Speechless

Chapter 1.4: Your Tight Jeans and Your Long Hair

"I suppose you'll want to follow me back to New Scotland Yard, right?" Lestrade smirked at Sherlock.

The younger man sighed. "Not particularly. Still, I suppose it might help me get a feel for how badly your people are mucking this case up."

Lestrade glared at him. "Well, you'd better not say that to them, all right?"

"And why not? It's the truth."

His fist hit the table before he even realized what he was doing. "Because it's bloody rude! You can't treat people like that!"

"So I'm to play nice and pretend they aren't all incompetent fools, hmm? Ok, I suppose I can try."

Lestrade felt a sharp stab to his gut at Sherlock's backhanded agreement. He wondered what the man thought of him. Did he lump him into that category, after everything he'd. . . but it didn't really matter. All that mattered was catching the killer before he struck again.

"Come on," he said softly. "We need to find you some clothes."

Dressing Sherlock continued to prove a challenge as all of Lestrade's clothes were either too loose or too short on the lanky man. They finally settled on a loose white button-up tucked into a pair of Aster's black jeans. Even his wife's pants wouldn't stay on the man without a belt, but it was better than nothing.

Lestrade frowned at the man in front of him. He looked ridiculous.

"I don't know. We don't really have time to go shopping, but. . ."

Sherlock smirked, his blue eyes playful. "What? Think I'll embarrass you in front of your friends, Lestrade?"

"Yes." He grinned. "But not because of your clothes."

Lestrade pulled his long black coat off of the chair where he had laid it the night before after stripping it off the unconscious Sherlock, and handed it to him.

"Put this on. It'll make the shirt look less tent like."

Sherlock complied, then looked at himself in the full-length mirror critically. When he turned back to the detective, his eyes were radiant.

"You do know I'm never giving this back, don't you?"

Lestrade chuckled nervously. He had to admit, the look worked for him. It was certainly better than the rags he'd been wearing when they met. And besides, he could always get a new coat. . . Though Aster would probably murder him when she found out. The coat had been a Christmas present, and he suspected had been more than a little out of budget. He gulped at the thought of the firestorm to come.

"It suits you," he replied cautiously.

"Great!" replied Sherlock. "Now, can we go? I'm getting bored."

Lestrade sighed as the man dragged him outside. This was going to be a long case.

As they drove to the station, Lestrade fiddled with the radio nervously. Sherlock had been strangely silent, and he didn't like quiet that much. He smiled as he hit upon a station playing turn-of-the-century ballads. Old love songs were a secret indulgence of his, and the one currently playing was one of his favorites.

He hummed along to himself, singing snatches of the chorus under his breath. There was nothing more soothing than a light-hearted melody and simple words in light of all the chaos and anguish he had witnessed. To know that somewhere, even if just in the collective unconscious, there was a place of innocence and love. . . That was what gave him the strength to keep defending his ungrateful city.

"Let me hear you whisper that you love me too," he sang softly.

His reverie was broken by a loud cackling noise from the passenger seat. He slammed on the breaks in panic, having forgotten all about his passenger.

"What the hell?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was being a dolphin."

Lestrade stared at him, mystified and still trying to calm down his racing heart. "Why? For the love of God, why would you do that?"

He rolled his eyes. "Clearly, you need to spend more time reading your case files. Let Me Hear You Whisper was the last production Fox did before Hamlet. Played the dolphin. Not exactly the role for a leading man."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "So what does that have to do with you being a driving hazard?"

Sherlock gasped, grabbing the wheel. "Let's go! To the radio station! Dinner says the killer's there!"

"But what about my team?"

"Oh, I'll text them while you drive. Go!"

Lestrade sped off, breaking more than a few traffic laws. He gulped, thinking about how much trouble he was going to be in if the man next to him was wrong. And how much did he really know about him, anyway?

He had no reason to trust Sherlock. The man was a homeless junkie who made ridiculous claims and didn't understand the first thing about common decency. What was he even doing with such a man? Lestrade had always had a reputation for being level-headed and by the book. In the course of a few days, he had thrown all of that out of the window. And for what? The hunches of a man barely older than a schoolboy?

"I'm not wrong, you know," muttered Sherlock. "So you can stop worrying. I don't have hunches. I have conclusions. And I know I'm right."

He waved Lestrade's phone at him. "Besides, your people are on their way. Though why that would make you feel any more secure is beyond me."

Lestrade shot him a quick look of surprise. "And when did you nick my mobile?"

"Oh, a while ago. You really need to learn to be more observant."

As Sherlock had said, Lestrade's team had arrived on the scene before they did, and had already taken the liberty of forming a perimeter.

"Status report," barked Lestrade as he leapt from the car.

Anderson nodded. "No one's been in or out for the last five minutes. If the killer's here, he's not going anywhere."

Sherlock glared at the man. "And what if he left before you got here, hmm?"

Anderson turned to Lestrade, gesturing at the man. "Who's he then? I thought you didn't like spectators."

Sherlock hissed slightly at being called a spectator.

Lestrade sighed. "Relax, he's with me." He turned to Sherlock. "You think he fled?"

"No. But if he did, he probably hasn't gotten far. Have your men widen the perimeter."

"But we don't even know who we're looking for," retorted Anderson, clearly not taking kindly to being given orders by a civilian.

"Of course you don't. But I do."

He pulled out a newish-looking Nokia smartphone from his pocket and began typing on it. Suddenly, he brightened.

"Mark Ferris. Well-known DJ and theatre patron. Here's his website."

He handed the device to Lestrade, who looked at him critically.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

Lestrade turned to his men. "You're looking for a man in his mid-forties, blonde hair, green eyes. Short and squat."

As they headed off to search for the man, Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside.

"Where did you get this, Sherlock? This is a brand new phone, and you can't even afford clothing."

He stared into Lestrade's eyes, boring deeply and intensely into him. Lestrade could feel his face pale as he responded.

"You already know the answer. I stole it."

"You. . . You really shouldn't be telling me that."

"Shouldn't I?" he murmured. Sherlock's eyes softened with a glint of what seemed to be an overwhelming sadness just barely concealed by sarcasm. He stepped closer to the detective until he could feel the man's breath on his cheek. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Lestrade felt his breath catch. This was not how he'd expected any of this to go. He shook his head.

"Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't going to work. I have no intention of arresting you. Not when our killer is still on the loose. But you need to be more careful."

Sherlock backed away, the glint in his eyes concealed once more. "So do you."

Sorry for the wait! I had a LOT of trouble with this section. . . I'll update again on Wednesday! -GN