DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock.
'Tis just my little exploration into the drugs side of Sherlock, and into Lestrade, who I like. It'll be a two-shot. I've tried really very hard with this because dialogue is not my natural forte and I wanted to be in-character. I hope you enjoy it.
"You need to get off the drugs." Lestrade wished he had never met the man lying in front of him in the nasty police holding cell. If he hadn't met him then he wouldn't feel remotely responsible for him – he'd be just another young man wasting his life on cocaine.
"You can't tell me what to do, Inspector. I'm cleverer than you." He was very nearly on the comedown; he could hear it in his voice.
"If you keep taking this amount of cocaine then you won't stay 'cleverer' Sherlock." Lestrade leaned forward. "I'm serious, you're damaging yourself. I'll send you for a brain scan if you want."
"I don't need a brain scan." He waved his hand in the air lazily. "My brain is brilliant."
Lestrade marvelled at how together Sherlock Holmes continued to be, even when he had spent the night completely off his head. His shoes were still on and the laces were still tied, his trousers still held their crease, his shirt was clean and buttoned. He didn't know about high-functioning sociopath, but a high-functioning drug addict he certainly was. The only tell-tale signs of a habit were the track-marks on his forearm, but even they looked neat and precise. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"
"Yesterday, probably. Maybe the day before." Sherlock still had his eyes closed, but he began to make motions as if he was playing the violin.
"Do you want me to get Donovan to get you something – toast, bacon sandwich?"
"Oh can you imagine her face? You should send her just for that. I won't eat it though. I'm not hungry."
"Tut tut, Inspector. Caffeine is a drug and you want to get me off those." His tone was lazily arrogant.
Lestrade could feel irritation building. "No. I'm going to get you off them."
"I don't know if I can."
"No. You don't know if you want to."
"Yes. That too. But it's the same thing. If i don't want to then I can't. It's cyclical. Round and round and round..." he trailed off, humming the old nursery rhyme.
Lestrade pulsed with anger. "Do you want to know what I should be doing now, Sherlock? It's a Sunday morning - 7'o'clock. You'd know that if you hadn't spent the last 12 hours shooting up. I should be just getting up to play with my daughter. She's 5 years old now and she's mad for dinosaurs. Every weekend she wakes me up so we can play let's pretend dinosaurs, and then she helps me make breakfast. We have full English on a Sunday. She carries up the stairs to her mum then we sit together and I read the papers and she watches TV. That's what I should be doing - pretending to be a triceratops. Instead I'm sat here with you, wasting my time on someone who doesn't want to be helped. I can leave you Sherlock, you're good but you're not so good that I can't do without you. If you don't clean yourself up I'll stop using you, I'll stop asking you for help. Then what will you do with your brilliant brain?"
Sherlock had rolled onto his left side so he was looking at Lestrade. There was something uncomfortably crestfallen, nearly childish in his face. "Do you really mean that?"
"You're becoming a liability. It's harder to work with you. I can't trust what you say if I don't know what you're on when you're saying it."
"I always get it right. Always. I got it right last week and I was on morphine. I got it right last night and I had £500 of cocaine in my veins. I always get it right."
"That doesn't stand up in court." The two men stared at each other.
"But I don't know what to do with myself!" Sherlock shouted, suddenly. "I get so bored and I'll do anything to stop it! You find me a way to stop being bored and I won't need to take anything."
Lestrade didn't know what to say. The things he was thinking (counselling, therapy, anti-depressants, clinics) were not things you would associate with Sherlock Holmes. It was a shame. If he'd ever met someone who needed a good session with a psychotherapist it was the young man in front of him. You just had to look in his eyes.
"I don't know about that. I just know that you'll only get more and more unhappy if you carry on with this." He gestured to the marks on his pale forearms. "You'll kill yourself with it. I've seen hundreds of people like you, and most of them end up dead."
Sherlock lay on the concrete, mumbling. "I don't want that. Not yet. There's no satisfaction yet." He began to drag himself up till he was slumped against the wall. Now it was easy to see his drug use - shadowed eyes, rake-thin body, clear signs of chronic fatigue. "What's your daughter's name?" He sounded much more tired now, and he kept running his hands over his face or through his hair.
"Emily. It's a nice name. I expect she's pretty isn't she - she'll take after your wife." Every word was causing him considerable effort.
"Yeah, she does. Lucky for her." Lestrade couldn't help but smile.
Sherlock nearly smiled himself then. "Go home. Go home and indulge your daughter and make your breakfast. I'll stay here until your shift starts tonight."
"And then I'll try." His hand convulsed around his left arm. "But, I'm not doing any twelve step programme, I'm not going to any group therapy - my name is Sherlock and I'm a drug addict – I'm not taking any methadone. I'll do it my way."
"You'll do it my way." He wouldn't, Lestrade knew that, but it didn't hurt to try.
"Can we start with that coffee you mentioned? And maybe the toast, too." He reached into his pocket. "Can I smoke in here?"
"In a police holding cell? No."
"Pathetic..." Sherlock muttered. "I'll be giving these up next. People do so love to victimise minority groups."
Lestrade smirked. "I'll get Donovan onto that breakfast."
"Yes, do. And go and make yours." Sherlock pushed himself up the wall into an imitation of a standing position and swayed over to the little bed. He turned his back to Lestrade and curled up tight.
Lestrade turned to let him sleep it off, but he hadn't quite left the room when Sherlock spoke again. "No-one ever played let's-pretend with me." Lestrade thought he might understand that - a small Sherlock probably wanted to play murderers and victims. Or serial killers. The younger man sighed heavily. "Maybe that was the problem. Keep playing it with Emily, inspector. You wouldn't want her ending up like me, would you?"
That haunted Lestrade for weeks. If there was one person Lestrade didn't want his daughter to grow up to be like, it was Sherlock Holmes.
So, thankyou for reading. If you did or didn't enjoy it, could you please let me know in a reveiw? I post on here partly because people help me improve by telling me what I'm doing right and wrong. Next part should be up either tommorow or the day after.