Safe As Houses
Chapter 1
BBC sherlock fanfiction, no copywright infringement intended.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: Slash, Heavy graphic drug use, addiction, homelessness, not betaed (sorry)
Dr. John Watson limped around the crowded streets of London. He`d only just moved back a month ago, and the sudden return to the bustling cosmopolitan city was almost overwhelming. He still felt at a lose end having being recently discharged from the army, and spent his time wondering the capital trying to get reacquainted
It was past rush hour, and as the sunlight faded behind the grey buildings, the flood lights lit up the small park area of Leicester square. He decided to eat at Wong Kei`s off Shaftsbury Avenue, notoriously the restaurant with the worst service in London. But it was cheap and anonymous, and all he could afford on his army pension. He made his way around the corner, and noticed the crowd of tourists gathering at the corner. He looked up and noticed that the Swiss clock was nearing the hour so everyone was gathering to watch the marvels of Swiss engineering.
Feeling nostalgic, John stood at the edge of the crowd to watch with them, as the bells started ringing and the automated animals and Swiss herder girls or whatever they were supposed to be run around on the tracks.
John was broken from his reverie when something nearly barreled him over from the side. For a split second, he wasn`t in the mild climate of England, but back in the scorching hot dessert, someone shouting `incoming! incoming!` and tackling him to the sand.
But he didn`t land on gritty hot sand, but instead hard concrete. Still blinking the confusion away, he looked around getting his bearings, his cane beside him.
When he looked up to see exactly what hit him, he saw a tall pale man bending down over him. "Terribly sorry." He said in enunciated English.
"Um, that`s ok." John replied sheepishly, gathering up his cane. Before he had a chance to protest the man in the long coat had grabbed his arm, and hauled him up making some display of patting him down of imaginary dirt.
"Well no harm done." The man said with a charming smile and turned to be on whatever urgent business he seemed to have, blue coat billowing behind him but soon lost in the crowds of tourists with their noses stuck in maps and guide books.
John still felt rather shell-shocked, wondering what the hell had just happened. The chimes of the Swiss clock had finished, and the crowd of tourists already thinning out after the show.
Something didn`t feel right, something was amiss. Brows knitting together, he felt the front of his jacket and panic ran through him like ice water.
Shit.
He confirmed his worst fears by sliding his hand inside his open jacket feeling for the inside pocket. His wallet was gone.
"Hey!" He shouted out, spinning around to see if he could spot that blue coat and shack of brown curls again. All he could see was tourists and ticket touts, the tall man was long gone.
He groaned to himself. Just his luck, he`d just been pick-pocketed.
As soon as Sherlock turned his back to the mark, his smile fell from his face instantly. He looked at the wallet in his gloved hand and tossed it over once before pocketing it into his coat. He didn`t look back, he knew what he was doing and where he was going.
He headed towards So-ho, and when he was on a less busy side street he took out the plain black wallet again. He flipped it open, a bit disappointed at the lack of cash. He had known the man wasn`t a tourist, stance and tan lines of a military man but the mark had been distracted and the wrinkles of his jacket gave away the location of his wallet. On the spur of the moment he`d decided to make the dip with his two fingers, covering his action with a knock.
Man with a cane, wouldn`t be getting up so quickly. Played the good Samaritan and was gone before the mark even knew what was happening.
He started looking through the ID. Dr. John Watson. Old military ID, ha he`d been right. Oyster card, drivers license, all the information he`d need right there. He got to the cash card, and headed towards the nearest ATM making sure his collar and scarf concealed his face. He inserted the card, he`d have 3 attempts at the pin number. He got it on the second.
Again his heart sunk when he checked the amount available to be withdrawn. It had been a poor mark to pick, but he needed the cash.
He withdrew the money, pocketing it inside his coat with the rest of the cash.
Sherlock left the ATM, winding his way through narrow side alleys of London not covered by CCTV. He dumped the wallet and ID into a bin, he didn`t need it anymore, identity and credit card fraud started to leave paper trails, it took too much time and effort to cover his tracks. He pulled out his mobile, and sent a quick text. Within a minute he had received a reply, and quickened his pace for his rendezvous.
Eventually he got to his familiar destination behind one of the major upscale night clubs of the city. He spotted the man he was looking for, talking to an associate.
"Evening, I got it for you." The man said and Sherlock silently nodded. He reached into coat and withdrew the folded bills. He paid a high price but he wasn`t willing to use any street grade rubbish. Harvey knew him, and knew what he wanted. The last time he`d sold cocaine cut with aspirin to Sherlock he`d regretted it.
Harvey wordlessly took the money, not bothering to count it, and reached inside his own jacket to pass Sherlock some wraps. The taller man took them, and was on his way again. "See you in a few days." His dealer said behind him, but Sherlock didn`t reply. He needed his ritual and his fix.
Within an hour he was near home, if you could call it that. It was the arches of a bridge favored by London`s homeless as shelter from the rain. Sherlock wasn`t able to get into the Kings Cross hostel where they allowed drug use, fresh needles, a shower and bed were always preferable to the streets. He knew he didn`t look like the typical homeless junkie, but he knew how to keep up a facade. No one thinks the clean city boy is going to pick pocket them.
Sherlock reached his corner of a arch, ducking under the make shift curtain as a train rumbled above him. He set about lighting the candles so he could see what he was doing. The ritual had started and soon he would not care about his surroundings. He pulled out the tin box that housed his gear, and started laying everything out on the blanket in front of him ready for use.
Soon he released the tourniquet and pulled the needle from his scared arms. He dropped the needle beside him, and fell back onto his make shift cushions.
Finally his mind slowed, and he watched the candle light flames dancing on the old brick work above him, another train rumbling as it passed above.
The months since he was robbed, John managed to settle down a little bit more. Maybe settle was the wrong word, he`d managed to survive. He got a part time job at a London clinic to support his army pension, and got by in his single room bedsit. It was a lonely and depressing place to come back to, so he was glad of the routine and company a job offered.
The clinic was mostly coughs and colds, but being in the inner city he saw his fair share of issues that came hand in hand with deprived areas. Drug use, neglect, spousal abuse, that kind of thing. It saddened him when there was little he could do but patch them up and send them on their way.
He was finishing up for the day, hunt and pecking the notes for his last patient of the day. There was a soft knocking at the door, and his Boss/unsuccessful date Sarah pushed her head in.
"John..." She said charmingly, which meant she wanted something. "I know your supposed to be done for the day, but as you know since Jay left we`ve got no one to go to the Shelter and I`ve got to do evening surgery here..."
Ah ok, John could see where this was going. "So, you`d like me to go?"
"Yes, if you`re free." She added. "It`s totally voluntary as you know, so I can`t force you but, you`d be really helping me out of a bind. Just this once." Her face pleaded with him.
John couldn`t really refuse a request from a pretty woman, even if their date had gone nowhere and there seemed zero chances of a second. "Sure." He said smiling to tell her it was no big deal. What else was he going to be doing.
"You`re a star. You can get a map from reception and the nurse at the shelter will show you the ropes." Sarah said before closing the door, she was obviously busy.
John sighed, picking up his cane as he prepared to leave. The Kings Cross Shelter was one of the few homeless shelters that allowed drug use on premises. It mainly dealt with cocaine and heroin users. but also allowed multi and alcohol users too. The idea was to offer a safe environment for users, have staff trained to deal with their specific issues and give advice, and keep drug use off the streets.
It was an entirely non-profit organization relying on government grants and donations, and the clinic he worked at volunteered a doctor once a week to run a clinic session for the users who needed more medical treatment than the regular nurse could provide.
It should be good for him, he told himself. But at the same time, he knew he`d be faced with the harsh realities of long term drug use and homelessness, the forgotten and unwanted dregs of society.
He ate dinner before he arrived, and users were filling in for the night when he arrived at the clinic. The staff made him feel welcome, gave him a visitors tag, showed him around and explained the aim of their project. Eventually he was shown to the clinic, where a slightly scatty brained nurse called Molly was sorting out supplies.
As soon as the clinic hours started, the shelter`s users started coming in. It was as he was expected, ordering blood tests and giving results, treated infected injection sites, infected feet wounds etc. He saw various levels of addiction, some interested in getting clean where Molly would give out leaflets and explain various rehabilitation programs available, some not.
John tried not to let the people who didn`t help get to him, the ones with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks that looked like they wouldn`t survive the winter. He didn`t lecture them, that was not the point of the project, and he had learnt to not lecture Harry now, because it didn`t work.
Molly and John had just finished redressing a nasty foot ulcer of a 50 year old alcoholic who was half soused when she informed him they were done for the night. She smiled brightly despite working every day here. "Thanks for coming to help." She said.
"No problem." Now that he was finished, he felt kind of good for doing this. Maybe he should volunteer here more regularly? The staff seemed friendly and he agreed with the ethos of the project.
Well that was him done for the night, time to go home properly. Molly locked up the door behind him, and lead him to the front desk. He bent over behind reception, filling in a basic report and signing his name out of the log book. Molly stood beside him, and evidently had started talking to one of the project users.
"Sherlock you`re late! I`ve already closed the clinic." She said above him.
"Yes I had to see a man about a dog..." Obvious euphemism there. "But I only need fresh needles." The voice sounded totally out of place for place like this, public school educated, but then again drug addiction didn`t discriminate.
"You should come earlier so I could give you a check up, the doctor is here too today." Molly was obviously fussing for some reason.
"Just the needles Molly..." The voice sounded exasperated, then the tone changed. "Have you cut your hair? It suits you." The man was obviously just trying to flatter her to get what he wanted. But that deep baritone voice...something about the false charm to it...
"Oh no, just wore it differently today..." She seemed to faff around some more as if embarrassed, "I`ll get you the needles." She said as she passed him. "Bye John..."
The man had started to drum some rhythm onto the counter and John slowly raised his head above the counter, to look at the tall pale man looking impatient and fidgety. After a second, recognition dawned; same blue coat and dark curly hair of the pick pocket.
The thief noticed he was being stared at. His dilated blue eyes flicked over him, and soon recognition matched his own. "Dr John...Watson."
"You!" John said accusingly, mouth hanging open slightly at the sheer coincidence of bumping into the man who had pick pocketed him two months earlier. Shock soon turned into anger. The night his wallet was lifted had been a right nightmare. No money, no travel card, no cash cards. Up piss creak and no paddle. Luckily he had his phone still and he had to call his sister to come bail him out, which he had been less than pleased about. What had been even worse was cancelling all his cards and finding out from his bank he had been cleared out. Again he had to ask Harry for money until his next pension payment came in.
Now the cause of all that misery was right in front of him. The man (Sherlock?) read the anger in his face, and as if on second instinct turned and fled towards the main entrance of the shelter.
"Come back!" John shouted after him. But the pick pocket was swift, and had already hit the button for the lock of the door to get out before John was even around the reception desk.
The door had auto locked it`s self before he reached it, and he was impeded hitting the button again. He barreled down the steps to the street, looking left and right looking for that tale tell coat. There! But Sherlock was already turning the corner. John ran as fast as he could and tried to spot the man down the alley he`d turned.
Fuck! He`d lost him already. Well of course a homeless guy would know these streets a lot better than him, who knows where he`d gone. He was panting from the burst of energy, and as his initial anger faded guilt started to eat at him. Sure he`d been robbed by the man, but now he`d just possibly chased him away from a warm bed for the night. What was he going to do if he caught him? Call the police? So much for a safe place the shelter tried to provide. Get his money back? Ha that would have gone into his arm long ago.
Just then the pain in his leg brought him out of his moral dilemma, and he realized he`d not used his cane in the high speed chase after the thief. His therapist was right, it was psychosomatic. Embarrassed, he limped back down the street to go back to the clinic to pick up his things.
Sherlock puffed at the top of the scaffolding leaning dangerously over the top rail. As he watched the doctor look around confused. He was as high as a kite, and felt exhilarated and powerful over just a two minute chase. He looked down from the dizzying heights, both figuratively and literally and grinned that he had evaded his pursuer so easily. If the idiot only thought to look up he was there in plain view.
He had been buzzing and impatient, wanting Molly to go get the needles for him so he could go back to his room before his cocaine high wore off, so he could inject morphine to take the edge off the come down. His good vein was collapsing, he`d need to switch to his ankles if he wasn`t careful, hence he wanted fresh sharp needles.
Bit of flattery and Molly had gone to get what he wanted. Sherlock was left to get lost in his own mile a minute thoughts, going through a violin composition he was working on. It felt like he could write a thousand sonatas when he was in this mood. When he still had a flat, sometimes he`d come down from an intense drug binge to have dozens and dozens of sheet music he had composed through the sleepless days and nights. On second review he`d have to admit it was mostly crap. But some of them had been actually quite good.
Sherlock had heard her call the man behind the counter John, and assumed him to be the doctor doing the clinic today. He continued his tapping until he noticed he was being stared at. The composition filling his head faded into the back ground and everything seemed to go in slow motion, or his thoughts sped up. "Doctor. John..." He knew that name from somewhere. After what seemed like an eternity of scanning his archives, he hit the right data. "...Watson." The man looked angry? Oh, because he`d pick pocketed this man a little while ago.
Bugger.
Then his stimulant boosted instinct took over, flight or fight and because he remembered Dr Watson had needed a cane he chose flight and bolted for the door.
Outside he took a left, then a right dodging cars fearlessly as he ran across the road into the alley where he knew there was being renovations done and he leapt onto the scaffolding and hoisted himself up with little effort. He quickly and efficiently got to the top, adrenaline pumping through his veins with the coke.
It had worked, and now he observed John Watson as he turned to head back to the clinic. Like a cat he balanced along the boards to go to the other end so he could lean over and observe the man limp back to the hostel.
He had ran that far without a cane, but once he gave up the pursuit had remembered the pain. Psychosomatic. Interesting. His mind was going through theories when he saw the doctor re-emerge and head towards the tube station.
In this state Sherlock was feeling confident enough that the doctor hadn`t said anything, after all nearly everyone staying in that hostel was involved in petty crime of some sorts, so he could return to the hostel for the night. He snaked down the iron bars of the scaffolding, and returned the hostel Molly letting him in with a bit of a confused look. He wordlessly took the box of needles ignoring her questions.
Sherlock had planned to sleep tonight, he couldn`t remember the last time he had. He had promised himself to eat the meal provided by the hostel, take the morphine to take the edge off his come down and finally sleep. That`s why he`d stood for hours that afternoon queuing to get a bed. Food, clothes wash, shower, sleep.
But sleep, after that experience? No no, he was thinking about John Watson, that psychosomatic limp, and his compositions. He grabbed some paper and a pen at the main entrance and retreated to his room. No not morphine, he could feel his high fading but he wanted to keep hold of this exhilarated feeling as long as possible, so he prepared another intravenous hit of coke, taking out the new needle from its plastic wrapping. When done, Sherlock threw away the needle and picked up the pen instead. He had some compositions to write down, and theories about the army doctor with an imaginary limp. He could work on both at the same time, he could do anything right now, he felt like a god.