Disclaimer: Do I want to do this? No, I really don't, but given the whole thing about Sherlock basically being the world's saddest person right now, I'm gonna do this thing and cry about it. So, you know how Sherlock was really startled when –SPOILER- Lestrade came to fetch him and John after the stag night? Well, to me, Sherlock was instantly transported back years ago, when he would always find himself in jail after some sort of high, and there would always be that gruff detective inspector Mycroft seemed to have just hired to come and fetch him and bail him out of trouble. See if you can guess whose the scientist I mention. Maybe's he's somebody, maybe he isn't. Also, don't own. Read and review!
"You know, those things will kill you." Sherlock had to suppress a sigh. Goddamnit! It was that idiotic detective inspector; the one Mycroft had obviously hired to "take care of him". Pathetic.
"Really?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, although he was swaying slightly. "I had NO idea."
"Being sarcastic won't help you when you overdose again," the detective inspector told him. What was his name again? Gavin? Graham? George? Gandalf? Ah, it had little import. Well, Sherlock should at least try to remember the man's last name. Lorey? LeRoi?
"No one asked you to check up on me, detective inspector," Sherlock practically snarled.
"Not true," Lestrade –Ah, yes, DI Lestrade- told him. "Your brother did."
"My brother," Sherlock spat out the word with uncharacteristic fury. "Should keep his meddling head out of business that does not concern him."
"You've already overdosed on drugs once, Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade told him. "I'm pretty sure your welfare is his business." Sherlock laughed harshly, but put the syringe away nonetheless. He wasn't fool enough to try and inject himself with Lestrade standing right there.
"What does anyone care whether this can kill me or not?" He asked.
"You're what, twenty two years old?" Lestrade asked
"Twenty one," Sherlock corrected.
"You have your whole life ahead of you," Lestrade continued. "Why throw it away on drugs and cigarettes?" Sherlock emitted another bitter, self-deprecating laugh.
"Oh, don't pretend you know me, detective inspector," he sneered. "I'm much different than all those other druggie teenagers you generally have to deal with."
"I actually haven't dealt with a lot of druggie teenagers," Lestrade admitted.
"Then why does my oh-so-wonderful brother think you're qualified to deal with me?" Sherlock demanded, lips twisted in a sneer. Lestrade looked at the mere boy in front of him, thin as rail, dark hair messy, bags under green eyes, a complete and utter mess. A mere lad held together by duct tape and safety pins. Lestrade could see why Holmes elder was so protective of his younger brother. Sherlock looked like he could fall apart, both literally and figuratively, at any moment.
"Well, I had someone on my team who dabbled in drugs once," Lestrade confided. "I managed to get him cleaned up. He still smokes though. That still doesn't prevent him from being a damn good scientist."
"Fascinating," Sherlock said with a yawn.
"What I'm trying to say Sherlock is that I know you're brilliant," Lestrade said. "You can quit this. You can stop risking your life for another high, and you can be somebody."
"Well, that was cheesy and boring," Sherlock said, beginning to walk off. "When you grow a few brain cells, detective inspector, give me a call." Lestrade sighed as the thin boy walked away. He would get Sherlock Holmes off his drugged path of destruction, or die trying.