Victor felt his own sweat drip profusely from his pores, teaming down the side of his face and rapidly cooling in the frosty air. He stole a glance over at his lanky friend and marvelled at his cool demeanour. Sherlock's steel blue eyes revealed nothing; if they had not been in such a dire situation Vic probably would have been more fearful of Sherlock than his surroundings.
The dealer smirked at the two young boys, how foolish of young Victor to bring along a little friend. Surely they would both bolt at the slightest opportunity, although looking at the taller of the two boys; he felt a nagging suspicion that he was not to be trifled with.
"So lads, what'll it be? Your father needing more supplies Vic?"
The man spoke with an accent that Sherlock was unable to place, certainly northern, although almost eradicated, living in London for a significant amount of time then. Sherlock was scared, this man was hardly an open book: normally so self assured the youngest Holmes felt himself grasping at straws for any other information about the man. With a resolute voice Sherlock spoke up:
"We don't want anything. We came to inform you that the police are on their way, there is very little you can do to possibly eradicate all this evidence and we are certainly not going to help you."
With each passing word Sherlock felt infinitely more confident in Victor and his own position. Surely the police were almost there? After all he had informed them of the address and nature of the crime committed. Smirking at the dealer Sherlock fixed him with what he believed to be an intimidating glare. To his horror the man simply threw back his head and laughed, a cruel sound which echoed off the walls and reverberated through Sherlock's skull.
"Son, there is no way in hell that the police are going to be able to catch me; they're a bunch of incompetent pigs, bull-headed dullards that don't have a hope of bringing down my empire! Did you really think that you could just waltz in here and catch me?
Honestly, I don't think you know what you're really dealing with here."
"You're wrong, there is an armed response unit on its way to find us, I've alerted them to your activities and they know exactly what you've been up to. Anyway, we've come to tell you that your reign of crime is over." Sherlock glared at the man, slightly less assured now than he had been.
"Oh boy, you really don't have a clue! Let me explain the facts to you so that your little minds can understand. I run a very successful "business" here, I have many well respected clients who prefer their actions to be…silenced by my team here. Among these rather prim people is your friend's father. I'm sure that he would be none to pleased to find that his own son and some jumped up amateur sleuth had stopped his drug supply, now would he?"
At this tirade Victor's face visibly paled, this was it, he would have to choose. Either come clean about his father or sweep it all under the carpet. He glanced at Sherlock, how convenient he would be as a distraction, if he wasn't here, all of this would just…go away.
"Now, I'm going to give you an option young man," the dealer stated, turning to Victor, "pick up that syringe."
Victor turned and dutifully picked up the metal and glass object lying nonchalantly on the rot eaten table in the middle of the room, it glinted in the moonlight which filtered in through the still open door, filled with some kind of innocuous clear liquid.
"That syringe, my dear boy, contains a mixture of chemicals that is almost lethal… well I say almost, that concoction will cause you such agony that you will be wishing your life away. First your skin will burn causing severe damage to your internal organs; then the acid inside your body will convert to a semi gas like state causing the bursting off blood vessels; that will last about 30 minutes, if you're unlucky enough to survive that little funfair then the drug will continue it's journey to your heart, where it will promptly burn your aorta to a stump. You have an option Victor, inject me with that lovely little liquid and you and your friend go free, but your father looses all contact with any of my suppliers. Or, young one, inject your lovely friend here, the miniature detective and slip away into the night, drugs freely given. Your choice, you have 10 seconds…"
Sherlock sniggered at the dealer, like Victor would ever turn against him in favour of his abusive father; he looked across at his supposed friend clutching the syringe. Why had he not injected the dealer yet?
"Tick tock, little man, 10."
Victor looked at the syringe sitting in his palm, filled with liquid death.
"9."
Sherlock looked at Victor holding the syringe, a look of uncertainty passing over his normally cold features.
"Victor…what are you doing?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.
"5."
It had to be done, this was his entire fault, why did he have to come here, it was never meant to end like this, and he thought himself so high and mighty. Living in his fancy house, with his fancy clothes, constantly sneering at him…who did he think he was, he deserved this?
"3…2…1"
Victor was over to his Sherlock in a second…
"Thank God, inject him and we can get out of…"
It was a matter of seconds before Sherlock felt the cool needle pierce his neck; he turned in fear at his one time companion and looked into the unfeeling eyes of a frosty hearted murderer.
"It was…never me, was it? I was just a pawn…leverage…" Sherlock choked, holding back the tears as his airways began to burn."
Victor simply looked into the pleading orbs of Sherlock Holmes and watched his next words crush any hope in the swirling eyes.
"No shit, Sherlock."