Hi readers! This is the second upload of this chapter as there were a few formating issues with the last one. This chapter is from Greg's perspective which I am very happy about because sometimes scripted stuff gets pretty boring. Hope you enjoy!

Old Habits

Greg turned the key to his flat and stepped inside. It was small and plain, nowhere near as nice as his old house, but there was no way he could ever live there again. He wasn't even invited in for a cup of tea when picking the kids up for the weekend. Just a swift knock at the door and the children thrust out the door into his arms, the same in reverse come Sunday evening. Dumping his bag by the door, he headed straight for the kitchen, in particular the cupboard containing his brandy.

He poured himself a generous measure and put the bottle back. If he left it on the side, it was more tempting to pour himself another glass. He knew his limits and didn't want to over step them on a work night. He used to drink a lot more after the breakup, but forced himself to control himself nowadays. This particular glass was enough to get him drowsy, not drunk.

He collapsed onto the sofa and it groaned, not because Greg was heavy, but because it was the only seat that ever got used. The fabric was worn and bare in places, the cushion much flatter. It just so happened that this was Tommy and Abbi's favourite spot too. The spare space was simply a consolation and for the holding of empty plates, the armchair more for storage.

He kicked off his shoes without bothering to undo the laces and reached for the TV remote. He glanced up at the small screen, saw it was the news and turned over. He saw enough of that stuff in real life without having to hear about it at home. He settled for whatever crap show was on (Friends by the sound of tinned laughter. Greg found it was one of the most bearable shows and even stopped to watch an episode sometimes) and took a sip from his glass. It was only background noise anyway. He needed time to think, but not the kind of thinking that required silence.

Greg was long since passed marvelling at Sherlock's skills and usually found them either helpful of annoying at this point in their friendship. John, however, was a new acquaintance and was new to "The Science of Deduction." Sherlock's new room-mate was in awe of his abilities, something that was both rare and helpful, if Greg's suspicions were true.

He had first seen the name printed on Sherlock's wrist about two months ago, and it was a day the pair had spoken of only once...

Sherlock had turned up for a case involving a locked room and a missing weapon, one of the most intriguing in Sherlock's mind. Unfortunately, he turned up high as a kite. Greg recognised the symptoms immediately (he had busted enough drug dens after all) and whisked him out of the room before he could do anything to embarrass himself. He let himself fall into the memory.

"What are you playing at?" he had hissed through his teeth.

"I have no idea what you mean George," Sherlock said as he tried to push past him into the crime scene.

Greg reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrists. He yanked at both of the shirt cuffs and pushed up the white cotton. The memory of what was there still brought a bad feeling to his stomach. Covering the detective's thin arms were small, red and blue bruises, the newest still with a drop of dried, crusted blood in the centre. Injection sites.

The detective inspector put his head round the door, trying to think of some reason to excuse them both. "Sherlock is feeling feint so I've decided to take him home. Sally, you take charge." He shut the door before anyone could ask questions and turned back to the pitiful sight standing in the hallway. He had always suspected that Sherlock's relationship with drugs wasn't entirely healthy, but nothing as bad as this.

"I'm taking you home, Sherlock," Lestrade finally said. Sherlock avoided Greg's eye as he eventually caught on. The detective inspector hadn't previously noticed the slightly disheveled look Sherlock had. His dark, curly hairwas mattedand the cuffs of his shirtwere discolouredand dirty. There was also a blackish smudge on the top of one eye. Normal Sherlock would never allow himself or his clothes to become so dirty. Not unless he had nowhere to clean them. "Your homeless," he muttered. Lestrade had never seen the man look so ashamed.

He decided to take Sherlock to his flat. Greg directed him down the corridor and out if the building, then into the car. The other man said nothing as he slammed the door, just staring out of the window with a blank expression, taping his feet like crazy on the mat. He didn't have his usual rust bucket of a car, it was back at the yard. Instead, be had the police Astra and made use of its perks: blue and yellows all the way home.

At the flat, Lestrade first steered Sherlock towards the seat he usually sat in. Then he picked up his phone, scrolled trough his contacts and called Mycroft Holmes. The elder brother had once offered Greg money to spy on Sherlock, but he had refused. Ever since, Greg had his number, but had never used it. Now though, Mycroft answered in a matter of seconds.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" he said.

"Mycroft, you need to come over here. It's Sherlock, he-" He had hung up. Funny, he had thought to himself, he doesn't even know my adress. He then realised with a jolt that someone as powerful as Mycroft could simply find out. Meanwhile, Sherlock was scratching at his arm, ripping off the small scabs and leaving pink lines linking his bruises. It reminded him of a dot-to-dot.

A dribble of blood oozed from Sherlock's arm and ran down onto his wrist. He had been previously to busy to notice the name written there. It wasn't that much of a surprise to see a man's name written there, as Greg had always suspected that Sherlock might be gay. (He remembered the awkwardness when a woman at the bar had tried to chat Sherlock up.) Still, he felt guilty for outing him in this way. He wondered if it was anyone working in The Yard, there were a few Johns working there. Sherlock must have seen him staring, but didn't comment.

About ten minutes later, Mycroft knocked on the door. As soon as Lestrade clicked the lock open, the older brother pushed past and was in the living room. His eyes were wide with worry and his face crumpled when he saw Sherlock.

"Oh my god," Mycroft whispered, looking down at the pale, bare arms. "So many..."

"I think he's homeless too," Greg said.

"Yes... Yes of course he is..." He muttered, eyes flicking to different tell points on Sherlock's person. "Don't worry," Mycroft said finally, regaining some of his usual control and putting back in place his icy façade. "I can have this sorted out." He reached out, took Sherlock's arm and eased him up. "What are we going to do to you, brother mine?"

"Oh hello Mycroft," Sherlock said, smiling, as if he had only just noticed him. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere that will help you, dear brother."Mycroftreplied. He then turned to Greg.

"Thank you for taking care of my brother before my arrival. I would shake your hand, but both my armsare engaged trying to keep Sherlock standing. We will be in contact soon, Gregory."

Three days of worrying and stress later, Greg received a phone call. He had just placed his mobile down on the table when to started to vibrate. There was no number or contact displayed, just the word "private".The detective inspector didn't hesitate in picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello Greg," said a baritone voice at the other end of the line.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, "Are you Ok? Where have you been? Have you been sleeping properly?"

"Slow down, Greg. I'm fine and yes, I'm sleeping for christ's sake."

"Well then where have you been?" he repeated.

"I'm at a rehab centre, have been since I left. This is the first chance I've had to call. I've been... unavailable."

"A rehab centre?" Greg made a low, whistling sound. "Do you know if you're going to be sentenced?"

"My brother has managed to wiggle out of a court case, not difficult in his position I suppose."

"That's good." Greg tried not to sound too pleased, but he was happy there was to be no discipline put in place. He really didn't wantto be called up for evidence against his friend.

"What did you mean by unavailable?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, as if considering if he wanted Greg to know. "It seemed that in my condition, I was reluctant to give up my use." He spoke after a pause. "I must have grown either unsettled or violent as they knocked me out. I managed to cleared the drug from my system yesterday but the nurses were quite insistent that I had lost my privilege of calling thanks to my episode," Sherlock finished bitterly. He hated being bossed around, something that Greg relished in. He gave a short laugh before his next question.

"How is everyone there?"

"Pleasant I suppose, the staff are very competent. Although they keep trying to make me eat." A faint voice at Sherlock's end of the line spoke, though Greg couldn't hear what they said. It seemed to be hurrying him along though as the detective quickly moved on to his next point.

"I wanted to talk to you about the other night. And what you saw."

"What, your injections?" Greg asked, a little confused.

"No," (he could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes), "About my name."

"Don't worry, mate. I won't tell anyone you're gay."

"I don't care about that," Sherlock said, once again using his you're an idiot voice."Just don't tell anyone my soul mate's name is John."

"Of course I won't, mate. Your secrets safe with me.

"Thank you. I have to go, the nurses are rushing me. Goodbye Greg."

Silence told him Sherlock had hung up.

Greg smiled at the memory. Sherlock had called him by his name. Usually such minor details got forgotten, erased to make room for more important information. The fact he had remembered illustrated the fact he made an effort with his phone call.

He smiled further when he remembered the pair at the crime scene earlier. The awkward introductions, the quick glances, the obvious sexual frustration.

John seemed like an alright bloke and certainly seemed a lot more accepting than a lot of people. The way John had complemented Sherlock on his skills was promising. There were many Johns in the world, and he guessed that not many would have reacted that way. But surely there couldn't be that many people called Sherlock? If John did have Sherlock's name, why doesn't he just come out and say it?Then again, Greg thought, maybe coming out is the problem. The doctor didn't seem like someone who was comfortable with their sexuality.

Greg imagined what a stable relationship might do for Sherlock. Someone who would always be there, no matter what idiotic situation the younger man got himself into. Lestrade defiantly wanted to see that Sherlock. He had made up his mind. He would make it his personal mission to get the two idiots together. A wing man, but undercover. A wing ninja, he thought. Sherlock deserved him and John seemed like a good influence. Anyway, if he had to deal with that much eye sex at a crime scene again, he might just be the one committing the murder.

And that's the chapter! I really hope there are. k more issues but if there are... let me know? Thanks to GlaszHeart for doing just that last time Xx