Chapter Four
There was a lift in Greg's building, but it had been "under repair" since the day he'd moved in. Unfortunately, Greg lived on the sixth floor. The stairway always smelled a little too ripe for him, which he usually countered by taking the stairs two at a time.
Not today, though.
He half-carried Sherlock up the stairs, slowly, so as to not aggravate Sherlock's injured ankle. The stairs seemed to stretch on forever, and Greg struggled not to pant with exertion. Sherlock leaned heavily on Greg's arm and shoulder. He was quite heavy for such a skinny kid, and seemed to be growing heavier with every step they took.
Greg's arm was about to cramp, he could tell. They stopped to rest on the fourth floor, despite Sherlock's protests.
He manoeuvred them so that Sherlock could rest on the railing. "Just try not to breathe, all right?" Greg said, and discreetly shook the circulation back into his arm.
One of Greg's neighbours ascended the stairs after them, and they had to flatten themselves against the wall to allow her passage. She eyed them suspiciously as she passed, her thin lips pursed in disapproval. Not that Greg could blame her. He was all too aware of what a frightful sight they made; there was no mistaking the blood and bruises on Sherlock's face, even in the dim stairway light. Hard to laugh it off as a rowdy night gone too far – Sherlock was a little too young to pass off as a drinking buddy.
"Good evening, Mrs. Cowell," Greg greeted her politely.
She shot him a nasty look and retreated into her flat, slamming the door despite the late hour.
"Charming," Greg said in dismay.
He should probably drop by tomorrow and offer some explanation as to why he'd been skulking around the stairway in the middle of the night. The last thing he needed was to get on bad terms with the neighbours. Who knew what curious ears might hear tomorrow? Greg did not need a…reputation for bringing bloodied young men home in the middle of the night
"Affair," Sherlock muttered as they resumed their slow journey up the stairs.
"What?" Greg said.
"Mrs. Cowell is having an affair. Late hour, husband away... haven't you seen her earrings?"
"Her what?" Greg exclaimed in bewilderment. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. She's got to be at least sixty years old."
"Sixty-five," Sherlock corrected. "Your point?"
Greg sighed. He wondered how much he would regret his decision later. "Come on," he said tiredly. "Just a few more steps…"
At long last, they reached the door. Greg groped for the light switch as Sherlock disentangled himself from him, hopping straight toward the sofa.
Greg rubbed his aching shoulder, closing the door behind him with his foot. He surveyed the flat in dismay; it looked the same as it did that morning. It was the first time he'd had guests over since the move. It was just a temporary residence, anyway. Still, he wished he'd at least bothered to tidy up a bit.
"Sorry about the mess," he said gruffly, picking up a few dirty plates and moving them to the sink.
Standing in his small kitchen, Greg began his usual homecoming ritual: a little dance of keys, wallet, phone. The keys landed on the counter with a clatter. He felt for his wallet, but decided to keep it exactly where it was. It was only when he reached for his other pocket that he realised what was missing.
"Shit," Greg said under his breath. He glanced back at Sherlock, who didn't seem to pay him any attention.
Sherlock had placed his injured foot on top of the coffee table. He leaned forward to remove his muddied shoe and sock, sighing in relief when his foot was freed from its confines. He then began running his fingers lightly over the swollen skin. Sherlock's skin was incredibly pale where he wasn't bruised black and blue.
"You might need to get that X-rayed," Greg said very reasonably.
"Not broken," Sherlock murmured. He wriggled each toe in turn, big toe to baby toe and back again. Greg was mesmerised by the unusual dexterity. He wondered how he had managed to live for over four decades and never know he had a thing for feet.
Sherlock's foot was certainly very lovely—long and graceful, his toenails clipped and clean. Greg realised he was staring, and hastily closed his mouth. Inappropriate! he reminded himself curtly.
"I should have a first-aid kit here, somewhere." Greg mumbled, mostly as a distraction. He opened the freezer and began inspecting its contents.
"In there?" Sherlock asked sceptically.
"What? No." Greg pulled out a bag of frozen peas and handed it to Sherlock. "Here, use this," he said.
"Oh," Sherlock said, and pressed the peas to his swollen ankle. He was looking around; his sharp, critical gaze roamed about openly.
"Sorry about the mess," Greg said. He had the irrational urge to cover Sherlock's eyes. "I wasn't expecting company."
He began rummaging through a few of the boxes he had stacked near the bedroom door. After several tense minutes, he managed to find the first-aid kit, stuffed inside a cardboard box labelled misc 3.
"Haven't had the chance to properly unpack yet," Greg mentioned off-handedly.
Sherlock nodded, and lifted the bag of frozen peas to his jaw. "I can see that."
"Yeah, well…" Greg shrugged. He began to sort through the contents of the first-aid kit. "This is just a temporary place till I find something permanent, anyway. I suppose I have been too busy, what with work and, uh, some personal matters."
"Do you mean the divorce?"
"Sorry?" Greg said, alarmed.
Sherlock took the frozen bag down to stare at Greg. "Divorced, or separated. Clearly you live alone," Sherlock said, reaching beneath himself to draw out a discarded sock.
Without giving Greg a chance to compose a reply, Sherlock continued. "There is a tan line around your ring finger, but you haven't been on holiday recently."
He made a vague gesture at the flat. "Married for many years, then. The separation is fairly recent, or you would have found better accommodations by now. Six months, give or take? You removed your wedding ring, which spells divorcee rather than widower."
"Hey, hang on just a minute…" Greg started to say, feeling heat rising in his cheeks.
Sherlock ignored him. "Six months, and you haven't even taken out your personal items? Not even a photograph? So an ugly separation, at that. You've left in a hurry, too, and probably not for the first time. This time is different, though, isn't it?"
When Greg didn't respond, Sherlock pointed to the stack of mail on the coffee table. "You've changed your mailing address." He looked at Greg pointedly, and then sighed at his silent, baffled look.
"You had it changed to this address almost immediately, even though you consider it a temporary residence. Ergo, you don't expect to go back." Sherlock gave a little grimace of discomfort, and promptly returned the frozen bag of peas to his aching jaw.
Greg thought of a rather scathing reply, but the only thing that left his mouth was a flat "what?"
He shook his head to gain some semblance of composure, and leant forward to pull the stack of letters from underneath Sherlock's foot. Sherlock hissed a little, but Greg ignored him. He flipped through his letters, and saw that it was true; the ones he'd picked up from his old home were dated at least six months back, the rest were sent to his current address.
Also, he thought, he ought to phone his bank; something fishy was definitely going on with his account statements.
Sherlock said, as a by-the-way, "I suppose that the affair was the last clincher."
"Now, how the hell did you-" Greg began to say.
"Know about the affair?" Sherlock finished with a smirk. "You told me."
"Remember Mrs. Cowell, the adulteress? Your reaction was spot on. Textbook. Oh, people tell you all sorts of things with their body language."
He looked at Greg critically. "You should know this sort of thing, surely? You are a policeman… do they not teach you this?"
"Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?" Greg wondered aloud.
Sherlock blinked. "Does what?"
"Do people often punch you?"
Sherlock ducked his head, having at least the decency to look embarrassed. "They usually miss," he admitted.
Greg snorted. "Right."
He sat down on the coffee table before Sherlock, setting the first aid-kit beside him. Gently, he lifted Sherlock's chin, tilting his head a bit to better inspect the damage. Sherlock shivered when Greg touched him, but didn't pull back.
"You'll need to wash up first, I think," Greg said. There was a nasty cut above Sherlock's eyebrow. It had stopped bleeding for the most part, but Sherlock's face was caked with a layer of dried blood and dirt. Greg dropped his hand. Some of the mess clung to his fingers, and he rubbed them over his trousers distractedly.
"The bathroom is just over there," he said, jerking his head.
Sherlock nodded, dropping his gaze. Greg became belatedly aware of how close he had been sitting, and hurriedly scrambled to his feet. Sherlock started to peel off his coat and shirt, slowly, wincing as he did so. His arms and chest were also covered in multi-coloured bruises.
Greg clenched his jaw. The stolen wallet was still in his jacket pocket. He'd definitely need to do something about this 'Randall Waters' character.
Greg helped Sherlock to the small tub. Sherlock had opted to stay in his underpants. He sat on the edge of the tub while Greg washed the grit off his face and hair. Once he was clean, Greg handed him a towel, and left to fetch some clean clothes.
He stopped to collect Sherlock's shirt and trousers, with the intention of tossing them into the wash while he was at it. The coat, he noted, was a lost cause. As were Sherlock's shoes. Greg could barely even make out their colour under all the mud, but for some reason, they left him with an odd twinge of déjà vu. He shook his head, and left them beside the sofa.
Unsurprisingly, Greg's already oversized t-shirt hung on Sherlock's thin frame. The look didn't quite suit him. Greg had to choke back a snigger.
He helped Sherlock limp back to the sofa, and then sat in front of him again. He frowned when he saw that the cut above Sherlock's eyebrow had reopened.
"That might need stitches," Greg said.
"Just stick a plaster on it, it should be fine," Sherlock muttered, blinking heavily.
"Don't fall asleep on me," Greg warned.
"I'm not concussed," Sherlock said. He stifled a yawn behind his fist. "Just a bit tired."
Greg shook his head. He dabbed at Sherlock's abrasions with antiseptic, and applied bandages where they were needed.
Now that he was clean, Greg could see that Sherlock didn't seem too badly injured. Not on the surface, at any rate. While Greg had some basic first-aid training, he was no doctor, and worried about the possibilities of internal injuries.
"How do you feel?" Greg asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "I've had better days, I suppose."
"Hmm." Greg frowned as he worked. He titled Sherlock's head a little to the side, gently cleaning the injury above his eye.
"Worse, too," Sherlock added, not quite smiling.
"Yeah, you're not alone, there," Greg replied, returning Sherlock's almost-smile.
The peas had defrosted by the time Greg finished. He stood back up, his back cracking as he stretched.
"I need to step out for a few minutes," Greg said, rubbing his face. "Do you think you'll be okay on your own for a bit?" He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone in the flat. He'd been so cooperative while Greg treated him, and somehow, Greg didn't think it was his normal disposition.
Nonetheless, there was the small matter of Greg's phone. As part of his job, he had to keep it on him at all times in case of an emergency. Why hadn't he ever set up a land-line?
Sherlock nodded, and reached for his coat. Silently, he handed Greg his own phone.
Greg took it, confused. "What's this for?"
Sherlock looked at him like he was simple. "You might find your phone more easily if you'd ring it, detective," Sherlock said slowly.
"You knew I forgot it all along, didn't you?" Greg exclaimed. "Why didn't you say anything?"
Sherlock shrugged. "You didn't ask."
Greg snorted. "Unbelievable," he grumbled. He pocketed Sherlock's phone. "Just try not to get into anymore trouble while I'm gone, all right?"
"Yes, Mum," Sherlock said.
Greg glowered at him in reply. He only just made it out the door when Sherlock's voice stopped him.
"Lestrade," Sherlock called out. He seemed uncomfortable when Greg turned back to face him, fidgeting in his seat.
"You didn't have to. Help, I mean," Sherlock said awkwardly. "So… thank you."
Greg sighed. "Just don't move until I get back, all right?" he said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."