This story is for all of you lovely people who have read and commented on my stories this year, while I've been on a monumental hiatus. And it is especially for sevenpercent, GhyllWyne, SailonSilvergirl and ThessalyMc.

This follows on from The Box but can also be read in isolation. All that you need to know is that in my version of Sherlock's childhood he spent part of the previous year in a psychiatric hospital with psychotic depression, but don't let that put you off. The story is also slightly AU in that in my version of events both of Sherlock's parents are dead, leaving Mycroft as his guardian. Other than that it very much follows the BBC cannon up to the to end of series 2.

It was cold on the streets today. Sherlock shivered and pulled his sleeping bag closer up round his shoulders, tightening his scarf to cover the gap between it and his hat. He checked his watch, keeping his arm as far into the bag as he could while squinting to see the hands in the half-darkness of the bag's interior. Three o'clock - several hours before he dared to make the move to the office vestibule with its blessed hot air vents which would provide him with at least some warmth overnight. The trick, he knew, was to time it so that the last of the office workers had left and wouldn't call the police to have him moved on, but not leave it so late that somebody else would poach his spot.

His feet felt like blocks of ice even within the relative warmth of the sleeping bag. He ought to find somewhere warm to sit for a few hours; the local libraries tolerated him for a couple of hours or so before the staff started loudly clearing up books near him, and they were warm, and the chance to sit and read made him feel vaguely civilized and at least half human. But somehow even the short walk to the library seemed like too much of an effort today. He coughed, a deep rattling sound that went on and on, and made his already sore chest ache. When the spasm was over, he rested his head back against the cold concrete of the alcove he was sitting in to get his breath back, before pulling away as he felt the cold start to leach through the layers of sleeping bag and clothes to the skin of his back. At least his bottom half was insulated by the layer of cardboard boxes he was sitting on, a neat trick that he had learnt by observation of the others in this strange community that he was trying hard not to become a part of. He had picked up a lot during his two weeks on the street, more than he would ever have thought possible and nothing he could ever have got from a book - where to sit during the day to stay as warm as you could; where to go later in the evening to avoid having your day's taking nicked; where to sleep; where to wash; where to go for a free cup of coffee and a sandwich where you wouldn't be subjected to a lecture or reported to social services for being underage. Strange skills, odd knowledge, but as Mycroft said, no knowledge acquired was ever useless, you just had to know how to file it away for later use.

Sherlock had changed physically in the last two weeks too. He had acquired a dull dusting of stubble on his chin and cheeks, partly by choice and partly by lack of facilities and impetus to shave. While it would never be a full beard, the resulting stubble made him look both older and less of a target. It also had the added benefit of making him look scruffy and slightly threatening. People had started crossing the street to avoid him, although that might have been the smell - it was hard to stay clean on the streets and when you only had one change of clothes and those had come from charity shops. On the rare occasion that he was able to look in a mirror, he convinced himself that he looked far older than his seventeen years, hopefully old enough to stop the police questioning him about his age. He had become proficient in picking his pitches now, too, staying off the main thoroughfare as much as he could, where he was less visible to passing police patrols, but not picking a spot so isolated that he became an easy target for those who offered you a choice between a kicking or handing over your belongings. Sherlock had always been good at fighting - another skill that wasn't on the public school syllabus, but one you picked up quickly all the same. It turned out that those living on the street fought even dirtier than the boys at school, something he hadn't thought was possible. After having most of his belongings stolen in the first few days, he had learnt to keep his newly acquired rucksack stuffed into the bottom of his sleeping bag, away from view.

He had learnt the hard way that his public school accent made him stick out like a sore thumb and had instead affected an accent that was an odd mix of Essex and Cockney. It seemed to do the trick. He kept to himself, talking to other people only when strictly necessary, avoiding making eye contact with anyone, keeping his voice low and mumbled. Not that many people bothered him - just the odd drunk, wanting a bit of conversation, or the do-gooders who dropped coins on his sleeping bag and who only required a mumbled 'thanks' before they moved on, as if their consciences could be temporarily cleansed by this small act of charity. Sherlock hated being a charity case, hated the pity in their eyes, as if it could never happen to them, as if he hadnt been just like them a few weeks ago - well dressed, well educated, money in his pocket, the world at his feet (well, according to Mycroft anyway). And all it had taken was one small slip, one monumental fuck-up and here he was. Alone. Homeless. Hungry. Freezing. And with no way back.

'Hello, Will,' came a voice. And it took him a moment to remember that was the name that he'd given himself in his early days on the street. Foolish really, of all the names he could have chosen it was a little too close to the truth. He looked up to see a cup being held out in his direction. Steam was coming off the top of it. Hot, warming, he knew it would contain black coffee with two sugars, just the way he liked it. But taking it would require him to remove his hands from the sleeping bag, and so he hesitated for just a moment.

'It's just coffee, ' the voice said cheerfully. 'If you don't want it, then I'll drink it myself.'

Sherlock freed his hands and took the cup, took a sip: it was so hot it scalded his tongue, but he gulped down several mouthfuls all the same, grateful for the warmth spreading through his body. He definitely needed to get out ofthe cold . The sun had been hitting his spot earlier that day, but even that had disappeared now, and it would get colder soon once dusk fell.

He looked up to see that the bearer of the coffee was still standing there, watching him. Early to mid twenties, sandy brown hair, brown eyes, pleasant open face that Sherlock might have found attractive in other circumstances, grey designer beanie, well cut navy blue duffle coat. Family money, Sherlock guessed. He certainly didn't earn enough money for those clothes doing his day job as a teaching assistant. Tom, his name was Tom, Sherlock remembered, his brain feeling as numb as his feet, wondering why he could remember the job but not the name. He coughed again and nearly spilt his coffee.

'You okay?'

'I'm fine,' Sherlock mumbled, annoyed at himself for having shown weakness. 'What are you doing here in daylight? I thought you lot only came out at night.'

You lot. The street outreach workers, or whatever they called themselves. Tom volunteered for them in the evenings, , doing his bit for charity after school and now in the holidays - taking hot drinks and food round to the homeless at night, trying to persuade them to come into the shelters. But Sherlock didn't dare risk it. He had tried one a few days after he had come to London, but a couple of non-uniformed police officers sniffing round had forced him to make a bolt for the back door before he'd had the chance to do more than have a hot meal, let alone get any much needed sleep. It made sense that Mycroft would be looking to him, and shelters were the obvious place to begin the search. He should have gone to another city, but he knew London, knew its hidden places, knew how to stay lost there, and besides the thought of going somewhere new terrified him. Living rough was bad enough here, let alone in a new city.

'I'm Christmas shopping,' Tom said, making Sherlock jump. He had almost forgotten he was there. He felt tired, he needed to sleep. He had been disturbed several times last night by Christmas party revelers singing and laughing as they walked down the quiet side-street where he had settled for the night. One of the men had tried to take a piss on his sleeping bag, and Sherlock had only just scrabbled away in time to stop it getting soaked, and then faced the dilemma of trying to find another sleeping spot at 4am or trying to mop up the resulting puddle with cardboard and put up with the public urinal smell. He had opted for the latter, and although he had changed pitches since, he couldn't get the smell out of his nostrils and he had begun to suspect that it had seeped into his bag after all.

'Saw you sitting there,' Tom continued. 'You looked cold, thought you could do with a hot drink. Listen why don't you come up to the shelter when it opens later? Its going to be below freezing tonight, far too cold to stay out here.'

'I've got somewhere to go,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Like where, the Hilton?' Tom asked, his eyes amused. 'Come on, Will, be sensible. You need to warm up - we can get you a shower, some clean clothes, a hot meal and a bed for the night. I'll even wash that sleeping bag for you, how's that for an offer?'

Sherlock hesitated, just for a moment. He shouldn't show weakness, he knew it, but his appearance had changed so much in the last couple of weeks, wasn't it worth the risk? Besides, Mycroft would have already moved his enquiries away from the London shelters surely, and he knew that the one Tom worked out of was one of the smaller ones, tucked out of the way, unlikely to even be on Mycroft's radar.

'I'm fine,' he mumbled again, but he sounded unconvincing even to himself.

'Tell you what,' Tom said, 'How about I come and find you when I've finished shopping? I'm heading straight over to the shelter after that, you could come with me. Here -'

He dug into his pocket and handed Sherlock a fiver.

'Why don't you go into the cafe round the corner and get yourself something hot to eat? You look as if you need warming up. Better than sitting here in the cold while you're waiting.'

'I thought it was against the rules to give us money.'

'I'm not a fan of pointless rules - nor, I suspect are you. Think of it more as a loan to a friend - you can pay me back when you're back on your feet.'

'I don't have friends,' Sherlock snapped, but he found himself reaching out and taking the money anyway.

'Then maybe it's time you started,' Tom said as he pushed his hands back into his pockets. 'If you're not here when I come back,I'll look for you in the cafe.'

As Tom walked away, Sherlock found himself fighting his way out of the sleeping bag and standing up, extricating his rucksack from the bottom of the bag and starting to stuff the sleeping bag into it, smell and all. He wasn't about to turn down a free hot meal, no matter how he felt about charity. Besides, he was out of benzos, and without them the endless chatter in his head was becoming his intolerable. He would go and see what he could score, and then go to the cafe and warm-up. He didn't have to go with Tom later - of course he didn't. Taking the man's money didn't mean that he was in any way obligated to him. He didn't want charity, but a loan was a different matter. It implied that he knew that Sherlock was more than the dirty street rat that he appeared to be-that he saw past the grime and the street dirt, that Tom thought that he was worth saving, something Sherlock had not believed of himself since he had walked out of the college at Cambridge after thoroughly screwing up his future.

Sherlock wasn't sure that he wanted to be saved, but he swung the rucksack on his back and headed for the cafe all the same.

This story was partly inspired by the massive rise in rough sleepers that I've seen recently - and I'm a long way from London. Fortunately, the major cities are full of shelters, and outreach workers like Tom. If you want to help, then Shelter is a fantastic charity, working with the homeless in all kinds of ways, or buy them a cup of coffee or a sandwich. Few people choose to end up on the streets and its a tough world out there.