Devonshire Squires Chapter Eighteen
Sherlock was glad that it was only six and a half miles from Fenchurch Street to Seven Sisters. Anything more than that and he'd have had problems staying conscious on the motorbike. Every pothole, every bump in the road jarred his ribs, made him hiss in pain. Every time he had to stop at a traffic light and put his foot down onto the street, the pain from his bruised instep ricocheted around his leg and made it hard to see through watering eyes. The leather jacket was too tight across his aching shoulders, and the helmet was just plain agony on his head.
There was a light rain falling- nearly sleet, just a centigrade degree too warm for it, but more than enough to chill him to the bone. In one sense, he didn't mind; it helped to numb the pain. It was a quarter to midnight and traffic was surprisingly heavy with Friday night pre-Christmas party goers. Bah humbug. He wanted nothing more than to stow the Norton safely back in its lockup and crawl into the bolt hole where he would find his release at the end of a needle. Two days of self- medication and he'd be able to function again. Been here before.
In part, to distract himself from the pain and the tedium of traffic, Sherlock dragged out of his Mind Palace the latest data he'd collected at the fight. Sherlock had used the time before his bout to circulate with the ring-side audience, composed of the four teams' fighters, managers, promoters and coaches. The gossip was fascinating.
The Acton Aces, for example, were interesting. Geographically based on the western edge of the City, it was a 'scratch band' of fighters, brought together from the worlds of journalism and lawyers- basically, anyone from the mid-town area of Holborn, south of Kings Cross. Their nominal HQ was on Acton Street and Greys Inn Road, where their practice nights took place in the sports room of the National Union of Journalism. The talk tonight around the ring was all about a break-in that had taken place the night before. Sherlock was intrigued to discover that the teams engaged in what could only be described as prank warfare. In between the fight nights, 'raiding parties' would try to break into each other's territories and steal a trophy.
As the second fight of the night- the Cunningham Clasher versus the Acton Ace of Spades- got underway, the banter escalated.
"Got your candlesticks sitting on my sideboard, dickhead," shouted one of the Acton team fighters. Sherlock snorted. Not exactly a worthy theft. The man whom he was to fight in the next bout, the Cunningham Crusher, was teasing an Acton manager about the ball of twine that he was going to use "stringing up my Christmas lights". The Acton crew were grumbling about the mess the Cunningham team had left behind- ransacking the NUJ Library apparently, before making off with a barometer, a book on Homer and an ivory paperweight once owned by Daniel Defoe, from his early days as a journalist*. Apparently, it was a rule of honour never to steal anything worth something, lest the police need to be informed or an insurance claim made.
As the traffic signal at the intersection of Northwold Road and Stoke Newington High Street finally turned green, someone behind Sherlock tooted their car horn, waking him up from his detour into his Mind Palace. Grateful to be moving again, he accelerated away. He was less than ten minutes away from the morphine, and that spurred him on.
At this hour, he should really switch the ignition off and push the Norton the final hundred feet, rather than risk the sound of a recognisable engine carrying up to the third floor flat. But, as he came around the corner and onto Southey Street, he saw that the lights in that particular flat were out, so he took the risk of coming nearly to the garage down ramp before cutting the engine. He let the bike roll nearly to the lock up and then wearily clambered off. His left knee nearly buckled, sending a searing pain through his lower back, as he pushed the bike onto its kickstand. He had to take a few deep breaths to clear his head. He'd learned some pain management techniques in Tibet, but they were being tested tonight.
He pulled off a wet glove to fish his lock pick out of his pocket, and grimaced at the sight of his shaking hand. Not going to be easy to feel the tumblers. Luckily for him, the lock was pretty basic, and it only took him twice as long as it should have. Could've been worse. He wondered what would have happened if he'd broken a finger or knuckle in the fight.
He shoved the door and as it started to go up, Sherlock turned back to the bike and hauled it off the stand, only turning back as he heard the metal door rattle when it came to rest in the open position.
There was a pause as his brain caught up with the sight of a detective inspector sitting in the dark with arms folded, in a metal folding chair.
"Had a nice ride, Sherlock?" The question was mildly put, but was accompanied by an accusing look.
"Move, tho I can get the bike back where it belongth before I fall over."
Perhaps it was the weary tone of voice, or the lisping slur caused by the swollen mouth that did it, but Greg's reaction was immediate. The older man was on his feet, and coming out of the lock-up. "What's wrong?"
Sherlock didn't have the strength to answer, so he just pushed the bike past him, back into its usual spot over the oil stain, and then onto the stand. He then stumbled to the now vacant chair and sat down rather heavily, hands up to the helmet. He needed to get it off. His head was spinning, and he wondered if it might be so swollen that it might not come off. He had to give it a yank and it dragged across his swollen cheek and right eye, as well as scraping the barely formed scab off his lip. He grunted in pain.
The light blazed on as Lestrade flipped the switch, and Sherlock cringed. Just what he didn't need- the jolt of visual sensory stimulation shot across his cerebral cortex like a rocket-propelled grenade and he gasped at exactly the same time as Lestrade did, when he saw the damage.
"What the HELL happened to you?!"
He kept his eyes screwed tightly shut. "Fight club."
"You've been…participating in a fight club match?"
"Hmmm. Best way to find out what'th happening." This was mumbled around an increasingly sore lip, which was now sending a fresh rivulet of blood down his chin. He cracked one eye open, to see the concerned face of Lestrade, who was crouching down so he could take a closer look. Sherlock quickly shut his eye again. Go away. He needed to get to the bolt hole and relief soon. It wasn't like he'd not had to deal with this level of pain before; more than once, Lars Sigursson dealt with the aftermath of incidents beyond his control. He just needed rest, and relief for a day or two.
Unfortunately, the presence of a detective inspector delayed both, which was a serious nuisance. The pain was heading rapidly to synaesthesia. Even in the darkness of his closed eyes, lightning jolts of colour and sound were visible each time Lestrade used a hard c phoneme. The scent of iron in his own blood mingled with a lime aroma. Wonder where that comes from? Synaesthesia would be interesting, if it weren't the product of a nervous system overloaded with pain.
"Sherlock, it wasn't murder. You said so yourself- no crime scene, just an accidental death. Why are you still investigating? We've closed the case."
The Cs in Lestrade's use of the words 'crime', 'closed' and 'case' set off a thunderstorm across his eyelids. Sherlock started to shake his head, but the muscles in the back of his neck screamed in protest, so he stopped. "Thumpthing's going on." He grimaced at the way his swollen lip made his words come out funny.
"Thumping? Yeah- and you're the one who's been thumped."
Sherlock tried to smirk through the pain, but wasn't sure if his lip would oblige with the correct facial expression. "You thould thee the other guy; he got carted off in an ambulanth with a suspected broken neck." Ow- even my own hard Cs are starting to hurt.
"Is he going to press charges for battery and assault? Christ, Sherlock- what kind of a mess have you gotten yourself into?"
This time Sherlock visibly flinched at the man's chosen swear work. He managed to shake his head. It hurt marginally less than trying to talk. But the action set off ripples elsewhere. The pain across his lower back was beginning to push its way up the priority list, and he found himself wondering about his kidney. He started to pant, thinking that it wouldn't be long before he needed to vomit. Morphine, I need morphine.
"What else of you is damaged?" Lestrade's voice conveyed his worry.
"I'm fine." All I need is waiting for me in a needle, so just leave me to it.
"Like hell you are. We're going to talk about you nicking my bike without permission- but only after I get you to an A&E."
"No." He delivered this in his most emphatic baritone. "If you eben try, I'm out of here."
There was an exasperated sigh. "Speaking of that- just where've you been hiding out? People have been looking for you since Saturday."
"None of your buithneth."
"It is my business when you steal my bike."
The K crashed like a cymbal in Sherlock's ear. "Didn't thteal, borrowed."
There was another sigh. "Are you keeping your eyes closed because that shiner you're getting hurts, or is the overhead light bothering you?"
Sherlock decided honesty would work. "Bwoth." Allodynia was starting, too- he gritted his teeth and started to wiggle out of the biker jacket. The pressure of it across his shoulders has like liquid fire; his nerves were starting to confuse the pain signals. He really needed to get some morphine- even if Lestrade's presence here meant he had to walk away from what was waiting for him in the bolt hole. If he had to go find a dealer, he would. The agitation of his senses was starting to add up- and he knew that a meltdown was lurking just over the horizon.
Sherlock started to get up. Two hands were placed on the top of his shoulders and pushed him back into the chair.
"You're not going anywhere."
"I'm cold, need to move." Uncontrollable shivers were shaking his torso, the result of muscle spasms as much as the temperature.
"Then you're coming upstairs where I can take a proper look at you, get you into a warm bath and see if it's actually possible to keep you out of a hospital tonight."
"Lethtrade." He'd wanted it to come out as a threat, a sort of back off warning, but the cumulative effects of the night seemed to gang up on him, and it came out more as a cry for help. How did that happen?
Those same two arms were now under his and helping him to stand. Lestrade must have turned off the light because Sherlock was grateful for the darkness that descended.
Author's Note: *For those of you into ACD canon, you will have recognised the items as my homage to The Reigate Squires, upon which a number of incidents and characters in this story are based. I do SO love playing the Mofftiss game!