Author's Note:
Now that I'm back into the swing of writing again, hopefully my updates won't be so long in coming! Sorry about that! I've also gone back and added the year to the date in my media headlines in the previous chapter. Have a quick look, so you know where (when!) we are. I didn't really want to lock this story down to any particular year, but the chronology of this and upcoming chapters may be confusing if I don't stipulate the year. This story part spans just over 12 months. And 2013/2014 was when I started writing the first version, so I've left it as that.
Thank you to everyone who faved, follow'd or reviewed this final instalment. I really love reading your comments, so please keep them coming! They keep me motivated!
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Chapter 2 - Sometimes It's So Hard Not Smoking
Several months earlier
August 2013
Sherlock's nostrils twitched as he regarded the grey mottled pallor of one who could no longer return his gaze.
Morrie Simpson, aged sixteen and a half.
Entering into the ranks of the World's Only Consulting Detective's homeless network had elevated Simpson's status of purposelessness into purposefulness. At least, for a time. A lookout or a source of information for a rolled-up fiver or tenner. The scale slid to about fifty pounds for his most trusted lieutenants. Bill Wiggins and Lana (Surname-Unknown) were the current representatives.
"Yes," he said, on a heavy exhale. "Simpson. Morrie. One of my… newer… homeless… acquaintances."
"Right, then," Lestrade remarked. The Scotland Yard D.I. gave a nod to Molly, who soberly zipped up the body bag.
The drawer rolled easily into the mortuary cabinet with a finality that caused an unwelcome ripple in Sherlock's stomach. He noted this curious reaction, probing his Mind Palace for its source.
Violet. And to a lesser extent John Watson. The newly married John Watson. And Mrs Hudson and Molly, and…
They'd all taught him to care, with varying degrees of success.
He dragged a hand across his forehead, then kneaded weary fingertips into his brow. The first guest of the nicotine withdrawal party rapped on the inside of his skull, demanding early admittance. Dammit. He'd forgotten to wear the patches again.
"Is that all?" he asked, knowing full well it wasn't. The heavy droop of Lestrade's shoulders told him that.
"Yeah, well… no," the D.I. replied.
Lestrade gestured to the exit, and they both made their way towards it.
"Thanks, Moll," the D.I. said, with a glance and a grim smile directed at the pathologist, before he heaved open the mortuary door. "It's these new synthetic cannabinoids," he went on, addressing Sherlock who had followed him out into the empty corridor. "Have you heard of them?"
Sherlock's fingers itched to pull out a cigarette. A post post-mortem ritual of another era. It didn't help that Lestrade's question had brought the image of roll-ups to the forefront of his mind.
"Spice," he replied, flicking his fingers by his side instead of reaching into his jacket pocket. "Isn't that what they're collectively calling them?"
"Yeah. All packaged and labelled differently. Pott-pooree and incense most of the time. 'Not fit for human consumption'. That's what they put on the warning label. They think by—"
"Potpourri," Sherlock said, autocorrecting the detective's woeful pronunciation.
"Ugh, yeah. Essence of hippy, in any case."
"What do you want me for? These sorts of deaths amongst the homeless are hardly new."
Lestrade sucked in air through his teeth before he spoke again.
"The GMP are reporting an increase in the use of the stuff. It's attractive because it's affordable and gives a bigger high than weed, apparently. Some punters think it's actually legal. We're only just seeing it more often here. Since you've got contacts there…"
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"Contacts in the Greater Manchester Police department? No more than you."
"N-no," Lestrade replied, readjusting his stance. "In the… you know…" He took a step closer and lowered his voice. "Crime syndicates," he finished. "Let's not beat about the bush. You brought Sebastian Moran down because of inside intel. You've got informants the GMP don't have. Your people must know where this stuff is coming from."
Sherlock's stomach flipped. His head began to throb as his nicotine withdrawal caused his synapses to lazily amble from 'Manchester' to 'Organised Crime', through 'Jacob Venucci' (oh, how he'd love to go through Venucci) to the over-enthusiastic, bubbly actress who was the most recent cause of his abstinence from cigarettes.
Sherlock's eyes widened imperceptibly as a hazy thought snapped into focus.
Oh, Christ!
He hurriedly glanced at his watch, which dutifully confirmed his reason to feel anxious.
Fucking hell!
He took a step back.
"Nope. Can't help."
He dismissed Lestrade's existence with a wave of his hand, then immediately about-faced.
"Wait… Sherlock…"
"Must dash!"
"Hold on! If you've thought of…. Sherlock! You can't just go off on your own!"
Lestrade's familiar protests echoed along the corridor as Sherlock broke into a light jog. He shouldn't have been here this afternoon, of all afternoons!
His mind constantly calculated and recalculated the best possible route and mode of transport.
Out on Giltspur Street, he grabbed a cab, then dragged an anxious hand along his thigh as the seconds ticked by waiting at the traffic lights. Once they were through and made the right-hand turn, they were stopped again.
Christ! What's going on!
The traffic had come to a complete standstill only a few hundred yards into his journey.
Sherlock threw notes at the cabbie and alighted, deciding to continue on foot, at least until he cleared the blockage.
He hastened along the street, reluctant to break into a run just yet. He had to think! An alternate route?
No… no, not possible.
Why couldn't he figure this out?
He knew why. His mind was only working at half-capacity.
As he strode along, Sherlock rummaged through his pockets for a packet of cig—
No! Abstaining, remember!
You're doing really well, came John Watson's patronising voice.
Oh, shut up!
I'm so proud of you! Violet. Her hand patting his chest. A tiny peck on the corner of his lips. He'd stopped smoking for three days that time. Three whole days!
Of agony!
All right, then, he thought, scanning the road up ahead. Focus.
Ah! Another cab!
The traffic had paused momentarily, allowing Sherlock to step out onto the road. He held up a cursory hand to a blue Ford Fiesta, whose driver raised his middle finger at him. Charming! Shaking his head, Sherlock crossed to the far lane where the vacant cab sat. After pulling open the rear passenger door, he climbed in.
"Hey!"
"Thank God for you!" Sherlock said over-dramatically, flashing the cabbie one of his broad, phony smiles, before giving the man directions.
Sherlock leant back into the seat, propped his arm up on the door, and rubbed at his brow.
Three days!
So how long has it been this time?
Don't think about it.
Four… no, five! Five days!
Jesus fucking Christ, what he wouldn't do for a fag right now.
He kneaded his brow with his eyes closed, settling in for the ride. The nicotine withdrawal party was warming up. Music throbbed an incessant beat. Several guests had already spiked the punch.
The ticking of the car's indicator drew Sherlock's attention. His eyes snapped open. The cabbie was attempting to change lanes. Why? Holborn went for miles!
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.
"Detour. Up ahead. I have to turn down—"
"Oh, no. No, no, no, no."
When the cab once again came to a halt, Sherlock peeled off another note and threw it at the second cabbie. Out in the rapidly cooling summer afternoon, he scowled up and down the pavement.
Think!
And now he was jogging. What was he going to do? Find another cab! But there ahead was a sign. A beacon!
The Underground.
Chancery Lane.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his stomach dropping just a little. Could he do this?
No. No, he couldn't. Not in his current state.
No, yes, he could.
The tube? With all those… people?
Sherlock glanced at his watch. It wasn't quite five. Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad.
Yes. Do it. You have no choice.
It would shave three minutes off his travel time. Three minutes! He was saving time! He could have a quick smoke in that time. In fact…
Sherlock patted his pockets once more.
No!
Before he could hesitate again, he lunged forward and descended into the Underground.
Think, think, think!
"The Central line," he murmured to himself, scanning the signs overhead. "Change to the Bakerloo line at…" Christ, where was he? Chancery Lane! He delved into the far reaches of his Mind Palace, dismissing the notion that there would be a physical map of the London Underground in the near vicinity. He had his own stored somewhere. "Change at Oxford Circus!" he called out gleefully.
There were several tuts and tsks about him, and someone even shouldered him! Reality came back into focus. Sherlock was a rocky outcrop in a stream. The water divided and parted around him, but continued on unabated. He had to join it, or suffer the consequences when the floodgates opened.
He took a step towards the turnstiles…
Fuck!
No ticket!
But wait!
Sherlock dipped into several pockets, remembering the time he'd lifted John's Oyster card for no reason other than it seemed a good thing to have in his possession. But instead of his wallet, Sherlock pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He peered inside. Two left! The party goers in his Mind Palace cheered, holding up their glasses and toasting him. Of course he'd cleared out the pockets of his Belstaff once he decided to give up this time round, but he hadn't taken to wearing his coat these days. Too fucking hot! But this particular suit jacket…. he'd not worn it in an age.
How wonderful! he thought as he caught one of the cigarettes between his teeth. Now, where's…
Sherlock bowed his head in defeat and wearily plucked the cigarette from his mouth. After shoving the offending items back into this pocket, he pulled out his wallet.
Bingo! Now to see if it had any credit left on it.
Sherlock joined the throng of commuters slipping steadily through the turnstiles. He held his breath upon pressing John's card against the reader. When the indicator light turned green, he exhaled and slipped through. And now he had to go with the flow or risk being trampled underfoot. Not directing his own passage went against every fibre of his being. His skin prickled as the crowd forced him along. The air grew stale and almost non-existent. He had morphed into a little human blood cell, washing through the pedestrian veins feeding the beating heart of the London Underground.
"Central line, change lines at Oxford Circus," he muttered again to himself as if it were a mantra that would protect him against this madness.
Upon the westbound platform, he felt the urge to leap onto the tracks and escape them all.
He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his hands down his face. The party goers had amped up the music now and were dancing, jumping and throwing their hands into the air. Someone had vomited into a pot plant.
Wind ruffled his hair. The hysterical screeching of the Central line train pulling up at the platform jolted Sherlock back to reality. He shuffled forward, dutifully let other passengers alight, and then jostled for standing room inside the carriage. Holding onto the hand rail overhead, he closed his eyes once more as the train lurched from the station.
He could do this.
He hardly ever did this.
The last time he'd actually taken the tube, he'd been with Violet. He remembered her slipping her hand into his. The warm rush of those heady early courting days. So he could do this.
How long?
Sherlock opened his eyes and studied the map of the Central line above the darkened windows, his brow furrowed. Where the fuck's Oxford Circus?
Chancery Lane — Holborn — Tottenham Court Road — Oxford Circus.
Oh, fuck me! Two stops between here and Oxford Circus! He couldn't cope. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut one more time and tried to concentrate on his breathing.
DON'T think about the people pressing in on him in the humid, stifling air. Don't think about them breathing on him. Everybody sweltering. All those little minds ticking over about salad greens and pub crawls and the end of summer holidays.
No!
Don't think!
…
Yes, think!
Think about the people!
All of the people!
Let's make this fun!
Let's play deductions!
Okay, Sherlock thought, exhaling heavily. He could distract himself for a time.
Now…
Who is a smoker?
He opened his eyes and scanned the bodies along the carriageway. All seats were taken. Heads were bowed. Devices, books, newspapers in hands. Backpacks and shopping bags pressed between knees. Some people slept or meditated; couples held whispered conversations. The aisle was also crowded with bodies. Statues. Everyone pretending nobody else existed. As he observed them, little signs popped above their heads. Signs only Sherlock could see.
SMOKER, SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, SMOKER…
This was fun!
Through the window HOLBORN flashed before his eyes. Sherlock sighed with relief. One down, two to go. The configuration of passengers changed a little. Sherlock found himself shifted to the right a couple of feet. That was okay because he was coping.
Just wait until he told Violet about this experience. Her eyes would sparkle; she would chuckle and say, 'Oh, Sherlock' in that sympathetic way because she was on his side and supported his struggles with Ordinary Things. And then he'd peel off her clothes and take her right there on the sofa.
God, how long had it been?
Not that he missed her just for the sex. If he really missed sex, and sex was all he needed from her, then why wait for her to return from her jaunt around England, promoting that silly mini-series? He could just as easily don another black coat and trawl the nightclubs every Thursday night.
No. Violet Hunter was so much more than a warm body to cuddle up to in the early hours of a morning after slaving over a cold corpse in the mortuary at Barts. Sherlock Holmes hadn't realised his heart was full of holes until Violet had filled them; hadn't noticed his sharp edges until she'd softened them. Didn't think storing eyeballs in the freezer was socially unacceptable until she'd yelled at him about it (John had simply made sarcastic remarks - totally ineffective!).
Violet Hunter was a champion for his causes; a cheerleader for his efforts. And for his part, he enlightened her on the ways and wonders of the universe — correcting her erroneous views on things; supporting her in her acting thingy until he could make her life meaningful again by bringing her along on his infinitely more exciting cases.
They were perfectly matched in every way.
Okay, then. Let's see how many actors there are. Jobbing actors.
Only a handful of labels appeared above bowed heads this time, plus the young lad on Sherlock's left. Miserable lot they were. Not smiley and bubbly like Violet. No one to enthusiastically squeeze his arm and regale him with stories of a day on set, while he dutifully tuned out. His stomach lurched with an absent kind of longing.
Interestingly, four out of the five actors present were also smokers.
TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.
Thank Christ for that.
Sherlock bowed his head and massaged the back of his neck. His sinuses also began to ache. Stupid nicotine. Why did he forget the patches today? He directed his gaze to the blackened windows. In the reflection of the glass, he caught his own image. A (handsome!) young man finishing a day at work at the office. He would've worked in a cubicle and owned his own quirky coffee cup. Not at all like the Belstaff, scarf-wearing, Consulting Detective dashing about London. An Ordinary Commuter. Not Sherlock Holmes.
Curious.
No wonder nobody had pointed at him or discreetly tried to take a photo of him with their phone.
OXFORD CIRCUS.
Hooray! his Mind Palace party crowd cheered. Why were they cheering?
On the platform, the sign underlined in brown heralding the way to the Bakerloo line looked frightfully unappealing, while the Exit sign lit up like a party beacon.
Why, yes. Let's exit!
Truth be told, he couldn't take any more of this. At least, not when he was so conscious and lucid.
Just a handful of tunnels to navigate. Another escalator lined with posters. Oh, look, there's Violet!
CATHERINE HILDERNESS
coming to BBC One
7pm, Sunday the 11th of August
Sherlock's chest swelled with pride at the image of Violet in period costume and he momentarily forgot he was supposed to be ascending in the fast lane.
Eventually, he exited into the cool evening. Fresh air at last! The cigarette was between his lips by the time he made it to the kerb.
"Excuse me, could I trouble you for a light?" he asked the young accountant who Sherlock had earlier pegged as a smoker, and who had just lit up in front of him.
Sherlock suddenly felt buoyant, as if he'd endured the unendurable, and as a consequence, he wholeheartedly deserved this reward.
A final journey by cab; they made it the entire way, this time, thankfully! He arrived at 221B Baker Street with several minutes to spare. Still a few things to organise, though!
Sherlock sprinted up the stairs, shed his jacket and made a beeline for the bedroom, stopping along the way to flick on the kettle. After removing his shoes and socks, he slid his second best dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. Now… turn off the kettle. Wouldn't want the water to be too hot! He fixed himself half a cup of tepid coffee—black with only one sugar (it was a half serve after all). He placed it on the table beside his chair.
Brush teeth, swirl coffee around his mouth. Spit, rinse, repeat.
A few final touches to the bedroom and he was done.
Stretching out in his armchair, hands steepled to his lips, he heard the front door slam shut.
Perfect timing!
He closed his eyes, maintained a steady breath and counted the footfalls on the staircase.
"Hello!"
Sherlock opened his eyes with a start and furrowed his brow.
"Oh," he began, before glancing at his watch. "I didn't expect you til Friday."
Violet's eyes glistened, as he knew they would, and an affectionate smile stretched wide. Crossing the floor towards him, she said, with a light laugh, "It is Friday."
She bent over him, and Sherlock inhaled deeply. The hypnotic scent of Cleo de Thebes stirred emotions deep within and he tilted his face up towards her, expectant.
Violet pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He readied himself for more, but Violet drew back, and whispered against his lips, "I spoke to you about it yesterday. Only yesterday."
Sherlock cleared his throat as Violet straightened up.
"I was busy," he rasped. "Lost track of t—"
Another set of footfalls on the staircase drew his attention.
"Oh, Mandi has a few things to organise," Violet said, waving a hand towards the landing and turning from him. "I'll just freshen up."
Sherlock sat up straighter, his stomach plummeting along with his hopes and desires.
Violet had already entered the kitchen and was checking the kettle when Mandi strode into the living room.
"And I've got that Skype meeting later," Violet said, moving through the kitchen towards the back of the flat. "Splendor Pictures, remember!"
Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair, a protest dying on his lips.
"Hiya! All right, Sherlock?"
Mandi barely looked at him, her attention drawn to the iPad in her hand. Sherlock was torn between wanting to see Violet's reaction to the surprise he'd left for her in the bedroom and wanting to bustle her red-headed BFF out of the flat, tout de suite. He crossed through to the kitchen, hovering, undecided.
"I've reserved you a backstage pass, all right?" Mandi called out, tapping away at her screen. "So keep the date free."
"What?" Was she addressing him?
"The Late Show," she replied. "Week after next."
Sherlock's head began to buzz.
"Sorry, what?"
"You know. The Late Show with Tevish Stewart. Vi wants you there. We discussed it the other week."
Sherlock sighed. A conversation — one of many — he'd tuned out of.
Mandi, newly installed as his girlfriend's Personal Assistant, tutted and shook her head. She walked away. Probably to make herself at home on his sofa, for fuck's sake. Settle in for the evening.
Violet emerged from the bedroom, a smile threatening to burst from her face. She'd understood the significance of Sherlock's efforts. Not a moron, then, thankfully.
Sherlock allowed half a smile to form on his lips and he gave her a wink for good measure. Seal the deal.
"In a minute," she whispered to him with a squeeze of his hand on her way past.
He heard snatches of conversation between Mandi and Violet. A bit of laughter. Oh, good. Violet was able to farewell her friend and P.A. with the minimum of fuss. Or swearing. Sherlock reached over and locked the kitchen door to the landing. He heard Violet do the same with the living room door.
Awesome!
Violet wordlessly grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. The glow of a dozen candles gave the room a sensual and romantic ambiance.
Apparently.
The candles were taken from Violet's collection she usually adorned the bathroom with, she'd know that, but that wasn't the point.
After closing the door behind them, Violet slid her arms around his neck.
"Are these for me or one of your secret girlfriends?"
"Could be both," he replied, lending a rough edge to his voice.
Violet chuckled lightly and then proceeded to finish the kiss she'd begun earlier in the living room. His desire quickened, but he returned her efforts at his own leisurely pace.
Violet eased back and hummed her satisfaction.
"Coffee," she murmured. "A bit of toothpaste… and a hint of tobacco."
She quirked an eyebrow and Sherlock tutted and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
"How long was it this time?" Violet asked.
"Six days," he replied sullenly. Surely the half day counted as a whole. Certainly felt like it.
"Sherlock that's wonderful!"
His ears pricked up. Not what he was expecting to hear. Obviously, his little surprise in the bedroom put him in a favourable light.
Violet caught his lips in hers once more and he locked his arms around her, feeling her melt into him. Urgency built inside him as her mouth yielded to his. But he dragged himself away from the kiss. He was moments away from devouring her.
Hovering over her lips, he whispered, "Welcome home, Violet!"
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