It ended up not being nearly as bad as Lestrade and Mycroft had feared. Sherlock had come out of the Baker Street explosion relatively unscathed, though Lestrade had had to strong-arm him to stay put long enough to get checked out by the paramedics. And it had been only the beginning of a few very busy days with a maniac playing a game with Sherlock using other people's lives.
Lestrade had heard Sherlock refer to his brother Mycroft as his "archenemy," a title given to him in large part because of Sherlock's melodramatic nature but also because Mycroft's behavior fed into it. Yes, Lestrade had had the dubious pleasure of being kidnapped on occasion before he had established a more friendly relationship with Mycroft. But it was obvious that Mycroft was hardly Sherlock's enemy. However, it was very clear that Moriarty was the real deal, a very dangerous opponent. And Lestrade was pretty certain that Sherlock wasn't sharing all that he knew.
The recurring deadline with each new victim made the stress unbelievable on all of them, including Sherlock. Lestrade could see that Sherlock was bothered by the old lady's death, and he was as close to frantic as Lestrade had ever seen him when the young boy was seconds away from joining her. Lestrade had gotten the distinct impression that John wasn't able to see past Sherlock's cold-appearing exterior and was upset by it. Maybe a casual chat with John would be a good idea.
But, Sherlock could deal with his own problems for the time being. Lestrade was exhausted. Unfortunately, after difficult cases, he tended to toss and turn and disturb his wife. So, he had stayed up late enough to try to unwind so that he'd be able to fall asleep quickly. He'd just reached that point when he heard the text alert. He was tempted to ignore it, but then he sighed and pulled it out to take a look.
Look at my website. –SH
"Of all the stupid—" Lestrade broke off abruptly and took a deep breath and counted to 10. He really wasn't in the mood to play Sherlock's games or to read his latest post about 216 different T-shirt fabrics. But, it wasn't long before he jumped to his feet and let loose a string of profanity that he was glad his wife wasn't awake to chew him out for.
It was already midnight. Whatever was going to happen would likely already be over by the time they could figure out which pool Sherlock was at and gather a sufficient force. On his way out the door, he called Mycroft to alert him. Lestrade could not believe the stupidity involved in Sherlock's invitation to Moriarty to meet at the pool without notifying anyone in advance. When would he stop risking his life over stupid things? If this went wrong, Lestrade was going to wring Sherlock's neck. Actually, he might do it even if things did turn out well.
When Lestrade showed up at the pool, he found Mycroft's men milling about while Sherlock and John stood outside the building. It didn't appear that Mycroft had arrived yet.
Lestrade scanned both men as he approached. They seemed to be in good condition, if a little stressed. Lestrade felt a wave of relief begin to wash over him, before Sherlock opened his mouth. "Ah, Lestrade, your response time could have been better. It was—"
"Sherlock, if you finish that sentence, I won't be responsible for my actions," Lestrade snapped. "Did Moriarty not show?"
Sherlock summarized in his rapid fire fashion, "Moriarty's already come and gone. He kidnapped John and put him in Semtex. He planned to kill both of us. I was about to blow up the building to stop him when Moriarty got a phone call that was more interesting and left." There was a brief pause before he noticed Lestrade's mood and asked with a raised eyebrow, "Problem?"
"I don't have the energy to deal with you right now. Your brother's pulling up. I'll let him read you the riot act. I'm going home. To sleep. Though I can always come by tomorrow if you seriously need me to explain the problem?" Lestrade cocked an eyebrow.
"No," Sherlock replied warily, but then he added in an insistent tone, "But I texted you. You would have said that I needed to let someone know, so I texted you."
Lestrade sighed wearily, "Next time try beforehand, not during. And try telling me everything that's going on one of these days." As Lestrade walked away, he threw over his shoulder, "Glad you're not dead. Both of you."
He was getting too old for this. Every time he thought he'd gotten all the ground rules in place with Sherlock, he'd find another way to get in trouble.
As usual, Lestrade found that after a couple days of catching up on sleep whenever he wasn't working—and didn't that make the wife happy—his views on life, and Sherlock, were much less gloomy. He felt a little guilty for how short he'd been with Sherlock. So he decided to make the time to meet John at the pub and do a good deed, even though he was still rather busy at work.
"I could have throttled him on this case." John was ranting to Lestrade after some brief chitchat about more mundane topics. "He knew how Connie Prince died for hours! And he left that poor old woman in Semtex fearing for her life!"
"Of course, he did," Lestrade responded as though it were obvious. "He was going to move on whenever Sherlock solved it. Sherlock was trying to stop it from happening to someone else. And if he solved it too quickly, he might have been given less time the next time. And then someone might be more than afraid; they might be dead."
"But he didn't care about the people, just the puzzle!" John said angrily.
"Look, mate, I've seen the look on Sherlock's face when he doesn't figure it out fast enough. When another person dies. It's not the look of someone just upset that he didn't solve a puzzle. He's upset by what happened because of it."
"He told me he didn't care."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "What exactly did he say and what did you say first?"
John looked up a moment, "Uh... I asked if he cared about the lives at stake. He asked if caring would help save them. I said no, and he said then he wouldn't."
"John, what about the hundreds murdered every day around the world?"
"Excuse me?"
"Or raped or beaten or sold into slavery? Or the millions of children living in poverty? Why don't you seem very torn up about them?" Lestrade asked in a curious tone of voice.
"But, there's nothing I could do, and I don't even know them. And if— I sat around thinking about all the bad going on everywhere, I couldn't live my life."
"Uh-huh. You think it's bad. You don't want those things to happen to anyone, but in general, you're distant from them. Doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. Just what you have to do to keep going. Just like you probably deliberately distance yourself from badly injured people when you have to treat them, because you couldn't do your best job if you were constantly thinking about what a nice guy the patient is."
"Yeah, I guess I do. But I still care!" John insisted, but sounding less heated than he had been a few minutes before.
In what seemed a complete change of subject, Lestrade said, "You know that Sherlock used to use drugs. I'm not going to go into all the details, but you met him at the high point of his adult life, with only one brief relapse in the past several years, a meaningful way to occupy his time, living in a nice flat. You know the one before wasn't nearly as nice, bad part of town, but at least he had a place to stay." A weighty pause. "It was a step up from what he had before."
"He was homeless?" John asked sounding mildly horrified.
Lestrade didn't directly answer the question, but was glad to see that John had calmed down. "He's seen a lot of things. A lot of the misery that this world has to offer. And he hasn't just seen it after the deed is done." Lestrade took a swallow from his mug before placing it firmly back down on the table and looking John straight in the eye. "He cares. He doesn't get deeply emotional about it, and he doesn't put it on display for the world, but he does care."
"You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"
Lestrade let out a harsh laugh. "I've worked with Sherlock for five years. Believe me, I've had plenty of time to try to figure him out."
"And how's that going?" John inquired with an air of amusement.
"I think I might be at 10%."
