Mycroft was the last person Sherlock wanted to see in his state. He'd lost everything. His violin, his shirt, his money, his pride, and quite possibly Lestrade as well. He felt tears start to well up. He wished they'd remove his hand-cuffs so he could hide his shame.

He hadn't anticipated any of it. When he sold all of his possessions and returned to Baker Street, he'd planned to barter with Raz, only to find he'd sold out. His entire stock was gone, even his personal stash had been cleared. Sherlock was quick to grab Raz by the collar and press him up against the wall for information.

"Who? Give me a name!" Sherlock hissed. Raz laughed at how weak Sherlock was and easily shook him off. Sherlock threatened him with a razor blade he'd found on the floor and Raz laughed harder.

"Who gives a fuck if I give you a name? Ain't gonna find him. City as big as this," Raz laughed.

"The name!" Sherlock shouted. He grabbed Raz once more and coughed and sputtered in his face. He used his vice grip on Raz to keep himself upright.

"Aw, yuck," Raz said wiping the droplets of spit off his face, "Fine… God… Just stop hacking on me, Jesus."

"The name," Sherlock panted.

"Moriarty."

In under an hour, Sherlock had tracked down some Moriarty's men in an alleyway, dividing up their spoils.

He found out quickly that a skinny little boy with a dull razor blade wasn't much of a threat to a drug lord's henchmen. They jumped him and beat him mercilessly until he was on the ground writhing in pain. The other men withdrew when they were certain Sherlock had learned his lesson. One particularly malicious man, however, stayed behind to deal with Sherlock personally.

Sherlock wanted to wipe his memory clear of the man but he needed to remember the man's face and his laugh for future reference. His laugh was pure evil, it was low and cartoon like with a slight rasp from an untreated lung condition. He had grabbed Sherlock by the chin and spit in his face. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut when he saw the man palming himself. He distanced himself in his mind, taking away as much feeling as he could. He tried to go somewhere else mentally.

Police sirens brought him back to reality. The man nicked his wallet and landed one last punishing blow to his ribs, before escaping into the night.

Sherlock remained in police custody for the weekend. Raz had narked; he said Sherlock had pulled a blade on him and shoved him against a wall.

Sherlock didn't bother using his phone call, though he knew he was being wrongfully detained. He wasn't surprised to see his brother waiting for him on Monday morning.

After the officers removed his cuffs he walked obediently to the waiting car. He held his head down for the entire ride. He went straight up to his old room and fell on to the bed. He actively tried to erase his memories. After an hour he lifted his head and looked at the open door. Usually Mycroft shut him in his room for a good eight hours. Then again, these weren't the usual circumstances.

He started scanning the room. His cricket bat was in the corner, fifty pounds. An antique picture frame on his dresser with a photo Mycroft and him all but scowling at the photographer, ten pounds. Books, twenty-five p a piece. The knobs on his dresser, silver… plated… worthless. He rolled over, let out a sigh, and looked up at the ceiling.

The down-comforter formed to his body like a glove yet he felt incredibly uncomfortable. He preferred the over-stuffed sofa. He had formed a liking for the mismatched elephants, the oversized telly, the dusty piano, but most of all, he preferred Lestrade's company.

The man irrationally cared for Sherlock, babied him even. Mycroft wanted to care, that was evident, he just didn't know how. Both men preached relentlessly, but at least Lestrade practiced what he preached.

What else do I have to lose?

Sherlock wheezed a cough. His throat and chest no longer crackled when he breathed but he wasn't a hundred percent either. He stood before he got too comfortable. He looked at the clock on the wall.

Almost noon, as good a time as any.

Sherlock rushed down the stairs without a sound and left the front door wide open as he left the house. Mycroft was likely having lunch and couldn't be bothered. He'd spend the better half of an hour searching for what Sherlock had stolen. Sherlock smirked as he walked hurriedly down the winding side streets.

The search would likely drive him insane. Mycroft would never find what Sherlock had stolen because for the first time in a long time, Sherlock hadn't stolen anything.

When Sherlock reached the house on Dollis Hill he was just as shocked to see Lestrade as he was to see him.

"You're on my bed," Sherlock shooed a flabbergasted Lestrade off the sofa.

"You… you're back," Lestrade was staring at him in disbelief.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a long drawl.

"But…"

"Do we have any bread?"

Lestrade cracked a smile and shook his head, "You had me worried sick," he looked Sherlock over. "Where the hell-"

"Irrelevant. What matters is I'm back. May I stay?"

"Of course."

A great wave of relief washed over him. He tried to conceal his elation. It would take the homeless network days if not weeks to track down this Moriarty fellow. In the meantime he needed a sure thing to stave off his boredom. He needed to redirect his focus.


Greg couldn't fathom what brought on such a drastic change in Sherlock. Sherlock was usually skittish, refused to eat, and unreasonably snippy. Now he seemed excited to see Greg return from work. He went from sitting on the other side of the room to sharing the sofa when they watched telly. He even started eating two meals a day.

Greg was more than thrilled when Sherlock asked him how to play the piano. He didn't have the heart to ask what happened to his violin. The busted lip, his torn shirt collar, his sudden mood change, it all suggested something terrible had happened. However, it all worked out in Greg's favour so there was no reason to investigate quite yet.

They sat side by side on the piano bench. Greg placed his hands on the wooden keys that were in desperate need of repair. At the very least the piano was in tune. He played a few scales to warm up; then pulled out some sheet music. Sherlock squinted at it.

"Need some readers?" Greg inquired as Sherlock tilted his head, "You've seen sheet music before, right?" Sherlock nodded. "What's the problem then?" Greg asked. Sherlock sheepishly ran his finger along a key, he tapped it gently, "Can't read?" Sherlock stared at the keys and after a long moment of deliberation he nodded, "How in the hell do you play violin then?" Greg asked aghast. Sherlock blushed, "Sorry… I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" Greg let out a sigh. He turned towards Sherlock, straddling the bench, "You mean to say you can't read sheet music and yet you can play the violin?"

"I experiment with it until it sounds right… ok?" Sherlock turned to get up. Greg put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place.

"That's amazing," Greg gave his shoulder a small squeeze, "But, wouldn't it be easier if you learned to read?" Sherlock turned to look at him, "Come on, it's easy," he returned their focus to the piano.

Sherlock's interest faded somewhere between bass and treble clef, likely at middle C. He looked eager to play. He started striking the keys while Greg tried explaining time signatures.

"Right, so the lower number is the note's value, which repre-" he swatted Sherlock's hand that was poking the key in front of him, "Sherlock, are you listening?" Sherlock sighed and started running his fingers along the keys, forming a tune. Greg groaned and rolled his eyes, "I'm supposed to be teaching you how to play!"

"You're doing a hell of a job, please do continue," Sherlock said sardonically. Sherlock ran his hand down the length of the keyboard and started into his version of Rhapsody in Blue.

"Oh piss off, you little wanker," he laughed. Sherlock elbowed Greg in the chest several times as his hands raced across the keys with fervor, "Never played piano, eh?"

"Nope," Sherlock said with a smug grin, "I must say, it's far easier than the violin," Greg pressed Sherlock's face away with the palm of his hand.

"Bastard," Greg grinned, "Been hustling me, the whole afternoon."

"Oh, it's easy enough, I can teach you if you'd like," Sherlock was on another one of Gershwin's more famous pieces Blue Monday. The two pieces clashed together in a mash-up of nothing short of pure genius.

"Do you do that on purpose?"

"Do what on purpose?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, scooting ever closer until their hips were practically fused together.

"Mix up the pieces," Greg said. Sherlock threw Blue Moon into the mix and Greg started to laugh, "I'm sensing a theme here," Greg pushed away Sherlock's hands and started playing name that tune. Sherlock was surprisingly terrible at the game, "Blue Suede Shoes?" Sherlock looked at him blankly, "Elvis Presley? Nothing, huh?" Greg laughed and continued playing. Sherlock joined in for a four-handed rendition of Rhapsody in Blue.

"Your father taught you to play," Sherlock stated.

"Yep," Greg finished with a flourish, "Wasn't a fan at first, would've rather had a go at the guitar. Hard to lug around a studio piano to beach parties, you know?"

"Girls?"

"What about em?" Greg asked with a smile.

"It's why you wanted to take up the guitar. To impress girls."

"I'd swan-dive off a ten storey building on to solid concrete if I thought it'd grab a girl's attention."

Sherlock looked away sorrowfully, "I had a feeling," he mumbled to himself.

"Well that was my younger days. Took me years of chasing tail, to find ladies prefer complete arseholes," he laughed to himself, "Don't matter how well you treat em, how nice you are, they always go running back to the jerk ex with the thousand piercings and skin tight jeans."

"So you gave off the impression you were a bad boy, motorbike, slicked back hair, leathers."

"Got a hold of my old photo album?"

Sherlock ignored the accusation, meaning it was true, "Why?" he turned to regard Greg and looked at him like he was a sick man.

Greg shrugged, "We all do stupid shit, looking for a shag."

"We," Sherlock sneered.

"The rest of the male population," Lestrade added. Sherlock seemed offended, "Like you've never-"

"No," Sherlock cut him off. He stood abruptly, "I'd never give off the impression I'm someone else to impress some… girl," The word seemed to leave a sour taste in Sherlock's mouth.

"Nah, course not," Greg pulled the fall down to cover the keys and gently wiped the dust off with the side of his hand.

"Not for a boy either," Sherlock said with a huff. Greg bit his tongue.

Never lied about myself to blokes either.

"Birds… they live in this delusional fantasy world. They think they can change a man. They see a rough guy n' think they can mold him in their image, make him into a model citizen, you know?"

"Yes, I do know," He said, looking pointedly at Greg.

"Y-you… you don't believe I'm…" Greg let out an exaggerated, "No!" he saw Sherlock's point but refused to believe it was true. "I'd never…" he let the sentence fall.

It's for your own good! Come on, I'm not trying to change who you are. Cocaine isn't who you are. For fuck's sake, you're brilliant! Why can't you see that?

Greg stared forward, letting his thoughts overwhelm him. Before he could say a word, Sherlock stormed off.

God, what did I say?