A/N: I'm alive. Shocking, I know. To the people who keep asking if I'm going to write John's chapter: I'm planning on finishing off with it, so we have a little ways to go yet. Anyways, enjoy if you so choose.
From: Greg Lestrade. To: Sherlock Holmes.
Room 217, Hilton. Are you coming?
From: Sherlock Holmes. To: Greg Lestrade.
Can't. Busy. SH
Lestrade frowned. Sherlock turned down cases all the time, it was true. But he'd been hounding the poor Detective Inspector for a week to give him some work, and Lestrade had finally had to resort to bribing him with a few cold cases just to keep him from setting something on fire in the Yard out of boredom. Why on earth was he turning down the locked room triple-homicide of a set of Ukranian triplets that had no business being anywhere on the British Isles? If it was distraction he was looking for, this was surely the best London had to offer at the minute.
"Freak coming, then?" Sally said, having noticed Lestrade fiddling with his phone. "I hate to admit it, but I think we need him on this one."
"Don't say that." Anderson snapped from the corner, where he was taking samples off the carpet. "He gets quite enough praise from that doctor of his; we don't need you joining the almighty cult of Holmes too."
"Heaven forbid." Sally said, rolling her eyes. "His massive ego won't get any inflation from me, if I can help it. But I'd put up with it for a little while just to get a few leads on this case."
"Well, we'll have to do without him today." Lestrade said. "Because he's not coming."
Anderson paused, and then straightened up. "By not coming, do you mean he's definitely not going to be showing up in a few minutes with his fan club of one in tow? Because I'd like to get my facts straight before I disturb a crime scene jumping for joy."
By way of answer, Lestrade held up his phone to show the other two Sherlock's text.
"Busy? What could he possibly be busy with?" Sally asked, echoing Lestrade's thoughts. "Think he's gotten picked up by another murderous cabbie?"
Anderson snorted. "From your lips to God's ears. Although, my luck, Watson'll just shoot this one before they get him. Lestrade, remind me why we can't bust him for that gun he's so bad at hiding?"
"Because then Holmes won't work for us. And in the three years since "A Study in Pink", as Watson called it, they've saved hundreds of lives. Besides, if someone's running around with an illegal firearm, I can't think of a better man to do it."
"Shame about the company he keeps." Sally remarked. "Maybe he's finally realized he's living with a nutter, and Holmes is trying to woo him back."
"Don't want to hear about it, thanks!" Anderson said. "Maybe someone's arrested him. I'll testify in court, if they ask."
"No, that's not it. If we'd arrested Holmes, everyone in the force would know by now." Lestrade said. "All the booking officers know to text me if they see him, anyways."
A terrible thought crossed his mind when he remembered exactly why he had all the booking officers keeping an eye out for his wayward consultant. It had been four years since the last time he'd opened his phone to a message about Sherlock being out of his mind on drugs in the holding cells. Lestrade thought that John had put a stop to all that, but Sherlock had been rather – difficult – of late, and oh, Lestrade wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do something he might regret severely –
"You know what?" Lestrade said. "I think you two can handle the evidence collection. We can't do much until we get their background checks and a report from toxicology, so I'm going to go… check up on some things."
"You're such a generous boss. Letting us do all the fascinating inch-by-inch surveys, while you go drink some boring coffee. How did we get so lucky?" Sally said sarcastically.
"None of your cheek, Donovan." he said, and if he was perhaps a bit more snappish than he ought to have been, well, his mind was elsewhere. "Text me if you find anything interesting."
Lestrade hardly noticed the walk out of the hotel, and it wasn't until he had hailed a cab and was halfway to Baker Street that he had regained the presence of mind to realize that, if Sherlock was out of his mind on heroin, the odds of him being home were slim to none. Still, he had to check, if only for his own peace of mind.
Hastily, he stuffed a wad of bills into the cabbie's outstretched hand, and practically ran over to the door to 221 Baker Street. He fumbled open the door, and dashed up the stairs.
"Holmes!" He called, pounding on the door. "Are you there? Holmes! Open up!"
He pressed his ear to the door, but he couldn't hear any sounds coming from the flat. Cursing under his breath, he patted through his pockets to find the key that John had finally had cut for him after the seventeenth 'drug bust'. Ooh, drug busts, not a good thought-
He finally wrapped his fingers around the little skull on the key ring (was that their idea of a joke?), and stuffed it into the lock. He swung open the door, only to see-
221B Baker Street, looking much as it always did. Perhaps a little messier than usual, although nowhere near as bad as Lestrade knew it could get. There were some half-eaten orders of Chinese food on the table in front of the TV, and some dirty laundry on the couch. But other than that, it was completely normal.
Feeling a little lost, Lestrade wandered over to the kitchen. There was a cup of tea in the bread basket, which was coincidentally the only horizontal surface in the kitchen not covered in a curious brown residue, excluding most of the floor and part of the ceiling. Lestrade knew better than to touch anything in this house, but he leaned in to get a closer look.
"You're probably safe to do that." came Sherlock's voice from about Sherlock's height behind him. "I don't think there are any toxic fumes; or, at least, not anymore."
Lestrade straightened up. He wasn't sure whether or not Sherlock was joking about the toxic fumes thing – you never could tell, with him. Also, he realized that he had just been caught doing what amounted to trespassing in the kitchen of two men who had at least one illegal gun between them. Not that they would use it on him, of course, but it added a certain gravity to the situation.
He turned around, only to be confronted with six feet of consulting detective whose modesty was preserved only by a purple pair of boxer shorts. He couldn't help noting that, although he was still terribly thin, he wasn't exactly a candidate for a "stop starving in the first world" poster campaign anymore.
"It's good to know I won't be killed examining your kitchen, then." Lestrade replied. "What did it start out as?"
"A couple mushrooms. And a ferret. You've established that I'm not strung out on drugs somewhere, now don't you have better things to do than examine my kitchen?"
Lestrade had known Sherlock for far too long to be put off by his deductions. "Why did you say you were too busy for the case, then?"
"Because I was. And I still am, so if you're looking for help, I suggest you look elsewhere. Hopefully very soon. And lock the door behind you."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "You don't look busy."
"I am. Terribly so."
"Doing what?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. "I see that I won't be able to be rid of you so easily. I suppose you'll find out one way or another. But honestly, can't you observe?"
"What, am I supposed to know why you're busy just by looking at the stuff on the counter and, and your pants or something? Sherlock, there's a reason I call you in for cases, and it's not because I love watching you bicker with Anderson."
"Don't even mention him. I don't want to think back to today and remember that ferret."
"Sherlock…"
"Lestrade! Do I have to spell everything out for you? Shirts! On the couch! Dinner! Half eaten! And where, exactly, do you think John is?"
Lestrade frowned. Shirts on the couch, John wouldn't stand for that, so either he wasn't home or they must have taken them off… in a hurry. And the dinner was half finished, as if it had been interrupted by something…
His eyes dragged themselves over to focus on Sherlock's bedroom door.
"Ah, yes. I knew you'd get there in the end. Now if you don't mind, I think you can see yourself out."
Lestrade paused. He had to admit to himself, he had stopped expecting this about a year and a half ago. Still, he wasn't nearly as surprised as he might have been. Three years of watching flirting at crime scenes will do that to a man.
"Right, okay, sorry. I didn't mean- I'll see myself out." Sherlock stepped out of the way, and Lestrade hurried towards the door. He stopped after opening it, with his hand on the handle. "Oh, and Sherlock?" he said, and he turned back around. Sherlock, still leaning on the kitchen doorframe, met his eyes.
"I'm proud of you."
"Proud?" Sherlock asked, and Lestrade could tell that he hadn't been expecting that.
"Yes. I remember the man you were five years ago. If someone had told me back then that he would have a steady job, a flat, and one of the most decent men I've met for a boyfriend, I'm not sure that I would have believed them. But here you are."
It was true. He'd gone from a junkie in the gutter to a, if not respectable, at least contributing member of society. And Lestrade was pretty sure that there wasn't anyone else to tell him that, if John's blog entries on his brother were at all accurate.
"I… thank you, Greg." Sherlock smiled a little, which meant he was smiling a whole lot more on the inside. It was good to remember than even 'sociopaths' needed affirmation sometimes.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning about these murders, then?"
"Yes. Look into their father, you'll want to pull his financials from the past nine months. Oh, and one of them has a daughter. If you can find her, she will be useful."
"Will do. Give John my congratulations."
"Congratulations?"
"Yeah. On not being the most oblivious bloke this side of France."
Sherlock smiled. "No, I think that title is claimed by another mutual acquaintance of ours."
"The one whose name you told me not to mention? Well, you might just be right, and don't you quote me on that. I'll see you tomorrow, Sherlock. Don't hesitate to spare me the details on whatever you do after I leave."
Lestrade shut the door behind him, and went down the stairs two at a time. Maybe he would never stop being worried for Sherlock Holmes. But at least now he knew he wasn't the only one looking out for him.
As he rode his cab back to the Yard, he wondered what sort of gift would be appropriate. Maybe a fresh cadaver? Or a gift basket full of limbs? Yes, they proably would like that.
He made a mental note to talk to Molly the next time he saw her. She could probably put something together.