Late afternoon found Sherlock stepping out of a taxi in an area of town he really hadn't expected to find himself in ever again.
Autumn grey clouds shadowed overhead, making everywhere seem prematurely dark, and there was a disquieting ambience all around.
He scanned for CCTV and, finding none, decided to carry on. He really didn't need Mycroft butting in on his business.
As he walked through the winding streets, it got gradually less busy and less welcoming.
Glancing briefly down at the slip of paper in his hand, Sherlock squinted, trying to see building numbers in the dim light.
Number 97 - this was it. His eyes darted up and down the road, assessing it for possible threats. There were few people about. A group of youths drinking on a nearby bench and a couple of passing cars - lost, he wondered, or cruising? It was too early for the working girls to be in circulation yet but he supposed it didn't stop people from looking.
He adjusted his coat and scarf, closing himself in, detaching himself - it was something of a security thing for him - before raising his hand and pushing open the outer door. As he stepped inside, a tall, bald, surly-looking man stepped forwards.
"Name?" he barked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but resisted the urge to deduce, must less remark on it. He knew better. He wouldn't get what he wanted here by being a smart arse. That much he did know.
"Holmes." he replied calmly before adding, "Jay sent me."
Surly guy tipped his head in the direction of the stairs. "Second floor. Flat F."
Sherlock nodded his thanks and began his climb.
His heart was thrumming so loud that he was sure everybody in the street would hear it.
He'd scored his last cocaine, just a few days previously, as a repaid favour, from somebody in the homeless network, so he hadn't had to come to a place like this.
Places like this made him on guard; anxious; wary.
They were a reminder of days gone by. The days when his life revolved solely around cocaine and getting his next fix.
When his thoughts, from morning through evening - or evening through to morning - consisted only of how to get money; to get cocaine; to get high.
Times when he would do anything.
An involuntary shudder ran through him as he was momentarily transported back to right there and then. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to focus. He just needed to do this and get out.
As he reached the second floor, he turned to flat F. Giving the door five firm taps, he stood back and waited.
"Name?" another surly-looking guy demanded. Was there an assembly line for these minions? Sherlock rolled his eyes, fortunately unseen by surly guy number two who was checking the hallway for anybody else who might be approaching.
The young Holmes cleared his throat before answering. "Holmes." he repeated. "Jay sent me."
Predictable. Boring. He hated repetition. Necessary Evil.
Surly guy 2 nodded and opened the door, waving Sherlock inside.
He made no effort to hide the fact that he was looking Sherlock up and down, assessing him.
"Yeah. He mentioned you." he eventually replied. "You got the money then?"
"Of course." Sherlock responded, and he pulled out the roll of notes from his inner pocket.
He moved further into the room as he looked around the poky flat. Not much furniture. A couple of chairs, a battered old sofa, a table and a few mattresses. He noticed 2 further doorways. One which he guessed led to a kitchen and another which probably led to a bedroom and bathroom.
Surly counted the money, warily, and moved behind him, sliding a lock closed on the door.
"Just to be safe." he answered to Sherlock's unspoken question. "Don't like interruptions while doing a deal. Had some bad experiences lately with people being tailed by coppers 'n' suchlike."
Sherlock suddenly felt relieved that he had managed to avoid being tracked by his brother's cronies. He nodded, understandingly.
Surly ducked into one of the other rooms, re-emerging moments later with a packet.
"Jay said you should have the decent stuff." he started, passing the package over to Sherlock. "You guys go way back, yeah?"
They sure did. It wasn't something Sherlock cared to think about much, and he certainly never spoke about those days any more.
Unfortunately though, for Sherlock, the impact of that time of his life had been so great that he'd been unable to lock it away in his Mind Palace so it stayed there; in his memory; in the background; always just a trauma away from making its presence felt.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Jay and I were acquainted quite some time ago." he answered vaguely.
"Oh Sherly." a voice came as one of the other room's doors began to open behind him. Sherlock resisted the urge to turn around and look.
"Acquainted?" it queried. "We were surely more than mere 'acquaintances' ?"
Sherlock's heart stopped, and he forgot how to breath.
That voice. That smooth-as-silk Irish lilt.
The voice's owner waved his hand, dismissing 'Surly' who, after passing over the money, unlocked the flat door and let himself out.
Sherlock heard the door close again and the lock slide back into place.
The voice's owner then proceeded to close the distance on Sherlock. Stopping only when it pressed up tight against against his back, slipping an arm around Sherlock's waist; pulling him close as it purred in his ear.
"Sherlock Holmes." it said seductively. "Did you miss me?"
Sherlock swallowed around a lump in this throat before responding.
"Jim Moriarty."