It was a cold night in December. London was rather snowy a week before Christmas Eve, and like usual, Sherlock Holmes was alone. No, he had relatives. He just wanted none of Mycroft's shit. He didn't want to deal with him, trying to get him to go into a rehabilitation center. He was fine. He just needed his mind to be stimulated. Nothing could do that better than cocaine when he was off of a case, he found. Sherlock sat against the bus stop, his pale lips inhaling a snowflake from the sharp winter air. Christmas Eve used to be something. When Mycroft took care of him, back in the days of his childhood, Christmas was magical. But now…It was nothing. Just like everything else. Why couldn't we look at things through the eyes of children? Sherlock leaned his head against the cold plexiglass of the bus stop and sighed. Nothing was ever easy. He sat there and remembered the lights, the detective bit his lip, hands quivering. It was far too cold, and he popped his coat-collar against the wind. His crystalline blue eyes scanned the crowds of shoppers. If only he was one of those happy people. But it didn't matter anymore….he was alone. Alone protected him. It was not what he needed, though.
Sherlock's mind NEEDED some sort of stimulation. He really didn't feel like using in public, though. It was so…degrading. He was an average on-the-street junkie. Just another drug addict. He didn't want to, but he had to. He just had to. How else would he stay occupied? How else would his mind NOT implode on itself? He wasn't average. Never was, never will be. The detective listened to the bustling crowds instead. Two women in affairs. One man cheating on his wife, another arguing with his brother. Three cheeky siblings. A teen couple that is 'totally gonna b 2gether 4everrrrrrrrrrrrr'. But, more often than not there were people smiling. People wishing each other Happy Holidays. How did they stay so happy? Why were they ALWAYS so joyful? What was the big deal about Christmas, anyway? Sherlock sighed. It was dreadful. He remembered being happy, once. That was nice. It truly was. His thoughts were interrupted by a man sitting next to him.
"Hello," the man said.
He had short, light brown hair. The jumper he was wearing was rather….unique…he leaned on his cane, but held himself with an air of dignity that demanded respect in the nicest of ways. Sherlock couldn't imagine him being very forceful, but then again, before his leg injury, he could have been terrifying. The cane and limp gave him a vulnerable look. Military man, obviously. Injury in either Iraq or Afghanistan perhaps a year ago. Psychosomatic limp. You don't walk as far as he did with a painful leg.
"Happy Holidays," he said with a smile.
Those eyes. Those brown eyes….they looked like they belonged on a sad puppy. Sherlock returned his smile, his blue eyes clouded.
"And you too," Sherlock replied, his voice weak. He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept in about five days. Wonderful.
The man sat there silently. "John Watson," he said, holding out his hand. He was shaking like a leaf. It wasn't from the cold, though. Anxiety? Nerves? Something like that.
Sherlock returned the gesture with his own, significantly weaker and more frail hand. He was so light-skinned, so pale, that he could blend in with the snow. It was a sickly pale.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"You out shopping, Sherlock?" John asked with a smile. It was obvious that this man was lonely, looking for some conversation. No one ever talked to Sherlock.
"No, I—"
What was he going to say? 'No, I'm a druggie, and I have nowhere to go, haven't eaten or slept in days, and I have no one to shop for? I'm here because I'm not going to stay with my asshole politician brother?' No.
Sherlock gave a melancholic smile. "Are you shopping, John?"
"Yes, I am, just a little, though. I got my sister a few things." He looked down. "Do you have a place to stay, Sherlock?" John asked.
John seemed to be an intuitive person. Sherlock held his breath before answering. Does he trust this military doctor? Oh, fuck it, what does he have to lose? What more trouble could he get into? He already attempted suicide, why not get killed instead? Though, he highly doubted that John was psychopath material. The detective had seen enough psychopaths and mass murderers to know what the telltale signs were.
"No, I don't. Why?" The raven-haired man asked, though he knew the answer. He was going to offer—
"You could come back to my flat, if you'd like." John shrugged.
Sherlock sighed. "You're too kind for your own good. You're just asking for annoyance and trouble when you invite me to your flat."
No one ever put up with him.
"No one ever puts up with me."
Not even his brother.
"Not even my brother."
John smiled.
"I'll put up with you."
Sherlock breathed in a breath of sharp, cold air, snowflakes entering his pale lips.
"Thank you."