Sherlock belongs to the BBC, A Team belongs to Ed Sheeran. Enjoy! Warning for drug use
lips, pale face
Breathing in snowflakes
Burnt lungs, sour taste
Sherlock was lying curled up on his side, the concrete pavement cold against his face. He shivered in the stained sleeping bag he was currently hugging as close as possible to himself for warmth, his clothes far too thin and worn to insulate him against the sharp frost that had descended on London. He was dimly aware of crowds of people walking by him, most of them in a hurry, hastily walking by. Some stopped to look in the window of the clothes shop he had his back against, their eyes sliding past him to the designer labels draped decoratively on the slender mannequins. His appearance was toning down the glamour of the shop somewhat, an irate assistant was bound to come out and chase him away any minute. It would probably be wiser to move now but he just couldn't find the energy to haul himself up.
He instead entertained himself by deducing the people around him by their shoes. He spotted a poor young business man on his first day of his new job, a rich elderly woman who was on her way to lunch with her estranged son and a homeless hooker who had just finished with a client before his mind started to slow. He glanced in front of him at the still smoking joint lying on the gum littered pavement. He could feel some of the passers by staring at it in disgust. He failed to care any more how obvious it was that he was nothing but a homeless junkie. A do-gooder stopped in front of him, taking in the deathly pale face framed by dark matted curls for a minute before searching his pockets and throwing a hand-full of coins in front of him. He waited for a moment, seemingly for recognition of his meager donation before walking off looking slightly disgruntled. Sherlock hated these people. The ones who threw some change at a homeless stranger as if it made any difference to their welfare, just so they could feel as if they'd done some good in the world.
He sighed slowly, tired. He hoped he could catch a short nap before being thrown away from the relative warmth emanating from the shop. Before his eyes closed, he wondered to himself how his life had became this. The endless spiral of drugs and cold and hunger. He remembered his mother telling him long ago that he was destined for great things. He'd let her down, instead he was lying at the side of the street, starving, aching and high as a kite. Maybe if he'd done things differently. He tried to forget his predicament as he willed himself to sleep, pretending that he was back at his family home, in a soft warm bed.
Basically lots of mini fics based on the song A Team. Will be adding more chapters soon, it gets better, don't worry. When I started it was just meant to be an account of Sherlock's life on the streets (which in my mind happened) but kind of ended up as his life up until the series started...please review, new to all this and really need constructive critisism! :)