Chapter Ten- 2003 Cold Turkey Cases Part Two


When Greg woke up on Saturday morning, he found the young man in the kitchen, making coffee and scrambling eggs. "Eggs? I don't remember buying any eggs yesterday."

"You didn't; I went out and got some this morning. You really don't do the shopping very often, do you?"

"No, my wife prefers to do it."

"I can understand that, if your latest grocery run was anything to go by. You forgot to take her list with you. Beer and curry were not on it, but quite a few other things were that you missed. I took it with me, so she won't know." He put a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs in front of Greg. "Bread is in the toaster, and should be ready in a moment." He then turned to the sink and rolled up his sleeves, starting to wash up the pan.

"You didn't need to shop or cook for me; I could have done that."

"It gave me something to do. Actually, it was something of a challenge to get to the shops without getting onto any CCTV cameras. I needed something to keep me occupied. And cooking is no big deal; I'm a chemist, remember."

"Have you already eaten?" Greg mumbled as he took a forkful. The toaster popped up and he took the one slice, buttering it.

"No, I can't eat when I'm coming down."

This made Greg look more closely at Sherlock. "How awful is it?"

"Awful."

"What helps?"

Sherlock put the now clean pan in the dish drainer. "Keeping busy helps. Ideally, something intellectually challenging enough to distract me. I don't suppose you have a juicy triple murder that you would just love to talk about?"

"No; can't say that I do. Actually, the last two weeks have been surprisingly quiet. A bit of gang related stuff, but the Drug Squad is handling it. That's why I thought I could take the weekend off."

"Just my bad luck."

Greg gave him a little rueful smile. "Bad luck for you, maybe, but good luck for potential victims."

Sherlock turned back and looked at him. He didn't smile. He started to roll down his sleeves, and Greg took a look. There were the obvious needle track marks, but then…"Bloody hell- are those nicotine patches?"

Sherlock looked down at his arm. "Yes, obviously. You said I wasn't to smoke in the flat. I had a few cigarettes on the way to the shop, but got these at the chemist."

"Sherlock, there are three patches on your arm. You aren't supposed to do more than one; didn't you read the instructions? Nicotine overdoses are serious!"

He just sighed. "It's a proven fact that people on the spectrum are resistant to nicotine. Harder to get addicted to it, harder to get any effect of slowing dopamine reabsorption; we don't have the same number of nicotine neuroreceptors as you do. So, three patches." He gestured to his coffee mug on the kitchen counter. "and that's my third coffee."

"Christ, I'd be tap-dancing on the ceiling with all that in me," muttered Greg.

"Yeah, well, I told you I'm not normal, so can we talk about something else for a while? Or better yet, not talk at all." With that, he abruptly left the kitchen and went back into the living room, opening the newspaper and burying his head in it.

OK, irritability is one sign of a cocaine crash. Lestrade finished his breakfast and went off to shave and shower. While dressing, he turned on his laptop and had a quick run through some sites on addiction withdrawal. It made for depressing reading. But at least the process for cocaine withdrawal wasn't so physically brutal as from heroin or morphine.

When he got back into the living room, Sherlock was pacing. Twitchy with nerves, he was finding it hard to settle down. Greg tried to read the paper for a few minutes, but the fidgeting made it impossible. He just looked at Sherlock's pacing and asked mildly "I suppose chilling out in front of the TV or reading a book just isn't going to do it for you, is it?"

Sherlock snorted. "This is the worst part- feeling so cooped up. I daren't go out lest my brother spot me on CCTV, and he's got to the point now where he will recognise the withdrawal symptoms. He'll use that as an excuse to try to stick me into rehab. So, I have to 'disappear' for the weekend. I swear it is the worst part of this torture."

Greg got his laptop from the bedroom. "Try to find something distracting on that. Would prefer it not to be porn, just in case the wife gets curious." That invoked a snort, and a quiet "not my scene", but at least Sherlock sat down at the table.

oOo

"What would you normally be doing on a Saturday morning, Sherlock?" The question was mildly put, as Lestrade finished reading the paper and folded it up. The young man had been looking at Greg's laptop for the last hour. He looked up now, with a slightly puzzled look on his face. "What's Saturday got to do with anything?"

Greg looked equally puzzled. "I suppose it's the prejudice of a working man, but most of us normal mortals have something called a weekend, which means that Saturdays are 'me time'. What do you do for, I don't know, recreation?" He sounded hopeful. Perhaps he could find something else to distract the young man.

Sherlock looked back at the laptop. "Beyond the obvious recreational use of drugs, nothing springs to mind as what you would call a 'pastime'. I don't have hobbies." Here he managed to sound both scathing of the question and dismissive of the very idea of something as tedious as a hobby. If I were back at my flat, then I'd be doing experiments and working on various forensic chemistry papers that I have on the go. But, I can't get at the kit from here. By now, Mycroft will have staked out the premises, so going back there is not an option. So, no doubt in a few minutes, I'll just start to wear a hole in your carpet or try to avoid answering your inane questions."

Greg pursed his lips and thought about it. Aggressively rude- so the irritation must have gone up a notch. Oh, joy, just another 36 hours to go before I can escape back to work. "OK, how's this going to play out, Sherlock? Are you just going to get more and more obnoxious as the day progresses? I have no idea what to say or do, what to suggest that you do to cope with…whatever this is doing to you."

Sherlock looked up again, puzzled. "Why would you care? The sensible thing would be go on and do whatever it was you had planned to do today. Just ignore me. It's better all round."

Greg thought about that for a while and was sorely tempted to beat a hasty retreat. But, he had offered to help, whatever that meant, and he wasn't a coward. "I guess you don't have any friends, do you?"

Sherlock didn't even look around. "What do you think, Lestrade?" He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I don't have 'friends' to go 'hang out with', if that's what you're asking. People like me don't have 'friends'. I don't 'play well with others', as the saying goes. Can't be bothered to put up with their idiocy." The sneer was plain to hear.

"Why don't you call me by my first name, Sherlock?"

"It wouldn't be professional- when we are working together on crime scenes you need to keep your authority intact. It wouldn't do to be seen to be treating me any differently that one of your team. But, just don't expect me to call you 'Guv' or any such nonsense. So, Lestrade it is."

Practical and actually sensible under the circumstances. But, Greg still felt a bit like he'd been rebuffed. Doesn't let anyone get anywhere near. Just like Sam.

Greg stood up and stretched. "Well, what I had planned for today was a ride on my motorbike. I'd be happy for you to ride along, if you want some fresh air."

Sherlock looked up in surprise. "You have a motorbike." He blinked. "That's interesting; I would not have thought that of you." He then smirked. "I bet the wife just hates it."

Greg looked a bit chagrined. "Yeah, well I did it a lot before I met her; haven't been able to get the Norton out as much recently as I'd like. Come along- I have an extra crash helmet, bought it in the mistaken belief I could convince Louise to take it up. The helmet means that your brother won't be able to identify you on CCTV. And you can wear one of my jackets which will help disguise you." He grinned when that got a smile from the young man.

"What sort of Norton?"

"Oh, you're a fan?" When Sherlock nodded, Greg went on. "She's a Norton P11A 750cc Ranger."

The young man's eyes widened. "OH, an antique! And rare as hen's teeth. How on earth did you get a desert scrambler made for the American export market?"

Greg tried not to look too smug. "Made in 1968, but when I bought it in 1989, it was lying in pieces in a box at the back of a south London garage, owned by a homicide victim. The widow was happy to sell it to me, and I spent the next decade restoring it."

So, Saturday passed in a blur off the back of a motorcycle. As distraction therapy went, it worked a treat on Sherlock. The novelty certainly helped. And being able to move freely in London without his brother being any the wiser was a great tonic. They went out the A40 towards Oxford. When he wanted speed, they'd do a stint on the M40, but the straight lines of the motorway were not as interesting as the more meandering path of the A road. Sherlock had obviously ridden before, and knew how to move his body weight in synch with Greg's when they cornered a sharp bend.

Greg stopped at the Kings Arms at Wheatley for lunch. He ordered a pint for himself, and asked if Sherlock wanted one. "No. I am not a fan of real ale- or beer for that matter. And alcohol in my current situation is not a good idea."

Greg ordered him a lime and soda. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Sherlock had to think. "Thursday- I had a take away."

Greg just closed his eyes for a moment. More than 48 hours ago; Christ, he's going to keel over. "You will eat something now." He ordered two bowls of a hearty vegetarian stew and bread. "No arguments, Sherlock. I don't care how nauseated you might be feeling, I will not have you pass out on the back of my bike; you'll get yourself- and me- killed."

He managed to keep the meal down, but wasn't able to do the same for the dinner that Greg prepared when they got back. Greg had put the bike back into the lock up garage, and was followed up the stairs by a silent Sherlock. He shrugged off the borrowed leather jacket, and stood looking down at the floor motionless, until Greg pointed him at the shower and told him to warm up. He was still silent over their simple meal of fried fish and chips. An hour later, he was in the loo throwing up. Greg just gave him a sympathetic smile when he emerged pale as a ghost. He'd made the sofa up and put out the pyjamas again, left a glass of water on the coffee table and left him to try to get some sleep. Sherlock hadn't said a word for three hours, and he didn't reply to Greg's "good night."