Sherlock flounced up the steps of 221B Baker Street and slammed the door of his flat behind him. Flopping down on the couch, he drew his knees up to his chest, and curled into a ball with his face pressed into the faded leather cushions, inhaling the familiar scent. Stupid Sally Donovan. Who did she think she was? He made a vague grumbling noise and curled up tighter. He was sick of everything and everyone. He couldn't bear it. The look in Sally's eyes when she had confronted him earlier today. Pity. How completely and utterly mortifying. He had preferred it when she was calling him names.

And then there was Lestrade. He hadn't said anything, but simply looked at him with those stupid big cow eyes, speaking softly when he addressed him, as though he was delicate and liable to break if treated too harshly. Sherlock had been embarrassed. They were all treating him like a kicked puppy. Even when Sherlock had gotten sick of it and insulted Lestrade to within an inch of his life, he just looked at Sherlock and smiled sadly. Sherlock had scowled and stormed out. Why did they all seem to think things were different now? He'd known them all for years, and none of them had ever had any qualms about telling him where he could stick his magnifying glass if he got too smart with them. Why did they think they had to treat him differently now they knew his secret? He was still the same. Strong as ever. Cold, uncaring, blunt Sherlock Holmes.

But now they thought they had him all figured out. He could practically see them thinking it at the crime scene today. 'So that's why he is the way he is. Poor guy. Guess that explains everything." Suddenly, everyone at the yard thought of him differently. Finally proof that Sherlock Holmes is human after all. Ugh, human. That was the last thing he wanted them thinking. How was he supposed to go back there now? It wouldn't be fun anymore, not with them staring at him and treating him like one of the victims, speaking quietly in his presence and then looking knowingly at each other when he got annoyed.

At least Anderson had been alright. God, there's a sentence he never thought he'd say. But it was true, Anderson was the best of a bad lot. He was tolerable. Instead of going from hostile and hateful to a simpering idiot he had simply ignored Sherlock, not meeting his eyes or responding to anything he said. And that was fine by him. Just fine. Although he had missed the banter a small bit. He'd had a couple of good insults saved up.

Sherlock rolled over, and stared at the wall opposite the couch. What now?

'Boredom, that's what', he told himself bitterly. Of course he could go back, continue taking cases as normal, but it just wasn't the same. It wasn't that he had enjoyed the insults or anything, quite the opposite, but he knew where he stood with them. He knew he was more intelligent, and that was why they hated him. He knew he could always be ready with a scathing reply concerning their intellect, or a scandalous deduction about who they'd been sleeping with, leaving them red faced and frustrated. He had the upper hand. He always won. But now they would look at him, and feel sorry for him. Instead of getting offended they would think to themselves, 'he can't help it, he's damaged'. And Sherlock couldn't stand it.

He rose swiftly from the couch and stood for a moment, breathing deeply. 'It doesn't matter now', he told himself. 'It's going to end up like this anyway.' He knew that if he didn't take any more cases the boredom would eat away at him, devouring his reason until he couldn't help himself. He'd rather not wait that long. He was only prolonging the inevitable really.

He walked decisively to his bedroom door before stopping in the doorway, suddenly unsure. After all the work it took the last time? Did he really want to go through that again?

'No,' he thought, 'I won't have to go through that again, last time I had something to look forward to. Something to work for. That won't be a problem this time around'.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them again and ducked down to the floor. He reached under his bed, looking for the little clear plastic package taped to the underside. His hand found it and a slow smile spread across his face. He couldn't wait to not have to think anymore. For once in his life, he was dreadfully tired of thinking.

D.I Greg Lestrade sat at his messy desk in his cluttered office in Scotland Yard. A cold cup of coffee lay forgotten on top of the case files from the most recent murder. The one Sherlock hadn't solved. Greg knew Sherlock wasn't perfect, of course there had been cases over the years that even he couldn't solve- not many, but still some. But this wasn't a case of can't. It was a case of won't. Never had Greg seen Sherlock refuse to solve a case he was capable of solving, no matter how beneath him he felt it was. And Sherlock had known the answer. He saw it in his eyes, the dawning comprehension, the triumphant smirk. He had turned to Greg, a sentence on his tongue, and faltered. He just stood there for a moment, staring at Greg's face. Greg had looked at Sherlock, imagining the scars that lay under his perfectly fitting dress shirts. Now that he knew they were there, he couldn't help but see them every time he looked at Sherlock. That word, carved into his skin, all there, underneath the pomp and the bravado, and the ridiculously expensive clothes. Images in his head. Sherlock, on the floor, bleeding, shivering, crying. Sherlock, screaming, no escape from the knife, dragging hot fire across his skin, needing someone to help him, anyone. But no one did.

Sherlock's face now blurred with all of the other abuse victims he had seen throughout the years in his profession. All traumatised, hurt, vulnerable. Sherlock Holmes, the tall, elegant man. The towering intellect. The strong muscles, the cutting tongue, the devilishly handsome face. Fearless.

The abused little boy.

Sherlock still hadn't said anything, and Greg gave him a small, encouraging smile, his eyes trying to convey the message that it was alright, that Greg was his friend, that he accepted him. But Sherlock's eyes hardened, and suddenly his expression was fierce. "You know what, Lestrade? I think I have better things to do than do your job for you. I'm wasting my time here with this shower of idiots, I don't know why I ever put up with any of you. I sincerely hope that stupidity isn't catching, because in that case you're all incredibly contagious."

And with that he left without even a spare glance for Anderson, who, for the second time in three weeks, stood gaping in the doorway as Sherlock left in a huff.

That was three days ago, and Greg was becoming worried. Sherlock hadn't answered his phone despite the numerous increasingly pathetic voicemails Greg had left him. He hadn't replied to the texts either. And he always replied. That was Sherlock, always had to have the last word. But not this time. Mrs. Hudson was on holidays with her sister, and she apparently couldn't get through to him either. Greg ran a hand through his hair, then put his head in his hands. What had gone wrong? All he'd done was smile for God's sake. But he never knew with Sherlock. That man's head was an enigma.

He sighed. He'd known Sherlock since the man was a teenager, much less refined and debonair than he was now, but still just as reckless. Just as rude. As stubborn. Greg would never admit it, but he thought of Sherlock almost like a younger brother, if not a son. And it pained him to think something was wrong. He picked up the phone again, and dialled Sherlock's number for the umpteenth time. "Sherlock Holmes", came the unembellished voice message on the other end, Sherlock's smooth baritone easily distinguishable, followed by a long tone. Greg didn't even bother leaving a message this time. He stood from his swivel chair, pulled on his coat, and walked out the office door. If Sherlock wasn't going to have the common decency to answer him, well then he'd just have to pay him a visit, wouldn't he?