. John had managed to pry out a reluctantly-told story from Sherlock about getting hooked on cocaine in uni and dropping out, but the retelling had cut off rather unsatisfyingly right as it got to what seemed the most interesting bit - Sherlock had explained how his father collected him from rehab instead of Mycroft, he'd been disowned and left to his own devices in London where he promptly relapsed. But then he'd gone quiet and John had stupidly cut in with some banal comment about being surprised by how easy it was to just buy hard drugs on a moments' notice, asked if you could really just suss out a dealer and pick up a bag of cocaine like visiting the corner shop. John had thought it an innocuous enough question, mostly meant it as a way to show he wasn't especially bothered by the drugs stuff, but it seemed to have sparked some sort of memory Sherlock didn't want to venture anywhere near and he'd abruptly dropped the story. They'd had a new case so soon afterwards John hadn't had a chance to ask for the rest before it escaped his mind. Prior to his and Crenshaw's chat this morning John wouldn't have guessed him connected to any of that - the man seemed far too kind-hearted and nervous to be hiding some past life of crime. But at some point he'd got annoyed and let his accent drop, and the abrupt switch to rough cockney helped to recontextualise him a bit. Speaking that way didn't automatically mean he must have been a criminal, obviously, but it did make it much easier to picture him having had a rough childhood on some council estate, skulking about the backstreets of London, that sort of thing. From there John had slowly worked through the scant details of personal history he knew about Sherlock, finally recalled the case with the photos, and realised he'd known from the very start about Sherlock having once dated some freckled boy. His recollection had just been partially impaired by Sherlock (doubtless intentionally) dragging them out on a load of dangerous business straight after. In the brief gap while he'd been thinking, John saw Crenshaw glance over to Sherlock's rigid stance, frown in a way that seemed oddly annoyed, and lightly elbow him in the side. Sherlock shifted in surprise, flicked his gaze over to meet Crenshaw's, quirked an annoyed frown of his own, then noticeably relaxed. Fascinating. Best not comment, though. "So I had a small revelation at work," John said brightly instead. He gestured towards Crenshaw with the empty mug he'd been holding. "I've seen you before. That case with the photographer, Sherlock, remember? And you having been in some pub band?" Sherlock did not seem to remember. He made a very perplexed face and offered nothing but a confused, "what?" in response. John blinked - hang on, had Sherlock really deleted all memory of the case? Over a few old photos? Why? Crenshaw, for his part, suddenly looked almost wary. His palms came together in that nervous tic again. "... pub band?" he hedged. *Definitely* wary. Definitely recognised the context. Meant John could at least be reasonably certain it had indeed been Crenshaw in those photos. Even if he wasn't quite sure what was so terrible about them to trigger Sherlock to delete the whole thing and Crenshaw to sound so suspicious. Crenshaw's question seemed to unlock some sort of mind-cold-storage for Sherlock, or whatever he called it when he'd 'deleted' things only to later recover them without much apparent difficulty, and before John could reply the detective groaned with recognition. Finally leaving his spot stood in the middle of the sitting room he made his way over to the table where his laptop was, and without bothering to sit down opened it and began clicking around as he spoke. John noted with vague bemusement that Crenshaw trailed after him in an oddly automatic way, as if his body had developed some set function to keep Sherlock within a certain proximity. "An utterly dull case involving a photographer having snapped a few candid photos of a man with his mistress and being murdered over it," Sherlock was grumbling. "Only remotely interesting detail of the entire thing was that the victim turned out to have been Mandy living under an alias." Crenshaw made a strange sort of face, halfway between grimacing and unsurprised. "Ech… well, awful I s'pose, but to be honest that's kind of exactly how I expected she'd go out." Sherlock huffed a small amused breath through his nose, then appeared to become distracted by whatever he was doing on his laptop. John gamely picked up with his usual role of facilitating conversation. "We'd found old photographs of you and Sherlock on the victim's computer," he explained. "Sherlock deleted the lot of them before anyone had a chance to look through them properly. I'd not remembered until now." Crenshaw frowned and fiddled with the towel still draped over his shoulder. "Well… probably for the best," he muttered. "Embarrassing as anything." His voice sounded torn between disappointment and relief. John found himself very interested by the conflicting emotions - Sherlock had abandoned his tale before getting anywhere near the point where those photos would have been taken, but it seemed Crenshaw might have been involved for roughly the span of the missing time frame. Perhaps an opportunity to get the rest of the story? He'd have to be careful asking, though, since he had a feeling Crenshaw wouldn't be keen on sharing sordid histories. Not with him, at any rate. "They're not that bad," Sherlock cut in. He drew back from his laptop and gestured towards it, indicating Crenshaw should look. The man did so and instantly his expression became a very complicated mixture of surprised, embarrassed, dismayed, nostalgic, and about a hundred other things besides. "You look like an unkempt tramp in most of them, of course, but I always assumed that was the aesthetic you were going for." John wasn't entirely sure if he was being invited to view the screen as well, being on the wrong side of it, and although disappointing he figured it would probably be best to get on with making tea and not come off over-eager to have a look. Luckily for him, though, Crenshaw drifted to a seat at the table and slid the laptop round to face him, which meant it was now angled to where John could see it over his shoulder. Pulled up on some gallery program was a photo reel, with the file in current focus being a shot of an unimaginably young Sherlock and Crenshaw seated on a low brick wall sharing a bottle of vodka. John vaguely remembered seeing that one at the crime scene, though he'd not caught more than a glance then. "You kept a copy?" John asked Sherlock in surprise. All that trouble to erase the files from existence, yet he'd kept an entire set on his laptop? Lord knew the implications of *that.* Sherlock huffed to himself and glanced away at the far wall with a put-upon scowl. "Might have needed them for evidence, never know when old cases turn out to be relevant." A comically transparent lie, but there would be no point calling it out. Besides which John was much more interested in the photos Crenshaw was now scrolling through. John hadn't seen most of these, and they looked to be in a different order than when Donovan had first discovered them. Past the photo of Sherlock and Crenshaw on the garden wall there were several assorted shots of Sherlock, Crenshaw, or the two of them together, most set amidst the backdrop of a dingy cellar pub, a few out in the streets of what looked like a rough area of London. He caught glimpses of Sherlock sat on a short set of stairs playing guitar, a close-up shot of a very young Crenshaw grinning into the camera with a lit joint in his mouth, a candid photo of the both of them sitting on some sort of large speaker at the side of a stage sharing a bag of sweets. Crenshaw paused on a photo of a dingy room done up in the same burgundy as the rest of the pub shots, where his younger self sat on an oddly out-of-place Victorian sofa with his feet resting on a battered guitar case. A skeletal wraith of a boy who'd presumably once been Sherlock was curled up against his right side, fast asleep, young Crenshaw's arm draped loosely round his shoulders. A few feet away from them a thin black man was seated on the floor with a tray and seemed to be in the midst of rolling joints, smiling as if in response to something just said. Current Crenshaw's face shifted to a look of fond sadness as he stared at the unknown man. Beside him Sherlock's bearing had gone tense again. He shifted as if meaning to step away, but before he could move Crenshaw halted him by gently grabbing hold of his wrist, the movement so casual as to seem unconscious. Hadn't even looked up from the laptop. Instead of pulling his arm free or otherwise objecting Sherlock appeared to simply accept his fate and remained standing in place. Apparently trusting Sherlock wouldn't try to wander off again Crenshaw dropped his hold on the man's wrist, then leant forward with his forearms resting on the tabletop. With a short huffed sigh he clicked the key to advance again, though now with a growing air of guarded, almost wary reluctance. Next up was a shot of himself and Sherlock snogging at a bar. John snorted in amusement. What an impossibly surreal image - Sherlock allowing some bloke to grab his face and kiss him in a move so uncoordinated they'd both nearly toppled off their seats. The disconnect was such that it was becoming necessary to forcefully remind himself that the dark-haired boy in these photos had actually been Sherlock and not some coincidentally identical teenager. Opening his mouth to make some silly teasing comment about decorum, John thankfully realised before speaking that Crenshaw was staring at this photo with a look just as dour as he'd had for the last. John swallowed the juvenile comment and tried to collect himself a bit. "Cute couple," he offered instead. Admittedly a weak attempt at lifting the mood, but better than the jab would've been. Crenshaw quirked a faint smile in response. A beat later his face darkened again. "Those kids are a few hours off from being jumped in the street and almost dying," he muttered quietly. John baulked and glanced up to Sherlock, who for some reason just rolled his eyes. "We did not *almost die*. I had it handled." "Only reason we weren't cut clean open is cause you were so far off your bleedin' face you turned into some kinda coke-fuelled angel of *death*," Crenshaw snapped back, countenance growing ever more stormy. "And even then you've still got that scar on your arm to show for it, haven't you? How close was that to being a knife through the ribs?" Sherlock glanced down towards his left bicep, clearly visible in the t-shirt he was currently wearing, and frowned at what John had long ago guessed to be the remains of a fairly deep slashing knife wound. Hadn't ever asked after it to confirm, of course, as he was far too sick of people calling attention to his own battle scars to consider doing the same to anyone else. "... coke-fuelled angel of death?" John found himself repeating quizzically instead of anything perhaps more relevant, finding that phrase too bizarre not to highlight. Crenshaw brought one hand up to rub his forehead as if warding off a headache. "Ah, nothing, sorry. He just turned out to be better in a fight than I'd expected, is all." Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "John knows I was a junkie, it's not some dark secret." "Alright. Still weren't my place to bring it up, though." Sherlock looked like he didn't know quite how to respond to that. Crenshaw breathed a short frustrated sigh and again hesitated about advancing the photo reel, but finally did so with a quick, almost aggressive jab at the keyboard. Next was another candid shot, this time whilst the pub was much more lively, background populated by groups of young people drinking and laughing. A bit off from the centre of the frame were a young Crenshaw and Sherlock, the latter of whom was leaning against the edge of a tall pub table peering dubiously into a half-full glass he was holding. Young Crenshaw was stood pressed directly up next to him, right arm raised as if reaching up to touch his companion's hand, left at his side hanging at an odd angle due to the above-elbow fibreglass cast John had noticed in a few other photos as well - recent unstable wrist or forearm fracture, most likely. The freckled boy's attention was trained to his right and slightly behind, towards a much older man with a face disconcertingly reminiscent of a weasel, who by his posture looked to be in the midst of casually claiming a spot at the far side of the table. The darkly lecherous smirk the man had fixed on the two boys was the focal point of the shot. Crenshaw stared at this photo for a long, silent moment, face unreadable. Finally he snapped the laptop shut and crossed his arms. "It's past now, that's all that matters," he said flatly. John glanced up to see what Sherlock made of this, only to find his flatmate had fallen unnaturally still, gaze distant and unfocused. Zoned out, John realised. Hadn't seen him do that in a bit. Didn't think much of it, though - Sherlock fell into these odd little trances often enough. Usually in response to some random detail he'd spotted, or a snippet of noise, or sometimes for no discernible reason at all. Compared to the rest of the man's quirks the occasional suspension of conscious awareness hadn't seemed much out of place, so John never felt a need to pry. Instead he'd learnt to just give it a bit of patience. Allow whatever genius intellectual process to work its way through, he'd come round again soon enough. Crenshaw didn't seem inclined to be so blasé about the matter, however. As soon as he'd glanced up and noticed Sherlock's stillness his expression morphed into one of deep concern. He grabbed the man's wrist again with a firm grip. "Sherlock," he said in an even, deliberate voice. "Look at me." John was struck with the odd sense of performing a ritual; some key invocation delivered in just the right tone and cadence to dispel a formless evil. Sure enough, Sherlock's eyes snapped back into focus as if released from a spell. He blinked down at Crenshaw. John expected the detective to become angry or defensive, as was typical whenever Sherlock felt he'd been caught in a vulnerable moment. He didn't. Instead he seemed to take a beat to realise what had happened, grimaced, then lightly shook his head as if to clear a lingering fog. "Sorry," he muttered. For what, John had no idea. Crenshaw seemed to be operating with a more complete picture and replied with an exasperated look. "You don't gotta bleedin' apologise for havin' a-" He cut himself off, glanced at John. A brief silence filled the room. Abruptly Crenshaw stood up and flung an arm round Sherlock's shoulders. "Right," he quipped, voice gone suddenly bright and chipper. Sherlock made an annoyed noise but didn't otherwise object to finding a shirtless man draped over him. "This idiot's not eaten a bloody thing all day and I for one am famished, so perhaps we'd best see about lunch, hm?" Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Crenshaw cut him off. "And you're not about to whinge about not being hungry, because you know I don't care." Sherlock shut his mouth with a small, childish huff. Despite lingering confusion over what exactly he'd just witnessed John couldn't quite smother a silly grin over their dynamic. Luckily Crenshaw had already turned to steer his partner-of-indefinite-label off towards Sherlock's bedroom (presumably to get the both of them properly dressed) and didn't catch the juvenile expression. Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed either, despite usually having some odd sixth sense for John being an immature git. No, he'd still seemed preoccupied by whatever had just happened. Just one of his staring spells, hadn't it been? John hadn't spotted anything noticeably different to any of the other ones - was it just because it had been brought on by that photo? Struck by this thought, and with the other two men now out of the room, John curiously flipped up the laptop screen once more. Sherlock hadn't set it to lock when the lid closed, so the photo jumped back to life. Couldn't see much of note, aside from the weasel-faced man looking perhaps a bit sinister. Idly he hit the key to advance the reel. The next photo depicted the same scene but an instant later. Weasel-Face now had his mouth open, speaking through a predatory grin. Young Crenshaw's expression had gone uncharacteristically furious. Beside him the boy who'd been Sherlock (looking far too young and fragile for John to fully reconcile as the same person) was still staring down at his drink, but his expression had changed. Instead of the bored, unimpressed stare John could easily map to his concept of adult Sherlock, the boy was now wide-eyed and ashen-faced, posture pulled taut as a bowstring. John stared at the terrified expression on the too-young face, and slowly felt the pieces click together. **««** "You alright?" Eric asked gently as he shut the bedroom door behind them. Sherlock wasn't honestly sure - he'd always had flashbacks of one sort or another, of course, but over the course of his life their disruptiveness had slowly diminished until they'd become little more than a minor nuisance. Typically just brief snippets of unpleasant childhood experiences, occasionally a fragment of one of the many life-or-death situations he'd faced as an adult. Over in a flash, easy enough to cover up as having paused to think or reboot or whatever the hell he'd told John he was doing. Hadn't found himself trapped in a memory so vivid as that last one in *years*, and certainly not of *that* incident - of the lowest point of addiction he'd ever hit, the moment he'd conclusively made cocaine the most important aspect of his existence. In fact he'd spent the majority of his adult life successfully suppressing all conscious recollection of that experience. "Yes," he answered automatically. Then, because he remembered Eric would be able to spot the lie and moreover was likely to get very annoyed by it he amended with, "... no? I don't know." Eric sighed and patted him on the shoulder. As he moved away into the room his expression darkened considerably. "Christ, I hadn't realised Mandy were around when he pulled that sick little stunt," he said in a low growl, quiet enough to sound as though he were mainly talking to himself. "Did she seriously just fuckin' watch 'im say that shit to us, snap a bloody *photo* and then leave without a word? What the fuck?" "She'd just done a bump of K with Amélie," Sherlock explained vaguely. Not having to clarify what that meant nor how it related to her behaviour was oddly refreshing. His tone must have come out more preoccupied than he'd realised, because Eric shot him a worried frown. "You'd not looked through all the photos yet, I take it?" "Of course I looked through them, it was fine before." Sherlock tried to say this snappishly, but it transformed into more of a distracted mumble. Was trying not to remember the moments preceding the scene they'd just seen depicted on-screen, but of course the images kept seeping up unbidden through tiny cracks in their containment cells. *Mandy and Ami passing by their table whilst Eric had stepped away, Ami stopping to say something nonsensical to him in a jumble of French and English which he'd briefly tried to parse before realising she was shitfaced, Mandy dragging her off by the arm, feeling relieved they'd left so quickly. Turning back to the table, noticing his glass had been moved, thankfully still sober enough to think to check for tampering, not really registering when Eric pressed up beside him. Racer's gravelly voice slicing through awareness like a knife. Implying via lewd innuendo he'd tried to slip Sherlock a sedative, might be lying, impossible to tell whilst brain shorting out, Eric shouting at the bastard to piss off, wanting to tell him to stop, not worth risking a fight, his muscles weren't listening and how was he supposed to defend them like this…* Sherlock grit his teeth against a phantom stab of sick dread and shook his head violently, then scrubbed his hands through his hair as if attacking his own skull might make it stop throwing unwanted memories at him. "God's *sake*, it's just a stupid bloody photograph!" he snarled. "Why am I reacting like this!?" Eric paused from where he'd been hunting for a shirt and shot him a bemused, faintly concerned look. "Sherlock… you do know I know what he did to you, right?" Sherlock shot him a venomous scowl from under his fringe. "Hell is that supposed to mean?" "It means we're both aware you just had a dissociative flashback triggered by a photo of a man who raped you." "It wasn't *rape*," Sherlock spat, bristling. "I agreed to it." Eric just huffed a tired sigh and shook his head. "Yeah, alright, if that helps." Turning away, he seemed to deliberate for a moment. Torn between their mutual instinct to drop traumatic topics as quickly as possible and his apparent desire to discuss something he'd doubtless been mulling over for the past eight years. The second option must have won out, because he continued in a melancholy voice. "Look… I couldn't ever work up the nerve to say it back then, but I always wanted to tell you that shit weren't your fault, yeah? He knew what he was doing, waited 'til kids were too strung out to fight back. Did it by force if they said no. You didn't miss some better option." "How would *you* know?" Sherlock was aware his tone had crept well into the realm of excessively defensive, but a touch of raised hackles didn't seem unreasonable given the subject matter. The lack of coat pockets to shove his fists into was unfortunate. Eric gave him a look that said he really should have been able to deduce the answer himself, but then elaborated anyway. "Benny worked for him." Oh. Right. Sherlock had been aware of that fact but never thought through the implications. A dark scowl must have crept onto his face as he did so now, because Eric made an annoyed noise whilst tugging one of Sherlock's t-shirts over his head. "Obviously he weren't involved in all that, christ." Having got a shirt on he turned to the business of gathering up and sorting what laundry he hadn't already put in the wash with the sheets earlier, presumably just to have something to do with his hands while he spoke. "Look, after we'd got in with Corey's crew Racer took a liking to me, right? Fucker always went for us gay kids. Kept tryna get me alone, wouldn't back off. Eventually we figured out he weren't into black guys so it were safe for Benny to take up with him and play nice, get in good graces enough to keep the sick bastard off me. And you, later. As much as he could." Sherlock was a bit taken aback. In truth he'd never paid much attention to Ben, aside from vaguely trying to be civil because he was Eric's friend. They'd not had much chance to interact, anyway, as the man had been out of the house more often than not. "Remember how Benny ran off that night, before we got jumped?" Eric continued, voice gone thoughtful and a bit melancholy. "He only did that cause if he hadn't filled in he were worried he'd not be in good enough standing to protect the both of us. Felt awful bout what happened." "I didn't think Ben even liked me," Sherlock objected, frowning. Eric chuckled. "Ah, nah, he thought you were an arsehole. But you made me happy so he looked out for you anyways." Sherlock found himself at a loss for what to say. Mind still too frazzled to pick through the layers of emotion in that statement, to come up with a suitable deflecting quip. Eric, somehow still able to pick up on his discomfort at a glance despite the years, took pity and broke the tension by tossing a bundle of clothes at his face. "Get dressed and take me out for lunch, you bleedin' prat." **««** ## Chapter 10: Continuation of the Missing Chapter **««** John was not, in fact, a complete idiot. Regardless of Sherlock's frequent assertions to the contrary. Obviously he'd nothing on the superhuman genius of the Holmes brothers, but he'd made it through medical school, and he could deduce basic facts as well as the next bloke. Particularly when it came to things he'd firsthand experience with. And, unfortunately, having been an army doctor stationed in Afghanistan meant he'd amassed a rather horrific amount of experience interpreting the body language of traumatised young men. Would've been vastly less strain on his psyche to dismiss the scene before him as nothing more than an awkward moment. Just close the program and forget about it. Impossible, sadly, because he knew that hunted stare and rigid posture. Seen it far too many times during civilian outreach clinics - youths brought in by older men who insisted they'd no idea how such specific injuries could've been inflicted. Men whose smiles echoed the predatory leer of the weasel-faced man. Simple enough to piece together what had happened, then. Much more difficult to get his brain to accept that the boy making that too-familiar expression was *Sherlock* . Try as he might, all he could see was some nameless teenager. He continued to stare at the photo for the next several minutes regardless, turning every detail over in his head, trying to find a way to make it fit. The sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening startled John quite badly, and he hastily closed the gallery program, then a split second later remembered Crenshaw had actually just shut the lid. He had barely enough time to snap the laptop shut again, turn back towards the counter and set about fussing with his tea before Sherlock appeared. All a bit pointless, really, given the near-certainty of the Great Detective spotting some preposterous clue betraying he'd been snooping. One had to at least try, though. Sherlock didn't even glance towards the table as he entered the kitchen. He'd instead spun round to walk backwards whilst speaking to Crenshaw, his bearing a bit silly and overdramatic to match the inflection of his words. "Buy some clothes of your own, then. No one's forcing you to wear mine." Crenshaw emerged into view, trailing after Sherlock. Both of them were dressed properly now, Sherlock in one of his usual outfits and Crenshaw with the trousers he'd already had on along with what appeared to be the same loose t-shirt Sherlock had been wearing a moment ago. While the two of them were roughly the same height, Crenshaw was a bit wider in the chest and shoulders, making the shirt look much less like a pyjama top on his frame. Crenshaw shrugged. "Nah, some coke-addled toff once told me being able to share a wardrobe is *'too efficient not to take advantage of'.* Can't say I disagree." Sherlock gave him a flat look, which quickly shifted to acceptance. "Yeah, alright. Fair," he admitted with a shrug of his own. "It *was* efficient, though." "Efficient way to get acid burns on all my shirts, sure," Crenshaw countered blandly. John couldn't help a small chuckle for the mental image - that impossibly young version of Sherlock from the photos continuously nicking his boyfriend's clothes, blithely unconcerned with the basic courtesy of not spilling chemicals on them. No trouble slotting *that* into his mental model. Speaking of mental models - he eyed Sherlock with interest as the man jumped with almost comical surprise and whipped around to look at John, as if he'd not noticed he was there. Failing to notice an entire person stood by the kettle was of course nothing too out of the ordinary for Sherlock, but the relaxed, animated way he was moving certainly was. Usually after a forced display of vulnerability like that he'd spend at least the next few hours moody and withdrawn. Seeing him bounce back so quickly was a bit bewildering. "We're out for lunch, John. You're welcome to join if you'd like," Sherlock said offhandedly after a brief pause to process that John did in fact still exist. A flash of irritation seemed to cross Crenshaw's face behind him, but the man said nothing. John shook his head. "Nah, thanks." Didn't want to intrude, especially given Crenshaw's apparent desire that he not, and besides which he very much wanted to have a look through the rest of the photos. Reached for an easy lie instead. "Busy morning at the clinic, bit knackered." Sherlock, of course, instantly spotted some telltale clue betraying the truth - that it had been an incredibly dull morning at the clinic, hence why he'd spent some portion of it mulling over Sherlock's past deeply enough to recall the photos. John took a placid sip of his tea and settled in for the inevitable barrage of deduction. Alright, fine, get on with it. Walked right into that one. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth, though, Crenshaw cut him off with a flat "don't." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and turned a disgruntled frown over his shoulder. "What?" "Just take him at his bleedin' word and quit messin' about, christ." "I'm not messing about," Sherlock objected petulantly. "Right, 'course not. Cause showin' off for folks who already know how clever you are ain't a silly waste of time at all," Crenshaw replied with a sarcastic eye roll as he turned towards the door. "Catch up when you're finished, then." Sherlock stared after him, visibly wrong-footed. John pressed his lips into the side of his tea mug and did his level best not to burst into laughter. This became much easier as Sherlock's indignant stare after Crenshaw dropped to a pensive, strangely forlorn look. The sort of face a man might make in response to a sudden realisation that he still loved an ex, if John had to guess. Odd interaction to spark such an epiphany, perhaps. But then the idea of Sherlock only recognising the depth of his feelings for a bloke after being flatly dismissed by said bloke did seem rather on-brand. Despite a renewed temptation to start laughing over this John swallowed his mirth down to a gentle smile. "Take him someplace nice," he suggested. "That little bistro, maybe." A flash of wariness crossed Sherlock's face as he glanced over to John, but it faded quickly. "No need to spare the ridicule, John. I know I've been acting a fool," he muttered, sounding a bit tired and lost. John shrugged. "'Course you have. Love makes fools of all of us, right?" Sherlock turned a disapproving frown on the word 'love', opening his mouth as if to object, then seemed to lose steam and breathed a small sigh instead. A beat later he shook his head and strode off towards the door. John leant to the side to watch after him, smiled as he saw Crenshaw pop out from around the corner and hand Sherlock's coat to him with a quick kiss. Evidently he'd not actually expected to have to wait for Sherlock to finish deducing. *Detective whisperer,* John thought to himself with a smirk. As they made their way to the stairs together, Crenshaw spoke up with a flippant, "So I've decided if your brother nabs me again I'm just gonna start describing th' whole rest of the morning in, like, excruciating detail." Sherlock made an odd noise somewhere between a sputter and a laugh. John ducked his head to try to stifle his making about the same noise himself - both for the impossible task of trying to imagine Mycroft's reaction to such a thing, and for the new knowledge that Sherlock's brother had wasted no time whatsoever putting Crenshaw through the whole kidnap-and-interrogate rigmarole. What an absolute lunatic. "He'd literally die of discomfort," Sherlock replied. "You'd be tried as an assassin." Crenshaw laughed and said something in reply, but was sadly now too far away to make out the words. The sound of the front door closing announced their departure. Shaking his head in wonder, John's attention was caught once more by the laptop. Sherlock hadn't spared it a single thought. Left the photos unguarded, waiting. Snooping around in someone else's computer was terribly rude, obviously. Sherlock's habitual disregard for John's privacy did, however, make the intrusion feel somewhat less egregious - the man had gone digging through John's laptop multiple times already under various excuses ranging from *'checking for tracking software'* to *'mine's too far away '* *,* after all. Given that, it didn't seem unreasonable to take this opportunity to just have a quick look through the rest of the album. Hadn't even any plans to go rooting around through anything else, which put him a step above Sherlock in terms of basic common courtesy, so by any reasonable moral framework it was fine. Having sufficiently convinced himself, John moved to sit in the chair Crenshaw had recently occupied. Opened the lid and then grimaced as he remembered he'd closed out the gallery viewer. Bollocks. Well, the folder full of files was still open. Perhaps if he double-clicked on something in there it would launch the viewer program automatically? Worth a try. He clicked a random file, and was mildly annoyed to see the program it pulled up wasn't the gallery. A beat later he realised that was because this wasn't a still photo but a video file instead, which turned the mild disappointment into a flash of juvenile glee. Hadn't even considered the possibility of videos - the pub band again, maybe? He quickly hunted about for the volume controls, and managed to get the audio loud enough to catch the tail end of a woman speaking through the tinny laptop speakers. "- anyone touch it, yeah? Won't be a minute!" On-screen was the view from a camera which seemed to have been strategically placed and left to surreptitiously record. The shot seemed to be angled down from a higher surface towards a short set of steps, which John recognised to be the stairs off the side of the cellar pub's stage. Two lanky teenage boys were sat on the steps, roughly centred in the frame, their faces turned away as they both tracked something moving out of frame. The distant sound of a door opening and shutting again signalled someone had left the room, presumably the woman who'd just been speaking. The two boys were silent for a moment. Then the dark-haired one nearest the lens spoke up in a voice so familiar as to be disorientating. "Why does she always respond like she's heard something completely different to what was actually said?" he asked blankly. His cadence was identical to Sherlock's, tone nearly the same save for perhaps being a few steps higher in pitch. He turned forwards again, which put his features roughly in profile, of course revealing the same surreal de-aged copy of Sherlock's face from the photos. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, as it had in so many other shots, and he glanced down to an open packet of crisps held absently in one hand with a frown as if he'd no idea how they'd got there. John studied the screen with rapt fascination. The doppelganger's movements, while subtly off in a way John couldn't quite put his finger on, were still very recognisably those of his friend. And, of course, the face - thinner, younger, scruffier, but indisputably Sherlock's. It all came together to the impression not of a simple copy of the man's face, but of the essence of the Great Detective having been somehow superimposed over the awkward frame of an adolescent. Absolutely eerie in a way the photos hadn't been. And then, as suddenly if a switch had been flipped, the portion of John's brain which had stubbornly refused to accept evidence finally gave up. All at once he found himself able to fully reconcile that this was, indeed, Sherlock. A snapshot in time he'd actually lived through, not some impossible copy of his likeness. The realisation felt daunting, somehow. As John was busy mulling over this train of thought, the other boy in the video shifted into better view. He briefly turned towards the camera to casually pluck the cigarette from Sherlock's lips, revealing a constellation of freckles and warm brown eyes. "Dunno, Sherly," the teenaged version of Crenshaw muttered dully, taking a drag off the cig. He let himself flop backwards and watched as the smoke he blew out drifted upwards, then shut his eyes as if to fall asleep right there on the stairs. "Reckon she's just a bit of a cunt." Recognisably the same voice, though with an accent much thicker than John had yet heard. The white fibreglass cast on the boy's arm and not-quite-adult body proportions were all familiar enough from the photos; nowhere near as eerie to see in motion, as John didn't know the man well enough to have formed any preconceptions, so focussing on him rather than Sherlock was a welcome break from the uncanniness. Doing so made it easier to notice how the two boys were sat directly beside each other despite having enough space to spread out, same as in the garden wall photo. John recalled the way Crenshaw had seemed to unconsciously keep himself within arms' reach of Sherlock earlier and smiled bemusedly to himself. Bloke was a bit clingy, apparently. On-screen the young version of Sherlock offered no reaction to the theft of his cigarette. Instead he'd turned to idly shuffling through the bag in his hands as if hunting for the ideal crisp. "You don't have to keep telling her off like that, you know," he said after a long silence. "I don't care anymore." Crenshaw made a frustrated noise. "Quit fuckin' doin' that." Sherlock looked over with a quizzical tilt of his head and held up the crisp packet, as if asking if that was what he was meant to stop doing. Crenshaw opened his eyes to see the movement, then irritably closed them again. "Not th' crisps," he grumbled. "Though, yeah, quit doin' that too and actually eat 'em." Sherlock huffed like a petulant child, picked exactly one crisp out of the bag and ate it sullenly. Crenshaw opened his eyes again a few seconds later with an exasperated glare, presumably as he heard no other eating happening. "Fuck's sake, Shers." "I'm not hungry!" Sherlock whinged. "Next time you pass out I'm leavin' you on the goddamn floor." "I didn't pass out." "You fell flat on your stupid face." "I tripped," Sherlock objected. Crenshaw glared up at him. "Fine," he snapped. "You *tripped* after not eating a fuckin' thing all day. Scared me half to death anyhow, so maybe try'n keep from doing it again, yeah?" Sherlock turned to regard him silently a moment, expression unreadable as he was facing away from the camera. As he looked forwards again he sullenly ate another crisp. A few moments of companionable silence passed, during which Crenshaw decided to heft himself back upright and shifted his legs to a less sprawled-out position, Sherlock's cig now dangling from his mouth. Sherlock managed to eat several more crisps, though looked pointedly unhappy about each one. "What else was I supposed to quit doing?" Sherlock suddenly asked out of nowhere. John snorted to himself - well, that certainly hadn't changed. Sherlock's habit of picking up a conversation thread he'd dropped minutes back and expecting everyone to just miraculously know what he was on about. Crenshaw responded without missing a beat, evidently having no difficulty following this erratic communication style. "Sayin' you're fine with shit when you ain't." "I *am* fine with it," Sherlock insisted. "No," Crenshaw said flatly, glaring out into whatever space lay beyond the camera frame. "You're just gonna pretend t'be til you can't no more, then you're gonna panic or go all dead-eyed and suddenly shit'll be *my* problem to sort out. Same as every other fuckin' time." "Well if I'm such a *burden* to you-" Sherlock's snippy rebuttal cut off as he was jolted sideways by a light shove to the shoulder. "Shut *up,* christ," Crenshaw groused. "Y'know that ain't what I meant." Sherlock did shut up, but also shoved him back. In the usual manner of adolescent boys this devolved into a short, silly scuffle, culminating in Sherlock twisting under Crenshaw's arm to duck an attempted headlock, then letting his upper body flop down over the man's lap with a finality as if he'd won. He fixed a childish pout up at his boyfriend with arms crossed over his thin chest, crisps now abandoned on the step below. Crenshaw shifted to support the sudden weight of a nearly-grown man across his legs with the casual acceptance of someone very used to randomly finding their partner draped over them. Still so impossibly strange to imagine Sherlock initiating physical contact with anyone, let alone tolerating anything more than the bare minimum. And yet the boy he'd once been seemed to have no complaint with Crenshaw's hand shifting to idly bounce one of the short curls sticking up from his mop of unkempt hair. After a few seconds Sherlock dropped his comical pout and stared off moodily towards the ceiling instead. At this angle his face was almost directly in line with the camera, making his expression much easier to read. "I tried asking her to stop," he grumbled. "You asked *one time,"* Crenshaw replied in an exasperated tone. "An' when she didn't listen you just gave up." Sherlock turned a vaguely confused frown up at him. "Having to ask more than once means you're just whingeing." "Says fuckin' who?" "Says, er…" Sherlock trailed off, seemed to consider a moment, then looked away as if embarrassed. "Mycroft, I guess." Crenshaw scoffed and shook his head, muttering something too quietly for the camera mic to pick up. Sherlock scowled. "He is still my *brother,* you know," he snapped. Crenshaw lifted his good hand in a placating gesture. "Fine, sorry," he groused. "Just seems like he ain't ever much cared whether folks are bein' awful to you." *"No one*'s ever cared about that," Sherlock retorted with an exasperated eye roll. "You're the first person to give this much of a shit, and honestly I'm not even sure *why* beyond maybe you think trying to be nice is some sort of requirement for getting to shag me? Which it most decidedly is not, given prior history." Despite the snark in his tone Sherlock's expression had darkened considerably into a vicious glare off at nothing. Over the subsequent stretch of silence this slowly morphed into a vacant stare. Crenshaw, who'd been gazing thoughtfully into the middle distance, appeared to sense something and glanced down. His solemn expression on catching sight of the blank stare seemed far too world-weary for a face so young. With a small sigh he stubbed his near-spent cig out on the step next to him, sat quietly a moment as if in thought, then leant over and murmured something to the boy in his lap. The camera angle made it difficult to see exactly what he'd done, but John guessed it must have been some variation on the odd little ritual he'd witnessed earlier, because Sherlock's response was near-identical - he blinked, appeared briefly confused, then grimaced and shook his head. "Fuck. Sorry," he muttered. Then a beat later scowled and added a petulant, "Sorry for saying sorry." Crenshaw huffed but said nothing. Sherlock seemed to fall into a bit of a preoccupied sulk, and they sat in silence for a long moment. Finally Crenshaw spoke in a voice nearly too quiet for the microphone to pick up. "It's cause I care about you, you fuckin' moron." Sherlock appeared taken off-guard by this, and turned a bewildered look up at his partner. A short staring contest ensued before Sherlock looked away again. "I'll… try to tell her off myself next time," he said in a hesitant grumble. "Instead of just ignoring her." Rather than reply in any verbal manner Crenshaw simply patted him on the head like a puppy, which Sherlock strangely tolerated. Another quiet moment stretched out. Crenshaw was the one to break the silence again. "How does it even make sense to think I'd go to all this bother just to shag you, anyway?" His tone suggested he was intentionally trying to lighten the mood, though the teasing cadence wasn't quite enough to mask a note of melancholy. "Your arse is only cute enough to make up for, like, *maybe* a quarter of the dumb shit you do." "Bullshit," Sherlock retorted immediately, expression comically serious given the next sentence. "My arse is cute enough to offset at least half of all the dumb shit I do." Crenshaw sputtered out a laugh. Sherlock cracked a small smile along with him, then looked up towards the camera and appeared to spot some detail - he furrowed his brow as his gaze shifted to look at something near the lens. "Mandy left that thing recording," he pointed out, nodding towards the device. Instantly Crenshaw stopped laughing and whipped his head around, then up as he realised where the device actually was. The brief moment of levity evaporated with his angry glare. "What? Oh fer fuck's sake. Turn it off." Sherlock hefted himself up from his boyfriend's lap and approached the camera, his chest growing larger in the frame until just the Oxford crest on the front of his hoodie was visible. A flurry of blurred movement filled the screen as he presumably picked it up. For a brief second the image clarified to a view of Sherlock staring down into the frame with a calculating expression on his too-young face, and John realised with a start that the boy's pupils were enormously overdilated for the level of ambient light. He'd been high this entire time? Hadn't seemed any different to his usual self - perhaps a bit oddly relaxed, if anything, which was not at all the effect John expected a prodigious dose of cocaine to have on anyone. As John was busy puzzling over this, the image of young Sherlock's face shifted, appearing to be turning a thoughtful look back over his shoulder. Then the frame shook and blurred with movement until it had settled back round to a steady shot on Crenshaw, now being filmed from a spot directly to his side and much closer, as if Sherlock had crouched down on the stairs with the camera held up to his face. "And here we find the majestic chav in its natural habitat," Sherlock's voice said from behind the frame. Aside from a slight snicker he'd done a fair job of impersonating David Attenborough. Crenshaw fixed him with a flat stare. Quite angry over the secret recording, it seemed, and not at all in the mood to entertain whatever nonsense his boyfriend was up to. "What th'fuck are you doin'?" he grumbled. "She wanted to film a documentary, right?" "You said that were th' stupidest idea you ever heard." "Well, I've changed my mind," Sherlock quipped brightly. The image zoomed in on one of Crenshaw's freckled cheeks, and Sherlock started mimicking a BBC programme again. "Observe the chav's unusual speckled complexion - a form of camouflage, perhaps? Or simply evidence of too much sun exposure? Researchers have yet to agree upon an explanation." Crenshaw drew away slightly, making his expression of lingering anger mixed with reluctant amusement visible despite the extreme close-up. John furrowed his brow in confusion over what the motivation for this could possibly be, then furrowed it further in baffled realisation - was Sherlock… trying to cheer his boyfriend up? The thought felt absurd, and yet here he was. By all appearances just a kid trying to get his friend to laugh. "Observe the pasty-arsed toff bein' an obnoxious little shit," Crenshaw replied, sounding rather upset still but willing to play along. A few jumbled seconds of movement followed, and suddenly the both of them were in frame, Sherlock apparently now holding the camera out in front of their faces. He shoved his cheek against Crenshaw's and stuck his tongue out at the lens, then nudged his partner insistently until Crenshaw relented to follow suit. After a second of childishly sticking their tongues out they both broke down laughing, and Sherlock must have finally deigned to flip the power switch, because the video cut off. John sat in thoughtful silence for several long moments. Well, that had certainly been… something. An unexpectedly forceful push into accepting that the boy in the rest of the photos was actually Sherlock, for one thing. For another, reasonably solid confirmation that he had, in fact, been sexually assaulted at some point during this stretch of time. Also evidence that Sherlock's behaviour on cocaine seemed to lack most of the usual tells of stimulant abuse, which of course raised concerns about whether John would've noticed if he'd relapsed. And, perhaps the least objectively important detail yet also somehow the most fascinating, evidence that Sherlock could actually behave like a normal human being. Or like a normal twenty year-old, at least. Play-fighting, foul language, joking about having a cute arse… nothing John would've thought the man capable of before today. An entire facet of himself he kept hidden away, for whatever inscrutable reason. Or… perhaps not hidden, exactly, but more some strange, emergent effect of how he and Crenshaw interacted? Briefly John weighed that possibility - tried to guess Sherlock's reaction should John ever say anything remotely similar to 'it's because I care about you, you fucking moron'. Nope. Wouldn't work. John couldn't even imagine himself voicing such a sentiment, certainly not with that wording, and Sherlock would take the insult far too seriously. Excruciatingly awkward just thinking about it. And yet Crenshaw, for some reason, could say things like that, and Sherlock not only accepted it but responded by actually doing as he'd been asked. Grudgingly, but still. An urge to grab his own laptop and start working through this via journalling arose, but he fought to suppress it. No, no. Absolutely not. He knew himself, knew that once he'd organised all his thoughts he'd want to share it and get input from other people, which would ultimately mean putting a load of Sherlock's personal business up on the internet. And while Crenshaw seemed to hold very little faith in his discretion John did at least have *some* standards - Sherlock's ability to forget the entire concept of planets was one thing, his relationship dynamics and dating history were quite another. Even if the urge to chat about all this with *someone* was sure to become a gnawing hole in his brain. "Yoo hoo!" Aha! Perfect! John turned a bright smile up to Mrs Hudson, who'd just appeared in the doorway holding a stack of folded linens. "Sorry for barging in, dear, wasn't sure if anyone was home. Did you put all those sheets and things in the wash just now?" John bit back a laugh for the reminder of why Sherlock's sheets would need washing. "Nope," he said with only a small snicker. "That's all Sherlock's." "Oh." Mrs Hudson looked a bit confused. "When did he learn to use the machine properly? Got all the settings right and everything." John gave into the urge to laugh openly as Mrs Hudson walked over to hand him the stack of clean wash. "Must've been his ex. They seem to have spent the morning, er… reconnecting." Mrs Hudson gave him a light smack on the shoulder for the admittedly terrible innuendo, but turned a delighted smile regardless. "Really! That young man from last night? What was the name… Eric, was it?" "That's the one, yeah," John confirmed with a light nod. He set the wash down on the table beside him and turned his attention back to the laptop. "Apparently… " He trailed off as he scrolled quickly through the folder of photo thumbnails, then gestured triumphantly as he found and successfully opened the photo of the uncoordinated pub snog from earlier. "They were 'housemates'." Mrs Hudson's hand went to her mouth with a small titter, then dropped to press over her chest as her smile shifted melancholy. "Goodness, look at the state of that boy. I'd forgotten how thin he was back then." John glanced quizzically over to Mrs Hudson. "You knew Sherlock at this age?" "I'm afraid so, dear!" she confirmed with a laugh. "Found the poor thing half-dead on the pavement down a side street in Tallahassee. Really should have just left him there, you know, what with everything going on. Suppose I've never regretted it, though." "What was he doing in Florida?" John hedged, partly to confirm he'd correctly placed the unfamiliar city, and partly in hopes of prompting her to elaborate. He'd just been hoping she'd gossip with him about Sherlock's relationship dynamics, hadn't realised they'd met so soon after all this happened. Mrs Hudson just chuckled. "Well, I'm sure you'd have to ask him! I certainly won't be going into details. Sherlock would have my head if you wound up on a hit list." John blinked. "Sorry, what?" Mrs Hudson flashed him a sweet, guileless smile, then crossed her arms expectantly and gestured down to the screen. "Well, go on then. Let's see the rest." **««** ## Chapter 11: Another Continuation, Apparently **««** Greg sighed, resigning himself to yet another round of trying to pick apart Sherlock's inscrutable process. He opened his mouth to ask another question, try to get the man at least partially back on track from whatever nonsense he was on about. As he did so, though, his attention was diverted by someone coming in through the door. He glanced over, expecting to see John, which would have been a bit of welcome backup in this silly game of 'get Sherlock to just answer the bloody question'. Instead he found himself looking at the very same witness who'd provided the statement he'd just been reading from. The man who'd been in the missing suspect's flat when the fire started. "Yeah mate so I dunno what you meant by 'the blue one', but I got- oh." The man cut off as he caught sight of Greg. He looked to be dressed for a business meeting, with dark slacks and a buttonup in the same style to what Sherlock typically wore, and the grey woolen peacoat Greg recalled him having been wearing on the night of the arson. A leather briefcase was tucked under one arm and he held a plastic bag full of what looked like groceries in his free hand. "Mr Crenshaw?" Greg barked, scandalised. He looked to Sherlock for some sort of explanation, but got only a bland lift of the eyebrows. "Sherlock, what in god's name do you think you're up to?" "Consulting on your incredibly boring case?" was the answer he got, along with a vaguely confused, indignant look. Greg threw out an arm to indicate Mr Crenshaw, who was regarding him with a bemused smile as he strode past to set his things down in the kitchen. "You, what-? Called him out here? You can't be going round harassing witnesses!" Sherlock's expression had shifted more towards the confused end, though now also somewhat affronted. "I've not *harassed* him." "I feel very harassed, actually," Mr Crenshaw quipped from over by the sink. "Shut up." "See? Rude." Crenshaw's joking tone very much did not match his words. He'd shuffled off his coat and tossed it casually to Sherlock, who caught it with a small grumble and went to hang it up on the coat rack. Greg looked back and forth between them. Mr Crenshaw was unpacking his shopping with the air of knowing more or less where everything belonged. Hadn't reacted to the sight of Sherlock's collection of body parts in the fridge. Wasn't him just dropping in, then, he'd been here long enough to get comfortable. And when he'd removed the coat it had become clear that his outfit didn't just *resemble* Sherlock's, but looked to literally be the same articles of clothing. One could see where the seam lines were just a smidge off, not having been tailored to his frame. All evidence pointed to this man having been staying with John and Sherlock for the past few days, presumably since the flat fire. Only explanation that could possibly make sense. Voicing this conclusion didn't help to make it seem any less baffling, however. "You… invited the witness to stay at your flat?" "Yep." Sherlock deigned to provide no further clarification whatsoever. He just moved from the coat rack over towards the kitchen where Mr Crenshaw was, then stood leaning partially against the table with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Fixed Greg with an expectant look. "Did you want to finish the consult, or just stand there gawping like an idiot?" Greg didn't answer. He was looking back and forth between the two men in front of him. There was something niggling at the back of his brain. Like a memory he couldn't quite access… Mr Crenshaw held up a tin of soup with a questioning noise, causing Sherlock to look his direction. And like a flashbulb going off Greg saw another scene overlaid atop the current one: dim lighting of some dingy cellar pub, an impossibly young Sherlock stood before him with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets just as this older version had in his slacks, turning his head in the exact same way to look at- ah! "You're that freckled kid!" Both other men turned to him looking utterly baffled, which was fair since Greg had just flung an arm out pointing at Crenshaw like a lunatic. The bloke in question stared at him a beat, then switched focus back to Sherlock, who shrugged as if to say he'd no idea either. Greg realised he'd made himself look a bit of a nutter and lowered his arm. Only to almost immediately ruin his attempt to look more sane by putting his hands on his head instead, because he'd just made another connection. "Hang on, wait… those old photos we found during the Harwood investigation… those were from the pub where I first met you, weren't they? He's the…" Greg shook his head for his own rudeness and addressed the man he was talking about directly instead. "You're the freckle-faced kid from the photos! We couldn't get a witness statement from you because you kept hyperventilating every time someone got near!" Crenshaw abruptly looked uncomfortable. "Oh, er…" "When were *you* there?" Sherlock cut in. Greg was now the one to look baffled. "We had an entire conversation, Sherlock. You deduced who the murderer was based on foil scraps and cotton fibres." This elicited no hint of recognition. Mr Crenshaw glanced over and seemed unsurprised by the blank look on Sherlock's face. "It was a bit after we'd found Benny, Shers. You'd have been crashing." "Oh." Sherlock glanced to him, then back to Greg with a small shrug. "Well, I'm sure whatever I said was very impressive." Mr Crenshaw looked back to Greg. "Did you, er… catch him? Th- the murderer." "Within the hour, yeah. Thanks to him." He gestured towards Sherlock, who looked as if he still had no memory of this whatsoever but wasn't especially shocked nor bothered by that fact. Lost quite a chunk of time to the drugs, apparently. Greg found himself thinking back to the younger version of the man he'd met that night and feeling rather confused - kid hadn't seemed *that* badly off. Crenshaw seemed to be trying to stifle some growing inner turmoil - brief smile of thanks, but it quickly dropped in favour of a frown towards the floor. Hands pressed together palm-to-palm in a strange sort of nervous tic, and he seemed to be curling in on himself. Greg bit his lip. Ah, hell. Hadn't meant to bring up bad memories. Before Greg had a chance to consider apologising Sherlock shot a glance in Mr Crenshaw's direction, and as he looked back to Greg he smoothly reached out and grabbed one of the man's hands. Both to stop the compulsive tic, it seemed, and to draw him closer. Mr Crenshaw didn't appear to mind this at all - looked rather relieved about it, in fact. He'd latched onto Sherlock's hand like a lifeline and was now pressed against his side as if to maximise physical contact. "Suppose that explains how you got my mobile number," Sherlock remarked blandly, as if there was nothing odd about him inviting another human being into his personal space. Greg stared at them, so bewildered he'd forgot his intent to apologise. No context for this behaviour seemed to fit. If he'd learnt anything about dealing with Sherlock over the years, however, it was that things tended to go much more smoothly if one just behaved as if any sudden odd turns were perfectly normal. No sense calling anything out. As such he forced himself to shake off the confusion and carry on. "Did you, er… think I'd just contacted you out of the blue?" Sherlock shrugged. "Case was interesting enough, didn't see any point in asking." Beside him Crenshaw seemed to have calmed considerably. No longer looked like he was fighting a breakdown, just a bit distant. Still holding onto Sherlock as if he were the only thing keeping him grounded. Their hands caught Greg's eye and he found himself studying the details there - wasn't the hand-over-hand sort of hold one might expect of an impulsive grab, but instead a more intimate intertwining of fingers. That, coupled with their casually close proximity, and moreover Sherlock's complete lack of visible unease about this, unlocked another near-forgotten little detail hiding away in the depths of Greg's brain. "Hang on… hadn't you said the freckled kid in those photos had been your *boyfriend* at the time?" Sherlock gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. Presumably in response to the wolfish grin which had slowly stolen over Greg's face as he spoke. "Yes." "So… does that mean you two are…" He gestured towards them, hoping to get his question across nonverbally as he wasn't sure he'd be able to ask without sounding incredibly juvenile. Sherlock continued to fix him with an irritated look. "Are we what?" "You know, er…" Greg carried on awkwardly. "Are the two of you… I mean, is this a *thing*?" Sherlock looked equal parts confused and pissed off. "A *thing?*" Crenshaw had given himself a little shake and seemed to have caught on to the picture they'd made together - he glanced down to their interlinked fingers with a light blush. "He's asking if we're-" he started, but Sherlock cut him off. "I know what he's asking," he snapped, not shifting his annoyed glare off of Greg. "It's just a stupid way to ask. What exactly is a *thing,* Lestrade?" "I mean, just…" Greg trailed off helplessly. Couldn't think how to word it without coming right out and asking if they were shagging, which was the main thing he wanted to know. And that only because he'd find it oddly uplifting if they were. Hadn't thought Sherlock capable of being comfortable enough with someone to have that sort of connection. Couldn't find a way to say all that, though, so he settled for repeating, "... you know, a thing." Sherlock either didn't actually understand what he was getting at, or was being willfully obtuse, because he just continued to stare. Beside him his perhaps-more-than-friend shifted awkwardly, dropped Sherlock's hand, and scooted a few inches away to a more polite distance. Sherlock broke his staring match with Greg to look over to him instead. "What are you getting all flustered for?" "I- I dunno, I'm just-" Crenshaw stammered. He seemed to be trying to convey some meaning to Sherlock by means of facial expression and gesturing, with little apparent success. Finally he made a frustrated noise and defaulted back to words. "I'm not sure how open you want to be with your boss, god's sake." Sherlock looked insulted. "He's not my boss." "Fine, er… colleague?" "Professional acquaintance," Greg supplied helpfully. "Bordering on friend, I think? When he's not too busy jeopardising my career." "I've *made* your career." A faint spark of a smile under the snippy tone betrayed the fact Sherlock was evidently rather pleased about being counted a possible friend. Greg gave him a little smile in return. Bloke could be a nightmare, for sure, but Greg had always had a bit of a soft spot for his antics. Crenshaw made a questioning gesture towards Sherlock, as if to say *'alright, then, so how open?'* . When this got him only another nonplussed stare he huffed and went for words again, though this time with a bit more heat as he seemed to be growing rather frustrated. "We never got back 'round to talking 'bout what to call this, yeah?" Hah! Greg had sat in on the bloke's initial witness statement and spent damned near the entire time distracted by his cadence, trying to figure out why it sounded off. Eventually decided he must be covering some strong local accent, but hadn't been able to tell which. The slip just now had been enough to place it, however. East London. Perhaps even Cockney? Shouldn't laugh (and he did his best not to), but by *god* that was funny to imagine - Sherlock with his posh public school airs dating some rough lad off the council estate. "So?" Sherlock replied blankly. "So I don't know how to act in mixed company!" "Why would assigning some arbitrary label help with that?" "Because it'd define a set of social norms, you daft prat." "I don't care about social norms." "I do!" "Why?" Crenshaw threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine! You know what, honestly a *thing* sounds about right. Let's just go with that." "We are *not* calling it a thing," Sherlock objected petulantly. His partner was now ignoring him in favour of plucking up a few items from his half-emptied shopping bag, then brushing past him on his way out towards the door to the landing. "I've got to take this downstairs," he threw over his shoulder in explanation, and quickly vanished. Greg looked to Sherlock with his brows raised, and found the man watching after his guest with an unreadable expression. A beat later he seemed to shake himself and shot an irritated look Greg's way. "Sorry," Greg offered, trying to swallow the silly grin still tugging at his lips. Couldn't help it, the whole situation had just hit him in the form of an urge to start giggling like an idiot. Couldn't *wait* to track down John and see what he had to say about all this. "No you're not." "I mean… I am, a bit. Could've handled that better." Sherlock huffed a short, frustrated sigh and glared off at nothing. Greg gave him an apologetic smile - alright, fair enough. He'd been an arse there, and upon the brief thought of John he realised the doctor couldn't have reacted much better. Likely been an absolute bellend, to be frank. Knowing how John tended to fall into the habit of viewing Sherlock like some sort of strange creature to be studied. The newly-reunited couple must be getting sick to death of such behaviour. Best try to bring things back round to finishing the consult, then. He managed to swallow his remaining mirth and successfully wrestled his 'professional detective' face back on. "Right, well. Just need that explanation for how the notes got in the horse statues and I'll be out of your hair." Sherlock's glare dropped into a rather sheepish sort of cringe. "Er… I don't actually know." Greg blinked. "You… what?" "I don't know." "What do you mean you don't know?" "I mean I've had a lot on and I forgot to look into it!" Sherlock snapped, gesticulating by throwing his hands up, then pushing one through his hair to leave it slightly dishevelled. "I'd been trying to stall you long enough to figure it out on the fly, but then Eric showed up and, just- ugh. I can't focus on him and the work at the same time." Mindful of his conviction to stop being an arse about this, Greg fought very hard not to burst into laughter. The Great Detective admitting he'd got distracted by a *bloke,* though, good lord. Sherlock caught on his struggle immediately, of course. "Don't give me that. I'm allowed to have off days." "Sure, just-" Greg tried to go on without sniggering, didn't well manage. Let himself have a bit of a chuckle to get it out of his system and then carried on with a more even, "Ahem… sorry, just- we *do* need that bit if we're to strike Mr Crenshaw's friend off the suspect list." "Ah, right." Sherlock considered, then shrugged. "Fine, give me a day or two. Molly's just told me she's got a body that might be related. Between that and questioning Mick there should be enough for a solid lead." "Questioning Mick?" Greg repeated. Didn't like the sound of this, but he had to know for certain. "Are you meaning to imply you've been in contact with the missing suspect?" "Nope!" Sherlock replied brightly. He'd pulled his mobile from his pocket and sent a text. Almost immediately a chime sounded from the grey peacoat he'd hung up by the door, and they looked towards it in tandem, then back to each other. Greg caught on to the vague implication and sighed. "Has *Mr Crenshaw* been in contact?" "Maybe. Perhaps you should've asked him instead of tittering like a schoolgirl." Sherlock had looked away dismissively to flip through a few papers he'd collected off the table, clear signal he was done talking for now. Greg worked his jaw a tick, but… fair enough. He'd got caught up in personal business and lost focus on the case. Best pretend he'd not heard anything, then. Sherlock could be trusted to flush the man out if he were the actual culprit. At the sound of Greg's tiny sigh Sherlock looked to him expectantly, gestured to the door as if to ask why he'd not left yet. Greg took a few steps that direction, then stopped. "Er… Sherlock." Wasn't sure what he was meaning to accomplish by saying something, but… it felt important, somehow, to at least have a go at expressing support. Like something a friend would do. *"God,* what?" Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes with the usual overdramatic pomp. "Just… wanted to say I'm happy for you." Greg smiled for the man's predictable reaction of horrified disgust. *"What?"* "He seems like a really nice bloke," he went on. Couldn't stop a cheeky grin - Sherlock looked absolutely mortified, which was perhaps the exact reaction Greg had secretly been hoping for. Which wasn't entirely kind, yes, but still. There'd at least been the *intent* of offering moral support. And, anyway, what were friends for if not a bit of good-natured harassment? "Get out." Cackling to himself, Greg did just that. **««** Eric shook his head as he made his way downstairs. Christ's sake, not an hour ago he'd been in a meeting with a benefactor in some posh corner office without so much as a hint of anxiety. Slipped into his usual role of *trustworthy administrator* and got the donation sorted. Just as he always did. Outgoing to a fault. Being able to keep calm in high-pressure social situations was the entire reason he was even on this trip - they'd have just stuck with email and phone if he weren't so 'uncommonly personable', as Zahida put it. She'd set up all these face-to-face meetings specifically to take advantage of his social skills. He'd gone along with it because it hadn't seemed like much bother, aside from the travel. A whole week handing off most of the boring admin work to just focus on talking to people instead? Brilliant. Sign him up. Staying with Mick for a few days had been his idea, of course. Old mate of his from Manchester who'd since relocated to London. Been glad of the chance to reconnect; he'd always liked Mick, mad bastard that he was. Eric had figured they'd catch up a bit, maybe go for a pint, and that would be the extent of non-work-related socialising for the trip. Despite having grown up in London it hadn't ever crossed his mind he might run into anyone else he'd known. Especially not anyone from *Stockwell,* of all places. Figured they'd have all been dead by now. Supposed they were, really. Apart from the one lunatic. And of course he'd gone and got swept up with that lunatic again. Fallen for the idiot as surely as he had the first time round. Harder, in fact, because he'd gone all this while thinking he was doomed to be alone. Given up on anything beyond casual flings years back, when he'd realised he kept picking fights on purpose every time a relationship got too serious. All the stupid drama he'd caused just to avoid having to get close to anyone, christ. Too terrified to risk being asked about his past. Here he was now, though. Confronted by the one bloke he knew wouldn't ask, because he already bloody knew. Well aware of all the fucked up shit Eric had been through. And whose fucked up shit Eric knew in return. Every barrier pre-broken in a distant haze of drug-fuelled conversations, waking each other from nightmares, staving off panic attacks, keeping each other stable. And that might have been a lovely bit of connection, if not for the jarring disconnect in which he now found himself. Torn between the man he thought he'd become and the boy he'd once been. Come to London on business of a confident administrator. Kept it up, mostly, even in the face of rekindling an old flame. And then some random policeman had recognised him as 'that freckled kid' and dashed the whole act to pieces. Suddenly he'd been nineteen years old again. Sick weight of nebulous dread in the pit of his stomach, oncoming panic attack, fell back to holding his breath and pressing his palms together even though he'd learnt far better coping skills over the years. Must have been painfully obvious about it, too, because Sherlock hadn't taken one look his way before he'd grabbed his hand and tugged him close to ground him like he used to. Let Eric press up against his side like a limpet even though his bloody *colleague* was right there and they must have looked stupid as hell… In a bid to distract himself he let his mind shift to wondering how Sherlock even remembered what to do. Had he just acted on autopilot, same as Eric had the other day? When he'd spotted the dissociative spell and just broke him out of it without having to think. Christ, what did that even say about the pair of them? They'd been together scarcely a month the first time. How screwed up did two boys have to be to turn their mutual support actions into lifelong habits? How unstable they'd been. How unstable they still were, apparently. A harsh blow to come to terms with. All that work putting himself back together just to find he'd only been painting over the cracks. He'd gone down to put the detergent in the shared downstairs cupboard, having bought it to replace what he'd used doing laundry. Finished that task, but then remained standing there. Lost in thought. Found himself starting to creep back into a panic state, deeply upset about it. Even more upset that his first instinct was to go back upstairs and get Sherlock to hold his hand again. No, god. Not while the policeman was still there. Already bad enough the man had recognised Eric as the trembling coward of a boy he'd once been, didn't need to drive that impression any deeper. He was a professional bloody *adult* now and he'd stay right here in the hall until he'd got himself sorted out enough to act the part. "Everything alright, dear?" Eric jumped, then internally scolded himself for being jumpy. Looked over to find Sherlock's landlady peering at him from the entrance to her flat. He smiled, sheepish. Must look an absolute pillock, just standing by the cupboard staring into space. "Ah… hullo, sorry. I'm fine. Sherlock's just finishing up a consult upstairs, figured I'd best wait down here till he's done." "Oh well that's a load of bollocks, isn't it?" Eric blinked again, gave her a bewildered smile. "... what?" "You're obviously upset about something. Have you two had a row?" "N-no…? We've not had a row. And I'm not, er... upset? I'm fine. Really." Mrs Hudson stared him down for a long, searching moment. Eric tried to look sincere. Which was absolutely stupid as he'd not been lying - there really wasn't anything the matter and he wasn't all that upset. Just a bit rattled over having had a traumatic memory brought up out of the blue, that was all. Normal to need a minute to oneself. "Right, then, in you come," she finally said, beckoning him into her flat. He gave her a baffled look. What, was she about to offer him tea? God, no thank you. Navigating social pleasantries with a stranger was the last thing he wanted right now. "I really don't-" "It wasn't a suggestion, dear." He opened his mouth to object, but Mrs Hudson gave him a stern glare and he decided just going along with things would be the least stressful path. Not as if he'd be trapped with her for long, after all - Sherlock would be down to find him soon enough. And he knew (though at the moment he rather hated the fact) that no matter how anxious he might get trying to muddle through a pleasant conversation in this state, it'd all die back down to baseline the instant Sherlock turned up again. No risk of building up a compounding bubble of stress and having a breakdown later, as so often happened back home. Reluctantly he followed her into her kitchen. She'd already set herself to retrieving a tin off a shelf by the window, which she then opened and rummaged around in. "Here we are, then!" she exclaimed. In her hand was a tightly-rolled joint and an old Zippo lighter. Eric sputtered out a shocked laugh. "What are you-?" Mrs Hudson flapped a hand at him. She'd got the joint between her lips already and lit it in one smooth motion. Clearly no amateur. "Oh hush. I've seen the photos." He shut his mouth and tried not to look too chagrined. Brilliant, yet another person knowing what a wreck he used to be. Just rub it in. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, dear. All of us were rubbish at that age." She'd taken a seat at the dining table, gesturing he do the same. When he reluctantly did so she plucked the joint from between her lips and handed it across to him. Eric didn't even bother trying to object - smell of the stuff reminded him of how much it had helped, once. And he could certainly use a bit of that relief right now. To his vague surprise the joint pulled smooth as butter and hit like a high-quality medicinal strain. Clearly the old bird had standards. "Proper gear, innit," he remarked as he passed it back. Registered his own words a split-second later and realised he was *not* going to be able to keep track of his accent whilst stoned. Christ, as if he'd not been embarrassed enough already. Well, at least Mrs Hudson was nice enough not to draw attention to it. Instead she accepted the joint and took a drag of her own before passing it back, starting up a familiar rhythm calling back to his younger days smoking with Benny. And Sherlock, a few times. Though the latter always got distracted a few puffs in and forgot to pass it back. "It is, yes. Indica strain out of Canada. Best thing I've found for the hip, you see." She patted the joint in question, which struck Eric as funny enough to get a little chuckle out of him as he passed back. Leant back in his chair and set to simply enjoying the sensation of the background hum of anxiety melting away. Hadn't realised now tense he'd got. Mrs Hudson seemed content to sit and smoke in silence, so they simply took turns sharing the joint for a bit. Eventually she stopped passing and just held it between her fingers as she settled into her chair. He met her intense study of his face with a wan smile. Stoned enough now to not be bothered by the scrutiny, thankfully, but it was still a bit weird. "Tryna read me thoughts?" Mrs Hudson gave an easy shrug. "A bit. Hoping I might guess what's got you so out of sorts. Imagine it's something to do with himself up there, hm?" "Eh… sort of," Eric admitted. Didn't seem so difficult to open up a little, now. Weed dulling his nerves the way he'd once relied on. "We ain't had a disagreement or nothin', it's more like… I dunno. Just feels like I'm that stupid kid again, 'round him. Actin' like how I used to. *Talkin'* how I used to. Not really sure how t'square all that." "Ah. Same trouble Sherlock's been having, then." Eric smiled, confused. He'd not noticed Sherlock having anywhere near the same level of concern about all this - been willing to hold Eric's hand in front of that policeman, after all. And hadn't been especially upset over John figuring out they'd been together. Really nothing off about him at all beyond the single staring spell. "He's not seemed too bothered, actually." Mrs Hudson scoffed. "And you're taking that at face value? Thought you'd have known him better than that." Eric frowned, considering. Heard a strange echo in his head of his own lecture to John the other day, about how the daft prat wouldn't ever *tell* you he minded. "S'pose I have been a bit dense," he conceded. Knew he was being vague, but he couldn't think how to put any of it to words. All the concepts swirling through his head, dulled by weed and stress. Reckoned this was the sort of woman who'd understand, though. Not be inclined to press for more. Sure enough, she gave him a warm smile and a pat on the arm. Passed over the joint as if giving him a treat for having done a good job introspecting. He accepted with a chuckle and passed it back. What a delightfully strange lady. Mrs Hudson looked up as she took the joint back, smiled sweetly as she blew out the smoke off another drag. "Hello, dear!" she called. Did a silly little wave with her free fingers. Eric turned to follow her gaze and found Sherlock stood in the doorway frowning at them. Couldn't help a sudden fond smile, which must have been much more sentimental a look than usual because Sherlock seemed to find it deeply perplexing. Or perhaps it wasn't the smile which confused him, but the strange scene he'd walked in on. "Eric, are you smoking weed with my landlady?" Eric smiled wider, leant back in his chair. "Er… I am, yeah. Did you want a hit?" Memories from years ago: that same face on a boy much younger trying to take a drag without coughing, the lunatic things he'd say whilst stoned and all the wild stories they'd swapped. Revelling in the freedom to just talk about the awful shit they'd been through without having to care about it. But then, other moments… grey-green eyes gone blankly feral, flash of panic for realising how incredibly dangerous the bloke could be if he forgot where he was, trying desperately to figure out how to bring him back without getting hurt, or worse. The fear he'd shared, once, of being nothing more than what his dad had turned him into. Their eyes met for a moment, and Eric wasn't surprised to see a similar thought process reflected back at him. Sherlock wouldn't want a hit - not now, with everything between them. Been too harried trying to reconcile all the threads of past and present, knew getting stoned would be risking a violent break with reality. "Think I'll pass," he finally said, glancing to Mrs Hudson with a vague frown as if annoyed with her for even putting him in such a position. And Eric felt his expression shift melancholy. Because, ah... *that's* what he'd not been able to put to words. How he'd forgot, for a moment, that the parts of Sherlock's past self he'd locked the furthest down weren't the childish or silly things. That the boy he'd left behind wasn't the coke-addled toff, but the *other* one - the one in the street with the blood down his face. He got to his feet and grabbed Sherlock's hand, turning to Mrs Hudson with a smile. "I'll be heading back upstairs, then, if you're alright by yourself?" The wink she gave him seemed to imply she'd be perfectly content finishing the rest of the joint on her own. **««** ## Chapter 12: And Again **««** Given the text he'd just got, John was somewhat surprised to find Crenshaw (or Eric, rather - first name basis still felt odd, but the man had insisted so he supposed he'd best make the effort) sat in one of the armchairs. He'd acquired a pair of reading glasses from somewhere and appeared to be using Sherlock's laptop to catch up on work. In his hand was a half-full mug of tea, which he'd just taken a sip of when John walked in. "Cheers," the bloke offered, tipping his mug towards him. John furrowed his brow in confusion. "What are you doing?" "Er… reviewing monthly budget reports?" the man replied, equally confused. He gestured vaguely to the laptop screen. In the reflection off his spectacles it did indeed look to be open to the stark white of a spreadsheet. "No, I mean why aren't you with Sherlock?" Eric raised a brow. "Because I've no interest whatsoever in visiting a morgue." "Oh. Well. Sherlock's just texted me," John held up his mobile to illustrate, then stowed it in his pocket as he went to fetch his coat. "Says he's found a lead and to meet up with him at King's Cross." "Alright," Eric replied blankly. "Have fun?" In any other circumstance John might have dismissed the bloke's lack of interest and moved on with his day. Now, though, he was baffled - he and Mrs Hudson had looked through the photos (and handful of videos, though none as interesting as the chatting-on-the-stairs one) and seen dozens of snapshots of a younger version of this man behaving like a regular teenaged hooligan alongside an adolescent Sherlock. Drink, drugs, mischief… and now he was, what, choosing to look at spreadsheets? Obviously John understood that normal people — those not like himself and Sherlock — would prefer not to throw themselves into dangerous situations on a regular basis. How anyone could be content living that way he'd no idea, but he could accept the fact for what it was. *This* man, however? The only person John had ever seen Sherlock treat with implicit trust? He couldn't be normal. There had to be something more to him than *spreadsheets.* "It's… an investigation," he explained, thinking perhaps Eric just didn't fully understand what they were up to. "You know- searching for clues, solving mysteries, possibly fighting dangerous criminals. You're sure you don't want to go?" Eric had begun to look rather perturbed. "Er, no thanks. That sounds awful." They stood at a stalemate for a few beats - John trying to process how a man capable of romancing Sherlock Holmes could possibly be this dull, and Eric looking like he'd quite like for John to leave already so he could get back to his budget report. A tinny burst of some classical song startled the both of them. Eric scrambled to dig out his phone, caught sight of the screen, then rolled his eyes before answering. "I'm not interested," he snapped as soon as he'd brought the device to his ear. John could just make out the distinct timbre of Sherlock's voice on the other end, though not clearly enough to catch any words. "... it doesn't matter what you want. I'm busy." A pause, another eye roll. "The 'stupid spreadsheets' controlling a dozen peoples' livelihoods, yes." He shot a flat look to John as he listened to the next bit, but then his expression quite suddenly shifted to a mix of offended and… concerned? "You've need of a bleedin' *what?"* His accent had slipped a few notches with the outburst - he was glaring at the wall now but seemed almost unsure whether to be angry or not. "Oi, no, don't y'dare leave off on that you fuckin' cu- ah, fuck's sake." He took the phone from his ear and scowled at the screen, which seemed to imply Sherlock had hung up. "Everything alright?" Eric huffed and tucked his mobile away. "Wants me to go with you. Said he has need of a *cockney translator."* John made a valiant effort to keep his expression neutral. "Ah. Well that's… certainly an ask." Eric sat for a few seconds fixing a glower on the laptop screen. Then, with an air of profound reluctance, he closed the computer, set it aside and got to his feet. He rubbed a hand down his face and seemed to take stock of his clothing - pyjamas, more or less, and Sherlock's housecoat. "Hang on a moment, I'll find some proper trousers," he grumbled as he shucked off the housecoat. John was baffled again, but didn't get a chance to ask what had brought about the abrupt change in opinion before Eric disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom. When he emerged a few minutes later he was wearing most of one of Sherlock's typical outfits, though he'd left off the button-up in favour of a t-shirt with yet another band logo. John had to do a double-take - he was forced to assume the shirt was one of Sherlock's, but trying to imagine him buying *that…* Eric had stopped off to set his tea mug in the sink, then strode over to grab his peacoat from the hook. As he did so he seemed to realise John was giving his attire a very odd look and smiled down at the shirt. "It's great, right? He's got loads of these old band shirts. Said he used to wear 'em to briefings to annoy people." "Is that… Judas Priest?" "Yeah!" Eric grinned, apparently pleased John had recognised the design. "Are you a fan?" "Ah, sure. On occasion." In truth John wasn't much of a casual music-listening sort of person, but he'd been known to throw on a pair of headphones during downtime while on tour. Mainly to drown out a range of unpleasant background noises. Louder the better, in that regard, so he'd at one point taken to cycling through various rock and metal CDs. Wasn't sure he'd appreciate hearing any of that these days, though. Not least for the mental associations he'd inadvertently created. His wrong-footedness must have been obvious, because Eric gave him a lopsided smile as they left the flat. "I just want you to know I continue to find it absolutely hilarious how boring you think he is." "I definitely don't think he's boring." Fought the urge to point out that he'd just been thinking Eric, in fact, was the boring one. Bit rude. A beat later though he realised the man couldn't possibly be the sort of person who cared about politeness. "Actually, just now, with the spreadsheets and all, I'd been thinking how strange it is that *you're* quite boring." Eric raised a brow at him, amused. "Sorry to disappoint, mate." "I'm just saying it's odd," John went on without really knowing why - felt awkward, he supposed, having seen all those photos the other day. Wanted to fill the space between them with idle surface chatter to avoid thinking too deeply on the darker implications. And also, one had to admit, to avoid giving in to the growing temptation of asking Eric a load of invasive questions. Who the weasel-faced man was, or where the little trance-dispelling ritual had come from. How he and Sherlock had met and what led them to separate. Stick to surface-level topics instead, he'd decided. Build up a bit of trust. "If I had to pick a personality type I thought Sherlock would go for, it wouldn't be, well…" "Someone's very dull boss?" Eric supplied when John trailed off. "That, yeah." Eric smiled sidelong, a sudden odd spark of mischief in his eye. When he spoke he'd switched from his usual laid-back clip to a fairly decent mimic of Sherlock's accent, adding enough of a cold spin to make himself sound like the villian in some spy film. "Have you considered the possibility that I'm coming off that way intentionally?" The shift in tone was jarring. Despite himself John shot the man an alarmed look, struck by the sudden absurd thought that they'd been fooled by some criminal mastermind playing a role to get close to Sherlock. Quickly realised that made no sense. The two of them had been sharing a *bed,* for god's sake - surely Sherlock would've caught on to anything nefarious by now. "How do you mean?" he nonetheless found himself asking, wary. All he got in answer was a cheeky wink, before the man turned attention to his mobile screen. Casual as anything. John stared flabbergasted for a few beats before it finally clicked. Bloke was messing with him. "Oh god. You're as manipulative as he is." Eric was scrolling through some sort of document on his phone, and hardly looked up as he replied with a bland, "I'll take that to mean he's improved his social skills." They'd come upon the Tube station now, so John hadn't much chance to reply until they'd got to the platform. And at that point Eric beat him to the punch by speaking first. "I would like to note that I have, actually, put down my spreadsheets to go off on this little adventure with you. So I can't be *that* dull," he remarked. He'd finally slipped his mobile back in his pocket after appearing to have been checking his email. "Fair enough," John conceded. "What changed your mind on that, if you don't mind my asking?" Eric gave him a vaguely confused look. "He said something completely stupid." He said this in a tone as if it should have been obvious how this was related, but of course John had no idea what the connection should be and conveyed this by his expression. "He doesn't do that with you?" Eric asked, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It's, er… I guess it's that I know he must have a good reason for asking me to come, because he's given me a very stupid reason instead. If that makes any sense." "Um… no, that doesn't really make sense at all." Eric sighed to himself. "Yeah, alright, it doesn't. Entirely possible I'm just gullible, then." The train arrived, and the ensuing short ride to King's Cross was spent in the usual state of polite silence reserved for public transport. Eric had returned to his mobile and was busy with emails again. He did that rather a lot, John had noticed - always engaged in some sort of work-related administrative task. Made sense; bloke was the head of a school, after all. Such diligence just seemed like yet another odd trait to pair with Sherlock's general state of irresponsible chaos. Soon enough they got to their destination. John started to look about for the familiar greatcoat as they emerged into the square. A squawk of surprise behind him nearly made him whip out his firearm right there in public. Thankfully he spun round to assess first - found Eric giving a very disgruntled look to Sherlock, who'd somehow appeared directly beside him. "Took you long enough." "Excuse me?" Eric snapped, which rather ruined Sherlock's attempt to seem cavalier. He blinked and looked to his not-exactly-boyfriend. "What?" "Don't drag me out here, grab my arse and just say 'took you long enough', christ." As he spoke Eric began to stalk off in the direction Sherlock seemed to have appeared from, forcing the both of them to have to jog a bit to catch up. "I just thought it would be a cool line," Sherlock explained as he fell into step with his not-partner, causing John to snort to himself behind them. Nice to hear the overdramatic lunatic admit to such a thing for once. "Guess it was, a bit. Could've said it without giving me a heart attack, though." "Not my fault you weren't paying attention." Eric took a hand from his pocket and gently shoved the man's head to the side. Sherlock didn't react to the shove aside from giving his hair a quick shake to resettle it. Would have been bizarre had John not spent the past few days watching the two of them fall to casual contact on a near-constant basis. By this point they'd become almost literally inseparable; never more than a foot or two apart unless one or the other was away on business. A long-standing habit, apparently - a detail Mrs Hudson pointed out in the photos they'd looked through together. How in every single scene where the boys appeared together they were always touching, usually pressed right up alongside one another. This held even in pictures where they were only seen in the background, which would imply the photographer hadn't just been after favoured shots. Seemed they'd just been *that* sort of teenaged couple. And were that sort of adult couple as well, evidently. Because of course the two men had now fallen into close enough proximity to be brushing shoulders as they walked. John wondered if they even realised they were doing it. "So were you meaning to actually explain what's going on?" Eric asked, interrupting John's pondering. "Or is this some stupid mystery game?" "Uh… it's a stupid mystery game," Sherlock replied offhandedly. Eric must have given him a look (John was a few steps behind the two of them, not having the benefit of matched leg length) because he elaborated with, "Sort of. You'll see." They seemed to be heading for a side street, which they turned down, and then hooked another turn into an alley. John spotted the man tagging a wall down the other end of it and tensed before realising it was just one of Sherlock's street contacts - the vandal kid who knew all the kinds of paint. Couldn't imagine what on Earth they needed *him* for. "Piss off, you f- oh! Hey. Back already?" Sherlock stopped, looking to Eric, and swept an arm grandly at the vandal as if presenting him. Eric gave him a puzzled look. Shifted focus back to the younger man, who was scrutinising him in return. John came up on Sherlock's other side just as the tagger barked out a sharp laugh of recognition. "Holy fucking shit! Is that Eric?" "What… Rhys!?" Eric exclaimed. He gave Sherlock a quick shove to the side of the arm, as if to say *'you sly bastard',* then jogged up to meet the other bloke halfway down the alley where the two of them met with a crushing hug and a rush of fast-paced chatter. John could hardly make out individual words for how thick both their accents had gone. He glanced over to Sherlock. Found the man watching on with a quiet smile. "You've known that tagger since you were nineteen?" John asked, guessing at what was going on here. "Twenty," Sherlock corrected. He offered no further explanation, but then none was really needed. Sherlock hadn't, it seemed, always been quite so alone as he insisted. "Another bloke who doesn't count as a 'friend', then?" Sherlock snorted in amusement. "Rhys? God, no. More like a persistent menace." "Eric seems happy enough to see him." John punctuated this by nodding down the alley, where the young man was showing Eric the graffiti he'd been working on. "Yes, well Eric actually made an effort to play mentor to the little delinquent. I was just after free labour." John gave him the disgruntled look he'd no doubt been fishing for, which Sherlock met with a bland stare. "I was purifying drugs. We worked for a distribution ring. Rhys was a fourteen year-old runaway I coerced into playing lab assistant in exchange for a warm place to sleep." Ah. Well. That clarified some things. John could tell Sherlock was trying to make himself out to be some sort of soulless ghoul, as he was occasionally wont to do. But his attempt fell rather flat given he appeared to have gone to significant effort to ensure Eric got a chance to reunite with the boy. Wouldn't do much good to call attention to such things, though. Decided getting back to the matter at hand would be a better use of time. "Were you serious about having found a lead?" "Yep." Sherlock flipped a plastic baggie out of his pocket and handed it to John without looking. "Shard of red ceramic embedded in the left palm. Victim's workplace is just down the road there. Texted you on the way and then happened to run into Rhys." As he spoke Sherlock had retrieved his mobile and sent a text. Eric down the other end of the alley took his own phone out his pocket, looked at it, then flipped them a little wave and a smile. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket and turned on his heel to stride off with John in tow. "Eric's not coming with?" John asked, glancing back over his shoulder. "Don't think he's really the 'investigation' sort." John chuckled. "Can't imagine what the two of you did to pass the time, then." "Drugs, mainly." "Ah. Walked right into that one." "You really did." They walked a few minutes in companionable silence. John was happy enough with this - off on another adventure. Though by a sidelong glance he noticed Sherlock seemed a bit ruminative. Understandable. An entire chunk of the bloke's past had encroached upon his present overnight. Couldn't be an easy thing to process. At least he seemed markedly calmer than his usual response to such things. Effect of getting laid, maybe? Oh god, he'd just been joking to himself but now he'd gone and pictured it again. Been trying to avoid the topic ever since overhearing their conversation that first morning. Wasn't the act itself that bothered him - lord knew he'd seen plenty enough in the military to get used to the idea. It was just the sheer mental strain of trying to imagine how intimacy could possibly work between a murder-obsessed lunatic and the sort of bloke who answered emails on the Tube. The mind boggled. Out of nowhere Sherlock spoke again. "Actually, that's not quite true." John blinked from his uncomfortable thoughts. "Sorry?" "What we did to pass the time. It wasn't always drugs. We also played video games, watched stupid films, listened to whatever strange music we found on the internet. He taught me guitar and I taught him chemistry. It was… fun. For the most part." John hesitated, unsure how to respond to this. Finally he gave up and just went for the obvious. "Sounds like you were happy." The rare sliver of openness vanished again as Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. It was a drugs den, we were all just waiting to die." John stared into the middle distance - old memories bubbled up. Afghanistan, the frigid moonlit night, mortars blazing overhead and the ringing crack of gunfire and he and his mates howling with laughter over a morbid joke. "Happiest I've ever been was when I was being shot at in a war zone." He felt eyes on him, and looked over to meet Sherlock's questioning gaze. Squared his shoulders and set his jaw against the discomfort of admitting such a sentiment. Daring the other man to call attention. Sherlock didn't, though. Instead he took up a thoughtful, faraway look and turned his focus back ahead. "The best and worst memories of your life, all crammed together into one brief stretch of chaos?" A short silence as John contemplated what he was actually asking - whether they'd more in common than they'd realised. If the experiences of a soldier on a tour of duty might resemble, however distantly, those of a burnout junkie caught up in the city's criminal underworld. Perhaps they'd both been chasing that same intoxicating rush of feeling alive. "Yeah," he decided. "Think that about sums it up." **««** ## Chapter 13: Second Epilogue **««** Molly smiled politely after John as the man bustled off. He'd not had time for more than a quick hello; had to get a few last-minute things sorted with the wedding party, apparently. This was fine, of course, but it did leave her standing rather awkwardly alone in the hall. Really wished she and her boyfriend hadn't had a falling-out so near to this. Not that she wanted to get back together, obviously. Bastard could go die for all she cared. Would've been nice to have a date, though - attending a wedding alone was just depressing. Nice of John to invite her, of course. Considering they'd rather dropped out of contact whilst Sherlock had been dead and all. Not seen *him* yet either. The Great Detective, back from the grave. As she ventured down the hall she spotted a few people milling about, scattered conversations. No one she knew. Likely because she'd been so nervous about arriving late that she'd overcompensated the other way and got there ridiculously early. Only guests arrived already seemed to be the wedding party and their plus-ones. Well, best find somewhere to wait. Not like she wasn't used to keeping herself company. Headed towards what she thought was likely the reception hall, though of course the unfamiliar building got her turned around quite quickly. She'd been so distracted trying to understand the layout that she failed to watch where she was walking - craned her neck to look down a side hall, and then next thing she knew she'd collided mid-stride with a man coming from the other direction. "Whoa, hullo there! Sorry!" he exclaimed as he grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep the both of them upright. Bloke was so much taller he'd very nearly bowled her over. "Oh my god, sorry! I'm fine, sorry, I wasn't looking where I…" She trailed off as she finally caught a good look at him. Oh god, this was the most handsome man she'd ever seen in her life. Alright, that was an exaggeration. Definitely. Probably. But in any case he *was* quite striking. Tall, slim, with warm brown eyes, sandy brown hair and short beard. At their current close proximity she could see a scattering of faded freckles dusted over his nose and cheeks, which bunched up as he smiled apologetically. The hands on her biceps suddenly felt like they were radiating tingling heat down her arms. Couldn't help thinking of stories she'd read - meeting the man of your dreams at a friend's wedding. Whirlwind romance and living happily ever after. "H-hello!" she stammered. Cleared her throat. Hoped she wasn't blushing. "You're alright, yeah? Sorry again, I was looking for someone I'd thought went down this way," the man replied as he gave her a little pat on the arm before letting go and taking a step back to give her some space. Molly bit her lip and cast about for something else to say, trying not to look too obviously smitten. Luckily the man didn't seem to be paying her much mind - he'd leant sideways to see past her down the hall, then huffed a sigh as he apparently didn't spot his target. "Yeah, right, he's gone. S'pose I shoulda expected that," he muttered to himself. His accent was difficult to place. Estuary, mainly, but his muttering sounded almost Cockney. Molly wondered who he was here for. Belatedly it occurred to her that she could just ask. "Er, are you here for the bride or the groom?" He quirked a brow down at her as if he found this an odd question, and in a flash of anxiety she rushed to explain herself. "Sorry, I mean, just- I've not met you before, so I wanted to know, um-" The man chuckled and gestured they should head into a nearby seating area, which she now saw was just a bit down the hall in the direction he'd come from. She nodded. "Groom, I guess," the man said as they set off. "You guess?" "Well, I mean, I wouldn't exactly say I'm on great terms with the bloke at the moment. More just here as a plus-one. And live music, I suppose, but mainly 'cause playing at the reception seemed like a lot less bother than coming up with an actual wedding gift." "Music?" Molly repeated curiously. "I thought Sherlock would be doing that." The man seemed to perk up at the name. "Oh! You know Sherlock?" Molly shrugged. She'd *known* Sherlock. Hadn't really got a chance to reconnect since he'd returned. "Used to," she admitted. "Haven't seen much of him since he, er… stopped being dead." The man's smile turned slightly apologetic, which was perhaps odd, but Molly was too busy thinking how nice his smile was to put much thought towards it. "Ah, yeah… been a bit of a shut-in, hasn't he?" The man shook his head, sighing. They'd come upon an open table and sat down. Molly hadn't yet spotted anyone she knew besides John off at the far end, who just flipped them a little wave before vanishing through another door. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, of course. "Mightn't even show today, I imagine. With how reclusive he's been," Molly remarked with a bit of an embarrassing sulk to her voice. Mostly because she'd have *loved* to skip this. Absolutely would have, if she'd not been so riddled with social anxiety over the idea of having to ring John up and cancel. Stung that Sherlock could so easily get away with such behaviour. For some reason the man sniggered to himself. Molly frowned at him. What? She'd not said anything funny. "What?" "Sorry, sorry," the man said, shaking his head. The casual way he'd stretched out his legs with the ankles crossed and leant back in his chair distracted Molly rather badly, though she tried to keep hold of the frown. "Just, literally had that conversation this morning, about whether he could get away with ducking out. Decided it'd be a waste of a tuxedo fitting." Molly tilted her head, confused - was he saying he'd been speaking to *Sherlock* about this? Or someone else? Before she could think much further the man suddenly gave himself a light smack to the forehead. "Ah, speaking of rude arseholes! We've been going without names this whole time!" He held his hand out towards her with an apologetic smile. "Eric, lovely to meet you." "Oh! Er, Molly," she replied, taking his warm, calloused hand. Definitely blushing like mad. Wasn't sure if she hoped he wouldn't notice or hoped he *would* and perhaps reciprocate. No trace of such in his expression, though. Just a friendly smile as he tucked his hand back into his pocket. Speaking of hands, though… rough patches on his fingers. Molly absently rubbed her own fingers together, confirming the pattern she'd felt. "You play a stringed instrument," she concluded aloud. Winced to herself, because she really could have tried to work that in more naturally. Eric didn't seem to mind the bluntness, though. In fact he seemed oddly delighted. "Hah, yeah! Got me. The calluses?" Molly nodded. "I see those a lot on cadavers. Erm, in the morgue, I mean. B-because I work there. Autopsies." Oh lovely, Molly. Just great. Bring up your creepy job right off the bat, that'll go over a treat. She tried to keep the cringe off her face, but Eric didn't seem put off. He just kept up his friendly smile and the laid-back posture and moved right along like she'd not just brought up the most unpleasant topic imaginable. "Really! Never met anyone in that line of work before, surprisingly enough. What's your favourite part of the job?" Molly blinked. Not exactly the way she was used to this conversation proceeding. Usually people were more… unsettled. It was a thoughtful question, though. Not one she recalled having been asked before. She paused to consider, then hesitantly answered. "Erm… I like the puzzle of it, I think? It's… it's sort of like a jigsaw, you know, only you're taking it apart before you put it back together, and no two bodies are ever the same." She'd expected Eric's smile to shift, perhaps go somewhat forced, but if anything it only seemed to grow more warm. God, she really was in danger of becoming obsessed with this bloke. "Wonderful you can do that, help bring closure to folks and be able to enjoy the work while you do." Molly smiled, flattered - certainly never got a response like *that* , good lord. Before she could collect herself to reply, though, a deep voice interrupted them. "Eric!" Both Molly and the man in question looked up as Sherlock strode their way, having appeared from a door leading outside. He too was dressed in a tux, of course, and wore it every bit as well as Molly had imagined he would. Eric, though, had by this point largely usurped her fancy, so she quickly shifted her gaze back to him. He'd not moved from his laid-back, confidently attractive position - in fact he'd now made himself even *more* attractive by flipping a casual little wave and a wink over to Sherlock, which came off very dashing. Like the plucky male lead in a romance. Sherlock scowled at him as he walked up. "Where were you? I said keep up." "And I said I'm not running in dress shoes. Guessing you didn't catch that bit," Eric replied with a shrug. "Met this lovely young lady instead. I think you two know each other?" Molly tried not to do the meek little schoolgirl smile as he gestured towards her, but knew she'd probably failed. Sherlock seemed to finally take notice of her and looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Oh… hello, Molly." "Sherlock," she replied with a coolness to her voice. Definitely not pleased he'd been keeping away, especially after involving her as much as he had prior to dying. Eric glanced between them, raised a brow, then tilted his head to look up at Sherlock. "Perhaps a bit presumptuous, but I imagine she's annoyed you've been such a recluse." Sherlock seemed to wince. "Oh, ah… of course. I've been…" Suddenly his bearing loosened, and he shrugged with an oddly silly, helpless expression. "Well, turns out coming back from the dead is just a *complete* logistical nightmare. Mountains of paperwork. No time for much else. Terribly sorry." For some reason Eric looked irritated by this. He huffed a breath that wasn't quite a sigh and looked to Molly with that warm smile again, though now with a touch of something like resignation. "Best you'll likely get, I'm afraid." Sherlock looked affronted. "What? That was a perfectly legitimate apology. I *literally* said the word 'sorry'." Despite residual bitterness, Molly let out a tiny laugh. Couldn't help it - she'd missed having this overdramatic enigma of a man in her life. Reclusive or no, she was glad he'd come back. Sherlock gave her a faint, but genuine, smile, then looked back to Eric. "Didn't matter you fell behind anyway, he managed to slip pursuit." "Good on him," Eric replied blandly. "Still not sure why exactly you felt a need to try to chase the man down." Sherlock huffed. "I told you already, he was acting suspiciously." "And you couldn't just let your brother's security team handle it because…?" "They've also been acting suspiciously. I think they're hiding something." Sherlock seemed to be growing ever more tense as he spoke, gaze darting about as if scanning for threats, and had now turned a dark frown off through the door he'd just come from. Eric looked up at him with a concerned, vaguely exasperated look. With a small sigh he hauled himself up to his feet. He touched Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention, then, bizarrely, placed both hands to either side of the man's face as if to force him to hold eye contact. Even more bizarrely, Sherlock seemed to take no issue with this, despite Molly distinctly recalling his having told her many times over the years that he hated being touched. "They're not hiding anything. They've just started to get a bit short with you because you keep going on about how they're all incompetent," Eric said gently. "They are! It's been a parade of *blatant* lapses in vigilance, overlooking multiple risk vectors which should have-" Sherlock's voice had begun to go a touch manic, like it used to do back before he'd died, when he'd got carried away explaining some complicated case. Before he could devolve into full-on crazed ranting, however, Eric cut him off. By kissing him. On the lips. Molly's heart stopped cold in her chest. "You're not on duty, love," Eric was saying as he drew away. "Just try to calm down and let the nice men with guns do their jobs, yeah?" Sherlock seemed to deflate as some of the tension left his shoulders. "... fine." Molly, meanwhile, sat frozen in shock. Just a quick peck, that's all it had been, but she very suddenly realised that every odd thing Eric had said to her over the past few minutes made perfect sense within the context of… oh, god. "Y-you're gay!?" she blurted out, then covered her mouth in horror. Sherlock just tilted his head to shoot her a baffled frown. The man he was apparently *dating,* as insane as that sounded in her head, dropped his arms as he turned a vaguely apologetic smile her way. One of his hands went back to his pocket, and the other shifted to rest around Sherlock's waist in a casual side-hug. In her current mental state it almost felt like mockery. "Yes? I told you that ages ago," Sherlock replied, sounding a bit disgruntled. "No you didn't!" Fairly sure she would've remembered being told something like *that,* for god's sake. Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Well, I strongly implied it at least." "When!?" "I pointed out a man's underwear," Sherlock countered indignantly. "Why would I have noticed that?" "Because you notice everything!" Molly objected. "You… you just let me keep flirting with you!? For *years?"* Eric's expression had shifted in the direction of incredibly amused as he failed to hold back a snigger. Sherlock glanced over with frown. "What the hell are you laughing about?" "I'm not laughing," Eric said through a poorly-stifled laugh. He shook his head, managing to sober a bit, and stepped away from Sherlock to take a seat once more in front of Molly. This time he took up an unfairly suave sort of casual posture, sat sideways on the chair so as to be facing her. She tried to glare - this was no laughing matter, thank you. But something in the combination of his bearing and facial expression made outrage strangely difficult to maintain. "Awful way to find out someone you'd fancied doesn't feel the same way, didn't mean to put that on you," Eric's voice had shifted to a particular firm yet gentle tone which somehow made her feel as if she'd been transported back to primary school. "For what it's worth I doubt he meant to lead you on. More likely he just didn't know how to bring it up without hurting your feelings." Molly frowned at him, then up at Sherlock, who simply gave a small, helpless shrug. To his credit, he did look genuinely sorry. And, as she looked back to Eric, she found his amusement had transformed into a sincere, almost mesmerising aura of kindness. Dimly she wondered how on Earth someone so supernaturally friendly had managed to pair up with the rudest man she'd ever met. "I was… starting to fancy you as well," she heard herself admit miserably. Should've been mortifying, making such a confession to a near-stranger. But some unidentifiable aspect of the man's demeanour made it feel safe, somehow. Abruptly Eric smirked, and the instant he did so the strange paternal aura seemed to snap straight over to playfulness - he leant back in his seat and flashed her a roguish wink. "Ah, well, that'll be my devilish charm." "Ugh. Don't be smarmy," Sherlock cut in, rolling his eyes. Eric turned to him with a dramatic little flourish reminiscent of one of Sherlock's sillier mannerisms. "I'm channelling my inner James Bond! Goes with the tux, yeah?" "You haven't got an inner James Bond. You're a schoolteacher in a bowtie." Molly turned a small, if still somewhat baffled smile for their banter. Expected the two of them would leave now, then. Go off somewhere together away from her and her terrible, awkward company. But to her surprise Sherlock pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with them. He leant his chin on one hand and gave her a flat look as his partner sniggered beside him. "Sorry you had to meet him like this. And… that I've not made more of an effort to reach out. Just really haven't been in the mood for socialising." "Oh, look at that!" Eric exclaimed, grinning at her. "You got a proper apology after all! What an honour." Without shifting his gaze Sherlock reached out and gave the man a light shove as if perhaps to push him off his chair and out of sight. Eric just laughed, then sobered somewhat as he shifted to both sit more properly forward and closer to his partner. In doing so he brushed a light touch on Sherlock's arm, shot him a questioning look, got a tiny shrug in response. Molly watched the exchange and felt her heart sink even further. She'd done enough wistful people-watching to know what that level of silent communication meant - these two had been together *ages.* Years, at minimum. Which meant she'd very likely been chasing after Sherlock whilst he was already in a relationship. And he'd felt too awkward to say a thing to try to stop her. What a nightmare. Beyond her mortified discomfort, though, she did have to admit it was… rather nice to see. She'd never given much thought to how stiffly guarded Sherlock tended to be around people - supposed she'd always chalked it up to personality. Just another facet of that otherworldly aura of his she'd once found so enticing. Sat next to this unassuming freckled bloke, though, he seemed almost… normal? Like a man who happened to be a brilliant detective, not the other way around. As the two continued to engage in some unvoiced conversation, Molly found herself studying Sherlock's face. Taking proper stock of the changes there for the first time since his return. Saw the lines grown deeper than a scant few years should have etched, the scattered strands of white amongst dark curls. "What exactly have you been up to all this time?" she asked quietly. Sherlock blinked, flashed her a grim smile. "Hm? Oh, you know. Tying up loose ends. Few odd jobs here and there." "Just a bit of a lark," Eric added in a low voice. His shift in demeanour seemed to suggest quite a lot more depth to the topic. And danger, if the note of anxiety was anything to go by. Molly could make a guess at things unsaid - spy work, most likely. The deadly serious sort. Explained why he'd vanished without a trace and reappeared just as suddenly. She'd always been vaguely aware Sherlock was involved with military intelligence, of course. Something adjacent to his brother's job. Hadn't ever known details, though. Hadn't *wanted* to know. By the time she'd met him she'd already worked enough classified cases to understand some questions were best left unanswered. Blowing out a determined breath, she set her gaze on the tabletop and nodded to herself. Right, then. Clearly Sherlock hadn't just abandoned them all for convenience as she'd secretly feared, his partner seemed a lovely bloke, they'd both been kind enough to stay and chat instead of leaving her to fumble through small talk with strangers - well worth making an effort to be sociable. No more of this painfully awkward nonsense. Raising her eyes, she found Eric watching her with a bemused little smile, whilst Sherlock seemed to have got distracted by something off across the room. "So, erm… you're a schoolteacher?" she asked of Eric, hating how she still hesitated despite all effort not to. Come on, Molly. Just chat like a normal person, you can do this. Eric didn't seem to pay her pause any mind. Instead he chuckled warmly. "Nah, not really. He just said that to be funny." He gestured to Sherlock, who was still looking elsewhere. "I have technically got a teaching licence, but I've been admin most of my career." "Admin?" "He's that boring headmaster everyone thinks lives at the school," Sherlock clarified. He'd turned back round and slouched down in his seat as if possessed by the spirit of a sullen teenager. "I'm a *comfortingly predictable* special program director, not a headmaster, and unfortunately none of the kids think I live at the school now because *somehow* they all found out I've shacked up with a famous detective." He said this pointedly to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. "Not about to lie to a load of children just to keep up your charade of being dull." "Yeah well there was nothing stopping you waiting in the office like I'd asked." Molly couldn't help another small laugh. Alright, maybe she could accept it wasn't quite so awful she'd crashed and burned on that doomed romantic endeavour. At least she'd managed to keep Sherlock as a friend, and perhaps even had a shot at gaining another. "Sherlock, there you are!" a voice cut in, and Molly glanced over to find John had appeared through one of the side doors. "What are you doing all the way out here? You're meant to be with the rest of the wedding party!" Sherlock furrowed his brow as John strode up. "You never told me where to go." "He did, love," Eric pointed out blandly. "Several times." "Oh." Sherlock gave Eric a quick glance, then looked to John with an oddly daft little smile as he stood up. "Well, then, obviously I was just about to head that direction." "Obviously," John intoned. He shot a rather stilted nod towards Eric, who'd not moved beyond shifting his hands to his trouser pockets and leaning back in his chair again. His only response to John's nod was an unimpressed stare. Molly glanced back and forth between them, and noticed Sherlock doing the same. "You two aren't still having a row?" he asked in exasperation. "Course not," John said with an easy shrug. "Wouldn't have a row with a wedding guest." "Can't have a row anyway wit' nothin' left to discuss," Eric added, accent seeming to drop several notches along with his tone. "Oh for god's- you're both acting like children," Sherlock snapped at him. Then, seeing John's rigid bearing and darkening scowl, made a frustrated noise and grabbed the man's upper arm to drag him off. Eric's anger seemed to dissolve the instant they were out of sight. He huffed a small sigh, shook his head as if to clear it, then smiled over at Molly. "So! How'd you and Sherlock meet?" She smiled back. Perhaps this wedding wouldn't be so depressing after all. **««** # Constant At first it's just good sense. A difficult case, been awake for two and a half days straight. He's *so bloody tired* but there's no time to sleep. No, *lives* are at stake and if he succumbs to human weakness, caves to the demands of his pathetic husk of flesh and bones, then those children will die. Not enough nicotine in the world to keep him alert at this point, and he's become so tolerant to caffeine over the years the chemical might as well be inert. But then this is exactly what he keeps the emergency supply around for, isn't it? *For emergencies.* And it works. The case gets solved, the children survive, everyone congratulates him on a job well done. Awed by his intellect once again, even John's impressed. *I just don't know how you do it, Sherlock. I honestly don't. I can barely string a sentence together after one night without sleep, let alone bust up a human trafficking ring.* Sherlock doesn't tell his flatmate the truth of how he'd managed such a feat. Not because he's ashamed, though, because he isn't in the slightest - he'd simply done what had been necessary, nothing more. It's just that it's really none of John's business. The doctor would only get upset and Sherlock doesn't feel like dealing with the disapproval, the lectures, the *concern.* And besides which it won't matter in the long run, because this had just been a one-off. An emergency dose, to solve an emergency, and that's it. There's no reason to fret over the incident. But then soon enough the next case rolls around. And this time he's only been awake for about thirty hours before a glance at the fireplace - at his secret supply hidden behind the brickwork - makes him pause to consider his options. The impulse blossoming through his mind is an absolutely terrible idea, he knows that all too well. Shouldn't even be thinking about it. But then again... the faster he deduces who the murderer is the less chance that another victim will emerge. And that's the ultimate point, isn't it? Not letting anyone else die? Plus isn't John always nagging him about *caring?* Well, he reasons, *this* is how he cares - getting things done quickly and efficiently so that no one else will suffer. Makes perfect sense really. And besides, he reminds himself as he digs out the old, familiar black case containing a phial and needles... it's only the once. That case takes longer than he'd expected. By his dozenth *only the once* (necessary, now, as he can't afford to let himself crash in the middle of work) he's begun to accept the fact that he's made a rather poor decision. But even then the thought doesn't really bother him - it's just so much easier this way. Everything calm, thoughts falling in perfect logical symmetry and the world muted to such a comfortable level of stillness around him. It's enough to make him wonder why he ever wanted to quit in the first place. Then the case gets solved, the impetus for keeping himself buzzed erased. Now he has no excuse for not letting the drugs wear off. He's not some pathetic junkie anymore, so he does as he rightly should and dutifully puts everything away with nary a twinge of apprehension for what he knows will happen next. Withdrawal, of course, but it won't be so bad. He's been through it so many times before, after all, always came out alright in the end... it'll be fine. Soon enough he's snapping at John through a vicious migraine, snarls at Mrs. Hudson, resists the urge to punch a hole through the drywall as he retreats to his bedroom to curl up under the duvet in misery. And *good god*, now he remembers with horrible, agonising clarity - *this* is why he'd quit. Because his brain feels like it's about to melt out through his ears and the entire world is clouded by a fog of exhausted, neverending piercing torment. *Fuck* cocaine and fuck *every single stupid neuron* involved in making the *idiotic* decision to use it again. He's never ever going back on the stuff as long as he lives. But even as he thinks that he knows it's an empty promise. He'll forget the pain, forget the haze of despondency and anger and guilt. Hell, by tomorrow morning he'll be mostly back to normal, if perhaps a bit tired. Caffeine and a nicotine patch to wake up, then, and the combination of dopagenic stimulants will erase all memory of this torture. His legal alternatives will mute the unpleasant side-effects of harsher chemicals while at the same time strengthening, *sharpening* his recollection of the high. And eventually it won't seem like a bad idea anymore. Withdrawal will fade away until it's just a nebulous reminder of *something unpleasant*, nowhere near the level it needs to be to put him off doing it again. He knows this because it's happened before. Because it happens *every single time.* And the fact that he can so accurately predict his own future stupidity is, quite frankly, bloody depressing. Even more so when it inevitably comes true. This time there's not even a case. He's just bored. Bored bored *bored* and John's out at the clinic, Mrs. Hudson's off visiting her sister, Lestrade's on holiday, Mycroft's busy doing *something* and hasn't taken kindly to being texted over and over again in hopes of annoying the fat git into coming up with some fake goose chase of an investigation to make it stop. *('Sherlock if you message me one more time I will disconnect your mobile and internet for a fortnight. - MH')* Sherlock sits curled up in his armchair and wonders what on earth makes them all think that leaving him alone in the flat for an entire day is in any way a good idea. But then he quickly reminds himself that he's a *bloody adult* and he doesn't need supervision. Except he sort of does, really. Because there's absolutely nothing at all to do and lacking any decent distraction he finds he's been staring at the loose brick in the fireplace for a good twenty minutes now. Despite his own better judgement he begins to weigh the pros and cons. Withdrawal will be uncomfortable, yes, but it's not *that* bad. And when compared with the blissful serenity he knows will come of using... well, it's hardly much of a trade-off, now is it? He'd be focussed enough to start a new chemistry experiment, maybe, or even clean the flat. (Well alright, probably not *clean* the flat, but perhaps tidy up a bit. John would appreciate the attempt regardless.) Doesn't even have to be a whole dose - just a few milligrams. A tiny amount. Enough to supplement the nicotine, nothing beyond that. It occurs to him some forty minutes later that he is an absolute pushover when it comes to convincing himself to do stupid things. Those arguments had been bloody moronic. And yet despite the inanity here he is... quite happily high, actually, so maybe he doesn't mind all that much. But he *will* mind. Later, when he's crashing. He knows that. Knows he'll mind quite a lot really. Then he'll be absolutely furious with himself. It's interesting how he can predict such things even now, while verging on being completely shitfaced, and how at the moment it all just seems sort of funny. Later it won't - he *knows* it won't. But right now it's amusing. It's *hilarious.* Chemicals do such strange things to the brain. He chuckles to himself and adds another drop of potassium ferrocyanide to the mixture in the beaker on the kitchen counter. Well, whatever. He's got a good hour or so before it'll start bothering him - might as well make the best of his high while it lasts. Another hour passes, and since the first dose really hadn't been very much he decides it'll be fine to do another hit. He's still in the middle of his experiment anyway, and the growing headache had been too distracting to continue handling the chemicals safely. Plus John won't be home until the morning - the man had called some twenty minutes ago to say he was staying over at his current girlfriend's place. (The pudgy one with the big nose, if memory serves.) Sherlock had cheerfully told his flatmate to have a lovely evening and gone back to his chemistry setup. Half a dozen iterations of *just one more hour, then I'll let it wear off* creep by before he realises it's now past midnight and he's managed to incrementally nudge himself into quite the impressive cocaine high. The crash is going to be absolutely horrific. But maybe it won't be quite so bad if he instead titrates off. Halve the next dose, quarter the second... then instead of crashing he'll come down in stages. It seems like an excellent plan. Which truthfully doesn't mean all that much because *everything* seems like an excellent plan right now. *And that,* he reminds himself in a tone of thought which should have been stern but which comes out more like giddy amusement, *is exactly how cocaine works.* It makes the world silly, free of all worries, consequences lose meaning until they're absolutely pathetic and nothing in the entire universe is outside his control. But still underneath it all is a tiny voice screaming through the ice - *you idiot, none of this confidence is real, it's just the chemicals! Everything is going to go to absolute* shit *in a few hours and it's all your bloody fault!* It's so easy to drown out the yelling though; so simple to just ignore it and go on with whatever he's doing. Which... at the moment is *nothing?* Oh, he'd finished his experiment. Predicted results, calculated data, recorded it on the website. Hadn't even noticed. Well, maybe he'll go for a walk then. Wandering the streets of London in the middle of the night? Brilliant, sounds like fun. By the time he returns to the flat it's been well over six hours and he's exhausted. John is home, sitting in his armchair reading the paper, not dressed for work, must be his day off, Sherlock doesn't care. The entire world's gone back to being awful and he just wants to sleep forever. "Out on a case?" John asks, looking up from the news as Sherlock walks into the sitting room. Sherlock grimaces at the sunlight filtering through the window and rubs at his forehead, trying to ease a migraine he knows won't go away until he either sleeps or does another hit of coke. John is here, though, rendering the second option infeasible. Which really begs the question of why he'd even bothered coming into the sitting room in the first place, as his supply is still hidden by the fireplace. What, had he thought John would fail to notice if he just walked over and removed the loose brick? The man's ordinary, yes, but he isn't blind. John's still staring at him expectantly, so Sherlock forces himself to ignore the pain in his head and responds in as casual a voice as he can manage. "No, I just went for a walk." "In the middle of the night?" John's expression is somewhere between bemused and exasperated - fairly standard when interacting with his erratic nutcase of a flatmate. Under ordinary circumstances Sherlock would just shrug it off, reply with some quip about *normal people* and go about his business. Right now, though, he's in pain, and frustrated and tired and angry... doesn't want to fucking deal with John's stupid condescending *disbelief*. Why should it be strange that Sherlock went out for a walk at midnight? There's nothing bloody odd about it. *Stop making that damned face, you fucking git.* It occurs to him belatedly that he's scowling venomously over at his flatmate. John's starting to look slightly concerned, like maybe he thinks there's something wrong. There isn't. *Really* there isn't. Nothing's going on at all. *No, everything's normal,* Sherlock thinks pointedly, loudly, as if hoping his message will somehow travel the empty space between them through raw willpower and then he won't have to bother trying to form the right words to put John off the trail. *I haven't done anything stupid, just made a few slightly inconvenient decisions. But I can handle it, it's fine. Fine fine fine. I knew exactly what would happen. Oh and by the way you're sitting right in the bloody way of me getting to my secret supply and that's making me want to punch you in the face, but I won't because I'm not that pathetic.* *I'm* ***not.*** John's still looking at him. Sherlock forces the glare off his face and turns to head toward his bedroom. "I'm taking a nap." "It's six in the morning," John points out. Sherlock grits his teeth against the urge to turn back around and shout at the man. "I know what bloody time it is," he snaps acidly instead, then stalks off through the doorway and down the hall. Sleep. Sleep will make it better. Then he'll be fine. Hopefully. **««** When he wakes up he still has a headache. Cocaine would make it go away *(a fact he knows with frustrating certainty)* and nicotine, while not entirely effective, still might ease the discomfort somewhat. Paracetamol probably wouldn't do much of anything but could be a good idea regardless, take the edge off. Especially if ingested in conjunction with caffeine. But then no no no, he's not falling into *that* particular trap again - drugs over drugs, swallow the cat to catch the mouse. Never leads to anything good. Chemical abuse put him in this situation in the first place, he reminds himself, and adding *more* substances definitely won't solve the issue. Actually the better option would be to simply force himself to suffer through the consequences - unpleasant, yes, and undeniably painful... but maybe if he just endures the discomfort this time it'll finally manage to stick in his brain and serve its purpose as a proper deterrent. It probably won't. In fact he knows full well that it won't... but maybe. At the very least the decision helps him feel less like a pathetic addict. Because a proper junkie wouldn't willingly avoid drugs for the sake of teaching themselves a lesson, now would they? He tactfully chooses to ignore the fact that if there's ever been such a thing as a *proper junkie* he's been more or less the textbook definition since the age of nineteen. John's still in his armchair when Sherlock gives up on going back to sleep *(head hurts too much, can't keep still)* and instead wanders into the sitting room. The curtains are open, stabs of pain pulse through his brain from the light outside, but he doesn't move to close them. No, that would make it too obvious that he's not feeling well, and John might try to offer him some sort of pain reliever. Explaining why he doesn't want to take any medications would lead inevitably to admitting to several poor decisions over the last day or so, which John would of course swiftly convey to Mycroft *(either purposefully or through his body language, idiot can't ever seem to lie properly)* and then everything would just go right to hell. So instead he winces away from the light as subtly as he can, edges into the kitchen; but then he realises he can't make tea because that has caffeine, and getting a glass of juice or water sounds like too much work for too little payoff. He settles for simply standing and glaring at the tile pattern by the sink. Not symmetrical. Abruptly he finds himself infuriated by the sight. Honestly, how *fucking* hard is it to lay tiles in a symmetrical pattern? Who the hell built this place, and were they *blind* or just *stupid?* "You feeling alright?" John asks from the sitting room. Sherlock glances over with a scowl, then quickly turns back towards the sink as the reflection of sunlight off the mirror over the fireplace shoots a bolt of agony through his skull. "Fine," he bites out. Clenches his fists at his side, makes a concerted effort to force the stormy glower off his face before he turns back around. Calm down, relax... he's perfectly alright, it's just a headache, nothing more. He can deal with this. He's *fine*. "You look like you've got migraine or something." John's lowered his paper now, regarding Sherlock with a concerned expression. Sherlock can't stop the acid glare that steals over his features. Bloody John and his bloody *concern* - it's not like the man actually *cares*. No, he's just following his usual role of the responsible doctor, diagnosing conditions, providing assistance; he'd do the same for any random stranger and the commonality strips the gesture of whatever meaning it might have held. Even more so when Sherlock knows full well the man would rescind all sympathy within seconds if he were to tell him what's *really* going on. That's how it always goes, after all - everyone's full of comfort and support until they finally figure it out. Then the platitudes drop to steely disapproval, exasperated reprimands and trite, repetitive lectures. As if he's a child caught red-handed with a bag of sweets - always comes down to things like *dangers* and *health risks*, pathetic warnings that lose all meaning because *for fuck's sake he bloody knows already*. He understands the repercussions far better than John or Mycroft or Lestrade do, in fact, as *he's actually been through them.* *They* haven't; he knows they haven't. Lestrade might perhaps have some inkling thanks to the cigarettes, but John? *Mycroft?* No, god, not in a million years. Tell me, John, exactly how many times have you overdosed? What's the worst thing you've ever been willing to do for half a gram of white powder? Do you have any idea what it's like to realise you're slowly killing yourself, only to find that you *just don't care?* No. John doesn't have any concept. None of them do. And because of that they don't seem to be able to comprehend that appealing to a sense of self-preservation doesn't bloody work when no such instinct exists. And then, of course, they'll all just move on to attempting to convince him of his own illusory fortitude. *How could you throw away all that progress? You were doing well, you've been clean for years!* And *no,* he always feels like yelling, no he fucking *hasn't been.* No one ever seems to realise just how many nicotine patches he uses - how he hasn't gone a single day without one in ages. But just because it's legal they somehow assume it's different. It's not. There's less of a rush and the high isn't anywhere near as energetically euphoric but it's still a bloody stimulant, still affects his brain in exactly the same way as cocaine does. And *why,* why on fucking *earth* is he allowed to indulge in one chemical addiction without comment while the other gets him locked up in a clinic at the merest hint of relapse? Societal double-standards, fuelled by politics and fearmongering rather than actual facts. And they all wonder why he disparages the human race as a load of brainless morons. John's still looking at him, raising his eyebrows in a questioning manner and Sherlock realises he's been glaring wordlessly at the other man for a good two minutes now. He breaks the stare with a quick shake of his head *(poor idea, headache exacerbated by the movement)* and stalks off toward the sofa. "I haven't got migraine," he asserts irritably, then flops down on the worn cushions and curls up with his back to his flatmate. Returning to his bedroom would probably be the more sensible option if he wants to avoid John asking questions... but he's just remembered about the morphine tablets hidden in the lining of the mattress, the marijuana tincture in his closet, extra nicotine patches on the bedside table, half-empty packet of cigs in the pocket of one of his old coats. No. No no *no*, his room is a veritable *sea* of hidden drugs and no matter what he's promised himself for the moment he knows his willpower won't hold out if salvation is near enough at hand. Better to stay near John - the doctor will no doubt continue to pester him, but that's a fair tradeoff for the benefit of keeping on-track with this forced bout of sobriety. John doesn't try to interrogate him though. Mercifully he just lets the subject drop, goes back to his paper and reads quietly while Sherlock lies on the couch and scowls at the cushions like they're somehow personally responsible for the hell he's trapped himself in. Presently the relative silence of the flat is shattered by the shrill chiming tones of Sherlock's message alert, and he shoves his face into the fabric of the sofa with a groan. Fucking hell, of all the bloody times to get a case... for a moment he allows himself to hope it's just some random social text, but of course it isn't. Nobody ever contacts him unless they want something investigated. Sure enough when he finally gathers enough energy to roll over and snatch his phone off the coffee table it's to find a message from Lestrade; *'Three women dead, all missing their two front teeth.'* He very nearly texts back with something like *'good for them'*, or even just a simple *'leave me alone'*, but resists the urge. Lestrade's expecting him to jump at the prospect of a new puzzle - behaving any differently will only rouse suspicion and lead to questions. Questions which, quite frankly, he doesn't feel up to fielding right now. He huffs a short sigh and reluctantly replies with the anticipated response. *'Suspects? - SH'* *'None.'* Another sigh - god he *really* doesn't want to bother with this right now - but he nonetheless hauls himself into a sitting position. Best to just go and get it over with. Probably something pointless and stupid anyway. "New case?" John asks from across the room, and Sherlock nearly has a bloody heart attack because he'd somehow forgotten the other man was there. He forces himself not to startle, manages to mask the slight unavoidable twitch of surprise within the movements of standing instead. "Doubtful," he answers in as flippant a voice as he can muster while his heart's still in the process of slowing down. "Likely just a serial killer. Not interesting." "You usually love serial killers," John points out with a slight frown. In lieu of replying Sherlock just grits his teeth and heads for his room to get dressed. A quick shower and change of clothes later and he's back to looking less like a pathetic, washed-out junkie and more like a responsible member of society. It's all a ruse, though - he still feels like nothing so much as a shambling corpse, and his head hasn't stopped pounding in what seems like an eternity. But still, beyond the pain and discomfort is a vague sense of pride... he hasn't ingested any sort of drug in well over ten hours now. It's a pitiful sort of victory, yes, but an accomplishment nonetheless. Proof, he thinks, that he's stronger than they give him credit for. But as he goes to pick up his mobile from where he'd left it on the bedside table his hand brushes a stray nicotine patch, and the little burst of triumph quite abruptly vanishes. Because what, honestly, is he hoping to achieve with all this? Proving he can do it? *Why?* Nobody will ever know, assuming he somehow manages to overcome temptation... and besides which even if someone were to figure it out it's not like anyone would care. What if he were to walk down the hall right now, stride into the sitting room and announce to John that he's been entirely sober for *ten whole hours?* Even in his head it sounds idiotic. And John will raise an eyebrow in scepticism - perhaps offer a vaguely condescending *congratulations* in that tone of slight befuddlement he always uses when Sherlock's being strange. It won't even register in the doctor's mind as a struggle worth validating... because truthfully it isn't. Ten hours. Not even half a day. The majority of which he spent sleeping, and the rest sulking about the flat scowling at couch cushions. That's not an accomplishment, that's just stupid. And it's not going to get any better. Not for a long time. The headache might ebb within a day or so but in its place will be weeks and weeks and *weeks* of exhaustion, moodiness, irritability... he'll be even more of a hellish git than ever, and John will snap at him, tell him to get over himself, to quit *whingeing.* Mycroft might stop by at some point, deduce the root cause of his sibling's newest round of mental imbalance and offer some meaningless gesture of moral support... but it'll be nothing more than hollow words, because no matter what Mycroft may try to insist Sherlock still knows his brother sees him as a weak-willed idiot for having ever developed something so plebeian as a drug addiction in the first place. Then after all of that, even if he succeeds... what exactly will he gain from it? After all there was a bloody reason he'd climbed willingly into this self-made grave to begin with. Because his brain is a trainwreck screaming along through a firestorm of racing neverending reams of knowledge, and the only way to escape from the looming sense of imminent insanity is to freeze it all in place through chemical means. That won't change just because he's decided he needs to prove some asinine point about willpower. Nothing ever really changes, he should damn well know that by now. But somehow he still always seems to forget. Below his hand, which had frozen hovering over the tabletop, his mobile chimes again. Lestrade, of course. More details about the case. He hesitates only a fraction of a second before lowering his hand to his phone. A pause, then he shifts it slightly to the side... and picks up the nicotine patch instead. It's meant to be placed on the forearm but he affixes it to the crook of his elbow, positions the little round disk *just right* so it completely covers the small collection of slowly-healing needle marks he's accumulated over the last few weeks. There, all evidence of his lapse in judgement perfectly hidden. Now nobody will notice. Not even if he wanted them to. He tugs down his sleeve, plucks up his mobile, and heads for the front door. Somewhere out there is a case to solve. ... and that's all that really matters.