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9. Very Busy People

The last thing Eric expected was to be released.

Why would he? After all, there was no one willing to post bail - no friends or relatives around to take pity on him. And above all else there was no question of his guilt. He'd been with the distribution ring for months, was listed in all their (scant, but still very much present) documentation as an employee and a tenant. There was absolutely no way he wasn't going to find himself imprisoned for a very, very long time.

So when the guard came by his holding cell with a plastic bag in one hand and a set of keys in the other, Eric wasn't quite sure what he was anticipating.

"Alright, kid, you're out," the man said gruffly. Eric just blinked.

"I'm... wha'...?" he trailed off, but the guard just shook his head with something like irritated exasperation and unlocked the cell.

"Out, kid," he reiterated. He didn't seem keen on arguing any further, so Eric gave up on further questioning. Probably off to meet with a lawyer, or something... he wasn't quite sure how the whole system was supposed to work, actually. Probably best to just keep his head down and do as he was told. Obligingly he followed the man out of the cell and to the front office of the jail.

When they got there a woman was waiting for them. She looked the inmate up and down, then glanced to a clipboard in her hands. "Eric Crenshaw?"

"Er... yeah," Eric answered, finding himself growing very confused. "What's...?"

He was cut off before he could finish his question by the guard shoving the plastic bag into his arms and walking away. Eric startled, nearly dropping the parcel, but managed to keep hold with his good arm and blinked back over at the woman.

"It has come to light that the circumstances of your arrest were based on false evidence," she informed him in a clipped, no-nonsense voice. "You have been cleared of all charges and are free to go."

And with that she nodded once, tucked her clipboard under her arm, and walked away.

Eric was left standing in the front lobby of a London jail, still dressed in a regulation inmate jumpsuit, feeling very, very confused. Anxiety began to creep up his spine - what exactly was going on here? Was this some sort of trick? Entrapment, to see if he'd actually leave? Could the police even do that...? As he bit his lip his hands drifted unconsciously toward each other, but the nervous habit was thwarted by the cast on his left arm and the plastic bag gripped in his right fist. He blinked, glanced down. Oh, right... he... should probably see what was in there.

Still shaking with nerves he held one handle of the bag and let it flop open, glanced inside.

Clothes. Not his usual faded attire but an entirely new set - jeans, a shirt (striped, he noticed, in blue and green - his favourite colours) and underthings. There was also a coat. A... very familiar coat.

Oh god.

Frantically he glanced around for somewhere to sit before he keeled over from shock. There! A bench by the wall. Taking a seat on the hard wood he gingerly set down the plastic bag, then drew out the dove grey woolen peacoat from where it had been neatly folded at the bottom of the bag. An envelope fell out from one of the pockets as he held it up over his lap. Stunned, Eric carefully set the coat down on his knees and lifted up the small square of paper.

Taped to the front was a note:

'Find something productive to do with your life.

P.S. You're not a total moron.'

Eric choked on something very close to a surprised half-gasping laugh, and with shaking fingers opened the envelope. It was stuffed with £50 notes. He immediately dropped it in shock - letting it fall on top of the coat bundled up in his lap - and covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a sob.

With a watery smile he slowly took his hand from his mouth and swiped the back of his arm across his eyes instead, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Sherly, you bleedin' prat," he muttered to himself. Hands still trembling he carefully tucked the envelope away into the pocket of the peacoat, shoved everything back into the plastic bag, and stood up.

First a restroom or somewhere to change his clothes. And after that, well...

He had a life to find.

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A light dusting of snow covered London in a white veil, powder-thin flakes drifted down from the clouds above. Sherlock stood upon the frosted grass of a hill and stared silent out over the city.

His last hit of cocaine had begun to wear off nearly half an hour ago.

He wasn't doing another one.

Instead he lit another cigarette, adjusted the knapsack on his shoulder. A box of nicotine patches rattled in the side pocket. He'd bought them as a stopgap measure, emergency backup in case withdrawal got the better of him. Two or three patches, augmented by caffeine... terrible for blood pressure, yes, but doubtless a better solution than the alternative.

It had taken a herculean effort of subversive tactics on his part to orchestrate the release of Eric, obtain a fake identity, and ensure his safe departure from England all while dodging the ever-watchful eye of his brother. Impossible under ordinary circumstances, but with Mycroft occupied covering up the death of their father and his trust fund reinstated he'd managed to collect everything without incident. Amazing what iniquitous doors could be prised open with obscene amounts of cash.

He'd spent the majority of it, of course - black market passports and bribed travel visas didn't come cheap. Gave the rest to Eric. Let the freckled dolt figure out what to do with it all; Sherlock certainly had no further use for it. Thirty pounds for small travel expenses, nothing more. He'd travel light, and he'd travel frugal. A pocket full of disposable income would only pave the way for poor decisions down the road.

And a long road it would be. He held no illusions about his own fortitude when it came to cocaine. Already he could feel the desire for more creeping up his spine. The last hit. No more. Forever. It was a daunting proposition; almost monolithic in its finality. Wisps of self-doubt clawed whispering through his brain, an incessant chatter of nervous static. We can't survive without it, what's the point of stopping now, just buy another half-gram, you can get more money, no one will ever know.

He would know, though. And while a feeble deterrent at best that would nonetheless have to provide enough accountability to keep the impulse in check. These last months had been a lesson in the value of isolation. For perhaps the first time in his life he'd felt a tangible connection to others - networks of tangled threads like spider's silk weaving him in, however briefly, with the rest of humanity. Victor, Eric... all whom he'd known or been known by, their good graces bought with a false front of normality and parroted affable demeanour. But it had all been a mask, hadn't it? They'd accepted him for his ruse, nothing more. A barrier of ice keeping his aberrant motivations hidden.

Break through, however, and the truth lay bare: his was a mind unfit for integration with society. It was time he accepted that. No more games, no more hiding.

Sherlock Holmes was a pillar all to himself. A fortress, impregnable. Relationships and friends... even family would be banished to the cold wilds beyond the edges of his mindscape. Too easily had he been drawn in with honeyed words and promises of acceptance. But in the end the hope would always prove a false light, and with the severance of ties a piece of himself would die as well. Each loss chipping away at his resolve to fight until nothing could survive within his psyche but a hollow shell of hatred and self-loathing.

He wouldn't let that happen. There was more to life than such pathetic desires to belong... there had to be. Other sources of happiness, of fulfillment - ones that didn't involve all the mess and illogical suffering inherent to human ties. And if none existed... well then he'd damn well create one. Because what good was genius, after all, if one didn't use it to shape their own reality?

Sherlock would find a better path to meaning. Or die trying.

The cigarette winked out in his hand, ember blown asunder by the winter wind. Rather than re-light it he simply dropped the butt into the snow. It was time to leave anyway.

As he walked toward the city a break in the clouds uncovered the sun. Winds calmed and flakes slowed their fall. By the time he made it to the train station the pavement had already become slick under his feet with half-thawed slush.

Patch by patch the city revealed itself in swaths of grey and brown.

The snow was melting.

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A/N: Did I really make you wait two months for that? Yes I did. I'm sorry. Originally it was going to be much longer, but I ended up cutting most of it because...

THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL. It's in the process of being written at the moment and will detail how Sherlock met Mrs. Hudson, among other things. I don't expect it to be quite so ridiculously long as this fic but then one never knows. Be on the lookout for the first chapter to be posted in a few weeks.

Thanks, thanks, and thank you a million more times everyone who's read, followed, and especially reviewed this work. I'd have given up long ago if not for all you lovely people! I hope to see all of you again with the next installment!