"Sherlock, we need to talk."
They were the last words Sherlock Holmes had ever expected to hear from D.I. Lestrade, who -- although uniquely appreciative of the younger man's crime-solving skills -- always seemed to be dreaming of the moment Sherlock would shut his mouth.
From an objective standpoint, it was hard to blame him. And Sherlock liked to think he always had one of those. Wasn't subjectivity inherently colored with emotion? But the truth was, his ever-expanding pool of almost-colleagues comprised a greater mystery than any of Scotland Yard's case files ever would.
So Sherlock actually looked up from the most recent of those to acknowledge the detective inspector's words. New behaviors were always worth documenting, even among the Commonwealth. Even if interpreting them was ultimately futile. He could usually get a rough enough idea to affect the attitude during an interrogation. The ultimate sign language dictionary in his head.
Lestrade looked as though he had more in mind than the interview transcript over which they were poring, however. So Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and followed the inspector into his office. At twenty-six, he had been inside the bare little room upwards of a dozen times. The grey metal cabinets and stained green carpet were, therefore, familiar -- and familiar was always comforting, no matter the deficiencies in interior decor. Besides, the surprisingly well-crafted walnut desk boasted deep, polished nut-brown patterns and whorls in which Sherlock had more than once lost himself while tracing his own patterns in his mind. Very zen. Practical, that is.
Sherlock had learned by now that his brilliant mind required outside structure, however superficial.
The first time Sherlock had set foot in this office he had been a suspect himself. Officially a witness, but Sherlock knew better. You don't just run into a crackhead milling around outside a recently burgled pawnshop without suspecting something, particularly not when said crackhead has several grams stuffed down his jacket. But the next few visits to Lestrade's office, he was in the clear. On the right side of the law, in fact. Mummy was proud. Not that he'd ever really been... Well. He'd toed the line.
Six months since Sherlock had started working with the Met, and they hadn't kicked him out yet. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened. The formula for success was becoming clear. You made yourself absolutely indispensable, and then...
No, that couldn't be right.Was Anderson indispensable? Hardly.
There wasn't time to form another hypothesis before Lestrade had stepped into the office too, pulling the door shut behind him. Sherlock pulled out of his reverie; this was rather unusual behavior in an inspector who took the term "open-door policy" literally.
"I take it the new developments in the Brooksfield case are confidential."
Sherlock's low tones purred through the air. What a shock that vocal change had been in a slight, thin-shouldered teenage boy.
But Lestrade merely frowned as he pulled the faded leather chair from behind the desk. He settled into it, straightening slightly to sit eye-to-eye with his new consultant.
...No. Not new anymore, but enigmatic as ever.
"There are no near developments, Sherlock." One graying eyebrow pulled downward. "I intended to speak to you on a more personal level."
There was no apology, although somehow Sherlock felt there ought to be.
"'Personal?'"
It could be claimed, and mostly truthfully, that he didn't spit the word.
"Yes. Or, should I say, professionally. Your conduct affects the entire team, Sherlock."
A lecture? Sherlock Holmes, the embodiment of a brilliance that these imbeciles couldn't so much as dream of, was being called into the inspector's office to be lectured like a naughty schoolboy?"
"I'm not part of your team"
Lestrade leaned forward on his elbows, pushed a hand through his silver-streaked hair. Sherlock couldn't help but notice a particularly gnarled pattern of wood grain beneath his right elbow.
"We work together toward a common goal... what would you call that?"
What did he call that...them? 'Co-workers' was too common, not to mention inaccurate. 'Colleagues' was generous. Admirers, exploiters...rivals?
As if.Sherlock gave the honest answer.
"A detective and his assistants, inspector."
"Some are more inclined to say 'a team of professionals and an arrogant upstart'."
Sherlock snorted. "What would you be without me?"
"A team of professionals." Lestrade looked him in the eye.
"With a couple more cabinets of unsolved case files!"
"True."
Sherlock pushed his chair back. "Then why are we having this discussion?"
"To make you a better detective."
Silence.
"I hardly think I ought to be your greatest concern in that area, Lestrade." Sherlock's voice dripped irony.
"But you are," returned Lestrade, face grim. "Because you are, as you've pointed out, the one we can least afford to lose. And the one we're most likely to."
"Only if you can't come up with anything better than a six."
Lestrade's jaw tightened visibly. "A good detective works with the team. Do you know the kind of venom that flies around this office after you leave it?"
Sherlock locked eyes with the inspector.
"I daresay I can imagine."
This time it was Lestrade who broke the silence.
"So you know they can't handle it...the jibes, the insults. Being ignored and spoken over."
"Yes."
"And you know other people don't live this way."
Sherlock paused, lips pursed.
"Apparently not."
"Don't you want to be liked?" Lestrade slammed a hand on the table. "You work hard...harder than any of the rest of them. You're a right genius, Sherlock, no one is disputing that. Why do you prefer resentment to appreciation?"
"What I prefer is privacy," Sherlock growled.
"Do you think you're the only genius on the planet?"
"Clearly the only one in this building."
Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face, grimaced. "My mate's the manager of a software development team. He just let his top engineer go. Want to guess why?"
Sherlock didn't volunteer a reply.
"Because he was 'too bloody arrogant to see beyond the tip of his own nose,'" Lestrade recited, running an unconscious finger around the rim of his coffee mug. "Says things are running smoother than ever now."
Sherlock chuckled hollowly. "Is that a threat? Need I remind you that I am not employed by you?"
"Not for lack of offering," Lestrade huffed.
"I have my own business. I prefer not to be tied down."
"For entrepreneurship you need a reputation first. You rely on what we give you -- "
"All that nothing," Sherlock sneered.
"-- to keep a needle out of your arm."
Sherlock shoved to his feet, eyes dark with fury. Lestrade did the same.
"Low blow, I'm sorry."
But true, they both knew.
Finally Sherlock spoke, from between thinly compressed lips.
"Are we to part ways then, Inspector? Because your team of professionals cannot deal with my 'behavior'?"
"I can hardly subject my own subordinates to abuse," Lestrade retorted. "Not part of the job. But they're not the only ones on my team. Not the only ones I care about."
Care. It was another word that would have made Sherlock sneer. Six months ago.
"What do you propose, then? I confess I still don't see the point of this little interview."
"I propose you don't get defensive, and I don't get offensive. Sit down again. Please."
Sherlock waited for Lestrade to follow his own advice before he lowered himself, slowly, back into the uncomfortable chair. Lestrade winced and waited until the springs ceased squeaking beneath him.
"Been meaning to replace that for ages. I just want a few answers, Sherlock. Why are you always on the attack?"
Attack? Sherlock was startled into a reply.
"I'd call it defense."
It was Lestrade's turn for surprise.
"Wha... what? Really?"
But he had been interrogating suspects for long enough to know sincerity when he heard it.
"People are vultures."
"Not usually...unless you attack first."
"I didn't," Sherlock said, sounding surprised. "They hated me for being... you know."
"I didn't tell a soul about that," returned Lestrade.
Another silence.
"I don't poison potential. It's called 'the benefit of the doubt,' and you ought to give it a try sometime. I'm not a complete idiot, you know."
Sherlock looked as though he might actually be revising his opinion about that very thing."
"You didn't... but then, why did they hate me?"
Lestrade looked into Sherlock's eyes and realized the question was honest.
"They felt threatened," he said after a moment. "And you rubbed it in, from the start."
"In my defense, their lack of attention to detail was appalling."
"Theirs is standard. Yours is obsessive."
"Mine solves cases."
"No one's arguing that."
"Then why weren't they pleased to become less incompetent?"
"Because you phrase things like that," said Lestrade. "Try 'more competent'."
Sherlock was silent.
"There are too many of them," he said at last.
"What?"
"People are sensitive? That's what you're telling me?"
Lestrade shrugged. "Yes."
"And I'm not. And Jenkins...he only laughed yesterday, when I told him to not be an idiot check beneath the rug next time. Not an angry laugh, I don't think. But Sally wanted to skewer me alive for casting aspersions on her fingerprinting technique."
"Everyone's different."
"Yes. It's too many. And they all look at me at once."
"You do draw attention," Lestrade pointed out.
"I can't be nice when they do that."
"Why not?"
For the first time in his life, Sherlock appeared to be having difficulty finding words.
"It's...too bright," he said at last.
Lestrade was certain he had heard him incorrectly.
"Too many eyes," Sherlock clarified. "I can't see with all that."
"You can't...handle the attention?"
"Distracting. I only want the case." Sherlock spoke offhandedly, but Lestrade was watching his knuckles whiten.
"Let me get this straight," Lestrade said slowly. "Too many people...slows down your processing?"
"Derails it," said Sherlock shortly.
"Anxiety."
"No."
"Sherlock..."
"I regularly face down serial killers," Sherlock snarled. "I do not have anxiety."
Lestrade decided to let it go.
"Then why do you show off?"
Sherlock stared, uncomprehending.
"Show...you mean, explain?"
"Well..."
"You don't like it if I don't," Sherlock pointed out matter-of-factly. "And more importantly, they don't go away until i do. Your people flock like coyotes and they are a distraction. Only a few of them are useful, anyway."
The answer was more incomplete than dishonest, and Lestrade decided to let this, too, slide. He stepped onto more productive ground.
"Which ones are useful?"
Sherlock thought for a moment.
"Jenkins. The carpet was a relatively mild oversight. And O'Connor...she has a good eye. Bernhardt lacks experience, but thinks creatively."
Lestrade made a note. All of the officers Sherlock had mentioned were steady and easygoing, as well as intelligent. People he'd trust to hold down an investigation.
"Okay, then."
Sherlock tilted his head.
"I'll assign those three to cases where we call you in. And ask the others to back off a bit. Or do my best, mind. Can't control everything."
Sherlock looked astonished. And relieved.
"We'll try to keep it down to a couple of people in the room, yeah?"
"I...yes. Good."
"Can you do me a favor in return? Try to soften that tongue of yours. I know you don't always understand, but give it a shot. It'll help the investigations, I promise."
Sherlock looked skeptical, but nodded shortly.
"Plus, you could use a couple more friends."
Friends. Silently, Sherlock tasted the word.
"So you're my -- "
"Obviously," Lestrade interrupted, a grinning mockery of his own mannerism that even Sherlock couldn't fail to catch. He smiled, only a tad unwillingly. Friends.
They stood, both sensing the conversation was over. Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I wouldn't tell you these things if I didn't care, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked at him.
"Telling me unpleasant things is... friendship?"
"Sometimes," said Lestrade.
Sherlock looked at the desk again. The pattern had changed.
He nodded and left the office.
A/N: I wrote this because my autistic little brain has been on the fritz lately. I swear my SPD is getting worse, and too many people for too long makes it impossible to act normal! I figured Sherlock might feel the same way.