Chapter 8
Deep breath in.
Hold it...
Deep breath out.
Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed in his small room, working on the meditation techniques that Julie had him practicing. It was easier to do in the evening than it was when he was expecting to see Lestrade. Julie had explained to him earlier that this was the ideal situation to practice so that when pressed with circumstances that would require it, he would be prepared with the appropriate coping mechanisms.
Julie had her moments. He wasn't sure how she hadn't kicked him out of rehab, given the number of times he'd blown up at her or just sat in her office and refused to talk for the whole hour. Monday was no exception. He had still been buzzing the morning after his visit with Lestrade. Thoughts had circled in his mind that he would potentially be able to talk Lestrade into going back into the Volkov ring. The chance to get out of there and back out into the real world ended up keeping him awake most of the evening. He and Julie had gone round and round about that one. He had to explain that, of course, he'd have to do some drugs to make himself believable. It wasn't as if he was truly addicted. He'd be able to quit whenever he wanted. Julie, for her part, had remained calm and collected. She had simply placed a vial in the middle of her desk, entirely unphased by Sherlock's rage that was simmering just below the surface.
"It's morphine, not cocaine," she had started quietly. "It will just stay right here for the rest of this session while I ask you some questions. It's not like you're addicted though, right?"
Sherlock's body was nearly vibrating him out of the chair by the time their hour came to a close. He still couldn't recall any questions she had asked him while his focus was solely on the vial. She had let him pick up the vial on his way out. He didn't care if that would make him fail whatever test she was putting him through. He just needed to hold it.
"It's just saline, Sherlock."
Unable to say precisely what part of that statement angered him so much, his body had acted on pure instinct- he lobbed the small vial over Julie's head, shattering it into tiny pieces.
He lost phone privileges that night due to his actions.
Sherlock went back to her the next day with a muffin he had nicked from the cafeteria as an apology. They started on a clean page after that.
By the end of the week, Julie had helped him come to the realization that he couldn't go anywhere near Volkov. He would end back up here all over again. The thought that he would be unable to help Lestrade angered him so much, she had suggested learning a few meditation techniques. Sometimes they helped. Sometimes they brought up memories of his parents and Mycroft. He didn't want to dwell on the past, especially when Lestrade and the future were right in front of him. And he was close, so close. The light was at the end of the tunnel; all he just needed to stay the course. He wasn't ready to jeopardize any possible outcome with Lestrade.
Memories of years ago bubbled, unwelcome, to the surface. He had not spoken much as a child and knew that his lack of speaking and vocabulary troubled his parents. They had their whispered sessions, arguing over whether or not he'd just be a normal child. How had it gone so wrong when Mycroft was clearly so perfect. He remembered clearly the day that Mycroft finally gave up his feeble attempts at the violin and promised his parents that he would continue his musical education on the piano. Sherlock had been eager for the instrument. He spent a considerable amount of time watching Mycroft playing, and enduring countless hours of hearing his older brother drone on, and on, and on, about the making of the violin, great composers, compositions. The list was seemingly endless. Once he was able to get his hands on Mycroft's old violin, he had taken to the instrument effortlessly. In only hours he had mastered several scales and was feeling quite proud of himself. A noise from behind him made him turn around, and he was surprised to find his parents watching him from his bedroom door, trying to play the violin that was just too large for his small hands. Mummy had turned to look at Father with a surprised look on her face and said, "Glad to know he isn't a complete idiot."
Four-year-old Sherlock had taken that statement more personally than he probably should have considering the emotional abilities of both of his parents.
Now though, he had a tentative plan with Lestrade. Neither of them was overly expressive when it came to words and feelings, but he knew he could rely on Lestrade. Lestrade genuinely seemed to care about Sherlock, despite any of his previous wrongdoings. If Lestrade told him he had a place to stay, then he knew he could count on that. If Sherlock went down that path back to Volkov, there would be no doubt what the outcome would be. If he went back down his former path, he doubted Lestrade would have the patience to wait for him. Again.
The phone rang through to his room. He looked at the clock and was surprised to see that it was already half-past twelve. Lestrade must be waiting on him.
"Yes?" He answered.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock. Just ringing to let ya know that you have a visitor waiting for you in the main lobby," came the overly cheerful reply.
"Lestrade?"
"No, looks like his name is Jonathan Jackson."
Jonathan Jackson? Hadn't Lestrade mentioned that was the narcotics DI he was working with?
"Sherlock? Do you know him? If you don't, I can ask him to leave."
"I'll be down shortly," he replied quickly and made his way towards the front lobby. Suddenly his mind was filled with thoughts of a particular police Sergeant, injured in a hospital somewhere. Why else would the DI come to see him?
Once he made it to the lobby, he spotted the DI immediately. The cropped dark hair and military stance gave him away immediately.
"Inspector Jackson?" he inquired when he got closer to the man.
"Yes, and you must be Sherlock," the man offered a hand, and Sherlock returned the shake.
"Is Lestrade alright?" He asked, unable to hide the concern in his voice.
"Oh, yes. Got caught up with something in the office. I'm sure he'll be in later this afternoon," came the Inspector's nonchalant reply. "I actually came here to talk to you."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow but gestured for him to follow him to his regular table in the common area. It intrigued Sherlock that the man had obviously come here without Lestrade's knowledge. No doubt, the man would have given him a heads up last night or would be here with him already.
"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Sherlock asked as they sat down.
He took in the older man that had taken over Lestrade's regular chair. Evidently, the Inspector still clung to his former military life, based off of his grooming habits and mannerisms. More than likely, he spent his formative years in the service of the Royal Navy. Jackson had then looked to continue that type of structure in his life after being discharged from his military service. Scotland Yard appeared to have ticked off most of his boxes when looking for a career.
"I hear you are familiar with Alexander Volkov?" Jackson asked, trying to open a dialogue with Sherlock.
"You heard correctly," Sherlock replied without hesitation, bringing both hands up into a praying position below his chin.
Sherlock tried to restrain himself in front of Lestrade's new boss. Lestrade should give him some type of prize for holding back an eye-roll at the asinine line of questioning he was being forced to endure.
"Though I have to assume you wouldn't have gone through the trouble of occupying Lestrade during his normal visitation time, only to pop by to share a cup of tea," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he volleyed his answer back to the Inspector. "Unless you have an ulterior motive to your visit that involves my previous association with a notorious drug lord."
Jackson tilted his head to the right and appeared to be contemplating his next move. He tried to appear relaxed by resting his hands on the table as if they were two old friends catching up.
"Lestrade mentioned you could be arrogant," Jackson commented offhandedly.
Sherlock dropped his hands from his chin, and unsuccessfully hid the smirk that was blooming on his face. He was quite certain Lestrade's phrasing had been slightly more colorful than that.
"The short answer is this. We aren't making any progress," Jackson began explaining to Sherlock. "The only way to get real results is by sending someone inside. We need someone reliable, one of us, to get the kind of hard evidence we'll need." He was confident. Too confident, Sherlock thought.
"Because that worked so well for your last undercover officer?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms and leaning his chair back so that only the back two legs remained on the floor.
Jackson's whole posture immediately tensed, with clenched fists, and rigid shoulders. Interesting. His olive skin even took on a red flush to it. Very interesting. Sherlock would have thought a display of such emotions should have been above such a senior officer.
"Yes, well, you're no officer." The man's carotid artery let out a couple of more visible pulses before Jackson seemed to get control of his emotions again. "You already have a relationship with Volkov, and you already know the ins and outs of the organization. You are the perfect candidate."
"You seem to have forgotten that I've been out of said organization for almost two months. That will no doubt have gotten Volkov's attention. You can be assured that for me to reappear out of the blue will raise some red flags."
"We will come up with a viable story," Jackson answered with a wave of his hand like he was swatting away a fly.
Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at the Inspector's relaxed attitude, "Volkov is no idiot. He hasn't gotten to where he is by accepting things at face value."
Jackson crossed his arms back on top of the table to lean in across the table towards Sherlock and gave him a snarl.
"I'm not someone that takes no for an answer easily."
Sherlock firmly planted his chair back on all four feet. Something was behind the impatient, hungry desire to get someone back in Volkov's circle.
"What is so important about this case that you would risk the life of a minor?" Sherlock began to pull at the nagging thread that was in front of him. "Cases like these can last months. Infiltrating the organization, building cases to make sure every T is crossed and every I is dotted. You, however, are stressing after a mere week."
"I don't expect a drug addict to understand." Jackson's posture remained much the same, but his voice had taken on a slightly menacing tone.
Sherlock narrowed his gaze on the older man. What was supposedly the biggest motivator in the world?
"You're probably right. I fear you are letting your emotions get the better of you, Inspector." If he was right, this would just make Jackson all the more boring.
"Emotions have nothing to do with this," Jackson started. He obviously wasn't expecting Sherlock to put up this much of an argument with him. "One of the largest drug rings London has ever seen is within our reach. That is the mission. The quicker we take him out, the better." He finished with a slam of his hand on the table between them.
The two garnered a few odd glances from others attending the weekly family day. Outbursts weren't uncommon on this day, so Sherlock doubted that they would be interrupted.
"Drugs have nothing to do with this, Inspector. This is entirely about revenge." Sherlock tried to keep his tone even, and his body posture still and collected while taking on the older man.
Jackson raised an eyebrow at the accusation, "Lestrade said you were smart. Explain it to me then."
"Simple," Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "Revenge for your fallen comrade."
Jackson let out a short chuckle, "Obviously, the Yard has somewhat of a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to the murder of a fellow officer." So far, he appeared to be less than impressed with Sherlock's deductive skills.
"I do not doubt that Scotland Yard is protective over their own. You lot are supposed to have some type of brotherhood or something," Sherlock waved his hand and scrunched his nose up before leveling his expression back out to look Jackson square in the eyes. "Him being your secret lover, I'm sure has affected your judgment as well."
Jackson's expression turned deadly, "Just what do you think you are talking about?" His face was getting redder as the seconds ticked past.
"The undercover officer. The one that has set off this needless charge into things you are not prepared for," Sherlock began to fill in the blanks. "You were having an affair with him - quite a long one at that. Shame, you can't broadcast your feelings. Probably be a little weird to the wife and kids." Sherlock finished staring slightly off of center and stroking his chin.
"You don't know what you're talking about, boy." Jackson fumed.
Sherlock smirked at the now fuming detective, "It's really very obvious. How your wife hasn't discovered it after all these years, I don't know. Did you start the affair while you were still in the military?" Sherlock was taunting Jackson at this point.
Jackson had become so tense, and his hands scrunched into such tight fists, that Sherlock anticipated him to explode at any point.
"You are no one," Jackson whispered angrily. "No one will miss you if you don't come home. You don't have the upper hand here. I do." He finished with a point to his chest.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the threat, "Clearly, I do. As you're the one that needs me to infiltrate Volkov's ring."
Jackson gave him a smirk.
"You're right. I mean, you are the most logical choice. But you're not the only choice. Why I'm sure if given the option, Lestrade would be happy to take your place." Jackson paused for a moment to tilt his head. "In fact, I would put money on it. He's been fighting so hard to keep you out of everything. He would jump at the opportunity."
Sherlock felt his heart stutter momentarily.
Deep breath in.
Hold it...
Deep breath out.
Not Lestrade.
"Now that I think about it, you could just fill Lestrade in on the details. I'm sure he'd be fine," Jackson paused to level a look at Sherlock. "It'd be a shame if Volkov got a tip that he was a cop though," Sherlock felt as if all the blood had left his body, and Jackson knew instantly that he had won.
Not Lestrade.
"I'll do it," Sherlock replied quickly. He was not willing to risk the only person to give him a chance; the only person who believed in him.
Jackson's smile slipped into one bordering on cynical, "Good answer."
"Under some provisions," Sherlock steepled his fingers back under his chin. This would need to be played just right. Lestrade needed to stay out of this.
Jackson raised a questioning eyebrow, "Like?"
Not Lestrade.
If Sherlock could find a way to wipe the pretentious smirk off of Jackson's face, he would.
"I get a week out of rehab before I go back in," Sherlock started, "and Lestrade has no say in the final plans. Those will be between you and me. And you will take my suggestions into account. I am the one with experience, after all. Finally, once this is over, Lestrade goes back to homicide."
"I had no intention of keeping him," Jackson replied. "However, I'd like you back in the field sooner if possible."
"It's going to take at least a week to get your little mission underway," Sherlock shot back.
Jackson just shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock decided that it was likely that he had everything in place ready to go. He just required the proper bait.
"So, do we have an agreement?" Jackson asked and stretched his hand across the table towards Sherlock.
Lestrade was going to murder him. Sherlock needed to do this to repay the man, to protect him, to show that Sherlock held some value. Sherlock met his hand halfway in a firm shake.
"Yes." Sherlock grimaced at the firm grip that was Jackson's response.
"Perfect. Glad we see eye to eye on things," Jackson replied smugly. "I'll have you out of here by tomorrow evening, just need a day to get the papers in order. I'll even let Lestrade come pick you up himself." Jackson acted like that was such a big win for Sherlock. He doubted Lestrade would have anyone else do it. "Let you two have some time to bond until it's time to send you back in. I'll want you working your way back to Volkov by next weekend at the latest."
A familiar shock head of greying hair grabbed Sherlock's attention. He tried to prepare himself for what was to come.
Sherlock nodded to Jackson, but his eyes were on the police Sergeant that was angrily marching towards the table. Sherlock squared his shoulders, prepared for battle.
"Hi, lads. Have a nice chat?" At last, it seemed that Lestrade had finished with whatever mundane assignment Jackson had sent him on, and finally appeared at the table. He was apparently only now finding out that whatever Jackson had him do today was meaningless.
In Lestrade's fury, it appeared that he missed the subtle wink that Jackson had sent him. Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade. How was he going to explain this to the man that he owed everything to?
Lestrade seemed too angry at the moment to care, and shot him a look that highly suggested that Sherlock keep his smart mouth shut.
"Ah, Lestrade, good timing," Jackson greeted, and with a final, smooth look at Sherlock, he got up from his chair to greet Lestrade. "I was just leaving. Sherlock, it was nice to meet you. It seems Lestrade wasn't exaggerating about your intelligence. I'll be in touch."
Sherlock nodded at Jackson and tried not to flinch at the angry look he was receiving from Lestrade.
"I'll walk you out," Lestrade told Jackson before glowering at Sherlock. A look that said to stay put, and I'll deal with you next.
Lestrade would be back for him. That Sherlock was sure of. What he was unsure of was how he would explain himself at that point.
Sherlock had been too frozen in fear to realize that the two older men were out of his earshot, and had left his visual range as well.
Deep breath in.
Hold it...
Deep breath out.
He closed his eyes and clenched and relaxed his fists multiple times, trying to find his center using the meditation techniques that Julie had taught him over the last week. Nothing seemed to be working at the moment, and Sherlock slammed his fists on the table in defeat. He wouldn't be able to find any calmness until he found Lestrade. Surely the two men were done arguing about him by now.
He got up from his spot at the table and wiped his now sweaty palms off on the side of his shirt and went in search of Lestrade. He felt like a zombie as he trudged his way to the lobby. Maybe the zombie term was an incorrect comparison. Small. He felt small, walking up towards the lobby.
Lestrade was on his phone and frantically pacing the small lobby. The typical Sunday receptionist gave him a questioning look when he made his way closer to Lestrade. He just frowned in response. There was nothing that would calm the man down at this point.
"Yeah, I just can't believe Jackson would do something like this. Not only is it unprofessional, but it has to break at least a hundred rules of some kind," Lestrade protested into his phone as his frantic pacing continued.
Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the elbow, seemingly breaking the man out of his angry trance.
Once Lestrade realized it was Sherlock at his side, he let out a sigh and grabbed onto Sherlock's shoulder.
"Thanks. I really appreciate it. I need to talk to Sherlock, but call me as soon as you know anything," Lestrade told the unknown person on the other end of the phone call. He closed his eyes and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder a little harder. "Yeah, I'll stay in touch, too. Bye."
"Lestrade," Sherlock tried to start and was cut off by the other man.
"Don't," Lestrade stopped him, still unable to open his eyes.
The two stood there in silence by the front doors for several minutes. Sherlock looked back to the blonde receptionist. She gave him a sympathetic look, followed by her mouthing, "Do you need anything?"
Sherlock shook his head in response and then brought his attention back to Lestrade.
"Lestrade," Sherlock began again, and this time it didn't appear that he would be interrupted. "I know this wasn't your plan,"
Lestrade's eyes opened in a blaze of anger.
"Wasn't my plan?" Came the whispered question. Sherlock would later look back that this was merely the calm before the storm. "You're damn right this wasn't my plan!" Lestrade yelled loudly, drawing stares from anyone in a kilometer vicinity if Sherlock had to take a guess.
Sherlock grabbed Lestrade and pushed him towards the hall that led towards the living quarters of the rehab facility. He did not want to have this conversation in such a public place. Lestrade seemed to take the hint and marched in the direction towards Sherlock's room. Lestrade's shoulders seemed to be wound tightly, to the point of being painful. That feeling of smallness came back as they made their way down the hall.
Lestrade let himself into Sherlock's room and once again continued his frantic pacing. Sherlock gently closed the door to the outside, leaving the two of them alone. Sherlock brought an uncertain hand up to his mouth unsure how to proceed with Lestrade. He had to tamp down his old childish habit of chewing on his nails that he used to do when he was agitated or anxious. Deep down, Sherlock knew the only thing that would bring the man back to a reasonable level of sanity would be for Sherlock to tell him it was all a joke, and he wasn't going anywhere.
"What'd you do?" Lestrade spat out, "call him up and say 'Hey, you know what would really make Greg angry?'" Lestrade's hands were waving like a mad man, and his frantic pacing continued in the small room.
Sherlock stayed by the door, "That's not how it went," he tried to explain to the very angry Lestrade.
"Oh?" Lestrade stopped at the opposite end of the room from Sherlock to glare at him. "Then please, explain it to me. Explain to me why you agreed to Jackson's insane plan!" Lestrade shouted.
Lestrade was still in his typical work clothes, a white button-down with a pair of grey slacks. The shirt had been wrinkled from his assignment today. It only added to his broken, angry look, that was rapidly turning into a look of defeat.
"Not two or three days ago, you were agreeing that going back to Volkov wouldn't be the best decision," Lestrade's look was pleading with him to make sense of it all.
"Jackson came to me. We both know he put you on some feeble excuse for a task to keep you occupied so he could come to me without you hovering," Sherlock started to explain to Lestrade, who just placed his hands on his hips and nodded at him to continue. "He has a plan. I know it's not what you wanted, but if you want this case to close in a timely fashion, you need me," Sherlock tried to convince him.
Lestrade shook his head, disagreeing with what he heard, "Sherlock, this is insane! Can't you see that?! What adult in their right mind would willingly place a kid into harm's way?" He finished exasperated with Sherlock.
Sherlock walked closer to Lestrade, "I know what I'm doing," he tried to argue.
Lestrade's hands flew off his hips and into the air in between them, "Sherlock, you could DIE!"
As the two of them squared off, the small room became still and quiet much like the eye of a hurricane, and Sherlock could feel the hair on his arms stand up as if he was standing close to an electrical current. Yes, he could die. But Sherlock had accepted that fact when he first woke up in a drug den all alone, in his new city of London that he hadn't learned yet. Death was just a part of life⦠but he owed it to the man before him that gave him a second chance at life.
Not Lestrade.
"Look," Lestrade started once he had taken a few calming breaths. "I know you think you are doing the right thing. I'm sure that Jackson spun his plan to sound like you were doing something noble or some rot like that. But this is not okay. I don't care what you may think. It's not okay. And I'm going to stop it," he finished with a more determined ring to it.
"How do you plan on managing that?" Sherlock asked, scrunching up his nose, trying to figure out where Lestrade was going with this. "Jackson already has it worked out. He just needs to push the papers through tomorrow."
"That phone call earlier," Lestrade started, his expression beginning to change from one of dread to one of excitement. "I was on the phone with my old DI, Littleton. She knows people in child welfare. She's fostered kids for years."
"What good is that going to do?" Sherlock prodded, beginning to feel uneasy as he was unsure as to where Lestrade was taking this.
"Jackson said that one of the biggest reasons he was able to get to you is because you have no guardian. So I'm going to fix that," Lestrade looked as if he was the cat that ate the canary, but Sherlock frowned at the Sergeant's train of thought.
"You already know that I don't want to get my parents involved," Sherlock replied flatly.
Lestrade shook his head, "Right, no, I would be your guardian."
Sherlock felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He continued to stare at Lestrade as if the man had grown a second head. When he still felt like he couldn't catch his breath, he moved to sit down on the edge of the bed.
"What?" Lestrade asked, confused at Sherlock's response to his bombshell statement.
Sherlock placed his hands on his knees and continued to stare at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning.
"Listen to what you are saying, Lestrade," Sherlock whispered. He was unable to look at the man standing before him.
"I am listening, Sherlock. What Jackson is trying to make you do isn't right -"
"No," Sherlock cut in.
Lestrade shook his head, confused by Sherlock's discord, "No? Sherlock, you don't get a say in this. You are a minor - "
Now it was Sherlock's turn to get angry. He shot up from his position at the end of the bed and squared off again with Lestrade.
"So, you just get to swoop in and save the day?" Sherlock started in on the older man, feeling his anger simmering just under the surface. "Oh, poor Sherlock, he's just a kid. He doesn't know any better." Sherlock ran an agitated hand through his hair. He could feel his control slipping.
"Sherlock, you know that's not what I mean." Lestrade looked dumbfounded that Sherlock was taking this poorly. He tried to take a step forward, but Sherlock stopped him with a raise of his hand.
"I have been in the trenches. I have put myself in these situations in the past. You are treating me as if I were some kind of stray dog that you can just take ownership of, and it will magically make everything better. That by doing this, you will just make me into your perfect puppet!" Sherlock ground out.
"That's not true." Lestrade shook his head frantically.
"It is! It is. Jackson has done so, and now you're trying your hand, and I'm done." Sherlock spat out.
"Sherlock-" Lestrade tried to start but was quickly stopped by Sherlock.
"No!" Sherlock yelled back.
"I - Sherlock, I'm just trying to help." Lestrade pleaded with him.
"Believe me, Lestrade, nothing made me. I made me. I get control over my life."
"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I guess I just don't understand. I thought this would be something that you would want."
"You didn't ask," Sherlock had to take in a deep breath to get control of his emotions. Tears threatened to spill over, and Sherlock would not give Lestrade the upper hand. "I haven't ever had anyone willing to be there in that type of way, even when I had my parents. And if you would have asked me, I would have thought about it, but I would have wanted you to want to. If you had asked, I would have told you that I didn't want you to be forced, pressured, or felt like I was some kind of obligation for you to fulfill," Sherlock replied quietly.
The two stared at each other with various levels of anger and sadness, all combined into one. Lestrade kept opening his mouth, but Sherlock didn't need to hear whatever he had to say.
"Sherlock," Lestrade finally got out, only to be cut off by Sherlock again.
"Get out," Sherlock growled.
"Kid," Lestrade's eyes pleaded, but Sherlock shook his head.
Sherlock held firm in his decision. He felt his heart clench as Lestrade appeared to be having some kind of internal debate, probably trying to come up with an argument to get Sherlock to stay. He let out a sigh, realizing that he had lost this argument. He gave a final firm slap to Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock followed him to the door, and once the Sergeant had crossed the threshold, he slammed the door behind him. He turned and rested his back against the door and slammed the back of his head against it. This time he let the tears flow freely.
Deep breath in.
Hold it...
Deep breath out.
