Lestrade just frowned. "You know why I'm here Sherlock…"

John recognized Lestrade from earlier at the crime scene but wasn't sure why he was in their apartment. Sherlock clenched his fist around the handle of his stick in a minute motion that only John seemed to notice. "I told you last time if you ever broke into my house again I would—"

"I did not break in Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was level and calm, a complete contrast to Sherlock's fury. "This is a drug bust," said Lestrade.

The way Sherlock bristled at the words told John everything he needed to know. Sherlock was the last person John expected to be an addict but that seemed to be the trend in his life – between his sister and several of his fellow veterans – he never seemed to pick up on the hints until it was too late.

"I don't have to deal with this," gritted Sherlock. His grip on his stick was so tight that John worried he would shatter the handle.

"You're withholding evidence from Scotland Yard," said Lestrade. "That's a crime."

"This is so childish!"

"I'm dealing with you."

"I can't believe you set up a pretend drug bust just to bully me."

"Won't be pretend if I find anything. Everyone knows you have a problem."

"I've been clean for weeks now."

"I'm just trying to help you!" shouted Lestrade. "I'm worried about you. Pursuing a case on your own like this is reckless."

"You never a problem with it before."

"Things were different back then Sherlock. Back then—"

"Back then I could see…"

Lestrade's frown deepened. "That's not what I was going to say and you know it."

"It was what you were thinking," snapped Sherlock. "I can handle myself. And I wasn't alone. John was with me."

Lestrade let out a deep sigh. "I need you to work with me on this Sherlock. Things have to be different now. I don't like it either but it's how it has to be. Now are you going to work with me here or not?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a scowl. "If you pull this stuff again, I will stop working with you."

It's an empty threat, John knows it. Even if he were furious at Lestrade, Sherlock would never stop working on cases. John had only known Sherlock for two days but if there was anything, he knew about him it was that. Solving mysteries came to the guy as easily as breathing.

While John ran from his problems, Sherlock attacked them head on. His logic and deduction were his shields against life and the things he didn't understand. Both coping mechanisms were a little unhealthy.

"Good," said Lestrade "Where's the case?"

"Cupboard in the sideboard." Lestrade opened the cupboard and pulled out the garish pink case. Sherlock gave an impatient tap of his foot. "Are we done here?" he asked.

"Not yet. I have some information for you. We've found Rachel..."

Lestrade and Sherlock launched into a long-winded conversation about this Rachel, who ended up being Jennifer Wilson's daughter. Dead before she was even born. It was a tragic story, but not an uncommon one.

John was content to fade in the background of the conversation, watching Sherlock's strange behavior. He paced frantically up and down the room, brows scrunched up in thought. John rushed to push the armchair out of Sherlock's path, so that he wouldn't bump into it.

"She didn't just think about her daughter, she scratched her name into the floor. She was dying. It would have hurt. She had to have been telling us something. But what? It doesn't make sense."

John butted into the conversation. "Could the killer have used the death of her daughter to make her take the poison?"

"Maybe… But Jennifer was clever. Running all those lovers – she had to be. It must be a clue. But I don't know how."

Sherlock continued his frenzied pacing, causing John to shoot Lestrade a worried look. Lestrade shrugged and mouthed back this is normal for him. Sherlock rambled to himself, speaking so quickly that John could only make out a handful of words.

Then he stopped in his tracks. "I've got it. It's not a name. It's a password," he said, not bothering to explain further. "John, my laptop is on my desk. Can you fetch it?"

John scrambled to the desk, happy to finally do something useful after a good ten minutes of just watching Sherlock's mind work. He went to toss the laptop toward Sherlock, but stopped himself at the last moment, choosing to pass it over instead. There was less chance of him hitting Sherlock about the head that way.

He watched Sherlock boot up the laptop, curious to see how a blind person would navigate a computer. He was a little surprised to hear a tinny automated voice come from the machine, reading out the names of all the apps on Sherlock's laptop. He tapped through a few until he reached his browser and opened a tab. As he typed in the website address to log into her email account, the voice read it out for him.

"What's the email address on the luggage tag?" he asked. Lestrade read it out for him, and he typed it in using the same process as before, along with password. The three men watched the screen filled with emails. It was an oddly personal thing to see. Sherlock flicked through a couple, the voiceover reading out the contents.

It was all normal stuff. Conversations with friends and family interspersed with discussions with coworkers. There were a lot of emails about an upcoming interview Jenny was supposed to do with a local politician, which seemed like a big deal to her. It would have been a huge break in her career had she not died one week before it.

Sherlock whisked through a dozen more emails, seemingly uninterested in the glimpse into Jenny's life they were getting. He stopped scrolling and landed at an email from a woman named Ashley, who probably Jenny's sister.

She had sent Jenny a photograph. It was of the two of them and a small girl playing at the beach. John fancied that he could even feel the heat of the sun and smell the salt in the sea. There was a caption underneath. The monotone voice read it out.

Hey Jenny,

I completely forgot to send you the pictures from our holiday. Nina misses you. Should we go again next year? It was so much fun!

Ashley.

John briefly wondered if Nina reminded Jenny of Rachel. If so, it can't have been easy for her.

It was strange to see Jenny alive, even if it was only in a photograph. He had only thought of her as a cadaver up until that point. Something to examine and diagnose, rather than a person to mourn. He doubted that her family would feel the same. Still, when you see death on the scale he had, you learn to tune out these things.

"So, we can read her emails," said John. "What do we do now?

Sherlock thought for moment, then spoke. "The phone has GPS, obviously, so if you lose it…" He trailed off and opened a new tab. "Then you can locate it online."

He clicked through a few things that John couldn't quite follow and eventually the monotone voice spoke again.

Your phone will be located in three minutes.

The three crowded around the computer, waiting with bated breath. The hands of the clock span, counting down the seconds. Then, a map flickered onto the screen.

"Has it loaded?" asked Sherlock.

"Yep."

Sherlock gave a pleased smirk. "Well Lestrade, there you have it. You'll want the whole squad, I'd think. Some vehicles, possibly a helicopter. This will be so much fun."

John zoomed in on the map, trying to narrow down the location. Wait… that couldn't be right. It couldn't possibly be… He had to tell them.

"You're not coming with us," said Lestrade.

John tried to jump into the conversation. "Sherlock I—"

Sherlock promptly ignored him. "Why not?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

"We've been over this Sherlock. He's a murderer!"

"Sherlock, I need—" started John before being interrupted again.

"And? I don't see the problem."

"He's dangerous! This reckless behavior of yours is exactly why—"

"Will you two listen to me dammit?" he yelled, finally losing his temper.

"What?" snapped Sherlock. "Do we have a location?"

"It's here. It's in the flat," stated John.

There was a moment of silence.

Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion. "That can't be right… It can't be here."

"Maybe it fell out somewhere?" said John.

"No, I would have noticed. I would have… I'm sure. There's no way…" Sherlock mumbled uncertainly.

Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. "Sherlock… It's okay. This is hard for all of us."

"Don't patronize me!" snapped Sherlock, slapping away Lestrade's hand. "I'm going outside. I need… I need a minute."

Sherlock snatched his stick from the sideboard, and stormed down the stairs and out the front door. As soon as the door slammed behind him, Lestrade threw his head in his hands.

"I am so out of my depth," he groaned. "Everything I say seems to upset him. It's like I get it wrong every time I try. But I just feel so guilty about it all. I don't know what to do."

"You feel guilty? Why?"

"Did Sherlock not tell you?" He didn't seem annoyed, more startled. John shook his head. "It was an accident," explained Lestrade. "He went after this criminal, I didn't stop him, and he was hurt. That's how it happened. I never meant for it to go so wrong. I should have protected him…"

John stood up. "You don't need to handle him with kid gloves," he said. "He's not made of glass. You can't always protect people and besides, I don't think he wants to be protected."

Lestrade stared at John. The expression on his face was somewhere between guilt, worry and pensive thought.

John shrugged. "It's just something to think about," he said going to leave the apartment. "Sherlock's probably cooled off now - I'll go get him."

Lestrade gave him a muted nod and John shut the door behind him. Walking down the stairs, he emerged onto an empty street. He panicked breath turned to mist in the air. Sherlock wasn't there.

Sherlock was gone.