Chapter Text
There it was again. The emptiness. It would always be there, he was fully aware of that. Yet, he still hoped it wouldn’t.
Just moments ago he was enjoying the thrill of the chase. Lestrade had desperately called him and he, as always, had delivered the identity of the murderer. It had been an exciting case. This still was not enough, however. Nothing was ever enough for Sherlock Holmes. There he was again, sitting in his armchair, nervously tapping his knees with his fingertips. “When’s the next one?”, he helplessly yelled out to the skull in front of him. The skull simply stared back, as if to mock him.
His mind was still working on full speed, but he had nothing to use it for. The mental power was slowly eating away at him, draining him from any physical energy he had left. He sighed and got up, only to let himself drop down on the couch. What’s the use anyway, he thought. He curled himself up, knees to his chin. The urge rising from within was hard to ignore. But was he really to blame, when there was only one thing which could ease this torture?
He had promised himself to stop. Lestrade was going through enough trouble bringing him in when he was clean, let alone if he were to involve a junkie in a police investigation. Mycroft had kept him out of trouble more than Sherlock would like to admit. He probably would have been in prison more than once if Mycroft hadn’t erased certain documents, paid certain investigators.
He suddenly got up from the couch. As he walked through the room, he gathered his coat and scarf and put them on, coat collars turned up.
The moment he walked out on the London streets, his legs were programmed to auto-pilot. They were bringing him to the one place he was most familiar. He looked at the people passing him by. One was having an affair, probably with his secretary. The other had stolen money from a close relative, most likely to be able to afford her luxury coat. Boring. Still not satisfying. The urge was only growing stronger.
He walked on, leaving the busy streets and arriving at a darker corner of London. He quickly looked behind him, to see if one of Mycroft’s men had been following him. He had been looking out for them the entire way, naturally, but it was always better to be completely sure. The last thing he could use right now is a rant from his older brother, telling him he should know better. Sherlock knew that, by now, commenting on Mycroft’s weight instead of answering his condemning questions would not do the trick anymore. Sadly enough, Mycroft was right for once. Nonetheless, Sherlock was not one to admit his own mistakes.
After thoroughly analyzing every little speck of dust for signs of Mycroft and seeing none, he turned around again, watching the unhygienic man who was leaning against a wall. “Sherlock Holmes!” , the man exclaimed. “Haven’t seen you in a while, mate!”. Sherlock cringed at the sound of his name. Dave may look like an idiot, but he sure knew how to track his customers. At least, the regular ones. Sherlock silently cursed himself for putting up the website, with his full name and phone number. He faked a wide smile. “Been busy, Dave. Some of us have responsibilities, you know?”. The man smiled back at him, showing his teeth. “I’m sure you have plenty of responsibilities, Mr Holmes.”, he paused to let out a small sarcastic laugh. “So, what will it be, the regular?”. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering to expose Dave’s embarrassing little secret: he still wets his bed at night. Then, just when he was about to show off his impressive skills of deduction, he heard a police siren in the distance, making him realise the seriousness of his situation. If anyone saw him here, there would be a huge fuss. It would be best to get this over with as soon as possible. He swallowed his pride and gave a quick nod. Dave handed him a small plastic bag. Sherlock instantly paid the man and walked off, carefully hiding the package in his coat pocket. He started pacing back towards Baker Street. He was dreadfully silent on the outside. Inside he was yelling. Every possible insult in the English language crossed his mind in mere seconds, each one more vulgar than the one before.