Sorry everyone! I've been trying to be better with posting, but it always seems like the day slips away! Anywho, please take a read. I hope you all enjoy...and just remember comments and reviews are always appreciated!
There was a knock at the door, then the door bell buzzed, and then another knock.
"Coming!" John called down, not really willing to move, but knowing he had to. He stood up, his shoulder aching but the edge taken off by the alcohol. He made his way down to the front door, knowing it wasn't Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson, which made him wonder...who was at the door?
John padded down the stairs, anxious to get this over with so he could go back to his sulking. He reached for the door knob, turning it swiftly to reveal the tall, dark, figure in front of him.
Mycroft sighed impatiently. "Hello John. May I come in? We need to talk about Sherlock." He said as he pushed past, moving him out of the way.
"Hello to you too. But this really isn't the best time..." John replied, but by this time Mycroft was already climbing the stairs. So John followed, hoping that if he couldn't avoid this, at least he could get this over quickly.
One glance around the flat and Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella for a few moments. "After a night such as tonight, I would imagine you would both be eager to stay in, and yet Sherlock has chosen to go out, quite in a rush from what I understand." He says without preamble as he looks over at John. "Tell me, do you know where your flatmate is, Doctor Watson?" He asks in his droll tone, standing by Sherlock's chair though he hasn't sat down, standing casually with his umbrella tip resting on the ground and his hand on the handle.
Despite appearances, there is a concern and an urgency to both Mycroft's words and his mannerisms that John likely hadn't seen before. And despite everything he does simply seem to care deeply for his brother which means that as always, the elder Holmes knows more than he is telling outright.
John suddenly felt ashamed, but he couldn't understand why. He hadn't done anything wrong, at least not where Mycroft was involved. "Not since he left, though he did text me saying he was safe."
Mycroft scoffed. "Safe. He doesn't know the meaning of the word!"
He didn't understand what was going on here. Did Mycroft have a point? John stumbled into the kitchen, the alcohol definitely effecting him at this point. He flicked on the kettle, making himself a cup of tea, hoping it would sober him up enough for this conversation.
"I'm not his mother, neither are you. Maybe we should..." John started.
Mycroft looked dangerous. Very much like the day they had met but without the body guards and the seedy warehouse. "What? Leave him to his own devices? I've seen how that plays out John." He said as he spun his umbrella, making a mark in the flooring.
John sipped his tea, not quite how he liked it but bearable. "It's not our place to stand over him and watch his every move."John argued.
"You and I both know that is a lie. It's a very good excuse that you give yourself in order to keep yourself from feeling guilty when Sherlock gets hurt." Mycroft snaps as he looks at the man before him. "Surely you must have known by the time you decided to move in here that Sherlock Holmes needs a certain amount of looking after. How often did he eat, or sleep when you moved in, John? You're a medical man." He says in a firm tone as he looks at John, taking one menacing step toward the kitchen.
For a moment the taller man looks down at the ground and he takes a deep breath, obviously trying to keep calm. "Let me put this another way. Whatever happened in this flat, Sherlock left, and wherever he fled to, I cannot see. He is deliberately avoiding cameras in the way only he can. Now why, pray tell, do you suppose he would feel the need to avoid cameras, keep anyone from tracking him? If this does not concern you, then you do not know my dear brother as well as I thought." Mycroft says in a cold tone, one that he usually does not use in his meetings with John.
This is something serious, it is not joking, it is not jovial, something had this unflappable man truly and deeply concerned for his younger brother. That alone should set several alarms up, not to mention that Sherlock's idea of safe is often not the same as the rest of the world.
Mycroft couldn't see him. Mycroft couldn't find him. The terrifying part was that Sherlock knew this. He knew this, he had done this on purpose.
"What do you know?"John asked, his voice turning serious and sour.
He looked away, moving to the window, staring out at the passing cars. Mycroft wouldn't look at him, he looked everywhere but at John.
"Tell me!" He shouted. Not caring that he was yelling at the British government, this was about Sherlock. And bloody hell, Mycroft would tell him what he knew.
Mycroft finally met his gaze, glaring at him coldly. He wasn't used to divulging his secrets, but John was prepared to stare him down. " I don't know much. Last we saw, he turned off Paddington street, headed for the gardens."
John was angry now, he had sobered up, and he was furious. This was the head of the secret service, this was the hidden prime minister, and that was all he knew. John shook his head, slamming his mug onto the counter with so much force he thought it might break. "That's not good enough!" He yelled.
The little temper tantrum that John displays makes Mycroft arch an eyebrow and he looks at John for a few moments. He is not pleased at being ordered about, but he shows it as an encouraging sign that the doctor is showing the proper level of concern now. "Do you imagine that anyone could find Sherlock Holmes if he does not want to be found?" He asks, a little calmer now as he looks at John.
"I have my suspicions. But I would frighten off the people you need to speak to." Mycroft explains, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. "The name of a man you may want to speak to, and where he usually can be found. He's one of Sherlock's old... contacts. And one of his most reliable, apparently." This is something he can indulge at least, and he holds out the piece of paper pinched between his forefinger and middle finger, gloves still on from where he was outside, not having intended to stay this long.
After the paper passes to the soldier in front of him, Mycroft clasps both hands on the handle of his umbrella in front of him. "There is still much you don't know about Sherlock, Doctor Watson. Much about his past he obviously hasn't divulged. Be careful if you go down this path, you may find a different man than the one you expect." he says before he walks for the door. He's done his duty, and now he will let the other man do what he will with the information.
"Goodbye Mycroft." John said as he ran out the door, just grabbing his jacket and gun before he left. He looked over the paper in his hand,
Matthew Black (otherwise known as Pigeon)
Corner of Graffton and Whitfield.
Hell that was close, still a few blocks, but easily walkable. There were plenty of back roads and alleys along this route, it would be simple for Sherlock to avoid attention and cameras. John could only hope he got there in time, in time to stop the beautiful idiot. John was aware of his drug usage, but he wasn't sure if he could handle actually seeing it. Seeing Sherlock high as a kite, needle on the floor...he didn't want to think about it.
Guilt weighed on his mind, knowing he had been the one to drive him to this. He could blame it on the alcohol or this thing or that, but John knew it was all him. All his fault, and he had a feeling Sherlock did too.
John ran down the many back streets, hoping to catch him or at least get to his dealer quickly. He passed many people slumped against dirty buildings, thugs you wouldn't want to see in a dark alley (such as this one), and this was just not a place he wanted to be.
When he finally got to the corner...it was deserted, empty. It was crushing. Where did he go now, where did he look? He bent down, still trying to catch his breath. How long had Sherlock been gone, half an hour? Forty minutes? How far could he go?
Suddenly John heard a coo, and then once more, suspicious. It was coming from behind the corner of a building, even better. John pulled out his handgun, still holding it close as he approached the building. Another coo. He flew around the corner, catching a less than sightly man off guard.
"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, his voice raised.
The man shivered and started to stutter. "Oi! I dun know any Sherlock!"
John pointed the gun at the mans foot. "Tell me, or I shoot!" He said, not playing any games.
"Lockie? Do you mean Lockie?" He asked, straightening out a bit, showing that the man he had been about to shoot looked no more than twenty. He was just a kid.
John thought about it, Lockie would be a likely alias. "Sure. Have you seen him?" He asked, now slightly calmer, but his voice still in army tone.
The kid...presumably Matthew looked scared, about as scared as John felt. " 'Bout an hour go, mate. I gave him his stuff, and he went to spot, like they all do." The kid said
An hour. Shite. His chances of finding him just went down dramatically. "Do you know where his spot is?" John asked as he holstered his gun and took out his wallet.
"Two blocks that way, empty building, third floor." He said, staring at John's wallet.
John pulled out a couple of notes, folding them and passing them to the kid. "Thank you. Take this and find a new line of work."
John pushed he wallet back into his pocket and started running once more, and fast and as hard as he could, running as if his life depended on it. He turned into the abandoned lot, with the deserted concrete building looking down on him.
The building has been abandoned for some time, obviously. Someone must live there semi permanently because there are some tents outside and some pallets leaned up against the walls. The doors were boarded up at one time, but they have been cleared enough to get into, some windows broke. In the upper floor.
Inside, it is in surprisingly sturdy shape, with lots of graffiti, and trash along the side. The place is relatively empty though, one or two people in each room. Sherlock is indeed on the third floor in a room by himself, on the edge of consciousness. He looks ok, since it's not like he's been there for days, but as far as the drug use goes, John is indeed too late.
John climbed the stripped concrete steps, counting each one till he reached the third floor. He knew needed to help Sherlock but he didn't want to see him like this. He took a deep breath before turning into the first empty doorway, nothing. Same with the second, and the third. But not with the fourth. John peeled around the corner, intending to see another empty room, but what he saw was so much worse.
Sherlock was sprawled out on a soiled mattress that was pressed up against one of the scratched up wall. Needles were scattered across the floor, John knowing that at least one of them was Sherlock's. There was a belt that sat next to the bed, along with lighters a spoon, and various other drug accessories.
He looked so weak, splayed, semi-conscious, and strung out. John tip toed, careful not to disturb anything, he just want this to be over with. He didn't want to see his friend, the crazy, confident, sociopath, laying in a crack house barely able to make coherent sentences. What kind of a mess had they gotten into
John kicked away the needles and trash, creating a kind of clean area. "Sherlock, you in there?" He asked as he kneeled beside the mattress and took his face in his hands. "Come on, it's time to wake up."
A bit weakly and somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock opens his eyes to look at the voice that is calling him back from the blessed, blank oblivion. "John?" He asks in surprise, frowning a little. It's obvious his usual quickness is gone right at the moment.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, waking more and more, finally forcing himself to sit up, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Either that or he just doesn't care, but it's hard to tell.
John laughed darkly. "What do you think I'm doing here, you git. I came to bring you home."
It was true, that's what he had come to do, he had just hoped to get here before this happened. And now that it had, he wasn't really sure where to go from here. Did he take Sherlock home, did he take him to Mycroft, or to the hospital. That's if he was willing to go and John could lug him out of this place. He hadn't really thought that far ahead he had just kind of assumed he would cross that bridge when he came to it...and here he was.
He sat down next to Sherlock on the filthy mattress. Looking around at the disgusting mess of this place. "You know, for a control freak, you sure have a nasty bolt hole."
"This is not my preferred location. I have a motel I prefer, but I did not wish to be tracked with my card and did not have the means to afford it." Sherlock says as he looks around hazily.
"Is my dear brother waiting for us at the flat? You could only have gotten my location from him as we have never discussed this." He says in a cool tone, glancing at the doctor before he scoots over to the edge of the mattress and stands slowly. He had been using his jacket as a blanket, but now he puts it on properly with a small sigh. Oddly enough, he seems pretty ok in this state, knowing how to take enough that he isn't completely laid out, unable to do anything.
John smiled as Sherlock started to move about, meaning hopefully he wouldn't have to pull him out of here. " I'm not sure, I don't think so."
He stood up, ready to get out of this place. It was just so dark, damp, cold, and unfamiliar, he didn't like it at all. But he knew he had to get Sherlock to safety, he had to get him home, so that what he set his mind to. But before he could, he had to do one thing.
"Sherlock...I'm sorry, I should have been more responsible and considerate of your feelings...I don't know what came over me. But I really am sorry." He apologized, hoping that he could gain back a little of Sherlock's trust.
Of course the detective doesn't see it the same way, that any trust was broken, so he gives John an odd look, before he looks forward again.
"Best if we put it behind us, then. It has merely been a stressful day with rather unusual circumstances. I am sure things will be clearer in the morning." Sherlock says in a somewhat colder tone, sounding a little more irritable than he usually us, likely thanks to the drugs.
Without another look at the smaller man, the detective flips up his collar and heads for the exit on slightly unsteady feet, stumbling once and bracing himself on the door frame, while he maintains a firm grip on the railing while going down the stairs.
John sighed, his breath shaky, that's not quite how he wanted that to go. Even strung out Sherlock's legs still carried him ten times faster than John's could. John practically had to run to catch up to him on the street.
"Wait, Sherlock. I want whatever your carrying. I'm not letting you take that stuff back to the flat and store away for a rainy day. Hand it over." He said holding open his waiting hand.
Sherlock's face contorted, unwilling to give up what he was holding. "We aren't going home till you give it to me. So better to just get it over with, ya?"
John sighed, knowing what he might have to do. He would have to treat him like the child he was being. "One...two..."
While he would never admit to being childish, he is frustrated by John, and so pulls the small packet of powder out of his jacket and slaps it into John's hand. While it's not much, it is enough for one, maybe two doses.
"I am keeping the needle, it could be useful in my experiments or in our first aid kit." Sherlock says stubbornly, already looking like he's sulking a little with his head ducked down between the collar of his jacket a little.
"Anything else, Doctor? Or can we return home now, since you seemed so eager earlier?" He asks in a dry tone as he watched the older man.
John put the drugs into his inside pocket, zipping up his jacket so Sherlock couldn't get at it. "No, give it up. Cold turkey, mate." He said as he snatched the needle out of Sherlock's hand. He threw it on the ground, grinding it into the cement with his shoe.
Sherlock was unhappy. He pouted, even the drugs didn't away to whole craving, and he wanted more. But John wasn't going to let that happen.
"Come on, let's go home now." The blonde said as he hailed down an oncoming cab. "Maybe if you're good I'll make you a cuppa." He said with a laugh as he put his hand on Sherlock's lower back and guided him into the taxi.
The touch earned him an incredulous look from the detective. "Just helping you into the car." He said with a smile as he followed him.
"Baker Street please." He directed the driver. He was done with this night, it was time to go home and start a new day. He thought about the days events, resting his hand on Sherlock's knee.
But it made John happy that Sherlock was now safe, and they were on their way back to the flat, but that made him wonder what Mycroft had meant when he said, "Be careful if you go down this path, you may find a different man than the one you expect."
But he couldn't think about that, he had to focus on the present, on what was happening with them now. Because whatever this was, it was big. Everything was changing between them, and John wanted to see where this was going, because as much as he enjoyed their friendship, the prospect of this was new and something he hadn't expected.
"Sherlock, were home."