Alright, so this is something really random that came into my mind, just another Johnlock AU. Right now, Sherlock is about 25, and he's just recently met and started working with Lestrade. Hope you enjoy this kinda random idea, I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it though...
Most people didn't believe that Lestrade really cared about Sherlock. They thought he was just using the young man for his intelligence, to increase his own authority. Because how could anyone care for the freak? He was so abrasive, so cold, but Lestrade knew better than to believe that act. He knew how sad Sherlock really was, how much he had struggled with in his life. The world constantly tore him down, but he just put on his mask and pretended that the constant barrage of insults didn't bother him, even if every insult hurled his way slowly chipped a piece out of him. And it was because Lestrade cared about the young man that he was currently riffling through old boxes that had been shoved into the back of the young man's closet. The third drugs bust in three months, he though to himself, running his fingers through his already gray hair. They never found anything, so this time probably wouldn't be much different, and he was really starting to worry that they wouldn't be able to help him until it was too late. He hated seeing the young man, so full of potential, turn to drugs. From what he understood, Sherlock had had a drug problem since high school, and had taken two ultimately unsuccessful trips to rehab before Lestrade had even met him. It wasn't really surprising. If Sherlock's adult life was this bad, this full of bullying, how terrible must his childhood have been? He hated to imagine the genius in such an awful position. Heaving yet another cardboard box full of miscellaneous notebooks and junk out of the way, he finally reached the end of the closet and the final box. The last one was taped heavily, and bore a label in Sherlock's familiar, untidy scrawl. DO NOT OPEN. (That means you, Lestrade.) Sighing and picking the knife off the floor, which was littered with scraps of cardboard and tape, he carefully opened the box, worried he would finally find the young man's stash.
No drugs, just more notebooks. He removed the top layer of items, finding a few smaller, black moleskin notebooks, some stray notes, and an old jumper. Nothing unusual. His trailed his fingers along the bottom of the box until they bumped against something. Hands groping around in the box, he a bundle, wrapped up in an old, threadbare blue scarf. Shit. He untied the scarf, only to find several stacks of old photos bound by rubber bands. This was what Sherlock didn't want anyone seeing? Flipping over the first photo in the stack, he noticed it was of Sherlock. It was hard to miss the unruly dark hair and the high, pale cheekbones. But the expression on the boy's face, who couldn't be much older than 18, was nothing Lestrade had ever seen before. He was smiling, genuinely smiling into the camera, one arm up in an attempt to hide his face and the other pushing against the camera person. He flipped through several more photos, and saw similar sights. Sherlock laughing, Sherlock smiling, his eyes more alive than Lestrade had ever seen him. There were photos of another boy too, with short, cropped blond hair, tan skin, and dark blue eyes. He'd never Sherlock this happy, and had certainly never seen the person in the photos. When had these photos been taken anyway? Flipping over the back, he noticed the date, nearly eight years ago. Just as he was about to move on to the next stack of photos, Sherlock barged in the room, startling Lestrade into dropping the photos on the floor, scattering them all the way to the door.
"Sorry I was prying mate...I'll um, just be going now..."
"No, it's fine. Stay."
"Oh, well okay," Lestrade said, lowering himself back on the bed awkwardly, "um, who's the bloke in the photos anyway?"
"Long story," Sherlock mumbled, stooping down to collect the photos scattered across the floor.
"I've got plenty of time," Lestrade said, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiling down at him. He really did want to know what had happened to the mystery boy in the photos, and why Sherlock was so alone now, when it was obvious from the photos, that he'd had a true friend once in his life.
So in case you didn't get the hint, mystery boy in the photos is John.
Anyways, do you think I should continue this or just scrap it? Constructive criticisms please!