Speechless
Chapter 1.2: You Gave Up
As he drove home, coatless and even more confused than he had been before meeting the enigmatic homeless man, Lestrade pondered exactly how fired he would be if he handed over copies of his case files to such a man.
The answer, he decided, was very.
And yet, he could not shake what Sherlock had said to him. You need me. The words echoed in his mind like some sort of oracle.
London was on the brink of disaster every day. The right crime going unpunished at absolutely the wrong time could easily lead to chaos in a city deep in the grip of class warfare. The city had never been safe, but Lestrade often wondered if perhaps when his children were born they should be raised elsewhere.
You need me.
Hundreds of cases slid across his desk every month. He had taken to sorting them into three piles: Misfiled, Homicide, and Straight to Cold Case. And the last pile had been getting larger every week. For every crime his department could solve, four would never be solved. Violent crime was on the rise, and it was harder to bring justice to a dying city.
You need me.
His staff were overworked, underpaid, and pessimistic. It seemed like they were getting visibly older and more jaded by the hour, and he could do nothing to raise their spirits. How could he, when he was as world-weary as the rest of them?
You need me.
"Damn it, he's right."
He sighed, turning his car around and speeding back to the theatre.
It didn't take Lestrade long to find the place again, but when he got there, he was nearly too late.
Sherlock was curled tightly in a ball near where the detective had left him, shuddering. Lestrade initially assumed that it was because the man was still cold, but as he touched his shoulder cautiously, he could feel warmth emanating off the man's body.
"Are you alright?" he asked cautiously, brown eyes warm with concern.
The other man turned his head slightly to look at him. His eyes were bloodshot and beginning to glaze over. He muttered incoherently under his breath as his face spasmed. Whatever was happening to him, it was definitely not good.
"I'm calling an ambulance," stated Lestrade matter-of-factly.
Sherlock's eyes grew wide in panic. "N-no!" he protested. "Please."
Lestrade sighed. Clearly, whatever was wrong with the man was something he didn't want doctors involved in. He nodded gently, though he wondered silently exactly what kind of trouble this man had gotten himself in. Probably drug withdrawl.
"Well, I'm not leaving you here. Come on."
Ignoring the sickly man's protests, he threw him over his shoulder and half-dragged half-carried him back to his car.
By the time Lestrade had gotten back to his flat, the man's shaking had subsided. He looked over at him, his heart catching in his throat. The man was even paler than when they had met, if that were possible, and his face was slick with sweat.
"I really should get you to a hospital," Lestrade muttered to the unconscious man. "But fine. We'll do it your way."
He carried the man up the stairs to his apartment. Though Sherlock was light as a child, Lestrade still had trouble hauling his dead weight up the two flights. As he huffed in front of his door, he reminded himself that it was really time to go on a diet.
He was just about to fit his key to the door when it burst open, revealing Aster, her eyes aflame.
"And where the hell have you been? I told you, you have to get some sleep! And -"
She paused, noticing the man draped across his shoulder.
"No. No no. How many times have I told you not to bring strangers home?"
He sighed, pleading with her with his eyes.
"He's in trouble, Aster. Please, just for today."
She lifted Sherlock's head by his hair, wincing at the grease and filth of the tangled mess. He moaned gently, but did not open his eyes.
"A drug addict. Perfect."
"Please."
She sighed in resignation, waving idly at the bathroom.
"Suit yourself. But at least give him a bath. And he's your responsibility, Greg. I'll be at my mother's until he's gone."
He nodded, smiling in relief. "That's fair. I'll call you when he's gone."
As his wife returned to the bedroom to pack her things, he turned his attention to Sherlock, lugging him into the bathroom and leaning him against the tub. Then he stared at him for a few moments, willing himself to do what he had to do.
Lestrade was hardly squeamish, but the idea of stripping a grown man naked and washing his unconscious flesh seemed more than a little invasive. What if the man woke up while he was washing him? He had seemed friendly enough in the alley, but the cold intensity in those eyes. . . Lestrade did not want to be on the wrong end of that glare, that was for sure.
He inhaled deeply, rolling up his sleeves and starting the water. The sooner he got this over with, the better.
It didn't take him long to remove Sherlock's clothes. Most of them were practically falling off already. Lestrade started folding the torn shirt, threadbare trousers, and patched coat before he simply shook his head. These needed to be burned.
As he gently scrubbed the filth off of the homeless man with an old washcloth, holding his head out of the warm water with one arm, he was shocked to realize how young he was. The skeletal face, once cleared of grime, proved to be of a man barely a man at all. He couldn't be much more than twenty, but his body had suffered all manners of abuse. Bruises both fresh and faded revealed themselves, as did needle marks all over his thin arms. Lestrade smoothed over them gently with his fingers, frowning sadly. Heroin? No, the needle marks were too thin for that. Some other drug, then. Probably cocaine.
As he reached up to shampoo the young man's hair, long, bony fingers curled lightly about his wrist. He gasped in shock, staring into those glowing sea breeze eyes.
"You. . . don't have to. ." muttered Sherlock, still barely conscious.
Lestrade smiled at him, his heart breaking a little with the look of desperation on the younger man's face.
"Yes, I do. Now rest. Everything will be alright."
"I. . ."
Sherlock's voice trailed off as he faded once more out of consciousness.
Lestrade sat on the corner of his bed, watching Sherlock sleep. He had barely known the man a few hours, and yet he felt an overwhelming need to keep him safe at any cost.
He had tried to feed him, but could only get him to swallow some weak broth and tea. He knew that the younger man was going to need something more substantial, but he did not know how to get him to keep it down. He smiled softly, brushing strands of still-damp hair away from Sherlock's face. Once clean, his hair was really quite beautiful and soft, almost like Aster's. Lestrade couldn't help but wonder what had happened to bring someone like Sherlock to the dark place he'd found him.
He shook his head. It didn't really matter. Not any more. Now that he was under Lestrade's watchful eye, whatever had happened would never happen again.