Preston Ave was a fairly well maintained, albeit poor, residential street. Number 32 was a white, stuccoed house with a remarkably well-maintained hardwood front door. John knocked, in case he had the wrong place, respecting the giant private property sign nailed to the front, but the man who opened the door left him in little doubt that he'd found the place and Mycroft Holmes was not, in fact, waiting inside for a cryptic chat.
"What do you want?" the man muttered. He was dirty, dressed in fraying clothes stained with what smelled like animal urine. Sleeping on the ground in a place infested with rats. John slammed the door open on the man, fury building too quickly to contain.
"Aw, no, you can't come in here," the man complained. The hallway beyond the door was dark and covered in graffiti, doorways missing their doors lining the walls. John strode forward, looking inside each of the abandoned rooms. The home was cold and clearly unconnected to any power grid. A hellhole.
"I'm looking for a friend. A very specific friend. I'm not just browsing," he explained, glancing through all of the doorways to ensure Sherlock was not easily in sight. Of course not. That would be too easy. John strode back towards the crackhead by the door, fury whipping through him.
"You gotta go. No one's allowed here," the man tried again. John cleared his throat, trying to restrain himself. He wanted to rip the man's arms off. For the first time in two months he felt like he could.
"Sherlock Holmes, you seen him?" he demanded. The crackhead pulled a knife on him. "I'm asking you if you've seen Sherlock Holmes and now you're showing me a knife. Is it a clue?" John asked, his heartbeat picking up. The crackhead jerked the blade toward the door. "You doing a mime?"
"Go, or I'll cut you," the man threatened finally.
"Oh, not from there. Here, let me help," John replied, approaching. His arms hurt without their slings. He had to hold back a grin. "Now, concentrate. Sherlock Holmes."
"Okay, you asked for it," the man whined, sounding nervous. John pulled the weapon aside, kneed the man's groin and kicked out his legs. The unstable, drugged-out man slid to the ground without a fight. Which was a blessing, given the state of John's arms. The crackhead groaned, looking shocked by the violence.
"Right, are you concentrating yet?" John asked, trying to ignore the niggling voice buried behind his anger saying how similar he sounded to an interrogator with a nail and a blowtorch in his hands.
"You broke my arm," the crackhead wheezed. John glanced up, checking for anyone else in the hallway.
"No, I sprained it," he replied.
"It feels squishy. Is it supposed to feel squishy? Feel that!" the crackhead complained.
"Yeah, it's a sprain. I'm a doctor, I know how to sprain people," John replied, hating the feeling that Sherlock would be laughing by now. He'd be scaring everyone else, John knew, if they could see. He'd always been grateful for the hidden edge to Sherlock Holmes. "Now, where is Sherlock?"
He'd leave without a word, he reminded himself.
"I don't know! Maybe upstairs," the drugged up man exclaimed, clearly not recognizing the name.
"There ya go. Wasn't that easy?" John mocked, slapping the man's leg and heading for the stairs.
"No, it was really sore. Mental, you are," the man complained as John trotted up the steps.
"No, just used to a better class of criminal," John drawled, turning the corner on the landing. It opened up into a musty sunlit room filled with mattresses and smelling like mold and rotting wood. A boy sat half naked across the room, pushing his fingers through his hair. An older man was hunched beneath a window, coughing. Most of the mattresses were covered with human bodies, only clearly alive by their retained bowels. Most of them, anyway, John amended, walking past a reeking girl on a couch. He didn't check her vitals. Sherlock was in here.
He found a man's long, mostly-hairless leg sticking out from a bundle of blankets in the corner by the half naked boy. Thinking it was his best guess, John placed his hand on the slender man's foot and shook it gently. The man groaned and pulled his foot beneath the tangled blankets.
"Sherlock?" John whispered, hoping it was anyone else. Let him find some other man's friend, drugged out and emaciated. "Sherlock!" he hissed and reached out to drag the blankets away from the man's face. Dark, curly hair, streaky with grease, popped into view. John sighed, convinced now, and pulled the blankets the rest of the way down. Sherlock sat up slowly, pushing the dark green covers from his chest. He was dirty, marked by more than one day out here. John felt his shoulder's fall, taking in the image of Sherlock Holmes in a stained sweatshirt with rat feces on his sleeves. Sherlock stared at him, his blue eyes wide and lost. His pupils were dialated correctly - not likely currently high. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, only to stop short, and John knew he wasn't faking, wasn't in disguise on a case or whatever he'd planned to say. He was using.
Right. John pulled himself up. He needed to walk out now, before the anger hit. He'd be furious, he could feel that already. His stomach felt like it'd fallen entirely out of his chest cavity. Rage would fill that space, soon. He had to get out.
Sherlock drew himself up suddenly, his confident mask falling down to cover the lost look in his eyes.
"Oh, hello, John," he greeted casually, as if they were meeting purely by happenstance in a Tesco check out queue. "Didn't expect to see you here," Sherlock added, his voice deep with some second meaning. John wanted to reach out and kill him and never have to deal with the life of Sherlock Holmes again.
Too late, he thought, clenching his teeth as anger started to catch up with him.
"Come for me?" Sherlock asked and John wanted to punch him.
"Why the fuck are you here?" John asked. His voice came out in a whisper. Sherlock sneered at him and pushed the blankets off his knees. He's wanted Sherlock out of his life; this would do it. And quickly. "What, you didn't die enough the first time?" he growled.
"Oh, don't pretend to care," Sherlock sneered, getting up. John blinked.
"I do care. And you bloody well know it," he replied. Sherlock snorted and pulled his dirty sweatshirt tighter around himself.
"You left," he replied, walking toward the door. Going to find a more private crack den, presumably, John thought, wanting to tear the man apart.
"So, that means this is my fault, is that it? I leave and you collapse immediately into a bloody drug den?" John asked, ignoring the glassy eyes of the men around them as he followed Sherlock toward a boarded up door.
"It means this is not your business," Sherlock snarled, blowing out the door with a single punch and leading them out onto a rickety metal fire escape.
"Fuck you, Sherlock. I'm not the one who threw our friendship away," he shouted, following. He couldn't care to check if the rusted staircase was secure. Sherlock whirled around, his pale eyes burning.
"If you won't forgive me, bloody well leave me alone. I'm on a case," he snarled, trotting down the steps. Wind caught in his sweatshirt, revealing how thin he was. John could have pegged him for a drug user from fifty meters.
This escalated quickly. John followed him, too angry to feel his shoulder wounds or the tips of his fingers anymore.
"A month, that's all it took. One!" John shouted. He didn't know if that was why he was angry.
"I'm working," Sherlock replied, climbing over the railing to balance on a stone wall. John tried to ignore how the usually perfectly balanced genius wavered while they clambered down onto a dumpster and onto the street.
"Sherlock Holmes, in a drug den, how is that going to help?" John scoffed. That would hardly help Sherlock appeal to their clients. Something churned in him, thinking about the man lying to him, so cavalierly, after so much pain. Would nothing make it stop? And why the fuck was he here, then?
"I'm undercover," Sherlock growled, stopping short when he saw the black limo waiting in the parking lot. John sighed. Even he could recognize Mycroft's cars, now.
"No, you're not," John rejected, unwilling to go along with Sherlock's story even if it were irrelevant.
"Well, I'm not now!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms up, his gaze locked on his brother's care. He approached the limo slowly, already rolling his eyes. "You told him," he said, resigned. Mycroft rolled down the window from his place in the back seat.
"Well then, Sherlock, back on the sauce? The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy. Though in many ways, cross-dressing would've been a wiser path for you," Mycroft drawled from within the vehicle. John rubbed at his face, exhausted. He'd barely gone a month avoiding this kind of theatric idiocy and it hadn't been long enough.
"Did you just compare cross-dressing to cocaine?" he asked, annoyed. Mycroft ignored him, keeping his eyes on Sherlock.
"Get in," Mycroft ordered. "We're going home."
John clicked his tongue, disagreeing. Sherlock frowned at him, obviously puzzled, but he got in the car. Mycroft's eyes widened in understanding and something that looked dangerously like amusement and slid over for them on the wide bench.
"We're not going home, we're going to Barts," John ordered, climbing in after them and slamming the door. "I'm calling Molly," he announced, shifting in his seat to get at his new cell phone. Sherlock's eyes widened, seeing it.
Of course he reacts to my changed phone number and nothing of what I've said, John thought, shaking his head and thinking he should have stayed at home.
"Why?" Mycroft asked, though he clearly knew. John glanced at Sherlock, wanting to see him react.
"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar," he announced. Sherlock grimaced but did not argue.
Someone tapped on the door and shoved their head in. John jerked, moving his arms up toward the man's neck, only to catch himself when his shoulder pain flared. It was the young crackhead, still cradling his arms like it'd been horribly maimed. John sat back, pretending he hadn't reacted, though he had no doubt Sherlock and Mycroft both had detailed accounts of it. The crackhead shoved his head further into the car.
"Please, can I come? I think I got a broken arm," the man whined.
"No, go away," Mycroft ordered immediately, lifting his hand to signal to his driver. The crackhead pulled his head back, no doubt expecting the car to peal away.
"No, let him," John caved, frustrated.
"Why would I do that?" Mycroft asked, aghast. Sherlock smirked, no doubt getting. John shoved over on the bench, forcing Mycroft to move to sit across from them.
"Yeah, just get in. It's a sprain," John ordered. Sherlock snorted.
"Anyone else?" Mycroft drawled as the man pulled himself into the car. The whole back seat smelled like urine and body odor immediately. Sherlock sighed and shoved over, bumping further into John. Mycroft smirked at him and Sherlock sneered back.
"All right, Shezza?" the crackhead asked.
"Shezza?" John demanded, only more confused. How long had Sherlock been here, to earn a nickname?
"I was undercover," Sherlock growled.
"Shezza," Mycroft pronounced carefully, rolling the name around on his tongue. Sherlock groaned and said nothing. John dialed Molly's number.
"Hello?" Molly picked up, sounding cautious, even for her. "I'm sorry I hung up on you! It was, well, I was hoping you were going to, um. Flirt."
John blinked rapidly, trying to wonder what on earth was going on in his life.
"Er. Molly?" he asked and heard the woman gasp.
"Oh, oh, John! Oh, my god," she stammered. He could practically hear her blushing. "I thought you were.."
"Someone else, yes, I caught that," John replied. Mycroft slowly raised an eyebrow at him. John was tempted to flip him off.
"What can I do for you?" Molly asked finally, composing herself. John sighed, glancing at Sherlock.
"Run a urine sample," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes again. The phone line clicked dead. John pulled the phone away from his ear, frowning, to see that the call had ended.
Shitty disposable mobiles, John thought, deciding not to call her back and shoving the mobile back in his pocket. There wasn't much more to say than that, anyway. Sherlock crossed his arms and sulked, glaring at Mycroft. The crackhead kept moaning about the long term effects of broken limbs, which Mycroft responded to by tutting sharply and turning away, as if the whole scene were sullying him. John stared out the window behind the crackhead, trying not to think about any of it.
"I'll wait outside, shall I?" Mycroft asked when they got to the hospital. John sucked at his teeth, thinking about grabbing a cab home. What the hell would he gain, knowing if Sherlock were clean? Sherlock glanced at him, looking exhausted. John closed his eyes. He had to know.
He heard the door open and opened his eyes to see the crackhead slinking out of the car, apparently waiting for one of them to try and catch him. Sherlock got out and slammed the door behind him.
"Just go home," John told Mycroft. Mycroft caught his eye and his amused expression melted.
"Why did you leave?" he asked. It sounded like blame. John grabbed the door handle, deciding the he was finally finished with the man. Mycroft Holmes could have nothing more to say to him, not that he'd care to hear. "Or perhaps, more pertinently, why did you ever go back to 221B?"
John gripped the handle, feeling like he'd forgotten how to get out of a car. The metal was cold beneath his fingertips. He had no reason to answer that. He had no answer to that.
"It felt like home," he said, finally unlatching the door and stepping out. That was surely response enough. The door clicked shut behind him and the crackhead stared at the ground. Sherlock was looking up, at the roof John couldn't look at anymore.
John exhaled slowly, careful not to think too hard, and walked purposefully for the front doors. He would be fine, as long as he kept walking. He heard the two men follow behind him, still depressingly silent. The automatic hospital doors slid open, wide enough to fit a gurney, and John gratefully stepped inside the heated building. The sharp scent of antiseptic caught in his sinuses and John hesitated, fear crawling down his back. He needed not to stay here long. He pivoted and headed toward the stairs. The morgue would smell different. Sherlock followed, unquestioning.
Molly greeted John with a tense smile when he opened the morgue door. She glared behind him, presumably at Sherlock, and held out a tiny plastic cup without a word. Sherlock took it with a snarl, moving like a sullen teenager toward the men's restroom across the hall. Molly turned away, her eyebrows high on her forehead.
"Not polite," she murmured, moving away from the door. She glanced curiously at the crackhead but didn't introduce herself. She seemed to be intentionally avoiding John's gaze.
"Um, hi," the crackhead greeted her, shrugging uncomfortably and starting to wander about the lab. "Nice place."
Molly glanced at John in question and he cleared his throat. He still wasn't certain himself how they'd acquired the man. He was only just starting to wonder if it'd be worthwhile to ask the guy's name. It didn't seem worth it, he decided, moving to sit down on one of the lab stools. He didn't want to talk to anyone. Molly sat down beside him but occupied herself wringing her hands and glancing guiltily at the filing cabinet that'd held Sherlock's postmordem reports. John did his best to ignore her. He'd be walking away after this, he reminded himself. No Sherlock, no Molly, no Mycroft. If he was smart, no Greg Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or Mike Stamford. No one who'd see his worn face and ask 'how's Sherlock Holmes?'.
How was Sherlock? John felt anger roil in him. He was a drugged up, miserable, remorseful lunatic. Hadn't they been good for each other?
"So, you two have a history, huh?"
John glanced up, startled, to see the crackhead watching them and Molly blushing.
"Oh, no, that's not right. Oohhh," the man breathed. John closed his eyes, inclined to walk out now. His arms were aching without their slings and he was supposed to be at work, even if it was only to receive his two week's termination notice. "She helped hide his body, didn't she? It was this building he went and tossed himself from, wannit?"
John stretched out his clenched fist, trying to calm himself.
"So, you really never knew," the crackhead concluded. "That must be really sore."
John met the man's eyes, glaring, and the addict lifted his supposedly broken arm in a fast surrender. Grateful, John went back to staring at the white plastic table top. Finally, he heard Sherlock heading back toward the room and he pushed himself to stand in the corner, crossing his arms to help support them. He didn't want to think about Sherlock's slow gait back to them or what exactly was driving Sherlock to come back at all.
He'd do almost anything for me, John thought anyway. He didn't want to know that. Sherlock placed the urine cup on the counter, moving slowly.
Molly started transferring the urine to a vial without a word. The cocaine test materials were laid out in front of her in a perfectly straight line, ready for use. Sherlock leaned against the counter in his misshapen blue sweatshirt, staring down at the linoleum floor in something that looked disturbingly close to true regret. She shoved the urine mix into the spectrophotometer's vial imput and pressed the mode button. She'd apparently calibrated the thing for a urine Benzoylecgonine test before they'd arrived. Molly barely glanced at the number. She apparently had the cutoff rate memorized.
"Well, is he clean?" John asked when she said nothing.
"Clean?" Molly scoffed, sounding more fervent than he'd ever seen her. Sherlock dropped his head lower and John had his answer. Molly walked over and paused in front of Sherlock, long enough for him to look up. Then she slapped him across the face, strong enough to let out a hearty crack. John felt himself jerking forward to action before he'd even thought and had to rein himself back from protecting the genius. Molly had barely let Sherlock process his shock before she was hitting him again. John gripped his forearms, restraining himself from pushing her out of the way and punching the man himself. He wasn't sure Sherlock would stop him. He wasn't sure he'd stop. He didn't know why he was furious. By rights he shouldn't care at all. Or perhaps he should be grateful Sherlock was miserable, as asked.
"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" Molly hissed. John struggled to release his forearms before Sherlock noticed. That wasn't why he was angry. Why wasn't he angry for Sherlock's own good?
"And how dare you betray the love of your friends?" Molly yelled. Yes, that was closer. John felt betrayed. He grimaced, frustrated with himself. Sherlock would have known how much he hated drugs, knew how much it reminded him of Harry's manipulative tantrums and his mother's drunken rages. Sherlock had known he'd never come back to a drug addict but he'd become one none the less.
John shifted in his place, ready to walk out. That wasn't betrayal. He'd left Sherlock first. Surely he hadn't left purely beacuse he'd wanted the madman to chase him?
"Say you're sorry," Molly demanded.
John thought back on his miserable nights in the bedsits, always feeling like he was waiting for something but never sure what, unable to have his back to the door. He'd thought it was all anxiety. Pathetic.
"Sorry, Lestrade still hasn't asked you out - though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring," Sherlock replied. Molly's eyes widened. John stepped forward to intervene but Molly snarled.
"Stop it. Just stop it."
John kept walking forward. One line, he promised himself, one sentence and he'd head for the door. He tried to think up something properly enraged.
"If you were anything near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me," he said instead, his voice low and urgent. Sherlock's eyes widened, darting over his face. John stepped back, disgusted with himself. Surely, he hadn't run only to be chased. Of all things, why would he be angry that Sherlock had not laid all his pain at his feet?
Damn it. He'd finally walk away, now.
"It's for a case," Sherlock scoffed, but he kept his eyes locked on John's, something desperate in his eyes.
"A ca - what kind of case would need you doing this?" John growled before he could stop himself.
"I might as well ask you why you're still at the bedsit," Sherlock replied, his voice strangely soft, not breaking their eye contact. His pupils were dilating correctly; not currently high. But he'd used in the last four to five days. Judging from Molly's reaction at the spectrophotometer, he'd used within the day.
"No, we're not playing this game," John said, shaking his head. Finally, he'd got his willpower beneath him and started walking toward the laboratory exit.
"Barely left it, I'd say," Sherlock called after him, sounding plaintive, trying to be a genius. Impress him. John hesitated and shook his head, ignoring how Molly and the crackhead were watching them.
"Not interested," he replied, trying to get himself to walk out of the room.
"I am," the crackhead commented. John closed his eyes, trying to remember all of the reasons why he'd left, why he'd wanted Sherlock to be in pain. "Is it the shirt?"
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, sounding strangely captivated. Off-topic already, John noted, opening his eyes.
What the fuck do I want from him?
"Well, it's the creases, innit?" the druggie explained. John turned around to see him looking rather smug. Sherlock glanced between him and John, clearly startled. "The creases down the front? It's been recently folded by it's not new. Folded - why? Maybe because you don't own any hangers. Or arn't botherin' to hang 'um up. Probably living out of a suitcase," the man explained. John sighed. A new Sherlock.
A drug addict and an observational savant. What more could Sherlock want in an assistant and a replacement friend? John swallowed, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his arms relaxed. He wanted to both march from the room and never leave.
The fuck do I want?
"Not bad," Sherlock said, sounding pleased, and John felt like he was watching himself lose the last of his connection to the man. The last of a twisted friendship he'd quite fervently killed.
"And I further deduce -" the crackhead announced smugly, dragging out his words for his audience. Sherlock looked startled at the idea of something he'd missed. John felt threatened. 'The bedsit. You're on a shitty mattress - no hotel. You hold yourself like your lower back hurts. And you're in a crap neighborhood. You've been held and tortured, you have. Look at the scars on your wrists; held by something sharp. That's not botherin' to mention your nails. That's just nasty, innit? Not exactly living it up, are you?"
John pulled himself to attention, ready to leave again. He would not be deduced like this.
"No, his hands always look like that," Sherlock lied. The druggie blinked at him. John thought he had to look just as confused himself. Why the fuck would Sherlock bother to lie? Just to save him from needing to explain? It wasn't like Sherlock to be so considerate.
"Remind me, what's your name again?" Sherlock asked. John bit his tongue.
"They call me The Wig," the druggie announced.
"No, they don't," Sherlock replied without hesitation.
"Well, they call me Wiggy," the man hedged.
"Nope." Sherlock looked smug. John watched him. It'd been a long time since he'd seen Sherlock in his element. He had to admit, he could still captivate a room, dressed in a urine-stained hoodie and relapsed on cocaine.
I should leave.
"Bill. Bill Wiggans," the man said finally. Sherlock nodded.
"Nice observational skills, Billy," he pronounced. John frowned, wondering what he was missing. It certainly wasn't like Sherlock to start a power play, even if he did find an intellectual equal. With The Woman all he'd wanted to do was show off and play. But now Sherlock sneered at the druggie like the man was beneath him. Bill huffed and clutched at his arm, apparently remembering that it was supposed to be broken. Sherlock buried himself in his phone.
"Oy, is anybody gunna see to my arm here? Arn't we in a hospital. It's broken," he complained, glancing at John. John swallowed, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice. But, of course, Sherlock's gaze leapt up from his phone to stare at the drugged out man, instantly engaged. Bill stepped backwards, obviously intimidated. John rubbed at his forearm, frustrated with himself. He hadn' t needed to hurt the lad; he'd known that.
"Yeah, somebody hit me," Bill muttered, shifting where he stood. Sherlock didn't drop his stare. Bill cradled his arm to his chest. "Just some guy," he lied, glancing immediately at John. Sherlock turned to stare at him, looking concerned.
Damn it.
"Yeah, probably just an addict in need of a fix," he said, unable to meet their eyes. Bill glared at him, noting the insult.
Why am I still here? He looked up to see Sherlock watching him again.
"Yes, I think in a way it was," Sherlock intoned. John clenched his jaw and looked away. He didn't want to talk about why he'd hurt Bill Wiggens. Surely they both already knew. He was a dangerous, damaged man who couldn't sit peacefully anymore. Sherlock dropped his gaze. John wished he knew what the genius thought of him.
He wouldn't live with Sherlock Holmes, left behind and lied to. The question was only what he would do when he finally got himself to leave the morgue. He certainly couldn't go about beating up drugged out tuffs every month or so.
One month, that's all it took. John rolled his stiff shoulders. He was healing, physically, but it'd be a long time before he could throw a strong punch. That was probably a good thing. He saw Sherlock approaching him and didn't move.
"It's for a case. Charles Augustus Magnussen," Sherlock whispered. John frowned. It wasn't like Sherlock to be discreet. And there didn't seem to be much need for it - Magnussen was a well-known public figure, at least among the generations that still read newspapers.
"What does that mean?" John asked. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't want to be anywhere near a Holmes relative again. That was better; safer.
"It means I'm taking a risk too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in," Sherlock replied, talking in his ear like a lover. John closed his eyes, feeling his heartbeat pick up.
"You trying to warn me off?" he asked. That would be better too. Let Sherlock show him one more time that he'd rather John safe than sane. This time, John would know better than to wait for him to prove it.
"God, no. I'm trying to recruit you," Sherlock breathed.
Oh god, yes.
John opened his eyes. Sherlock was watching him intently. John rubbed at his forehead, frustrated.
To try again at 221B? Would he never learn?
"Can I come too?" Bill whined, lifting up a hand.
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped without taking his eyes off John. John cleared his throat and shifted where he stood, flattered by the attention.
"I can't-" John started but trailed off. He didn't know what he couldn't do. He couldn't lose Sherlock again, and he couldn't be disregarded and deceived again. What did that mean for them, then? That he'd return to Sherlock or that he'd leave him?
"Not a move-in, nothing more, just a case," Sherlock offered, before jerking his head toward where Bill leaned against the laboratory counter with Molly seeing to his arm. "It's better than prosecuting crackpots."
"Like Gaston," John mumbled. Sherlock frowned.
"What?" he barked.
"You don't know? No one takes cheap shots like Gaston, plans to prosecute harmless crackpots like Gaston…" Molly said, glancing about the room awkwardly. Sherlock stared at her like she'd started to strip on the morgue tables. Molly quieted.
"Who the fuck is Gaston?" Sherlock demanded, looking around the room for help.
"Disney movie," John explained. Sherlock shook his head, disregarding the tangent.
"Is that a yes?" he demanded. John sighed. He was an idiot. Sherlock smiled so widely his canines showed. He lifted his phone up in his hand like it was a ticket to heaven.
"I've got excellent news. There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers," he said, excitedly heading for the door. "Come on, John! The game is on!" he called after him.
What the hell am I doing? John asked himself, following.