He should of answered his phone after John called the first time. Mycroft had been under the assumption Sherlock had confessed and the good doctor wished to yell at Mycroft for letting him sink so far if he knew Sherlock was alive. He never considered that John would tell Sherlock he wished him dead. Now his brother could be anywhere, doing anything and that made the politician feel as if there were ice in his stomach that refused to melt.
The dread solidified when he checked the bank account he'd set up for Sherlock to use while he was away and found it had recently lost five hundred pounds. Sherlock was already one step ahead of him. He shut down the account as fast as he could but he already knew what Sherlock would of spent a good portion of the money on.
Damn his little brother!
Damn John Watson!
Despite his cold front Sherlock was only a child in many ways. A child who, deep down, wanted to be loved and cared for but didn't know how to achieve it. Cocaine was his escape for many years, it forced his brain to stop thinking so darkly, gave him synthetic happiness.
After Mycroft had finally gotten him clean Sherlock had been alright for a while, but the temptation was still there. Then came John and suddenly Sherlock was given the affection he had been starved for. Simple comments like "Brilliant!" and "Fantastic!" made Sherlock day though he pretended not to care. Mycroft had seen first hand how much John's praise had meant to his little brother.
He had to find him before he over dosed.
-oOo-
Coming down from the high the first thing he felt was soul crushing disappointment in himself that he'd returned to this. A dependency on a substance. Pathetic.
His body was already aching for another hit but he ignored it. He had to try and limit himself to once a day or his money would be gone too soon, no doubt Mycroft wouldn't be lending him anymore any time soon.
Before he could stop himself he was imagining what John and Lestrade would think of him if they knew. The inspectors disappointed face appeared in his mind followed by John's, it looked not only disappointed but angry as well.
He sighed, what was he supposed to do with himself now? Lestrade wouldn't give him a case now that he'd started using again, hell, even if he wasn't he'd probably hate him too. He couldn't go to Baker Street, he couldn't go to Mycroft.
He was out of options.
And yet, he wanted to see Lestrade. He'd missed him too, not nearly as much as John but he'd always had a fondness for the inspector who'd given him a chance when no one else would. He'd forgiven Sherlock for using once before, surely he could do it again? Sherlock just wanted to hear somebody tell him that what he did was okay, that he did the right thing.
"I forgive you."
That's all he wanted. That and to be home at Baker Street with John once more, solving crimes together and watching crap telly.
A small amount of fear lingered in his heart though, he couldn't make himself go to Lestrade's because of it. He wasn't sure he could take two lots of rejection. The cocaine was still in his system though, only just though, he had a few more hours until he'd need to shoot up again. The lingering drug gave him courage and he headed out the door toward Lestrade's home.
-oOo-
Lestrade was sick of day time tv, it was so dull. Ever since he'd almost lost his job three years ago the head of Scotland Yard had been putting him on the worst shifts possible as punishment. He had wanted to fire him completely but the junior officers stood up for him, bless them, saying that he had in fact solved the most cases despite Sherlock's help.
It still meant he had to work all night though and spend his days slumped on a sofa watching Ellen.
He was surprised when he heard somebody knocking on his door, nobody visited him, ever. The only time he was free was in the middle of the week, durning the day when everybody else was working.
He thought perhaps it was John, hoped really. The man had been teetering on the edge for months now, Greg constantly feared going to visit and finding him dead on the couch with a bullet in his brain.
What he had not expected was a detective who thought died years ago.
"Sherlock." He breathed.
"Please don't pass out like John did."
Well that is a hell of a first greeting.
Without thinking the inspector stepped back and let Sherlock inside, jeez he was thin, thinner than he was and he was never healthy to begin with.
"What the hell Sherlock?" Lestrade growled, "How the-where have you been all this time?!"
"Dismantling Moriarty's network." Sherlock replied in monotone.
"I cleared your name." Lestrade continued clenching his fists, "Mycroft helped me. Everybody knows Moriarty was real, have done for years."
"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, he sounded strange.
"I didn't do it for you." Lestrade spat, "I did it for John."
Sherlock looked up at the doctors name, his eyes were red.
"I had to do it." Sherlock croaked, "Moriarty, his snipers...he was going to have you all killed if I didn't. John, you, . I couldn't let that happen and then, if his people knew I'd faked it...they'd of come back and..."
Lestrade had never seen Sherlock so chocked up, something was wrong here. That's when the shock wore off enough for the inspectors training to kick in an he noticed only one of Sherlock's cuffs was done up.
Oh no.
"Sherlock, let me see your arm." Lestrade demanded.
The detective immediately stepped backwards and clutched his limb, he looked, frightened? That clinched it, ordinarily Sherlock would of at least offered the other arm first, feigning ignorance.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade growled and the detective relented and held out his arm.
Just as Lestrade suspected, he found a needle mark when he pushed the sleeve up.
"You selfish bastard!" Greg hissed, "Three years of-"
"No, I only...it was yesterday." Sherlock cut in, "Only one mark, see? I'm telling the truth!"
"Why then?" Lestrade asked coldly, "You spend three years disbanding Moriarty's network only to come home and shoot up again? Didn't John try and stop you? Wait, you said he passed out, you didn't just leave him on the floor did you?"
"No!" Sherlock recoiled.
"Gods Sherlock do you have any idea what you did to him?!"
Lestrade was expecting a cold reply about hoe it was necessary and logical, he did not expect Sherlock to crumble. The proud detective was on the floor with his head in his hands with a pained moan, Greg blinked in surprise. Then his brain caught up.
'Sherlock has been away for three years. He cares about John more than anybody, everybody knows that and yet why is he here with you Greg? Obviously something happened between them!'
"Sherlock? Why did you use again?" Lestrade knelt down in front of him.
"John hates me." Sherlock whispered, "I couldn't...he wishes I was dead..."
"He was angry Sherlock, hell, even I can't forgive you-"
He was about to say 'yet' but never got the chance as Sherlock was on his feet again and stumbling backwards toward the door again. He looked distraught, evidently Lestrade had said the wrong thing again.
"Hey, Sherlock wait!" Greg called but the detective was already out the door and running down the street.
"Sherlock!"
He'd never catch up and he knew it. Not knowing what else to do he fished his mobile out of his pocket and pressed in John's number.
-oOo-
"Hell, even I can't forgive you"
"I can't forgive you."
"I can't forgive you."
Those words bounced around in his skull until it became physically painful.
"I can't forgive you."
John hated him. Lestrade couldn't forgive him. It was too much. The only person he had left to try was Ms. Hudson and he couldn't bare that. The way she scolded him about forgetting other people's feelings, no doubt she'd hate him too.
He was back at the horrible hotel before he realized it, filling the needle again and stabbing it into the crook of his elbow. He didn't care anymore, if this was all he had,
so be it.
So a reader had a question but no account so here is my answer.
Dear Confused: I had Sherlock go back to drugs because before John they were the only thing (Besides cases) that could distract his mind and make him happy. Part of Sherlock is just as human as everybody else and wants to be loved and cared for, the cocaine gives him a sort of artificial happiness when he couldn't have it for real. Once he started taking cases he felt people were impressed with him and that was enough to fill the hole and then John came along and made him happy even without solving cases. But now that he thinks both options (Cases and John's affection) are no longer open for him he has returned to drugs.