Sherlock feels the eyes of Detective Inspector Gregson on him as he crouches down by the body. The victim is in her early twenties and bears the haggard countenance of an individual far gone to the ravages of drugs. He's about to confirm that fact by sliding up her sleeve, when he notices a wooden box, the corner protuding from beneath her bed. The detective doesn't let his hands shake, he doesn't let himself feel, not now, not in front of Gregson. Sherlock pushes up the woman's sleeve and finds all the confirmation he needs written on her arm.

Standing, Sherlock goes over and picks up the box. He opens it and looks at the drug paraphernalia, then snaps the box shut. The detective doesn't acknowledge the itch at his elbow or the sudden, aching need - Gregson is still watching him. It's obvious, now, that the DI has set him up. He wants to see Sherlock fall apart.

"It wasn't a premeditated murder." The detective shoves the box into Gregson's hands. "Talk to the boyfriend. His grief will be real enough. He didn't mean to kill her, after all. He was trying to get her to see what she was doing to herself with her drug habit. Talk to him. Show him the box. He'll confess."

With that, Sherlock turns and strides from the room. Gregson is saying something to him, asking questions, but the detective ignores him. He ignores everything until he finds himself out on the pathway. Sherlock tips his head back and takes a deep breath. He wants. He needs. He craves. But he's come so far. He's not going to give in so easily. Still, if he takes a single step in any direction, he's afraid he'll be lost.

With a grimace, he pulls out his mobile and calls Lestrade. "Greg," he says, voice only slightly shaky.

Lestrade inhales sharply. Sherlock only calls him Greg during a crisis. "What's wrong, son?"

"I just finished looking at Gregson's crime scene."

There's silence on the phone for a full five seconds, then Greg explodes in fury. "That sorry piece of... I told him to leave you out of this one. I refused to call you for him. He's a complete arse. How did he get your number? When I get my hands on him..."

"Greg. It doesn't matter." Sherlock feels the pressure to just hang up and find what he needs building with each passing moment. "If you can, I need you to pick me up and take me home. If... if I move from this spot, I can't trust myself."

"I know where the crime scene is. I can be there in 10 minutes. Do you need to stay on the phone with me until I get there?"

The detective closes his eyes and walks over to lean against the building. "Yeah. You can tell me about your kids."

"You don't want to hear about them."

"Tell me anyway."

As Greg pulls up to the kerb, Gregson comes striding out of the building. Lestrade lowers his window and calls to Sherlock, "I'm here as promised." He glares at the other DI. "Gregson." Without another word, he closes his window. "That man's a snake," Greg tells Sherlock as the kid climbs into the car and closes the door. "I won't send him your way. Ever."

"Don't send anyone my way." Sherlock hugs himself as if he's freezing to death. "I won't work with anyone but you. Not after this. Let them hang themselves with their own incompetency." He forces himself to relax, but it doesn't last long. His right hand strays to the crook of his left elbow and stays there. "I've changed my mind. I can't go home. Mycroft isn't there yet." And doesn't that gall him, the need for his brother's presence. "At this hour, he'll be at his club. It's an antiquated, stuffy place, but there's nothing for it. That's where I need to go." The detective gives Greg the address.

When they pull up outside the Diogenes, Sherlock stares at the building. "I thought I was ready. I wanted to move out and get a flat... I was an idiot." There's self loathing clear in his voice.

"It hasn't even been a year, son. Give it time." Greg looks at the kid in profile. "There will come a time when you'll be able to handle a case like the one you just saw and you'll be fine afterwards. When that happens, you'll know you're ready."

Sherlock gives a bitter laugh. "Do you really think that will ever happen?" He turns and looks at Greg, surprised to see conviction in his eyes.

"Yes I do," the DI tells the kid. "And I look forward to that day." He sees Mycroft standing just outside the club staring at them. "It looks like your brother knows we're here."

"And I'm sure my dear brother already knows why." Sherlock opens the door and gets out of the car. He turns halfway back to Greg. "Thank you. Again." The detective walks up to his brother and they disappear into the club.