Even if Sherlock had been back for a while now, John still found it quite difficult to enter the flat at 221B Baker Street. Of course, he had promised himself to pay Mrs. Hudson a visit more often (especially after she had lectured him about manners and whatnot), but even then, there was something that kept John from going there as much as he would like to. Sherlock is, and was always going to be his best friend, but that sting of betrayal John had felt after Sherlock returned from the dead had left a small wound on his soul. It didn’t mattered how much he tried, John had a difficult time forgiving Sherlock for thinking he was dead - especially since so many other people actually knew the truth.
Either way, John avoided Baker Street. He didn’t go there more than necessary. To be perfectly honest to himself, John highly doubted that Sherlock understood how much pain he had brought to him - for 2 years, John had been living an extremely lonely life. Just like when he had returned from the war. Except this time, there were actually people there who cared about his well-being, it was just that John had been extremely tired of people pitying him. Every time Greg Lestrade or Mike Stamford had called him and asked him if he wanted to visit a pub or something, John had turned down the offer - it was just so obvious they pitied him and thought he would need the company. John had been able to take care of himself before, and he could just might as well do that again. Yes, he was being extremely selfish and didn’t even think for a moment that other people than him was coping with Sherlock’s death. You could say that John was being full of himself, and nobody pitied him as much as he himself did.
Things had changed though. In 2 years, a lot of things had changed with John, and even if he was extremely happy to realise that Sherlock was alive and well, he had promised himself that he wouldn’t be as dependent on him as before. Since his best friend’s miraculous return, John had only seen him a few times. For some reason, whenever John had tried to phone or send Sherlock a text message, he rarely got an answer. And when he did, Sherlock didn’t made a lot of sense - a lot less than usual, that is. He tried to not think about it though - John tried to focus on his own life, and at the moment, he was trying to be as happy as he possibly could by seeing this new woman who had been his company during Sherlock’s absence. Considering John hadn’t seen Sherlock very much lately, he also hadn’t really had the time or opportunity to tell him about her. But then again, John figured Sherlock would only see her as one of the many women John dated for a while, and then just broke up with him. Maybe he was right - maybe his days with Mary would come to an end soon. But until then, John was determined to be happy.
At least he was relatively happy until the day he received another phone call from a worried Mrs. Hudson. It didn’t take many seconds for her to tell John that Sherlock was missing. John had tried to calm her down by ensuring her that Sherlock was most likely just out on a case, or were trying to expand his homeless network, but it didn’t work. Mrs. Hudson enlightened John about the fact that Sherlock had been missing for at least 3 days. “Call Greg Lestrade - he’s a detective inspector and could find him faster than me.“ John had told her. This was, of course, not true. John was positive that if he just wanted to, he could track down Sherlock faster than any police officer in London. All those years of going on cases with Sherlock, John had managed to pick up a thing or two from the genius of a man. But after some nagging and complaints, Mrs. Hudson managed to convince John into going out and looking for Sherlock.
It was 20 minutes past noon, and John was sitting in a cab that drove him around London’s streets while he was looking out for his friend, but that obviously didn’t help, and soon enough it was going to be way too expensive to use the cab to go anywhere. So he decided to be dropped off by Victoria Station. With his phone flipped out, he quickly dialled down Sherlock’s number, hit “call” and brought it to his ear - listening carefully while he made his way down one of the nearby streets.
No answer - what a surprise. But no matter, within just 30 minutes, John had managed to look around and ask a few members of Sherlock’s homeless network to get a track of where Sherlock might be. The clues and tips lead him to a back alley near Hyde Park. John wasn’t all that familiar with the surroundings, even if the park was quite popular for normal everyday people, but this back alley gave him an uneasy feeling. After giving it a quick look, he noticed a door into one of the buildings in which he was sure to find Sherlock. By the sight of it, John was already starting to realise why he would find his friend here. He hoped he was wrong, but what he was hoping wasn’t going to help Sherlock. With a quick look over his shoulder, John tried the handle and noticed that it was locked, but by judging the state it was in, it was no match for John to bust open. After a few hard pushes, John did manage to bust the door open and it lead him into a very dull and dark room with no furniture and no living thing in sight. He closed the door behind him, leaving him in almost complete silence. John listened carefully as he took a few steps into the room - each step making an echoing noise. Then he stood still for a moment as he brought up his pocket flashlight and turned it on to be able to see better.
The room was indeed very empty, and for a moment John was certain he was looking at the wrong place, but then he could hear a very, very silent groaning sound - coming from another room nearby. He looked around again and realised that the there were a few doors leading to other parts of the building. John figured that this must be a some kind of a storage room. And an abandoned one, that is. John moved further inside to follow the groaning sound that seemed to be getting somewhat louder the closer he got to to one of the doors. He reached out a hand and tried to handle - it swung open and lead him into another equally dark room, but this one wasn’t empty. From what John could see in the light of the flashlight, a couple of bodies were laying on the ground in the corners, and some were sitting up against the walls, but oh. That smell. In the same moment he had opened the door an incredibly nasty and powerful scent swept over him, and he had to let go of the handle to cover his nose and mouth. John let out a disgusted sound as he called out for his friend. “Ugh. Sherlock..? You in here somewhere?” He took a few steps and looked around the new room. He quickly realised that he was standing in the middle of a drug den, and he was hoping he wasn’t going to find Sherlock in here, but he had to look. After all, he was a Doctor and Sherlock’s friend - John had a responsibility, and even if he had a hard time forgiving Sherlock for everything he did in the past, he couldn’t just leaving him here. If he actually was here. He called out for him again. “Sherlock?”
Since Sherlock had “returned from the dead“, been given a debriefing by his brother in which Sherlock walked away, got punched by John and many people being shocked that he was yes infact alive - he had kept low key for now except one or two cases. Sherlock needed to make sure his Homeless Network was aware of his arrival and to spot if anything strange was going on. This also meant he would have to walk around London going to places he would rather not go, but needs must. People always underestimated the homeless - they were not all bad people and were useful given the right persuasion. That usually meant give them food, drugs or money. Sometimes all three.
Over the last two years playing dead, Sherlock had seen many ghastly things - some of which was of his creation, but there wasn’t much he could do in far eastern Siberia in Winter. When board of course you are going to throw a Russian hit man to a pack of wolves that had been on your trail for three days. Anyway, Sherlock now had scars that would not go away. Not on his body but those mental images that only cropped up when triggered by something. There was a reason he had to stop eating red jam.
Of course Sherlock would not tell anyone of these things because any normal person would not be able to comprehend what was going on or achieve. Also it was most likely highly confidential and Mycroft would be looking for years trying to find the right therapist with the right credentials so Sherlock could talk to someone. Not that he would of course, though he was sure Molly would be able to let him speak to a few dead bodies. They didn’t talk back - though he did have one case where...nevermind it wasn’t important to the situation.
Another thing about flashbacks and all that stuff which doctors make people go on Xanex for. Sherlock had no use for pills - Mycroft and his parents had tried to make him go on things like that as a teen because of various issues but Sherlock sold them online. It wasn’t till months later that he was found out and feeding the homeless’ drug habits. Though he was £300 richer.
Sherlock did find another drug though, it started off with some coke at Oxford which people were passing around at a “party“, but then it turned into a more serious habit - heroin. Sherlock was on it on/off for years until Mycroft gave him an ultimatum. His dear brother was worried for him, but finally he agreed to go to a stupid rehab place. Sherlock of course managed to discharge himself within three days despite being there against his will, but he didn’t touch the drugs for years after. Bad news for his lungs though, he turned to smoking. This time Mycroft couldn’t have a go at him as he smoked too.
What was the thing that finally made him go back to the little nasty drug habit that people so nicely liked to call it - Moriarty. Despite being dead the man still was in his head and had a network all around Europe and Asia that Sherlock had to slowly dismantled. For some reason he never chose America or Australia - well it was a nice holiday for the fourty eight hours he spent in both countries. Ok maybe it wasn’t all Moriarty, but mostly likely 80% of all his problems come down to him.
Some of the homeless he had been trying to get intel from were not so fond of him, mainy because he looked like an uptight toff wanting sympathy. That all changed when he offered to do drugs with them. He didn’t share a needle, but he arranged a time and place where he could go and he’ll be dressed down too. It was all about trust with the homeless. That was three days ago and he had only told Mrs Hudson he’d be gone for a few hours. She’d probably had got Mycroft and John our looking for him but who cared right now. He was high and had missed this feeling so badly.
Sure Sherlock didn’t like how he had track marks on him anymore and was trying to calculate the precise amount of herion to take so that he wouldn’t fatally overdose, but it was worth it for the things he didn’t have to remember anymore. Still in his foggy mind he had managed to keep a list of all he had taken, just so he would keep a promise to Mycroft.
Right now Sherlock was just crouched in a corner coming down from whatever the heroin wanted to give him today when he heard his name. He looked rough, stoned to his tits and not shaved, eaten and drunk in three days but still had the rest of his senses available...slightly. Turning around he looked and saw John standing there with a torch who looked like he’d rather be fighting a gang of rapists than be here. “Oh hey John, what you doing here? Ignore me, i’m just high while reconnecting with...“ Sherlock gives a motion to try and attempt to show he was reconnecting with the Homeless Network.
