Aloha people! How are you all? This is funny. I wrote this a while back, and now I've found it and I couldn't help but burst out laughing. I hope you'll have the same reaction. Enjoy!
The Other Kind Of Drugs
By
Yuval25
Wrong
Wrong
You know where to find me -SH
DI Lestrade wondered where this sudden urge to join in on the investigation came from. Sherlock didn't show any former interest in the case, answering to Lestrade's pleas with a simple 'Busy -SH' or 'Boring -SH'. This behavior wasn't typical of the consulting detective. Was there something about this third woman that caught Sherlock's attention? What was so special about this one that was different from the other suicides?
Sergeant Donovan was losing her patience. It was a known fact she didn't like Sherlock. Most of Scotland Yard didn't. They, unlike Lestrade, took Sherlock's insults personally and got offended by his criticizing their intelligence. He knew about the tension between Anderson and Sherlock. He understood it. And he was set on preventing them from making another scene anytime soon.
Sherlock could survive without a case for a week or two, right? Right. And they didn't need his help, not really. They could figure this one out on their own. They were professionals, after all. They were picked for this job. He would keep Sherlock out of this investigation.
Or, at least, that has been the plan. Until the fourth suicide happened.
Another suicide. Left a note.
Where? -SH
Lestrade texted Sherlock the location with a resigned sigh. He made sure to keep the scene exactly the way it was and sent away anybody who had the mind to mess with the evidence out of spite for Sherlock.
When Sherlock came, Lestrade was relieved to see the trademark scowl plastered on his face. He exchanged a greeting with Sergeant Donovan, a very rude greeting, and crossed the space between the yellow tape and the abandoned house.
The impassive man looked slightly flushed in his long black coat and dark blue scarf. His high cheekbones took on a faint pink-ish blush, making him look less like a corpse that came straight out of the morgue and more like a breathing, living person. It made alarms go off in the DI's head, but he brushed it off. There is no way Sherlock could be doing drugs again. Just for reassurance though, he checked Sherlock's pupils, even more put off at the sight of them being just barely dilated. Barely, but still enough for Lestrade to notice and worry about.
"I don't approve of you being here. Do not contaminate the scene. You have two minutes." Anderson's voice sounded from the doorway, where he was leaning on it with his hands folded. The forensic scientist didn't look at all pleased as Sherlock smugly sidestepped him and entered the dilapidated structure.
The pinkly-dressed woman laid face-down on the dirty, wooden floor, her hair sprawled across it and her hands raised as if to protect her from impact. It was not a pretty sight. Sherlock looked mildly excited, nonetheless, though. He was moving his gloved hand over the woman's pink raincoat, raising it for observing and lowering it to her body again.
He took a golden ring (one Lestrade identified as a wedding ring) off the woman's finger, looking at it for a moment and then gently putting it back on. All the while he had his magnifying glass out, looking through it.
Then he stood.
"Got anything?" asked Lestrade. What if Sherlock hadn't got something to go on this time? What if this was a too great mystery even for the socially-awkward genius.
"Yes." Sherlock answered, and Lestrade let out a breath he hasn't realized he was holding. "The woman is clearly in her thirties, married for approximately ten years. Though not happily." He had his mobile phone out, his eyes glued to the small screen. "Left-handed. She scrapped the word 'Rachel' onto the floor. Find out who Rachel is." He ordered.
Lestrade was dumbfounded. Rachel?
"Rache. German word for revenge. Probably-"
"Anderson, get out." Sherlock's deep, annoyed voice snapped harshly.
Lestrade looked at the angry scientist, smiling apologetically before closing the door politely. Well, as politely as one could when shutting it in someone else's face.
"Anything else?" he asked the impatient detective.
"She's from Cardiff. She got here today, and she didn't plan to stay for long judging by the size of her case. Where is it, by the way?"
"Dear God, Sherlock. You're not just making it up, are you?" Lestrade couldn't believe it. How the hell did he get to the conclusion her marriage was not a happy one? How? What on this woman's body could have indicated the state of her marriage?
Sherlock sighed impatiently, like he did when he thought they were too slow, or too stupid to understand something. Hadn't he thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too fast? Too fast for humanity.
Sherlock immediately launched into a light-speed fast explanation of how the wind was too strong to open an umbrella and the inside of the wedding ring was too polished not to be suspicious, and how the mud stains on the right leg was the result of the small suitcase dragged behind on a muddy surface. Lestrade could barely keep up with him, but it made sense, so that was okay. Except for one thing.
"There was no case." Lestrade stated, a bit confused. Was Sherlock wrong?
Sherlock turned around dramatically. "Say that again."
"There was no case," he repeated. What was he getting at?
Sherlock's face froze. After a few seconds, an honest-to-God gleeful smile stretched over his face. His expression was one of joy and wonder. "Oh,"
He suddenly rushed over to the door, opening it with a force that could have easily knocked it off its hinges. He sprinted down the many stairs, taking three at a time. When he got to the first floor, Lestrade finally collected himself enough to ask him where he was going.
"The case!" Sherlock shouted.
"What?" Lestrade could only say.
"The case! Think, where's the case? What did she do with it? Did she eat it?" Sherlock was being sarcastic again, but not as cutting as he usually was. That was a plus, right? "This is a murder. We've got ourselves a serial murderer. Oh, I love those. There's always something to look forward too." He murmured to himself excitedly. "They always make a mistake. We just have to- oh. Oh!"
Lestrade thought that Sherlock resembled at that moment a child at Christmas, and then he understood just how wrong that was.
"We've got a mistake. We've got a mistake, Lestrade!"
Lestrade barely had the time to ask him what the mistake was, frustratingly perplexed at the short, unhelpful shout of "Pink!" he got in return.
He let Anderson and his crew back into the room, ignoring the glare the forensic scientist shot his way. At least Sherlock was productive. Now he just had to find who Rachel was. Finding the woman's name turned out to be simple as cake, thanks to Sherlock's clever deductions.
Apparently, Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter fourteen years ago.
There was still an unsolved matter which bothered the DI greatly – was Sherlock back on drugs? His flushed form and dilated pupils were a clear symptom. That was the only solution. At least, in Sherlock's case. The alternative didn't stick well with the consulting detective's persona.
If he was back on drugs, Lestrade supposed he could always arrange a drugs' bust in Sherlock's apartment. It wouldn't take much, really, as the man had used drugs before. It was only logical to assume he would slip. And Sherlock was probably off to find the case, anyway. He won't give it to the police if he could help it, which could sabotage the investigation and damage evidence. A drugs' bust was clearly in need here.
It wasn't that hard to find volunteers, either. The number of people Sherlock verbally abused, intentionally or not, was quite large. Anderson was happy to join, as Lestrade expected. Sergeant Donovan and a few other officers gave their time as well to help search the apartment of 221b Baker Street. But Lestrade still felt guilty. He couldn't just barge in on someone like that, especially Sherlock, when the latter hasn't done anything wrong. Yet. It's best to just check on him first, Lestrade decided.
Pink?
He sent the text. He couldn't write anything that would incriminate him and reveal his plans of surprising Sherlock with a visit.
Idot ca pink -
What the hell?
Lestrade read the message again. And again. The first word was clearly meant to be 'idiot'. It wasn't like Sherlock to write such unconventional texts. 'ca pink'? What the bloody hell does 'ca' mean?
Doesn't matter. Sherlock was using again.
And there was only one thing that could be done.
Reaching the location, the gathered group of police officers knocked on the door. Lestrade was ashamed of Sherlock. He had faith in him. Why did he have to throw it all away? He was informed by Sherlock's brother of his addictions, and that he quit. His brother, whom he didn't meet nor ever wants to meet. The man was clearly in a position of great power.
The landlady let them in. She was a nice, elderly woman with a warm smile. She was confused when she saw the many officers outside, and became worried. Lestrade tried to reassure her everything was okay, but when she didn't calm down he ordered her to go back to her flat and stay there until they sorted everything out.
They didn't even have to wait for long before the door opened. Sherlock stood in the doorway, the pink tint to his cheeks and the dilated pupils once again making an appearance. Lestrade wanted to sigh in disappointment.
"We have a-"
He was cut off with the shaking of Sherlock's head. He frowned at the young detective. "Just come in and do your businesses." His voice was smooth, if slightly rough when he punctuated the sound 'o'. Lestrade nodded and signaled the team in.
Sherlock immediately left and went to the kitchen. The flat was open and the sitting room and the kitchen were not separated by a wall. Lestrade followed Sherlock, letting his team go about the place as was decided earlier on.
But the detective and Lestrade were not the only ones in the kitchen.
A blond man. A somewhat short blond man. He was holding two cups of what looked like tea, one half empty. The other he handed Sherlock, who took it with a 'thank you' and a smile. Which was not like Sherlock. Not at all. Something was strange here…
The blond man, whose hair was short and clothes ruffled, smiled at Lestrade warmly. He leant against the kitchen counter, sipping his tea with a secretive smirk. Lestrade saw the man and Sherlock exchange glances and snorts, before going back to their tea. The situation was absurd.
"Who are you?" he finally asked.
The man raised his head and nodded his greetings. "Dr. John Watson. It's nice to finally meet you, Detective Inspector."
"DI Greg Lestrade. Um, it's nice to meet you too. Finally?" he asked hesitantly. He didn't know what was going on. Sergeant Donovan entered the kitchen, Klays and Anderson behind her, all wearing white gloves.
"Yes, of course. Sherlock's told me all about you in his letters." Dr. Watson looked at Sherlock (was that a wink he saw?), sharing a grin with the consulting detective. Lestrade tried to remember the last time he saw Sherlock smile not because of a case, and failed to find such an odd occurrence.
Sergeant Donovan looked between the two, trying to figure out what was happening. Anderson was much the same. Klays, though, looked like he had the faintest idea as to what is going on.
"How much did you take, Sherlock? I need to know." Lestrade chinned up and with a voice of authority said.
Dr. Watson burst out laughing, joined by a chuckling Sherlock Holmes.
"None at all, Detective," answered the sociopath.
"Oh, don't give us that shit." Sergeant Donovan interrupted. "We know you did drugs. Recently. The text was proof of that."
Lestrade had told them about the incoherent text from Sherlock just to give them indication of how serious the situation is this time.
"I was involved in an activity which prevented me from typing correctly. It's hardly a matter of drugs, Donovan."
The pink in Sherlock's cheeks was now flaming red. Klays looked like he was about to explode.
"Excuse me, but I must get going," Dr. Watson said. He put his now-empty cup in the surprisingly clean sink (thinking about it, there weren't that many experiments on the kitchen table, and the microwave looked uncharacteristically eyes-less).
Sherlock made a sound which could only count as a frustrated groan.
"Mom and Harry are probably already waiting for me." The blonde explained softly to the curiously desperate detective. "I'll see you late tonight."
"Stay,"
The plea was a shock to the officers. Anderson stood with his mouth actually open wide.
"Can't, and it's your fault I'm late, anyway. If you hadn't done what you've done we wouldn't have had a problem in the first place." There it was, that teasing smile. The one that led to a wink.
Then something happened that no one could have ever expected. It was one of those things that leave you with bulging eyes and a dropped jaw. The kind that leaves you speechless. The kind that makes you go all 'ohh… that explains.. much…' when you see it.
And it did… explain so much. It certainly did, when the doctor leant in and lowered his lips to touch the consulting detective's, kissing him softly.
And then Dr. Watson was out of the flat, driving away in a cab. A cab which stopped. Dr. Watson got out of it, strangely, and left to seek another cab.
Was the cab waiting for someone? Doesn't matter.
Back on business.
"I believe you have nothing to go on, Lestrade." Sherlock mumbled, taking out his phone and typing in it. "Put two and two together, will you?" It was said rudely, but the tone wasn't angry or impatient. It was soft.
Lestrade caught sight of the text Sherlock was just about to send, his face burning with embarrassment. "Uh…"
Sherlock sent it, looking at Lestrade with a chastising glower.
"Let's go back, there's nothing here," Lestrade said loudly enough for everyone to hear.
As they got out, some still wide-eyes and others confused, Lestrade walked to where Sherlock was sitting.
"I'm sorry for this. Uh, I, yeah."
Sherlock looked at him. Something twinkled in his eyes.
"The cab driver that's waiting in front of the complex is the murderer. Arrest him." He simply said.
Lestrade was taken aback. "How-"
"I didn't order a cab, and neither did Mrs. Hudson. John didn't, obviously. So why would there be a cab here for Sherlock Holmes? Mrs. Hudson came in earlier and told me he was waiting for me, yes. In any other time, I would go after him, but not now while John's on leave."
"Oh," Lestrade was struck.
"He abducted all of his victims on busy streets, something a cabby could easily do. Even under a threat he wouldn't have been able to convince them to take the drug, so maybe he... gave them two. Made them decide which one to take. He probably had a gun, or a taser." Sherlock continued.
"I'll… I'll make sure he's taken in for questioning." Lestrade promised.
He left the apartment without another word, still red as a tomato as he remembered the text.
John. Next time you suck me off, let me send the message first. -SH