Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence
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Hornet´s Nest
The man who composed the important and very secret email the previous night is staring at his computer screen. If the information his contact has sent him is right, their victim will finally be trapped. The arms deal with Syria, a state with which Great Britain has recently cut all diplomatic connections due to the civil war, and the presumed involvement of the man they are trying to corner will certainly set the media on high alert. If they are very lucky, they will be able to time the scandal to the man´s brother´s reappearance.
He laughs. Both brothers have been so careful all these years. Now they will soon experience that all their precautions have been for nothing.
Lestrade looks sideways at Sherlock who is sitting beside him on the rear bench. The Detective Inspector can´t help but smile at the grave look on the detective´s face. He knows from experience that his consultant is not in the mood to talk but will talk nevertheless when asked or confronted with interesting data. He has missed that dark look so much and he is more than happy to welcome his friend back. When Mycroft confirmed that the nameless person they had taken to hospital was indeed his brother, Lestrade had needed a large whisky. He had washed down his relief with another dram when Mycroft called to tell him that Sherlock would live. He can still feel the joy of knowing that Sherlock was alive and the raw fear of losing him again.
The inspector turns and regards the detective´s pale skin and haggard features, his heart leaping out to the man. From what Mycroft told him three days ago, when they were discussing how to proceed with the interrogation concerning the Moriarty / Richard Brook case, he knows that Sherlock has been through a hard time. His pity would certainly not be welcomed, so he decides to voice the doubt that has sat in his mind for these past months, in the hope that Sherlock will understand.
"I couldn´t believe that you had really killed yourself, you know. I knew you were always foolish enough to dive headlong into danger, but suicide was beyond you." Sherlock´s brows are knitted and Lestrade knows he has gained his attention.
"You know, when you overdosed all these years ago, I kind of expected that," he continues. "What I would never have expected was to see your shattered skull in the morgue. It got to me. I had nightmares of trying to stop you, of not being able to rescue you." He pauses. "I´m glad you are back. John must be glad, too."
Sherlock stares out of the window. The houses and landmarks of London pass quietly and he drinks in the sight of life in the capital. John, he thinks. How wrong everybody is about John´s reaction to the news that I am alive. "He is far from happy," he replies, "My brother had to blackmail him to make him stay at Baker Street."
Lestrade sends him a questioning look, but Sherlock just shakes his head slightly. "Don´t ask," he pleads. "I can´t tell you what his motivation is. He just seems to be really angry that I deceived him."
"But you did jump to rescue us. You placed your life above that of three other people," Lestrade states. "Don´t look at me like that. Mycroft told me about the snipers." The policeman smiles genuinely. "I always said some day you might be a good man. John should be proud of what you did."
Sherlock snarls. "Don´t get sentimental, Lestrade. I am far from being a good man. I´m a pathetic addict and a failure. John said I only needed him as an extra for my plan. What if he´s right and I only wanted to keep him safe to show off?"
"You know quite well that wasn´t why," Lestrade says, softly. "I can imagine that John is angry, for whenever did he ask to be kept safe by you? He was the one backing you up, after all."
Sherlock sighs. The inspector has a point there. If only John would talk to him, shout at him – anything would be better than the tension and bitterness between them.
Lestrade looks at his friend, taking in his worn features and the yellow tinges of former bruises on Sherlock´s cheeks. The detective has lost his best friend´s support and Lestrade feels that he needs to offer some more of his own.
He clears his throat. "Concerning the drugs, when I saw you in hospital after all this time, I couldn´t believe it could ever be you, even though the anonymous user we´d found in Hyde Park really looked like you. I couldn´t believe it, Sherlock. Not you. Not after all the effort…"
"That´s because you thought I was dead, Lestrade," Sherlock cuts in. "I actually enjoyed getting high, you know. Moran didn´t even need to force me to inject, after a while."
Lestrade looks at him, wondering why the younger man is so determined to reject his kindness. He can only assume that Sherlock is fighting badly with his disappointment and hurt.
"Stop it," the detective chides him, sensing the inspector´s inscrutable gaze. "Stop drawing conclusions." He pauses and takes a breath, in preparation for what he is going to say next. "See, concerning the meeting later… You know, I´m even more irritable and nervous at the moment than usual. I might not be on my best form nor very polite when answering the questions."
Lestrade nods. This is as close as Sherlock will come to acknowledging he needs help dealing with the upcoming interrogation. "We can always take a break, you know," he says. "Just bear in mind that the clearer your answers are, the sooner the investigation will be over."
Sherlock nods in approval. Lestrade knows how swift and precise he can be in his explanations and is basically telling him that he should make good use of his talents and give smart-arse a wide berth. He smiles sadly at the memory of John´s remark. "I´m with you, Inspector," he murmurs, again regarding the doors and windows of London passing outside the car.
Seventeen wooden steps - of which two are creaking, one is worn out and the last is a little bit higher than the others - lead to the front door of 221 Baker Street. John knows them all by heart, nearly as well as Sherlock, who always avoids the creaking ones and never stumbles on the last.
Today, it feels to the doctor as if there are thirty-four steps to surmount, as giddy as he is, his heart beating faster with every single step he takes. Even his leg, which has been miraculously cured ever since Sherlock returned, is trembling slightly. He damns his stupid idea until he reaches the bottom and finds himself in front of the door to 221C. Pulling himself together, he reaches up to knock when it suddenly opens and Dr. Mary Morstan steps out.
John gapes at her, and Mary jumps, startled, her hand on her heart. "Goodness me, what are you doing here?" she gasps, already laughing at John´s expression. "I wonder which of us is more frightened," she says with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Erm… well, I… I came for some milk," John blurts out. "You know, I had tea, but no milk." Oh bollocks, he thinks. He´s been in Afghanistan and he´s a crack shot, but now he can hardly remember how to talk coherently. He takes a deep breath. "It seems we have run out of milk. I was going to ask if I could borrow some."
Mary tries hard to stay serious, and nods. "Of course, Dr. Watson," she says. "If you would like to come in, please?"
John nods, curtly, and follows her inside.
Two hours later the seventeen steps to 221 seem to have disappeared. Or John has simply flown back into his flat – he seriously can´t remember. He sits in his favourite chair, clinging to the milk bottle in his right hand, thinking neither of putting it in the fridge nor making a fresh cup of tea, but of Mary. Mary who has been working with "Doctors without Borders". Mary, who is currently assigned to a military clinic, treating soldiers who used drugs during their time in Afghanistan. Mary, whose genuine smile might have been directed solely at him. Mary, who gained Sherlock´s trust when he was in rehab five years ago because she didn´t report him when she discovered a vial of morphine in his room. Sherlock. Damn it! John slams out of his reverie, annoyed that his train of thought has led him back to his flatmate. If only he could quit caring for his traitor friend. It would be much for the better for both of them.
The bustle of the Yard is one of the most familiar surroundings Sherlock knows, and he feels his heart lurch and a sense of elation when he walks at Lestrade´s side through the main hall up to the escalators. He ignores the sense of being trapped the short ride causes him, ignores his palms going sweaty and the slight trembling in his hands. He ignores the fear that gnaws at him at being confined in a small space, and doesn´t meet Lestrade´s concerned gaze.
They get out at the sixth floor, for the Inspector needs to retrieve the file on the Moriarty case from his office, and Sherlock follows him in confident strides, ignoring the glances the Inspector´s colleagues are shooting him. They all know who he is, but they have been ordered not to voice any words of greeting or acclaim to grant him his peace.
Everybody follows that order, except one man.
When Lestrade leaves his office again, Sherlock in tow and the large file in hand, there´s Anderson striding past them. His eyes widen as he regards Sherlock´s very alive features and he stares for a moment, before he continues to walk toward them, meeting Sherlock´s gaze with a false smile.
"Oh, it´s you," he says. "Stepped out of the grave to meet your charges?"
"Anderson, leave it," Lestrade snarls dangerously. But the forensic analyst doesn´t relent.
"Am I not allowed to greet our mastermind consultant who managed to fool death?" he says, stepping nearer to Sherlock. "Come on, be a good boy and let me see you are not a fake," he demands, his hand tightening in a dead grip on Sherlock´s marred right wrist.
Anderson´s touch is unfriendly and hard, and Sherlock flinches violently, suppressing a harsh curse. Involuntarily, he raises a fist and slams it down on Anderson´s mouth, splitting his lip. Lestrade can´t help noticing that the detective has improved a lot in his fighting skills.
"What the hell…" Anderson mutters, probing his swollen mouth. "I only wanted to make sure that you are not a ghost, for God´s sake."
The Detective Inspector, who has seen Sherlock pale, notices the trembling in the detective´s shoulders and his tensed muscles. A sheen of sweat has formed on his face and he is breathing rapidly, clear signs of agitation, if not panic.
"Sherlock, it´s all right," he says, laying a reassuring hand on the younger man´s arm. "It´s all right."
Sherlock, still shaking, grabs the inspector´s hand and slumps against the wall, his knees giving way under him. Eyes closed, he feels the rush of blood in his ears and his speeding heartbeat sending tremors through his whole body. "Come on, be a good boy," a voice which is not Anderson´s coaxes him, and he shakes his head, whimpering, sliding down to the floor. He tries to fight the grip of strong hands on his shoulders, but the man who holds him doesn´t let go. His breathing is still too rapid, but he finally hears the words of comfort the other man mumbles and pries his eyes open. Lestrade looks at him with a concerned expression and Anderson gapes at him with something between loathing and bewilderment.
"It´s all right, Sherlock. Breathe. Steady, that´s it." Lestrade still holds him by the shoulders, but Sherlock staggers and gets up, searching for support by leaning on the wall. He can´t remember what happened. He just knows he was near a breakdown and all he can think of is that he doesn´t want anyone to see him like this.
"Come on, mate." Lestrade supports him towards a nearby room and sits him down on a chair. There are images fighting in Sherlock´s head which he isn´t able to link either to Lestrade or Anderson and he still hears the malicious voice calling out to him. He feels hot breath on his face and hands clawing at his wrists which ache as if they are on fire. The voice mocks him, telling him insults in a sickly sweet tone and a third hand pushes into his hair, fixing his head tightly to the spot. He feels a needle enter his vein and hears a delighted, vicious laugh. An orange form enters his vision and he blinks, snapping back into reality, tasting bile. Someone has handed him a shock blanket, he realizes, and for once he doesn´t protest but huddles into its warmth, as he is feeling numb and cold, his hands shaking.
Lestrade is at his side, mobile in hand. "Are you sure you are up to the questioning?" he asks concernedly, and Sherlock nods, although he is beginning to feel very tired.
"Just need water. For the pills." He nearly chokes on the words, and the detective inspector barks an order, retrieves his mobile, and dials a number. "We´ll be with you in half an hour," Sherlock hears him say. "Yes. We need to go through some of the files before we can come up." He is covering up for the detective, and Sherlock feels unusually grateful.
When he sees Anderson, still standing outside, dumbfounded, lip bleeding, he remembers having hit him. Lestrade, who has finished his phone call, steps out and confronts the dark haired man. Sherlock, who still feels detached, watches as Anderson raises his hands in protest, falters, and finally leaves with a gloomy look.
Lestrade returns, crouching in front of the detective, examining him closely. "Tell me what that was just now," he says, but Sherlock shakes his head, prying his medicine from the package and taking it without hesitation. As much as he always longed for a good reason to punch Anderson, he can´t come up with a proper explanation why he did it, for he is actually scared of what he just remembered.
Obviously, this is going to be a long day. It might be a far more agonizing process to get back to the living than he expected. Especially since he is on his own in this.