Speechless

Chapter 6.1: Give It All Up For You

October 18, 2009

Time slipped by in the endless weary way it had, a brutal juxtaposition of intense excitement and periods of woeful boredom. Whole months went by where there was little more than a domestic murder, and then there were times when Lestrade honestly thought the world was going to end. But it never did. The days kept plodding by, an endless montage of paperwork, meetings, and the sensation of never quite being able to take hold of the important things.

Before Sherlock Holmes had entered his life, he was a world-weary man just waiting for something to change. Now, although his world had plunged into chaos, there was a sort of quiet optimism about him that had not been there before, although that was frequently overshadowed by frustration.

He was not a strong man in matters of will, as stubborn as he could be. His descent into alcoholism spoke enough of that. But he was trying, for the sake of the people who depended on him. He was cracked, but not broken. And he was determined enough to stay that way.

He'd been sober for nearly a year and a half now, he was proud to note, and his impulse to drink himself into oblivion - while it would never leave - was fading fast. He had too much to live for, he'd decided, to waste his time in a stupor.

But it was a daily struggle, particularly when Sherlock ended up in the middle of things. Today, for instance, the tall young man had stalked into his flat without knocking. Again.

"Lestrade, why hasn't anyone been murdered?"

He sighed, gazing up at him from his kitchen chair, placing his fork down on the side of his plate of eggs. He wasn't going to get to finish them, he was sure of it.

"I don't know. Maybe all the psychopaths are on holiday. You know, you could have just called me."

"Mmm," mused Sherlock, snatching up a piece of toast and staring at it, eyes glazing. "Phone's dead."

"Can't you recharge it?"

"No charger."

Lestrade was almost afraid to ask. "Why not?"

"Stole it." Sherlock sighed. "Can we talk about something important now?"

"Like what?" Lestrade stared at him. "And I thought we went over how petty theft was still a crime, yeah? Because I really should stop you."

"Oh, but you won't."

They stared at each other, Sherlock's bright eyes challenging Lestrade's will. He sighed. This was one game he was frightfully lousy at.

"No, you're right," he sighed, lowering his eyes. "I was saving this for Christmas, but. . ."

He stood up, walking over to the cupboard and pulling a small box from inside it.

"You needed a new one anyway. This is fully text-enabled. I know how much you like to text. Just please promise to use it wisely."

Sherlock stared with delight at the iPhone. "You can't afford this," he mused. "So why make such a grand gesture? Oh. I see. You want to be able to track me. . . Clever."

"Can I help it if I'd prefer to know where you are?" Lestrade smirked at him. He knew he'd win this round. "And besides, it's got internet, so you can resume your happy relationship with Google."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Thank you." He tossed the phone rather nonchalantly in his pocket. Lestrade grimaced. He wasn't sure why he'd hoped Sherlock would take better care of the new phone than he had his old one. But Sherlock was right. It had not been cheap. And on his salary, it was going to be instant noodles for a while.

Sherlock casually took a bite of toast, grimacing as he chewed before placing it on the table. "Well, I'm bored. Call me when things get interesting, will you?"

Lestrade nodded. "Just, please, Sherlock. . ."

"Hmm?"

"Please don't MAKE things interesting?"

"I can't promise anything."

And with that, he was gone. Lestrade sighed. Maybe Anderson was right. A leash would be a safer bet.

December 20, 2009

lestrade want to see something cool? -SH

Lestrade sighed. Two months of this. Why had he gotten unlimited texting?

What is it this time? -G.

Suddenly, there was a loud series of beeps throughout the office. At first he thought that something was malfunctioning.

"Sir?" Sergeant Donovan stared at her phone in disbelief. "Some anonymous number just texted me. All it says is shoddy labwork."

"Oye!" cried Anderson from down the hall. "What the hell?"

Lestrade looked about the room, noting with shock that everyone was looking at their cell phones.

His phone beeped again.

Cool, right? -SH

He glared at his phone angrily. Of course Sherlock would have figured out how to send mass texts. He could tell this was going to be a problem.

"Everyone, just ignore that and get back to work," he commanded.

Don't do that again. -G.

January 28, 2010

Lestrade was incensed. Not only had he told Sherlock not to do that mass-texting thing again, but this time he seemed determined to make him look the fool. In a press conference, no less! The public were mistrustful of the police enough without him pulling a stunt like that and pulling their competence into question.

"I'm going to bloody kill him," he mused. Though he had to admit that it was pretty amusing. If he could only do things like that when people's lives weren't at stake. . . But then he wouldn't be Sherlock.

And he would never want him to be anything else.

Lestrade sighed, flopping into his office chair and staring at the ceiling, thinking about that drunken kiss again. It was strange, the way he always thought of that moment at the most inconvenient times. He would have said he was haunted by it if it had been a strictly negative memory.

But even now, years later, he was ambivalent about it. There was something infinitely bittersweet about it, the way Sherlock had blundered into the kiss, had told him he loved him. . . Sometimes if he thought hard enough he could still feel the heat of his breath in his ear. And yet, he had been drunk. And had not made a single move since. Lestrade had no way of knowing exactly where they stood, and had been too afraid to ask him while they were both sober.

He knew, had known for a long time that he loved Sherlock. And he had withstood so much pain and frustration by clinging to tiny droplets of hope that he felt the same. The look on his face in the hospital, the way he stared at Lestrade when he thought he wasn't looking, that single drunken confession. . .

He lank further into his chair, rustling through papers but not really seeing them. Circumstantial. It was all circumstantial. He had no proof. And he couldn't continue speculating. Not like this.

He needed real evidence. But how was he going to get it without. . . Oh, screw it. He'd just have to confront him.

But when?

February 5, 2010

"Another one? Where?" Lesdtrade leapt from his desk, grabbing his coat.

"Brixton," replied a rather stone-faced young constable. "Kids playing in an abandoned building found her."

He shook his head sadly. The ones with child witnesses were always the worst. He hated seeing any young person lose a little sliver of their innocence like that. He thought of his daughter, how he wanted her as far away from violence as possible.

"Anything else?"

The young man was looking at him expectantly. Something was different.

"She. . . There's a note," he said.

That was all he needed.

"You drive," he ordered. "We have to make a stop first."

This was it. The day. Sherlock would surely be interested in this one. And when he solved it, then they would finally get a chance to talk.

"Who's this?" Lestrade quickly looked over the world-weary man who limped into the room after Sherlock. Small, athletic build. Blond.

"He's with me."

That alone was unusual. Sherlock never said anyone was with him. And he hated spectators even more than Lestrade did.

"But who is he?" he asked weakly, already dreading the answer. The way Sherlock hissed his reply said everything he needed to know. He looked the man over again in a blind panic. No. No, this wasn't how this was supposed to go.

He quickly pulled his business face on. He would have to process it all later. Right now, there was a case to solve.

But in his head, he couldn't stop himself from speculating. Another brother? Unlikely. Sherlock hated Mycroft so much that it seemed impossible another would be on such good terms with him. Friend? No, Sherlock didn't even consider Lestrade a friend, after all he'd done for him. So there were only a few possibilities, and he didn't like any of them. Lover, then? Had he waited too long?

"Shut up," snapped Sherlock.

"I didn't say anything," he replied, praying that was true.

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

He sighed in relief. At least Sherlock was still Sherlock.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

And now he was asking this stranger for help? Lestrade couldn't stop himself from protesting. What the hall was he thinking, bringing someone new with him? He threw up some excuses about regulations, but he knew it was useless. He'd stopped following regulations with Sherlock ages ago.

He just smirked back, wiping all resistance away with that single phrase: "Because you need me."

Lestrade stared into his eyes, trying to think of how to express exactly how true that was. He had always needed Sherlock, from the day they'd met. It had started as a search for redemption, for answers. But over time, it hade become so much more than that. He needed Sherlock not just as an investigator. He needed him as a friend. He needed him by his side, always. And nothing, no one was going to change that.

"Yes I do," he replied, his voice shaking as he begged him not to leave him hopeless. "God help me."

But Sherlock ignored him, turning to this Dr. Watson instead. Lestrade couldn't take it. Why was he doing this? Why?

He stalked out of the room, praying Sherlock wouldn't see the betrayal on his face. Why now?

Ok, I really hate incorporating real dialogue, so I'm skipping a lot of the really great scenes and just using enough for context. This chapter was a bitch to write, but I can promise that things will turn out differently than you might fear. Bear with me.