"I'm not quite sure how to say this to you, Dad." Hamish said, and watched as his father paced the kitchen angrily, his thudding steps sounding throughout the flat.

"Just tell me." He said flatly.

"But..." Hamish mumbled.

"Hamish, tell me." John demanded impatiently.

"I don't even know where I'd begin, Dad." He sighed, sitting down at the dining room table.

"Just start somewhere, start at the beginning." John suggested, following his teenage son down to the table, and sitting down across from him, and was soon joined by Sherlock.

"I... I..." He stuttered, unable to finish his sentence.

"Spit it out, boy!" John said, growing more and more impatient as time went on.

"I started doing drugs." He said quietly, hiding his face in his hands. John just looked at him, and Sherlock simply got up and walked out. "Dad? Father? Please, please answer me." He said, standing up and following Sherlock into the hall.

"You deal with him John." Sherlock said without turning around and hid in the kitchen, coughing to hide the tears that threatened to fall.

"You started what?" John said in disbelief, unable to comprehend what his son was telling him.

"I'm so sorry, Dad." He said, tripping over his words.

"No, you don't get to be sorry, boy. You promised me, you promised me that this you would never do this. Sex, alcohol, it could have been anything, but you chose this. Drugs, Hamish, drugs."

"Dad, I'm sorry." Hamish repeated, crying now.

"Don't bother." John said and stood up. He took his coat from the stand and pulled it on.

"Please don't go, Dad." Hamish said, still in tears.

"We'll talk later, you get in there and apologise to your father." John muttered as the door slammed behind him.

The London air was icy cold on the tear tracks on John's face. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't seen it coming.

"Should've noticed the signs." He said to himself as he walked down the busy street.

"F-father..?" Hamish called down the hallway of 221b Baker Street.

"What did you take?" Sherlock said, walking into the living room.

"Father, I'm-"

"What did you take?" Sherlock repeated, cutting of Hamish's apology.

"Ecstasy."

"You stupid child." Sherlock spat, and threw himself down on the sofa beside Hamish, and held his son, watching as the teenager who was once a little boy sobbed uncontrollably into his shoulder.

John was no stranger to addiction, as a doctor he'd been exposed to it for a long time. There was nothing new about it, to him, not even with Sherlock. He knew what he was getting himself into. Every so often he would think to himself, 'why did I get involved with a narcotics addict?' and then he'd remember. He'd remember his quirks, the ridiculous curly hair, his tendency to talk to a skull, all of the stupid things that drew him in in the first place.

The last time Sherlock had done it, was nearly two years ago and he had promised John that it was the last time, the very last time. John was naive enough to believe it.

He hadn't however, expected his son to follow in his father's illustrious footsteps. He was almost eighteen, but he was still just a stupid teenager with raging hormones.

When he thought about it, he had noticed the signs but hadn't connected them to substance abuse. Hamish's hands quivered, his eyes were constantly tired and John had even noticed him throwing up. He disappeared, totally vanished off the face of the earth for hours at a time, and was a completely different person when he returned.

"Fucking hell." John cursed at the icy wind blowing in his eyes.

The sun was starting to set over the already dark and dreary city, and rain was threatening. He didn't want to go home but he knew he should anyway. He turned back, his steps dragging him back to where he had run from, and to where he had no hurry in returning.

He hadn't even noticed where he was walking, but he hadn't gone far. 221b was only a fifteen minute walk back, but he managed to stretch it to 20. Reaching the flat door, John took out his key and shoved it in the lock, and twisted it hesitantly.

"Dad!" Hamish cried and ran over, throwing his arms around John. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Dad, please believe me! He pleaded with him, his arms still holding John down.

"I know you're sorry, son." He said, and pulled Hamish off of him, as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him.

"I talked to him, it'll be okay John." Sherlock mumbled, and John relaxed into him.

"You should have told me earlier, Hamish.." He said, adressing Hamish this time, but still tightly wrapped in Sherlock's embrace.

"I should have. But I couldn't. I didn't know how." He said, as Sherlock let John go.

"It's alright now, son." John sighed. "What are you using?"

There was total silence for what felt like an eternity to John. Hamish looked over at Sherlock, who nodded at him.

"Come on, don't hold back from me Hamish." John begged him.

"Ecstasy." Hamish choked on his guilt.

"Oh, Hamie..." John sighed. "How long?"

"Few weeks." He admitted, and John was almost glad in a way. He'd caught it reasonably early.

"We can fix this." He said trying to inject some hope back into the situation.

"I'm sorry Daddy, I love you." Hamish sobbed, as he kissed them both goodnight, and sauntered up the stairs.

"We'll sort this out, It's okay." He said, and hugged his child. "Go to bed, Hamish." He finished, and waited for Hamish to disappear upstairs.

"Hey you, don't you bloody cry too." John said to Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair sobbing quite hysterically.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you." He cried.

John reassured him and pulled Sherlock's head into his lap, raking his fingers through his deep brown curls.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Everyone gets hurt eventually." He said back, looking away so that Sherlock wouldn't see the tears that were rolling silently down his cheeks.

"You're crying." Sherlock muttered feebly.

"No, I'm not." John breathed, failing miserably at convincing Sherlock that he was totally fine.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said for the ten millionth time that night. "Maybe you'd have been better off with someone else." He suggested, talking mostly to himself. "

"Maybe if he didn't have me as a father, this would never have happened." Sherlock mumbled, looking at the floor.

"Never, Sherlock. Don't be so stupid." John shot back, as Sherlock sat up and turned to face him.

"I'll never do it again, John, I promise." Sherlock choked through his hysterical sobbing.

"No more promises, Sherlock. You don't have to promise me. I trust you." John suggested, holding him tightly, letting his tears fall too.

"I love you John." He said into John's shirt.

"I know you do, Sherlock." He whispered back, wiping the tears out of Sherlock's eyes. "It's going to be okay, Sherlock, I promise you. It will all be better soon." He said, as he traced the faded track marks on Sherlock's forearm. "No more of this." He whispered gently.

"No more." Sherlock finished.