Chapter 4: Better Than Drugs

Sherlock was making his way through the streets of London, still fresh in the glow and buzz of a recent hit of cocaine, when he caught sight of flashing police lights.

Pushing past the crowd of onlookers, he immediately started to take in the scene—a body sprawled across the ground, pieces of shattered glass, but no car in sight. Then, looking past the scene, he caught sight of one of Walt's homeless cohort. He quickly made his way over to the alley where the woman, Alice, was watching the scene with a distinct look of disinterest.

After a very short but enlightening conversation, Sherlock slipped her a five quid, and then walked purposefully to the two lead officers who were talking amongst themselves.

Once he was within ear shot, he heard one of them say, "Simple hit and run. Open and shut."

Loudly, Sherlock interjects, "Just because you lot are simple doesn't mean the crime has to be."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Do I know you?"

"No, but I know you Gary Lestrade."

"First of all, it's Greg. Second of all—"

"Greg, Gary, that's not important. What's important is that you're wrong—you're all wrong. About this, and about several other recent cases. But let's focus on the current murder for the moment."

One of the other officers made a move towards Sherlock, but Lestrade waved him away and said, "Well go on then. Enlighten us."

"First of all, take note of the ring on his finger."

"So the bloke was married. How's that—"

"Ah, but then look right over there, on the pavement. A diamond ring—his wife's diamond ring."

"So the wife pushed him into traffic?"

"It gets better than that."

Incredulous, Lestrade asks, "Are you actually enjoying this?"

But Sherlock ignores him.

"I was just having a chat with Alice—"

"Wait, who?"

"Homeless network. Absolutely invaluable, and they're a good deal smarter than most of you Scotland Yard-ers. You have to be if you're going to make a living on the streets of London."

"What? A homeless network?"

"Yes, yes, but back to the matter at hand. According to Alice, an hour before, this man was seen conversing with the driver of the car that would kill him, and a rather large sum of money exchanged hands."

At this point, a different officer interjects, "So he paid off the driver to kill him?"

"Are you lot really this dense? No, he didn't pay the driver to kill him. He paid the driver to kill his wife."

Now, Lestrade asks, "But why would he do that?"

"I would wager she was quite well off—most likely family money, based on the ring. Clearly an antique, well cared for, very expensive, most likely a family heirloom. His ring, on the other hand, much newer, plainer, so most likely her engagement ring was inherited from her wealthy family."

"So what does that—"

"If he killed her, he would inherit the money, and then he and his mistress could live quite comfortably."

"So he was having an affair?"

"Yes, obviously. Why else would he and his wife get into a screaming fight, with her chucking her rings into the street?"

"Well, maybe there was trouble at home or—"

"Balance of probability says affair. After all, clearly the wife was angry enough not to stick around after her husband got hit by a car. I would say it's quite likely that his mistress was a friend of the wife's, someone that made this adultery particularly personal."

"Okay, even if all of that is true, you haven't given us a whole lot to go on."

"Do I have to do everything? There's security footage at the café and the convenience store on the corner owned by the Indian couple. Not the one run by the Americans. That one is completely useless, and their cigarettes are so overpriced.

"Anyway, find the driver based on the plate, offer him a plea deal, and he'll fill you in on any of the details you're lacking."

After giving orders to the other officers, Lestrade turns back to Sherlock and says, "That was brilliant, but you must be coked up out of your mind."

"That's a very serious accusation to be wielding, Sargent."

"Detective Inspector, in fact."

"Ah yes, but you're quite new at this. Just a little over a month, I would say."

"I don't see—"

"You'll be wanting to get off to a good start." In one swift movement, Sherlock pulled out a piece of paper—his calling card so to speak, with his name, phone number, and Consulting Detective scribbled in pen—and he tucked it into Lestrade's coat pocket.

He then added, "Call me with any of your interesting cases."

With that, Sherlock turned to go, but Lestrade called out—

"Empty all your pockets."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, I'll have to take you into custody."

"On what charges?"

"Interfering with a criminal investigation."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he did as Lestrade requested. Obviously he wasn't stupid enough to carry drugs on his person when investigating a crime scene.

As Lestrade watches him, Sherlock says, rhetorically, "I help you solve a case and this is the thanks I get?"

"It's for your own bloody good. And if I do ever call you in on anymore cases—and mind you, I'm not saying that I will—you sure as hell better not show up under the influence, or I will haul your arse in and book you."

Shaking his head, Lestrade adds, "Now go sleep it off. You're too smart to be playing with fire like that."

In an unusual moment of candor, before Sherlock can stop himself, he says, "That's where you're very wrong, Detective Inspector. I'm too smart not to be doing this."

And with that, Sherlock turned and strode away, leaving a very confused Detective Inspector in his wake.

By the time Sherlock got home—he walked the whole way, too filled with pent up energy to sit motionless in a taxi cab or stand in one place waiting for the Tube—it was already quite late, and his brother had long ago turned off all the lights and gone to sleep, no doubt expecting that Sherlock would be out all night as had been his custom recently.

In no mood to deal with his brother, Sherlock moved soundlessly through the house, not bothering to turn on the lights. After all, he had memorized every detail already. He knew there were 15 steps leading from the first floor to the second. He knew that the couch was 5 strides into the living room. He knew where every creaky floor board was located, and took particular care to avoid the one outside Mycroft's room.

Once he made it to his own room, Sherlock took off his shoes and his overcoat, and then jumped into bed, overcome with a pleasant exhaustion, quite different from the usual painful, restless fatigue that came on as a result of the drugs wearing off.

As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help but think maybe he had found the one thing better than being on drugs—solving crimes.

The next morning he wakes earlier than usual, filled with a renewed energy. He hopped out of bed, threw on a clean pair of trousers and a fresh shirt, and then he eagerly and loudly trampled his way down the stairs and practically skipped into the kitchen, where he saw Mycroft sitting at the table eating a scone absentmindedly while reading some papers.

Sherlock greeted Mycroft cheerfully. "Good morning, brother dear."

Dryly, Mycroft replies, "Is it?"

When Sherlock doesn't respond, Mycroft adds, "Is that how you felt before you did a line of cocaine?"

"Your powers of observation are slipping, brother mine. I've done nothing of the sort."

"Then what could possibly account for your markedly out of character good cheer this morning? It's not usually your custom to be up and about at such an early hour."

"I have to get an early start. There must be some investigation into a gruesome murder that Scotland Yard is currently bolloxing."

"What are you—"

"Yesterday I came upon Scotland Yard cluelessly trying to solve a simple hit and run which was anything but, and I helped nudge them in the right direction."

"Did you now?"

Ignoring Mycroft's condescending tone, Sherlock says, "Yes, you see—"

"Please, spare me the details."

"You're just jealous because you spend your day holding the hand of high ranking incompetent diplomats."

"I'm not jealous I can assure you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, of course. Why would I be jealous of you running around like a common police officer, wasting your time when you could be devoting yourself to your studies."

"It's not a waste—"

"Spare me, Sherlock. I'm in no mood for your petty arguments. If you want to waste your time on these silly flights of fancy when you should be studying or failing that, finding a respectable job so that Mummy and Daddy don't have to worry about you ending up in the poorhouse, then by all means, be my guest."

Sherlock doesn't respond. Instead, he turns on his heel, and strides quickly out of the kitchen. A moment later, Mycroft hears the loud bang of the front door slamming.

For an instant, Mycroft feels a pang of regret—maybe he was too harsh, after all Sherlock could be getting up to worse things—but he quickly shakes off the concerns and returns to his work.

For his part, Sherlock is already walking quickly through the streets, his feet pounding with a satisfying thump on the pavement, as his mind runs through all the many things he wish he had said to his brother.

He doesn't pay attention to where his feet are taking him, and half an hour later when he finally takes stock of his surroundings, he realizes he is a few short steps away from his usual pick up spot. He stands it that spot, motionless, considers turning around, going to find a crime, going to the lab, going anywhere but here, but—driven by a desire to spite his brother and propelled by a deep need that he can't even put words to—he strides forward, money already in hand, his brain and body both crying out for the next hit.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, although it did take a bit of a dark turn towards the end. The next chapter, which is called "Flatline" doesn't promise to be any happier, I'm afraid.

The good news is that chapter 5 is already pretty much done, so I'm going to try to post it some time in the next couple days.

If you have a moment, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter! Thanks for reading :)