"Stop it! Stop thinking so loudly! My head hurts, its so loud!" A young girl clutches her head on a park bench, shuddering as sobs wrack her body.
What the heck? That girl is such a wierdo.
What a freak. What is she yelling about?
"Please? It hurts, stop thinking, I can hear you, it hurts so bad!" salty tears leak down her rosy cheeks as she tucks her knees closer to her chest. Her knuckles have grown white with the pressure in which she grips her throbbing skull.
She needs to go to a hospital or something, that cannot be normal...
They need to lock her up in a crazy ward.
"No, stop it! I'm not crazy! I'm not-"
XXX
I sit up abruptly, gasping for breath, and calm as the flickers of memory fade, letting my body fall flat again. I fidget uncomfortably, finding a painful crick in my neck from the hard floor. A few old blankets never really supply for much padding, after all. I comb my fingers through my snow-white ringlets, trying to tame their sleep-tousled knots. My blood red eyes flick around the room, finding it just the same as it is every other morning I wake up. Miserable, fetid, dark, dull. Repulsive. Well, most drug dens are.
More More MORE-
Want—Sad—need NEED- please
Where can I get my next hit?
"Damn." I mutter, clutching my skull tenderly. The thoughts of the miserable souls around me are a murmur, merely background noise, for now. Of course, every wasted second lets it get louder. I scramble amongst my meager belongings, looking for just one more dose, enough to last until I can get more. Then again, if I can handle the headache, such a feat would be much easier to achieve with the use of my mind. I don't use the heroin because it feels nice, I use it to free myself. While under the influence, the world falls quiet. Quiet enough for me to sleep. Unfortunately, there isn't any more, so I am driven to pack up, the noise of London slowly heightening to a dull roar. I know if I don't get any more, it will be screaming by noon.
Shit, I haven't got enough to pay him back! He's gonna have my head on a platter!
Out again. Gonna have to go find more...
Why is the ceiling always elephants? It would be more fun if it was different every time. Oh, is that flower talking? Hello flower.
Damn, Finn's up. And she looks pissed too, better not stare. What a freak, that look makes you feel like she's picking your brain apart...
I roll my eyes, carefully stepping over the bodies scattered about the floor. As I creep out to the street, I scan the surrounding area for someone with high quality. If I am going to endure the entirety of London's population tearing at my brain, I sure as hell will take the chance to get a few free hits.
Yes! Check out this great collection! I really scored a deal off that idiot, I won't have to go lookin' for weeks!
I chuckle. Poor sod, not for long. I take a seat on the low brick wall at my back, and gently weave a web around his mind with mine, compelling him to come to me. The boy's only a mile out, and I really doesn't want to walk that far.
XXX
I lean against a wall in an ally, feeling decidedly pissed at the fact that I had to resort to this crap again. If I really wanted to, I could drop the habit altogether, get a job, a flat, and maybe a few friends. And live in pain again, of course. Sleeping, might I say, is extremely difficult when one has a city of brains all trapped inside theirs. And thinking, for that matter. Everyone else is thinking, and it doesn't give me enough room to do any thinking of my own. Makes for a real pain in the ass. Like, all the time. Once again, I am directed back to the dilemma at hand. To take, or not to take? To hear, or to sleep? To have a life, or to have a brain to myself? Yes, quite the dilemma indeed.
I toss the old needle in a rubbish bin and turn the corner, feeling blissfully high as the word around me falls to silence. It really isn't a good habit, I know, but thinking by myself is just, so pleasant. And then there's the euphoria and exhilaration, which for me are merely nice side effects.
In books and movies, telepathy is always portrayed as the one with the powers delving into others brains, but in reality, its more like being constantly attacked by everyone else's thoughts. I don't get a choice, I always hear. Everyone within a relative ten mile radius, that is. If there's an upside to this little issue of mine, it's that I don't hear the entire planet's thoughts, just a tiny bit of it. Then of course, there's the problem that psychics aren't even supposed to exist. I don't know how it happened, but ever since I was really little I've been able to hear. I spent the first eighteen years in an asylum, because the idiots in charge decided to label it schizophrenia. Hearing voices, very not good, in the public's eye. By about thirteen I figured out how to hide it, at least from the hospital staff. I was let out five years later, dropped onto the street, a "healthy adult". Probably just wanted me off their hands, after all. Humanity doesn't take kindly to its freaks. Then, of course, I found my drug of choice, and I got the silence I wanted. Really not the healthiest method, but who can blame me? I'm just like the rest of the druggie population, getting high to get rid of my problems. Well, I suppose I haven't gotten rid of all of them, being the crazy lady relaying her entire life story to herself while wandering about aimlessly at two in the morni-
"Shit! Sorry, sorry, don't mind me." ducking my head in apology. Of course, it's just my luck that he doesn't just walk by like any sane man who had just smacked into a high homeless person. I quickly scrape together my dropped goods and continue on my way, only to be grabbed by the arm and spun around. I blink in surprise, really hoping I hadn't just slammed into a wandering cop who just so happened to see what fell out of my bag. I look up, prepared to spit a clipped "what?" but instead deign to just stare. The man is tall, and thin, with a messy shock of dark curls atop his head. He dons a black coat that falls to his ankles, and a blue scarf around his pale neck. His face is angular, with high, sharp cheekbones, and eyes a pale color that cannot really be described. Said eyes flick about my figure, searching, concentrated. He doesn't look the type to be venturing to this part of town, but that might explain the look of pained resignation behind the thin mask of calm and collected. When he speaks, his voice is deep and hushed, as if he doesn't want anyone to hear the conversation taking place. But there's no one around, unless he counts whoever sits behind those CCTV cameras all day.
"Have you any cocaine in that stash of yours?"
XXX(POV switch: SH)
John is going to kill me if he finds out. And then he'll tell Mycroft, who will bring me back from the dead just to kill me again. Which, if one thinks about it, is a really stupid saying, because people can only die once, and any sort of undead wouldn't care about being killed. But John won't let me smoke, and four patches didn't help one bit, and if I can use the case as an excuse to disappear for one night, they'll never know. Have I ever mentioned the fact that I despise book sorting? Even trying to crack that damn cipher, I was bored out of my mind, and John fell asleep on me. Considering the circumstances, I mean, there are lives at stake, this venture might be a necessary evil. I continue my undertaking, not searching for anyone in particular-
"Shit! Sorry, sorry, don't mind me." -but not expecting to run into anyone either. I pause, catching a glimpse of what I'm looking for in the muddle of her spilled possessions. She moves to walk past, but I catch her arm, spinning her back around to face me. She looks as if she wants to say something, but decided to stare instead, so I take my chance.
White hair/skin, red eyes: albino? Plausible, yet to be confirmed
Accent: American, but hasn't been there awhile, has picked up a small London lilt
Hair is curly but tangled, natural color dulled by dirt: little regard for hygiene
Slightly blunted expression: under the influence... heroin: will fall soon... unusual, most this far in wouldn't be standing, never mind sanely walking around... more information needed.
Brown bag: recreational drugs, doesn't plan to use all: selling/trading then
Dressed in many layers, carrying sleeping bag/ old blankets: homeless, returning for night
High quality coat/jeans: stolen: has a talent for it
Deciding the information is enough, I move straight to the point.
"Have you any cocaine in that stash of yours?" She blinks, caught unawares, before glancing at her bag and looking back up.
"Uh, yeah." I try to contain my irritation at the less than intelligent response, deigning to bring this confrontation to a close as simply as possible.
"How much do you want for it?" she ponders this for a moment, her lazy red gaze flicking to the left then back at me.
"I don't know. Coffee sounds pretty good right about now." She blinks at me, and I pause for a moment, wondering if she knows just how much that quality of cocaine is worth, before deciding not to test my luck.
"Alright then." I spin and begin to walk in the direction of the nearest coffee shop, assuming that if she has any brains she will follow. Fortunately, after a second's hesitance, she does.
"Seriously? You're going to take me to coffee?" I nearly roll my eyes in exasperation at the obviousness of that statement.
"Yes."
"Cool. What's your name then?"
"Sherlock Holmes." I suppose if she doesn't recognize me already it wouldn't hurt to add to my homeless network.
"Well, don't you sound posh." we fall into silence after that, with only our footsteps to break it. By the time we reach the shop, I notice she has started her crash, a slightly pained expression marring her features. When we enter, she collapses into the nearest chair, massaging the bridge of her nose with two fingers. She mumbles something about 'stupid human brains', then asks for a large black coffee. I scowl at being ordered around, but make my way to the cashier anyway. The shop is mostly empty, save for a plump man deeply immersed in a copy of "London A-Z" (foreigner, based on the cheap trinket attached to his bag and dark tan), and a woman deep in conversation with her coworke- no, boss, over the phone (having affair with said boss, according to the nervous speech pattern and faint blush). The cashier takes my order (two black coffees, one with two sugars) and prepares them efficiently (been a coffee shop worker for a while, an easy job to handle while working through university). I pay and take our drinks back to currently-unnamed woman, and set them on the table. She sits slumped with one hand buried in her hair (headache, possibly verging on migraine), and groans when I sit across from her.
"Fineane." she says, and I narrow my eyes at the answer to my unasked question. "But I prefer Finn. Has anyone ever told you that you think really loud? Its killing my head." she promptly picks up her coffee and chugs half of it, before smacking it back on the table. I ponder her statement momentarily, but dismiss it as nonsense. Finn stares off into space for a few seconds, before crinkling her nose in disgust.
"Seriously? I really did not need that mental image just now, thanks." She mumbles, glaring through her bangs at the woman on the phone. I tilt my head slightly to the left, not sure exactly what to make of that act either. Her gaze flicks back to me, and she asks "So, Sher, are evil big brother and overbearing doctor flatmate gonna kill you if they find out? Cuz lemme tell ya, your silly crossword puzzle ain't worth a relapse." my entire train of thought screeches to a stop, and my eyes snap back to her face, but her lazy red gaze gives me no hint.
"How did you know?" Finn shrugs, and taps her temple.
"I just do. Say, I'm feeling a bit peckish, want anything?" I shake my head, caught totally unawares by the sudden inquiry, still caught on the fact that the only way for the woman to know that information is if she read my mind, which is a simply ridiculous notion. Said woman shrugs, before lazily drifting her gaze toward the cashier, who proceeds to take a cinnamon roll out of the small display case and bring it over, leaving it in front of her before returning to his post, as if the entire event hadn't happened. My brow furrows, and a thousand different possibilities flick through my head, dismissed just as quick as they came. Finn massages her temple with one hand and shovels cinnamon roll into her mouth with the other, before sending me a scowl.
"Seriously, dude. Shut up. Can't you see I've got a headache? It's hard enough thinking with the surrounding three idiots in my head, never-mind your super-brain. I can read and compel minds, does that answer your question? It's really not worth the trouble though, what with the eternal racket from hundreds of other people in my head. And people wonder why I'm high all the time." I blink. Once, then twice, then open my mouth to start a sentence, before snapping it shut again.
"Prove it." I state, finding myself drawn to the impossibility. It's kind of like a puzzle, and everyone knows I can't resist those. Finn gives me an exasperated glare.
"Must I? I'd rather just head to the nearest ally and shoot up. No need to prolong the issue."
"So heroin stops it? Is it only heroin or-"
"Yes, just heroin. I've tried other... less damaging products but none have had the same effec- Oh. So that's what he's doing. I couldn't figure it out. Fatty over there is decoding a cipher for some Chinese smuggling ring. What a weirdo." Oh! I whip my head around so fast it hurts, narrowing my eyes at the 'tourist' I had dismissed before, and of course, now it's obvious, his posture says nervous, and he's guarding the papers (I had originally thought were maps) from prying eyes. The bag with the cheap trinket is full, and when he shifts I can hear the crinkle of paper (something wrapped: valuable), and the book: "London A-Z", a book everyone owns. I stand, planning to make a mad dash for the flat, before remembering my companion, and the reason I ended up here in the first place. I narrow my eyes slightly, debating whether it would be worth bringing the dirty homeless girl with me, if only until I have her figured out.
"Sure." she says. I raise an eyebrow quizzically, and in return she rolls her eyes. "sure, I'll be your experiment in exchange for a place to stay and some food to eat. The concrete floor at my most recent hole in the wall really isn't calling." I nod, and she quickly picks a few vials of heroin out of her brown bag and stuffs them in the wrapped sleeping bag, before leaving the rest abandoned on the floor to follow me out.
"Oh yeah, your-" Finn moves to go back inside, but I shake my head.
"Don't need it." She turns back around and shrugs.
"Suit yourself." I wave down a taxi and we pile in, (or I sit gracefully and she piles) and I direct the cabby to 221B, Baker Street. I silently pray Lestrade doesn't find the need for another untimely drugs bust, and kind of wish my new puzzle wasn't an addict-
"Come on man, I have to sleep sometime. Sure, I can go about four days, if I have plenty of food, but that doesn't mean I won't need to collapse for a good 16 hours afterward." I nod, finding the excuse reasonable, for now, before flicking through my best hiding places where she can put it.
XXX(POV switch: F)
The ride to Sherlock's flat is awkward, to say the least. My head feels like it's seconds from splitting and spilling my brains all over the back seat of this taxi, and his presence really isn't helping. Seriously, could he think any louder? Just remember, if I stick with him I get a bed. A real bed. And food.
The best spot would have to be underneath the loose floorboard, but I've used that before... maybe between the couch cushions? Less likely to be checked. Under the skull might do as well, or in the fireplace. I suppose I could let her use my slipper...
The list, apparently, goes on and on. Frankly, I don't want to know about the skull or the shoe, so I direct my attention away from his hurried thoughts. The cabby is pondering whether or not he can get away with taking the roundabout way, the owner of a store somewhere to the left wishes he didn't need to stay open until four in the morning, a child in a flat on the right is dreaming about fire-breathing dinosaurs, and I wish I didn't know, because such trivialities of others really aren't my business.
By the time we reach Baker Street, it's 3:54 AM, according to the insomniac somewhere vaguely north, and all I really want to do is curl up in a ball and wallow in my misery. Sherlock leads me through the dark green door with it's brass knocker, and up the steps into his flat, which, evidently, is full to the brim with crates of books. There is a desk, which is covered by a smaller man with dishwater blonde hair and an ugly jumper, along with more stacks of books. There are two armchairs, which can barely be seen behind the crates, and a couch (also spilling book stacks). There's a kitchen, which is messy with various ongoing experiments and lab equipment, and a microwave oven, which if my eyes aren't fooling me, has a bowl of human eyeballs inside.
What have I gotten myself into?
Ok, soooooo. This is a bit of an experiment on my part, I've had the idea swimming around in my head for quite awhile, and I just wanted to see how it went. Anyway, in case anyone's confused, this starts in about the middle of the blind banker, and for the sake of the story, let's pretend that while sherlock and John were sorting books, John fell asleep and sherlock got bored. So, just bear with me here. I really need the reviews, kinda looking to see where I stand with this.
~Fish
