Speechless

Chapter 4.1: You Popped My Heartstrings

September 30, 2006

The smell of cleaning agents and the incessant flickering of the artificial lights were starting to get to Lestrade. As he sat in the waiting room, staring absently at three-month old periodical about vintage motorbikes, he did his best to keep his mind empty. It wasn't easy.

Years of police training should have made it easier for him to blot what had happened from his mind, the sheer violence of it all. He had seen men far more broken than this, women and children as well. He'd witnessed horrible acts of cruelty and depravity. And while it touched him to the core every time, he was generally able to maintain his composure.

It seemed he'd never been able to as far as Sherlock was concerned.

His mind kept flashing back to the night previous, how Sherlock had returned to him a pile of broken bones and bruises. And why? He had been trying to help, trying to find the killer in the Williams case, trying to. . .

He exhaled rapidly through his nose, a silent whimper caught in his throat.

Somehow, he felt responsible for the condition the young detective was in. If only he'd gone with him, been watching out for him better. . . If only. . .

But there really was nothing he could have done. Sherlock had made it quite clear where Lestrade fit into his life. To the taller man, he was an information feed and taxi service at best. At worst, he was incompetent and in the way. Sherlock didn't need him. He never had wanted him. That was ludicrous. It was like the north wind wanting help from a swallow. Lestrade was just a man, after all. Sherlock was a force of nature.

The advertisement on the open page of the periodical caught his attention. "Norton: The Unapproachable." He stared at the words, not fully comprehending them. But it seemed to him that perhaps this too was Sherlock. A fancy, expensive, beautiful machine, fast and flashy. But then, here it was in need of repair, maintenance, and no one made parts that fit it any more. Just as no one built motorcycles the way Norton had, no one made men like Sherlock any more. If they ever did.

Lestrade shook his head. Now he was just getting ridiculous. Clearly, he needed a nap. But he couldn't close his eyes, no matter how hard he tried.

"Damn it, Sherlock," he whispered to himself. "What the devil have you done to me?"

As if on cue, a young nurse walked in, approaching him cautiously She couldn't have been very old, as the innocence and vigor of joining a helping profession hadn't yet been eroded by the grim reality of death.

"Mr. Lestrade?"

He nodded. "Detective Inspector, if you please."

"Oh." She blushed slightly. "Sorry, I didn't realize -"

He smiled warmly. "No, no. It's quite alright, my dear. I'm in plainclothes, after all."

That was the truth. He was still in his flannel pajama bottoms, his coat hastily thrown over a white t-shirt stained with Sherlock's blood. He must have looked a sight.

"You. . . you wanted to tell me something?"

His heart was in his throat. Judging by the way she smiled at him, that look of compassion, of pity. . .

Oh God, no.

Sherlock was dead. Dead or in a coma. Dead or in a coma or permanently crippled. He gulped, trying not to panic. Whatever she was going to say. . .

"Well?"

She nodded gently. When she spoke, she seemed to be picking her words very carefully. "Your. . . friend. He's awake. Asking for you."

A massive grin spread across Lestrade's face, and he did his best not to leap up too hastily.

"Thank you. Um. . . Could you take me to him?"

She nodded, leading him to a small room on the other side of the wing. As he crossed the threshold, she turned away, sighing.

"Why is it always the handsome ones?"

Lestrade paused for a second, wondering what that was about. But he decided it wasn't important.

Lestrade couldn't recall his legs moving, but they must have, as he was suddenly beside Sherlock's hospital bed. The man looked thinner and paler than ever, but he greeted the detective inspector with one of his signature smirks.

"Took you long enough. Leg fall asleep?"

Lestrade sighed. Good old Sherlock, blunt as ever. "No, they just fetched me. I do have to say, I'm surprised they let me in here. You should be resting.

"You're police. You go where you want."

Lestrade chuckled bitterly. "Hardly. It's amazing how little one's badge does these days. So I have to ask, how did you. . .?"

"I pulled some strings. It's not important. What is important is that I'm on the mend now. We can get back to work."

"Like hell we can. You need to recover. They said you'd broken four ribs, cracked your radius. . . I'm still amazed you were able to walk to my flat in that condition. No. You're staying right here until your doctor says you can move."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," crooned a soft female voice. Lestrade turned to the door to see a young woman with a clipboard. Her sandy brown hair was pulled up into a loose ponytail that suggested professionalism, but her blue eyes were playful and kind.

"And you are?" asked Lestrade, wondering just how many attractive young women worked at the hospital.

"Sarah Sawyer. I'm a resident here, and I'm helping Dr. Walters with some of his patients." She smiled sweetly at Lestrade. "I have to say, Mr. Lestrade, that your husband is quite a handful."

He felt his face begin to go red, then slightly purple. "My. . . My husband?"

The realization of what must have happened sunk in. "Oh, yes. Well, he can be. Isn't that right, dear?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Hey, at least I don't snore. They could use recordings of you sleeping to frighten schoolchildren."

He gasped. "Oh. Bringing that up in front of strangers. How could you do this to me? You're not the man I married!" Well, at least that part was true.

Sarah smiled, clearly amused by their banter. "Well, it looks like he'll make a full recovery, provided he stays in bed for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks?" they exclaimed simultaneously.

She nodded. "Oh, and that means resting. No. . . well, you know. . ." she blushed deeply.

Lestrade coughed. "I can assure you, that won't be a problem."

She nodded, leaving the room a bit too quickly for comfort. Once she was gone, Lestrade turned on Sherlock.

"You pulled a few strings? This is what you call pulling a few strings?"

Sherlock snorted. "Well, I figured you'd be quicker on the uptake. And you really don't look a stitch like my brother. What, should I have gone with father again?"

"It might have made me look just a little less foolish, yes!"

Sherlock's grin faded, his eyes taking on a hint of pain. "You really think. . . That would be foolish?"

Lestrade gulped. What the hell was he playing at?

"Well, Sherlock, you do remember my wife, don't you? What if they check the records?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wincing as the movement disturbed healing bruises. "Idiot. This is a hospital, not a bloody jail. Though it rather feels the same from my end. Two weeks?"

"Well, you did damage yourself pretty badly this time."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "No, your killer did. But I suppose that's a valid point. I just. . ."

"What?"

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes pleading. "I hate doctors. Please don't leave me alone here."

Lestrade sighed. He wasn't sure when Sherlock had figured out the effectiveness of that haunted look. And he knew full well that the younger man was playing him. But still. . .

"Let me just call home, alright?"

Sorry for the wait! I had a rather full week last week. Update again on Weds.