AN:

This chapter, as implied by the title, is all about Sherlock's drug addiction. So please read with caution if you have any drug addiction triggers or are working through an addiction yourself. And if you are struggling through an addiction of any kind, remember that you are so brave and so worthy of life and happiness - and I believe in you.

Chapter Four: Danger Night

In between cases, Sherlock relaxes, though he'll never admit it. Sherlock genuinely only feels alive when he's working and trying to find the pieces to his puzzles, but even geniuses need to stop and breathe once in awhile. When he's working, it's like his brain doesn't switch off. Sherlock will only sleep for an hour or two at a time. He'll only eat every other day and even then it's only half a meal. He skims the newspapers, but doesn't really read them.

Sometimes when Sherlock is working on a case, he'll drink six cups of coffee a day. John says it makes him too hyper and it'll give him ulcers, but since he's stopped smoking, Sherlock yells at John that he needs it.

Sherlock remembers, years before he met John, when he used to inject cocaine when he worked on a case.

"Stimulates my brain," he'd reason with himself right before pushing the needle in. Sherlock would never admit out loud it was partly because he just liked the way it made him feel.

"I can stop anytime I want!" Sherlock once yelled at Mycroft when he caught him preparing his next injection. He remembers the way Mycroft looked at him, like Sherlock was something he didn't know anymore. He remembers that was the day their feud started.

But Sherlock doesn't do cocaine anymore. He remembers he made a promise to Lestrade, of all people.

"Hey...you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Well I just thought maybe…"

Sherlock studies John as he stands in the corridor of their flat, anxious and afraid.

"What?" Sherlock snaps at him. "Spit it out."

"I just thought you might want some company. Hard blow and all…." he trails off again, his hand creeping slowly into the hairs in the back of his head. Sherlock focuses on the movement for a moment too long.

"Come on, Sherlock. Into the sitting room, I'll pour you a drink."

"No," he states sharply. He doesn't move from the landing of the stairs. John throws him a sympathetic look and opens his mouth to coax him into the flat.

"My brother called you, didn't he? From the morgue, yeah? Did he at least wait til I was out of eyesight or was he phoning you when I was still in the corridor?"

"Sherlock, just come up here and we'll talk. I'll get the good scotch. The fire's still going too."

"NO!" Sherlock shouts like a petulant child. John turns around stunned. He's heard Sherlock yell before, but never like this, never like a toddler who's about to throw a tantrum.

"What did Mycroft say to you." It's not a question.

John sighs, resigning himself to telling the truth. "He told me to stay up with you. You took his cigarette and he said that meant I had to stay with you all night."

Sherlock crunches his nose between his gloved fingers and laughs mirthlessly. John stands rigid, not knowing what to expect.

"Go to sleep, John. I don't need you to babysit me because I smoked a fag," Sherlock says cavalierly as he tries moving past John to go to his room. John blocks him with his arm.

"Sherlock, it's Christmas, and she's…." John whispers but trails off when he catches Sherlock's gaze.

"Let me by, John," Sherlock says in a too-quiet voice. John can feel the ice freeze in Sherlock's words. He gives him a pitying look.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" John still hasn't moved his arm.

"Not you," Sherlock shudders suddenly. "Not you too. You're not supposed to be like the rest of them," he says, hanging his head.

John concentrates on Sherlock, sensing his vulnerability, and is taken back to his time in the army. He's seen this so many times. Too many times. John lowers his arm finally.

"Just sit with me for an hour. Have one drink. And then I'll let you sit in your room all by yourself if you still want to."

Sherlock softens. He needs to realize already that he can trust John. He trusts John.

Lestrade first met Sherlock five years ago when he brought him a case shortly after being made detective inspector. Sherlock had seen the body of a woman who'd apparently committed suicide, according to the coroner. But Sherlock wasn't buying it. He investigated as much as he could until he was satisfied he knew what actually happened: the woman's younger brother had killed her in order to be the sole claimant to their mother's fortune.

Sherlock remembers taking his findings to every homicide detective at Scotland Yard and everyone laughing him out of their offices. Everyone except Detective Inspector Lestrade, the unit's newest DI. There had been something about Sherlock that Lestrade found genuine, and so he took the younger man at his word. Lestrade reopened the investigation into the woman's death and discovered Sherlock had been right about everything.

After that, Lestrade always called on Sherlock when a case proved too difficult or strange. He also referred people in need of a private detective to Sherlock. Both men won: Sherlock, not wanting it in the first place, let Lestrade take credit for all the crimes he solved, and Sherlock could support himself with the extra wages he earned from his referred clients. They kept on like that for months, and even though some people on Lestrade's team found Sherlock to be supremely annoying, Lestrade grew accustomed to having Sherlock around.

Sherlock remembers the one time he almost relapsed. The time Moriarty came to the flat and sat in his chair. The time he told him about fairy tales and heroes and villains. The time he told Sherlock he owed him a fall. He didn't get it at the time.

He didn't observe.

So when Lestrade starts to notice signs in Sherlock that something is wrong, he tries his best to reason his fears away. Sherlock has always been irritable, but lately, Lestrade is noticing even more irritation out of him. He has horrible bags under his eyes, but maybe he's just having more trouble than usual sleeping. And yeah, Sherlock always speaks quickly. But sometimes you can't even understand what he's saying at all.

But then Lestrade starts noticing other things, like Sherlock's nose bleeds often or his eyes seem bloodshot or that he can't stand still at crime scenes or he's constantly fidgeting in the car.

Lestrade realizes he's actually fond of the younger man, so he just keeps telling himself its stress. It isn't…. It can't be….

It has to be something personal that Sherlock isn't telling him. He'll tell him when he feels like telling him. He'll tell him….

But then Sherlock shows up to a crime scene one day with his pupils blown wide and his clothes barely buttoned properly, looking around the room like any second someone's going to come out of the shadows and stab him.

Lestrade is furious, both with Sherlock and himself. If he'd just said something sooner, this wouldn't be happening. If Sherlock had never started taking the drugs in the first place, this wouldn't have happened at all.

Lestrade wants to scream at Sherlock, wants to punch him and tell him he hates him, wants to arrest him right here and now and embarrass him by making his important brother have to come down to the station to get him out. But he knows none of this will do anything but push Sherlock farther down into his addiction. Lestrade knows he'll have to threaten Sherlock with the loss of the one thing he cares about. He hates to do it, but he knows it'll be the only way to get any results.

Sherlock remembers Lestrade pulling him into a room with a somber, broken expression on his face.

"Sherlock," he hesitates. Lestrade doesn't know how to begin, so he just blurts out his question. "How long have you been doing it?"

"Doing what?" Sherlock snaps at him. He's playing dumb, of course. He's clever, he reads people's faces and body language for a living. He knows exactly what Lestrade means.

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock! You know exactly what I'm talking about," Lestrade tries to keep his voice calm, but he's not being very convincing.

Sherlock blinks at him defiantly, like a teenager who's being confronted by their parent after they've done something terrible.

"Well, Sherlock!? Speed, coke, what!?" Lestrade knows getting angry at Sherlock won't do any good and he instantly regrets raising his voice at him.

Sherlock continues to blink and stare angrily at the older man in silence.

"I'm not stupid, I - "

"Could have fooled me," Sherlock cuts him off. Anything to provoke Lestrade into leaving this alone. But Lestrade knows now, knows that the way to get through to him isn't by screaming at him.

"I'm a police officer, Sherlock. I can tell when someone's taking drugs," Lestrade says evenly.

"So what if I am!? What's it matter to you!?" Sherlock spits. He doesn't like being pushed into a corner. He doesn't like being judged.

At this, Lestrade's face softens completely and Sherlock doesn't know what to think.

"You can't keep doing this. You can't. I won't allow it," Lestrade tells him.

"Oh, you won't allow it?" Sherlock sneers. "Who do you think you are, Mycroft?"

"No, I'm a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. And as long as you're taking drugs, I can't let you consult," Lestrade says matter of factly. "I won't let you."

At this, Sherlock's face screws up in anger and he starts saying whatever he can to cause Lestrade the most pain.

"You think I need you!? You're a fucking moron! Your whole team is! You'd be nowhere without me!"

Sherlock continues with the empty insults for a couple more minutes. Lestrade remains silent throughout Sherlock's tantrum, his face drenched, not in anger, but concern, and it only makes Sherlock more furious.

"You think your conviction rate will stay anywhere near what it is now without me handing you guilty verdicts!? You're nothing without me!" He howls in Lestrade's face. "Nothing!"

Finally, Sherlock stops screaming long enough to catch his breath.

"Well? Don't have anything to say now, Detective Inspector!?" Sherlock sneers, spitting in Lestrade's face.

Just like Sherlock was before, Lestrade is now silent, waiting for Sherlock to do or say something of actual value. The two stare at each other for a long second before Sherlock turns on his heels towards the door.

"Why, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks in a small voice.

Sherlock stops but doesn't turn around.

Lestrade shakes his head and says, "It doesn't matter why you started, it just matters that you stop."

Sherlock's back is still turned.

"I'll help you, Sherlock. But until you stop, I can't let you consult."

Sherlock's knuckles turn white as he grips the door handle hard, wanting desperately to be anywhere but where he is, but oddly unable to actually force his body to run out of the room. He stands rooted to the spot, struggling as whether to stay, run, or turn around and physically attack Lestrade. They're all crossing his mind, they all seem like viable options. Even high, Sherlock is sure he can take Lestrade in a fight. He's a skilled boxer and the only training Lestrade does at the gym is running. Sherlock would definitely win if he started a fight. But Sherlock waits too long to decide and before he can properly react, Lestrade gently grabs Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock lets him.

"Look at me," Lestrade coaxes. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to see the concern and caring in Lestrade's face. He just wants that needle back in his arm.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispers tenderly.

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and feels the tears well in his eyes.

"I only started because it helped me think," Sherlock whispers shakily, surprising even himself by divulging this secret. "So much goes on and I can't filter it out and it just helped me focus on…" Sherlock trails off and lowers his head. It'll take him a long time to realize that he can't filter things out because of the cocaine, not in spite of it.

"It's ok," Lestrade reassures him. "It's gonna be ok."

"But now she's gone. She's gone, she left me…" And Sherlock starts to cry. It's the first time he's cried since he was a child.

Lestrade forcibly turns Sherlock so that he's facing him and Sherlock doesn't fight it. He places both hands on his shoulders and let's Sherlock cry into his hands.

"Sherlock, you're not alone. I'll help you." Sherlock finally looks up at him uncertainly.

"I don't know if I can," he says, sounding smaller than he ever has before.

"You can. And I'm here. But Sherlock," Lestrade starts, "you can't keep taking the drugs. You just can't. It's destroying you."

"How…how do I…" He doesn't like being this vulnerable. He feels weak and powerless. He just wants to run and never look back. It's only a matter of time before Lestrade turns into all the rest of them with their "weirdos" and "freaks" and "piss offs." It's only a matter of time.

"Sherlock, I will help you," Lestrade says, emphasizing every word. "Just promise me you'll stop. And I will help you."

Sherlock knows he needs to stop. He hasn't slept in days, his nose bleeds constantly, his heart is starting to beat erratically, and he can't keep food down. But the withdrawal scares him more than anything and he knows he can't do it alone, now that Samantha's left him. But alone is all he has. Alone is what he is.

Almost like Lestrade can see inside his mind, he says, "You're not alone. Just promise me. Please."

Lestrade bends down to look into his downcast eyes. "I believe in you, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks at him several times incredulously. No one's ever had such faith in him before. No one's ever believed in him. Sherlock can't form any words, so he just nods.

And so Sherlock doesn't take drugs anymore. At least he tries not to. Now he drinks six cups of coffee a day and wears three nicotine patches at a time and relishes secondhand smoke and tries not to think about that rush of sunshine shooting up his arm and down into his body.

So sorry for the delay in this chapter, my friends. I was in the process of moving from The States to London and I wasn't managing my time as well as I should have been. So if you've stuck around for this long, thank you so much and know I appreciate you! Chapter 5 will be done soon!

As always, RR - it pleases the Universe, and me too! XX K