Sherlock had been denied entry into yet another case, even though he could solve it as soon as he could tell exactly who had done it and where if he could have just seen the body. But before he could have even made it to the morgue, Anderson had busted him and pulled him into Lestrade's office yet again. Lestrade had given him a police escort back to his flat just to make sure he was home and now there was a police car parked outside of the building to make sure he didn't leave for at least the night.

Now, Sherlock was entirely too bored and in need of a distraction to calm all of his many thoughts that constantly slammed against his skull like cannon balls into ships. If Lestrade wouldn't let his mind run from him in the easiest sense, well then it was time for a less than orthodox distraction, one that he didn't try to turn to easily.

Sherlock went into his small bedroom in his flat, he undressed with a lazy limpness to his movements, his mind obviously in another place but still completely aware of exactly what he was doing. Soon Sherlock left himself clad only in a pair of his boxer shorts, he sat down into his bed and crawled all the way up until his back was against the headboard. His long, bony hands reached out towards his belt he'd left on the bed, he set it beside his thigh then turned to reach into his bedside table where he promptly opened it then opened the faux backboard of it to reveal a small bag of white powder, a needle, a spoon and a lighter.

After Lestrade had given him his second drug bust, he'd learn to hide things in the most creative of places, he had put this one together only a few weeks ago and was rather proud of it. Sherlock smirked at his accomplishment but then his face turned back to a blank slate again as he promptly took the belt and tightened it around his upper arm. Next was to put the powder and some water in the spoon and then to light the lighter underneath the spoon until the mixture turned into a boiled, white liquid in the spoon.

Sherlock reached for the needle and filled it with the narcotic and then soon enough the needle was in his arm, shooting the warm liquid into his veins. It didn't take long until he felt the effects of the drug in his system, his mind finally stopped racing like a jet and everything just seemed to be in slow motion. His sense were completely numb, he was simply rocking back and forth in his bed with a sleepy smile gracing his face, and his eyes had glazed over long ago.

Needle, long forgotten, was still stuck in his arm and somehow he had accidently twisted it so it was now making his arm bleed out a bit. He didn't even feel it, he didn't feel anything, and this was a distraction that stopped him from doing anything.

Which is why he didn't appreciate this one as much as others.

However this time, this time seemed different, something was wrong about this drug that he'd put into his system. He realized this with difficulty, but soon he looked down to understand that he had used the whole needles worth instead of half as he usually did. This wasn't alright, this wasn't alright at all, something was making his hands twitch and legs shake.

He was having an obvious overdose coming on, his high suddenly leaving him as he stood up abruptly from the bed. He needed to call someone, for once in his life, Sherlock needed to stop being independent and ask for help.

He shakily made his way out of the room, tripping over his own feet every now and then, hands clinging to the wall to keep himself level. His head, although not blasting with thoughts, was currently swirling and making him dizzy with each step. His breath was shallow and shaky, his skin was coated in a thin layer of sweat, and he looked like a corpse fresh out of the morgue.

Or at least, that's how Lestrade described him as he walked into the flat.

The Detective had decided to take the younger Holmes out for dinner that night, mostly to have a talk with him about why he couldn't let him into crime scenes and the morgue, but it was mostly just to get him something to eat. Lestrade didn't like how unnaturally thin the kid was, he knew he put off eating for days at a time for some reason. Something about how his body is just a vessel or some phrase that sounded like that…

Either way, Lestrade was now standing in front of an obviously high Holmes and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of him. Sherlock would probably never say it, but at that moment, he was incredibly happy the Detective was there.

"Help." Was the only word Sherlock could muster, his voice cracked and raspy, he fell against the wall he was clinging to and dropped his onto his knee. He distinctly heard footsteps running towards him and a faint smell of coffee as he slowly drifted into unconsciousness. Lestrade picked up Holmes's limp body with too much ease for his liking, his body caked in a cold sweat and goose bumps. Greg's instincts as a trained officer of New Scotland Yard kicked in as he sat Sherlock's body on the love seat of his flat and wasted no time in calling for an ambulance.

The minutes went on like hours as Lestrade waited for the ambulance to come, he didn't leave Sherlock's side for a minute, too afraid that he might die as soon as he left his sight. Lestrade noted the odd twitching in Sherlock's hands and legs, the needle still stuck in his arm and the saliva leaking from his mouth. Sherlock was an absolute mess and all Lestrade could do to help was call a damn ambulance that seemed to be taking its time through the streets of London. Greg was becoming more impatient as the minutes ticked by, he was shaking from the adrenaline infused with fear unknowingly as he tapped his heel against the wood floor.

Finally Greg heard the siren of the ambulance and a long breath that he didn't he was holding in burst from his nose like a rocket. Greg heard the men run up the stairs and soon enough they burst through the door with the stretcher and first aid kits.

They worked fluidly and quickly, placing a breathing mask on Sherlock and carefully removing the needle from his arm along with his belt. Sherlock didn't move or flinch once from the alien contact being administered to his body, this was the moment that Lestrade finally let himself panic a bit for the mortality of his friend. Lestrade started to breathe a little hurriedly as he followed the men down the stairs to the ambulance.

"Are you getting in with him, Inspector?" One of the men asked him, Lestrade took a second to finally let his mind come into play, then finally took a deep breath and nodded while entering the ambulance behind the stretcher.

'How did this bastard get past me again?' Lestrade thoughts flooded into his mind at the sudden recognition that he had a mind to be used. He was staring down at Sherlock's wax white body that was slowly breathing out in different spurts and flutters.

Sherlock looked dead already.

'I've surveyed that apartment over ten goddamn times, I've checked everywhere, so how the Hell did this happen? Why the Hell did this happen?' It took a moment before Lestrade finally got something that he'd been missing entirely this whole time. Lestrade has only caught Sherlock high four times, in each of those four instances, Sherlock was denied entry to a crime scene. Every single time Lestrade asked him why he'd done it to himself, Sherlock's answer was always something along the lines of being bored.

Lestrade finally understood.

Sherlock needed to solve these cases for himself, this was his fun and entertainment, which might have seemed odd to some but to Lestrade it made perfect sense. Sherlock didn't want to help with the crime scenes, Sherlock had to solve these cases for his own sanity to bear it, his mind needed to deduce. It needed to find answers and problem solve, it needed to be used to its full capacity or else Sherlock couldn't function.

Sherlock needed to solve cases to quiet his overactive brain.

And what happened when he couldn't solve these cases or make his deductions? He was left to the confines of his mind, constantly thinking and over analyzing with nothing to analyze, it probably drove him to madness. Then an icy feeling fell down Lestrade's back as a thought came into his mind, a thought that made his skin crawl and his gut to fall to the floor.

'I've been the one denying Sherlock access to these crime scenes and bodies, I've been the one to send him home to his quiet apartment, I've been confining his sanity to jail that was his mind. I'm the reason Sherlock could have died tonight.' The realization of the severity of this situation struck a terrible chord within Lestrade, he'd made it his oath to help people, to protect them. But here he was, the cause to someone else's pain.

Lestrade let out shaky breaths, his hands came up to cradle his head and he started to rub his temples to try to ease off his own thoughts. His eyes closed at the contact of his eyes, easing a little bit of stress out of his mind and getting Sherlock's white image out of his mind.

Greg thought back to the first time he ever met the deranged man lying on the stretcher, the ambulance rambled on in the background of Lestrades thoughts but seemed to only lull him into his thoughts deeper.

A crazed, dark figure came running into office one morning a good three months ago, chasing right after him was an angered Anderson of whom happened to be covered in hot coffee.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I presume." Huffed the dark figure before him, his height towering over Greg's desk, Lestrade only looked up with confusion as he sipped his morning coffee.

"Oh-uh, yeah, I'm him."

"Sir, I'm sorry to let him in here but he just ran straight by me like a maniac, I tried to stop him as you saw but he was too quick for me." Anderson's voice came from behind the tower-like man, he sounded out of breath and certainly frazzled.

"I have business with the Inspector." The man spoke up again, addressing both Lestrade and Anderson with a hint of annoyance in his baritone voice.

"Then you should've made an appointment at the desk, not ran all the way to him when he's damn break!" Anderson was past the boiling point, his voice picking up to the high pitched tone that just deepened Lestrade's headache he's has since he woke up this morning.

"Alright Phil, just leave him." The sooner Anderson left his office the better, he could deal with the weirdo in his office. Anderson angrily threw his arms up and walked swiftly out of the door to go complain somewhere else.

"Now, why don't you tell me why you're in here, Mister-?"

"I'm here to tell you why you're completely wrong about seven of the ten cases you've been working on for the past month." The man sat down in one of the seats facing Lestrade, he didn't fuss around the bush when discussing matters apparently. But something told Greg that this guy wasn't just a nutter, something was different about him, and this man was strange in every way possible. His facial features were just as long and lanky as his body, proportioning him out in such a way that made him seem almost ethereal. The gaunt look of his face said that he didn't eat much if at all and the dark circles under his eyes said he didn't have much sleep on top of it all. He looked like a right ass and from the state of how the conversation started, more than likely was. But for some reason, Greg just decided to let him continue.

"Oi, watch yourself mate, what gives you the authority to state that?" Lestrade said, almost choking on one of his donuts he'd gotten from the vending machine.

"Because I can tell you that the maid had to of been the culprit in the Hoover case, she was the only one within the house when the bathroom caught fire and killed Mr. Hoover. He and the maid were having an affair, obviously by the intimate setting of the murder and the traces of burnt flower petals in the room. As for the Ridendale case, if one had simply looked into the CCTV cameras from across the street at the car garage, it would've placed George Marker at the scene of the crime thus completely eradicating his well thought out alibi. The Cleveland case, ah, that was a rather interesting one, I'd had so much fun with it. Coffee, or more or less, coffee beans, were the initial give away with that case, I had to smell over 40 different kinds of an Arabica blend within a two day period. One of which was a specialty bought, caffeine free and vegan blend specially made at a café two streets away from the murder scene. One small detail you didn't give any mind to have been the exact cause to give me speculation as to who exactly was drinking such a thought out beverage within the Cleveland household. Certainly couldn't have been anyone in the house, everyone within the Cleveland house only drinks tea out of personal preference. So, who exactly could have brought in a coffee bean into the house? That's where James Whittacker comes in, he's the barista at this specialty café, who just so happens to be in love with Mr. Cleveland's daughter. Obviously, Mr. Cleveland being the high-end, auristocratic socialite that he is, well was, couldn't have his daughter married off to a barista from a café. In fact, he was stated as saying 'over his dead body', so sorry the boy actually took his words to heart and put cyanide in his morning cup of tea. He wasn't alone however, Cleveland's daughter was obviously the mastermind behind this, too bad for James Whittacker that she's already in America living in the lap of luxury with her five other lovers and her father's money. Now as for the other four cases, I'm sure you will find every answer in this file of which I've dumbed down for you." This man hit every nail on the head with a deafening blow, Lestrade couldn't help but stop eating with a donut hanging out of his mouth while listening to this man.

"Well, I'm finished here, Detective Inspector, expect me again soon when you've muddled up another crime." The dark, deranged figure stood up promptly and headed towards the door of Greg's office with a smug look upon his face.

"Oi, aren't I even worthy of a name, then?" Lestrade couldn't help himself from saying, he was perplexed and a little bit degraded by the fact that one man could completely over throw all of his thinking in one day.

He was a goddamn Detective Inspector for Christ's sake.

"No, not really, but I suppose if manners are in order, the name is Sherlock Holmes."

And now Gregory Lestrade was sitting beside Sherlock, a man who had unorthodoxly helped him crack over 50 cases in over seven months without even asking for compensation of any kind. A man that he denied just one entrance into a damn morgue for so that he could help him solve another case without Greg even asking and now this man was lying in an ambulance, close to death.

And Greg blamed himself for it all.

'If this bastard pulls through, he's getting every fucking clearance I can get him.' Greg told himself, then he had a thought about Sherlock's brother, who would probably want to know that his brother was fighting through a drug overdose right now. Lestrade's mind suddenly cleared as the ambulance came to a full stop in front of the hospital his wife worked at, he moved quickly out of the ambulance so as he wouldn't get in the way. He watched as they carried Sherlock's almost lifeless body into the hospital, a cold chill running along his back with an intensity that had him shivering.

Then Greg faintly heard the noise of his phone going off in his pocket, he fumbled with his coat and nearly dropped the damn phone on the pavement if he hadn't of been careful. The number on the phone was blocked and Greg was beside himself on whether he should answer it or not.

But Greg decided to just fuck it and answer.

"Oi, who's this then?"

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, wonderful to be conversing with you again even given the circumstances." A deep voice echoed from the phone, making Greg jump a bit and feel a little ashamed at answering so rudely.

"First thing's first, I told you to call me Greg, second thing is, how did you get my number? It's not in any of the phone books for a reason."

"Yes, well Gregory, I am calling about the recent hospitalization of my dear brother, would you like to give me the details perhaps?" Mycroft sounded ridiculously calm, making Greg wonder if he actually cared about the mortality issue currently addressed with his brother.

"I do care, Gregory, constantly." Mycroft also seemed to be in the business of reading minds.

"Well I can give you the gist, but I'd better get in there." Greg said, suddenly realizing that he'd probably have to fill out paper work as soon as he stepped inside.

"If you would be so kind." Mycroft sounded a tad bit annoyed at being rushed, Greg could only make the assumption that he was usually a man that was rushing others.

"Well, Sherlock was denied access to the morgue for a murder we recently got this morning, he was so angered by this that he went home and nearly died of an overdose if I hadn't of shown up." Greg said as fast as he could, running his free hand through his hair and scrunching his eyes.

"I feel like this is my fault, actually." Greg decided to take a moment of honesty with the older Holmes.

"And why would you believe such a thing, Gregory?" Mycroft couldn't help the concern he presented to the Detective, something in him just wanted to know the very core of Gregory Lestrade.

"Mycroft, I just feel like if I had given Sherlock that entrance into the morgue, he wouldn't be fighting through an overdose right now. Your brother needs to solve these murders to function and it's taken me over seven months to figure that out." Mycroft listened intently at Greg's words, a small shiver running through him at the sound of his name coming from the Detectives mouth.

"Gregory, blaming yourself for my brother's selfish habits isn't going to help you at all." Greg's eyes widened, Mycroft sounded like he'd already given up on his brother, as if Sherlock deserved the kind of pain he was in right now.

"No wonder Sherlock is so damn recluse, his own brother doesn't even comprehend the idea of someone actually feeling remorse for him. Listen Mycroft, if your brother makes it out of this alive, I'm going to do everything in my goddamn power to get him into every case he wants. These cases, this thinking and making deductions thing he does, it's the only thing keeping his mind at bay. It's the only thing he has, so don't you sit there and tell me that he did that for selfishness. Sherlock Holmes is a great man and maybe someday, he might even be a great one." Greg was fuming by the end of his spiel, his chest heaving and his hand clenching in his pocket.

"I'm afraid that I've upset you, Gregory, do forgive me. It's just that growing up with Sherlock has made me realize just how much of a child he is, I recognize almost everything he does as a something selfish. I appreciate you trying to help my brother, Heaven knows he needs something of substance in his life, his mind not only plagues him but also me. Ever since he's graduated from University, nothing has come into his life so he's taken the liberty of turning mine into a living Hell. I'll be at the Hospital within the hour, Gregory, I shall see you soon."