Speechless

Chapter 5.2: I'm A Loser In Love

February 10, 2008

Sherlock Holmes had, surprisingly, proven himself to be a man of his word. It had only taken a matter of months for the issue to be dropped and for Lestrade's position on the force to be solidified once more.

Of course, not everything had been fixed. Aster had remarried, this time to a man nearly a decade her junior, a young accountant by the name of Rick Ambrose, recently of Cambridge. Not that Lestrade faulted her. Even though the final straw that had broken their marriage had been a lie, he had always thought Aster deserved better than a jaded man like himself. He was happy that she was happy, and as long as he got to see his daughter, it was alright.

Grace had grown into a bumbling toddler almost overnight, in his mind. She had Aster's eyes, yet but for that she was every ounce her father's daughter. Poor thing. She was constantly wandering off, according to Aster.

"I swear, watching that girl is a full-time job," she said as they sat at a small pizzeria downtown. She was clearly frazzled. "I should put her on a leash."

He laughed at this. "I doubt it would do much good. With your will. . ."

"And your need to stick your nose where it doesn't belong. . ." she smirked. "Poor girl was doomed from the start. She'll either be a detective or a criminal, that one."

He nodded in agreement. "With your influence, I'm sure it will be the former." He nodded at her swelling abdomen. "You and Rick expecting?"

She nodded, her face aglow. "Yes."

"I'm happy for you." And he meant it. Aster had always been well-suited for motherhood. His greatest regret in all of this was not having more children with her. He knew that after Duncan. . . Well, that was all over now.

"And how are things with you?" she asked, eying him with concern. "Are you eating all right? Getting enough sleep?"

He nodded. "Things are good. As good as they ever are. They've given me a new team in Homicide, and they're pretty capable. New sergeant's a firebrand. Sally Donovan. Makes me feel old."

"Well, you are old," Aster joked, fluffing his hair. "Only a matter of time before they ask you to retire."

He growled at her. "That's dangerous ground, woman."

She smiled sadly at him. "Indeed. So, I hope you don't mind me asking, but any word on where Sherlock is?"

He felt a small stab of pain in his gut at the mention of the young detective. It had been more than a year since they had last spoken, the young man having faded back into the shadows as he had promised. Lestrade had almost forgotten about him. Almost.

"No. He hasn't. . . I mean, no."

She touched his arm gently. "Greg. You can't spend the rest of your life like this. You need to move on. Get a girlfriend or something. You don't need to be alone."

He smiled at her sadly. "Yes I do. Aster, it's my fault everything turned out this way. I was being foolish, and I let myself get involved with something I didn't understand. This is my penance."

"Some hell kind of penance. You're an idiot. Go talk to Father John about this, at least. He'll tell you the same thing."

February 11, 2008

"You're an idiot."

Lestrade eyed the grill of the confessional in shock. "Father?"

The priest sighed. "What, you were expecting me to tell you that yes, you're a terrible person who deserves to be miserable? My son, we aren't Lutherans you know. Yes, you've sinned. And frankly, you should have come to confession years ago. But the Church is not so harsh a mistress. Our Lord loves you, as he loves all his children. And he wants you to be happy."

"But Father, I've lusted after -"

"Yes, yes. I know. You keep bringing that up. Lust is a mortal sin, make no mistake. But you know what else is? Acedia. Your refusal to pull yourself out of this cycle of depression because you don't think you deserve happiness is worse than anything else in you. And it is the shadow sister of pride. So cheer up, get out there, and do something that makes you happy for once."

Lestrade frowned. "What, so you want me to -"

The priest chuckled. "Don't break the law, and try not to screw up too badly. But for the sake of all the saints in heaven, stop brooding! Your penance is to go enjoy your life for a while. And pray a rosary for that detective of yours."

"Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"I suppose."

The priest sighed. "May the Passion of our Lord, Jesus Christ, the intercession of our Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints, whatever good you do and suffering you endure heal your sins, help you to grow in holiness, and reward you with eternal life. Go in peace."

"Amen."

As Lestrade left St. George's, he felt an odd sense of peace wash over him, coupled with the nagging feeling that he'd just been played. Father had always been a bit of a soft-hearted man, but to suggest that Lestrade's sins were not so great. . .

He sighed. No matter. The priest had given him an order, and like all good Catholics, he had to obey.

As he was trying to think of what he could possibly do that would bring him any joy, he came across a dark shape huddled against the dirty Southwark snow. Another beggar, he thought, reaching in his pocket for some spare change.

Beggars frequented the areas near churches, relying on the compunction of penitents to earn some money for food. It was official policy to tell them to stop loitering, but Lestrade had never seen the harm in helping the poor, no matter how annoying they could be. After all, they were part of his city too, and life was cruel enough to them without being on the receiving end of a kick or a slur.

As he tossed the coins in the figure's cup, a set of long, bony fingers snaked out from the shivering bundle and wrapped about his arm. He swatted the hand away in panic.

The figure chuckled. "I see how it is," his low voice rumbled. "You always were a fan of the hands-off method."

He stared at the man in shock and confusion. "Sherlock? What in God's name -"

"I'm afraid I disappointed you again."

Sherlock pulled his coat away from his face, revealing his skeletal cheeks and bloodshot eyes. His skin was nearly as pale as the snow with the exception of sooty circles about his eyes.

"You started using again." It was a statement, not a question. The evidence was clear.

"Yes," he replied simply.

"Why?"

"Helps me think," he replied, as if that made it all better.

"Codswallop," replied Lestrade, hauling the man to his feet. "You know better. Come on, let's get some coffee into you. You'll catch your death out here."

"Leave me alone," he muttered. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"I don't know," replied Lestrade. "Probably because you're a bleeding dumbass."

Sherlock chuckled, shivering against him. "Fine. But it's your funeral if this costs you your job."

Lestrade found he simply didn't care.

His body was warm, but Sherlock's shivers would not abet. Lestrade frowned as he wrapped yet another blanket around the man.

"You're having withdrawal, aren't you?"

Sherlock groaned, his face pale and slightly green. "Whatever. . . Gave you that idea?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Look, it's your own fault. If you just got clean, you'd never have to deal with this again."

"And if you got me a nip, I wouldn't rip your fucking head off!" exclaimed Sherlock, his icy eyes bright with need and resentment.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, I'm not going to steal drugs for you. And you're to stay in this flat until it's out of your system, you hear? I'll handcuff you to the bed if I have to."

"I dare you to try." He struggled to stand, dashing for the door.

Lestrade caught the weakened man easily, throwing him to the floor and pinning him.

"It's for your own good!"

"You don't give a damn about my own good! If you did, you'd have … "

Sherlock trailed off, his eyes fading to melancholy again.

"I'd have what?" Lestrade's heart raced. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

After all, Sherlock had said it, hadn't he? That he had no interest in him whatsoever? So whatever he was going to say, it couldn't possibly be what Lestrade wanted him to say, but -

"You'd have told me the truth, Greg."

"What?" He stared at the man beneath him in shock.

"That you. . . You really do. . . Don't you?" Sherlock's eyes were liquid, pleading, and vulnerable for once. It took all of Lestrade's willpower not to take advantage of the situation.

"I really what?" he whispered huskily, unable to slow his breathing.

Sherlock didn't answer, just leaned up shakily and kissed him tentatively on the nose. Then he roughly head butted him, flipping him off with the considerable strength that only came with adrenaline and a hunger for drugs.

Lestrade lay there in a daze for a few seconds, his mind racing, before he reached out a hand and grabbed Sherlock's ankle, sending him face-first into the door.

He gasped, pulling himself to his feet and staring at the unconscious detective with confusion.

"I don't know what the hell you're playing at, Sherlock. But I'm not going to let you out of my sight until I get answers."