The room was empty when Sherlock woke, although the state of disarray and the overwhelming aroma of male locker-room told him that he must have had multiple room-mates overnight. Light was streaming through the high windows that ran down one side of the room. Sherlock sat up, blinking in its glare. The light had an odd quality, and he found himself climbing onto a camp bed by the window to confirm his suspicions - the world had turned white overnight, a good inch of snow lying on the ground and the few trees in view were sparkling with a thick frost. It was a day to be curled up in a chair in the library with a roaring fire and a good book. It certainly wasn't a day to be heading out for the streets. A bout of coughing caught him unaware, and he steadied himself with one hand on the wall until it had passed.

He stepped down carefully from the camp bed on legs that felt unexpectedly unsteady, not trusting himself to jump with both feet as he would have thoughtlessly a few weeks ago. His body was betraying him and he knew it. He picked up his sleeping bag and stuffed it back into his rucksack, before heading back out into the main room.

It was far quieter than he had been expecting. There were a few stragglers still nursing cups of tea around the trestle tables, while volunteers were clearing away the last of the breakfast plates and starting to stack up the chairs and fold away the vacated tables.

Sherlock hesitated at the edge of the room, wondering whether he had time to use the bathroom or if he should hedge his bets and at least get a cup of coffee before he was chucked out into the cold. His aching bladder was not to be ignored, however, so he headed for the bathroom which was thankfully empty. After a long and fulfilling piss, he decided that if breakfast was over he might as well take advantage of the shower facilities while he had the chance. As he stood under the seemingly endless torrent of hot water, he vowed that he would never take being warm and clean for granted again.

The door to the bathroom door banged open, making him start. 'Anyone in here?' a voice asked.

'I'll just be a minute,' Sherlock shouted back, realising that his chance of a hot drink had probably long gone.

'That you, Will?' came the voice that he recognised as Tom's.

'Yes.'

'Take your time, then. I've saved you some breakfast.'

Suspicion prickled at the back of Sherlock's neck. Why was he getting special treatment? And why was Tom here yet again?

Disliking the feeling of being watched, Sherlock shut off the shower, dried himself quickly on the towel he had grabbed from a stack by the door, and dressed himself after brief consideration in the clothes that he had slept in; the ones that Tom had given him the night before. He didn't think that he would be asked to return them, but he wasn't taking any chances, and he would need all the layers that he could get in this weather. His cough was getting worse, he knew it, and getting ill wasn't part of his plan. Staying warm was his best chance of staying well.

Tom was waiting for him when he came out of the shower, and sat Sherlock down at a trestle table, pushing a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, baked beans and a stack of toast in front of him. Suspicion flared in Sherlock again. It seemed a very extravagant breakfast for a shelter.

'Tea or coffee?' Tom asked.

'Why are you doing this?' Sherlock asked bluntly.

'Why am I doing what.'

'Why are you helping me?'

Tom sighed and sat down on the chair next to Sherlock.'Maybe because I think that you're worth helping?' he replied.

'Well you're wrong,' Sherlock told him, staring down at the plate of food. A large part of him wanted to grab his bag and walk out to prove that he didn't need charity, but his stomach felt hollow with hunger, despite all the food he had filled it with the night before. Mycroft always decried baked beans as the work of the devil, but Sherlock wasn't about to turn them down right now -nor was he going to head out into the snow any sooner than he had to. Pride was all well and good but it didn't excuse stupidity. He picked up the knife and fork and dug in, ignoring Tom's silent presence beside him.

When a cup of coffee appeared in front of him he drank it grateful. Black with two sugars. Of course.

'I want to help you,' Tom was saying as he sipped at his own mug of tea.

Sherlock's eyes darted nervously towards the door, wondering if this was a stalling tactic, if Mycroft was pulling up his car outside even now, flanked no doubt by a couple of burly policemen to stop him making a run for it.

'I get that you're scared, Will,' Tom said, 'but you can trust me - really.'

Sherlock pushed his plate away, hands unconsciously curling into fists.

'What makes you think that I need help?' he asked, staring at the table-top, fighting to keep his voice calm.

'Because for one thing, I don't believe that you're eighteen,' Tom said. 'And even if you are, you're not nearly as street-wise as you think that you are. You must have family somewhere. We have case workers over at the Shelter office who can help you get back in touch with them. Why not give it a try?'

'There's nobody,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Parents?' Tom asked.

'They're both dead,' Sherlock said, realising that Tom had noticed his clenched hands. He reached for his cup of coffee to give them something to do. 'Car crash, two years ago.' It was half-true anyway. He stifled a cough.

'Siblings?'

'No. Just me.'

'Grand-parents? Aunts and uncles? Godparents? Who were you living with up until now.'

'Foster parents,' Sherlock told him, allowing the crack in his voice to show. 'It didn't work out.'

'I'm sorry,' Tom murmured and he sounded as if he meant it. But he didn't sound as if he believed it.

Last night Sherlock had been too tired and hungry to notice what he now found obvious. A full night's sleep and a rise in his blood sugar no longer allowed him the luxury of failing to observe.

Sherlock had crashed out at about half nine. If Tom had been working a full late shift it was likely he would have been at the shelter until at least midnight. There was no affordable housing within a forty minute commute of here, so at best he would have reached home at one in the morning. To be sure of being here when Sherlock woke he must have been here from at least seven, requiring him to leave home at six. He didn't look like a man who was surviving on only five hours sleep, or if he was then he was a man who was well used to working on sleep deprivation. He looked well rested, like a man who had had a full eight hours sleep in a comfortable bed. He was wearing fresh clothes and had recently shaved. Something definitely didn't add up. Tom must have left early - right after Sherlock had fallen asleep, in fact, to look this well rested. Which could mean only one thing. He was here to watch Sherlock.

Tom's watch, now that Sherlock could see it, where his shirt sleeve rode up as it rested on the table was a Breitling. He had a slight dent on the ring finger of his left hand where a wedding ring must usually rest. His clothes fit his constructed personna, but the scent of the expensive modelling wax that he was using in his hair was one that was only sold on the type of old fashioned gentleman barbers which Mycroft and his cronies frequented.

Tom wasn't what he seemed to be. Sherlock knew it, but Tom didn't know that Sherlock knew it. He still had the element of surprise on his side. 'Run,' whispered the voice in his head, but he knew that if he did that then he was lost.

'What would you suggest?' he asked quietly, trying to sound interested.

'There's a hostel not far from here, ' Tom said. 'They only accept residents under twenty-five, so it would be right up your street. Come with me there, meet some people and see what you think. No pressure.'

So that was his game - get Sherlock to a quiet location where Mycroft would, without a doubt, be waiting.

'Maybe,' Sherlock said. 'I've got some things I need to do first. Can I meet you there in an hour?'

Tom hesitated for just a moment and then agreed, writing the address on a piece of paper for Sherlock, together with brief directions.

'Just come and have a look, that's all I'm asking,' he said, as Sherlock stood pulled on his coat and swung his rucksack onto his shoulder.

Sherlock nodded and headed towards the door. An hour, he had an hour to work out where he was going to go from here - and it certainly wasn't going to be to the hostel. Pausing just outside to pull on his hat and gloves, not wanting to look as if he was too keen to escape, he headed off into the snowy streets.