Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand . . .
To say Lestrade is scared, well, that would be the understatement of the century. He is fucking terrified. Not because he is being chased by a raging murderer or a serial killer on the loose, as he might normally be. No. Lestrade is absolutely, deathly afraid for Sherlock Holmes. The sociopathic monster, the machine, as many put it, is dead. Mentally, at least. While the man's heart still beats beneath his chest, it appears as if someone has just pulled his brain from him, leaving behind a pale, empty shell.
After the incident the day before, when the officers had shown up at his crime scene, Lestrade had grown increasingly more concerned for his friend as he pondered the crumpled, weak pile of coat that had been Sherlock Holmes, having to be physically carried into a car, for what reason Lestrade didn't have a clue. All he can do is attempt to deduce it for himself, because Sherlock isn't speaking. Lestrade had bolted from his office at NSY as quickly as possible after his shift, and run straight to 221B. The sight that had greeted him had chilled him to his bones.
Nothing could have prepared Lestrade for what he saw. The sitting room of 221B had been precisely the same as it always was, although the dust was beginning to collect a bit. The only difference from the normal was the curled up ball of consulting detective, compacted into the high-backed chair that sat opposite his usual black leather armchair. Over the course of just 24 hours, Sherlock had gone from completely normal (by Sherlockian standards) to, quite frankly, looking like shit. His hair was disheveled, his clothing rumpled in his little nest. He wore exactly what he'd been wearing when he left the crime scene the day before: his belstaff over crisp, tailored dress trousers, an impossibly smooth, plum-colored silk button up, his cerulean blue cashmere scarf, and brightly polished dress shoes. All this, along with the impossibly tall detective himself, was curled up so tightly in the chair it was as if he wished to curl so tight he would simply cease to exist. In his arms he was grasping the small Union Jack pillow that normally inhabited the chair so tight his knuckles were a blinding white and any tighter the pillow would rip into pieces. This view, besides the sudden change in seating arrangements and the impossible tension in the detective's lithe frame, was not uncommon and Lestrade would normally have been unconcerned. What truly struck terror in his heart was the expression on Sherlock's face - his eyes wide open, lips tensely held together in such a way it appeared he no longer had them, his skin an absurd grey colour. Like watered down milk, damn near translucent. His eyes, blank. Not simply unreadable; there was just nothing to read in his face. Complete emptiness.
In Sherlock, who always appeared to have three million thoughts all occurring at once inside his head, this was the scariest to see. All Lestrade could see was a hollow, empty shell of a man, and he had no idea what had caused it. He had heard what the officer from the military had told Sherlock, but had no idea who this "John" was, and besides Sherlock's immediate family, Lestrade was certain there was no one who knew the detective better than he did. Lestrade knew all of his "friends" and immediate family, at least he had thought so until yesterday, when everything had been torn to shreds.
Lestrade had now been sitting there for hours. Still, he sits, waiting for any signs of life beyond breathing from the detective, who sat in the foetal position, as blank and lost as a child. Even so, Sherlock doesn't move so much as a single muscle besides his diaphragm the entire time Lestrade waits. It is far too late now for Lestrade to be out and about with work waiting for him in the morning. He finishes the cup of tea he has helped himself to, tosses a quick goodbye to the unresponsive detective, and returns home.
His sleep is restless. All he can think about is Sherlock, and who John is. He sits in his bed for hours, pondering his evidence. Obviously, the man was in the army as a doctor or the like, but is now dead. He was a captain, so fairly high ranking. Career soldier. They shared a last name, Watson-Holmes. Brothers maybe? He had never heard about him from Mycroft, but then again he also hadn't from Sherlock, and the two were obviously close, so he must have been a brother. Lestrade, content with his deductions, manages to fall into restful slumber until morning.
The next few days go in a similar fashion. He gets up, goes to work, drives to Baker Street and watches Sherlock for a while, then sleeps. Sherlock doesn't move at all. He doesn't blink. He doesn't twitch. For all of 4 days nothing changes. Today, the 5th day since what he now only calls the "incident," he arrives only to blocked rather forcefully by a woman, only catching a glimpse of his friend before all 6 feet worth of extraordinarily tall, terribly beautiful, blonde, lithe doctor block his path, forcing him backwards towards the stairs before he finds his voice.
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, ma'am. I am a friend of Sherlock's."
The doctor doesn't miss a beat.
"Could I see some identification please, detective?"
He obliges. When she seems satisfied she moves away, allowing him to enter the sitting room, where he quickly takes up his usual spot in Sherlock's armchair. He examines the detective from afar as the doctor flutters about the sitting room, tidying. If Lestrade thought he couldn't be any more scared for the detective than he had been the last few days, he was sorely mistaken.
Sherlock has migrated from the armchair to the sofa, though whether that is voluntary remains to be seen. He is still clutching the Union Jack pillow with that same broken gaze, but this time his sleeve is rolled up on his right arm where an IV has been placed and he lay stiff and straight as a board, still unmoving. The doctor fusses over him for a moment, turning him and whatnot, just like a senior in a nursing home, before flitting off to the kitchen. After a brief inquiry of "Tea?" he sits back, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed. He hears but does not see the appearance of a full teacup beside him. Worried and confused, he simply sits there for awhile and observes the prostrate detective. Soon the doctor sits beside him and watches also, before Lestrade breaks the silence.
"What are you here for? He's not sick, is he?"
"No. He isn't sick. The IV is for fluids and nutrition. He hasn't slept, eaten, or spoken since I arrived, late yesterday evening. My presence is simply to ensure he doesn't harm himself and that he gets the nutrition he needs to stay alive. I am not a psychiatrist or the like; I simply care for his physical health. So, who are you to Mr. Holmes, precisely? My employer informed me that he has very few friends, yourself included, but gave me few details besides who was allowed entrance. I'm Dr. Trevelyan, by the way." She reaches across to shake his hand.
"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I work with Sherlock at Scotland Yard," he replies pleasantly, returning her handshake.
They speak a while about mundane things. Occasionally there is a pause in conversation as one of them looks over to Sherlock, who continues to stare blankly. Eventually, Lestrade leaves for the night.
The next few days pass uneventfully. Lestrade continues his bedside vigil with Dr. Trevelyan every evening. Often, the doctor cooks for the three of them, but Sherlock never gives the plate so much as a passing glance. Lestrade observes her vain attempts to prevent Sherlock's muscles from atrophying, but still he grows thinner and gaunter as the days pass.
After nearly a week spending each evening with the doctor and seeing no change from Sherlock, you can imagine Lestrade's absolute astonishment when he arrives to find Sherlock sitting up of his own accord. His pale, unshaven face framed by dark, greasy, overgrown curls and hunched shoulders give him the appearance of a corpse, fresh from the grave. Even so, Lestrade and the doctor are ecstatic at the development, a sign that perhaps Sherlock is getting better. Lestrade stays far later than normal, into the earliest hours of the morning, talking to Sherlock in hopes that he might receive a response. Unfortunately, there are none.