Chapter 4
Mycroft reminded him not to get too close to the water's edge as he bounced happily along the creek. He was returned to a time before he felt like he was crawling out of his skin. A time before he longed to calm the storm that raged in his head. A time before his parents had given up on him. He was a pirate again. Mycroft was by his side as they played along the creek that ran through the property of the country estate he had grown up in. Wooden sword in hand, he dashed along the creek's edge, his wellies splashing happily along the rocky shore as he took off on his adventure. Redbeard barked merrily along behind him.
It was late Autumn in the country. The grass had turned brown with the season, and what few leaves that were left on the trees shone with bright golden colors. The creek where he played pirates with Redbeard was full and made calming noises as the water rushed over various rocks that tried to stand in its way. Sherlock was happy.
"Careful, Sherlock," Mycroft's worried voice yelled from behind him. Mycroft was always the worrier.
Sherlock turned to show him he was okay, that Mycroft needed to stop worrying and start playing. However, a slight miscalculation in his turn, and he slipped on a wet stone that had been smoothed over time by the rapid waters of the creek. Without anything to grab onto to stop his descent, he crashed into the frigid waters of the creek.
"Sherlock!" came Mycroft's panicked scream from somewhere behind him.
Sherlock attempted to struggle and swim towards the shore, but it was useless trying to swim against the current. He was too small, and the creek was too powerful. It was tempting just to give in and let the waters take him to parts unknown. He watched as his pirate hat floated off, getting hung up in some overgrown brush. Sherlock watched as the hat grew smaller as he was carried away from it. The only thought running through his head was concern that he would not be allowed to be a pirate any longer.
The clattering of dishes coming from somewhere nearby cut through his dreams loudly. Sherlock squinted his eyes open with a cringe and was momentarily disoriented until he remembered that he had found Sergeant Lestrade and had been brought back with him. He was surprised to find himself in Lestrade's flat and not dumped in a cell at the Yard. He supposed that he should be thankful for that as he stroked the comfortable blanket that had been tucked around him.
"He wakes," Lestrade's voice came from the kitchen. The other man walked into the sitting room, drying his hands with a towel. The Sergeant looked over him curiously, as if looking for some kind of answer hidden under the blankets along with Sherlock. "How about some tea and toast?" he suggested, tossing the small kitchen towel over his shoulder. "Think you can keep that down?"
Sherlock nodded in agreement and immediately regretted it. His brain felt as if it had been turned into various metal pieces, each one scraping against his skull rather loudly. Once the scraping in his head stopped, he was able to pull himself into an upright position slowly. He slammed his eyes closed once he made it to his destination, mentally willing his stomach to stop churning. The only thing saving him from puking was the fact that his stomach was completely empty. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink since his dinner with Lestrade… Yesterday? Two days ago? Sherlock honestly wasn't sure how long it had been, or even what day it was.
After his stomach finally decided to calm down, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes to take in the flat around him. The wall to his right had a large window with sliding glass doors that led to the balcony outside. Sheer, dark blue curtains had been drawn to help diffuse some of the sunlight filtered through the windows. The darkened room allowed his eyes to adjust, letting him glance curiously around the flat. It was small but not overly cluttered. The couch was dark midnight blue. Sherlock ran his hands over the material of the cushions and sighed contentedly; it was so soft. The rest of the living area was stylishly decorated—obviously, her taste and not Lestrade's. However, a couple of shelves on the bookshelf to his left were adorned with a football, college diploma, and a couple of awards from the Yard that belonged to Lestrade. A square kitchen with a proper table and chairs set up was to his left, flowing into the living area. Directly in front of him were the only bedroom and bathroom of the flat. Both doors were open, showing that they continued with the rest of the flat's dark blue and gray decor.
Lestrade came back in front of him with a teacup and placed it on the coffee table, followed by a plate with two pieces of lightly buttered toast.
"If you can keep that down, we'll see about something a little more substantial for lunch later," he offered before moving back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to himself once more.
Sherlock frowned at the offerings in front of him. Why was this man helping him? More troubling was how guilty he felt. He had not anticipated that emotion. The last time he remembered feeling any remorse for his drug use was when Mycroft had walked in on him, needle still in his arm. He had felt a little guilty then. Then that guilt turned to anger when Sherlock remembered how Mycroft had abandoned him with their terrible parents without so much as a look back.
Sherlock took a cautious sip of tea, waiting until his stomach gave the go-ahead before consuming any more. Why him? Of all the downtrodden, drug-addled youth that was hiding in the cracks and crevices of London. Why him? Some other part of him that he thought was long gone and buried was glad for the attention. No one had been there to let Sherlock know of his brilliance. He was the idiot of the family in the eyes of his parents. A shadow that merely tainted Mycroft's genius. Known as the freak at his previous schools. Even the tutor his parents had gotten for him was troubled by Sherlock's ability to see through him. But Lestrade... Lestrade accepted Sherlock's brilliance, commended him on it even. Lestrade wasn't afraid. And that in itself was enough to confuse Sherlock. He continued to ponder this as he tried to eat the toast that Lestrade gave him in small bites with small sips of tea in between. He made it through the first piece of toast before his stomach thought he should call it quits.
He turned his attention to the police Sergeant in question, hoping that he would see something he had previously missed. Something glaring that he had missed in his drug stupor would point to something going against the man. When nothing immediately jumped out at him, he nestled himself back into the cocoon of blankets on the couch. Lestrade had placed himself at the kitchen table and was occupied with several stacks of papers around him. The combination of the quiet apartment with the softness of the blanket and the couch lulled him back to sleep.
The waters became increasingly more choppy the further down they carried him. However, it was the cold that was the most striking for Sherlock. The cold seeped down to his bones. It was the kind of cold that made it difficult to do even the most basic things, such as feeling your fingers and toes or breathing. Perhaps those functions weren't as boring as Sherlock initially thought.
A particular rough spot caused the creek to draw Sherlock under for the briefest moment. He was able to get back to the surface this time, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his head above water. It was becoming apparent that he stood no chance against the waters that had not a care for Sherlock. The creek raged and spun him in various directions, making it difficult for Sherlock to keep his bearings.
A large boulder made its presence known when he was knocked into it. Sherlock scrappily held on for dear life. His small, frozen fingers created difficulties for Sherlock to hang on.
"Help!" his small voice yelled into the vacant countryside. He coughed up a sizable amount of water.
"Oh, Sherlock."
Mummy and father had appeared on the edge of the creek, surrounded by naked brown trees that had lost all of their leaves to the season. Now, those leaves created a soft carpeting for the countryside. Sherlock thought it odd that his parents were dressed nicely, wearing bright red clothes that were a stark contrast to the scene. They were even wearing heels and well-polished shoes as if the Fall terrain was nothing to them. They only stared at Sherlock with equal looks of disappointment on their faces.
"Help me! Please!" he begged his parents. He would have reached out for their hand, but he was too nervous about letting go of his only haven.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, you did this to yourself," his mother replied. Short, succinct, no emotion to be had behind her words.
Sherlock cried, not only because he had lost his grip on the boulder, but because his parents' lack of care for his well being shook him to his core. He was only slightly relieved when he was swept out once more by the creek, only because the water around him hid the warm tears that streaked his reddened cheeks.
Massive tremors racked his body. This was the worst part of withdrawals. This was when he would go crawling back to the warehouse. To Volkov.
"Shhh, shhh. It's alright."
Sherlock, once more, had to reorient himself. The softness of the couch, the warmth of the blanket. Lestrade's flat. He was safe. He wasn't in some alley or drug house that he stumbled upon. He was safe.
"I've got ya. I've got ya," Lestrade whispered to him like some sort of mantra.
At some point, Lestrade had apparently moved from the kitchen table to join him on the couch. He had gathered Sherlock up as close to him as possible, allowing Sherlock and his pillow to rest in his lap. Lestrade was running his fingers through Sherlock's hair and rubbing his shoulder with the other. It was soothing.
Sherlock grabbed onto the comforts offered by the man like a moth drawn to the flame. He buried his face into his stomach. Lestrade seemed to understand and held him tightly. The Sergeant's calloused fingers continued to run gentle circle patterns in his hair. Sherlock could feel the tremors begin to intensify again, but the man only strengthened his hold. It was nice. Comforting. It made him wonder if this was what it was like to have a parent take care of you when one was ill.
"You're going to get through this, Sherlock. I've gotcha," Lestrade told him.
And Sherlock believed him.
The water had become too turbulent. Sherlock had become too cold. It had all grown too much. It was time to give up. He allowed the water to crush him into various outcroppings of rocks. He let the current drag him under, only to return him to the surface again as if it was mocking his life. He could see the turbulent fork ahead where the creek fed into a much larger river. That is where the white rapids could be seen pounding against other rocks in a fight to make it to the river. The water dragged him below again. This is where the pirate's story ended.
Something grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, freeing him from the creek's hold. He gasped for air when his head broke the surface, his chest feeling very much like icy daggers were trying to prevent him from getting the air that he needed.
Strong, tanned arms drug him to the safety of the shore. Sherlock could feel the dry foliage beneath his fingers as he reacquainted himself with the land.
"It's okay, Kid. I've got you. You're going to be okay," the stranger told him as he administered firm pats to his back to help get the water out of his lungs.
Sherlock turned to stare at his savior in awe. The man reached back into the creek, pulling out Sherlock's pirate hat that must have gotten loose from the brush and was swept along behind Sherlock.
"I believe this belongs to you," the man offered him the soggy, black pirate hat with white stitching.
Both were wet, cold, and bruised, but both would live to be pirates again.
Sherlock jolted awake. In combination with the withdrawals, the realistic dream made Sherlock have to convince himself that his lungs weren't full of water. This time when he woke, the flat was cast into darkness. The tremors that had previously wreaked havoc on his body seemed to have stopped for now. Soft snores came from above him, and he realized that he was using Lestrade's lap like a pillow, and the man had fallen asleep with a protective arm draped over his shoulder.
Someone seemed to want to care for him? That genuinely cared? It seemed too far-fetched to believe.
He tried to reposition himself, taking care not to disturb his caretaker. Still, the arm around his shoulders tightened protectively, and the sleepy snoring of Lestrade immediately stopped at the slight movement.
"Sherlock? You okay?" Lestrade asked him groggily, rubbing at his eyes.
"Yes," Sherlock replied. He cringed at the sound of his ravaged voice. He moved to sit up to allow Lestrade to get up from his position. The older man stiffly rose and stretched his back and neck.
Sherlock left the comforting bubble of the couch to use the bathroom. He stared at his reflection as he washed his hands in the sink. He almost didn't recognize himself. His skin was translucent and tight against the bone structure of his face. His eyes were bloodshot, hollowing looking orbs with large black smudges underneath them. His hair was a tangled mess that resembled something closer to a rat's nest than hair. What had he done to himself? He abruptly shut off the sink when he noticed that tears began to gather in his eyes.
The sound of the rushing waters of the creek began to fill his mind, and he felt himself drowning all over again.
He gripped the edges of the sink like a lifeline. He needed to stop this. It all just needed to stop.
"Sherlock? You okay in there?" Lestrade asked him from the living room. His voice marginally became louder as he got closer to the bathroom.
The creek began to overtake him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor.
Lestrade was there in an instant, pulling him up above the water again.
The tears came freely now.
"Help me," he cried into the Sergeant's shoulder while grasping tightly to his shirt.
"It's okay, Kid. I've got you. You're going to be okay."
