Summary:

Greg Lestrade is reasonably sure his wife is cheating on him. His kids are away, he's alone in his house, and has no friends except for his colleagues. He can't have the peaceful family life he wants, but he's making do with what he's got.

But then Sherlock Holmes turns up on his doorstep. A junkie almost completely off his wits on drugs, with a brother who seems unable to keep him safe despite his professed position in the British government, Sherlock may be in more trouble than Greg ever has been. And maybe, just maybe, Greg can help him.

Or: How Sherlock Holmes established himself as a consulting detective, and befriended the local detective inspector in the process.

Told from Greg's POV for the moment. Pretty much anything in the tags is subject to change. Even the title, but probably not. I have a vague plan of writing this up until the events of A Study in Pink.

A/N: I have a general idea where I'm going with this but am mostly just writing it as I go. Reviews welcome, this probably needs a lot of Brit-picking :) Please tell me what you think, I live for reviews.

This is my first time writing Greg, Mycoft, and Sherlock's junkie side, let alone Greg's POV. So…yeah. Let me know what you think.

I'll update as regularly as I can.

Sorry about the original errors in this note; this work was originally posted to AO3, where interaction on the site runs a bit differently.

The man was completely stoned.

He lay unconscious on the slab of metal in the holding cell that passed for a bed. He'd been found on the streets, nearly dead, a week's growth of stubble on his face and his hair a perfect nesting place for a small rodent. His clothes were ratty and torn and, in his fleeting moments of consciousness, he'd had a look in his eyes like he knew he was fading away, but couldn't care less.

"You'll release him into my custody," said the taller man standing next to Gregory Lestrade. He was dressed in an immaculate suit, carried an umbrella like some people carried canes, and seemed to have a permanent frown on his face.

"I can't just release him," Greg said. "Sleeping on the streets is illegal, you know."

"I'm aware," the man said. "But I can assure you, if you turn him over to me, he will never be sleeping on the streets again."

"And how can you be sure of that?" Greg peered up at him. "Who are you, anyway?"

"His brother," the man said. "And currently the closest thing he has to a guardian."

"Guardian," Greg repeated. That was a laugh. "How does he possibly have a guardian? What is he, twenty? Twenty-five?"

"He can when his brother works in the British government," the man said with a slight quirk of the mouth that might have passed for a smile. "Now, if you'll turn him over to me, please."

Greg sighed. There wasn't much he could do, he supposed. He felt like he needed a smoke—or a drink. This wasn't supposed to be his job, arresting the homeless for being homeless. This man—Sherlock Holmes, as identified by his brother—didn't have a place to live, at least nothing more civilized than the average drug den. Normally, the Yard's other police officers arrested people for sleeping on the streets. Tonight, they were understaffed, and the duty had fallen to Greg. Well, at least he could turn the poor guy over to his brother, and this whole ordeal would be done with. He'd never have to meet the two of them again.

He was wrong.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft Holmes said with another of his false smiles. "We meet again."

"Indeed," Greg said, glancing up at the holding cell. There the man was—again.

"May I just apologize again for the state of my—"

"You said he wouldn't be on the streets again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said," Greg said, daring to meet Mr. Holmes's eyes, "you'd keep him off the streets."

"Clearly, his faculties aren't as limited as I thought," Mr. Holmes said. "I'll be more careful next time."

"Please do," Greg said. "If I have to drag this one into holding one more time—"

"I can assure you, Detective Inspector," Mr. Holmes said, "you won't."

Somehow, though, Greg got the sense that this wasn't over. Far from it.

The bottle made a slight clang as he set it back in the cooler, still corked. It was tempting, too tempting, what with his wife away again and all. He had no solid proof, no way to do anything about it, and no courage to confront her. But he didn't need to be a detective to see the signs. Gone every night. Distinctive sounds upstairs if he came home too early—in which case, Greg slipped back out without a word and indulged himself at the local pub. The only thing he still had, the only thing really keeping him straight, was his job. It was still worth it to keep justice in London, even if…even if his personal life just lent him a taste of how bloody fucked up this world was.

It was still worth it to solve crimes. Still worth it to lock up the bad guys. Still worth it to…aw, hell, it was even worth it to keep tabs on that poor just-about-homeless junkie, the one with the powerful brother, the one that still showed up in his holding cell every few nights. And so Greg set the bottle back in the cooler.

That was when he heard it. The knock on his door.

At first, he thought it was just a trick of the mind. The clang of the beer, the thoughts of his wife, the curiosity festering on a back burner about when she'd be home this time. The distant hope, too distant to be real, that it was her right now—maybe here to confess. To apologize.

No such luck. He would have heard her key rattling in the lock by now.

Greg turned on his heel, about to climb the stairs and call it an early night—somehow he got the feeling she wouldn't expect him to wait up—when he suddenly heard it again. Another knock, more urgent this time.

He checked his watch. 10:38. Company? Really? At this late hour?

Who could it be? Cautiously, he crept to the door and pressed his eye to the peephole. The sight that greeted him shocked him silent for what he was sure edged on a full minute.

Sherlock Holmes, the junkie little brother, standing on his doorstep with a sheepish look, shoulders hunched, fingers clenched around the hem of his coat and holding it to his body. His hair was wild and wind-blown, smattered across his face by rain that poured behind him, beyond the doorstep. His stubble was shaved, for once.

At last, Greg shook himself to his senses. He whipped open the door. The younger Holmes blinked at him.

"Well, come in, if you must," Greg muttered. "It's pouring out."

Sherlock Holmes stumbled in, one hand steadying himself against the wall, panting.

"You don't look so good," Greg said. "At least you came here, and didn't just conk out on the streets. Saved yourself an arrest. How'd you find me? And where's your brother?"

"In his house," rumbled a deep baritone, a voice Greg suddenly realized he hadn't heard before. In all his acquaintanceship with this fellow, had he really never heard the man speak?

"Not your house?" Greg asked.

The younger Holmes shrugged.

Greg swung the door closed behind him. "Come in. Take a seat. What have you been shooting up with, anyway?"

"Mmph…nothing of importance." The young man stumbled into the sitting room and flopped down onto the sofa, sprawling all six feet of limbs and tipping his head back with a sigh.

Greg pulled out his phone. "I'll just call your brother, then…"

"What? No!" The man suddenly leapt from his prone position and whipped the phone from Greg's hand. "No, if I wanted him after me, do you think I would have come here?"

Greg blinked. "Well—I assumed—"

"You assumed I shot up, wandered the streets, somehow forgot where my brother lives, and chose to come here because I know you two conspire against me? Think again, Lestrade."

Greg blinked. "Well, you're remarkably coherent."

The man rolled his eyes. "More so than you would have been."

"What? What do you mean?"

Holmes shrugged. "I don't know, I just…do that, I guess." He wandered over to the cooler, looked inside, then looked back up at Greg, brows drawn in confusion. "What was I doing here? I was looking in the cooler for a reason…"

"Need a cold drink?" Greg asked.

Holmes considered, then shrugged and flopped back onto the sofa. "No…"

Greg sighed. "I really should phone your brother."

"No, you really shouldn't."

Greg raised an eyebrow.

Holmes stared at him. Not the vacant stare Greg would have expected to come with the drugs, but a much more…condescending stare. As if this young drug addict thought he was above a detective somehow.

Greg glanced over his shoulder at the wine cooler, forced to admit he might just be right…or, at least, they were on equal footing.

Holmes ignored his glance. "Mycroft doesn't actually care, in case you hadn't figured that out."

"What? Of course he—"

"Why? Why do you think he cares?"

"He's your brother, and—"

"And he's not my mother," Holmes said. "He's playing Mummy so that our real mother doesn't find out. Which is fine with me, as long as you don't start playing along with him."

And with that, Holmes rolled over on the sofa, turning his back to the room, and curled up among the pillows as if it was the most comfortable place he'd ever slept in his life. And, Greg imagined, that could be somewhat true, given the amount of time he'd spent on the streets recently.

Greg sighed and shook his head, withdrawing from the sitting room. They both had their vices, and Greg wouldn't dare judge this man for his—maybe someone had walked out on him, too. That didn't mean he had to do a poor job as a policeman. He picked up his phone and headed back into the kitchen, then dialed Mycroft's number.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes? It's me…Lestrade…Yes, your brother's here…No, no need to come get him right away, might as well let him sleep till morning…"

Greg woke the next morning to the doorbell.

He sluggishly dragged himself out of bed and shrugged into his day clothes, wondering why his room was so dark. He rubbed his eyes and stared blearily at the beside clock. 4:30. Ah. So that's what Mycroft Holmes calls "morning."

Greg stumbled downstairs, smoothing a hand through his hair on the way, and caught sight of Sherlock Holmes still knocked out on the sofa. He didn't look like he'd even moved during the night. Meanwhile, the doorbell was ringing again. And was it Greg's imagination, or was it more insistent this time?

Greg opened it. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Detective Inspector." Mycroft Holmes inclined his head in greeting, a rather frightening smile gracing his features. Greg wondered if the man even knew how to relax. "I'm terribly sorry for my brother's imposition, but I'll take him off your hands now."

Greg sighed. He'd heard that sentiment before, and look how far it had gotten the younger Holmes. Still, he wasn't a fan of tempting karma. "Please do."

Mr. Holmes gestured inside with the tip of his ever-present umbrella. "May I?"

"Be my guest." Greg stood aside.

Mr. Holmes entered and swept right through the house to the sitting room, where he inevitably caught sight of his little brother. Greg followed and observed from behind as the younger Holmes slept on, oblivious.

"He must be tired," Mr. Holmes observed. "I imagine it's quite stressful to make one's way on the streets."

"I'm just glad he came here," Greg said. At Mr. Holmes's raised eyebrow, he elaborated, "Well, he saved both of us a sleepless night. He would have gotten dragged back into custody and I…well…"

Mr. Holmes nodded. "Again, I apologize—"

"No, just take care of your brother," Greg said. "I'm not complaining."

Mr. Holmes sighed. He seemed almost to brace himself before stepping carefully toward the sofa. "Sherlock," he whispered.

No response.

"Sherlock," Mr. Holmes said again. "It's time to go home."

The younger man didn't even shift.

Mr. Holmes flicked his eyes over his brother's lax form. He must have seen something amiss, because he intoned, "Sherlock, I know you're awake. Please, let's not impose on the detective inspector any longer."

Greg stepped forward. "How do you know—?"

To his surprise, the younger Holmes lifted his head and cut him off. "Oh, piss off, Mycroft."

"I'll do no such thing."

"I'm not moving."

"Sherlock."

Holmes twisted around to glare at his older brother. "You're not Mummy."

"And thank goodness for that," Mr. Holmes said. "She still doesn't know, Sherlock. And she doesn't have to, as long as you cooperate."

"I'll do no such thing."

"Sherlock, honestly—"

To Greg's further surprise, Holmes twisted around to address him. "Sorry about my brother, Lestrade. He has a habit of barging into places where he doesn't belong. I guess now that means people's houses. But you can make him leave now, I won't be offended."

Greg blinked.

Mr. Holmes shook his head and seemed to have had enough. He strode forward, gripped his brother by the arm, and hauled him off the sofa, long limbs and all. The younger man tried to fight him off, protesting, to no avail. He shot Greg a pleading glance that was met only with confusion, and Greg saw the exact moment realization dawned. Sherlock had thought Greg was on his side, hadn't wanted Mycroft Holmes in his house, was an ally rather than a conspirator—but now he knew better. And as the younger Holmes was dragged off Greg's front doorstep, the look in his eyes left Greg completely gobsmacked.

Betrayal.

It shouldn't have stung. Sherlock was a nearly homeless junkie who ended up behind bars far too often, of course he shouldn't have expected Greg to be sympathetic. But it still did. And a second later, Greg realized why. Inexplicably, Sherlock had put his trust in Greg. He'd asked Greg not to call his brother, and he'd genuinely believed Greg would listen. He'd slept on the sofa, never once thinking that he would wake up to the sight of his brother. And then Greg realized something else.

No one had put that kind of blind faith in Greg Lestrade for a very long time.

His wife as unfaithful. His colleagues weren't exactly friends. And Greg didn't have friends, outside of the people he knew at work. His wife had been his whole world, but he apparently wasn't hers. And for god's sake, the kids didn't even know yet. They had been off on an extended vacation with their grandparents for the past month, and every time they called and gushed about what a fantastic time they were having, Greg just couldn't bring himself to put an end to their fun and drag them back to this place that had turned into a hellhole in their absence. What would they even be coming back to? The old, peaceful household life of camaraderie they had known didn't exist anymore. Their mother was always gone. Their father had dived headfirst into his work until it consumed him. That and the alcohol. And the smoking.

But he'd have to bring them back home eventually and tell them. Somehow. But that was the problem. When his kids knew how much they'd lost, how much he had failed them, there would just be two more people in the world who didn't put faith in him anymore.

Sherlock was the first in a long time, and probably the last.

And, hopefully, heading to rehab and a life with his government worker brother in some big house in the middle of nowhere far away from all temptation. Greg sighed. He'd missed his chance with Sherlock. If he'd ever had one in the first place.

A/N: More to come as soon as possible!