When Constable Lestrade saw a figure in an alley, he almost kept going on his route. At this time of hour, it was most likely a drunk, a man down on his luck, or worse yet, a body. The first two weren't something he could do anything about, and he wished with all his heart that it wasn't the latter. He knew the procedure when he found a corpse and could recite it off by heart. However, it was just twenty minutes until his shift ended and Greg Lestrade wanted nothing more than to go home and get pissed drunk.

That wasn't his usual routine, mind. He wasn't an alcoholic, not like the bums he passed by on the street. However, his relationship, the thing he had valued above all else in the world, the thing that had started way back when he was in secondary school, the thing that Greg was sure would lead to marriage and family and everything he had ever pathetically dreamed about. Her reasoning for leaving him was simple, and frankly, Greg couldn't blame her.

What woman could possibly put up with a bumbling constable who was out all hours of the night, and who had a very real possibility of not coming home in the morning?

So Greg had let her go, with a minimal amount of pleading and begging involved.

That'd been three days ago.

So, with a hangover ever-present in his mind, with the worst self-esteem he had had in ages, and with very little hope for the future, Greg nearly passed by the figure in the alleyway. He ran a hand through his hair (greying, and not a tick above twenty-five) and stared down it for a few seconds. His following resolution could be summed up in three words.

What the hell?

He ducked his way down into the alleyway, keeping one hand on his gun. Part of Gregory Lestrade was still good, still moral, and he knew he'd probably be worrying about this poor figure in the alley if he didn't at least go check. "Hey! Everything okay over there?" The alley was grungy and dirty, and for a second, something that sounded frighteningly like a human hand cracked underneath his feet.

After his mile had been jumped, Greg took out his torch and shined it down. A needle. Typical, he supposed. Drug use had only been up in London lately. He'd have to scrub the damn boot when he got home. Lord only knew what sort of diseases were clinging to the tainted glass. As his light illuminated the back alley more, he saw many more needles and used bandages lying around.

Wonderful, Greg, you got yourself into a drug den. Not too late to turn your drinking problem into a drug addiction, is it?

The figure wasn't moving, and for a good second, Greg pulled himself out of his pity and looked at him. "Hey! Hey, you, kid, you okay?"

No response. Not even a groan.

He got on his knees beside him. The man (boy? God, he looked so small, so thin) was trembling, all over, and when Greg reached to take his pulse, it was through the roof. "You okay? Mate, what are you-"

He began to seize.

Greg hadn't gotten much medical training. Hell, his training more or less stopped at being able to tackle a bloke down and try not to give him a concussion. He tried to dredge up what he had learned about seizures (panicking suspects, pre-existing conditions, drug overdose, keep them still, keep them calm, make sure they don't hurt themselves), and finally, in a fit of panic, he just rolled the man over on his side and put a hand on his upper arm. His other hand fiddled with his mobile and he called it in, first to Emergency, then his own supervisor. By the time he had finished with that, the man had vomited onto the disgusting alley floor, and his seizure was starting to stop.

As soon as his muscles stopped seizing, the man went limp, and soon, he became very, very cold. For a second, Greg thought that he had just seen someone die for the first time, but the boy's heart was there, beating very, very fast. His actions after that were quick.

He scooped the man up into his arms and held him close. As they came into the light, Greg saw that he couldn't have been more than…shit, seventeen. A tourniquet was still tied tightly around his arm, a bit of blood leaking out through the wound still. Greg put the man down on the pavement in front of him, laying him flat and keeping his hand on the boy for his pulse.

The boy stirred only once before the ambulance arrived. When he spoke, he did so in a voice several tones lower than Greg thought he'd be speaking. He raised one hand and made the universal 'stop' motion to Greg, placing his palm towards him.

"N-no…hosss…hosspih…tahl…"

Then the boy was out, and, immediately, Greg thought of several things.

For one, the boy had been using something illegal. Of course he had been. He wanted Greg to leave him alone, to die in the alley, because he didn't want to get arrested. For the other, it gave Greg a bit of hope that someone was out there looking out for this boy. Probably didn't want to go to the hospital and have his parents find out, and have his parents get mad at him. Yes, that must have been it, he must have been just a one-time user, experimenting on his own, and he had taken just a bit too-

Oh. Track marks lined his arm. Twenty, thirty, forty. Addict, then.

His heart broke. Seventeen years old. An addict, a straight-up addict.

The ambulance pulled up and Greg helped them load the boy onto the stretcher. The movement made the boy stir a bit again, and for a second, his hand tightened around Greg's wrist. His eyes flicked open and their gaze met. Shockingly blue eyes met with his warm brown ones, and then the boy passed out once more.

They let him ride along, but they didn't let him go any farther than the front doors of the hospital. At that point, it was nearing eleven at night, and Greg was tired, and wanted to go home, and wanted to deal with all the shite paperwork associated with someone like this. He didn't, however, and for that, he only contributed one reason.

At the tender young age of twenty-five, Greg was still young enough to feel sympathy and heartbreak and pity for the cases he saw, and this boy's case struck him directly in the heart. So he drove back to his flat to pack his things for the night, and returned and waited until a nurse came in with pitying eyes and said that he could come see 'the boy', but he would have to wait until his other visitor left.

Other visitor. His parents had arrived. Greg breathed out a sigh of relief. His parents were here, it would be a wake-up call, and they could all go home and chastise him and he'd turn out alright. He ran his hand through his hair and tugged his jacket a bit tighter around him. Right, then, maybe he didn't even need to go in. Maybe he could just go home and get some meager hours of sleep before he had to return to work. Maybe-

"Oh, watch where you're going."

Someone dressed in an elegant suit bumped by him, followed quickly by a lady who wore an elaborate string of pearls around her neck. They were both middle-aged, they both had their lips shaped in a rather severe frown, and, as Greg looked at them, he felt the need to spit out a hasty apology. Maybe bow at their feet a bit for good measure. Then the woman's eyes flicked up to meet his and for a second, Greg stood back as if stunned.

Now, Greg wasn't a romantic. He had given up on true love approximately three days ago, and even before then, he had never been particularly weepy or fanciful. He didn't believe in fate, he didn't believe in ghosts, he didn't believe in love at first sight.

But as that woman stared at him, with shocking blue eyes, Greg felt a small shiver run across his spine. It wasn't a good feeling.

For some reason, he hoped with all his heart that it was a coincidence. The aura that those people gave off (and since when did Gregory Lestrade start believing in auras?) was chilly, cold, and Greg thought that they might not take kindly to their son who was just recovering from an overdose. Either way, his choice was decided for him, now. He moved his way into the hospital corridors and stood right outside of the boy's room.