Speechless

Chapter 5.3: Raise a Glass to Mend

February 12, 2008

Sherlock came to with a gasp, fighting for a few moments of frantic desperation with the bonds on his wrists before he realized what had happened.

Lestrade heard the clanking of the handcuff chains against his brass bedpost and poked his head into the room, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"I warned you, you know. It's not advisable to assault a cop."

Sherlock glared at him, clearly unhappy to be in such a vulnerable position. He winced slightly as the facial movement sent shocks through his face.

Lestrade walked into the room, carrying a tray of soup and toast. He picked up a small washrag and wiped gently at Sherlock's face, ignoring the man's attempts to turn his head away. It was no use anyway. Every time he moved, his face just ached more.

"Hold still, Sherlock. You've got a nasty shiner and a busted nose. I set your nose as well as I could, but I do hope you don't pick any more fights with my door."

He pulled the cloth back as Sherlock growled at him like a feral badger. The half-dried blood from his nose was a sharp contrast to the white of the cloth. Lestrade sighed. That was probably his last unstained washrag.

He offered his prisoner some food. Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot, waving his bound hands.

"Clearly you didn't think this one through. Why am I not surprised?"

Lestrade smirked. "No matter. I guess I'll just have to feed you, won't I?"

Sherlock's eyes burned with annoyance.

"You planned this all along, didn't you?"

"Maybe. Hell, if it gets you to eat. . ." he dipped a spoon into the bowl, lifting the weak broth to the detective's lips.

Sherlock stared at him petulantly, refusing to open his mouth.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Look here, Sherlock. I don't want to do it, but I will start making train noises if you refuse to eat like an adult."

He opened his mouth just wide enough to accept the spoon, his eyes not softening. It was clear that he considered this a great affront to his dignity, and frankly, Lestrade didn't blame him. But he had warned him, and he would do whatever it took to get him on the mend again, even if he had to break his nose a few more times.

As the soup slowly vanished from the bowl, Sherlock relaxed a little bit, gradually being more accepting of the older man's ministrations. By the time it was empty, he was no longer straining against his handcuffs.

Lestrade smiled gently down at him. "That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "Why are you doing this?"

Lestrade ignored the question. He wanted to tell him how important he was to him, how he blamed himself for the condition of the younger man, and how he never wanted to let him leave again. But now was hardly the time to get into all that.

"Here," he said simply, pulling the key to his handcuffs out of his jacket pocket. "I'm sure your arms are tired."

Sherlock looked up at him eagerly. So eagerly that it gave Lestrade pause.

"Now Sherlock, you have to promise that if I take these off you will stay put."

It was clear from the disappointment in his eyes that staying put was the last thing on Sherlock's mind.

Lestrade grinned. "Right. One hand at a time then."

He uncuffed Sherlock's left wrist, staring with a pang of guilt at the welts left behind from the cruel metal. The trouble with regulation handcuffs was that they weren't exactly designed for comfort. He picked up the wet washrag and a bottle of lotion Aster had left behind and began to tend to the injury.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock repeated, an edge of desperation to his voice this time.

Lestrade met his flood lock gaze, doing his best to repress his emotions. He knew Sherlock would probably be able to see through them anyway, but he was more interested to read the other man, to see the strange enigmatic light behind the crippling sadness in his eyes.

He turned away. "Because I have to," he said simply, hoping this would put an end to the matter. He re-cuffed Sherlock's arm and reached around to the other one, releasing it.

Before he could begin work on the other arm, Sherlock grabbed him by the collar, pulling him within inches of his face.

"That's not an answer," he said simply, smirking wearily. "And you know it."

Lestrade calmly reached around and loosened his grip finger by finger. "It's the only answer you're going to get."

Sherlock responded by violently vomiting all over them both, then passing out.

After Lestrade finished cleaning himself, the room, and Sherlock - all the while thoroughly grateful that Sherlock's body had rejected the food before he'd had much time to digest it - he returned to the room to watch over his unwilling houseguest.

He gently brushed Sherlock's hair away from his forehead, noting with some concern that his temperature had spiked. That, coupled with the vomiting and irritability confirmed what he had feared. Sherlock was going through heavy drug withdrawal. For heroin.

Lestrade had never done anything harder than nicotine and booze, but having spent enough time around users, he had learned the differences in withdrawal symptoms. This realization sent a wave of anger and terror through him as he traced the track marks on Sherlock's arms.

Yes, there were still the smaller needle marks from his cocaine injections. But now that he looked closer, he could clearly make out several more recent marks that were larger, from a wider syringe. He shook his head sadly.

"It was bad enough before," he whispered. "Whatever possessed you to take up something even worse?"

He feared - and yet in a sick way, hoped - that he knew the answer. He gulped, fighting back tears. The last thing he wanted was for the man to regain consciousness while he was blubbering like a woman.

"Please, Sherlock, please tell me this wasn't my doing."

He leaned over the unconscious detective gingerly, hoping not to wake him. He pressed his lips gently against his forehead, lingering for just a moment before pulling away.

"I should never forgive myself," he whispered.

Sherlock murmured in his sleep, his eyes twitching nervously.

Lestrade could not make out what he was saying. The few words that surfaced were in French, he surmised. He sighed, easing himself into a chair to continue watching over him, as he always would.

"My God, the elephants!" bellowed Sherlock.

"Guah!" cried Lestrade, nearly falling out of the chair in shock.

He looked over at Sherlock, who appeared to have startled himself awake. The man's mouth was agape, as if some brilliant thought had broken him temporarily. Lestade imagined that, were his hands free, he would have clasped them to his nose.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, willing his heart to stop exploding.

"The elephants! The rubies were in the elephants all along! That's why I couldn't find them. The wretches must have moved them out of the country."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Sherlock smiled slyly at him. "A smuggling case I was working on a few years back, for Mycroft. I never figured it out. Always haunted me."

Lestrade grinned. "What, a case the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve?"

"Clearly erroneous, my dear Lestrade. I've solved it now, haven't I?"

He chuckled. "A few years late, though."

The glare Sherlock directed at him was priceless. "If I weren't handcuffed to this bed right now, I'd -"

"What? Hit me? I can take you any day. I'd like to see you try."

"And I you. Without your damned door this time."

They beamed at each other. Lestrade sighed. Just like old times.

He walked to Sherlock's side, pulling the key from his pocket again.

"Now no fighting until you've got your strength back. I'd feel guilty handing you your arse when you weren't at full strength."

Sherlock's eyes flashed mischievously. "Agreed. Though that will simply make my victory all the sweeter."

"Right."

Lestrade removed the handcuffs.

Sherlock rubbed his wrists gingerly. "Thank you," he said simply.

"For what?"

"For looking after me. Not that I liked it, mind," he added hastily.

Lestrade laughed. "I told you I'd always be here, didn't I?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "But you aren't. Not really. Sometimes I. . ." He paused, staring at the duvet.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade stared at him in concern.

He stared back, quickly shielding himself behind his signature smirk. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, while we're here, are you working on anything interesting?"

Lestrade sighed. "I'll go find you some folders."