He hadn't intended to slip back into drug use. He had been nearly seven years clean when he first went into hiding after the incidents at St Bart's hospital that cold June morning but since then things had changed. He was living a different life now. Not neccessarily a better one, but a different one. Almost constantly on the move, one small dingy hotel to another, all over Europe chasing after hardened criminals, asssasins and killers, Moriarty's men whom he had sworn to destroy and could not return to London until he had done so.
It was for his friends. To keep them safe. But that all seemed so long ago now. So far away. He missed them. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. John. Especially John. He had become used to company. To having someone around to bounce ideas off, to keep him in check but also to compliment him, to laugh with and to tell him he was doing well when he hadn't smoked for a week. He had none of that anymore.
All he had were fake IDs and passports, disguises he felt ridiculous in, dangerous undercover work, seeing things he wished he didn't have to. He had lost everything. His flat. His friends. His career. His reputation. His city. His country. Now he was just a homeless nobody who couldn't even tell people his real name. It was, short of a better word, depressing. And the only thing he had to get him through it was a needle filled with drugs, a pack of cheap foreign cigarettes and the thought that someday he might get the chance to return home.
Sherlock rolled over lazily onto one side and stared at the wall, his mind temporarily switched off, thank God. He reached for the bed side cabinet and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the stuffy air of his hotel room, trying not to think about what he had to do tomorrow and allowing himself to remember John instead.