Sherlock was feeling on top of the world for the first time in months. He was extremely satisfied with himself; it was a highly successful night. He'd sweet talked his way into an elderly woman's home, stolen her chain of pearls, pawned it for forty quid, scored a gram of quality blow, and was currently flying high in a back alley on Baker Street.

He was positively euphoric. It'd been far too long since he'd had a good hit.

Right of the key, uncut. 12 lines worth.

He knew it wouldn't last long. He'd need to clean house and take over his friend Raz's entire inventory. He had a full ounce worth of the Colombian sugar just sitting there, waiting for him. He had convinced him to set it aside for him and give him a week to come up with the cash.

1.4 grand by Tuesday. Charity scheme… a possibility. Goods for services, more likely.

Sherlock believed it was well worth it for the product. He had no intent of selling; he would store it away for the long winter.

He finally felt like he had a purpose in life. He'd been in such a rut lately; this was a huge boost for his mood. He passed by a patrol car, checked over the license plate, and whistled as he strolled past.

Inspector Bradstreet, forty-two, top speed 7 mph. Morbidly obese. The undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own. The right sleeve of a porn addict. And the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy. Stupid, gullible old Bradstreet.

As he passed by the front of the patrol car, a strapping young man with dark hair stepped out. Sherlock's heart dropped into his stomach.

Not Bradstreet.

Sherlock's brain whirled with ten thousand escape plans, which he rapidly narrowed down to seven, and then he mulled over his top two. He took in a deep breath, held it, and kept walking.

"Oi." The officer shouted.

Shit

Sherlock spun on his heels and turned on his charm, "Officer! Good evening," he said, smiling brightly. It hurt his cheeks to maintain a smile for too long. It was quickly fading. He struggled to remain sincere. The officer beckoned him over. Sherlock confidently strolled over to the police officer and stood beside the car, careful not to touch the vehicle.

"Evenin'," the officer said.

Somerset.

"What brings you out here tonight?" the man asked looking Sherlock over. He was a good few inches shorter than Sherlock but built like a tank, with a strong set jaw, and a good set of legs.

"Oh you know… leisure," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Yeah…" the officer said with a long drawl. He smacked his lips and tongued the back of his cheek, "Out for a leisurely stroll are we?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. "At three in the morning?"

"Best time."

"Oh really?"

"Rapists are all tucked in for the evening, murders haven't yet woken up."

"Just have to worry about the junkies, right?" the officer gave him a smile, showing off his brilliantly white teeth. "You know anything about a robbery that took place in these parts, oh… not seven hours ago?"

A bit too straight forward Constable, you'll never get a confession out of me that way. You're very green… what are you doing with Bradstreet's car?

"I haven't the slightest idea. I came by way of Southwark. Only just arrived."

The officer hummed to himself.

He isn't buying it.

Sherlock looked at his surroundings.

"Little old lady, lives right over there," the man said pointing across the street to 221-B. Sherlock had to actively control his autonomic response. He'd inadvertently returned to the scene of the crime. His mouth went dry; he had to refrain from gulping. "Says a young man… bout six foot, real thin, with dark curly hair, came round with a real sob story. Says he'd been mugged, was all in tears. While she's off, fixin him a cuppa, he turns round and roots through her jewelry. Says he nicked her gran's chain of pearls."

"That's awful!" Sherlock said with disgust.

Refute everything and you're done for. Express your sincerest concern along with an apology and say that there is nothing you can do for him.

"I really wish I could help you officer," Sherlock gave him a reassuring look of sympathy. "I can keep my eyes out for the character if you'd like."

"That's not all."

"Oh?" Sherlock said with a slight inflection.

Oh shit.

"Money shop owner, down the way, admitted to working out a pawn loan for the pearls. He handed em over. Pearls are back with their rightful owner."

"I am so pleased that story had a happy ending," Sherlock said as he turned to leave.

"Oh no, gets better. You'll like this next part," The officer said, placing a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock rolled his eyes before he turned to face the man once more. "See most kids his age would have just gone and sold the jewelry, police would have been called, and that's that. This boy, he's real clever.

Hm, I'm flattered, go on.

"Left the owner with a bullshit address, phone-number, even had references! The name 'Richard Brook' ring a bell?" the officer asked. Sherlock shook his head, "Yeah, I thought not," the officer let out a sigh and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He handed it to Sherlock. It was a photocopy of the false ID he had used to secure the loan, "None of your chums seemed to know a Richard Brook either."

Chums? I don't have chums.

"Though, they did seem to know a Sherlock Holmes that fit the description."

"Well officer, it was nice speaking with you, but I must be off," Sherlock turned quickly and burst into a sprint.

The Constable was fast on his heels and Sherlock suddenly felt terribly out of shape.

I should be running at Mach 5 with this much coke in my system!

He turned down Melcombe Street, ducked into a narrow side street, scrambled up a brick fence, and narrowly slid through the gap between the sections of barbed wire. He took a short breather and pressed his back against the wall.

He heard the officer's heavy footfall on the pavement. He covered his mouth to silence the sounds of his heavy breathing. He heard the slide of boots on the brick wall. Sherlock made a quick dash for the fire escape. He leaped and was just barely able to clutch on to the ladder.

He had started shimmying up the ladder when the officer bounded over the fence. Sherlock lost his grip and fell to the ground and landed heavily on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

The officer waltzed over to Sherlock casually and looked down upon him, disapprovingly. Sherlock looked up at him, still not willing to admit defeat.

"You know I'm going to have to take you in, right?" He motioned for Sherlock to roll over. Sherlock obliged and rolled over on to his stomach. He placed his hands behind his back and allowed the Constable to cuff him.

He gritted his teeth as he thought.

"What's the charge?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly. The officer was obviously taken aback, he laughed nervously.

"Um… evading arrest? Burglary? Public intoxication?"

"For one, you were not actively arresting me, you were questioning me; I was free to leave whenever I pleased. And burglary? Please. You hardly have insurmountable evidence for your accusations. My ID clearly states that my name is Sherlock Holmes. I will attest that I am not this Richard Brook person you are looking for and you won't find this man's identification on my person. As for public intoxication, hardly worth writing up the report, don't you agree, Constable? That is what you were doing in the parked patrol car? Working on your reports? Or were you in the middle of a good nap and I happened to wake you?"

"You have the right to remain silent-"

"Oh but I surely won't use it," Sherlock said with a smile. "Certainly they wouldn't have your badge for this, but sleeping on the job, that's a punishable offence, don't you believe-"

"Listen kid. I've been up for the past twenty-two hours. It's almost an hour past my shift-"

"All the more reason to let me go," Sherlock all but begged. The officer helped him on to his feet; he lifted the latch on the gate and led him through. "I didn't catch your name."

"Lestrade," he mumbled. He gently led Sherlock by his shoulders back to the patrol car.

"Really, is all this necessary?" Sherlock asked trying to be amiable. "An hour past your shift, won't your grandmother be worried? The poor old woman will think you've been shot or worse!"

Lestrade broke stride a moment, shook his head, and kept walking.

"Nah, don't think it'll worry her much."

"Why?"

"She's dead."

Damn it. Of course. He inherited her place after her passing, mustn't have died long ago. Perhaps the wound is still fresh.

"I'm sad to hear."

"Don't be."

They didn't get along. He obviously lived with the woman quite some time before her passing. His inheritance was a fluke. Perhaps she didn't have a living will. She mistreated him. Shows all the classical signs of a broken household.

They reached the car and Lestrade walked Sherlock up to the hood until his knees pressed against the grill. Lestrade let go, opened the driver side door, and flipped on the headlights.

"Right then," Lestrade said stretching on the examination gloves. "Any weapons?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No," he said with an aggravated sigh. He was almost certain he wouldn't find the gram on him. He was starting to really miss Bradstreet as Lestrade started patting him down.

Stupid, fat, old Bradstreet. He'd never have given chase. Public intoxication charges. How I hate new Constables. Always wanting to go by the book.

Lestrade checked the pockets of his zip-up hoodie. He pulled down the zip and slid the jacket off of Sherlock's shoulders and down his arms until it hung loosely around Sherlock's cuffed wrists.

"Reversible," the officer stated. "That's real clever."

Sherlock fought to hold back a smug grin. He thought it was quite clever himself. It allowed for a quick costume change from bold black stripes on one side, to solid red on the other.

Lestrade slid his hands down Sherlock's chest and checked the breast pocket on his shirt. He slid the hoodie back up and onto Sherlock's shoulders. He grabbed and squeezed along the legs of Sherlock's jeans. He motioned for Sherlock to remove his shoes.

My, he's thorough.

Sherlock toed off his shoes and stood in his socks while Lestrade peeled back the inserts and checked them over. He helped Sherlock back into his shoes and stood up. Sherlock let out a sigh. He was almost out of the woods. Just a quick pat down of his privates and he'd be done.

Male cops always skirted around these regions, uncomfortable to grope another man's naughty bits, worried they might be charged with assault if they grabbed them in the wrong place. Sherlock used this to his advantage. He hadn't been caught yet and he wasn't planning on it.

He lifted at the bottom of Sherlock's shirt, smoothed out the area near his crotch. Ran the back of his hand up the front of his jeans, then stopped, he groped and Sherlock let out a small gasp.

"God's sake Constable," he said trying to pull away, "At least buy me dinner first."

"You concealing anything in your pants?"

"No," Sherlock lied, "Well… my dick," he said with a shrug. A silence fell on them.

He's struggling to remember the proper procedure. Please… please don't call. He hasn't made a call in yet. I still have a chance if I can keep him away from the receiver.

"Erm… Mr. Holmes, I believe I have probable cause to check your pants."

What is this? A gay pornography?

"Spread," Lestrade said tapping on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh. If he didn't let him search his pants he'd have to take him in and they'd search him at the station. If there wasn't anything on him he could perhaps press charges against the officer for unwarranted molestation, unfortunately he had concealed in a small pocket in his pants a gram of cocaine.

There was still a small chance he wouldn't find it. Lestrade undid Sherlock's button and zip and slid his jeans down slightly. His hand went directly to the pocket. He withdrew the small silk sachet and Sherlock started cursing him in his head. He placed the bag on the hood of the car and did up Sherlock's jeans.

How in the hell did he feel that through denim?

"I must say. You're a real clever one," Lestrade laughed looking at the small bag of cocaine, "Most blokes put their blow in little plastic baggies. Silk doesn't make that crinkly sound when you get a pat down. Clever," he let out a chuckle, "All right, princess, your chariot awaits," he placed the coke in an evidence bag, removed his gloves, and led Sherlock to the back seat.

"Do we really have to go through all of this? It's under a gram! Think of the paper work!" Sherlock pleaded as Lestrade opened the door for him. He pushed his head down and nudged him into the vehicle, "Please, I don't need this on my record," Sherlock begged as Lestrade slammed the door shut. Sherlock held back from banging his head against the back of the seat. He calmed himself with several deep breaths.

So he was asleep while on the clock, not enough to get him in serious trouble. He followed the proper pat-down procedure. He didn't use unnecessary force in his seizure. I need something! Perhaps not black-mail. A bribe. Yes bribes work. They worked on Bradstreet. Everyone has a weak spot.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think of what would tempt the young officer.

What would tempt a man in his late twenties, one without a steady girlfriend, and a high stress home-life?

Lestrade opened the driver side door and stepped in.

He hasn't called me in yet. I still have a chance!

Lestrade turned on the ignition and the car roared to life.

"I'll suck you off!" Sherlock shouted. The engine cut out. Lestrade turned around in his seat.

"What?"

"Here," Sherlock said frantically, "In the back seat. Please, if you'll just let me go," he worked up some misty eyes and pouted his lower lip, "I'm desperate."

Lestrade turned around. Started up the patrol car once more and peeled out. Sherlock groaned and hit his forehead against the back of the seat.

"You could use this you know. Get your head on straight. Clean up your act," Lestrade said, "You're a real smart kid."

Sherlock started to sniffle.

"Are you crying?" Lestrade asked in disbelief.

"No… my nose is bleeding," drops of blood steadily dripped out of Sherlock's nose and on to his trainers.

"Oh shit, you serious?" Lestrade asked turning around, the car jerked, "All right, all right, hold on," he pulled over, "Don't get any on the seats!" he shouted, grabbing the first aid kit from under the passenger seat. He hopped out of the car.

Next time, injection.

Sherlock generally hated snorting cocaine, but he was unable to get his hands on any clean needles and was desperate for a hit. The stuff he got from Raz was amazing, it went down smooth, sending chills down his spine; he didn't even mind having to snort it. Now the Constable had it in his possession and he needed it back. If only he could worm his way out of this situation.

Lestrade slid into the back seat and opened the first aid kit. He went to hold a cotton ball up to Sherlock's nose and stopped. Sherlock looked at him.

"You clean?" Lestrade asked in concern. He looked away and put the cotton ball down a moment while he pulled on latex gloves.

"What would make you think I wasn't?" Sherlock asked as Lestrade started trying to stop up his nose with a cotton ball.

"Track marks up your arms," Lestrade said as he mopped up the blood that had dripped on to Sherlock's chin. "That and you offered to blow me in the back seat," Lestrade added, "You're kind of at risk."

"I don't share needles," Sherlock scoffed.

"You got any family?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shook his head, "A residence?"

Sherlock shook his head once more. Lestrade let out a sigh.

"Wait… why?" Sherlock asked turning towards him.

"Was thinking of letting you go," he shrugged, "But since you have no place to go."

"Oh, I do. Of course I do," Sherlock stammered. Lestrade looked at him expectantly.

Now who will put up with me for the night? Someone who doesn't have a record… I'd be leading the police right to them.

"Out near Barts!" he blurted out.

Molly Hooper. Haven't spoken with her in years… It's worth a shot.

Sherlock's hands started to shake. "My friend, Molly, she has accommodations near the hospital."

"Is that true?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded eagerly, "When's the last time you had a bite to eat?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows.

What is he getting at?

"Wednesday," Sherlock said leaning back.

"This last Wednesday?" Lestrade asked in concern.

"I think," honestly Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he ate. The cocaine did a good job of suppressing his hunger.

"I know a place that's open," Lestrade said with a sigh, "Could use a coffee myself."

Sherlock looked at him absolutely baffled.

When they reached the diner, Lestrade undid Sherlock's cuffs and escorted him into the establishment. Sherlock walked in, nervously scratching at his arm. The fluorescent light seemed to make his pale translucent skin glow. They slid into a booth and Lestrade handed him a menu.

He's a regular.

The waitress came by and Lestrade ordered two coffees.

"I don't drink coffee," Sherlock mumbled when the waitress brought over their cups.

"S'fine, I do," Lestrade started to drink his first cup. "Order whatever, it's on me."

Sherlock didn't bother glancing at the menu.

"Not hungry," he said.

"Three eggs, over medium, two pieces of toast, bacon, sausage, and a side of potatoes," Lestrade rattled off the list and the waitress nodded.

"Not hungry," Sherlock repeated.

"Doesn't matter. You're coming down off a high."

Sherlock itched at the back of his knuckles. Lestrade was already half-way done with his cup of coffee.

"Caffeine's a drug too," Sherlock said childishly. Lestrade let out a snort.

"Oh yeah?" he said as he finished off his cup, "Don't see me sucking some bloke's dick in a back alley for a shot of espresso, do ya?"

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't expecting a dinner date with a police officer.

If I could just suffer through this a little longer, I'll be off scot-free. Then I can get on with that charity scheme. No more stealing from little old ladies. 1.4 grand and I'll be set for the rest of winter.

"Tell me about yourself," Lestrade said.

"Why?" Sherlock snapped. He needed to keep himself in check. He was starting to become irritable and slightly paranoid.

"Cos," Lestrade shrugged, "I really do hope I never see you again, but we both know that's not going to happen. Might as well get to know my regulars."

"New to the borough?" Sherlock asked and Lestrade nodded, "Partner fell through?"

Lestrade looked at him strange.

"You're very observant," he remarked

"Where's Bradstreet?" Sherlock asked.

"On sick leave."

"Heart?"

"Yeah… triple bypass."

"Send him my best wishes," Sherlock said grabbing the other cup of coffee. He tore open six packets of sugar and poured them in. He swirled it around and gave it a sip, "I was becoming rather fond of the Inspector," Sherlock admitted.

"He never gave chase, eh?"

Sherlock looked out the window and gave a sigh.

"So what put you out on the streets?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm flattered that you're interested in me, but really, must we resort to small talk?"

"Could take a ride down to the station…"

"Drugs. Drugs are what put me on the streets. Happy?"

"Selling?"

"Heavens no," Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not stupid."

"There's good money in it."

"Yes and a great deal of risk. And for what? To be caught? To have my massive fortune stripped from me? I have yet to have a gun held to my head and I'm not looking to change that."

"Yeah but doing drugs-"

"Is completely safe. If you know the right people, the proper dosage, the-"

"There's no way to control everything."

"I assume a risk, but it is entirely manageable. I'm as safe as I want to be."

"Sleeping on the streets?"

"The homeless network looks after me," Sherlock said defiantly, "And I don't sleep on the streets."

"Right, you're supposedly shacking up with some bird."

"Supposedly?"

He's calling my bluff. How dare he?

Lestrade shook his head and smiled, "I know a thing or two."

"About?"

"Not having a proper home. Doing what you need to get by," Lestrade looked into his empty cup, "Drugs though… never got into that shit," Lestrade looked up at him, "It is shit, you know? Boy, clever as you-"

"You're trying to convert me?"

"Would make my job easier."

"Constables…" Sherlock mumbled.

Self-righteous bastards.

"How old are you anyway?" Lestrade asked as the waitress made her way over with the bounty of food. She topped off Lestrade's cup of coffee and Sherlock looked down at the food in disgust.

"Eighteen," Sherlock said poking at a rubbery piece of sausage, "You said you've lived on the streets?"

"Nah, but I was homeless once," Lestrade said and Sherlock looked at him, "Ran away from home when I was real young."

"And what? Joined the circus?"

"Yeah… actually," Lestrade laughed. Sherlock was slightly taken aback.

"Absent father?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade nodded, "Working mother?"

He nodded once more

"How'd you know about my gran by the way?"

"Rose water, cellophane, and shoe polish," Sherlock said rapidly.

"Shoe polish?"

"Coloured shoe polish, smells strongly of turpentine. It is unlikely a young woman would take the time to polish her shoes; she'd likely throw them out and buy another pair if they became too worn. Your grandmother was tight with her finances, never wasted a penny, made her own rose water even. She wasn't a pleasant woman, evident from your dismissal of my condolences. She's passed away, quite recently too, likely complications from diabetes, had a bit of a sweet tooth, she was quite fond of cellophane wrapped hard-candies. She left you her abode, but not intentionally. She died without a will, am I right?"

Lestrade looked at him, quite flabbergasted.

"Some of your relations came out of the woodworks after her death and are looking to seize her property, your property, you were the one that put up with her, were the closest to her in her final days. They want to sell it from underneath you, split the inheritance evenly. You aren't allowed to move a speck of dust in that place without the wrath of your relatives. You're a stranger in your own home. You have even taken to sleeping on the sofa. No wonder you can't sleep at night."

Lestrade looked at him, mouth agape. Sherlock looked quite pleased. He often got rather chatty when he was coming off a high. He spoke a mile a minute and after he spilled out all his information he felt a great sense of relief that it was out in the open.

Lestrade gulped, "Shame," he said pursing his lips.

"What is?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Pissing away such talent," he finished off another cup of coffee, "What's a kid like you doing rolling round in the gutters anyhow?"

"Ran away, just like you."

"Look, I'm not proud of what I did," Lestrade clenched his teeth, "It's a waste… a bloody waste."

He's angry. Why?

"So… I'm supposed to just let you go? So you can keep getting high? Fuck up your life? Get that gun held to your head?" Lestrade asked crossly.

"You're not reconsidering taking me in, are you?" Sherlock asked nervously.

"No," Lestrade sighed, "Shit," He rubbed his forehead. Sherlock started nibbling on a piece of toast, trying to appease the volatile man. Lestrade scrubbed his face with his calloused palms. He was obviously exhausted. Sherlock pushed his cup of coffee over to him. Lestrade looked at it and laughed, "No, thanks. Don't take mine with sugar."

Lestrade reached into his pocket, grabbed a pen, and scribbled something on the back of a napkin. He handed it to Sherlock. "You need anything, call me," he reached into his pocket once more, withdrew his wallet, pulled out a twenty, and handed it to Sherlock, "Pay the lady, rest is for you. Keep your nose clean," he slid out of the booth and made a quick exit.

Sherlock looked at the twenty.

Half a gram.

He let out a heavy sigh and looked at the food in front of him. His lip twitched into a snarl.

Keep the police on my side. Pay for the meal, forgo the blow.

His mind rattled.

Can still get a quarter… keep me satisfied, get me through the day. Could also exchange quality for quantity. No, no.

Having finished half a piece of toast and taken a bite of bacon, Sherlock was satiated. He walked up to the front, paid for his meal, left a small tip and was left with fifteen pounds.

Since when did a plate of bacon and eggs set someone back five quid?

Lestrade was a fool if he thought Sherlock wouldn't take the change and use it to restock. It was quite generous of him. It made Sherlock slightly nervous.

People don't do 'nice' things. They always expect something in return. Should have left me with a tenner. Idiot.

Sherlock stepped outside and was met with a rush of cold air. He drew his arms in close. He itemized his to-do list as he walked back to Baker Street.

Haggle with Raz. Fifteen will get me a quarter easy, bastard knows I like his supply, he'll up the price. Could talk him down to ten for a quarter, maybe an eighth for five? Fifteen would bring me three eighths.

Sherlock grunted at the thought.

Fucker can't do 'eighths'. A quarter it is then…

Sherlock let out a growl. He hated the middle-man. He paid a high premium for stupidity. The idiot had stumbled on something though and Sherlock wasn't about to let him sell it to anyone else.

He was wary when he first saw it and was put off by its yellow-grey colour. It had a shiny look to it and had fish scale-like flakes. He'd never seen anything like it. The first hit numbed him all the way down. He was in shock. The onset was quicker than usual and lasted a lot longer than he expected. It gave him chills just thinking about it.

He was convinced he wasn't an addict and could quit anytime he pleased. He just didn't want to quit. He had nothing better to do. Cocaine occupied his mind; rid him of the dull aching feeling of rot that had plagued him since childhood. He didn't need to eat or sleep when he was high, his mind was sharp, and his senses were heightened.

He preferred intravenous though. He resolved to get his hands on some clean needles. He thought of how amazing the new stuff would be with direct delivery, rapid onset. His mouth was starting to water as he walked down the streets at four AM. He wiped the drool from the corners of his lips.

He was starting to get increasingly irritated that Lestrade took away his coke. He could have been having another line. Instead he was walking in the fierce cold with only a thin jacket.

Lestrade was going to be a problem, if he wasn't already. Bradstreet overlooked Sherlock's antics. Sherlock kept it under a gram and didn't disturb the peace much. He kept his thievery under a hundred pounds, so bringing him in was more trouble than it was worth. Lestrade was trying to make a name for himself. He actively wanted to help Sherlock get off the streets and off the needle for reasons that remained unclear to Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't change boroughs any more than Lestrade could. They were going to have to get along. That meant Sherlock needed to be clever in how he got his 1.4 grand. He would try the charity scam.

After school program. Fundraiser for the local school's cricket team. Church? Yes, restoration for St. Patrick's. Hm, might limit my audience. Could decrease the number of personal cheques though.

The bane of any scammer's existence were personal cheques. Sherlock knew a few ways around getting them cashed but he much preferred straight cash. Less hassle, no risk. He considered his dress options.

Have to look like an altar boy without the vestments. Suit and tie… could be mistaken as Mormon. Scrap the tie. I look Catholic enough. Could pass as fifteen. Raise the voice; pass off my erratic behavior as nerves.

Sherlock found himself at Raz's door. He buzzed the intercom. Waited. Buzzed once more. The box made a crackling sound and the door unlocked. He entered the stairwell that was coated in graffiti. A soiled mattress lay in the middle of the hall. He stepped over it and walked up to the first floor. He started banging on Raz's door.

Sleep. Sleep is so annoying! He can't keep regular business hours! He's a drug dealer for Christ's sake! And a sad excuse for one at that.

A tired and annoyed skin-head opened the door.

"What? Back for more?" Raz asked. Sherlock nodded, "You can't be serious!" he shouted. "Like fucking Scarface! What the fuck man?"

"Keep it down," Sherlock hushed as he slid into his flat. Sherlock looked directly at the bright yellow swastika on his wall, "Love what you've done with the place," Sherlock remarked, looking over at the broken window patched with duct tape.

"Fuck," Raz groaned. He flopped down on the mattress in the middle of the room, "How much?"

"Half gram," he said pulling out the fiver and tenner. Raz snorted.

"You serious?"

Sherlock gave him a grin.

"Twenty-five gets you a half," Raz said firmly. Sherlock offered up the cash once more, "That's fifteen wanker."

"Yes and I'm taking the full ounce off your hands. Consider it an advance."

"I'd give you half a gram of-"

"No, no. I want the new stuff."

"Piss off," Raz scowled.

"I said I'd take the ounce off your hands. 1.4 grand?" Sherlock tempted.

"Yeah well, got plenty of guys I could sell it to."

"I venture, not many would be willing to pay fifty quid a gram."

"I'm not sellin' it on the side, promise."

"Good," Sherlock looked at him stoically, "Half a gram, s'il vous plait."

"Seriously, fuck off. I'm not giving it away."

"A quarter then."

"Deal."

"For ten."

"Ah, fuck off," Raz spat.

"A quarter of forty is ten."

"That's the old rate," he whined.

"Yes and I'm your best client."

"No you ain't," Raz said standing up, "You come round, four in the fucking morning, trying to rob me blind!"

"Offering ten pounds for a quarter of a gram is hardly robbing you blind!" Sherlock laughed, "Now bring it here," Sherlock's face turned dead serious. Raz glared at him, walked over to his open safe, and pulled out a pre-proportioned packet. He threw it at Sherlock, "You lying sack of shit," Sherlock growled.

"What?"

"You said you weren't selling it on the side!"

"Wasn't," Raz said frowning, he scratched his arm, "Sampler."

"Oh, this is a sample?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, "How do you expect to keep in business, giving away product?"

"Just shut it and give us the tenner."

"No," Sherlock said stuffing the packet in his pocket.

"What?" Raz asked in shock.

"It's a sample, why should I pay for it?"

Raz groaned and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"I'll tell you what I will pay for. A suit."

"Suit?" Raz asked.

"Trousers, button-down shirt, perhaps a blazer. Surely you know where I could get one cheap."

"Upstairs," Raz mumbled, "Portly… Porky… believe his name is. Real fat guy. He's got that kind of shit," Raz shook his head. "Better pull through with the money. I really need to be moving this inventory."

"I know how much pride you take in your little business. Rest assured you'll get your money," Sherlock looked at the open safe. He licked his lips as he thought.

"Don't even think about it," Raz warned, catching his hungry gaze.

"Catch you later, Raz," Sherlock said with a smile as he left the flat in a sweep. He ran up the stairs with a new found bounce in his step. He didn't need to knock on the door of the portly gentleman's flat because there wasn't a door attached to the hinges. Sherlock wondered for a moment where it disappeared to and if there was any money in selling doors.

I could be a door to door, door salesman.

A massive man lay wide awake in a reclining chair. His eyes were fixed on the telly screen, watching an infomercial. Sherlock knocked on the door jam. The man's head lazily lolled over in Sherlock's direction.

"I heard you were the man to see about getting a suit."

He looked Sherlock over. Sherlock pulled the money out of his pocket. The man let out a sigh, sat up, and put down the leg rest. He stretched as he stood and toddled, unhurriedly to the bedroom. Sherlock waited, rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again. He placed his hands behind his back and started to whistle a minuet.

The man returned with a purple button down shirt and a pair of black trousers. He handed them off to Sherlock who inspected them thoroughly.

"My good man, you really know your wares!" he was impressed with the quality. Who needed shopping centres anymore, when there were crack houses like this? Sherlock checked the tag on the shirt and clamped his mouth shut.

Dolce and Gabbana. Easily worth a hundred, two hundred pounds. Worse comes to worse, I can sell the shirt.

Sherlock smiled brightly. Porky gave him a toothless grin.

"Heroin?" Sherlock asked. Porky made a motion towards the kitchen, "No, no, my good man! I meant you! You have that look about you," Sherlock rubbed his lips together, "You wouldn't happen to have any clean needles on you? Would you?" he was getting greedy and he knew it. He should have just taken the shirt and run.

Sherlock handed him the money and gave him his most genuine fake smile. Porky pocketed the money and turned to walk to the kitchen once more. He pulled out a box of disposable needles. Sherlock let out a loud, "Oh," of pleasure, "God bless you!" Porky pulled out a handful of syringes and handed them to Sherlock. "Whoa, whoa," he laughed, "Now, now. Two or three would suffice. I wouldn't want to take advantage of you," Sherlock smirked.

Porky silently insisted he take ten and Sherlock bid him farewell. He was itching to get some cocaine in his vessels. Even with the small hiccup with the police officer, the day had been bright and hopeful. He ran down the stairs, too excited to control his feet. He ran into Raz's flat and grabbed a spoon and a cup of water. Raz growled at him, half asleep.

Sherlock left the flat and hurried down the stairs. He burst out the front door and into the dim light of a flickering street lamp. He sucked in a deep breath of air and couldn't help but smile.

His cheeks were starting to burn from all the merriment. He slid into a back alley and gingerly placed his new clothes over a chain-link fence. He placed the cup and spoon down on the ground and stripped off his sweatshirt, undershirt, jeans, and trainers.

Oh shit, the shoes.

He looked at his trainers. They would have to do. His finances were completely drained and it would be a waste of time to nick a pair of decent loafers.

He slid on the trousers.

A bit loose in the legs.

He shrugged and started putting on the shirt. He instantly fell in love with it. It fit like a glove and flattered his slim figure. He buttoned the final button and ran his hands down the front of the smooth cotton. He reached into the pocket of his jeans for his quarter gram of blow.

He unbuttoned the cuff of his left sleeve, rolled it up, and flexed his hand several times. His veins stuck out clearly. He'd never actually prepared his own intravenous solution, but he'd seen Raz do it enough times to be well versed in the procedure. He spread out his sweatshirt like a picnic blanket and had a seat. He spooned up some water and balanced the spoon on the lip of the cup.

He opened the bag and took out a small pinch. He sprinkled it over the spoon and watched as it dissolved in the water; only a small amount crashed out of solution and settled to the bottom. He grabbed a synringe, removed the cap, and stirred the solution with the needle. He started licking his lips in anticipation. He drew up the liquid, as much as the tiny syringe would hold.

He flexed his forearm several times and took a deep breath. He pressed the needle against his skin and gently slid it in. A small drop of blood spilled out as he started pressing down the plunger. He felt an immediate rush, unlike anything he'd felt before.

His ears rang out like he was right under a helicopter. His whole body went numb as he sank into the ground. It felt like he was being pricked all over with tiny pins and needles. He was beyond euphoric. Then it felt like he was having a million orgasms, all at once. It was all too much.

He started to sweat profusely. He had lost all control of his limbs. He had just enough sense left in him to loll his head to one side before he started to vomit. His breathing became sporadic and he started to flop like a fish out of water.

His throat felt numb. He was in a panic and delirious. He could hear his brother's voice. His mother's screaming. He was no longer swimming in euphoria, he was drowning in despair.

He wretched and felt Mozart's Requiem begin to play in the back of his mind.

No, no.

He writhed and squirmed on the black concrete. The convulsions soon took over and Sherlock completely lost consciousness.