Chapter 6

Sherlock paced the length of his private room, eagerly eyeing the digital clock that sat on his nightstand, waiting for the moment when it struck noon that signaled the commencement of the weekly 'family day.' More importantly, a new cold case from Lestrade. The previous week's case had been mind-numbingly easy. How the Yarders managed to keep their skulls firmly attached to their bodies was beyond him. At least their lack of intelligent thoughts allowed him to keep his occupied while his transport rotted away in this godforsaken hellhole. There is only so much talk about feelings or listening to other people rambling on about their insipid lives one could handle. It was all so dull.

He continued to pace as another minute ticked by. He had only completed four weeks of rehab, which meant eight more trying weeks to go. This was about as far as he made it into the previous two attempts at rehab his parents forced him into. Only this time, he saw himself possibly able to stick it out the remaining weeks, beyond the fact that it was difficult to see through his immediate situation. If Lestrade could manage to find some interesting enough cases, he'd be in the clear.

Sherlock finally headed towards the lobby, eager to meet with Lestrade.

The weekly worry began to settle in the pit of his stomach during his walk to the lobby. Was this the week that Lestrade came to his senses? Would the man finally decide that he had done his good deed and that Sherlock was no longer worth it? He thought Lestrade was going to tell him something to that effect when they met last Sunday. Sherlock could tell a dark cloud hung over the Sergeant's head. His eyes were tired and had an air of sadness in them. Just before Sherlock's mind went into a full-blown panic, he realized that Lestrade was no longer wearing his wedding band. The strip of pale skin that remained signaled the glaringly obvious at him. Sherlock didn't need to ask to know that things had finally ended with the wife. The way Lestrade kept looking at his watch indicated that she was possibly moving out of the flat today. Neither of them talked about it. And if Lestrade squeezed his shoulder with a firmer grasp than usual when he left, Sherlock wouldn't bring it up. Men didn't acknowledge their emotions if his father and Mycroft had any say in the matter. He was unsure if it was his place to reassure Lestrade. Sherlock decided that his father and Mycroft's position on the subject of emotions was possibly his take on the subject, as well, especially if it allowed him to avoid having an overly emotional conversation.

The worry began to bloom across his insides as the doors opened. Happy friends and family started to trickle in to meet with their loved ones. Pity that his own transport had different opinions on the matter of emotions. Sherlock loitered in the back of the lobby, waiting for Lestrade to make his appearance, nervously worrying over the cold case file the Sergeant had given him the previous week. Would today be the day that Sherlock was no longer worth the other man's time? It was already was half-past noon. Lestrade had been nothing but punctual in the last few weeks.

A familiar head of graying hair and tanned skin came through the front door, and Sherlock felt his shoulders relax automatically.

Today, thankfully, didn't appear to be that day after all.

Sherlock quickly looked over Lestrade as he made his way towards him, trying to assess the man's mood. Lestrade looked irritated as he signed in for visiting Sherlock at the front desk. There was a light sweat breaking on his brow, and Sherlock deduced he had waited in his car for some time before coming in. He seemed to have been worrying over something. Apprehension flared to life when he realized that it was possible that Sherlock's worries weren't entirely without bias. Maybe Lestrade had come to the decision to end whatever you would call the camaraderie that had developed between the two of them. Nothing else appeared out of the ordinary. He was dressed in casual jeans and a plain navy blue shirt, with his old, worn, dark brown leather crossbody bag which he used to deliver cold cases to Sherlock, much like Sherlock imagined that Father Christmas gave gifts to other children. He wouldn't know about that one. His parents never believed that they should indulge their children in such nonsense.

"Alright?" Lestrade asked as he approached Sherlock in his spot in the lobby. Irritation seeped into the Sergeant's voice, so Sherlock decided to remain quiet, not wanting to poke the bear as they say. Instead, Sherlock simply nodded his response and led them to what's come to be their regular table in the common room.

The common room was large and spacious, with tables that could accommodate anywhere from two to a much larger family or group gathering. Comfortable couches were spaced in the middle of the room, which is where most of the group sessions took place. A ping pong table was tucked in another corner, with a large bookshelf filled with board games and various books lining the wall behind it. What had come to be their regular table was one only big enough for two, barely large enough to allow Sherlock to go through whatever cold case Lestrade had brought him that week. It was tucked away in a corner between a large potted fern and a rather large picture window that overlooked the facility's gardens.

Once the two took their seats, Sherlock passed last week's file across the table to Lestrade, eager to explain the case and get his hands on the next one.

"Clearly, it was the gardener," he told the Sergeant with an eye-roll. He crossed his arms over his chest, proud that it had taken him less than twenty-four hours to solve the case. "If you pull the dirt samples that were taken from the victim's fingernails in evidence and rerun it, it will lead you to your answer. The sample should contain red lead paint flakes."

Lestrade nodded and took the file back from him and placed it in his leather cross bag before turning back to face Sherlock with his hands folded on top of the table.

"Well?" Sherlock asked him, irked at this cat and mouse game Lestrade had decided to play this week. Solve a case, get a new one. That's how this worked.

"Tell me why you've been an arse this week," was the reply he received, instead.

Sherlock huffed in response.

"This wasn't part of the deal," Lestrade complained, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. "They can't take your attitude and complete lack of caring anymore, Sherlock. You're going to have to put some work into it!" the Sergeant finished, waving both of his hands exasperatedly towards Sherlock.

"Boring," Sherlock replied dispassionately. It wasn't his fault that this place seemed to do its very best to suck the life from him.

"No, not boring," Lestrade's finger swam in front of his face. "This was the deal, Sherlock. Rehab. Remember?" Lestrade asked him, and Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed into a sulk further in his chair. "Don't get in a strop with me. You agreed to this. You were crying, out of your mind, in my arms," Lestrade started in on him. Sherlock's eyes widened immediately. He straightened up and tried to shush the man before other people in the vicinity could hear. "You said you couldn't deal with the drugs anymore. You said you wanted out. This is me helping you get out of that dark place you were in. And you're throwing that chance down the garbage!"

"You were right," Sherlock seethed, cutting Lestrade off. "I was out of my mind. Clearly, I didn't know what I was talking about," he argued, embarrassed that he had to be reminded of his breakdown. "And you made the deal that I'd get a case to solve a week."

"You're not holding up your end of the bargain," Lestrade threw his hands over his head and slammed them on top of the table, the noise startling Sherlock. "I got called by Julie again. You were supposed to behave! That was the deal. You're not going to get rewarded for bad behavior."

Sherlock drummed his fingers anxiously across his forearm, staring the man down across from him. This was a rather unfortunate turn of events. With no case to keep him occupied this week, he would go stir crazy by the evening. It did not bode well for the rest of the week. How Lestrade expected him to make it eight weeks without a case to keep him occupied was beyond him.

Lestrade sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to come in here guns blazing. Besides, your caseload will probably drop off for a while. I, uh, well, I got transferred off homicide." Lestrade looked down at the table, avoiding Sherlock.

Sherlock almost fell out of his chair at the revelation. "What?! What did you do?" Sherlock demanded from the man across from him.

"What did I do?!" Lestrade asked with an air of indignation, once again glaring at Sherlock. "I didn't do anything. One minute, I'm at my desk minding my own business, and the next thing I know, I'm transferred out. I start tomorrow," he finished, sounding dejected.

Sherlock frowned at the oddity of the new information that Lestrade had presented to him. "So, no more cold cases, then?" he frowned as the fact slowly cemented itself in his head.

"Not being a part of the homicide department puts a slight damper on that," Lestrade confirmed, giving a small dip of his head until Lestrade's chin rested on his chest.

That was disconcerting, to say the least. The three cold cases he had the opportunity to solve while he'd been locked away in rehab had been his mind's only savior from the otherwise mind-numbing tasks that he was asked to do throughout the day. If only he had taken Mycroft's offer to get him into a rather prestigious rehab that their Uncle Rudy had told him about. You simply went to sleep and woke up a new man. But seeing as he hadn't spoken with Mycroft since Christmas, and even longer since he had seen Uncle Rudy, he only assumed that their offer was taken off the table now. Pity.

"I was able to sneak out one more for you, though," Lestrade started up again, sparking intrigue in Sherlock's eyes.

Lestrade reached back into his leather bag in search of Sherlock's prize, which he waited for eagerly. Sherlock rubbed his hands together, eager to get his hands on his next cold case. What the older man produced, though, was not a file. It was, in fact, a book. A very old book. One that if Sherlock was to guess was more than likely hollowed out on the inside.

Anna Karenina

"Where did you get that?" Sherlock whispered, feeling his heart drop to his stomach.

"The backpack that you left in my flat. I know I agreed to leave your stuff be, but things change," Lestrade replied. His tone left no room for argument. "Getting transferred to the Narcotics team will do that to you, Shezza," he finished, flinging a candid Polaroid of Sherlock on top of the book. Sherlock gently picked up the picture to examine the photo, squinting at the unknown male's handwriting that had his alias written on the bottom.

Sherlock paled. This was not going as anticipated. He tried to respond but ended up resembling something more along the lines of a goldfish.

"So you tell me, Sherlock. Or do you prefer Shezza? Cause I honestly don't know anymore," Lestrade started in on him in a whisper that did nothing to contain the man's rage. "I can't find you in any system under any name," he began to tick off points on his fingers. "Some random higher up gets me transferred to the narcotics team, who just happens to be beginning an investigation into Alexander Volkov tomorrow." Another tick. "And they had your picture in the DI's office labeled as Shezza." Another tick. "Let's not forget to add that the supposed group that miraculously stepped in at the last minute to fund your little jaunt to rehab that you could give two shits about - can't be found. Trust me. I've tried." Another tick. "Things aren't adding up, but the common denominator seems to be you." The last finger ticked off. "So you tell me, Sherlock. What's the truth? Because I'm trying to see it, and I can't find the answer through all the fog in London."

Sherlock got up from his chair without another word. He was not ready to discuss his past with Lestrade. He had been quite hopeful that he would never have to. He was even more optimistic that he would never hear the name Volkov again. He tried to tamp down the shakes that were threatening to take over his body with little success.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?" Lestrade yelled to him from their table before grabbing the book and picture on their table and getting up to follow him.

Sherlock continued to march toward his room without another look back. He couldn't drag Lestrade into this. The man had been nothing but kind to him. Sherlock could read the writing on the wall, he could see that he had used up all the kindness the man had to offer. Sherlock should leave rehab. Leave and cut off his ties with Lestrade. The thought briefly crossed his mind that he could go back to Volkov. With the information that the police were out for him, Sherlock anticipated that he would be welcomed back to the fold with open arms.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled out, finally catching up to him just as he had reached his bedroom door.

Lestrade grabbed him by the elbow to turn him around to face him. Sherlock slammed his eyes closed in response, effectively shutting off the rest of his body. "Kid, come on," Greg begged. "I'm just trying to help you."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock, look at me," Greg tried to prod gently with no success.

"I'll figure something out, Lestrade. You needn't worry about me anymore. You've done enough as it is," Sherlock replied quietly, trying to avoid eye contact with the Sergeant in front of him.

"Kid-"

"Exactly!" Sherlock cut in, his eyes flaring open in anger. "I'm just some kid to you. I'm just some kid that you took pity on. Like some kind of stray dog," he spat.

"That's not-"

"It is," Sherlock cut in before he was able to hear another argument, "and you've gone above and beyond what any adult has done for me, but I can no longer accept your kindness."

"It's not that easy, Sherlock. You're not just some kid. You're m-" Lestrade stopped himself and scrubbed his hands down his face. "You're not my anything, and we don't owe each other anything."

Sherlock frowned but didn't move, and neither did Lestrade. They stood in some kind of standstill outside of Sherlock's room. He had been trying to ready himself for this moment since Lestrade had taken him in and got him situated in rehab, the moment that Lestrade would decide to clean his hands of him. Now that moment seemed to be a reality. Sherlock was surprised to find that he was becoming quite upset.

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock lightly by the shoulders, causing him to focus on him. "Look, Sherlock, however you were involved with Volkov... it's behind you. Whatever you did for him while you were in his group, it's behind you. Including the drugs. Whatever your life was like before Volkov, whatever led you down that road, it's behind you. Let it stay behind you," Lestrade gave him a slight shake, causing Sherlock to realize there was moisture in his eyes. "You're only fifteen, Kid. You've got your whole life ahead of you. We don't owe each other anything. But you owe it to yourself to let that part of your life stay behind you. Only move forward," Lestrade finished, giving Sherlock one last comforting squeeze of his shoulders before dropping his hands.

The passionate speech struck a chord somewhere in Sherlock. It resonated somewhere that made Sherlock remember why he had trusted Lestrade in the first place.

"What if I can't do it?" he asked nervously. Sherlock's voice was so quiet that he almost wasn't sure if Lestrade had heard him.

"You can, Sherlock," Lestrade answered, giving him a poke to the center of his chest. "You want my help. You have it. You want me to piss off. You got it. But you have to take your own life by the reigns and make those decisions for yourself, or you'll never be satisfied."

Sherlock began to worry at his bottom lip. The shaking of his limbs began to overtake him. This was not how he was expecting today to go.

"Let's get you inside," Lestrade instructed and moved him into his room and closed the door to any prying eyes that might be lingering.

Sherlock went back to pacing the length of his room again. Lestrade stayed a safe distance from him. The man remained close to the door as if he were anticipating Sherlock to bolt at any moment.

This was it. Sherlock could feel as if there were two paths before him. Yet, either path he took, the same theme lined the stones that he traveled. Lestrade. The thought came to him in a rush of excitement. A way to help the man who had helped him so much in such a short time, while protecting Lestrade at the same time.

"I'll get you in," Sherlock announced, the excitement running through his veins. He hadn't felt this kind of thrill since the last time he injected himself with a seven percent solution.

"You'll get me in?" Lestrade asked with a raise of his eyebrows. He wasn't understanding. What it must be like to have a simple mind.

"Volkov!"

Realization dawned on Lestrade's face, and he frantically began shaking his head. He came across the room and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit on the bed, using the height difference to tower over him.

"Absolutely not," Lestrade was angry. "What could you possibly be thinking!"

Storm clouds gathered inside of Sherlock. Surely Lestrade was not that dim. "Because you need someone on the inside!" he yelled, not understanding how Lestrade was not understanding this. "You go in there, and you'll end up like the last undercover officer," Sherlock pointed at Lestrade. He could slowly feel himself begin to unravel. "And I can't - You can't-"

"Whoa, whoa, Kid," Lestrade tried to stop him from his downward spiral. He came to sit next to Sherlock at the foot of the bed, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "First, this is my job. I wake up every morning with the understanding that I know what I signed up for. You knew the undercover officer?" Lestrade asked quietly, obviously trying to change the subject, even if it was only for a moment.

Sherlock nodded sadly. "He was nice. Tried to befriend me a few times but I read him in seconds. I didn't out him, though!" Sherlock pleaded, hopeful that Lestrade would believe that it wasn't his fault for the death of his fellow officer. "He would give me his leftovers if we came across each other." Lestrade nodded his quiet understanding.

"I had just gotten to London," Sherlock started to explain after feeling Lestrade's arm tighten around him. "I hadn't even been in the city a week yet before I met Volkov. I had been looking for drugs. I spotted Volkov making a drop with one of the other runners. He threatened to kill me until I kindly informed him of the tail that was currently on him from a rival group. We went for tea after that, like it was the most natural thing in the world." Sherlock paused to collect his thoughts. He couldn't look Lestrade in the eyes. Not yet. "I read him like a book. We talked. He found my level of observation useful. He had me meet with all of his higher-ups. Wanted to see if I could snuff out anyone who wasn't completely loyal or had something to hide. He lost two men that night. In exchange, I got high with the finest he had to offer," Sherlock revealed, cringing when he heard the rasp in his voice.

"I was desperate," Sherlock continued. "I'd been without, and the withdrawals were unbearable. The two of us came to an agreement. If I remained helpful, I'd continue to get something a little extra. It seemed like the logical answer at the time. Now I have to live with my choices," he finished dismally.

"We all have to live with our choices, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. "You didn't kill those men."

"I might as well have," Sherlock responded. "And if you go snooping around in his territory, you will end up just like the other officer."

Lestrade sighed. "The thing is, I can't risk you either, Sherlock. You wormed your way in, and don't ask me how, 'cause you are a bit of an arse," Lestrade chuckled, trying to lighten the mood as he gently bumped Sherlock's shoulder with his own.

Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, hoping that he could change the Sergeant's mind. "But, I can help."

"I'm sure we can come up with a happy middle somewhere. One that doesn't involve you going backward."

Sherlock pondered the possible solutions that Lestrade would potentially agree to when Lestrade's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"But before we get that far, we need to talk about something else," Lestrade paused and gave Sherlock a look that he wasn't able to read. "Making people's food explode? Really?"

Sherlock failed to hide his smile, and Lestrade let out a hearty chuckle.

"That's in a way not good, Kid," he told Sherlock through his fading laughter, to which Sherlock joined in as well.

"Julie was especially displeased with that development," Sherlock informed him, still smiling.

The two eased the conversation back to the cold case that Sherlock had finished last week. Once again, Sherlock was filled with a confidence that only came through the support of the man that had come into his life. It wasn't something he knew how to repay, but he would find a way to assist Lestrade in any way he could.

It was time to move forward.