Chapter 8:

The day came at last when Sherlock, losing his mind, ducked out of Baker Street to find it again. John was in a panic. He hadn't known Sherlock in the days before his sobriety. He couldn't call on Mycroft now. The older brother didn't approve of Doctor Watson after all that had happened on his behalf. Like he'd point him in the right direction of the brother he'd bitterly disowned.

John was frantic. Even Lestrade had no clue. Lestrade was reluctant to talk to or about Sherlock after the recent history they had. John left off asking him.

He called Molly, in the end. She sounded distraught from the moment she picked up.

"I can't find him either, John. I've not known him much longer than Greg…" Molly's voice took on a dark sorrow that wasn't much like her. John felt his soul sinking to his feet.

"Did you know him back before he was…?" John couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Clean? Oh, sorry. I mean, when he still had problems with the drugs. Not really. Sherlock...Well, he nearly killed himself trying to beat the habit. Gave everything for his career, you know. It's what he loves most of all things." Molly's voice hitched and then, she drew a sharp breath.

"What?" John bristled. This was more of a "sparking idea" than an "all hope is lost" sharp breath.

"Well, I know some people who would know where Sherlock might go if he'd changed back into, um, old Sherlock. His homeless friends. He...He may never have told you, but there were about 6 months when Sherlock was around 17 that he was one of them. I never really knew why he told me that. He's told me lots of things he's never shared with anyone…" Molly's voice echoed around the smile John couldn't see.

"Wow...Oh, wow. Thank you, Molly, darling. You, dear, are his angel for sure." John was almost in tears he was so relieved. He already had an idea of who he should ask.

John headed Raz the Street Artist's direction directly after that conversation. He thought if anyone would have some insight into Sherlock's old street haunts it would be him.

What he wasn't expecting to find was Sherlock, with Raz. He wasn't blown out of his skull on drugs like John had expected. He was, of all things, busking for change.

Sherlock was perched on top of an overturned rubbish barrel. Some of the time he played random Bach phrases on his violin. John settled at Sherlock's feet, wondering why he'd chosen to stand like that on a platform made of trash while street people hurled coins at him that bounced off of his knees.

"Oi! Now, this is for charity, show some respect!" Raz painted a boundary line around Sherlock and gathered a fistful of the change into that ridiculous Death Frisbee hat Sherlock seemed to have brought just to annoy the crowd.

John was completely mesmerized by the classical strain of music when Sherlock did the completely unexpected. The musical chords changed to something of a soft rock strain. John had never even heard Sherlock so much as hum along to mainstream music. What in the world was he about to play?

John didn't have to guess at the tune. The detective was suddenly singing in a voice as deep as his normal speaking voice, but raspy too. John felt his guts jump to his throat when he realized that he could sing and beautifully so. It took John a moment to realize that the song was Teddy Pendergrass' It don't hurt now. John used to sing this song extremely loud in the shower to annoy Sherlock while he was thinking. Sherlock particularly disliked the song because of its "sentiment". Now he was willingly singing it but had changed the words to it, as if turning it back on John.

I used to bleed every night,

Spill my heart, my veins for you,

In prison, I'd pray,

To get back to you...

I couldn't sleep for the beating,

I'd just lie in chains and bleed,

And none of it has changed,

There's just purpose to the pain.

Still hurts now,

But it still hurts now…

What floored John more than anything, in the end, was that Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to his presence in the small crowd of street folk. This strange serendipity of music had come off the top of his head. Losing his amazing mind had mainly been emotionally cathartic. Now John was seeing the heart of the man whose sole merit had long been determined by his head.

And then in mid-stream, oblivious yet, Sherlock started singing and playing the chorus to Elton John's Sacrifice. Only once again, he'd changed the words:

Stone cold heart, but saved by you

Some things I could have done better maybe, 'fore I was through

Still, was no sacrifice,

Just to put it to the sword,

Two people fighting two different wars,

Still, no sacrifice, still no sacrifice, just no sacrifice to Fall….

Now John was crying. Sherlock continued to play over the musical part of that song and fell back into the classical music he was known to be fond of. Raz whistled loudly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were in love, Holmes!" Raz was clapping. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mm...love...That's a terribly vague idea. What kind of love? The kind that has flowers or the sort with roots? Brothers, or fathers, or spouses...Hell, people even "love" their pets. Sentiment and all that. You don't know what you're talking about until you bleed. Otherwise, do shut up." Sherlock looked up then, realizing that John was in the crowd. He hopped down from the rubbish barrel then. Nodded to the crowd and kicked the hat to Raz.

"Here, keep that. Share that with some of the hungry ones, alright? If I catch you passing it out to smackheads it comes out of your backside. Do you vaguely understand?" Sherlock tilted his head. Raz laughed.

"Oi, alright, I get it. You only work for good causes." Raz snuffed soft annoyed laughter.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John for a long, withering moment. Then he disappeared down the street before John could gather his wits.