Chapter Text
"Victor." Sherlock sat up in bed and shook the pale shoulder next to him. "Victor, wake up."
Victor Trevor groaned and rolled away from Sherlock. It was early morning, winter sunlight just barely shining through Sherlock's curtains. Frost swirls were on the windows, and if you dared to peek outside you would be greeted by a white curtain of snow, divided in the middle by the grey stretch of road. It was peaceful, but not for the time being. Sherlock shook Victor again.
"Victor, there's snow! It's almost Christmas!" Sherlock was ecstatic, it rarely ever snowed this much in London. In the country, yes, but not in London where factory fumes and smoke banished all thoughts of heavy flakes. But Victor was not amused.
"Sherlock, it's seven in the morning and it's Saturday. The day we sleep in! Remember?" He turned to face Sherlock, grey eyes meeting blue. Last night had been annoying for them both, the power going out at eight and Victor accidentally knocking over a couple of important artifacts. Mycroft would be most disappointed.
But Sherlock still wasn't down. He slid out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown. The door had been left open last night, so amazing smells coming from Mrs. Hudsons' flat were slowly drifting in. Sherlock stood in front of Victor, hair a mess, but eyes hopeful. Victor snickered, and rolled out of bed, draping the blankets around him like a cape. He walked up to Sherlock and slowly put his arms around his waist, trapping Sherlock between the window and himself. Sherlock's eyes widened. Victor scoffed softly and in a flash, he was in the kitchen. Sherlock scoffed.
"Teaser!" Sherlock called, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He could hear Victor rattling around, probably wearing the blankets like a toga. But when Sherlock came out again, he was in his signature cardigan. Sherlock walked over to the tall windows, and peeked out from behind the curtains. Cabs had made the snow that had previously blanketed the road into a grey mess. He rolled his eyes.
"Victor, do you want to go ice-skating?" Sherlock called from the window.
"No. Why would you ever think that I would go ice-skating?" The surly Victor from last night had returned, and Sherlock knew why. Victor stood at the counter, nose invested in a plastic bag. Sniffing. Sherlock stood still, eyes downcast. Good moods never lasted.
"I dunno. I like the snow." Sherlock mumbled, heading into his room. Victor didn't stop him.
Inside, Sherlock closed the door and leaned on it, slowly sliding down to the floor. He sniffed, and brought his knees up to his chin. It wasn't the attitude that bothered him, it was that Victor was twenty-two and was completely addicted to cocaine. He was destroying himself, and the hits didn't even last that long. And he had cancer. Victor found that out almost four months ago, and it was steadily increasing. The tumors were bigger. Sherlock sniffed again, wrapping his arms around his knees. Outside, the world was bright. If they were in the country right now, Sherlock would be throwing snowballs and making snowmen. But that all happened a long time ago. And the innocence then could not be brought back now. Sherlock wiped his eyes, and set about to clean his room.
When he was done, the desk had been cleaned, the windows weren't cluttered with things that fascinated Sherlock, while disgusting others. The bed was made, the closet organized, the pictures straightened, and the laundry in the hamper. And yet it was only seven forty-eight. Sherlock sighed, and sat on the newly made bed. His room, for the first time in weeks, was clean. It made him slightly happy, that he didn't have to worry about finals anymore and, the result of the clean room, was proof that he could focus and motivate. Sherlock stood up, dusting off his pants (he had gotten dressed and taken a shower a few minutes earlier). He walked out, only to find Victor lounging on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Victor giggled when he saw Sherlock.
"I feel ah-ma-zing! Just look, Sherlock, the sun is shining!" He laughed, eyes rolling around. Sherlock frowned. This wasn't common behavior for Victor, when he got high. Sherlock gave a weak smile, and walked out, grabbing his coat and shoes. It had started. He shut the door behind him, and walked down to Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Dear, of course I'll keep an eye on him! Not a problem." Mrs. Hudson, bless her, was free every Saturday until six. Six was when the good telly came on, according to her, and unless Victor wanted to watch her stories, then Sherlock should be home by six. Sherlock gave a sigh of relief, and sat down on one of her armchairs. She sipped her tea worryingly, staring at Sherlock with concern. "Sherlock, is Victor still using?"
"Yes." Sherlock avoided her gaze. She stopped sipping.
"Are you using again?" She had set down her tea cup, and Sherlock raised his head to look at her. Mrs. Hudson wasn't scared or apprehensive of Sherlock, but she could be a bit too motherly when the time came.
"Never. Rehab was dreadful." He barely whispered the words, but it made Mrs. Hudson satisfied.
"Good." She picked up her teacup once again. "The last thing I need is to have you abuse again. I'll give him the medicine, in fact I'll force him to eat it."
Sherlock stood up, briefly pecking her check. She smiled kindly at him, and motion for him to go on off. He gave a brief smile in return.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He called as he walked out the door. Mrs. Hudson chuckled softly, and walked up the stairs. But of course, Victor wasn't as kind as Sherlock.
The tube was horrible. Too many people, jostling about, talking, and that horrible screeching noise every time the breaks went on. Oh, it hurt Sherlock just to think about it. But eventually his stop came, and he was ever grateful to get off. Sherlock walked quickly, towards the ice rink in Hyde Park. Hands in pockets, dark curls standing out against his pale skin, he looked rather intimidating. But then he was on the ice, and everything was bliss.
As a child, Sherlock had always skated on the pond near his home. Mycroft sometimes accompanied him, but when he didn't, Sherlock did better. Less judgement, he deduced. And since it was Saturday, and Hyde Park was usually closed (due to repairs made on the lights), he was alone. He was alone, on the ice, flying across with spins and turns and graceful leaps. No one was watching, it was early, and Sherlock was free to do whatever trick he desired. Sharp turns, ice shards flying off his skates, the adrenaline, it brought back memories.
"Mycroft, look!" Sherlock was eight, and he was on the pond. Mycroft looked up from his book briefly.
"Nice one!" Sherlock had just done a sharp spin, his first without falling.
"Really?" There was hope in those eyes, but he was eight. Mycroft scoffed.
"No. Don't be daft, the ice could fall at any moment and you'd die. Get off."
And so Sherlock had gotten of the pond, skates hanging limply from his fingers as Mycroft walked him home.
Sherlock stopped skating. He slowed down, and got off the rink. The skates came undone, regular shoes back on. Coat on. And Sherlock walked away from the ice rink, just as he had fourteen years ago. But this time, Mycroft was not accompanying him.
Rich aromas drifted over to Sherlock. He was sitting on a bench, looking at the trees in some park. After he had left the ice rink, he had found himself walking around Hyde Park, for no apparent reason except to walk. The trees were pretty this time of year. To his left was the 7/7 memorial. And to his right, well, a couple hundred feet to his right, was a cafe. He walked over, thinking of coffee and maybe a biscuit. The closer he got, the richer the smells. So when he opened the door to the cramped room, it was to his surprise that only one other person was sitting in there.
"Well, come in mate! Don't leave that door open, it's cold out there!" A short, grey haired man grinned at Sherlock from the counter. He sat there, eating a bagel and drinking what appeared to be tea. Sherlock shut the door, while a woman behind the counter who had been cleaning a glass walked to the register.
"Cold out there, I bet." She glanced at Sherlock. He attempted a weak smile. "So. Anything?"
"Yes, I'll take a small coffee." He reached into his pocket, and pull out a fiver. She handed him change, and poured the coffee.
"Thanks."
"Have a nice day." And Sherlock left, walking back over to the memorial.
It was quiet when he got there, except a man was sitting on the only bench in sight. Sherlock walked up to him, he seemed to be staring at the memorial.
"Can I sit here?" Sherlock's voice seemed to have shifted the man out of his thoughts.
"Yeah." They sat in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.
"John Watson." The man spoke suddenly, his eyes flickering over to Sherlock.
"What?" Sherlock was caught by surprise.
"My name is John Watson. I work with you at the hospital."
"Oh."
"Sorry."
"No, it's fine. Sherlock Holmes."
"Okay." John turned his head to look at Sherlock. "How are you?"
"What?"
"Isn't this what-what people do when they meet up with people from work? Ask what they do?"
"Honestly, I have no idea." John chuckled at that comment, and Sherlock gave a brief smile. John was nice, a doctor-in-training who was on the rugby team at Oxford. They go to school together, and intern at the same hospital together. And yet they've never talked.
"But seriously, how are you? For the last week you've come to work with red eyes and walked stiffly. More stiff then usual."
Sherlock sighed, looking off into the distance.
"I'm….I'm okay. Surviving."
"Well at least you have friends, right?" John gave a weak chuckle again, but this time Sherlock didn't join in.
"I don't have friends. I have a problem living in my flat, and he's going to die very soon." Sherlock clenched his fist, but John didn't notice.
"Oh." They sat in silence. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"Thanks." The trees rustled ever so slightly, Sherlock gave a small smile to John. "Nice to meet people who have manners."
John laughed quietly at that. It wasn't meant to be offensive, like Victor, but kind. Someone came running down the path.
"John! We've been looking everywhere for you!" Sherlock looked up, it was one of the rugby guys from Oxford. Tall, buff, and increasingly annoying. The jock grinned at John, and then, glancing at Sherlock, began to scowl. "Did the freak drag you here?"
"What? No, just at the memorial. Kevin, what are you doing here?" John stood up, hands thrust in his dark jacket. Kevin the Jock smirked.
"Looking for you, the mates and I are going to the pub to watch the game. You should come with us!"
"Yeah, maybe in a bit." Kevin laughed and poked him in the chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"See you in five, then. And listen," His eyes turned dark. "If the freak gives you any trouble, tell us."
"Yeah, sure thing." John mumbled, and Kevin went jogging off. John stared at him until he went around the bend, and then sat down. He rolled his eyes. "Sorry about that."
Sherlock frowned. "Why didn't you go with him?"
John shrugged, writing something on a scrap of paper he pulled form his pocket. "I dunno. Listen, Sherlock, if anyone gives you trouble, call this number. It's my cell."
"Can it text?" John's surprise was contained.
"Um, yeah. But honestly, if anything ever happens, call me. Or text." He held out his hand and the paper, and gave a quick smile. Sherlock stood up and shook it, taking the paper and folding it in his pocket. John shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Well, then I'll see you at work."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks John." Sherlock turned and walked down the path, while John watched him and then walked in the opposite direction. The coffee left, forgotten, on the park bench.
And they had no idea how much that first moment would mean later.