Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

A/N: "The Great Game" and season 2 have never happened. Also for this fic, I needed Sherlock younger than in the actual series, so he's twenty-six.

Warnings: drugs use, some minor swearing, slash in the next chapters.

...

Downfall

...

It is not as if he had not noticed at first. He always noticed everything, it was just that he had not paid it much thought. Honestly, he had been rather pleased with how the things had been progressing.

John dating Sarah had meant John going out in the evenings, leaving Sherlock to his own devices, that is: his experiments or his violin or his sulking. John and the experiments had never got along well, for reasons obscure even to his flatmate. Maybe he really did not appreciate human parts in the fridge but it had been a little exaggeration on his part, too. Sherlock would bring something from the morgue from time to time but he had not been insensible enough to do it more often than twice a month. Molly might be head over heels for him, but she was not a magician to hide the lack of some poor deceased man's head or heels from her colleagues or superiors. So he had to stick to more innocent experiments. 'Innocent' according to John, at least until one of them exploded all over him when he had gone to the kitchen to prepare tea.

The violin was a different matter. Sherlock disliked playing it when anyone was in the flat and despite his earnest intentions he could not bring himself to break that habit on John's behalf.

He actually suspected that John was glad that he had a chance to go out when the 'sulking mood' hit Sherlock. And at least, without John, he could succumb to the black pits of boredom without anyone whining about his theatrical gestures. They were not theatrical. They were something that would take his mind away from nothingness at least for a second. Also, without John, he could try (sometimes) to fight it off by going through his emails or listing all the mistakes he could find on his blog. Those were exactly as exciting as feeding snails, but they would work once in a while. Especially when John's email was full of ads from one particular bank.

So it had been all for the best at first. John had been thoughtful enough not to bring his date to their flat, not that Sherlock would have overly minded. Whenever the two of them would meet, he would forget about her presence as soon as the greetings were over. Besides, John had been always there when he had been needed. The man had the sixth sense when it came to Sherlock's erratic actions and had always come back in time to help to test a new theory or stalk another criminal. That had been a perfect deal in the consulting detective's opinion.

...

Then, one day, something was off. Definitely off. He was in the middle of an experiment when he called for John's assistance and silence answered him. He did not hear the shower running, neither was the telly on. John was out. Again. Work? No, he had managed to memorise his flatmate's working hours and it was already well past his shift's end.

"Sarah", he grunted the moment when the concoction he had been working at began to smell unpleasantly.

He turned on his heels, frustrated as it was ruined for further use and threw himself on the couch. He entertained the thought of texting John, only it would be for nothing given the failure of the experiment.

To think that John was with Sarah when he needed him. It was alright for him to have a girlfriend, but hadn't he met Sherlock first? Shouldn't it mean he and his needs were first too? It was inconvenient to be left alone when he had grown used to having someone in his flat. He had taught himself to plan everything for two people, unconsciously preparing himself for requesting John's presence at one stage of his activities. He was not necessary per se, but Sherlock knew it was hard to convince his sub consciousness of that. Besides, as John frequently told him, he should not draw conclusions from individual events. So he wouldn't, despite himself.

...

But when he called John to come to a stakeout with him and the man did not even answer the individual event turned into a series of events.

John's gun would have been more than useful and the doctor always took it with him whenever he was going out, not as much for self-defence as because of reluctance to leave it anywhere near Sherlock.

When John finally graciously turned up in their flat, Sherlock had already taken care of a stab wound he had on his arm. Nothing serious, John would not even notice the bandages underneath his shirt.

"I called you", he said matter-of-factly, typing a text to Lestrade.

"I know, I'm sorry I didn't answer. We were in the cinema", John explained softly taking off his jacket, "Anything important?"

Since when did he call in unimportant matters?

"No", he tossed his mobile on a low coffee table, "I couldn't find tea".

John gave him a look full of suffering.

"It's always in the same cupboard. For heaven's sake, try to remember it."

Judging by John's irritated tone, the date must have gone worse than expected.

"Lestrade want us in Brixton in the morning. Maybe you should go to bed earlier."

"Have you just treated me like a child?"

"What?", Sherlock blinked.

"Never mind", John shook his head, "I can't go, I have a shift."

Sherlock shrugged, "Take a day-off."

"I can't."

"Why not?", Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, "You haven't taken one this year yet. You can take it tomorrow."

John folded his arms as if bracing himself for something.

"I've already informed them I'm taking a day-off on Friday. I can't suddenly take another one tomorrow."

"Why would you need a Friday off? Nothing interesting happens then, at least not till the evening.", Sherlock was puzzled. Most of Friday crimes happened around midnight, when the heat of the night hit its peak.

It was John's turn to sigh.

"Me and Sarah are visiting her sister", he announced, "She invited us for the weekend."

Oh. Sarah. Again.

"Cancel it", he tossed, "She's probably as dull as her sister. In Brixton, however…"

He wasn't able to finish as John cried out.

"Sherlock! She's my girlfriend and I'm sincerely hoping she'll become something more", he hastily provided, "She is not dull. She may not be as brilliant as you, but at least she's warm and intelligent and sympathetic when needed. Refrain from insulting her", he added sternly.

"I haven't insulted her yet", the younger man let his tone adapt the same cold tone, "I was stating the fact. She's not the most exciting person to be with, even you have to admit it."

John measured him from head to toe.

"At least she's not a lethal person to be with", he walked away to his bedroom.

Sentiments.

...

He went to Brixton alone. Not as if he had never done it before.

And he came back half an hour later. John's absence had been painfully clear to him: there had been no one to appreciate his skills, sure Lestrade had commented on the swiftness of his mind but then he had had to take care of a petrified witness and Sherlock had taken advantage of that and had tried to inspect other rooms in the building where the body had been found. Least to say, the officers there had not seen the point of his little escapade and before the D.I. had been back, Donovan had sent him on his way. He wouldn't have relented had it not been for her calling him 'freak' and listing out all the regulations he had broken in such a high voice that the whole street could hear her. Moreover, there had been people from another squad there and they had not seem to be ready to be lenient with him.

So he had to leave before someone had decided it could be handy to arrest him for explanation.

In the taxi on his way back home he could not help but wonder if things would have proceeded differently had John been with him. Probably yes. Before John half of the occasions when he had been called to a crime scene would end like that.

He spent the rest of the day ignoring Lestrade's calls and texts. If he wanted his help he could have told his team to be cooperative. In the end, his mobile beeped with the last message: Don't expect any cases until you stop acting like a brat.

...

He knew something big was going to happen. John was restless and John was rarely restless unless his leg that had never been wounded was hurting him. It was Thursday and he had not met Sarah since Monday which was pretty unusual, yet they had been exchanging calls every few hours so Sherlock had to wave a goodbye to his hopes of them having split up. His flatmate had spent all those afternoons and evenings on his laptop and finally Sherlock had enough and checked his browser history when John went to the bathroom.

To his surprise, John had been viewing jewellery shop's collections.

Sherlock may have little respect towards the society rules but he understood that when a man was looking for a ring he was planning to propose. He felt his insides freezing. Funny. It's not as if he hadn't seen it coming. Or as if he'd been afraid to see it coming.

John was going to propose to Sarah and Sarah was going to say yes. Why wouldn't she? John was a great man: honest, caring, loyal, smart, handsome… It was clear he loved her. They would be perfect together.

Together. They would be together and Sherlock would be left alone. With a startling clarity he realised he didn't want to be alone again. He had spent the bigger part of his life alone and unnoticed by people around him and it wasn't something he desired to return to. Who would go on the cases with him? Who would guard his back? He would never admit it aloud but he desperately needed a backup. With his fame growing he was given more and more dangerous cases, trailing after more and more ruthless criminals. It was exhilarating, only the said criminals knew more and more about him. They expected him. They anticipated his involvement and they were taking bets on who was going to finally finish him off. Those eight years ago when he had cracked the first case for the police he was literally no one and his assistance had been a well-guarded secret. But who would ever want to remain in the shadows forever? Where was the fun in it? Every chase, every new game with a new criminal mastermind was thrilling, making his blood flow faster and he had long ago discarded the safety he had had as an anonymous consultant. He would often go after someone without the knowledge of the police, of the very same person who informed him about the crime. And before they caught up with him, he was alone with John. John who would stay just behind his back until he found all the evidence and proved his theory. Sometimes, after he was done he would turn back and find a corpse there.

He couldn't lose John.

He frantically searched for something that would make him stay. He could call Sarah and threaten her to reject John, but if John ever learnt of this he would scurry away quicker than a lightening. He needed a different solution. What usually made people stay? An illness maybe? No, he was being ridiculous, he was talking about a doctor here. Never in million years John would believe he had a nasty disease without checking it himself. He could offer to accept Sarah in the flat so they could live there all together, so that John would always be there when he would find his useful. Only the flat was small and as far as his knowledge went, newlywed detested the so-called third party.

He was desperate enough to think about making Mycroft pay John for staying. But John would refuse.

John valued Sarah too much, he claimed he loved her. Loved her. Love. Such a strange word. According to a dictionary, love was an emotion of strong affection and personal attachment, a virtue representing all of human kindness, compassion, and affection; and the unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another.

Personal attachment. When people grew attached, it was very painful for them to be abandoned, wasn't it? A true heartless bastard would throw away a person who loved him.

John wasn't heartless in a bit. Sherlock actually suspected he may be a little too affectionate. He would never leave the one who loved him to suffer alone.

He smirked. He knew what to do.

When John walked out the bathroom, he found his flatmate sitting on the couch, playing nervously with his fingers.

"Everything alright?", he asked taking in Sherlock's rather dishevelled appearance. He looked almost worried. Sherlock worried? It didn't bode well.

"Oh, yes", Sherlock sounded distracted. He didn't even glance at his flatmate.

"Are you sure? Nothing I should be aware of?", John tried to appear curious, even joking, but he was truly apprehensive of what he may hear. Sherlock rarely, if not never, looked so unsure of himself. It was making him imagine worst scenarios.

But Sherlock only smiled a tight smile at him and resumed his play with his fingers.

Unable to shake off the discomfort and worry, John sat down in front of his laptop but couldn't focus on the site he was viewing. When he saw Sherlock straightening a little to look at him, he lowered his head, feigning interest in the Internet.

"John", came a tentative call.

"Yes?", he congratulated himself on keeping his nerves at bay.

"How long does it take to fall in love?"

John blinked. He certainly hadn't foreseen such query from the lips of his flatmate. Nevertheless, he decided to be truthful and as precise as possible. Just because Sherlock had dedicated himself to a silly problem didn't mean he was to be dismissive.

"It's impossible to tell", he started, "It depends, on what I know not. Some people need years to realise they love someone, others weeks, some fall in love at the first sight. And in all cases, the feeling as equally strong."

Sherlock nodded, as if it had confirmed his suspicions. He was almost funny with his awkwardness regarding emotions.

"And is it equally strong no matter the age or does it wither away with the passage of time?"

John hid a snicker at the unintentional attempt at poetry. Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"It should be. I mean, if you love someone truly you would not stop just because you've known each other for a long time. Love isn't about getting excited with each other, but growing comfortable with each other, as if making one being."

It was quite ludicrous to be having this conversation. John could swear that he was going to smack Sherlock should he make fun of his 'love philosophy'. Surprisingly, mocking never came.

The doctor inspected his flatmate from behind the laptop. Yes, he had been right. Sherlock looks highly uncomfortable, with a hint of despair. What had he done this time?

"Does a gender matter?", he all but whispered.

"Gender?", that threw John off track, "I believe not. Someone has once said that all love is beautiful. I guess it's true. Remember, my sister used to be married to a woman", he winked, "You do remember, don't you?"

"I do", Sherlock hastily assured, "What about two men?"

John gave him a look.

"It's all the same. All alright", he said, but didn't elaborate.

Sherlock fell silent, fidgeting slightly.

"Look", John began, a chilly suspicion forming in his head, "Do you want to tell me something?"

If he was wrong, nothing would happen. Sherlock would not even realise what he was implying.

Sherlock fidgeted some more, then forced himself to look at John's face. His eyes had something heart-breaking in them.

John's own heart stilled. Oh God, no.

"What would you do if a man fell in love with you?", Sherlock whispered, locking his eyes with John's.

Oh no.

"I'd feel honoured", John answered, carefully choosing the words, "And I'd gently explain that my heart already belongs to Sarah. I'm quite sure he would understand you can't make anyone return your love when they have already given it to another."

A pause. A very, very awkward pause full of uneasiness.

Then.

"I see", Sherlock stretched his fingers, quickly looking for a change of the subject, "I think he would", he felt like two idiots: first, because he had been rejected, second, because he had been rejected for his non-existent feelings.

When he saw John's face with pity written all over it his cheeks flamed pink. For a fraction of second he was set on turning it all into a joke, an experiment, a theoretical question. But he wouldn't be believed, because his role had been played perfectly and because it's probably the very same thing everyone would do after being turned down this fatly.

Fresh air. That was what would help him think.

Before John could say anything, and he looked ready to do that, Sherlock jumped up and practically ran to the door.

"I'll be back in a moment."

...

Confronted with the street traffic he was at loss what to do. He could just stroll for a bit and then return, only idle walking had never been high on his list of favourite activities. Normally, in a love story the rejected lover would crash at their friend's place. Great. Films once again awfully easy compared to the reality.

So he ended up in a shop two streets away, with a pack of cigarettes clutched in his hand. He paid for them before he could start questioning his decision about breaking a good habit of non-smoking. He inspected the pack closely and smirked involuntary. Going on autopilot, he chose the same brand he used to smoke. Maybe he really shouldn't start again. After all that time he had to admit he had been a heavy smoker, a little too heavy. It had taken him months to reduce the amount of cigarettes to two nicotine patches.

Didn't matter. Just one or two.

He leaned against a wall in a small alley and lost himself in observing patterns the cigarette smoke created. There was no wind between those buildings and the smoke, grey but elusive could form whatever shapes it wished.

He took a long deep drag. An exhale. Nice. Grey circles running after another.

He had just crushed the micro-chance he had had of John staying. How could he have ever come to a conclusion that professing his love would make him stay was beyond him. He twisted his lips bitterly. Even he was prone to panic attacks.

There wasn't much left now, other than going back and acting as if nothing had happened. Hopefully John would be doing the same. Wishful thinking. John never decided that something could be just erased.

Leaving the sanctuary on the alley he noted that half of the pack was gone.

...

Sherlock crept into their dark flat. John wasn't there.

He turned the lights on and scanned the room. Oh, there. A note.

Sarah called. She's not feeling well and I'll be staying with her for a while. Call me if something happens.

John

Alright. John hadn't erased anything. He had simply run away from his gay flatmate who had a crush on him. Sherlock threw himself on the nearby armchair, laughing. That wasn't a reaction of a person who had said "it's all alright". It apparently wasn't alright. Even if Sherlock was indeed gay (which he was fairly sure he wasn't, just as he wasn't heterosexual. He just wasn't interested) he wouldn't exactly jump him the moment the door was closed. Running away was a little dramatic.

When the laughter subsided, he went to check John's bedroom. As suspected, most of his day-to-day things were gone. Clothes, a toothbrush. Underwear. Lots of underwear. So he was not planning on coming back soon, if at all.

Just bloody perfect.

Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him.

...

It was infuriating. Boredom. That black substance taking over his mind, gradually dulling the productive processes that were taking place there. Destroying them quietly. Eating away conclusions, mixing up facts. Merging observations together.

It was over a week since John had been gone. Sherlock had tried contacting him once, asking when he would be coming back. According to John, Sarah had been still unwell. Yeah, right. Two doctors hadn't been able to cure a cold in a week. So Sherlock had suggested they should discuss some things. There had been a pause then, with John being startled that Sherlock had even thought about discussing anything together. Anyway, he hadn't had time to come down to their (maybe only Sherlock's now) flat. He had implied there had been nothing to discuss.

"So why did you leave?", Sherlock had choked out. He hadn't liked the sound of it.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry", John's voice had been dripping with pity, "Only sometimes, to be with one person, you have to leave another."

Only why him? Sherlock had disconnected.

He didn't want pity. He wasn't someone to be pitied, the sole idea was absurd. He was a twenty-six-year-old man with a flat and a significant amount of money at his disposal. No one had a mind that could rival his own.

The only thing he wanted was John to engage him in one of those pointless talks or John to take with him to a crime scene. Not that the last was some pressing matter, Lestrade had not texted or called him since the case in Brixton.

Telling himself that he's brilliant and extraordinary didn't have the same effect those words had in John's mouth. Even worse, there was nothing to do to prove that he was all those things, because bloody Lestrade wasn't calling.

...

On the fifteenth day after John's sudden departure (speaking about that, the guy had the nerve to return when Sherlock had been out to collect the rest of his items), Sherlock stood face to face with a problem that couldn't be ignored any longer. The fridge was empty. He had eaten the last egg three days ago and it's only this long a human organism could go on without any form of nourishment. Cigarettes and coffee certainly weren't nourishment.

No point in deluding himself, he had to do the shopping, Mrs Hudson wasn't going to feed him forever, especially since he displayed no desire to leave his couch.

The shop was just at the end of the street. A short walk, even shorter since he chose to speed up because of his miserable looks. He hadn't taken a shower in few days and had forgotten to do it before going out. Oh well, at least he didn't have any dark circles under his eyes as he used to. He had done a lot of sleeping recently.

Why was he actually going to that shop? What would he do with the food he'd buy? He didn't feel like eating, despite feeling weak and his knees being dangerously shaky. He needed stimulation. Stimulation, not protein, not carbohydrates. Something to do and know he's doing something. John, maybe John. Or better, a case. But Lestrade had rejected his last call.

Suddenly, a familiar figure caught his eyes. Really, could that be… A pleasant surprise. A very pleasant, most-desired surprise.

Avoiding being spotted too soon, he followed the man down the street, then to the left and into an alley. He turned around a corner and almost bumped into him.

The man didn't recognise him at first, probably due to Sherlock's clothes and healthy looks (moderately, he had been worse) but after a short chat he finally made a connection.

"A pleasant surprise", he purred, now openly eyeing Sherlock.

Soon, the deal was made.

...

Sherlock barely remembered to buy a loaf of bread and two packets of crisps on his way back home. He was flying home, not going home, to be precise. It definitely felt like flying.

He ran upstairs and swiftly locked the door behind him. Wouldn't end well if Mrs Hudson saw anything. Throwing the bread and crisps on the table, he sat on the couch, his coat deposited in a heap next to him. It'd have wrinkles, but it wasn't important.

What was important, however, was the white powder in his left pocket.

He hadn't touched it in three years. Lestrade had been stupid to assume he had a stash in his flat. Mycroft had made sure there had been none. Until now.

He had syringes for his experiments, though, so this part was childishly easy. He pulled up his sleeve, uncovering the milky skin of his forearm. Milky at the first sight. After a closer inspection everyone would notice the faint marks of countless previous injections. Their number was what was making them invisible.

Most former users would have probably had a battle with themselves before shooting up a dosage of drug after a successful rehab. Sherlock had no such qualms. He was bored and the price his body would pay for the peace of his mind was irrelevant, a so-called calculated risk.

Besides, there was no one to stop him. Mycroft had never shown any interest in his addiction before (other than preventing him from shaming their surname), John was away (and John had only a vague idea that he may have used in the past) and Lestrade wasn't answering his calls (he used to always answer before, 'before', when he had been valiantly carrying out his project called 'let's save the bright junkie').

Without difficulties he found the vein and expertly injected the drug. Cocaine, as he used to prefer. Good that the dealer was still around. Good that he had refused to tell Lestrade his identity.

He sank into the couch with a sigh of relief. Soon everything was perfect. Bright, sharp, colourful. Not dull at all. Blissful.

Suddenly, the idea of harassing his tamed D.I. came to his mind. Had he not been under the influence of the drug, he may have had spared his actions a thought. Why would he attempt to draw the attention of the very same person who could arrest him for possession while he was still sitting with the cocaine in front of him seemed to be a consequential question.

If you're interested in the name of the culprit in the Tower case, I can lend a hand. SH

He could, because Anderson had come to consult Molly about the victim's injuries and it had been shamefully easy to coerce her into sharing the details.

No need. It was the fiancée.

He stared at the screen. Lestrade had got the culprit so quickly? Interesting.

Just as interesting as the colour of the poster next to the fireplace. A really nice shade of yellow.

...

He might have been a tad too optimistic with the drug. He hadn't had the smallest dose in three years, so it was only expected that his body would rebel or rather give up sooner than he could remember. So he spent the next three days re-acquainting it with the syringe and the powder. There was little else he could do instead of lying on the couch or in the armchair and playing with the needle.

He was shaken out of his slumber by his mobile. He answered without checking the caller's ID because for some unfathomable reason he was sure it's John finally coming to his senses.

"Yes", he said in what he assumed was a clear voice.

"Sherlock?"

Lestrade?

"Sherlock, you hear me?", the D.I. sounded impatient.

Good, he needed him. Sherlock stretched with barely contained pleasure.

"Loud and clear", he practically purred. Very clear and very loud, thanks to the substance flowing with his blood.

"We're in Notting Hill, next to the Garden. We may need your help", Lestrade was obviously reluctant to admit that after pretending to forget about Sherlock's existence.

"May need my help? I think it's as necessary as the air you breathe", he chuckled. He's going to be very preoccupied soon.

"Will you come?", Lestrade was preparing himself for a word fight.

"Sure. I'm leaving this moment", he was already putting on his coat (pretty creased).

Lestrade's surprised answer went unheard.

...

Sherlock ran out only to return a second later to rummage through John's wardrobe in a search of a hat. He had a woollen hat somewhere and Sherlock thought it may be wise to cover his messy hair. Appearances, appearances.

He was immeasurably glad that Mrs Hudson was out. He almost fell down the stairs. He completely forgot he hadn't eaten anything in two days. And now, in a standing position it was becoming more and more evident that his body wasn't coping with the cocaine the way he would like it to. Maybe he shouldn't have started with such big doses.

Fresh air seemed to help and before he found a cab he was already more or less functioning properly. Only the driver kept giving him weird glances, which were probably caused by the hat. Not many people chose to wear woollen hats in early September.

He noticed that his hand was slightly shaking when he was paying for the ride but dismissed it as the effect of poor feeding conditions. Soon he'd forget about hunger.

...

Lestrade's people were scattered around the corpses of two men separated from the world by a yellow tape. The D.I. was standing outside the crime scene and instantly spotted the consulting detective when he appeared on a park road.

"What have you got?", Sherlock asked in a way of greetings, eyes glued to the corpses.

"Two men, around thirty years old, no IDs on them, but both have wallets and one has a mobile", Lestrade provided, "One was strangled but there are no marks on the other body. Anderson will be checking him for poison later…"

Sherlock didn't realise he was an object of the D.I.'s scrutiny until the man grabbed his arm.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry?", the younger man had lost track of Lestrade's words soon after the age of the victims, "Anderson is doing something?", he really wished he could sound more intelligent.

Lestrade was blocking his view of the crime scene, so he tried to push past him but was only grabbed tighter.

"What's wrong with you?", the D.I. shook him, "Are you alright?"

Why did people insist on asking this question? Did he look not-alright?

"Good as new. Please, Lestrade, don't use me as a target of your unfulfilled paternal instinct", he spat, wrenching free from the man's hold.

He took two steps before he was grabbed again. This time, the D.I. whirled him furiously so they were facing each other.

"Leave my paternal instinct alone, brat", the man joked through gritted teeth but then, his eyes narrowed.

Ouch. He knew now.

He didn't try to oppose when Lestrade forced his face up and inspected his eyes. It didn't take a genius to notice the dilated pupils.

"Are you high?", no emotion coloured the man's voice.

"No, your face is lit up with a holy light that makes my pupils enlarge", Sherlock chuckled darkly.

Lestrade let him go, but not without a light push, as if to emphasise his… Disgust? Shock?

"You said you're clean."

A reproach?

"I was then", shrugged Sherlock, "Besides, I'm not too high."

"Not too high?", Lestrade advanced on him, making the young man back off a bit, "You dare to turn up here and tell me you're not too high? Look at yourself! You're shaking like a leaf, you can barely concentrate enough to hear me!"

"I'm here to help you and your useless team, not to be lectured by a man who takes out his personal incompetence on me", Sherlock snickered, turning to get under the yellow tape.

He was pulled back.

"Get out of here", Lestrade spat. He was pale, "We don't let bloody junkies on crime scenes."

The D.I. took a good hold on Sherlock's coat and steered him in the direction from which he had come.

"You need me", the young man protested.

"Not this much. Not at the price of my career or my team's success", Lestrade sighed, "Don't come back unless you're clean. And pray that we don't meet until then, because I guarantee I'll arrest you."

"Come on, Lestrade, quit the drama. You know I'm not some junkie forsaken by the world."

"Do I?", the man's eyes were sad, "I'm afraid I don't. In the last ten years of your life, you've managed to stay clean for approximately three years. You are a hopeless junkie."

It's like a slap. Really, was that all Lestrade saw him as? Sure he'd been there when Sherlock had been fighting the last withdrawal in his life (or rather what used to be his last withdrawal) but he had never addressed the problem except this one time he had arranged a fake drugs bust. Somehow he had thought that the D.I. was the only person other than John who appreciated his skills. Could it be that he'd been waiting for him to trip?

"Piss off, cop", Sherlock didn't even realise he was acting defensive. Calling Lestrade a cop just because he'd been called a junkie, "I'm going to wait until you show up on my doorstep, begging for help as your small brain is incapable of solving this new puzzle. I'm a patient man."

He strolled away, unaware of grief-stricken eyes following his every graceless move.

...

Lestrade didn't show up on his doorstep. In fact, he didn't even try to contact him.

...

Few days later, he got a message from John. He and Sarah were planning to visit Paris for a week. The doctor wished to know if Sherlock would like some souvenir. Sherlock would love to point it out to him that souvenirs and sentiments didn't exactly fit into his perception of himself and the world. Would have done it, had he not been too stoned to press the right buttons on his BlackBerry.

If he wanted to get self-pitying, he would say that everyone had decided to simultaneously leave him. First John fleeing to Sarah, then Lestrade driving him away like a stray dog, then Mrs Hudson going to pay a visit to her cousin in Sussex. He didn't do self-pity, so he's just glad that no one whines about his behaviour.

He's happy. As happy as one can be without his best (only) friend, his hobby and food. But he had cigarettes and his beautiful syringe. It'd been far too long.

He lit up a cigarette almost setting the couch on fire. Funny how his hands kept shaking even though he hadn't given any chance for a withdrawal to start. Reason told him it's malnourishment, but the cocaine prevented him from feeling hunger.

The cigarettes fell from his fingers, landing in the middle of the rug at his feet. Such a nice round circle it would burn out. Only it's his last cigarette, so it'd be a shame to waste it on the carpet. He bent down to pick it up and before his mind could register the change of the angle of sight, he's lying next to the cigarette.

He didn't see any valid reason to drag himself up, so he stayed where he was, drawing patterns on the rug with the cigarette. He wondered what Lestrade had found in the victim's mobile. And what had killed him in the first place. Pity he couldn't recall how the corpse had looked like. Maybe the men were an item? Oh yes, John would love that.

He's playing with different scenarios in his head when suddenly, he became aware of another presence in his room. Next to the fireplace, someone was standing. A man.

He smiled, insolently planting the cigarette between his pale lips.

"You've been running without supervision for far too long", the man's mouth curled in annoyance.

When Sherlock only tilted his head in acknowledgment, the man walked up to angrily and forced him up. Sherlock let himself be manhandled, not fighting even when the man pulled his sleeve up to examine the needle marks.

"High time to get you under control."

With that, he's being hauled towards the door.

...

A/N What do you think? It's my first Sherlock fic ever, so I'm more than a little nervous.