Speechless

Chapter 4.1: Half-Wired Broken Jaw

September 29, 2006

As they sat in a small café near Lestrade's flat, the two men said very little to each other. Sherlock wasn't particularly verbose to begin with. Lestrade just didn't know where to begin.

Over a year since they'd last seen each other, and the younger man had changed so much. Clearly, someone had been taking care of him. They had to have been, for him to be so groomed. Lestrade knew from personal experience that Sherlock wasn't exactly fastidious unless he had a reason to be. Hell, the man wasn't anything unless he needed to be. There was not an ounce of spontaneity in him. Every movement, every word was calculated.

He thought back to the office that morning, and rubbed his jaw, wincing. There would be a bruise, for sure. Aster would blame another pub brawl. She'd retreat further from him. He sighed. Whatever Sherlock needed, he was willing to assault a police inspector to get it. Willing to say. . .

I was trying to protect you.

He wondered what the lanky man had meant by that. Clearly, if he meant keeping Lestrade happy and safe, his plan had tremendously backfired. His departure had nearly destroyed the man. And yet. . .

Sherlock looked at him cautiously, and Lestrade could see that all too familiar wave of sorrow and. . . Yes. That was it. Loathing. Self-loathing that ran so deeply that it burned the soul.

"What are you looking at?" muttered Sherlock, playing idly with his coffee spoon.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing. Sorry. Anyways, about this case. . ."

"Yes, the case." Sherlock smirked at him. "I'll be handling this one."

"Yes, well," spattered Lestrade awkwardly, "you can't just. . . I mean, no, it's my case too."

"And a bang-up job you've done with it so far. But no, I'm going to need your files."

"That's not exactly -"

"What? Going to threaten me with arrest again? I know it's not regulation. But you want this woman caught, yes? Then you need me. And I'm being nice enough to let you take the credit again. So perhaps you should stop sulking and let's get to work, hmm?"

"You son of a bitch." Lestrade glared at the man. "Why must you always be so difficult? Don't insult me by deigning me worthy of your leftovers. Not after what you've done."

Sherlock stared at him, clearly a touch shocked by this outburst. Frankly, Lestrade was a little shocked by it himself.

"Where the hell were you when the Smith children were slaughtered in their sleep? Or when Tracy Hapshire was beaten to death in an alley. What was so important then? People suffer and die and go unavenged. And I can only do so much. I am only one man, for God's sake!"

"I'm not God." replied Sherlock, looking at him enigmatically. "And I'm no one's saviour. I can't magically fix everything. People die. Other people kill them. I am not an officer of the law like you are, Lestrade. And people, frankly, aren't that important."

"How can you say that? How can you look me in the eye and say that?"

"Because it's the truth. You just don't want to face it because you care too much about other people. I care for no one. It's easier that way. Less distracting."

Sherlock's words seemed to punch right through Lestrade. He caught himself on the table edge, gasping slightly.

"That's. . . that's no way to live, Sherlock. And you know it."

The younger man stood up, nodded apologetically at Lestrade, and stalked away into the fading light of the West-bound sun.

"I don't know any other way."

Aster Lestrade looked up as her husband opened the door and walked into the kitchen. It was clear from the expression on her face that she was surprised to see him home so early.

"Not out drinking again, then?"

He smiled apologetically at her. "God, I'm sorry, Aster. For everything I've put you and Grace through. You deserve so much better from me, and I haven't been. . . I've been a bloody terrible husband."

She sighed, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around him. "Yes, you have been."

He said nothing in reply, just stood there holding her, breathing deeply into her long, dark hair. After all, nothing really could be said.

She kissed his cheek gently, caressing his jaw with one hand. He winced at the contact, turning his sorrowful brown eyes down to meet her green ones. She smiled back, her eyes misting slightly.

"What was it that brought you back to me? Not that I'm complaining."

He inhaled harshly at the question. Should he tell her about his day, about Sherlock emasculating him again, about the punch and the insults and the. . . Oh, what was the use? He was home.

"I was on the fast track to becoming Sherlock Holmes," he replied finally. "And I realized something today. That is one hell of a lonely existence."

He kissed her gently on the lips.

"Why would I ever want that when I could be here with you?"

She smiled warmly up at him, her cheeks flushed slightly.

"So he's back then."

He nodded.

She sighed, a year's worth of frustration subsiding, evaporating into the falling dusk. "Good. He's good for you, Greg."

He stared at her in confusion. After everything they'd gone through since that man faceplanted into their lives, how could she say something like that? How could she say something like that and mean it?

"But Aster, he's been nothing but problems since the day I met him!"

She beamed at him. "Aw, but you don't mean that. You're different when he's around, Greg. There's just something. . . It's like you live your life by torchlight and he's a bloody lamp."

"Enough with the him being so damned intelligent!" He pulled away from her. "I've had it up to here with it! He makes me feel so bloody stupid!"

She giggled. "That's not what I meant. But I have to say, this is the most animated I've seen you in months."

He sighed. "Yes, well, I don't like it."

She ruffled his hair affectionately. "You aren't stupid, Greg. Lord knows you're one of the brightest men I know. That's one of the reasons why I married you."

She smirked. "That and how funny you are when you're annoyed."

He growled, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stalked towards her. "The devil take you, woman."

"If he's masquerading as a particularly sexy detective inspector, he's more than welcome to," she mumbled huskily, shrieking as he swept her off the floor and carried her off over his shoulder.

"Meh. What is it, Aster?" moaned Lestrade as he was shaken awake.

"Hmm?" she mumbled in her sleep, rolling over beside him.

He threw himself at the intruder who hovered over their bed, tackling them to the floor. The figure hissed in pain, shuddering beneath the weight of the adrenaline-fueled man.

"Ah!" gasped a familiar voice. "Maybe this was a bad time."

Lestrade stared down at the man. "Sherlock? What the devil. . ."

"You really need better locks. Now will you let me up? I need your help."

He nodded, easing off the younger man, who groaned in pain, easing himself off the floor.

"I'll meet you in the kitchen. Do put some pants on before you join me."

Lestrade looked down, blushing slightly. Ah, yes. Pants.

"What in the name of all that is holy happened to you!" exclaimed Lestrade as he turned on the kitchen light.

Sherlock smiled slightly through what must have been his mouth, though it was hard to tell judging by all the bruising and swelling. His face seemed to have been put through a meat tenderizer.

"I met your killer," he replied simply. "She wasn't happy to be found."

"I'd imagine not. What did she do, try to feed you to a concrete wall?"

"Something like that." He winced as he tried to sit up.

Lestrade ran to him, gingerly unbuttoning his shirt. "Let me see."

Sherlock didn't protest. Lestrade had to hold back a cry of dismay as he looked at the man's torso. If the face had been bad. . . The man's ribs seemed to have been realigned to resemble a game of pick-up-sticks.

"How did you even manage to get here like that?" he said quizzically.

"I walked."

"We need to get you to a hospital." Lestrade turned to grab the phone.

Sherlock grabbed his arm. "No time. Call your crew first, see if they can find her. Medium build, early middle age. Very wavy hair. And angry as all hell."

"Name?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That's all I got."

Lestrade made his call as succinctly as he could. But even so, Sherlock was fading fast. The man kept staring at the door, as if waiting for Death to walk in and drag him away.

"Come on. I'm taking you to the hospital whether you want to go or not."

"Fine. . . But. . . No ambulance. . . You drive."

Lestrade sighed. There was no way he was going to get him there in time without medical support. But all the same, Sherlock had managed to walk this far. . . Perhaps the man's pigheadedness was just enough to keep him alive.

"Fine. Let's go."