Contrary to popular (very popular) belief, they did not meet at some sort of drug's bust. Granted, the circumstances weren't much better, but it certainly wasn't a drug's bust. Donavan would have been shocked.
Gregory Lestrade had just become a DI at the time. Not "just" as in a few months earlier. "Just" as in it had been two days. It was his fist case as a DI other than mindless paperwork (and there was certainly a lot of that). A domestic near Northumberland Street. It would basically be going in, checking to see if everything was all right, and possibly making an arrest, but Greg was still buzzing with excitement.
He walked up to the door of the shabby little flat, hand nearing his badge. He'd already talked to the landlady. She said this sort of thing was happening more and more, and that it was getting worrisome now. Her tenant -a young man by the name of Holmes- had recently started sharing the flat with his boyfriend. The boyfriend was between jobs with a record of assault and drug possession charges along with petty theft. Greg fully expected that he would be making at least one arrest that night. His partner was still downstairs with the older woman.
Carefully, the DI tested the door, surprised to find it unlocked. He opened the door slowly, eyes flickering just about everywhere. The room was a complete mess, old takeaway boxes littering the floor and antique books thrown around helter-skelter. There was broken glass in the corner of the room, possibly from a syringe, with small drops of blood on it. Like someone had been hit with it, then picked it out. He frowned, kneeling down beside the spot. This wasn't just an escalation; this was a regular occurrence. There was enough glass for at least two syringed, and some of the blood was old and long since dried. The landlady should have called sooner, he thought, shaking his head. They might have bee cleaning up a corpse tonight instead of taking in an abuse victim.
Oddly enough, the flat was silent. Had been since his arrival. Perhaps the boyfriend (or Holmes, depending) had left when he heard the sirens? Possible. Still in the flat, but keeping silent? Far more likely.
He stopped suddenly. There was a noise, coming from the door to his left. It sounded like a low groan, combined with a slight whimper of pain. It was quiet, like the person was trying not to be heard. No corpse at least. There wouldn't be a dead body that day. A very disturbed young man, yes (who wouldn't be?), but no one dead.
The DI sighed slowly, pushing himself up on his knee. He knocked on the door loudly, making sure whoever was in there would hear. "Hello? I'm with Scotland Yard." He said clearly. "I'm coming in." He pushed the door open, slowly, one hand straying to his gun, though he couldn't understand why.
As expected, there was a lone figure on the bed. Pale and thin lying curled in on himself, one bloodied arm strewn over his eyes. The high brow was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and the young man's whole body was wracked with silent shivers. Lestrade's mind was already cataloging facts from the obvious.
Holmes, he thought. Probably a recovering junkie, trying to quit cold turkey. Was going to get hit by the empty syringe, raised arm in self defense but didn't care enough to block the attack or prevent it. So, used to this. Poor bastard.
Without a seconds hesitation he walked over, kneeling beside the bed as he called to his partner to call in the paramedics. It looked like Holmes had lost quite a bit of blood. Too much, but he couldn't tell.
"Mr. Holmes," he said, taking the dark haired man's arm, pulling it away from the wan face. "Mr. Holmes, I'm DI Lestrade. Can you tell me what happened?" Holmes groaned, grey eyes flickering open.
"'Lood loss." The young man said, seeming to have a hard time staying awake. "'Bout two or three pints. B'oken ankle 'nd ribs. C'ncussion, m'ld." He smiled lazily, and Lestrade shuddered. "'ve had worse."
And he passed out.
{][][}
It was several hours after arriving at the hospital that Sherlock woke up. Bleary eyed and on the good drugs, he stared up at the bleached white ceiling for a good five minutes before he heard the other person in the room breathing. He groaned, propping himself up on his elbows and ignoring the twinge in his ribs. Unsurprisingly, there was in fact someone in the chair next to his bed. Oddly enough though, it wasn't Mycroft, who was usually waiting after something like this happened (and it had happened far more than Sherlock would ever admit).
Icy grey eyes flitted over the grey-haired man (who hadn't noticed his awakening). He was a detective Inspector, promoted in the last week. Week? No. no, it had only been a few days, four at the most. Very new to the job. Married happily for -what?- ten years? Rough estimate, but good enough. Smoking habit, had it since joining the police, probably to take the edge off after a tough case. No other bad habits to speak of. Never cheated, never used drugs. A decent man at least. Oh, what was that though? Two children, both old enough to be in school and one nearing her pre-teens. All deduced in the time frame of seven seconds. Boring, as usual. Not a single skeleton to dig out of the closet.
He sat up a bit straighter, hands folded in his lap. "You're Detective inspector Lestrade, yes? The one who came into my flat?" Never mind the fact that sitting up like that made him dizzy. Stupid body. Just an appendix compared to his mind, but a bloody annoying one. Always doing that at the worst of times, whether it be from blood loss or low blood sugar. And how could he forget the one time with the over dose? Mycroft hadn't been happy about that, not at all…
Lestrade blinked, snapping out of his trance of staring at the wall. "Yes. Yes, I'm the one who put your boyfriend -or should I say ex-boyfriend- into custody. Declan Scott." He shrugged. "It was my partner who called in the paramedics and such. I barely did a thing." Which was a straight lie, not that Sherlock would point that out. So the DI was modest too? Hardly a bad fault so far other than the smoking, which he'd probably quit soon. Impossible to keep a smoking habit in London. That's why Sherlock did the drugs instead.
It took a moment for him to realize that the DI was still talking.
"We found trace amounts of cocaine in your system." He said, but not accusingly. "A seven percent solution. Is that what started it?" Sherlock winced slightly, but nodded,
"I… slipped." He said quietly, eyes flickering for the briefest of moments. When he looked back up again his face was a mask of placid indifference. "I have been trying for several months to get over minor recreational drug addiction on my elder brother's insistence. I've been slipping as of late. I assure you, it had never ended like this before." He shrugged it off, like it was completely normal. Actually, it was, not that Lestrade knew that.
"You… what?" The DI said dumbly.
Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh, tilting his head back to where he was looking at the ceiling. "This is nothing new to me, Inspector." He stated bluntly, motioning for the DI to leave. "I am… relatively clean. I highly doubt we will ever meet again because of that. If you need me at Declan's trial, so be it, but other than that I see no reason for you to be here. Unless, of course, you're connecting something about me or my experiences to your daughters, or perhaps your wife."
The grey haired man stopped from where he had been walking toward the door. He turned, one eyebrow raised. "How did you know about my daughters? My wife?" He asked, dark eyes wide.
With a scoff Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving the other man a withering look. "I know about more than just your daughter and wife. I know you've only recently gotten this promotion, that you've gained a smoking habit during your time working for the police. To take the edge off, of course, not regular or an addiction. Happily married for -what is it now?- ten years." He smirked, inwardly pleased at the DI's surprised expression. Now all he had to do was wait for the usual reaction…
"How'd you do that?" He asked, lip quirking in a grin as Sherlock scoffed again.
"Simple deduction." He said, as though it were completely obvious as he sunk down into the hospital bed. "The tie clip you have is hand made by a child, but only half of it was made by someone who was clearly right handed, the other was left handed and younger. So, two daughters. Your wedding ring is cleaned regularly and at least ten years old, and there's a bit of lipstick on your collar from you wife, probably when you left. Happily married, ten years. You flashed your badge when you found me in the flat. It was polished and new, couldn't be more than a week old."
Lestrade gaped. "And the smoking habit?" He questioned.
"You have a pack in your right pocket." Sherlock drawled, getting bored. "You smoke regularly, but not enough to cause any visible effects such as nicotine stains of dark circles under the eyes. Just a mild stress reliever after a tough case, I expect. Probably going to have one after you leave." Lestrade shook his head, a wry grin passing over his face as he walked back over. Sherlock looked up, surprised, when the DI deposited his card on the bed.
He nodded at the young man. "Give me a call. We could use more ability like that."
Sherlock gave him a dubious look. "I'm not a detective, and the police don't go to private detective's anyway." Lestrade gave a quick hum of contemplation, arms crossed over his chest.
"Give it a new title then." He offered dismissively. "I'm sure we could pay you for your help too."
Considering this, Sherlock nodded. "Consulting detective has a good ring to it." he said after a moment. "And I won't take an incentive."
"All right, Sherlock Holmes." Greg said, putting out a hand. "Give me a call then, I'll see what I can do."
Sherlock nodded, taking the elder man's hand firmly in his own.
"I'll do that."
{][][}
A/N: Un-beta'd. Just saying.
*sigh* I can't believe this took me three days. T-T Granted, it was between breaks on homework and setting up two fishtanks, but stil...
Feedback welcome, but please no flames. They're just a little bit annoying. Please and thank you.
~Piki :B