Author's note- Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story! Please leave a little review as it really does make my day. Over four thousand views by the way!

Warnings for swearing.

I'm off to my dad's today so this will unfortunately be the last chapter I write for around nine days. But I'll do another ASAP. I'm really sorry, I'm kinda sad I can't update as I really am enjoying myself writing this.

Disclaimer- Moffat says I can't own Sherlock. Well he doesn't, but let's blame him anyway. I own nada.

Chapter 15

Detective Inspector Lestrade let out a breath of air and ran his right hand through his thick hair. He watched as Lucy's knees collapsed, and looked on with surprise as Sherlock caught her and carried her back to the awaiting car. It had been a rough night for both John and Sherlock, and in all his years of knowing the consulting three year old he had never known him to get so upset like that. Yeah he acted like a child sometimes and spouted all this – 'I'm a sociopath,'- stuff; but from tonight, Greg saw the true human emotions come out of him. The inspector half smiled. A couple of vibrations from his pocket alerted him to the fact that he had just received a text message. Wondering who it could possibly be, he withdrew his phone and read the text:

You need to thoroughly search ALL the warehouses, and I mean thoroughly –SH

Greg frowned, why did Sherlock always have to be so mysterious? But he replied anyways:

We will do, but only if you tell me why –GL

I just had a text from Moriarty. He said that tomorrow we should check the warehouses thoroughly because 'Lucy might find a little treasure she likes.' Whatever it is should already be there now. –SH

Any reason why you don't want to do it yourself? –GL

I don't want Lucy to get hurt even further, knowing Moriarty this 'treasure' won't be a chest full of happiness. And she needs me and John to be with her. She could hurt herself badly after what's happened tonight. –SH

Greg was surprised with how honest he was being. It must be Lucy bringing out the normal side in him. But at the mention of the last part, Lestrade frowned slightly, worried for the troubled teenager's safety.

We will wrap up the search tonight and start looking in the morning... Do you think she'll be alright? –GL

I don't know. –SH

Greg sighed as he put his phone away, his officers that were patrolling the river had already gone back- so he walked over to his group of policemen who had worked at the warehouses and told them that they were wrapping it up for the night. Looks like it would be fun and games in the morning, he thought sarcastically to himself.

Mycroft didn't say anything on the trip back to Baker Street. He didn't need to. He knew the severity of what had happened of course, but an overwhelming speech from him really wasn't on the cards tonight... or any night. It wasn't his brother's fault it had happened or John's for that matter. They'd been careful even by Sherlock's standards. On the ride back, Mycroft sat back in his seat, glancing at the wing mirror to look at the people in the back of the car. John had looked her over, and had determined that she would need stitches in the cuts Moran had made; not many though, just a few. Sherlock had also shed his Belstaff coat and had helped Lucy into it once John had finished looking at her. It was massive on the girl, but it did the job of keeping her warm and hiding the remains of her top. Sherlock didn't seem to mind much; in fact he seemed quite proud of himself that he sacrificed his beloved coat for her.

Once they arrived at Baker Street, John helped Lucy out of the car and went inside, helping her up the stairs. Since Mycroft wanted a word with Sherlock, John decided that he would start stitching and treating Lucy's arm. Sherlock looked at Mycroft as his brother joined him in the back of the car, the older Holmes' instructed the driver to just drive around- nowhere in particular- for a bit.

"What do you want?" Sherlock huffed, but his face softened just slightly, "Thanks by the way." Mycroft nodded in mildly surprised acknowledgement of his brother's gratitude.

"I wanted to tell you that it would probably be best if Lucy were to not go to any more crime scenes related to this case." Mycroft said, looking at his brother seriously.

"Why?"

"Because Sherlock, it may not be very good for her health." He sighed, "She self harms, tonight is going to affect her for a long time in a very bad way. The video he showed her was meant to hurt her emotionally. She'll easily forget the physical pain, but that's mainly because the emotional pain is so great- it could very easily take over her."

"What if she wants to go? What if she wants to help? Because this involves her, she should have a right to this." Sherlock argued.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started, trying to find the words to make his brother understand, "Hasn't she already been through enough? She's just found out all her parents told her was a lie. She never had any true family. If this carries on the way it is, her emotional state is going to get worse. That will mean her self harming will get worse. It is for her own good. Leave John to look after her if you go to a crime scene maybe, but you have to think about what is best for her."

"Why would I have to do that?" Sherlock snapped.

"You need to look after her. She's living under yours and John's roof, you have a responsibility."

"No I don't." Sherlock looked confused.

"While you may not be a legal guardian, you care enough to look after her Sherlock." Mycroft told him. There was a silence in which Mycroft knew his brother understood.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, but then he looked thoughtful, "What about that thing? You know social services? Won't they realise she has no parents?"

"I can bend things Sherlock," Mycroft smirked, "You know that. Neither you or John will have any trouble of the sort." The car started slowing down before coming to a standstill outside 221B Baker Street.

"Thanks I guess," Sherlock said neutrally.

"Take care, of her and yourself."

Sherlock glanced at his watch as he entered the building; he and Mycroft had been driving around for around twenty minutes- time flies. Sherlock scaled the stairs and walked into the front room. John was sat on the sofa, by the looks of it he had just finished tending to Lucy's arms and they were now chatting quietly.

"Hi," John greeted as he saw his friend enter the room. The consulting detective launched himself onto his chair, his hands steepled under his chin. "What did Mycroft want?"

"Nothing," Sherlock lied, "Just wanted to say something on some past matters."

"It's late," John said to Lucy, "You should go to bed; you look like you need it." She just nodded and got up to go get changed and ready for bed. Once she was out of earshot, John turned to Sherlock again.

"What did Mycroft really say?" He asked knowingly. Sherlock glanced at him before shifting to face him properly. He briefly gave an account of their conversation. John seemed to be contemplating what had been said throughout, but in the end he nodded. "I agree with Mycroft to be honest," he said.

"Really?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"He does have a point Sherlock," John said gently.

"I know," The consulting detective admitted, "But how will this work? She has a right to know what is going on."

"Then you can do all the investigating, and tell her about it. Maybe take pictures if there are any new bodies, so that she can give her own theories... I don't know." John suggested, "Just things that mean she won't get badly affected like tonight. We're supposed to keep her out of danger, for the rest of this case... I think we need to do that."

"What will she do when I'm off investigating?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll be more than happy to look after her," John said, "We can't leave her on her own for too long, not at the moment. You'll just have to survive without me." He grinned.

"Okay," The dark haired man leaned forward in his chair, "Let's not say anything though." John nodded in agreement, both falling quiet until Lucy returned.

She had taken longer than usual, both flatmates noted, and they also noticed how she kept her hands occupied. Her hands would clench and unclench- or her fingers would tap an irregular pattern on her leg. It was something to attempt to keep herself from resulting to her addiction. Sherlock knew the signs.

"I'll stay with you again tonight," Sherlock said.

"No." Lucy firmly disagreed, not making eye contact.

"Lucy..." John started, but she interrupted.

"No, I don't need constant supervision. I lived on the streets on my own for several months." Her voice was getting louder, "I think I can survive the night on my own."

"Lucy," John started again, he struggled to find the words but he kept them sincere and honest, "You are a danger to yourself." John kept his voice soft, "You could badly hurt yourself if you are left on your own. I can't, in good conscience, let that happen. I care."

"You don't understand," She snapped, "How the hell do you think I feel? I just found out that my parents never liked me! I found out that my dad wished I was dead! How the fuck am I supposed to cope with that?"

"Lucy calm down," John said gently- but it was no use. The teenager was now letting out all her built up anger, sadness and emotion. Which could be seen as good. Sherlock kept quiet, and just observed Lucy and John, unsure how he could help.

"How can you tell me to calm down?" She practically shouted, furiously pacing up and down, "Six months ago, my parents died- at least then I thought they loved me, I could live with that. I lived on the fucking streets, too scared to go to social services. Then I get fucking kidnapped, beaten, cut open by a stranger. And then I watch a video showing and telling me that my parents hated me and that they wished I was dead because I hindered their criminal prospects." Tears were flowing down her cheeks, but she didn't stop, "And now, I apparently need constant supervision, even while I sleep- just in case I cut myself. Bullshit. You can't just take that away from me! I need it! You don't understand! I can't cope without it! And you're trying to take away the one thing that could keep me sane. It's fucking bullshit!" At this she turned on her heel, and in her anger, violently punched the wall. John and Sherlock had jumped up by now, worried for Lucy. Just after she punched the wall, John had brought his arms around her and pulled her back to stop her from hitting the building more. "Get off of me." She cried. But being a strong ex army doctor, John dragged the struggling teenager back and pushed her gently onto the sofa.

"Lucy, calm down." He repeated. He was glad she had let out her emotions, but punching the wall really wasn't a good thing. John didn't know what to say, he hadn't any words of comfort. He couldn't say 'it will be alright' because it wouldn't. And deep down he knew she was right about the self harm, it was her coping method, and he was taking it away. But he couldn't let her do it, knowing how badly she could hurt herself. Glancing at the hand she hit the wall with, he noted that it was red and it was bleeding very slightly- but it would stop very soon. He knew she would get even angrier if he were to try and treat it- so he didn't say anything. Instead, Sherlock spoke up:

"Come on, let's get you to bed." He moved towards the door, looking at them.

"You aren't staying with me," She told him.

"Fine." He shrugged. Sherlock signalled for both his friends to follow, as he was getting tired of waiting.

Lucy got into bed, ignoring the two men in her room. The dark haired man sat on the edge of the bed, debating what to say.

"If you want to sleep on your own, then fine," he said in his deep voice gently, "But by doing so John's trusting you to tell him if you need medical attention." He tried to find a good way to phrase it but it came out wrong. Luckily John spoke up:

"I understand where you were coming from with what you said earlier, and perhaps it was wrong of me to want you to not do it. But it's understandable why I wouldn't." He sighed, "I just care too much I guess."

"It's fine," the teenager mumbled, now much calmer than before. "Sorry I punched the wall."

"I'm sure the wall won't hold a grudge," Sherlock said, earning a snicker from his flatmates.

"Anyway, goodnight Lucy," John said.

"Goodnight John, night Sherlock," she said as they left the room. Sherlock looked back at her and gave her a small smile before walking out.

Lucy waited until they left before getting out her blade and tissues from her hiding place. She set it down in front of her, rolling up her sleeves as she would do. She knew the routine well. But after she rolled up her sleeves, she found herself just staring at the white tissues and the silver glint of the razor blade. And for the first time in a while, she hesitated. For several minutes she found herself just staring at the objects in front of her. Unsure where this uncertainty came from, she sighed and ran her hands through her soft hair. Maybe it was because she didn't want to let John down. She wasn't sure at all. Looking at the blade with a frown, she picked it up and felt it in her hands. Holding it, she dragged it very lightly across her arm once, twice... five times. But she put it down again and placed everything back in its hiding place. Her arm had five scratches on it. None of them bled. It was strange; she hadn't just done mere scratches in ages. She sighed again as she settled down to go to sleep for what little remained of the night.

Sherlock saw how tense John was as he set about making himself and Sherlock a cup of tea.

"You're worried," Sherlock observed.

"I know," John grumbled, "Can't blame me can you?"

"She'll be fine."

"How would you know?" John raised an eyebrow, "Enlighten me."

"Well it's to do with the psychological thing I said. We pretty much said that she could do... it... if she really wanted to because we understand that she may need to. By showing how much we trust her, she may want to not disappoint even more than usual so she will be less likely to hurt herself as badly, so that way she wouldn't alert us to the fact that she had done it." Sherlock explained, "But then again, I'll know if she had either way."

"Uh right, that's... interesting." John processed this information, having heard that sort of thing being done before, "How would you know if she had?" At this, Sherlock just raised his eyebrows and with a smug smile he said:

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes."