Speechless

Chapter 3.1: I'll Never Talk Again

It was over a year before Lestrade would hear whisper of the young man who had vanished in the middle of the night, taking nothing but Lestrade's coat and the skull named John. It was not for lack of trying on his part. He had spent months searching, hounding Missing Persons. . . But to no avail. The man had vanished entirely.

One evening in early 2005, as the filthy slush-snow seeped into his boots, he found himself once more on the trail of a rather interesting killer. In the past few months he'd gained a reputation as the one who requested "the disturbing ones." There were whispers among the other officers that he'd gone off his nut, that he was becoming morbid and obsessed. His superintendent had requested a psych evaluation more than once, but each of them had come back clear. All the same, his circle of friends was rapidly diminishing as people decided that perhaps, for the sake of their careers, they should find more suitable companions.

This pained him more than he cared to admit. After all, before this he had been one of the most respected men on the force. People had admired him, had wanted to see their children grow up like him. His compassion and drive and love for his city had earned him many friends and admirers. Now no one would look him in the eye.

"I'm not disturbed," he muttered into the cold January wind. "I'm not. It's not about the cases."

And this was true. If he'd had it his way, he'd be in his flat with Aster right now, curled up by the fire with a warm cup of tea and a good book, settling back into his normal life. She would rub his shoulders to chase away the cold and the stress of another day protecting his city. And they would laugh together as their daughter moved inside her, reminding him once more of how much he had to gain. How much he stood to lose.

But he could not go back to that life. Not now. The game had changed. And until he found Sherlock, knew that he was alive and safe, he would never be able to enjoy those things. Lestrade could not have warmth when he knew Sherlock was freezing to death. He could not enjoy food while Sherlock was wasting away. And be damned if he could take pleasure in his family while Sherlock was alone.

So he took the gory cases, the puzzling ones, the disturbing ones - so that maybe, if he was very, very lucky, he would catch sight of the lanky man stalking the crime scene, chuckling to himself as the police searched for answers he already knew.

But cases would come and go. Killers would be caught, or never found. Trails would run cold, and the man with shocking blue eyes would never surface.

The man standing next to him turned and smiled sadly at him, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. Lestrade nodded gratefully at him. He didn't know what the young forensic analyst was still doing with him, since most of his team had requested a change of assignment. But for some reason, some strange sense of loyalty, perhaps, this one had not left, but had followed him into the worst of it time and again.

"Face it," said Anderson, his eyes full of compassion for his superior, "He's dead. Your madman. We would have seen him by now if he was alive."

"No. He's alive, Anderson. I know it. I can feel it in my bones." Lestrade put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Go home. I'm sure your wife's missing you."

"I could say the same for you, sir."

He smiled at the young man gently. "You're right, of course. But I can't. Not yet."

"Then I won't either."

They walked along in silence, searching for a phantom who would not emerge.

September 20, 2005

Near the end of the year, Aster Lestrade found herself completely at the end of her rope. She had an infant daughter who wouldn't stop fussing so long as her father was out of her sight, more housecleaning than she had energy for, bills to pay, a household budget shot to hell, and. . . Him.

It was late, almost one in the morning, and she had finally gotten Grace to sleep. The tiny, fragile child refused to sleep without her father, and in desperation Aster had finally wrapped her in one of Greg's dress shirts. This seemed to comfort her. Aster wished the same trick worked for her.

It was then, as she returned to the kitchen to finally catch up on the cleaning when the front door swung open and Greg deposited himself on the floor.

She ran to him in panic, fearing the worst. But her worry turned to anger when he moaned, lifting himself off the floor and grinning wistfully at her, his deep brown eyes glazed, half-seeing.

"Oh. Hello, Aster. . . Fancy meeting you here."

She glared at him. "And where the hell have you been at this hour? Reeking of alcohol, no less! Fah!"

"Oh, c'mon. Don't be like that. You know, like that. All Lady Frownyface. . ."

"Don't be like what? Look, I've been more than understanding with you. You're worried about that boy. I understand. The late nights at work. The cases that take you further from me every day. I get it. And I've stood by you in all of that. But this? This isn't you, Greg."

"Why a'course it's me! Who else am I?" he mused.

She studied him critically. His clothes were filthy and torn in places, hair was unkempt and greyer than ever. . . There were bags under his eyes large enough to use as a purse, and his five-o-clock shadow was beginning to resemble a seven-o-clock shadow. She shook her head in resignation.

"I don't know. But you have a week to figure yourself out or Grace and I are gone. I won't live with a drunkard and a slob."

He stared at her as the information seeped into his alcohol-saturated brain. Then his eyes grew wide in shock. He curled into a ball and began to sob.

"I. . . I. . . I just don't know what to do any more! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. . ."

"Shh now." She wrapped herself around him, grimacing to herself as she felt the dampness of his shirt. "Shhh. . . It's ok. I'm here."

He clung to her, sobbing into her shoulder until his tears were spent and he collapsed in her arms, sound asleep.

After she managed to drag him into their bedroom, she collapsed by the bed, praying softly.

God, if you're out there, if you even care at all, please, help my husband. I can't do this by myself.

"I can't. . ." She shook with emotion, trying not to cry herself. The aftermath of that man's presence in their lives was killing them. And she couldn't see any way out.

Please, help us all.

Ok, before you panic, SHERLOCK WILL BE BACK in the next upload, which will be Monday. And I really want to do more with Drunk Lestrade someday, but it didn't fit the mood so I'm saving it for a later chapter. Reviews as always are appreciated.

(Oh, yes, and Grace is going to be pretty damn important someday.)