Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock, The Great Game and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD.

A/N: Normally, I would apologise for the update being so horrendously overdue BUT this time wasn't my fault and had nothing to do with me being lazy or stuck for ideas. No, dear readers, this time was entirely due to some b****** breaking into my flat and taking my PC while I was out celebrating the end of my first year of uni. Fortunately, for me, all of my possessions were packed in boxes and stored in my car ready for moving out the next day so all they really took was my laptop. Unfortunately for me (and you, I guess if you were waiting for it), my laptop had the only copy of my completed update for this story which was ready and waiting for me to do it ASAP. So to cut a long story short(ish), the time between updates was because I am going to have to totally rewrite the updates for this story (and a few others which had yet to be published) and move home from uni etc. Funnily enough, by the time I wrote this update, I couldn't recall anything from my first version of it and it's taken me in a totally different and slightly darker direction than I intended. Hopefully, my muse will return soon and I will be able to return to the shameless H/C fluff that this was meant to be – I think if I continue in this vein, Sherlock'll be joining Moriarty by the end of the month! D:

Thanks to all of the reviewers from the last chapter – I was thrilled with all the positivity and some of you putting in CC too so that was awesome too. I think there's a different feel to this chapter but hopefully it still works as a continuation.

Anyway, enjoy (hopefully) and any and all reviews are much appreciated and usually responded to in some way. Oh and quick shout out to Elinix, hopefully this chapter answers a few of your questions but if not then hopefully the next one should!

Oh and there's quite a lot of swearing but it's only 'bl**dy' so I wouldn't have thought it would bother too many people, just a quick warning though. Oh and mild references to drugs…obviously.

"Sir!"

Again, Lestrade and John's eyes met.

"It stops being pretend if we find anything."

For a moment, it seemed as though nobody even breathed. Lestrade lowered his gaze to the top of Sherlock's head, clenching his jaw hard before returning his eyes to John. John looked calm, as always, but he raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed hard. Together, they turned towards the kitchen door where Sally Donavon stood clutching a small, dark box. Shooting one sideways look back at Sherlock, Lestrade wandered reluctantly over to her.

"What have you got?"

Donavon bit her lip, seeming oddly (for her) reluctant to hand it over. Anderson on the other hand, had no such problem. He snatched the box out of her hands and thrust it into Lestrade's before Donavon could answer.

"Open it!" He commanded excitedly. If Lestrade did not know better, he might have wondered whether Anderson had been sampling the box's contents himself. The man was completely unable to contain himself, he actually seemed to be bouncing on his heels – in fact several times, it seemed as though he would reach out and open the box for the DI himself if Lestrade didn't hurry up – every inch of him seemed to tremble with sadistic glee.

Lestrade eyed the box hatefully, turning it over in his hands. "Right, clear out the rest of you," He barked to the flat at large. "Go back to your real jobs before I report you!" As his self-volunteered team shuffled out muttering about 'The Freak', Lestrade contemplated the box in his hands. It wasn't much to look at, dark chestnut wood with gold edging, a few chunks missing here and there, scratches over every surface and plenty of damage around the catch – he didn't need Sherlock to spell it out for him, he'd been in this division too long to not recognise the signs when he saw them. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd seen this particular box; though he had been beginning to believe he would never have to see it again.

"Sir," Anderson's urging voice brought him out of his contemplations. "Open it!"

Lestrade's finger played with the lock and catch – the catch was old, but the lock was new. That was weird, why was that weird? His inner voice was beginning to sound a bit like Sherlock, he mused. He was very aware that all eyes were on him, watching for his next move. He glanced back at John and Sherlock, John stood watching, with his hand still gripping Sherlock's shoulder – even from a distance, it looked painfully tight. Sherlock still sat with his head in his hands, eyes averted, elbows on knees, body as taut as the strings of his beloved violin.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Key?"

Donovan handed over a tiny gold key, the Christmas cracker kind. "Right on top of the box."

"Where'd you find it?" He was putting off the inevitable, he knew that. But, after four years of him being clean, Lestrade wasn't ready to open that box and find what he knew was inside of it just yet.

Donovan grimaced but answered in her usual casual tone. "Medicine cupboard. Right next to the pain killers and the hay fever stuff."

"What it wasn't even hidden?" Lestrade's disbelief was evident.

Donovan shook her head. "We'd have found it sooner but…" She trailed off, before finishing apologetically "But, well, it's always there."

Lestrade looked up sharply at her words. "What d'you mean 'it's always there'? If it's always there why haven't we found it before?" Donovan opened her mouth, closed it then shrugged, seemingly lost for an excuse. Lestrade startled at someone clearing their throat next to him and turned to find John standing to his right.

"That's um, that isn't drugs," Relief and a more than a hint of amusement mingled in his voice. "It's for his…thinking," he was met with two police officers and a pathologist looking very blankly at him, John sighed exasperatedly. "Oh God, it's nicotine patches and stuff like that! He doesn't even smoke," he turned to address Lestrade "I told you you wouldn't find anything."

Any hopes Lestrade might have raised from John's words were immediately crushed by Donovan clearing her throat and nodding pointedly at the box. Realising he couldn't delay any longer, Lestrade unlocked the flimsy little padlock and flipped the catch upwards. The three others leaned in in order to get better looks at the box's contents. Bracing himself, Lestrade made to open the box.

"Don't." Four heads swivelled in Sherlock's direction. He had barely moved and was not looking at them, although he had raised his head and now sat with only his chin resting on his clasped hands. He gazed unseeingly ahead of him – in fact, had the others not reacted too, Lestrade might have thought he had imagined the voice.

"Why not?" Anderson asked indignantly, and a trifle loudly – it seemed he had been forcing himself to be silent for too long. "Why on Earth wouldn't we open it?"

"Because you all already know what's in it." It spoke volumes that Sherlock did not so much as attempt an insult on Anderson. He spoke calmly but Lestrade rather thought he detected a touch of resignation in the younger man's voice, it sounded hoarse – as if the very act of speaking was paining him.

"Erm, I don't," John raised his good arm in case Sherlock was in any doubt. "I don't know what's in it. You know, me? Your flat mate?" Sherlock's gaze flicked briefly to John's, down to the floor, back again. "Oh my God." John muttered. "I take it it's not nicotine patches then?" He licked his lips and nodded despairingly. "Brilliant. That's just bloody…brilliant, isn't it?" He turned to Lestrade and Donovan who seemed to be awaiting his instructions. "Oh, go ahead! Open it."

Lestrade held his breath, and reluctantly opened the small box. Each person's reaction it seemed, though simultaneous, was completely different. Donovan clenched her jaw and watched Lestrade searchingly but remained otherwise unmoved. Anderson remained silent but gave a funny sort of jump into the air crossed with a silent cheer – had John been watching he would have been forcibly reminded of Sherlock on realising there was a new serial killer about ("It's Christmas!"). Lestrade swallowed convulsively, nodding and closing the lid with a loud snap that he was glad to notice made Sherlock flinch almost imperceptibly. John, on the other hand, was far more vocal.

"BLOODY HELL, SHERLOCK! There's enough bloody smack in here to take down a bloody elephant!" Had it not been such a serious situation, Lestrade might have laughed.

"Are you going to arrest him?"

"What do you think?" Lestrade heaved a sigh and they both glanced at the younger man through the glass door of the kitchen. "I can't not arrest him," John shot him a look and he added defensively "Well, I don't want to! Donavon'll keep quiet if I ask but…well, Anderson'll cause trouble."

"You're the one that brought him along." John pointed out unsympathetically.

"Well yeah, for a laugh – I didn't think we'd actually find anything, did I?"

"Why do you do them then?" John demanded exasperatedly. Lestrade looked blankly at him. "The drug busts! If you don't think you'll find anything then why do it?

"You know why! He can't just hide evidence from me, they're my bloody cases!"

"He gives it back eventually," Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Most of the time." John amended. "Anyway, most of the stuff he nicks you couldn't use in court so why –"

"He works the stuff out then doesn't tell me for days!"

"He doesn't have to tell you at all, it's your job, Greg! He tells you eventually, what difference does a day make?"

"You're starting to sound just like him, you know that?" Lestrade remarked coolly. "It matters 'cause while Sherlock's off doing whatever it is Sherlock does when he's deliberately withholding stuff, people die!"

John paused. "There's been another?"

"Not this time, no," Lestrade conceded wearily. "This one was just for fun."

"Yeah, it's all fun and games between you two until one of you ends up in prison."

"He's not gonna go to prison. It's a first offence, there'll be a trial but he'll come out with a massive fine and a slap on the wrist." John looked doubtful but nodded at Lestrade's reassurances.

"Hang on," John said suddenly, "how can it be a first offence? You knew when I first met you that he'd done stuff before."

"He was a kid, I never charged him." Lestrade shrugged. John looked as though he might inquire further but Lestrade interrupted. "What am I meant to do, John? I can't charge him."

"I thought you said he wouldn't go to prison."

"He won't," Lestrade assured him with a wave of his hand, "but I can't keep having him consult on cases with that on his record. I mean, it's unofficial but that doesn't mean people don't know about him – I could lose my job as it is, if people find out he's a junkie that's it!" Suddenly, Lestrade leapt up from his seat and strode into the lounge.

Sherlock's pale gaze followed them as they entered the room; he sat with his chin rested on top of his knees, legs tucked up to his chest. John took up his usual armchair, allowing Lestrade to take the floor – this was, after all, a legal matter more than a medical one although John was more than a trifle concerned at the prospect of Sherlock having been able to hide a drug habit from him for…what? At least a month?

Sherlock watched John appraisingly before slowly returning his gaze to the inspector who was pacing and shooting looks of mingled disappointment and fury. Finally, he stopped and turned to Sherlock, finally after several false starts, he asked shortly "Are you using again?"

John couldn't help but feel the answer was fairly obvious given what they had discovered in the flat and which now lay on the coffee table between them. Sherlock apparently agreed with John that the question (or perhaps Lestrade himself) was not worth his attention, preferring to look disinterestedly out the window.

"Sherlock." John said impatiently.

Sherlock regarded Lestrade, eyes narrowed. "Would it matter?" He barely flinched when, in answer, Lestrade grabbed and hurled the box of drugs at him.

All three of them stared at the box, Lestrade breathing heavily. Finally, he repeated in a low, oddly hollow voice "Sherlock, are you using?"

"No." Sherlock ground out tightly.

"I could examine you, if you're…if you're lying." John murmured, not looking at Sherlock.

"Try." Even Lestrade, who was used to hearing that voice looked startled at hearing the vicious tone in Sherlock's voice – particularly as it was being directed at John.

It was funny but since The Pool, John had seen an increase in occasions when he found the idea of Sherlock actually being a sociopath completely ludicrous; there had also been an increase in instances where the idea didn't sound so unlikely after all. The cold condescension in his colleague/friend's voice reminded him vividly of Moriarty; this occasion was definitely beginning to fall into the latter category.

"Look, I…" Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably as the younger man's cold gaze returned to him. "Of course it makes a difference – we had a deal, Sherlock!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, John almost thought he saw a flicker of something in his flatmate's otherwise icy gaze.

"Yes, well…if you've quite finished, I have a case to be getting on with." He drawled.

"Finished?" Sputtered Lestrade "No! I haven't bloody…it's my case actually! And no, I haven't finished! Sherlock, this is serious!"

Sherlock's eyes took on a sadistic, knowing gleam. "Going to arrest me, Detective Inspector?" Condescension dripped from the job title. Lestrade flushed, his jaw clenching. Seeing this, Sherlock smirked maliciously.

"That's it, I'm calling Mycroft!" Sherlock's face fell instantly at John's words.

"What?"