A/N: Sorry again for the delay! SPOILERS for His Last Vow
Sherlock disappeared twenty-four hours after John's wedding. Lestrade knew this because Mrs. Hudson called Lestrade, concern dripping from her voice. Claimed Sherlock told her not to touch anything in his flat, and to not let anybody else in. And then just left.
There was nothing unusual in Sherlock taking off, nor should Mrs. Hudson have thought anything of it, except that he hadn't returned back to his flat four days later. He told her he'd look into it, and she thanked him, relieved.
He released a panicked breath, set his phone down and stared down at his desk a moment before picking it back up.
Sherlock, everything ok?
Yep. SH
The instantaneous response was both comforting and odd. He envisioned Sherlock's face, irritatingly placating him from a distance. He automatically moved his fingers.
Working then?
Yes. Busy. SH
He called Mrs. Hudson back and told her not to worry.
There were two murders. Unconnected, but still very curious. Near opposite ends of the city. It was exhaustive work and it kept him busy for days. So many days in fact, that two weeks had passed and he realized over coffee one day that that was also the amount of time that he'd last spoken with Sherlock. He hadn't laid eyes on him in over two weeks.
He put down his mug and glanced around his office like it held answers to his unspoken questions. A nasty feeling of unease slowly overtook him without cause or logic. His phone pinged and he nearly jumped out of his chair. Hopeful, he looked down.
It was John.
Back from our honeymoon! Tuscany was nice but glad to be back. Any news? How's Sherlock? Is Baker Street still in one piece?
Lestrade stared down at his mobile with trepidation. So John had not been in contact with Sherlock either. No surprise, really, as he was on his honeymoon for two weeks, but still, he was blissfully unaware of Sherlock's whereabouts and that didn't sit well.
He thought long and hard before answering. To placate him with lies was not the way to go about it. To scare the crap out of him two seconds after he'd entered the country was also out.
He bit his lip.
Welcome back! Baker Street is intact. Sherlock is working. Very mysterious.
I'll give him a ring later. See you soon, Greg!
He put his phone down and resumed sipping on his cold coffee.
He went to the flat. He still had the key and he simply couldn't take another day of nothing. He marched right in like it was a common occurrence and proceeded to sweep the room with his eyes. He noted the cleanliness (Mrs. Hudson, obviously), and the lack of experiments in the kitchen, and the near empty refrigerator.
He went inside Sherlock's bedroom. The bed was made, but haphazardly. He frowned. Sherlock was either a slob, or a meticulous madman. A dark blue dressing gown was laying bunched up on the bed. Sherlock's favourite. Dread pooled in his stomach and he couldn't even say why.
He went back out to the living room and that's when it hit him. He noted it upon entering, but thought nothing of it since it was hardly apparent. But leaving Sherlock's room seemed to magnify it. The smell. Or more precisely, the scent. It was very mild and innocuous, but hit Lestrade like a punch in the gut. Perfume. Not cologne. Not nearly bold enough. He didn't have Sherlock's nose but he knew women.
He dismissed Mrs. Hudson right away for reasons he couldn't say. This smelled...young, flowery and vibrant. Not the usual choice for an older woman. Plus, he'd never even noticed Mrs. Hudson wearing perfume in the years he'd known her. He looked around some more.
A plate and saucer in the sink. A dirty spoon. Rubbish bin nearly empty save for a discarded tissue and- he bent closer and reached inside. He pulled out a thin, metallic object. His mind drew a purposeful blank for a second before the obvious, inevitable conclusion reached him. A hairgrip. He dropped it back down as if it burned his fingers.
He took a step back, then another, and twenty seconds later he was outside, his heart clattering in his chest and his stomach revolting. The bright June sun shone on his head where he stood, and his body shook uncontrollably.
Calm. He needed to be calm. He was overreacting, clearly. He was overthinking everything. He needed to be calm.
He went home and paced. He didn't call Sherlock. He didn't text him, or bother him. The thought crossed his mind every five seconds but he didn't give in. He didn't want to talk to Sherlock without a clear mind. And right now his head thrummed with visions and theories and circumstantial evidence.
He needed to properly think it through, before jumping on Sherlock for something that wasn't there. He couldn't stop shaking. It wasn't even cold and now his head was pounding, the slow, dull burn escalating since his hurried removal from Sherlock's flat. Now it was destroying his ability to think rationally. Now it was just pure pain.
He sat down, jamming the palms of his hands against his eye sockets. His hands felt clammy and cool even as the rest of him was boiling.
He texted John.
Hey, any word from Sherlock?
No...He's not responding to my texts or calls. It's been almost a week.
He swallowed, feeling a swell of nausea. He tampered it down and searched his mobile for a contact. Steeling himself, he started to type.
Mycroft. Do you know where Sherlock is?
Ten torturous minutes later:
Working, I imagine. I just spoke with him. MH
You've actually talked to him? Did he say where he was?
He scratched at his neck while waiting for the reply.
Yes, we spoke, briefly. He is in London, according to his mobile location. Is there a problem I should be aware of? MH
Lestrade took a deep breath. If Mycroft was asking, it was probably nothing. Mycroft knew everything. If Sherlock were in trouble, he'd know about it first. The probability was great anyway. And he said he'd spoken with him. Lestrade released the breath in a big rush, body temperature slowly returning to normal.
No, nothing. He's been silent is all. John was starting to worry.
John? MH
Fuck. He pushed his phone away and went to change. He went for a run, because it had been too long and he needed to clear his head. Despite what Mycroft told him he still felt off, unnerved. Maybe it was the general effect Sherlock always had on him.
That evening he got a call about a possible breakthrough with one of his murder cases, and for a brief moment, all thoughts of Sherlock were pushed to the background.
A month since John's wedding. A month since he'd laid eyes on Sherlock, touched Sherlock. It was startling, how much time had actually passed and yet it felt like yesterday. He could recall every detail of how Sherlock felt that night. Every scar he traced with his tongue. Every sound that passed those lips. The look on his face post rapture, unmasked, vibrant.
He gnawed on a fingernail as he attempted to read a file. Two hours sitting in his flat with a beer and his work. It was useless. He couldn't process a word of what he'd read. He dropped the file and ran his fingers through his hair. He was slowly losing it.
Something was wrong.
He knew it, he sensed it, and no matter what Mycroft's texts said, he could feel the impending sense of doom hanging over his head, about to drop. It was only a matter of when. His phone sat on the sofa, untouched for hours, the window open to reveal unanswered text after text. He swiped his finger to the last one.
Sherlock, answer me. Please.
Sent four hours ago. He swallowed and took a swig of his beer. Every breath he took felt strained and his muscles hurt from the tension. Every waking second felt like running a marathon with no end in sight. He couldn't even concentrate on his job any more. Something had to give. Soon.
He read the morning paper slowly, methodically. He was looking for something. A clue, an article, an exposé. Something to possibly hint at Sherlock's month-long activity. It was a daily ritual for close to a week now. Maybe something had been picked up by the press. A murderer caught. A child molester, beaten to a bloody pulp and thrown on the steps of the police. A recovered stolen priceless artifact returned to its rightful owner. Something. Anything.
He closed the newspaper finally with a dull sigh, and took a bite of his soggy cereal. His mobile sounded. Not a text. He glanced down and dropped his spoon in the bowl, milk droplets everywhere.
"Sherlock." He attempted to sound natural, but knew he failed miserably.
"Inspector."
"Where are you?" God he sounded panicked to his own ears. Sherlock must be having a field day.
"Bart's."
He frowned. "Why? Are you okay?"
He heard the sigh and the pause, but the voice was even. "I'm fine. I don't have much time at the moment. I need to talk to you but it'll have to wait."
"What? No, I'm not waiting, I've been waiting, Sherlock. Where were you for a month? What's going on?" He was standing and he didn't even realize it. He swallowed and tried to calm his nerves.
"I'm fine, I'm with John. I'm going back to the flat right now. Do not go there and I will come by your place later." He paused. "And Greg...if you hear anything in the meantime. Anything- I really- I need you to hear it from me. Not anyone else. Do you understand?"
Lestrade's skull felt like it was cracking open. "No I don't fucking understand, Sherlock. What are you talking about and why are you whispering? What the hell is going on?"
"I'll see you later, Greg."
The line went dead. Lestrade couldn't breath for close to a minute as he lowered his shaky arm, phone crashing to the table. He braced his hands on the edge of the table and shut his eyes, sucking in a deep breath when he felt stable enough to do so. He released it in jittery intervals, eyes slowly fluttering open.
He sank back into his chair and cradled his head in his hands as horrifying visions and scenarios played in his mind. Speaking with Sherlock did nothing to calm his nerves. In fact, it escalated his sense of doom exponentially and was truly apprehensive for their meeting later tonight.
And now he had to suffer through actual work and physically making it through the day, pretending everything was fine. He sucked in a deep breath and proceeded to get on with his day.
There were days when he thought things couldn't possibly get worse. Those were rare but when they occurred they threw him out of balance, made him rearrange his way of thinking. On those days he wanted to crawl into bed and pretend that everything was normal. But nothing really was. With Sherlock, normal was not even a concept, it was a joke. Sherlock viewed the world differently than everyone around him and everything he said or did, no matter the consequence, had a distinct purpose. Lestrade just wished Sherlock would let him in on those reasons.
His mobile rang as he was stepping out of a meeting. His stomach twisted when he saw it was John. He strode to his office briskly as he hit Talk.
"John. What's going on?"
He shut his door and stood against it, his heart madly beating deep in his chest. There was a few anxious seconds of silence before John's voice, laced with tension, started to talk.
"Greg. Sorry to call at work. I just- I needed to talk to someone and oh god…" He heard deep breathing in the background, as if John moved his phone away from his ear to steady himself.
"John?" He swallowed, feeling ill.
"I'm here, sorry. Sorry. Just...I'm at a loss at the moment. I just spend the entire morning with Sherlock and- oh god I-" he cut off again. Lestrade slowly walked towards his desk and sank in his chair. He didn't speak. He waited for John, because he was too scared to actually ask anything.
"Oh god, I don't even know where to begin. Should I start with the fact that I found Sherlock in a drug den this morning? Or the fact that he didn't seem to think it was a big deal. Or maybe I should talk about the woman I found coming out of Sherlock's bedroom later on? And not just any woman, ohhh no. It was Mary's bloody maid of honor, Janine. I...I...What- no, I can't really talk about any of that right now. I can't even bloody think."
Lestrade saw red and then it melted into a hazy white and for a moment he saw nothing. If he were not sitting already he'd be knocked over on the floor, of that he had no doubt. He choked on his words, his mouth becoming numb with shock.
A woman.
Oh my god. He knew it. He knew it when he saw the damned hair pin. His head swayed and he felt his grip on his phone loosening. John's muffled voice brought him back.
"...Greg? You there?"
He swallowed thickly and moved his phone back to his ear. "Yeah, I'm here, John." His voice was dead. Every drop of energy evaporated from him and he sat, listless and untethered as John ranted on.
"I'm supposed to be meeting him later to...uuunghh I don't even know what we're supposed to be doing. And Mary's at work and I'm walking around because I can't sit still. I don't know what to think right now. I don't know why he'd do something like this. This isn't like him. God, a girlfriend?"
Lestrade hit End. He dropped his phone and placed his head in his hands, his eyes squeezing shut against the assault of imagery his mind conjured up. He was going to be sick. He felt suddenly, unbearably tired, like he could sleep for days without waking.
He shuddered as goose pimples trailed across his entire body and a lump formed large and uncomfortable in his throat. He clenched onto his hair until it pulled on his scalp, painful and grounding.
He sat at his desk without moving for over an hour before deciding he wasn't going to contact Sherlock. About anything. He'd never manage that conversation anyway. He couldn't even lift his head.
Some rational part of his brain(still existing) told him that he was overreacting. That there was a perfectly logical explanation for everything. That Sherlock would call and explain everything and it would be all right. But as he sat, unmoving, without a single call or text, he realized how utterly stupid he actually was for even entertaining that thought.
He eventually got up and went to the loo, splashing water all over his ashen face. He took a swig from the tap and braced his palms against the edge of the sink. He took deep breaths and waited another five minutes before he felt presentable enough to go back to work.
Hours passed, every minute an agonizing lifetime. He received no further calls, just one text from John, apologising for freaking out on him earlier, and letting him know he'd call once he found out what Sherlock was planning that evening. Lestrade in turn thanked him and left it at that.
He was getting ready to head home for the evening when they got a call about a body. Lestrade sighed and went along, figuring he'd much rather stay busy until he heard anything further from John. Or Sherlock, who did promise to stop by and speak with him.
The night was muggy and dense, a low fog settling across the landscape. Sally was talking with the man who found the body- a female, mid-twenties, with multiple stab wounds. Lestrade sipped on his coffee because if he didn't get caffeine, he'd be down for the count in a matter of minutes.
He craned his neck sharply, revelling in the loud crack that echoed. He replicated the movement on his other side. He was too tense, he knew. Too wired, yet excruciatingly tired. He couldn't wait to sleep. His phone sounded. He reached inside his jacket to grab it, saw it was John and stepped a few feet away to answer.
"Yea, John."
"Sherlock's been shot!"
His styrofoam cup crashed to the earth, lid flying, coffee splattering across pavement and shoes. He was running before he took his next breath, faces swirling past him. Sally calling to him. He ran, swinging the car door open, crashing into the seat.
"Where is he?" he breathed as his vision blurred dangerously. He sounded the car's alarm and sped out. "Where is he, John? John!"
"He's at Royal London A&E. God, Greg, he got shot in the chest." Lestrade heard John's voice break and shudder. "I'm coming by now!" He hung up without another word, throwing his phone on the passenger seat. His mind was on autopilot as he steered dangerously throughout the city, breaking nearly every driving law.
He drove up right in front of the A&E ambulance entrance and dove out of his car, crashing through the front doors. It wasn't the first time he'd been there so he knew exactly where to go. He stormed through the halls, flashing his badge without a word, not even glancing at anyone who who dare to stop him.
He went through the surgical ward entrance and immediately spotted John pacing around in the small waiting room.
"John." He was out of breath as he approached the other man, who glanced at him with relief and trepidation.
"Greg... Oh god, he's in surgery and it's a fucking chest wound." He took a shuddering breath and blew it out with his eyes shut tight.
"What the hell happened? Who shot him?"
"I don't know. I don't know. We were going to Magnussen's office and oh god it was insane and then we got separated for like a minute and next thing I know Sherlock's on the floor and barely breathing."
"Wait, Magnussen? As in Charles Magnussen? Why were you guys there?"
John threw himself in the nearest chair, unable to deal with physical activity at the moment. He sighed, rubbing his face. "Sherlock said it was for a case." He let out a hysterical giggle, like the entire situation was completely insane. Lestrade took a seat next to him.
"John," he licked his lips. "You need to tell me if he's going to be ok." John was a doctor. He would know. He was there and he'd know if Sherlock…
John looked up at him with a distressed expression, his mouth moving but nothing coming out. He suddenly sprang back up again, and resumed his pacing. "It's bad, Greg. It...didn't look good."
Lestrade looked down at his shoes as the room started to spin. His pulse was erratic and his blood pressure was through the roof and he was going to pass out any minute. He was glad to be sitting because he would have keeled over otherwise.
"John…" He closed his eyes as the most unimaginable thought coursed through him. A world without Sherlock. The brilliance burnt out like a light, a life extinguished in the blink of an eye. His chest hurt.
"I know," whispered John as a trembling hand wrapped itself around Lestrade's shoulder. It stayed there for a while, anchoring them both, until they heard the doors to surgery open. Both heads jerked up at the sound and stood, wordless as they watched a strained-looking doctor approach.
Lestrade forgot to breath-couldn't breath, as his chest felt caved in.
"Are you family of Mr. Holmes?" the doctor asked in the flattest of tones.
John swallowed, clearing his throat. "I'm his flatmate, or err, was. And this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We're friends, please tell us…" he trailed off.
The doctor sighed. "Mr. Holmes is extremely lucky. We actually lost him before we could even begin surgery but by some miracle his heart started back up after a few seconds of uncertainty. We were able to remove the bullet with minimal blood loss and he is now out of surgery. He is still sedated so we cannot allow visitors at this time, but as soon as we have him moved to recovery he may be allowed one visitor, and very briefly."
Lestrade couldn't speak. Couldn't move. His mouth had dried up as soon as the doctor mentioned Sherlock had actually died for a brief moment. He slowly sank back in his chair and he vaguely heard John asking additional questions and thanking the doctor, whatever his name was. He placed his hand against his chest to quell the panic and the constriction he felt every time he took a breath.
"Greg, you okay?"
He shook his head, repeatedly. "No, John. I am so far from okay. There is not even a bloody word for what I am." He leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands as his heels pressed firmly against his brow.
John sighed. "I was there, and I didn't even see it happen. Oh god, if he came alone, he'd be dead by now." And then John was sitting, his position a mirror of Lestrade's. They sat solemnly in silence for close to an hour before Greg sprang up.
"I need a cigarette." He didn't explain further but John just nodded in understanding.
He smoked outside, going through three cigarettes before he was semi-calm enough to re-enter the hospital. There was no coherent thought in his mind. Nothing but pain, and disbelief. He had almost lost Sherlock. The thought was debilitating and somewhat ironic, given he thought Sherlock was dead for three years.
He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and went to rejoin John. He found him in pretty much the same depressing position, looking a mess. He sighed, sank in the chair next to him, and sat shoulder to shoulder until a nurse came out to inform them that Sherlock had been moved to recovery.
"You go," John said quietly. Lestrade was about to protest for some reason but John still looked like a tank had run him over so he nodded, gripped his shoulder in silent thanks, and followed the nurse.
Sherlock looked like a corpse and his mind reeled from the shock and from the deja vu. He was suddenly back in the morgue, staring down at the pasty, unmoving form that was Sherlock. Now, instead of blood splatters he found tubing sticking out of Sherlock's mouth and nose and IV drips and god only knew what else. He looked a mess, skin ashen and near translucent. He stared down at his other arm, the one not currently hooked up to anything.
He shuddered and mentally cursed at the oh so familiar bruising at his inner arm, evidence of what John was spouting earlier. His blood boiled as he stared at the offending marks. He closed his eyes against the sight and opened them up only to find the nurse looking at him with sympathy and pity.
He glanced at the machines around Sherlock's bed, at the heart monitor, and relaxed ever so slightly. The nurse smiled apologetically at him as she motioned for him to step out. He hated leaving Sherlock but he morosely shuffled back to the waiting room to report to John.
John took one look at him and sighed, defeated.
"He's gonna be under observation for the time being and heavily sedated at least for the next few hours so there's no use sitting around here. They won't let us see him for a while anyway." John must have been speaking with the doctor. He nodded, eyes drooping.
"I'm sorry, Greg."
It sounded odd, that John should be apologizing to him. "What for?" He glanced sideways at John, curious suddenly.
John shrugged, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have let him go there. Not after this morning. God, I wouldn't be surprised if he was still high from whatever he shot up when I found him. I shouldn't have let him go. Maybe if he was fully functional, he would have noticed the fact that someone was trying to kill him," he finished bitterly.
Lestrade closed his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him. "Nothing you could have done. He would have gone regardless. You know Sherlock, he would have found a way. As to who shot him, well, when he wakes, I'm sure he'll give us some insight. As for everything else…" he looked away. "I plan to have a talk with him as soon as he is able to speak."
"I'm gonna wait for Mary," John murmured. "She's supposed to close the clinic and she texted and told me she'd come here when she got out."
Lestrade nodded and sighed. He looked down at his phone. He had numerous missed calls and messages from Sally. He knew he needed to get back to the Met, find out what was going on. He sort of just left everyone hanging when he sprinted off to the hospital. He told John he was headed back into work and if there were any changes or setbacks with Sherlock, to contact him immediately.
Sally looked slightly shocked when Lestrade told her what happened. The abbreviated version anyway.
"Who shot him?" she asked with wide eyes. He shrugged. "John didn't see anyone and Sherlock isn't talking just yet. I'm gonna go back to see him in the morning and get whatever details I can get."
Sally nodded, took one look at him and mentioned she was going to make coffee. He thanked her with a nod and a sigh, and went to check in with the rest of his team.
He didn't make it home until nearly four in the morning. Maybe it was to keep busy and not think about Sherlock lying comatose did he stay so late, but now he happily crawled inside his flat and promptly passed out on his sofa. He had gotten no further calls from John so he assumed all was well. He fell asleep and slept right through his alarm.
He awoke with a crick in his neck and anxiety prickling his inner core. He sat up, glanced at the clock and swore. He checked his messages-none from John, and texted Sally to let her know he was running late but wouldn't get in until he spoke with Sherlock.
He took a quick shower, changed, swallowed two migraine pills and left his flat. He chewed on his thumb nail the entire way to the A&E, his stomach in knots. Morning had a funny way of shining light on things, and now that he knew Sherlock was going to be all right, he also had to deal with the rest of the issues plaguing his mind.
Drugs and a girl and a mysterious job. He closed his eyes in the cab until they arrived at the entrance. When he got upstairs, Mycroft was there, conversing with the doctor. Lestrade waited off to the side for a moment until they were done, and then Mycroft approached, umbrella in hand.
"Inspector."
"How is he?" He tried to appear collected and inquiring, but he knew he was fooling no one.
"He's asleep. Or more precisely, sedated. The doctors thought it best for the time being. Plus, I did mention what a difficult patient Sherlock could be."
Lestrade sighed. He really wanted to speak with Sherlock, or at least see with his own eyes that he was okay.
"I assume you have questions," Mycroft stated, surprising Lestrade. He slowly nodded. "How much do you know?"
"I don't know who shot him, if that's what you were wondering. I do however know about the drugs and where he's been for a month."
Lestrade frowned. "Why would you tell me any of this?"
Mycroft looked slightly irritated, but it wasn't directed at Lestrade. He stared off down the corridor. "Because you will find out one way or another. And I'd rather you not throttle my brother until you've had all the information. Or until he was healed, at least." Lestrade couldn't be sure if Mycroft had just made a joke, but he held out his arm for Mycroft to proceed.
They ended up at the small cafe downstairs, two terrible cups of coffee between them. Lestrade sat, grim-faced as he listened to Mycroft's ridiculous tale. When he was finished, he sat back in his chair, blinking owlishly at Mycroft.
"So you're telling me Sherlock purposefully returned to sticking himself with needles to get the attention of Magnussen? What the hell for? Who is this guy anyway? I mean, aside from what everyone knows of him? Why would he be interested in what Sherlock does, and vice versa?"
Mycroft licked his lower lip, as if debating how much information to give him. "A woman contacted Sherlock with a problem. A Lady Smallwood. She was receiving some unwanted contact from Magnussen and went to my brother for assistance. He accepted, knowing precisely the type of person Magnussen was. He tried to get his attention. And he has succeeded, in more ways than one."
"You think Magnussen had something to do with Sherlock getting shot."
Mycroft looked thoughtful, hands clasped on the tabletop. "I don't think so. That isn't his style. That's not who he is. But Sherlock was shot in Magnussen's office so I believe whoever held the gun was also after Magnussen for something. I do mean to find out what."
"I'm sure you will," Lestrade replied with a strange sense of relief. He still had a million questions but he didn't feel comfortable talking of them with Mycroft. He went back to work, tired and stressed.
John called him in the evening from the hospital. "He's doing well. The doctors have cut back on everything but the morphine for the pain. Sherlock must be in heaven," he joked blandly.
Lestrade huffed a depressed laugh. "Yeah, I imagine so. You think he'd be awake long enough for me to stop by tomorrow?"
"Should be. I don't have clinic in the morning, so I'll make sure he knows you're stopping by."
"Thanks, John." He waited a beat. "John, what's going on with this Janine girl? Who is she to Sherlock?"
John heaved an irritable breath. "Oh god, I can't even explain that without being embarrassed to be Sherlock's friend. Apparently he befriended her after the wedding simply for the sole purpose to get close enough to her to use her to get to Magnussen. She works for him, directly with him and he essentially got close enough to her to get access to his office. How do you think we got up there? He fucking bought a ring for Christ's sake. I thought I was gonna be ill. I still can't believe that he'd stoop that low."
Lestrade's ears were ringing. Oh my god. It was actually true. Sherlock really did fake a relationship with another woman just to use her for his own gains. His blood boiled.
"Fucking kidding me."
"I wish I was," John replied somberly. "I should have known as soon as I saw them together. It was so odd and felt so wrong my mind wouldn't even wrap around the idea that Sherlock was in an actual relationship. I should have known it was all a fucking ruse. The day Sherlock Holmes falls in love with someone is the day Hell freezes over."
Lestrade swallowed painfully. "Yea, you're right. The whole notion is preposterous." He closed his eyes as his gut twisted painfully. He hung up after saying bye and sat stoically at his desk, unblinking, unmoving.
He followed John as he spoke animately about Sherlock's recovery. "He's still a bit loopy and rambling non stop, but he's wide awake at least, and talking."
"And the shooter?"
John shook his head. "Says he's drawing a blank. So either the shooter wore a mask, or his memory has a few holes."
Lestrade scoffed. "Yeah right, that'll be the day." They rounded the corner to Sherlock's room and stepped inside-and slammed in their tracks. The bed was empty, as was the rest of the small room. They madly looked around until their eyes snapped to the open window, shades billowing from the breeze.
"Oh, god."
Lestrade paced and ranted. John followed suit, in a more organized manner. They called everyone they could think of that knew Sherlock well enough to assist. They thought of every place Sherlock would go to, realistically. Lestrade had some ideas, as did practically everyone else. In the end, he left John at Baker Street, demanding he call immediately with any word.
He went to Mycroft, who looked a bit green around the edges. But even he was not able to shed a light on Sherlock's whereabouts. He took a cab to a few locations he remembered Sherlock mention at one point or another. Safe places he could calmly escape to, to think or just for a bit of quiet. That proved fruitless too.
He called Sherlock's mobile nonstop. Always got his voicemail. His hands shook and he ran out of cigarettes finally, as the night progressed.
He always knew Sherlock would one day give him a heart attack. He was certain that day had come. He finally went back to his flat and sat in the dark, fists pressed against his chin, fingers thumping against skin repeatedly.
It was absolutely useless. If Sherlock wanted to remain hidden, no one alive would find him. He knew it, and he knew it was pointless to continue in the search, but the thought of Sherlock with a fresh gunshot wound alone out there somewhere was too much to bear.
At midnight, he got the call from Mycroft. Sherlock was back at the hospital, after returning briefly to Baker Street with John and Mary. The circumstance of the visit was unknown, but Sherlock was rushed in an ambulance to the hospital with further blood loss and extreme pain. John was with him at the hospital, waiting for further news. Mycroft's voice sounded clinical and far away as he recounted to Lestrade the latest news.
He thanked him and flung his phone away. He did not go to the hospital. He did not call John. He got up and found some sleeping pills and fell into blissful unawareness.
He sat in a chair to the side of the hospital bed, body hunched over, forearms on knees, fingers intertwined. His head hurt. It hung low, his eyes avoiding the harsh lighting that was currently illuminating Sherlock's pale, sickly features.
He couldn't remember the last time he ate something. Hours, days? He was extremely tired, despite the eight uninterrupted hours he got thanks to the sleeping pills. His body ached from unrest, wound so tight he was surprised he hadn't snapped already. His ears picked up every beep and blip from the numerous machines surrounding the bed, and once again he was transported to another time, and another hospital, and to a much younger Sherlock, lying in a similar state.
He swallowed and his throat hurt. He wondered if he was getting sick. His mind was foggy and his sinuses throbbed. His throat prickled around the saliva. His heart beat steady, for once. He'd been sitting for a while, hadn't budged in hours in fact. Nurses came and went and still he sat, through visiting hours and beyond, as he received irritated looks and he lazily flashed his badge. Afterwards the questioning eyes stopped so he was sure Mycroft might have had something to do with that.
At around ten, as quiet settled around the hospital, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Lestrade knew this because he heard the intake of breath, as sleep dissipated, and consciousness returned, and his head came up to see movement and the slow, slow blink of awareness. His heart rate quickened, but he didn't react.
He'd been practicing at not reacting for hours. He had a lot of time to ponder things. To assess everything. He had already decided to hear Sherlock's story-all of it, no matter how difficult it may be to hear. He had no energy left for anything else, so listening was the only action he was currently capable of.
More blinking followed, and then he saw Sherlock's throat working, a grimace crossing his face. Some movement and a sharp intake of pained breath, and that fully removed him from his lazy slumber as focus returned to his eyes. Of course he noticed Lestrade's presence right away, his head barely turning but his mouth relaxing marginally.
"Hello, Greg," he breathed, and Lestrade's stomach churned.
"Sherlock."
The younger man shut his eyes, his sharp ears picking up the inflection in Lestrade's voice right away.
"Never got to have that talk." he slurred, his gravelly voice parched and bland.
"Nope." His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms painfully. He saw Sherlock sigh, his hand coming up to rest on his lower chest, blindly assessing the damage. Slowly, Sherlock moved his head, turning it to rest on its side, his drugged eyes snapping to Lestrade's.
He took a deep, pain-filled breath, eyes snapping shut briefly. Lestrade stayed silent even as his eyes took in every grimace and twinge. He must be in agony he thought, the drugs gradually wearing off.
Sherlock took a few more steadying breaths, blowing each one out methodically, testing out his limits. His forehead beamed with sweat from the minute exertion and for a moment Lestrade wondered if he should leave to let Sherlock rest properly. Because he knew if he stayed, Sherlock would talk. And he'd know everything. So he stayed, selfishly, and ignored the twinge of guilt, because it was tinier that he imagined it would be. Anger brimmed, betrayal taking place of whatever sympathy he might have had.
"I'm assuming by now you've heard...things."
Lestrade stared at Sherlock without revealing anything. If he opened his mouth now… He nodded instead.
"There's an explanation for everything."
Lestrade slowly leaned back in his chair, his body protesting the sudden change in position. He crossed his arms, silently allowing Sherlock to proceed.
Sherlock began to speak. And speak. By the end of it, Lestrade wasn't even looking at him anymore. He stared off into the darkness, idly watching the glittering lights all across London through the large window. A window that could not be opened from the inside. Mycroft had seen to that.
When Sherlock finished, clearly in discomfort, Lestrade pursed his lips and leaned forward towards the floor. He picked up something he had dropped earlier, his eyes flitting to it every so often. He lifted it up for Sherlock to see and watched the younger man's expression close off, his colour draining.
Turned away from him, The Daily Mirror and its raging headline, Exclusive- Sherlocks Holmes Kiss and Tell! and the sub-headline, 7 Times A Night In Baker Street! He held it up for a good ten seconds-even though he knew Sherlock got it from the first two- before folding it and setting it down in his lap.
Sherlock swallowed, his eyes cool and irritated. "It's a lie, Greg. Ask Janine herself. I never touched her."
At her name, Lestrade snapped. He flew to his feet, throwing the paper towards Sherlock and storming from the room. He got as far as the hall where he backed up into a wall and took some steadying breaths, his eyes misting over angrily. He clenched and unclenched his fists and when he was calm enough, he walked back inside, closing the door behind him. He looked at Sherlock, his eyes open for younger detective to dismantle.
"I swear I didn't do anything with her."
Lestrade closed his eyes. "John told me he saw her coming out of your bedroom, in nothing but knickers and your own dress shirt." It was the most he'd spoken in hours and he was pleased his voice remained steady throughout.
Sherlock sneered, his eyes flashing in annoyance. "Yes, she slept in my bedroom, twice. No, I did not join her as I was on the job and no, I would never have done so even if it benefitted my goal. I merely needed to get to Magnussen and she was the key."
Lestrade gawked, disbelief coursing through his veins. "Do you even hear yourself, Sherlock? You used this girl- you proposed to her! You made her believe that you loved her for a simple job? You expect me to believe that? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, this is a new low, even for you. I...don't even know what to say." He shook his head, arms out in question.
Sherlock reached around and triggered the bed to rise, effectively lifting him to a seated position, more or less. The pain was surely horrid and yet Sherlock took no notice as he gazed at Lestrade with dull, hollow eyes.
"I asked you to trust me, and you said you did." There was a hint of accusation that curled Lestrade's lip grimly.
"You bastard. Do you really think that anything you did excuses you from guilt simply because I foolishly expressed my trust in you? I can't believe how stupid I was. How stupid you thought I was," he spat bitterly.
"No." Sherlock closed his eyes, his hand pressing on his wound as he breathed in and out.
"I'm perfectly aware that there is nothing I can say that can justify what I've done. As I'm sure my noble brother has already spoken of Lady Smallwood and her problem with Magnusen. She came to me the night before John's wedding. I agreed then to take on the job. This was...before you..." he looked away with a crease in his brow. "I didn't know Janine had a connection to Magnussen until she told me where she worked the night of John's wedding. I needed her to get to him."
"Why?" growled Lestrade. "Why him? What is so important about Charles Magnussen that it required this enormous ruse, and a bullet through your chest?" He stepped closer to the bed, saw as Sherlock imperceptibly leaned back further against the pillows. Good, thought Greg. Let him retreat.
"And why-" he sweeped in, snatching Sherlock's arm up-"did that involve polluting yourself? To what end?" he clenched tight to Sherlock's wrist, his voice low and dark. Sherlock calmly blinked at him.
"He had to believe it was true. That I needed this."
Lestrade released his arm in disgust. "Magnussen again? What the hell is going on here?" He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"This is nothing," Sherlock stated offhandedly. "This was the easiest of ruses. But he needed to believe. This isn't like before, Greg. I knew what would be required of me. It's already out of my system and I'm fine."
Lestrade groaned, face buried in his hand. He threw himself back in his chair, body drooping in exhaustion. "I fucking told you I loved you and in the span of a month you eradicated everything. And the worst part is, you knew exactly what you were doing. Fucking hell. Lesson learned." He rubbed at his face, grimacing at the bad taste his words left in his mouth. He stood.
"Greg."
"Who shot you?" He didn't dare let Sherlock finish his line of thought. "And don't give me bullshit, Sherlock, cause I'm not an idiot. Not about this. I know you saw who fired that gun. Why'd you lie to John?"
Sherlock tensed and looked down at his lap. "John knows as much as I do."
"What the hell kind of answer is that, Holmes? John thinks you're protecting someone. Is that true? Someone nearly killed you, Sherlock. In fact, you fucking flatlined on the operating table. You died, Sherlock. And only by some miracle are you sitting here now. So please spare me your evasive bullshit and fucking tell me who fired that gun." He was seething, his heart filled with blackness and despair. The entire situation was so horrifying he couldn't come to terms with it.
Sherlock blinked at him, clearly debating what to tell him. What lie to weave. Lestrade glared at the injured man, daring him to lie.
"I'm sorry, I can't."
Lestrade's jaw dropped. So instead of lying to him, he was merely dismissing him entirely. The frightening part was that it was so unlike Sherlock to refrain from spilling every detail he knew, that he didn't know how to handle this.
"I'm going home." He couldn't take another minute of this conversation.
"Greg-"
"No. I'm going. Home. I'm fucking exhausted. I haven't slept properly since I found out someone tried to kill you, and you, you won't even tell me who that person was. Let's for one moment reverse positions. If you could even find enough emotion in that shell of yours to give two shits about me, and found out somebody had put a bullet through me, what would your course of action be?" And for the briefest of seconds, Sherlock looked profoundly pained, eyes glancing down to his lap, mouth pursed with tension. And Lestrade's breath faltered as his heart gradually unclenched.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock told me you know who the shooter was? Why the fuck is no one talking to me?! This was a crime and if you are withholding information then I don't even know what to say right now…
I'm sorry, Greg. My entire world has been destroyed. Do what you must, but I can't talk about anything right now.
Lestrade stared down at his phone. At the madness he was reading. Sherlock infected John with it and now it was spreading. He thought surely John would give him some answers, seeing as his best friend nearly lost his life. Nothing was making sense and his head was screaming in pain.
He was at work and his productivity level was nonexistent. He couldn't concentrate on anything of importance and he wasn't getting any answers. He was supposed to go check out a body at the morgue and attend a meeting in two hours and do paperwork, but he hadn't left his office since he got there two hours prior.
He sipped on his dull coffee and went through a few emails, but he never responded to John. He didn't even know what to say. Something wasn't adding up, and he needed to act rational about it before flinging John into an interrogation room. He sighed, rubbing at the stubble on his chin, idly wondering what day of the week it was. He decided hiding out in his office would accomplish nothing, so he went out to face the day.
He was two steps inside the hospital before he got a text.
Sherlock was moved. Fourth floor, room 410. MH
He pursed his lips and went towards the lift. Of course Sherlock would have his own large private suite while he recovered. God forbid he be forced to reside with commoners.
He arrived at room 410 just as a harried-looking nurse was storming out, eyes brimming brightly. She didn't even notice him as she nearly slammed into him on her brisk walk out. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Sherlock actually looked momentarily surprised to see him, a sight Lestrade never tired of. He took a quick sweep of the room, noted the spoon covered in...something, on the floor, and the dinner tray rolled away towards the middle of the spacious room. And Sherlock's petulant expression. He sighed and removed his jacket.
"Sherlock. Harassing the nurses are we now?"
The younger man sneered. "You should see the poison they've tried to inject into my system. I'd get better meals at the homeless shelter around the corner."
Lestrade briefly glanced at the food on the cart and while it didn't look like the most appetizing cuisine imaginable, it also didn't look like poison. His lips thinned into a straight line as he crossed the room and deposited a white crinkled bag on Sherlock's bed. His eyes widened marginally as he clearly guessed at the contents.
"Yep, scones. I went across town for you, though god knows why." He sat down next to Sherlock on the bed, not bothering with the nearby chair. The gesture was another shock to Sherlock's system, because he stilled his hands and licked his lips. He looked up, eyes open and calm.
"Thank you."
Lestrade nodded and lifted his chin towards the bag. Sherlock dug in, eyes glowing with delight as the large scone(raspberry) was revealed. Sherlock didn't waste time digging in, devouring the entire scone in under a minute. Lestrade's brow rose. "There's another in there." Sherlock proceeded to finish that one off as well.
"I never understood why you'd go all that way and only buy two." Sherlock licked his fingers, a crease between his brow.
"I got one for myself, which I already ate. Plus, you know they don't keep well after the first day. Never as good."
Sherlock looked at him with a hint of amusement, and something else. Lestrade didn't dare label it as tenderness, but appreciation was probably more on target anyway. He swallowed and looked away, unable to meet the openness in those blue eyes. It hurt.
"Thank you," Sherlock repeated softly.
"I'm still furious," he stated, eyes on the opposite wall. Sherlock didn't move a muscle.
"I know."
He swallowed thickly, his throat protesting the motion. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.
"Sore," came the immediate response and his eyes moved back to Sherlock's with worry. Because an honest answer was always troubling, and Sherlock was the last person to complain about something as trivial as pain.
"I know. I'm sorry. I heard they've reduced the morphine levels. I could speak with Mycroft and-"
"No. I told you, I don't need-"
"I know you don't. But if you are in serious pain, maybe the doctor can amend something, or give you something else. You don't need to prove anything, Sherlock."
Sherlock said nothing for a while, his face closed off and Lestrade hated the silence more than anything. Without thought he reached forward and swiped his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls. Sherlock's eyes darted to his at once, but he didn't return the gaze, just grazed along the warm scalp repeatedly, secretly loving the fluttering of Sherlock's eyes in his periphery.
He had already confessed to Sherlock what he felt, and he suddenly didn't care how he might perceive this action. But Sherlock said nothing, just closed his eyes and relaxed his breathing. After a moment of silence, Lestrade glanced over to find the young detective fast asleep, face smooth in repose. He continued the ministrations for a short while, partly for selfish reasons. He knew if Sherlock weren't confined to a bed he'd never allow this.
His vision grew hazy as he finally relaxed his hand, dropping it to his lap. He carefully stood up, picked up the discarded bakery bag, wiped his eyes, and left.
There were some simple facts of life that were just too difficult to ignore. Sherlock was always going to hurt him, whether or not he means to. Sherlock came back from the dead twice now, and that changed your perspective more than slightly. Things became...more manageable to deal with, because life was precarious and never certain. And the last, most important fact: Lestrade would always love him, despite...everything.
tbc...