A/N: Beginning partway through A Scandal in Belgravia, this will likely contain spoilers for the whole of series two by the time it is completed. Drug use will be mentioned heavily and there is a high likely hood that there will be some romantic Johnlock in later chapters. If you don't want any of these things, feel free not to read on. If these are the things you're looking for, then get comfy and start reading. I hope you enjoy.
Mycroft had said one. He had known the ramifications of his offer. Known what it would mean if his beloved brother accepted. And now he watched him, his body more relaxed than he'd seen in a long time. The younger of the two took great solace in this one little white stick…and the one he'd pickpocketed from Mycroft's jacket; just because he could, he told himself. That weight in his pocket, the gram his pocket had been missing for so long, it was back. 1.2 grams, Sherlock. It may not be as stimulating as the perfect gram, but that heady odour's a start. He was back, that wonderful genius was back.
"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." Though the words had been addressed to his brother, each one was for his own benefit. Oh what a merry Christmas it would be.
Two taps. Ash forlorn on the ground. Low tar. Low nicotine. Silk Cut White. The ash said it all. If Mycroft had said anything further, it had fallen on deaf ears; Sherlock was much too busy to hear. Within three seconds, the older of the two would be speaking to John Watson expressing his concern. This concern would prove to be completely necessary.
Twenty minutes later, six miles away, a well-dressed man drew in the last breath of his second cigarette of the year, the butt plummeting downwards to land between his work shoes and a pair of previously white trainers. The respective owners of these shoes exchanged words, money and a small plastic bag before departing, the cigarette end the only sign of the transaction.
A cab ride later, the afore mentioned leather shoes hit the kerb of a dampened street not three foot from the place the man in control of them called home. Twenty-three steps later the now snow trodden shoes found their work done; they had returned their master to his landlady and to the closest thing Sherlock Holmes had to a friend.
"Hi." The concern was obvious in Watson's voice, as apparent as that in Mycroft's but the words again failed to stimulate a response, muffled; the other senses requiring his full attention, "You okay?"
In any other situation, the detective would have been the first to acknowledge this atrocious use of the English language but he was still busy, the nicotine in his bloodstream pulling his gaze to the many differences that had appeared in his absence. Couch pillow two centimetres to the left. one, two, three, four books protruding up to three millimetres from the usual book line. The musty stench of disturbed dust pooling in each of his nasal cavities – the left more than the right, most likely coming from the unopened pile of bills situated less than a foot from his flexing fingers.
"I hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time." Were the only words released, precious nicotine escaping with every syllable.
One-eighty turn. Eight steps, brisk pace. Solid wood. Cold brass. Fingers grip. Right hand turn. Left shoulder lean. Body weight shifted. Door open.
Door firmly locked behind him, only a small plastic seal separated him from his prize. Though his hands may have been shaky, he held it tight, never let it go leaving his other hand free to fumble over the thin metal of an old needle, the only thing required for this task. It had taken a full five minutes to break into it, free hand little better than that of a newborn. Three minutes later it was gone.
It seemed pathetic, squirreling away his 'nest egg', not dissimilar to the habits of an old woman – at least it wasn't in a mattress. But he wouldn't touch it now. Wouldn't touch it now. Would leave it. Leave it until he needed it. Until he couldn't cope. A thumb stroked over the wound the needle now on his bedside table. His 'special kit', as he had once labelled it, now quite safe in the lining of his coat alongside a small – and rather full – little plastic bag. His job finished Mr Holmes picked up the needle, placing it back in Mrs Hudson's sewing kit for when she next felt like darning his socks. Time for a rest: he'd have to keep up appearances in front of his landlady, his brother and his partner. Less than an hour later, John Watson stepped into the bedroom of the world's only consulting detective. He was asleep. He had been told to 'stay with him' and he would fulfil that task. A book in hand, the sweater clad man settled into the corner armchair. This would not be a night of sleep for him. This would be a night of watch.
The snow would be gone by morning. It's equally white counter parts - one acquired in a morgue, later discarded in an alley for the rather more interesting powder - would not.
The next chapter should be up before the next episode, hopefully in the next couple days. I haven't been the best at updating earlier stories but I'm sure I'll be better with this one. Any reviews are welcome and constructive criticism would be loved.
Charlotte
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