Sherlock paced back and forth in Lestrade's stuffy office, muttering to himself and making gestures with his hands. Lestrade smirked. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep that up. Gonna tell me any theories yet?" Lestrade pretended to be exasperated with Sherlock but secretly he was ridiculously pleased with the fact that Sherlock had agreed to take this case. It had been almost six weeks since the last one. Sherlock was stubborn, but even he couldn't resist what looked to be a serial case of cannibalism. A killer that interesting was rare. "The neighbour would make sense if it weren't for the teeth, what happened to the teeth?!" Sherlock was getting animated now, his pacing picking up speed.

"Oh, Sherlock, I forgot to mention, there was a letter we thought might be relevant-"

"Well for God's sake, then give it to me! Honestly Lestrade, and you complain about me withholding evidence..."

Greg rifled through the papers on his messy desk and began to search through the drawers. "Hold on, I know it's here somewhere..."

Sherlock strode over to the desk, with intentions to sweep everything to the floor that didn't look relevant. "Hurry up," he began to shove papers off the desk. "I haven't got all day, unlike you, I actually have-" Sherlock suddenly stopped talking and froze. Lestrade looked up and followed Sherlock's gaze to a cuboid shaped object sticking out from under a stack of paperwork. It was an old video. A scruffy sticker was stuck to the side, and on it, in very clear black pen, were the words 'Holmes case'. Shit. Oh shit.

Sherlock reached out very slowly and delicately picked up the tape with his long, thin fingers. He stared at it for a moment that felt like eternity to Lestrade.

Greg gave a violent jump as Sherlock suddenly whipped back his arm and pegged the video at the wall, where the flimsy plastic buckled and cracked. He then stood in the centre of the small room, head down, breathing heavily.

Greg was horrified. "Sherlock you have to understand, I didn't-"

"You had no right!" Sherlock roared, whirling on Lestrade. "That was none of your business!"

"I'm sorry, I just-" Lestrade was interrupted by Sherlock turning and punching the wall. There was a small crumbling noise as he actually broke through the plaster. He withdrew his white fist with a puff of dust and stormed out of the room. Greg stared after him, his expression an amalgamation of shock, horror and utter guilt.

He slowly lowered himself to his chair, and leaned his elbows on the mess of papers. 'Idiot,' he scolded himself, 'you're such an idiot! Why didn't you put that stupid tape back?'

Greg stood up. He had to catch Sherlock and explain.

Greg burst out through the front doors of New Scotland Yard and stood for a moment, panting. He looked around him. Sherlock was gone. Greg randomly chose left and wondered idly how the man managed to disappear so fast. He began to jog, and it wasn't five minutes before he found the man in question, sitting placidly on a park bench, as though he was waiting for a bus. The only thing that belied his earlier tantrum was the white powder settled over his hand and coat sleeve, ground into the cracks in his knuckles he had received from punching through a fairly substantial wall. Sherlock's face was a mask of indifference. Greg had seen this tactic before, retreating deep into the recesses of his mind, locking all of his emotions away. It was a coping technique, an ultimately destructive one.

Greg sidled up to Sherlock and gently sat down on the bench, as though Sherlock was a wounded animal he was afraid to startle. They sat in silence for an indeterminable amount of time before Greg turned his head to look at Sherlock, whose hands were now shaking, fists clenched tightly, white knuckles made whiter by the plaster dust. Sherlock's face was pale, and his skin had an almost translucent look to it, as though he was ill. He looked like an apparition. A phantom, ghostly skin shrouded in his dramatic coat, a dark silhouette against the fog, which was interspersed with weak strains of milky sunlight, characteristic of early-morning London.

Greg and Sherlock had been working all night, and Greg's eyelids felt heavy and drooping, the bright light of dawn making him squint, longing desperately for his bed. Sherlock, of course, looked wide awake, well accustomed to sleepless nights. Greg had often wondered about the consulting detective's ability to focus so intently for such long periods of time, to concentrate with such little rest. Now Greg knew why. If he had experienced what Sherlock had, he didn't think he'd be getting much sleep either.

The silence was absolute, no cars about this early. Greg thought the atmosphere was ethereal, dreamlike. Especially after his long night. He wasn't entirely certain he was even awake right now.

He jumped when Sherlock spoke.

"You were the last person I would have expected to invade my privacy like that." It was practically a whisper. Sherlock was afraid his voice would break if he spoke any louder. God forbid he betray any hint of emotion. Greg couldn't seem to find a single thing to justify his actions, and decided he wouldn't disrespect Sherlock by making up excuses.

"I know." He breathed softly, not wanting to pop their little bubble of silence, afraid the moment would be lost and Sherlock would say something haughty and flounce off, their friendship forever destroyed. "Sherlock, I had absolutely no right to watch that tape, and what I did was inexcusable. But... I did it because I care about you. Not that I'm trying in any way to justify what I did, it was a terrible breach of privacy, but I want you to know that I didn't do it to spite you. I did it because you're my friend, because I wanted to know what had happened to you, so I could help. You're so closed off sometimes, it's hard to communicate with you. I just wanted to understand you better. I'm sorry."

Sherlock said nothing.

Greg attempted to lighten the mood, "And you of all people can understand a bit of morbid curiosity."

Sherlock didn't laugh.

"Why can't any of you understand," he spoke softly and slowly, enunciating each word carefully, like he was trying to keep himself in control. "Why can't you get it through your thick skulls, that I want to forget about this. It happened a long time ago, long before I knew any of you. And you've known me a long time without any inclination to understand me better. Why am I suddenly so interesting? Because I'm a victim? Because the arrogant freak isn't so high and mighty after all? Is that was it was? Some kind of freak-show? Bet you invited half of Scotland yard in to watch me get what I deserved. I know most of them would pay to see me get a beating."

"God, Sherlock, no, that couldn't be farther from the truth-"

"A distraction." Sherlock interrupted. "The cases, they were a distraction, from my home life and from my childhood. And now you've mixed the two. My one distraction." Sherlock's voice cracked on the last word.

Greg's voice trembled. "I just wanted to-"

"No. I'm not yours to fix. I'm not anyone's."

"I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Greg." Sherlock stood up from the bench and walked briskly down the street, hands in his coat pockets, footsteps tapping on the icy concrete, leaving an echo.

Greg sat alone on the bench and heaved a deep sigh, his breath misting in the cool morning air. It was only then that he realised that Sherlock had called him by his first name, for the first time ever. He stood up, shivering, and walked in the opposite direction Sherlock had, trying to convince himself that the moisture in his eyes was due to the icy wind.

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To be continued