Devonshire Squires Chapter Nineteen

Damn, damn, damn! Lestrade's hand was shaking a bit as he scrolled down the phone list. He found Mycroft's number. He's going to eat me alive.

At the time, it had seemed the right thing to do. Lestrade had manhandled a barely-conscious Sherlock into the lift and then into his flat. At the door, he leaned Sherlock up against the wall, one hand on his chest to keep him upright, while he fumbled in his coat pocket with the other hand for his front door key.

He had to half carry Sherlock into the room, and used his leg to pull around a chair before lowering the younger man into it. While his arm was around Sherlock, he could feel the younger man shivering.

"Sit here for a minute while I run a bath." Sherlock dropped his head onto his folded arms in his lap and didn't answer. A moment later, Greg was back with an old towel. "Use this on your face; blood is a bitch to get out of this carpet."

No reply- or movement, either. Greg decided to keep the ambient light to a minimum, switching on just one of the table lamps. He came back and dangled the towel in front of the chair.

"Sherlock, if you dare pass out on me, then I'm calling 999."

That threat seemed to provoke a bit of life. A hand reached up and snatched the towel, burying his face into it.

"Right. Do you want a cup of tea before, during or after the bath? Then it's going to be hot soup and I'll make up the couch for you."

No answer.

"Sherlock. A little co-operation is needed here."

There was a muffled reply, the words soaked up by the towel.

"Try again, this time without the towel."

There was a groan, but at least Sherlock lifted his head a few inches. "No tea. I need pain relief. Thtrong pain relief. Heroin will do in a pinch, but morphine would be better." He dropped his head back in his lap.

"Like that's going to happen, Sherlock. If the pain is that bad, then the next stop is Whipps Cross A it's only fifteen minutes from here."

"Thtop threatening me. I've lived through far worth than thith and not needed a doctor. I juth need to...turn off whath going on in my head."

"Let me take a proper look at what's making you talk funny and that eye."

Keeping his eye closed. Sherlock lifted his head again, and Greg took a look at blood coming from his upper lip. He snorted. "That's the same spot where John clocked you. Open up and let me see if your teeth are still there."

That got him a scowl. "They're fine. Juth my lip."

"Open your sore eye." Lestrade was inspecting the purple bruising that was coming out around the Sherlock's swollen eye. He sniffed. The eye itself that opened a crack to look out at him was a bit bleary and blood shot, but he'd seen worse on Sherlock. His pale complexion always made things look worse. And the greased back hair didn't help.

"What've you done to your hair? I hope that muck isn't all over my helmet."

Sherlock snorted. "I'll buy you another when I'm done uthing yourth."

"That's over, as of tonight. In the meantime, let's get you into that bath, and let me see what else looks as bad as that eye."

Sherlock stood up, a trifle unsteadily, but brushed off the offered hand. He stalked off to the bathroom. "I know the way, Lethtrade, and don't need company." He shut the door rather firmly, and Greg smirked as he heard it locked. Snarky was a good sign. If the man felt well enough to be irritable, then he was probably right that the damage was superficial.

With hindsight, that was the second missed opportunity. If he'd actually seen the rest of the bruising and the track marks then, he might have done things differently. But, it had been two years. Greg had seen the damage done to his back when he'd first returned, and Sherlock had seemingly shrugged that off.

Greg went into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboard. Yes! He had a tin of soup that he knew Sherlock would eat- Heinz tomato soup. An old standby, but over the years, he'd learned what the man would and wouldn't eat. He put it into two bowls, slung them into the microwave and then went into the bedroom. Clothes- Sherlock would need something warm. And bedding- he grabbed a set of sheets and a blanket from the drawer under the box spring mattress.

As he passed the bathroom door carrying his pile, he gave it a thump with his elbow. "You still alive in there?" He dumped the soft cotton pyjamas on the floor beside the door. "Lucky for you, I've got something with a tie-waist that will fit you. It's here when you're ready".

There was a splash, followed by a baritone grunt.

Proof of life. That was the third missed opportunity. If the door hadn't been locked and he'd barged in there when Sherlock was in the bath, he'd have seen the damage in its full technicolour glory, as the hot water brought the bruising out all over his lower back and waist.

But that was hindsight talking. Back in the here and now, Greg prodded his phone at the right number and waited for his doom.

Two rings later, a voice he really had not missed for the past two years came on. "Detective Inspector, I do hope your calling at this ungodly hour is good news." Somewhere in the background, Greg could hear the soft chime of an expensive clock striking three o'clock. "Have you news of my brother?"

"Yeah. And the news…well, it's kind of mixed."

"Explain."

Whatever calm civility had been in the man's tone when he answered had vanished. This was Mycroft Holmes in command mode.

Greg drew breath. "Well, the good news is that he is alive and I've seen him. I figured out that he's been using my motorbike. I waited until he showed up at the lock-up at half past midnight. Turns out he's been investigating that Fight Club death, by going undercover as one of the fighters. Tonight was fight night, and he came back bloody and covered in bruises. I took him upstairs to my flat and got some food into him, and let him crash on my sofa."

"And you didn't call me then. Unwise."

There was more than condemnation in that last word, a lot more than Greg liked. He tried to keep the defensiveness out of his reply. "Yeah, well, I've seen him sleep off worse than this. Or so I thought, at the time."

"What changed?"

"Once he was asleep, I went off to bed myself. About ninety minutes later, there was an almighty crash, and I came into the living room to find him on the floor, having a fit."

There was a brief pause on the other end of the phone. Then, quietly, "how long did it last?"

Greg grimaced. "Can't be sure, can I? He might have been doing it on the sofa, before he fell off. When I was in the room, it was...I don't know a little less than five minutes, but I didn't have a watch on at the time." He tried to keep his voice calm, but it wasn't easy. It had been one of the more horrible sights. A grand mal epileptic seizure was never pretty, and when it was someone he cared about…well, it was hard to shift the image out of his mind. When he was a young constable, he'd had to deal with a man who collapsed in the street. In that case, the man's wife knew about the epilepsy and helped him keep the guy from harming himself until the ambulance came; that had been a status fit- lasted longer than thirty minutes.

An icy tone cut across his reliving the scene. "And now for the bad news; am I to assume that my brother is no longer with you in your flat?"

"Nope. He's done a bunk, though how, I do not know."

"Don't tell me what you don't know. Explain what you do know. What happened when he recovered consciousness?" It was said with steel in the words.

"Well, that depends on what you mean by full consciousness. He was awake fairly quickly, but sort of out of it. I got him into the bathroom and changed out the wet pyjamas." He stopped, not sure how to say the next part without provoking the inevitable "I told you so" from the elder Holmes.

"Just say it, Lestrade. It is too early in the morning to waste time." There was a certain resignation in Mycroft's tone.

"That's when I saw the track marks. He's using again."

"And you still thought it right not to call? That was incredibly stupid."

"Yeah, well, he said it was from when he first got back, when you allowed him to use in order to get him on his feet again and chasing your blasted terrorists."

"And you believed him. Your judgment is highly questionable."

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, which was still hurting from where he'd fallen asleep sitting up. "While we trade insults here, he's out there. So, let me finish, will you?" He took a breath and started in again. "Once he started to come back to a bit more sense, he got bolshie. He just wrapped himself up in a clean sheet, then marched back to the living room. He had no idea he'd had a fit, just told me I was exaggerating. He said he'd had a nightmare and fallen off the sofa; that was all."

He decided not to tell Mycroft about the argument that had then taken place.

"Sherlock, this is serious. I'm taking you into A&E. If you won't come, then I'll call an ambulance."

"Piss off. You try that and I will walk out of here wearing nothing but this sheet." The swelling around his lip had obviously gone down enough for him to sound normal.

"You're in no shape to argue."

That earned him a Sherlockian death stare. "Don't push it. I am more than capable of killing people. If you try to threaten me, I can incapacitate you quite easily, even in my current state. Don't mistake these bruises; they're the result of having to play by rules." He loaded that last word with utter contempt.

There was something new in that threat. The Sherlock who had returned from whatever he'd been up to over the two years was a different man from the one Greg had known before. Meaner. More volatile and angry. Lestrade had never before been afraid of Sherlock. Afraid for him, yes, but never personally threatened by him until tonight.

Enough is enough. "Alright then, I'm calling John."

That made Sherlock stand up. "No- that's even more awful than A&E."

Greg exploded. "What the fuck is going on between you two? You two are worse than I was with Louise when we were having our let's-not-talk-about-what-is-really-pissing-us-off phase."

Going to sleep with his hair still wet from the bath had given Sherlock a totally dishevelled look. Add to that the effects of the fit, and he now looked half mad, an effect he compounded by shouting "Just STOP TALKING! I don't have the patience to deal with this now!"

"Sherlock, you can't expect me to ignore this. For God's sake, you could have been bleeding into your brain for hours and the fit is just a symptom."

"Shut up. You don't know anything." His eyes now bored into Greg's with a ferocity that was unsettling. "It's happened before the fight- just think of it as an after-shock of something that occurred while I was away. Nothing to be concerned about. Discussion over, I just need to sleep." He flopped down, and threw the blanket on the sofa over him, pulling it over his head, too.

Faced with such implacability, Greg made his final miscalculation of the night. He'd sat down in the chair in the living room, determined to keep watch. Unfortunately, sometime later fatigue got the better of his resolve and he'd fallen asleep. When he woke up ninety minutes later, the sofa was empty.

Greg decided to bite the bullet. "When did he start having fits, Mycroft? That's not been his scene in all the years I've known him."

A brief pause, then Mycroft replied, "He had them as a child, when he was ten. He's had one that I know about since returning to London."

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"The relevant health authorities have all been advised."

"Christ, Mycroft. If I had known…"

"You would have not done anything differently, Detective Inspector. That is your weakness with him. Ever thus; you let Sherlock decide what is right for him. It is the principal reason why you and I have had entirely too many of these calls over the years."

For once, Greg felt that Mycroft's critical tone was probably justified.

"I'm sorry." And he was, truly. He'd botched the one chance this week of getting Sherlock the help he so clearly needed.

"I do not have that luxury of feeling regret, Lestrade. Do me the courtesy of checking to see if your motorbike is still there, while I alert my people. If he left wearing only a sheet, then it should be possible to track him for a short while. Pity you took so long to wake up and call us. He now has too much of a head-start for us to be certain of catching him again, thanks to your stupidity."

The connection was broken, and Greg was left looking down at his phone in dismay. Oh, Sherlock, what is going on with you?