AN: I added a break that should have been there the whole time. Sorry if any of you were confused. Also, I don't own Sherlock. I'm just borrowing the characters for my own amusement. Please don't sue me.

March 2011 1:00 PM

His palms were slick with sweat, and his knuckles were turning white with the force of the grip he had on the precious syringe. He hadn't had a decent case for weeks, and he was unbearably bored. Even John couldn't distract him today. So, he sat in strained silence for hours, unable to keep his mind off of the battered violin case in the hall closet. His secret stash.

John finally gave up on his attempts at conversation and ducked out the door for a jog. Within seconds, Sherlock was at the closet, wrenching open the case. He plucked the syringe from its velvet covered resting place and wandered over to his chair. He sat and stared, wrestling with himself. He wanted it so badly. He wanted to be able to be fascinated with the simpler things in life. He wanted, just for a while, to stop searching for puzzles. He wanted to be content.

Again, he looked at the syringe, and his heart beat quicker. It was so alluring. He slowly rolled up the sleeve of his silk shirt, simultaneously anticipating the high and hating the familiar feeling of need that overtook him. He brought the needle closer to the crook of his arm, having already selected a vein from those which were visible through his pale skin. But a thought flitted through his mind which caused him to jerk the needle away from his arm.

He'd seen their disappointed faces in his mind's eye, and he was startled at the effect this stray thought had on him. Though he didn't understand why, Sherlock cared what they thought of him. He tore his gaze away from the syringe and searched desperately for a distraction. Light streamed through the window, and it felt so wrong. Where did the sun get off, shining like that? (This was London after all. Where was a decently overcast day when you needed it?) Annoyed, he pushed himself out of his chair and violently pulled the curtains closed.

The desire grew with every second, and relief was only a needle stick away. Sherlock knew what he had to do. He pulled his cell phone off the kitchen table and dialed fast, afraid his resolve would soon desert him. The phone rang once.

"Sherlock?" said a worried voice on the other end of the line.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Come quickly," he said, flinching when he heard his voice shake. He hung up without waiting for a reply.

Only thing left to do was wait. He had to make it. Hell was waiting for him if he gave in. Still holding a death grip on the precious .7 percent solution- filled needle, he forced himself to remember.

January 2006 3:00 AM

He knew what he was doing. "Chasing the high" they called it. Sherlock called it a necessity. He was bored. So, so bored. He found the place quickly enough, turning his nose up at the odor which emanated from the dismal abandoned house. His hesitation lasted only a minute before he took a deep breath and stepped through the open doorway. The dealer walked up to him, and he made short work of it, exchanging pounds for powder in a matter of minutes. He sighed in relief and clutched his prize, searching for an empty spot where he could get the job done.

The far left corner of the room was soon vacated and he hurried to claim it. He was shaking with need. He briefly smirked when he thought about how it was just a few short months ago, only taking it to cure the boredom. And boy did it work. He thought he'd been above it all. He was Sherlock Holmes. Certainly he of all people couldn't get addicted to something as simple as cocaine. Sherlock laughed wryly at that thought. Surely, the incurable boredom was a factor, but need played a much greater role these days.

Finally, when he couldn't take it anymore, he opened the small bag of white powder and threw caution to the wind. He snorted line after line of cocaine, no longer caring about the people who surrounded him or the smell of piss that permeated the small, disgusting room. As the high hit, Sherlock felt a goofy smile spread across his face. His body buzzed with energy. The room started to feel insufferably small, so he pushed past the crowd of druggies and jogged out of the squat, dilapidated house.

He felt as though he could run for hours. He picked up the pace just because he could, sprinting through the neighborhood and continuing down street after street. He felt great and right and content. He found himself in front of a Tesco when he finally stopped for breath. Leaning against the storefront, he rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, body still brimming with energy.

Suddenly, his gut twisted and a wave of nausea overcame him. Sherlock closed his mouth and clenched his teeth, taking deep breaths to prevent the bile from rising in his throat. He stumbled forward and bumped into a middle aged man who was graying at the temple. The man had said something that Sherlock couldn't quite catch as he dropped to his hands. His mind reeled, and he dizzily pushed himself to his feet. He staggered to the left, heading for the waste basket that sat a few feet away.

He felt a strong hand close around his left forearm, steadying him. It was the man he'd just tripped over. "Hey, you okay mate?" he asked.

"Obviously not," Sherlock ground out through still clenched teeth. His stomach rolled and his checks blazed with heat. "I think I'm gonna-"

The man quickly figured out the situation and half dragged- half carried Sherlock to the waste basket. He wasn't quite fast enough, and Sherlock narrowly missed the bin as he vomited blood and bile. It hit the sidewalk with a sickening splatter, and the man had to let go of Sherlock's arm and turn away to regain his composure.

Without support from the stranger, Sherlock sank to his knees. Dry heaves racked his body. That bastard gave me the bad stuff, he thought. Must have been cut with some toxin.

That man grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet again. His head swam.

"Come on, we gotta get you to a hospital," he said.

"M'fine. No hospital," Sherlock replied. He pulled his arm free from the stranger's grasp and took an unsteady step forward. He swayed dangerously, and then seemed to find some semblance of balance. "Who are you, anyway?" he asked, getting a good look at the man for the first time.

"Greg Lestrade," he said. "Let's get you some help."

"Hey Anna, how's it going?" the nurse behind the desk asked as the pair rounded the corner and entered the pediatric rheumatologist's office.

The person in question immediately dropped her head and blushed bright red, peeking at the unfamiliar woman through jagged blonde bangs.

"Oh, we're doing great," Lestrade answered for the both of them. As a rule, Anna hardly talked, and you'd be hard pressed to hear her speak a word to those who she didn't know at all.

"Shy, are we?" the nurse questioned, adopting a knowing and slightly patronizing tone as she spoke.

Lestrade nearly yelped when he felt Anna's fingernails bite into the flesh of his palm. He swallowed hard and glanced down at his daughter. There was a dangerous, angry glint in her emerald eyes. The last time Anna was addressed with a similar tone, the addresser ended up with hot coffee "accidentally" spilt down the front of her new dress.

"Let's find a seat while we wait, shall we?" he asked as cheerily as possible. He hoped the wrath that the new nurse had unknowingly brought upon herself would be dulled by the time the appointment was over.

She sighed and nodded, turning unsteadily toward the group of generic grey chairs in the waiting room. They took a step and Anna's knee suddenly gave out. Lestrade was quick to yank her arm back and bring his own arm around her midsection to keep her from falling forward. When she had righted herself and gotten her balance back, she glared at Lestrade.

"What was I supposed to do? Let you fall?" he whispered as she rubbed the offending joint.

With a definite nod in the affirmative, Anna pried her hand from his grip and stubbornly walked to a chair without his support. He trailed behind and noted with relief that her right leg dragged behind her no more than usual. As he sat down next to his daughter, Lestrade was struck by the unfairness of it all. Life hadn't been kind to Anna. Her mom died shortly after her birth, and Anna herself was hit with the double diagnoses of cerebral palsy and juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. The palsy affected lower body function and the arthritis mainly affected her upper body joints, with occasional trips to the knee joints. Despite this, her mind was as sharp as ever and she was a generally happy kid, except when she felt she was being treated as intellectually inferior. Anna tried to make the best of it.

He was startled out of his reverie by a rhythmic thumping against the carpet floor. Anna bounced a rubber ball up and down, a mischievous look in her eye. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Where'd ya get that?" he asked.

She just shrugged and turned her eyes to the nurse behind the desk. She looked at the pair of them with eyes full of pity. This can't be good, Lestrade thought. A few more bounces and the inevitable happened. She threw at just the right angle so that the ball bounced up and hit a precariously perched pencil cup. It shattered when it fell to the ground, and writing utensils were sent flying everywhere. The nurse let out a little shriek.

"Sorry about that," Lestrade blurted out when he could comprehend what just happened.

"It's okay, it was an accident," the nurse said, but her tone lacked sincerity.

A poorly concealed smirk was on Anna's lips.

"You have to be careful with that," Lestrade said, trying- and failing- to be serous. He was fighting the urge to congratulate his daughter on her impeccable throw. But he was the adult here. He had to keep up a sense of decorum.

He stood to help the nurse clean up the mess when his phone rang. He pulled it out of his jean pocket and started when he saw the caller ID. Sherlock. Lestrade knew that Sherlock preferred to text, and a feeling of dread filled him. He picked up before the phone could ring a second time.

"Sherlock?"

"Come quickly."

Not good. Sherlock's voice had quivered. Really not good. The line went dead. Lestrade grabbed his keys and glanced at Anna.

"It's Sherlock," he said in response to her questioning look. "We have to hurry. Can you temporarily sacrifice your dignity for a moment?"

She nodded in agreement and reached up to indicate that she knew what he had in mind. Lestrade crouched down to her level, and she slipped her arms around his neck as he lifted her out of the chair. He started toward the exit.

"What about your appointment?" the nurse called out to him.

"We're gonna have to reschedule," he threw back over his shoulder.

He left the office in a jog and picked up the pace when he hit the sidewalk. He ran to his car and wrenched open the passenger door. He carefully placed his daughter in the passenger seat, shut the door, and sprinted to the other side of the vehicle. He shoved the key in the ignition, started the engine, and unashamedly used the siren he stashed in the glove compartment to speed all the way to Baker Street.

"I have to go up right away," he told Anna as he pulled over and opened the door of the car. "You take your time. See you up there." He knew it was useless to tell her to stay in the car, and he didn't have time for arguments. He ran to the door of 221 and said a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson, who had opened the door to see what all the commotion was about. Then Lestrade nudged past her and sprinted up the stairs.