You walk, because you stink. Of course that's not the entire reason, you hardly have the money for a cab or the tube, but even if you did you wouldn't want to get into a cab like this. Because you stink.
And it's bad enough knowing that without having a cabbie politely try to avoid the subject.
You wish you had the money to go to a hostel for the night. Because at least then you could have a shower and a mirror and try to look half decent before you meet him. But hostel means money and if you had money…you would be here. Applying for this.
You reach the place, tugging your hoodie around you for a second, stood on the doorstep. The cloth is rough, well worn, but a comfort all the same. Protection, the same way as a well dented shield, or a retired guard dog, fat in old age. Your hand ghosts across the knocker, once, twice, as you battle amongst yourself.
You have to. There's no other way. But it's sick, sick and twisted.
There's no other way.
You knock. Once. If nobody answers, you decide, you will never come back.
Deep down you know somebody will. But you still make the deal, because...at least then, you can pretend to have some control.

The door opens, slowly. You square your shoulders, standing as tall as you can, staring bolt ahead. He's tall, you know this from the papers. It's bad enough to have somebody look down on you from a metaphorical standpoint, you won't allow it from a physical one too.
"Oh!" you hear, before you see. You allow your shoulders to droop a little as you look down at the woman who has answered. Old, or older at least, with short hair and a slight smile that quickly vanishes. She stares at you, a second of confusion before you see the realisation drop. She stands back, opening the door a little wider "Go right on up dear, just go straight in" she smiles. You force a smile back, biting back the urge to make some snide comment about stereotyping. Because she's right, of course. So instead, you smile, and nod, and walk past her.

At the top of the stairs, another door greets you. You raise your hand to the doorknob, and stop once more.
"This is ridiculous" you say. To yourself, of course. You can't keep making bargains with yourself. You can't keep up these stupid notions of pride. That's why you got in this situation in the first place, after all "Just open the door" you mutter "Just open the door. Open the door. Open the door"
"Open the bloody door, or go away!" comes a shout from inside. You freeze, a pit in your stomach at the realisation somebody heard you. That he heard you. Too late now.
You open the door and step in the room like a man stepping up to the gallows. He lounges in an armchair across the room, only his eyes turning towards you. You know what he does, and the cold stare makes you feel strangely exposed. You wonder what he sees about you, what he knows already. You stare at his fingers, tapping against the arm, and try to focus on something, anything else. At least this is cold, clinical. Not the cloying stares of pity.
"Mr. Holmes-" you start, only for your voice to break strangely "Mr. Holmes, I'm here to enquire about the…the um…" you will the words out, one by one. But of course, the final two brace against your throat, threatening to choke you. As they always do.
"Homeless network" he finishes. You hate those words. The concept. It's sick. Using people like watchdogs, just because they need the cash. A category, so easy to manipulate from his cosy little flat.
"Am I that obvious?" you blurt out. You know the answer, but you want his.
"Yes". You were hoping to see some of the famous deduction skills, but obviously not today. He stands, and you can't help but frown. He's…shorter, than you expected. But the eyes, the eyes are exactly the same. He wanders across the room, and rummages around in the draws of a scattered, messy desk.
"Name?" he asks, as he looks. You take a breath, then exhale again without answering, thinking for a moment. Then "Sam"
He looks up at you, raising a single eyebrow "Real name?"
"How do you know that wasn't my real name?" you counteract defensively.
"Is it?"
"It's what I go by" you shrug. That's a lie, you don't 'go by' anything. It was just the first name you thought of. Whether or not he knows this, he lets it drop
"Age?"
"Eighteen"
"You can read and write?"
"Yes"
"Own a dog?"
"No"
"Any addiction?"
"No!" you snap it, your teeth clicking together as you shut your mouth. He looks up again, still eerily calm, and frowns at you. Not disapproving so much as…confused.
"It won't harm your chances. It's just something I need to take into account" he offers.
"I'm clean" you hiss through your teeth. Unlike you, you add mentally. Deductions and crime solving are not the only rumours that you hear about Sherlock Holmes.
"Very well" he picked something out the draw and tosses it to you. You fumble, just managing to catch it. It's a phone, old and battered "I'll text you the details. You'll be paid on an information basis, unless you are in immediate trouble. If you are caught, I won't be there to come to your aid. Hopefully this will be helpful to us both. I've needed somebody like you for a while" he looks as if he might continue, but instead waves a hand, walking back to his chair "Like I said. I'll text. Welcome to the homeless network"
You wait for something else, you aren't sure what. After a few minutes of silence, it becomes apparent you are no longer wanted. You turn, closing the door behind you as you thrust the phone into your pocket.
Hello, homeless network, you think to yourself as you exit 221b Baker Street
Goodbye, pride.