Summary: Sherlock turned to drugs in order to entertain his unchallenged mind. Or so he always said. With a track record of three acsidental overdoses, Lestrade had always had his suspicions this wasn't quite the case.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

To Feel

Lestrade repressed a yawn and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. The last two days had been exhausting and he had hardly managed to get a bit of sleep in or eat much of anything. And he seriously doubted that he could get any sleep or hold down much food even if he tried. Not on a day like this. Not when one of their own, one of their very best didn't make it.

He took a sip of the coffee, his fifth or sixth of the day; he lost count somewhere around the third and set his sights on the evidence in front of him in the vain hope of finally catching some clue, something that would lead him to the killer. But no matter how long he starred at the photographs in front of him, no matter how hard he tried bending his brain, he always saw the very same thing. The very same story, the one of his colleague, of his friend, of his brother in arms slowly bleeding out to his death on the cold floor of the abandoned building, all alone with no help and no hope.

Sherlock's voice methodically explaining how long it took for DI Somerson to bleed out, how much it must have hurt and how much he must have suffered and how he must have known that he had no chance of getting any help at such a remote place with no means of communication pierced through Lestrade's thoughts. And then he remembered the small smile that tucked at the corner of Sherlock's lips when he was explaining how even despite all of that Somerson had left them a clue. Oh, how much Lestade had wanted to punch the younger Holmes brother into the face in that exact moment. As he managed to swallow his anger somehow for the sake of professionalism, he heard the sound of a fist connecting with the young detective's face. He might have refrained from hitting Sherlock himself but he couldn't quite repress the small pang of satisfaction he felt when Marshand, Somerson's protégée had done it for him.

Taking yet another look at the files, Lestrade wondered where Sherlock had disappeared off to. For a while he pondered whether the young man had finally found enough decency to understand that the last thing the Yard needed right now was his cold calculating manner poking his nose in the death of their colleague around. But no, that wasn't it. That just wasn't how Sherlock Holmes operated. Then a different reason crossed his mind. Sherlock might not be one to worry too much about being sensitive around the Yarders but he would understand that this was something they had to solve on their own. They had to be the ones to get the justice for the murder of one of their own. Of course Sherlock probably didn't care about this on an emotional level; he saw it in the terms of his own twisted vision of the world. And in that world, this was simply Scotland Yard's, not Sherlock Holmes' game to play.

Lestrade was disturbed from his thoughts by the buzz of his phone in his pocket. He took it out in the vain hope that perhaps Sherlock had at least decided to interfere by giving him a little clue as into what he spent the last two days looking at. The text he got was indeed from a Holmes, just not from the one he would have expected.

"Check on Sherlock. Now. MH."

Despite the fact that it was just a regular short text, it somehow still managed to emit an air of authority.

"Oh, you bastard," Lestrade muttered himself. Count on Mycroft Holmes o turn him into his little brother's personal handler against his own will when he was too busy running the British and whatever other government that he was running to bother himself with the youngest Holmes' escapades.

As he cursed Mycroft Holmes to hell and back he pondered whether he should indeed go and check on Sherlock. To hell with the consulting detective, solving the murder of one of his own should take priority.

Then he re-read the text and noticed the note of urgency underlining it. Now, Mycroft had written. While the older Holmes had a touch for the dramatic, Sherlock and him were more like each other than either of them would ever care to admit, he wouldn't urge Lestrade when it came to Sherlock without any reason.

Actually there was just one reason why Mycroft would ever urge him to check on Sherlock. Lestrade shook his head. It just didn't make even a tiny bit of sense. Sherlock had been clean for over three years now and surely he would have noticed if there were any signs of old habits creeping back. He replayed the last few encounters with Sherlock in his head and there was nothing there to suggest that the brilliant detective had any incentive to turn back to the drugs.

Quite the contrary, actually. When he had arrived to ask him for help this morning as a third murder had occurred under the same circumstances without the Yarders being any closer to catching the murderer, this was before Lestrade knew the identity of the latest victim, Sherlock was beaming and had looked perhaps more radiant than Lestrade had ever seen him. He was slightly annoyed to be dragged away by the DI as he babbled something about a new mystery, a real challenge in the sea of dull, that one of his clients had offered. But as Lestrade introduced him to the basics of the case, Sherlock seemed to be willing to put off the new mystery for the thrill of the chase that Lestrade's latest case offered.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed as he was informed that they most likely had a serial killer on their hands. Lestrade didn't quite catch the next few words Sherlock happily muttered under his breath but he would have sworn that he heard something about today being Christmas, and best Christmas in years at that.

But then memories from a later time that day creeped into his mind and as he recalled how silent, almost considerate Sherlock had been when the somber atmosphere overtook Scotland Yard and how he had silently retreated from the case and it cast a shadowof doubt over his mind.

As pictures of a different Sherlock, the one of days old, the one that would wait for him dirty, cold and shivering on his doorstep after yet another of Mycroft's attempt to forcibly detoxicate him failed, the one who would lie on his couch, knees pressed to his chest and fight with the tremors and the withdrawal trying his hardest to suppress the gasps of pain and terror, trying his hardest to be strong, to not show his weakness nor vulnerability, the pale young Sherlock lying in his hospital bed, hanging onto life by only a few weak threads after his most recent accidental overdose flooded his mind, he found himself racing down the stairs to his car.

As he sped up the car, he felt his worry mixing with deep furry and a bit of betrayal. He thought that Sherlock and him had attained some kind of mutual respect and trust. And because no matter how many drugs busts he would stage at Sherlock's place when the young detective was acting out he was convinced that he would never find anything at Sherlock's flat ever again. Not after the deal they made that very night in the hospital when Sherlock looked at him with a faith glimmer of hope from behind those almost dead grey eyes, still looking more like a mere vulnerable boy than a man on the path to destroy his own life to Lestrade.

Lestrade didn't bother knocking or ringing the bell when he arrived at Sherlock's place. No matter what state he was in, Sherlock would likely never bother getting up to open the door for him. As he used his key, which had somehow found its way on his kitchen table one day – Mycroft Holmes and his people were suspected here – he considered the neighbourhood and the flat. He had never been here before but he felt somewhat relieved to find out that it was a much nicer place than some of the toxic dumps he knew Sherlock had occupied before. Of course, the flat was a mess as always with Sherlock and various experiments littered the floor and tables and Lestrade wouldn't be surprised to find body parts in the fridge. But at least the surroundings looked like there was no drug den or something of that sorts around.

He found Sherlock on the couch in the living room seemingly asleep. His arms were uncovered and Lestrade did a quick check in order to identify any knew track marks. There was seemingly nothing to be found. Unless, of course Sherlock had injected the drugs elsewhere on his body. Lestrade approached him and silently checked for his vitals. Everything seemed to be okay, Sherlock was seemingly just asleep. With the dark curls falling into his face and with a little flush of colour finding its way onto his face, Sherlock looked almost peaceful. Nothing like the younger Sherlock Lestrade had seen lying in the hospital bed years ago. The DI let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

Then he looked up from Sherlock and his eyes caught a glimpse of the half empty bottle on the table. He picked it up and as he sniffed its contents, he frowned. Sherlock Holmes didn't drink. Not ever. He could remember hundreds of occasions where he or someone else had offered him a drink and he'd always refuse. The young detective had fallen for drugs in the past of course. But drugs were one thing, the young detective had claimed that they managed to occupy his brilliant mind which was always racing at a speed which Lestrade himself and most of humankind couldn't even comprehend yet alone imagine when there was no other real challenge. Alcohol however dulled his senses; at least that's what Sherlock would say.

Lestade shook Sherlock awake. The man stirred and groaned as he tried slowly opening his eyes which were however met with the sight of the last rays of sunshine finding their way through the living room window.

"Lestrade," Sherlock muttered almost incoherently as he sat himself up and regarded the detective inspector with a strange grimace adorning his face.

"You're drunk," Lestrade commented dryly.

"Brilliant deduction, Lestrade. They ought to give you a pay rise."

Lestrade disregarded the offensive comment, his mind racing as he looked from Sherlock to the bottle confused.

"But, why?" he finally asked.

"'S 'n experiment," Sherlock mumbled.

"Experiment? What were you trying o find out? The effect alcohol has on the superior mind?" a hint of sarcasm found its way into Lestrade's voice.

"Don't be ridiculous. I've seen Mycroft drunk plenty of times."

Lestrade fought with the mental image of a drunken Mycroft Holmes.

"So why then?"

Sherlock's answer was strangely muffled and Lestrade only caught two words, ""wouldn't understand."

"Well, try me," he challenged Sherlock.

Sherlock only shook his head and scoffed.

"You don't understand," Lestrade was surprised to note that it was frustration rather than contempt that he could detect in the younger man's voice as he buried his hands in his curls.

"Well, try to explain then," Lestrade tried again totally at a loss what else to do.

"It's about Somerson," Sherlock broke the silence finally.

Lestrade's insides froze as he regarded the man in front of him. "Did something happen between you and Somerson before he died, Sherlock?"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed. "That's not it. I…actually I…I l…I was rather fond of him," he finally managed to get out.

Lestrade starred at Sherlock, mouth agape. It might not sound like much but coming from Sherlock Holmes it was practically a love proclamation. Suddenly he remembered catching a glimpse of Sherlock's face the morning when they were announcing Somerson's murder at the Yard. How he had made no comments, no remarks, how he just silently observed everyone. And then he remembered how Somerson had always volunteered for a drugs' bust at Sherlock's place before his eventual promotion to DI and how his motivation for this was different than the rest of his team, he never seemed to fully put his heart into bullying Sherlock like all the rest. Then he also remembered that Somerson had been on the drugs squad before transferring to homicides and the realisation that someone at the Yard had been looking out for Sherlock's well being long before Lestrade had even met him dawned on him. Of course Somerson was a prouder man than Lestrade and Sherlock was…well, Sherlock, so neither man would ever mutually acknowledge this fact.

"So, what? You decided to test what kind of effect alcohol would have on you grieving? I can tell you, Sherlock, many have tried before you and it never worked out too well."

To Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock let out a hollow laugh.

"See, Lestrade. This is exactly what I meant. You just don't get it," he shook his head again and poured himself a new glass.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade was more confused than ever.

Sherlock laughed again.

"I'm not grieving, Lestrade. Sociopath, remember? Albeit a high-functioning one."

"We both know that's not true," Lestrade commented.

"Isn't it?" Sherlock asked. "Then tell me, Deective Inspector, why don't I feel anything? A man, a good man, one of the few who would be bothered if something were to happen to me, died this morning. And why you all busied yourselves losing your wits over his bruised and blood buttered body, all I saw him as was another puzzle, another mystery for me to solve. I just…I just wanted to feel something…" there was a note of despair to Sherlock's voice and he seemed to misjudge his own power as he pressed the glass in his hand too strongly and it broke into millions of small pieces leaving a bunch of small bruises on Sherlock's hand.

Lestrade grabbed a towel from the kitchen and he busied himself by picking out the small glass pieces out of Sherlock's wounds and by trying to stop the blood trickling down. Sherlock didn't move from his place, it didn't say anything more; it was almost as if he had turned into stone, into a statue. All the while Lestrade's heart rate sped up as it was beating faster and faster against his ribs and his mind was racing as he tried catalouguing this new infomation. It was an another piece of the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. It was information that changed the story of Sherlock Holmes he knew into a new one, into one that made much more sense. Sherlock had always claimed that he had turned to drugs out of boredom, in order to occupy his mind. Lestrade never tried to convince him otherwise but there was always something bothering him. Sherlock's track record of three near deaths, three overdoses.

Even as high as a kite, someone of Sherlock's brilliance would never accidently misjudge how much his body was capable of handling. Maybe the first time, but it was an error that he would never repeat. His heart ached as the true reason for Sherlock's near death experiences dawned on him. As he had sometimes suspected before, he was quite convinced now, that they were more intentional on Sherlock's part than he would have liked. The poor boy had enlarged and enlarged his doses in order to get a grip of his emotions. In order to feel. In order to be like the rest of them. For all the contempt he showed for ordinary people, there had always been a part of him that ached to be like them.

Of course, Lestrade knew very well that Sherlock wasn't a sociopath and that he was capable of feeling. He was capable of maybe even stronger emotions than anyone else he knew. Of course, there were the occasions where he saw him emotionally manipulate witnesses or suspects, but it were the other moments that stuck with him. The ones where he had seen him show empathy regardless of whether Sherlock himself noticed. Like the affection Sherlock held for Lestrade's little daughter and the special bond which he had effortlessly built with the child, something that had taken Lestrade himself years of fighting to achieve.

When Lestrade finished with caring for Sherlock's wounds, he sat down onto the sofa next to him and touched his young colleague's chin to turn him to face him.

"So, this morning, at the Yard, when I told my people that Somerson was dead, what did you fe…no, what was going through your head?" Lestrade asked him remembering the confusion he had noted on Sherlock's face in that moment.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My mind was hollow in that moment, just like my heart always is," Sherlock laughed at his own joke.

"That's funny."

"Oh, is it?"

"Yes, because that's exactly what went through my mind when it had sunken in that my dad died…and my uncle Charlie…and Somerson…and every other time someone I cared for died…"

Sherlock looked up at him confusion with hope conflicting on his face: "You mean…you too?"

Lestrade could practically see Sherlock's mind racing behind his eyes that had turned to a beautiful green when illuminated by the last rays of the sun, trying hard to puzzle out the information he thought Lesrade was giving him with what he already knew and how he failed to find the non-existing connection. Now it was the DI's turn to laugh.

"Course not," he shook his head. "What I'm saying is that you're the one who doesn't understand here, not me."

"Lestrade, you're not making any sense."

"Oh, but I am," he took in a sharp breath before he went into further explanation.

"Look, Sherlock. The point I'm trying to make is that there is an evident difference between not understanding what you feel or not being able to express it in quite the same way as the rest of humanity and actually not feeling anything."

Sherlock regarded him as he tried to make sense of the DI's words, who remained unsure on whether he managed to get through the detective's thick skull. He might have been absolutely brilliant but in some ways he could be an idiot. An idiot who'd rather claim not to feel anything and revert to self destructive behaviour than admit to himself or the world that he had some shortcomings.