Inexorable Erosion

The Freak had shown up to the crime scene looking sick and haggard.

Obviously, there was something wrong with him, but he just got off too much on gruesome murders to stay home and eat soup in bed like a normal human being. Lestrade had, of course, been nice to him about it, and asked him if how he'd felt, and when he'd last slept, etc. because Lestrade was a nice person and for reasons wholly unknown to her seemed to like the Freak fairly well. Of course all his concerns had been rudely brushed off - what else did he expect? - and the Freak had crouched down by the body, once again completely ignoring the fact that said body had been a person and that somebody, who had a family and friends and possibly kids was dead. No, the Freak didn't care about that, he never did, he just commented on how clever the murderer had been and went on to make things up that were probably only halfway right about the woman's job and friends and marital status and all in that annoying, overconfident, I'm-a-genius tone while he called Lestrade an idiot for not knowing any of this drivel and made Sally grind her teeth together in frustration.

Lestrade seemed to think the Freak was useful on cases. Sally not-so-privately thought that he was far more trouble than he was worth, that half the time it was probably the police effort that really got the job done, and not his stupid, supposed deductions, and that it was probably a really bad idea to let a psychopath like him see all the other psychopaths' work, so that when he finally snapped he'd have all the ideas and information he needed to commit his murders. But Sally wasn't the D.I. - yet - and while she thought Lestrade was barmy to have the Freak around, she respected him enough in all other areas not to throw a childish fit about it. So she stood there and watched, her stomach churning and her mind seething as the Freak pranced around the room looking at nothing and claiming that some piece of grit on the floor was tobacco ash and important evidence.

He then claimed that the murderer was the next-door neighbour's babysitter.

Right.

A babysitter.

Sally snorted in spite of herself and hoped Lestrade didn't notice.

But the Freak did.

"Yes, Sally, he said condescendingly, "Babysitters are people too, and they can murder with the best of them."

"Whatever, Freak," she said back, not wanting to lower herself to arguing with him at the moment.

She rolled her eyes and turned away, and he seemed to get the hint - or at least, decided she wasn't worth it either because he went back to ignoring her and continued talking to Lestrade. He would only ever talk to Lestrade seriously - he pretty much completely ignored or insulted anyone else. Maybe that was why Lestrade liked him, because the Freak kind of made him feel special. Sally got sick of listening to the Freak's convoluted explanation as to why the babysitter and his certain type of cigarettes were responsible, and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. Why she'd been in there watching in the first place she didn't really know - she supposed she'd felt bad for Lestrade, having the Freak insult him after he'd shown concern for the psychopath's health, and had wanted to stand there as morale support while the Freak stalked around the room and ranted. Not that Lestrade noticed her - he was too busy paying attention to the Freak's "deductions" - but she'd still sort of wanted to be there for some reason.

But now she was done, because the Freak was just getting too irritating, and so she walked outside and leaned against the wall, idly watching the cars going by in the street and tucking the lapels of her jacket closer as her breath misted in the cold air. It was nice to just stand there for a few moments, even though it was chilly - to enjoy the brief solitude and quiet, away from the Freak's natter and the bloody corpse and the general unprofessionalism that was happening in the room behind her. Anderson came back from taking off his forensics suit, and she offered him a wan smile. He stopped next to her.

"You all right?" he asked. She sighed.

"Yeah. It's just never a good day when the Freak shows up." He nodded, and reached in his pocket for something.

"Here, have a mint. Consolation prize." He clicked off the lid and offered the little plastic box to her. She shook one out and gave it back to him.

"Thanks." It was sharp and tangy on her tongue, and she crunched a little off the side of it with her teeth as Anderson popped one into his own mouth and then put the box away. He glanced behind them at the door.

"Is he still in there?"

"Yeah," she answered. "But it looked like he was finishing up a minute ago, so hopefully he'll be out of our hair soon."

As if to prove her right, the door suddenly swung open and the Freak stepped out, looking sicker than he had when he'd first walked in. Sally hoped briefly that he was miserable, chastised herself for thinking such a thing about someone, and then reminded herself that the Freak could hardly be categorised as "someone" and went back to hoping he was miserable.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Lestrade was saying earnestly as the Freak swept away from the house. He thanked the Freak plenty of times, but did he ever get a single 'you're welcome?' Sally was hard-pressed to understand why he even bothered at this point, except that Lestrade was, as a rule, a polite bloke, and that's probably was what driving him.

"Next time, look at the evidence before you call me out," the Freak said irritably.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Lestrade said, with real sympathy in his voice, "I wouldn't have asked you to come out here if it hadn't been so important."

"I'm going back to bed," the Freak snarled, completely unimpressed with Lestrade's apology. He was deathly pale, even for him, and sweat underlined his dark curls, though he shivered slightly in the chill air. "This wasn't even a challenge. If you're going to ask me to come out when I'm sick at least make it interesting." 'Make it interesting!' He always treated people's murders as if they existed for his personal amusement. Sally felt her subconscious reiterate its hope that he was miserable.

"I'm sorry," Lestrade repeated wearily. "Go home and rest up. I hope you feel better soon."

The Freak rolled his eyes and spun slowly on his heel, stalking off as if the entire world had offended him. In his twisted mind, it probably had, and Sally honestly couldn't care less. Sally prepared to say something nice to Lestrade, to make up for the Freak's rudeness, as the D.I. turned and headed back toward them, his expression uncomfortable and guilty. He shouldn't have to feel guilt over a sharp-tongued, ungrateful psychopath. Not only did Lestrade put up with all of the Freak's insults and general condescending behaviour, but he actually went out of his way to make things easier for him, giving him access he didn't deserve and protecting him from other officers who might make trouble for him. Not only did the Freak not deign to mention this, he acted like his 'genius' entitled him to anything he wanted, anyway. Bastard, Sally thought, as her boss drew close.

She was just opening her mouth to speak, when, thirty feet behind Lestrade, the Freak landed on one knee.

Her mouth stayed open without actually saying anything, and Lestrade must have seen the surprise on her face, and on Anderson's next to her, because he spun around immediately and cursed at the sight that met his eyes.

"Dammit! Sherlock!" he yelled, sprinting over as the Freak swayed slightly and then wholly collapsed, hitting the pavement without any apparent effort to stop himself. Sally found herself following Lestrade - Anderson too, an unconscious impulse from the both of them born of inherent human instinct. Lestrade reached the Freak and knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking it.

"Sherlock?" he said hopefully. When the Freak didn't answer, Lestrade caught him gently under the arms and pulled him up into a sitting position, supporting his lax body against his own and keeping him off the cold, damp tarmac. His eyes were shut, but the lids fluttered faintly as Lestrade wrapped an arm around him and tucked him close. "Sherlock," he repeated quietly, placing a hand on the Freak's sweaty forehead. "Can you hear me?"

"Should we call an ambulance?" Donovan asked, frowning, when the Freak didn't respond. Lestrade shook his head.

"Not just yet. His fever doesn't feel hospital-grade - it might just be exhaustion. If I can wake him up, then maybe - "

Suddenly the Freak gave a small groan and shivered in Lestrade's arms. The D.I. leaned closer to him, speaking gently into his ear.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John?" he said confusedly.

"No Sherlock, it's Lestrade. You sort of collapsed, mate." The Freak shivered again, and forced his eyes half open.

"What's... what's going on?"

"You're sick, Sherlock. You collapsed," Lestrade repeated. The Freak's eyebrows drew together uncertainly.

"Where is it?" he asked faintly. Lestrade frowned.

"Where's what?"

"Body..." he answered, his eyes falling shut again. "I have to..." He trailed off, shaking his head, obviously disoriented.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Lestrade said, shaking him again.

"Hm?" The Freak got his eyes back open. "Lestrade?" he said, squinting. "Where are we?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade said gently. "Can you stand up?"

"Don't like stand-up," the detective mumbled. "John says it's funny, it's only funny if the comedian's not an idiot..."

"No, stand up, Sherlock," Lestrade said, moving into a crouch and pulling the Freak up a bit, trying to encourage him to get to his feet. It seemed to work. The Freak got his legs under himself and staggered upright, then promptly fell sideways and would have hit the pavement again if Lestrade hadn't caught him. He was looking around hazily, as if trying to understand why he kept falling over. Lestrade got his shoulder under the Freak's left arm and glanced over at Sally and Anderson pointedly.

"One of you help me, will you?" he asked. They looked at each other, slightly startled, neither of them wanting close contact with the psychopath. But Sally stared Anderson down, and finally he shuffled his feet a little and went over to help. He was taller than she was, anyway, she thought as he reluctantly pulled the sick Freak's right arm over his shoulders. The Freak thankfully did not appear to notice who was carrying him.

"Okay, let's get him in the squad car."

Lestrade adjusted his grip and together he and Anderson stumbled over to Lestrade's car, Sally following. The Freak took a few haphasard steps with them, then went slack again, his head falling forward and his feet dragging. As they got closer to the car, Sally realised she should open the door for them, and hurried past to do so. She opened the backseat, and Lestrade and Anderson lowered the Freak in, trying to prop him upright on the cushions. But he kept sliding sideways, and Lestrade finally decided to just let him lie flat.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said again, trying to see if they could get some life out of him.

"Go 'way, I'm trying to sleep," he muttered, curling up on the seat. Lestrade sighed, sounding slightly relieved, closed the door, and went around to the front of the car to start it and turn on the heat. When he was finished, he came back around to where Sally and Anderson were still standing, unsure of what else they should do. Lestrade ran his fingers though his hair.

"Well, at least that was coherent," he said. "But now I'm not sure what to do."

"Shouldn't we call Dr. Watson?" Sally asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"John's in Amsterdam, that's why he wasn't here today. Medical conference," he added at her quizzical look. He bit his upper lip. "Dammit, I can't call Mycroft, Sherlock will kill me. And that's if Mycroft doesn't kill me first."

"Who's Mycroft?" Anderson asked, as Lestrade paced back and forth.

"Someone you never want to meet," Lestrade said cryptically. He glanced through the car window at the Freak's huddled form. "Molly would... but Sherlock would kill me over that, too," he muttered. Finally he seemed to come to a decision. "I guess I'll have to call his landlady," he said heavily.

"His landlady?" Sally asked in confusion. "Why would she care?" Sally had only ever seen the woman briefly, but judging by the state of the flat the Freak lived in - and the Freak himself - she had to pity the poor woman. Eyeballs in the microwave! Who knew what all he really got up to in that flat, what messes he made, and what property he destroyed? With any luck, John helped stop the worst of it, but Sally wouldn't have had the Freak as a tenant if you paid her a million pounds.

"Oh, she'll come," Lestrade said. "I'm just not sure if... well, maybe she knows someone who can help her." He reached for his pocket, then drew his hand back, realising. "Her number isn't on my phone." He looked at the Freak again, sighed, and opened the door of the squad car.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I need your phone."

The Freak didn't answer, and Lestrade started rummaging in his coat pockets, pulling the phone out after a few moments and looking through the contacts. He closed the car door again and selected a number, putting the phone to his ear. It was answered after a couple of rings.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson? Yeah, this is Greg Lestrade, from Scotland Yard. Yeah look, I'm sorry, but Sherlock's here, and, well, he's sick and I think he needs someone to come get him. I didn't know if..." He paused, listening. He frowned. "Are you sure? Well all right, I'll pay for the cab when you get here, then. Yeah. Okay." He gave her the address and then rang off. "All right, she's coming," he said to no one in particular. The three of them stood there for a moment, Lestrade rubbing his temple with his palm.

"Well, let's get back to work, then," he said finally.

ooo00ooo

Twenty minutes later, a cab pulled up to the nearby kerb, and a kind-faced woman just past middle age stepped out. Sally watched as Lestrade hurried over to her and paid the driver. She took a few steps forward, curious.

"Thank you so much for coming," Lestrade was saying, leading Mrs. Hudson over to his car. "We got him in the backseat, he's just sleeping right now, I think."

"Is he all right?" she asked worriedly. Sally raised an eyebrow. She was actually worried? That made her the first person aside from Lestrade and John that Sally had ever seen show any remote amount of affection for Sherlock Holmes. She stepped closer, wondering if the woman might be just a bit mental.

"He did fall," Lestrade admitted. "And he wasn't very coherent for a minute, but I think it's just a bad fever, really." They reached the car and Lestrade opened the door. The Freak was still curled up on the seat, not appearing to have moved or awoken. "Sherlock?" Lestrade said softly, shaking him a little. "Sherlock, I need you to wake up now." The Freak mumbled something unintelligible. Lestrade caught his shoulders and lifted him up into a sitting position, holding him in place against the seat as he slumped bonelessly. "Sherlock, come on, wake up."

The Freak blinked his eyes open slowly, looking around with the same air of confusion he'd had earlier.

"John?" he said again, and Sally was just thinking that the fact that he'd said his flatmate's name twice now in his fevered stupor would be wonderful gossip for the Yard's rumour mill, when Mrs. Hudson leaned down against the side of the car and said two words Sally had been certain she would never hear used together in her life.

"Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Hudson said softly.

Sally felt her mouth drop open of its own accord.

Had she just called the Freak dear?

The Freak managed to focus on the woman in front of him.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he said, frowning.

"Yes, dear," she said, reaching down to brush gently at his temple. "How are you feeling?"

The Freak's frown deepened.

"Mrs. Hudson," he repeated, confused. "Why are you here?" His face suddenly grew concerned, an emotion Sally was sure she'd only ever seen him wear when it was connected to whether or not he'd get something he wanted. He reached a trembling hand out to Mrs. Hudson's cheek, trying to lean closer to her, and swaying dangerously, forcing Lestrade to hold him in place. "Is something wrong?" he asked worriedly. "Are you all right?"

Sally thought her mind must have suddenly snapped in half.

"I'm fine, darling," Mrs. Hudson answered with a smile. "You're the one who's sick."

"You're sure you're all right?" the Freak asked anxiously. His eyes darted about without seeming to see anything. "Did you need something?"

"I need you to come home," she said kindly. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go to the crime scene. I told Lestrade I'm ill, but he's desperate."

"Darling, we're at the crime scene," she said patiently. The Freak stared at her, confused.

"You... We're... at the crime scene? Now?"

"Yes, dear."

Suddenly his eyes narrowed and his sickly cheeks flushed with anger.

"Why are you at a crime scene?" he demanded. "Lestrade!" he shouted, not seeming to realise the D.I. was right next to him. "What the hell is Mrs. Hudson doing at a crime scene?" He was suddenly trying to get out of the car, to pull himself out of Lestrade's grip, unsuccessfully, and he jerked back and forth with fleeting energy.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, but the Freak didn't seem to hear him. He refocussed his attention on Mrs. Hudson. His left hand still on her cheek, he raised the right to her other.

"You didn't see the body, did you?" he asked in desperate concern. "Please tell me you didn't see anything!"

"I'm fine, sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson repeated. "I haven't seen any bodies." The fight abruptly went out of him as he slumped in relief.

"Oh, good." His blurry eyes were flitting closed again, and his hands fell limply from their positions on Mrs. Hudson's face. "You shouldn't be at a crime scene, no, thumbs are one thing, but you shouldn't have to see bodies..." He trailed off into indiscernible murmurs.

"Sherlock," Lestrade repeated, shaking him again. "Mrs. Hudson is here to take you back to Baker Street. You can't fall asleep again now."

"What?" The Freak tried to raise his head, looking impossibly tired.

"I'm here to take you home, darling," Mrs. Hudson said, brushing his temple again. "You can go back to bed, and I'll make you some soup, all right?"

"I ate yesterday," he said faintly. Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"I'm making you soup," she said firmly. "Now come on, you need to get to the cab."

"Cab?"

"I took a cab here, dear, now come on."

Lestrade was trying to pull the Freak to his feet. Sally stared incredulously as the Freak stood unsteadily and Mrs. Hudson caught hold of his elbow.

Sweetheart? Dear? Darling? The Freak acting like he cared about someone? Sally was floored. What the hell was happening? Was this behaviour brought on by the fact that he was sick? That had to be it - he didn't know what was going on... And yet, Mrs. Hudson showed no sign that his affection was unusual, nor did Lestrade. And Lestrade had said that if he called Mrs. Hudson, she'd come, so was this... normal? The Freak asking someone if she was all right, and wanting to be sure she'd hadn't seen any dead bodies? And what about what he'd just said about Lestrade - was it true he'd come out to the crime scene because the D.I. had sounded desperate? But no - he didn't come to help Lestrade, he was only in it for the gore and the showing off, and he was sick and delusional, so he had to be making things up, hadn't he? But again Lestrade hadn't acted surprised. Sally resisted the urge to pinch herself - that was childish.

Lestrade managed to get the Freak the ten feet over to the cab alone, with Mrs. Hudson hovering on his other side, holding his arm but not really adding much in the way of support. They reached the cab, and the Freak fell against it, leaning on it wearily for support, one knee buckling under him dangerously as Mrs. Hudson opened the door for him. She and Lestrade waited hopefully for him to start to get in, but he merely slumped against the side of the car, Lestrade still helping to hold him up from the other side.

"Come on, Sherlock, get in the cab," Lestrade said, clearly ready to start pushing him in.

"Oh, cab. Right," the Freak said distractedly, and began searching around in his pockets. Lestrade frowned in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Pay for the cab," the Freak said, pulling out his phone and staring at it in consternation before he put it back and kept looking.

"You don't need to pay for the cab, dear," Mrs. Hudson said gently. "You just need to get in."

"No, no, I'm paying for your cab," he said to her, starting to slide down the side of the car a little. Lestrade caught him and started to help the Freak into the backseat, whether he wanted to get in or not.

"Don't worry about the cab, Sherlock," Lestrade said, "I've got it."

"I'm paying for Mrs. Hudson's cab!" The Freak's words became quickly moot as Lestrade got him on the far side of the backseat and he tipped over against the window, no longer speaking. Peering past Lestrade, Sally could see that his eyes had fallen shut again and he was once more shivering with his cheek pressed against the glass.

"Thanks," Mrs. Hudson said as Lestrade gave her some more cash for the driver.

"Are you sure you're going to be able to manage?" he asked with concern.

"Oh, I'll be fine. Mrs. Turner next door's got a couple of boys who'll help me get him upstairs. I already rang and they're waiting for me." Lestrade nodded.

"Oh, good." They stood for a moment, a bit awkwardly. Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, thanks for coming," he said. "I am sorry - "

"Try not to call him again while he's sick," Mrs. Hudson interrupted, for the first time looking a bit severe. "You know what he's like. He doesn't pay much attention to his health anyway, but if you call and beg him to come..."

"I know," Lestrade said guiltily. "But I didn't know he was that sick. And he was fine for a while - it seemed like just a bad cold." Mrs. Hudson's face softened.

"I'm sure you didn't mean for this to happen," she said kindly. "But he'll do a lot for you, you know, even when he's sick. So don't call again until he's better." Lestrade nodded.

"Take care of him." She smiled.

"Oh, I always do." She climbed into the cab and shut the door. Through the glass window, Sally could her tenderly stroking the listless detective's hair and adjusting his coat more tightly around his slack frame. Then she turned her head to speak to the driver and the cab took off, wending its way through the streets of London toward 221 Baker Street. Lestrade turned back to find Sally staring and looked at her questioningly.

"He likes her?" she blurted out. "She likes him?" Lestrade gave her a tired, knowing grin.

"Yes, yes he does. And yes, she does. Weird, isn't it?"

"She called him 'sweetheart!'" Sally exclaimed, trying to understand.

"She's very fond of him," Lestrade said, shrugging. "And trust me, you don't want to so much as snap at her in front of him. Or ever, really. Because when he finds out, there'll be hell to pay."

He walked past her back to the house, but Sally stayed standing where she was, trying to process what she'd just seen. She had never, ever seen the Freak behave in a manner like that. She had never seen him act affectionate like that, not even towards John, because despite John's obvious loyalty to the detective and the rumours that flew around the Yard, all she'd ever seen at crime scenes was a condescending, insufferable Sherlock Holmes who merely tended to insult John less than he insulted everyone else. But to hear him show some morsel of obligation to Lestrade, to see him actually act like he cared about someone, even if it was in a feverish haze, and to see him so tender and worried, so protective of his landlady...

Sally shook her head.

He was a freak, a psychopath, a cold, egotistical bastard who only cared about his own personal pleasure, who thought corpses were fun, murders were entertainment, and people were mere tools and toys that were beneath him.

...So why did he suddenly have to go and act human?

Sally turned back to the house to join Lestrade, and hoped, almost against her own will, that Sherlock would get better soon.

The End

...And I finally have an official Sherlock sick fic to my name. I suppose we all knew it was going to happen eventually. I have some other ideas with Donovan too, so this may actually turn into a series of oneshots focussing on Donovan learning more about the many aspects of Sherlock Holmes.

...I suggest you review if you want that to ever happen.

Also, I have to admit that Lestrade deciding against calling an ambulance is mostly for the sake of plot, although I did try to give him a legitimate reason to make that call. Just saying that if someone you know collapses while sick, calling an ambulance might actually be the best option. Okay, no more editorial.

Cheers!