Speechless

Chapter 1.5: Cigarette-stained Lies

Lestrade stared at his plate, mind lost in thought rather than engaged in any particular interest in the mess of over-sweetened chicken and rice. How the hell had Sherlock known where the killer would be? Who would have ever made the connection between a song on a DJ's playlist and the death of a blossoming actor? Those two events, connected by such a thin string. . . Lestrade would have overlooked it as a coincidence.

One thing was certain: this had been one of the fastest cases he'd ever worked on, thanks to the lanky man sitting opposite.

Sherlock picked at his food, apparently believing that if he moved it around his plate it would look like he'd actually eaten something. Lestrade coughed.

"You do realize that I had two younger siblings growing up, right? That trick's not going to work on me."

"And here you've proven yourself observant yet again." Sherlock smiled slightly at him, his eyes betraying the slightest pleasure at being caught. "Awfully selective, though. You watch my diet like a hawk, but still can't see clues that are right in front of you."

"I've been meaning to ask," replied Lestrade, who had gotten used to the man's insults, "How did you know it was Ferris? I mean, I understand the bit with the phone. But. . . If he was the killer, why would he give us such a big clue?"

Sherlock chuckled, taking a bite of Chinese. "Perhaps you should ask him that."

"You don't know?"

"Of course I do. But you won't believe it from me."

Lestrade shook his head. "That's not true. I trust you. Lord knows why. But I do."

Sherlock locked eyes with him, staring him down intensely. "You don't know me. Who I am, what I've done. . . And besides, that isn't the point. I understand you, Lestrade. Probably better than you even know yourself. And trust me or not, you would never be satisfied with a second-hand confession. You need to ask him, not because of me, but because of you. Who you are."

He frowned at the younger man, a soft anger burning inside him. "And who am I, then?"

"You're the man with the pretty little wife. The investigator who loves his city more than her. You play by the rules, keep your head down, and avoid conflict at all cost. But that's the surface. Underneath, behind all that pretense and security, that foolhardy faith in justice, you're just like me. And the thing that motivates you,. More than love, more than justice, more than honor. . ."

Sherlock smirked, poking him roughly in the chest with a chopstick. ". . . is truth. You want to know what makes people tick. And you really, really want to know what makes yourself tick. You think that catching criminals and talking to them will give you the answers. And maybe it will. I don't know. But you have to admit this to yourself: you love the chase. Every minute of it. It gives you a thrill so strong that it sickens you sometimes. I saw it in your eyes today."

Lestrade stared at him, unable to think of a reply. Was he right? But how could he be?

"You know what I think, Sherlock?"

"Probably. But tell me anyway."

Lestrade sighed. "I think we stopped talking about me a long time ago."

The interrogation room was cold and lifeless, the polar opposite of the jocose man across the table from the Detective Inspector. Ferris was, in every way, a radio personality. He was rather on the sweaty side, and not particularly what Lestrade would call attractive were he in the habit of calling men attractive. His watery pea-green eyes were far too small for his fat face, and his squat little pug nose deemed to sink into his cheeks like a melted candle.

"And here's my favorite scene," the man cooed in a mellow, friendly voice. "Where the copper finally confronts the killer, to learn the truth. It's the climax now. I wonder what will happen, hmm?"

"This isn't a play," retorted Lestrade.

"Ah, but it is! As the Bard said, all the world's a stage. We are merely actors, living out the roles we've been assigned. You, the law, the man of justice, screaming into the darkness that there must be a light switch somewhere. Your friend there, waiting in the back room, bearing witness to our dance, the anti-hero trying to find his purpose. And the angel of mercy and fame, who protects the celebritocracy."

"And that would be you?" Lestrade smirks. "You've confessed to murdering three prominent actors. How is that protecting them?"

Ferris laughed, his quadruple chins wobbling with delight. "Ah! Now there's the kicker. You haven't figured it out yet." He stared at the two-way mirror behind them. "He has, though."

Lestrade's eyes hardened. He hated being toyed with. "Tell me. I need to know. How is that protecting them?"

Ferris sighed. "It's simple. Every career has its ups and its downs. But the life of an actor, that tragic existence. . . The best rise quickly. But most fall even more quickly, plunging into obscurity or notoriety, forgotten within a decade. These shattered souls, so delicate, so dependent on the praise of others to sustain their identity. . . It breaks them."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "And murder doesn't break them?"

"I take them out when they've reached the height of fame, when people will remember them as a brilliant life cut short rather than a washed-up failure. At the cost of their life - a small price, really - I can give them immortality, a legacy. Don't you see?"

"All I see here is a murderer. No matter who your targets are, murder is wrong."

Ferris beamed at him. "Oh? And what about Croydon?"

Lestrade felt his blood turn to ice. How had he. . .?

"I was there," whispered the man, his voice raspy. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"How. . . How could I?" muttered Lestrade under his breath. He tried to stave off the shudder rising in his bones. He had been a young constable at the time, barely old enough to be on the force. . . It was self-defense. They had said so. Wasn't it? He wasn't a murderer. No, the man was just trying to get under his skin.

"Yes," replied Ferris, smiling gently. "I see you understand. I knew you would."

"No." Lestrade's voice sounded alien to him as if he were hearing it from a great distance away. "No, I don't understand. And I never will. I'm not like you, not in any way. And I hope you burn in hell."

"See you there," replied the radio host as he was escorted out of the room.

"Probably," said Lestrade to himself. He bowed over the table, whispering a soft prayer to himself.

Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in this day of battle. . .

The shudders slowly subsided. Perhaps he would sleep tonight after all.

When they arrived back at Lestrade's flat, Sherlock nodded at him awkwardly.

"Well, I should probably get going."

Lestrade frowned at him. "Sherlock, where are you planning on sleeping?"

"Well, my old spot's probably been taken by now. Good location. I'm sure I'll find a place, though. I'm rather good at looking out for myself by now." The last sentence reeked of bitterness.

Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder, feeling it stiffen with the contact. He removed it quickly. It was clear the younger man was unused to being touched in any form of affectionate gesture.

"No, you're bloody terrible at it. I can't let you do that. Come inside."

Sherlock smirked. "What about your wife? I got the feeling she wasn't thrilled about having me here."

"Aster's a good woman. She really is. And I'm sure she'll warm up to you. We have a spare bedroom, and I . . . I'd rather like to see it get used for more than storage. I think she'll agree. I'll call her when we get you settled."

"I don't want your charity, Lestrade. You've done more than enough already. I don't. . . I don't like owing people things."

He huffed angrily at the younger man. "You can't go through life like that, Sherlock. Nobody can. We need other people for the world to make sense, to survive, to be human."

"Then maybe I'm not human." That sadness again.

Lestrade felt a wave of empathy overtake him. Could it be that Sherlock really didn't think he was. . . But the man was incredible, so full of potential.

"Come now. You're human. As human as I am. And you deserve a little kindness."

"But you don't. . ."

"What? Don't know you, what you've done? Sure. But that doesn't matter, does it? Let me help you. Just for a little while."

The man nodded slowly, and let Lestrade lead him to the spare room.

"It's not much, but it's better than an alley any day," said Lestrade, gesturing to the small room. It was a simple space, with pale blue walls and a small twin bed in one corner. Most of the room was full of half-opened boxes which had been gathering dust for a while.

"I can freshen the sheets if you'd like. I'm afraid no one's -"

Lestrade was cut off by Sherlock's expression as the man turned to face him. His lips were parted slightly, as though he were unable to speak, and his eyes were bright with what could have been tears. At first, Lestrade thought it was gratitude, but then. . .

"I'm so sorry," whispered Sherlock, smiling sadly at him. "I didn't know. Are you sure I can stay here?"

He nodded. "It would be good to see the room get some use."

"What was his name?"

"Duncan." He said the name reverently. It was a name he hadn't spoken in so long that it tasted rusty in his mouth. "It's been almost two years now."

Sherlock nodded, his face quickly resuming equilibrium. "Thank you. I'll stay here for a while. As soon as I can find a place of my own, I'll be out of your way."

Lestrade nodded. "That's fair. I'll let you get settled, then. I'm sure Aster will have words for me."

"You what!" Aster's voice was harsh and mechanical over the phone. "Greg, I thought you said. . ."

"I know what I said." He sighed, running his hand through his hair. "But Aster, he doesn't have anywhere else to go. And if you took the time to get to know him . . ."

"I don't need to. He's a street person, dear. How do you know he won't just leave with all our money?"

"I trust him. Please, Aster. Won't you just trust me for once?"

She sighed, visibly annoyed. "Is he really that important to you?"

He thought for a moment. What was he doing? Why had he taken Sherlock in? Was it the look of wild desperation in his eyes the night they'd met? Was it penance for the sins of his past? Or was it something else? He wasn't sure. But he did know one thing.

"Yes," he replied. "Absolutely."

"Fine. But if he's going to be here longer than a month, you'll need to start charging him rent. And I'm not going to take care of him. He's your responsibility."

"Thank you," he replied.

Finally, everything was starting to fall into place.