This is something that I've been working on for a while. Set a few years after The Box, and before ASIP, it's an attempt to fill in some of the gaps in Sherlock's history.

As always please do review and let me know what you think. All comments and suggestions are gratefully received!

Kate221b x

When he finally regained awareness of his surroundings, he was stumbling along the river bank, some way outside Cambridge. From the position of the sun in the sky, he estimated that it was early afternoon, but despite the warmth of the day the towpath was deserted; its freedom from runners and walkers only proving how far outside the city he must have come. Dimly he remembered the sudden need to get out of his college rooms, the sensation of the walls pressing in on him. Without bothering to stop to clear away the evidence of his morning's activities he had walked out of college down to The Backs, and kept on walking, further and further away from the city

He grimaced slightly as he realised the reality of his situation. He must have walked for several miles beside the river, still under the influence of the drugs. Staggering slightly at times, not fully aware, it would have been only too easy for him to slip and fall into the water. The undercurrent looked strong from the flurries in the water; large rocks jutted up at intervals, ready to deliver a fatal head wound, and the river was swollen from the recent rain. A slip might well have proved fatal. He shrugged. Had he fallen in, then the universe would have deprived itself of one problem at least, and it would have been a tidy way to go. The coroner would have recorded a verdict of accidental death and Mycroft would have tutted and said I told you so, then gone about his ordered life, freed from the burden of his troublesome younger sibling at last.

He squinted a little in the summer sunlight as he considered. Would Mycroft be upset or relieved by his demise he wondered? Perhaps a little of both. Mycroft claimed to despise sentiment and yet Sherlock knew that he was not as cold and detached as he liked to appear. Admittedly exasperation and barely concealed anger were the reactions that Sherlock seemed to provoke in him most frequently, but family was family after all, and since their parents' deaths, he and Mycroft only had each other left.

He was suddenly acutely aware of his thirst. The river water looked invitingly clean and clear, but he was sobering up fast enough to know that either drinking from it, or better still diving into its sparkling depths, was a bad idea. He gave himself a mental shake. Time to find civilisation. he told himself. What he needed was fluid and a place to gather his thoughts. Preferably somewhere that sold something stronger than water, something strong enough to numb the come-down as the drugs wore off. He patted his pockets hopefully, and pulled out a strip of diazepam tablets. He contemplated them for a moment before replacing them with a sigh. His sense of self-preservation told him that taking them would be an ill-advised idea. Later perhaps, when he was in slightly safer surroundings.

He walked for another ten minutes or so along the towpath before houses began to appear in the distance. Following the signs of civilisation, he eventually found himself emerging from a footpath onto the main street of a sleepy looking Fenland village. He was aware that he was attracting some curious looks as he walked along trying to look purposeful, struggling a little to walk in a straight line, concentrating on the need to find some form of sanctuary before he fell apart entirely. He looked dishevelled, he knew. His shirt was sticking to his back in the heat, and he had mud and grass stains on his shirt cuffs and the knees of his trousers where he must have fallen at some point on his travels along the towpath. He added cleaning himself up to his mental list of things to do when he finally found a public house. Still feeling dazed and disconnected, he stopped to drink from a tap placed outside the church, obviously designed mainly for dog walkers to allow their animals to drink, given the water bowl underneath it. This earned him yet more curious glances from a pair of white-haired ladies who had just finished doing the flower-arranging in the church, judging by the iris pollen stains on their hands and the water splashes on the sleeves of their cardigans.

Eventually he came to a public house which looked populated enough to afford him a quiet corner without curiosity, and yet civilised enough to ensure that he would not be disturbed. A quick detour to the gents to clean himself up revealed that he looked almost as bad as he felt, but it took him only a few minutes to wash the mud off his face, finger-comb his hair into some semblance of order, and roll up the sleeves on his shirts to his elbow, to conceal the worst of the stains. About his trousers he could do little more than a quick wipe-down with a wet paper towel, and hope that the dim lighting of the bar would conceal the rest.

He avoided studying his face too closely in the mirror. His face looked hollow; his cheekbones and the dark purple shadows under his eyes telling of too many missed meals and too many nights without sleep. He was out of control, of that he was painfully aware, but he needed a drink before he would be able to consider his situation clearly, without risking descending into a state of panic. The pitiful strip of diazepam he had with him would not be enough to abate a full blown panic attack, not anymore. He stared at himself in the mirror, willing himself into motion, but even so it took several minutes before he finally forced himself to push open the door back into the main bar area.

Making his way to the bar he reminded himself of the need to enunciate his words clearly as he ordered, aware that without care his words would still be slurred from the drugs. Placing himself in shadow, he hoped that the barmaid would fail to notice his constricted pupils, and the slight sheen of sweat on his skin. But then ordinary people, boring people, simply weren't that observant, he had discovered. The bar maid's lurid metallic green eyeliner, and the heel on her shoes made it unlikely that she was an off duty medical student, working to subsidise her student grant, although even he could never be entirely sure. Sometimes people surprised him, even now.

The heels intrigued him. An interesting choice for a job where you were likely to be on your feet all day. Who was she wearing them for, he wondered? A quick glance round as she filled the glass revealed her glance flicking to a man in his mid forties sitting at the end of the bar, fiddling with his mobile phone, and seemingly oblivious to her interest. Ah, case solved. Local businessman by the look of it, married from the state of his tie, at least two small children by the shadows under his eyes and the slump of his shoulders.

He usually enjoyed this game; the observation of the complex and not so complex courtship rituals between his fellow students; the interpretation of body language and speech patterns. He could predict attraction between individuals before they themselves seemed aware of it sometimes, and yet it was a game that he had no interest in participating in himself as anything other than an observer. A complex biology experiment, nothing more.

Turn it off, Sherlock, he told himself firmly, it wasn't the time for this now. He had ordered two double whiskeys, hoping that the barmaid would believe that he had a friend waiting for him, already seated at a table in the bar. He would have asked for the bottle, but he had discovered from bitter experience that that sort of behaviour raised eyebrows, and the last thing that he need was to direct attention towards himself. Alcohol and drugs were a dangerous mix, he knew, but he needed something to take the edge of things, and to help him to overcome the overwhelming desire to call a cab back to his college rooms and smoke his way though the rest of his supply, whatever the consequences. He had benzos in his right front pocket, a wrap of cocaine in the back, but alcohol suited his purposes better for now. It was more drawn out, more controllable, and the last thing that he wanted was to slump unconscious off his bar stool and end up in the back of an ambulance.

The barmaid had a smile for him, and leaned slightly too far over the bar when giving him his change, allowing her an ample view of her curvaceous cleavage. Still open to offers then, not that he was likely to make one. He gave her a slightly flirtatious smile as he picked up his drinks. He might not be interested but he would need more drinks later and it was always good to have the bar staff on side. It was useful sometimes to know how the game worked, even if he chose not to play it.

He carried the drinks through to the snug he had previously identified, and was gratified to find it virtually deserted, the high backed settles providing secluded areas, which screened him well from the main bar - perfect. Only one other table was fully visible from where he sat, and that was currently unoccupied.

Two more double whiskeys and a diazepam later and things had begun to blur distinctly at the edges, numbing the pain of the come down from the heroin, but the problem remained; what to do now?

If he went back to college he would use again, he knew it, he wouldn't be able to stop himself. He needed to get away from here; away from the temptation of the stash in his rooms and the easy supply of more. Technology was a wonderful thing. A brief text and he could get more of less anything that he wanted, delivered to the back of college within the hour. No, he needed to get away from Cambridge, away from temptation.

He picked up his phone and scrolled through the numbers on it rapidly. Phoning Mycroft was the obvious answer. Mycroft would send a car for him, take him home where he could retreat to bed for the weekend as he had so many times before, knowing that he was safe, knowing that he could switch his brain off and finally sleep. But Mycroft would see Sherlock's blood-shot eyes and drawn face and reach his own conclusions. He would know, and Sherlock couldn't bear to see the disapproval and the disappointment on his face. Mycroft would tut and sigh, as if it was no more than he had expected, as if he had just been waiting for his little brother to screw up yet again. And that was more than he could bear at the moment.

Pushing away the blackness that threatened to descend, he forced himself to concentrate on the list of names on his phone. Not Mycroft, so who else? He had a number of contacts on there, but few true friends. Who could he trust? The desire to go back to his room and use again was almost overwhelming. To smoke his entire stash, irrespective of the consequences. Oblivion was very appealing at the moment, and if it was to prove permanent then he could no longer find the energy to care. He was lost, he knew it. But this was not the despair that had taken him to Elmhurst, rather a feeling a being cast adrift, of having stepped outside the boundaries of normal society and normal behavior to such an extent that he had no idea how to claw himself back from here. He was out of control and he didn't like it.

More alcohol was tempting. It would dull the sensation of falling, but much more and he would be incapable of getting himself anywhere. Forcing himself back to the list again, his finger hesitated over one name, a name from his past, still on his phone. Someone who he had always trusted, someone who even now he thought would listen without judging, who would tell him how to move forward from here.

Rapidly, before he had time to think about it, he pressed the button to dial the the number, and then cut off the call before the first ring. Angry with himself for his cowardice, he swore softly under his breath and buried his hands in his curly hair. Not yet. He would sit here a little longer, see if one more whiskey would help his courage and his decision-making. The barmaid came and retrieved his empty glasses, shooting him a curious look, but the scowl that he gave her was enough to dissuade her from conversation. Another drink then, while he worked out where to go from here.