Mycroft had practically thrown his younger brother across the room in a fit of rage. The younger, thinner of the pair bounced off a small table and rolled backwards until he rested in a heap against the wall. Mycroft had only intended to shove his brother into the spare bedroom, have a serious talk with him about his actions and then leave the man to claw himself out of the hole he had dug himself. Infact none of the intended happened; Mycroft had found his brother slumped against an alleyway wall after a young police officer had called it in, the young Sherlock was then driven to Mycroft's own home and in a fit of rage, forcefully dumped in the spare bedroom.
Sherlock threw a well aimed glare at his older brother from between the table legs, with a rub of his head he forced himself to stand on shaky legs.
'With a blow like that to the head, you may end up killing me, dear brother' growled Sherlock as he hastily licked his dry lips.
'And wouldn't that be a shame' replied Mycroft with a small twitch of the lips.
Sherlock found his knees buckling, he collapsed face first into the carpet with an audible sigh.
'Waters in the mini fridge. I would also advise that you do not be sick on my carpet. If you feel as though you will you will call me.'
'Yes, sir' hissed Sherlock, from the carpet his body seemed to be now glued to.
With a annoyed sigh, Mycroft exited the room, leaving the door ajar.
'I don't need watching' shouted Sherlock, his words muffled against the carpet. His tired muscles groaned as he pushed himself to lean against the wall again. Sherlock even attempted counting the growing bruises in the crook of his elbow before he grew bored. His finger itched to hold something, anything. His body shook involuntarily as if a cold chill had suddenly swept over the man.
'Not so clever, are you?' muttered Sherlock as he hastily shoved a hand into his shoe, pulling out a small sachet filled with a white powder and razor. His eyes lit up briefly at his small triumph. He flicked the sachet once and smiled. Who needs a house full of people to have a party?
Greg Lestrade was on his twenty something cigarette of the day when he was suddenly knocked aside by a younger man, Greg audibly gasped as his unlit cigarette fell from his parted lips. Casting his gaze before him he narrowed his eyes at the man who had robbed him of his cancerous friend. An unhealthily skinny man was sat on his backside wincing, the man ran a hand through his curly black hair before picking himself up and giving himself a dust down.
'Sorry, didn't see you there' said the man after thoroughly checking to see if the contents of his coat pockets hadn't fallen out. 'Though you should also spend more time concentrating on where you're going and not on how many cigarettes you should have bought!'
Lestrade felt his jaw drop as he continued to glare at the stranger in front of him. 'Excuse me?'
The curly haired man pulled his coat tighter around his skinny frame before he answered. 'I can't stand around idly chatting to every stranger that charges into me, I must be off'. Lestrade felt his eyebrows shoot into his hair line, hadn't the guy knocked into him and not the other way around?
'Wait...' shouted Lestrade but the odd man in the coat had already gone, disappeared with the crowd.
The young police officer shook his head and decided to reward himself with a fresh cigarette for his troubles. Trying to shake the feeling that he had met the strange man before, Lestrade shoved his hand into his pocket to retrieve his lighter before he made his way to work.
He knew that he'd met the man once before, but the memory was vague. A slither of blurred colours from his early years in the force. It was the man's nature that had caused the thought to blossom.
Greg continued on his journey, unlit cigarette still dangling from his lips as he toyed with his lighter. He passed an empty alleyway and gasped, almost swallowing his cigarette in the process.
The pieces had fallen into place.
He knew the man to be Sherlock Holmes, the biggest and brightest pain in the arse.
'I always knew you'd come back to haunt me' grumbled Greg, fishing the cigarette away from his mouth and rubbing one palm over his jaw.