This piece was written in response to helloyesimhere's review on 'Incontrovertible Evidence', asking for a Lestrade and Sherlock father/son story. So I put together this string of short scenes. I hope you like it helloyesimhere! (Maybe this help tide you over until I finish your other requests ;) )
Title comes from the Radical Face song by the same name.
Lestrade was barking orders at a few of the junior officers, urging them to finish their jobs so the case could be wrapped up and filed under 'solved'. As his subordinates rushed to do his bidding, Lestrade wove his way through the activity until he spotted the tall figure in the long coat heading away from the crime scene.
"Hold up, Sherlock," Lestrade called.
Sherlock kept walking. With a huff, Lestrade chased him down, sprinting to catch up to him.
"Do you need a ride back to town?" he offered.
"No," Sherlock immediately answered.
"Are you sure? We're quite a bit out of the way," Lestrade reminded, forced to increase his pace to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides.
"I'll take a cab," Sherlock responded coldly, stopping on the corner and looking up and down the street.
"Alright then," Lestrade shrugged and turned back. After a brief conversation with Donovan, handing her the responsibility of the final clean up details, Lestrade got into his car.
As he drove down the road, he came to the realization that the crime scene was too far from the city for any cabs to be making rounds through it. At that same moment, he was nearly passing Sherlock on the corner and he quickly stepped on the brakes to draw himself even with the consultant. He rolled down the window and leaned over in his seat to talk to Holmes.
"It'll be no trouble, Sherlock," he insisted.
"No thank you," Sherlock brusquely declined. "I already told you I'll wait for a cab."
"Then you'll be waiting a long time," Lestrade chuckled. "They don't come this far."
"Then I'll walk," Sherlock stubbornly declared, hopping off the kerb and setting off determinedly.
Shaking his head in amusement, Lestrade pulled his car ahead of the other man before yanking sharply on the wheel, spinning the vehicle around to block the road. Sherlock drew up short, irritation plain in his expression. Undeterred by the hostility on his companion's face, Lestrade got out, rounded the car and opened the passenger side door.
"Get in, Sherlock," he commanded, tilting his head at the open door.
For a minute, Sherlock simply stood there, eyes narrowed. But Lestrade was patient and in the end, Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh, as if being asked to perform an annoying and distasteful task, before climbing into the car. Containing the urge to shout in exultant triumph, Lestrade returned to the driver's seat and pointed the automobile toward the main part of the city.
"So, where can I drop you off?" Lestrade inquired, finally breaking the silence that had reigned in the car for the past twenty-five minutes.
"I'll tell you when to turn," Sherlock muttered, facing the window.
Unable to convince the curly-haired consultant otherwise, Lestrade was forced to listen for the mumbled directions. He did his best not to crash his car into pedestrians, other vehicles, or trash bins as Sherlock told him to turn without warning.
"It would be faster if you just told me where we're going," Lestrade observed after they nearly missed the correct street due to Sherlock's untimely instructions.
Sherlock didn't respond. Lestrade sighed and continued in the same direction until he was told differently. Finally, Sherlock's set of orders stopped.
"We're here," he mumbled, opening the door before Lestrade had time to bring the car to a complete stop.
"Sherlock, hang on a moment, won't you?" Lestrade complained to the man's leaving form.
Peering out the passenger window as Sherlock slammed the door, Lestrade's face fell.
"Oh no," he breathed. Quickly, he swung out of his seat and jogged to catch the detective. "Sherlock! You can't stay here."
"I can," Sherlock defiantly shot back.
"No decent human being would spend a second here longer than they had to," Lestrade protested, waving a hand at the disgusting dump of a house.
"Bye then," Sherlock dismissed in an overly cheerful tone.
Lestrade hurried forward a few steps until he could physically place himself between Sherlock and the heap of filthy bricks. "I've been here before, Sherlock, on several calls. This is not a good place to be."
"Move," Sherlock demanded impatiently.
"I can't let you stay here," Lestrade insisted.
"Try and stop me," Sherlock challenged, attempting to push past the smaller man.
Lestrade surprised him by grabbing his wrist and firmly tugging him in the opposite direction. Taken off guard, Sherlock allowed himself to be led back to the car.
"Where are we going?" Sherlock queried.
"To my place," Lestrade informed him, happy to turn the automobile around and speed away from the dangerous neighborhood.
"Your place?" Sherlock repeated incredulously.
"You didn't think I was just going to leave you at a homeless shelter, did you?" Lestrade chuckled.
"I had hoped you would leave me alone," Sherlock grumbled, petulantly crossing his arms.
"You don't really mean that," Lestrade brightly pointed out.
Sherlock returned to religiously maintaining the silence and Lestrade returned to not minding the lack of conversation. Finally, they pulled up in front of the inspector's home. This time, Sherlock took longer getting out of the car than Lestrade did. It took a fair amount of coaxing before Holmes would even climb the front steps.
"I know it's not much," Lestrade apologized as he unlocked the door. "But considering where you had been staying, I guess you might call it a step up."
Sherlock hesitated in the doorway and barely followed him further inside than the entry hall. Lestrade threw his coat on the back of the sofa on his way to the kitchen.
"I haven't got a lot in the way of food, what with the wife out of town at her parents," he called back.
"Parents? Is that what she told you?" Sherlock muttered.
"But I think I've got enough here for a decent meal," Lestrade continued, gathering ingredients and beginning the process of cooking dinner.
After pushing several helpings of chicken and vegetables onto his houseguest, and watching with a close eye to ensure every bite was eaten, Lestrade cleared the dishes, putting them in the sink for washing the following morning. He showed Sherlock to the spare bedroom, told him to make himself at home, and then went to his own room to get ready for bed.
When he got up in the morning, he peeked into the guest room. The bed was empty, although the duvet was missing. Curious, Lestrade headed down the stairs. There, he found the missing blanket draped half-on and half-off the couch, and a newspaper spread on the coffee table with an advertisement for a flat circled in ink. Lestrade smiled, scooped the paper off the table and stepped into the kitchen for some breakfast.
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A few months later, after finishing a witness interview, Lestrade decided to stop off somewhere for a quick bite before going back to work, which required a slight deviation from his usual route. As he drove down one of the narrow streets, he caught sight of two men arguing forcefully up ahead. His empty stomach urged him to ignore the situation and keep driving until he pulled up in front of his favorite takeaway place. But his sense of duty had control of his hands and before he knew it, he was pulling his car over to the kerb and stepping out of his door.
"Alright, what's going on here, gentlemen?" he inquired.
One of the men was standing on the front step of an apartment building and he fixed Lestrade with a fierce glare. The other man, standing on the sidewalk, didn't even turn around. As Lestrade came closer, he was able to recognize the second man's curly hair.
"Sherlock? Is that you?" he asked.
Sherlock finally tossed a look over his shoulder and ran an assessing glance over the inspector without bothering to return the greeting.
"What's up, Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned, glancing between Sherlock and the clearly irritated man on the stairs.
"He wants money or something." Sherlock flapped a dismissive hand at the the other man.
The gesture only further antagonized the man and his face flushed a darker shade of red. "It's not just money. It's the rent! You haven't paid in two months!" He stabbed an accusing finger at Sherlock.
The detective rolled his eyes.
"And this is none of your business." The man whirled on Lestrade. "So why don't you get back in your car and drive away before I call the cops on you!"
This time it was Lestrade's turn to roll his eyes. He retrieved his badge from his belt and held it up as proof. "I am the cops."
Robbed of his only threat, the man sank into a subdued silence. Lestrade used the lull to focus on Sherlock. He frowned to see how skinny the detective looked.
"Sherlock, is he right? Have you not paid?" he asked.
"I don't see why he's making such a fuss," Sherlock huffed.
The flat owner opened his mouth but Lestrade held up a finger, efficiently silencing him.
"Haven't you got the money, Sherlock?" Lestrade queried.
Sherlock didn't reply, which was answer enough.
"What about the money from your last case? The one with the cats and the knit jumper? I seem to remember Ms. Haggleton was very grateful and demonstrated that gratitude with a large check," he reminded quietly, not wanting the landlord to overhear.
Sherlock snorted. "I don't do it for the money."
"So you didn't accept it?" Lestrade asked incredulously.
"Obviously," Sherlock grunted.
"Let me get this straight. You refused payment for your work just because you think you're too good for it?"
Sherlock merely stood there, allowing the inspector to come to his own conclusions.
Shaking his head at the foolish arrogance of the other man, Lestrade pulled his wallet from his pocket. "Alright, how much does he owe you?" he asked, turning to the flat owner.
"You're not serious," the man protested.
"Come on, now. I haven't got all day," Lestrade prompted.
Surprised, the man relayed the total to him. As Lestrade counted out the correct amount, he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock's hands were shoved into his coat pockets and his gaze was focused out on the street behind the detective inspector. When Lestrade held out the wad of notes, the landlord stepped down to retrieve them. As soon as he moved, Sherlock brushed past both men, ducking into the house without even a glance back, much less a thank you.
The flat owner thumbed through the stack of money, reassuring himself of the amount. "I have half a mind to toss him out on the street anyway," he grumbled. "He's more trouble than he's worth."
"If you did, he might make a scene. And if he makes a scene, someone might call the cops. And if the cops show up, you might have a problem." Lestrade's tone was casual, but the threat was implicit.
Taking the hint, the landlord turned and walked into the house, muttering under his breath about how he should have moved back to Dorset with his mother instead of staying in London to rent out the flat. Lestrade stood out on the sidewalk a moment longer, until an impatient growl from his stomach sent him hurrying back to his car and his quest for lunch.
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"Is he here yet?" Lestrade questioned Donovan as he met her outside of the car park.
"Who?" Donovan asked.
A young woman raced past them, her face buried in her hands as she cried. Lestrade watched her go, feeling sympathetic.
"He's here and he's picking on the new recruits. Again," he answered his own question.
"Oh. Him," Donovan said, displeasure twisting her mouth into a sneer. "Why do keep bringing him around? Is it even legal for him to be here?"
"If you have a problem with the way I run this operation, you can get one of you own," Lestrade dismissed, heading off into the large structure.
He nodded to the officers standing guard over the crime scene tape, greeting them by name as he was able. He quickly walked to the level where the baffling crime had occurred. Sherlock was easy to spot, distinguishable by his height, coat, and aloof posture. Lestrade drew even with him and stood beside him, gazing at the unique evidence. Sherlock's gaze slid to him, coming to rest on the plastic bag in his hand.
"What is that?" Sherlock immediately queried.
"This?" Lestrade gestured innocently with the bag. "It's food."
"Yes, I can see that. I mean what is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.
"Takeaway," Lestrade said cheekily.
Sherlock blinked, perplexed. "For who?"
"You."
"But I don't-" Sherlock started.
Lestrade held up a hand. "Eat while you're on a case. I know. But you've just solved it."
"I have?" Sherlock asked, even more confused.
"Well...you're about to," Lestrade stated. He glanced at Sherlock. "Aren't you? This is normally the point where you do your thing."
"Oh." Sherlock turned to face forward once more.
Lestrade watched as Sherlock knelt and examined each piece of evidence. For a few minutes, Holmes was quiet. Then his eyes brightened and he spun around.
"We're not looking for a single perpetrator. There were two of them, one of whom is a child, who happens to be left-handed," Sherlock began, launching into his explanation.
Lestrade nodded and took notes in his head as the curly haired consultant laid out the facts.
"Meaning it could be no other than Harold Taylor and his stepson Geoff," Sherlock concluded confidently.
When he had finished, his hands twitched toward the takeaway. As if his body had moved of its own accord and his mind took a second to catch up, Sherlock's grimaced and he stopped himself before he could touch the bag. Then he feigned indifference, pretending to look around the car park. With a smirk, Lestrade wordlessly passed the food over and started walking away as soon as Sherlock's fingers took hold of the handles. Just to be certain the gift had been accepted, Lestrade glanced into the side mirror of a parked car, observing the detective from a distance. Sherlock had taken the container from the bag and opened it, holding it to his face as he inhaled the delicious scent of the hot food. Pleased with himself, Lestrade pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed Donovan to inform her of the Taylor's impending arrest.
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The end of August ushered in the beginning of September with a weekend rainstorm. Lestrade held open the door to his office, allowing Sherlock to exit first. As they passed the coat stand, Lestrade scooped up the extra umbrella he'd brought from home and offered it to Sherlock.
"Here. I figured you wouldn't remember one," he explained.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I'm not a fan of umbrellas."
"Is it because of your brother?" Lestrade inquired.
Surprise crossed Sherlock's face. "How do you know about my brother?"
Lestrade shrugged. "We had a lovely chat a while back. He kidnapped me, threatened me, and then had me dropped off at my house as if nothing had happened."
"That does sound like him," Sherlock muttered.
"And the whole time we were talking, he had that stupid umbrella with him," Lestrade recalled. "It wasn't raining. In fact, there wasn't even a cloud in the sky but he had it anyway."
"He might as well carry around a big sign that says 'I have control issues'," Sherlock grumbled.
"Yeah, that was sort of the impression I got," Lestrade agreed. "However, that doesn't change the fact that it's raining today." He nodded out the window at the water soaking London.
Once again, he held the umbrella out to Sherlock.
"No, no. It's too big and clumsy, requiring at least one of my hands. It'll only slow me down," Sherlock refused.
"Okay." Lestrade yielded, setting the umbrella to lean against the coat stand. "But at least wear a scarf then."
And before Sherlock knew what was happening, Lestrade unwrapped the scarf from his own neck and wound the soft, charcoal grey material around Sherlock's. Then, he grabbed his first umbrella and went down to the lobby, prepared to face the weather, leaving Sherlock standing dumbfounded in the hallway, fingering the warm fabric.
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"Won't you stay for another round?" Philip queried, spinning around on his bar stool to watch as Lestrade gathered his jacket and fished out his keys.
"Sorry, boys. Not tonight," Lestrade apologized.
"His wife keeps him on a tight leash," snickered Rory.
"Shut up, Davies." Lestrade rolled his eyes and slapped his friend on the back. "When you get married, you'll understand."
"When?" Rory repeated. "That's pretty presumptuous of you to say. I plan on being single the rest of my life," he proudly declared.
"Which is probably a good thing, seeing as how I can't think of any girl mad enough to have you," Philip ribbed.
Lestrade chuckled, wished his fellow officers a good night and stepped out of the pub. The night air was refreshing and he took a deep breath of it. At the moment, he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Whistling a happy nonsense tune, he climbed into his car and pointed the vehicle in the direction of his house. His mobile chirped in his pocket and he considered ignoring it, in the name of preserving his rare sense of peace. But after a brief internal debate, he pulled out the device and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Sherlock, containing the words please come and an address.
Perplexed, Lestrade looked up the address. It was not too far away, and Sherlock rarely asked for anything, so the inspector decided to make the slight detour. He nearly drove right past Holmes because the consultant was not at the given address, rather, he was in the alleyway behind it. When Lestrade caught sight of Sherlock's skinny silhouette, he was disturbed to see there were many other shadows gathered menacingly around the detective.
Grateful he had gone straight from the Yard to grab a pint with his co-workers, and therefore dressed with his on-duty equipment, Lestrade leaped from his car and raced to the mouth of the alley, pausing to assess the situation. Four large men were advancing on Sherlock, their words muffled but their threats were clear in their voices. One of the thugs raised his fist and slammed it into Sherlock, sending the detective stumbling into the brick wall of the nearest building. At that point, Lestrade could wait no longer. Outnumbered or not, he wouldn't stand by idly while someone beat his friend. In one smooth motion, he drew his torch with his left hand and his pistol with his right. He aimed both down the narrow alleyway, grip steady.
"This is the police, put your hands up!" he shouted.
The men whirled around, startled. When they saw the gun he had trained on them, they bolted for the opposite end of the alleyway, running off into the night. Relieved that his plan had worked smoothly, Lestrade holstered his gun, but kept the torch trained on Sherlock.
"Are you alright?" Lestrade questioned, coming closer to inspect the damage.
"I'm fine," Sherlock deflected, twisting his face away, though whether he was avoiding the bright light or denying the inspector access to his injury, Lestrade didn't know.
"Did they hurt you?" Lestrade demanded.
"I told you I'm fine," Sherlock repeated, irritated.
"Trouble seems to be attracted to you, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade dryly muttered.
Sherlock straightened and touched a finger to his cheek to check for blood. Upon finding no such thing, he shot a glare at the inspector. "What took you so long?"
"I came as soon as I got your text," Lestrade defended.
"If you had taken the most direct route from the pub, it would have only taken you six and a half minutes instead of nine," Sherlock pointed out.
"I did take the-wait. How did you know where I was?" Lestrade asked suspiciously. "And how do you know how long it took me?"
"I suppose I'm lucky they only had their fists as weapons," Sherlock grumbled, pushing his way past the other man as he exited the alleyway.
Lestrade stood there a moment longer, with the feeling that he had just been given a test. He could only hope he had passed.
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"Right, I think that should do it," Lestrade nodded, flipping shut the folder and handing the file back to Molly with a smile. "What do you think, Sherlock? Are we finished here?"
Sherlock blinked uncomprehendingly.
"Sherlock?" Molly said, concerned.
"Sherlock," Lestrade called.
Finally, the consultant focused on his face. "Hm?"
"Are you alright there?" Lestrade questioned.
"Fine," Sherlock automatically responded.
"You don't look fine," Molly mumbled. "You look terrible."
"Thank you. Your opinion is always so refreshing," Sherlock sniped.
"Sherlock," Lestrade reprimanded, observing how Molly wilted under the insensitive retort. "She's right, you know," he added, running his gaze over the other man.
Sherlock's curls were limp, his shoulders slumped and dark rings circled his eyes.
"When was the last time you slept?" Molly timidly queried.
"What day is today?" Sherlock asked.
"Okay, if you can't even remember then I'd say it's time for you to go to bed," Lestrade declared.
The consultant opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade grabbed him by the elbow before he could get out a single word. "Come on, you. Let's get you some rest. You're about to collapse on your feet. Thank you," he said to Molly as he guided the grudging detective past her.
With only a minimal amount of difficulty, Lestrade manhandled his companion into the backseat of his car. Too tired to hold himself up, but too stubborn to give in to sleep, Sherlock leaned against the window, eyes staring at Lestrade through the rear view mirror. When they reached their destination, Lestrade came around the car to help Sherlock out. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he took in the view of Scotland Yard.
"Really? You took me here?" he accused.
"Yes. Now come on," Lestrade confirmed, unapologetic.
Lestrade reclaimed Sherlock's elbow and used it to steer the taller man through the building. He wove his way through the confusion of officers, secretaries, witnesses, visiting press, and janitorial staff until he stopped in front of a closed door at the back end of one floor. It was quieter here, away from the hustle and bustle of the main business areas.
"Here we are," Lestrade muttered. He released Sherlock and the detective nearly fell forward when the steadying hand was retracted. "Steady on," Lestrade chuckled, catching him. "We'll have you lying down in just a moment."
Holding Sherlock upright with one hand, he used the other to twist the doorknob. It was locked and Lestrade huffed impatiently, fishing his keys from his pocket. It only took him a second to undo the latch and when he pushed the door open, Donovan and a man Lestrade only vaguely recognized jumped apart guilty. Donovan straightened her blouse and the man, Lestrade thought he recalled his name being Adamson or something similar, wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.
"We were just, erm…" the man began.
"I had asked him if he would help me with...a...a file." Donovan snatched a random paper off Lestrade's desk.
"Yes. That's right. A file. That she needed me to look at. With her. She wanted me to help her with it. The file. Help her with the file," the man stuttered.
Rolling his eyes, Lestrade pointed to the hallway. "Out."
The pair slunk last him, and Lestrade shook his head. "Why did they have to come in here and do that?" he grumbled.
"Because it's a private office. It's at the end of the hall, so it's quiet, and it's unlikely for there to be many people coming in, if any. A quiet, secluded room with a low chance of interruptions is the perfect place for a little-" Sherlock started.
"Sleep," Lestrade cut in, pulling the throw blanket off the back of the small sofa in the corner.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Should I really be on there? Who knows what those two were doing before we showed up."
"Donovan may have poor judgement, but she does have boundaries. Not to mention, she knows what I would do if she so much as put her coat on here without permission," Lestrade assured him.
Sherlock reluctantly stepped closer and took a seat. It was a surprisingly comfortable piece of furniture.
"Lie down," Lestrade urged gently.
Sherlock began to, but Lestrade stopped him.
"Put your head on this side. The springs are a bit more pronounced on that end," he advised.
Sherlock followed the advice, giving the inspector a calculating gaze through drooping eyelids. "Do you often end up sleeping here at your office?"
"Go to sleep, Sherlock," Lestrade ordered softly.
Finally surrendering, Sherlock shut his eyes completely and burrowed into the sofa cushions. With a fond smile, Lestrade spread the throw blanket over him. Quietly, he tiptoed across the room, turned off the light and softly closed the door.