Chapter 2

This isn't a new chapter, sorry! Chapter 2 got taken down, somehow, so I'm just re-uploading. Hopefully will have an update soon, though!

Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again

The following few days were nothing short of nightmarish.

Both Sherlock and Lestrade were well aware of the symptoms that could, and almost inevitable would occur with going cold-turkey (agitation,depression,restlessness,increasedappetite,insomnia,nightmares,nightterrors,grogginess,moodswings,fatigue,generalisedmalaise,paranoiaandintensecravings) but no amount of written words and online forums could ease Lestrade's frayed nerves and Sherlock's fear when the crash first hit.

Sherlock had yet to leave the bedroom where Lestrade had left him to sleep some of it off so when the young man padded barefoot into the living room around 10pm that evening the silver-haired DI was a bit surprised.

"Are you okay? Didn't expect to see you up and about to be honest," he asked, turning away from the shitty made-for-tv film he was currently engrossed in.

The man looked blearily around the room before letting his eyes settle on Lestrade.

"I don't want to do this. So I'm gonna go now if you'd like to show me the door," he stated, so sure of himself, only the restless jittering of his arms giving awa anything. Lestrade hadn't expected any different.

"I'm afraid I'm not going to do that Sherlock. Instead I'm going to make you a cup of tea and bring you some fresh, clean clothes and you're going to have a shower," he smiled forcefully, pushing himself out of the chair and making his way to the kitchen.

"I said I don't want to do this!" his voice started of as quiet, reserved before reaching and angry, untamed note at the end.

Lestrade ignored him, filling the kettle under the tap and flicking it on. He felt Sherlock creep up behind him.

"Let me go Lestrade."

"No. You either do this here or you do it in a Chelsea police cell."

"Fuck you! I don't need to do fucking anything, you understand? I am fine!" the brunette roared, sending spit flying over the kitchen.

"So why do desperate to leave? Cup of tea, shower, clean clothes, bit of telly. Could be worse, eh?" Lestrade continued, stubbornly meeting the younger man's furious grey eyes. If looks could kill...

He did feel sorry for the man, he truly did, but like he had said, he was a smart bloke. He knew what consequences would be the second he picked up the needle for the first time. His resolve softened a bit when he turned around from fiddling with the kettle to face the man. He looked so young, scared, lost and Jesus H. Christ, Lestrade had never expected to be able to say any of that about the arrogant git.

"What about a fag?" he offered, rooting around in the pocket of his coat that was left on top of the counter. His fingers found a crumpled pack and he pulled out two, handing one to Sherlock and lighting his own.

Sherlock looked unsure for a moment, his hands trembling around the cigarette.

"It'll calm your nerves. I can't give you anything stronger. One, because I don't have any bar a few aspirin and paracetamol and two, I'm not a doctor."

He reached out for Lestrade's lighter, holding the cigarette to the flickering flame before taking a long drag.

His ridiculously long fingers seem to ease in their erratic movements for those for minutes.

It was nearing dawn when Lestrade awoke to check on Sherlock.

He didn't quite know what he expected to find in the spare room. Whatever it was, it was almost certainly not Sherlock Holmes huddled in a corner, drenched in sweat and crying.
Lestrade sat down next to the man.

"It's all right, to cry, you know?" he hushed.

Sherlock tried to ignore him, burying his head under his arms although Lestrade noticed the back of his neck was bright red.

He was embarrassed. The silly arse.
He put one arm around the man's shoulders, keeping his grip unrelenting even as Sherlock tensed and made small movements as if to get away.

"Cry if you wanna. I promise you I won't think any less of you," he swore, rubbing small circles into Sherlock's shoulder with his thumb.

They stayed like that until Lestrade's arse went numb and Sherlock fell asleep against his arm. He looked so small, so tired and so painfully defenceless just lying there, his greasy hair flopping into his face, that Lestrade couldn't quite bring himself to leave him alone. Not quite yet.

5 weeks later Lestrade took the plunge and asked Sherlock to move out.

"It'll be good for you. We can get you a small bedsit or you could stay in a hostel until you're ready. Beginning of a whole new era," he had attempted, somewhat poorly, to make his case. He didn't particularly want the man leaving, he had gotten used to his presence and was quite happy should such a presence continue. But that particular type of selfishness wouldn't benefit Sherlock. He needed a fresh start, independance and support.

Sherlock didn't reply, just glared at the crossword in front of him. He looked a lot better, dressed in a pair of clean jeans that fit him and a t-shirt that didn't make him look ridiculously skinny. His hair was cut and washed, producing a mass of shiny black curls that Greg had been strangely pleased with, and he was clean shaven and no longer smelled.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

"Yes, listening just fine. When do you want me gone? Shan't take long to pack."

He sounded huffy now.

"I didn't mean it like that, and you know it! I just think it'd be best for you if you got a place of your own."

The man just hummed.

Two days later and he had left. He had left no address or phone number to which Lestrade could contact him on and the DI hated the lingering thought that haunted him at nights. He's back on the streets, because you asked him to fuck off. It's your fault.

He had gotten through 6 bottles of scotch that week.

'Cause baby, ooh, if heaven calls, I'm coming, too
Just like you said, you leave my life, I'm better off dead

After his leisurely stay at Lestrade's, moving back into a squat was an unpleasant experience. The drugs were a constant temptation with what seemed like everybody using them.

The squat he was staying in was in Highgate and he had found it by the lightening bolt shaped arrow in the circle that identified squats around the world. It had been gutted which meant the wires had been cut and the plumbing filled with cement. This didn't put off many people and he soon learned to resort to the bathroom in the McDonald's down the road.

A young man, only about 20 years of age, had found Sherlock fascinating.

His name was Dylan, some pompous boy that obviously had enough of his tragic upper-middle class upbringing and had decided to spend his gap year "finding himself" in the poverty that was London. He reminded Sherlock of himself, a bit, but Dylan was idiotic beyond belief and didn't quite know when to shut up.

Dylan also only smoked weed, which was hardly a drug in Sherlock's eyes. He referred to himself as a hardcore addict, to which Sherlock had only nodded to, smirking to himself. He wondered what Lestrade would say to that?(HetriednottothinkofLestradebutitwasanincrediblychallengingfeat).

It was a sultry night in London, the air hung heavy as a gaggle of inebriated young women stumbled past him on their way to a taxi rank, giggling and shrieking.

His head hurt. He missed Lestrade. Lestrade didn't miss him.

But Lestrade would help him, because that's the type of man Lestrade was.

He wasn't quite sure what would work best. Muggings were too messy and unpredictable. Road accidents, once again, messy and unpredictable. And as Sherlock ran through this mental list of ways to find Lestrade (nottogetLestrade'sattention,becausehewasnota13yearoldgirlwithacrush) he realised there was only one thing he knew that would work in his favour.


He certainly had no intention of starting back on cocaine(thewithdrawalhadbeendisgustingandpatheticandLestradehadbeenashamedofhim).

He wanted something that would ease this constant chatter in his head, this constant anxiety and malaise.

An opiate. Opium, most obviously, but this was no longer Victorian England and opium was hard to come by. Heroin was too addictive, the crash too strong to make it worth anything. Fentanyl too potent for a heart weakend by years of drug abuse.
Morphine, however, would suit.

It was easy to get the drug, a few words here and there and he had 40mg in tablet form in his pocket.

He went into the bathroom of the club he had bought the drug and weaving his way around the other men, some with women pressed up against the wall (Classy,Sherlockthought,somewhathypocritcally) and made his way into a stall.

Kneeling down around the toilet paper strewn across the floor and sodden in urine, he popped two of the pills into his mouth to suck of the coating. Spitting them back into his palm he ground them on the toilet seat using a £2 coin. He rubbed a small amount into his gums, as so it would hit the blood stream faster, before snorting the remainder up scrap of a rolled-up take-away menu he had taken from a chippy earlier.

All this talk of getting old
It's getting me down my love
Like a cat in a bag, waiting to drown
This time I'm comin' down

Some impatient twat hammered on the door.

"Oi! Some of us want to get in, all ri'?" he yelled.

"Piss off!" Sherlock roared back, pulling out the mobile Lestrade had provided him with before he had left.

Turning it on (hehadleftitswitchedoff,astoreservebattery.Understandablydifficulttochargeaphonewhenoneisoneoftheinvisiblehomeless).

He fired of a single text to Lestrade.


He meandered unsteadily back outside, feeling the heavy feeling sinking into his limbs like he had been warned.

Collapsing down onto the curb, he waited.

Lestrade made his appearance 25 minutes later, disheveled and worried looking.

"What's wrong?" he flustered, dashing over.

Sherlock smiled dopily, throwing an arm around Lestrade and nuzzling into his neck.

"Oh, you're high, aren't you?" Lestrade tried to pull back from Sherlock's embrace, to check his pupils for dilation, for Sherlock had a surprisingly strong grip for someone so stoned.

He breathed in the scent of the older man's hair, ignoring the threats of murder, homicide and insults of idiocy, selfishness and something bizarre and new-fangled called "dip-shitted arse-logic".

This endless ramble of insults and fury pouring from Lestrade paused for a moment when Sherlock whispered into his ear.

"I love you."

No one spoke. Lestrade ignoring it, Sherlock probably not even realising he said.

Lestrade ended up doing what Sherlock predicted. Bundling the younger man into the car and bringing him back home.

Now the drugs don't work
They just make you worse
But I know I'll see your face again

The following morning was nothing like Sherlock's first day at Lestrade's.

The DI was nothing short of furious, stomping around the flat and doing his damned best to increase the brunette's hangover.

"You're a prick Sherlock. A real bloody, grade-A prick," he yelled when Sherlock made his way into the kitchen

"I know," he had admitted, refusing to make eye-contact.

"How damned selfish can you get? The shit I got from bringing you into my home, getting you clean, offering to help you buy a flat before you left. Left without even telling me, may I add! And then you think it's fine to text me six weeks later so I can pick up your useless, stoned body off the roadside?" he roared, turning onto Sherlock with anger.

Sherlock hadn't given an answer to that.

"This isn't on, it really isn't. I'm not some Oxfam charity here. I'm just Greg Lestrade, a normal fucking bloke who made friends with some stupid, strung-out junkie!"

Sherlock's head snapped up at that.


"I'd like to think we were, yeah. But that's not the point is it? You can't just expect me to be on your beck and call 24 bloody 7! That's not how it works! I helped you Sherlock. God knows I tried! But you get a bit bored, so you throw it all down the drain. Oh, but better yet, you phone me! You ask me to come find you, so you can show me what I wasted my time on! After buggering off when I was out one day! That was pretty cool of you Sherlock, real nice in fact!"

Silence fell in the room, so intense that Sherlock could hear the cheap clock that hung on the wall ticking.




Lestrade was standing at the sink, watching Sherlock very carefully, breathing heavily as a result of his recent rage.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock ventured quietly, never lifting his eyes from the floor.

The older man just snorted in cynical laughter.

"No, I am. I don't know why I done what I done. It was, like you said "dip-shitted arse-logic". At least I think it was, I'm not quite sure what that actually is," his feeble attempt at a joke falling flat in the room. "I was just, I dunno. Scared, I think. I couldn't think properly. The drugs had always worked before."

"Why couldn't you think?" Lestrade seemed to have calmed down now, reverting back, just the smallest bit, to the compassionate figure that Sherlock had come to appreciate.

"I said I didn't know!" Sherlock snapped, immediately regretting is as Lestrade's previous anger seemed to ebb his way back in.

"I don't bloody know, sorry," Sherlock attempted again, softer this time, "I'm just...the cocaine. It made everything easier, so much clearer. But now it's gone and nothing is working, my head is numb."

Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully.

"You understand, Sherlock, that depression is a common sign of withdrawal. You should speak to a professional. I'm sure The Passage could put you in contact with someone."

"I don't want a professional, dammit! I want you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, not meaning to, but the words were out there now and he couldn't take them back for fear of upsetting Lestrade (sincewhenhadhebeenafraidofupsettingpeople?).

Lestrade sighed, watching Sherlock with sad eyes.(Whywashesosad?)

Well, now that the words were out there, he may as well go the whole way. Lestrade would guess either way, eventually, and Sherlock didn't want to be pitied as the guy that had some silly crush.

"I want you Lestrade."

"I know, you just said-"

"You're not listening to me. I don't know how to say this. They're just words, really, aren't they?"

"I don't know what you're on about," Lestrade admitted, and he looked genuine. A small furrow had appeared between his brows.

"What I'm trying to say is..." he broke off again, his hands grasping uselessly in the air for words that couldn't come to him.

"Oh fuck this. I think, at some point, I may have, y'know? Fallen in love. With you."

The room was awkward. No one spoke, no one moved a muscle. Even the clock seemed to had stopped its incessant ticking.

Then Lestrade smiled.

Not a mocking smile, not a fake do-it-to-make-the-nutter-happy smile.

But a proper, genuinely pleased smile.

Sherlock enjoyed that smile.

'Cause baby, ooh, if heaven calls, I'm coming, too
Just like you said, you leave my life, I'm better off dead
And I'll sing in your ear again

Things moved a lot quicker, simpler, after that.

Sherlock has easily agreed to move back in with Lestrade. They shared the same bedroom now, same bed even, a new experience for Sherlock(well,sharingbedswithsnoring,sweatingstrangersonthefloorofsomerundowncouncilflatinBromleydidn'texactlycount,didit?) and not entirely unpleasant.

Waking up beside Lestrade was even better. Sherlock soon learned that he probably wasn't designed to sleep through the night so he spent the majority of his waking hours in bed watching Lestrade sleep instead. He thought this was probably intensely creepy but the silver-haired man never seemed to mind when he woke up so see Sherlock staring down at him. Instead he just smiled, reaching up for Sherlock's neck and dragging him down to curl around him, falling back asleep.

They fell into a quiet routine. Sherlock brought Lestrade coffee and toast in the morning (shouldSherlockbeawake.Ifnot,heliedin).

Lestrade then left for work at around 7am, as to skip the rush hour.

Sherlock lounged around the house if there were no cases and if there were cases Lestrade text him. They never let on that they were a couple, the world wasn't clear of homophobic behavior quite yet, so Sherlock always took a taxi rather than the police car (ahabitthatwouldlingerforyearstocome).

Sally knew, Sherlock was sure, but she never said anything either disapproving or congratulatory.

Sherlock preferred it that way.

If there was no case then Lestrade text at regular intervals to make sure Sherlock hadn't died or something just as melodramatic.

Lestrade arrived home at 6pm most nights, with take-away (LestradewasanabysmalcookandSherlockdidn'tquitewantto,evenifitwouldbreakuptheday).

They sat in front of the television some nights, other nights were spent with Sherlock looking into adult classes at his level and his own studies and Lestrade thumbing through sensationalist literature, and on a really bad night, checking over paperwork.
Lestrade went to bed at 11pm, Sherlock at 1am.

Sometimes they slept.

They awoke at 5.30am and were back to square one.

After six months of sobriety for Sherlock and co-habitation with Lestrade a parcel arrived for the brunette.

An expensive Stradavarius violin (retailprice?Anythingupto£2,500) with a note attached (royalblueink,calligraphicscriptandHolmes'familycrestoftheblueandwhitestripeswiththeredcirclebackedonawhitesquareembosseduponthetop). It read:


That night was the first night Lestrade had heard Sherlock play.