Two turns, one right, one left, down the street, into an alley, and then- there. Three men, one of them between the others, all of them hunched over something he cupped in his hands.
"Evening, gentlemen," Sherlock murmured softly, leaning one shoulder against the wall. The first man started violently, eyes darting to him as he drew his hands protectively to his chest. The other two whirled around, glaring at him, anxious fear in their eyes.
Sherlock straightened, taking one, two steps forward. At seventeen, he held the air of someone several years his senior, and his suit gave the air of someone far more powerful.
"What do you have?" The junkies scurried away as he approached the dealer, who looked strung out on one thing or another as it was, and shivering as he waited for his next hit. The dealer looked up at him, eyes wide, then down at his hands, nervousness evident.
"Um. Coke. Mostly. I- I could see about something e-" Sherlock cut him off with a swift slicing gesture of his left hand.
"How much do you have?" The dealer told him, and Sherlock nodded slowly, then pulled out his wallet and removed a handful of notes. "All of it." He dropped the money into the sweating man's hand, gathered his purchase from unresistant hands, and left without another word.
Back in his bedroom, he lay back on the bed, tied off his arm, filled the syringe with saline and 7% cocaine. He smirked to himself. No one about, but that didn't matter. As Sherlock slipped the needle into his vein and depressed the plunger, he allowed himself a long sigh through his nose. This was how he preferred to celebrate his birthdays, he told himself- higher than a kite, and alone.
A/N: THIS IS NOT A SUGGESTION AS TO HOW TO CELEBRATE YOUR BIRTHDAY. PLEASE DO NOT DO THE THING. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRIEND. -E