Speechless

Chapter 3.2: You've Left Me Speechless

September 29, 2005

The trail - as happened all too often these days - had run cold. This most recent case, a brutal double homicide in what was supposed to be a quiet middle-class neighborhood, had yielded no leads. And as more time went by, it became increasingly unlikely that they would ever catch the person responsible.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes wearily. This was going nowhere.

"Anderson, please tell me you've got something. Anything. I don't care if it's a discarded toothpick. Just. . . "

The analyst smiled compassionately at him, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, sir. But it's a dead end. I've got nothing. No prints, not even a hair that didn't belong there."

"Great." He sighed, rifling through the papers on his desk and haphazardly putting them into files. "So do you want to tell the press how badly we've failed, or should I? I should, shouldn't I? It is my job, after all. Though God knows for how long."

Anderson patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "You're doing the best you can, sir. No one can fault you for that."

"Yes they can, and you know it. The media doesn't understand. All they see are crimes and bad men on the loose, and us powerless to protect the people."

"And what makes you so sure it was a man?"

The deep, playful voice made them both jump.

Lestrade turned towards the door, shock radiating across his face like cracks on a frozen lake.

"You. . ."

Sherlock stepped into the room, smirking slightly at this reception. His look had changed greatly since the last time Lestrade had seen him. His hair, once long and matted, was cropped closer to his head, his curls framing his face almost elegantly. His wardrobe, too, had significantly improved. He was sporting a black blazer over a grey button-up that actually seemed to fit his frame - though Lestrade noted with some amusement that he still wore the coat. His coat.

"Hello, Lestrade."

Anderson frowned slightly. "Well, now. This is a surprise. What, finally decided to show up?" His eyes shot daggers into Sherlock.

"I was a bit busy cleaning up after you fools," retorted Sherlock.

"Well, that's nice," shot back Lestrade bitterly. "You vanish into thin air, and then insult me and my team. Lovely."

"I can't help it that you're all inept." Sherlock ran his finger along the edge of Lestrade's desk, frowning at the dust. "And filthy. But that's not why I'm here. I need everything you have on the Williams case."

Lestrade sighed. "Anderson, could you give us a minute?"

Anderson shrugged, clearly not comfortable with the idea of leaving his superior alone with the mysterious and sardonic madman. Lestrade shot him a reassuring smile, nodding slightly. He sighed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Ah!" exclaimed Sherlock happily. "That's better. There's something about that man that just grates me." He slithered into the chair next to Lestrade's desk, smiling slightly at him. "Do you have any tea?"

Lestrade threw himself at the man with considerable speed, hauling him up by the collar. Sherlock squeaked slightly in protest but did not attempt to fight back.

"I'll take that as a no? That's alright."

Before he knew what was happening, Lestrade had the younger man pinned against a filing cabinet. His entire body was shaking in rage and frustration.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, coming here, you bastard! And why the hell should I help you?"

Sherlock smirked, placing his hand over Lestrade's. His long, bony fingers wiggled dexterously under the older man's hand, loosening his grip on his collar.

"Well, I'd thought you might like some assistance, seeing as you've failed so royally without me. But if you don't, I'll just let myself out."

Lestrade sighed, willing himself to calm down. He let go of Sherlock, who slumped breathlessly against the metal cabinet.

"Sherlock, you can't . . ." He walked to the windows, trying to gather his thoughts. Outside, evening was beginning to fall.

"You can't just show up again and pretend nothing happened," he said blankly to the glass. "You've been missing for over a year."

"I haven't been missing. Stop being so dramatic. You just couldn't find me."

Lestrade turned, staring at him with bewilderment. The look in the younger man's eyes said because I didn't want to be found. He turned away again.

"So this is how it's going to be? You vanishing when I need you the most, showing up at my office without a word, and expecting me to just go along with it?"

Sherlock sighed, stalking over to Lestrade.

"Lestrade. Look at me."

He turned, his eyes full of betrayal and disappointment. "I guess I should have expected as much. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, you'd trust me enough to stay."

Sherlock frowned at him, staring deeply into his eyes as he had that day in the flat. Searching. Examining.

"Can't you see that this is. . ." He sighed, his blue eyes softening slightly. "I told you that you deserved better, didn't I? Why on Earth didn't you just let me go?"

"I. . ." Lestrade gulped, backing away. "I couldn't."

"I see that. Look at you. Almost as skinny as I am. You haven't been eating or sleeping, have you? And before you protest, alcohol isn't a food. You'd think after all the lectures you gave me, you'd take better care of yourself. And your family."

"And what would you know about it?" Lestrade spat the words at him, his voice filled with bile. "You ran away in the middle of the night, for God's sake!"

"I was trying to protect you!" bellowed Sherlock. It was the first time Lestrade had ever seen the man lose his composure like this, and it chilled him to the core. His eyes were flaming ice, teeth and voice like daggers to the soul. If the devil had a face at that moment, it would have been the face of Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade tried to get away from him, but the man threw a right cross to his face before he could escape, sending him to the floor.

As he stared up in shock and pain, Sherlock leapt on top of him, pinning him to the ground with the full weight of his body. Normally, Lestrade would have been more than a match for him, but he had lost too much muscle during the past year of melancholia and was powerless.

Sherlock bent down, his face inches from Lestrade's. When he spoke, his words were chosen carefully.

"I thought you would be better off without me. I wanted you. . . To be safe."

"And assaulting me is your preferred method?" Lestrade gasped, glaring at the younger man. "I was going to say you were full of it, but maybe I was safer with you gone."

"Trust me, you were."

Lestrade's eyes softened, and he smiled sadly at his assailant. "I do. Trust you. Now get off me before -"

"Is everything alright?" called Anderson furtively, opening the door. "I thought I heard -"

His eyes widened at the scene in front of him. Without asking for an explanation, he pulled a stapler off of the desk and aimed it at Sherlock's head. It slammed into the back of the man's head, but his curls seemed to repel most of the damage.

"Get away from him, you. . . You psychopath!" he screamed, reaching for a rather pointy paperweight pyramid.

Lestrade sighed. "Stand down, Anderson. This man's in my custody until further notice."

"Sir, I hate to question an order, but it seems he has you in his custody currently. Can I please. . .?"

"No. Stand down. Sherlock, get the hell off of me before he brains you. If you don't mind, I'd rather not like to deal with the paperwork."

Sherlock smirked at him, climbing to his feet and offering the man a hand up. "I wouldn't want to inconvenience your caretaker. Not that anyone's been in recently."

Anderson stared at them, putting his makeshift weapon away with more than a little hesitation.

"Now then, as I was saying before, your killer's a woman. Probably a relative. I'll be happy to help you with this, but I'm going to need a few things."

"Such as?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well, let's start with dinner, shall we? I'm a bit peckish, and you could clearly stand a good meal."

He smirked at Anderson. "Don't worry. I'll have him home by eleven."

Lestrade gulped. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of this. And what would Aster say?

Now fixed due to my neglect of the fact that British police don't have guns. Clearly I've been watching too much American TV lately. . . and Torchwood. Thank you to luckypixi for reminding me of that!