Author's Note: Welcome to my newest story! This will be a work-in-progress, and it is based on Doyle's The Man With the Twisted Lip. The first chapter is fairly dark, but not all of the story will be that way.

Warnings: references to drugs throughout

"John, are you sure you want to do this?"

Lifting his head from the window, John Watson offered a weak nod. His stomach was twisted in deep knots, and his eyes- his eyes were colored with exhaustion. A glance in the mirror revealed a pale face, hardened with fear.

"John," Lestrade stated. John turned toward him, but he still he couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes. "It will be okay. She'll be okay."

He felt like he might be sick.

"She's my sister," John sighed. "How did I not know…how could she? How…"

"Look at me." John obeyed, tears threatening to break through. Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to regain control. "Have you talked to Sherlock about this?"

He had a bad feeling about where Lestrade was going with this. Sherlock rarely spoke about his history with drugs, and he spoke even less about rehab. John couldn't even be sure if he even went to rehab. And he wasn't sure if he wanted Sherlock giving his sister advice about recovery.

John shook his head.

"Sherlock's still missing in action," he admitted. "I haven't seen him all week."

Lestrade let out a deep sigh and shut off the engine.

"You do know that if we find her, and she's in possession-"

He'd have to arrest her.

"I know."

"I can do this on my own," Lestrade offered.

John's eyes flashed toward him, warning him to stop pestering him.

"Can we just go?"

Lestrade nodded. The two stepped out of the squad car. They stood out like sore thumbs amongst the stench and trash of the alleys behind what was known as the "Bar of Gold". The bar was hidden in the basement of a hotel, long abandoned since its hayday in the 1930s. The hotel was currently at the center of a major drug investigation, and when John went to Lestrade with concerns of his sister being missing for days- after last being seen in this side of town- they both knew the likelihood of finding her here.

As beggars shook their cans of loose change and hungover drunks ran passed them, John felt more than a little uncomfortable. He pulled his suede jacket more closely around him, and he couldn't help but to keep aware of the weight of the wallet in his pocket.

Lestrade ascended the steps up to the hotel rooms first. Addicts, young and old, slid down the walls of the halls, completely displaced from reality. John swallowed nervously, and he noticed that even Lestrade was tense. With each step he dreaded the state they'd find his sister.

A group of young adults, probably in their early twenties, blocked their entry into the main corridor.

"Money?" The oldest of the kids snorted. The kid held out an empty hand as his friends burst into fits of laughter around him. "Gotta have money to get by, old man."

Normally, John might have laughed at that, but his eyes roared with anger as he clenched his fists inside the pockets of his jacket. Lestrade looked like he was seconds away from arresting the entire pack of kids. Instead, Lestrade withdrew the picture of Harry John gave him the night before. The knots in his stomach twisted even tighter at the sight of his sister in the photograph. She looked so young there, so unknowing of the trouble she would find herself in.

"This girl was reported missing by her brother forty-eight hours ago," Lestrade announced, holding the photograph up so that everyone in the corridor could see it. John's eyes sank to the floor, desperately hoping no one would notice the family-resemblance between him and his sister. "If anyone so much as tries to…knick my wallet!" He shouted the last bit, rounding on a homeless man who was standing, wide eyed, beside the detective inspector. The man slowly handed the wallet back. "You may find yourself a person of interest in the case. So tell me, has anyone here seen her?"

The crowd pointed in unison to the last door on the right side of the corridor. John broke into a run as he tore past Lestrade. He sidestepped unconscious men and pushed aside each hungover teenager that tried to get in the way. He stopped at the closed door, resting his head on it for a moment. Closing his eyes, he briefly wondered why this door was closed when all the others were open.

"It's unlocked."

He looked up, surprised to see Lestrade beside him. Their eyes met, and John knew he was looking for permission. He nodded, and the D.I. gently opened the door.

The lights in the room were dim, but John could still make out two figures collapsed in the tangles of sheets on the bed. He was certain he was going to be sick as he rushed forward. He was almost more horrified than relieved to see his sister there, the sheets drawn to her bare shoulders. A man who was nearly ten years older than her lay beside her, turned away from them.

"Christ," he whispered, the words dry and sickened from the bile rising in his throat. "Harry!"

"John-"

He ignored Lestrade's warning as his trembling fingers felt her neck for a pulse. A shaky sigh of relief escaped when he found one- but it was so faint that tears instantly appeared in his eyes.

"She's bad, Greg. She's- god she's so pale."

"So are you," Lestrade shot, pulling him back. "I'm calling in the paramedics."

"No!" He exclaimed in horror. "I'm a doctor. No one else is touching her, okay?"

His entire body was shaking now. He ran a hand through Harry's short, dirty-blonde hair. The stench from the bed signaled that she hadn't showered in days.

Then he caught sight of her arm, and he had to hold a hand over his mouth to keep from vomiting.

"Oh god," he whispered, "oh god…god."

It was all he could say, over and over again, as he grabbed her arm and ran a finger over the series of angry-red track marks.

"God," he mumbled again.

He felt himself falling until Lestrade's hand was suddenly on his shoulder.

"Let me call a paramedic," Lestrade said, more quietly this time, "she's needs a hospital."

"Greg-"

He could barely speak as his eyes found the source of what caused the track marks. Needles and empty baggies, colored with few remains of white powder. He recalled Lestrade's warnings in the car, but suddenly- no matter how well he understood the law- he wanted to do everything in his power to stop him from arresting her.

"As far as I'm concerned it's too early to determine who the drugs belonged to," Lestrade said. John let out another trembling sigh. On top of everything, the exhaustion from being awake with worry for the past two days was catching up to him. "She needs help, John. I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure she gets it.

"She's barely breathing," John whispered as he checked her pulse again. "She could have, she almost-"

"She didn't."

John nodded, appreciating the sympathy. He collapsed onto the floor and grasped his sister's hand in his own. Tears were flowing freely now. A few choked sobs escaped him, and his head fell to the edge of the bed. A comforting hand appeared on his shoulder; he had never felt more embarrassed around Lestrade. How did he not know what was going on?

"How did I let this happened?" He whispered to himself.

"You didn't," Lestrade stated quietly. He sounded as though he felt ill himself.

John's eyes trailed up to Lestrade. They stung from the tears and were stained a desperate shade of red from crying.

"This isn't her," John began, fighting to find his voice. "This isn't her, she…she's had problems with drinking, yes. But drugs? No, no someone brought her into this. Someone did this to her. Someone set her down the wrong path."

Lestrade nodded, sympathetic, but his mobile turned over in his hands. He was clearly ready to bring in the paramedics and get out of there.

"We'll figure it out," Lestrade promised. "Can I call for help?"

His eyes turned again to his sister. She was so still…so grey. Like she was wondering a little too closely to death's door. Her hand felt far too lifeless. He knew she couldn't remain here. He nodded and closed his eyes.

John stayed by her side until the paramedics came. He wasn't sure what Lestrade did with the man's body, but he refused to move from his spot beside his sister until she was carried out of the room. John stumbled through the hallways, almost feeling as empty as the zoned-out people wondering around him. He almost reached the staircase before something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

In one of the rooms lay a young man, curled into a ball near the doorway as he slept with his back turned towards the corridor. The man's head was hidden in his arms as he slept. His chest just barely moved up and down. A black hoodie was drawn almost all the way up the man's neck. His body convulsed with shivers. When John reached down to check his pulse, he found the young man's skin freezing cold. He reached down to pull back a few sweaty curls that clung to the man's face- and froze.

"Lestrade!" He shouted. His own heartbeat came to a rapid stop. Lestrade appeared beside him, joining him as he knelt down beside the man.

"What's wrong?"

John swallowed, unable think, unable to even begin to take in what he had stumbled upon. His voice shook violently when he spoke.

"You might want to call for another ambulance." He carefully rolled the man over so that Lestrade could see him. "It's Sherlock."

Author's Note: It's not what it looks like...or is it? Let me know what you think!