They say Hell is a dark, lonely place. His hell was different though. It was cold, and it was crowded. So many people. Yelling, just going around without actually going anywhere. The sky wasn't red; the ground wasn't on fire. Everything looked normal;

He read somewhere that Hell is actually different for everyone. It's made to be your personal nightmare. Once his friend told him, that he would imagine Hell being like an empty room; dark, cold, and empty.

He would only smile at that, because there's no such thing as Hell, as there is no Heaven.

'Where do we go when we die?' he asked his brother once.

'Where would we? We go nowhere; there is no you, after death, there is nothing.'

He realised they were lying. There is Hell. He's walking at it's streets, he's breathing it's air. It was his personal Hell, his personal nightmare.

One cigarette after another; just laying in his sofa, looking at the smoke. It was cold, and he was frozen to his bones. He felt it; he just wouldn't care. He didn't know if it was day or night outside; he didn't know the time. Sometimes he was awake, sometimes he was not. Sometimes he would get high just to cry his heart out in the bathroom floor; and there was times when he would just stare blankly not knowing a thing about himself.

A loud noise woke him up. He's phone was buzzing next to him, filling in the room with it's light. He covered his eyes,and waited a little to get used to the sudden outburst of brightness. Actually the time he got used to the light, the buzzing stopped. He picked up his phone and found a message on it. Actually 10 of them.

'If you won't reply I'm breaking your freaking door on you' was the last.

He was annoyed; he knew the man well enough, and he was capable of doing something reckless like this.Just as he was about to reply, the phone was buzzing again.

'10'

Ten? He looked at the phone strangly. But then he felt it again.

'9'

He jumped up, got the closest trousers and shirt he could find and started dressing. By the time he got message '2' he stood in front of the door, and by '1' he looked in the police officer's eyes.

'What do you think you're doing?' the officer yelled, and grabbed him by the shirt.

'What-'

'Don't play your stupid games with me! I'm tired of constantly worrying about you, and I'm tired of listening to the emergency channel at night, just waiting to hear your name being said, i'm sick of all!' he yelled shaking him, wet eyes.

Sherlock couldn't look at him; he felt ashamed.

'Lestrade, I-'

'No, shut up! This will end now! I won't tolerate this any longer, I won't watch you kill yourself!'

He stayed in silence. There was no point of it at all.

'Look at yourself! Because I..I can't! You're a walking dead, nothing more than some bones, and skin. Please, I... I can't do this.' the older started sobbing and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

Sherlock let it, but felt extremely awkward. This sudden outburst made him feel uneasy. He hated to know that his well being caused so much pain to this man.

He just realised as he looked over Lestrade's sobbing shoulders that it was morning outside; all sunny and warm. He heard the vehicles, he heard people laughing,and suddenly he felt extremely sick in his stomach.

Finally Lestrade let go of him.

'Can..Can I come in?' he asked. Sherlock nodded.

Now he was sitting in his sofa; the lights were on, and Lestrade was in the kitchen making tea for them. How funny, he thought. He looked around and saw his clothes all over the floor. Broken mugs, torn papers and the smell of cigarette all over the place. Lestrade said nothing at that.

'Here' he said as he brought in the mugs and gave one to Sherlock. The hot mug actually made him feel nice; he just realised how cold he was. He hold the mug a little stronger now.

He couldn't remember the last time he made tea for himself. At the begging he tried; he tried to lead a normal life, doing everyday things, went to University. But he couldn't keep up very long, he dropped out, and started his downward spiral of self-loathing.

Lestrade sit next to him and stared down awkwardly.

'Look... I don't know a lot about you, and I don't know what to say in a situation like this, damn it...' he looked up at him' But I want you to know that I wanna help. No, that I will help you. I won't let you do this anymore. I'm here to help.'

Sherlock looked away and stared at his mug.

He knew the man for a year now. The first time they met, Sherlock was lying on the street high as a bird.Lestrade just started at the police and was on patrol when he spotted the young boy laying on the street. Sherlock was 21, but still looked too young for Lestrade.

He wanted to take the young boy back to the station, but Sherlock asked him not to. Actually cried. He promised that he would never do it again, that this was just a mistake and learned from it. Lestrade was naive and hopeful; he was not proud of it now, but he let the boy go. Only to find him again and again on the street, high and desperate.

One day he took the boy for a cafe nearby. He was resistant at first but then agreed. They sat outside of the store, and drank. They talked a lot and Lestrade learned a thing or two about Sherlock, and decided to help him. Little did he know everything would be a lot more complicated than he thought.

'I don't want any help.'Sherlock replied eventually.

'That's a shame, but it changes nothing. I'm staying here, and I will do everything to make you feel better. You know why, you stupid moron? Because I freaking care about you. I will not let you waste away.'

Sherlock was suprised but angry too.

'Why? You don't even know me! You know nothing' he replied getting more angry.

'Damnit I feel responsible for you, I just can't help it. Please don't make this any harder.'

Lestrade wished he would've taken the boy to the station that night. He would've got professional help, and he would be taken care of. But he wanted to do something nice in life, and he belived in second chances.

'Well stop doing it! You're not my dad.LEAVE ME!' Sherlock felt the mug break in his hand. He held it too tightly and now it's all broken, and he can't help but cry. He felt ashamed, and he tried but couldn't help the tears from falling.

'Jesus Sherlock...Don't move'

Sherlock felt the pain in his hands but couldn't care. He felt Lestrade stand up, and collect the broken pieces. Then he came back with some bandages and started to aid his hands. Sherlock calmed down and was thankful for his help.'I'm sorry' he said to Lestrade.

'Nah, It's fine..'

They sat next to each other for a while. Sherlock felt cold and empty, but he was glad he was not alone.

He couldn't remember when or how he got so bad. Everything was looking bright when he moved out of home. He felt hope then, he could do it, he will be just fine.

At UNI his "friends" encouraged him to start doing drugs; and as soon as he tried, he realised he would not stop.

He actually fell asleep after a while; he was tired and weak and Lestrade made him feel safe.

He dreamt about being a boy again, and he was playing around his old family house. He grabbed up a long stick and he pretended it was a sword; he started to hit the brushes around him, because they were such deadly enemies, and he felt happy, but once he looked around again, he saw that the bushes were on fire. He panicked and started to run but the fire was getting big really fast, and now he was cornered at there was nothing he could do.

'Help! Help me! Please!'

He woke up alone, sweaty and cold. He started to desperately look for a cigarette. He found one and started to look for the lighter.

'Looking for this one?' He turned around and saw Lestrade with the blue lighter in his hands.

He went and took it from him, lit it, and inhaled the smoke deeply. He now looked up at Lestrade and saw he was smoking too.

'Still here?'he asked, but not annoyed.

'Couldn't damn moved after you fell asleep on me' he joked.

'Sorry about that'

'It's fine but you better get ready soon.'

'Ready for what?'

'We're going out.'

'The hell we go.' he replied. He hated to go out; the noises, the lights, everything. As a kid he loved playing outside. But after the accident, everything has changed.The sun hurt his eyes and he got strong headaches. The loud noises made him want to rip off his ears and scream his lungs out. So he prefered being inside now.

'Well, like it or not we're going. And I have to get my stuff anyway'

'What stuff?'

'I told you. I'm not gonna leave you.'

Lestrade actually stayed for 6 months. He helped Sherlock get off drugs, and helped him find a proper job. He was holding Sherlock's hand when he woke up screaming from a nightmare. He stayed up at night sitting next to him as he threw up in the loo.

'I just can't.

I hate myself'

he cried as he threw up again.

Sherlock continued living in his personal Hell.

There is no one who can help, no one who can understand.

He felt as if he was fading away.