Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known.
A/N: Pre-slash/slash
Lestrade stood for a moment in front of the narrow bed, seething silently before giving in, angrily pulling up the spare chair and dragging it to the bedside. He forced himself to sit lest he found himself choking the kid to death. His eyes spared a glance at the monitors surrounding the bed, working overtime to keep Sherlock stable and alive. Then his eyes turned to the pale face, nearly as white as the pillow he lay upon and he found his fists clenching.
"You stupid, stupid idiot." He shook his head and turned away, too damn tired to do anything else.
"Well hello to you too, Inspector." The voice was hardly more than a raspy whisper but Lestrade would recognize it anywhere. No one else could sound like Sherlock, even on the cusp of death. He whipped his head back and glared daggers at the younger man. Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes yet, but Lestrade saw his throat working, clearly parched and uncomfortable. He found no pity within himself.
"How dare you lie there and joke, you utter bastard. How dare you even speak to me after what you just put me through?" He didn't even realize he had raised his voice if not for the wince on Sherlock's face. He took a deep breath and started again.
"You were minutes from death, Sherlock. They weren't even sure-" and he found himself on his feet pacing, and pacing. Anything to keep from looking at the indifference he knew he would find on Sherlock's face. He strode over to the large window (nice view, private suite, surely Mycroft's doing.) He hadn't slept in over a day. Exhaustion crawled through his body and yet he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink without worrying over Sherlock. What else is new, he wondered?
It seemed that all he did lately was worry. There were his cases, and then there was Sherlock. There was the prim, sarcastic, brilliant genius of a man, and there was the junkie waif in a £700 coat with not a care in the world for anyone or anything. And this was the third time now he had nearly given Lestrade a heart attack in the past year. He was so done with all this. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and stared aimlessly out into the darkness.
"I can't have this anymore, Sherlock. I gave you a chance. Hell, numerous chances. I broke hundreds of rules for you and ignored ninety percent of the insults to my crew. But not this, Sherlock. No way. I'm done, and so are you." He finally dared to turn around and found dull, steely eyes regarding him. Lestrade made his way back to the chair, sighing as he sank down into it. The padding wasn't very thick and the back too rigid but he felt like he could pass out easily at any given moment.
"Why, Sherlock?" he said softly. "You're too smart for this, and you know it. Why do you do this to yourself?" He didn't really expect an answer, and after a brief staring match, Sherlock turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling. Lestrade wearily rubbed at his eyes and made to stand.
"It helps me."
Lestrade froze and gaped at the younger man, incredulous. "Jesus, Sherlock, how does this"-he waved his arms around the hospital room-"help you in any way? Please explain it to me, I'm finding it very difficult to understand you right now."
Eventually, gradually, Sherlock turned and glared at Lestrade, though it lacked the usual effect, what with his pallor resembling that of a corpse and sweat creasing his brow.
"It helps turn it off," he ground out through clenched teeth. Then, suddenly angry with his admission he reverted to glaring up at the ceiling. Lestrade just stared in confusion for a moment before the phrase started to make any sense. And then he felt like complete shit and whatever remark he was going to make died on his lips. He looked down at his lap, feeling a major migraine coming on.
He should have known. Should have realized. This didn't happen because Sherlock was bored. This happened because he tried to 'fix' his brain, if only temporarily. How many times had Lestrade heard that phrase? "I can't just turn it on or off, Lestrade," he'd say as if the older man was dimwitted. Sherlock's mind, while clever and brilliant and informative, just never rested. There was no lull and sensory overload happened quite often. Sherlock's never told him in so many words, but knowing him as long as he had, it wasn't hard to deduce. The poor kid just wanted a respite. He just picked the wrong outlet. And Lestrade felt like the biggest prick for screaming at him. He needed a moment. Luckily (or not) for him, Mycroft Holmes took that moment to walk through the door.
He gave the Inspector a nod before turning calculating eyes on his younger brother. "Brother mine, we should just name this room in your honour." And that's when Lestrade took his leave. He needed caffeine for his head and went searching for the nearest vending machine.
He was finishing his second cup when he made his way back to Sherlock's room. The hallways were quiet, only a few nurses scurrying around. So it wasn't so hard to hear the argument coming from the closed doors. Lestrade paused, ready to turn around but it was Sherlock's voice that had him pinned to the spot.
He knew Sherlock never got along with his brother, though the reasons for that varied from one month to the next. He wouldn't go so far as to say he 'hated' him, but he never discussed his disdain when in his presence. Only now there was a pleading quality to his voice that Lestrade could not ignore. Leaning closer to the door he shamelessly eavesdropped.
"I am sorry Sherlock but you really have left me with no choice."
"You have a choice, Mycroft."
"Oh yes of course. Let the hospital release you back to your drug den of a flat and wait for the next phone call from...possibly the morgue this time." Lestrade flinched at the detached coldness of that voice.
"I won't go back to that place, Mycroft, I can't go back there. It's worse than torture. I'm asking you-"
"No. No, Sherlock. Not this time. This time was just a tad out of my comfort zone, you see. And I am this close to calling mummy. No, you will go to the rehab centre and this time you will stay there for as long as necessary and only when I am satisfied with your progress will we discuss your further course of action."
There was silence for a moment, and Lestrade had to strain to hear more.
"Mycroft, don't do this. I will beg if I- is that what you want to hear? I will fucking beg if I must. Please, anywhere but there. I can't- I'm not going to make it this time."
"Sherlock, please stop being melodramatic." And that's when Lestrade found himself pushing the door open. All conversation ceased but Lestrade's eyes were glued to Sherlock, fury radiating off him in hot waves.
"What's this about then," he asked Mycroft.
He heard a sigh as the older Holmes turned his attention to the Inspector. "My juvenile addict of a brother has an issue with returning to rehab. Something that he currently has no control over. So I'm afraid your detective days are over for quite a while," he finished to either Lestrade or Sherlock. "Now, Sherlock do pay attention. I will make a phone call in the morning to have you evaluated and moved by week's end."
Sherlock said nothing, and that worried Lestrade more than a full out screaming fit. In fact, Sherlock refused to look at either his brother or Lestrade, preferring the company of the nearest wall, his fists clenching tight around the sheets the only indicator of the turmoil happening within. And without even thinking, Lestrade blurted out: "I'll take him."
Both heads simultaneously turned in his direction. One was unreadable while the other looked on, momentarily stunned.
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft said. "What do you mean, you'll take him?"
Now that the words were out, he wished for absolutely anything to take them back. He didn't even know what possessed him to open his damn mouth. But now two pairs of confused eyes were gawking at him and he needed to get his act together. "Sherlock. I'll take him. Home, that is. He can stay with me until-" His palms were getting sweaty and for some reason Mycroft's silent gaze unnerved him more than anything. He straightened his back and started again.
"Look, it's obvious the kid needs help, yea? Well he's not going to cooperate much if you send him away to a place that frankly, didn't work in the past. I don't care how much this facility costs. We both know Sherlock well enough to know he's not going to cooperate if he doesn't want to. So give him to me. He can stay with me and he'll stay clean. And he'll do it because if he ever wants to set foot in another crime scene again, he'll bloody well do as he's told." He started off speaking to Mycroft but by the end his eyes landed on Sherlock's and boy was he not happy. The glare was both incredulous and scandalized, magnified tenfold. Lestrade ignored it for the time being and turned his attention back to Mycroft, who was regarding the man stoically.
Lestrade crossed his arms. Defense mechanism yeah, but frankly he was tired as fuck and just wanted this night over with.
"This is a very serious offer, Inspector. I do hope you realize the implications that come with it." Lestrade shrugged. "Not my first time dragging this guy's ass out of the gutter."
"How colourful."
"I'm fucking right here. How dare you discuss me as if I were a child," Sherlock's voice finally rang out in all its fury. But Lestrade's eyes were still locked on Mycroft, who didn't even acknowledge the outburst.
Finally, the older brother took out his mobile and typed something in before placing it back inside his suit pocket. He smiled(or what passed for a smile) at Lestrade. "I will consider your offer, Inspector. But I will also allow you to reconsider yours. My brother is manipulative and destructive to both himself and others. You have a good standing at work and a potential to further yourself and I would hate to have you throw everything away all for the sake of misplaced nobility. I am perfectly aware of all you have done for my brother and that is why I am amenable to this arrangement. However I do not have high hopes of your success. He needs constant monitoring and supervision, hence my need for round the clock care at the Centre and with your workload I can't see how this will work. Sherlock will be staying here for at least forty eight hours so I beg you, in that time, to reconsider." He said nothing else as he passed Lestrade on his way out, nor did he linger for a goodbye at his brother's bedside. Finally it was just them two again, and Lestrade released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding.
"God, I thought you were intense," he quipped, but Sherlock was having none of it.
"Get out, Lestrade."
"Sherlock-"
But the younger man's fingers were already on the red call button and before Lestrade knew what was happening a nurse had made her way to the room.
"Mr. Holmes, glad to see-"
"Get rid of him," was all he said and the nurse turned apologetic eyes towards Lestrade. And god did that sting. He didn't even give her the chance to ask him to leave before he had his arms raised in a placating gesture, before briskly walking away from Sherlock's betrayed glare. As soon as he left the hospital he hailed a cab to get him home, passing out on the sofa shortly after he got inside his flat.
Lestrade woke to a pounding head and sun heating his face. He swore at forgetting to close his damn blinds last night and despised the weather for being so cheery when he felt like absolute shite.
He didn't even get a two minute respite before his mind veered back to the hospital and to Sherlock. He swore the kid was going to give him an ulcer one of these days. He couldn't remember the last time he ate or how long he stayed at the hospital.
He took out some cereal and a bowl and ate it without tasting a bite. His head still ached but this time it was probably from overthinking. No matter how much he tried to contemplate, rationalize or compartmentalize, he just didn't get Sherlock. Even after a year of seeing the younger man on a weekly basis, he barely knew a thing about him. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He knew Sherlock was a genius; had never met anyone like him before, nor ever will again. He knew Sherlock got bored easily. He knew Sherlock didn't do social niceties. Hell, the man didn't do quite a lot. He knew he had a very intense older brother who apparently let Sherlock get away with quite a bit, based on the fact that Sherlock mysteriously had no criminal record, which Lestrade had to laugh at seeing how many times Sherlock spent in a jail cell upon first having met.
He knew he needed him. And that thought scared him.
His mind wandered away from him then, as he recalled initially encountering Sherlock, not so very long ago. He could hardly forget the first time he allowed Sherlock in on one of his crime scenes. Well, as opposed to Sherlock sneaking in like he previously had done.
He'd never forget the first time that scrawny kid straight out of Uni, with the crazed raven hair opened his mouth and said, "It was the nanny, obvious," in that posh drawl of his and Lestrade had loathed him instantly. And even after he proceeded to insult every crew member in his immediate vicinity, stalking off, cigarette flicking off his finger without bothering to stomp it out afterwards, Lestrade had saved his mobile number to memory.
Because before the scathing commentary and the insolent stares, and the abhorrent attitude, he had solved Lestrade's case in under half an hour, using what little evidence they had to work with. And he managed it all without an ounce of bravado or heroics. And every word that came out of his mouth made perfect sense and all Lestrade could think was, what the fuck just happened here? And from that moment on he wanted to know more. More about Sherlock, more about his methods. Just...more.
Sherlock expected his next call, and the call after that. He showed up, ignoring all but Lestrade and proceeded to dazzle everyone on scene, though not a word of approval was uttered. And just like that he was gone again. It was on the next call that Lestrade realized what he was up against.
Sherlock arrived to the crime scene an hour after Lestrade called and one glance at the younger man had the Inspector dragging him by the wrist to the nearest alleyway. He practically slammed Sherlock against the brick building, livid beyond anything he could remember. "Are you insane? What the hell were you thinking coming to my crime scene coked up?" And sure enough Sherlock leveled his eyes (bright, so bright, pupils dilated) and sighed in clear annoyance, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. "Don't be dull, Lestrade. What I do in my own time in no way concerns you."
Lestrade stared, wide-eyed at the insolent twenty four year old and sneered, "I should take you in right now, you little shit. Spend a night in lock-up, see how that fits you."
Sherlock had the gall to roll his eyes. "You need me here or you wouldn't have called. Every wasted second here ruins your chance of solving this so you either let me see the body or I can leave. Which shall it be, Inspector?"
Lestrade could feel his fingers reaching for his cuffs, and for a brief moment entertained the notion of throwing the pompous brat in jail. But this was a particularly perplexing murder. He couldn't believe he was even contemplating this, but. He stood back from Sherlock, glaring the whole time. Sherlock made to move but Lestrade shot his arm out and grabbed him harshly by the wrist. "If I hear so much as a word from you to anyone on my team, you're done, understand?" Sherlock coldly stared at his restrained wrist and whispered, eyes glittering, "Perfectly." Twenty minutes later and high as a kite he had all the details laid out, and their suspect caught two days after that.
Nobody liked Sherlock. Not Anderson, his longtime forensics expert, not Donovan, his partner of two years, and not a soul from his faithful crew had ever uttered a positive word regarding their new collaborator. Even Lestrade, patient and understanding as he was could barely stand to be in the same room with him for more than ten minutes.
Sherlock just rubbed everyone the wrong way. He was arrogant, and obnoxious and darn right childish at times. Which was why Lestade couldn't get the man out of his head. Because for all the negative, Sherlock was a Pandora's Box to Lestrade. He knew things most people didn't, and for all his disdain towards the generous populous, he seemed to understand people better that anyone. And yet, Lestrade couldn't get a read on Sherlock. So one random day he decided to pay the man a visit. A quick computer check provided the address, and realizing it was a stone's throw away from Bart's Hospital he hailed a cab to Montague Street.
Upon first inspection, certainly not what he was expecting as he stepped onto the walk in front of the block of flats.
Climbing up the three flights proved tedious, especially it being the middle of August and him in his suit and tie, damn it. He brought his hand up and banged on the door, hoping the kid was actually home. He went to wipe his damp brow but the door flung open, revealing a very confused and suspicious Sherlock. So, apparently someone was not used to receiving visitors.
"'Lo, Sherlock."
"Lestrade. What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, curiosity evident in his voice, rather than his habitual disdain.
"I had some spare time, thought I'd stop by. May I?" Lestrade found himself walking past the younger man without actually being invited in. He heard the loud sigh behind him as the door closed. His eyes roamed, eagerly. The flat was small, but respectable, or it could have been if not for the absolute clutter littering nearly every surface. With a quick sweep of his eyes Lestrade noticed everything from books to boxes, a microscope, cutting board, chess board, a violin (hmm, surprise) and a mutilated body part(double take, hope it's from an animal).
"Wow," was all he could manage. Then he noticed the oppressive heat, his clothing sticking to him uncomfortably. Sherlock was wearing loose lounge pants and a plain gray tee, his hair in absolute disarray thanks to the humidity. He was also barefoot.
"Is there a legitimate purpose for this visit, Lestrade? I am actually quite busy with an experiment." He did in fact head over to the microscope, ignoring Lestrade in favour of...whatever he was experimenting on. He was using the tiny kitchen table as his lab surface apparently and the two dining chairs as additional junk holders. Lestrade walked over to take a look. "I didn't know you were into all this," he said, gesturing at the multitude of slides and the unidentified body part.
"There is quite a lot, I imagine, you do not know, Lestrade," Sherlock quipped without glancing up. Lestrade, too hot to contemplate a fight at the moment gestured with his head to the violin sitting on the sofa.
"You play?" Now Sherlock did look up, his eyes narrowed to annoyed slits. "Obviously."
Lestrade quirked his lips. "Any good?" Sherlock stared at him as if he were holding onto his last ounce of patience. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled, stepping away from the microscope.
"Tea?"
"Sure, thanks." Sherlock strode over to the stove as Lestrade walked around the small space. The living/dining area was all connected. Besides the table and two chairs there was a two person sofa, a worn, low, leather armchair and a cluttered coffee table. No telly. Just a laptop sitting on the sofa next to the violin. Violin stand over by a large, but covered window. A closed door leading to what was probably the bathroom and then another open door which he assumed was the bedroom. He walked towards it nonchalant and glanced a peek. Sparse, and surprisingly clutter-free. Dressing gown thrown haphazardly on the bed and a few stacks of books on the nightstand, complete with ashtray.
"What are you doing?" Lestrade turned around to Sherlock, two feet away from him, steaming cup in hand. He raised his arms to offer the tea and that's when Lestrade glanced down at his bare arms. He knew what the man was and what he did. But covered under the expensive shirts and a too-large coat he could ignore it all the same. Now though it was staring him in the face.
Skin so fair it was all too easy to see the angry bruises and marks along his inner wrists. All too easy to tell that not all of them were from long ago. His whole being revolted and he swallowed deeply as he took the proffered tea from Sherlock's hands. Of course he was fooling no one. And blind, Sherlock was not.
"Why are you here, Lestrade? Looking for something, perhaps?" His voice was steel and Lestrade nearly recoiled from the vehemence of it. Then he realized what Sherlock was implying.
"No! No, that's not why- I didn't come here...this isn't a bust, Sherlock. Calm down kay? I promise." That did absolutely nothing to placate the younger man who continued to glower at the Inspector, heat radiating off him in angry waves. Lestrade took a sip of tea. It wasn't terrible. "I promise, Sherlock. It's just, I never knew where you lived and I just wanted to stop by," he finished lamely. "Always figured you'd be shacked up in some Soho flat or something," he tried for levity, failing miserably judging by the cold, unamused expression plastered on Sherlock's face.
"Your wife is having an affair with her co-worker."
And it was like a punch in the gut, sudden and brutal, no hope of deflecting or defending. He took a step back and covered up the harsh gasp threatening to explode from him. Instead, he took a deep breath and brought the cup up to his mouth. "I know," he said, and took a gulp, smacking his lips when he downed the scalding tea without really tasting it.
Sherlock's brows furrowed slightly and finally a smirk broke free. He sauntered over to the sofa, plopping down and nearly bouncing his laptop off the edge. He grabbed it last second and lazily plunked it on the coffee table. Then he burrowed in between the couch cushions, finally locating a flip phone triumphantly before flinging that as well onto the table.
"Sit, Lestrade. I despise looking up at people."
Of course he does, thought Lestrade as he took a seat in the leather chair. It was surprisingly comfortable. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped around his cup. "How did you know?"
"Obvious," drolled Sherlock.
"Right. Changing the subject completely...How long you been living here?"
Sherlock opened his phone and proceeded to text someone. "Two years. Is this a social visit then? Pity, I thought you had something interesting for me." His fingers never stopped the clatter going on with his phone.
"I take it you don't get many visitors then." Lestrade said, already knowing the answer, and hence the complete lack of response. He noticed the large tomes on the coffee table. Chemistry texts of sort. Mathematics as well. All well beyond the scope of Lestrade's mind. Rubbish at it, always had been.
"I don't drink."
Lestrade looked back over to Sherlock, who continued his texting marathon. "Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed and threw his phone on the cushions, clearly finished with it. "I don't drink. Alcohol." At Lestrade's blank look he rolled his eyes and elaborated. "I'm assuming you wish to be offered some alcoholic beverage, as you are accustomed to it, upon visiting an acquaintance at their home. I don't drink and have none to offer."
Lestrade frowned. "Um, that's fine with me, I wasn't wondering, if that's what you were thinking." Then he scowled at the sudden smirk on Sherlock's face and flushed. "Are you insinuating something, Holmes? I'm not a drunkard, you know. I don't mind a drink from time to time but don't sit there and think you know me." He was getting all worked up suddenly and not even realizing why. Sherlock continued to smirk, eyes roaming lazily over various points on Lestrade's body. Right then. Quite done with all that, thanks. He stood up, cringing as his dress shirt was practically glued to him at that point.
"Thanks for the tea." He left the flat without a word from Sherlock.
Lestrade called Sherlock the next week with another case and waited outside the home for Sherlock to jump out of the cab. The first thing he did was grab Sherlock by the chin and forced eye contact. Shocked, indignant, and murderous, yes. High, no. He let go, satisfied, and fled inside the house before Sherlock could even get a word in. Thankfully the younger man followed, never one to stand down from an interesting murder.
He solved that one too, to no one's surprise but with the usual gripes from certain members of his team. Lestrade continued to call Sherlock, throughout the rest of the summer and well into the fall. And thankfully, Sherlock didn't show up high again.
On longer cases, Sherlock sometimes showed up to Lestrade's flat. And by showed up, that meant uninvited and without notice. The first couple of times Lestrade didn't mind all that much. He knew Sherlock was useful and that meant not only at crime scenes. His insights were helpful and he never minded that his flat was used as a base of operation. But the times after that were at random hours of the night, and Lestrade was starting to wonder if the man ever slept.
He looked drawn sometimes, and paler than usual. Lestrade never inquired after him since he knew Sherlock loathed all form of 'trivial questions' and he was really starting to detest the phrase, 'none of your damn business.' He never asked about the drugs because he never showed up to crime scenes high any more. But Lestrade wasn't an idiot, no matter how many times he's heard it from Sherlock's lips. The man was unstable and insufferable and Lestrade's own team was starting to grouse about his constant involvement in their cases. Sherlock lashed out at anything he deemed a pointless waste of time and breathe, and that included any offer of friendship or comradeship.
While his own team was starting to suffer, Lestrade actually fell into a somewhat secure place within Sherlock's private little bubble. The man ate up praise like a piranha gobbled prey. It wasn't often Lestrade got to glimpse it, and Sherlock did his best to hide it, but whenever the random, 'extraordinary', or 'I can't believe you spotted that from there' popped out of Lestrade's mouth, Sherlock would start, for the briefest of seconds and look away almost as if unused to such exaltation. And Lestrade would find himself grinning about it later in private, not able to fathom why it made him feel good. And then he met Sherlock's big brother.
A random visit to Sherlock's flat for assistance uncovered a gloom that had settled upon the whole place. The door was open and a man stood in the center of the room. Suit and tie. Briefcase and large umbrella. Expensive tailoring. Just leaving by the look of things, but a glance at Sherlock suggested this was not a social visit, nor even a pleasant one by the cold, unsavory glower the younger man was giving the mysterious older gentleman.
And then he turned and saw Lestrade. "Ah, Inspector. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Mycroft Holmes," he finished and extended his hand. Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock, then back at Mycroft. Slowly he offered his own hand. "Greg. Lestrade. So, um, brother?"
"Indeed," said the older man. "Very sorry I can't stay, Inspector. I have a previous engagement." Then he turned to look at Sherlock. "Do try to stay out of further trouble, Sherlock." And then he was gone, big umbrella and all. Lestrade, blinking a few times, closed the door behind the other man. Then leaned back against it.
"So. You have a brother."
"What do you want, Lestrade?" Sherlock had apparently exhausted all his social supplies. He coughed and reached into his inner jacket pocket, producing a folded up piece of paper. He stepped over to the sitting area, and dropped it next to Sherlock on the sofa. "From the Collins case. Potential evidence I thought you might look at," he stated.
"Fine. Now get out." Sherlock was holding on tight to his violin, Lestrade noticed, fingers clenched so tight his knuckles appeared bloodless. He suddenly knew it wasn't a good time for any type of conversation, case related or not. So he merely said, "Right, okay then. Let me know if you find anything." And he left Sherlock that night, and came to regret it soon after.
He was livid. No, worse than livid, he was embarrassed, for Christ's sake. Sherlock. A no-show, and two bodies a foot from Lestrade. His team ready in the wings to do their thing. For the past two hours. And not one single word from Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Sally was giving him that look again, all pursed lips and raised brows. He hated that look. It almost made him feel as if his mother was about to scold him for doing something stupid.
He crossed his arms and silently cursed Sherlock. He pressed re-dial and when it went straight to voicemail for the tenth time, he swore outright and pocketed his phone. He waved over Anderson and told him to get to work. He stepped away for a brief moment to collect his thoughts and wished for a cigarette. Too bad he gave that up six months ago. He sighed and went to check on the bodies.
Five hours later, three a.m., he was begging for his bed as he nearly crawled up to his second story flat. Before he even had his key in hand, his gun was out in a flash as his eyes instantly noticed the broken lock. He silently swore and unclicked the safety.
With one steady hand he reached for the knob and gently turned to open the door. Complete darkness greeted him and for a moment he let himself stand in one spot, just listening for the smallest of sounds. He heard it then, the tiniest of movements, coming from his bedroom. Both hands on his gun now he crept across his living room and froze in his tracks when he heard it, this time unmistakable.
"In here." And that voice he'd know anywhere. He released a shuddered breath and lowered his gun to his side. Still, cautious, he took the few remaining steps to his bedroom, his eyes not quite adjusted to the darkness. With shaky fingers he flicked on the light switch, and froze on the spot.
Sherlock sat on the floor, back lazily propped against the side of the bed, arms hanging limply on either side of him. His head lolled forward when the light came on, as if the harsh glow hurt to look at. Lestrade was by his side without knowing how he got there. Leaning down he carefully reached forward, grabbing Sherlock's chin and lifting his head back.
"Christ, Sherlock..."
His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, while scratches marked the usually flawless skin. His neck was bruised down to his clavicle and that's when Lestrade noticed Sherlock was without his coat, just a rumpled half-buttoned dress shirt, spotted with blood and God knew what else. He absolutely reeked of sweat and-Lestrade's mind reeled- seminal fluid, more prominent staining continuing on his dark trousers.
Lestrade's heart thudded against his chest as he surged forward, grasping an arm, yanking it up, not caring for the shudder that passed through Sherlock's body. More bruising, ugly and fresh, and blood, dry now and there-mark upon vicious familiar mark and now he could feel the bile rising in his throat as he brought his arms around Sherlock's light frame, trying to get him standing.
"No, don't-" came the weak rasp and before he knew what hit him, Sherlock keeled over and vomited all over the carpeting. Lestrade instinctively kneeled next to the heaving figure, hand on back for support.
"Come on, Sherlock, you're ok. Come, let's get you seated." He reached his arm out to steady him as he stood up and the younger man grabbed for it, fingers cold and clammy.
"'Strade...don't feel-" and the grip faltered and Sherlock hit the floor before Lestrade could grab him.
"Jesus! Sherlock. Sherlock!" He flipped the man on his back and patted his cheek. Nothing. He was out cold. Lestrade thrust two fingers against his neck and hissed at the racing pulse, noticing the sickly pallor and damp brown hair. Swearing, he grabbed for his mobile and dialed.
At the hospital, Lestrade paced to and fro as he remembered the horrifying ambulance ride. He barely recalled all the questions the medics were throwing at him. If he was family, what was Sherlock's blood type, what drugs were in his system...
Lestrade remembered answering none if it. He ignored all calls for the first hour, just paced and paced, cursing Sherlock and hating the feeling in his gut he got every time he thought back to the lethargic, unfocused look on Sherlock's face. He automatically reached inside his jacket pocket for a cigarette, and found nothing. He silently swore. His phone rang again and he went to hit ignore again until he saw the number. It wasn't one he knew so he warily answered it. "What?"
"Inspector, I will be brief as I have some business to attend to before I am able to visit with my brother. The doctor has already been informed that you are to receive any and all information regarding Sherlock's status. I will be along when I can. And. Thank you for bringing him in. Good evening, Inspector."
Mycroft hung up and Lestrade was still standing with the phone to his ear. He was so exhausted and confused. Why was Mycroft not here now? This very minute. Where were Sherlock's parents? If Lestrade hadn't come home when he did... It didn't even bear thinking. He just couldn't even deal with that thought right now. It was nearly dawn and he continued to pace, until finally the doctor came out to speak with him.
"Inspector Lestrade, I take it? Dr. Kohn". Lestrade shook his hand, nodding yes. "Mr. Holmes is resting now, though he is currently sedated and most likely won't be awake for several hours. He had numerous physical injuries, none of them life threatening, but still troubling. The bruising and swelling should fade within a few days. His arms are wrapped for the time being to prevent infection." He stopped and took a deep breath. "There were drugs found in his system; heroin, and traces of ecstasy."
Lestrade went numb, blood draining from his face. He remembered the smell and the stains, and he was afraid to even ask but he had to. "Was he...assaulted?" was all he could manage but the doctor seemed to be following. "Sexually? We don't believe so, no. We did an exam but found no evidence that any physical activities he engaged in were of a forced nature."
Lestrade nodded, relieved and strangely sad with the whole situation. "Will he be alright?"
Dr. Kohn sighed. "Mr. Holmes is a drug addict, Inspector. He will certainly be alright if he gets the proper care he needs. He isn't my first patient or last like this. I've seen it all. There were some not so lucky as this one. Also, he seems to be a bit malnourished. While that is the least of my worries, it's still something that should be addressed. In the meantime, you may see him if you'd like to- he's just been moved to his room."
Lestrade nodded again, and followed the doctor numbly through the large halls to Sherlock's room. He was situated in the private wing of the fourth floor, which seemed ostentatious to Lestrade, but later realized it was all Mycroft's doing.
Sherlock was, as the doctor had said, asleep, and looked quite peaceful. Left alone, Lestrade took a closer look at the patient, and the harsh hospital lights only helped to draw out the ugly wounds on Sherlock's face. One of his eyes looked red and swollen, and a bruise marked his forehead, purple and foul looking. Some minor scratches were covered up by a small plaster and even the knuckles of his hands didn't escape damage.
Lestrade inwardly cringed at the sight, and before he realized his hand had moved, it was gliding through Sherlock's black mane, tangled and damp. He pushed back the fringe on his forehead and tried to assemble the strands in some manner of order. It was a fruitless exercise he quickly realized, and softly chuckled to himself as he backed away from the bed and sat down in a rather uncomfortable armchair.
"Oh, Sherlock. What have you gone and done now?" he said to the quiet of the room. The room did not answer back.
Filtered sunlight woke Lestrade, a crick in his neck. He must've fallen asleep sitting down and now he'd pay for it. He groaned as he stretched out his back and noticed a nurse standing by Sherlock's bed, taking vitals. The younger man was still asleep and Lestrade's phone took that moment to rouse him fully from his slumber. He promptly answered, following an irritated glance by the nurse.
"Lestrade. Yes, yeah I'm aware. I'll be in, just give me twenty. Yep." He hung up, hating morning. He needed to get to work, and he hadn't slept properly, showered, changed or eaten. He spared a glance at Sherlock before turning to leave. Just as the door opened, Mycroft came though.
"Inspector. Thank you for staying with my...unfortunate brother. I do apologize for the inconvenience he has caused you this evening."
Lestrade just stared. "It's fine. I mean, it's not fine, none of this is fine but I'm glad I was able to be here, when others could not," he finished and leveled a steely glare at Mycroft. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to work. When Sherlock wakes, tell him I was here, and that I'm gonna kill him." And he stalked off, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock and the awful antiseptic hospital smell behind.
Work kept him occupied for the whole day and he truly didn't realize how much of Sherlock's input he needed until he couldn't have it. He even missed all the sarcastic jabs at his intellect.
Visiting hours were well over by that point so he rang Mycroft to check on Sherlock. Everything was copesetic allegedly. Sherlock had woken up and went back to being, well... Sherlock, apparently. Lestrade felt strangely relieved to hear that at least his mind hadn't been too affected by his stupidity. He told himself he'd visit the next day but when he got to the hospital, Sherlock was gone. Startled, he barked at the nearest nurse who told him he was discharged early that morning. He flipped his phone open and called Mycroft.
"Good afternoon, Inspector. I assume you went looking for my brother."
"Where is he?"
A pause. And then: "My brother has been transferred to a special facility where he can be monitored and looked after. A Rehabilitation Centre, if you will. You need not worry, it is one of the most prestigious care centers in all of Great Britain and when he is finished, well, you can have your assistant back if you so choose. In the meantime, I'm afraid there is no outside contact allowed. And no visitors. Family included, except for emergency reasons."
Lestrade felt slightly ill at this news. Sherlock gone. For who knows how long. And he didn't even get a chance to see him before he went. He felt a bit agitated, and sighed, thanking Mycroft for the news. He knew he couldn't afford to dwell too long on Sherlock's situation. He brought it upon himself and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Maybe now he'd get the help he needed. In the back of his mind however, Lestrade knew that you couldn't really help a person if they didn't want to be helped. And he knew Sherlock.
On a blistery, early December morning, dreary and damp, Sherlock showed up to a crime scene where Lestrade had arrived to moments prior. He was barking orders at his team when he noticed him. A specter in the distance, a black blob against the foggy backdrop. He casually walked up to the Inspector, getting clearer with every step, hands in pockets, collar up against the wind. His cheeks were red and his eyes tired, but keen.
He stopped right in front of Lestrade, his stance cocky as ever, but his face betrayed the slightest twinge of nervousness. Lestrade wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know the man as well as he did. He looked...better. Fuller, and most important, healthy.
"Lestrade."
He couldn't help the grin from spreading on his face, even though in the back of his mind he knew he should be furious with the man. Still, it was worth it to see the eye-roll that followed.
"You bloody bastard. Just couldn't stay away, huh?"
A shrug.
"How'd you know where I was anyway?" he asked, and got that look. The 'don't be a complete idiot' look. He shook his head, trying to stifle the smile creeping up. "Well come on then, you're gonna love this one. Got your name all over it. Let's see if you haven't lost your touch."
He hadn't.
While the team was finishing up, Lestrade was surprised to see Sherlock still there. He went off to the side, chain-smoking, like he was waiting for something. Or someone. Lestrade walked over to him, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"You're looking good, mate." Sherlock continued to stand there, not really looking at him, and yet, not really ignoring him either.
"Listen, it's bloody freezing out here. Do you wanna grab a coffee or something? I'm nearly done here."
Sherlock dropped his cigarette and crunched it with his toe. Then he finally gave his undivided attention to Lestrade. "Mycroft didn't want me to come today."
Lestrade blinked at the sudden change of subject, aiming a puzzled look at the younger man. "Well, I'm glad you did," he found himself replying, pleased to see a confused gaze directed at him this time. Sherlock must have had some doubts about whether he would be invited back to help out, Lestrade mused. But really, at the end of the day, Lestrade was glad for his return. Not only for the assistance. But he actually missed having him around, as strange as that sounded.
"So, coffee?"
Sherlock stared at Lestrade, his face uncharacteristically blank. "Maybe another time," he finally said, and walked away.
Things got back to what passed for normal. Lestrade called Sherlock for assistance, Sherlock would arrive, pick fights with everyone around him, solve the case, and then leave. Lestrade tried twice to bring up what happened with Sherlock and the Rehab Centre, and both times Sherlock gave him a look that would melt steel.
His refusal to discuss his drug use annoyed Lestrade, but he didn't want to push the man away. He just wanted to understand what was going on in that head of his, but perhaps it was too much to hope for, for Sherlock to actually cooperate. He stopped coming to Lestrade's flat and for some reason Lestrade felt uncomfortable going to Sherlock. Their partnership restored, he didn't want to rock that boat. But it honestly worried him. Sherlock, living alone, being isolated constantly. It wasn't right, and it wasn't healthy.
Then in January he caught his wife in the act with the bloke from the flat below and Lestrade nearly had a meltdown right then and there. Before all hell broke loose though he managed to grab his keys and catch a cab the hell out of there.
He strode into Scotland Yard, hoping to encase himself in his office, bury himself in work. No such luck as the elevator doors opened and he found Sherlock arguing with Anderson. They both stopped as he came forward and he could feel Sherlock's gaze over his entire body, assessing him, reading him. He pointed. "You, my office, now." And he strode past them both to his office, slamming himself in his chair. A second later Sherlock swooped inside, closing the door behind him. Lestrade leveled his gaze at the man standing against the door.
"Sit," he pointed to a chair. Sherlock sighed, appeared to think it over, and sat down across the desk from Lestrade. He looked so prim and expensive Lestrade wanted to just punch him.
"I know what you're thinking and I don't care to hear it, got it?" He started, still pointing menacingly at the younger man. Sherlock lifted his chin. "As if your dull marital issues concern me enough to warrant a response," he drawled, and it sounded like nails on a chalkboard in Lestrade's head. Or it could just be a damned migraine.
"I mean it, Sherlock. Not in the mood. Not today, not ever. Now kindly tell me what you're doing at the Yard?"
Sherlock's eyes settled on Lestrade's, calm and cool. "I was bored. I wanted to see if I could get my hands on any of the cold case files. I had words with Anderson. Now you're here so you can just give them to me."
Lestrade looked down at his desk and rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to sooth away the impending excruciating pain just behind his eyes, ever threatening. He also thought it would be easier not to look at Sherlock as he was this close to launching over his desk to strangle the kid.
"Sherlock, go home. I'm in no mood."
He was met with silence. Then, after a beat, "I need the work, Lestrade. My mind's going to rot if I just stay at home. I'm asking for the case files."
Lestrade actually groaned. "Can't you find another hobby? Go out on a bloody date or something? Watch a film, read a book? Something?"
Sherlock stood. "Useless, pointless endeavors do not interest me, Lestrade. Now are you going to give me the case files?" he spat, and that's when Lestrade lost it.
"No!," he roared. I'm not giving you shit, you pompous prick! You don't even work here- do you even know what I had to do to get you into this building? After all the stunts you've pulled? You're a junkie looking for his next fix and I'll not be your whipping boy, Sherlock!" And the instant the words came out he knew it was a mistake.
Sherlock visibly blanched, his eyes went wide and no matter how hard he tried, Lestrade will never forget that look of betrayal that flashed across the other man's face. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, for the headache had turned into an all out assault, and opened his mouth to apologize, but Sherlock was already halfway out the door, coat swirling around the still too-slight frame. And Lestrade didn't have the energy to go after him, sinking back into his chair with a long-suffering sigh, reaching for the top draw of his desk for the pills that would temporarily dull the pounding in his skull, and hating himself as he's never hated himself before. The outburst would cost him, he knew. It was only a matter of when.
It was like waiting for a bomb to go off, the long, agonizing intensity of it all. You know it's going to happen, so you're constantly on edge.
Lestrade had called Sherlock to apologize. He was also a coward, since he knew Sherlock would never pick up his phone. He preferred to text. So he shamefully left him a voicemail. He kept it short and sweet. He got no response which was disappointing but not surprising. The following week he got called in on a murder case near the Thames. He texted (loathing the extra time it took) Sherlock.
Got one for you. Female, head bludgeoned in.
Carnwath/Thames.
Coming?
Five minutes later he got a response.
Be there in half an hour. SH
Sherlock arrived on time and spared hardly a glance at anyone surrounding the body. Lestrade told them all to back off for the time being and listened as Sherlock rattled off various deductions. Some he'd already established, a few had his brows rising incredulously. But he listened to it all, and as usual, things started to click into place, and they had something potentially to go on. Sherlock was madly texting on his mobile when Lestrade approached him, almost cautiously.
"So, thanks for coming out all this way. Really appreciate all your help today."
Sherlock turned from his phone and blinked up at Lestrade, and with an edge to his voice said, "Do you?"
"Do I what?" Lestrade asked automatically.
"Appreciate my help?" he responded just as cold.
Lestrade frowned. "What's that supposed to mean... course I do. I always do." Sherlock stared at him impassively for a second before snapping his mobile shut. He placed it inside his coat, only to come back out with a packet of cigarettes. He pulled one out, clamped it to his teeth before hiding the pack away and reaching for his lighter. Eyes still glued on Lestrade he lit the end of his cigarette, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke practically in the older man's face.
"Let's not fool ourselves, shall we?" he simply said, turning away, smoke billowing around him in the frosty air. He left Lestrade there on the water's edge, gaping after the retreating silhouette, confused and just a bit hurt.
At ten forty that night, he got the call at home. Not from his guys, they didn't handle the drugs division. No, from bloody Mycroft Holmes.
"Hospital, I think. Now, if you please, Inspector." And Lestrade's stomach bottomed out, and he braced himself for the worst. "Where are you, why aren't you there now?"
"I'm flying back from Geneva as we speak. Do hurry. I would prefer someone he knows in case-"
And the pause scared Lestrade more than the clinical detachment. He hung up without responding and threw on his jacket thanking whatever entities out there that he never got the chance to get changed that evening. He told the cabbie to hurry the fuck up and practically raced inside the hospital. There, one of the doctors was already waiting for him, bringing him up to speed as they made their way upstairs.
Mr. Holmes had arrived just an hour prior. Yes, he was stable, no he was not out of the woods yet. Yes, it was obvious overdose. No they weren't quite sure what was inside the needle... and Lestrade was shaking and shaking and it was like deja fucking vu all over again. It was a recurring nightmare and one he couldn't wake from. One day it wouldn't be a dream though. He was scared that today was that day.
It was late when he got another update, this time from one of the nurses. Mr. Holmes had been moved to his room and was resting. Yes, he was still being monitored but we believe the worst has passed. Yes, he can have a visitor...
He should have just went home. He should have gone straight home after finding out the little shit would live.
But no, he decided to be decent, and kind and that of course had led to calling him a stupid idiot, and getting angry all over again. And if he had gone home, he wouldn't be in the position he was today: Potential caretaker for one Sherlock Holmes.