The week passed in a haze, where Sherlock was almost always deep inside his mind palace. Everything was just as normal again like it was before his birthday, and before John; apart from the odd smile or nod in the corridor – they never had an opportunity to talk again.

Sherlock felt strange, stranger than he had on Monday; it was different. It had been a weird few days, and he was lonely again. He'd learned to banish emotions from an early age and now they were pushing their way through the cracks, and he couldn't stop them – he could only try to hide them. But there was no real reason for this change. He'd always been lonely, he'd always been friendless and he'd always known that that was the way it was. His brother had no problem with his loneliness – he thrived without the company of "dull humans", so why was this affecting him so much?

He thought about his life as a child, trying to make friends. He'd wanted to be appreciated, and cared about when he was that age, so why did he think something was wrong with him now that he was really feeling things again? What if this was him letting his walls down, gently, and letting himself feel slightly normal again? If that was what was happening then it hadn't been a conscious decision, and there didn't seem to be any reason for it anyway. He'd never been emotionless, just in control – possibly in too much control. However, he felt comforted at the idea that maybe there wasn't something wrong with him, but rather he was a normal, human boy. But the knowledge still didn't make these feelings go away.

"Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes?"

Why do people have to be so loud, Sherlock thought indignantly. He opened his eyes. Mr Moore's angry grey eyes bore into his own.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr Holmes. Pay attention in class please." His voice was clipped; he didn't sound impressed. He was very obviously stressed. Possible marriage problems, Sherlock concluded. He's slept on the sofa last night – his neck was sore and cramped, and he kept stretching - more importantly, he kept fiddling with his wedding ring, subconsciously frowning when he looked at it. He had bags under his eyes, and he hadn't even shaved this morning. Worried and disorganised too. Sherlock smiled internally.

This class was boring now, even more so than it already was. There was nothing left to deduce; he obviously couldn't return to his mind palace; he was lucky it would be easy to leave.

"I'm sorry Sir, I'm not feeling all the best. Can I please go to the toilet?" He put on his politest voice and wore his most innocent smile. He was dismissed with a sigh.

Sherlock had never dealt with boredom particularly well. He paced the yellow corridors of the upper floor, thinking, but that was no distraction as he'd spent far too much time doing that over the last week. Constant internal battles were no fun without regular distractions; he needed distractions. They kept him sane. Experiments. Exploring. Investigating. Anything. Anything that kept him from sinking back into his own head.

He settled on hiding in his lab for the remainder of the lesson, returning to class only to fetch his things, with a sheepish look on his face. Lying was easy, he concluded, when he quickly convinced Mr Moore that he'd been sick, and needed to be sent home. It was a shame he hadn't thought of this excuse earlier – school would be over in an hour - but he had been preoccupied in his mind palace.

He signed a form of absence from the school office and took himself home – the 35-minute walk giving him fresh air and an old idea. It had been four days since he'd saved this text, and Sherlock had tried not to think about it but now it was all he wanted. He needed a distraction and he was lost for ideas. But he was option less, he thought as he pressed 'send', and pocketed his phone.

At home, he removed his tie and donned his scarf and coat and paced around the living room. As impatient as he was, there would be no point jumping on a train to London if Victor didn't reply. When he thought about it, he realised he could just as easily use the fake ID he had bought online, but he wasn't convinced it was just cigarettes he was looking for, and he could get them from the corner store down the road anyway, if he wished. Considering his options, he downed the last of his coffee, checked his pockets for his wallet, keys, and phone, and left.

When he was on the train, his phone beeped.

I said you'd come back. Its £8, but I can
get you something stronger if you like? – Victor

Where will I meet you?

SH

Sherlock decided to ignore his question.

Same place, how quickly can you be here? – Victor

Sherlock checked his watch and calculated how long it would take to walk through London. He only had ten minutes left on the train.

45 minutes.

SH

Consider it done - Victor

Sherlock felt almost euphoric as he hopped onto the platform and strode into the cold winter sun. There was a certain beauty to the buzzing streets of London that even Sherlock could admire. Everything flowed in a very precise mess – it was organised chaos and he loved it. London made him feel alive, and the city itself temporarily silenced his boredom, but it wasn't a cure. Nothing was, really, not even London - he couldn't just get a train to the city and wander around every time he felt bored.

As he approached the street he recognised so well from his memories of the last week, the butterflies in his stomach from earlier were gone. He needed what Victor could give him now. His paced picked up and he almost raced to find Victor standing in the entrance to the alley, head down, hood up.

"Victor," Sherlock said curtly. The boy looked up at him with dark eyes, the bags underneath even more emphasized than they were last time Sherlock had seen him. He wasn't anywhere close to how relaxed, smug and casual he had looked last time Sherlock had seen him, nor was he wearing his suit. Sherlock scanned him for data; he was, surprisingly, clean, and had been for around three days now, Sherlock thought. It was no wonder he looked so rough.

"Inside" Victor hissed, taking a few steps back and holding open the door.

The room inside was dark and smelt strongly of booze and chemicals. The graffiti-covered wallpaper was damp and peeling off the walls, landing on the stone floor. He looked around the room which was littered with mattresses paired with the bodies of the half dead, as well as actual litter – syringes and needles among various other things that Sherlock didn't even want to think about. A dim light filtered in through the broken windows on the opposite wall, just enough that Sherlock could see a flight of stairs through one doorway on the right, and large black door down the long corridor ahead of him. He must have come in through the back entrance.

"Follow me" Victor whispered, his voice hushed as a few heads struggled to look around at their retreating backs. They reached the staircase which took them into a room that covered the whole house apparently – there must have been at least 20 people here; slumped in chairs; sprawled across mattresses; curled up in the corner. Sherlock figured he was the only person in this place who wasn't drugged up on something. And he had only come here for some cigarettes, he thought. Unfortunately for him, it was too late to suddenly back out and use his fake ID now.

Victor led him to the farthest corner of the room, more empty than the rest of the place. The ceiling arched high above their heads, letting a little more light into the huge space. There was nobody within a ten-metre radius. Victor collapsed onto his dirt stained bed, and handed Sherlock his cigarettes along with a lighter – and unexpected gift.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, handing over his £10 note. "Keep the change."

"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" Victor's sly smirk had crawled its way back onto his face, as he nodded his head towards the small bags of dirty-white powder sitting by his bed.

Sherlock stood there, in silence, considering this. He, of course, knew all about the effects and dangers of both heroin and cocaine, but that didn't make him any less curious, or willing. His brain was saying yes and no at the same time, but his heart said no. In all his recklessness he concluded that he had never trusted his heart when it came to decisions, and so he handed over the money and pocketed the little bag, along with the several syringes and needles that Victor gave him. That would be enough to last him for more than a while, he guessed; he wasn't that desperate to try it anyway.

Despite Sherlock's apparent discomfort, Victor invited him to stay, correctly assuming that this was something the dark-haired boy had never done before, and reached for his own small bag. Sherlock realised that Victor was shaking and sweating slightly as he stretched out his arm – withdrawal symptoms. Sherlock wondered how long it had been since victor had last been high; he seemed slightly off balance, possibly dizzy; his hair was greasy and his face was almost yellow in the pale light; his smugness had almost entirely disappeared, and he looked far too eager to get high again.

When the solution had been prepared, Sherlock watched as victor carefully injected it into his left arm with a long sigh of relief. Hardly any time had passed before he seemed to relax against the wall, calming down completely. Quietly Sherlock got to his feet and looked at the boy in front of him. For someone who had seemed so oddly threatening when they first met, he looked helpless now, in his little daze.

"Thank you for the… demonstration" Sherlock muttered somewhat sarcastically, so that only victor could hear him, but the boy didn't seem to be able to pay much attention anyway.

"You're welcome." Victor's words were slow and slightly slurred; his eyes out of focus. He didn't get a reply.

When the fresh air hit Sherlock, it seemed to clear his head, although not as much as he would've liked. It was dark out now, and the cold evening wind nipped at Sherlock's face as he began to walk. He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one between his lips. This second drag of a cigarette went better than the first – there was only minimal coughing. The hot air burned his lungs on the way out, but it wasn't as unpleasant as it could have been. It was a relief to the system in a way, as his craving had subsided considerably, and he felt calmer though slightly light-headed. He wasn't aching inside anymore. When he considered it, he actually felt quite good.

The first thing he noticed as he walked up his street was that his parents were both home. It was after 6, he realised and he would probably have missed some texts from his mother. The second thing he noticed was one of Mycroft's ludicrous black cars sitting outside his house. As he opened the front door and stepped into the living room, a sudden feeling of horror hit him. Mycroft's security cameras – he might know where Sherlock had been.

He relaxed as he glanced around the room; his parent's faces were a picturesque portrayal of relaxation, and Mycroft was sitting with a cup of tea on the sofa; they were all chatting contentedly. Of course, that could change at any minute, but judging Mycroft's behaviour, he seemed to be safe for now.

"Oh Sherlock, finally, you've graced us with your presence." Mycroft's sarcastic tone cut through Sherlock's momentary panic, and he sat down. "Where have you been?"

"Out." His face gave away nothing.

"You left school an hour early, care to explain why?" His mother didn't seem particularly bothered as she asked him this. Sherlock wondered why he bothered answering.

"It was boring."

"Apparently you felt sick." Mycroft glared at him.

"Sick of being bored," Sherlock deadpanned.

"That's not what you told the school."

"What difference does it make?" He got up and strode upstairs, shutting the living room door with as much drama as was humanly possible. His mother laughed behind him. He heard Mycroft sigh. Sometimes he acted more like a father than a brother, and in Sherlock's ever so honest opinion, it was one of the many crosses he had to bear when it came to his brother.

When Sherlock reached his room he went straight to his wardrobe, emptying everything that was piled up onto his carpet. His room was a mess. He lifted the rectangular piece of wood that fitted over the bottom of his wardrobe and pulled back the carpet underneath it. The floorboard here was cracked, and if Sherlock could just lift it out gently- yes! A small hole had opened up in his bedroom floor underneath his wardrobe – not even Mycroft would find anything here.

He took a padlocked black box from the pile of crap that sat next to him, and opened it carefully, pleased to find that it was empty, apart from the key, which was still in its little pouch on the inside of the lid. His initials glistened on the side in gold as he turned it in the light – it had been a gift from Mycroft three years ago, which he'd found strange because his brother would never usually encourage him to hide anything. Sherlock carefully placed the contents of his coat pocket into the box, closed it and locked it, before tying a long piece of string around the hole in the key and putting it over his head. Once it was safely resting next to his beating heart, he placed the box in the hole and replaced the floorboard, and smirked at his handy work.