A/N: There is one very short, incredibly vague sex scene in this part. Nothing too explicit though, as it turns out I am actually literally incapable of writing smut.
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4. Of Having Sex
He'd tried sex without cocaine exactly once.
Back when he'd still been doing lines, testing his new limitations under the drug's influence and trying to figure out the dose. Withdrawal hadn't been so bad then (just a sort of dull fatigue, nothing like the intolerable desperation it grew into over the following months) so he frequently took breaks from the chemical to give himself a chance to sleep and eat on a more normal schedule. It was during one of these breaks that Victor requested assistance with his physics paper.
Victor, being a linguistics student, wasn't taking a physics course. Neither of them felt the need to point this out to the other, and the night thus rather predictably ended up heading in a quite different direction to studying. Sherlock was perfectly fine with that. He rather enjoyed the rush of endorphins, and if nothing else the excitement would probably distract him from the nebulous cloud of withdrawal-induced fatigue he'd been trapped in over the last day or so.
Within minutes, though, it had become very clear things weren't going to go as planned.
"Fuck! Get off!" he'd screeched, jerking away from Victor's sudden, unexpected touch with enough force to smack his head against the headboard. Snogging had only just barely been tolerable - his thoughts kept getting sidetracked wondering about the average microbial content of human saliva but he'd been mostly able to keep himself focused enough to enjoy it. Touching, however... he curled forward over himself protectively, thankful they hadn't gotten to the removing clothes bit yet as it meant he could tuck his exposed arms against the fabric of his t-shirt and tear fitfully at the material in an attempt to calm himself down. Too much. Far, far too much sensation.
"What? What's wrong?" Victor asked, bewildered. He'd have had no idea, of course, that Sherlock was currently in the midst of withdrawal. Nor that cocaine had been the only thing keeping the cacophony of his world filtered down to a manageable level. Sherlock himself had practically forgotten what it was like, not having the snowbanks to act as a protective barrier between him and physical reality. Plus he'd never so much as attempted contact on this level whilst sober, had no idea what to expect.
Probably just a bit more feeling than usual, he'd nebulously theorised, along with the vague notion that he might become slightly overwhelmed. He certainly hadn't counted on the lightest touch producing so much stimulation it morphed into actual, physical pain. Like a freight train hitting his brain, lighting up every single panic centre simultaneously and forcing him to recoil before he even knew what was happening. It had hurt. Not like a wound but something deeper, more primal, a visceral and utterly intolerable cascade of signals. No, christ no... this was not going to work.
"It's nothing," Sherlock muttered into his little ball. "I just..." He raised his head to speak more clearly, but immediately regretted it. Suddenly every miniscule detail of the room was vying for his attention. Victor's breathing was far too loud and the lights flickered, buzzing flourescent as the blinds on the window rattled ever so slightly and noises from the hall the smell of laundry detergent deodorant the books papers scattered about and all he could think was how close it all was. "... got startled..." he finished in a quiet mumble.
Victor was saying something but he couldn't hear it, too busy staring into the middle distance. When this sort of thing happened it was usually easier to just tune the world out than to try and make sense of the jumble of conflicting signals the environment threw at him, so he frantically willed his brain to shut off... but for some reason he couldn't anymore. It had simply been too long since he'd needed to - didn't remember how. He'd been right on the verge of hyperventilating when Victor waved a hand in his face to get his attention, making him jump.
"Sherlock? What's going on?" the other man asked carefully. Sherlock blinked at him, mind racing, utterly incapable of coming up with a plausible excuse for his behaviour. How did one explain they were sensing too much? And of course even if he managed to convey the concept it would only bring up the question of why he'd never seemed to have any problems until now, which would come around to the cocaine...
Abruptly he shook his head, lurched sideways to clamber off Victor's bed and headed for the door to the hallway. "I'll be right back," he tossed over his shoulder. His and Victor's colleges were right around the corner from each other, he'd be able to get to his residence hall and back within ten minutes. He grabbed his peacoat and left.
Less than a quarter hour later he'd returned, all smiles and an easy apology now that his brain was once more comfortably muted under a thick blanket of snow. And if Victor noticed the way his pupils seemed to have doubled in size... he didn't say anything.
««
"Oh goddamn it, the queers are sloshed," Devin grumbled as Sherlock and Eric walked (well, stumbled more like) toward the back room.
"Inebriated," Sherlock clarified very seriously. "The proper term is inebriated."
Eric started sniggering, nearly causing both of them to topple over. They'd managed to stay upright through a rather complicated system of mutually hanging off each other's shoulders.
"Oh hey guys!" Ben exclaimed from the door behind Devin. "Haven't seen you two all night!"
"Benny, love!" Eric practically crowed. "Benny, I got Sherly fuckin' smashed!"
"I'm not... not that smashed," Sherlock objected. His argument fell a bit flat however, as he still couldn't seem to stand under his own power. Ben looked between them and laughed.
"Good on ya, Eric," he offered. Eric beamed.
"Oh yeah, good on 'em. They're gonna get fuckin' mugged to shit walking back to the house, but good on 'em," Devin put in irritably. He turned and pushed past Ben into the back room, returning a second later with Eric's guitar case and Sherlock's coat. "I'm not fuckin' escorting you shirtlifters back, I got shit to do."
"We don't need an escort," Sherlock snapped. As if trying to prove his point he pushed himself away from Eric to stand on his own. Predictably they both stumbled sideways into the wall within half a second.
"I'll make sure they get back," Ben said, smiling at the now silently bickering drunks. Eric was less than pleased with the sudden loss of stability and Sherlock was refusing to re-institute their previous leaning arrangement out of some sort of misguided sense of pride. Devin rolled his eyes with an annoyed grunt and handed the items to Ben, then stalked off with a mutter of 'fuckin queer-arse homos.'
"Aw, that were a bit mean," Eric mumbled unhappily at Devin's retreating back.
"It's alright, the girl he's going home with has chlamydia." Sherlock, regaining his footing somewhat, took a mostly-steady step forward and accepted his coat back from Ben. Getting it back on however was a bit more of a challenge.
"I fink yer tryin' t'use th'wrong sleeve," Eric pointed out. He didn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knew about Devin's date, which was just as well because Sherlock really didn't remember how he knew either.
Ben just chuckled warmly at the both of them and slung Eric's guitar case over his shoulder. "Alright, well, I guess we should get going."
Sherlock managed to get his peacoat on in the proper direction and he and Eric trailed obediently after Ben, linking arms in an attempt to not fall sideways. The effect was more than a bit fruity but Sherlock figured it didn't much matter. They'd been snogging at the bar, after all. Anyone with half a brain should know they were gay by now.
The chilly night air did a fair enough job at dispelling most of their giddy stupidity. Within minutes Eric at least was superficially back to normal (even if he did burst into a fit of drunken giggling every once in awhile) and Sherlock, well... Sherlock's definition of 'normal' worked on a bit of a sliding scale, dependent mostly on how much cocaine he'd had. 'Buzzed' was the ideal (though slightly difficult to maintain) state. 'High' could get a bit uncomfortable but was generally worth tolerating. 'Crashing' was terrible for everyone involved... and 'sober' was to be avoided at all costs.
At the moment, he was verging toward sober. Sober, irritable, and bloody nauseous.
"Oh fuck alcohol," he moaned, leaning into Eric's shoulder as they walked. He was having to work much harder than he'd like to avoid being sick all over the pavement. "Why the hell did you let me drink so much?"
"Y'seemed 'appy enough earlier," Eric said, shrugging with the shoulder not currently being used as a pillow.
"I wasn't happy, I was drunk. There is a massive difference."
"There is?" Ben put in, looking back at the two men trailing along after him with an amused grin. "I thought drunk and happy were pretty much the same thing."
"Me too!" Eric exclaimed cheerfully. Sherlock scowled into the rough fabric of Eric's faded brown overcoat.
"Well bully for you then, if that's how your stupid biology works," he mumbled irritably. "Some of us have slightly more complicated neurochemistries."
"He's half-smashed and hung over and still uses five syllable words," Ben pointed out, laughing. "Seriously Eric he's like some sort of- oh shit, hang on."
The scrawny boy's phone had begun to ring loudly from his jeans pocket, making Sherlock flinch as the sudden screeching tones of some poorly-rendered pop song shattered the otherwise tolerable background noise of Stockwell at one in the morning. Eric apparently felt the movement through his shirt because he looped both arms around Sherlock and patted his back in a consoling sort of half-hug. Mercifully though the noise didn't last long, as Ben answered his mobile within half a second of checking the caller ID.
"Yeah? Ah shit, really? Fuck, I'll be right over. Nah man, it's fine. Yep. Sure, meet you there." He flipped his phone closed and shot Eric an apologetic look. "You think you guys can make it back on your own? One a Racer's runners just scarpered on him."
"Aye, we're fine," Eric replied reassuringly. Sherlock grumbled something to the affirmative as well but didn't bother lifting his head to make himself audible. Not moving, too nauseous. A brief thought crossed his mind to wonder what good he'd realistically be in this state if they did happen to get jumped between here and the house, but he ignored it. Presumably Eric could hold his own in a fight or he wouldn't have answered so promptly.
"Brill, sorry 'bout ditching on you." Ben unslung Eric's guitar case from his back and handed it over, making Sherlock growl in annoyance as he was dislodged from his makeshift pillow.
Eric somehow managed to get the case's strap over his shoulder and secured in time to tug Sherlock (who had started to move away in a huff) back against his side. "S'alright mate. Do wot y'gotta, yeah?"
"Haha, yep! Seeya!" Ben grinned and waved as he turned to jog back the way they'd come.
"Ugh, of course he works for Racer," Sherlock griped irritably. He made a single halfhearted attempt to push himself away from Eric but gave up and let his head flop back onto the other man's shoulder as the movement made his head spin.
"Y'know Racer?" Eric asked curiously. They'd begun walking again, Eric with one arm pinning his friend (... boyfriend? did it still count if both parties were plastered at the time of agreement? Sherlock had no idea how these things were supposed to work, honestly) to his side and the other steadying his guitar with a loose-fingered grip on the shoulder strap. Sherlock's hands had somehow once again made their way into the pockets of his peacoat.
"No," Sherlock replied entirely too quickly. He frowned at himself. Since when was he such a terrible liar?
Eric huffed a short breath, predictably unconvinced. "Sure y'don't."
"I just bought cocaine from him a few times, that's it,"Sherlock asserted in a low half-snarl, grimacing at the way his voice seemed to crack at the end. Ugh, he hadn't meant to sound so... vulnerable. The combination of alcohol and having gone more than ninety minutes without cocaine was poking massive holes in the wall of apathy he generally relied on to keep his emotions in check. He scowled and ducked his head, trying to wrestle his mind back into some semblance of order.
The soft white of his field was marred by strange vortices of spinning nausea and a dark, creeping something he couldn't quite identify. Rot, maybe? A resurgence of the stagnant mire from rehab? But no, it was different somehow. Festering and painful like the blackened skin around a burn. It seemed to be emanating from the place he'd buried his experiences with Racer; oozing sickly from the mound of half-melted snow. Ugh, but that was stupid - he didn't care about Racer and his little control fetish. All that... stuff... didn't upset him. It wasn't anything he hadn't done before, and more importantly he'd agreed to it.
His shoulders tensed involuntarily as he scowled at the pavement. Stop thinking, he ordered himself firmly, shoved the whole topic back under the rock it had escaped from. The only reason it was bothering him was because he wasn't high anymore. Just needed more cocaine, then he could bury the problem and get back to forgetting anything had ever happened.
Suddenly Eric came to an abrupt stop, forcing Sherlock to as well since they were still tangled up in a strange half-hug. Sherlock raised his head to see why, only to find himself being turned rather forcefully toward the other man.
"Sherlock." Eric was staring him right in the face. It was more than a bit unnerving, so Sherlock dropped his gaze and studied the man's torso instead. Brown canvas jacket, partially unzipped with a football shirt underneath - horizontal stripes of faded blue on white, logo in the upper corner, some youth team... Stepney F.C.? Christ, he really was dating a chav. "Oi, lookit me."
Sherlock flicked his eyes back up with a slight glare. "What?"
Eric opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. With another huffed sigh he simply grabbed Sherlock's face and kissed him. "Yer alright, yeah?" he said as he pulled away, patting him on the cheek with a fond smile.
Sherlock jerked his head away from the pat with a childish grimace. "I'm fine. Stop treating me like a fluffy animal. All this patting and dragging me about, honestly."
Eric grinned and reached up to ruffle his dark curls. "Y'are kinda though. Fluffy that is."
Sherlock scowled. "I am not-"
"Cute too," Eric added, cutting him off with a teasing smile. Sherlock huffed and tried very hard not to pout. Apparently he failed as Eric laughed and kissed him again, more deeply this time.
"We're in the middle of the pavement in Stockwell at one in the morning, this is not the ideal place to be snogging," Sherlock mumbled into the other man's mouth.
Eric just shrugged. "Th' house is like, twenty minutes off."
"Hm. That is rather far," Sherlock conceded. "Still, though-"
He didn't get to finish his sentence, as Eric had apparently had enough of conversation and tugged them both backwards against the brick wall of a boarded-up townhouse behind them. They were in a back street somewhere, though Sherlock's still half-inebriated state left him at a loss as to exactly where. Near Clapham or Bedford, he assumed, but-
His meandering thoughts were cut off as Eric deepened their kiss, pressing Sherlock gently to the wall by his shoulders. The feel of rough bricks digging into his back through the thick wool of his coat sent a sudden, sickening bolt of panic shooting through his nervous system. Memories and sensations burst up like fireworks through the light dusting of frost that was all he had left of his snowfield. Slick teeth pale fingers leering eyes cackling laughter-
"No!" he yelped, shoving Eric roughly away from him. The other man stumbled back, looking shocked.
"Sherly?"
"I..." Sherlock hesitated. What was that? A flashback...? His face pulled into a vicious scowl. For fuck's sake. He was acting like some sort of pathetic, traumatised rape victim.
"F'ya don' wan-" Eric started, but Sherlock cut him off with a growl as he grabbed the other man's jacket and whipped them around so Eric was pinned against the wall instead. There. No more bricks, no more unpleasant mental associations. Problem solved.
"I'm fine," he hissed lowly, not entirely sure if he was addressing himself or Eric. He was fine though, honestly, just because some perverted dealer had... ugh, no. He shook his head with a quick jerking motion, burying the thought before it could finish. Ridiculous, had to stop thinking about it. Needed a distraction.
Snogging Eric was the quickest available, so that's exactly what he did.
"Shermmph!" the man shoved halfheartedly at his chest, but gave up after less than a second and simply reciprocated. "Yer shovin' me bleedin' guitar case inter me back, y'prat," he grumbled when they were forced to stop for breath.
Sherlock blinked down and saw that, indeed, Eric's guitar was trapped between his spine and the bricks. "Oh... sorry."
"No yer not."
Sherlock shrugged. "You're right, I'm not."
Eric rolled his eyes but simply unclipped the strap, letting the case drop gently to rest behind his knees. Then he tugged Sherlock's face back to his. "Prat," he mumbled.
"Moron."
A shadowed back street in Stockwell was really not the best place for snogging (nor anything else, for that matter), but being as neither of them were entirely sober they didn't much care. All Sherlock could think of was how long it had been since he'd felt another human's body heat against him as they struggled briefly for dominance. Eric won, mostly because Sherlock was becoming too distracted by the tightening of his jeans to focus on gaining the upper hand at snogging.
Eric chuckled into his mouth. "Don't take much t'git you bovvered, do it?"
"Shut up," Sherlock growled. He had no idea how Eric was planning to coordinate this, considering where they were and how bloody cold out it was (middle of January at one AM, brilliant timing) but the sound of two belts being undone and a sudden, rather unexpected hand around him answered that question. A very undignified, strangled noise escaped his lips as they pressed together.
"Christ," Eric mumbled. "Been ferfuckin'ever-"
Sherlock was incapable of speech, having had to break off their kiss to press his face into the other man's shoulder with a choked gasp. It dimly registered that he'd bitten down on the thick canvas of Eric's coat collar, which was more than a little embarrassingly girlish but fucking hell he hadn't been expecting- and he only barely had enough of a coke buzz left to- argh fuck it was like walking a knife-edge between pleasure and agony.
"Eric," he squeaked inelegantly, not entirely sure if he was trying to get him to stop or keep going. His brain had gone up in a firestorm... somewhat troubling, as fire was usually reserved for fear or pain, helplessness but this wasn't- he had no idea what- argh. A brief thought of retreating to the willow entered his head but he couldn't muster up the concentration to manage it. Trapped with his senses, the world closing in too fast and too close in a chaotic maelstrom of nerve signals.
Eric was kissing him gently on the side of his neck, mumbling something like quit thinkin' so much. Sherlock tried, he really did. Focused all his senses on the fabric he was biting, clenching between his fists as he gripped Eric's arms. It didn't work entirely but it was enough to stop him falling into a full-on panic attack, and seconds later it was over. He released Eric's coat with a shaky breath and immediately went boneless against him.
"Alrigh'?" Eric asked, voice a bit tremulous as well but undoubtedly amused. He supported Sherlock's sudden dead weight and slid them both down to rest awkwardly next to his guitar case against the wall.
"Not enough... cocaine," Sherlock mumbled, face still buried in Eric's jacket. "Brain overloaded."
"Wha', like a computer?" Eric was trying to be subtle about doing up their belts, which was more than a bit pointless as there was no way Sherlock could fail to notice a single bloody thing in this state. He slapped the man's hands away and fastened the buckle himself.
"I don't know, probably," he snapped, grimacing as he failed to avoid sounding upset. He really wasn't, just... a bit overwhelmed. With a short sigh he leaned back and scrubbed a hand over his face. Eric was watching him with a confused, wary expression. "It's fine, Eric, really. Just... make sure I'm high next time."
Eric huffed. "I don't like it when yer high. Y'git all creepy."
"Creepy...?" Sherlock repeated blankly, fingers unconsciously moving to fiddle with a loose thread on the sleeve of his coat. His head was swimming - thoughts and sensations all jumbling together in a confusing mess. He felt rather like a snowglobe that had been shaken and set down the wrong way up. "... I don't get 'creepy', I get normal."
Eric glared at him. "No y'don't, y'git like a goddamn robot and it's weird as hell."
Sherlock frowned at him. "I do not get like a robot." Through the slowly settling flurries of leftover snow and adrenaline he abruptly noticed what his hand was doing. He glanced down with an annoyed look and clenched his fingers into a tight fist to stop them fidgeting. Alright no he definitely needed more cocaine. The headache and dense fog of withdrawal hadn't risen up to claim him yet (probably had endorphins to thank for that) but his impulsive nature was forming pools of slippery mud throughout the frosted landscape of his mind. Had to cut it off before he ended up mired in swampland.
"Yeah y'do," Eric asserted, cutting into his thoughts. "Like a bleedin' android."
Sherlock scowled. "Well you're just going to have to deal with dating an android, because I'm doing another hit before I drown in imaginary mud," he replied tetchily. Eric gave him a strange, bewildered look for the 'imaginary mud' comment, then bit out a short sigh and leant back against the brick wall with his arms crossed. He made no move to interfere as Sherlock retrieved a capped needle from his coat lining. The syringe was already partially-filled with the solution he'd mixed up earlier, being far more convenient to carry around that way.
He pulled back his left sleeve and huffed irritably as he squinted at his veins in the half-light from a nearby street lamp. They were practically invisible. This was going to be a massive pain.
Eric looked down at Sherlock's distinctly vein-less arm and rolled his eyes before reaching up and plucking the syringe out of his hand.
"Hey!" Sherlock yelped indignantly, trying to snatch it back.
"Relax, geez," Eric grumbled as he jerked his hand out of Sherlock's reach. "Gimme yer other arm."
"Why?" Sherlock asked warily, tucking his arms against his chest. Eric just grabbed his right wrist and pulled the limb toward him.
"Cos y'ain't got no veins left on that'un an' I don't feel like sittin' out here for half an hour waitin' for ya t'find one."
"Oh." Sherlock watched as the other man shoved the sleeve back and tapped at the crook of his elbow, then bit the cap of the syringe off and slid the needle into his arm with a quick, efficient motion. "Why do you know how to-?"
"Bin wit' a speedfreak, 'member?" Eric cut him off irritably, pulling the plunger back slightly to make sure he'd actually hit a vein. The solution in the syringe went pink with blood and he slowly pushed the plunger back down with an annoyed expression. "Dunno why I keep endin' up with stim users, seriously s'like th'stupidest kink ever."
Sherlock hurriedly used his free hand to pull the needle out before Eric could inject the whole damned syringe into him. "Bloody hell, not all of it. Are you trying to give me a seizure?"
Eric capped the needle with a shrug and a slightly apologetic smile. "Maybe?"
"Hospital trips are not romantic."
"Yeah well," Eric replied offhandedly. He handed the hypo back and tugged Sherlock around to lean against his chest while they waited for the high to kick in. "I'm a shitty romancer, ain't gonna lie."
"Me too," Sherlock admitted. His ears were starting to ring, heartrate picking up as the chemical permeated his brain.
"Then I guess we're bleedin' made fer each other," Eric muttered.
Sherlock made a vague affirmative noise as the snowstorm whipped frigid through his skull.
««
Eric really had given him a bit too much, but Sherlock was doing his best not to let on to that fact. It was a bit difficult when his thoughts felt like they'd been set on hyperdrive. At the very least he felt mostly confident he wasn't acting anything like an android... though what exactly the alternative was turning out to be he didn't know.
They were finally back en route to the house after their brief detour, having turned toward Clapham High Street rather than remain with their original route through the labyrinth of residential backroads. This would add around ten minutes to the journey but came with the benefit of more functioning street lamps and a slightly reduced chance of being stabbed for their wallets.
As they walked along Sherlock abruptly thrust one of his hands in Eric's face and flapped it around a bit. "Look at that, see? I'm not a robot. Robots don't have compound synovial joints."
"Er... okay," Eric replied, blinking at the arm in front of his nose. "But I didn't say y'were a robot, just y'act like one."
Sherlock tucked his hand back into his coat pocket and frowned. "I'm not acting like a robot now, am I?"
"Nah, guess not. Now yer kinda actin' like a nutter." Eric grinned as Sherlock shot him an affronted look. "Which's fine, I mean, y'ain't bein' creepy or nuthin'. Just annoyin'."
"Well if you would make up your bloody mind-" Sherlock huffed. He'd been trying to avoid 'acting weird', whatever that meant, and in doing so had admittedly ended up a tad on the manic side. But honestly it was either that or frigid apathy, he wasn't even sure he had a middle ground between the two. "I could just imitate someone," he offered. "Then I wouldn't be a robot or annoying... well unless I imitated Mycroft in which case I'd be both."
"Mycroft's yer brother, right?" Eric asked curiously. "Th' government spy bloke?"
Sherlock snorted at the sudden mental image of Mycroft's tubby arse trying to break into a foreign embassy. "He's most definitely not a spy, that would require about a hundred times more physical activity than he's capable of."
"What's he do then?"
Sherlock shrugged dismissively. "Controls people. Officially of course he's an intelligence analyst, but that's just the title he uses to fool the public into thinking he isn't secretly running the entire Joint Intelligence Committee. I mean honestly he uses MI5 agents like they're his own bloody personal staff, it's ridiculous."
Eric shot him a baffled sidelong glance. "Is yer whole bleedin' family a bunch'a crazy goddamn geniuses?"
"No," Sherlock replied promptly - then paused to reconsider. "Well... perhaps? I'm not sure if Mummy's a genius or not. Should I act like her, maybe? She's a bit boring."
"How 'bout you just act like you 'cept with less talkin'?" Eric suggested with a roll of his eyes. He'd nicked one of Sherlock's cigarettes earlier and was finally getting around to lighting it now that they were nearing the main road with its functioning street lamps.
"You talk all the bloody time," Sherlock grumbled irritably.
Eric blew out a cloud of smoke as he shoved his lighter back in his jeans pocket. "Yeah but when I talk I ain't high as shit on coke."
"That's hardly fair."
"Life ain't fair."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance but shut up anyway. He considered following Eric's example and smoking a cigarette but quickly decided being amped up on cocaine and nicotine on top of whatever endorphins and alcoholic byproducts were already swimming around in his system would be unlikely to improve his behaviour. Instead he bounced slightly as he walked and cast his gaze around for something to study.
"There's a group of men over there who're trying to decide if we're worth attempting to mug," he pointed out after a moment's silence, forgetting he was supposed to be shutting up.
Eric didn't seem to mind his lapse in memory, however - he whipped his head around to look in the direction Sherlock had indicated. A group of three men in their mid- to late-twenties were grouped together by the street corner ahead of them, staring as they advanced along the pavement.
"Y'sure?" Eric asked quietly.
"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock quipped, too high to be much in the way of concerned about the possible danger. "Look, the one with the giant ears is keeping track of our movements while the bloke with the knife concealed in his front left trouser pocket is signalling to the one with the fake gun that he shou-"
His words were cut off as Eric grabbed him round the middle and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Jesus Christ shut th'fuck up."
"Oi! What'd 'e say 'bout me ears?" one of the thugs suddenly yelled. Sherlock realised he'd been speaking loudly enough to be overheard.
"Oops," he mumbled around Eric's hand.
"Oh fer fuck's sake," Eric groaned. Then more loudly, "Sorry mate! He's tweaked t'shit on coke, didn't mean nuffin' by it!"
"He said me gun's fake!" the other thug snapped. The trio began advancing on Sherlock and Eric, who'd stopped in the middle of the pavement some five metres away.
"It is fak-mmph!" Sherlock found himself nearly smothered to death as Eric's hand pressed more firmly over his mouth in an attempt to shut him up.
"Seriously mate he's off 'is bleedin' face, don't worry 'bout it," Eric said placatingly.
"Off his face on coke, y'said?" the third - and thusfar silent - hoodlum asked, a calculating look creeping across his gruff features.
Eric seemed to realise he'd made a mistake and backtracked quickly. "I meant, ah, speed! Dexies, y'know? Didn't know how many t'take an' now he's off th' walls."
"He don't look like he's on speed," the other man replied dubiously. "He looks like he's on coke. An' wit that accent..." His face suddenly split into a knowing grin. His two companions caught the look and started cackling.
"We got ourselves a li'l rich lad 'ere!" the one with the fake pistol exclaimed.
"Yeah! Lookit 'is bleedin' coat!" the third crowed. "That's like a hunnerd quid a'least!"
"It's a thousand," Sherlock mumbled irritably behind Eric's hand (which had mercifully let up enough for him to be able to breathe.) "Why do none of you chavvy idiots know how much clothing costs?"
"What'd 'e say?" the big-eared thug snapped. The three men had advanced down the street and were now standing in a semi-circle in front of them.
Eric bit out a resigned a sigh and dropped his hand from Sherlock's mouth. "He said yer all'a buncha chavvy idiots an his coat's worth a thousan' quid not a hunnerd," he clarified in a rush, grimacing. "Christ, see? I told you he's high as shit... an' also kind've a dumbarse." He shot Sherlock a scowl (which was met with nothing but a blank, innocent look) then turned back to their would-be muggers. "Anyhow we're wit' Flanagan's crew so y'prolly don't wanna fuck wit' us, aye?"
The tallest thug pulled the knife from his pocket and flipped it around idly between long, agile fingers. "Flanagan? Th'fat ginger bastard? What makes y'think I give two shits 'bout 'im?"
"'Cos 'is brother's got all th'pushers in Central London on his client list," Eric snapped back hotly. "Includin' goddamned Racer, so back th'fuck off."
The man just scoffed. "I kin take Racer any damn day. 'Specially wit a thousand quid off some rich lad's poncy coat."
"My coat is not poncy," Sherlock cut in. "It's a perfectly normal wool peacoat, honestly. Just because you morons all wear cheap knockoffs-"
He was quite rudely interrupted by a fist flying toward his face from the thug standing nearest them. Eric's shout of alarm beside him morphed into a startled cry as Sherlock instinctively jerked sideways, ducked the punch, and tugged them both out of striking range of Big-Ears in one fluid motion. Abruptly the whole group stopped to blink at each other - all five of them (including Sherlock, who was still more than a little out of it) taken off-guard by the perfect dodge of a surprise attack.
"Hah!" Sherlock exclaimed after a brief pause. High as a kite and more or less drunk and he still managed to out-class a bunch of street th-
He didn't get a chance to finish his thought as he was subsequently punched in the head.
"Ow! Fuck!" he yelped, clutching his suddenly-wounded forehead. There was a cut just starting to bleed above his eyebrow - the man must have had a ring on of some sort. Without pausing to think he ducked a second blow aimed toward his nose, then launched himself at the idiot's now-unguarded midsection, managing to catch the man's solar plexus with his shoulder. He then immediately straightened up and used his momentum to fling an elbow down on the back of his winded opponent's skull. The man crashed face-first into the pavement with a startled shriek and a sickening crunch as his nose met concrete.
Sherlock smirked but didn't get much time to celebrate his victory - the sound of a pained cry caught his attention and he whipped his head around to see that the other two muggers had gone for Eric. Fake-Gun had managed to get the freckled man in a choke hold of some sort while Knife-Wielder brandished his weapon with a wicked grin. Sherlock snarled like a rabid animal and flung his fist toward the back of the ringleader's head, only to find himself having to pull back quickly and dodge as his attack was anticipated and countered by the other man spinning around and attempting to stab him in the midsection.
"Bit violent fer a rich lad, ain't ya?" the thug asked cheerfully. Sherlock's reply was to make a grab for the hand holding the knife, thinking he'd break the bastard's wrist, but the wiry man saw it coming and danced out of the way with an amused cackle.
"Oi, whad'ya want me t'do wiv this'un, Ace?" Fake-Gun cut in, voice strained as he tried to keep hold of a fiercely struggling Eric. Sherlock quickly abandoned his standoff with the knife-wielding thug in favour of whipping around and attacking the other man with a quick blow to the side of the head. The mugger's skull jerked sideways with enough force to dislodge his grip, and Eric broke free with a bark of surprise.
As positive as that outcome was it unfortunately meant that Sherlock hadn't been watching the other assailant. The sound of rushing footsteps alerted him just in time to twist his body to the side, barely managing enough of a dodge to take the knife to the edge of his left arm instead of straight through his back.
"Shit," he hissed angrily, clamping a hand to the slash wound as he stumbled backwards. Hurt like hell, but didn't feel like it was bleeding too badly. Probably superficial then. He glanced over at Eric and huffed in annoyance as he noted the idiot's complete lack of defensive posture. The other boy was just staring at their attackers with a horrified, panicked look. So much for being able to handle himself in a fight.
The knife-wielder was laughing at them. "Hah! Yer pretty good there, toffee-nose! Light on yer feet, I like that!"
Sherlock flicked his eyes back to the thug and sneered. "So nice to be appreciated. Care to back down, then?"
"Nah," the man grinned. "I got me some skills too, f'ya didn't notice."
"'Skill' is a relative term," Sherlock replied archly. Behind him he could hear Big-Ears - the one with the broken nose - beginning to stir, and the man he'd just punched in the ear was struggling to his feet as well. This wasn't looking too good.
He took a brief second to consider his options: go down swinging, and probably end up dead, or...
Without making any attempt to signal his intentions Sherlock removed his hand from the sluggishly bleeding cut on his bicep, shot past the leering thug in front of him and grabbed Eric by the forearm. He'd meant to make a sprint for one of the open back streets to their left, but was forced to skid to a halt as the path was suddenly blocked by Big-Ears.
"Fucker! Y'fuckin' brode me dose!" the man snarled at him though the hand he'd clamped over his bleeding face; the other was clenched in a tight fist. Sherlock glanced around as he heard the other two thugs come up from behind. Beside him Eric seemed to be seconds away from hyperventilating, palms pressing together fitfully as he stared around them like a frightened rabbit.
"Eric you are bloody useless," Sherlock growled as he quickly tugged the freckled man back toward a wall in the only direction available for retreat. He deftly maneuvered Eric behind him and stood with his fists raised defensively as the three men surrounded them.
"I ain't a fuckin' fighter you psychopath! I'm a goddamn gay stoner!" Eric hissed back over Sherlock's shoulder. "What th'fuck were you expectin'?"
"Well at least make an effort!" Sherlock snapped. "And I'm not a psychopath!" Then suddenly the man to his right lunged forward with an incoherent bellow, forcing Sherlock to step to the left so he could catch the blow and counter it with a knee to the man's abdomen. Unfortunately that left his injured left bicep open to attack - he cried out in pain as the thug he'd inadvertently shifted toward managed to land a punch directly on the wound.
"Sherlock!" Eric screeched. Sherlock ignored him in favour of whipping around and ramming his fist into the other man's already-broken nose, knocking the idiot out cold with the fresh agony of a multiple compound fracture on top of the previous break. He took a step back, shaking his bruised hand, only to abruptly find out exactly what Eric had been screeching about when he realised the other boy was no longer behind him.
"Eric?" he barked in alarm, whipping around. The third thug ('Ace', he vaguely recalled him being called by his associate) had his friend in an armlock, knife poised threateningly at the younger man's throat.
"Lookin' fer this?" the man asked beguilingly, yellow teeth flashing through a wide, perverse grin.
"Let him go," Sherlock growled. He took a step forward but stopped short as the man pressed the edge of his knife to Eric's jugular, eliciting a strangled whimper.
Ace grinned. "Or wot?"
"Or I'll kill you." Sherlock's stance was taut with fury and adrenaline, but his voice came out deadly calm. It registered dimly in his mind that he'd shifted into a perfect imitation of Father - flat and emotionless, with a hint of frigid steel. It was the most dangerous persona in his arsenal. "If you don't release him immediately I will relieve you of your weapon, puncture both your lungs and watch you drown in your own blood."
"Jesus fuck!" Eric squeaked in alarm. Ace paled as well, clearly unnerved but determined not to show it.
"J-just try it, toffee-nose," he challenged with a very slight stammer to his voice.
Sherlock sneered. In a sudden flash of inspiration he quickly scanned the man's appearance. A dark smirk crossed his face as details coalesced. Perfect.
"Do you want to know why she left you?" he asked quietly, menacingly.
"W-wot?"
"She was tired of living like a beggar," Sherlock went on. "She wanted more, she deserved more. You couldn't provide for her. She wasted years of her life waiting for you to shape up. To change. But you never did, did you? You just let her wallow in her misery, watching as she raised your children, never offering a shred of help. And they were your children, weren't they? Not the neighbour's like you pretended. How often do you get to see them now, hm? Twice a month? Twice a year? Little Michael's going to grow up without a father, just like you did."
"Holy fuckin' Christ!" Ace exclaimed. He whipped his knife off Eric's throat to brandish it shakily toward Sherlock instead. "Whath'fuck! Who- wh-what... what th'fuck are you!"
Instead of answering Sherlock shot forward, wrenched the knife from the man's fingers and thrust it directly into the thug's face, stopping just short of stabbing him in the eye. "Let. Him. Go."
With a terrified yell the man jerked backward, wrenching Eric's arm with the abrupt motion and causing the younger man to cry out in pain. Sherlock snarled at the sound and lashed out with the knife, but the thug had already shoved Eric roughly away from him and turned to flee down one of the darkened side streets.
"Fuck!" Eric yelled with a pained grimace. He stumbled forward into Sherlock, who immediately dropped the knife to catch him, they sank to their knees as he cradled his left wrist protectively with his good hand. "Oh fuckin' fuck I think he fuckin' broke it. Fuck!"
"Let me see it," Sherlock ordered. A groan from one of their fallen assailants to his right suddenly caught his attention. He glanced over with a wary look and instead moved to heft a loudly protesting Eric to his feet. "Actually on second thought let's get out of here first."
"Fuckin' hell," Eric moaned as they made their way toward a well-lit shopfront some ways down the street. He was leaning heavily on Sherlock's shoulder - the injured one, as it happened, but Sherlock wasn't about to say anything. Eric was upset enough as it was. At least the pain was doing a fair job of keeping his cocaine-and-adrenaline-addled brain focused. "Why th'fuck did y'ave t'go an piss those guys off?"
Sherlock flinched as Eric's agitated movements put pressure on his wound, but quickly masked the expression before the other man could see. "They would have jumped us whether I pissed them off or not," he replied in what he hoped was an indifferent tone rather than a strangled choke.
"Y'don' fuckin' know that, christ!" Eric half-wailed. "Y'just wanted t'piss off a buncha blokes cos yer a goddamn mental case!"
"I'm not a mental case," Sherlock snapped irritably. He tried to shift his arm out from under the brunt of Eric's weight without letting on how much it hurt to do so, but gave up after the first attempt shot a bolt of pain up his arm. Fuck, he'd just focus on ignoring it. "And I do know they would have jumped us, because they were a load of bloody street thugs and I look like I've got money." He paused for a second, grinding his teeth in an effort to centre himself, then added blandly, "Also you've said the word 'fuck' eight times in the last two minutes."
"Fuck you!"
"Nine times."
As they neared the shop it became clear the business was closed for the night. Sherlock grit his teeth in irritation. The next well-lit building was blocks away so rather than pressing on he lowered them to the kerb to catch their breath. After briefly checking his shoulder (bleeding still, but not overmuch; his peacoat would stain horribly) he turned to the business of coaxing Eric's wrist free from the man's white-knuckled grip so he could examine it.
"I think it's just dislocated," he decided after a few moments of gentle prodding at the rapidly-swelling limb. Fingers still functional, grip seemed weak but no loss of sensation so that ruled out nerve damage at least. "Radio-ulnar, maybe?" he hedged uncertainly. His knowledge of medical science was relatively basic compared to the depth of expertise he held in more interesting topics. General human anatomy was all well and good but when it came to things like first aid and surgical techniques he'd never cared enough to retain the material... yet another situation where his ability to obsessively stockpile thousands of obscure facts about fascinating topics while discarding information he found dull proved itself more of a curse than a blessing.
Instead of answering properly Eric just mumbled something indistinct about blood. He was curled up over his knees miserably, looking pale and shivering in the cool night air. Sherlock desperately hoped the man wasn't going into shock; he'd have no idea how to deal with it.
He fidgeted nervously with a loose thread on the sleeve of his coat as he regarded his miserable companion. "What did you say?" he asked after a pause, vaguely recalling that keeping the patient talking was supposed to help somehow.
"I said y'got blood all down yer face," Eric repeated more clearly. He raised his head a fraction and gestured toward Sherlock's forehead with his good arm. "From a cut or sommat."
"Oh." Sherlock grimaced slightly and raised a hand to rub at the drying trail of blood leaking from the cut on his forehead. "... Yes, I'm aware," he replied as he let his arm drop back down, where his fingers immediately started worrying at the thread again. "It's only a scalp laceration."
"Prolly needs stitches," Eric muttered, then huffed a tired sigh. "We should find an' A&E."
Sherlock's face twisted into a displeased wince. Ugh, he really didn't want to go to hospital. Especially via anything resembling public transportation. But Eric could be seriously injured, so...
After a moments' hesitation he grumbled an annoyed 'sod it all' and resignedly dug his mobile and battery pack out of his jeans pocket. Using his phone was a massive risk, but calling a cab was the easiest and least exhausting way to get to a hospital and he had no idea where the nearest phonebooth might be. At the very least he had the benefit of it being the middle of the night; if he was lucky he could make the call and remove the battery again without his brother so much as noticing the signal return.
The operative phrase there being 'if he was lucky'. More likely he'd end up in MI5 custody within the hour... he figured he should probably warn Eric ahead of time.
"If you see a black towncar anywhere nearby within the next twenty minutes, run," he ordered gravely as the mobile in his hand booted up with a cheerful chiming noise.
"Why?"
Sherlock scowled as he quickly dialled the number for a taxi service. "Because my brother will have a triangulation on my wireless signal in around thirty seconds, and he's not above having you sent to Belmarsh on fake terror charges if he thinks it might get me to cooperate with him."
Eric lifted his head and fixed him with a faintly horrified look. "Yer family is seriously fucked up, Shers."
"I'm quite aware, thank you," Sherlock deadpanned. Finally the line connected. He quickly ordered a cab to meet them at the shop they were sat in front of, then hung up and immediately flipped the phone over to remove the battery.
Before he could even get the back cover off the device started ringing. He sighed angrily and turned it back over to glance at the caller ID on the lid display.
'MYCROFT HOLMES - PRIVATE LINE.'
"Of bloody course," he growled.
"Maybe y'should just answer it?" Eric suggested before Sherlock could hit the 'ignore' button, staring down at the letters flashing on the tiny LCD screen with a wary expression. "I mean cos otherwise he's gonna come out here wivva buncha agents all guns blazin', right?"
Sherlock glowered at his mobile. "He's going to do that anyway."
Nonetheless, he reluctantly hit the key to accept the call, then pressed a second button to put it on speakerphone - if he had to endure his brother's insanity Eric might as well endure it along with him.
"What do you want?" he growled at the handset.
"Hello to you as well, Sherlock," Mycroft's bland voice responded, tone dripping with polite sarcasm. Despite the late hour he sounded wide awake - probably pulling another all-nighter coordinating some massive government conspiracy. "Evidently I can take the city morgues off notice."
"I'm not dead you prat, I just needed a cab." As he spoke Sherlock glanced over at Eric, finding the other man watching him bemusedly. He was still cradling his wrist but no longer looked quite so ready to pass out. Probably a good sign.
"I'm sure you'll understand my fearing the worst, considering the circumstances."
Sherlock bit out an angry sigh and turned his attention back to the phone. He could hear Mycroft shifting on the other side of the line, leaving a room, opening a door. Probably walking into his office for privacy. Been in a meeting, then? Some sort of conference? Most likely a liaison with Asia if the time was any indication.
"I'm fine, Mycroft. Leave me alone."
Mycroft hmm'ed dubiously. "Calling a cab to take you to King's College in the middle of the night doesn't strike me as an indication of fine-ness," he intoned. "What on earth are you doing in Stockwell, by the way?"
"None of your bloody business," Sherlock growled. "And stop tapping my calls!"
"Seriously fucked up," Eric muttered beside him. Sherlock shoved him lightly with a silently mouthed 'shut up!' - the last thing they needed was Mycroft getting all snarky over him hanging about with 'commoners'.
"Who was that?" Mycroft asked curiously. Sherlock's face pulled into a slight grimace. Of course the git heard.
"Nobody. Just a friend." He shot a sidelong glare at Eric and got a not-quite-apologetic shrug in return.
"A friend?" his brother repeated, tone condescendingly incredulous. "Has he known you for more than an hour?"
Sherlock's gaze flicked back to his mobile with a vicious scowl. "Fuck you."
"Apologies, Sherlock," Mycroft replied blithely in a voice that didn't sound the least bit contrite. "It's simply a bit... unexpected is all. Are you absolutely sure he's not just trying to steal your wallet?"
Sherlock raised a hand and flipped off the phone on the off-chance his brother had tapped into the camera function. Beside him Eric's eyebrows had furrowed in a vaguely affronted look.
"That's hardly necessary, I was only making sure you'd taken all possibilities into account," Mycroft's over-patient voice responded. Sherlock lowered his hand and glared at the phone for a split-second before covering the camera with his thumb.
"Go choke on a croissant and die you fat bas-" he started angrily, but Eric cut over him with a hissed "tell 'im no kidnappin'!" Sherlock reluctantly bit back the rest of his retort with a cross huff and put his hand over the microphone.
"I know, I'm getting there. Now shut up before he gets a voice match on you," he grumbled to Eric, who went slightly pale and clapped a hand over his mouth with a nod. Sherlock rolled his eyes and uncovered both the camera and microphone to address his brother once more. "Alright look, I'm bloody tired and I don't want to deal with your bullshit right now. Just tell me what I have to do to convince you not to send a team of agents out to abduct me again."
"Abduct you? I'd never-" Mycroft started. Sherlock interrupted him with a vicious sneer.
"Never what?" he half-snarled at the mobile. "Never have me drugged and spirited off to some godforsaken clinic in the middle of the night? Or maybe you'd like to try cornering me in an alley again? That went so well last time."
Mycroft's voice cut off in apparent chastisement. Sherlock could hear the man nervously tapping a pen against his desk on the other end of the line. "... Fair enough," he conceded after a moment. "I assume you're planning to bolt again if I attempt to have you brought in?"
"Too right."
His brother breathed a short sigh of resignation. "Very well, if there's no other choice... I suppose leaving the battery pack in your mobile would be sufficient for now."
"Fine," Sherlock snapped.
"As well as actually carrying it with you, and keeping it charged," Mycroft added mildly, pre-empting Sherlock's plan to just toss the device in a bin somewhere.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed an irritated breath through his nose. "I don't have a power cord."
"I'm sure you can locate one."
"By which you mean you're going to bloody send one to me through some sort of sinister government parcel post?" he sniped. Eric was now staring blankly between his face and the phone's LCD display, looking somewhat torn between awe and horror as the conversation proceeded.
"I was thinking more along the lines of your simply purchasing one from a shop, but whatever you think is best."
"For fuck's sake, Mycroft-"
"Your cab is pulling around the corner, by the way," his brother interrupted. Sherlock flicked his eyes up and saw that, indeed, there was a taxi heading toward them. "I hope you don't mind but I've already taken the liberty of paying the fare," the man added in a semi-polite drawl.
Sherlock growled in irritation and stood to signal the cab before it drove past them. "Does the ministry know much money you waste psychotically stalking your sibling?" he asked his brother acidly, hitting the button to turn the speaker function off so he could clamp the mobile between his shoulder and ear while he bent down to help Eric up.
"Oh most certainly," Mycroft quipped. "There's a budget set aside and everything."
"Brilliant," Sherlock grumbled. "I'm hanging up now. If you send one of your goons after me I'll shove my mobile up his arse and you can trace it backwards through his digestive tract."
"Charming as always, little brother."
In leiu of replying Sherlock simply flipped his phone shut with a loud snap! and glared venomously at it. "Stupid git," he muttered.
"At least we ain't gettin kidnapped," Eric put in consolingly.
Sherlock sighed. "You aren't. I probably will be." They managed to clamber into the back seat of the waiting taxi without injuring themselves further. As soon as the doors were shut the cabbie took off toward the hospital, having doubtless already been fed instructions by whatever shady method Mycroft had used to identify the car and pay in advance.
"Wh- serious?" Eric asked. "Even after y'agreed ta let him track ya an' shit?"
"The only reason he agreed to compromise is because he's busy with something," Sherlock explained in a dull, tired voice. Mycroft had still been in his office at half past one in the morning, so obviously he was embroiled in some sort of massive government operation which had kept him late. His need to get back to whatever he was doing was the only explanation for why he'd backed down so fast. Sherlock leant his head against the window with a short huff and stared out at the passing streets. "As soon as he's finished supplanting whatever government position he's decided to usurp this month he'll get back to the business of making sure I can't so much as breathe without him knowing about it," he continued. "He's probably got a satellite tracking our movements already; doubtless a team of agents will be in position to monitor me by morning."
Beside him Eric was slowly shaking his head in disbelief. "I take back everyfin' I said 'bout you bein' a nutter," he muttered. "Yer brother's way worse."
««
They made it back to the house around three in the morning, having gotten in to see a doctor suspiciously quickly (Sherlock's stream of grumbled complaints about his brother's meddling had been cut off by a well-timed kick from Eric during their ridiculously brief wait in the examination room). The slash wound on Sherlock's arm had needed stitches, but the cut on his forehead had just taken a couple of butterfly bandages and some gauze. Eric's wrist, meanwhile, had somehow been x-rayed, reduced and splinted in just under than an hour. (Sherlock had briefly considered sending Mycroft a text to thank him for arranging that at least but then immediately discarded the notion as absurd. A single kind gesture did not make up for two decades of being a git.)
"Six weeks in a fuckin' cast, goddamn it," Eric was grumbling as he dug his house key out of his jeans pocket.
"At least you won't have to play in the pub band for awhile," Sherlock offered with a vague shrug. He scrubbed a hand through his hair with the arm not currently benumbed by local anaesthetics and tried not to yawn too obviously. The creeping exhaustion of early withdrawal was stealing across his mindscape, making the world start to go foggy again. Should probably do another hit before he ended up having to deal with migraine on top of a stab wound and scalp laceration.
"Eh yeah, I guess there's that," Eric conceded. "Devin's gonna be pissed right th'fuck off though."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So? He's an idiot."
Eric quirked a small smile. "Hah, yeah 'e is. But he's also an idiot who gets ta decide f'I got a place t'live 'er not."
With a sigh Eric kicked the door shut behind them while Sherlock stared blankly around the darkened hallway waiting for his eyes to adjust. One drawback of existing with one's pupils in a state of perpetual dilation was the tendency to end up temporarily blinded by even relatively dim light sources, and he'd (rather stupidly, in hindsight) been staring at street lamps and lit shop signs out the cab window for the entire trip back from King's. At the moment his visual field was little more than a mishmash of fluorescent white afterimages over velvet black and grey blobs.
"If Devin attempts any sort of eviction you have permission to use my brother as a threat," he told Eric in a slightly distracted voice as he stood watching the drifting photonegative of a chip shop's neon 'OPEN' sign slowly fade.
"Oh aye?" Eric asked amusedly as he moved off toward the stairs without bothering to turn on a light. Sherlock followed closely behind him lest he trip over any unseen obstacles. "Well I s'pose datin' the little bro of a creepy government agent's gotta 'ave some perks."
Sherlock felt himself flush slightly at the word 'dating', finding himself unsure how to respond. He still wasn't entirely convinced they were classifiable as a couple yet - not because of any concrete reasoning or evidence, but because it almost seemed like it had to be some sort of trick... he kept half-expecting Eric to finally sober up and announce he'd just been kidding the whole time. Paranoid or not the doubt left Sherlock wary of making any rash presumptions about their relationship status. Instead of replying properly he settled for making a vague noise of agreement in response to Eric's statement as they ascended the stairs to his room, fingers unconsciously tugging at the loose thread on his sleeve again.
"Y'should cut that string off fore y'pull th'weave apart," Eric pointed out, glancing behind him while he flipped on the light in his room. Sherlock's gaze flicked down to his hand and he quickly jerked his fingers away from the thread with a glower.
"I don't need to cut it, I just need to stop fiddling with it," he huffed. Slipping his peacoat off he set about checking the extent of the damage incurred by his injury. The left sleeve was marred by a large patch of blood spreading piebald around a ragged tear. "Ugh, the coat's ruined anyway," he mumbled. He wasn't really sure if he was upset by that fact or not; on the one hand it was his favourite coat, on the other its obvious quality had been the catalyst for its getting ruined in the first place... but then on a third hand he also didn't exactly have another one.
Eric blinked over at him. "Eh? No it ain't. Blood comes outta wool right easy."
"One can only imagine how you came to have such knowledge," Sherlock intoned in a sarcastic deadpan as he set the coat aside to check his sweatshirt.
"Ah come off it, I ain't a slasher or sommat," Eric huffed, rolling his eyes. "Little sister used t'git nosebleeds. All down 'er jumpers an' everything, huge damn mess." He smiled slightly to himself as he turned to tug his splinted arm carefully out of his overcoat and hang it on his closet door.
Sherlock paused in his assessment of the state of his hoodie sleeve (stained as well, but not as obviously thanks to the darker colour; and the fabric would need to be sewn where it had ripped) to regard the other man curiously. "You have a sister?"
The smile abruptly vanished from Eric's face. "Had," he replied curtly. After a second's silence he seemed to shake himself and turned back around with a yawn, scrubbing his uninjured hand through his hair tiredly. "Look Sherly, I'm like seriously stoned t'shit on whatever th'fuck they doped me up wit' for that whole bone resettin' thing. Les just go t'sleep an' we'll talk about whatever in th'mornin, yeah?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "But I slept yesterday."
"And...?" Eric shot him a confused look... which after half a second morphed into flat exasperation. "Oh. Sleepin's s'posed t'be a daily thing you nutter."
Sherlock huffed and flapped his hand dismissively as he turned to dig through his coat lining. "For you maybe," he quipped. "I, however, have cocaine."
Eric threw his one good arm up with a resigned sigh and turned back to the bed. "Whatever floats yer boat, Sherly. Just don' start bitchin' when y'crash again."
"I won't," Sherlock promised, shaking out the pre-loaded syringe from earlier. "Er... good night," he added somewhat awkwardly.
Eric yawned again and moved to turn the light off. "G'night, mate."
Sherlock watched as Eric kicked off his shoes and jeans and curled up under the duvet on his right side with the sling still pinning his left arm in place. His breathing indicated he'd fallen asleep almost immediately.
Regardless, Sherlock waited a few minutes to be sure, then cautiously moved over to the bed and sat down on the unoccupied side of the mattress. He wasn't entirely sure if he was welcome to stay in the room while the other man slept... but then at the same time he didn't really feel comfortable enough with the other tenants to go wandering about the house uninvited. They might see it as an invasion of territory or some equally incomprehensible social slight. Eric at the very least seemed more likely to simply get annoyed by his presence rather than resort to outright violence to get rid of him, as Charles or Devin likely would... so best to take his chances staying put.
He leaned his back against the headboard and stretched his legs out on top of the duvet as he hunted for a vein in the dim half-light from the window (still couldn't see a bloody thing, but he wasn't about to turn the light back on). It took a few attempts but he finally found one, injected the last bit of pre-mixed solution from the syringe he'd been carrying around all night. It wasn't really enough to do much more than stave off withdrawal, but then he didn't exactly need to be high right now. Once the slight rush wore off he cast about for something to do. Eric's laptop was sitting on the floor by the side of the mattress, so he scooped it up and turned it on.
Not locked, thankfully, as he didn't have nearly enough information on the other man to make a guess at his password. The desktop background was a small, grainy mobile photo of two little girls beaming ecstatically into the camera. Identical twins - primary school age judging by their school uniforms, perhaps eight or nine years old. They were tangled together in a slightly awkward hug, matching manes of curly blonde hair partially obscuring their freckled faces as they each held two fingers up behind the others' head like rabbit ears. The one on the left sported a tiny spot of faded blood on the white collar of her polo shirt.
Sherlock stared at the image for a moment, then glanced over at Eric sleeping next to him. A light frown crossed his features as he looked back to the screen. Under ordinary circumstances he'd be jumping at the chance to hunt for data, perhaps opening all the image folders in a flurry of rabid detective work... but something was holding him back. Idle curiosity seemed like a poor justification for intruding on Eric's privacy. Strange, since he was usually perfectly happy to pry into peoples' personal lives for no reason whatsoever. Maybe it was because he actually cared what Eric thought of him... or perhaps he just didn't want the man to wake up and punch him for snooping around on his computer. Difficult to tell.
After another few second's staring Sherlock simply huffed and pulled up the internet browser instead. Sod it, he'd just find a chemistry article to read.
««
Somehow over the course of the next hour or so Sherlock managed to unconsciously shift himself close enough to Eric to have his side pressed up next to the man's back while he read. The contact was entirely unneccesary (and probably a little uncomfortable for the other party, considering Eric hadn't any room to so much as roll over like this) but for some reason despite being annoyed with himself for carelessly instigating the situation Sherlock still couldn't quite bring himself to move. He couldn't help it - he liked the sensation of body heat against his thigh and the even, steady movement of Eric's breathing. It was very calming.
Quite a different sort of calm to cocaine though. The snow still coating his internal space after his last hit kept him collected, focused, but it was the rigid stillness of ice rather than a placid lake. Emotions were so muted in this state he sometimes had trouble remembering he even had them at all - everything just blended together under the frost into a matte background of featureless complacency. But physical contact... dull, uninteresting, plain old touching did something to his mental space that was unlike any drug he'd yet tried. It was... warm. Not the searing heat of helplessness or anger which sometimes scorched across his landscape, but a gentle sort of perfusion of quiet sunlight. Tranquil, but not in a boring way. He liked it.
Of course as nice as this was, cocaine still won out. Besides the fact that keeping in constant physical contact with people was both ridiculous and unfeasible there was the added complication that the effect only seemed to take hold if he was actually comfortable with the person he was touching... and very few individuals had ever managed to find their way into that category. In fact for the vast majority of his life the list of humans permitted to touch him without provoking an acute anxiety response had begun and ended with his brother. Back then it hadn't even been a list, just a rule: if Mycroft, do nothing; if other, panic.
The directive hadn't had any cause to change for well over eighteen years, and then he'd gone off to uni. Well... more specifically had gone off to uni and discovered cocaine. Prior to his fateful experiments with stimulants he'd been scrupulously walled off from any and all contact with his classmates. Then, over the course of his last few drug-fuelled months at Oxford, the List of Allowed Touching had quite suddenly gone into a state of near-constant flux - growing and shrinking as the heady combination of cocaine and alcohol temporarily stripped Sherlock of his usual inhibitions. Strangers were added for a few hours here and there, perhaps a whole night, then immediately struck off again as he forgot them by the next morning. Only Victor had ever achieved the dubious honour of a permanent placement. Sherlock's comfort around him had somehow persisted even in the absence of mind-altering substances. He'd thought it something of a miracle at the time, enough that since leaving Oxford (and especially after meeting Racer, though he refused to think about that) he'd rather given up hope of ever willingly touching another person again.
But Eric, it seemed, had inexplicably managed to earn a place as well. Sherlock honestly wasn't quite sure how it had happened. After all, they'd only just met less than 48 hours ago. And the freckled idiot wasn't exactly the type of person he generally preferred to associate with. Still... the man was quite kind, and not a total waste of oxygen, and... well...
With a quick shake of his head Sherlock pressed his lips together and forced the growing flurry of thoughts from his mind. Too much introspection, he'd drive himself (further) insane if he wasn't careful.
The online article about forensic chemical analysis he'd been haphazardly skimming through was suddenly not very interesting, so he closed the laptop's lid and set it aside. He really wasn't sure what he wanted to do. His cocaine buzz had settled into that strange, meandering state where he knew he wanted to focus on something, but couldn't for the life of him figure out what. It was very frustrating. With a quiet huff he glanced briefly at the slumbering form beside him, considering the benefits of curling up under the duvet with Eric. Couldn't exactly sleep in this state... but lying down might be nice.
A minute later he was stripped down to his boxers and one of Eric's t-shirts he'd pilfered from the hamper of clean-smelling clothes (his own had been worn for a good three days straight now, and was badly in need of a washing.) He climbed under the covers, and after only a moment's hesitation wrapped his arms around the other boy's chest (being careful to avoid jostling the cast on the injured wrist). On a whim he buried his face in the man's sandy hair. It smelt of marijuana, hospital antiseptics and cloying smoke from the pub, with just a faint trace of some generic shampoo scent underlying the rest. Not all that objectively pleasant as far as scents went, but something in him liked it anyway. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was warm and comfortable, making everything seem nicer than it should have been.
As he'd expected, actually falling asleep was impossible; he was still far too high. But with the soothing rhythm of another human's breathing pushing steadily against his chest and the somehow-not-terrible scent of pub smoke and weed in his nostrils he found himself lapsing into a meditative, trancelike state. It occured to him that this would be a perfect time to get around to building that tower.
The willow tree had so far proven itself useful enough, but it was something of a symbol of his childhood and therefore came bundled with a lot of associated memories. He wouldn't do away with it (not yet at least) but he'd much rather create a structure less steeped in past experiences. A tower would be best - he'd always liked being up high, and the stonework would hopefully resist erosion by his frequent, turbulent changes in mood. It should also be possible to put different things on different levels; facts in one place, memories in another, and so on. Then he could just walk up and down the steps and find whatever he needed, no more digging about in the snowbanks looking for buried information.
Quite suddenly he frowned to himself. God, listen to him. Treating his silly little mental abstractions as if they were tangible places and things. For perhaps the millionth time in his life he wondered if he might be mad. Surely brains weren't actually meant to function like this? He had a field in his head, for god's sake. With shifting weather patterns to represent emotions, and a bloody great tree in the midst of it all where he went and hid when the world got too stressful. It couldn't possibly be normal.
And sure, yes, of course he wasn't normal. He was a genius... but, well... so were Mycroft and Father. What were the odds that his brother had a... a sodding mental office building (or something equally boring, surely) in which he stored all his collected volumes of dull political strategies and techniques for being a nosey, patronising git? Or that Siger kept some kind of horrifying mind dungeon? The very idea was absurd. Neither of them would ever indulge in something so pointless as an imaginary landscape in their heads. No, Sherlock was fairly certain he was alone in this. A freak among freaks.
He huffed a sigh into Eric's hair and gave up on the tower before he'd really even started. Sod it all, he'd gone and worked himself into another brooding sulk. Why couldn't his moods ever seem to stay consistent?
At least the dysphoria probably meant his high was wearing off, so he might be able to sleep. A quick lift of his head to squint at the alarm clock on the side table told him it was going on six in the morning. He had no idea what time the occupants of the house usually got up. It hardly mattered anyway, he supposed, since Eric certainly wouldn't be awake for a good while yet. The idiot was out like a light on whatever cocktail of drugs they'd given him. Sherlock blew out another short sigh and lowered his head back down to press his face into the mop of sandy brown hair. Dimly he realised this would be his second time sleeping in as many days.
Christ, he thought with a small smile as he drifted off. I really have gone mad.
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Thanks once again for continuing to read my silly story, you guys! You're seriously the best!
(PS. Next chapter is all about Mycroft. I know you're excited, haha.)