DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle etc...
This is the last part - I hope it's okay!
He was back at work within two weeks of being moved to Mycroft's and it was all as if nothing spectacular had happened at all. Sherlock Holmes came striding on to the crime scene being rude to Anderson and telling Lestrade it was all so simple it wasn't worth his while. When he did deign to look at the body of the man, he told them that the man had been killed with a household utensil (an iron) by his wife because he had just told her that he was leaving her. Inexplicably Sherlock also managed to tell them that they were both grieving over something that had happened recently - most probably the death of a child or baby.
When they were back at the station, just Sherlock and himself, Lestrade asked how things were going as he filled in paperwork.
"Things are going very well. The government seems to be in order and wasn't someone just telling me yesterday that we're going to have a 'barbeque summer', whatever that is." he had a perfectly innocent expression on his face.
"Sherlock... I meant how are things going with you? With being clean."
In response, Sherlock took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He gestured them in front of the Inspector like a child might show a teacher a painting that they had spent time and effort on and wished to be praised. "Look."
Lestrade did look. He saw no bruises, no sores, no scabs. All he saw were scars, pearly against the white skin. "That's great Sherlock, it really is." He felt proud of him, stupidly, ridiculously proud. "And the morphine?"
Sherlock sat back in his chair looking rather pleased with himself. "Nothing. You can check Bart's hospital records if you don't believe me. They'll be none missing." He yawned. "It really is astonishing what a person will do in order to be released from Mycroft's flat. It was worth putting up with the..." he coughed, "side-effects just to escape from the constant revolving door of people begging his advice. It's truly nauseating."
The night Lestrade had spent at Sherlock's flat went unspoken between them. The side he had seen of Sherlock that night was gone again, the vulnerability a memory. He was glad. This was the Sherlock he had grown used to, even if he was a little friendlier today. Lestrade's thanks had been a short text from Sherlock the morning after.
Your aid much appreciated.
That was the equivalent of a sonnet, and Lestrade knew it.
"And how have the, ah, side-effects been?"
Just for a moment the younger man looked haunted. "It's not been a particularly enjoyable two weeks, but I have been assured by Mycroft's 'best people' that I'm through the worst." Sherlock made a little face as if to say he didn't trust them one bit.
Lestrade put down his pen and picked up his coffee mug. "You know, I have been wondering something. Why are you doing this, Sherlock? I mean, I don't think it's because I told you to stop."
"Lestrade, you wound me. Do you think I think so little of you?"
Lestrade just looked at him.
Sherlock sighed. "I'm doing it because what you said was true. I'll kill myself if I keep on doing the drugs. I might kill myself coming off them - I might, sometimes I really feel like I might - but I'd rather be in charge of my own death than be lying in Barts because my body had given up on me." He said the last bit with a disgusted sneer, as if the mortal body wasn't worth his time. "My father died in a hospital. He drank himself to death, Inspector. First his liver failed and then... Oh and then lots more complicated things happened that I've not bothered to remember."
Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'm, I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"You didn't know? Why on earth should you have known? And there's no need to be sorry. I'm not telling you because I need someone to talk to, because I still cry into my pillow over it. I'm telling you because you asked why I'm going cold." He touched his left arm again; let his fingers drift down the scars in a manner that was almost loving. "I don't want to be like my father. When he died it was so messy and unflattering. His mind was all there but his organs had abandoned him. I wonder - do I really want that to be me? Do I want to be betrayed by own body?" He sniffed disdainfully. "No. And I'm tired of my dependence on the drugs. I've never needed anything in my life; not even food, not really. Why should drugs be my exception?"
"Okay." What he had said made surprising sense. Lestrade's own mother had wasted away in a hospital from throat cancer. He could understand the thought process that told you that won't be me. "I'm glad. I'm glad you're getting off them."
"You're growing attached to me." Sherlock stood up. "Stop it."
Lestrade laughed. "I'm not attached to you. I'm attached to the cases I get signed off when you're around, and I'm most certainly attached to the bonus I get for exceeding my targets."
"Goodbye Inspector." Sherlock smiled.
"I'll text you when something turns up." He promised. "And Sherlock?"
"Quirrell is after the stone. He wants it for Voldermort. It's not Snape at all." Lestrade really laughed this time, the look of shock on the detectives face was priceless. "Just got there last night with Emily. Thought you'd like to know."
So, that's it. Thankyou very much for everyone who reviewed and favourited me, it's so flattering and nice to see a positive response to my work. Can I make the same plea as always - if you liked it please let me know, and if it didn't match up then let me know how to improve. AND if you alerted/favourited this then thankyou, but if you didn't review then I would really, really love it if you did please :) Thanks everyone for reading this!