The next chapter. Warning for frug use
Light's gone, day's end
Struggling to pay rent
Long nights, strange men
Sherlock sat on the unmade bed, one of the only pieces of furniture in the dark room. A good thing too, even without the aid of clutter the room was small and claustrophobic, if filled with possessions there would be no room to move. There was a wardrobe in the corner with a meager collection of clothes, a pile of books sat on a small table next to the single bed and a desk sat at the wall opposite, scattered with papers covered in feverish scribbles. It was the cheapest flat he could find, and still he was struggling with the rent. Mycroft was of course disapproving, going on about everything from the crime rate to the poor pest control. Sherlock defended the place, saying he didn't care where he lived, it was all just transport. Secretly he found the place just as disgusting as Mycroft, but he would rather die than ask Mycroft for money to find a more suitable living situation. He looked down at the wad of money clutched in his hand. He had just enough money to appease the landlord, but there was the problem of the drugs. He needed them. He was interrupted from his musings by a loud thump on his door.
He opened it and was greeted by the sight of his landlord. He looked like a pig squashed into human clothes, a beefy, bald, red faced man with a fierce temper and breath that always seemed to reek of alcohol. Sherlock scanned him over, taking in the rumpled clothes (just got up from sleeping all day, sleeps on his right side) the way his eyes squinted in the light of the landing (hung-over, nothing new there) the red eyes (been crying, most likely because his wife had recently walked out on him) and the hand curled into a fist (indicates anger, aggression) All in all he was not here for a friendly chat.
"Your rents late." The man rasped, taking a swig from the bottle clutched in his left hand.
"I am aware of that." Sherlock remarked sarcastically. "I'll get it to you tomorrow."
The man regarded him suspiciously before leaning in to Sherlock, "Look buddy, I know what your spending my rent money on, and I just want to warn you that If I don't get what's mine by tomorrow morning, your out." He gave Sherlock a menacing glare before stumbling away and down the stairs.
Sherlock closed the door and returned to staring at the money on the bed. The thought of paying the rent and going without the drugs sent panic through him. The drugs helped, they slowed everything down, stopped his mind from consuming itself. He wouldn't-couldn't go without them. But if he didn't pay the rent he would be kicked out, he wouldn't be able to afford anyone else. He thought of going to Mycroft but quickly dismissed the idea, he'd promised himself long ago that he would never accept help from him. He pondered for a while until the sky outside had grown deep blue. He made his decision. He reached for his phone and hurriedly typed a message to his dealer. "My flat. Cocaine." That was enough. He lay back on his bed and waited for the repercussions of his decision.
The next morning he was thrown out of the flat by a furious landlord, his few possessions collected in a black bin bag (which would soon be sold for money) and his drugs in his pocket. He reeled off some deductions about the man's love life before running away to avoid the punch to the face. And thus began Sherlock's life on the streets.
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