Chapter 9: Lost and found again
John's letters were a bit of a light in the darkness but still not enough to make him feel better. Sherlock looked up to the sky. From his hiding place on the roof of the old theater he could watch the grey clouds flouting over the firmament. He hadn't been home for weeks, hadn't even read the last letter. Probably there were some more waiting in Mycroft's house to be read. Something that would not happen.
The caring words from John didn't help anymore. They made it better for a few minutes until the reality would come crushing down on him again, until he couldn't breathe anymore. He couldn't stand the looks of the people at his university anymore. He couldn't act around Mycroft as if everything was alright. He didn't go to his therapist anymore scared of the nightmares and the guilt that would then inevitably follow during the nights.
Sherlock was lost. Nothing could help him anymore. His memories and the guilt were eating him alive and he could only function when both ended. He had found a solution or, better, someone had showed him a way to forget.
His only real contact in the university was Sebastian, the one that had showed him everything on his first day. He introduced him on a party to something that made his head calm and quiet. The voices would stop shouting, the eyes looking at him would disappear and the pain in his chest would be gone as long as he was high.
He knew that he couldn't continue like that. The drugs he consumed were dangerous. Sherlock was aware of the side effects, the things he did to his body. But what difference did it make to his already signed transport (as he had started calling his body a few weeks back). It was only a body, nothing important; he would do what pleased him with it.
The first few days after he had started with the drugs were the best he had experienced since he had come back. Without the constant and nagging guilt feelings he could function a bit better but it also showed that he hadn't made a single friend in his time at the university. He was lonelier than ever. The people around him only used him to get answers, they were too lazy to look for themselves. Sebastian only faked friendship to make his life at university easier.
Sherlock couldn't stay at this place. No one liked him. He had no friends, the professors didn't like him either because he knew more than them. It had been a mistake to show his knowledge. The people around him that didn't know about his past didn't like him because he was a freak as they had started calling him behind his back.
A freak that didn't belong to them and would never be part of it. The word hurt and at first Sherlock didn't understand why. He had been called far worse. He couldn't figure out why it hurt that much to be called a freak.
He hadn't told John about that word or about his life without friends. About the loneliness without his brother or the drugs. He couldn't tell John that the person he had saved had become someone like that. A friendless drug addict. There was no need to say it in any different way; he needed the drugs to stop his mind from going around and around. To help him stop remembering, to shut out the memories.
Sherlock hated Sebastian for using him but also was endlessly thankful for the drugs. Of course he had heard about them and seen them before. A man like Moriarty had his hands on everything. He had even let Sherlock make them once but he had never taken them until that night at the party where he had heard the word freak once too often.
When the substance hit his body it was pure blessing and with it were gone all doubts or fears about putting the poison into his body. He could finally hear his mind clearly again without all the voices. And from that moment on he was lost. He knew it. There wouldn't be another day without it. Not if Sherlock could prevent it.
That's how he had ended on that roof, to hide from Mycroft, the police and his angry dealer. He didn't have enough money anymore to buy the drugs and Mycroft had shut down his account in order get Sherlock back. But he wouldn't go back. No one would take the drugs from him, not his brother, no one. Without the money he needed to find another way to get the drugs, so he stole them. That was the reason his dealer was hunting him. As for the police, he had made a mistake by resting and falling asleep. A police officer had woken him and to his defense he had been high and still half sleeping. The officer had noticed his state of course but he had been able to run away. Even high as a kite he was faster than the man.
Now alone and relatively safe Sherlock waited for the night to come so that he could continue his search for a new sleeping place. Hidden from his brother the police and the very angry dealer. Sherlock felt how the drug started losing its effect and the world began to go back to his personal hell of guilt. He needed the next shot but first he needed a safe place.
In the end it had been the old theater since he was already on its roof. In the evening more and more people came into the building through the windows. Sherlock who had come from the building next to it through a route leading over the roof tops of London quickly opened the door and found a relative quiet room with only a few other people in it. After building a bed with his coat and an old blanket he finally shot up to get lost in his mind again and fall asleep.
Sherlock should have watched the other people a bit more but he was tired and what he had read in the few minutes he had been there was enough to be sure no one would hurt him. But he didn't look close enough and oversaw a potentially dangerous person amongst them. Someone who wouldn't hurt them but who was himself hunted. The person wasn't intelligent and didn't notice he was followed. It was a short slumber for Sherlock and his neighbors who shared that improvised living place.
He was woken by a ruff voice, shouting through the fog of his dreams. "Police. We have a warrant to search this place. Everyone who is able to walk, line up on the wall." The man's voice let no one question his authority. Sherlock finally awake couldn't find a way out and had no other choice then to line up with the others.
"We are looking for a murder suspect." Continued the same man. Sherlock found his voice, now that he was awake, nice. It was the voice of a man with a caring heart, a bit like John. "The man must have arrived about an hour ago. Black hair, dark clothes, age 45. If anyone has seen someone who matches this description please let me know." Sherlock started to deduce the people around him, excluding the police officers. He needed something to bargain with before and he needed to find the one person that would let him out of here without being imprisoned.
The man that had arrived short after Sherlock had taken the drugs and fallen asleep, the man that had tried to fit in and done a very good job at it too, he must be it. Sherlock was sure but he needed to prove his assumption or no one would listen to him or believe his words. While he was still keeping an eye on the man that was apparently a murderer, the police officer who had spoken to them suddenly stood in front of him.
"Hey kid. What are you doing in a place like this?" His voice had changed a bit, gone softer Sherlock would say.
Sherlock looked at the man. He was around Mycroft's age. A few grey hairs were visible between the dark ones. He was married, not happily. His wife didn't like his long working hours and used the time to find other men to have a bit of fun with. The man was young for his position, reliable in his job, liked by both colleagues and the superiors. Too good for the world. Like John.
Sherlock shook his head; he didn't want to think about his friend. He would start feeling guilty again. He had disappointed him. John had thought Sherlock would be strong enough to begin a new a life, that he would be able to leave his past behind.
To put his attention in the right place again, Sherlock said: "The man you are looking for is the second in line." The man froze, he knew he was trapped. The police man looked up and down at Sherlock and then at the man he had pointed out. It was never good to talk to the police but no one protected a murderer.
"Why do you think the man is our suspect?" The police man asked to Sherlock's surprise. First he was called a kid and then there was someone who seemed to believe what he said.
"He… he came only an hour ago, his clothes look dirty but they are new. He must have put a bit of soil and other dirt on it to make them look worn. He smells to clean. No one who lives in a place like this smells like soap. You can still smell the washing powder on his clothes." Sherlock slowly remembered all the details that he had noticed unconsciously while falling asleep. "The man's shoes have little spots. I would say it is blood and not mud like your colleagues thought. Since I have pointed him out he put his hands in his pockets as they are shaking. He has tried to fit in but everyone who is here has a past of addiction to one or more drugs. His body won't show any sign of him being a user." Sherlock had touched his own arm over the needle marks while talking. "You don't have to believe me but I think the murder weapon you are looking for is hidden under the loose wooden board he is standing on."
The police man had listened to Sherlock without interrupting him. He ordered two of his men to secure the suspect and to look under the loose board. And there it was: the knife the man must have used. The other policeman put it into an evidence bag for later analysis. The fingerprints where visible in the blood on the shaft. During the whole thing, the attention that had been on Sherlock got less intense and the moment the suspect tried to flee, he used the opportunity to get away himself. Jumping out of the window of the second floor Sherlock made his way upstairs to the roof using the fire stairs and ran away over the rooftops of the buildings of London. He had used a similar way to get away from the last policeman and his dealer.
No one was able to follow him and in the end he found a new hiding place in one of the homeless shelters. He wasn't questioned and in this was could easily disappear between the other people who couldn't go home or didn't have one to go to.
Lestrade remembered the young man who had pointed out his suspect easily. He didn't look any older than twenty. A young man lost for the world. Only a few survived this life style. Drugs, addiction, only a few, the lucky ones, that had help and received support could get clean and back to their normal lives.
The man's eyes had looked lost, even more after he had asked him to prove his words which had been clear and as it seemed also true. The man who had definitely been high had a bright mind but Lestrade couldn't understand how he had ended in this place at all.
He didn't think he would meet the young man again only a week later. And at a far worse place then the old theater. On his way home after work Lestrade passed a few back alleys to go to his parked car that he had let behind the store to get the shopping done for the weekend. He would be alone, his wife or better soon ex-wife was visiting her mother. Probably talking about his faults and not her cheating.
When he could nearly see his car he stumbled over something. He turned around and his heart nearly stopped. On the dirty ground between the bins lays a dark figure, a lifeless looking human body. Quickly Lestrade got down on his knees to check the pulse. When he found one he took a deep breath. He hadn't noticed that he had stopped breathing while hoping not to find a dead body on his way home.
The man stirred under his hand and tired eyes look up at him. Eyes he had seen before. The young man from a week ago. To Lestrade's surprise the man started to move, pulling his arm from Lestrade's hand and standing up. At least he tried. In the light of the street lamps he could see the blown pupils, dark and huge, consuming the beautiful blue/green eyes.
"…I'm fine. Go away. I don't need your help." The man, one hand on the wall to stable himself turned to the left, away from Lestrade's car.
"No kid. I will bring you to a hospital; you might have taken too much and I won't leave you here to die." Lestrade put his hand on the man's shoulder to lead him in the right direction but the kid fought him.
"No hospital. They will find me. I can't go back. NO!" The last word was shouted and a true and deep fear shown in his eyes. Lestrade wasn't sure how to proceed. He couldn't leave him here but a hospital seemed to scare him.
"You can come with me. I have a sofa where you can sleep without freezing and in the morning there will be a warm shower and something to eat. How about it?" The man didn't need to think long about the offer, nodded and followed Lestrade to his car. A second after Lestrade had started the engine the man was sleeping again or passed out, Lestrade wasn't sure which but hoped for the best.
The way up to his flat was easy because the man woke up probably wanting to check if Lestrade had kept his word. He managed to almost walk up the stairs alone. He didn't take off his coat or shoes and collapsed on the sofa. A small snoring came from the young man as Lestrade put a blanket on top of him and placed a glass of water on the table next to him.
Tired himself Lestrade followed the man into the world of dreams after a quick shower and tea. He was glad his wife was away. He didn't know why he had taken the man home but he was sure it was the right thing to do.