[CONTAINS SMUT] ‼️18+‼️
WARNINGS: This is a Sherlock book so obviously mentions of drug use
~~~
A simple tune is all it takes. A flood of memories returning to haunt- to plague every thought with regret and/or longing.
For you, a violin composition...
But that made this all the more annoying, so instead, in pure spite you spent the night at Tom's house, crashing on his couch while Bobby comforted you, the guitarist letting you raid his food cabinet.
Lots of cake.
"Oh, the walk of shame," John chuckles as you flipped him off, heading right to your room. Bags and shoes on the floor, you grab your towel and trek right into the bathroom, opening it up and immediately shutting it.
"Lock the fucking door!" Turning to the kitchen you grab some bread to toast, sitting in Sherlock's chair with a scowl of annoyance.
"You know, it doesn't take a genius to know you didn't do anything- or... anyone last night," John coughs behind his cuppa.
"That obvious, huh?" Running an annoyed hand over your face, the bathroom door opened, Sherlock going to his room immediately with beads of water rolling down his skin, a slight red tint from the hot shower accompanying the steam.
"Stop staring," the blogger chimes knowingly.
"Hey, John, do you have an 'off' button?" Leaning forward to him, his amused eyes met yours. "I'm taking a shower," advancing back to your destination, the detective was right on time to meet you. "And I'm locking the door,"
"Be more observant next time," he snarks back. If looks could kill, 221B would be a blood bath.
~~~
Not only had 221B been infected with dreary complaints of boredom from Sherlock, but soon you followed. Maybe less vocally, though. Until the savior arrived with news.
"Sherlock, we have a-"
"Where?" Sherlock cut off Lestrade, the deductions falling in place like a simple puzzle, a glass of water shoved into the inspector's hand.
"Soho, near Piccadilly," he heaves out, John seeing a look in Sherlock's eyes and standing up.
"Do we know exactly where? That's a very shady part of London," the blogger grabs his gun just in case. "Do either of you know the way around-"
"Wouldn't think so," you quip from the hall, hearing the commotion. "I can be a guide-"
"No," Sherlock places his coat on but your look of amusement made him do a reevaluation.
This made your pride swell up. "Not exactly Red Light attire," you note, eyeing John's clothing. "Unless you're looking to be harassed into getting high on some sketchy drugs, sleeping with one of the plethora of options or roped into unfair gambling, you'll need me,"
"Why exactly do you know all this?" Lestrade caught his breath, seeing you scoff and walk away.
"I've had my fair share of experiences getting lost in London bored or drunk with friends..." you explain from your room, shutting the door. "It's like the animal kingdom, kinda..." your voice was slightly muffled from the door. "But once you've been 'claimed' everyone else backs off,"
"How do you get- oh," John blinks a few times when you open the door, Greg choking on the cup of water in hand. "Right, yes," John shifts a little as you held a pair of heeled boots in hand.
Everything from ripped stockings to revealing clothing was reminiscent of the supposed district: Thank the lucky stars for your inability to let go of old clothes--though some you really wish you could let go of. Sherlock kept quiet, all comments and concerns shut away, but his eyes seem to speak more than his words ever could.
"At least wear a coat until we get there," he walks over and puts his coat to rest on your shoulders.
~~~
Red lights. Neon. They line each window, figures in light-deflecting fabric they called work-clothes flushed against the windows with seductive smirks and waves. Severe weathers were unknown to those behind glass and all to familiar to those in the elements all night.
Chatter of night life filled with sin and malicious intent were all the rage. Drugs were swapped around in match boxes and disheveled figures acting more than friendly to those they knew for no more than a minute.
"This way to Fox-paws," you mutter, shivering under the cold temperatures. Eyes were like needles, voices like venom and the boys behind you making sure you were in sight and safe. Only John would admit this.
"Two minutes," Sherlock mutters to his friend.
"I have to ask," slipping by a horrendous public sight, the spot came closer into view. "Who are you meeting here?"
"A big problem..." John did a nervous graze of his hand over the spot his gun was hidden.
"We need you to stay out of the way," Sherlock adds on, but John was soon to intervene.
"To keep you safe,"
"Keep me safe?" Looking to them, the only type of protection—a leather jacket—was ruffled a little to show a pistol. "I think I'll be keeping you boys safe,"
"She has a point," Sherlock mutters in absent thought. "We need the warehouse by Fox-paws," he informs, you compliance happening without any type of argument.
"Down this way," a mildew slick alley led towards an open space, a single building with its door slightly ajar. "Well, how lovely,"
All three venture forward, you scowling when Sherlock pushes you away to take the lead. A single bulb illuminated the center, and eventually you three. "Sherlock!" A highly mocking voice rings out the moment you stay still.
But that voice was too familiar. "Jim," you sigh out, turning to the man himself.
"Y/n," he laughs in a slight confusion, more so surprise.
~~~
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