Author's note: Here, have addict Sherlock and confused John walking to a crime scene.

I don't own anything, please review.

It was a strange feeling, walking in front of Sherlock to a crime scene; usually the consulting detective was all but running to the next case and John was trying his best to keep up. But with all the other things that had happened today, John couldn't bring himself to care.

"How did you know I was interested?" Sherlock asked, genuine curiosity in his voice; John chose not to answer because he was sure the young man wouldn't react well to being told that the doctor knew about his interest in the Carl Powers case when he hadn't even been fifteen years old.

He turned around to look at Sherlock, though, and realized that being enigmatic – for lack of a better word – might be the best course of action. The other man looked at him with a strange mixture of curiosity and surprise on his face – he was surprised that someone as ordinary as John could make him curious, the doctor realized, and perhaps he still didn't understand that he genuinely cared about him.

Either way, right now John wasn't boring, and this was the one way he could make sure that Sherlock stayed with him for the time being. And he had to admit that the familiarity of going to a crime scene with Sherlock was somewhat comforting.

It wasn't difficult to follow the police; even though they didn't seem to be moving anymore, their horns were still going, probably to warn any inhabitant of the district who might want to cause trouble to stay away. They walked through several streets that seemed vaguely familiar to John – he must have stumbled through them yesterday – until they could finally see the crime scene tape.

The action concentrated on a small, abandoned house in the middle of a rather dirty street.

He felt more than saw Sherlock stiffen behind him and turned around; but by the time he could take a good look at his face, he wore the blank mask John hadn't seen for a while, in fact not since he returned.

"Is something wrong?" the doctor asked, concerned. It was never a good sign when Sherlock tensed at a crime scene.

"No" Sherlock immediately answered, his tone calm, looking bored for anyone who didn't know him.

Only John did know him, even if he wasn't aware of it.

And something was wrong.

Sherlock must have recognized the house. They had to –

And only then John realized.

He was so used to simply walking into crime scenes in Sherlock's wake that he hadn't thought about how they would manage to be let in. This policemen didn't know Sherlock, couldn't know Sherlock, and of course they didn't know him either; he was still a young man about to join the military.

There was no way they would allow him and a drug addict to look at the body – especially since he hadn't had the chance to take a shower since he got here, wherever or whenever "here" might be.

He sighed and brought a hand up to rub his face. He'd got lost in the familiarity of it all, and now he didn't know what to do or say to keep Sherlock with him.

"I would assume that Victor has finally overdosed, only that this would hardly warrant the presence of so many police men" Sherlock suddenly said, and John looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Victor?"

Sherlock did his best to look utterly uncaring as he answered, "Victor Trevor. He usually slept in this house. He was a well-known figure in this part of town, slightly older than me."

John studied Sherlock's face. He was shivering, and pale in the cold harsh light of the morning; his face was impassive and he looked at the house as if his gaze had landed upon it accidentally. John knew better, though. Sherlock cared; he cared whether whoever had been hurt – and someone had to have been hurt, the house was obviously abandoned and there were too many police men for a simple break-in – was the man he knew, this Victor Trevor.

Sherlock had never mentioned him, of that John was certain; he would have remembered for the simple reason that the consulting detective rarely ever mentioned anyone from his past, unless it had to do with a case.

They probably hadn't been friends, but it was difficult to say.

This Sherlock – he was colder than the Sherlock John knew and trusted; more closed off from the world. It took someone who knew him well to see the slight tension in his shoulders; the almost imperceptible wrinkle between his eyebrows that indicated he had realized what all of this meant, that someone he had known might just have died.

It took someone who knew him even better to realize that he wasn't as indifferent as he looked and sounded.

It gave John more proof how alone Sherlock had been for years, and he didn't like it.

"And you? Did you know him well?" he finally asked, stupidly, because he still had no idea how to get into the crime scene, and he had to know. Not only because he was curious, but because every information about the (possible) victim could help them solve the case –

Suddenly another thought crossed his mind.

Sherlock had never mentioned Victor Trevor. He liked talking about old cases, though. That didn't necessarily mean anything; maybe this had nothing to do with Victor Trevor; but he had certainly never told John about an old case in this part of town, which probably meant that –

He hadn't been there. It made sense; he had been taking drugs and he wouldn't have followed the police cordon if John hadn't done so.

If this was real, so much for not changing history. Then again, he had already done that by rescuing Sherlock from that alleyway.

"I knew him by sight. And, as far as I remember, we talked a few times" Sherlock replied. John frowned. Sherlock didn't use phrases like "as far as I remember". He had his mind palace. If he remembered something he hadn't deleted, he was sure of it.

He had been high.

It shouldn't have shocked John as much as it did.

He could have told Sherlock that he was sorry or said something else a normal person would have said; but he knew him, or would know him, and he had just had an idea. True, not a very good idea, but still...

"Would he have any id with him?"

Sherlock gave him a look that meant "Don't be an idiot" and that comforted John with his familiarity before answering, slowly as if he was afraid the doctor wouldn't catch his reply if he spoke any faster, "No, he wouldn't have. People around here hardly carry anything that would allow anyone to identify them."

John nodded.

"So, if that's him... They would need someone to identify the body."

Sherlock understood immediately. He wasn't pleased.

"Can't you just investigate the case as you do usually? Oh wait" he added sarcastically, "you don't investigate crimes yet. I forgot".

John ignored the tone and, because Sherlock started scratching his arm again, decided that they had to act.

"Follow my lead" he said, once again feeling strange because this wasn't something he would ever have pictured himself to tell Sherlock, and made his way towards the crime scene tape. For a moment he was afraid that Sherlock would leave, that he wouldn't want to investigate the crime, that he would rather find a dealer, but a second later he heard quick steps behind him and breathed a sigh of relief.

He didn't recognize the Constable who was standing in front of the tape, but that was hardly surprising.

"Excuse me?" he asked politely.

The Constable eyed them with a certain suspicion in his eyes, and John couldn't blame him. They had to be a rather strange sight; y man in his forties who hadn't really slept or taken a shower in twenty-four hours and a young drug addict who was obviously suffering withdrawal symptoms.

"Yes?"

John decided against using his real name; he would rather have someone find out that he was going by an alias rather than them wondering why he was using the name of a student and contacting his past self. It would just be too confusing. And possibly create several paradoxes, if the books he'd read and the movies he'd watched over the years were anything to go by.

"I'm Peter Jones. I'm a social worker" he began; it wasn't the best cover story, but he hadn't been able to think of anything else. "This is Michael" he continued (having decided that it would be better if Sherlock's name didn't show up in a case file, not yet), gesticulating towards the young man who was still scratching his arm and looking bored.

"He told me that a friend of his used to sleep in this house, and he's worried."

The Constable shot Sherlock a sceptical look, mostly because he looked anything but worried, but thankfully concentrated on John. While the doctor had never been a very good liar, people usually trusted him.

"I'm sorry to tell you" the police man said, more to John than to Sherlock, "but we found a body in the house".

"Oh" John answered, making sure to look slightly crestfallen, he was supposed to be a social worker looking out for his charge after all.

He turned to Sherlock.

"Michael – you think it could be Victor?" he inquired and tried to give Sherlock a look that made clear he should at least try to act somewhat concerned.

Sherlock got the hint and sighed. It still sounded false to John, but the Constable didn't know him, so it should be convincing enough.

"It could be" he replied in a weak and timid voice. John managed not to frown – he suspected that part of the weakness came from his withdrawal symptoms. "I don't know of anyone else who used to sleep in this house".

John looked at the Constable.

"Is there any way we could..." realizing the other man was still sceptical, he added quickly, "Michael has been nervous all morning, you see, and I don't want him to fret over this longer than necessary. It will be difficult enough for him if it is indeed Victor without the uncertainty."

"Wait here" the other man said and went into the house.

John relaxed.

"That should get us into the house".

"And what then?"

Of all the questions Sherlock could have asked, this was the one John had been the least prepared for because it had never crossed his mind that his friend would wonder what to do at a crime scene. Then again, he was definitely growing impatient and, since he was rubbing his temples, starting to get a headache besides his other withdrawal symptoms.

"We investigate" John answered carefully, not letting the worry he felt seep into his voice.

Sherlock sighed, looking at the pavement.

John decided not to attempt to wake his enthusiasm – hopefully the crime scene would do that – but he had to say something.

"You can leave anytime you want" he reminded him, because he knew how to talk to a sulky Sherlock and prayed this young version wasn't as annoyed as he appeared to be at the prospect of investigating a case, "and yet you are still here. Something about this has to have captured your interest".

Sherlock blinked; he didn't answer, but he didn't roll his eyes or leave either, so John figured he'd said the right thing.

"My superior officer wants to see you" the Constable announced behind him and John turned around with a nod.

"Thank you".

They made their way through crime scene techs and to a room on the second floor.

Only for John to stand still so abruptly that Sherlock walked right into him.

The young man hissed into his ear "What is going on?" while John was still staring at the man who was kneeling over the body and the Constable, who had thankfully not realized they were no longer following him, was walking towards.

"Here they are, sir".

Sherlock have John a shove and he somehow managed to go to the body.

The man stood up and smiled, extending his hand.

"Good Morning. DS Lestrade."

Author's note: What do you mean I killed a character from the ACD canon? (looks down on the floor).

So, yes, our favourite police man showed up because... because.

I hope you liked it, please review.