Professional Best

Summary: Or, best of the professionals. Lestrade meets a consulting detective and decides, possibly against his better judgement, that sometimes it's worth the risk. Pre-series one. Gen.
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, cameos from others (Mycroft, John, Sally Donovan)

Warnings: Reference to drug abuse, bit of language

A/N: Written just after series one aired. Let's just assume Lestrade's been married more than once. *ahem*

Lestrade isn't sure why he's returned to the scene. They have the fiancée in custody, euphemistically 'assisting with enquiries'. No alibi, a messy relationship, physical evidence that fits. It seems like a cut-and-dry case. His bosses are satisfied. Quick conclusions make for good community relations, particularly with a public already unsettled by a spate of violent crimes.

And yet… Lestrade can't quite let it rest. He's been through the files a dozen times, reviewed the interviews, even bullied into forensics running another check on the samples from the scene. Nothing. Everything is infuriatingly neat.

The pale carpet has been cleaned now. The walls bear the gloss of heavy cleaning in place of bloody handprints. He holds up the crime scene photos, looking for some meaning in dark spatters. There's nothing, but still he feels it, that sense of unease.

He stands outside in the drizzling rain, hands in his pockets, staring in frustrated idleness at the seemingly ordinary house. The constable on duty watches him without curiosity, standing bored and wet on the doorstep.

"You know something isn't right."

Lestrade frowns and swivels. The voice has come from behind him, back on the pavement beyond the police tape where people pass to and fro, oblivious to the empty house now that its bloody infamy has aged a few days. Oblivious, except for one.

There's a man standing watching him, just outside the tape. Tall, dark coat, hands in pockets. His stare is oddly intense.

Lestrade tilts his head. "What?"

"Something is missing."

Lestrade exchanges a glance with the constable, who looks decidedly riled. He turns and regards the man past the tape. "Why would you say that?"

The man narrows his eyes. "Obvious, isn't it?"

"No." Lestrade walks over. Closer, he's younger than Lestrade first thought. Early to mid twenties, perhaps? Thin and pale, the sallow pale of hospital patients and junkies. Dark smudges like bruises under eyes with pupils that are slightly dilated. "Explain it to me."

"The timing of the murder suggests the killer knew exactly when she would be arriving home, knew her precise routine. The fiancée knew neither. She had changed the pattern of her movements since their last argument."

"Did you know the deceased?"

The man looks at him like he's said something stupid. Or perhaps he's just annoyed at being interrupted. "I did not. Further, the nature of the attack suggests a controlled sadism rather than the spontaneous nature of a crime of passion. The murderer considers himself an artist. Clever. Cleverer than you, at any rate."

Lestrade considers the man. Murder investigations – particular splashy ones like this – were known to attract the strange and the unbalanced, unpleasant to countenance but not normally dangerous. At the same time, murderers could be stupid.

Keeping his tone casual, he asks, "What was your name again?"

The man lifts an eyebrow, regards Lestrade as though he can't believe what he's just asked him, and adjusts his turned-up collar. His eyes had gained a spark of life for a second there, but they're flat again now. He backs away, gaze on Lestrade's, and after a few steps turns and continues down the footpath.

On a whim, Lestrade paces the outside of the house again. In the narrow lane to the side, he finds it. Bootprints in the mud that are just beginning to soften in the light rain; the same spot, like someone has returned to stand there day after day. He stands and looks directly toward the house, where there is a clear view of the door and kitchen window, through into the sitting room.

Lestrade lights a cigarette and stands gazing in thoughtfully.

"That weirdo's been hanging around the last few days," says the PC when Lestrade returns to the step. "I've run him off couple of times but he comes back. Nutter. Can't stand them."

"If he shows up again, hold him and call me."

The constable looks surprised. "Yes, sir."

Lestrade returns to the Yard.

In the morning, he drags out the paperwork again, all of it. Witness statements, reports, phone records. Forensics. Photographs. Notes, notes, notes.

The database of phone-ins from the public is as unhelpful as it ever is. A few prank calls, the odd over-active imagination, and… hello.

He prints the page. A text message, received after the fiancée's arrest. Wrong, it says, and there's a name and address.

Could be nothing. Probably is nothing.

He grabs his keys and heads out.

The address is a small flat at the top of a grey run of stairs at the wrong end of a bad neighbourhood. Lestrade knocks loudly. There's no sound from inside. He knocks again, listens. Nothing.

He's becoming very frustrated with dead ends.

The lock is flimsy. Looking around, he applies a little pressure. The door pops inward. It catches immediately on something on the floor. Lestrade looks downward, blinking at a pile of letters, a tree branch, and a dirty beaker on its side. More rubbish litters the hall, with a path haphazardly kicked through toward the inner rooms.

His gaze follows the path by rote, into what looks like a dingy sitting room. There's a chair at side-angle to the door, positioned oddly, as though to be able to see down the hall or perhaps to create an obstacle through to the rooms beyond. It's occupied.

"You," Lestrade says.

The man from the scene turns his head to gaze at Lestrade. "Oh," he says. His eyes flick up and down Lestrade, past him. "Is this a raid? No, you wouldn't be alone." He seems to lose interest, head falling back against the chair.

"I knocked." Lestrade steps in.

The man ignores him.

Lestrade decides to take this as permission to enter, so shuts the door after him and walks forward. "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he says. Once in the sitting room, he flashes his card, but the man in the chair is sitting with eyes half-lidded. The room is as much of a disaster as the hall, paper everywhere. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"Did you send the text about the Macey case?"

"Well, obviously." The man's eyes open slightly, dark pupils glinting from under lowered lids. "How's your wife, Inspector? Still angry? Oh, I see she is."

Lestrade freezes in the process of getting his notebook out of his inner pocket. "What did you say?"

"Your wife," Holmes says. "Married six – no, eight years. She left, but returned. It's not going well." He peers through narrowed eyes. "She works in hotel management."

He really should have brought backup. "You're going to explain what you mean by that."

Holmes laughs. He looks, if anything, unhealthier today than yesterday, his face all sharp angles and lines, eyes sunken and marked with shadows. Lestrade scans the room while keeping Holmes in sight. Nothing visible. He's careful, at least.

Holmes tilts his head back. "It's so obvious, it hardly bears explaining."

Lestrade looks at him with narrowed eyes. Holmes gestures lazily. "Very well. Your clothes are slightly too large – you've lost weight recently, but have had no time off work so it's stress rather than illness. Could be work stress but this case, while mildly interesting, is nothing undue. So, marriage related. The watch isn't your style, must be a gift from her. You had it facing downward while she was gone and now you're wearing it in its old position again but it keeps slipping, hence you adjust it absently. You're wearing the same clothing as yesterday but you've shaved, which means you slept at a hotel. You chose a particular hotel and not for convenience, because your hair indicates your normal routine was disrupted." Holmes's head falls back with a thud. His eyes close. "I could go on, but I think I've made myself clear." His eyes open. "Did I get everything right?"

Lestrade, stunned, finds himself reaching for his slipped watch and guiltily checks the motion. "All right," he says. "Tell me how you know all of that. Have you been watching me? Who are you?"

"Observation and deduction. I see what is in front of me, the things others fail to, with their little minds buzzing like bees. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Trivial. Mundane. Boring. So boring." Holmes presses his thumbs to his eyes. "I've watched you, Detective Inspector. You're among the less unintelligent of the idiots at the Yard. You should try it sometime."

Disturbed, Lestrade narrows his eyes, then looks around the room. There are scraps of paper and books everywhere, apparently without any organisation whatsoever. Beakers, some empty and some with foul-coloured substances in them or leaking out of them. Something under the window ledge that looks as though it's been stuffed. Nothing looks like it's been cleaned in the last century. He transfers his gaze back to the chair. "So. The text. Was that a confession?"

Holmes snorts, his chin low to his chest, arms crossed. "If I were to murder someone, it would be much more interesting."

"That's reassuring."

"No. Your killer is desperate. His crimes are escalating. He planned it carefully, but lost control in the moment. Had to tidy up the mess. Perfect conditions for an error."

Lestrade regards him thoughtfully. "Why don't you come down to the Yard with me?"

Holmes' eyes open, gaze flashing to Lestrade. "Oh, are you going to arrest me?"

"Just a chat."

Holmes shakes his head. "Take me to the scene of the murder. I need access."

That's not phrased as a request. More like a command. Lestrade says slowly, "Now why would I do a thing like that?"

"You know something's not right. You found something to corroborate what I told you yesterday, something suggestive but not conclusive. The footprints in the alley, most likely." Slumped in the chair, Holmes smiles at the look on Lestrade's face, his smile a smug, sharp thing. "Yes. If you want to know who really killed your victim, I need access to the scene. I need data. Data, data, data. It's all in the data, Lestrade." His fingers move like he's trying to gather something out of the air.

Lestrade eyes him. Clearly, it's a ridiculous idea. Clearly. And yet, he's considering it. Why not? At worst, he's dealing with a junkie on a kick with delusions of grandeur. At best, a supercilious creep who might just see things that matter. Either way, Holmes knows more than he should.

And there's a girl lying in artificial cool, slabbed down in the darkness of St Bart's. She's owed something, too.

"Fine," he says. "Ten minutes."

Holmes turns his head, stares at him. Slaps his hands on the arms of his chair and sits up abruptly. "Yes," he says, and leaps to his feet. Lestrade steps back, startled, and Holmes spins, holding up a finger. "Don't move."

He vanishes into one of the rooms and is back in less than a minute, dressed now in a long coat over an expensive-looking suit, pressed and immaculate. He winds a scarf around his neck. The glassiness is gone from his eyes, burned away by the odd light swimming in the pale gaze with the blown-out pupils. He tucks something in his pocket and strides toward the door without waiting for Lestrade.

This is a stupid idea. Truly stupid. Career-ending stupid.

Lestrade follows, before Holmes disappears.

Holmes examines the scene for twenty minutes, then announces that Lestrade is looking for a man who favours grey jackets, lives locally, and is left-handed, with a particular brand of gel in his hair. When pressed he divulges a chain of logic, several threads from the underside of a ledge, and a convoluted series of demonstrations that involve them both crawling along the linoleum with his ridiculous magnifier. And then it seems perfectly reasonable, obvious even.

Lestrade recalls a suspect they'd interviewed in relation to the violent attacks. Something had struck him as off at the time, but pressing had taken him nowhere. What was his name? Jason, Jacob White? He flips back through his notes. He'd lived nearby, hadn't he? A street over.

Holmes dusts off his hands and oozes satisfaction, even as he dismisses the whole thing as apparent and dull. Lestrade offers to drop him off at the small, dingy flat, but Holmes flicks a hand at him impatiently and strides off into the grey streets.

It's not that simple, of course. But there's enough to link up the attacks to the murder, to begin investigation into Jacob White's movements on the night of the killing. A witness places him in the alley earlier in the day and several days in a row beforehand, and it's enough for a warrant. They find blood on his shoe. They bring him in, and he crumbles after a few rounds in interview. Sherlock Holmes was right; he was desperate, torn between needs.

Lestrade does a background check on Holmes. Two arrests, one for suspicion of involvement in a murder (never charged), another for suspicion of perverting the course of justice. No charges had been laid there either, but he'd been found to be in possession of small quantities of cocaine when arrested and had been done for that instead. There are dozens of other notes against his file, some going back years. Serial pest, one DS had noted. Self-styled amateur detective.

Lestrade calls around to the dingy flat a few weeks later. Sherlock answers after a long wait, sunken-eyed and pale. White's arrest doesn't seem to register; Holmes nods, the absent nod given when told the weather is good or bad or mild, and slams the door in Lestrade's face.

Lestrade wonders, standing looking at the door, eyeing its peeling green paint. The clothes and the accent and the arrogance, he thinks; markers of class and privilege. No family? Someone had put up the bail on that possession charge. No job. Was the habit symptom or cause?

He turns and walks away, pretending not to see a curtain twitch as he goes.

Lestrade receives a text a few months later, caught in the middle of a messy case of murder and purloined identity. It's probably a waste of time to wonder how the man obtained his number. He ignores it, and the ones that follow.

Then the second body appears.

Sherlock demands access to the crime scene and Lestrade bends every rule in the book, watching as he crawls over the body with his magnifier in hand.

He's the same, coat and scarf, wrapped tight in his melodrama. Lestrade isn't sure whether to be relieved or resigned as he pronounces the victim's life from the wrinkles on his hands, from the wear on his boot. It wasn't a fluke, the first time. Lestrade has the feeling he's going to wish it was.

Sometimes months pass. Sometimes Lestrade looks at his mobile, hoping there's a text so he doesn't have to be the one to make humiliating contact. Sometimes he does text, and there's no reply, no answer, no one home when he calls at the flat with the green door. It's an effective not interested,but it doesn't make him want to kick the door down any less. Does the man think this is easy for him?

Other times the cases are nothing unusual, but the texts don't stop. If he ignores them, Sherlock turns up at crime scenes anyway, pinched and unhealthy, sunken eyes and brittle restless fingers.

Lestrade puts him on the informant register. It's not conventional, exactly, but he salves his conscience by reasoning that, technically speaking, inform is exactly what Sherlock does so well. If it gives Lestrade some private amusement to mentally classify Sherlock Holmes as a grass, well, that's his business. And it might do something for the frivolous arrests and 3am calls from colleagues wanting to know if he does, in fact, know a man named Holmes in connection to his current case.

He raises the subject of payment once only; Sherlock gives him a derisive stare in response and he lets it go. The man looks perpetually half-starved and lives in near squalor, but he possesses a casual indifference to money that speaks to a lifetime of never having to earn a cent. Much as the dismal state of his flat indicates a lifetime in the certain knowledge that cleaning is something done by other people.

Still. Lestrade eyes the faintly worn edges of the coat, neatly pressed, and notes the way the lines of his face seem sharper each time he sees him. The credit that washes on to him with every new case solved on the back of Sherlock's magic only increases the edge of discomfort.

He quietly sees to it that something is sent, every so often. He doesn't know if Sherlock does anything with it; he never mentions it, and neither does Lestrade. Maybe the envelope lies, unopened, with the sea of manuscripts cluttering the floor of the flat. Maybe he tears to shreds. Maybe he sends it chasing after the void occasionally visible in his eyes.

It's good enough, Lestrade tells himself, and ignores the rest.

"Finalised the divorce, then," Sherlock says one day. He's solved a case, but as always seems less satisfied with the actual conclusion – justice, arrest, closure – than with the puzzle itself. Lestrade is just tired.

It's not a question, because it never is with Sherlock. His tone is clinical, as though he's identifying a victim's movements from the marks on their cuff or a murderer's occupation from their shoeprint.

Lestrade peers at the drain opposite. "Yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods sharply, eyes narrowed as he stares ahead. "Marriages in the police force typically last eight to ten years. Your ring is missing and you haven't worn the watch for some time. Acrimonious."

"Correct."

"No children."

"One child."

Sherlock turns to look at him, and for once, he really is looking at him. "What?"

"We had a daughter. She died."

Sherlock frowns, gaze going distant. "Hm." Hands in pockets, he looks away.

Lestrade looks at him. For a split second, he considers hitting him; just punching him in the face, simple and easy, as though pain could somehow help. It's the closest he's ever come to physical violence towards Sherlock, for all the times Sherlock has ignored him and sneered at him and rolled his eyes and broken protocol.

He doesn't. But he can't stand to be anywhere near him, either. He turns on his heel and walks away.

When he looks over later, he can see Sherlock watching at him, dark pupils and bloodshot eyes, something like puzzlement in his face.

He hasn't seen Sherlock for months when he calls on him in the middle of a case. It's a big, messy triple murder, details straightforward except for the grisliness. Lestrade has developed thick skin, but there's something about certain cases that filters through the barriers and invades the best defences a copper can erect. There was a mother in this one, and he can't get the shape of her bloody fingers out of his mind.

Maybe that's why he seeks out Sherlock. Not for the physical evidence, shoeprints and mud and marks and cigarette butts. It's one of those where the problem is everything else. Dark edges, jealousies and pain and human frailty, splayed out across kitchen tiles, impermeable to reason. That's not Sherlock. But, God help him, some part of Lestrade wishes it was. Wishes Sherlock could do his thing and make thisugliness rational.

So, he finds himself at Sherlock's flat. He lights a cigarette, standing by his car in the sleet, snow mixed with mud forming a grey slush at his feet. Five minutes, he stands, then he flicks the second cigarette out and heads up.

Before Sherlock answers the door, he knows it's a mistake to be here. And when Sherlock does open it after a long stretch, wrenching it back and leaning on the edge to stare dully at Lestrade, he even more certain. Bereft of coat and suit and scarf, Sherlock's wearing pyjamas and a robe that look like they've been lived in for days. It's too dark to see the condition of his pupils, but he's listless, loose and flat without the edgy tension he's usually wrapped within.

"You," he says. He flicks the door back and stalks away, back into the dark sitting room. Lestrade follows. He comes up sharply when Sherlock abruptly swings around. "Do you have something for me?" The hunger in his eyes is a little unhinged.

Lestrade makes a decision in a split second and shakes his head. Sherlock eyes him in disgust and then flicks off, dropping boneless into the chair that blocks the hall at the edge of the sitting room. "Wasting my time," he intones.

The floor around the chair is littered with broken pieces of equipment that look like they've been pulled out of a skip. Probably were.

Lestrade nudges a beaker full of a worrying red-brown congealed liquid with the toe of his boot, eyeing the papers below. Is that a violin, fingerboard propped against the chair?

"God," Sherlock groans, a hand over his eyes. "It's all so meaningless."

Lestrade pushes his hands into his pockets. "Bad day?"

Sherlock fixes him with a cold stare. His eyes are sunken, his face even more drawn than usual, lending a vaguely skull-like effect. "I abhor existence."

It's Sherlockian grandstanding in typical form. Except there's a raw something there, twisted, darkness eating itself. Lestrade says, "Oh, is that all?"

"Loathsome." Sherlock flicks his fingers at the air. "Dragging, pulling, it's all so untidy. People with their dull little lives and their dull little deaths, tiny minds doing tiny worthless things. Seeing nothing. That's all you do. It's all you ever do."

Lestrade looks around the cluttered room. Sherlock's fingers are wandering now, tickling along the edge of the drawer of the small table beside the chair. What would he find if he opened that drawer, Lestrade wonders.

Sherlock pulls away abruptly, hands flying to his head, fingers white with pressure. "Mundane," he whispers to himself. "Around and around. What is the point of reason and logic when reality is wasted on such ordinariness. Spare me the commonplace." Lower, slumping to slowness, head bowing, he mutters, "I'll go mad. Mad."

Lestrade stares at him for a moment, but Sherlock sits unmoving. "Sherlock?"

"Go away."

Lestrade shakes his head. He leaves.

Lestrade's people, it can be safely said, do not work well with Sherlock. Nor he with them. Lestrade doesn't intercede in the cold war, as long as it doesn't interfere with Sherlock doing what he's there to do.

He half-suspects some of Donovan's ire is on his behalf. She makes it clear she doesn't think they need Sherlock, and only seems to resent him more with every case he solves on their behalf.

The forensics team despise him for his shortcuts, while Anderson seems to regard himself as Sherlock's natural adversary, somehow. He's not. After three doomed run-ins he flatly refuses to work with Sherlock. Lestrade isn't going to order him to.

So. Another scene, Sherlock examining a skirting board while Lestrade holds up a wall in the background, his team milling somewhere outside. Sherlock might be dismissive and condescending toward Lestrade as a matter of course, but he generally seems to spare him the deliberate, defensive venom that is present in his interaction with the others. For Sherlock, that might pass for something. Lestrade isn't unwise enough to dwell on it in depth. He knows Sherlock cooperates, to a point, because without Lestrade he wouldn't get the cases. Lestrade tolerates him in turn, because the nasty ones are solved, and quickly.

Needs must, and all that. It's a working relationship. Of sorts.

The acclaim that flows his way from the solved cases had its shine at first, but over time it's begun to grate. Lestrade's too honest for it not to. But Sherlock has no interest in credit, brushing off the suggestion with that mocking smile.

Probably enjoys seeing Lestrade squirm.

Meanwhile, Lestrade keeps watch for the pinched, hungry, sparking energy, the eyes and the flickering fingers, the sharp half-starved edges. Sherlock's never been so erratic it's caused problems, but it always makes Lestrade tense. None of his team have seen it. He waits for someone to, but they're caught in the deflection.

He tolerates, and watches, and there's a balance. For a time.

The light in his office is off. It's late, the rest of his people gone at last, moving off with muted voices through the darkened offices of the Yard.

Lestrade rubs his numb face. It's odd that the light is off. Cleaner?

He enters, smells the cigarette smoke, and turns, smacking his hand into the switch to bring light flaring into the dimness.

"Put that out," he says. "You'll set off the alarm."

"No. The sensor would need to be two centimetres to the left." Sherlock puts the cigarette out on the side of his shoe, anyway, and flicks the stub into the bin under Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade doesn't bother to argue. Waste of time; Sherlock's probably right. He crosses around behind his desk and sits. Rubs a hand across his face again, changes the angle of his chair, stares tiredly at the blank screen of his monitor. Picks up a file and flips through it blindly. "I thought you'd left hours ago," he says.

Sherlock's fingers move restlessly, skittering across the arm of the chair, along the edge of his trousers. "I didn't," he says, his tone irritated. "That much should be obvious, even to you."

Lestrade closes his eyes briefly. He's not in the mood to deal with this now. "Go home, Sherlock. We're done on this one."

Sherlock frowns. He presses his fingers together, tips white with pressure. "No."

"I wasn't asking."

"There must be more. There must be – something. Something was wrong. I want to go back through everything. From the beginning."

"It's over." Lestrade slaps the file down. Sherlock looks at him, eyes narrowing. "Listen. You weren't fast enough this once, all right? It was going to happen eventually. You're good, Sherlock, but you're still human. Like the rest of us."

Sherlock leans forward. He glares at Lestrade with red-rimmed eyes. "I am not," he spits, "like you. Inspector."

"Fine. Good. Whatever you say. You still didn't get this one."

"I solved it."

"Yes, you did. Not in time, though."

Sherlock sinks down in the chair, frowning fiercely, gaze slipping past Lestrade.

"Look," Lestrade says. It's an effort to make his tone level. "You did your best. The boy's dead, but we've got his killer. It's over."

Sherlock sits up abruptly. "You have paperwork. You love paperwork. Let me see it." He reaches for the files on Lestrade's desk.

Lestrade pulls them out of the way. "No."

Sherlock subsides, fingers steepled again, his frustrated gaze fixed on Lestrade.

"Are you listening to me?" Lestrade demands.

"Of course not. Why should I waste time listening to your tedious nonsense?" Sherlock leans forward. "Don't you see, Lestrade? I need to know why."

Lestrade closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. It's not even the death, he thinks. It's the damned puzzle. The puzzle. He's far too angry over this.

Damn it. The bastard is supposed to be infallible. He's not meant to be human.

"It's not going to change anything," he says wearily. "It's done, Sherlock. It's over. You weren't fast enough this time. That's it. You deal with it and do better on the next one." Bitterness makes him add, "There'll be something just as fascinating to interest you tomorrow, I'm sure."

Sherlock stares at him, pale eyes and shadowed face. He says nothing. For once.

"Go home," Lestrade says. He stands, gets his jacket, moves around and gives Sherlock a firm hint by way of a hand on the shoulder. Sherlock pulls away and gets up. He adjusts his scarf with that odd prickly dignity he has, and leaves the office.

Lestrade is relieved; there was no possibility he was going to leave him alone in there. He switches out the light as he leaves, plunging the room back into darkness.

He wakes to his mobile buzzing on the dresser, quietly flashing on its charger. He blinks and reaches for it. It feels like he's just closed his eyes, but the cold green numbers on his alarm read 02:47.

He groans as he sees the name on the ID. But, God help him, he still answers the thing. "Lestrade," he grunts. "This had better be good, Sherlock."

He can hear something on the other end, but it's a good few seconds before Sherlock says, "I think there's a problem."

Three in the morning is not a good time for Sherlock's games. Except that this isn't right. He sits up, rubs a hand over his face. "What problem?"

There's no response. Annoyed, Lestrade demands, "Sherlock?" Nothing. Lestrade listens for a few more seconds. Is there a faint noise there?

He disconnects, and looks down at the phone thoughtfully. After a second or two, he brings up Sherlock's number and presses Call.

It rings and rings. Burr, burr, echoing flatly in the compressed silence. Burr, burr.

He disconnects. Taps the phone against his hand. Glares at the shadows on his wall. After a minute, he drops his head to his hands, swears to himself, then stands and grabs a shirt, pulling it on. He heads out.

Sherlock's flat is up a dark staircase. The peeling scraps of paint on the door are hidden in the shadows, and damn, it's cold out. Lestrade knocks. It's the knock of a copper, old ingrained habit by now, chasing away the gloom. Bam bam bam.

If he's not at home— Lestrade leans into the door. "Sherlock! Open up."

No sound. Lestrade digs out his phone and keys to Sherlock's number again. Dials. Leaning against the door, he can just hear the sound of ringing somewhere inside. "Right," he says under his breath. He disconnects.

It's still the same flimsy lock on the door, and it gives as soon as he applies pressure. He pushes against the detritus and steps carefully inside, where the darkness is even deeper. There's no movement. "Sherlock?"

He pulls out a pencil light. There's a light switch, but the hall stays dark when he flicks it. Hasn't paid the electricity; of course. Using the pencil light, Lestrade moves carefully through into the sitting room. There's some illumination here, streetlights filtering through grimy curtains. Enough to see what's on the table by the chair.

Enough to make out the immobile shape on the floor.

Lestrade crosses, dropping to one knee, already pulling out his phone. "Sherlock?" Pulse is there, thank god. But it's far too rapid. Pressing the phone to his ear, Lestrade shines his light into Sherlock's face. Bleeding lip or mouth. Breathing okay. He's not responsive, and doesn't move as Lestrade checks his eyes. "Yeah, this is DI Lestrade. I need an ambulance for a suspected overdose – adult male, unconscious, elevated BP, possible seizing." He gives the address, ends the call, bends down. Shakes a shoulder gently. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? I'm going to move you." No response. Lestrade manoeuvres him into recovery position. He's far too hot to the touch, skin lightly flushed and clammy. Lestrade checks his pulse again, wets a cloth he finds in the bathroom and puts it on his forehead to try to bring his temperature down, opens his collar, checks the pulse again. Rapid; still there.

He shines his light around the floor, spots Sherlock's mobile under the chair and retrieves it. He checks through the contacts as he crosses to the table by the chair. There's his number, and there are some others, but no ICE, no contacts that look like family. There's a syringe on the table, rubber tubing, various unlabelled bottles.

Sherlock stirs a little after a few minutes, moving his head, fingers twitching. "Sherlock?" Lestrade checks the pulse. Still unnaturally fast. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolls over and gags, but doesn't vomit. Hasn't eaten for days, probably; he rarely seems to while working on something. Lestrade checks his eyes. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock mumbles something indistinct. "Help's on the way," Lestrade says. "I need you to answer a question, if you can. How much—? No, don't do that."

He's trying to rise, but can't support himself.

"How much have you taken?" Nothing. Lestrade tries again. "Sherlock. Is there anyone I need to notify?" He puts a hand on his shoulder, shakes him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock stares at Lestrade, eyes dark. He seems disoriented, but it's more than the usual drug haze. He looks bewildered, like something's betrayed him.

"Family? Come on, Sherlock. Talk to me."

Sherlock shakes his head. His gaze slips Lestrade to the chair. His head falls, eyes rolling back, and his body shudders. Lestrade rolls him back into recovery position when it passes, makes sure his airway is clear.

There's noise outside the flat, finally. He checks Sherlock again, then opens the door and lets the EMTs in.

He fills them in as much as he knows. The clipped professional exchange is a relief.

"Do we have a history?" says the heavyset EMT, a Geordie who had introduced himself as Dave. "Known user?"

"At least three years that I know of," Lestrade says, and he hates how that sounds. Something twinges, a kind of guilt. "Cocaine, maybe heroin."

They load the stretcher. The EMTs exchange a look as he moves to follow them out. "Is this work or pleasure, Inspector?" says Dave.

"What?"

The man's glance flicks to take in the darkened apartment. Lestrade abruptly realises how it looks. He's clearly off-duty, and it's three o'clock in the damned morning.

God. Imagine how that would fly as a rumour, down at the Yard. He's had enough trouble justifying Sherlock's involvement in his cases as it is. "Purely work," he says as he follows them out. "He's consulting on one of my cases, called me. Probably had my number at the top of his contacts."

Informant, he can see they're thinking. He's not sure whether they believe him, but they wave him into the ambulance. Sherlock's semiconscious again and begins to grow agitated halfway through the drive, but Lestrade tells him to take it easy and he, if not exactly relaxing, at least stops trying to undo the restraint.

Once at the hospital, Lestrade seats himself in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting area. He doesn't have to be here; it's not his job to keep vigil, he's done all he can do, and God knows they're not close. But he finds he's bothered by the thought of no one being here at all.

Would Sherlock do the same for him? Absolutely not.

So, no reason to stay.

Pressing a hand to tired eyes, Lestrade stretches his legs out and waits.