Lestrade's hands shook slightly as he turned away from the stupid newspaper and dug in his pocket for a cigarette. Oh, yeah! He'd thrown them away. He was "giving them up."
Easier said than done.
THE GAME IS STILL ON!
What yahoo thought that was funny? It was practically begging for his attention. And then there was Anderson, who refused to believe he was even dead, and Donovan who hadn't passed the state of shock.
Lestrade had kept an eye on John, a close one, at that, and it seemed Mycroft Holmes did too.
As if drawn by the mere thought of him, the official himself stepped around to corner, twirling his umbrella in his hand. Lestrade noted, not for the first time, that Mycroft had taken his brother's death shockingly well. He, on the other hand, still couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes, egotistic, needed, and genius, had chosen to end his own life. And just after he'd finally found a good friend.
Poor John. He still remembered him sobbing on his shoulder, Mycroft softening enough to embrace him. He'd always remember the first time he saw the two of them together: the sharp friend, softened by the damaged friend, awestruck. And now he couldn't forget the last time he'd seen them together: both broken; both damaged; both dead in different ways.
Lestrade shook his head. If John could live without Sherlock, he could live without a cigarette.
But two days later was the last straw. A murder a mere block from Baker Street. The victim had been found by his fiancé with three stab wounds in the shape of an "H." When the police had arrived, they'd found the frantic young woman still trying to stanch the flow of her lover's blood with a tattered newspaper. Through the blood on the front page, Greg Lestrade saw it clearly:
THE GAME IS STILL ON!
Sweet, sweet irony.
He bought a pack of cigarettes that very night, promising himself he would only smoke one when he was especially bothered. The first one went in immediately.
The second one was smoked when he witnessed John Watson speaking to his girlfriend. He agreed to meet her at a restaurant that evening, kissed her cheek, and then turned to go. The bothering part had been John's ready-to-cry expression.
Lestrade returned to the crime scene that night, viewing it once more before heading home for the night. The crime had been committed in the bedroom: a jealous ex? A protective brother? A coincidence? Nothing stolen: scared into fleeing immediately? A hint that the murder thought himself too high for the thievery of anything more than a life? A revengeful murder?
Thinking like Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of impossible, Lestrade decided. He turned from the room and descended the stairs, leaving the house promptly and heading for his car, parked in a garage a little ways down the street.
Night was not a time one would want to be alone in London, no matter how much experience one had in causing pain. He walked briskly past the dark alleyways, pretending not to hear the homeless, see the shadows. He entered the parking garage and, unable to stand it any longer, froze to reach into his pocket, rifling around. An almost familiar shadow fell over him, causing him to glance around before returning to his search. He'd imagined it. But he hadn't imagined the metallic noise as he thrust the cigarette between his lips, or the footsteps, or the perfectly serious tone that stated: "Those things will kill you, you know."
An intern in a series of gruesome ax murders, seconds away from being stabbed through the top of his head with a butchers' knife in his second week on the job, attacked by his partner in a drug case who had turned traitor, witness to more than forty deaths, head of the New Scotland Yard Homicide Department for a decade, and now his blood ran cold... because no matter how he examined this situation, it remained that a dead man had just warned him of the dangers of nicotine.
The cigarette nearly fell from his lips as he stated exactly what Sherlock Bloody Holmes was and turned on his heel toward the voice. And Sherlock, in typical Sherlock fashion, stated: "You've been letting things slip, Grey."
"Greg!" He snapped.
"Greg," Sherlock corrected quickly, a fond smile playing slightly around his lips, but he still hung back tentatively as though expecting to be struck. Multiple possible actions rushed through the inspector's mind: slapping him (hard), punching him (harder), or... he sprang forward in a millisecond, his arms going round the younger man he'd never expected to see again.
He hung on for dear life, Sherlock Holmes clutched tightly, stiffly to himself, and then the other loosened slightly and he complied, placing a palm on the back of Lestrade's left shoulder.
"It's rather nice to be greeted with something other than pain," he murmured, and for once, he sounded not-quite-all-together. His voice broke and he shifted his head up slightly, loosening Lestrade's grip.
"You've already been to John," Lestrade realized.
"I have..."
Neither of them spoke for another moment as they stood both in their own thoughts, each grasping a shoulder of the other, and then Lestrade offered, "Come home with me tonight, Sherlock. I want to know where the hell you've been."
Sherlock muttered something that sounded like: "saving your life!" and Lestrade looked at him quickly, choosing to ignore it at the present. Sherlock followed him to his car and took the passenger seat, settling back with a labored sigh. Lestrade turned on the center light and leaned over slightly, turning Sherlock's face toward him. He pushed the scarf down slightly and saw the bruises on his throat, noted the split lips, and documented the possibly broken nose.
"Not bad..." he said quietly. "I take it that John was not happy."
"Three people..."
It was the only response.
"Beg pardon?"
"There were three people..." Sherlock repeated quietly, "And three snipers."
"Who were they?"
"Moriarity's people," Sherlock admitted. "I had to kill them, before they killed..."
"Who were the three people?"
"Just three people who hate me, who had the misfortune of being the only people I care for."
"Names, Sherlock. We can protect them, you know."
"They're not in danger anymore. It's why I left... and now John hates me, and Mrs. Hudson... God only knows..."
He'd known those two were among them.
"Who's the third?" Lestrade pressed, and then recalling, "Your brother? Mycroft?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Then who, Sherlock?"
The detective leaned back again, his breath hitching slightly as he reached to shut off the light.
"I'm tired, Gabriel-"
"Greg!"
"Yeah, Greg. Can we just go?"
Lestrade paused staring toward the passenger seat in the darkness, and then, with a sigh, he started the car and pulled out of the garage. It took only a few streets for him to voice, "It was me, wasn't it?"
No reply.
"Wasn't it, Sherlock?"
"It was."
He'd had a sniper trained on him, fully prepared to pull the trigger... and to stop him, Sherlock Holmes had leaped off a building, dismantling his entire life, ruining the best friendship he'd ever created, and clearly gotten himself quite injured.
"Mind if I take a look at your back when we get back to my place?"
"I refuse to take off my shirt in front of you."
Typical...
"Sherlock, I'm going to insist."
"And I'm going to decline."
"Doesn't work like that, Sherlock."
He didn't reply, sitting silently, idly in his seat for the remainder of the drive. Once the door of his flat was closed and locked - all three of them - and his keys deposited on the end table, Lestrade headed for the kitchen and put a container of leftover soup in the oven to heat. He turned on the teapot and, nearly ten minutes later, returned to the living room with two steaming cups.
"The food will be ready in another ten," he informed him, "Now..." he gestured to Sherlock's attire, "off with it."
"You don't want me to do that."
"Pray tell why."
"Because..." he smirked slightly. "What you'll see is likely to cause you a massive hormonal change. This change will probably make you lightheaded, very, very angry, and it will activate your gag-reflex causing you to-" Lestrade was giving him a warning look, "Spew the contents of your stomach all over your James Barclay rug."
"Nice," Lestrade told him, unimpressed. He pointed to Sherlock's shirt again. "Off. Now."
Sherlock shrugged, winced, and removed his coat, folding it neatly and placing it on the coffee table. He untucked his shirt ceremoniously and carefully undid the top three buttons of his shirt, facing away from his longest friend as he pulled it over his head. Lestrade's breath caught in his throat.
Cuts, bruises, and half-healed scars littered it, the untouched skin pulled taut with ever move the injured one made. He had to be in agony!
"What happened, Sherlock!"
"I was tortured."
"No kidding!"
Lestrade's response was breathless, and he indeed sounded ready to pass out.
"I'd wager to guess that John has..." he stopped for a full breath, "no idea this happened."
Sherlock's expression as he glanced over his shoulder spoke extensively that he was right.
"You should be in a hospital!"
"Mycroft hired a discreet doctor to treat it."
"This sure doesn't look treated!"
"Of course it doesn't!" Sherlock hissed. "He threw a fit and stormed out."
"For absolutely no reason at all, I'm sure."
"Absolutely no reason!" Sherlock pulled a face. "All I did was inform him that his son was the reason his money's been disappearing as of late. He's been swiping it to get himself drugs, which is also the reason his wife died just last month. He was under the misconception that she was only hit by a car. Would you believe that! She was only hit by the car because she'd accidentally overdosed and wasn't in the right mind to cross the street!"
"And Mycroft said... what... to all this..."
"Doesn't know."
Go figure.
"Let me take care of your back, Sherlock."
"No."
Lestrade gently gripped Sherlock's shoulder and turned him to face him, his face gentling.
"Sherlock..."
"No, Greg..."
He'd gotten his name right, but to Lestrade, it didn't matter. Sherlock sounded devastated, his mask down.
"Then get John to take care of it, Sherlock. If he knew, you know he'd help you. He really would, Sherlock. He cares."
"That's the problem..." Sherlock responded. He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, buttoning the undone fasteners and tucking it in. He let his coat be.
He didn't deserve to be cared for, Lestrade realized. Didn't deserve to be forgiven... deserved to be in pain...
It wasn't what he thought personally... it was what Sherlock believed... and that was ten times worse.