The Depravities of Sherlock Holmes
The cool air felt good on his flushed face as he stepped outside the decrepit building his steps stumbling only a little as he kept one hand on the wall next to him as he walked. This wasn't where he had started the night, and it certainly wasn't where he had planned to end up. The sounds of a fight from the building behind him cascaded out of the spot where there had once been a door, long before he had ever gotten here, and Sherlock Holmes winced at the suddenly loud noise, one hand coming up to press against his left ear as the other kept him steady against the wall to his right.
He wasn't entirely certain where he was going - not home, not bloody likely. But then, where? He wasn't some poor sod with nowhere else to go - he had money, he could afford some of the nicest accommodations in London. His choice to obtain a flat mate had never been for financial reasons, no matter what he had told John Watson. They had been personal, had been to stem the loneliness and the quiet that pervaded his life at times. He had hoped, somewhere in the back of his mind, that sharing his rooms with somebody - anybody - would entertain his thoughts just enough that he would be able to ignore the call of his addictions.
He had been accountable to John, and in his own way John had kept him steady. There was only so much he could do - only so far he could go - before John would pull him back, remind him what it meant to be human. He forgot, sometimes. His mind didn't work like other people's; he didn't made the same connections they did, either mentally or emotionally. He saw things, noticed things, that they didn't. But in the same way, there were things he didn't see - connections he couldn't make. John made those connections for him - John kept him human.
John was gone - off happily married to a woman who didn't quite add up in Sherlock's mind. her ability to notice - and decipher - a skip code, for example. Her sharp memory - sharp enough to be an anomaly. There were other factors, of course. It could have been nothing - but then again, it could have been something. Not enough of something to hold his attention for long, though. Even when he wasn't high.
Turning a corner into an abandoned alley, Sherlock crumbled down between two garbage cans, his hands curling around his head as he sought to block out the bright lights and noises of London at night. It was a city that never slept - and he was out of drugs.
If he could make it to a bank he could get more cash, could get more drugs. That was what he really wanted - cocaine, heroine, even the lower end drugs would have done at this point. Anything to make the world melt away, for all the stimuli he dealt with on a daily basis to give him some peace, if only for a little while.
/
Sherlock Holmes tangled one hand in his hair, the other comes down to rest against his left cheek as he fought to control his breathing. His vision was swimming, tension racing through his body. He wasn't entirely certain how he had made it here, or how long it had been since he had left the drug house, devoid of any money or drugs. He did know he had somehow managed to get his hands on some cash, for how else would he have managed to find his way into the smoke back corner of this bar, a half drunk glass of beer in front of him? He vaguely remembered ordering the drink some time ago, but that was all - just a hazy recollection of leaning over the bar, the coolness of the drink in his hand as he managed to walk the few steps it had taken to reach a seat.
This seat, from the looks of things. Where had he gotten the money - and where was here, exactly? This wasn't the first time he had blacked out, particularly in recent days. But it was never a particularly pleasant experience. To begin with, it meant that he was sovereign up, if only a little. Fingers tracing over the table, Sherlock frowned as they came into contact with a straw. There was only one reason he could think of that he would have something glide that - but really? Here? Where anybody could see him?
Except that they couldn't. Even in his intoxicated state he had chosen his seat carefully - either that or he had just gotten lucky. He rather liked to believe the former, however. His back was to the rest of the room, the booth circling around so that it was difficult for anybody to see past his lanky frame. The high back of the booth shielded everything below his upper back, providing a screen of privacy from prying eyes. The only entrance into the booth was to his immediate left, facing a corner of the darkened pub that an individual would have no purpose in approaching unless they were specifically seeking him out.
Sherlock fingered the card lying on the table, blinking rapidly in a vain attempt to clear his vision. It did no good, and he ended up leaning his head forward slightly in an attempt to make out just what the card was, and how it had ended up on the table with him.
His credit card. Not the brightest idea - Mycrosft would be able to ascertain the scuff marks on the end the moment he saw it- though why should his brother ever need to? The edge was now covered in a fine dusting of white powder, and Sherlock eyed the small pile before him with a frown. He hadn't taken it yet - had no idea what it actually was. Not that he was particularly picky about what went into his body. Giving a mental shrug, Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the straw and leaned forward.
/
It had been over a month since James Watson had seen his friend - and during that time he had found the old nightmares returning - though they now had so much more fodder. His dreams were plagued not only by his time in the Service, but also the various cases he had worked on with Sherlock Holmes. Particularly the more violent ones - the ones that had sent his blood pumping and found him fighting for not only his own life, but also that of Sherlock.
Sherlock texted him, of course. Sherlock always did. Little notes about his latest case, little anecdotes about his latest experiments. Mostly concerning the microwave and various body parts. THAT was one thing that James did not miss about sharing a flat with the other man. He preferred the kitchen to be reserved for food, not body parts in various stages of decomposition.
It was why he had started cycling to work. Not only for the excersize - though he supposed it might help with the weight he had gained since the wedding. No, it was for that little bit of physical exertion it gave him; nothing compared to those moments with Sherlock that seemed so far away now, but he would take what he could get at this point. Anything to keep the nightmares at bay, anything to stop from snapping at Molly.
Perhaps that was why he had started taking these walks - parking his car back in a more upstanding part of town and walking out of his way, into areas he never would have ventured before. Past the pubs and the bars, down to areas where music played at all hours of the night, where drunks stumbled from open doorways and prostitutes lurked on the street corners.
That was where John caught his first glimpse on Sherlock Holmes, drunk and high. He had never seen it before - Sherlock had always been able to keep himself on the straight and narrow - or at least as close to the straight and narrow as Sherlock Holmes ever got - while he and John had shared a flat together. John had known that there was a past there - how could he not, with the way Lestrade and Sally Donovan would throw it in his face from time to time? Hell, that very first day living with Sherlock they and been subject to a drugs bust, as superficial as it might have been.
But he had never seen Sherlock like this.
At firsr, he didn't quite believe it was his friend. Just a stranger with the lanky frame, the same dark mop of unruly hair. Not Sherlock, pressing some prostitute up against the dirty, stained wall of a 24 hour pub. Not Sherlock, pressing his hands against that same wall to steady himself as he pressed himself against a woman with barely any clothes on, his hands already reaching down to slide her already short skirt up part way.
No, that wasn't Sherlock. He had even almost convinced himself of it, when the man suddenly stumbled back, one hand curling around the back of the woman's neck. He turned only slightly, but it was enough to make a positive identification, and John's heart jumped in alarm at the slack look on his friends face.
Was it a ruse? Part of a case? Sherlock had been known to go to extremes in the past - to fake emotions surprisingly well. Hell, he had convinced John to beat his face in, in order to convincingly approach the home of Irene Adler. But then Sherlock's eyes slid over him like water with no reaction, and John's heart plummeted. No, this was no mistake. Sherlock - Sherlock Bloody Holmes - had looked right at him and hadn't recognized him. How much had he taken - and of what - that his brilliant skills of deduction and observation could be impaired?
John started across the mostly empty street, picking up his pace as he noticed Sherlock being led into a darkened alley by the woman. God only knew what diseases she was carrying, where she had been - or with whom. Of course, the same could be said of Sherlock of this point. How long had he been like this? He was dirty - John could see that even from across the street. As he approached the pair it became even more obvious. Sweat bathed Sherlock's face, the sweat pants and t-shirt he was wearing wrinkled. The open zip-up he was wearing over it all had a stain of something along the bottom edge, and John reflected somewhere win the back of his mind that he wouldn't have noticed all that before he had met Sherlock Holmes. He had picked up little things - little tricks of the trade - from both Sherlock and Mycroft that he now employed to analyze just how far gone his friend was.
The woman noticed him before Sherlock did - John inwardly seethed at that. Sherlock should have known he was coming before he even started across the street - instead, his friend was still pressed against a woman with tawdry makeup and far too many colors in her hair, his hands delving deep beneath her clothes.
John had once considered Sherlock to be asexual; a creature of logic with little need for emotions, and absolutely no inclination toward the opposite sex. Irene Adler was the only woman John had ever seen his friend show the slightest interest in, and even then he wasn't entirely certain that it had ever come close to being sexual; he had been attracted to her mind, to her cunning and to her wit - not her body.
But this - this was entirely sexual.
"Sherlock!" His voice came out at a bark, but John found that he didn't mind. He wasn't a man prone to shouting, but somehow he didn't mind appearing the brute in this particular instance.
/
Sherlock started, his body pressing into the woman's for a moment before he turned his head, frowning in bewilderment at the hazy figure that had appeared before him. It was a thin figure, hair cropped close to his head and wearing what he assumed was some sort of jacket, though he couldn't quite make out the details. The voice had seemed familiar, but it took him a moment to place it. "John?"
John gripped his shoulder in one hand, forcibly spinning him around and away from the woman who had been proving quite the … interesting distraction. His body had responded well enough to her advances, as it always did when he was like this. Mycroft assumed that he was a virgin, and really Sherlock couldn't blame him for that. His only sexual experiences had come on nights like these, when he couldn't remember how he had met the women in the morning - much less remember their names.
But his mind was wandering, and he wasn't focusing nearly well enough on the matter at hand. As John spun him around, Sherlock found his balanced faltering and his friend was forced to catch him lest he collapse to the ground. The woman had long since backed away mumbling something about not wanting any trouble before scurrying down the alley. Sherlock was slightly disappointed with that realization - he had been hoping for more than a back alley grope, really.
"What. The. Bloody. Hell." John would have said more, if Sherlock hadn't stumbled away from him and into the wall he had been pressing a prostitute up against just a moment beforeHis head was tilted back against the stone, his eyes closed and his lips slack and he breathed deeply to staunch the sudden wave of nausea that hit him like a brick.
John faltered slightly at the sight his best friend made, his sudden rage dimming somewhat. Oh, his anger had not diminished in the slightest, but his concern had been given a moment to rear it's head and remind him of just WHY he was so angry.
Sherlock seemed older, somehow, than he ever had before. The lines on his face were more pronounced, and John realized with a start that he didn't actually know how old Sherlock was. Close to his own age, he supposed - perhaps a bit younger. But he had always seemed so much younger, so full of energy. Now, though, under the shadows of the alley with sweat covering his face and dark bags under his eyes, he looked so much older than John.
Sherlock hadn't moved, and John reached forward to place a hand on the other man's shoulder. He twitched slightly, but made no other sign that he was even aware of John's presence. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, his head tilted back as if to block out the sights and sounds of the city around him - including John, it would seem.
John sighed, his hand moving up to press against the side of Sherlock's flushed face. The man's adam apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, and John shook his head at the sight his friend made. He was in pain - John could see that. Anybody could see it.
Sherlock drew his eyebrows together, a frown tugging at his lips, as though he was unsure where the sensation was coming from. "Come on Sherlock, let's get you out of here."
Sherlock came willingly enough - enough so that John had to wonder where else Sherlock would have gone in this state … and with whom.