(Author's Note: Drug use, from the user's POV.)

10: Wanderer Fantasy

Why hadn't John taken him back? It didn't compute. Though such ire was just as illogical as the refusal to welcome him back to Baker Street, his flatmate had indeed been angry. If it had been anyone else, he would have picked up on the cues, but with John, he knew what they meant. Sherlock could read John now, better than he could even read his own brother. He had seen the way John's hands clenched into fists, and heard the way his voice cracked when he yelled, proving that he wasn't just angry but was stung by what Sherlock had done. He'd noticed how the other man had to square his shoulders again when he turned around and stalked off.

Maybe John had a right to be mad at him. But he wasn't being fair. He hadn't given Sherlock the chance to explain. If John knew what Sherlock knew, it would all make sense, and if it made sense, then John would have to accept it. Circular logic, perhaps, but it worked nonetheless, and he was in no mood to quibble with himself over minor details such as those.

With things as serious as they still were, personal emotions would have to be put aside, and they could rebuild their friendship later. Neither of them had time to hold grudges with each other, particularly when John's grievance was based on unfounded suspicions and false information. Sherlock hadn't jumped off of the rooftop of St. Bart's because he'd wanted to, after all. At the time, Moriarty had left him no choice but that, and he had done it to call off the assassins lurking from St. James' Park to Baker Street. He'd taken that chance for John and the rest of them, not for himself. So, really, John should be thanking him, not ostracizing him. When he saw John again, he'd have to point out that distinct lack of gratitude to him – at length, in depth, and fully detailed.

Still, John hadn't just been angry. There had been that sharp twinge to his voice. He'd felt hurt as well. And when people were hurt or upset with him, they didn't like to hear that they were wrong. He was fairly sure of that. Mycroft had explained that to him enough times. So he could wait and explain John's mistakes later, once John wasn't so upset with him.

He brushed his way past the central Persian arch of the cemetery gate, seeing John's vehicle speed off from the car park. John didn't slow down, and didn't seem to look his way. He was driving far too fast, too. More anger. If Sherlock could only get a chance to explain… He could talk with Mrs. Hudson, maybe, or Greg Lestrade, or Molly, since she hadn't yet let his secret slip, since John had been surprised to see him alive in the graveyard. One of them would be able to tell him what he owed John, because he couldn't think of a thing. He'd already apologized, after all. He couldn't do so again. They'd both know it was overkill.

Sherlock strode southwest down Aldersbrook Road, keeping to one side of the pavement, his coat brushing against the brick wall. There was a bus stop a short distance away, but he didn't want to go back quite yet. He wouldn't find the clarity he needed from New Scotland Yard, St. Bart's, or Baker Street. He needed to do something first, something that would bring capability if not clarity.

One of his homeless network who hung around East Ham Station had given him the tip and so, in short order, Sherlock found himself lurking in a back alley in Canning Town, feeling distinctly criminal and out of his element as he gazed at the docks that lay beyond a metal chainlink fence. He had only taken a chance like this a few times before. Mycroft had usually been good enough to look the other way while he procured his supply through somewhere safer. Now, though, Mycroft would be be angry with him for disappearing, and so Sherlock couldn't rely on higher-class suppliers.

Would Mycroft even be looking for him, though? His brother had said he was on his own. John had told him just about the same thing. So he would have to make his own decisions, like any other adult. 'Getting high' was no doubt a poor decision, but he would just have this one slip-up, and then things would fall into place.

The side door to the garden apartment creaked open. He tried to smile at the anonymous, bulky figure that blocked most of the light coming from the room, but couldn't quite manage it. Drug dealers were good judges of character too, and even if the man facing him wouldn't notice the scar on his wrist from when he'd fallen off a bicycle at seven, or judge his height and weight at a glance, no doubt the stranger would know in an instant that he didn't belong here and only knew halfway what he was doing.

"Paul told me about you."

Was that the name of the teenager in the hipster cap and black-rimmed glasses who had knocked on the door minutes ago, telling him to wait back at the mouth of the alley? There had been a quick conversation, and then the anonymous homeless boy had disappeared. Sherlock thought back. The kid had worn a backpack, cheaply embroidered with his initials. P.T.S. So the first name started with a P: Paul was a sensible name, then, more so than Percy or Pierre. It worked. He nodded.

The bulky man's jaw thrust out. "Says you want three lines."

This isn't going to end well. He ignored the pang of conscience, and nodded. "All right. I should mention that I haven't ever – "

"Shut up. Come in."

Descending the steps, Sherlock had to kick aside a beer can rather than crush it underfoot, and held his breath as he entered the apartment. Flickering lights, a TV with horse races in the corner, and a stove with a cast-iron pan, bubbling with sodium bicarbonate, water, and cocaine. He squinted in the low light. Cardboard boxes full of detritus, a beer can tower in one corner. No musical instruments. No books. Not even a single magazine on horse racing. Pathetic.

Sherlock was clearly out of his depth here, and he knew it. He had only the twenty-pound note which Paul had given him at the Tube station, after Sherlock had promised to give him a fifty in exchange. He exhaled, hesitant to move past the threshold of the apartment. There was cocaine right there, gleaming and white, not yet cooked into the candle-waxy substance of crack. But he let the other man do the talking. He didn't want to antagonize the dealer on his own territory.

"How much you got?" Money, obviously. Even John could have figured that out.

Sherlock spoke as quickly and confidently as he could. "What's your price?"

"I'll cut you a deal. Ten for three."

It wasn't much of a deal, but he was still sold. He studied the man before him. Large, yes, but it wasn't all fat. Scarred knuckles – a fighter of some sort, though it was likely in the past. A boxer? No doubt retired, judging from the faded state of those scars and from the large man's thinned hairline, putting him at least in his mid-thirties. He stepped forward, noticing how the other man moved back instinctively. Some degree of social grace; some hanging around people above his station. Not just a boxer, but one who had won once upon a time. Five years ago? Ten? He wished he'd had his mobile to check boxing statistics. Maybe there was another clue around here. His gaze swung towards the book-free shelves, spotting a trophy. It was too far away to read the date, but it was caked with grime and dust. It hadn't been touched for a few years.

"Was it the habit that made you give up the gloves, or giving up the gloves that made you take up the habit?" he asked.

The large man looked at him, poleaxed, drawing back a second step. "What the – How did you – "

"Magic." He put as much confidence as he could into the word, offering the ex-boxer a smile. It spoke of conspiracy and trustworthiness; it had worked before to flummox people, and it would have to work again. This time, though, the expression was for a purpose he hadn't had before: To make someone like him.

The dealer shook his head bemusedly. "Must be some kind of freak or something."

A sharp laugh issued from Sherlock before he could hold it back. "I've been called that before."

"No wonder. Don't know who you was talking to, mate." The man went back to the stove, picking up a long pin, and drawing the oil out of the pan, rolling it as it solidified. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief; he seemed to have smoothed the waters a little.

Why couldn't he do that just as easily with John? John was bright enough, but closer in intellect to the dealer than he was to Sherlock himself. So there had to be some easy way to appease him with a trick, to avoid those frustrating conversations about emotions and friendship that made so little sense to talk about. He was John's friend – or had been, according to John's words. There should have been no need to hammer out every little detail. John should have trusted him. Why hadn't he? What had Sherlock done wrong? How had he miscalculated? He couldn't have told John the plan. He could have relied on John to follow through, but there would have been too many questions, too much doubt – and now John distrusted him anyway. So there were few options open now – besides this.

And then, just as soon as he'd buried himself in his thoughts, it was over. A small bag with powder was thrust towards him. He gave the twenty, and got back a ten, though it wasn't legitimate. He could feel the surface of the paper between his fingers. Counterfeit. But he didn't want to mention it. This didn't seem the time or the place. Besides, he had cocaine. But he'd have to find somewhere better to take it than with the boxer. The man could be trusted to an extent, as he'd come to the habit out of necessity and not criminal desires, but at the same time, Sherlock couldn't be sure of the substance, and he wanted to be somewhere safe when he indulged himself.

"You should go back to boxing," he added over his shoulder as he drew near the trophy sitting on the shelf, glancing at its legend. "That match in '06. Knockout in four, if I'm not mistaken." He had to be right. He could make out the smallest leftward bit of a four beneath the grime, too straight to be an eight or a three, and too acute to be a five. "You were good."

Some part of him hoped that even this fellow was staring after him in awe. He deserved a little good press following him back to Westminster. He hadn't even gotten a mausoleum, after all.

The low-slung Victorian station was sure to have surveillance cameras throughout it; Sherlock made no effort to enter the Underground. Instead, he walked past the station, keeping an eye out. More shops on the high street. No prospects there. He held his breath and shrank into his coat as a video surveillance vehicle from the police drove by, studiously ignoring the yellow checker-boarded car as it passed him. Nowhere good to hide.

An idea. He flung out a hand at the passing black cab; it screeched to a halt beside him, and he swung inside its confines, inspecting the driver carefully. Young, overweight, and female. Owned a ferret. Didn't like to do the ironing. A tattoo on the nape of her neck – something with a swirling design. Also, the driver was nobody he knew. Good. "Westminster," he directed.

The car pulled off the side of the street, merging into traffic. The woman looked over her shoulder. "Long way away. You sure you don't want the Tube?"

"Positive," he replied. He'd give the woman the ten at the end of the ride and hope that she didn't make a fuss over how little she was being paid. He'd figure that out when he got there. Mrs. Hudson was sure to have money, or he could always promise to pay Mr. Chatterjee back, so long as Speedy's was still open.

For now, though, he had a singular purpose. He rolled up the ten-pound note carefully in his fingers to form a tube, snatching the woman's badge from the back of her seat before him. It wasn't much of a hard surface, but it would have to do. Pouring a rough third of the cocaine onto the laminated surface, he pushed it into a ragged line with his fingertip. Not neat enough. Why was he concerned with neatness? He never had been about normal things – but this – this was different.

"Where do you want to go in Westminster?"

It was so close. But now this woman was asking questions. He glanced up for the briefest second, and spoke as quickly as he could to forestall any semblance of conversation. "Regent's Park. Baker and Melcombe."

Then, before she could speak again, he inhaled into the straw, feeling the twitchy irritant of powder flying into his nose. He leaned back against the back seat, letting the bill drop carelessly to the floor, pocketing the plastic bag with its remnants, and waited for the half-life to pass.

It took at least fifteen minutes to get high. They were somewhere around Aldgate by then, at least. Maybe even Liverpool Street. But, at that point, wherever in London it actually was, the outside world shrank away, cab and driver and the city surroundings melting around him into a whirl of unnecessary distractions.

Confidence. There. That was what he wanted. It hovered in the air, tangible and crystalline. The car was still moving; he could feel it thrum beneath him. Were they on the road, though? He couldn't be sure. He didn't want to ask. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was knowing what to do, and it was right there; it was so easy; he only had to grab it. He lurched forward, grasping, dimly aware of a muttered complaint from his hired driver. But the car kept moving. They were all right. Of course they were all right. They couldn't possibly go wrong now. He'd get back to Baker Street, and he'd know exactly what to say; he'd know exactly what to do.

I'm sorry, John; I should have trusted you; I didn't think you'd understand. That was my mistake. It wasn't yours. I put you into a position I wouldn't have liked to be in, and, for that, I'm sorry. I don't know how to repay you for it, but whatever you feel I should do, tell me, and I'll do it, because I want to regain your trust, more than anything in the world. Please. I betrayed your trust, and I won't ever –

"Jesus! Stop babbling!"

Had he said that aloud? He didn't care. He thunked the passenger seat next to the driver. How dare she yell at him? Did she know who he was? He was important. She didn't matter. "You," he got out, knowing the words he wanted to say but not finding them, "You – shut it."

Close enough. Sherlock glanced at himself in the front mirror, caught a glimpse of himself with a little ring of powder under one nostril, wiped at it, met the driver's eyes in the mirror. Her eyes widened; she shook her head. He laughed at her shock, a sharply barked noise that caused her to swerve a bit. It was all right, though. They couldn't possibly be hit.

"You just took something!" Accusation. Astonishment. What an idiot.

"Perceptive! Would you like some?"

"You're high; I can't – you can't – "

Whatever she couldn't do didn't matter. He could do anything. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he suddenly, for the first time in a long time, felt like he had something to uphold. He'd missed that feeling. He'd missed knowing for sure that he was capable, beneath all the bluster. He'd have to do this again. Soon. Maybe again tonight, after the first high wore off in an hour or three.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Something. Time folded in on itself, stretched, divided, multiplied, like some sort of cellular experiment through a microscope. Was that Charterhouse Square off to his side?

They were pulling up. It wasn't Baker Street. They hadn't gone nearly far enough west. He looked outside and laughed. From October 1914 until the 31st January 1918, 5,406 soldiers were passed through the wards. He knew the inscription. He knew where they were, even if everything was blurry and fuzzy and slightly unreal.

"I don't need this. We don't need to be here."

The taxi stalled, idling, waiting for him to get out. The woman was unresponsive. He scowled. She remained impassive.

Fine. If she was going to be that way, Sherlock would react in kind. It was just like dealing with Mycroft, really. He was used to it. "You're not getting ten quid – and you're not sharing a line. So there." Only then did he realize he'd dropped the bill. He couldn't see where it had landed, though.

Maybe she told him to get out. He couldn't be sure. But, feeling like Spring-Heeled Jack as he bounded from the cab, he just about sprinted towards the Baroque detailing and the statue of a monarch. Which one? It didn't matter. He could recognize it when he was clearer, but for now, it didn't matter, just like the taxi driver. He was dimly aware of the taxi speeding off, but he didn't care one bit. It was worth losing the ten quid.

If he had died here once at St. Bart's, he could be reborn as well. He could start again. Everything would restart. He felt himself propelling forward, leaning in towards the door, opening it bodily. Someone was talking loudly to him, but the sound was fuzzy, as if it was amplified through a bad sound system.

" – you taken?"

Sherlock could figure the rest of that out. He raised the plastic bag with cocaine to display it to the man in the funny bottle-green shirt. "Only one. I'm... I'm fine." He was fantastic. But he couldn't share that with the man. Besides, someone was calling his name. He knew that voice. He couldn't place it. It didn't matter, either – and then, suddenly, it did. He laughed aloud, feeling his voice echo in the spaciousness of the great hall, surrounded by donation plaques, even as the orderly's hand closed on his arm.

The figure who approached him couldn't shake him out of the numb euphoria he was in. Nothing would. But he could at least thank her. "Molly. Brilliant to see you. I'm doing wonderful! How are you?" He tried his best to pull himself together, drawing himself upright and taking a deep breath. His heart thudded in his chest, but it wasn't her; it was the cocaine.

Why couldn't she respond to him – or why wouldn't she? And why did she look so upset with him? He hadn't done anything wrong. He couldn't possibly have, not now, and not for the next few hours. She didn't speak to him, though. She spoke to the orderly, something more confident than she'd ever said to him.

Business mode, then, even if he couldn't speak as slowly as he would have liked. "Where's John? Why isn't he here to see me? Why aren't you glad to see me? You didn't tell him; I know; thank you. I know it was hard, I-I-I know you had to... to press your luck to help me; I'll pay you back, Molly. I promise. Find John. Let me see him. Now."

His order would be obeyed. It would have to be. Right now, everyone would have to listen to him. All the same, though, he forced a quick grin onto his face. She'd found that charming before. Disappointingly, this time, Molly Hooper did not smile back.