Christened James Hugo Grant, the boy was a lover of all things in demand. Money, so he could spend it, weed, so he could smoke it, and cigarettes, to impress the pretty girls in his year.

He was only fourteen, but he was a rogue.

He kept this secret from his parents. He felt no guilt whatsoever, for he was quite handsome, consistently achieved good grades in school, and had many a friend to spend time partying with.

He went to a lot of parties in London. He was tall for his age, and looked older than he was, so he could often sneak into clubs, and bars, and wangle a beer or two from the owners of the local pubs. He had escaped from the police a couple of times.

He could befriend anyone, to use to his advantage. He considered this his greatest strength, and it made him arrogant.

There was a freedom in caring for no one but yourself.

So, on a randomly selected Sunday in April, he decided to tell his parents another lie, push the limit. They were none the wiser, instead praising him for seeing his friend.

Henry, James' closest friend, knew what he was up to. They texted frequently.

So when the police came knocking on Henry's door the day after, he stuck to his story, honoured his loyalty to his friend, despite the fact that by lying to the police, he was risking going to prison. He wanted to do the right thing – he had good intentions.

No one knew that the police wanted to search James' phone, including Henry, but he certainly had questions.

A quick glance at 'The Science of Deduction' gave him the address of the detective, and, throwing his keys, money and phone into his backpack, set out the morning of Wednesday the 5th to talk to the detective himself. The cheapest route was the line 30 bus, which, (he consulted his map app) would take him around an hour. He grabbed his earphones, put them on, and left his house in Highbury.

The bus stopped many times over the course of the hour. He waited, frustrated, and opened his phone.

Going to see that dickhead detective.

Are you crazy?! was the response from his girlfriend, Helen. She was always sensible, and he trusted her.

Did you see the news? He was at the crime scene. He knows something.

You're overthinking it.

And you just love it, don't you.

Shut up. Don't do something stupid.

Affirmative.

He grinned, then switched his phone off. 221B awaited.

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

The sign threw the boy off, and he stood staring at it momentarily before lifting his hand and knocking, hard and thrice, so as to make his presence known. He heard a noise and looked up curiously. The curtain drew swiftly.

Alright, the boy thought, I have to get his attention somehow.

There was shingle around the front of the house, so he picked up one of the stones and hurled it at the window.

Sherlock opened the window, and called out,

"What do you want?"

It was obvious to anyone who knew the man was that he disliked children intensely. Henry either knew this and didn't care, or he revelled in generally being a nuisance to everyone.

"Where's James?"

Sherlock shut the window, then seconds later he opened the front door.

"Who are you?" He inquired.

"Henry Smith." The boy stated confidently.

"...Alright. I asked you before – what is it you want from me? I'm trying my best."

"Cleary not enough." Henry said, and he pushed past Sherlock into the building. Sherlock repressed his dislike, and followed Henry up to his flat.

"This is how Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, lives?" He scrunched his nose in disapproval. "What on earth is that?!"

"A skull."

"Uh huh."

Sherlock, determined not to be outwitted by a teenager, sat back in his chair, sipped his (now cold) tea, and crossed his arms.

"It's very dear to me. My landlady keeps hiding it though..."

"You're weird."

"I know, thank you."

"Thank you? God, you're really up yourself."

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. He would never understand young people; even when he was one he felt out of place. He took a deep breath, and tried another tactic.

"You care about your friend, don't you?" He asked, holding his chin high.

"Of course. James is my best mate."

"...I.. I can't help you."

Henry looked like he was about to protest, so Sherlock interjected, "You really have no idea what happened on Sunday night?"

The teenager looked visibly uncomfortable.

"You can tell me," the detective said gently.

Silence. Fidgeting. More silence. More fidgeting. Then,

"James wanted to do a runner. He gets carried away, it's not his fault. I swear, all he does is drink, and smoke, and, well, you know." He gestured awkwardly with his hand. Sherlock rapidly put up a hand to stop him, knowing exactly what he meant.

"Yes, yes, I understand." Sherlock looked at the boy, once, and got up from his chair. He wanted to change the subject quickly.

"I don't have much in terms of food, however, I can supply you with a cup of tea. My friend John..." He stopped himself. "Well, John likes tea. He always made it when he used to live here. I suppose I took that for granted..."

Henry went and sat on the sofa. "John. You mean John Watson?"

"What other John..." Sherlock muttered, then collected himself. "Yes, John Watson. He's my best friend." And he filled the kettle with water and flicked the switch, listening for the sound of bubbles.

"James... he's reckless. He doesn't give a shit if others say things about him. He's talked about Moriarty being 'brilliant' for years now..."

Sherlock felt dread, lukewarm and beckoning, writhe in his stomach. "Go on..."

"Look, I know he was a bad person. But you have to admit, he had something going for him – being that careless...I don't think James could help idolising him a little."

Sherlock stopped loading the mug with a teabag and turned to face Henry.

"That was a good deduction."

"Thanks." Henry grinned. Cleary the boy was used to compliments.

Sherlock smiled, once, then turned back to the kettle. "Do you take sugar?"

"Just one."

"Got it." And he spooned in a teaspoon of sugar.

"Cheers."

The detective opened the bin and carefully threw the teabag in there.

Henry waited patiently on the sofa, looking around.

"You have a very odd flat." He remarked.

"Are you just going to insult me into giving you information?" Sherlock bit back.

"No..." Henry said, offended. "Just making an observation." And he took the mug from Sherlock's hand.

"Oh, well.." The man muttered. "I suppose that's alright then."

"No tea for you?" Henry said, raising the mug to his mouth and taking a sip.

"No. I've... well, I've gone off it." Sherlock replied, standing next to the window and looking out at the street below. He saw the cars, and the people, and life itself, and wondered where James Grant was. Speaking clearly, he said:

"My brother has persuaded James' parents to give the police his phone. Any information you have, you should come forward with it now, so that you don't get into trouble."

Henry spluttered, but Sherlock carried on.

"You care about him, but you need to think for yourself. If the roles were reversed, do you think he'd do the same for you?"

Henry was stunned silent.

"Perspective." Sherlock said calmly.

The teenager took another sip of his tea, hands shaking. It was still quite hot, but he found it was nice, as he himself was cold from the morning April air. Bringing out his phone, he showed Sherlock some messages sent through Instagram.

Gonna go find Moriarty.. He's out there somewhere – that Sherlock Holmes thinks he's gone, but he's so wrong.

Henry, you can't tell anyone. My parents don't care, but the police will. Here are my login details – you've gotta delete my account for me. I'd do it myself, but I have no time.

Thanks for being a great friend. You get it; I know you do.

"I didn't believe him at first! I just thought, you know, it's James, he chats shit but it doesn't mean anything. He's..."/p

"A law unto himself?" Sherlock provided.

"...Yes."

"Hmm."

And Sherlock, his brain like a rusty machine slowly whirring back to life, started to think. The account had to be deleted. There was still time to find him. Time was precious, but he had seen Moriarty die; the villain had haunted his subconscious for years but he was gone; that was fact.

He realised with a start that he wanted John's help. John was rational, logical, calm and collected. He thought things through. He always brought an alternative perspective, and this was why he was so important to Sherlock.

Sadness overtook him. He had hurt John far too many times for him to want to trust him again.

"What's up?" Henry asked.

Sherlock looked at him. "You better delete that account, and then go home. I'm going to see what I can do."

"Are you gonna talk to John?" Henry asked innocently.

"Yes. Piss off."

And the boy laughed, loudly. "Now I get why everyone thinks you're..."

The detective shook his head, smiling to himself. "Yes. I think my behaviour at the time probably aided the rumours... it was not ideal, but I was younger, then. I just wanted to live."

"Fairs." Henry said. He logged into James' account, removed all evidence of unusual behaviour from his stories, posts and direct messages, then went into settings to delete the account itself.

"Hold on a second... it says it won't delete it properly until you wait 30 days! For fuck's sake."

Sherlock looked at the screen.

"You can deactivate it, though."

"...Oh yeah. Great. I'll do that." And he pressed the button.

"Now, have you saved his login details."

"Yes."

"Good. That way, when we find him properly, he can have it back." Sherlock looked at Henry.

"I'll talk to John now. Go home."

"Alright." And he picked up his backpack and threw on his coat. "You know, you're not as cool in person."

Sherlock laughed. "No, I suppose I'm not."

"You're deep."

"Alright, off you go."

And so Henry left, feeling happier than he had in a while.

Sherlock, however, paced around the flat, running a distressed hand through his curls. He wanted desperately to call John, to confess all that he knew, but he couldn't – it would probably disturb the man. Besides, only he could solve his problems – that's what he thought, at least, and it made him feel totally alone.

He looked at himself in the mirror above the mantlepiece, and stopped. God. He was attractive.

It didn't matter. He needed to get high, so he could think more clearly.

People who did not take drugs didn't see the benefits, just stuck to pointing but the detrimental effects they had on one's health. This was true, and Sherlock understood their concern.

But he had tried heroin once. And it was like seeing the light, finally, after a lifetime of darkness. So he tried it again, and again, falling in love with the opioid, not caring who it turned him into, or what effect it had on his friends and family.

Burning the dirty spoon, injecting it into his veins – he was enamoured.

Alternatives, he thought desperately, what's an alternative?

He had told John Watson once that he solved cases as an alternative to getting high. But this case was so serious, he was left freezing cold with no clues or signs that the boy might just be found. And the pressure, administered consciously or not, was harrowing.

He wanted to feel nothing, just for a few hours.

Then an idea so wicked, but one that made so much sense, came to him. He picked up the phone.

"Irene? Yes, I'm doing splendidly. Would you like to come round for a cup of coffee?"