Chapter 2

This was ridiculous, Sherlock thought, throwing a glare at the park bench where his backpack was resting. There were several things that he had needed to get done today, and he let them all fall to the side. He was low on cash and food for himself, and he still hadn't figured out where he would sleep tonight. These were things that could no longer be put off. Yet, what did he do? He stayed on the damn park bench like he had been told by the police Sergeant all day. Sherlock's glare darkened at the mental picture of himself that had formed in his mind. It was as if he were some type of desperate, pining child. It was ridiculous. Pathetic even.

He had paced the small area in front of the bench that had become his bench for the entire day. From sun up to sun down, he stayed, watching the progression of the crime scene throughout the day until the park had opened back up. He had watched as the police Sergeant had gone back down to the other investigative team members. The other man had even looked back to give him a friendly wave before leaving. Shortly after Sergeant Lestrade had left, the morgue had collected the deceased man's body, followed by the tape sectioning off the crime scene being taken down, opening the park back up. By the time the five o'clock hour hit and people were getting off of their boring jobs, the park was full of people out enjoying the weather with no idea of the crime that had happened.

So there he waited. All. Day.

Sherlock frowned at his watch. It was already half-past seven and there had been no sign of the Sergeant he had met earlier, Lestrade. Why would he have kept his word and come back anyway? Especially for Sherlock, some random teenager, no less. If the other man had even an ounce of detective skills, he more than likely had already discovered the murderer by now and Sherlock would just be another forgotten witness.

He stopped worrying. He didn't have any more time to waste on the early-graying policeman. Grabbing his backpack, he rooted through the bag until he found the worn copy of Anna Karenina in the original Russian translation. The inside of the classic Russian novel had been carved out and used to hide cash and other illicit substances. Sherlock counted the money currently tucked away in the book, feeling a small amount of apprehension flicker to life in the pit of his stomach. He didn't have enough to go back to Volkov, the Russian drug lord he had crossed paths with shortly after running away to London. He had come across the powerful man quite by accident. The man seemed to appreciate Sherlock's ability to see through people and had taken him in immediately. Volkov was unflinching and notorious. Sherlock's lack of progress made today would not go unnoticed by the man. He would need to make up today's work and then some to avoid any type of punishment.

A voice from a distance startled him, "Sherlock!" He slammed the hollowed-out book closed and spun around. It was the police Sergeant from earlier. Had he come back? For Sherlock?

"Sorry, Kid," the man apologized as he grew closer. "I'm glad you stuck around, though. I'm starved," Sherlock frowned at the adult. He was glad to see Sherlock? "So, what are you in the mood for? I was thinking of fish and chips, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, returning the book to his bag as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Sergeant Lestrade had come back for him. He looked back up and stared skeptically at the adult who was waiting for him with an open, happy expression.

"Come on," the man motioned for Sherlock to follow him.

This meeting could be a mistake. It was an improbable scenario that had a few potential outcomes. He was just having a hard time visualizing any of those being outcomes in his favor. Still, Sherlock wanted, no, needed to know he was right. Which he was. The deceased man's infidelity could be read in his hands and the lovers he'd chosen by his hair. How no one else had been able to see that was beyond him. He supposed there was only one answer, then.

The two walked in silence through the streets of London. Sherlock kept giving curious looks to the man next to him. Why had the man returned? Was it possible that he had been made as an associate of Volkov's? The man, Lestrade, couldn't be older than thirty-five with tanned skin and dark hair that had begun to salt and pepper on the sides already. He was younger, yet bordering on old for a Sergeant.

"Anyone home?" Lestrade's voice brought him back to the present. Sherlock had been too deep in his analytical thoughts of the Sergeant walking next to him that he had realized too late that he had been asked a question from the man. "I asked how long you've been out on the streets for?"

"What makes you think I live on the streets?" he replied, doing his best to feel put out by the suggestion. "Maybe I'm just a deviant that prowls the streets looking for my next victim," Sherlock let just a touch of sarcasm drip from his voice.

The Sergeant shot him a smile, "Oh, I do not doubt that you're a deviant."

They came to a stop with Sherlock having difficulty coming up with the appropriate response. He had not been exposed to such camaraderie from other adults in the past. Before he had a chance to respond, though, the smell of grease and chips hit his nostrils, causing his stomach to let out an uncontrollable growl.

Lestrade let out a chuckle, "Come on, Kid. Let's get some food in you, shall we?" he instructed with a clap to the shoulder that directed Sherlock into the small cafe they had stumbled upon.

After Lestrade had ordered them each a fresh basket of fish and chips with a couple of water glasses, they picked a table towards the restaurant's front picture window.

Sherlock picked at his fries, giving the Sergeant curious looks as he waited to see how the evening would play out.

"So," Lestrade started, drumming his fingers on the table. Sherlock prepared himself for whatever was about to come out of the Sergeant's mouth. "I guess you want to know how your case turned out?"

Sherlock felt his eyelids blink rapidly as he processed what he was hearing.

"My- my case?" he stuttered.

"Yeah," Lestrade smiled at him, and the man's friendliness threw Sherlock. "If it hadn't been for your insights, it would have taken us days, maybe even weeks, to find the link," he finished, smiling wider. Typically, Sherlock would have found the man's attempts at being charming highly obnoxious. Still, when the Sergeant plunged excitedly into the story of how he had caught the murderer, Sherlock found it difficult to keep from smiling.

Apparently, the deceased hid everything well. The wife had been clueless about the string of secret lovers he had during their time together. She had been mortified when Lestrade had even mentioned it. His surprising thoughts on the victim's extramarital affairs also earned him questioning by his DI. Eventually, Lestrade had been able to get to the truth and had gotten caught up at the station explaining his uncanny 'guess' to the DI and her supervisor, causing him to be late.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the end of the Sergeant's story, "The signs were all there. All you had to do was observe the body, and they would have been evident," he finished with an air of superiority about him.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, and in the moment of silence, Sherlock became concerned he had stepped out of turn.

"You're a bit of an arse," Lestrade told him, giving him a playful wink. Sherlock smirked and played with his food a bit. Looking back on dinner options, a greasy basket of fish and chips was probably not the wisest decision, seeing as how his meals were not what one would consider frequent. Besides, his transport had adapted to going without by now. Still, the dinner before him was too nice to turn down.

"So," Lestrade tried to pick the conversation back up when it was evident that Sherlock wouldn't volunteer anything on his own. "What's your story, Kid?" he finally asked, taking a few bites of the chips off of his own plate.

Sherlock tensed at the question. "There's no story," he replied, continuing to pick at his fries to avoid giving away too much information.

The older man seemed to accept that answer for the time being. Lestrade still seemed to be trying to figure out the best way to get the most information out of Sherlock. Sherlock decided to try and just keep his head down. Eventually, this would be over, and the two of them would just go back to their separate worlds where eventually Sherlock would be forgotten.

"Okay," Lestrade tried again, wiping his face with a napkin before crossing his arms on the table to zero his gaze in on Sherlock. "Put your big brain to work on me then."

Sherlock tried not to choke on the food he had been in the process of eating. "Excuse me?" he asked with the raise of a single eyebrow.

"Come on, prove to me that was all you with the victim earlier," Lestrade challenged, pointing his finger in Sherlock's direction.

"You still don't believe me?" Sherlock couldn't decide if he should be offended or not. He had just given the answers to his most recent case on a silver platter, and Lestrade still was doubting his intelligence.

Lestrade gave him a small shrug, keeping his eyes focused on Sherlock.

Sherlock narrowed his gaze, focusing on the adult sat across from him, really taking time to go over the little details he wasn't able to get during their initial meeting this morning.

"You're the oldest of three children. You grew up with both parents, but your mother left the family when you were a young teenager, possibly slightly younger, due to an affair," he started, releasing his first breath, continuing when he realized the man wasn't going to interrupt him. "You've worked hard to get where you are in the Yard, but you've had to take a step back recently, letting opportunities to take your Inspector's test pass you at several opportunities. Not because you wouldn't pass with flying colors. More likely, you are putting the test off because of your wife. A wife that you are currently in marriage counseling with due to her infidelity," he looked nervously to the older man across from him, unsure how Lestrade was going to take him throwing his failing relationship back in his face.

However, Lestrade just sat there and gaped at him, apparently unable to find the right words to put Sherlock in his place.

"You also play the guitar but haven't played in quite some time," Sherlock added on at the end, feeling uncomfortable with the awkward silence that had settled over the table.

"Blimey," Lestrade stared at him, still dumbfounded at Sherlock's deductions. "How," he tried to start again, shaking his head. "That is impressive as hell, kid!"

Sherlock beamed at the praise. It had been some time since he had heard any directed at him and it made his brain spark with the excessive serotonin levels from receiving said praise.

"As I said," Sherlock tried to hide the smile that had formed on his face, "it's all there. You just have to observe."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, "So, how do you observe that someone is in marriage counseling?"

Sherlock sighed; the answer was so obvious, "This morning when we met, you had dates and times written on the inside of your notepad that is in your breast pocket that was under the name, 'Hannah.' You continuously worry your thumb against your wedding band," he stopped to make a point at the man that was unconsciously rubbing the said ring in front of him. "You're concerned about something to do with your wife, presumably, this 'Hannah,' that you've made a point to put weekly dates on the very front of your notebook so that you don't forget them."

Lestrade stopped subconsciously rubbing his ring while his gaze dropped to the notebook resting in his breast pocket.

"Being a homicide detective, you are away from home," Sherlock picked back up again, "with unpredictable hours. It leaves plenty of time to find a mistress. However, that's not what is ingrained into what makes you, you," Sherlock paused. There was always one more deduction than anticipated. "You clearly still remember your mother's affair. You wouldn't break up a family, especially your own, like that. Therefore, your wife, Hannah, cheated on you, and you've been in marriage counseling for approximately four weeks," Sherlock finished with a small flourish as he rewarded himself with a chip.

Greg smirked and took a sip from his water glass, the expression not what Sherlock had been expecting.

"You're too smart for this, Sherlock," the Sergeant started in, causing Sherlock to stiffen. In the back of his mind, Sherlock had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Of course, Lestrade had ulterior motives on his mind regarding Sherlock's wellbeing. "Let me help you. I know some people. I can get you someplace safe tonight."

Sherlock scoffed, "What makes you think I need help?" he asked with a roll of his eyes.

"I'm serious, Sherlock," Lestrade argued, bringing his hands from his chest back to the table and staring at Sherlock intently. "I don't know what your story is," he nodded towards Sherlock, trying to relax his posture to not appear intimidating. "I can't make the grandiose observations that you can. You're not just some ordinary run of the mill homeless kid, though. Clearly, you're not scared of the cops like the rest of them are. Just look at you," Greg paused to wave his hand toward him. "You're posh. Real posh."

Sherlock let out a snarl when the Sergeant's guess hit a little too close to home.

"It's in the way you present yourself. It's ingrained into your DNA. You're no dummy. So what is it, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, narrowing his gaze, and suddenly Sherlock felt his palms go sweaty. "You didn't like that mummy and daddy had your life laid out in front of you? Decided you could get by on your own? Ended up falling in with the wrong crowd. Maybe got yourself hooked on drugs."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Sherlock bit out, the response coming out louder than Sherlock had anticipated in the quiet cafe.

"Yeah?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows in question. "Fill in the answers for me then. I don't care about your past," the Sergeant looked at him with pleading eyes. "I care about your future, Sherlock. Let me help you."

That spark of apprehension that Sherlock had felt earlier and returned with full force. What had he done to himself? Here he was, sitting, eating his fill of fish and chips with enough cash and drugs hidden in his backpack to get himself arrested for the rest of his life. To make matters worse, he was sitting across from a police officer no less. He had to get out. Now.

Acting on pure instinct, he grabbed his backpack and darted out of the door that he had conveniently sat next to.

"Shit," the muffled curse of the Sergeant could be heard as the door to the cafe slammed closed behind him.

Sherlock ran. And just when he felt that there was a safe distance between himself and the police officer, he ran harder. Sherlock picked a random alley, hopping the fence that blocked the middle of the alley, and then he continued his mad dash. His lungs were on fire and his legs ached as he kept running. Still, he didn't look back. Once he was finally several blocks away from the fish and chips cafe, he came to a stop outside of a run-down warehouse.

Quickly checking his surroundings to make sure that the eager Sergeant didn't follow him, he slipped through a break in the chain-link fence surrounding the building. The abandoned warehouse was cast in darkness, with no outside lighting currently working. One had to know exactly where the side door was at this time of night. Sherlock took a deep breath before giving three distinct knocks. He hadn't planned on coming back here tonight. He had not had a chance to sell off his entire inventory, which would not be taken lightly by the people inside.

Chains and locks could be heard clinging from the other side of the door before it cracked open ever so slightly. Sherlock could see a glimpse of a familiar scarred face before the door opened the rest of the way to reveal his least favorite grunt man. The large hulking man blocked the door and his entrance to the building while crossing his arms to look down at him as if he were a piece of gum he had stepped on.

"Let me in, Boris," Sherlock insisted, looking back carefully at the street to make sure that he was still alone.

"What'd you do, Shezza?" Boris asked, his thick Russian accent dripping with disdain. "You didn't get caught by the police, did you?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Clearly, I didn't get caught, or I wouldn't be here," he finished with an eye-roll.

Boris snatched him by the front of his shirt, bringing up to his toes, "Watch it, boy!" he snarled.

Sherlock didn't flinch and did his best to keep an even gaze directed at Boris until he was firmly placed back on the ground. He let out a small breath of relief when the man released him. Boris turned to go back inside, leaving the door open for Sherlock to follow in behind him.

"Pass it over," Boris ordered once Sherlock crossed the threshold.

Sherlock sat his backpack down on the card table that stayed in front of the side door so that the guards could sit and play cards while they waited for the street workers to return at night. He watched as Boris dug through the bag until he found the hollowed-out book that stayed inside. Sherlock took a deep breath while he prepared himself for the brute's tirade to start. He watched as the man opened the book and counted the cash and remaining vials stored there.

"You're short," he stated flatly, looking to Sherlock for answers.

"There was a murder at the park. The meet up didn't happen," Sherlock explained. "I'll make sure to get the rest of the inventory out. I've got a lead on some rich university kids. I should be able to get the rest of it cleared out by the end of the weekend."

"Your inventory is short," Boris clarified, leveling a knowing look at him.

"Consider it an advance. Please," Sherlock pulled the missing vial out of his pocket to show to the man.

Boris shook his head and scoffed at Sherlock's daring attitude, shooing him away with a growl.

"Tomorrow," the bulky man ordered, and Shezza nodded his relief and made his way to find an empty room to stay for the night and off of the Sergeant's radar. "And Shezza?" Boris stopped him before he could get far. "Try to steal the inventory again, and you'll have Volkov to deal with," he threatened.

Sherlock gave a sharp nod of agreement before leaving to find a room to hole up for the time being. The warehouse appeared relatively empty tonight. It was still early, so the other drug runners were most likely out. This made it easier to find a room for himself. It was small, probably used as a storage closet when the warehouse was functional, just big enough for himself, which was what he wanted. He closed the door behind him to indicate to other street workers that may trickle in through the night that he was not up for any company. Settling down on a beat-up mattress that was best not to put too much thought into what it was infested with, he pulled the vial out of his pocket and stared at it. He had his belt off in a short time and expertly fastened it as a tourniquet on his upper arm. He was looking forward to shutting his brain off for a few blissful hours. Before drifting off, his last thought was wondering what the Sergeant from earlier would think if he could see him now.