I just finished the fourth (and final) season of Sherlock and the fantastic! episodes kicked my muse into gear. This isn't the first Sherlock fic I've written because I've been writing since I first started watching the show years ago. But unfortunately, I lost the others when my computer passed away a while back. But anyway, the show is amazing and so I wanted to post this short little kinda AU-ish piece set back around the time between seasons 1 and 2.
A/N 2.0 in response to the feedback I've been given about the original format of centered dialogue, I am reposting this in the traditional format :)
Sherlock wonders how he could have missed it. The signs were there. They were so obvious, even John could have seen them. It didn't take a massive intellect and superior brain function to pick up on the symptoms. Therefore, the only logical explanation is that he didn't miss them. He ignored them.
"I need a case."
"I already told you. I checked the website. There's nothing. And your phone hasn't rung in over six hours."
"I need a case, John. What about Lestrade? Has he been by yet?"
"No. I haven't seen him in...quite a while actually."
In hindsight, it's so glaringly, accusingly, idiotically obvious. Everything makes sense now. It had always made sense, but he's only just now paying attention.
"Oh, Mr. Holmes, haven't you heard? The inspector's in the hospital. He's been there since last Thursday."
It started with the fatigue. Lestrade was never much for going on foot, but he always caught up eventually. Until he started taking longer and longer to do so. And his hours shrunk to late mornings and early nights (bags under his eyes, extra cups of coffee). He lightened his workload, passed off cases, even simple ones he could have somehow managed to handle on his own.
"There you are, Inspector. I was beginning to wonder if you were even going to show up today or if we'd have to come back tomorrow to collect you."
"Guess I'm not as young as I once was."
Then it was the lack of nicotine. Cold turkey. All of a sudden, abruptly, out of the blue, it was all just gone. (No circular imprints beneath his shirt sleeve, no cigarettes in his trouser pocket.) Same with the beer. He no longer went out to grab a pint with a coworker after a shift.
"Don't tell Mrs. Hudson, but I am dying for a smoke. Would you mind handing one over?"
"Sorry. Fresh out."
After that, things escalated. The only times in the increasingly rarity of such visits that he came to Baker Street were whenever John wasn't home. He'd stop by when there was physical evidence (hollow cheeks, weight loss,) that couldn't be sent over the phone, or whenever something was too difficult to explain with a text (I'm sick, Sherlock). But it was always when John was at the store, or the bank, or the surgery, or wherever it was that John went when he wasn't bumbling around the flat.
"Hello, Sherlock. John isn't in, is he?"
"Hm? What? No. He's gone...somewhere. I don't know, doesn't matter, not important. Have you brought me what I asked for?"
"Yeah, I've got the old girl's knitting needles right here."
"Excellent. If the tips are dull, it was the landlord that drowned her."
The headaches were nothing new. It was only stress. Lestrade was always stressed. But they were rapidly increasing in frequency and intensity. (New prescriptions from new doctors.) He was always rubbing at his temples, massaging the sore spots, trying to push the pain back, out of the way, out of sight, out of mind.
"Would you mind keeping the volume down?"
"What's the matter, Gary? Is this too much for you?"
"Greg."
His hands shook sometimes (tremors in the body). Not all the time. Just occasionally. It didn't interfere with his work too much. He could still file papers, type reports, write notes, text (misspelled words) to the consultant. Even if his grip was weaker than before, if he sometimes needed assistance. (Starch in his shirts from taking his clothes to the launderette instead of doing them himself at home.)
"What does it mean to 'be tight overt'?"
"Sherlock, what are you going on about?"
"This text I got from Lestrade. It says he will 'be tight overt."
"I'm not sure what-Oh. I get it. He must mean 'be right over.' Silly phones, always messing things up. Well, I'm off to the supermarket to pick up a few things. You need anything? Sherlock? No? Alright then."
It should have been worrying. In fact, the entire situation was scary when Lestrade began forgetting words, couldn't remember people's names, key witnesses, places and objects. A second of silence, a moment of stuttering and vague hand gestures, until someone else could fill in the blank. Lapses of focus, lack of concentration.
"Last Thursday?"
"That's right."
Sherlock's often in the hospital. If the morgue counts. Or the lab. He could map those places with his eyes closed. But the rest of it...the white hallways, filled with bustling nurses (one with an infant at home, one recently divorced, another's dog died the week before) and busy doctors (sleeping each other, another moving to a new flat), the carts of supplies and yellow wet floor signs. Waiting rooms of crying children and anxious spouses, televisions put on mute, out of date periodicals on wooden tables (pages dog-eared and torn).
"I'm looking for Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"What's the first name?"
"Um...it's…"
"Greg. It's Greg. Greg Lestrade. Could you give us the room number, please?"
"Family?"
"Just friends."
"I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."
It's a private room (there must be some privileges to working for Scotland Yard). Flowers line the wall (the bigger bouquets are from his parents, the one by the window is clearly from Donovan, the rest appear to be from other assorted coworkers) and cards are arranged across the shelf above the bed (a few generic ones picked out from the hospital gift shop, some handwritten, one obviously handmade by a little girl). There's an assortment of monitors, wires, tubes, needles, screens, lights, buttons, switches. And in the middle of all the chaos, on the thin mattress, is Lestrade. Tired and pale and thin and weak and sick.
"You never told me."
"I didn't think I had to."
It's wrong. All wrong. And that's why he didn't notice. Noticed but dismissed. Dismissed and ignored. Because Lestrade isn't supposed to be important. He's not supposed to change. He's supposed to be fine. And normal. And boring. And not sick, possibly, probably, dying. He's meant to be stumbling around like the idiot he is so he can bring cases to Sherlock (only the interesting ones) so Sherlock can solve them and Lestrade can marvel at his brilliance and then go back to wherever it is he goes when he isn't standing in the Baker Street flat, rocking on his heels with his hands in his coat pockets saying 'I think you're going to like this one, Sherlock'.
"You're going to get better."
"I'd certainly like to. But who knows? Maybe it's just my time. Well, we had a good run of it while it lasted, eh, fellas?"
"What do you mean? Of course you'll recover. Tell him, John. You're a doctor."
"It doesn't look good, Sherlock."
Sherlock wants to be mad. Maybe he is angry. It's hard to tell beneath the layer of disbelief that seems to have settled over his mind like a layer of film over a petri dish. It's not enough to stop him from noticing the banker bringing a get-well-soon present for his gay son. He watches the polished shoes and the monogrammed tie clip drag down the hall while he waits in the corridor for Lestrade's doctor to finish the examination.
"Well?"
"I-"
"No. No, I don't want you to placate me. Tell me the truth exactly as it is."
"As you wish, Mr. Holmes. I've seen cases like his before. I'd give him three months, maybe four."
John tries to get Sherlock to eat something but he doesn't want to. It's almost like when he's on a case. Except there's nothing to solve. Nothing that doctors and scientists and researchers haven't already been trying to cure for decades. No clues to follow (fatigue, weight loss, migraines). No deductions to make (sick, sick, sick). He sweeps out of the hospital, coat swirling behind him like a wraith on a leash.
"Thank you for sticking around, John."
"Of course. I wouldn't dream of leaving."
"Is Sherlock still out there?"
"I think he just left."
"...oh."
Somehow, Mrs. Hudson knew when he would be getting home. Or perhaps it was just coincidence. Either way, there's a kettle of freshly brewed tea, along with a nice plate of biscuits. He ignores them both. Sits in his chair with fingers steepled, eyes closed, mind busy.
"Are you coming, Sherlock?"
"Why would I?"
"I think he'd like to see you."
"Will seeing me help him get better?"
"It might."
"Is there any scientific evidence to suggest that my presence will in any way improve his physical condition?"
"As a matter of fact, it's been proved that-"
"Go without me."
"Without you?"
"I'm busy."
"Too busy to visit your friend? Your friend who is lying sick in a hospital bed? You do realize these might be his last days on earth?"
He wonders if Lestrade will understand. If he'll understand why Sherlock can't get in a cab and ride to the hospital and go to the reception desk and ask for the room number and get in the lift and ride up to the floor and walk down the hall and sit in the room with the monitors, wires, tubes, needles, screens, lights, buttons, switches, and a sick detective inspector from Scotland Yard, who is downright stupid compared to Sherlock's own level of intelligence, and not nearly as insightful as John, or as helpful as Molly, or as caring as Mrs. Hudson, or as annoying as Mycroft, or as threatening as Moriarty, or as stimulating as a case, or anything else that really matters, but he is just plain Lestrade-good, honest, reliable, honorable Lestrade. And when he's just lying like a corpse on the mattress, he doesn't look good or honest or reliable or honorable. He looks like he's dying and there's nothing Sherlock can do to fix that and so what's the point? Why would Sherlock go to all that trouble? All that, well, not quite heartache, but certainly some sort of uncomfortable sentiment that dries his throat and compresses his lungs? It's pointless. Hopeless.
"He's been asking about you, Sherlock, dear. Why won't you go and see him? It'd be sure to cheer him up."
"Not now, Mrs. Hudson."
Later. He does go later. After visiting hours are over and no one's supposed to be walking around on that floor aside from the nurse on her rounds. But she's at the other end of the ward and Sherlock has sixteen and a half minutes before she makes it back to Lestrade's room. Sixteen and a half minutes to sit in the plastic chair and stare at the pale, hollowed out face (the dusting of stubble across the jaw, the sharp angles of his bones visible beneath the thin skin). Maybe Sherlock says something to him. Maybe he whispers a small request that the inspector gets better. Maybe he admits that he should have noticed sooner, should have paid attention, shouldn't have dismissed and overlooked and disregarded and ignored. Maybe it's as close to an apology as a Holmes can get. Or maybe he doesn't. Maybe he sits in the dim half-light, the window casting timid shadows over his cheeks as he waits for some sort of sign that Lestrade is on the mend. That the numbers on the machines will improve. That the wires should be removed. That the inspector can get back to work and things will go back to normal and there will be routine and predictability and Sherlock won't have to feel like he's facing the unsolvable.
That's the last visit he ever makes. Three days later, there's no need. The hospital room is empty. The flowers get tossed in the skip behind the building. Monitors get unplugged, wires removed, bedding exchanged for fresh linens. The cards are cleared away. Every trace, any evidence, it's all erased.
"The doctors are calling it a miracle."
"And what would you call it, Inspector?"
"Oh no, I agree, Sherlock. It's damn near impossible to figure out. One minute, I'm on death's door, the next I'm up and about, like nothing's ever happened."
"It's good to have you back. Greg."