Chapter Eighteen- Interregnum 2004 Part Two
"Took you long enough." There was a hint of reproach in that tone that made Greg smile.
"Yeah, well, your brother can be a scary son of a bitch. I had to have a reason to speak to him- and the Met's press release was the excuse I needed." He tossed the newspaper to Sherlock, who caught it.
"Page four."
He watched as Sherlock sat down and opened the paper with avid interest. He scanned the article in seconds, and then sniffed. "Not enough detail. The press are useless- just go for the sensational stuff." He rolled his eyes in disgust. "Lestrade, I want chapter and verse on every one of those cases, included McArthur's."
Greg saw past the bravado and recognised how thin the young man was. Those cheekbones were even more pronounced now than the last time he saw him. There was both fragility and fervent intensity to his gaze. Then he remembered that Doctor Cohen had said Sherlock had not made eye contact since he'd arrived at the clinic. Well, Sherlock was looking straight at him now, with expectation.
So, Greg started to tell him exactly what had happened on each of the cases. The young man occasionally interrupted to ask a question or probe more deeply some aspect. The fourth case, involving the death of an old lawyer which had been originally thought to be a hate crime, had proved particularly challenging. Sherlock was dismissive of the murder team's re-investigation.
"For God's sake, Lestrade, you really need to find a better team. I gave you the biggest lead ever- look for a serrated knife in the younger son's attic. What more did you need?"
Greg just smiled gently. "We aren't all gifted with your deductive capacities, Sherlock. Be a little more tolerant of normal mortals." He decided to take the chance to steer the conversation in the direction it needed to go. "Of course, if you hadn't done something stupid, you'd have been there alongside us to tell us where we were going wrong."
That wiped the smirk off of Sherlock's face. "Well, that was then; this is now, do carry on with the other cases."
Lestrade wouldn't be deflected. "Nope. Not until you tell me what was going on. Last time I saw you, it was on a Walworth rooftop after you solved the McArthur case. Trouble was, you'd done something so stupid that you didn't even have time to solve the case properly."
That earned him a glare. "What do you mean? What did I get wrong?"
"McArthur was involved in the VAT scam; you were right about that. But you were in such a rush that you didn't chase down the other partner- the site manager was in it up to his eyes, too. That took us quite a while to figure out, because we didn't have your genius on the team. So, next time you contemplate that little exit plan, do me a favour and give me a call first? Could have saved us all a lot of time and hassle. And, who knows? If you'd done the smart thing, you might have avoided this place, too."
Sherlock had the grace to look a little sheepish at first, then rather pensive. He sighed. "You forget; I had a fraternal veto to deal with".
"Stuff Mycroft." That made Sherlock look up and smirk. Greg carried on. "Don't use your brother as an excuse. The only person putting you in here is you. Same goes for keeping you in here. If you want out, you know the drill. It's not like you aren't smart enough to figure it out." He was playing this as coolly as he could. He just hoped it was the right tone to take.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit, as if he was considering whether Greg was having him on. "Carry on, Lestrade- there are five more cases to tell me about."
Greg just leant back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Why does it matter so much to know what happened?"
"Because my brain is rotting in here, and you are giving me the first chance in nine weeks to actually use it."
"What would it mean if I could get you more?"
Sherlock looked a little suspicious. "More…what? Cases? You can't be serious- Mycroft would refuse permission." He gestured at the office. "This may look all nice and cosy, but I can assure you that my hospital room has electronic locks on it and they won't even let me have access to the internet here. And, of course, there is a daily diet of useless drugs that do nothing but slow me up and make it impossible to concentrate on anything meaningful."
Greg considered this last point. "Doesn't seem to be bothering you at the moment."
This drew another smirk in reply. "That's because last night I convinced them to stop the IV, and then fooled them this morning into thinking I had taken the tablets. I don't need the drugs when I've got brain work."
"What, not even the cocaine?"
"No, I'm not an addict. I can stop anytime."
"Then why haven't you?"
"Because I haven't had a reason worth stopping for."
"Is that why you talked yourself into the overdose?"
"I decided I no longer wanted to be me, isn't that sufficient cause?"
"No, you have to explain it. I'm not a mind reader, because this isn't the first time, so I've been told. If I am going to involve you in my cases, I need to know the worst, Sherlock. It's only fair. You're able to deduce everything about me, so give up something about you, if you expect me to trust you."
That got him another glare. "Being handed the solutions to your cases on a silver platter isn't good enough?"
Greg just glared back. "No, actually, it isn't. It's highly unusual to bring a civilian into case work, so I need to know I can trust you, otherwise the deal is off."
"What deal?"
"Just answer the bloody question, Sherlock and I might bother to tell you."
Sherlock looked away, and gave a little sigh. "You have no idea, Lestrade, what it's like to be me. I can tell you how many cracks there are in the ceiling of my room here, catagorised by length and estimated date of origin. I can tell you who is walking down the corridor to visit another patient, and whether they are carrying anything- it affects their pace, which changes the sound. I'm so bored I play games trying to guess what they are carrying- is it a plant, newspapers or magazines? or something heavier? The third ceiling light from the nurses' station will need replacing in about three days; its buzz is noticeably different from the other florescent tubes along the corridor. The patient four doors down on the right suffers from night terrors, which annoys the night team, who've been known to drug him to shut him up. I can tell you that the nurse who changes the IV every morning is frustrated that her husband is cheating on her, but she doesn't realise that it is because his mistress is pregnant with a child, the child she can't have.
"Shall I go on? I can tell you that your wife is still irritating you about your smoking; she's probably now complaining that your clothes smell of cigarette smoke, and she's moved her entire wardrobe to another closet, hasn't she? And she's stopped ironing your shirts, too, so she's been promoted and making enough money in PR to send your shirts out to be laundered and pressed."
Greg just huffed and said "get to the point, Sherlock."
"But that is the point! I can't turn this off- there is never any relief. The data just pours in, and it's totally useless. It makes me anxious and I can't think straight, because there is nothing to be done with it all. There is just no point to it. I told you before, cases are different, they allow me to focus, to actually use my brain, instead of hating what all this data is doing to me. So, when you hand me twelve cold cases, I finally see some light at the end of the tunnel, but, hold on, because here comes Mycroft to lock me up and say I will never, ever get a chance to really use my brain for the only thing that it is good at doing. No wonder I get depressed- there's no reason to want to carry on."
"Would working on cases be a reason?"
"Yes, of course."
Greg leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Then prove it, Sherlock."
Sherlock broke eye contact and sighed. He raised both hands in surrender and said quietly, "We both know it isn't going to happen. Mycroft won't let me. He will keep me in here until my brain actually does rot away. You have no idea what the last nine weeks has been like."
"Sherlock, as you like to say, that was then, this is now. If I were able to convince Mycroft to let you have some cold cases in here, and you really applied yourself to ...whatever the hell it is that they want you to do in here in terms of therapy, would you stick to it? Would you?"
Sherlock looked puzzled. "You're trying to… negotiate with me?"
"Yeah, I figure this is a little like a hostage situation. I'm going have to negotiate the terms of your release with your brother. It won't be easy. But first I have to know whether you can actually deliver your side of the bargain."
"Why would you do that? Why would it matter to you?"
"Because all this…you like this…it's such a bloody waste. It pisses me off that you would be so stupid as to destroy any chance of doing what you are obviously good at doing. And, I was angry about what I found on the rooftop of Peabody Buildings. I'm still angry with you. Don't ever do that again. Not while you're working with me. Not on my watch, Sherlock. I mean it. You do what you have to in order to get out; you'll start clean, you'll stay clean and then I will involve you in cases that are worth that brain of yours. But, break the rules, and it's game over."
Sherlock sat, his face impassive for a moment, then he frowned. "You won't be able to convince Mycroft." He shook his head, resigned.
"You just leave that to me. Provided you are willing to actually deliver, then I'll do my part." He waited as Sherlock thought it over. Greg carried on, he wanted no misunderstanding. "You have to want this, really want it- more than anything else, Sherlock. If you don't, then let's just call it quits, and I'll leave you to the kind ministrations of the staff in this place."
Sherlock glared at the DI, who carried on, "don't think of this as a 'get out of jail free' card; it's going to cost you. You'll have to clean up your act, rent a flat, eat and sleep properly, behave yourself so you don't get evicted again. No joke. But, if you want the case work enough, I think you'll do it."
The young man leant forward, looked Greg straight in the eye, and said quietly. "Yes, I will."
Greg smiled.
Sherlock then asked, "do you really think you can convince him?" He didn't sound optimistic.
"I'll give it my best shot."
Then Sherlock sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, fixing Lestrade with a hint of a smile. "Can I be a fly on the wall when you meet with Mycroft?"
"No- piss off. That's between me and him."
