Speechless
Chapter 6.2: After All The Drinks
June 20, 2008
The past few months had been hellish, Lestrade mused, groaning softly as he fought back the angry morning sun that filtered through his window. Bloody hangovers. He really needed to remember to hydrate the next time.
His prediction about Sherlock's memory of that night was either extremely accurate or the man was even better at keeping secrets than he'd supposed. For weeks, he'd been searching for a sign that he remembered, or that - dear heavens, please - he would say those words again. Sober. And mean them.
But nothing. Not even a glimmer. If anything, Sherlock seemed even more disinterested than normal. His focus was entirely on the case. Not that Lestrade could blame him. It was a nasty one, exactly the kind he loved the most.
And it wasn't simply Sherlock's apparent lack of memory that haunted Lestrade. It was also that other matter he had brought to light: Sherlock had nearly cost him his job. Had cost him his marriage. On purpose. How the hell was he supposed to deal with that?
The answer lay in the way he had always dealt with things he would rather not think about. Which explained the headache and the rapidly growing scruff on his face.
He moaned again, willing himself out of bed and stumbling to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. It was going to be one of those days again.
In point of fact, it was going to be worse. His phone vibrated on the counter, nearly causing him to have a heart attack. He picked it up wearily.
"Hello?" he growled. Jesus, not before coffee.
"Where the hell are you?" Anderson's voice sounded panicked. Not that that was unusual in itself.
"Ugh. At home. Why?"
"Your madman's destroying my lab. Again. He needs a leash, sir."
Lestrade groaned. Why, of all days. . .
"I'll be right there."
"Sherlock, for the love of God, what are you doing?"
The tall man smirked at him, then turned back to the table in front of him, which was strewn with samples and tubes and other bits of flotsam Lestrade didn't recognize but seriously hoped were not important.
"Working. Now shut up or get out. I need to concentrate."
Anderson's face was nearly purple. "You have to get him out of here, sir. He's contaminating the evidence."
Sherlock scoffed. "Please. If anyone's contaminating anything, Anderson, it's you with your stupidity. Off with you."
"Sherlock. . ." started Lestrade, warning ringing in his voice.
He stared at him, clearly unsure why he was making a fuss. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you do want to actually solve this case, don't you?"
Lestrade sighed. "Come on, Anderson. Let's go get some coffee."
As they walked out of the room, Anderson glared at him in disbelief. "So you're just going to let your pet civilian rampage through my lab?"
"For now, yes. Don't worry. I'm going to ask the medical school if they'll take him off our hands for a while. And I'll make him get his own damn samples."
Anderson smiled at him. "Thank you. I'm sorry, he just. . ."
Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know. I know. And I'm going to find a way to make this work." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, I haven't been sleeping well."
Anderson stopped, staring at him in concern. "That's an understatement if I ever head one. Are you alright?"
"Fine."
He shook his head. "No you aren't. You look like you took a couple spins through a wood chipper, if you don't mind me saying so."
"Wow. Thank you, Anderson." Lestrade frowned. "Anything else you want to get off your chest?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean it as an insult. It's just. . . We're all worried about you, sir. You've been. . . Erratic, to say the least. Are you sure you're fine?"
He sighed. "It's nothing. Really. I've just been hitting the pub a bit heavy lately. You know. Tough case and all that."
Anderson nodded, clearly still not believing this explanation. "Right. . . Ok. Fine. I won't ask again. But if there is ever anything I can do, just let me know."
"Thank you, Anderson." He smiled gently back at him. He might have a short temper, but he was a good man. Lestrade trusted him more than almost anyone else.
But not with this. This thing with Sherlock. . . This was a one-man battle.
"Now if you don't mind," he said, coughing gently, "I should probably see what I can do about getting your lab back."
As Lestrade left the Yard that evening, he was so preoccupied that he barely noticed the car tailing him. That was until the rear passenger door opened and rough hands pulled him inside.
"What in the. . . I'm a police officer! You can't. . ."
"Do be quiet, Lestrade," cooed a familiar voice. "This is for your own good."
"Mycroft?"
Sherlock's brother leaned into the light, smiling sadly at the DI.
"Yes. I'm afraid you've become a bit of a liability."
Lestrade's eyes widened. Oh God. He was going to die.
Mycroft chuckled. "Oh dear. No. Not like that. Do stop panicking. I'm not going to hurt you. Slap some sense into you, maybe."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want to help you with your problem. In return, I expect you to keep a closer eye on my brother for me. Can you do that?"
Lestrade frowned. "What problem? I don't have a problem!"
Mycroft sighed. "As I suspected. My dear Lestrade, you are on the fast track to becoming a ruined man. Again. But this time, it will be of your own doing. I won't have my brother associating with an alcoholic. You need help."
"So you kidnapped me."
"Oh my. So dramatic. Hardly. I merely have picked you up off the street, and I'm taking you somewhere where they can help you."
Lestrade's eyes widened in recognition. "You're putting me in a program?"
Mycroft nodded. "And you'd better make all the meetings. If you don't. . ." He tapped the side of his nose. "I'll know."
Lestrade was fuming. "How dare you? My personal life is none of your business. And if it weren't for you and your damned brother, I wouldn't be in this mess!"
"Oh, really?" Mycroft frowned. "But you see, it's too late for that. You're Sherlock's business. Which makes you my business. And if you can't deal with that, too bad for you. He's my brother, and I won't have him gallivanting about with just anyone. I like you, Lestrade. You have a lot of moxie." Mycroft's eyes flashed dangerously. "But don't push me, unless you want to see how far I will really go."
Lestrade gulped. "Fine. I'll do it."
Mycroft beamed at him. "Good man! Keep this up, and I see a big promotion in your future."
He shook his head. "I'm not a charity case, Mycroft. Nor will I be your pocket copper. You don't want me to push you? Don't push me either."
"Fair enough."
And he was deposited on the street outside a community centre before he had a chance to reply.
"Bloody Holmes brothers," he muttered, walking inside.
So I realized today that S1 aired in 2010, not 2009. . . so all the dates are off by a year. I managed to fix Chapters 4-6, but the first half of the fic is about a year off. Just pretend it's all ok, yeah? :/