Sherlock Holmes prides himself on his usual ability to appear that he belonged and to avoid any unnecessary attention from nosy people, but that skill was being heavily tested now as he walked through the streets of London.

With practically nothing except the clothes on his back and a few pounds in the pocket of his trenchcoat, he lacked the aura that everyone else had about them. The aura of knowing your home and destination. Sure, he has an address written on a sheet of paper that Irene Adler, a long-time associate had given him, but the place is completely foreign. 221C Baker Street. Someone lives there by the name of Molly Hooper who may help him.

Irene had told him the address with her last breaths as blood was pouring out of her wound. She had said it was a chance for his to start fresh.

She didn't elaborate on that. She didn't have time to.

Sherlock was wandering aimlessly, not knowing the layout of the city, and he had tried asking for directions from a few people on the sidewalk, but they pushed past without another word, reminding him again how irksome people are

The third person he attempted to ask was a homeless man he spotted across the road– disheveled hair, month-old clothes, and a thin, gaunt face, "Do you know the location of a certain 221C Baker Street?"

"I might, with a little extra incentive," the old man winked and rubbed two fingers together, signaling for money.

Disgusted but impatient, Sherlock pressed a few of his precious coins into the hands of the beggar as he listened to the route, "Go straight here, then make a left, and another one on the next road. Walk for two blocks down and turn right. Can I ask who you're looking for?"

"No," he retorted and stalked off.

The whole journey there took less than ten minutes, but when he arrived at the bottom of the building, he was a bit stumped. The door to the building was locked, and he had no equipment to pick it with. Should he buzz in?

He decided to go with the latter and pressed the button for the flat. A female voice answered, "Hello?

Who is this?"

Sherlock ignored the question and asked one of his own, "Is this Molly Hooper?"

"Um, no, she's at work right now. Night shift, and won't be back until next morning. This is her flatmate, Mary Morstan. Who's asking?"

Sherlock ended the intercom call and walked off without another word. He'll come back later.

Had a stranger seen the events of today, he would probably describe Sherlock Holmes as a person with a fetish for cutting people off and someone who has a dire need to have the upper hand in conversations.

And they would be absolutely right. Sherlock is a person who would spit in the face of Death and demand to go back.

Victories are what he lives for, even when he is stuck at a rock-bottom position as this, he manages little victories here and there.

He fished out the little money he has left and bought a hot cup of coffee and observed the city and its people. Just sitting and observing, what he does best, and after a brief few minutes, he discovered that the café's owner was having an affair with one of the waitresses, and that the stray puppy wandering nearby has been kicked that morning and was starving.

Ignoring the logical part of his brain that shouted "no!", he used the rest of his cash on a ham sandwich and threw the meat at the animal.

The dog, who was a small, malnourished Jack Russell terrier, scrambled forth and gobbled it up with cautious eyes. Upon finishing the food, it crept towards Sherlock as if asking for more.

Finishing up the last of his coffee, the man stood up and started walking off briskly, but the dog padded along, just out of reach, and whimpered.

"I do not possess any more food for your consumption," Sherlock muttered irritably and tried to wave the pup off.

The dog cocked its head, confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued walking along the streets with no end point in mind, just to pass time.

With a yip, the dog caught up to him, walking right behind his heels.

"Seems like I've got an unwanted shadow," he murmured to himself. He has never cared much, in his life, for animals and pets. They take up too much valuable time and demanded attention that could be used for a much more worthwhile subject.

It was now late into the night, and a chill was settling into the air. Cars became more and more scarce on the streets, and lights inside rooms were turning off, signaling sleeping homeowners.

If only they knew how easy it was to break in, without them realizing, and steal anything they desired. Or even to commit an act of homicide.

It would be very simple to break in and steal something... wouldn't it?

But still, he was hesitant. It wasn't, for Sherlock, a matter of morals and ethics, but rather, a question of his dignity. Would he let himself sink to the level of a common burglar?

The dog barked, shivering slightly, and someone in another building shouted out in a particularly enraged tone, "Shut your fucking dog up or I'm going to call the police!"

The dog barked a second time, its thin body shivering in the cold weather, and Sherlock attempted to silence it, "Be quiet, Dog." He reached down and awkwardly patted its small head.

It fell silent, but interrupted time to time with a whine, signaling his still-present hunger, and so it was then that Sherlock decided to break into a flat and take some money for food (both human and animal) and a blanket for the puppy.

After meandering through the neighborhood, he narrowed in on a small, first floor flat that conveniently left its windows open. So instead of breaking and entering, it was just entering.

It was inhabited, from the silhouette and voice, by a single man around Sherlock's own age, and from the lack of light, is currently asleep.

"Stay, Dog," Sherlock commanded and soundlessly stepped to the window and pulled himself in through the opening.

He was in.

The living room was very simple and minimal, with only a coffee table, sofa, and a small telly. He looked around for where the man might have stored his spare funds.

A feeling of self-hatred suddenly bubbled up in his throat and poisoned his mind palace. Look at him! Sherlock Holmes– reduced to common thieving! His great mind put to waste. It was despicable. He shook off the feeling for now, as it is only detrimental to the search, and continued looking around.

He spotted a wallet on the couch and picked it up. there was an ID in there with the name John Watson printed on, along with several pounds in its folds. He pocketed the money and replaced the wallet back to where it was.

There was a small click as the lights flicked on the room, and the flat's owner, John, stared, bewildered, at the strange, unfamiliar man.

"John Watson, I presume?" Sherlock said.

"Who the hell are you?!" The man shouted. He was relatively short with dishwater blond hair and straight posture.

"A passerby who needed funds," he replied calmly. "I assumed that you were asleep, but I guess your PTSD made sure that you are to be a light sleeper. Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What? How did you know about the PTSD and Afghanistan?!"

"No need to shout, it'll wake the neighbors."

"Screw the neighbors! Get out of my flat or I'm going to call the police!" John threatened and tried to look as menacing as possible.

"Can't call the police if you don't have a phone," Sherlock held up John's cell in his hands. "Shouldn't leave it lying around for anyone to pick up."

"I– I... you little–" John sputtered and stepped forward, fists clenched.

"No landline, either, so no other way to communicate. And I suggest you to refrain from physically assaulting me, as for the fact that I am much taller and am very trained in the martial arts, although I'm sure you are, too. Military trained, I presume. But if you can't seem to spare some money, then I must demand you to let me stay here for the night."

"You want to sleep... here? In the flat of a complete stranger? Who are you, in the first place?"

"Let me correct you, I do not desire to sleep here, it is merely for the sake of my dog. And the name's Sherlock Holmes," he went to peek out the window. Dog was still there. "You aren't allergic, are you?"

"What? I never agreed to let you sleep here."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said and went to open the front door and whistled for Dog. "A good Samaritan soldier like you can't turn down someone in need like me."

The terrier plodded through the front door, drawn by the warmth and the smells of the flat.

"Fine," John scowled. "You can sleep on the couch. And your dog can just sleep on the floor if he wants. You should feed him more, he looks too thin to be healthy. I might have some bacon in the fridge to feed him."

"It's a she," Sherlock corrected. "And you should also really stop leaving your windows open throughout the night. It's really not advised."

"It's not everyday that a crazy psychopath barges in my flat and demands to sleep here."

"I prefer the term 'high-functioning sociopath', not psychopath," Sherlock smirked. "And don't worry, I'm sure we'll be great friends."

"You are getting a serious interrogation in the morning," John frowned and then stifled a yawn. "I'm

going back to sleep."

Dog woofed quietly and curled up into a ball besides the couch.

A/N: Ah, thank you for reading this. I've always been interested in a situation where Sherlock is at the bottom of society and how he'd act to try to change that.

I do have to note that this fanfic will not be Johnlock, although they will become great friends. It will, in the future, become Sherlolly, so I hope that won't be to your disliking.

Reviews are always welcome!