After Victor left the Holmes household, Sherlock was left feeling more than a little bit betrayed by his elder brother. What gave him the right to order his friends around and create loneliness in the already isolated life he led? Still, there was something definitely off with Victor, he was being secretive, moody and evasive. Sherlock had worked out that he was a liar long ago, the tell lines round his eyes were enough to inform him of that. Mentally he went to Vic's room in his mind palace, sorting through all the information he held on the boy.

Aged 17

Popular with girls and peers due to athletic status

One cat, one dog. Yorkshire terrier and a Persian

Liar- habitual and maintained

Sportsman

Strong (both in mind and muscle power)

Academically stable although nothing astounding

Helpful – however less so in the last few weeks

Always long sleeves and collars – possibly to hide self harm or abuse.

Hardly ever mentions father except in relation to medicines and treatment

Talks of father buying in extra stocks of...oh.

That was it, what was so off about Victor, his father, the upstanding surgeon, was smuggling drugs. Now all that remained was to discover where he was getting his supply from and cut it off, then he would have his friend back for good.

Mycroft watched as his younger brother tore about the house looking for books on opiates and illicit substances, he couldn't say that he wasn't worried, but he trusted Sherlock enough not to get into something that would be dangerous or life threatening. Who was he kidding; he didn't trust him as far as he could throw him. Throughout the day he watched as Sherlock made ready to undertake his "case." Mycroft had assumed this had something to do with Victor, although he couldn't pin point what.

Sherlock was ready, armed with a torch and one of his brothers not so carefully hidden knives, everyone knew it was in his umbrella, he set out toward Victors modest house, tiny and insignificant compared to Holmes manor it would have been easy to miss had it not been for Vic's distinctive sky blue bike leaning against the gate. Sherlock had calculated exactly when Victor would leave to meet his dealer, observing his conversations at school and his various other tells and habits. Idly Sherlock picked at the skin of his fingers, he had mixed feelings about his participation in this scheme, on one hand he would be saving his friend from a life of drug addled abuse, on the other he was entering the underbelly of London's drug trade, a dangerous place to be.

Suddenly there was movement at one of the darkened windows of the house, a rustling of the curtains and a furtive dash of the shutters. Sherlock observed as someone stealthily made there way downstairs. There was silence for a moment whilst whomever it was collected themselves to sneak out of the house unnoticed. A figure appeared at the door, crossing over toward the bike. It was time to catch a drug dealer.

Mycroft was unconcerned when he heard Sherlock leaving the house, it was not uncommon for his younger sibling to go for walks late at night, it was a well known fact that Sherlock hardly ever slept. Chalking it up to his brother going for a walk round Hyde Park Mycroft sat down at his desk, ready to immerse himself in some more important documents.

Sherlock quickly took after the boy, making sure to stay out of his sightline; it wouldn't do to get caught by an already volatile Victor, tapping into his phone he dialled the police to report an incident, after all, there was a lot at stake. It was clear that his father was using Vic as a drug runner, sending him on errands to get his supply. When Sherlock realised this he felt a pang of what many would call sympathy, after all, his father hadn't exactly been a bed of roses with his drinking and such.

Suddenly Victor stopped turning off onto a rather desolate looking street, the wind whistled against the broken chimney pots and half, hinge hung doors. Victor turned into the drive of a particularly derelict looking property and proceeded to abandon his bike at the door. Now was his chance, shouting Sherlock emerged from behind a bush, hoping to catch him before the door opened, with a wide eyed stare Victor gaped at Sherlock, why was he here? How had he found out?

Sherlock reached the doorway just as Victor began to speak, they were both cut off by a gruff, burly man who opened the door for them.

"Now, now kiddies, come on in, you'll catch your death out there!"

The man smiled, his golden fillings glinting in the pale moonlight, reflecting against the cold onyx of his eyes. Victor looked at Sherlock, how could he have been so stupid, surely he knew what he was dealing with here?

Sherlock gulped back his sudden nausea, this was far worse than expected, pale shadows littered the hallways as he stepped over their groaning appendages and listened to their weary cries, not one dealer, not one person, a den, a vile lions den of deceit and decrepit wasted lives. And both he and Vic were the prey. Quickly scanning the room that they had been led into, Sherlock felt a sort of dread wash over him: there was no escape, all windows were closed and bolted and the door was effectively blocked by junkies. For once in his short life Sherlock felt scared, he couldn't have cared less about his own safety but having Vic standing next to him, visibly sweating and shaking was enough to chill his very soul. Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage, it achieved nothing but hurt and pain, Sherlock made a vow never to let anyone close to him again, lest they be harmed in any way. One thing that Sherlock was not was a coward. He would stand by Victor, even if it cost him is life.