Icy panic. Red hot icy panic; flowing through Greg's every fibre, seeping into his skin and attacking his heart head on with swords made of burning white fire. He's gotten used to his Friday's going a certain way. He'd leave work and trudge in the general direction of his flat, stop in the doorway where Sherlock seemed to like spending his Friday evenings, pick the boy up and support his weight all the way home.

But he couldn't do that. Because Sherlock was not sat in the doorway like he had been for every single Friday for the past ten months. Really, Greg should have been asking questions and telling Sherlock not to do what he was doing but his gut told him Sherlock would not listen and his gut is usually right.

Right now, though, his gut is telling it's time to panic and his brain is hammering away on the big red PANIC button he has. He fidgets and glances around helplessly, not knowing what to do.

Sherlock was always here.

After standing at the doorway for ten minutes, Greg swallows and begins to stride towards Sherlock's home. He had to make sure Sherlock was okay. Greg felt like he'd taken the boy under his wing and what kind of guardian doesn't go looking when they have such a terrible feeling ripping through them and screaming that something is definitely, definitely wrong?

The bone-chilling panic wanted to immobilise him but he pressed on, his over active imagination supplying the worse scenarios possible.

What if Sherlock got in trouble with his dealer? He's young and weak - it would easy for someone with that kind of power in that kind of community to take advantage of him. So, so easy.

What if the boy was wondering around, too high to even realise what he was doing or what time and day it is?

What if he'd found a stronger fix...?

Greg's knocking was near frantic when he made it to the perfectly polished door of the Holmes residence. He was panting too, having ran up the path in his panicked state.

Sherlock's mother answers the door, frown seemingly permanently stitched onto her face.

"..Who are you?" She half-sneers.

But Greg ignores her questions and dives straight to his own pressing question. It's burning the tip of his tongue and it's surprising he hasn't just blurted it out before she could say a word.

"Is Sherlock here?" He asks, peering in as if he'd see the boy scroll passed. 

She narrows her eyes "Why? You here to feed my son some more of your filthy drugs?"

Greg's eyes widen (maybe she did care). "Of course not!" He cries. "I'm a DI! And I've been bringing him home every Friday for the past nine or ten months!"

She seems satisfied because her shoulders lower and her whole body language becomes less defensive - it was like she was preparing for an attack. Maybe Greg had been hasty to judge her... Or today she was just in a caring mood. She hadn't seemed to give a flying fuck before.

She steps back and gestures to the stairs across from Greg. "He's in his room. Hasn't been out of it all day but he's in there. Pipes up to tell us to fuck off but that's it"

Greg nods. Then shakes his head. "I better not. I.. I just wanted to know he's safe"

Despite his words, Greg is staring up those stairs. She says he's up there but something in him just needs to have first hand proof that Sherlock is okay and isn't going to show up on some cold doorway.

"Go. You clearly want to" Sherlock's mother urges.

Nodding, Greg steps in the house and heads to the stairs. Before he manages to do more than set his foot on the first step, long nails dig in his upper arm and he turns to see Sherlock's mother giving him an intense look. Greg recognises it as a typical 'mother stare'.

"Sherlock doesn't have friends and I know now you're ihe one bringing him back but if you're trying to pull something funny here, I'll report you. My Sherlock is only sixteen and, legal or not, I don't want you thinking you can have him. Clear?.. How old are you anyway, DI?"

Greg blinks in shock, for a number of reason. First, the obvious that she was suggested they'd be together, seriously, what the hell?, and secondly because it never occurred to him that Sherlock might have had a birthday since they'd known one another (not that they really knew each other). He'd just thought Sherlock was still fifteen.

Greg nods at Sherlock's mother, reassuring her. "That's not my intention, believe me. And I'm twenty eight"

He's not far from turning twenty nine now. Hell, he's probably closer to her age and she's accusing him of chasing her sixteen year old son.

At least it shows that she's not the heartless bitch you assumed she was, Greg thinks to himself.

She gives him an assessing look and, apparently deciding he was believable, nods for him to go up the stairs. "Last door on the left"

Greg thanks her before he rushes up the stairs, easily taking them two at a time.

He soon finds himself in front of the door, knocking in two smooth raps of his knuckles against the wood.

"Fuck off, mum!" calls Sherlock's voice from inside the room.

Greg lets out a breath he hasn't realised he was holding before he speaks up "Er, it's not your mum. It's Lestrade"

The door opens at the same time Sherlock asks "Who?"

When Sherlock sees him, he goes still so fast that Greg's eyes widen in concern for the younger boy. Greg wasn't even aware, until today, how much he worried about the teen in front of him.

"Oh" Sherlock mumbles. "It's you"

Greg nods, realising that Sherlock didn't even know his name so telling him that it was Lestrade was probably the most unhelpful thing to do. It'd be more helpful to say 'it's the guy that brings you home every Friday after you get shit-faced'.

Scratching the back of his neck, Greg laughs awkwardly. "Yeah. Me. I just... Well, you weren't in the doorway. I got a bit worried"

"You got worried that I wasn't sitting in a cold doorway, high?" Sherlock questions with a trace of a smirk.

Ah, when he's not high, he's a little arrogant dickhead. Should have known.

"You knew what I meant" Greg replies, unable to keep the bite out of his words.

Sherlock's eyebrows raise, looking even more amused. "Getting on your nerves, am I, Inspector?"

"Yeah, kid, you are. I deal with too many little punk like you" Greg shakes his head, regretting stepping foot in the house.

High Sherlock was quiet and this Sherlock was rapidly looking like a pain in the arse.

"I'm not like any other little punk out there"

Greg raises an eyebrow and laughs. "Yeah, Sherlock, you are. You're another sad, lonely kid that likes to get high and pretend their parents give a shit"

Sherlock purses his lips, eyebrows knitting together. "You don't know a th-"

"Maybe not. But I do know that you're not the only teenager out there with problems." Greg smirks and crosses his arms. "Stop pitying yourself"

Sherlock looks down, avoiding Greg's eye. "You don't understand"

"Whatever" with an eye roll, Greg turns away from Sherlock. "See you Friday, sunshine!"

He doesn't get a reply and two minutes later, he's walking away from Sherlock's house feeling vaguely guilty but most of all hopeful that some of his words may have gotten through to Sherlock.

Maybe Sherlock's case was different and there probably was things that Greg didn't understand about the boy. But in the end it's the same. He's doing drugs to run away from something (the parents thing, maybe) and he's drowning in self-pity.

When Greg falls in his bed, exhausted, he thinks to himself that he's not going to be that person that forces Sherlock to clean up his act and stop smoking weed or whatever else he does. He's just going to continue taking the boy home so he doesn't die of the cold. That is, if Sherlock is even there next Friday...