Fair warning: I did the feelings. Boy did I. I'll warn you for past abuse/abusive relationships. It's not between Sherlock and Greg.

"Stop acting like I've hit your mother. You know, it really doesn't concern you."

"Yes is bloody does. Who do you think is going to pick up the pieces when the freak breaks your heart? Dimmock? No. It's me. It's always me. Who came over and drank with you the night you and your wife split up for good? Hmm? Who brought you food when you were too listless to even leave the house? I'm the one that has to put up with you, even if you're miserable to be around. So I'd rather you not be miserable."

Greg's grip on the steering wheel tightened. Deep breaths. Really, most of the time, Sally had her heart in the right place. He didn't want to yell at her any more than he already had. But she wasn't making it particularly easy.

"You must know he's using you," she said flatly.

"He's not."

"Come on. All he wants is to hang around gory crime scenes. Keeping you happy is the best way to ensure that happens."

"I let him around the crime scenes long before we started shagging," Greg snapped.

"Yeah. But I bet you call him a lot more often now. I bet he just hangs around until something interesting happens so he can tag along. He's what, twenty years younger than you? Do you think it would really be difficult for him to find somebody his own age to fuck if that's all he wanted?"

"It's thirteen years. I'm not that old."

"He's a psychopath. He doesn't even have emotions. It's not healthy, Lestrade."

"Fuck off, Sally."

"I just… I really don't want to see you get hurt again."

They sat in silence. The words stung. Because god, they were easy to believe. Greg often found himself wondering exactly what Sherlock saw in him. Why somebody so utterly gorgeous would waste their time with an aging, divorced detective.

But it couldn't be true… could it?

If Sherlock just wanted to see crime scenes, he could have found other ways to go about it. Hell, Greg tried to resist Sherlock's advances for a long bloody time. The whole thing was Sherlock's idea. Greg had just gone along for the ride…

"Be careful, all right?" Sally sighed. "I guess that's all I can really say. I'll keep quiet about it. But when this all blows up in your face, don't come crying to me."

"I'm a big boy. I think I can take care of myself," Greg snorted.

Something in his chest still ached. Even as they pulled up in front of the Yard… the worry began to grow.

When Greg got home, at exactly six o'clock, Sherlock wasn't there. He called Sherlock's mobile. It rang out repeatedly with no answer. With anyone else, Greg would have left it alone. He would have figured they just needed a bit of space. But with Sherlock… he couldn't help but worry.

The young man tended towards self-destructive behavior. When he got upset he lashed out, or went on a bender.

Greg had helped Sherlock move some of his things into the new flat, so he knew how to get there. He caught a cab.

He dreaded what state he might find Sherlock in. Then he worried he might not find Sherlock at his flat at all.

The ride took ages, and still felt too quick. He paid the cabbie and got out in front of a dumpy little building. There wasn't a lift. He took the stairs to the third floor two at a time.

Sherlock had given him a spare key while they were moving furniture. Greg still knocked and waited a few minutes before he slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

"Sherlock?" He called into the dark flat.

There was no response. Greg slid his hand across the wall next to the door until he found the light switch and flicked it on.

Sherlock was sprawled across the couch. He groaned, and pressed his face into the cushions, trying to avoid the light.

Greg closed the door behind him. A small bag full of white powder sat on the coffee table. Along with a bottle of whiskey that was about a third empty. He let out a long sigh.

First, he went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water. He brought it with him as he approached the couch, Holding it in front of him, almost like a shield.

He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder gently. The younger man did not roll over. He just lay there on his stomach. Listless.

Greg slid his hand upwards to Sherlock's neck, just to take his pulse. Greg looked at his watch and counted each beat. A little fast, but still within a normal range. Sherlock didn't smell like vomit. No tremors or irregular breathing.

At least he hadn't overdosed.

"Sherlock," Greg said quietly, "I think you should probably drink some water."

"Go away," the younger man mumbled.

"Do you really want me to leave, or do you just feel like being difficult?" Greg maintained a calm, even voice. Sometimes, dealing with Sherlock was a hell of a lot like dealing with a distant teenager. He didn't really want to parse what that meant about their relationship.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at Greg with glazed over eyes. There was a trail of dried, white mucus under his nose. Greg resisted the impulse to wet his thumb and rub it off.

"You've got something there," he brushed a finger under his own nose.

Sherlock just continued to stare at him. He accepted the glass of water when Greg pressed it into his hand. He drained it, and slumped back down, rolling onto his side.

"You should probably listen to whatever Sally Donovan told you," Sherlock said, in a thick, tired voice. "Cut your losses now."

"How many times are we going to have this conversation before you realize that I don't want anybody besides you?" Greg sat down on the floor so he and Sherlock were at eye level. "Now would you like to tell me why you're upset?"

"I'm not upset."

"So you relapsed for no reason at all?"

"The fact that I really enjoy cocaine isn't reason enough?"

"Well, last time you did this, you were angry at your brother. And now it seems that you're angry with me. If that's the case, I'd rather you talk about it than do more drugs."

Sherlock blinked a few times. "I've been informed that I say horrible things on a comedown. You should go."

"If I leave, are you going to do more drugs?"

"Probably."

Greg glanced at the whiskey and the bag of powder behind him. Whenever he'd seen Sherlock like this before, he'd been more energetic. But perhaps the mix of the alcohol had done it. He stood up and grabbed the bag.

"I'm going to get rid of this," he said quietly.

He waited for Sherlock to say something, but the younger man didn't. Greg walked through the flat, to the closet-sized bathroom and threw the bag in the toilet. He flushed it. He pondered pouring the whiskey out as well. But it seemed like a less immediate threat, since Sherlock didn't normally drink. Perhaps he'd take it with him, whenever he went.

Greg returned to the living room. Sherlock had rolled into a seated position. Greg sat down across the couch from him.

"So come on," Greg said flatly. "Talk to me. Yell at me. I don't care. I just—well I can't help if I don't know what's going on."

Sherlock sat quietly, looking at some vague point in the distance. Time stretched out long and tense. Greg pondered breaking the silence again, but thought better of it. Eventually, Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floor in front of him and he started to speak.

"When I saw how panicked you looked the second that Sally walked in… you reminded me of someone else."

"I see," Greg nodded.

"You don't."

"Well, tell me."

"It's a long story. It doesn't matter."

"Obviously it does."

Sherlock took a shaky breath. His hands gripped the edge of the sofa cushion. "My old producer. I met him when I was seventeen. He was thirty and already married. Said he loved me, of course. Didn't even tell me he had a wife until we'd already been fucking for a year. When all my income was from his videos and I—I couldn't get away. Of course, I was stupid. He probably slept with all of his stars but…"

Greg felt slightly sick. It all started to slide together in his head. Sherlock's distance. His insecurity. All the walls he'd built up around himself. He reached across the couch, but Sherlock shied away from his touch.

"I was—well I got infatuated with the wrong person, obviously. If I had thought it all through for just a moment, I would have realized I was being an idiot. And then his wife found out about me—she walked in on us one day—and he had that same expression on his face that you had when Sally walked in. It just reminded me. I've tried to delete it but it always comes back."

"Sherlock," Greg started, "none of that was your fault. I mean, he was taking advantage—"

"Stop. You said you wanted me to talk and I'm not finished," Sherlock snapped. He took a few deep breaths. He trembled slightly. But his eyes remained dry. "You didn't do anything wrong. I'm not angry with you. I just… this can't work, Lestrade. I know I said I wanted to try but I can't. I think about you all the time, even when I don't want to. I can't sleep unless I'm pressed up against you. I miss you when I go for more than a few days without seeing you. I'm…" Sherlock gulped down a sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "I don't want to feel this way. It's like feeling sick, but I just want to go deeper and deeper into it. I ache—physically—when I think about you touching me, because I want it so badly and… why do people talk about falling in love like it's a great thing? It's horrible. It's wretched. I hate it and I can't do this."

Greg sat there, stunned.

"Did you just…" he paused, and started again, "Sherlock, did you just say you loved me?"

"You would pick that out of everything else I just said," Sherlock slumped against the couch and turned away.

Greg moved to sit next to him. This time when he rested a hand on Sherlock's thigh, the younger man didn't squirm away.

"You know that I love you too, right?" Greg said softly.

"And it's a feat of idiocy I hadn't previously though mankind was capable of. I keep waiting for you to realize how ridiculous you're being, and you don't. I'm a sociopath."

"A sociopath that loves me? I could get used to that."

"You're not listening. I just told you I don't want to do this anymore."

"Because you don't like having feelings for somebody?"

Sherlock stayed silent. Didn't push Greg away. Just went blank. Somehow, that was harder to deal with. You can't fight against nothing. You can't really hold onto nothing either.

"Sherlock..." Greg said quietly, "I know you've been through a lot. Probably stuff that I can't understand, even if I try. I mean, with your brain... you're so clever, I can only imagine it made things that much harder to deal with. But just because you're a genius, it doesn't mean that you can't be vulnerable. And just because you repress things, it doesn't actually make them go away. Maybe you really don't want my help. I could see why. I mean, everybody's got to make a choice about wanting to be safe and wanting to be happy. A lot of people chose to be safe. But if you let me... well, I'd love you. So much. I'd never hurt you. I just..." Greg trailed off, tried to collect himself. He knew he was babbling. Trying to catch smoke before it dissipated. Sherlock probably wasn't listening.

"That's not how this will end," Sherlock mumbled. "We'll both be miserable. It's not a choice between security and happiness... it's a choice between whether I want to break your heart now or later."

"But why does it have to end?"

"Everything does. Everything dies. People grow tired of each other and stay in toxic relationships to avoid feeling lonely. It's the natural order of things."

"Well, I think caring about other people is worth the pain at the end. Because there's nothing in the world that's more beautiful than being in love."

"You should put that on a hallmark card with all the other sentimental drivel idiots spout at each other," Sherlock's breath caught. His blank expression slipped. He stared down at the ground. Breathing a bit faster.

"It's not drivel. I mean it. I don't care if we grow old together, or if you leave me in a month, or even if you end this right now. I haven't regretted a single moment that I've spent with you. I love you. And that makes it all worthwhile."

"Stop."

"Never."

Greg draped an arm around Sherlock. The younger man stiffened. Time dragged, almost at a standstill. Then Sherlock leaned into him, pressing his face into Greg's shoulder.

"I still don't like feeling this way... helpless..." Sherlock mumbled.

"I know. But that's just part of it."

"Will it ever stop?"

"I think it changes over time. Like a fire, that burns white hot and gradually tapers off to a comfortable smoldering."

Sherlock didn't reply. He wrapped his arms around Greg. Clinging to him.

Greg didn't know how long they stayed like that. Tangled up in each other on Sherlock's couch. But the longer they stayed there, the less frantic he felt. It was a strange place to occupy. Fleeting impermanence.

After a while, Greg reached up and began slowly running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The younger man snorted. Muttering something like, I'm not your pet. But then he yawned. He relaxed slightly.

Perhaps things weren't exactly fixed. Greg didn't harbor any illusions that everything would suddenly be all right.

But if Sherlock didn't run away and cut Greg out of his life completely, they could build something out of this. Something stable, even if everything seemed precarious right then.

Fun fact. I was going to post this yesterday. But then I didn't read the label on my antibiotics. I got drunk, to finish writing, as usual. Turns out when mixed with alcohol, the medication I'm on causes severe reactions.

So not only did I get black out drunk from what would normally make me comfortably tipsy, I passed out, woke up a few hours later, and spent the rest of the night puking, on the phone with poison control, trying to establish wether or not I should go to the ER.

Yep.

I'm a failure at life and I couldn't even go to school today. Instead I re-watched Supernatural and Sherlock and drank small amounts of water because my stomach is still fucked.

You didn't need to know all that. But I told you anyway.

It's my roundabout way of excusing my lateness in posting this.