Speechless

Chapter 2.1: Could We Fix You If You Broke?

June 5, 2004

As days turned into weeks, life in the Lestrade household slowly oozed into a comfortable equilibrium. Sherlock seemed to keep to himself most of the time, only coaxed out of his room by Lestrade's frequent reminders to eat and bathe. Besides his stubborn refusal to take care of himself, he was a well-behaved houseguest.

Even Aster seemed to adjust to his presence. Lestrade caught her smiling after the younger man more and more often as time passed.

"What?" she retorted one night as he was unable to suppress a rising chuckle.

"Nothing. It's just. . . You like having him around, don't you?"

She frowned slightly. "Not particularly. He's a bit obnoxious. But all the same. . ."

She sighed, wrapping her arms leisurely about his neck. "I think he's good for you. I don't know exactly, but. . . You seem different. Happier. I haven't seen you like this in a long time, Greg. It's like, for the first time in years, there's that light of hope in your eyes."

She smiled gently, kissing the tip of his nose. "It's nice to see that again."

He laughed, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her towards their bedroom. Aster was right, after all. He really was happy. But there was a lingering fear clinging to the back of his mind like an ancient barnacle, leeching off the joy that grew there. He wasn't sure why, but he had this nagging feeling that soon, the other shoe would drop. And when it did, his beautiful world would be shot to hell again.

He shook his head. No, that was just the cynicism of years of veiled unhappiness talking, trying to ruin what he had. He shouldn't listen to that voice at all. But all the same …

"Sherlock, where the hell did you get that?" Lestrade pointed in disgust at the skull that was perched on the bedside table of the younger man's room.

"Pinched it from your evidence box. I rather like it." Sherlock smirked at him, his vibrant eyes bright with amusement. "What, you don't like it?"

Lestrade face-palmed, sighing in exasperation. "You can't just steal evidence, Sherlock. I mean, really. What the hell were you thinking?"

"What? The case is closed. Ferris is in prison. You don't really need it any more."

"That's not. . . Why do you even need a skull?"

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath, falling back on his bed with a sigh like a grounded teenager.

"I didn't quite catch that."

"I wanted a friend." The tone of his voice. . . Something wasn't right.

Lestrade sighed, sitting on the bed next to him and staring down into that pale, melancholy face. Sherlock was fighting to suppress his sadness, but he was doing a pretty terrible job of it. That deep-rooted sorrow beamed from his eyes like headlights. Before he quite realized what he was doing, Lestrade reached out and brushed those dark curls off of the younger man's forehead. It was a simple enough gesture, but somehow, it said far more than he even wanted it to.

He shuddered slightly, pulling his hand back. Sherlock caught it in his own, clinging to it like a last bastion of hope, gazing up at Lestrade with desperation.

"Please. Don't."

"Don't what?" his voice was velvet in the silence of the small room.

"Leave."

He smiled gently down at Sherlock, his heart in his throat. What was the young detective so afraid of? Why would he ever leave him? True, he was frustrating to live with. He never cleaned up after himself, seemed to have no concept of social decorum, and frequently broke minor laws that made Lestrade cringe. But those disadvantages were significantly outweighed by the positives.

"Why would I ever do that?" he whispered, doing his best to ease Sherlock's mind.

"Everyone always does, sooner or later. I'm not. . . Good with people. They are so easy to unravel. You and Aster are no exceptions. And before either of you realize, you will either toss me to the street or I will leave on my own before you have the chance. No one really wants me around. I don't. . . I don't have friends, Lestrade. Except for John."

"John?"

Sherlock gestured at the skull.

"You. . . You named the skull. After the dead actor we found with it." Lestrade had to fight to suppress a chuckle. He wasn't sure if this was hilarious or too sick for words.

Sherlock flared up at him in anger. "Look," he snarled, "the only people who won't leave are dead ones. They don't have a choice in the matter."

In a mix of rage and pity, Lestrade hauled the young man off the bed by his housecoat, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"For a genius, you really are so daft," he muttered. "If you don't have friends, what the hell am I?"

He felt Sherlock collapse into his arms, sobbing gently against his shoulder.

"Shh," he whispered. "Oh, come now. Everything's fine. I'm not going anywhere. And you can keep the bloody skull, if it means that much to you."

"It's not about the skull," sobbed Sherlock gently. "I just. . . I sometimes get like this, where nothing makes sense. Like I'm trapped in the darkness of myself. I've done. . . I'm not good at being human."

Lestrade pulled back, holding the man out at arms length and staring point-blank into his bloodshot eyes. "I understand. Better than you know. But it's not all darkness, Sherlock. One of these days, I hope you'll learn to see the light in yourself too. If all you were was darkness, I wouldn't have wanted to look after you.. You're so much better than you've allowed yourself to be. And I know this won't make the sadness go away. But look at me. Really look at me."

Sherlock stared into his eyes, confused.

"You told me once that we were the same. And I think, in a way, you were right. I've done things that torture me, Sherlock. I have the same dark sorrow on my heart. But what separates us is that I fight it. You don't. You let it control you."

"I don't know how to," he whispered, his voice shaking. "It's too strong."

"Let me help you." Lestrade smiled kindly at him. "And you can start by letting me in."

Sherlock shook his head sadly. "I don't. . . I don't want you to."

"Why not?"

"Because you deserve better."

The younger man pried himself away, walking out the door and into the kitchen.

"So do you," whispered Lestrade under his breath, staring idly down at the dusty floor.

Hooray for the origin of the skull! Part 2 of Chapter 2 will be up Monday!