Chapter 28
The drug had been pumping through his veins for about half an hour now and was beginning to loose its effect, Sherlock craved its intoxicating power once more as he scanned his surroundings looking for more of his sweet of choice. The dealer from earlier looked to have departed and all that surrounded him were young Americans sprawled across dirty mattresses. A maze of junkies littering his pathway to the exit. Sherlock trod carefully between the unconscious people as he made his way towards the stairs. Suddenly he stopped. It was if his mind had kicked into gear again and he remembered his reasonings for gaining access to this building and why he had even come to America in the first place. Turning on his heel, he tiptoed across more teens to the corridor he had spotted earlier, pushing himself up against the wall he listened intently for any sound of movement from the rooms departing from the long corridor. Nothing. He stepped into the hallway ensuring that he stepped carefully as he did so. He had no desire to disturb anyone with a careless creaking floorboard. Reaching the first door in the corridor, he pushed down on the handle and peered inside the dark room. A bed sat central with a boarded up window directly opposite the door. To the right was a cracked mirror above a empty desk. The room looked unused for months and Sherlock quickly discounted it for any useful data collection purposes.
Walking further down the corridor he tried two more rooms with similar success. He was starting to loose faith in his intuition and was reluctant to keep trying the rooms in case he found nothing and had to accept the trail had gone cold. However, upon pushing the handle of the fourth door he smiled. The door slid open easier than the others he had attempted, a clear sign that it was opened regularly as the wood had been worn from interaction with the frame. Although the room was also dark it had a small lamp glowing on a desk to the left of the door. Sherlock slid himself inside the room and closed the door softly behind him. The desk also appeared to house a laptop and a small pull out drawer. Curiosity biting at him, Sherlock pulled on the cold metal handle of the drawer to reveal a weighty handgun laying inside. Picking it up, he held it playfully in his hands, smiling, enjoying the sensation of holding something so deadly in his palm. The power to decide on life and death between his fingertips. A noise sounded outside the door bringing him out of his trance. Footsteps. Dropping the gun back in the drawer he slid it shut and span looking for the quickest way out. There was a small gap at the bottom of the boarded up window that he could attempt to slide through onto the metal fire escape outside. Bounding quickly across the room he crouched and crawled through the gap head first through the thin opening. Sherlock was lucky he had always been skinny. If he was any normal weight there was no way he would have made it through. He heard the door open just as his foot followed his body out the gap. Squatting on the cold metal balcony he listened intently for any sounds. A gruff American voice shouted from inside the room as a drawer slammed shut.
"Do you realise what you've done? You could have fucked up this entire operation you mindless half wit" the gruff voice said with venom.
Peering through the gap in the boards Sherlock saw a tall greying man. He was built like a rugby player with a twist of southern American genes giving him slightly olive coloured skin. His hand was grasped firmly around the handgun that Sherlock had held not moments before. There was no tremor in his hands as he steadily cocked the gun raising it to the short man opposite. The shorter man was younger and his face was pale from fear. Looking more closely, Sherlock could see his palms were bleeding slightly from the force he was balling his fists digging his nails into the soft skin.
"I'm sorry…" the man whimpered. He sounded pathetic in comparison to the gun holding madman. The gun rose in the larger mans hands, raising it to the other mans head and pressing the cold metal against his temple. Sherlock's heart was in his throat as he watched the ordeal play before his eyes. It was if the moment lasted forever before the trigger was pulled. Click. The smaller man whimpered and fell to his knees as the empty gun was brought away from his head.
"Get out of my sight" he was told. He didn't need telling twice as he scuttled away out the door. As the man hurried away, the gruff man took a seat on the leather chair occupying the dark corner of the room.
"Mr Hudson?" A young woman was peering around the door. She had long blonde hair and her New York Manhattan accent put forward a sense of stupidity to her. "They're waiting for you downstairs."
The man sighed, rose to his feet and followed the young blonde out the room putting his arm around her shoulders as he shut the door behind him.
It appeared Sherlock had a face to a name now, his prey had been identified.
In all the excitement Sherlock had almost completely forgotten about his cravings but now the light was beginning to fade and he was starting to make his way back to the motel his mind was preoccupied with the thoughts of cocaine. He shook his head. He could not succumb. He had to focus, keep his mind clear and his head straight. Stopping off at a convenience store he purchased a packet of cigarettes which he chained smoked all the way back to his home from home. He was well aware it would not be strong enough but it was enough to last him a short while.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if a cold breeze had just caught him, but on this warm evening it was not so. He had the sense that he was being watched, that someone was following him. It was well known that withdrawal can bring on symptoms of paranoia, but this was different. He bent down to tie his laces on his shoe and out the corner of his eye he spotted him. 30 year old male. Single. No children. Unattached. Military background. He had stopped to look in a shop window however his reflection showed his eyes pointing in the direction of Sherlock. He stood up poignantly and carried on walking. There was no point hiding as Mycroft would have tracked him down eventually and it was easier to get it over with which, by looking at the door of the motel room once again, he realised would be sooner than later. Grasping the handle he took a deep breath and preparing for the onslaught to follow he shoved the door open.
"Hello Mycroft. I'm home." he called out into the shallow room. Mycroft stepped into the light, tiredness and stress were etched into the deep circles surrounding his eyes whilst fury was contained in the creased brow.
"Once again Sherlock I find myself asking what the hell you are playing at?!" Mycroft said through gritted teeth. All memory of deciding not to get involved being completely forgotten.
"I'm more interested Mycroft in what you are doing here." Sherlock said trying to convey as little emotion as possible as he knew it would annoy his brother the most by showing how little he cared about how much trouble he had caused once again.
"I'm here to look after my pain of a younger brother of course, and I want you to explain what the hell this is all about" Mycroft questioned pointing to the madman scrawls around the room.
"What's it to do with you? Sticking your nose in as per usual! You can't allow me to involve myself in anything and refuse to let me grow up! Just let me do this on my own." Sherlock replied in frustration glaring at his older brother. Mycroft looked back with the same frustration his younger brother showed before moving forward to begin pulling the paper from the wall.
"No don't!" Sherlock started reaching a shaking hand out in front of him. His eyes wide with fear. Mycroft looked at Sherlock and the trembling hand in front of him. Registering the distress of his younger brother he stopped and stepped away from the wall.
"It's okay Sherlock, I'll leave it alone." Mycroft said calmly.
"It's really important that I do this Mycroft." He said quietly. "There's something here I need to do then I'm going back home, I swear."
"At least come back to the hotel with me now though rather than staying in this hovel." Mycroft said looking in disgust round the small room. He had lost his temper with Sherlock and he felt annoyed at himself.
"No I can't it'll blow my cover. I have to stay here."
Mycroft hesitated. He was incredibly reluctant to leave him here especially since his brother had so obviously relapsed once again. Perhaps that's all this was? A crazy flight after a mad binge? Perhaps if he left him here for the night and returned in the morning the nightmare would be over?
"Okay you can stay here, you just have to promise me you won't leave this room? I'll have people posted outside to make sure of it and then I'll be back in the morning to help you with your….dilemma." Mycroft was cautious to believe Sherlock's crazy schemes that he had read on the plans on the wall. However in order to get his brother on side, appeasing to his current delusional state seemed the most effective.
"Okay fine." Sherlock didn't care now what was going on as he needed to sleep as soon as possible to wear off the crash. Nodding, Mycroft picked up his coat from the back of the hard back wooden chair next to him and swept from the room with one last look at Sherlock before leaving.
Sherlock woke again about five hours later in a cold sweat, his heart thudding in his chest and his hands shaking. Sitting up he reached for the thin duvet and wrapped himself tight. His breathing was heavy as he wiped the sweat from his head. God this was horrid. The mirror on the wall opposite reflected a horrible sight of his pale grey face and sweaty curls clinging to his forehead. Sherlock clung to the blanket for about twenty minutes before making a decision. Dropping the blanket on his way to the bathroom he examined the catch on the window. It was weak and could easily be broken with little force. He pushed his elbow into the surrounding plastic which gave way easily enough for it to swing open. Sherlock heaved himself onto the sink in front which creaked slightly from its poor quality build and wriggled himself through the small gap into the outside world. Keeping his eyes alert he headed down into the questionable part of town that he had been in earlier that day. The streets were dark and eerie and every corner possessed the fear of a hidden dark surprise.
"I know why you're here. He sent you to follow me." Sherlock said suddenly into the darkness. The footsteps behind him halted. The younger Holmes stopped also and slowly started to turn, but before he could fully see his follower he felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. He fell to the ground and everything went black.
Hope you enjoy!
Much more to come soon!
