Martha Hudson wasn't a landlady, or so she liked to tell herself. She didn't watch over the boys, and she didn't worry about them constantly whenever they went out for a case. And she wasn't a landlady.

But she did clean, otherwise no one would. And she did notice the spot by the window that seemed to be getting darker every time Sherlock was left alone. Today was one of those days, she had gone to the shops and John had gone on a date. Before she had left she had called out a quick goodbye, giving Sherlock her brightest smile, not missing the way his eyes dimmed and his shoulders hunched just slightly where he was squatting on the couch. She also noticed that John didn't.

She watched as the man, who was one of Sherlocks only friends, left with an almost giddy smile. Happy to be getting out for once, and she didn't want to leave. But they were running out of food, and although she wasn't a landlady, she knew that Sherlock would forget and John would be preoccupied with something. So, she did leave, her heart telling her not to go and her feet trying to way her down like iron. But she did go.

Sherlock knew he was getting worse, he knew the scars on his arms were mounting but the voices in his head wouldn't leave him alone, and that pit inside him seemed to fill with more pain with every step he took. The pain, the emotion, the feeling, it was slowly killing him, and he wanted it gone. He didn't need it, it was just a hindrance to his life and he couldn't stand the feeling of it crawling under his arms like worms trying to get out.

How long had he been alone for? "You're stupid if you don't know, well, you have always been the stupid one." Mycroft was being kind today.

He wanted to scream, but people would hear, and even if he did have emotions, he couldn't let other people know, they would think him weak. So, he didn't scream, and the worms turned into snakes, biting at every chance they got, tearing about his very being. Absently he looked for a distraction, anything to keep his mind occupied. Glancing at the bookcase he realized he had memorized everything and the copmuter held no interest. He sucked in a deep breath.

He wondered if Miss Hudson had found his stash again, he could really use a hit. "Huh, and in the meantime, could you please get that hand out of the oven!"

"It's for an experiment John!" He yelled, his voice horse and his head heavy as he sunk it into his hands.

"Well it's a waste of space, just like you." Sherlock drew in a long breath and stood off the couch. Where had he put the morphine again?

Slowly he made his way through the house, his hand absently scratching as his arm, trying to get the snakes to go away. He made it to his bedroom door before dropping, sliding to the ground and pretending that the morphine wasn't the only thing that could make him happy anymore.

"Emotions are useless anyway, best to be rid of them," Mycroft really was being chatting.

He began scratching even more, it was the only way to get them out.

Greg Lestrade wasn't the brightest person, not when you had met Sherlock and Mycroft and your world was being turned upside down. But he was a person, and he knew that he could help others if they ever asked, or rather, he could try. Like any person, he had suffered in life, of course some more than others and some less, but he knew pain and he knew that people sometimes did strange things to try and get rid of it. He still held the proof on his thighs.

Greg also, despite their differences liked to think of Sherlock as his friend, even though the man could be insensitive at times and generally an ass, he was a could man, a could friend.

That was why he was standing on the door step of 221B Baker street, two coffees, one in each hand. One just the way Sherlock liked, one just the way he liked it.

Miss Hudson had called him about an hour ago, asking him to come over, but not giving any reason. That was why he was currently standing in the freezing cold, jumping from leg to leg to try and conserve body heat.

The woman had sounded worried and he'd promised to come, but he had been standing at the door for ten minutes, waiting for someone to answer after he knocked. He hoped Sherlock hadn't started the drugs again, he knew that was the man's individual way of dealing with the pain of life. But, he also knew that no one know if the man had, no one except him.

Sighing, knowing no one would open the door, the detective pulled out an old key that the old Holmes had given him a long time ago.
The brother had been worried but hadn't said a word as he passed over the key, a small tag indicating the door it was for. Slowly he opened it, grumbling at the hassle. It was very like Sherlock to not answer the door.

"Sherlock!" He called out, making his way up the stairs. For some reason, he felt a hand crawling at him, trying to grab a hold of him and pull him up the stairs faster, to lead him somewhere. As this hand crawled he paused, it may not be breaking but he was entering without consent.

But it was Sherlock and the idiot wouldn't answer to anyone, so he pushed his worries away, letting other worries creep in. He remembered how the landlady has sounded on the phone. Rushed, apologetic, slightly distraught, tired, worried.

Greg's movements got just a fraction faster and just a bit more frantic.

He called out again as he made it to the top of the stairs, "Sherlock!"

There was a crashing sound, and the man could make out the faint sound of crying, he would freely admit to his worry now, and how he was running to get to the source of the noise.

Just outside of Sherlocks door he could spot a crumpled figure, a body curled into a ball and then he was by the man's, side, turning him over and pulling him into his lap as a pair of blank eyes rolled backwards.

"Sherlock!" his voice was frantic, he need the man to stay awake, he didn't want him to overdose on him.

Carefully he flipped the man's arm over, looking for the track marks to see how much he had done only to freeze, his eyes going wide.

The world seemed to stop around him, pain filled him as he glanced between the bloody red and the green dead eyes. "Sherlock," it was barely a whisper, but what was he meant to say. His friend was lying on the ground crying his eyes out with large scratched tearing up his arms.

The scars, so similar to his own, showed it wasn't the first time. "Shut up!" Sherlock yelled out, but his body didn't move, his eyes scrunched up and he curled into himself, "please, just shut up."

He was hearing things, things that were getting to him. He cursed and pulled the man closer, his own eyes having long ago lost the fight with the tears.

Letting them fall freely he carried the way to light Sherlock to his bed and wiped down the blood. They would talk when he woke. For now, he needed to clean the mess up and try to hide it, because as pain fall as it was, he knew Sherlock wouldn't want the others to know. He hadn't.

When Sherlock woke, he found himself in his bed, his arms carrying the familiar ache and his heart feeling refreshingly light. But, he was in his bed, and Lestrade was sitting next to the bed. He pretended to continue sleeping.

"Sherlock," the voice was tired, worried, but the man couldn't tell, did the detective no he was awake, or was he saying this to the sleeping body in hopes of releasing any guilt he felt over the situation.

It was obvious what had happened, Sherlock had been caught, and he felt this was a lot worse than drugs, but, it was so much more addictive then drugs as well.

"Sherlock," why did the man keep saying his name, was it to fill the silence that his presence always brought, or perhaps to try and get his attention, or, was it because he simply didn't know what else to say? "I know your awake… you don't have to talk, but I'm going too. And I hope you do."

Sherlock didn't want to talk, and even if he did, what was he meant to say. How was he meant to explain himself, what did Lestrade want from him? "Please don't tell anyone," great, now he couldn't feign being asleep, where had those words even come from. Why had he spoken. Silently he yelled at himself, I thought we agreed not to talk.

"Sherlock… when I was seventeen I also…" it was obviously hard for him to say, and how dare try and tell Sherlock something like that. He didn't want to know that he wasn't alone. He didn't want to know, even though his rational mind always yelled at him that it was true, that he wasn't the only one who was forced to do something so completely and utterly unlike him. If he pretended he was alone, he could also pretend he was okay, and that he wasn't dying inside.

"Shut up," he said, although it lacked any of the anger he felt. He gripped his blanket tighter. "Shut up." Barely a whisper but still heard, as Lestrade closed his opening mouth, hands gripping slightly on his thighs, waiting for… something. Sherlock didn't know what, but he sat there waiting. It didn't take long for the silence to get to him. "I've tried to stop."

"I know." The voice was gentle and Sherlock really didn't appreciate it.

He turned around and sat up straight in a great fit of anger, "how could you possible know?"

The man sighed, "Because your scars are worse than the injury itself."

Sherlock growled. "The voices won't shut up, the pain want stop building, and everyone is leaving me!" he sighed, his head falling into his hands. "I'm trying."
"I know."

John returned home six hours after he had gone out, it seemed his date had gone well too. He smiled brightly, and when he saw that Greg was over, sitting quietly in the kitchen across from Miss Hundson, a cup of coffee in his hands, his smile grew. "Hello!" He said happily as he pranced into the kitchen.

"Where Sherlock?"

"Oh, he's just sleeping dear," The landlady's kind hold voice replied happily.

"That's good, he hasn't been getting much sleep lately." John poured himself a cup of tea before walking happily to his room, noting absently that someone had mopped the hallway and making a note to thank Miss Hudson later.

He wondered why Greg had come over before brushing it off, it was probably just about a knew case. He was too happy to care, or too have noticed the look of worry in both his friend's eyes.

He was too oblivious to his friends pain.

I'm honestly not to sure about this. I feel like its trash compared to the other one and i wasn't really sure how Sherlock would respond to being found out, but... um, a review would be much appreciated. again, i feel like this is crap and I'm really sure how it is compared to the other one. Sorry if it is horrible and i just ruined the entire story.