Speechless

Chapter 4.4: He's Gonna Get You

October 31, 2006

Lestrade hated Halloween with a passion he typically reserved only for poorly-made coffee and people who talked on their mobiles in queues. It wasn't merely that crime seemed to escalate on that night of mischief. No, he hated the holiday even as a child for the simple reason that he disliked masks. When people wore them, it became harder to see into their eyes, to see who they really were, and that made him severely uncomfortable.

Of course, there were all sorts of masks, and the one that he himself had been wearing for the past few weeks was substantially more dangerous than any latex number sported by a coworker at a party.

His subconscious was dogging him like a shrike, offering him little rest from the confusion Sherlock's presence in his life generated. He often rued the day he had pulled the addict from the streets and into his life. Things were so much less complicated without him around. The job, the wife, the city. . . These had been Lestrade's only concerns. But now, everything was falling to bits inside his brain, and it was all he could do to keep composed.

He had thought he'd been doing a pretty decent job of it too, until he heard a knock on his office door.

"Come in," he muttered, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. He had not been sleeping. The dreams were getting worse.

Anderson peered around the edge of the door, glancing about cautiously before stepping into the room and closing the door gently behind himself. He smiled apologetically at his superior.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Detective Inspector."

He smiled at his faithful foresnsics officer. "Hardly, Anderson. What can I do for you?"

Anderson gulped quietly, moving to a chair by Lestrade's desk. "Well, sir, I wanted to. . . That is to say, I need to ask you something."

Lestrade frowned, puzzled. "Yes?"

"I. . . I was wondering, if it wasn't too much to ask. . . Could you maybe stop working with Sherlock Holmes? Just for a while."

It was Lestrade's turn to gulp. "And why would I do that, Anderson? Listen, I know you don't always get along but he's been very useful -"

Anderson leapt to his feet, eyes burning. He clenched his fists tight enough to make his knuckles white.

"I know he's bloody useful! Oh yes, he could replace all of us and no one would be the wiser, would they? He's the motherfucking Batman of London, king of deduction."

Lestrade glared at him. "Enough."

"No."

"No?"

Anderson's nostrils flared angrily. "No, it's not enough. I hate that man."

Lestrade's eyes were dangerous. "I said enough, Anderson. Keep talking like that and you're looking at a transfer. I won't abide jealousy on my team."

"But he's not your team! I'm your team! And I'm not jealous!" Anderson rolled his yes. "God knows I couldn't be jealous of him. I wouldn't want to be him for all the tea in China!"

"Then what? Because I'm not going to sever ties with someone just because you don't like him. Give me a good reason, and perhaps I'll consider it. But until then, you have other things to do. Good day."

Anderson started to protest, but the look in Lestrade's eyes told him he'd better not. He nodded slightly, heading out into the outer office defeated.

As Anderson walked back to his lab, he fought back tears. It was simply unfair, the way Lestrade had treated him. Pushing aside his concern and dislike for that insufferable and shady Holmes character just because. . .

What did he expect him to do, present a speech? Anderson wasn't a wordsmith. He was a bloody scientist, for God's sake! So what if he couldn't present a strong argument? Shouldn't his boss listen to him anyway?

He had stayed by the man's side through the worst of it, when everyone else had abandoned him - not because he wanted to find Sherlock but because Lestrade had needed him. And he still did, even if he refused to see it. His faithfulness was not conditional. Lestrade had never saved him from anything. But the respect he commanded by his love of his job and the people he was fighting to protect. . . That was what tied Anderson to him.

But the man was falling apart at the seams. That was plain enough to see. Something had unhinged him, and Anderson knew in his gut that that something was Sherlock. The man was no longer a help. He was a menace.

"I'm not jealous of him," he muttered to himself. "Not hardly. I hate him. But I hate him because of what he's doing to you."

He stared off into space, ignoring the paperwork in front of him.

"I only hope you see reason soon, my friend."

AN: Thank you so much for your patience! I'll be posting regularly again, so stay tuned!