Chapter One - Point of Origin
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When Gregory Lestrade's desk-phone rang on the afternoon of 16 November, 2001, he barely glanced at the id-screen before he answered. He almost never checked his screen before he answered, it was usually someone he needed to talk to and never someone who might otherwise call on his mobile, so when he answered, he wasn't thinking at all of his boyfriend.
"New Scotland Yard Homicide, Greg Lestrade." He answered mechanically, hoping to god it was a quick call. There was a pause on the other end and he groaned.
"Gregory." Shit. He sat up, no longer tired.
"Mycroft?" He checked around for eavesdroppers, double-checked his id-screen, "Shit. What's wrong?" Mycroft Holmes never called his desk-phone, hell, he almost never called while Greg was at work.
"Are you busy?"
"Not...exactly. You never call this number, what's up?"
"It's Sherlock." Two words Greg had seriously hoped he would never hear from his boyfriend. They'd been friends since childhood, kept in touch through university, parted ways for a bit while they worked out their lives, and hooked up again about a year ago. They kept it quiet, their jobs would suffer if they came out openly about their relationship.
"What happened, Myc?"
"He hasn't been home in three weeks. He's...gone."
"There's not a chance he would have jumped a flight to the States or elsewhere, is there? France or Spain, maybe?" Mycroft's little brother, younger by seven years, was flighty, impulsive, rude, and a fucking genius. He was already opening an inter-office messaging window on his computer and pulling up one of his OCU-AP contacts.
"I'm not sure, I wouldn't put it past him. You know I wouldn't ask if I thought I could handle this myself."
"I'm already on it, Myc." He cradled the phone against his cheek and shoulder as he typed out a message to Susan Brealy, "Did he leave a note or anything?"
"I stopped by his flat on Montague Street, but he wasn't there and the landlord was less than helpful. And he hasn't been to Baker Street in almost a week."
"Damn it, Sherlock!" Greg muttered, watching the messaging-window. Sherlock wouldn't have been at the Montague Street flat anyway, not without good reason. It was his absence from the Baker Street house that worried him more. Maybe he'd stop by when he had a chance and ask Martha Hudson if she'd seen her troubled tenant, or even risk going after Sherlock's long-time flat-mate for information.
Susan, sorry to bother you. Please be in your office. It's an emergency. – GLestrade
I'm here. Just stepped in. What's the matter? – SBrealy
Can you put word out, get a BOLO out to your guys at Heathrow and London City to keep an eye out for somebody? Or ask if they've seen him? – GLestrade
Missing persons isn't your division, Greg. What's wrong? – SBrealy
It's...Sherlock Holmes. He's been missing for three weeks. I want to make sure he hasn't ghosted. – GLestrade
Holmes? Sure. Got a description of him? – SBrealy
"God bless you, Susan." He muttered, "Mycroft?"
"Yes?"
"What was Sherlock wearing the last time you saw him?"
"When I caught sight of him on CCTV a week-and-a-half a go, he was in jeans and a leather jacket."
"Sweatshirt?"
"Yes."
"Fine. Thanks. I'll get word to the Aviation Police, and then I'll hit the streets myself. Just stay where you are, alright?" He tapped out a new message to Susan with Sherlock's physical description and what he had been wearing the last time anyone had seen him, "If he's out there, he won't want to see you. Sherlock only disappears when he's in a fit. What happened?" His computer beeped at him and he saw that Susan had replied.
We'll find Sherlock Holmes, Greg. You tell Mycroft not to worry his pretty head. AP knows our business. If Sherlock slipped our nets, we'll track him, we have our ways. If he hasn't tried yet, we'll snag him. Have you tried sounding the streets? – SBrealy
That's my next call. If I'm lucky, I won't get a bust. Damn! – GLestrade
Breathe, Greg. – SBrealy
He could see Susan laughing at her desk, not at him, but at the situations he got himself into being involved with the Holmes brothers.
"Father said something about university." He heard Mycroft
"I thought Sherlock was doing well in his classes?"
"When he's not high? He's a genius. He refuses to bother with "plebeian, inferior minds", and almost got himself kicked out of school for harassing teachers. If he surfaces, he'll walk for graduation. I made him promise me he would at least do that much."
"Jesus Christ." Greg put his head down against the desk, "Am I a bad person for hating your brother sometimes?"
"No, that makes you human. My brother is a very, highly unlikeable person, even when he's sober and worse when he's high." Mycroft sounded tired, sad, and Greg wondered if he'd cried at all. Suddenly, Greg saw a flash of motion at the top of his vision and looked up.
"Hang on, Myc." He turned the phone so the conversation would be muffled as he gave his attention to Jackie Billingsly, his immediate boss, "Sorry, Jackie. What's up?"
"You need to go, you've got another one."
"Are you serious?" He groaned, "Where?"
"Cotton Row."
"Jesus." He signed off with Susan, who promised to keep him informed and asked that he do the same just in case he found Sherlock Holmes before AP did. "Mycroft? Sorry, I have to go."
"You know what to do if you find Sherlock." Mycroft said softly, "Please, please find my brother."
"I will, I promise. If I have to book a ticket to New Mexico, I'll find Sherlock." He wasn't kidding. He hung up, already on his feet and shrugging into his jacket. Grabbing his radio and mobile, and yanking open his desk-drawer to grab his Glock, he wasn't going into a bust without the thing. Shoving it into the holster, he nodded at Jackie.
"Domestic troubles at home?"
"You could say that." He zipped up the hi-vis jacket, "Kind of got a missing-persons case on my hands. It would be a mix of really good luck and really, really bad luck if I found him on this bust."
"Who's missing?"
"Sherlock Holmes hasn't been home or in contact with his family in three weeks. His brother saw him on CCTV about a week-and-a-half ago, but that was the last time. No idea where he is now."
"Christ, Greg."
"Tell me about it." He rolled his eyes.
"Did you ping AP?"
"Yes, ma'am." Greg headed for the door, Jackie at his side. She had been on him since he'd been promoted to Sergeant, and before when he'd been a constable. Normally he drove with a constable, but today he drove with Jackie. While they headed for the bust, followed by three other cars, he filled Jackie in on the current situation with Sherlock, they traded ideas on what might have set him off like that.
When they arrived at the den, Greg stared out at the flop-house, wondering how many people were in it at the moment. Intel said anywhere from six to twenty people could be inside. Dealers, users, buyers. "Shit. Will three cars be enough? If there's twenty people in there, this isn't going to be clean or easy." Without really thinking about it, he called for back-up over the radio and they waited another ten minutes for a few more cars and a prisoner-transport van. Better safe than sorry. Getting into the house was easy, they took the place by storm, and startled well over twelve people. He collared one kid, not even eighteen by the looks of him, and spun him around, "I'm looking for someone."
"W-what?!"
"I. Am. Looking. For someone." He showed a printout photograph of Sherlock Holmes, "Is this boy here right now?"
"Th-shit, that's Shezza! He's upstairs, man." The kid was shaking, higher than a kite and freaked out. Probably hallucinating, if Greg had to guess. He held the kid still and looked him over, flashing a pen-light torch in his eyes, measuring dilation of pupils and the racing pulse against his fingers.
"What did you take, kid?"
"X. Crack."
"You...what?!" Greg coughed, "You mixed Ecstasy with cocaine?!" This kid would die if Greg let him go. "How much?"
"Dunno, whatever they gave me."
"Who dealt you?"
"Ginger."
"Fuck. That smug bastard!" Greg grabbed his radio, holding the teenager up with one arm and a knee between the kid's legs as he leaned him against the wall, "This is Lestrade, I need someone to find Ginger and hold her. I need to know what she gave one of the users. What's your name?" He looked at his charge, who was about to OD in his arms, "Kid, your name!"
"Rocky."
"Find out what Ginger gave Rocky and get back to me! I'm going up for Holmes!" He belted his radio, slung a limp arm around his shoulders, and hauled Rocky upstairs, "Stay with me, Rocky, oh god don't do this. Where is Shezza?"
"Room at...th-the...back...house."
"That's it, Ginger is going away for the rest of her short life." Greg grunted, pulled off-balance halfway up the stairs when Rocky suddenly collapsed. "Shit." Heaving the kid over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, Greg got to the top of the stairs, laid Rocky against the wall in a sitting position, begged him to hold on, and ran to the back room at the end of the hallway, kicking the door in. The room was littered was dirty mattresses, most of them occupied. "Everybody get out! Now!" he yelled, sent six people running like rats. "Leave Rocky or I will break you like sticks, hear me?!" he snarled, knowing that panicked users and dealers would try to take Rocky with them. When the room cleared, the only one left was Sherlock Holmes, who had passed out on his mattress, wearing the same clothes Mycroft had seen him in last. Cursing his bad luck, Greg pressed two fingers to Sherlock's wrist. Maybe the kid was just sleeping, his pulse was steady. Greg shook the troubled genius by the shoulder.
"Sherlock. Holmes." He whispered, getting no response. "Shezza, man, wake up." Nothing. Hating himself for what he was about to do, he leaned back and slapped Sherlock hard enough to leave a mark. It had the desired effect of snapping Sherlock out of his stupor and Greg jumped back, on his feet in a flash and his Glock held out to ward off the half-drugged man at his feet, "Take it easy, Sherlock. I'm not here to hurt you."
"Hell of a way to treat a guy!" Sherlock snarled, spitting on the ground, "What the hell, Greg!"
"Sure picked a hell of a time to remember my name." He growled, "I wasn't looking for you when I showed up here."
"Wh-where's Myc?" Sherlock staggered to his feet, and almost did a face-plant. Greg holstered his gun and caught Sherlock in the same motion.
"Fucking Christ, Sherlock!" He got under the kid's shoulder, "Mycroft is not here, if that's any comfort to you. He did call me, but I thought you'd jumped a flight somewhere."
"Thought 'bout it."
"What did you take, Sherlock?" He huffed as he got Sherlock out of the room. Down the hall at the stairs, he could see Rocky. "You're not high right now."
"Nope." He popped the second syllable, a funny and endearing habit of his, "Was yesterday. Didn't sleep for six days, you know."
"You've been off-radar for three weeks, but Mycroft still tracked you on CCTV, you weren't trying hard enough."
"Didn't...uh, want to...disappear?" Sherlock shook his head, looking down at Rocky, who had passed out, "Fuck, that's Rocky!"
"I know. Can you stand by yourself?" He leaned Sherlock against the wall and dropped to his knees before the teenager, "I caught him OD'ing on X and cocaine. Rocky?" He shook the kid, got no response. His pulse was weak and he wasn't breathing. Cursing under his breath, he picked Rocky up in a fireman's carry, over his shoulders again, and looked at Sherlock, "I can't carry both of you, please tell me you can walk."
"Can I...hold on?"
"Yeah, yeah you can hold on, but for God's sake don't push me." He made his way very, very carefully down the stairs and somehow got down without hurting himself, Rocky, or Sherlock. When he staggered out of the house, he almost missed a step-down and would have hurt all three of them if Sherlock hadn't somehow managed to catch him.
"Careful." Sherlock muttered. He got as far as the waiting ambulance, rolled Rocky onto a stretcher, and told the medics what he knew. Suddenly, Sherlock collapsed against him and almost went down.
"Shit! Sherlock, hold it!" He spun on his heel and caught Sherlock before he fell, "Oh, fuck, you mad bastard!" They got Sherlock onto a stretcher and he leaned over the troubled genius junkie, taking hold of Sherlock's hand, "If you lied to me in that house, Sherlock Holmes, I will make it look like an accident. What did you take?"
"Cocaine."
"Of course you did! Christ." He tugged on his hair in annoyance, "I don't get paid enough to put up with this shit!" Shaking his head, he had the medics take Sherlock and Rocky to hospital, "Find out what else is in his system, I'll be along once I've finished up."
"Right then, Sergeant." The drivers just smiled knowingly and told him where to find his two strung-out charges. Ruffling his hair, Greg dug for his mobile and looked over at Billingsly.
"Gotta make a call, Jackie, sorry."
"Scene's not going anywhere." His boss just smiled at him, "I got the drug-list for Richard Lockley to the medics, they'll handle him."
"Oh, that's his name?" Greg raised an eyebrow as he dialed a number, "Thanks, Jackie." He waited for the call to ring out. It rang once.
"Gregory?"
"Found him, Myc." He turned his back on the scene and dropped his voice, "Listen, he's in a bad way, him and another kid I pulled out of there. Sixteen people, Mycroft, a lot of young ones this time."
"Where did they take him?"
"University College London Hospital. I hope you have a better option than rehab this time, or we'll be right back at square one."
"I think I have something. Thank you so much, Greg."
"Mycroft, please, we're practically family by now." He kicked at the gravel and kept an eye on the scene behind him, "I'm just counting my lucky stars I didn't find Sherlock OD'ing this time."
"What about the other one?"
"Uh, name's Richard Lockley, he's probably seventeen or eighteen. Way too young. OD'd on Ecstasy and cocaine, I'm keeping my fingers crossed."
"Who dealt him?"
"Ginger? I'll put her away for life if I get the chance." Greg paced irritably, "Listen, I've gotta go, Myc. I've gotta clear the scene and get up to UCLH to check on the kids."
"Thank you so much, Greg. I'll see what I can find on Richard Lockley for you."
"Thanks, Myc. I'll be in touch." He hung up and pocketed his phone, going to finish clearing the scene. He questioned the dealers, tore Gabrielle Hereford to pieces for knowingly endangering a minor, and asked for Sherlock's dealer. Every one of them pointed him back to Ginger, and he clenched his teeth as he snapped his hand-cuffs around her wrists and shoved her into the backseat of his squad-car, "I have had enough of your bullshit, Ms. Hereford, and no amount of sweet-talk or threatening me is going to get you out of trouble this time."
"You know you can't touch me, Sergeant Lestrade." The cocky twenty-five year-old just grinned at him, all he wanted to do was throttle her, "I have connections, you know."
"Guess what, sweetheart," he leaned into the car, getting into her space, "so do I." He raised an eyebrow, "Probably better connections than yours anyway, but I'm not bragging." Stepping back, he took a minute to appreciate the expression on Hereford's face before he slammed the door on her and walked around his car.
"You can be downright cruel, you know." Billingsly said smugly as he passed her before sliding into the passenger seat, "What's your next move?"
"Book Ginger and make a few more phone-calls before I head over to UCLH to visit Sherlock and Rocky." He buckled up, glanced in the rearview to check on Hereford, and started the car.
"Good with me." Billingsly patted him on the arm as he put the car in gear and set off for New Scotland Yard. It was a quiet drive, if you didn't count the bellyaching Hereford was doing, threatening their jobs, posturing about her connections, how she would make bail by nightfall and be out before they got home for dinner. Oh wait, they weren't going to, were they? They had "weirdo jobs" anyway. Greg didn't know if it was the lack of sleep in the last seventy-two hours, he'd gotten maybe a grand total of twelve hours, hearing from Mycroft that Sherlock had been off-radar for three weeks only to pick him up at his next bust, or the fact that he had pulled an eighteen-year-old kid out of a drug-house high on Ecstasy and cocaine, and it wasn't even the good-quality stuff, so bad he'd gone into OD while Greg had been holding him, but Hereford was really getting on his nerves.
By the time they reached The Yard, he was tearing his hair out. Taking pity on him, Billingsly offered to book in Hereford to let him make those phone-calls and collect himself for a bit before he went to the hospital. Dumping his coat, he set aside his radio and picked up his desk-phone. Time to call Melissa Hereford. As he waited for the call to ring out, he pulled up the messaging window from his earlier conversation with Susan Brealy.
Sue. I'm back. Bloody fucking hell. – GLestrade
You found Sherlock Holmes, I take it? – SBrealy
Thank God. Found the bugger high on morphine, but I'll take that over the last few times I've pulled him from a drug-den. – GLestrade
What's on your mind? – SBrealy
How could she do that? Shaking his head, he ruffled his pockets for a cigarette.
"Melissa Hereford's office, this is Charlene speaking, how may I direct your call?" a pleasant voice sounded in his ear and he sat up a bit straighter.
"Afternoon, Charlene." He grinned, "It's Greg Lestrade over at Scotland Yard. Is Melissa in?"
"Oh! Greg! Hi! Yes, she's in right now! We haven't heard from you in a while, is everything okay?" Funny how a phone-call could change someone's day. He just wished he had good news. He grimaced as he came up with a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes. Damn. Shaking one out, he fished in a drawer for a lighter, he usually kept two or three. Habit, Sherlock swiped them when he wasn't looking, like he swiped Greg's badges. Bloody git, he still loved the kid.
"Yeah, it's been one of those days. Y'know." He shrugged as he found one, "I gotta talk to Melissa real quick, if she's busy I can call back, but this is kind of important."
"Oh, sure! Just a minute!"
"You're a doll, Charlene." He sighed, pushing his chair back enough to prop his feet on the desk. He wasn't supposed to do that, but he really didn't care at the moment. It was quiet for approximately a minute before the line clicked over again.
"This is Melissa Hereford."
"Mel, hi, it's Greg." He braced himself for an awkward conversation. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
"Oh, good heavens, no! You almost never call, so this must be important." He could just see the smile, and groaned, "To what do I owe the pleasure of your voice this afternoon, Sergeant?"
"We picked up Gabrielle on a bust just a bit ago. She invoked your name and a number of hot-air threats to my job and livelihood. I just thought you should know."
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ!" He sincerely hoped there was no one else in Melissa's office just at that moment.
"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mel." He rubbed his forehead, "But I really wanted to get a jump on her before she called you. We booked her in, but everything is in your control now."
"Did she hurt anyone?" Melissa's voice was a frightening snarl, and Greg was so glad he wasn't in her office right now, giving her this news in person. He had considered it, but had decided it was just simpler to call, and quite possibly safer. His instincts had been correct. He really wanted to lie and tell her no, Gabrielle hadn't hurt anyone, but that would have been a huge lie. And he had to think about Sherlock and Rocky. He took a long draw of his cigarette, holding his breath for a minute.
"How much would you hate me if I said yes?"
"Fucking hell. That damn fool!"
"Take it easy, Mel." He cautioned, "I'm the wrong target. Yes, she hurt someone."
"Who?"
"A teenager, real young kid named Richard Lockley. He couldn't even tell me what he'd taken or how much, that's how bad it was. Poor kid could barely tell me his god damn name."
"How young, Greg?"
"Seventeen? Maybe eighteen?"
"What did she give him?"
"Um, he told me it was..." he flipped through his notes, stalling for time, "X and...coke. He was in real bad shape when I shipped him off to UCLH. I also had to send in Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, you found him! Thank god!"
"I take it Mycroft said something?"
"And Violet. Sweet thing came to me yesterday asking if I might have an idea." Melissa sounded worn out now, and Greg felt bad for her, "I thought he might have tagged Ginger. I wish he would go clean."
"You and a lot of other very worried people." He took another draw, "So, I take it my job is safe for the time being and you're in absolutely no hurry to bail your daughter out of jail?"
"No. She can sit there as long as she needs to. She only comes to me when she needs something, so I'm going to teach her a lesson." Melissa's voice was stronger and Greg nodded to himself.
"Glad to hear it, Mel. Sorry I called with such bad news. We should try to catch lunch together some time."
"That would be just lovely, Greg. I'll tell Mark and the kids you said hi. They miss you."
"Yeah, I'm sorry. This job is going to kill me." He cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and ruffled his hair with one hand, "Maybe Christmas? I'll try to make it up to them at Christmas."
"Don't bankrupt yourself on account of family, Greg. We're certainly not worth it."
"Oh, bullshit! Of course you're worth it!" He flicked ash from the end of the cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, a nice one from Sherlock a few years ago, "You're some of the only family I've got left! I'll go flat broke spoiling those kids if I have to!" He thought of something, "After all, we might as well make sure they know what it's like to have family that really loves them, right?"
"Christ, how did we survive?"
"Because we had each other." He smiled and kicked away from his desk to put his feet down, checking his messaging-window. He had been filling Susan in on things while he'd been talking to Melissa, essentially multi-tasking. Greg chuckled, he seemed to be very good at multi-tasking at work, even running on twelve hours of sleep. His mobile buzzed and he checked for new messages. It was Mycroft, he'd reached the hospital and had some information on Rocky for him. He nodded, tapping out a reply with his thumb. Suddenly, from clear across the other side of the bull-pen, he heard a loud shriek and nearly fell out of his chair.
"What happened?" Melissa had heard his flailing and cursing and he got up from his chair without killing himself.
"Uh, hang on a second." He looked over the top of his cubicle, searching for the source of that noise. Then he spotted them, three of them. Three, he remembered now, of...four? Five, or was it six now? Christ, what were they doing here? Why were they here? His first thought was for Harry, which would have just been the icing on the cake. "Christ and Satan. Fuck."
"Greg?"
"Sorry, love. Gotta go." He waved, getting a nod when the eldest of the threesome coming his way saw him and registered his location, "The Watsons just showed up."
"It's not Harry, is it?"
"I don't see her, and there's...something about John that's got me a little worried. I'll be in touch! My love to the kiddos!"
"Remember, you promised them Christmas."
"I'll do my best to keep it, Melissa. Cheers, love." He hung up and bolted from his cubicle, intercepting three of the six Watson children. "John!"
"Hey, Greg. Sorry we didn't call." Never let it be said John Watson was timid about anything. Quiet, unassuming, smart as a fucking whip, and humble, but not really timid. He hated asking for help, but that was his stubborn pride and nothing else. John had showed up at New Scotland Yard with his youngest siblings in tow, in uniform. Greg hated to think what that meant, it left a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
"A heads up would have been nice, but that doesn't mean I would have gotten the message." Greg hauled the young man into a hug, careful of the child John was carrying on his hip, "Christ, I haven't seen you guys in ages. What's up?"
"We just got out from visiting Harry."
"Oh, god, John." Now he knew what they were doing here, "When did she get pulled in?"
"Last night. I only got around to it today. I told her I wasn't bailing her out, she could spend another night in the drunk-tank. She didn't like that."
"Sure she didn't." He sighed and looked at the two youngsters, "Well, come on then. Mariam and Christopher are in school, I take it?"
"Mm hmm." John shifted his hold on Darcy, who was all of six months old, "I really needed her to look after Darcy and Tris for me."
"You found a replacement baby-sitter, I hope?"
"Mrs. Hudson stepped up when I called this morning. I know I could have asked Violet and Siger, but they do too much already."
"All you have to do is ask, John." Greg smiled and picked up four-year-old Tristan Watson, "Hi, Tris."
"Hi." Tristan smiled shyly and put both arms tightly around Greg's neck. He sighed, wondering about the kids sometimes. He took the kids back to his cubicle and pulled a stack of craft-paper and a box of markers from the bottom drawer of his desk. At the age of twenty-four, John Watson was the second of six children, his sister Harriet was three years older at twenty-seven, followed by the twins Mariam and Christopher at sixteen, then Tristan at four, and Darcy was the youngest of the lot at six months. Stealing an empty interview-room, he settled the Watsons in and went in search of coffee. John followed him, leaving Darcy asleep on a pile of blankets on the floor while Tristan scribbled at the table.
"Tris, you be good, alright? I'll be right back."
"Okay, John-non!" Tristan beamed at them, going back to his scribbling. As they walked away from the room, he saw Susan Brealy come around a corner. He jumped on the chance to let someone watch the youngsters so he could pull John for a one-on-one chat.
"Susan! Thank god!"
"Oh, hey, Greg." Susan saw him coming and smiled, "I'm surprised you're not halfway to UCLH right now. What's the hold-up?"
"Something kind of came up." He looked at John, who had the good grace to look bashful, "But Mycroft's already there, so things are under control. Listen, I need a favor?"
"What do I get out of it?"
"My eternal gratitude?"
"Don't look at me like that..." she trailed off when he gave her his best sad-puppy look. Rolling her eyes, she was about to say yes anyway when she realized that it was John Watson standing next to him. "Oh. Shit. John Watson!"
"Hey, Sue." John managed a smile for Susan, who circled him like a hawk before she dragged him into a rib-crushing hug, "It's...been a while."
"Been a while?! Bollocks! You need to stay in better touch with us!"
"Sorry about that." John coughed.
"You brought the littles with you, right? Mariam and Chris are in school and Harry's..."
"Down in lock-up. Yeah. Can you look after Tris and Darcy for a bit? She's down for her nap, and Tris is drawing pictures. Just...please?" Like John would ever have to beg any of the women of New Scotland Yard for a babysitting favor. Greg was pretty sure he could ask Sally Donovan nicely and she'd say yes. In fact, come to think of it, Greg was fairly certain that Donovan had done some babysitting for the youngest Watsons in the past.
"Oh, don't you worry a thing, Johnny! And wherever they're sending you, you be careful and write home, you hear me?"
"Yes, ma'am." John ducked his head, blushing, and made a face when Susan seized him and dragged him into a kiss on the cheek, "Ugh!"
"I am not sorry, young man! You be careful, understand? I don't need to hear from this one that something bad happened to you!" She jerked her head at Greg to emphasize her point.
"Understood." John gave a brisk nod and as soon as the conference-room door had closed behind Susan, muffling the excited squeals as Tristan recognized her, he exhaled and seemed to deflate.
"Come on, kid. I'm getting you coffee."
"Thanks, Greg. God, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. So, where are they sending you?" He headed for the break-room, which was blessedly empty at the moment. "I mean, you finished school, then?"
"Yeah. I mean...yeah. I haven't decided what I want to do, but...the big part's behind me. The part the Army paid for. Maybe general surgery? Or, I don't know, pathology?"
"Yeah, I figured that. Jesus, son." He fixed up one cup the way he knew John took his and then one for himself, "I never thought I'd actually see the day you got shipped out. How are the kids taking it?"
"Pretty well. I mean, they know I'm leaving, but...they're kind of used to me wearing the uniform around, so it's not a shock to them. I'm just...worried."
"You've got a life-insurance policy, don't you?"
"I got one when I was twelve." John took a gulp of coffee, "I heard Sherlock got into some trouble?"
"You could say that." Greg leaned against the counter, "What is it about that kid?"
"Your guess is good as mine." John swirled his cup, "Y'know, I talked to Mycroft when Sherlock went missing?"
"About what?"
"Said if he needed a structured program to knock sense and shape into that bastard genius brother of his, I had a few ideas."
"What kind of ideas?" Greg narrowed his eyes, trying to imagine what they might have come up with that Sherlock would say yes to. John gestured at his fatigues, almost dismissively. Greg coughed, nearly choked, but got himself under control. "Wait...what?!" He shook his head, "How?"
"I leave tomorrow morning."
"Christ, John! How do you expect to get him to agree to it?"
"Because it's either join me in the Army in three months and a quarter, or involuntary rehab and criminal drug charges." John shrugged, but Greg knew how important Sherlock's health was to John, "But the choice is his, I can't force him into anything."
"What if he takes Option A?"
"Then God help us all." John sighed, "It's bad. I love him, I really do, but I'm so sick of him doing this to himself. Was he OD'ing when you found him this afternoon?"
"No, actually. He was high, but he wasn't OD'ing. Not like the poor kid I found five minutes before." Greg rubbed his face, "Twelve fucking hours of sleep."
"You're a good person, Greg." John murmured, burying half of that in a sip of coffee, "It's just a bloody shame your bitch of an ex-girlfriend can't see it."
"That's her own damn fault, kid. Don't let Chelsea bug you too much, I'll be alright."
"Besides that, you found a damn fine replacement." John sniffed dismissively, "At least she never saddled you with kids like Margaret did with Henry. For all the good that did any of us."
"You've taken good care of the kids, John. Don't think about them." Greg squeezed John's shoulder, trying to pull him away from that dark place, "And for someone in your situation, you really beat the learning-curve to a pulp. But then, you'd been doing it since you were twelve. Twelve years old and looking after your junkie parents and older sister with the twins to handle. God bless you, John Watson."
"That's why I became a doctor, y'know?" John finished his coffee and got another cup, "So I could take care of others like I took care of my own family. Like I take care of the Holmeses."
"That reminds me." Greg rubbed the back of his neck, "I feel real bad for missing your Passing Out Ceremony. Did anyone show up for it?"
"Violet and Siger came, and Mycroft. They brought the twins." John smiled, "Funny how that worked out, though. I was a scrappy little street-kid when Sherlock took me home to his family. I was...nine?Ten years old?"
"You've kept Sherlock straight, or tried to, since then. But you've always been there for him."
"I'd kind of like to keep being there for him. If he doesn't kill himself first." John twirled his cup, "What if he says no, Greg?"
"Then there's nothing we can do but stand back and support him in whatever bad choices he makes." Greg rubbed the back of John's neck, "But he'll listen to you, he always has. He tries, and he respects you." He watched the young man finish his coffee and chuck the empty cup in the bin, "Come on, son. I'll take you to UCLH if you want to see him before you ship out."
"I'd...like that. He might not want to see me, but I'll say goodbye to Mycroft anyway." John sniffed, straightened up, and Greg swallowed hard. He remembered John and Sherlock as the scrappy kids playing on the grounds of the Holmes family home both in London and out in Sussex. John had been ten the first time they met, and Sherlock a very precocious seven, but for some reason the two of them had just hit it off and the rest of that friendship was history.
He remembered a messy custody trial when John had been thirteen, the twins had been five. Tristan hadn't even been conceived yet. But somehow, by some bloody miracle, the barrister Siger had found to take the Watson's case pro-bono had not only wrangled full independence for Harry at sixteen, but custody of all existing Watson children and any future children to the care of the Holmes family until they were of age to create their own lives. Almost overnight, they had gone from one of the poorest families in three boroughs to a life of relative luxury. As a result of this, with glaring exception for Harry who had always done her own thing and always would, John and his siblings had gone to good, reputable schools, gotten excellent educations, and John had then decided he wanted to do something with himself and gone to medical school with his bills paid for by the British Army. Now he had graduated from medical school and was getting shipped off to...somewhere. And he was offering his erratic best friend a chance to make something of himself at the same time.
Shaking his head, Greg tossed his own empty cup and went to let Susan know he was taking John to see Sherlock. She had no problem babysitting, and promised to call Siger and Violet if she needed an extra hand. Grateful for that at least, Greg grabbed his jacket and radio and headed for the door, hoping they could escape without any more hold-ups. That hope went straight out the window when he heard a shriek behind them and spun on his heel, half-expecting trouble. It was trouble, alright. Greg groaned and pressed one hand to his eyes.
"Oh, Christ. Donovan!" He dared to peek and sighed, "For fuck's sake! Oi! You two, knock it off!" Like the pair of horny kids they were, he watched John Watson and Sally Donovan take a step away from each other with nearly-identical expressions on their faces. Caught but not sorry enough.
"Sorry, sir."
"It's fine, just...tone it down?" Greg shook his head as the pair tagged along after him. He tried to think of how long John and Sally had known each other, or even how they'd met. He thought their friendship might have been around longer than John's friendship with Sherlock. He seemed to recall Donovan making mention of the fact that she'd grown up in the council estates when she'd cleared Police Academy and gone on to work at New Scotland Yard. He wondered if she had lived in the same council estate the Watsons had until the courts had handed custody of the children to one of the richest families in the city. It would explain why they got along so well whenever John visited New Scotland Yard, or they ran into each other out on the streets. John and Sherlock had a slightly annoying habit of popping up at crime-scenes, but usually turned out to be helpful. When they got to his car, he gave John and Donovan a chance to say their momentary goodbyes. He was pretty sure he heard Donovan ask if he was reporting to Durham tonight. John said no, he was flying from London City Airport first thing in the morning to Durham, and from there he was flying to...Germany? And then to his final destination: Kabul. Afghanistan.
"They're sending you to Afghanistan?! John, no!" Oh, Donovan did not like that, and frankly, neither did Greg. It was November, they wouldn't see John again until May. And that was if he came home in one piece. He listened as John promised Donovan that he would see her again tonight, he wasn't going to just up and leave without saying a proper goodbye. That didn't do much for his constable's mood, but it was enough for her to at least let him go long enough to finish up his business at University College London Hospital. Greg had already started the car, and as soon as John had his seatbelt on, he put the car in gear.
"Were you going to tell anyone where they were sending you?"
"I told my family. Violet's reaction was about the same as Sal's, Siger was more like you." John cleared his throat, "The kids...didn't understand. Well, the littles didn't. Poor Darcy, she doesn't even know I'm leaving. Tristan doesn't understand why."
"He's four, John! How can you expect a four-year-old to understand something as complicated as war?"
"I can't." John ruffled his hair, already cut military-short. It had grown out from the close cut he'd sported during Basic Training, but it was still very short.
"You know Siger would have paid your way through university, John."
"I know. But...even though he's been my father-figure for years, he knows I like to do things on my own. The money is still mine, I still have access to it, it's just not going to be spent on education."
"The Holmes family has been very good to you, haven't they?"
"They always have been." John cracked a smile, "Worried as they are, Siger and Violet really are proud of me."
"Of course they are." Greg smiled and reached across the center console, "All of us are. And really, if you forget to write home, John, I will have hell to sit through from the girls. Please don't forget to write home."
"I won't." John chuckled, "I'm so glad Detective Billingsly likes me."
"She finds you very charming, John." Greg sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, "Boy, you're not going to miss the traffic out there, are you?"
"Oh, I probably will. It's a completely different world out there, Greg." John braced one foot against the dashboard, adjusting his boot-laces, "Desert for miles, wary locals, half-mad terrorists hiding in the hills. Am I mad for going out there?"
"Mad? Maybe. But very brave, too." Greg flipped through radio-channels until he found one with decent music. "Have you studied the languages at all?"
"Back when I joined up, I couldn't figure out what to do with myself, so I took on with the Signal Corps, got in with the 2nd Regiment, 214 Squadron."
"You?" Greg didn't mean to laugh, "You went Signals?!"
"Yes, sir."
"Well done, Watson!" He chuckled, "I'll be damned. You said 2nd Reg, 214 Squad?"
"Yes, sir." John smiled.
"Mmhmn." Greg shook his head, "Let me guess your troop. Viking?"
"If you saw my badge, that's cheating."
"Which is on your other sleeve, son." Greg reached over and ruffled John's short hair, "Nah, that was a lucky guess. Was I right?"
"Yes you were."
"Oh, nicely done! So, why did you go to Medical School, then?"
"I like helping people, but I figured worst case, I can always back up to be a Siggie if it comes right down to it." John shrugged, a little more relaxed. Greg looked him over more closely, and realized that, no matter what he did, or what he'd gone in for, John Watson was perfect for the Army. Now, as for his bit with the Royal Corps of Signals, would he have gone on as a Communication Systems Operator, a Communication Systems Engineer, or...or...hmm. Had John Watson gone in with the Signal Corps as an Electronic Warfare Systems Operator, the clever signalers who intercepted and jammed enemy communications? That seemed to be a bit more Sherlock's thing than John's, but he knew John was clever, resourceful, and had a knack for things like that. When they reached the hospital, he let John out first and followed after parking the car. At the desk, with John beside him, he asked for Holmes. The nurse on duty gave him directions. Greg nodded absently.
"And...uh, Richard Lockley?"
"They're sharing a room at the moment. Are you family?"
"Of a sort." He shrugged it off and pocketed his badge, "Unless his family materialized out of thin air." Greg sighed and led the way up to the proper floor. The room was quiet but not silent, and Greg looked at John when they noticed a distinct lack of complaining from Sherlock.
"Wouldn't put it past the git to break out of here unseen." John hissed, backing up to the door before he peeked around into the room. Greg snickered, knowing it was his training with the Army that had just kicked in. They were perfectly safe, and yet he was treating this like a potential ambush-situation. And considering who they had come to see, Greg didn't blame him. John went in first, his footsteps nearly silent, and Greg followed.
"Oh, you'll do fine in the Army!" He whispered. The room was so quiet because, miraculously, Sherlock Holmes was sound asleep. A curtain separated Sherlock's half of the room from that occupied by Richard Lockley, and Greg ground his teeth together. Shaking his head, he watched John approach Sherlock's bedside and study his friend for a minute before he did something risky. Careful not to cause too much commotion, John slid onto the narrow bed, wedging into a narrow space alongside Sherlock, who stirred but did not wake up. Leaving the boys for the moment, Greg pulled aside the curtain for Rocky's bed and heaved a sigh of relief. Seated at the bedside was an elderly couple, roughly in their eighties, possibly in their nineties, just beside themselves with grief. So, Rocky did have a family. He didn't announce himself, respecting their privacy, but it seemed human habit to always know if there was someone nearby you. The gentleman raised his head and looked over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Greg standing there, he got slowly to his feet. Wincing, Greg rushed forward quietly and held out one hand.
"Oh, thank you, son."
"Of course, sir." He looked at the unconscious boy in the bed, unable to help the expression on his face, "Christ."
"You're the brave Detective Sergeant who pulled my grandson out of that drug-den this afternoon." It was not a question. Greg nodded.
"Yes, sir. Gregory Lestrade."
"Curtis Holliday. Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. You saved my boy's life."
"It...was the least I could do. God, I'm so glad he's got some family."
"We're all he's got. Dad's dead, mum's not in his life." Mr. Holliday shook his head, "When we got that phone-call, I cried." Greg sighed and looked around the quiet room.
"Have you eaten, sir?"
"Hmm?"
"I asked if you've had something to eat in the past few hours."
"Oh. Heavens, no. Dottie ate something earlier, but..."
"Well." Greg ruffled his hair, "I missed lunch completely. Can you leave your wife and grandson for a few minutes?"
"Oh, I suppose. But who will look out for them?"
"Plenty of people. John Watson's got instincts and good ears. Also, I'd be a damn fool if Mycroft Holmes isn't sneaking around here somewhere. He's got eyes everywhere." Greg folded his arms and waited as Rocky's grandfather explained himself to his wife, who just nodded and told him to go on.
"Don't worry, ma'am, I'll take care of him." Greg smiled at the woman, who managed a blinding smile despite her grief.
"Oh, heavens, son! Call me Dottie!"
"Alright then." He smiled and ushered Rocky's grandfather out of the room. He looked in on John and Sherlock, "John, can you keep an eye on things? I'm stepping out for a minute."
"No problem, Greg. Go on." John looked over his shoulder at them and gave a weak smile. Greg knew this whole thing was breaking John's heart and regretted that John was shipping out to Afghanistan in the morning. As they left the room and headed for the hospital canteen, Mr. Holliday looked back once.
"You said that young fellow's name was Watson? The soldier?"
"Uh, yeah. John Watson. You know him?"
"He used to work for me, before he went to medical school. Smart lad, diligent and resourceful."
"Yeah, that sounds like John." Greg smiled, "What, exactly, do you do, Mr. Holliday? Or...did do?"
"Oh, I run an accounting firm. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm old, but I've got my marbles. All of 'em. Can't stand bein' bored."
"I'm sorry." Greg bit his lip, "But most people your age are retired, sir."
"Bah, I'll die first! Too much livin' to do to be sedentary!"
"I suppose."
"And someone's got to be around to look after Rocky." Holliday's expression saddened a bit. Greg sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his hi-vis jacket. When they got to the canteen, he picked something simple for lunch and after Holliday picked something, paid and found a seat. For fifteen minutes, he enjoyed a quiet meal and some decent company. John's inclination to pull Sherlock into the Army with him put an idea in Greg's head and he wondered how he could put it to Holliday.
"Something's on your mind, Detective. What is it?" Holliday had noticed his expression, and Greg shook his head.
"I'm so sorry. But I just had a thought. Is Rocky a particularly troubled boy? He seems good, but...misguided. I speak from experience with Watson's companion."
"He can be. He needs structure and discipline, but at my age I can't give him all of that. What did you have in mind?"
"Have you considered sending him to the Army Foundation College? That's forty-nine weeks of all the structure and discipline anyone could want."
"You're a clever man, Detective." Holliday grinned. "I found an enlistment flier under his bed the other day. But he's far too young. It's what he wants to do. Perhaps the AFC would be the right course of action."
"Give him time to recover, and send him to the College." Greg took a sip of water and checked his phone for messages. Nothing from John, of course, but there was one from Mycroft. He smiled and opened the message.
Saw your car. Where are you? – MH
Down in the canteen. No lunch-break, so took a mo to eat.
Good. See you soon. – MH
After finishing lunch, Greg binned his trash and went back up to Sherlock's room. Mycroft was waiting outside the room, wearing a content smile, and after bidding Holliday farewell, and good luck with Rocky, he checked on Sherlock and John. The boys were sitting up on the narrow bed together, facing each other with their knees touching. Sherlock sat with his back against the wall, John with his against the foot-board, chatting in lively, quiet tones. He wondered if John had broached the subject of Sherlock coming to the Army with him. It was so strange to see John sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, his boots set carefully on the floor, but so...normal.
"Alright, boys, I've got a mountain of paperwork with my name on it, so I'll leave you to it." He hated leaving them, but Mycroft would get them where they needed to go. "John, don't forget to write."
"I won't, Greg. Swear." John just smiled at him, and Greg knew it was John's smile he would miss the most.
"Well, my loves. Be well, be safe, and be smart." He kissed each boy and left the hospital a little heartbroken. Mycroft followed him back to The Yard and kept him company while he finished the stacks of paperwork that had proliferated on his desk. Tristan was, of course, absolutely thrilled to see Mycroft, who took five minutes to play with John's youngest siblings. He always did, and it always caught people by surprise when someone as important as Mycroft Holmes stooped to literal child's play.
A month later, Sherlock graduated from university and left for Basic Training, determined to follow John wherever he went, and Greg just kept his fingers crossed. He said a prayer for the boys, for their safety and their friendship, for their strange and special brand of love. With John and Sherlock gone, Greg looked after John's siblings, keeping the older kids out of trouble as best he could and offering a night of babysitting for Siger and Violet to take a moment just for themselves. The only one he was constantly watching, really, was Harry Watson, who careened through life with a brand of recklessness that had him in fear for her sanity and her life. She was an alcoholic, but she rebelled against rehab, and he was sure she had a bipolar disorder as well, but there was nothing for it. As long as he didn't have to call John or the Holmeses after responding to a body-call to find out it was Harry Watson, that was alright with him.