Trevor wandered along the busy streets of London, weighed under millions of bags from Tesco, Marks and Spencer and Asda. Last minutes Christmas shoppers, like Trevor himself, hurried in every direction, never stopping, never pausing, all determined to be early for whatever it is they were doing. As an outsider to the weird and wonderful capital, Trevor was one of the few people that stopped to look. Carols drifted out of department stores, twinkling lights hung everywhere and even a soft snow began to fall. Wondering how he would ever catch a taxi, he glanced across the road and saw something he never thought he would.
Sherlock Holmes. The strangest but greatest man he had ever met. Their brief encounter at University had been almost forgotten but the sight of that mop of raven curls brought it all back. But this Sherlock wasn't the young brilliant mind he remembered. The Sherlock he saw before him was dirty, pale and thin. He had always been pale and thin but this was the extremes. Trevor swore his lips were pure white. The snow grew slightly heavier and some of it landed in Sherlock's hair. He didn't shake them away, just took a deep breath of the cold air. Shakily, the young man raised a lighter and flicked it. The fluid was almost gone but there was enough to light the cigarette that hung from Sherlock's lips. He took a long drag of the smoke and pulled it out with quivering fingers, eyes cast skyward. The stars had begun to glow through the London pollution as the day ended. Trevor stared at his friend as searched his pockets. Sherlock pulled out a few folded bits of paper and sighed, leaning up against the wall. A man approached him with raised eyebrows but Sherlock shook his head. He motioned to behind him. The man walked in the direction Sherlock had sent him. Trevor could see the 'ladies of the night' inside. Trevor's eyes were wide as he flicked back into memory.
Sherlock was hanging upside down from his bed, violin by his head and book against his stomach. He looked at Trevor and grinned, showing bright white teeth. Long shiny curls fell over his face and he blinked rapidly, sitting up. The book fell on the floor. Its title was advanced chemistry and it looked about a thousand pages thick. Sherlock flashed him another grin and lay back on his bed, eyes open in a daydream. Trevor watched the teen for a second and turned away.
Trevor was pulled out of his memory by someone nudging him as they scurried past. Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked at Sherlock once more. His once bright curls were damp and fell flat with no bounce in them. His liquid silver eyes looked tired and sad. His cheeks were slightly sunken and pale. This was not Sherlock Holmes. He refused to believe it. He wasn't even 18 yet. The strange man left the alley way. Another approached, this time talking with Sherlock for a second before handing him a packet of white powder. Sherlock's eyes lit up and he stuffed it quickly in his pocket, thanking the man before leaning back and taking another drag of his almost extinguished cigarette. Trevor saw the powder and knew instantly what it was. Drugs. He didn't know this man anymore. But why couldn't he stop staring? Sherlock's bony form shivered and Trevor felt a pang of guilt. Another man approached Sherlock and this time he nodded and took him around the alley. They didn't return for about twenty minutes. Then Sherlock came back, pulling at his small white shirt. The man handed him some money and he rolled his eyes, disgusted at himself. The man who gave Sherlock the drugs took the money Sherlock had 'earned'. Sherlock shivered again and looked up. The snow was getting even heavier, completely coating Sherlock. Trevor pulled at his coat and kept watching.
Feeling the cold more than ever, Sherlock rubbed his hands together and blew on them. Trevor saw the rips in the ruined black gloves his friend wore. There was a similarly tatty raincoat on the floor next to him. Sherlock leant against the wall against, glaring at the Thames. The look in his eyes was one of lost hope. Trevor hoped he wouldn't. His clothes were already damp enough from the snow. The man with Sherlock's money returned and Sherlock sighed, handing him a note from his pocket. The man looked at Sherlock but he shook his head. The other man left. Running his hand through his curls tiredly, Sherlock shivered once more and glanced at the phone booth next to him, coughing. The guilt in Trevor's heart grew as Sherlock drifted into a daydream. The expression of peace on his face reminded Trevor once more of the long summer days gone by. He wondered if the drugs in Sherlock's pocket gave him a high or kept his grounded. He would never know.
After a few more minutes of silence, Trevor watched in horror as Sherlock fell in the hard, cold snow. His eyes were shut and he didn't move. One hand was stretched out in front of him and even from the other side of the road; Trevor could see the track marks up his sinewy forearms. The snow began to settle of Trevor's fallen friend. No one moved. No one came to see him. Trevor wasn't even sure if anyone else saw. Or cared. His heart gave a powerful wrench and he sobbed silently, unsure of what to do. All he could think of was Sherlock. Lying on his dorm bed, destroying things in the Science lab, back-chatting teachers. All the things he used to do. Not anymore. Sherlock, the real Sherlock, the one here and now, just lay in the cold snow, unmoving and alone. The man with Sherlock's money came to see him once more. He shook his head and tutted, signaling for two men. They picked up Sherlock's fragile form and dragged him roughly into the alley way. Trevor watched in silence, and then began to cry. The lights on the Christmas trees were ever so slightly dimmer. And one star, just above the alleyway, shone stronger and brighter than the rest.