Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.
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A Scientist or a Philosopher
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Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, frowning at the notepad which was lying next to his microscope. He had been experimenting for want of something to keep him occupied, and had then gotten distracted. It happened a lot to him these days, which he did not particularly mind because he did not have regular cases anyway: distractions of any kind were a type of occupation as well, after all. It was only when he got bored that his mind began to crave something other than puzzles for food.
He did not consider himself a junkie, not any more and not even after the Magnussen case, because it had been exactly that: a case. The end justified the means, wasn't that what they said? And really, there was no way he could possibly acquire anything one might call recreational nowadays, not while he was being under constant surveillance.
It was not exactly house arrest, but he was not allowed to go anywhere on his own either, and it had been made very clear to him that he would be properly imprisoned if he ever tried to get out unseen. He did not know how Mycroft had arranged for it, since it was not usually standard to let murderers live in their own homes, not even with a threat like Moriarty hanging over their heads.
But that was just the point: Moriarty, or rather, whoever was posing as him, had yet to make a move. It had been three weeks since Sherlock's almost-exile, and nothing had happened since then. It was a bit unnerving, to say the least. There had been no clue, nothing to go on; Sherlock and Mycroft had gone through the entire material on Moriarty with a fine-tooth comb, had interviewed Kitty Riley, had even (unsuccessfully) tried to track down Irene Adler, in case she knew something (Mycroft had accepted the fact that the Woman was not dead courtesy of Sherlock with remarkable poise. Only the twitch in the left corner of his mouth had told his brother that he was inwardly berating himself for obviously not having been thorough enough), but to not avail. Analyses of the video message's signal had not gotten them anywhere either, the source had not been found.
On the whole, the matter did not bode well. There already were people who loudly voiced their doubts about the whole affair; only a rather small inner circle had known about the circumstances of Magnussen's death, but even among those who were in on it, there were doubters, saying it had been Sherlock or someone he had paid to do so who had fabricated the Moriarty video in order to save his own skin.
The detective tried to ignore the growning but nagging dread he had been feeling ever since the plane had turned around; the prospect of leaving the country and never seeing John and the others again had been worse, but that had been something which had only seemed to become real the moment they said their good-byes on the tarmac. Until then, it had all been a haze, not really palpable. It had only truly caught up with him and overwhelmed him once he was in the air, feeling gravity and pressure and loss all at once, making it hard to keep his composure; Mycroft's call had been like a blessing. It was ironic, really, that it had been Moriarty who had saved him this time.
And now they were waiting. Sherlock forced himself to be quiet, to be grateful to be home. It was doable, if difficult. He did not appreciate the surveillance, though it was still preferable to being incarcerated somewhere, of course.
Mrs Hudson was fussing about him a lot; on good days, he endured it with more patience than usual. On days on which he thrummed with pent-up and mostly useless energy, he sometimes made her cry.
John had come by as often as possible in between his job and his by now very pregnant wife, pretending to be calm, unhurried and not at all concerned about Sherlock's situation. Who was not fooled by his friend's inconspicuous demeanour for a second, but nevertheless, John's presence was comforting, just as it always had been. They talked about Moriarty and the pending baby and not once about how lucky they had been, in a strange twist of fate, that Sherlock was still there, even when they did not know what was going to happen next, or what that strange twist of fate might entail. What and whom.
Sometimes they did not talk at all, which was equally fine.
Considering everything, Sherlock still had a lot of freedom, and even though he huffed and complained whenever Mycroft came by, he found himself appreciating it. It could have been so much worse. He could be in Serbia instead.
He stared at his notepad, looking at the names of random elements he had jotted down: Seaborgium. Ununoctium. Thulium. He didn't care about the stories behind those names, because they often had originated from one kind of sentiment or another, honoring someone's achievements, for example. Sherlock wasn't interested in those stories, but he liked the names. He preferred not to know their history, since it made them appear mysterious, more interesting; fodder for the mind. Something about them always caught his attention, and he could not put his finger on it what it was, which was annoying. The thing which compensated for that however was what he liked best about the elements: that they did have an irrevocable order which could not be undone because it was satisfyingly logical.
He was still pondering this when his phone buzzed. Distractedly, he answered it: "Sherlock Holmes."
"Nick Leahy here, from the Packet."
The Packet. Ah yes. A pub, not far from Waterloo station. The a considerable amount of noise in the background, a mixture of voices and music, had the man shouting a little. He did not wait for Sherlock's answer: "I'm calling on behalf of DI Lestrade." Leahy lowered his voice now, there was concern audible as he continued: "He's pretty plastered, Mr Holmes. He needs someone to take him home."
"Did he tell you to call me?" Sherlock asked, irritably.
"No, he didn't. He often talks about you though, speaking highly of you if I may say so, so I thought it'd be best to call a friend of his. Tried to get him to take a taxi, but there's no talking any sense into him."
"I... see." Sherlock was taken aback. "Er... Yes. I'll come and get him."
"Thank you." With that, Leahy hung up.
Sherlock stared at his phone for a moment, then he got up and went to put on his coat.
The Packet was situated on a street corner in Southwark. Sherlock stepped out of the car and ignored the man in black who followed him. It had taken a brief if heated argument with Mycroft over the phone to get him to send a car, but his brother would not budge when it came to Sherlock's personal surveillance: he insisted that the watchdog came along. Probably thought it was safer, too.
It was a quarter to eleven, but the pub was still tightly packed; it benefitted from the fact that there were several theatres in its vicinity. Sherlock spotted Lestrade at the bar and fought his way through the crowd, doing his best not to wrinkle his nose at the odors which assaulted him: various perfumes most prominent among them.
The Detective Inspector's eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused, but he broke into a grin when he saw Sherlock: "I think my eyes're deceiving me," he slurred, barely audible over the general din,"look here, Nick, it's Sherlock bloody Holmes!"
Sherlock nodded at the man behind the bar, only sparing him a short glance before turning his attention back to Lestrade: "Greg."
"Oh, so you do know my name after all!" Lestrade exaggeratedly raised his eyebrows.
"John made me memorize it."
"I'll thank him one day. Haven't seen him for a while, how is he? And what're you doing here?"
"John's fine and I've only come here to take you home."
"Home," Lestrade murmured gloomily, his previous elation gone in an instant, "I've got no home."
Sherlock looked at him more closely; he hadn't seen Lestrade in a while after all, and the Detective Inspector appeared rather worse for wear: there were bags underneath his eyes, he hadn't shaven in two days and he had lost weight.
"Oh," Sherlock said. "The wife."
"Yep," Lestrade raised his glass at that, realized it was empty and put it down again, pulling a face: "She wants a divorce. She wants a bloody divorce and me out of the house. Can't bear my presence anymore, apparently, isn't that ridiculous!"
Sherlock, who abhorred pubs and would have preferred to think about Promethium and Yttrium right then, realized that he was expected to do something which related to their status of being friends, as established by James Moriarty. He consulted his inner John for a moment: a friend helped his friends, even if it caused inconveniences. A friend tolerated it if the other person was talking nonsense, especially when said person was drunk. A friend listened and, if possible, gave advice and/or consolation in case the other needed it.
Inwardly sighing, Sherlock raised a hand and patted Greg's shoulder: "You'll sort it out," he said.
Greg snorted disdainfully: "No, we won't! She doesn't want me anymore, she's made that very plain! I should've listened to you, you know- you were right about her cheating on me. I think she stopped loving me once it became clear we'd have no kids." His eyes were moist now.
Uncomfortably, Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other: "There are other fish in the sea, aren't there?" he said in what he hoped was an uplifting tone.
Greg muttered something which sounded like "whaddayouknow," under his breath, which was probably best ignored.
"Come on," Sherlock tried to pull him to his feet, "we should leave."
"No."
"They are about to close anyway."
"I'll stay here. They can lock me in. I'm with the police, you know?"
"They won't lock you in, they'd rather call your colleagues and have them take you away."
"Fine. I'll sleep in a holding cell," Greg said, stubbornly, "got nowhere else to go anyway."
Sherlock rolled his eyes: "Stop being so melodramatic. You can come with me."
Greg looked at him with a squint: "And what do you mean anyway, you've come to take me home? You're not my wife."
"Your pal Nick over there called me," Sherlock said, mustering up the last remnants of his patience.
"Oooh, Nick! He's a good one."
"Apparently. Come on now, get up."
"You're taking me home?"
"Yes."
"Awww, that's so sweet of you. Let me buy you a drink first."
"No, thank you."
"Just a little one."
"They've already called Last Orders, and I don't drink."
"No, I remember," Greg giggled while he slipped off the stool and struggled to stand, "you and John, couldn't hold your liquor."
Sherlock quickly gripped his arm and turned him towards the general direction of the exit, which was made a bit difficult by Greg's merrily waving goodbye to Nick, who nodded at him with a good-natured smile.
"Nice one, that Nick," Greg muttered and hiccuped.
Wordlessly and still ignoring his shadow, Sherlock led Lestrade outside and towards the waiting car.
"'s your brother here?" Lestrade asked at the sight of it, resisting all of Sherlock's attempts to manoevre him into the backseat. "He's strange, your bother. Brother."
"Bother happens to apply as well," Sherlock muttered, "for God's sake, stop flailing!"
"Whoops, sorry." Lestrade beamed at him: "You're tall."
"Not as tall as people think, according to John."
"What're you doing?"
"Strapping you in."
"Oh no, are we expecting turbulences?"
"Not funny."
"'s a little!"
"Shut up."
"Aye, aye, captain!"
Lestrade still giggled a bit once Sherlock had gotten in as well and the car had pulled away from the kerb, but soon went quiet and slid down in his seat as far as the seatbelt allowed, closing his eyes.
Sherlock put his hands into his coat pocket and ignored Lestrade for the time being, only furtively glancing at him a few times; if the way he smelled was an indicator as to how much he had drunk, he was going to feel horrible on the following day. Sherlock remembered his own experience from John's stag night all too well. Ghastly, that.
Back in Baker Street, Sherlock's shadow at least made himself useful in helping to get Lestrade up the stairs; he was rather inconherent and could not properly get his feet under him, leaning heavily on Sherlock and the man in black.
As soon as they had reached the upper landing, Sherlock sent the man back out. He didn't want any of his brother's minions to enter the flat, it felt like an invasion of his privacy. It did however mean that he was now carrying most of Lestrade's weight, so he quickly proceeded towards the living room door. They were only halfway across the hall when Lestrade began to groan: "Sh'lock- think 'm gonna-"
So Sherlock directed them towards the kitchen door and through it towards the bathroom. They just reached it in time for Lestrade to throw up rather noisily. Since Sherlock didn't trust the DI to stand on his own, he quickly pulled his scarf out of the way and kept holding on to him until the bout was over.
Abruptly, Lestrade sagged, staggering against Sherlock and throwing him off his balance; a spectacular crash into the tub was only narrowly avoided.
"Sorry," Lestrade muttered, "everything's spinning."
"I noticed. Sit down for a moment, will you?" Sherlock gently steered his friend towards the clothes chair and eased him into it.
Groaning again, Lestrade rested his elbows on his thighs and cradled his head in his hands. Sherlock wetted a flannel and gave it to him so he could wipe his face, then took another one and pressed it against Lestrade's neck. The DI briefly shuddered but then closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.
"That's better," he murmured after a while, even though he did not look it; his skin had a greyish tinge, and there was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.
They were silent for a while, then Lestrade looked up at Sherlock, blinking: "Why're you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Helping me."
"You aren't getting all gooey on me now, are you?" Sherlock asked evasively, taking the flannel to refresh it, grateful for the chance to turn away:"You know why."
Lestrade huffed and closed his eyes again. "'s a long time ago."
It being the chance Lestrade had given him when none of the other officers would. He had seen Sherlock's potential underneath the self-destructive behaviour, the air of not wanting to do anything with other people. So he had let him in on a case, and when Sherlock had delivered the vital piece of information which had led to solving it, he had offered him more, under one condition, of course: that he didn't show up high. It had worked fine for a while, but there had been more than one occasion on which Lestrade had sent Sherlock straight back home, or worse- straight to the A&E.
It was back then that the policeman had also met Mycroft Holmes, who had not seemed to approve of their collaboration at first. He had however realized quickly that Sherlock's new job as a consulting detective, as he liked to call himself, was a suitable means to keep his brother off the drugs in the long run, not least since Lestrade, who had been a Detective Sergeant back then, had made it very clear that he was not going to continue to involve Sherlock if he kept using.
There had been setbacks, but eventually Sherlock's desire to prove himself had prevailed. Which probably had contributed to Mycroft consenting to send a car earlier. He was after all aware of Lestrade's role in the matter.
"I didn't forget it, though," Sherlock now said. If he was entirely honest, he had tried to delete it, but somehow, it stuck.
"I don't expect you to be grateful," Lestrade sighed, closing his eyes again. "You don't need to feel obliged to like me."
"I don't." Even Sherlock realized that that came out sounding harsh and wrong."It's not an obligation, I mean," he quickly added.
"I sometimes wonder." The DI's voice was barely audible now, and he was slurring his words again.
Sherlock fidgeted with the flannel he was still holding. It was true, he often was exceptionally rude to Lestrade, sometimes ridiculed him in front of others; not even his inner John prevented that. The actual John did not approve either, and as was increasingly often the case, he had of course guessed why Sherlock did it: "He knows you too well, if you ask me," he had said, on the ride back to Baker Street after a spectacular shouting match between Sherlock, Anderson and Lestrade which had ended with Sherlock practically spitting venom in every direction. Somehow, Lestrade had been the easiest victim that day.
"You resent that he knows things about you which take away the mystery," John said, pointing with his index finger at Sherlock for emphasis. "And you don't like that at all."
The detective had elected not to answer that, though he was inwardly itching to know what Lestrade had told John. He knew that they were talking about him when he was not present; it was their way to share their concern about him. For some reason, everyone he knew seemed determined to be worrying about him most of the time.
Mystery, Sherlock now thought, and as if on cue, names of elements came back to him: Tungsten. Lanthanum. Gadolinium.
With a small pang of regret, he pushed them aside. It was more than just that, which he had not shared with John, however: it angered him when Lestrade did not live up to his potential. He very often did not only not observe, but did not even see either. He tended to be strangely gullible at times, and he allowed himself to be distracted by the likes of Sally Donovan or his marital problems.
It was the same with Sherlock's mother, in a way; once she had given it up, she never went back to her maths, not even after her sons had moved out of the house, which was something Sherlock simply did not understand.
He shook his head; he was not going to veer into that now, it always upset him, and besides, he had other things to do. Lestrade did look marginally better, his stomach seemed to have settled a little.
"You should lie down," Sherlock said.
"Moving's not good."
"Okay. Tell me when you're ready."
They waited some more.
"Who's the guy?" Lestrade asked eventually, sounding hoarse.
"One of my brother's details." Sherlock did not manage to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Lestrade knew what had transpired, of course, since Sherlock had actually said goodbye to the DI this time.
"Huh. Sucks, right?" He opened one eye to peer at the detective, who was leaning against the sink.
"Yes." Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile. "It does."
Lestrade grimaced as he sat up a little straighter: "Think I'm ready now."
"Okay." Sherlock, glad to get away from this conversation, helped him to his feet: "Let's get you to bed."
Lestrade grunted, but complied.
Twenty minutes later, he was propped up against all of Sherlock's pillows in order to avoid vertigo, and Sherlock had made him drink some water in order to keep him hydrated. He had also snuck the plastic bucket Mrs Hudson used for cleaning out from the cupboard under the stairs and put it within Lestrade's reach, in case he had to throw up again.
"Sorry 'bout this," the DI murmured, regarding Sherlock wearily, "didn't mean to bother you. Nick shouldn't have called."
"It's all right." Sherlock folded his arms: "I was home anyway."
"It would've stopped you before..." With that, Lestrade closed his eyes. He looked exhausted, something which was running deeper than just a long day which had ended with too much alcohol. It usually was barely visible, hidden expertly by smiles and an easy-going behaviour, but now that Lestrade was not keeping his guard up any longer, the deception was obvious. It should have been obvious to Sherlock before nevertheless, but he admittedly had not seen it the last time they had met, he had been too preoccupied with his own problems.
The moment he had shot Magnussen had torn the ground underneath his feet away, making the world tilt. He barely remembered kneeling there with his hands raised and the blast from the helicopter whipping around him, but he vividly recalled the feeling of once more staring into the abyss. He had wanted to speak, to tell John he was sorry, had not meant for it to end like that, but he had been paralyzed by the immensity of what had just happened and what was going to happen. It had been all about John back then, as usual.
Sherlock blinked, focusing on Lestrade once more, who opened his eyes again in sudden agitation; Sherlock was already reaching for the bucket when the DI calmed down just as quickly and went back to dozing. Sherlock waited until the older man's breathing evened out.
Lestrade seemed comfortable for the time being, so Sherlock went into the living room, sitting down in his armchair and steepling his fingers underneath his chin. Contemplating how much his life had changed was something he was tired of. During his time away, he had expected to return to Baker Street and John one day, not thinking any further. And now here he was, alone in 221B, confined to it in fact because he had killed a man who had threatened John's wife, a former assassin. Who would have thought.
Sherlock's mind strayed back to the case at hand, though one could barely call it that; The Wait seemed more appropriate. He did not feel quite like himself these days; there had been times during which he would not have been able to bear the situation at all, being useless, doing nothing of importance whatsoever. Yet now it was not so much the adrenaline he craved, or the thrill of the chase, as he liked to call it; all he wanted was for something to change.
Even though it was probably best not to invite trouble (John's words), he wished that something would happen soon, something he could use to investigate, to get closer to solving the riddle. He had never before wondered about the future, but now it seemed crucial to know what was going to happen after this, no matter how it ended. While he did not doubt that he was going to solve it, the question remained whether it was going to be spectacular enough to redeem him, return him to his status of citizen-worthy-to-be-kept.
Mycroft had actually wrinkled his nose when Sherlock had coined the term during their latest conversation, but his answer had been unexpectedly emotional: "Just as I would not have let you perish in Eastern Europe, brother dear," he had said, eyes on his umbrella which he was swinging from two fingers, "I will not let anything happen to you if we should not succeed in this matter."
He was getting so soppy, just like on Christmas Day. Still, it was good to know to have Mycroft as a backup, even though he could very well cope on his own, and would have had in Eastern Europe as well.
Sherlock laid his head back and closed his eyes; if John was here, he would play the violin now. It made for a peaceful atmosphere, and he liked having the doctor's attention. As it was, he would probably wake Lestrade and also Mrs Hudson (who should be used to it by now, however), so he better refrained from making any noise.
Lithium, he thought, filling the space with words instead of music. Rhodium. Palladium. Astatine.
A litany as soothing and intimate as his preferred nocturne.
On the following morning, Sherlock woke from the sound of running water in the kitchen. John, he thought groggily and instantly delighted, but as soon as he was properly awake, the events of the previous night came back to him. Very likely not John, then. He winced at the crick in his neck; falling asleep in the armchair had not been wise. Blinking and rubbing the aching spot, he scrambled to sit up; Lestrade was supporting himself on the worktop, drinking a glass of water from the tap and looking rumpled.
"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, stretching his limbs. From the way Lestrade looked, it was obvious that he was feeling as horrible as could be expected, but John had taught Sherlock to ask such insignificant questions in order to show sympathy.
Lestrade squinted at him: "Awful," he muttered. "Got any aspirin?"
"In the bathroom drawer."
"Ta." The DI rubbed his forehead: "Sorry about this."
"You're repeating yourself."
"Oh. Don't remember much."
"No, you wouldn't." Sherlock smiled to take out the sting; another thing he had learned from John.
Lestrade regarded him suspiciously: "Are you trying to be nice to me?"
"No... Just... making conversation."
"Huh. Well, I'll go find that aspirin now."
"Maybe you should lie down again for a bit, Greg," Sherlock suggested. "You still look peaky, and it's rather early."
Lestrade kept staring at him for a moment with narrowed eyes, then he nodded: "Yeah, er... maybe I should," he murmured, staggering off towards the bathroom, a frown on his forehead.
Sherlock wandered back into the living room and eased himself down on the sofa: he could do with another nap as well. Maybe he was going to bounce his ideas off Lestrade later on, since John was not available; it was the baby's due date, if he recalled correctly.
"What would really have happened to you after six months, Sherlock?" the doctor had asked him one night, the night right after Moriarty's ugly head had been reared again. John had come by in the late afternoon for brainstorming and making sure Sherlock was all right.
"Who knows," Sherlock had replied vaguely, but John had watched him with narrowed eyes and shaken his head. "If I didn't know better," he had murmured. "I'd say someone tried to save your life."
Sherlock had snorted in what he hoped was a derisive tone: "Please. You do know better."
"Yeah, I suppose..." John had pursed his lips in his trademark way and frowned at his tea for a while. Of course, Sherlock had ever so briefly toyed with the possibility that someone, a person with a lot of influence and the ability to make themself invisible, had used Moriarty to call him back because it was the only option to keep Sherlock from being sent away.
A rather enchanting notion, and an entertaining one. Of all the people who knew about the matter, there were only two who would have had the means, and Sherlock was certain that neither of them had been involved. Still, he could not deny that the idea had some appeal, and he actually appreciated it that John had thought of it.
"What a tender world that would be," Sherlock murmured, not even aware of it.
If John were here right now, he would tell him that he was going to try and be nicer to Lestrade from now on. He frowned; on second thought though, he would not tell John that, in case it did not work. Lestrade was not an idiot; horribly dense and slow at times, but much better than the rest of the lot. Maybe he would learn, if Sherlock was patient with him. Not that the detective intended to replace John, but he knew that his friend was going to have a lot less time once the baby was born, and it might come in handy to have Lestrade on standby.
It was definitely worth a try. With a long-suffering sigh, Sherlock hauled himself out of the chair and booted up his laptop, once more grateful for the internet, which was so useful for all kinds of stuff.
For a moment, he hesitated after opening the Google page, then, mindful of his inner John, he typed "how to console someone who's recently been dumped" into the search engine.
There weren't many things which could compete with the tidy and comforting order of the elements, and he doubted that his life (or John's, to a certain degree) was ever going to be anything but chaotic and unpredictable. People like Lestrade however needed a certain order to function; maybe Sherlock was able to help him with that.
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The End
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Thank you for reading. Please leave some feedback.
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Author's notes: The Packet is a pub in Cardiff, where the lion's share of Sherlock was filmed. It's the pub you can see in HLV and also "Many Happy Returns", and since the name is written on the windows, I thought I'd keep it, since it seems to be Lestrade's favourite.
The title, as you probably have noticed, is a quote from ASiB, just as "What a tender world that would be."
Furthermore, I'm not a native English speaker and therefore apologize for any mistakes, such as wrong tenses. =)