As the door to the flat closed behind Jim, Sherlock realised that he was alone.
He was alone and everywhere was very, very quiet.
He slid on his shirt and trousers and crossed to the main door, slowly opening it and peering down the hall.
Nothing. Nobody. No Surly. No one at all.
Total silence and desertion.
He huffed out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and closed the door again, sliding the lock across firmly.
He wondered briefly if the shower in the flat worked but, doubting it, decided to head back to the bedroom and retrieve the rest of his clothing.
For what appeared to be a squat, the room had a surprisingly clean bedroom but he supposed that Jim Moriarty had the means and the money, when he had a plan in mind, to make tidy the one area he knew he would use.
Am I really that predictable? He supposed he had been.
As he sat on the bed and pulled on his shoes, he noticed the box and the roll of cash that Jim had thrown to him.
"You know that money isn't how it works for us." he recalled.
God, he thought. I'm no better than a cheap whore.
Sherlock stomach lurched with the realisation that he had just slipped so easily back in to habits of a decade ago.
Sex for drugs.
Jim and Sherlock.
He ran to the bathroom, heaving up the non-existent contents of his stomach into the sink and, as he stood and turned, he noticed the overflowing bin surrounded by old and dirty hypodermic needles.
The urge to shoot up right there and then was overwhelming; choking him; suffocating him.
He staggered back to the bedroom and examined the box that Jim had left. Removing the tape that secured it, he lifted the top and his adrenaline immediately spiked as he viewed its contents. He lifted out a note that had been left folded among the items.
Thought you might need these.
'til next time
Jim
He stared for what felt like a long while, taking in the objects in his lap.
Everything he needed. Everything he needed to escape right here, right now.
He really was predictable, wasn't he?
He thought back to the shiny black box that had once been part of his life.
Until recent days, Sherlock had managed to keep well away from cocaine, but his equipment was always there. The ornate black box lived in the bottom of his dresser. A fallback for if he ever truly needed it. He had tried removing that safety net, briefly giving it to Mycroft for safekeeping, but he had found that not having it there was a thousand times harder than knowing it was within reach.
Even during the years when he had no thoughts of using, the box - his crutch - was there. He needed that.
Now he had the cocaine, he had the means to prepare it but he had deep-rooted doubts about his ability to get through it without the rest of his box.
He wasn't an addict - he wasn't . He told himself that; reminded himself.
Using cocaine wasn't just about the drug for Sherlock. It wasn't just the high; the release; the relief.
It was more than that.
It was routine. It was dark red velvet and rich deep purple in antique silver.
If he reduced himself to just taking the cocaine for the escape, was he any better than any other addict?
He needed to get out of here before he did something stupid. Something he couldn't go back from.
He glanced at his watch - 7.15pm - John would be home.
He heart jumped at the thought of seeing John.
It was a nice feeling, a warm feeling. He pushed down the accompanying panic that hovered in the background and finished dressing.
Pulling his coat around him and glancing momentarily in the mirror - Disgusting; used; unworthy - he grabbed his few things and let himself out of the empty building, heading for Baker Street.