Holmes' Book Of One Shots

Recurring Habits (The Fallen From Grace Trilogy)

Trigger warning for drug use.

             A complete week had gone by with no sign of Sherlock Holmes.

            John held the smallest of his twins, Jacqueline, who had just woken up from her slumber. John bounced her, pacing around the house to keep her from crying and waking the other twin. He thought about asking Mrs Hudson to come up and watch the twins. Sherlock had never been gone from Baker Street for more than three days. John was getting worried.

            Once Jacqueline had calmed down, he set her back in her bed, next to her sister, and went downstairs. He found Mrs Hudson in her flat, and she agreed to watch the twins while he was out.

            He had to find Sherlock.

            He drove round London in a cab all afternoon with no sign of the detective. John was beginning to believe that he had run away. How childish, if he had. This was Sherlock Holmes, and as long as John had known him, he’d never been this emotional in his life. Jacqueline, Clarissa, Irene, and Mary… The deaths of the four women had stressed him out, and although Sherlock was good at concealing his emotions, John knew the truth.

            John was about to go back to the flat, when he saw a familiar face. A man stood on the pavement, homeless by the look of him, but John recognized him from Sherlock’s network. He told the cabbie to pull over, and when he stepped out of the cab, he approached the man.

            “Wiggins,” John said. “Right?”

            “Yeah,” The man said. “What d’ya want?”

            “I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes,” John looked around the street, as if he expected Sherlock to run out of a shop. “Where is he?”

            “I dunno. I’ve not heard from ‘em in days.” Bill Wiggins looked into the empty mug that his fingers wrapped around.

            “You’re lying.” John crossed his arms.

            Wiggins looked up. “No I’m not!”

            “Where is Sherlock?” John asked again, more demanding as he leaned forward, his face in Wiggins’.

            Wiggins was quiet as he stared at John, then he said, “Den.”

            John stood straight and let out a frustrated sigh, the palm of his hand going to his face as he looked down at the pavement. “Same one he used to go to?”

            Wiggins nodded. “Been there for a week.”

            John looked back up as he turned around and walked back to the cab. “Thanks.”

           

            Mycroft Holmes once told John that if he ever suspected that Sherlock was using again, he would most likely return to the drug den he used to go to. Mycroft told him the address, and although John thought he would never need it, he kept it. He had it memorized, in fact. He told the cabbie to drop him off a few blocks down from the den, and walked the rest of the way.

            He didn’t bother knocking on the door. None of the smackheads in there would want him barging in on them, but knocking on the door definitely wouldn’t mean they would invite him in. John kicked down the locked door, and made his way towards the stairs, not bothering to keep his footsteps quiet. The wooden stairs creaked with each step, and as he stepped into a large room full off dirty mattresses and motionless bodies, John knew that no one would have answered the door anyways.