Lestrade is tense. Most people on the team struggle with hostage negotiations at the best of times and those people didn't have Sherlock bloody Holmes breathing down their neck and criticizing their every move. Sherlock has a reputation for being somewhat of a loose cannon and a complete idiot in dangerous circumstances. He doesn't seem to fear his own death and messes up lots of cases because of it.
Sherlock storms over to Lestrade, his face the picture of fury. "Why isn't anyone doing anything? People could die!"
Lestrade answers as truthfully as he can. "The hostage-taker is armed. We think it's just a knife but it could be something more. It's just not worth the risk,"
"How many hostages?" demands Sherlock practically spitting.
"Four that we know of," replied Lestrade, trying to stay calm.
"Give me a set of handcuffs. I'm going in," he states in a very matter of fact way. Lestrade fumbles through his bag for his handcuffs, irritating Sherlock, who snatches it away, pulling out the handcuffs instantly. He grins a shit-eating grin and speaks.
"Don't bother wishing me luck. I won't need it," he sneers and thunders away, leaving a trail of destruction behind him like a hurricane. Sherlock was like a hurricane in a lot of ways. He whirls his way onto the crime scene, wreaks havoc, and disappears as quickly as he came. Sherlock Holmes is a freak of nature.
That is the last Lestrade sees of Sherlock for a while. Ten minutes later, hostages start filtering out the door. Paramedics rush to check them over for injuries. It's a whirlwind of people and noise and bright lights. No-one seems to have noticed that Sherlock hasn't left the building yet. Seconds later, a figure stumbles out the door, before falling to their knees and collapsing onto the ground. Lestrade would recognize that mane of dark hair anywhere. It was Sherlock. Lestrade hurries toward him.
"Sherlock! Are you okay?" He shouts coming to a stop in front of the man.
Sherlock stares up at him violently through angry tears. His face is slashed open. Blood is smeared across his cheeks and, most horrifying of all, his eyes are clouding over. Lestrade has no idea what is happening.
"Do you think I'm fucking okay!" Sherlock hisses, before moaning in agony, his head in his hands. "Lestrade, call a god damn medic or something!" Lestrade calls for help and a medic, a young woman runs over. She freezes when she sees Sherlock's eyes. "What happened, mate? I need to know so I can treat you," she asks, her voice low and gentle. Lestrade recognizes her tone. He's used it enough times himself to calm down frantic victims. He grabs Sherlocks hand to ground him, to keep him from becoming hysterical.
"He threw something at my face," Sherlock gasps through the unbearable pain. "It was a corrosive compound and-"
Sherlock screams a blood-curdling shriek, clutching Lestrade's hand tightly. "I can't see, Greg. Help me. I can't… see,"
The world stands still. The eye of the hurricane is back and it's silent and echoey and the most terrifying thing Lestrade has ever seen.