Chapter Twenty Eight
Lestrade woke up the next morning dry-mouthed with the hangover from Hell.
"Ohhh." he groaned like a dying man. "Fuuuck me!"
He was just glad the curtains were shut... even though he had forgotten to close them the night before. He had also forgotten to drag himself into his bedroom.
Which begged the question: how did he get tucked into bed?
"Oh my God." he grunted around his swollen tongue. "Too early in the morning."
He staggered to his feet and found a glass of water on his nightstand. He lunged at it like a lifeline and guzzled it down before belatedly noticing the painkillers on the nightstand beside it.
He scooped them up and looked at them for a moment. Then, he popped them in his mouth and swallowed them dry since he had already drained his glass of water.
After a few minutes, feeling a little more human, he padded out of his room, making sure to stay close to the wall just in case he decided to fall over or something ridiculous.
He wandered into the bathroom and relieved himself, washed himself up, and wondered why there were dried drops of blood in his shower. He stared and tried to find his rational sense of caution and fear... he failed.
Hangovers could do things to a man.
He shut his shower curtain and decided to pretend the blood wasn't there. Out of sight, out of mind.
In his kitchenette, he found Sherlock and John conversing quietly over tea.
They looked over and noticed him by the door.
"Morning, Greg, you're looking even worse than last night." John told him cheerfully.
"You-... what..." Lestrade croaked, his mind quite unable to wrap around the fact that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were in his flat and drinking tea while there was blood in his shower. "No-... coffee first, yeah." he decided, aborting his pathetic excuse for a question.
John burst out laughing, and at Lestrade's wince, quietened to a gentle titter. "Thought you might be like this." the doctor said and poured him a mug of coffee, straight up black.
Lestrade gulped it down and the change was instantaneous. "Oh, that's better." he sighed in relief. "Mind, I still feel like puking."
Sherlock scoffed. "Only natural, considering the state we found you in."
"Can I ask why you found me in that state?" Lestrade asked, pouring himself another mug and diluted it with a dash of cream and sugar now that he didn't need the caffeine so desperately. "I didn't think I'd be having guests over."
John shuffled uncomfortably as if someone had suddenly poured a bucketful of fire ants down his trousers and Sherlock looked sheepish.
"Oh God... what did you two do?" Lestrade asked, feeling like he didn't really want to know.
"Oh, you know, just the normal case things." John said.
Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock. "Do you need my first aid kit, police protection, or refuge from the police?" he asked seriously.
"None of the above." Sherlock said.
Lestrade heaved a sigh of relief.
"It was the blood." Sherlock continued and Lestrade threw his free hand up into the air in exasperation. "Since that awful business with the harpoon on the Tube, Mrs. Hudson threatened me with eviction if I tracked blood on her lovely carpets again."
"So you decided to come and track blood on my carpets, that's nice, Sherlock." Lestrade grumbled.
"Of course not." Sherlock scoffed. "John would never let me do that. There's an accessible window directly in your bathroom. Mycroft should tighten your security."
Oh, so that's what the blood in his bathroom had been.
"Okay, okay." Lestrade sighed. "But, whose blood are we talking about? I hope it's not either of yours."
Sherlock coughed. "No..."
"Hm, about that..." John said.
"Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like what you're going to say next?" Lestrade said dryly.
"I have it on good authority that you're going to hate it." Sherlock told him. "We stumbled on a gang war. On accident. It's one of theirs... and I swear to God that neither I nor John have done anything to spill blood. We just stumbled on them."
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!"
"And then John tried to save one of them. His friends turned the corner just in time to make it look like we did him in." Sherlock added on absently.
"We're going to have to lie low for a bit." John grimaced loudly over his flatmate's report.
"We were thinking of going out and visiting Mummy." Sherlock said. "You, being our main contact in the Yard, may also be threatened, so we're kidnapping you."
He made the crime sound like a pleasant walk in the park.
"You're going to kidnap me." Lestrade repeated dubiously and took a nice long sip of coffee, inwardly praying for strength. This was all too much for him and his hangover.
"I have some rope and duct tape." Sherlock blinked innocently. "Or, we can just throw you in the boot of Mycroft's car, if you want to make things really difficult."
"Wait, Mycroft's in on this?" Lestrade exclaimed, incredulous.
"He's the one who wants you to avoid danger the most." John chimed in. "In fact, it was his idea to go visit Mummy Holmes."
"Oh Christ, of course it was...!" Lestrade sighed. "I don't stand a chance, do I?"
Sherlock pranced over and practically linked their arms as he hustled Lestrade out of the flat. "Do you even have to ask?"
It took Lestrade a moment for everything to register as he stumbled down the front steps in his pyjamas and soft slippers.
"... Wait, we're going now?"
Five minutes later, Lestrade sat in the back of Mycroft's car in drawstring sweatpants, T-shirt, and inside slippers. He tried to cross his arms, realized that he still had his coffee mug in his hand, and sulked.
"I can't bloody believe this."
Mycroft looked over at him in his immaculate suit, looking positively scrubbed up to see the Queen. "We can get you a new change of clothes, Gregory." he assured him.
"You kidnapped me." Lestrade pouted accusingly.
"No, Sherlock did. I am simply going to visit Mummy." Mycroft smiled infuriatingly. "It's just good fortune that we seem to be going in the same direction at the same time."
"I hate you." Lestrade said with feeling.
"Maybe we should've lugged you out while you were still suffering from drink-coma." Mycroft mused.
"And then I'd have woken up in a moving vehicle and puked in your lap." Lestrade shot back. "And then I'd die of extreme vomiting. Mind, I think I ate skittles last night so I might still have the opportunity to puke a rainbow on you. Something to look forward to."
"Don't be so dramatic." Mycroft tutted.
"Your face is dramatic." Lestrade grumbled back childishly, lightly kicking his shin with a slippered foot.
Mycroft just smiled at him indulgently and they continued their journey in comfortable silence.
