I've never done this before, because I didn't realize the effect my words had on people, which really makes you think. What if you jokingly said something, that triggered one of your friends?

Anyway, trigger warning. Mentions of drug use, abuse, and sexual assault, as well as death, alcoholism, and depression.

Gregory Lestrade had had it with Sherlock Holmes.

Ten years prior, when he was only nineteen, Sherlock Holmes had wandered onto the crime scene Greg had been working on, high as a kite, rambling on about idiots, hairs on the coat, the wedding ring, and who in the office was sleeping with who.

Come to think of it, that was probably the reason why Anderson and Donovan hated him from the start.

He had been a genius, Greg could give him that, but he obviously had no idea how big of a gift he was wasting. And that was how Greg found him, lying in the sewer, shuddering, coughing, and gagging, inflicted with withdrawls.

Greg had taken him home, cleaned him up, and offered him a place to stay. One day after work, Greg had come home to find the young man, sitting on the floor of the living room, a pile of the cold cases from years back surrounding him.

"Your people in the task force are such a load of idiots. It was obvious that the gardener did it."

Greg, used to the man's antics by then, simply nodded. "You solved a few, then?"

"A few?! More like all of them!" The man heaved a sigh, exasperated, and rolled onto the floor. "These are from years ago. Don't you have any more? It gets awfully boring here, and you don't have any of the proper materials to conduct any good experiments."

Greg cocked an eyebrow. "You want to solve more cases? Like, what, a detective?"

"Yes, of course. But not one that works with the Yard. One who consults the Yard, sure, but not a detective appointed by the government."

"A consulting detective, eh?" Greg said thoughtfully. Sherlock perked up at this. "If you want to do that, help solve cases and such, you'll have to promise me one thing."

"What?" Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes.

Greg leveled his gaze at the man. "No more drugs. You'll have to stay clean for at least two weeks before I'll let you get any more cold cases, and a month for me to take you to a crime scene. You'll also have to prove you can live without me breathing down your neck, get your own flat, and what not."

Sherlock glared at him. "Fine."

So that's what happened. Sherlock moved out of Greg's flat, he stayed clean, he helped out with the cases, and solved all the ones thrown his way.

He met a girl, too. Greg didn't know her name, but Sherlock brought her to a few of the crime scenes. She was continuously fascinated with what Sherlock did, and he was nicer to the people at the Yard when he was with her.

Then she stopped coming. Sherlock had seemed disappointed at first, but when Greg questioned him, he said simply, "She's getting married."

Greg was surprised, at the fact that Sherlock was handling it so well, when he had obviously been smitten with her, and the fact that she wasn't getting married to Sherlock.

"Aren't you upset?"

Sherlock replied, "No. I love her, and that means wanting her to be happy. And if that means with someone else, then so be it."

Then, a year later, everything collapsed.

Sherlock didn't answer his texts. He didn't answer his phone. Greg started to panic. After the third day, he decided to go see Sherlock himself.

When he arrived at the small flat, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. There was usually an experiment running, or Sherlock's mad pacing, or the sound of the violin. It was never silent.

Greg raced into the living room. Sitting there, on the sofa, in old pajamas, wrapped in his bathrobe, clearly a mess, was Sherlock. He didn't respond to the waving of the DI's hands in front of his face, nor did he respond to the calling of his name.

Greg didn't give up, though. Sherlock wasn't high. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't even bored. If he was, he'd be rambling on like hell.

Sherlock Holmes was depressed.

"He's been like that for three days." A kindly voice said from behind the older man. He turned to see an older woman, dressed in old-fashioned clothing the color of emeralds.

She shook her head. "The poor boy is torn up inside. His dearest friend and her fiancé were killed three days ago. He hasn't spoken since."

Greg nodded mutely. He stared at the young man, pity filling his heart. It must've been that girl. She was the only person I ever saw make Sherlock truly happy.

He looked back at the woman, as she began to speak again.

"My dear Detective Inspector, I do hope you can keep an eye on Mr. Holmes. If he were to do anything he would regret later, I'm sure you can imagine the consequences."

He nodded. He looked at Sherlock one more time, than turned back to the woman, but she was gone.

Sherlock had broken his promise. The next day, he had taken out that small wooden box. The one that contained what Greg dreaded most: Sherlock's needles. He knew, with Sherlock's connections, that it was fairly easy to get cocaine, and he knew that Sherlock wasn't in his right mind.

But he also knew that he had gotten there too late. When Greg had arrived at the flat, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock in a ball, on the floor. He was disappointed, however, especially since he had been clean for five years.

And so the process started over again.

Greg took Sherlock back to his flat. He cleaned him up, he fed him, he made a bed for him on the sofa. But this time was harder. Every few months, after Sherlock would start to get his life back together again, he would fall into temptation, and out came the needles.

After three years, Sherlock finally managed to get clean enough to move out. He found a flat, he found a flatmate. John became his part-time assistant, as well as caretaker and friend.

A year passed. Sherlock had stayed clean. John had had a few girlfriends. Crimes were being solved.

And then they got a big case.

A serial killer was on the loose. One who liked to torture his victims by dripping water down their faces, playing unnerving, haunting music, and, sometimes, physically or sextually abusing them. And his favorite choice of victim? Teenaged girls.

The last victim had been a fifteen year old. Punk. Blue and purple hair. Abusive, alcoholic stepfather, mother on drugs. She left the house after being attacked by her drunk father, hoping to spend the night at a friend's house. She never got there.

Her body had turned up in a town in Surrey, in a dumpster, near a park. Greg had asked each of his officers to ask around, find out any information on the girl, see if she was a local.

He asked John and Sherlock to help, too. They interviewed the residents who lived closest to the park.

And that's how Sherlock Holmes arrived at Privet Drive.

Yay!

They made it to Privet Drive!

Please review, it really makes my day!

Stay in school, drink your milk, and don't stay up until 4:15 am writing fafiction.

Love,
mems1223