A/N: So this is my first Lestrade/Sherlock based fanfic. It is not a ship in terms of this particular piece of fanfiction. I'm not pairing them up like that. I'm aware this chapter is REALLY short but I just want to set an atmosphere first for the rest of the story. There will probably be longer chapters after this one.
Warnings:CAUTION! This fic may contain strong language and drug use as well as occasional violence, along with some fluff and other things of that nature. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
Background Information: Sherlock is only 22 in this fanfic and is just starting off as a detective. I tried to keep things in character but obviously because this is original, some things will be OC.
Other: It'll be Johnlock in later chapters so please be patient with me. Also, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send reviews my way! They make me happy and help me write faster. Okay, I think I'm done now. Enjoy!
Sherlock closed his eyes as he listened to the police sirens that wailed irritatingly past the abandoned building he was staying in. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke was thick, clouding the entire place over in a fog-like mist as the young man sat half-slumped against one of the walls by the window that overlooked the street.
He felt every muscle in his body relax simultaneously after injecting the drugs into his forearm. He had done this same routine for almost two years and he experienced the same reaction to it each time; an explosive high before he came crashing down again, sinking into a dark depression. It was a vicious cycle for him. When his depression would hit him one night, he would be looking for something else to lift him up again, and then once the sedative wore off completely, the spiders would weave their sorrowful webs of depression in his head once again and the poison would spread throughout his entire body and soul until it left him incapacitated.
With his bony fingers, he undid the belt around his arm and let it drop beside him before he listened to the slowed beating of his own heart in his head, letting the rhythm lull him to sleep.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the man who had taken over the arduous job of being his guardian after his parents had died when he and Mycroft were both younger. Sherlock was still riding his morphine-induced high, and therefore had no strength to physically fight against Lestrade who carefully lay him on his sofa.
"Mmm…" he simply mumbled tiredly. "How… how did I get here?"
The Detective Inspector looked at him with disappointed and almost sad eyes as he sat down across from him in a chair. "I told you to stay put, Sherlock. Why don't you ever listen to me?"
The young man gave a dismissal wave of his hand. "B'cause staying home is boring. 'M bored of being bored…" his voice trailed off as his hand dropped to the couch.
Greg sighed before he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before his concern replaced the disappointment. "Do you remember how much you took, Sherlock?"
"Unimportant, Lestrade…" Sherlock half smirked, his eyes still closed.
"No! It's very bloody important, Sherlock! I just want to know if I should be taking you to the hospital instead of letting you sleep it off here… now answer me," Lestrade growled impatiently.
It was Sherlock's turn to sigh now. He turned over onto his side, his back now facing the Detective. "Don't worry… I was careful of the amount I put in me…"
Gregory shook his head in a combination of disbelief and relief before he glanced at his watch. "Christ, it's nearly three in the morning. We're talking about this tomorrow so don't think for one second you've gotten out of this scot-free! If you need me – "
"Why would I ever need you?"
Lestrade ignored Sherlock's interruption. "If you need me, I'll be in the other room."
Sherlock barely heard the last part of his guardian's sentence as his mind drifted back off to sleep once again.
When the high had passed, Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes and felt around for his phone. He patted his pants and then reached over and grabbed his phone that was sitting elegantly on the coffee table. As he opened it up, he observed by the time that it was early afternoon and that he had at least four messages, all from Lestrade.
He cleared his throat, becoming increasingly aware of the dryness in it. Sherlock sat upright and opened up the messages as he tried to get his bearings again.
The first message was received around 7:30 this morning.
Sherlock, got an important call in from Scotland Yard. Had to go in. Message me when you get this.
Second one, at 9:15.
I'm serious. Message me when you get up. I want to know you're okay.
Third one was received around 11:45.
I'm still stuck here, buried in paperwork. Call me and maybe we can meet up for lunch and talk.
That definitely wouldn't have happened anyway, he decided. Sherlock remembered a bit from last night and as per routine, he knew Lestrade would want to talk about him shooting up.
Last message, received about a half hour ago at 1:15.
If you don't call or message me back soon, I'm going to assume you're dead and if you're not, then I'm going to kill you myself.
Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the last text and let out a deep chuckle. When he composed himself again, he finally forced his fingers to text a message back to Lestrade.
You needn't bother doing that. I've just been asleep. See you when you get home. – SH
After reading his text over to make sure it was the way he wanted it, the man sent it and then dragged himself into the kitchen to begin making coffee. He couldn't recall how he got home but it didn't seem important at the moment. Anyway, it had to have been Lestrade who found him at his usual stomping grounds and taken him back to the flat. That wasn't so difficult to deduce.
He yawned sleepily as he waited for the pot to brew, setting himself down at the kitchen table. Sherlock's limbs felt heavy like lead as he tried to relax in the chair.
He wanted the feeling back again, the feeling he had last night. The man longed for the euphoria he felt when he had pushed down on the plunger part of the syringe, forcing the morphine into his veins. He had missed that feeling that seemed to make the depression disappear. Although it was momentarily gone, he knew the sadness would return and he didn't care so much for that particular feeling.
Once he had grabbed his coffee and moved his body over to the desk on which his laptop sat upon, he scrolled through his emails, the ones that begged for his help with menial cases. Sherlock ignored them, deciding it'd be best to start on them once his depression started back up; it'd be a nice distraction if nothing else, just typing out replies for hours.
Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed but the next time he glanced up, he saw Lestrade sitting in his chair in front of the telly. This made the younger man hesitate, trying to figure out how much time had passed.
"I… thought you were at work?"
Greg looked over and gave the man a sardonic look. "Are you serious? You've only just noticed me sitting here? I've been home for over two hours! It's nearly seven. I'm really glad that you've managed to get yourself up and brew a pot, though."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily before forcing his eyes back to the screen of his laptop. "Please, Lestrade. I'm in no mood for this right now."
Lestrade turned his body and chuckled without humor. "You're in no mood? Excuse me, Sherlock, but do you think I was in the mood to pick your high arse up at that shithole you like to shoot up in?"
"I don't expect you were, no," Sherlock replied, matter-of-factly.
"Damn right I wasn't! You have impeccable timing though, I'll give you that! I had just gotten out of work when you texted me to come and get you!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked over at him. "I texted you…?"
Gregory raised both his eyebrows before he shook his head in disbelief as he had last night. "Oh well this is just wonderful, Sherlock! You can't even remember that you texted me. You must've been high out of your bleeding mind!"
The young man slammed his laptop shut now and stood up before he rounded on his guardian. "Yes, yes, that was the whole point though, Lestade! I went there to get high so I could forget about how much I wanted to end my own life! Yes, I'm well aware of how low that is and yes, I'm also aware of how irresponsible, immature, and self-destructive I am so you can just forget the hour long scolding you're about to give me!" Sherlock yelled in disgust and frustration.
"You have no right to be angry at me, Sherlock Holmes. Do you have any idea how worried I was about you? How worried I always am when you tell me to come and get you?"
Sherlock started to pace and then looked at Lestrade. "I don't care how worried you are! Lest you forget, you're not my parents and news flash in case you came down with a sudden onset bout of amnesia, I don't need parents because I'm over eighteen and you can't keep me locked up in this prison!"
Greg looked up at Sherlock with a slightly softened expression before he glanced back at the television before he distractedly started to play with a thread that was coming out of the armchair. "I know I'm not either of your parents, and I know how old you are, Sherlock," he replied in a softer voice than earlier. "I'm still your guardian though and I'm still the only person who will tolerate and care enough about you to take care of you and keep you alive."
Sherlock's shoulders dropped from their defiant position now and he took a deep breath before he exhaled and turned around, starting back over towards his sofa. "Maybe I don't want to be alive anymore…"
The words hadn't entirely surprised the DI; he had heard the man say them several times before but for some reason, each time still pained his heart.
The first time had been right after Sherlock's parents had died in a car accident together. Greg had been a Sergeant at that time and it had been the first time he had encountered the genius Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft had been in a boarding school at the time. Lestrade could still remember what Sherlock's words had been exactly when he had told him both his parents were dead.
"Well maybe I don't want to be alive anymore either…"
It had been nearly thirteen years ago when Sherlock was nine years old. Lestrade had been one of the first people on the scene and he had to calm the then young boy. No one in Scotland Yard could figure it out but somehow, Sherlock had managed to escape the car with only a few scratches, one of them fairly deep but not life-threatening.
Since then, Greg had taken him under his wing, adopted him and raised him like one of his own. After the rough divorce with his wife at the time, adopting Sherlock had given him a way to start his life over, in a way. He'd taken care of the boy ever since and once he had started experimenting with various drugs, a process he had repeatedly called an experiment in itself, Lestrade had felt himself beginning to lose trust in Sherlock. He still loved him like a son, no matter what he had done, and he knew that the young beginning detective had a point.
Sherlock was indeed over eighteen and he was at an age where Lestrade legally couldn't hold him hostage at the flat anymore. There was a part of the DI that was terrified to let Sherlock go out into the real world by himself because he had a pretty good feeling that without someone to take care of him, there was a decent chance that Sherlock would not survive very long. This was what was stopping Greg for telling Sherlock to move out and make something of himself. It was odd really; Sherlock didn't appear to have any real motivation to move out, nor did he ever tell Lestrade to leave and let him rent out the flat from underneath him.
Maybe there was a part of Sherlock that didn't think he could truly make it on his own as well.
Lestrade shook himself out of his reveries before he shut off the football game and walked over to the crumpled body on the sofa. He placed both his hands on his legs and looked at Sherlock.
"Well, I do want you alive, Sherlock. You're just starting to crash from the drugs, just like you always do. This isn't anything new and you've felt the same way before but we'll get through this, just like we always do, all right?"
Sherlock chewed thoughtfully on his lip before nodding, seemingly out of arguments for the time being. "You haven't told my brother about last night, have you?"
"No, I know better than to tell him. Anyway, being as how powerful he seems to be already in the British Government, I'm sure he'll find out about you eventually anyway. I haven't told him anything though," Greg promised, looking into Sherlock's eyes.
The young man seemed to search Lestrade's own eyes, obviously making physical observations to decide if the DI was being truthful or not. Once he seemed satisfied with the end result he was looking for, Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling and sighed, already feeling the spiders weaving their webs.
Greg seemed to understand what was going on right now because he grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and covered Sherlock up with it, just like he did when he was a boy. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"
In earnest, that was the last thing Lestrade wanted to do right now in Sherlock's current mental state but he at least wanted to give him the option. Much to his relief, however, Sherlock shook his head and rolled over onto his side, his back facing Greg once again.
Lestrade didn't need to be a genius himself to know what this meant; it was Sherlock's way of saying, "don't talk to me but please don't leave the flat. I need your company." Even when he didn't say anything for several hours, it must have put Sherlock's mind at ease to know that if he did need to ask Lestrade something or talk to him, the head of Scotland Yard would be there for him.
He remained seated there for nearly half an hour, just in case Sherlock turned back around in need of him. After the half hour was up, Greg stood up again and walked over to his chair in front of the television before he turned it back to finish watching the game but kept the volume at a low level as to not disturb the younger man.
Greg woke up abruptly from a reoccurring nightmare he had been having and quickly looked around. He hadn't even to fall asleep but to his dismay, he observed from the clock on the mantelpiece that it was nearly 3 a.m. He cast a look over to the sofa and felt his heart drop into the depths of his stomach when he saw Sherlock was no longer lying on it.
His adrenaline kicked in now and he stood up swiftly before he looked into the kitchen, thinking maybe he was making himself tea.
"Sherlock! Are you here?" he called out to the darkness of the flat.
Greg looking into the bathroom before he only just noticed the blueish-white light that was coming from underneath Sherlock's bedroom. He took a breath and exhaled, calming his panicked heart before he gently knocked on the door.
"Yes, come in…" a solemn voice replied on the other side.
Greg pushed open the door but stayed in the doorway, biting his lip as he observed Sherlock sitting on the bed Indian-style with his laptop out in front of him, the light illuminating the entire room.
"How long have you been awake for?" Greg asked him calmly, his anger and panic fully passed now.
Sherlock sighed to himself but didn't take his eyes off the screen as he tapped out a response to a particularly idiotic email.
"Technically, I've been awake since I woke up this afternoon for the first time. I haven't slept since then. Can't sleep…"
Greg knew this pattern. Insomnia kicked in when the depression did. The two seemed to go hand-in-hand. It had been like this since Sherlock was about thirteen years ago. Lestrade had found different medicines and medications to help the adolescent sleep at night, and sometimes even during the day. Things had changed since then, mostly Sherlock. He refused to take sleeping medications because he claimed they interfered with his thinking and memory processes.
"Do you want me to make you some tea?"
"That will be unnecessary, Greg, but thank you nonetheless."
Lestrade nodded in understanding but then realized that Sherlock probably wouldn't look over at him. "Okay, Sherlock. I'm off to bed, then. I'll text you in the morning to check on you. Try and relax… don't be in front of that screen all night."
Before Sherlock could get frustrated at him for nagging, Greg gently pulled his door closed again except had second thoughts at the last minute and kept it open just a crack before he turned off the lights and the television in the living room and went to his own bed, worried thoughts of Sherlock threatening to plague his nightmares once again.