Chapter 11

January 2004

Mycroft sits at his desk and reads some papers from a number of folders scattered around his desk. His new assistant enters the room and hands him his new mobile phone. He glances through the pre-saved numbers in the contacts list. He stops of one of numbers. He raises his eyebrow at her. 'Sherlock?'

'CCTV shows that your brother has acquired a mobile phone. We have managed to track him down to a flat in Erith.'

'Why wasn't I informed of this?' the assistant hesitates, 'Well?'

'Your superiors needed you to focus on governmental affairs.' Mycroft's desk phone rings stopping him from retorting.

'Mycroft Holmes.' Mycroft glares at his assistant. 'Yes, thank you. I'll be there within the hour.' The assistant hovers nervously

'Mr Holmes?'

'Is there something else you wanted to tell me Anthea?' she fails to make eye contact with him.

'Your brother has affiliated with undesirables.'

'What kind of undesirables?'

'Drug addicts. Cocaine.' She tells him reluctantly. Mycroft rises from his seat and walks around his desk to his window.

'Where is he now?' Anthea swallows in attempt to hide her nervousness of this formidable man. If she had had any doubt as to why and how he rose to a semi-senior office in the government in three years, it was all gone now. She glances up at him standing at window.

'We don't know.' He turns slowly to look at her.

'You don't know?' He picks up his coat and umbrella. 'It's a good job I do isn't it?'

'Sir?'

'Let me tell you something Anthea. Never withhold information from me, especially when it concerns my little brother.' Mycroft holds her gaze coldly. She involuntary shivers. He ignores it and strides to the door. 'Clear my calendar for the rest of the day. Bring me a car to take me to Scotland Yard.' He strides out of his office leaving her almost helpless in his wake. She pulls herself together and makes the necessary calls as she hurries to catch up with him.

Thirty minutes later, the car carrying Mycroft and Anthea pulls up outside the front door of Scotland Yard. Anthea quickly opens the door and holds it for Mycroft to exit the car. He nods his thanks but otherwise ignores her. He walks into the building as Anthea closes the car door and scurries after him. She catches up with him as he approaches the front desk. 'Mycroft Holmes. I was called on behalf of Sherlock Holmes.'

Sherlock sits in the holding cell with his head in his hands. He listens to the various footsteps walking along the corridor on the other side of the doors. He hears a set he recognises. He groans and lies down on the bench. Each sound reverberates inside his skull making his headache worse. His stomach turns as he shifts on the bench. The lock clicks back on the door to the cell. A uniformed police officer stands in the doorway. Sherlock groans and puts a hand over his eyes to block out the extra light entering the cell from the corridor. 'Name please?' Sherlock mumbles an answer with his hand still over his eyes. 'Pardon?'

'Sherlock Holmes.' he mumbles louder. He groans again, rolls over and vomits onto the floor of the cell. The officer flinches as the contents of Sherlock's stomach are making themselves known to the floor of the cell.

'Jesus.'

'Don't blaspheme.' The officer glares at Sherlock. 'Your pendant. It's a crucifix.' The officer's hand automatically goes to the chain hanging around her neck and grips the pendant. The officer retreats closing the door behind as she leaves. Sherlock starts shaking as the withdrawal symptoms kick in. He slumps back onto the bench and shaking wracks through his thin frail body. The door open and the officer reappears carrying cleaning equipment. He cleans up the puddle of vomit. 'What's the date?' Sherlock mumbles.

'Pardon?'

'I said what's the date?'

'Fourth of January, two thousand and four.' Sherlock groans heavily. 'What's wrong?'

'Not yet my birthday.'

'How old are you?'

'Seventeen. Eighteen in two weeks.' Sherlock groans again.

'It's not too long until your birthday then.'

'Oh great!' Sherlock says sarcastically, 'Two weeks of Mycroft interfering.'

'Who Mycroft?'

'My brother.' The officer finishes cleaning the puddle of sick and rises carrying the supplies. He leaves the room locking the door behind him.

Eighteen month earlier

Sherlock steps off the train and makes his way though the station in the middle of the crowds making sure that he is covered from all CCTV camera by other people. He slips through the ticket barriers immediately behind another person. He strides out of the station and into the street. He darts into an alley at the first opportunity. He glances around and makes his way through the alleys of London avoiding the areas with heavy CCTV coverage. He wonders around for a few hours before he stumbles over someone on the ground. 'Sorry' he mutters.

'Runaway?' A man emerges from a nearby doorway.

'So what?' Sherlock snarls.

'Wan' somefing to take the edge off?'

'Take the edge off what?'

'Cold, hunger, fear.' Sherlock stares at him judging the sincerity.

'What have you got?'

'Cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, cannabis plus a few others.' Sherlock stares at him. The man on the floor reaches up to grab the dealer. 'Not you.' the dealer snarls he looks at Sherlock. 'Coming kid?'

'Sherlock.' Sherlock follows him inside the building.

Six months later

Sherlock walks the streets of London carrying a large quantity of cocaine in his pockets and a daily paper under his arm. He heads to one of the large parks in the centre of London to meet one of the street dealers who work for the man who picked him off the street. He spots the man sitting on one of the park benches. He joins them on the bench and opens his paper. He secretly slips the packets of cocaine powder into the middle of the pages. He folds the paper up and drops in onto the seat between himself and the street dealer. He stands and walks away leaving the drugs hidden in the paper on the seat. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the street dealer take the paper with the drugs and leave another with money hidden inside. The dealer stands and walks away abandoning the paper with the money on the seat. Sherlock retakes his seat on the bench. After a few moments he picks up the paper and checks the contents under the pretext of reading an article. He tucks the paper under his arm and walks out of the park and back to the flat.

Sherlock enter the flat and hands over the paper to his landlord and dealer. Sherlock heads into the kitchen of the flat and fixes a cup of tea for the both of them. He walks back into the main living room and the dealer pushes a small bag across the table to Sherlock. ''Appy birthday, today i's on the 'ouse.' Sherlock smiles and takes the baggie. He quickly makes up a seven percent solution injects a third of the solution into his arm. 'Better?' Sherlock nods in a happy cocaine induced daze.

The door of the cells opens and the officer re-appears. He leans on the frame of the door and watches Sherlock shiver and shake in the cell. 'How are you feeling?'

'Bugger off.' He mutters. The officer steps into the cell and pulls Sherlock to his feet.

'Come on you're wanted in the interview room.' The police officer half drags and half supports Sherlock towards the interview room. As the officer opens the door Sherlock groans and attempts to get away. 'Nope, you aren't going anywhere young man.'

'Come in little brother.' Mycroft is sat at the table. 'Mummy wants an update.'

'Piss off Mycroft.' Sherlock grumbles. Sherlock slumps in the seat next to Mycroft.

'Just so you know, Mummy doesn't know about your drug habit, but Mr Drake does.'

'Piss off Mycroft.' Sherlock places his head on the table. Mycroft move the cup in front of him across the table to Sherlock.

'Drink it'll help.' Sherlock groggily downs the water in a couple of gulps.

'What do you want Mycroft?'

'Possession with intent… not what you want on your record little brother.'