The last few weeks of May brought the first heat wave of summer. Still, the interiors of the Holmes residence remained as cold and drafty as a tomb. Ever since the note from Jim had appeared, Sherlock seemed to be lost inside his head. Normally without experiments or e-mails from Lestrade to distract him, Sherlock would be bouncing off the walls, but now he lay still and listless, drowning in the darkest depths of his mind palace. John didn't know what to do to bring him back to the surface, and so he spent most of his time lying next to Sherlock trying to keep him warm.

He was cuddled up with Sherlock on the white linen sofa the night that Lestrade came knocking at the door. John hesitated when he heard the knock, unsure of whether it was safe to answer the door, but after a minute he heard a key turn in the lock and Lestrade's voice echo from the entrance hall. "Anybody home?"

"We're in here," John called from the sitting room. He sat up and massaged his eyelids. Sherlock's eyes were open, but he was still unresponsive. "Sherlock," John whispered, gently rubbing his shoulder. "Lestrade's here."

Sherlock blinked and looked up at him. "Who let him in?"

"He had a key."

"Dammit," Sherlock muttered. "Mycroft must have given him a copy." He slowly raised himself into a sitting position as Lestrade entered the room and took a seat in the recliner. The inspector looked like he hadn't gotten a good night's sleep for days.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Lestrade said, taking notice of the two boys' disheveled appearances.

Sherlock shook his head. "You aren't. I just can't imagine what it is that you want to discuss with me. I told you before that I couldn't be of any further assistance on your current case."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Look, I've had a talk with Mycroft-" he glanced at John. "Would you prefer for John to step out of the room?"

"No, he can stay," Sherlock answered.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "The thing is, Mycroft warned me not to press you too hard for information. He's worried that certain details in this case may be somewhat connected to, um, your experiences… at the university." He sighed grimly. "We don't have to talk about that right now, but my team and I have been working this investigation nonstop, and we still haven't found any leads, so if you have any information that might be useful, anything at all, I'm all ears."

Sherlock folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. "You met Mycroft about two years ago when you were working on my missing persons case. Is that correct?"

"How did you-?"

"Did he show you a copy of my medical file before he had it destroyed?" Lestrade nodded slowly. "Then you read in the pathology report that I had heroin in my system when I was found," Sherlock said in a monotone. "The murder victim's autopsy report included a drug panel that came up positive for heroin as well."

"So you think you both got the drugs from the same person?"

"I don't think it, I know it," Sherlock muttered. He fixed Lestrade with a piercing stare. "Even if I were to tell you everything I know about the details surrounding this case, it's doubtful that you would believe me. These are not deductions, these are things that I personally witnessed. I don't have any proof."

"That's alright. Just give me some place to start."

Sherlock sighed and leaned back against the cushions. John was slightly surprised by his calmness. "The crime syndicate that's responsible for a majority of the drug trade in central London is controlled by one of the professors at Westminster. The murder victim was one of his clients."

Lestrade took a notebook out of his pocket and flipped through the pages. "Can you give me a name?"

"Jim Moriarty."

"We've conducted interviews with every faculty member at the university. Professor Moriarty has a solid alibi for the time of the murder."

"This man handles all his criminal affairs through other people. There's never any direct contact."

"But you've met him?"

"I've been in his apartment." Sherlock's face remained blank. "If you searched his flat, you would find enough evidence to put him away for a long time, but I don't think the word of a seventeen-year-old qualifies as probable cause for a warrant."

Lestrade put away the notebook and ran a hand through his hair. "That's everything then? That's all that you're able to tell me?" It was obvious that he was still waiting for Sherlock to tell him who the note was for.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. That's all that I'm able to tell you."

The inspector wearily got to his feet. "Well, I'll look into it." His expression softened a bit. "Thank you," he said, awkwardly patting the teen on the shoulder. "Um, just…" He sighed. "Take care of yourself."

With that, Lestrade made his exit and headed for the entrance hall. John got up and followed him do the door and managed to stop him before he walked out. "Inspector Lestrade?"

The man turned around and smiled at John. "You can call me Greg."

"Right, thanks. Can I have your mobile number, you know, in case of an emergency? I just… I'm worried about him."

"Join the club." He reached into his pocket and handed John a small square piece of paper. "Here's my card. If there's ever any trouble, you can call that number anytime, day or night."

After Lestrade left, John turned the lock and rested his head against the doorframe. He took a moment to collect himself before returning to the sitting room. As soon as he reached the sofa, however, he found it empty.

Dammit, I can't turn my back for one second.

John wandered around the vast mansion for a few minutes calling Sherlock's name until he stepped into the kitchen and found Sherlock standing at the sink. "Sherlock?" John said softly. "You okay?"

For all the stoic composure Sherlock had possessed during his conversation with Lestrade, now he was pale and trembling. John heard him taking deep, shaky breaths as he drew near the boy and saw a bloodstained razor clenched in his right hand. His left sleeve was rolled up and there was a deep gash on his wrist dripping blood into the sink.

John pressed his body up against Sherlock's back and wrapped his arms around his waist. He felt Sherlock shiver. "Shh, it's alright," he whispered. "I've got you."

Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "I only did one. Then I stopped."

John sighed and kissed the back of his neck. "Thank you for stopping." He stepped away briefly to grab a clean washcloth from the drawer and held it under the tap. "Here, keep pressure on it," he muttered, holding the damp washcloth against the cut.

Sherlock huffed quietly. "Always the doctor."

Once the bleeding was properly stemmed, John led Sherlock back into the sitting room and took out his first aid kit. He gently applied a few dabs of Neosporin to the cut and bandaged Sherlock's wrist tightly with a roll of gauze. The stark white bandage created a strange contrast with the deep red scars lining Sherlock's forearm. As the pair of them lay back down on the sofa, John tugged Sherlock's sleeve back up, pausing for a moment to glance at the faded drawing of a heart below his palm. He would need to fill it back in soon.

"You know," John whispered as Sherlock tucked his bandaged arm against his chest, "it's my heart that you wear under your sleeve."

Sherlock smiled wryly. "That makes sense seeing as how I don't have one."

John reached around and closed his hand over Sherlock's fist "I don't believe that."

"There's a reason people at school call me a psychopath."

"They're idiots."

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock muttered, "but the truth is most individuals have difficulty telling the difference between psychopaths and sociopaths because they present with the same symptoms. The child psychiatrist my parents sent me to required less time to make the proper diagnosis because she had spent years studying my brother. She recognized that we both have the capacity to experience things like emotions and empathy, but we have an abnormal ability to repress them."

"Mycroft was never prone to outbursts of brotherly compassion. The day he came to the hospital, though…. I'd never seen him like that before." Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I was weak and malnourished and I had bruises on my neck and track marks on my arm. He took one look at me and broke down. I couldn't handle it. I just shut off my emotions and lay there like I was made of stone. It scared me how easily I could do that, but I had to or else it would have hurt." Sherlock turned to face John. "It's not normal. It shouldn't hurt to feel loved."

John felt his heart break a little with every self-deprecating word. "Sherlock, you were in pain. Sometimes it's easier not to feel anything." He cupped Sherlock's face with both hands. "Listen to me. There is nothing wrong with you."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes willing him to believe it. He saw the wheels turning in Sherlock's mind at warp speed, but he wasn't sure if his words had any affect. Before he could say anything else, though, his phone buzzed in his pocket. John flipped open his phone and typed a quick response. "Sorry, that was my mum just checking to see if I'm still alive."

Sherlock sighed. "You can go home if you need to. I'll be okay."

John pocketed his phone and propped himself up on one elbow. "If it's alright with you, I'd rather not go home tonight. Things with my parents are a little rocky right now."

"What's going on?"

"Well, um, the other night we were just sitting at the table eating dinner and my mum asked me if I was taking anyone to prom on Saturday, so I told her that I was going with my boyfriend." John grimaced. "That didn't go over well."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

John shrugged. "It didn't seem that important compared to everything else going on."

"Of course it's important," Sherlock said, taking John's hand and stroking his palm with his thumb. "That was a really brave thing you did."

"Honestly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. At least they're not gonna to try to stop me from going to prom."

Sherlock smirked. "That would be tremendously ambitious of them." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "God, I'd forgotten all about… that upcoming event."

John grinned. "You still can't even say it, can you?"

"Of course I can," Sherlock said dismissively. "I simply prefer not to."

"We'll just call it a date then. Our first date."

For a moment, the two boys lay in each other's arms and almost felt like a normal couple. Soon they would have one night together where they could forget about everything else going on. One night that was just about them.