Speechless

Chapter 2.2: Is Your Punch Line Just a Joke?

June 14, 2004

There was a knock on the door, a not unfamiliar occurrence in the Lestrade household. However, when Lestrade opened the door, he was greeted with a very unfamiliar sight indeed. A tall, well-groomed man stood at the opening, wearing a sad sort of smile not unlike the one he had seen so often play across Sherlock's lips. Without waiting for an invitation, the man brushed Lestrade aside and swept into the room like a countess.

"So this is the flat of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland Yard," he remarked to himself, glancing around the front room. "Funny, thought it would be bigger."

He grimaced at the sight of unwashed breakfast dishes in the sink. "Eh, could be worse, I suppose."

Lestrade frowned at the intrusion. "Who the hell are you, and why are you in my house?"

"Mmm," hummed the man, smirking slightly at him. "Oh, me? Just a concerned citizen. Wondering if you know exactly what kind of man you've got living with you."

"That's none of your business."

"Oh, I believe you'll find that it absolutely is my business. And it should also be yours. Haven't you even bothered to look into his background?"

Lestrade sighed. "The thought had occurred to me, yes. But I trust him. God knows he drives me bonkers sometimes, but he's never given me a reason not to."

"He will." The man frowned at him. "He will, and when he does, you'll throw him out. I'm sure he's told you that everyone does eventually. Well, that's not exactly true. I would have looked after him. But he won't let me. Left my house in the middle of the night two years after he started university. Still will barely talk to me."

Lestrade moved between the man and Sherlock's room.

"Get out."

The man chuckled. "Why, he's already gotten to you, hasn't he? A pity. I was hoping that you'd be able to talk him into coming back home, away from all this darkness he's bound himself in. Or. . ." he paused, eying the frenzied look in Lestrade's eyes. "Oh, I see. You. . . You think. . ." he began laughing outright, throwing his head back in pure amusement.

"Oh, goodness, no! I'm his brother, for God's sake, not some sort of creepy pederast! I would never. . . Oh, that's just too rich! I like you, Lestrade. Perhaps I'll let him keep you after all."

"Keep me?" Lestrade frowned, perplexed and still more than a little miffed with the elder Holmes. "I'm not his pet. I feed him, clothe him, protect him. . ." his eyes widened. "Oh, bloody hell. Perhaps he's mine."

"Hell of a pet you've got." Mycroft's smile faded, his eyes taking on a glow of worried sincerity. "Please, whatever he does, whatever happens. . . Please keep him safe. There's so much about him you don't understand. My brother. . . He's. . . well, he can't help himself sometimes."

He pulled a file from out of his coat, handing it to Lestrade.

"Don't read this yet. You'll know when you need it. But please, whatever happens, don't let him go."

Lestrade sighed, tossing the folder on the counter. "Why in the hell would I ever do that? Why are both of you so obsessed with abandonment?"

Mycroft nodded at the file. "You'll understand someday. Take care, Lestrade."

And in a whoosh of fabric, he was gone.

Brother. Holmes. Lestrade frowned slightly as he stripped the years off the man's face.

Mycroft.

"Who was that?" muttered Sherlock sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he strode into the kitchen.

"Said he was your brother," replied Lestrade, pouring him a coffee. He frowned in disapproval as the man tipped the sugar jar into the cup. "You're going to rot your teeth out if you keep that up."

"Doubt it." Sherlock didn't even look up. "So you've met Mycroft, then? I'd ask you how he was doing, but I really don't care. Did he offer you money?"

"Um, no? Should he have?"

"Well, that is his usual way of dealing with anyone I'm close to. I'm a bit surprised. Maybe he's finally given up on . . ." He eyed the folder. "What's that?"

Lestrade covered it awkwardly with a placemat. "Oh, nothing. Police stuff. Nothing to be concerned with. Very boring and routine."

Sherlock smirked. "Lucky you're on the right side of the law. You're a terrible liar." He snatched up the folder before Lestrade could stop him.

As he opened it, several sheets of photographic negatives fell from the folder and into Sherlock's coffee. The man didn't seem to notice, being far to preoccupied with the folder's other contents.

"What is it?" asked Lestrade, feeling his jaw clench up in anticipation.

"So you. . . You haven't read it yet."

"No."

"Maybe you should." Sherlock looked up at him, his face calm and collected. But the look in his eyes. . . He was visibly nervous. Lestrade wondered what exactly was in that file that was so damaging to the young man.

Perhaps Sherlock was right. Maybe he'd leapt into this whole thing without doing his research. Perhaps it really would be better to know what the man was running from before he tried to help him get there. That was the smart way to handle this, right?

He reached for the folder, doing his best to ignore the pained look on Sherlock's face as he took it.

But on the other hand. . . He hesitated, his fingers just touching the edge of the folder. Was it really his right to dig up the man's skeletons, whatever they were? Sure, he was the law, and that granted him privileges beyond normal individuals. And if Sherlock really were a danger to society, perhaps he should lock him up on the spot. But all the same, didn't everyone deserve a second chance? The man across the table from him wasn't evil. He could tell that much just by looking at him. So what if he'd made mistakes? Whatever they were, Lestrade couldn't bring himself to believe that Sherlock was incapable of redemption.

In the last few months, he had helped the police capture six deadly killers, the highest win ratio they'd had in years. His brilliance in deduction and what Anderson referred to as "freaky mumbo jumbo" was unparalleled. If anything, the man deserved a medal, not condemnation.

He grabbed the folder.

Sherlock stared at him like a man awaiting execution.

Lestrade shook his head, sighing. "Sherlock, it doesn't matter. What's in this folder. It really doesn't. Yes, your brother gave it to me with the intention that I read it, to understand you better. But I think I understand you perfectly well. Whatever is in here is just smoke, the faded past. You are not defined by it. And I think you, more than anyone else, needs to realize that."

He walked over to the fireplace, tossing it on the fire.

"What are you doing?" cried Sherlock, running towards the fireplace. "What have you done?"

He grabbed for the folder, scorching his hands in the process. As the blackening folder spilled its contents on the fire, Lestrade caught flashes of the man's past. Psychological evaluations. Medical paperwork. Photographs. But all of it, burning, unsalvageable.

He turned to Sherlock, who knelt in front of the fireplace, staring at his blistered hands. He placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder. Sherlock stared up at him, unseeing.

"What have you done." he repeated. But this time, it wasn't even a question.

"I'm sorry. I really thought. . ."

Sherlock smiled sadly. "Well, what's done is done, I suppose. But you really should have read it. I would not have faulted your curiosity."

"It wasn't my place. And I don't want to find out about you that way, Sherlock." He knelt beside him, smiling gently. "If you want me to know anything, all you have to do is tell me. Years on the force means I'm a pretty good listener."

Sherlock sighed. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

Lestrade sighed. He knew he wasn't going to get an easy answer from the man. It wasn't his style. But he truly believed that Sherlock would tell him everything in his own time. In the meantime, however. . .

He cupped Sherlock's hands from underneath, peering at the burn damage.

"Well, it's not too bad. Second-degree burns. I'm sure it's pretty painful."

"I'm fine," muttered Sherlock.

"No, you're not. Come on. I've burn cream somewhere in here. Let's patch you up."

"There. All done." Lestrade finished wrapping the gauze around Sherlock's hands and sank with a sigh into the old beige couch next to him. It had been a long day, and it wasn't even noon yet.

Sherlock smiled at him gratefully. "Why are you so kind to me?"

Lestrade smirked back. "And should I not be?"

"Kindness is weakness, Lestrade."

He pulled the man around to face him. "No, it's not. Indifference is. Kindness is its own strength, Sherlock. And I'm determined to teach you that, one way or another."

He had never seen that look before. Sherlock's eyes were clear for once, bright with what almost passed for amusement. And yet, something in the way he held his jaw didn't match up. It was as though his features no longer were ruled by the same brain.

"Then teach me," he mumbled. "If you can."

The blood pounded in Lestrade's ears. He tried to speak, but everything that filled his head refused to leave his lips. It was as though, under Sherlock's icy gaze, he was powerless.

He gulped. "Well, I'm doing my best."

"Of course." Sherlock leaned closer, studying the older detective carefully. Lestrade felt himself shudder under the critical gaze. He didn't know what the man was looking for, but he really didn't want him to find it, whatever it was. He had a feeling that it was the key to something incredibly dangerous.

Suddenly, the younger man smiled widely at him, jumping off the couch. "Bored. Let's go for a walk."

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock's mood swings were proving exhausting. Still, he was happy to see him out of his funk, at least for a little while.

"Where shall we go?"

"Oh, anywhere. You choose."

After spending a good portion of the day at the Victoria Tower Gardens, wandering the green space and people-watching, the pair stopped to rest on a park bench near the Buxton Memorial Fountain, a brightly tiled Gothic affair. Lestrade sighed in contentment, reveling in the warm sun on his face.

"It's a shame more people don't get murdered during the day," quipped Sherlock, smirking at him. "You might have more of a tan."

"Says the vampire," muttered Lestrade. "Are you allergic to the sun, or do you work at being that pale?"

"Vampire? That's a new one." Sherlock sighed. "Never been called that before. So original."

"You're just mad that I called your bluff," he replied, smiling warmly at the younger man. "Perhaps I should start hanging cloves of garlic about the door, hmm?"

Sherlock chuckled. "You did invite me in, Lestrade."

"That's true enough."

Before Sherlock could reply, an older woman walked by with a large purse. She smiled down at them, her green eyes shining in pleasure.

"Oh, how nice! Taking your father for a walk. What a nice young man. I wish my children were so kind."

Lestrade started. "I'm not -"

"He's not -"

They looked at each other. Sherlock smirked evilly, turning back to her. "Yes. Well, he is rather infirm. I thought the fresh air would do him good."

As the lady walked away, Lestrade punched Sherlock in the arm. "I'm going to kill you for that."

"Aww, you wouldn't, would you dad?"

"I'm not that old, you bounder!"

They began to laugh, grinning at each other like fools. But soon, Sherlock's face faded back to his customary melancholy.

"I have to ask you something," he said without emotion. "And the answer is important, so I need you to be honest."

"Of course." Lestrade looked at him worriedly. "Whatever it is, I promise."

"Why. . . Why did you take me in? I mean, really, why?"

Lestrade thought about it. He didn't really know the reason. Pity? No. . . well, that was part of it. But it wasn't really why he'd helped him. Desperation? Well, yes, but that wasn't quite it either.

"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out myself. I guess. . . I guess it was just a thing that needed doing, so I did it."

Sherlock frowned, processing this.

"So you don't really know, then?"

"Should I?"

He smiled sadly at Lestrade, who gulped roughly.

"I suppose not."

They walked back to Lestrade's flat in silence.

Lestrade awoke abruptly from a troubled sleep and glanced over at his alarm clock. Almost four in the morning. He sighed wiping his eyes and getting out of bed. Not again.

He wandered into the kitchen, searching for his sleeping pills. Maybe an extra one would keep him out all night. Not that he enjoyed the feeling of being drugged. But it was better than the alternative.

As he turned on the light, his eyes were drawn to a torn sheet of paper on the counter with black ink scrawled across it in an uneven hand.

His stomach screwed up in horror as he read the note.

Thank you. For everything. But I can't stay. I'm sorry.

-SH

He bounded down the stairs and onto the street, looking in desperation for the young man. But he could find no trace of him.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he whispered to himself, his eyes filling with tears.

EDITED FOR CONTINUITY WITH THE PREQUELS