Hello! I wrote this like last night while I was listening to Mariana's Trench so I dont know if it's any good, but my ideas seem to be coming thick and fast lately.
I don't own Sherlock and John but I love them very much.


One: The Beach-17 Years Old.

Sherlock groaned and rolled over, feeling the gravel and sand underneath his face. The beach, then, he realised. God, how much had he had to drink last night?
He pushed his curls out of his eyes and cracked them blearily. Was it medically possible for his eyeballs to hurt? he wondered as he adjusted himself to the light of the focused his eyes and rubbed his pounding head, sitting up with considerable effort.
Gazing around he observed that he was on Southend Beach, in Essex, just outside London. He swore in his head; it would take ages to get back home. Holding his head, he got to his feet, stumbled and then righted himself.
He gained an odd look from an elderly couple but ignored them and cast around for signs to the train station. His jeans were caked in damp sand and grains had clumped in his hair. His coat was covered and he was freezing. He pulled out his phone (with difficulty due to his numb fingers and un-co-ordinated brain to hand ratio), his search for signs proving unsuccessful, and sent a text to Mycroft sulkily.

TO:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE: WHERE IS THE TRAIN STATION IN RELATION TO SOUTHEND BEACH, ESSEX? -SHERLOCK.

He got one back almost immediately.

MESSAGE RECIEVED FROM:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE: WHY WOULD YOU NEED TO KNOW?-MYCROFT.

He scowled and typed back furiously.

TO:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE: I WOKE UP ON SOUTHEND BEACH. I NEED DIRECTIONS TO THE TRAIN STATION.-SHERLOCK.

MESSAGE RECIEVED FROM:MYCROFT HOLMES
MESSAGE:TUT TUT. HOW DID YOU END UP THERE? IF LEFT OF THEME PARK, EXIT AND TURN RIGHT 500 YARDS. IF RIGHT OF THEME PARK, EXIT, TURN LEFT, 300 YARDS.-MYCROFT.

Sherlock sighed.

TO:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE: NONE OF YOUR BUISNESS, ALTHOUGH I'M SURE YOU'LL MAKE IT SO SOON ENOUGH. THANKYOU. -SHERLOCK.

He set off (left of the theme park) and vowed never to wake up on a beach again. Or drink like that again.


Two: An alley off of Denmark Street, London- 23 Years Old.

Sherlock woke with a start, something wet on his face and around his nose and mouth. He choked and spat and raised his head enough to realise he was lying nearly face down in a puddle in the dark.
He quickly assessed the situation.

He wasn't drunk; in fact he hadn't drunken to excess since he was 17, and besides his head wasn't fuzzy enough for that anyway. He sat up and wrung out his scarf, trying to smooth back the normally fussy curls that had plastered themselves to his face. He caught the area around his eye and hissed in sudden pain.
He touched it tenderly and moaned, hand flying at once to his coat pockets. As suspected, his wallet was gone. He felt the damage to his eye again and could tell it was probably black and bruised; it was sore even to move his cheek.

He felt the inside pocket of his coat and gave a triumphant gasp of relief and happiness when he realised his phone was still there. He pulled it out and grinned (earning another pang of pain from his eye and the space around it) when the screen lit up to show two bars of battery. According to his phone it was 1.38 am and he'd missed three calls from Mycroft. One more, and he'd be out looking for him. Sherlock decided to save him the trip and pressed Call: Mycroft Holmes.
His brother answered the phone in a sleep drawl, the kind Sherlock knew was faked.
"Hello?"
"I've been mugged."
"Nice," Mycroft answered, "Where are you?" he inquired politely.
"Denmark Street, in an alley," Sherlock said.
"Wallet, nothing else?"
"Yes."
"I'll send a pre paid cab. Goodnight Sherlock."
"Goodnight brother, thank you," Sherlock replied curtly and ended the call. One day he'd stop calling Mycroft when he got into tight spots, he thought, as he waited for a cab at the edge of the street, touching his injured eye. Not only was it embarrassing, but it was getting tiring having to say thank you all the time.


Three: A Disused Warehouse, North London, 25 Years old, the eve of his 26th birthday.

A loud noise woke Sherlock with a jerk and his eyes snapped open. There was a haze in his head and he realised he'd been drugged. He shook himself, trying to clear it and rolled over onto his front. The blurs and outlines in front of him slowly manifested themselves into details. Two men stood about a hundred yards away, backs to him, talking intensely. They were short and stocky, big boned with meaty fists. He carefully removed his phone from his pocket without alerting them, thankful that they were too stupid to check his inside pockets, and sent a quiet text to Lestrade.

TO:INSPECTOR LESTRADE
MESSAGE:REQUIRE ASSISTANCE. 325, OLIVER ROAD, NORTH LONDON. DISUSED WAREHOUSE. COME AT ONCE. –SH

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and put his head back on the floor, breathing evenly, trying not to let them notice he was awake. Water dripped from the ceiling onto his head and he huffed inwardly. It was freezing in the warehouse, and even his thick coat didn't provide much protection. He really had to stop waking up in such inappropriate places, he though, moving his hand from where it was crushed awkwardly underneath him and flexing his fingers slightly.

He heard the scuff of footsteps and instantly stopped moving, knew the men were standing over him from their shadows on the floor, which he was watching from half closed eyes.
"What shall we do with him then?" one of them asked in a gruff voice. Smoker, Sherlock noted.
"I dunno, kill 'im I s'pose," the other answered. "Boss won't be 'appy if he gets away. Then again, he said he wanted to do the honours."
"I think we should kill 'im anyway," his friend said, giving Sherlock a kick in the back for good measure. He winced but concealed it and kept quiet.
There was a chink of metal or something similar and then something glinted above him.
He swore inwardly and his breathing picked up.

Suddenly there was the crash of doors being kicked open and it echoed across the warehouse. The knife dropped millimetres from his nose and he gasped quietly, expelling a visible breath of air he hadn't known he had been holding.
"Put any weapons down and your hands in the air," came the commanding and oddly reassuring voice of Inspector Lestrade.
Sherlock silently thanked whoever was listening that he'd gotten involved with the police force. Even if they were extraordinarily stupid at times.
The men had run, but as he raised his head from the floor, still groggy, he saw two officers give chase across the warehouse.
Lestrade was striding towards him and he breathed a silent sigh of relief.
"You were drugged?" Lestrade asked, helping him to his feet and looking at him properly.
"How did you know?"
"Your eyes," the elder man answered.
Sherlock groaned, holding his held. He needed to sleep the effects of the drug off before Mycroft got wind and thought he was using again.
"How did you know where you were?" Lestrade asked, supporting him as they walked back to the waiting police cars.
"Please, I know every warehouse in London," he scoffed, as if Lestrade should know. The man in question raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
"Yes well, thanks Sherlock, we've been after those two for months," he said instead, and opened the door to a waiting police car ready to take Sherlock home.
"Fine,yes," Sherlock said curtly, nodding. "But they said something about an employer so don't stop looking."
He slid into the car and rested his head against the cool window.
he was grateful that he hadn't had to ring Mycroft for once, though no doubt he'd find out about it sooner or later.


Four: His flat- 29 Years old, two days before his 30th birthday.

Opening his eyes slowly, he blinked as the world came back into focus. He was lying stretching out on the sofa in his flat, face turned and squashed into the seats.
Moving his eyes downward, he spotted the needle on the floor and groaned, closing his eyes.
"How long have you been here?" he asked into the darkened flat.
"Not long," his brother's voice came from the shadows in the right corner of the room. Of course Mycroft would be here, Sherlock thought, of course.
"I'm disappointed in you, brother," Mycroft said plainly.
"I can tell."
"Does it bother you?""
"Not really, no," Sherlock said, sitting up slowly.
Mycroft chuckled darkly, but it wasn't an amused laugh. Not at all.
Great, Sherlock thought frustratedly, he'd probably go home and tell mother and then he'd get a furious phone call asking as to why he was throwing his life away, from her.
"It's my life," he almost spat.
"It won't be for much longer if you continue on like this," Mycroft said. It wasn't a warning, it was a statement, Sherlock realised.
"I'm fine," he said, though less snappier.
"I'm sure," his brother said sarcastically.
"Leave me alone Mycroft," he said bluntly, getting up and going to the kitchen for a glass of water.
"I will leave you alone when I see fit that you aren't going to try and kill yourself," the older man said. "I may not be father but I am still family and it would be a shame to see your...talents go to waste."
Sherlock was quiet, but then he spoke in a low voice.
"I am fine. I'm nearly 30, I can look after myself. Lestrade gives me cases and I solve them, but I get bored, Mycroft, and the only way that I can stop the mind numbing boredom is to do...that," he gestured into the living room.
The chair creaked as his brother moved from it towards the door, and Sherlock saw his face, mouth pulled down at the corners, as he passed by in the light from the window.
"I hope you can look after yourself," he said gently, "because I wont always be here to pick up the pieces," and with that, he picked up the syringe and place it back on the table before walking out of the front door.

Sherlock waited till he heard it close and then banged his head against the cupboard door in front of him and rested it there, trying to calm down.
His phone beeped and he fished it out of his trouser pocket.

MESSAGE RECIEVED FROM:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE: Have a nice night, brother – MH.

Sherlock growled and tossed his phone on the counter hard. The battery popped out and slid across the surface. He slumped to the kitchen floor, head in his hands. He needed to stop waking his up like this.


Five: 221B Baker Street- 34 Years Old

Someone snorted and Sherlock jerked awake, not sure if it was him or not. The TV was flickering silently and there were two mugs of untouched tea on the table in front of him. He was curled in the armchair by the fire and as he rubbed his eyes he noticed that someone was in the armchair opposite, also asleep.
John.
He took in the dishevelled appearance of his closest friend, eyes shut, clothes rumpled from sleeping, head dropped sideways onto the arm of the chair.
He smiled.
They'ed been working on a case for a week and neither of them had had any sleep for that long. John had ranted on and on about how they should sleep but Sherlock had ignored him and now it seemed it had caught up with both of them.
The fire crackled in the grate and the streetlamps lit the room from outside.
John snored quietly and shifted position slightly in his sleep.
Sherlock's phone beeped and he leant over to the table to retrieve it, thankful it had not woken his sleeping flatmate.

MESSAGE RECIEVED FROM:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE: Have a nice night, brother –MH

Sherlock looked at John and his smile turned into a beam.

TO:MYCROFT HOLMES.
MESSAGE:I will –SH

He laughed quietly, put his phone back on the table and settled back in the armchair again, closing his eyes.
He really needed to wake up like this more often.