Human Error

A/N: I know, look at this crap. I can't get Sherlock off my brain. Anway, here we go. A different take, that my husband actually sparked. There's an extremely Dubcon/probably more like noncon scene here in the first chapter, not very graphic, but I'll warn you now, as well as non con drug administration. Now, I haven't decided if this is a Johnlock or a Lestrade/Sherlock one. I'm considering both of them. This is post Sign of Three. But there are ways to get rid of Mary even if I like her.

Chapter One

The Hitman

Mary and John were gone on their honeymoon, and Sherlock was alone at the flat at Baker Street. He was actually quite surprised how lonely he got so quickly once the wedding was done and he left. He was watching everything he cared about change before his very eyes, and he couldn't help but feel like nothing would be the same again. He knew that Mary wasn't trying to take John away, he really did, even though his stupid, annoying sentimental heart seemed to think differently. It was the only explanation for the damnable ache in his chest that didn't seem to want to go away no matter how much he tried.

He'd already solved six cold cases before Lestrade texted him with a case that was interesting enough to even bother with. It was the death of an American tourist, it appeared, but it was Sherlock's favorite kind of case. It was a locked room murder. He felt the rush of excitement that came with a new case, but then it died on his lips because he almost called out to John. Oh, for pity's sake, he had to get this under control. John was married now. John had a life without Sherlock, and he had to simply get used to it. And soon, he would have a baby and that meant even less time for Sherlock in John's life. He'd really and truly have done anything to have John stay with him for the rest of his life.

But it simply wouldn't happen, and he had to get on with his own life. And it was either cases or he was going to find his way down to a heroin den before the week was out so he could numb his mind. And he had made a promise to John, and it would break his heart if he broke it. And even if John was moving further away from him, he wouldn't change anything as long as John was happy. In the end, that was all that mattered, wasn't it? Of course. No matter his own pain.

He vaguely wondered about what exactly had gone on with Anderson after he'd left. He honestly hadn't bothered to ask, but it was obvious that guilt and shame had eaten the man alive. Donovan was still Donovan, but she had far less to say to him than before he'd left. It seemed that she shared some of the guilt that Anderson had. So he entered the hotel room and nodded to Lestrade despite the foul mood he was in.

The dead man was from America, obviously, wore only American labels, wore American cologne as well, and had an American flag tattooed to the inside of his ankle. Well, that was a strange spot for a man, Sherlock thought. He'd been shot once through the heart, through and through, the bullet had embedded in the wall behind him. Close range, high powered hand gun. And not a thing out of place, and locked room with no one swiping a keycard for entry in the last twenty four hours after the victim had checked into the room. The man was fairly well kept, nice suit, silk tie, and manicured fingernails. His shoes were worn though recently shined, so he wasn't rich, or perhaps he liked to be comfortable…

Sherlock grunted and looked up. "For godssakes," he muttered. "Really?"

Lestrade followed his eyes up to the vent in the ceiling. "They went through the ventilation system?"

"This is like some bad action movie," Sherlock commented, pulling a chair over and shining his flashlight on the vent cover. All four screws were gone and it was held in place from the other side by bungee that pulled it tight to the opening. "They went through the vent."

"Seems appropriate for someone going after Charles there," came a voice from the doorway. Sherlock turned to look from his position stretched up looking into the vent shaft to see a man that looked to be the dead man's brother, if Sherlock didn't miss his guess, and he rarely did that.

He stood slightly taller than Sherlock, perhaps a couple inches over six feet, and had short, straight black hair. His eyes were a deep brown that almost hedged into black, and like the man on the floor, wore an expensive tailored American suit. He also smelled of the same cologne as the dead man. The most striking thing about him was a pronounced square jawline. He was obviously a fitness fiend, because he was heavily muscled on his upper body, unlike his rather thin bodied brother.

Lestrade straightened from his slumped position along the wall and stepped forward, holding his hand out. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I take it you are Agent Aaron Verdal?"

Sherlock's brow quirked at the name. "Agent. Hrm. FBI or CIA?"

Aaron looked at him and grinned. "How do you know that? I could be ATF or something else entirely. America does have a lot of agencies."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hopped down in a graceful leap to the floor, dusting his hands. "CIA."

Aaron snorted and shook his head. "I've heard about you, Mr. Holmes, but it is something different to see you in action," he said, stepping forward and offering his hand to Sherlock, who stared at it before twirling back around to crouch beside the body. Aaron didn't seem perturbed, he actually smirked.

"So your brother was killed by a professional, obviously, with a penchant for the overly dramatic. I suppose you have an idea of why?" Sherlock said, checking over the face for any other evidence he'd possibly missed.

"Honestly, I don't know why anyone would want Charles dead. Me, on the other hand, that's another story. I honestly think they mistook him for me. We do resemble each other…" he said with a glance at his brother.

Sherlock shook his head. "You aren't too emotionally distraught at your brother's death," he said thoughtfully. "You seem to have come to terms long ago that anyone remotely attached to you was a target, yet you still continue with the work you do even so because you enjoy the job too much to give it up."
Aaron returned the look. "Yes, yes. But my brother and I were…"

"Estranged, yes, I figured that out…" Sherlock said dismissively. "Betrayal of trust, took your significant other while you were on assignment, break up immediate, followed by the current assignment until you were called by the consulate that your brother had been murdered on British soil."

For the first time, Aaron's smile faded and he looked at Sherlock for a long moment. "Yes, you are just as good as I've heard…really, you should be working for us, we could certainly pay more."

Sherlock waved a hand in his direction. "Not about the money. Puzzles. Keeps my mind occupied and off drugs."

Lestrade huffed and crossed his arms. Aaron smiled, moving closer than was strictly necessary to Sherlock who looked up to his much too close face.

"I think I could offer quite a few satisfactory puzzles, Mr. Holmes," he said slowly, eyes roaming the slightly shorter man's face.

Sherlock arched both brows. "Indeed," He muttered and moved away toward the door.

"Check the venting duct, the killer got stuck down toward the basement, equipment failed him and he plummeted down the shaft past the exit point. Collect him and book him. Slightly interesting, but text me with anything above a seven, please, Lestrade," he said, sweeping out of the room.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

The next day, Sherlock woke to the sound of someone beating on the door. He'd actually fallen asleep on the couch for a change, so he sat up and carefully put his violin away in the case and blinked wearily. He thought that this John being gone thing was making him far more sleepy than normal. He snorted to himself as he wrapped his blue dressing gown tighter and headed down to the door. Mrs. Hudson must have been out shopping, he thought to himself. He flung the door back to find himself looking at Agent Aaron Verdal from the day before. He crinkled his brown and cocked his head to the side.

"Agent Verdal, what do you need? Don't tell me you let the murderer get away," he said dryly.

Aaron seemed to not be perturbed by Sherlock's attitude and instead pushed him to the side and headed up his stairs, leaving Sherlock blinking. "Ah, no, come, I want to talk to you more about the case. Seems he was a hired hit man."

Sherlock was slightly annoyed. The American just pushed his way into his flat. He sighed and shook his head and followed the larger man up the stairs. He pointed to the couch and flopped down into his armed chair, and turning to face him. "So what do you want with me?" he said, crossing his legs as he leaned back.

Aaron smiled. "Well, I thought that you might want to help me find the person that hired him," he said, pulling a file from under his trench. Sherlock reached out and took it, pointedly ignoring the fact that Aaron made a point to touch his hand as he gave it to him. If the man were any more obvious it would be painful.

"I thought you would be more than capable of such a thing," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Perhaps I am, but the person is here in London, and well, I need someone…unattached to the local law enforcement who knows the city and from what I understand, you are that person," he said, with a warm smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I suppose. I have nothing more interesting to do. Do you have a file for me to look at?"

Aaron smiled broadly. "Of course, I'll get it from the car."

"Alright, I'll change in case we need to leave the flat," he said, standing up and heading toward his room.

Aaron watched him for a moment until he disappeared and smiled to himself, a map of the flat being created in his head. This would do nicely. He intended to have an invitation to stay here before the day was over. He went down the stairs and retrieved the files. Sometimes it was too easy manipulating people who were lonely, he thought for a second as he paused outside the door. But this was more fun because he wasn't just lonely, the man was heartbroken, and he didn't even know it.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

By the time dinner had rolled around, Aaron and Sherlock had visited at least five drug dens, and seven more seedy places where someone would go to hire a hitman. They had made contact with the Italian mob, the Russians, the yakuza, and even some odd group of Chinese gangsters, as well as locals. Aaron was amazed at the network Sherlock had. They spent a good fifteen minutes in a back alley talking to a man that smelled of alcohol and feces, but walked away with six possible names and a promise for more once it spread through the network.

"How do you know all these people?" Aaron asked as they got back in the car.

"I listen to people no one else bothers to listen to," he said simply, folding the paper and slipping it into his coat pocket.

"I'm starved, could you eat?" he asked with an arched brow at the thin detective.

Sherlock snorted. "I don't eat on cases," he said finally. "But please, drop me off at 221B and go find yourself something to eat, Agent."

"Oh, come now, you and I deserve to have something to eat. How about it? On me. Buy you anything on the menu…" he said, as if coaxing a child.

"I do not need to have anything bought for me, I probably purchase more expensive wine than your monthly take home pay would cover," he said with a sigh. "But I suppose I will accompany you. Choose whatever you like, I'll remain and we can talk about the case."

Aaron smiled to himself. He realized early on that subtle manipulation was the key with this one. He wasn't like the rest. He was keen, observant, painfully aware of his surroundings, but he was incredibly naïve. And he didn't care for himself. He was an ex-junkie, he'd seen the reactions when they were in the drug dealers' homes, a subtle tick and glance about, eyes lingering on the white powders laid out on the table. He didn't eat, though he could tell he had a good deal of muscle tone, he was thin, like he'd lost it recently, and his ribs were clearly outlined when he moved a certain way. And by the black marks under his eyes, he didn't sleep, and if he did, he didn't sleep well.

He pulled them into a rather expensive Italian restaurant. Sherlock arched a brow and sighed following him into the place. Neither was out of place, Sherlock wore a suit with a blue silk shirt, only lacking a tie, and Aaron wore a suit and tie like he did most days he was on the job. They were seated immediately when Sherlock gave his name to the host. Aaron arched a brow as they sat down. Sherlock sighed.

"I helped the owner out a few years ago with a small embezzlement issue," he said, sipping water from a wine glass.

"Was someone embezzeling from him?" Aaron asked.

"Oh no, he was the one doing the embezzling. I helped him hide it so the mafia didn't come kill him. It was effective. He's since kept clear of illegal activities, of course, the money he embezzled bought this restaurant," Sherlock said, scanning the menu before setting it down.

A moment later a tall Italian man came running from the kitchen and speaking kissed Sherlock on the cheek to which he smiled and nodded as the man rattled off rapid fire Italian. Sherlock responded in apparently fluent Italian, speaking for quite a few minutes back and forth with the owner. Aaron watched with amusement, catching a word here or there he recognized, but apparently, he knew Italian almost as well as a native speaker. The owner clapped him on the back and bid him adieu and said he'd send out a sampler free of charge for them of their best dishes. Sherlock thanked him and he left.

"You speak fluent Italian," Aaron said.

Sherlock nodded. "And several others. I had to learn Serbian not long ago. Not a difficult language. Took about three hours to master it."

"Wait, you mastered a new language in three hours?" he said.

Sherlock thanked the waiter as he brought a bottle of wine. Sherlock poured some for him and Aaron and nodded. "I was distracted at the time, dreadfully long time for such a simple task."

Aaron smiled again, both in a genuine way and at himself. Oh how he had chosen the right person to pursue this time. The chance to bend such an incredible mind…irresistible. A large platter filled with various small portions of about ten different dishes was brought out shortly. Sherlock seemed uninterested in any of it, looking around him thoughtfully.

"Please, will you eat? It would make me feel better about working with you knowing you won't pass out from lack of food…" Aaron said softly, pushing a plate toward him. "And you don't want to upset your friend the owner, he's been watching you since the food was set down. I think he'll be ever so upset if you don't at least try some of what he sent over…"

Sherlock glanced over to see he was indeed watching intently. Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling over a plate with an elegant looking penne pasta on it and at a bit of it. He'd glance to see the owner grinning ear to ear every now and then. "Such an annoyance…" he muttered as he chewed thoughtfully.

"So, you don't seem to come here often," Aaron said, enjoying a nice angel hair dish.

"No, rarely, I came one time with John, I believe, but that was it," he said, pushing the food around his plate as he thought.

Aaron nodded. "John your boyfriend?"

Sherlock blinked and frowned. "Oh, no, he's my best friend," he said with a smile, a fond one. "I was his best man at his wedding not long ago. He's off on honeymoon now. He used to live at 221b in the upstairs bedroom before I faked my death a couple years ago…" he said, trailing off.

"Oh I remember that, I read about it, and then you weren't dead. Amazing that," he said. "That's why you learned Serbian?"

Sherlock nodded, taking a bit of a spinach ravioli. "So he wasn't your boyfriend, huh? You have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, I guess I shouldn't assume you share my preferences, huh?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "No, I do not dabble in romantic affairs. Too messy, all the entanglements and such."

"You didn't say which you prefer, though, men or women," Aaron pointed out.

"I did not," he commented, picking at another dish. "I have no preference, I suppose. As I told John, I'm married to my Work."

Aaron nodded, and glanced at his empty wine glass. "Ah, look, I've drank all my wine," he said, and grabbed Sherlock's and took a sip, depositing the contents of a capsule in the liquid before he put it back down, the motion so smooth and practiced, not even Sherlock caught him in the act. Or perhaps it was shock that he'd just drank from his glass suddenly.

"I could just pour you another," Sherlock said, tipping the bottle into his glass to refill it.

"Where's the excitement in that? It seems the only way to get a taste of you is to drink from your glass," Aaron said.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a drink of his wine, blinking at him. Aaron got the feeling he didn't get propositioned very often like that. He couldn't understand. The man was perfectly gorgeous, from head to toe. Perfect in his imperfection. And such lips, he thought to himself as he watched him drink again and his heart slipped to his throat. It didn't take long before he was swaying a bit in his seat with a frown.

"Drink a bit too much, dear?" Aaron asked with a smile.

Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to shake away the buzz in his ears. "Maybe…but…didn't drink that much…"

"Here, let's get you home. Maybe you just don't drink often enough, and you didn't eat much, here I'll have them put it in containers for us," he said, waving over the waiter and watching as he expertly packed up the remains.

He thanked him and pulled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock was fighting with consciousness. Aaron congratulated himself. That had been far easier than he thought. Now, for the next phase. The whole plan was incredibly carefully constructed and lead to only one conclusion. He put him into the seat and buckled him in, brushing against his lap purposefully, and frowning. Well, may have to provide some drug enhancement for that part of the evening. He headed back to the flat and packed, and helped him up the stairs and let him fall into his bed. He was blinking wearily and muttering under his breath.

"Here now," Aaron said with a smile as he began undressing him.

"Wha…" he asked, looking down as he pulled his trousers away. "What are you doin'?" he slurred thickly.

Aaron had brought in a small satchel and pulled out a syringe filled with something. He flicked it and injected him in the thigh muscle. He flinched and tried to jerk away and stared at him hazily. "Don't worry, just a little something that will make you feel a little woozy, but you'll be fine, sweet. Now, let's deal with this," he said, slipping his black pants off.

Sherlock hadn't minded the coat, the jacket or the trousers even, but having his pants removed, he reacted to that. "Hey!" he almost shouted, and kicked out, nearly nailing Aaron in the chin.

"Ah, ah!" Aaron said, catching his foot easily and spinning his body around until he was fully on the bed. "You don't want to kick your new boyfriend, do you?" he said with a smile.

"I…boyfriend? What?" he muttered, blinking. "Don't have one…what…" he muttered as Aaron crawled on top of him and sat down on his thighs, leaning over and unbuttoning the blue silk shirt slowly, revealing the almost smooth expanse of his chest and belly.

"You are as beautiful as I imagined, body and mind," he said with a smile.

Aaron shimmied down and stared at the obvious disinterest in the whole situation Sherlock had. He huffed. He reached down into his back and pulled out another syringe and administered a dose to a less comfortable spot this time, getting a shout out of his soon to be lover. Sherlock scrambled to try and grab him, to get the needle away, and shortly thereafter he moaned as his body began to respond to the chemical induced arousal.

"There now, that's better," he said, slowly licking at his chest, laving his nipples with his tongue and pinching the flesh.

Sherlock had no idea what was happening. His head was spinning and he couldn't bloody concentrate on anything. Wait, did Aaron inject something into his leg? Then his cock? What the hell was happening… He couldn't grasp anything to even begin to deduce what was happening, but now he was hot and his body was responding where Aaron was licking and sucking at him. He blinked and shook his head, trying to push him off, to tell him no, he wasn't interested…

"You are interested," he said softly and lapped gently at his cock in earnest. Sherlock whimpered. He didn't want to be!

"Stop," he muttered, finally forming a coherent word. "No, stoppit…"

"Shhh," he whispered. "I'll take care of you where that silly John wouldn't. I'll make you feel so good, and then you'll never think of John again. I'll take you to great heights, lover. And you'll love me so much for it…and John will know what he was missing because I'll tell him…"

Sherlock was going numb everywhere, which was a good thing as he felt him ram his fingers into him, pushing and pulling and stroking something that send blinding hot pleasure up his spine. Before long he found himself pressed down onto his stomach, Aaron above him, sending him into a world of blinding white passion that he hated so much, that he didn't want a minute of, but still it came and he fell down onto his stomach, exhausted so much that he barely felt when Aaron spilled inside him and fell beside him, stroking his back and head. He couldn't understand anything he was saying, he couldn't understand any of it, he just wanted to sleep…

Morning found him in a lot of pain. It was like a hangover only amplified, and the rest of him ached so bad he wasn't sure he could move. And there was a weight behind him. He blinked. The last clear memory he had was drinking wine at the restaurant with Aaron and then coming home and…

Everything was fuzzy, but he vaguely remembered sex. He blinked and tried to get out of bed but an incredibly strong arm grabbed him and held him down against the bare chest behind him.

"Where you goin' lover?" the sleep slurred voice behind him said.

"Aaron?" he asked. "What happened? I don't…what…I think I'm gonna be sick," he said, yanking away, or rather being released, finally.

Aaron sat up and smirked as he pulled on his pants and headed down the hall to the kitchen and found the aspirin and a glass of water. He pulled a vial from his pocket and put a couple drops of the clear liquid in it. He smirked as he listened to him retch violently into the toilet and finally emerged with his dressing gown and a pair of pajama pants on a few minutes later, that same confused look on his face. It was always this way the morning after his first night with his lovers. The confusion, shame, and curiosity of what exactly happened.

"Here, you had a bit too much wine, my dear," he said and handed him the pills and the water.

Sherlock stared for a minute then, recognizing the aspirin, took it and swallowed them with the water. He shook his head and sat down on the couch, rubbing his temples.

"We…we had sex. Why did we have sex? I don't…I don't do that, even when I'm drunk…and I shouldn't have been drunk…it was only a few glasses of wine…and I don't feel…hungover…" he said frowning. "I feel…like I did after The Woman…wait…did you drug me?" he said, snapping his head up and glaring at him.

Aaron arched a brow. "What would I do that for? Seems to me drugging you just sleep with you would completely ruin my chances of catching the person who wanted my brother dead, and who may well want me dead too."

It didn't make sense, and now his head felt fuzzy again. What was going on? Was he sick? His stomach certainly thought he was ill. And his head. In fact, everything seemed to be sending signals that he was sick. He laid back on the couch with a groan.

"Come on Sherl, honey, don't you remember?" Aaron said as he flopped down beside Sherlock and tugged him into his chest, rubbing lazy circles on his back. "We got back here and talked and talked about your friend John, and how much you loved him and he left you for that woman and you were so lonely even if you wouldn't say it…" Again, the soothing voice, and it was creeping into Sherlock's very veins, so real so very real at the moment. He was sleepy, so sleepy, and comfortable and warm, and he'd forgotten about feeling ill. "Remember? We talked and talked and you were so glad to realize that I was really interested in you, and things got heated, do you remember that?" he said, soft and strong voice. His head was reeling and he nodded. "And we ended up in your bedroom and I asked if you were sure…very sure…and you told me yes…you remember that, don't you?" Did he? Sherlock couldn't remember much, but if he said that's what happened…surely he wouldn't lie…not when he was so comfortable and warm. "That's it, my dear, that's it…"

Sherlock was floating somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness. He had no idea why he felt so nice and warm, but he did. His heart wasn't aching, and it felt nice for a change. So he smiled into the warm body and nodded slowly as he continued telling him what happened the night before, and the images he spoke became vivid and real and he felt them taking up a place in a small room in his mind palace. He couldn't see it thought, but the outside was marked with a strange symbol, one he didn't pay any attention to, not all. He filed away the events in the small room. Why was it so small? He wasn't sure, but the words changed to images and they changed to memories, and there they were stored, and the more that were stored, the brighter the image blazed on the outside. If he'd glanced he would have recognized Japanese Kanji, two. On the left was the kanji for Lie. On the right, the kanji for Fake.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Lestrade was getting worried when his texts went unanswered for almost a week. Sherlock was not one to ignore him completely, even if he was in a sulk. So he knocked on the door to Baker Street and it was answered by Mrs. Hudson. She blinked and smiled at him but Lestrade couldn't miss the look behind that smile. Something was wrong.

"What's going on? Sherlock hasn't answered me in a week…I had a good case too…" he said, glancing up the stairs.

She nodded. "He's upstairs with him."

Lestrade frowned. "With who?"

"That American bloke, he's been here since last week when they went out, and Sherlock doesn't go out at all, but he comes down and goes out every morning. Sherlock won't even let me in, he keeps the door latched, he never did that before," she said, glancing up the stairs. "When I ask to come in, he says he's busy and he'll ty and come down later. I don't know what's going on, but he's not himself."

"Is he here now? The American bloke?" he asked.

She shook her head. "He went out a few minutes before you knocked."

Lestrade nodded and headed up the stairs and gave a knock. "A minute," came Sherlock's voice.
He came to the door and saw it was Greg. "Lestrade!" he said, surprised by his presence. "What are you doing here?"

Lestrade glanced him over. He was wearing his blue dressing gown and pajamas, and there was a nasty bruise across his jaw. "The hell happened to you?"

Sherlock snickered and touched his jaw. "Oh, that, nothing, took a tumble down the stupid stairs the other day. Seem to be rather uncoordinated lately. You need something?"

"Um, yeah, you aren't answering my texts…" he said.

Sherlock blinked and nodded. "Oh, yeah, I think…where did he put my phone..." he said, turning and going back into the flat.

Lestrade didn't miss the fact he nearly stumbled in the process of turning around. He didn't wait, just followed him in. He blinked in shock at the state of the flat. It was spotless. Completely and totally straightened and not a thing out of place. No experiments, or equipment, or anything could be seen that reminded him of the place when he'd been there last, the boxes of papers were gone, and the walls had been recovered with tan paper. This whole thing was getting very strange. Sherlock rummaged in a drawer or two looking confused., then looked around the living room. He shrugged at Lestrade.

"Guess he borrowed it…" he said thoughtfully. "Anyway, what did you need?"

"I had a case, but it got solved, I just wanted to know if you were even wanting to help out anymore…" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, been helping Aaron with his case, though, just busy, you know," he said and a goofy grin lit his face and Lestrade had the distinct impression he was on something. But he'd never seen him like this when he was lit. He was usually aggressive and pushy when he was high.

"His case? We caught the guy," he said, looking around again.

"Oh, but he was a hitman. He wanted to find the guy that hired him," he said, wandering into the kitchen and getting a kettle on the stove for tea.

Lestrade nodded. "I use your loo?" he asked.

"Sure, go ahead," he said, and set out two cups for tea.

He went into the bathroom and started searching it for any sign of drugs. After a few minutes, he found nothing but then went to the trash bin. He sucked it up and figured he'd wash afterward. At the bottom he found a little glass vial. He frowned and shoved it in his pocket and flushed the toilet. He heard voices, one Sherlock's and one the American fellow. He washed his hands quickly, but left the water on and listened at the door.

"It's just Lestrade," he heard Sherlock say.

"You don't want anyone in the flat, remember?" Aaron said softly, and Lestrade frowned.

"Lestrade's fine…" he began.

"You don't want anyone in the flat, remember?" he repeated, firmer this time.

"Yeah, that's right, I don't want anyone in the flat, just for us…" Sherlock echoed, and Lestrade didn't miss the hollowness of his voice.

Lestrade exited the bathroom and spoke as he walked down the hall. "Thanks, mate, needed that, too much bad coffee at the Met," he said, looking up to see Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table watching Aaron carefully.

"Detective!" Aaron said cheerfully. "Nice to see you! Did you need something?"

Lestrade smiled. "Nah, Sherlock just hadn't answered my texts, so I got a bit worried about it, is all," he said with a shrug.

Aaron smiled and winked. "He's doing much better, if you know what I mean," he said. "He's such a dear, you know. I can't believe I went halfway across the world to find someone as perfect as he is…"

Lestrade smiled. "Hey, good on ya, mate. And him too. He's needed someone in his life for a long time," he said, clapping him on his back. "But I gotta get going, was just on my lunch and thought I'd check in on him. He's always been good at texting me back."

"Ah, that's my fault, I forget that I have his phone with me half the time. Got a bad habit of putting them together at night then just grabbing them both when I get up," he said with a grin.

Lestrade nodded and waved to Sherlock who seemed lost in thought as he sipped a cup of tea. He headed down the steps and stopped when he saw Mrs. Hudson standing near the door. He shook his head and headed out. What else was there to say? Something is really wrong up there and we both know it? No, he didn't say it but they both knew it. He headed immediately down to the morgue.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

"Molly?" Lestrade called as he came into the room. She looked up with interest.

"What's up, detective? Can I do something for the Met?" she asked, taking off her gloves and leaving the body she'd been checking over.

Lestrade sighed. "No, this is for me. Can you tell me what was in this?" he pulled the small vial out and handed it to her. She frowned. "Sure, give me a minute, where'd you find this?"

"Sherlock's flat, in the trash," he said, and he saw the renewed light in her eyes. If it had to do with Sherlock, she'd do anything.

After an hour she came in with a readout and looked at him and frowned. "First, do you think he's taking whatever was in that vial?"

"He's not right, he's different, almost…I don't know. But not like he was when he was strung out, different than that," he said, crossing his arms and sighing.

She nodded. "Because no one in their right mind would take this voluntarily."

"What?" he asked, frowning deeply.

"It's a mix of things. It has ziprasidone, an antipsychotic that is known to cause increased sleepiness, phenobarbital, which is a known depressant and often has a hypnotic effect, and sildenafil, of all things…" she said, thoughtfully. She saw the confusion. "It's Viagra…" she said finally, flushing slightly as she said it.

"How do I know if he's been given that?" he asked, his mind working on what the hell was going on.

"Well, for one thing, the phenobarbital tends to cause ataxia, loss of coordination, and nystagmus, weird eye movements. The ziprasidone would cause a reduction in aggression, anxiety, would have an overall calming effect, and increase sleepiness by a large degree, but again, depends on the dosage. He could be highly suggestible depending on the dose of the phenobarbital, and how much that affected him… What was in here was highly concentrated, though, so it wouldn't take more than a drop or two and it would take almost immediate effect," she said, looking up at Lestrade, worry crossing her face. "Of course, the interactions and more devastating effects of these together might be worse, and honestly, I'd worry about how much his body could take, in particular his circulatory system, he's got two depressants and the sildenafil…"

"Fuck," Lestrade said, sitting down. "This is all my fault. I'm the one who brought him in on the stupid American tourist. If I hadn't, his fuckin' brother wouldn't have even met him. I've got some research to do. Do you think he's in any danger right now?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Unless I can get a blood sample, I have no idea how much he's been given, or even if he's been given anything at all."

"I think he's got that ataxia thing, he wasn't coordinated well. And I when he answered the door his eyes flicked about a more than I thought normal. I was worried he was strung out on coke, but no, he's being fucking drugged by his goddamned boyfriend," he said wincing.

"Boyfriend?" Molly said, looking at him with wide eyes.

"That's what he said, the American bastard," Lestrade said, heading out and pulling out his mobile as soon as he was out the door.

It rang three times before he heard a cultured voice answer, "Hello?"

"Mycroft, I need your help. It's about Sherlock."