Speechless

Chapter 5.1: It's Complicated

January 1, 2007

"Lestrade?" Sherlock called tentatively, holding a new toaster under one arm. He was not sure what he was doing back at the flat. It defied all logic, really. After all, he and the detective inspector had not just had a falling-out. There had been something ugly brewing between them for a long while now, and he supposed that it had really only been a matter of time before one of them snapped.

And then there was Lestrade himself. Sherlock prided himself on his ability to understand motives and to dissect the human condition. But somehow, this particular man had a habit of surprising him. Here was a person who had every reason to be cruel, and yet was always so kind. . . It didn't make sense. He had watched over Sherlock for years in a way no one else had. He was someone he could depend on, and that terrified the young detective.

If there was one thing Sherlock hated, it was to owe anyone anything. Owing people favours tended to curb one's freedom, and there was nothing of greater value to him than the freedom to do as he pleased. He knew that one of these days Lestrade would ask him for something he wouldn't want to give, and he would have to choose between repaying his debt and vanishing again.

"Are you in there?" he asked.

No answer. Good. He could break in and leave again before the man got back.

As he opened the door, the smell of spilled, stale beer and filth assaulted his nose. He frowned in concern. Something wasn't right.

"Hello?"

Still no reply. He opened the door the rest of the way, stepping into the kitchen.

His eyes widened in shock as he saw the unmoving silhouette of Lestrade's body curled up on the floor, cooled blood puddled about his still form. He dropped the toaster and threw himself to the ground next to the man, moving a hand to his cheek.

Sherlock sighed in relief. Still warm, barely. There was a good chance that Lestrade was still alive, then. He listened for breathing, and was greeted with uneven, ragged gasps.

Alive, but not in good condition.

"Wake up, will you?" he muttered angrily. Sherlock prided himself on many things, but a working knowledge of emergency medical techniques were not in his repertoire. He thought feverishly, trying to figure out what to do.

Finally, he elected to just start slapping him in the face. It might not be effective, but it would be therapeutic at the very least.

"What. . . Is wrong. . . With you?" he hissed between slaps. "Are you really. . . Going. . . To go out. . . Like this? I won't. . . let you. . . Not when I. . . still owe you. . . You moron!"

Lestrade groaned, his eyes twitching. It wasn't much, but it was all the encouragement Sherlock needed. He smacked him hard across the jaw with the flesh of his hand.

"Get up, you stupid excuse for a detective! We've got work to do."

Lestrade grabbed his wrist weakly.

"What the hell is your problem?" he groaned softly, alcohol-glazed eyes glaring up at him foggily. "Haven't you ruined my life enough already?"

Sherlock reeled back, his blue-grey eyes wide with hurt. "What?"

"Don't. . . get coy. Why did I ever help you?" With that, he lost consciousness again.

Sherlock's eyes hardened as he set his jaw, lifting Lestrade from the ground and dragging him to the bathroom.

"I haven't the foggiest. But it's my turn now."

As he peeled off the detective's filthy clothes, Sherlock noticed with some concern that he appeared thinner than normal. Lestrade had always been on the muscular side, but he could distinctly see the man's ribs against his tight skin. And this was not merely a recent thing, he suspected. The man had not been eating well for months now.

His concern deepened as he found the source of the blood on the floor. There was a jagged cut on the man's side, just above his left kidney. It had scabbed over since it was made with black caked blood, but a large piece of brown glass - probably from a broken beer bottle - still protruded from the wound. As he had removed the man's shirt, Sherlock had torn away some of the scabbing, causing it to bleed again. He touched the wound tentatively, then pried the glass shard away, grunting in dismay as dark blood followed it.

"You had better be alright," he muttered, "or I shall never forgive you for this."

He turned on the bath, soaking a washrag in the hot water. He cleaned the man's wound gently, taking great care not to press too hard on the wound. Fortunately, it was not as bad as it had looked at first. The cut was shallow, and should heal quickly, though it would probably leave a hell of a scar.

He fumbled in the medicine cabinet for some adhesive sutures, closing the cut as best he could. Then, he turned back to the problem at hand: Lestrade's general state of filthiness.

"With a cut like that, I can't exactly toss you in the bathtub," he mused. "So I suppose I'll have to do this the hard way."

He sighed, wringing out the washrag and soaking it in water again, scrubbing the older man's torso gently with it to remove a week's worth of grime. This was going to be a long day.

January 3, 2007

The first thing Lestrade saw when he came to was a large glass of water on his bedside table. He moaned as he reached for it, his body crying out in pain.

"Here," intoned a familiar, deep voice. Sherlock handed him the glass. "You need to drink all of it. You've been unconscious for days."

"What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, puzzled.

"Well, I came to replace your toaster. But I decided playing nurse would be more rewarding."

Lestrade frowned as the events of the last few weeks unfolded around him. Aster. . . She. . . That bastard!

"Get the hell out of my flat!" He bellowed.

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, and he felt an instant pang of regret.

"If that's what you want," he said simply, heading for the door.

"Wait."

Sherlock turned, eyeing him cautiously. "Yes?"

Lestrade sighed, gesturing to himself. "Did you. . .?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Thank you."

Sherlock smirked slightly. "Just repaying the favor."

Lestrade chuckled, wincing as the movement sparked pain in his side. This brought him back to the seriousness of the situation.

"Sherlock, we have to talk."

The taller man nodded, sitting carefully in a chair next to Lestrade's bed. "Yes, we do."

He found it harder to begin than he had imagined. Ever since Aster had showed him the folder, he had been thinking up a response to it. And yet, now that he was about to confront Sherlock about it, he couldn't remember any of it. He sighed. Time to use the Holmes method and be as blunt as humanly possible.

"My wife thinks we're sleeping together," he blurted.

Sherlock stared at him with less shock than amusement. "Oh really? We aren't, are we? I should think I would have noticed."

"This isn't funny. My wife is filing for divorce."

"No. You're right." Sherlock's eyes flashed enigmatically. "But why should she think that?"

Lestrade sighed. "That's the problem. It's not just her. I'm in hot water at work over this as well. There's to be an inquest into all our recent cases together, whether protocol was followed, that sort of thing."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand. How did anyone get that idea?"

Lestrade pointed to the folder. "Someone sent this to Aster and the higher-ups at work. Whoever put it together was good. Very good. Even I have to admit that, taken out of context, it's pretty damning."

Sherlock looked through the folder, lost in thought.

Lestrade watched him, his heart racing slightly, against his will. It had been a long time since he'd gotten a chance to just watch Sherlock, and he had nearly forgotten just how. . . Oh, what was the point? He shook his head. With the dreams, the folder. . . Whatever this was all about, perhaps it was for the best. Maybe a part of him even wished the accusations were true.

He frowned. No. That wasn't right. He couldn't possibly. .. He had a wife, a daughter. He wasn't even. . . For God's sake, it was Sherlock!

It was Sherlock. He realized with a sudden sense of dread that everything since they had met had been leading up to this. There was something so different, so infuriatingly right about the man. He had known it from the minute they'd met in the alley behind the Globe. Every meeting, every obnoxious slur, every time their eyes met. . .

Once he stopped to think about it, everything suddenly made sense.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice throaty and timorous. "I think. . ."

"Don't worry." the younger man flashed a sad sort of smile at him. "I don't know who's done this to you, but I know how to fix it."

"You do?"

"I'll tell them all the truth."

His heart stopped mid-beat. "The. . . The truth?"

"Yes. That, in point of fact, the whole thing is ludicrous because I have no interest in you whatsoever."

Sherlock's point-of-fact statement stabbed him clean in the chest. Oh. So he. . . Oh.

"Thank you," he managed weakly, forcing a smile.

"No problem," replied Sherlock, eying him with that dangerous light in his eyes again. "And I shall stay clear until this matter is dealt with, to prevent anyone from thinking differently."

"Good."

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, leaving the room with folder in hand.

"Good," Lestrade repeated, trying to believe it.

But it was a lie. Nothing would ever be good again.