Speechless

Chapter 1.3: James Dean Glossy Eyes

May 19, 2004

It was well into the next morning when Sherlock finally woke to more than just a glassy half-consciousness. By that point, Lestrade had fallen asleep in a chair beside the bed, his body bent nearly double as he slumped forward, forehead resting against the blue-flowered bedspread Aster had picked out.

He was roused by the odd sensation of being tilted backwards, and looked up groggily to meet the bright intelligent eyes of the man he had pulled off the street.

"Good morning, detective," said Sherlock, his deep voice rich with bemusement.

Lestrade shuddered, though he wasn't entirely sure why. Something in that tone just. . .

"Morning?" He asked, stretching. His back cracked stiffly as he tried to get into a somewhat more professional position, and he groaned softly. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Well, judging by what time we met and the time on the alarm clock by your bed, it's been a good twenty hours since you brought me here. How long you've been asleep is harder to deduce, since I was unconscious well before you were. But judging by the amount of drool you've left on the bedspread, I'd say at least five hours."

Lestrade looked down at the bed, blushing slightly as he noted that the man was right. He had left a bit of a wet spot on the comforter.

"Great." He smiled up at the man, who was staring rather quizzically at the clothes Lestrade had dressed him in the morning before. It wasn't easy finding clothes that fit him, so he had been forced to make do with a pair of blue drawstring flannel pants that he'd tied as tight as possible and one of his tighter-fitting white t-shirts. Even the smallest shirt he owned made Sherlock look like a seven year old who had gotten into daddy's closet. He smiled at the image of Sherlock as a child, then shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

"Right. Well, I'm going to go make some breakfast for us then. What are you in the mood for?"

"I'm not," muttered Sherlock.

Lestrade stared at him in dismay. "You aren't hungry?"

The younger man smiled enigmatically. "I don't really eat," he replied.

"No wonder you're so emaciated. Come on. At least some beans and toast."

"Really, you don't have to bother. You've done more than enough for me already."

Lestrade glared at him.

"I don't think you understand, Sherlock. That isn't a request."

"Just because you're used to people following your orders, Detective Inspector -"

He couldn't hold back any longer. Lestrade grabbed the man roughly by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"That is not what this is about," he shouted, eyes aflame. "You said you wanted to work with me. Fine. I can use all the help I can get. But what use to me are you if you are so starved that you can't even think properly, or so messed up from drugs that you can't even move? I was willing to overlook all that because it's none of my business."

He gripped the man's arms tighter, as if trying to inject common sense into him through his fingers. "But I guess that's not really true, is it? Here I've brought you into my home, bathed you, clothed you, and trusted you not to murder me in my sleep, and I don't even really know who you are! If I'm supposed to trust you, I need to be able to rely on you. And I can't if you're dead."

Sherlock looked away awkwardly. It was clear that he wasn't used to someone actually caring if he lived or died. Lestrade's face and voice softened in compassion, but his harsh tone remained.

"So here's the deal. You will go into the kitchen. You will sit at the table and eat every bite of the breakfast I'm going to make for you. And you will bloody well enjoy it. If you refuse, I will arrest you for the murder of John Fox."

Sherlock smirked slightly at this, making eye contact for the first time since Lestrade began shouting at him.

"But why would you do that? You don't think I'm guilty, do you?"

"Of course not." Lestrade smiled wickedly at him. He knew that he'd backed the younger man into a corner, and God help him, he was enjoying it. "But at least in prison they'll make sure you get three meals a day, have adequate clothing, and a roof over your head."

Sherlock nodded in approval. "Well played, Lestrade. You aren't as stupid as I thought. Fine. I'll eat your damned breakfast."

As they ate a hearty meal of eggs, toast, and Lestrade's rather sad attempt at pancakes, Some colour started spreading to Sherlock's face. Lestrade smiled at this sign of life returning. It reminded him of a time when he was just a boy, when he had rescued a particularly unhappy mouse from a trap his father had set. He had nursed it back to health in secret, then released it. . .

Of course, being a mouse, he had found it dead in the same trap no more than a week later. He hoped his latest project survived a bit longer than that. Though, judging by the way the man was picking at his food. . .

He coughed, drawing the bemused gaze of his breakfast companion.

"Yes? What is it?"

Lestrade nodded at Sherlock's plate. "I expect you to finish that. I told you before, eating is important."

"Eating's boring. When are we going to get back to that delicious case of yours?"

He sighed. "Fine. I can still have you arrested, you know."

"But you won't. Even if you want to, you won't."

"And why's that?"

"Because you're starting to like having me around. I can tell by the way you're sitting. Legs crossed, but to the left, not the right. That suggests comfort and ease of mind. Back straight, but not rigid. Clearly, you're rather enjoying me as a challenge. And then there's your hands."

Lestrade smirked at him. This was bullshit. "My hands?"

Sherlock smirked back. "Yes, your hands. You've been fiddling with them all through breakfast."

"I thought that meant discomfort," muttered Lestrade, quickly hiding his hands behind his back.

"Only if you were wringing your fingers. But you haven't been. You've been caressing the tops of your hands with your thumbs in circular motions. And that implies something else entirely."

"And what's that?" Lestrade really didn't want to know. As a police officer, he believed in body language. But this man. . . He confused the hell out of him.

To his relief, the younger man simply winked at him and dropped the subject. "So you won't arrest me. But I know that, in about thirty seconds, you'll sigh in exasperation and hand me the case folder. And before you ask, no, I'm not psychic."

"Then how could you possibly know that?"

He looked at him with a note of seriousness in his blue eyes. "Because, as I told you before, you need me. A hell of a lot more than I need you."

Lestrade felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. He'd known Sherlock didn't really want his help. But all the same, couldn't he be at least a tiny bit grateful?

He sighed in exasperation and handed him the case folder. Not that it mattered.

"Fine. But we're doing this my way. You stay close to me at all times. No wandering off. And don't touch anything without asking first. I'm breaking enough regulations just letting you tag along. I don't need a suspension right now."

"Mhm," muttered Sherlock distractedly, his eyes bright with interest as he read through the file.

Lestrade grimaced. There was no way the man was actually going to do a damn thing he asked of him, was there?