This story directly follows chapter 2, 'No promises'
Fine
Of course he had followed him. There was no way the man was going to do this alone. Not anymore.
It only took Sherlock five minutes to lose him in the still crowded streets of London-by-night.
The DI howled in frustration, unaware of the glances sent in his direction. Without thinking, he hailed a cab and went straight for 221B. Of course there were no clues; he should have known. That didn't stop him from hurling books and papers through the already cluttered living room though, or desperately digging in the piles of notes, scribbled down in that parody of writing Sherlock did, hoping for a hint, a direction as to where to go next.
He lost track of time and blinked wearily as the sun started to filter through the make-shift windows. He vaguely noticed they still hadn't been replaced. He should ask Mycroft to fix that.
He shook his head to clear it from the fog of worry and anger and what-was-that, that was preventing his mind from working properly. He went home to find his flat still empty. Obviously.
Mycroft was grateful for his call. Mycroft told him not to worry, that he would do everything he could to find Sherlock.
He also told him he was so very sorry when they still hadn't caught a glimpse of his younger brother three days later. Lestrade told him that he should bloody well feel sorry, before abruptly ending the call.
It was three more days before Sherlock showed up. Lestrade's keen ears picked up the sound of someone fumbling at his front door. He opened the door to find said someone trying to pick his lock, with numb fingers that were not steady enough to manage just that.
Sherlock started and dropped the piece of iron he had tried to use, blinking to regain his focus. He looked an absolute mess, like the route he took to get to Lestrade's flat again included at least one sewer, a swim in the Thames (maybe two) and a few stacks of coals to climb. Sharp coals, it seemed.
He gave Lestrade a cautious smile as he got to his feet, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Lestrade blinked, swallowed, and before the rational part of himself could do anything but shout "bad idea", he had practically pushed Sherlock flat against the wall.
"What... just, what were you thinking!" He slammed his fist into the wall next to the detective's head. Sherlock flinched. "You mindless idiotic egoistical git," Lestrade hissed, anger raging through his veins, blurring his vision and making his head hurt. He couldn't care less what the man tried to say between ragged breaths. He grabbed his shoulders and shook the thin frame. "You will never do this again!" he bellowed, "Ever!"
He would have kept shaking him, if it hadn't been for Sherlock's going limp in his grip. Groaning, Lestrade lowered himself to the floor, gathering the now positively skinny detective in his arms and holding on tight.
The mass of black curls on his shoulder muttered a barely audible "promise - 'msorry," before rolling to the side, eyes fluttering closed.
Lestrade sat in the hallway, still holding Sherlock's unmoving form. He should get the man to the sofa, he supposed. Or a hospital. Probably a hospital.
He checked his breathing. Again. Still fine.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head, resting it against the wall behind his head. For now, it was all fine.
Thanks to all my wonderful readers and reviewers! And Sidney, thanks for betaing and comments ;)
:)