Chapter 14
Even, regular beats from the monitoring devices in Sherlock's room punctuated the silence between the doctor's report on Sherlock's injuries. It had been a long several hours since rescuing Sherlock, and the kid had yet to regain consciousness. If it wasn't for the monitoring devices telling him otherwise, Greg would be convinced that the kid was dead. It was unnerving. It also caused Greg to be unfocused in the early (or was it late) hours of the night, as his attention was now torn between listening to the doctor and being unable to take his eyes off of an unconscious Sherlock laying in the hospital bed in front of him.
"So, the head thankfully only appears bad," the doctor started in, bringing Greg's attention back to her when she showed him a couple of scans. "Other than a pretty impressive concussion, it looks like he's lucked out and avoided a subdural hematoma that would require surgery. We will continue to monitor that over the next couple of days for any changes," the young doctor told him with a comforting smile. "Hopefully, he'll get used to the new haircut," she apologized.
Greg just nodded his head and brushed her off. Sherlock would deal with the short buzzed hair, and Greg could too as long as the kid was alive. He gently carded his fingers through what was left of Sherlock's hair, careful to avoid the shaved patch where the wound on the right side of his skull had been cleaned. He was just happy that Sherlock was out of there. These last few weeks had been hell, and Greg was just happy that Sherlock was back with him, safe.
"As for the arm," she continued with a frown, switching to a different film. "His radius, ulnar, and carpal bones are fractured in multiple locations. The radius has two concerning fractures at the distal end and in his wrist. I've sent this off for a surgical consult with our ortho department and will let you know what they say as soon as I hear something. I suspect he'll require some pins and physical therapy so we don't lose any movement in that wrist."
Greg just continued to nod along to what the doctor was saying, his eyes still resting on Sherlock.
"But other than that, the rest of his labs look good," she told him, flipping through the papers on Sherlock's chart. "His tox screen was negative. It just appears that he's just a touch dehydrated and malnourished, neither of which we can't address with some IV fluids, vitamins, and a decent diet."
"Wait," Greg interrupted her, surprised. "Did you say that the tox screen was negative?" for the first time his attention was directed completely towards her.
"Across the board," she confirmed with a smile. "Now we have the good stuff keeping him asleep and comfortable, so that wouldn't be the case," she told him with a shrug.
Greg couldn't help but let a smile break out, beaming at Sherlock.
"I'll come back to check on you once I hear word about getting Sherlock set up for surgery to fix that arm. We should be able to admit him after that. In the meantime, get some rest, Mr. Lestrade. Your son is going to be just fine," she finished with a smile and a pat to the top of his shoulder.
"Yeah. Thanks, Doctor," he called out as she left their small trauma bay.
He breathed a sigh of relief. The Sergeant looked over Sherlock and couldn't help but notice how much younger he looked while lying in the hospital bed in a gown that was too big for him, hooked up to a couple of IVs. They'd gotten extremely lucky. Greg had thought for sure the kid would be in worse shape than that.
"How is he?"
Greg spun to see who was intruding on his time with Sherlock and glowered at Jackson's nervous stance at the entrance to the trauma bay.
"Get out!" Greg seethed, pointing back to the exit of the curtained-off trauma area.
Jackson at least had the decency to look ashamed.
"Don't," Greg interrupted the narcotics Inspector when he opened his mouth. "Just don't," he finished with a firm shake of his head. The quiet calm in his voice did nothing to tamp the fire in his eyes.
"Sergeant Lestrade, if you'd just let me-"
Greg stood up, cutting off the Inspector, and crossed his arms, blocking Jackson's view of Sherlock.
"No," Greg shook his head, taking a moment to stare down at his shoes before raising it again to lock eyes with the Inspector still hoovering in the door. "I don't have to let you do anything!" he whispered angrily through his teeth. "You had your chance. I told you this was a terrible idea, but you didn't listen to me. I told you to stop this, and yet again, you didn't listen to me. But interestingly enough, when you're told that if one hair on that," he paused to point at Sherlock, "kid's head gets harmed, you would be buried so deep you'd never be remembered, you magically appear, suddenly showing your first genuine care for the kid," Greg finished with a tilt of his head.
The two men stared each other down for several moments before Greg spoke up again, "Now. Get. Out." he growled with a point to the door.
Thankfully, Jackson appeared to have decided that it was best to leave with his tail tucked between his legs.
Jackson paused at the curtain to Sherlock's room and Greg clenched his fists, ready to go another round. "I'm sorry," Jackson whispered with a nod before turning to finally leave.
Greg sunk into his chair, letting his head fall into his hands. He didn't have it in him to deal with Jackson at the moment. Later, once Sherlock was all figured out and wasn't recovering in a hospital bed, he'd deal with him.
Greg settled in the uncomfortable, plastic chair and grabbed Sherlock's uninjured hand, ready to stand guard the rest of the night.
Sherlock groaned when the sounds and lights of the real world began seeping through to his mind. There was an annoying beeping noise to his right and something heavy resting off to his left side. He let out a groan when he tried to open his eyes and found the lights too bright to process.
"Sherlock?" the heaviness to his left lifted and the groggy voice of Lestrade filtered through the fog in his brain.
He took a deep breath before attempting to open his eyes again. Sherlock found it easier this time around, but still found his sensitivity to light borderline intolerable. He fumbled with his hands and frowned at the feeling of his right wrist being clunky and immobilized.
Lestrade shuffled around off to the side and soon the room went blissfully dark, "Yeah, it's broken," he explained, coming back to the chair next to Sherlock.
"Volkov?" Sherlock asked him, slowly feeling his thought processes return to him. He was groggy, sluggish, and it felt like it took forever for his brain and his mouth to communicate with one another. He looked around the room and saw that the beeping to his right came from a machine monitoring his various bodily vitals. Next to the monitor was another machine that appeared to be pumping fluids, and likely narcotics, into him. "I'm in the hospital," he realized, turning back to Lestrade.
"Yeah," Lestrade replied and Sherlock could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "What do you remember?"
Sherlock blinked slowly, going back into his mind, frowning when he was coming up short, "I went to Volkov," he started, squinting as he attempted to recollect everything. "He knew I was lying, he broke my wrist," he continued slowly, looking to Lestrade for help filling in the blanks. "Everything else after that is… hazy."
"You don't remember Andrew Ryan saving you, or me and the narcotics team coming in?" Lestrade asked him cautiously.
Sherlock shook his head, wincing at the movement.
"You have a pretty good concussion too," Lestrade added on.
"You don't say?" Sherlock tried to joke, the tiredness started to come back through.
"So, you don't remember anything? Not even talking to me when I found you?" Lestrade asked, trying to keep his feelings of sadness, yet still clinging onto hope, from reaching his voice. The last thing he wanted to do was make the kid feel guilty for something he couldn't help.
Sherlock took a moment to try and think back but found the memories missing, or at least distorted. "I'm sorry," he told the man. "I promise you can blame the concussion if I said anything particularly embarrassing."
Lestrade chuckled, "No, kid, I'm just glad you're okay," he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and gave him a firm squeeze. Sherlock leaned into the touch. "Are you doing okay? Do you need anything?"
"No, I think the cocktail of drugs they have me on is doing a good job of not letting me care too much about anything."
"Yeah, well let me know. I think I saw some cookies at the nurses' station, I bet I could bum one for you," he offered with a smile.
"Is the cookie because I got my arm broken, or that I completed my mission in half the expected time?" Sherlock asked him with a smile.
Lestrade snorted at him, "I don't know if that counts since you got caught." Sherlock couldn't help the loud laugh that came out of his lips. "You're high," Lestrade told him with a smile of his own.
"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes again. "I do have to say that it is convenient that they just pass drugs out like candy in the hospital," he commented, earning him an eye roll from the man next to him. "Can I meet the nurse that successfully placed my IV?" he asked, waving his left hand around. "I did a pretty thorough job trashing my veins when I first started using, so the nurse deserves commendation on their handy work."
"You know, now would be a great time to stop talking," Lestrade muttered from his chair next to Sherlock, earning him an exaggerated huff from the younger man. "I'm glad you're alright," he spoke softly. Sherlock decided not to comment on the waiver in the other man's voice.
"At least now you don't have any excuse to skip out on your Inspector's test," Sherlock smirked, keeping his eyes closed.
Lestrade let out a hearty laugh that made Sherlock smile, "Have I told you that you're a bit of an arse?"
"Once or twice," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes, "But I'm your arse."
"That you are, kid, that you are."
Greg walked slowly back to Sherlock's hospital room after visiting the small break room that supplied coffee and tea to visitors and guests of this floor. With a hot cup of coffee in hand, he tried to prepare himself for another afternoon in the hospital. The kid had developed a low-grade fever before surgery that they were thankfully able to get control of quickly, preventing any delays for surgery. Sherlock was currently sleeping off the anesthesia from surgery to repair his broken wrist earlier today. Greg wanted to make sure that he was close by so the kid wouldn't be any more disoriented than he expected him to be. The doctor that performed the surgery told him that he expected Sherlock to make a full recovery, but would need a lot of physical therapy to get him there.
Greg was in the process of mentally preparing himself for finding a physical therapist that would tolerate Sherlock's unique personality when he reentered Sherlock's room with a cup of coffee in hand. He wasn't overly surprised that there was someone else in the room, what with the constant stream of nurses and doctors. Only, once he was able to focus, he was more surprised by the man in a suit pursuing Sherlock's chart with an umbrella propped up against his bed.
"Why am I not surprised you managed to sneak your way in here?" Greg deadpanned.
The not-quite stranger gave a thin smile before gently flipping the chart closed and hanging it back on the end of the bed.
"I heard that Sherlock survived his little mission. So naturally, I thought I would come and check on the two of you," he finished as he adjusted the lapels of his expensive-looking suit.
"Yes, well as you saw from his chart, he's recovering well and we'll be out of here the next day or so as long as his fever stays away," Greg told him tiredly, sitting down in his usual chair next to Sherlock's bed.
"Good to hear," the man told him, looking at the floor as if contemplating what to say next.
Umbrella Boy was temporarily relieved from having to talk by the nervous appearance of Inspector Jackson in the doorway. He looked curiously at the man with the umbrella before the Inspector turned his attention towards Sherlock.
"Did the surgery go okay?" he asked, looking at Greg for confirmation.
Greg remained sitting, glaring at the newcomer to the room while steadily tapping his fingers on the armrest of the chair. Umbrella Boy looked back and forth between the two of them with an odd expression as he watched Greg interact with Jackson.
Jackson let out a sad sigh, "Right, well let me know when you can come back to the Yard. There is some paperwork that we need to go over before I transfer you back to homicide," he told Greg before turning to leave the room, giving the man with the umbrella a nod on the way out the door.
Umbrella Boy continued to watch Jackson leave and turn down the hall before focusing back on Greg, "Any idea why Inspector Jackson has suddenly taken an interest in Sherlock's well being?" he asked with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.
Greg nervously rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, "I, uh, maybe threatened Jackson that if Sherlock got hurt in all of this, I knew someone that would bury him," Greg told him with a grimace. "You know, someone from on high," he hinted, giving the man a pointed look.
The man grabbed his umbrella from the bed and raised both of his eyebrows in surprise, "I see," the man replied with a frown. "I'm sure something could be arranged," he told Greg with the slightest smirk, which surprised the Sergeant.
Sherlock snorted and then immediately winced, trying to grab for his head, having a difficult time managing between the cast on his right arm and the IV in his left.
"Sherlock!" Greg tutted and stood to lean over the hospital bed. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
"Yes," Sherlock struggled to open his eyes. "I was just rather hoping that his voice was due to the concussion," he groaned and looked over at the Umbrella Boy with a petulant frown.
The other man with the umbrella smiled at Sherlock, "I'm afraid the past has caught up with you, Sherlock," he said threateningly.
Greg tensed at the tone of voice the man had taken. He had been right, the two had crossed paths before. While he was about to reconsider everything he thought he knew about the man, Greg looked over to Sherlock and found himself more confused when he saw the kid roll his eyes at the man who was now leaning against his umbrella.
"I see that Uncle Rudy has taught you some of his intimidation tactics," Sherlock said. "It's a shame you can't put them to use."
"Uncle?" Greg asked, looking between the two with a frown.
"Lestrade," Sherlock started, pausing to raise the head of his hospital bed to a more comfortable position. "I have the unfortunate position of introducing you to Mycroft," he finished with a frown.
"Mycroft," Greg said slowly, still glancing between the two waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The man, Mycroft, decided to fill in the blanks when Sherlock decided to stop talking.
"Yes, Sergeant Lestrade, I suppose I should thank you for taking care of my little brother for all of these months.
Greg felt his bottom jaw drop and spun back to Sherlock, "Brother!" he questioned, his voice raising a few decimals.
Sherlock's face turned sour, "Unfortunately," he confirmed with a disdained expression on his face.
"Brother?" Greg turned back to question Mycroft, feeling fire begin to build inside.
"I believe that has been established," Mycroft answered plainly.
Greg sunk back into his chair and buried his face in his hands for a moment to gather his thoughts before looking back at Mycroft.
"Why didn't you just tell me?" he demanded with a pound to his armrest. "I had your brother all this time, and you never once tried to take him away," he trailed off in disbelief. "And your parents! They must be worried sick!"
Sherlock let out a snort and then failed at trying to contain his laughter. Greg looked over at the teen, concerned by the sudden outburst, and then turned back to Mycroft for an explanation.
"There is still much that I don't know myself, Sergeant," Mycroft explained softly, looking over at his brother. "Regardless of the situations that led Sherlock to be in your care, I find it fortuitous that he crossed your path," he told Greg, giving him a nod.
"I-uh," Greg faltered, still trying to wrap his mind around everything he had learned.
"I think what Mycroft is trying to say is thank you," Sherlock told Greg, giving a glare towards his older brother.
"Right, uh, you're welcome?" he answered both of them, still confused.
Sherlock smiled at him and Greg returned it, giving the teen a comforting pat on his shoulder.
"If I could have a moment with my brother?" Mycroft turned to ask Greg.
"Uh, yeah, of course," Lestrade stuttered, still obviously stunned by the afternoon's revelations. He gave Sherlock a smile before leaving to give the brothers their space.
Sherlock glared at his brother, unwilling to be the first to talk. Mycroft continued to stare him down from the foot of his hospital bed. Quite frankly, Sherlock had nothing to say to his older sibling. Mycroft hadn't been there when he had been outcast by his parents, and he certainly hadn't attempted to find him until word must have made it to him that his little brother was in league with Alexander Volkov.
"Don't be stupid, Sherlock," Mycroft ground out, irritated that his little brother refused to speak.
"Don't be stupid, Sherlock," Sherlock mimicked back before returning to glare at his older brother.
"Sherlock," Mycroft frowned and heaved a sigh, staring at the ceiling for a moment before bringing his gaze back to Sherlock. "If you would let me explain," he started with an exasperated tone.
"Please," Sherlock encouraged, opening his arms. "Please explain to me how my older brother abandoned me," he seethed. "You knew I was having problems, and just like Mother and Father, you buried your head in the sand to ignore them! In fact, when they told you they ostracized me-"
"They did no such thing!" Mycroft interrupted him with a stomp of his foot. If Sherlock didn't know his older brother any better, he'd say that he was distraught.
"Oh, please," Sherlock answered with a snarl. "As if their perfect child didn't know exactly what was about to happen-"
"I didn't," Mycroft pleaded. "If I had, I would have done what it took to care for you myself," he finished sadly, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, they lied to me. They told me that you had gone off the deep-end and fled once and for all," he told Sherlock dolefully.
Sherlock frowned at the answer he had received from his older brother. Surely, this was some type of rouse. There was no way his parents' favorite child had been left so completely out of the loop.
"Sherlock, they lied to me," he stated again and Sherlock looked into his eyes, for once unable to find fault in his brother's statement. "They knew that if they had told me what they were about to do to you, I would have stopped everything to take care of you," he finished on a more sincere note.
Sherlock scoffed, "I can only imagine what that would have been like," Sherlock told his brother with a raise of his eyebrow. "The two of us living together under one roof again."
Mycroft laughed, causing Sherlock to join in with his brother, "I suppose that it is serendipitous that you stumbled upon Sergeant Lestrade then," his brother finished on a more somber note.
Sherlock nodded in agreement. "He's okay," he told his brother, looking towards the exit where he knew Lestrade was waiting. "You didn't tell him that I was your brother?" Sherlock asked him with a grin.
Mycroft responded with a smirk of his own, "You could say I stayed coy about the situation. Heaven forbid I spook you."
"You know, he's never going to forgive us," Sherlock informed him with a smile.
Mycroft shrugged, "I think it is less about us, and more about you," he finished with a pointed look.
"He's okay," Sherlock told him again, looking back towards the exit to his hospital room. "Lestrade, that is."
"I wouldn't have let you stay with him if he wasn't," Mycroft told him with raised eyebrows. "Still, some protocol must be adhered to."
"I don't want Mother and Father to know," Sherlock told him abruptly. "In fact, I don't want them to know anything about me from here on out."
"Sherlock," Mycroft tutted.
"I'm serious, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted. "They shut me out," he whispered, looking pleadingly at his older brother. "They don't get to swoop back in and save the day once everything has sorted itself out."
"Sherlock, they're your parents-"
"No!" Sherlock stopped Mycroft before he could continue. "They bowed out of my life the second they asked me to not be in theirs anymore," he whispered, seething. "I can't go back to them."
"So, this, Sergeant Lestrade, is who you pick to take over the more day to day mundane tasks?" Mycroft asked with a raise of his eyebrow.
"Please, tell me what you've found to dispute my choice," Sherlock challenged.
"I have none," Mycroft replied plainly.
Sherlock was sure he would have stumbled to the floor if he wasn't in a hospital bed, "None?" he asked, surprised.
Mycroft rocked back and forth as if he was debating the correct words to say before continuing, "I've been in contact with Sergeant Lestrade for some time now. If I would have found something to contraindicate your association with him, I wouldn't have let you see him once you returned from Volkov."
Sherlock frowned, thinking on his brother's words. He supposed that somewhere buried inside of his brother's chest there really might have been a functioning heart.
"Speaking of Volkov," Mycroft started, hesitating to continue any further.
"Speaking of Volkov…" Sherlock tried to jump-start his brother's train of thought.
"I would have pulled you out of there sooner," Mycroft started and then paused again, nervously looking over Sherlock in his hospital bed. "But we needed a name," he finished with a regretful shrug. "It's been somewhat of a mission of Uncle Rudy's. Someone was pulling Volkov's strings along with several others'. I saw in your hospital notes that there was some amnesia noted - "
"Moran," Sherlock told him with a monotonous tone.
"Moran?" Mycroft seemed surprised that he would give up information like that to his older brother.
"I don't remember much after that," Sherlock thought, trying to recall exactly what was said. "Volkov had been complaining that because I went to the police, he couldn't turn me over to Moran," Sherlock faded. "I think this Moran person has already been given someone my age, but things get a little hazy around there."
"That is most helpful," Mycroft nodded at Sherlock.
"So that is it then?" Sherlock asked with a smile. "We're done, and this is the last I'll have to deal with your annoying face?" he asked with a hopeful look at his older brother.
"I'm afraid the agreement was for Mummy and Father," Mycroft smiled at him. "I don't recall you mentioning me in your demands."
Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned at the realization.
"Anyways, brother mine, I think that is my cue to leave," Mycroft told him with a smile. "Do try not to scare your new guardian off too soon."
Sherlock let his head fall back against the bed once his brother left. He honestly hadn't expected to see anyone from his previous life again. The fact that their parents had lied to Mycroft about Sherlock's disappearance had been somewhat surprising. Sherlock closed his eyes and thought back on the last few months he'd been with Lestrade. His only hope was that Mycroft wouldn't be the one to scare Lestrade off before he did.
Greg had been standing up against the wall opposite Sherlock's hospital room, glaring lasers through the door as he waited for Mycroft to exit. He had almost barged in on the two of them when he could hear their raised voices through the door. However, they seemed to quiet down quickly, with no alarms from any of Sherlock's monitoring devices going off. With this being, Greg decided to wait it out.
He couldn't believe Umbrella Boy turned out to be the kid's brother. The kid had a brother and parents… he had a family. Of course the kid had a family. Lestrade couldn't believe how he'd let himself be deluded into forgetting that fact. He'd let himself get too attached to Sherlock, and now his government agent MI-whatever brother was here to take him back. Greg let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. Everything he'd been working towards the last few months was slipping away between his fingers, and he was unable to grab onto anything. There had to be a way to stop Sherlock from going back to his parents. Greg could argue that they didn't even try to look for him, or he'd get himself a solicitor because there had to be some kind of loophole.
Finally, the door to Sherlock's room opened up, stopping Greg's inner turmoil from spiraling out of control any longer.
"You're his brother?" Greg exclaimed as soon as the door closed behind the man with the umbrella.
"Yes, I believe that we have already had this conversation," Mycroft sighed and turned to head down the hallway, leaving Greg behind.
Greg took off after him, "Sorry that it is just taking a bit for my mind to catch up," he continued on, not caring that the other man was ignoring him. "I can't believe you let your own brother go back to Volkov like that," he complained once more. "I at least did my best to protect the kid. You, on the other hand, were ready to feed him to the sharks," he smirked in victory when Mycroft stopped in the middle of the hall with another sigh.
"As I told you before, someone was pulling my strings too," he said sadly, turning back around to face Greg. "My brother and I have always had a tedious relationship."
"You don't say," Greg snarked.
"You can imagine the Christmas dinners," Mycroft said with sarcastic flair.
"Speaking of," Greg started cautiously. "What about, um your parents? Are they, I mean," Greg stopped, trying to get his stammering under control.
"In the picture?" Mycroft filled in when Greg stumbled.
"Yeah," Greg answered, nervously letting out a huff of air. Pull yourself together Lestrade.
Mycroft leaned on his umbrella in the middle of the hall and stared at Greg for a long moment before answering, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born on January 6, 1977. Our parents are alive, but essentially out of the picture as far as he is concerned. The possibility of adoption would be made available to you if you wish, I'll make sure of it. The rest of his information including school transcripts and health records will be delivered to your flat tomorrow afternoon."
Greg felt his chest spasm at the word adoption. This had taken a turn in a surprising direction and Greg felt himself smile. He had gotten himself worked up for nothing. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to figure out how to talk to the kid about everything. He told himself he would handle it better than the whole guardianship fiasco. On another note, now they really needed a larger flat. Greg came back to the present when he saw the questioning look on Mycroft's face.
"Th-Thank you. I appreciate it," he answered quickly, still trying to wrap his mind around everything that was happening. "That's it?" he asked, feeling himself beginning to panic. "I mean I'm only thirty-three years old and have no idea what I'm doing."
This was becoming a reality a lot quicker than he had expected. This was happening, he thought nervously, convincing himself that the walls were not closing in around him.
He took a deep, centering breath and when he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock's brother, Greg found himself wanting to punch the smug smile that had formed on Mycroft's face.
"You won't be thanking me once you scan through his school records and discover that he was expelled for setting the school's chemistry laboratory on fire," Mycroft finished with a smile that showed all of his teeth.
Greg felt his jaw drop. Of course the blasted kid got himself expelled, he thought to himself, fighting the urge to cover his face.
"However, whatever the issues that may arise in your time together may be, I'm sure that you will be able to figure it out together," Mycroft continued, giving Greg a small smile. "If, or should I say when, you find yourself in need of any type of assistance at all, please consider me a special liaison. I will be able to assist you in anything pertaining to Sherlock," he offered with a nod, leaving Greg in his wake feeling slightly more anxious with his newfound responsibility than he had anticipated.
Adoption, he thought with raised eyebrows as he watched Mycroft walk away. He placed both hands in his pants pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously. Wow. He looked back at the door to Sherlock's room. That would be a big step for the two of them. It had an air of finality around it. He closed his eyes and the memory of Sherlock calling him dad replayed. He couldn't stop the smile that broke across his face. It would definitely be something to discuss with Sherlock, but he remembered how angry the kid had gotten when he had done the guardianship without asking him, so he wouldn't be making that mistake again.
Greg was unable to get the smile off of his face when he reentered Sherlock's hospital room. The kid was fast asleep again, and Greg couldn't blame him. He'd been through a lot. Now though, they would have each other, and Greg wouldn't let the kid down, he thought, running a hand through Sherlock's freshly buzzed down hair. Greg shook his head and went to make himself comfortable for another night in the hospital. Expelled from school, he thought with an eye-roll. He dreaded what else he'd find in the kid's records when he got them.
"Alright, Sherlock Holmes," Greg started, propping his feet up on the couch that was in the room. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked the unconscious kid with a smile.
Jonathan Jackson walked off the lift onto the narcotics floor Monday afternoon after attempting to visit the boy, Sherlock, after he had his surgery this morning. He was still receiving the cold shoulder from Lestrade which wasn't too surprising. Frankly, he was just ready to be done with the both of them, Lestrade and Sherlock. This whole case had turned into a nightmare and he was ready to go back to his life, forgetting that the two of them even existed.
"Morning, Inspector," the floor's receptionist greeted him with a smile. He nodded back to her, continuing the walk towards his office.
There was so much paperwork to complete, it would probably take them a week to finish it all. If someone would have told him that shooting and killing one of London's most notorious drug lords would end in so much paperwork, he would have possibly reconsidered something else when he got out of the Navy. Regardless, it was over now, and the sooner he could get Lestrade to finish his paperwork and interview, the sooner he could move on.
He opened the door to his office, resigned to spend the afternoon on said paperwork, and was more than surprised to find someone sitting in his chair.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded of the man.
The man in question smiled in return. He was young with dark hair, but his age didn't appear to be an issue as power wasn't something that appeared foreign to him. He was wearing a crisp three-piece suit and held an umbrella as he rocked back in his chair.
"Wait a minute," Jackson paused, tilting his head. "You were at the hospital this morning," he stated, pointing to the man. "You were visiting with the boy and Lestrade."
"Yes, and you are the man who was willing to risk a young boy's life because of an affair," the man snarled.
"Now, wait just a minute," Jackson started, angrily pointing a finger at the intruder who was still in his seat. "I don't know what lies that Sherlock kid told you-"
"He didn't tell me anything, I just know," he finished with a shrug and then propped the umbrella on his desk, now leaning forward. "For a Detective Inspector, you were blissfully ignorant of the world around you when it came to your extramarital affair," the man said, pulling an envelope out from his breast pocket. He pushed it across the desk for Jackson to inspect.
Keeping his eyes on the intruder, Jackson slowly grabbed the envelope off the desk and cracked it open to take a quick glance at its contents. There appeared to be quite a few pictures. He looked back at the man with a questioning expression before pulling out the pictures to look through them. What he saw made his heart fall to the floor. It was picture after picture of him in varying degrees of compromising situations with Jim, his best friend and lover that he had lost while doing undercover work on the Volkov ring. His death was the entire reason that spurred Jackson to take such actions against the drug lord.
"How in the hell did you get these?" he asked the other man darkly, shaking the pictures.
"You're asking the wrong questions, Inspector Jackson," the man replied, unphased by Jackson's simmering anger.
"Oh?" Jackson asked, taking an intimidating step around the desk. "Tell me then, what is the right question?" he growled.
"How did your wife come to possess these pictures?" the man lifted a challenging eyebrow.
"What. Did. You. Say?" Jackson asked deadly, trying to keep himself from launching onto the man before him with a floor of police officers behind him.
"It is actually quite impressive that you were able to hide your affair from her for so long," the man started again. "It is a shame though that the idyllic appearance of her life came crashing down around her not too long ago."
"You Bastard! You had no right!"
"I thought that I would help you with your paperwork to finish wrapping up this case for you. That way you could go beg for mercy while I was in the area," the man in the suit carried on, turning to his computer to pull up the Volkov file. "See, while you were too focused on revenge for Volkov, you failed to notice that your receptionist's junkie son had fallen into Volkov's grasp. So when Volkov found out he had a link to someone on the inside, he started paying her handsomely to siphon off any information the Yard had involving him or whatever he wished," he informed him while still clicking through several documents, apparently searching for something in particular.
Jackson turned back in shock at the revelation and was floored to watch the receptionist in tears, being handcuffed by some unknown men and taken away.
"We always forget about the receptionists," the man continued on, shaking his head. "They know all of our darkest secrets and can pull them up at a moment's notice," he smiled, apparently finding the document he was looking for. "For instance, before she was arrested, she helped me find a particularly interesting document that you reported to your superiors to get approval for your latest mission."
Jackson closed his eyes and took a step back from the man.
"See, while I was forced to let certain events unfold to get a certain outcome, I found it particularly fascinating to learn that the only reason you were approved for sending Sherlock undercover was because the documents that you submitted to your supervisors were falsified," this time the man turned from the computer to turn his intense gaze onto Jackson. "Can you read me the date of birth that you submitted for Sherlock?"
Jackson sighed and closed his eyes, "September third, nineteen-seventy-four," he answered quietly.
"Three years make quite the difference, don't they Inspector?" the man asked, equalling the quietness in his voice that Jackson's had taken. "It's the difference between sending an adult versus a minor into a dangerous and potentially deadly situation," he finished sharply. "It makes one wonder what other paperwork you've done is potentially falsified," he questioned, bringing a hand up to his chin.
"The boy signed up for it," Jackson tried to argue, but the words felt flat as he said them.
The man just stared at him from across the desk with a disappointed expression.
"Would you like to know how old your receptionist's son is?" the stranger asked with a questioning raise of a single eyebrow.
Jackson closed his eyes again. No, he didn't want to know the answer, but he knew he was about to hear it anyway. He let his shoulders sag in preemptive defeat.
"Nineteen," the man's voice was still quiet, but not lacking in vitriol. "All you had to do was look in your very own department for the answer you were looking for. Instead, you got tunnel vision when Lestrade presented you with what appeared to be the perfect option. For a Detective Inspector, I don't think it gets more pathetic than that," he stood up from his desk and looked behind Jackson's shoulder.
Jackson turned and felt himself sink further when he saw that two officers and the Chief Superintendent had arrived in his doorway.
"Trust me, it brings me no pleasure in doing this. However, occasionally those of us from on high have to come down to the ground to deal with issues such as these," he gave Jackson a disturbing wink. "Maybe before you go off on your next crusade you will take a moment to stop and think," the man started up again, walking around him to exit the door. "This last one lost you your lover, your wife, and your job," he shrugged his shoulders and straightened his suit jacket. "What's left for you to lose?" he asked, nodding his farewell before exiting the room.
Jackson watched as the man walked with his umbrella towards the lifts where Jackson himself had just come from before his world had been flipped upside down. If he never saw that man, Lestrade, or Sherlock again, it would be too soon.
"Perfect, now when we add the enzyme to the concentration in front of us," Mike Stamford looked over to Sherlock, who added a couple of drops to the vial in front of them.
"If it changes to a green color it will signify that it is vegetation, whereas, if there is no change, it would indicate it is not an organic substance," he answered, gently shaking the vial which turned a dark green color in front of their eyes.
"Right!" Stamford happily clapped him on the shoulder.
Sherlock smiled at the cheerful response he got and moved to clear up some of the mess that they had made, careful to avoid spilling anything on his new cast. He looked up at the clock in the lab and gave a nervous frown.
"Don't worry about Greg," Mike told him with a comforting smile. "Rumor has it that the Inspectors' test is a brutal one. I wouldn't worry too much, it's only been a couple of hours."
Sherlock nodded, feeling his cheeks tinge in embarrassment over being caught worrying about Lestrade. He had been adapting to life back with Lestrade since being released from the hospital a little over a week ago. It had been boring being laid up on Lestrade's couch, despite the man's efforts for trying to include him in packing and apartment hunting. But when the opportunity presented itself to help Stamford in the lab while he sat for his test, he jumped, eager to get out of the confines of the small flat. Going by how green the man was when they walked in the doors, Sherlock would be more impressed if he made it through the examination without vomiting.
"So, you guys get to start moving this weekend," Stamford started up again in an attempt to make small talk.
Sherlock nodded, moving to focus on the next set of tests that Stamford had set up for him to complete.
"I bet it will be nice to have your own bed instead of having to bum around on a couch," he continued on.
"Still better than a concrete floor of a warehouse," he mumbled, without looking up.
"Yeah…" Stamford trailed off, apparently caught off guard by Sherlock's blunt statement. "I'm sure everything you have now is better than that," he finished awkwardly.
Thankfully, Sherlock was saved from any additional polite banter by the entrance of Lestrade through the lab doors. He gave a small tired smile at him before walking over towards Stamford.
"Hey, mate, you look wiped," Stamford greeted him with a handshake.
Sherlock left the lab station he was at and cautiously made his way over to Lestrade.
"You know, I thought that I would feel better after finishing that test," he started and threw an arm over Sherlock's shoulders when he had gotten close enough to the man. "But I think the pit in my stomach isn't going to go away until the test results come back in a couple of weeks," he told them, giving Sherlock a comforting squeeze. "At least we have the move and school interviews to keep me occupied for a bit."
"Well, I'm sure you did great!" Stamford gave Lestrade an enthusiastic clap to the shoulder that wasn't currently around Sherlock's.
"Thanks, I think I'll take this one off your hands though," he said, pulling Sherlock with him towards the door. "I've got one more stop I have to make before we head home."
"Right, right," Stamford nodded, following them towards the exit. "Sherlock's welcome anytime. Let's have a pint once things are settled in the next couple of weeks, yeah?"
"I'd like that, thanks, mate," Lestrade told him, throwing a smile over their shoulders as they exited the lab.
Sherlock let himself be led by Lestrade, not bothering to remove the man's arm from around his shoulders just yet. They made their way through the lobby towards the elevators that led to the various departments upstairs.
"I've got to make one stop," Lestrade told him, hitting the button to signal the lift. "I get to move all my stuff back to my desk in homicide, thank god," he said, feeling relieved, dropping his arm from around Sherlock's when they entered the elevator. "Thankfully, it's only a box worth of stuff, shouldn't take too long."
Sherlock could tell that Lestrade was exhausted and still on edge. It was probably a combination of the last few weeks that had turned into Sherlock's hospital stay, combined with studying for the Inspectors' test. Lestrade had spent whatever time he had not packing on studying, including staying up late into the night doing so. Sherlock took pity on Lestrade after ten and stayed up to help quiz him until forcing the man to go to bed just past midnight last night.
"Are you okay with pizza tonight?" Greg turned to ask with tired eyes. "I'm knackered, I just want to sit on the couch and-" the whole lift suddenly lurched, throwing each of them into the wall. "What the hell!" Greg yelled, and Sherlock cringed when he couldn't stop his cast from hitting the wall.
The typical electrical sounds that came with an elevator seemed to have stopped, but the emergency lights never turned on. They both held onto the wall for a moment, waiting to see what was going to happen, breathing a sigh of relief when they seemed to stay still instead of plummeting to the floor. Whatever was going on with the lift would hopefully only be a temporary set back.
"You okay?" Greg turned to him, placing a concerned hand over his cast. Sherlock nodded as he glanced nervously around the broken lift. "What the hell is going on?" Greg went and banged on the elevator doors before going to the panel to press the emergency button, turning back to Sherlock with a panicked expression on his face when the sound of just static came over the intercom.
"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked him, pointing at the speaker before going over to the panel when Greg went back to pounding on the lift doors.
"Hey!" Greg yelled, pounding harder on the doors. "Shit," he cursed, shoving back from the door to pace nervously across the lift.
Sherlock watched on as the normally cool-headed man began to slowly unravel in front of him.
"Lestrade," he spoke calmly, trying to get his attention from his spot by the panel.
Lestrade continued to pace, his steps growing more and more erratic. Sherlock had been around the man long enough to realize the tell-tale signs of a meltdown. First, it started with frantically running his hands through his short hair, check. Then, it moved to uncontrollable pacing, followed by tuning out the environment around him and talking to himself, check, check, and check.
"Lestrade," Sherlock tried again, trying to intercept him before he paced a hole through the floor. "If they didn't hear the alarm, surely they heard you beating on the doors. We're probably just stuck between floors."
"This is ridiculous," Lestrade muttered, easily maneuvering around Sherlock to continue his pacing. "Bleeding lift," he continued, building himself up to a full-blown rant. "This whole place is just falling apart, can't even keep the lifts from falling apart…" he complained, trailing off at the end to where Sherlock couldn't hear him anymore.
Sherlock observed the man and his frantic pacing. He appeared to have broken out into a sweat, and the wide, nervous eyes did nothing to dampen his terrified look. Lestrade was having a full-blown panic attack in the elevator- oh!
"Are you claustrophobic?" Sherlock asked Lestrade excitedly. This was certainly a new and fascinating fact to learn about him. His smile fell though when he saw the distress in the man's face and eyes. "Lestrade," he tried again with no success. "Hey, Greg," he reached out and grabbed the Sergeant by his shoulders to stop him.
Sherlock tried to get him to relax but was having no success, so he did the only thing he could think of and grabbed Lestrade into a tight hug. Lestrade struggled briefly before giving in and sagging his full weight against Sherlock. Sherlock faltered slightly, trying to keep the larger man from falling to the ground, but grasped his guardian tighter.
"It's okay," Sherlock muttered, "Deep breath in, hold it, and let it out. Good," he praised, rubbing nondescript patters on the man's back with his free hand. "Let's sit down," he suggested, and slowly eased them both to the floor to sit against the back wall of the lift. "Deep breath in. Hold it. Deep breath out," he continued with his mantra that he had learned from Julie, his therapist at rehab. Lestrade sagged further against him, and Sherlock looked to the lift doors hopefully.
He put his casted arm around Lestrade's shoulders, reversing the position they were in earlier. He hoped that he was being a calming presence for the man after everything Lestrade had done for him.
"I hate the water," Sherlock started suddenly, eager to fill the silence in the small lift. "Always have been. Even when I was little I hated baths, never enjoyed swimming pools, or going to the beach," he told the man who continued to remain silent. "Not that my family was ever the type to go on holiday to the beach," Sherlock thought with a frown, "You've met Mycroft, after all," and then shook that disturbing picture out of his head. "Anyway, one day, when I was five, Mycroft and I had been let loose into the wild of the exotic English countryside where we grew up," Sherlock smiled when he thought he heard the smallest chuckle from Lestrade. "We had a large creek that ran through the property that we went to explore. I slipped in fell in," he paused, still remembering the panic his five-year-old self felt at the feeling of being swept out; having everything suddenly become out of his control. "Thankfully, I got hung up on a branch and Mycroft was able to pull me out the rest of the way. Still, I can't stand to be around bodies of water. Driving over the Thames makes my heart-rate spike. I know it's foolish, but it doesn't change the way I react."
Lestrade let out a small sigh and tried to right himself up. Sherlock pulled back his arm from Lestrade's shoulders, but leaned into the man's shoulder, earning him a shoulder bump from the other man.
"I'm sorry, kid," Lestrade groaned, letting his head fall into his palms. "You shouldn't have had to see that."
"Well, you shouldn't have had to see me high, or going through withdrawals, but here we are," Sherlock looked over at the man who was still hiding his face from him. "But that's what family is for," he said quietly, but the comment had its intended effect when Lestrade finally looked up at him. "Or at least that's what I've heard," he finished with a shrug.
Lestrade leaned on Sherlock's shoulders, "Yeah, kid, it is," he agreed with a smile.
A loud grinding noise came from the front of the lift and they watched from the floor as the lift doors were being pried open.
"Thank God," Lestrade muttered, patting Sherlock's knee before standing up.
"Everything okay?" a voice called out from the open door, and Sherlock could see a couple of perplexed maintenance workers trying to figure out what had happened with the lift.
"Yeah, just ready to get out," Greg told the maintenance worker, helping Sherlock up off the floor this time. "My kid and I are ready to get out of here," he turned to look at Sherlock with a smile.
Sherlock ducked his head to hide the smile blossoming across his face.
"No, please, stay where you are. I don't need any help," Greg grunted, dropping one of the last boxes of his belongings in his and Sherlock's new flat.
Sherlock raised his cast-covered arm into the air while he stayed firmly planted on the couch, flipping through a magazine.
"Yeah, enjoy that excuse while you can," Greg mumbled, glaring at the back of the kid's buzzed head. "Your bedroom set gets delivered here in another hour, you could at least help push some of this stuff around to make space back to your room," his frown deepened when Sherlock didn't move from his spot. "What are you reading about that's more interesting than moving, anyway?" he asked the kid, leaning over the couch to read over Sherlock's shoulder.
The kid had found an old stack of National Geographic magazines that he had in his old flat while they were packing and apparently decided that now was the appropriate time to start reading through them. This particular issue was dedicated to the rainforest and the page he was on had various aquatic life.
"Didn't get fish out of your system in reception school, did you?" Greg joked.
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock mumbled, still keeping his eyes glued to the magazine.
"Oh, you know, letting your class' pet fish go free?" he replied with a smirk down at the kid.
Sherlock threw down the magazine and spun to glare at him, "How did you-" he started, but Greg cut him off.
"Let's see, should I go chronologically, or by the size of damage to school property?" he continued on, turning to head for the last box he brought in where a certain, rather large folder had been residing in. "Let's just start with the highlights, yeah?" he asked, but Sherlock just stared, gaping at him. "So we've been over the fish. Then there was your second year of primary school when there was the show and tell incident with your chemistry set-"
"It is not my fault that the classroom was not properly ventilated!" Sherlock argued, raising his voice and violently pointing at Greg.
"Sherlock, mate, your teacher lost consciousness and the rest of the glass had to leave because of headaches."
"How do you even know about those?" Sherlock asked before realization dawned on the kid's face. "Mycroft," he muttered, narrowing his eyes on Greg.
"So after that, there is a quiet year and then a few minor things that aren't even worth mentioning-"
"Blasted, Mycroft, sticking his fat nose into situations that he shouldn't be a part of," Sherlock closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his cast-free hand.
"Now, when you went off to boarding school, that's when you really seemed to kick it up a notch," Greg carried on, continuing to ignore Sherlock. "You start small by removing all of the strings from the students' orchestra instruments in the middle of the night, then there was taking the headmaster's car apart and reassembling it in his office-"
"This has Mycroft written all over it," Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms defensively across his chest.
"Things continue to escalate until you go out with a literal bang... by blowing up the bleeding chemistry lab!" Greg didn't know whether to laugh or be furious. "In fact, a lot of your little transgressions have ended in a fire of some kind," he commented, rereading through some of the write-ups.
"Mycroft had no right-"
"He had every right! Sherlock, you're lucky Stamford is mates with the local school's headmaster and he's agreed to at least entertainthe idea of letting you finish school there. I can't tell you how many times I got laughed at over the last couple of weeks while trying to find a place that will take you, given your more colorful history," he glared at Sherlock while holding the kid's file up in the air.
Sherlock continued his sulk before surprising Greg by launching over the back of the couch to make a grab for the folder. The kid was fast, but Greg was faster. The Sergeant was able to use his slight height difference to continue to hold the folder just out of Sherlock's reach.
"That folder belongs to me!" Sherlock pointed to his chest, still trying to grab for the folder.
Greg playfully pushed at the kid's chest, keeping him just out of arm's reach, "Sorry, mate, it belongs to your guardian," he teased, sticking his tongue out at the kid, making the kid's frown deepen even more. "I think I'll keep it for some late-night reading when I need a laugh."
Sherlock glared at him. In an impressive leap, he grabbed the folder from Greg's hand and sprinted to the other side of the new flat.
"Oi!" Greg laughed, taking off after the nimble kid.
The two playfully tussled for control of Sherlock's school records throughout the flat, with Sherlock attempting to kick boxes between the two of them. Greg had the upper-hand though, being that he wasn't actively holding a very large, bound together folder, and one of his arms wasn't currently in a cast. Sherlock had gotten himself cornered in the other end of the sitting room. He made another jump over some moving boxes and was able to slip past his guardian, making a break for the hallway. Greg sprinted off after him, catching up with him at the lifts.
"Gotcha!" he yelled victoriously when he grabbed Sherlock around the waist. "Give it back you twerp," he grunted, struggling to get the upper-hand over the lanky teen. Eventually, the kid tripped over his own two feet, taking them both down to the floor. Greg effectively put him in a head-lock and trapped his feet with a leg of his own, a wrestling skill he had used on his own siblings a time or two. "It's over, Sherlock," Greg told him in mock-seriousness. "Say mercy."
"Never," Sherlock grunted in reply, continuing his futile efforts in breaking free from the larger man.
The lift picked that time to ding, signaling someone was getting off on their floor, but Greg and Sherlock were too involved in their ongoing battle for control of the folder to notice until a new voice spoke up, startling the both of them.
"Charming," Mycroft muttered, frowning at the sight of them tangled on the floor.
"Oh, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, glaring at the sight of Mycroft towering over them. Greg tried to use the opportunity of Sherlock being distracted to grab the folder from the kid, but Sherlock caught on and continued his struggle against him.
Mycroft stepped in and plucked the offending record from Sherlock's grasp, "I'm so glad the two of you were able to be adults about this," he commented, placing the folder under his arm. "And to answer your question, Sherlock, I thought I would come to toast your new home," he held up a bottle of wine that was in his other hand. "Clearly, I didn't get the memo that childish displays were a mandate to enter," he finished with a final pointed look between the two of them.
"He started it!" Sherlock deflected, pointing back at Greg.
"Oi! You were the one that catapulted yourself over the sofa!" Greg volleyed back, tightening his hold on Sherlock's neck as he did so.
Apparently, Mycroft couldn't find it in him to respond to their 'childish displays' with anything other than an eye-roll. He then turned to head off towards the open door of their new flat.
Greg untangled himself from Sherlock and the two stayed sitting on the floor, both staring at the open door that Mycroft had just entered through.
Greg turned to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, "I guess this means that by signing you on, I get that one too," he asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of their flat.
Sherlock's face fell at the realization, "I suppose so," he huffed. "Although, chances are we can con him into something fancier than pizza for dinner tonight," Sherlock finished with a shrug.
"Fair enough," Greg agreed and got himself up off the floor before helping Sherlock up, as well.
The two stood side by side for a moment, both staring at the open door to their new home. Greg threw an arm over Sherlock's shoulders and smiled when Sherlock leaned into him. The kid would be a mess, he'd fall down again, and then he'd overcome those things and go on to be something great. Something good.
Greg looked to Sherlock with a smile, "Ready to go home, kid?" he asked with a squeeze to Sherlock's shoulders.
