He played a stolen violin (a "fiddle", she called it endearingly) at a few of their gigs until the group imploded from infighting and a general lack of talent. They went to the seaside together and made enough money to support their habit both by performing on the boardwalk and through his mostly unremarked upon pickpocketing. He played, she sang, and the world vibrated with an unfamiliar light.
Never before had Sherlock inhabited his own frame so completely. He marveled at the strange magnetism he felt drawing him on top of her, under her, inside her. There was a feeling of finality in it, as if this was what all those years of wanking alone had been preparing him for, had been pretending to be. He practiced waiting until the last possible moment (until she had just tipped over the edge with a look of pure bliss on her face and her eyes had gone all unfocused and her cunt was beginning to pulse around him) before he allowed himself to surrender control. He became very good at it.
Mycroft found them entangled on a mattress in a small rented bungalow two weeks after they'd left London. "This is an interesting development," he said dryly as he watched them struggle towards consciousness, the excesses of the night before still drying on the sheets and singing in their blood.
"Fuck off, Mycroft." Sherlock snarled, too absent to be truly cutting. "You'd think a brother of mine would be at least polite enough to knock." Mycroft ignored this.
"We've always wondered, Sherlock. It appears I've lost a wager." Mycroft tapped the tip of his unnecessary umbrella on the warped floorboards. "Well, time to go. I can bring them in now unless you would prefer to avoid a...scene." Sherlock glanced at Irene and saw the confusion in her expression. He kissed her violently, digging his fingers into her thigh, satisfied at the repressed grimace that ran through his brother's flabby frame. "This is your brother?" She asked when he pulled away. "Sherlock, what - ?"
"I'll see you soon." Sherlock stood, pulled on his trousers, and followed Mycroft outside to the waiting car.
Sherlock was more careful the next time. He had chosen Brighton because of the memories he'd had there as a child – he would allow no such sentiment to endanger them again. He found Irene back in London. She was living with Gil, the ex-banjo player from the failed folk group, and she had a three-day-old black eye. Sherlock split his knuckles wide open on the man's teeth, stopping only when Irene started to cry. It was a horrible, stretched sound. Gil had been the one who introduced Irene to certain chemical compounds, and there was a large stash of the same in his apartment. They took it all.
They found a quiet park to shoot up in and were lying side by side under a large hedge. Sherlock could hear the sounds of children playing and laughing through the greenery.
"You're so thin," Irene said. Her hand was under his shirt, exploring.
"Yes, well, he nearly got me this time." He'd been losing close to three kilos a day in the hospital.
"You mean your brother. What an idiot. Doesn't he see what he's doing?" Sherlock tried and failed to follow her thought process.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked. Irene let out a slow puff of air.
"You obviously won't kick if he keeps trying to force you into it. It's already become a kind of game to you, defying him. He's doing you more harm than good."
"Mm." Sherlock considered this. He listened to a young girl shout with frustration at something one of her companions had done.
"Don't leave me again," Irene said, and put her small hand in his.
