Disclaimer: don't own these characters. BBC does, I believe...

Warnings: mentions of drug abuse

Damage control

Lestrade felt his temper rise. The foolish kid. Months of fighting it, halfway through withdrawal, and now this? He would not have it.

He waved at the syringe, now crushed on the floor where he had thrown it, and glared at the younger man. "I should have you arrested for this," he snapped.

Sherlock merely smiled and leaned lazily against the doorframe. "I'd like to see you try."

Lestrade's left hand made the tiniest movement towards his pocket. Of course the little git noticed.

Sherlock's smile turned in to a no-good grin. "If I didn't know you better I would think you'd actually like to try and get me into those handcuffs," he drawled. "now, I wonder what – "

Lestrade shoved him into the wall. Hard. "I will not have you on drugs anymore, not in my flat, not in that shithole you live in, I will not have it!"

Sherlock pushed him away. Hard as well. "I don't care. I can control it."

"No, you bloody can't. You are ruining yourself," Lestrade moved forward again, reaching out "If you would just listen – "

Sherlock scoffed, and backed off. "You're beginning to sound just like Mycroft."

A frustrated groan. "Maybe I should have listened to him in the first place! He was right when he warned me about you and your psychopathic – " he stopped right there. Too late.

He might as well have punched the younger man for the look on Sherlock's face. A sickening mix of betrayal, confusion and then anger flashed in his eyes for mere seconds, before being replaced by the cold stone mask Lestrade had come to fear over the months.

When he spoke, his words were venom, meant to hurt before killing slowly. "You're just like the rest of them. Boring, uninventive, incompetent, brainless," – "Sherlock!" – "... no ambition either, yes, I can see why she left you".

They faced each other for twenty long seconds, heads held high, neither one backing off. Lestrade broke the silence first. "Piss off."

Lestrade had told him to piss off, so he had done just that. Sherlock rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

He had gone too far. Self-proclaimed sociopath or not, he knew exactly how far he could go with Lestrade, and he had blown it.

What had he said again? Thoughts were tumbling through his head and whirling in his mind, incoherent for once. This would be different, wouldn't it? Lestrade had cared. He was not like the rest of them. And yet he was. He had talked to Mycroft behind his back, just like the rest. Thought he was a psychopath, just like the rest. Told him to piss of, just like the rest, ignorant, brainless -.

What had he said? I can see why she left you. He winced at the memory. Not good. Unforgivable, it seemed, from the look the DI had shot him. Then again he had stopped wearing that ring of hers, ridiculous as it was to wear it after she left, the man could be such an idiot. He grinned, then groaned in frustration. Why did it matter!

He needed to fix this. Fix the look on Lestrade's face, fix the chaos of thoughts in his mind and oh God he needed the drugs. Just so he could think straight again.

He took the few steps separating him from the kitchen cabinet, opened the tin box labeled 'coffee' (his hiding-in-plain-sight principle had worked well so far, the man was easily fooled) and started to take it out; the tubes, syringes, the coke. His hands shook maybe I should have eaten and he blinked to regain his focus. He realized what had to be done - surely Lestrade would understand?- to fix this, once and for all.

Lestrade sighed, resting his head back against the doorframe. That hadn't gone well. He had worked hard enough, getting Sherlock to trust him, and it seemed he had just blown it, damage done. God, the look on the kid's face, he might have actually hurt him.

He almost laughed at his own thoughts. Ha, hurt Sherlock, the man was as good as unbreakable. The only one that could possibly hurt him was Sherlock himself and that wo-.

The temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees at least, as Lestrade felt the realization hit him square in the face. "Surely he wouldn't…"

But then again, he had, before. Vivid images of clammy pale skin, unseeing eyes, hospital beds and tubes and wires danced before his eyes. Shit. Lestrade blinked them away and ran out the door.

By the time Lestrade stormed down the stairs to the dark thing Sherlock called his apartment (dungeon would be a more adequate term, Lestrade had often told him), his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. "Would he - no he wouldn't - but what if he - and will I be there on time - and oh God this is not my fault."

He made as if to force the door open, but realized it wasn't locked. It wasn't even closed. Lestrade paused, breathed, and entered the dimly-lit room, prepared for almost everything, except for the sight that met his eyes.

On the dirty matress at the far end of the room, lay the thin form of Sherlock bloody Holmes, curled in on himself. Breathing evenly, and obviously asleep.

At the opposite side of the room, very much in plain sight, sat a collection of syringes, tubes and several bags of cocaine. A collection Lestrade had not been able to find on his latest drugs bust, - even though he had suspected its existence - basically because if this smart piece of trouble decided to hide something, Lestrade, being a mere mortal, would sure as hell never find it.

The DI hesitantly entered the room, and moved towards the sleeping detective.

Lestrade understood. Of course he did. Realization dawned on him after mere seconds, and he couldn't help letting a relieved smile form itself on his face.

"Stupid kid", he mumbled, collecting the various packs of cocaine and making his way to the bathroom. He flushed it all down the drain. He took the syringes and crushed them properly before binning them; same for the tubes.

He made coffee, ordered takeout, threw a blanket over his idiotic detective and left the place.

He almost missed the small shadow of a smile dancing over Sherlock's lips.

Almost, but not quite.

Couldn't get this idea out of my head, so I decided to write in out :)

Thank you for your lovely reviews, they make me smile (aaand laugh out loud in the library, which is very inconvenient, ah, who cares, thanks!)

And Sidney thanks again for beta-ing (did I invent that verb or is it an existing one...)!