A/N: my first Sherlock fanfic, please leave some reviews for me :D i was hoping to go for a bit of a darker side of the story, but as im writing im going along and just doing stuff. im not good at this, forgive me.

There was a time when the world thought it was alone, and safe in the hands of the government and their dogs. Neither accepting them into their own but depending on them when things got too hard to handle and that was usually the case. The dogs did the governments' dirty work, digging up names that should have been forgotten, linking people to past crimes and inevitably getting themselves caught on the enemy's list. But the dogs were simple minded folks, who sat on command and occasionally would play dead to save face. But in the world, there are always different breeds of dog. You have the domestic ones which do as their told and then you have the wolves. The sly creature with the fangs that rip everything to pieces. This breed can be docile, tame and friendly at times but can never be controlled.

The government has no need for wolves amongst them. As long as their dogs round up the sheep, keep the peace then why would they need a wild animal? but once in a great while, the dogs find themselves backed up into a corner as the monsters are let out of the closet and there is only one person to go to; one thing that can stand between the monster and the people. His name is Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes was a man of few words, always thinking and always bored. He had no friends, and few allies that would occasionally support him and his habit. He used, and abused drugs on a daily basis, in almost every form he could get a hold of. The high would last only for so long, wracking his mind with better images than the ones he would have sober. Alone he was, alone he stayed till something found its way to his place on purpose, but mostly by accident. The drugs, occupied his mind, made him less aware of the dark, filthy and horrid world he was forced to call home. Between the highs there were lows, dark and deep pits of depression that pained his body. The pang of something more, something different filled his entirety.

Every week an old friend would check in on him, and by his great mercy, never reported his drug abuse. He kept telling himself that Sherlock would find a way out, on his own. The great mind was the only thing that kept them from putting him away for every drug offense known to the system. on late Friday nights after work, Sherlock liked to partner up his usual dose with a bottle of cheap beer and lay half-dressed on his sofa, listening to the clock tick its tock, and tock its tick. The rhythmic pattern dulled his mind a little and he would fall into a sleep.

There was a pattern in his head. A string of words and lines from books. They would always repeat themselves to him, like a lock or a code that kept him from going off the deep end. Footsteps creaked over the wooden floor boards. Silencing as feet met the rugs in the living room. Sherlock was still asleep, out cold from the drugs and beer in his system.

A man sighed, crossed his arms and stared at the sleeping figure, mourning the loss of such a great soul. Every time the two met, it was the same thing, an absence of words and a story told out through the injection marks on Sherlock pale skin and other objects littered about the house and across his body. The man, Detective Lestrade, sat down on one of Sherlock's wobbly chairs and just drifted off into thought.

Sherlock shifted and a string of inaudible words came out of his mouth. Lestrade looked at him again, seeing the man start wrestling with the pillows on the couch. His body was writhing in pain, convulsions became quick and it was now apparent what was going on. Holmes laid on his back, staring up at the ceiling with cloudy eyes and sweat dripping down his face and his chest. Both his fists were clenched and turning white from the force he was using to keep them shut. Lestrade was reaching for his cell, as he slowly stood up to walk over to his 'friend'.

"Sherlock"

"STAY AWAY FROM ME" he shouted. The man's voice was broken and hoarse from the alcohol. Lestrade backed up a little, the smell was horrid. Judging by the smell, he didn't know the last time the man bathed, or did anything to keep himself healthy.

"I'm going to call an ambulance"

"I'm not going" he said a little calmer. His body was still shaking, and there was a few more convulsions followed by Sherlock rolling over and going into a sort of seizure. His pale skin was turning red as the paramedics met Lestrade at the top of the stairs. They rushed into the room with a silent buzz. The surreal motion of their equipment accompanied by fast medical talk was all a blur to Detective Lestrade. He looked at Sherlock upon the stretcher, with glazed over eyes and a pitiful, pleading expression upon his face. He had been strapped down to the stretcher, thick leather restraints held his wrists in place as they began to cart him out. As they exited the room, Lestrade saw Sherlock's pained face one last time, dark hair wet and matted to his head, flush cheeks and foggy eyes. Then the door closed and everything was silent.

Lestrade walked over quietly to the table. His eyes working their way around the messy surface, covered in Sherlock's drugs and a few stray books. Their dog eared pages lay splayed out across the table, all open to the same topic. Lestrade picked up one of the old books, and felt its leathery surface in his hands. The paper was used and touched on all corners and edges, worn out by age. He mentally noted their sweet smell and soft touch, but became more alert when he noticed the text.

Mythical beasts: Hell Hounds, also known as Cerberus the Dog of the Underworld.

He skimmed the page quickly and placed the book back down. Sherlock was a strange man, who had no time for fairy tales or anything that wasn't relevant to reality. Looking at the other books, he found another. This time the topic was also another fictional tale, but one that was more interesting to Lestrade. Edgar Allen Poe's the pit and the Pendulum. Surely this was a mere coincidence? He sighed, not understanding why Sherlock would have any of these stories open, or even in his possession. His usual was books on math, science and the human body, paired with observation and criminal investigation...not monsters and horror stories.

A large rumble of thunder echoed through the dark empty room and Lestrade sat back down. Staring off out the window as the ambulance drove off to the hospital. He figured he would do Sherlock the favor, and dispose of all the drugs in the house, and hopefully get him on the right path...without losing his head.

Night fell and Detective Lestrade walked into the hospital and walked over to the lady at the reception desk.

"How may I help you detective" she smiled.

"Hello Hannah, I'm looking for a Sherlock Holmes" she smiled and quickly went through her registry. After a few moments she looked up at him, her smile now gone and replaced with a more sorrowfully blank expression.

"What, what's wrong?"

"He been reported as mentally unstable and is being detained in a secure room. I can let you see, but for your safety you might not want to enter"

"I'll be fine"

"Room 305, on the end of the last hall to your right" she pointed to the doors and Lestrade nodded, walking off. There was a loud bustling of people in the main hall, elderly folk walking around, doctors and nurses flipping through pages of books and several alarms going off. As he neared the end of the last hall, he could hear something more comical than sad.

"I will rip your lungs out through your-"

"If you don't stop we will have to sedate you"

"I'd like to see you and your little whore here try."

"Nurse, get the tranquilizers"

"That won't be necessary" Lestrade said as he approached the room. The doctor and the nurse stood just by the door as Sherlock lay, strapped into his bed, teeth clenched together and arms tugging at the restraints.

"Detective, tell these fucking loons that I'm perfectly able to leave"

"Sherlock, you went into a seizure"

"Dammit, is there anybody I can talk to"

"Detective, we have to put him under for the night"

"Just give me a few minutes, nurse"

"Just ten" Lestrade nodded and the two others walked out of the room. Giving Lestrade and Sherlock freedom to talk.

"Why did you call the paramedics?"

"You could have died."

"You should have let me."

"That's never the option Sherlock, as a man of the-"

"Oh fuck you" he growled at Lestrade, tugging more at the restraints. Their white and grey leathery surface, rubbed against Sherlock's wrists the more he pulled, making them raw on the edges. He glanced over at the door, where the doctors were waiting to enter.

"SOMEBODY HELP THIS MANS HARRASING ME" the doctors quickly entered and Lestrade stood baffled.

"Sherlock, stop this"

"Please, help me" he called again, whimpering a little.

"Sir please comes with us"

"Nonsense, he's just pulling your leg."

"please, I can't take it anymore...remove him, please" Sherlock began to play it up, fake tears rolling down his cheeks as the doctors grabbed Lestrades' wrists and drug him out of the room and into the lobby.

"No more harassing the patients."

"I wasn't"

"We know...but if he continues shouting, somebodies bound to get angry and cause a scene" the nurse whispered.

Lestrade walked out of the hospital into the cold, wet air. He stood for a moment, staring at the rain coming down, through the light of the lamps in the parking lot. A few people walked past him, as they entered the building quickly to get out of the rain. His thoughts turned to Sherlock. Watching him pull at the restraints and then remembering I'm as the paramedics carted him out of his house. The day had been long and he was ready to go home, get himself a drink and go to bed.

Before he could make his way back to his car another vehicle drove up right in front of him. It was a black Mercedes Benz. The window rolled down slightly and a voice called to him.

"Detective Lestrade, for you" said the mysterious person. Lestrade walked a little closer and the man handed him a letter and before Lestrade could say anything, he sped away. The letter was cold in his hands, and stamped shut with wax. He turned the envelope over in his hands and slowly made his way to his car, placing the letter on the passenger seat. For a moment, he sat in his car; the darkness surrounded him in silence. He could barely see the letter on the other seat and smirked hoping maybe it didn't exist.