Greg unlocks his front door and gestures for Sherlock to enter. The young man does, but comes to a stand still in the front entryway. "Living room's through there," Greg says with a nod in its general direction. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks. He's got water, juice and can make tea or coffee if Sherlock wants. The only response he gets is a small shake of the head. He sighs. "Well, I'm thirsty, be right back."
The moment Sherlock is left alone, he gets the strangest feeling. It's as if nothing exists outside this small space. The world beyond these walls feels as though it's just a fake memory dumped inside his head. He's still standing there, feeling disconnected when Greg returns, a glass of water in hand.
"Come on, Sherlock, you can't stand there all night." Greg's voice is gentle, but not to be ignored. It's the voice of a father who will brook no nonsense.
For some reason, the young man finds himself responding. He finally moves towards the living room, turning his back to Lestrade. He hears a small gasp behind him then Greg's soft, "God dammit." Sherlock turns, vaguely curious, but too wrung out to really care.
Greg shakes his head. "Christ, Sherlock. I should have noticed before, that's got to hurt." He lifts his hand to point in Sherlock's direction.
The young man wrinkles his brow, uncertain what Lestrade is going on about, then a stinging pain registers along the length of his back. Now he remembers scraping it as he slid down the wall in the alley. it hadn't mattered. It doesn't matter. What's a bit of skin? At worst, his body is his greatest weakness, drawing him to the pleasures of the flesh. At best, it's what? Transport. Yes, transport. That's all it is, all it can ever be. He looks at Lestrade. "It's just transport."
Greg rolls his eyes. "Get that shirt off. I'll get my kit." He walks to the loo and fetches the first aid kit, muttering about the stupidity of kids in general and the young man in the living room in particular. He can't help it, Sherlock may be in his late twenties, but he's still so frail from his past drug use and the broken way he looks makes him seem so much younger to Lestrade. He returns to the living room and sits on the sofa where Sherlock has perched, his bloodied hoodie in his lap. "Well, it could be worse," Greg comments, not expecting a response and not being disappointed. He starts cleaning the scrapes, applying antiseptic and here and there a plaster. He sighs, Sherlock has been entirely too quiet since he picked him up. Greg isn't one to pry, but he needs to know what's set this off. He retreats to a chair that faces the sofa and regards the bedraggled young man.
Sherlock is aware of the scrutiny and pulls his knees up to tuck them beneath his chin. He wraps his arms around his legs protectively, becoming a compact ball of angst.
Lestrade's not one to skirt the subject, so asks directly, "What's brought this on?"
Sherlock looks away, seemingly ashamed.
"Was it the drugs?" Greg sighs. The kid's been clean for a while, now, but he knows the craving never goes away, not entirely.
"It's not always about drugs," Sherlock spits, his voice full of venom. He cringes, hating the way he sounds. His mobile rings and he throws it across the room with enough force that it breaks. "Why won't he leave me alone!" Sherlock's voice breaks on the end of his shout and he falls over on his side, looking more like a lost child than ever before.
Lestrade is angry. He's beyond angry, he's livid. "Has someone hurt you Sherlock? Been abusing you?" He winces. The kid's proud, he should probably have phrased that differently. "Look, even the best of us can be tricked..."
Sherlock's shoulders are shaking. Greg starts to go to him, thinking that Sherlock is actually crying, then he realises that the kid is laughing. It's gallows humour he's sure, but he's laughing.
"It's my brother," Sherlock gasps out and his brief mirth is dying down to be replaced by clear bitterness. "He's the one that put me in rehab. Now he watches me constantly. It's smothering. I can't even have a nervous breakdown in peace." He smiles sardonically. "How can I tell him the world's gone black and pointless without him locking me away again?" In a quieter tone he murmurs, "I can't be locked away again."
Greg looks at Sherlock feeling lost. The only thing certain in his mind is the fact he will be there for the young man, whatever that entails.