Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Gabbyluv23: Thanks ^^
setsuko teshiba: Well, that's my secret for now ;)
NyteKit: I love the image too. Probably because it seems so out of character for him.
...
Bodyguard
...
The shift had been an uneventful one, he hadn't even had to leave his office for any other reason than visiting a toilette, which was a perfect development as far as Lestrade was concerned, given his state. And no, he didn't have a hangover like Sally had suggested. It was just that two hours of sleep combined with over forty eight hours of stress tended to have that effect on people.
He was already packing his stuff, ready to head home when the door of his office opened and Sally walked it, frowning when she saw him. Realising he was looking at her expectantly, she cleared her throat.
"I thought you're not here", she announced sounding sour.
"Well, I am", Lestrade stopped trying to fit a folder into his bag. Before he could ask her to get over with it, she closed the door and whispered conspiratorially.
"I know, but you may want not to be here."
He blinked. As far as he was concerned, he hadn't made a fool of himself at the banquet and delivered all the reports, so his boss had little to be pissed about. Waiting for Sally to explain, he mentally repeated everything he was responsible for that may have gone wrong.
"I will tell them you've just left, after all your shift is over", she assured in the same urgent tone.
"I", Lestrade concealed his chuckle, "Appreciate your offer, but what exactly is that you want to spare me from?"
Commenting about her boss being more than a dutiful officer, Sally huffed.
"Just don't take it out on me later", she warned and he picked up his hands to show she was safe no matter what dreadful news she had brought. Never hurt the messenger etc.
"The banquet you attended?", she started, "When did you leave?"
"Just after 3 a.m.", Lestrade replied automatically. He'd just known that going there couldn't end well.
"Right", her face confirmed that he wouldn't hear anything pleasant now, "So you wouldn't know."
"Know what?", he demanded, depositing the folder on his desk with a loud thud, "Sally, just spit it out", he didn't intend to sound that nervous but the banquet had been haunting him.
She shook his head to calm him down.
"Jesus, boss, they're not accusing you of drinking too much wine."
Of course not, he hadn't drunk any.
Just after saying this half-hearted joke, Sally's features hardened giving him the impression that the wine incident would have been a piece of cake compared to what had happened.
"Sally", he urged walking up to her.
"Oh, yeah", her head snapped up to meet his eyes, "That's pretty messy. Two hours after you'd left, they found a body there."
"Shit. Who?", Sherlock's face came to his mind unbidden, "Who?"
Sally sent him a suspicious glance.
"I'm checking up", she scanned a paper she was holding, "Ellie McKenzie, 38. Used to work at the Assembly. Murdered", she added as if it wasn't obvious.
Lestrade was aware that Sally was expecting him to recall the woman, but honestly, the only people he had spoken to at the banquet had been Paul, Mycroft and Sherlock. He didn't wish to ponder what that said about him.
"I don't believe we met", he said for Sally's sake.
"I wasn't holding my hopes high", she smiled knowing full-well that her boss wasn't exactly a social butterfly.
"If she was found in the morning", Lestrade's brows furrowed, "Why alerting us now? Almost twelve hours have passed…"
"They did call in the morning", Sally cut in, "Only Burton's team got the case."
"Burton?", not that Lestrade had anything against Burton, his surprise was mostly caused by the fact that Burton had been a DI for only two months and with all due respect, in dire need of some training. That was the very first case he didn't share with Lestrade or other older colleague.
"Yep", Sally had always been far more vocal with her opinions about Burton, "Shockingly", she giggled, "He's already botching it up and requesting your help. Begging for it would be a more suitable term", she smirked.
"Please, Sally", Lestrade really tried to sound at least a bit scolding, "He's been doing fine."
"Boss, I know you're awfully well-mannered", Sally was slightly laughing now, "But this guy is one of those reasons why people don't trust the Yard."
Hard to disagree with that. However, to maintain a straight face, he only asked what was that with what Burton had 'requested' his help.
Sally wrinkled her nose.
"Apparently, he's not handling his witness well."
"He has a witness?", now that was a pleasant surprise.
"A figure of speech", Sally mumbled under her breath.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that yes, he does have a witness", she paused, "Only he hasn't interrogated him yet."
Not an understandable delay, but it still looked promising.
"Why not? Why do I have to ask for every single thing?", he managed to keep his tone light, but Sally's monosyllabic answer were beginning to irritate him.
She seemed not to pay it any mind.
"Well", she drawled, "He's been indisposed."
Lestrade could only repeat dumbly after her.
"Indisposed? Was he hurt along with McKenzie?", that would explain the wait.
"Oh no", Sally picked up her chin, "The doctor says it's all self-administered."
"Doctor? Shit, Sally, what happened to the bloke?", Lestrade was already at the door.
"So you are going to help", she noted in an offended voice, "You're going to regret it. Take friendly advice."
"Don't be ridiculous", he had a suspicion she was serious about it, "It's just an interrogation, the case is Burton's."
"He won't be of any help", Sally carried on, "The witness. Just a waste of your time. He doesn't remember anything, I bet he wouldn't come up with his bloody name if you asked him quickly…"
"Sally", he pinned her with his glare, "Don't talk like that about a *witness*. He must be frightened to death."
"Doubt it", she was smirking again, "You'll see it yourself. Not a pleasant sight, by the way."
Not in a mood to banter with her, Lestrade turned on his feet and stormed down the corridor.
...
Lestrade had no problems finding Burton. The DI was leaning against a wall near one of the interrogation rooms, the most airy and bright one, as they were to talk to a witness not a suspect. By the way, it seemed strange to bring a witness who was clearly unwell to the police station rather than let him recover.
"Lestrade!", Burton visibly relaxed when he spotted the grey-haired man, "Thank God you're here, that was getting tragicomic…"
"He's not cooperating?", call him old-fashioned, but Lestrade never found a murder tragicomic.
Burton must have picked it up, because he shifted uncomfortably, planning what to say.
"I'm not sure", Burton sounded close to tears, "He's been awake for only two hours. I was sure the murderer got to him too, he looked awful when we found him, I mean it…"
"Facts", Lestrade snapped. He didn't need Burton whining over the witness's appearance.
That got Burton under control. Lestrade hid a smirk when he watched as Burton schooled his features in a mask of a competent Yarder (disputable), as if ashamed of his act in front of Greg.
"Here you go", he took a deep breath, "A man who discovered the body found him along with the corpse. Behind a bookcase of some sort, according to him."
"So he may have seen the murderer", Lestrade was just too happy to learn that.
"He should have, but I'm fairly certain he didn't. He says as much."
Yeah, too happy.
"Look", Lestrade sighed, "I don't even begin to understand why both you and Donovan just won't tell me the whole story. The guy was there but didn't see anything… Wait is he blind?"
Burton shook his head.
"So he's not blind, he's been to a doctor. Why?"
"We thought he'd been poisoned."
The murderer poisoned the witness? Why, if he had shot the victim?
"But he was…", Lestrade started, motioning to Burton to finally let it out.
"Stoned. We would have been arresting him for possession if he wasn't the only witness."
Great.
...
Sherlock Holmes was sitting in a plastic chair, well, "sitting" was giving him too much credit. He was managing to keep his arse on it and given the not-quite-there quality of his eyes it was a huge success. He was white as a sheet, his eyes red, shirt undone, propping on a table in front of him. He must have had a hell of a headache. Serves him right, the lying bastard.
Lestrade swung the door open, causing the young man to pick his eyes up (neck being far too immobile to move the head). Sherlock blinked few times and opened his mouth to speak, a smirk forming on his pale lips.
Lestrade balled his fist.
"Sherlock… Holmes, right?", he pretended to check it in the file.
Sherlock's smirk died. Oh, so he wasn't so out of it that he didn't catch up on the implication of that question.
"Yes", then he tried nevertheless, "What…"
Lestrade cut him short.
"Age 27?"
Sherlock was ready to demand he stopped the act but the DI continued mercilessly.
"Born on…", he waited for the witness to provide the information.
"January the 6th", Sherlock leaned back as if to mock Lestrade but it made him so dizzy he had to lower his head all the way down to his knees.
"Feeling indisposed?", Lestrade was curious, in a detached way, if the man was going to throw up.
Indisposed was rather far from it. Even the expression 'feeling sick' had long ago stopped to describe the way his mouth was dry, his head *and* heart pounding, his limbs wobbly… No, he wasn't getting in the details.
There was no dignity to talk about, yet he still refused to acknowledge the question. He was afraid to open his lips right now and not because of the words that may leave them.
"It takes an impressive level of stupidity to mix drugs with alcohol", Lestrade noted and Sherlock came to a conclusion that the saying 'you don't kick a man who's already down' wasn't as devoid of sense as he used to think.
Not that he actually recalled the alcohol.
"I didn't do that", he said experimentally to learn the answer from the DI.
"No of course not", Lestrade gritted out, "We simply faked the result of your blood test."
So maybe he had accepted the glass that that man had been offering him. Hard to tell. But one glass wouldn't have left him in such a pitiful state so more must have followed. Probably after the talk with Lestrade.
He was prevented from replying, just when he was ready with a neat remark, by another wave of dizziness which made him sway in his seat. He was preparing himself to meet the floor when he felt a pair of strong arms picking him up and helping him to keep upright.
"Shit, Sherlock", he heard the frantic voice, "What did you take?"
Few more breaths and he was convinced it was safe to attempt to speak.
"The usual", he said dismissively but didn't notice the dark look passing over Lestrade's face, "I don't know what's going on…", he was aware of the panicked tone his voice held but seriously, he had no idea what was happening. He had taken more and barely felt it and now he was close to losing consciousness, hell, he had been unconscious for a couple of hours.
The warm hands left him to pick up the doctor's report and he had to bite his tongue not to whine at the loss.
"It's not only cocaine", the DI pursed his lips, "Can you hear me, what did you take other than cocaine?"
Sherlock's frame shook when Lestrade nudged him to answer and for a minute he was scared the man was having a collapse. Then it hit him that he just didn't know.
Lestrade took a step back, suddenly afraid he'd just smack Sherlock for his idiocy. How could he, no, how could anyone be that irresponsible? Stupid arrogant sod, thinking that just because he happened to be more intelligent than an average person he was allowed to do whatever the hell he wished! At least there had been consequences this time, but knowing Sherlock he would learn nothing and repeat the mistake over and over…
Exactly. Some dark, unexplored part of his mind seemed to silently cheer up. How many years had passed?
"You had cocaine on you", he informed dispassionately.
Sherlock could only nod. If Lestrade said so…
"We should have arrested you. They didn't do it just because you're a witness."
It wouldn't have been the first time and they both knew that. Sherlock was too sick to remember anything, but Lestrade could play the events of their 'old days' in his head without trouble. The same sickly pallor, shaking hands, uneven breath, slow slurred speech. Sherlock may claim that drugs kept him more alert and they probably could in small and irregular doses but he had never known when to stop. It had been always controlling him, not the other way around.
Nothing had ever changed. Few months of solving cases, superman coat and silent glory had passed like a lightening. Those hours spent at the station, cells, back alleys had stretched into ages.
"Does Mycroft know?", he asked wearily.
Sherlock stiffened.
"Probably. There was a murder at his party."
"Will he come?"
A snort.
"Has he ever come?"
"He did once", Lestrade felt obliged to remind, "During your third stay here."
Sherlock tilted his head and gave him a long look over. Or at least attempted to.
"He'll come if he wishes so", he shrugged and Lestrade took a note how thin his shoulders were, "Depends on how much I managed to shame him at the banquet."
Lestrade hadn't thought of that. He had completely forgotten about the boy toy charade. Despite his curiosity, he fought down the urge to ask. It had been made clear it was none of his business.
Instead further questioning, he scanned Burton's scribbling in the notepad, preparing a line of interrogating. Following procedures for once when Sherlock was concerned may help him to keep a healthy distance. Playing 'friends' may not be the best idea under those circumstances.
"To start with…", he spoke up, eyes still glued on the text, "When did you go into that room?"
Nothing.
The, he heard a faint rustle and picked up his head only to see that his precious witness was grumbling at him from somewhere underneath the table.
"I may be overreacting", he commented drily, "But maybe we should postpone this conversation. I'm afraid they won't find the answers of a table legitimate in the court."
Sherlock moved, eliciting what was probably supposed to be a grunt of frustration.
"Sorry?", Lestrade leant over the table so he was now observing the man's back.
He could see Sherlock's muscles tense in response.
"Go ahead, Lestrade", he growled faintly, "I assure you there's nothing to worry about. Certainly not the court, they'll accept anything as long as it shortens the trial."
Lestrade almost blurted that the court drastically paled in comparison to Sherlock's state. But as he was clearly capable of sarcasm, he was probably able to withstand the interrogation.
"So", his tone was strictly professional again, "How did you end up in the adjoining office where the murder was committed later?", he began to watch Sherlock expectantly.
...
He was feeling pleasantly detached from his surrounding, all the people little but a buzzing haze around him. After few initial minutes of wandering aimlessly from one group of giggling women to another, he managed to locate Mycroft and made a beeline to him.
"Mycroft", he said in his well-practised tone of a petulant toddler and could see a slight frown of irritation appearing on his brother's forehead. But he was set on ignoring Sherlock.
A quick glance at those next to him explained it: Mycroft was apparently in company of his co-workers.
"Mycroft", he whined, forcing his way between two impressively built men.
They're obvious displeasure left Mycroft with no other choice but to react.
"What do you want?", the elder Holmes snapped through gritted teeth.
"What are you doing?", Mycroft was now standing at the arm's length, so Sherlock could simply turn his face to him and blink with big innocent eyes.
"It's none of your business", came a stern reply. Not surprising given his status of an 'escort'.
"But I'm bored", that was the truth, plain and simple. He somehow managed to attach himself to Mycroft's arm and was now caressing it subtly with his fingers.
"Go entertain yourself", they were catching Mycroft's friends' attention.
"It's no fun alone", he half-whined, half-purred, standing on his toes so he could reach Mycroft's ear, "Come with me."
One or two women forgot their manners and were openly staring at them. After all, they had spent long hours wondering what kind of relationship Mr Holmes shared with a young man trailing after him.
"Get lost", Mycroft whispered menacingly, low enough so only his brother could hear him.
"But Mycroft", Sherlock, on the other hand, did nothing to keep his words secret, "I want you with me, I'm bored alone…", to emphasise how much he valued Mycroft's company, he gently nipped at his ear.
He felt his brother's strong attempt at dislodging him, but only bit the said ear in response.
"Mycroft", he demanded to have his wish granted with a quick peck followed by a lick.
That made the women abandon all decorum and gasp and Mycroft to lose his normally stoic patience. Before Sherlock could see what hit him, Mycroft had him in a bruising hold, hauling him away from his co-workers. At their abrupt leave, he could hear the words 'drunk' and 'whore' repeated in both male and female voices.
"What do you think you're doing?", the furious tone was accompanied with a vigorous shake that made Sherlock's teeth clatter. Somewhere in the back of his head, somewhere where he was still able of observing and making connections, he admitted that Mycroft was probably good at his job. To every passer-by it would seem that Mycroft was simply leading Sherlock through the crowd like a gentleman. No one would notice the vice-like grip on Sherlock's forearm bent at an unnatural angle.
Finally, they reached a secluded corner of the lobby and Sherlock was pushed away, almost colliding with a wall. Unaffected, he turned to Mycroft, smiling sweetly.
"I'm your boy toy", he reminded victoriously, "Isn't that how boy toys act? Don't you like getting kissed by your little boy toy?"
For a moment Mycroft's expression was that of pure hatred, then in a flicker of second it softened into something akin to parental understanding. It made Sherlock sick.
"You're drunk", Mycroft sounded as if something sour had been put on his tongue.
"And high", Sherlock added rebelliously.
It went unaddressed.
"How did you manage to get yourself into such pitiful condition in such a short time is beyond me", Mycroft was an epitome of disapproval, as usual when dealing with his brother, "But I'd be obliged if you kept it to yourself. Unless you require a ride home", his glare meant it clear that was what he wanted Sherlock to do, "I advise you to stay away from me. While I have no choice about being seen with a 'kept boy'", he spat, "I'd rather be not seen with a drunk kept boy who can't control himself."
He spun on his heels to leave.
As if Sherlock would let him.
In a split of second, he was in front of Mycroft, leaning close to his face. Mycroft's disgust made him chuckle inwardly.
"Come on, I may be a drunk kept boy but don't pretend you don't notice all those jealous glances we're getting", he licked his lips for the spectators' sake.
He was pushed aside angrily.
"I'm bored", he whined when Mycroft was few feet away, "You can't hold me responsible for what I'll do."
That made Mycroft reconsider. While he could certainly hold Sherlock responsible he could in no way prevent his brother from acting up. And knowing his past antics, there was no punishment fitting the crime.
However, rather than sigh heavily and motion at Sherlock to follow, Mycroft pursed his lips and grabbed him again, dragging him towards a dark door on the left.
Sherlock started to squirm but shit, Mycroft was strong. Must be all that fat on his belly – size superiority and all. Before he could form a suitable theory in his mind, Mycroft had already hauled him inside.
"Now that you've showed that no all cavemen have died off", Sherlock hissed massaging his arm, "Let me go."
Mycroft arched a brow.
"I don't think so, little brother."
"Don't call me that!"
A patronising huff.
"Childish, so childish", he checked the time on his watch, "It'd be appreciated if you willingly stayed here until I come to retrieve you."
Sherlock crossed his arms, his eyes mocking.
"Make me."
Silently Mycroft advanced, causing Sherlock to back away despite himself. He felt his back hitting a wall – or rather a bookcase. Mycroft reached out for his arm. Sherlock tensed up, but didn't protest when his arm was lifted.
"I trust I don't have to", Mycroft smiled his fake smile, his thumb lightly petting the crook of Sherlock's elbow.
Soon Sherlock wrenched his arm free, cradling it to his chest. He sneered at his brother.
"Enjoy your wait, little brother", Mycroft literally sing-songed, re-adjusting Sherlock's jacket.
...
"Sherlock", Lestrade shook his witness's frame, "That's not funny, either speak up or I'll get someone to take you back to the doctor!"
The DI concealed the worry in his voice well, so well that Sherlock didn't detect it. Slowly and painfully, he picked up his head.
"There's no need to return me here."
"If so", Lestrade snapped, "Just answer my bloody question! Why were you there?"
He twitched under Sherlock's searching look and inwardly breathed in relief when the man shrugged and leaned back in the plastic chair.
"I assume I don't have to explain to you that I'm not an overly social person. I simply needed to get away from the crowd."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes.
"Was it after or before you got yourself drunk?"
Sherlock chuckled, stretching his long legs.
"In the middle", he looked as insolent as he sounded, obviously feeling better at the moment, "But I understand you may find it helpful that I had some… Refreshments with me, to keep boredom at bay."
"Of course. Heaven forbid Sherlock Holmes got bored", Lestrade scribbled down some nonsense, "What time was it when you went there?"
Mycroft's watch appeared in Sherlock's mind.
"12.46."
"Impressive accuracy for a delinquent", Lestrade noted.
"A witness", Sherlock corrected with a smirk.
"A delinquent who also happens to be a witness", Lestrade wouldn't let him win this one.
Sherlock had never taken defeat well.
"Problem?", he seemed to be amused.
Lestrade gripped his thighs hidden under the table in mute ire.
"You appear to have a deeply emotional approach, Detective Inspector", the young man mocked, "If you're so set on steering poor lost souls onto the right path you should have considered becoming a priest."
"You are mistaken", Lestrade replied coolly, "In my current job it's much easier to recognise those without redemption", a minute pause, "The murder was committed between 3.30 and 5 a.m. Did you leave the office then?"
"No, I didn't."
A cheeky grin. God, how did he manage to stay cheeky when he could already foresee the next question?
"Did you hear the shot?"
"No, Detective Inspector", in Sherlock's lips the title sounded like an insult, "Actually, I'm afraid the murderer may have used a silencer."
Lestrade took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm.
"Did you see the victim coming in?"
"I was after several glasses and three shots. Do you think I was able to see anything?", it was meant as a bait.
"I'm the one asking questions here, Mr Holmes", Lestrade congratulated himself on the steady tone.
"But please", Sherlock swung the chair back, "Do call me Sherlock."
Lestrade's control flew out of the window and he banged his fist on the table.
"Facts, Sherlock!"
The smirk grew even wider.
"Bullying a witness, Lestrade. How unprofessional, one would think our great police force…"
He didn't get to finish as Lestrade cut in, pinning him with his eyes.
"Just answer the question", he allowed himself a barely-here sigh, "I see that it may be difficult for you to admit that you have no recollection of what taken place there, it seems natural to me that you're reluctant to state that for once you let some detail slip, if you can call a *murder* a detail", he snorted to himself, observing how Sherlock paled rapidly, even though he valiantly held his chin up high.
In the end, the witness spoke up.
"No, I didn't see her coming in. What's more, I didn't see the moment she fell down, I can't tell you if there was the murderer inside. I don't remember anything", by the end of his confession his voice lost its evenness.
"What is the first thing you recall?", Lestrade pressed.
No hesitance this time.
"Someone shaking my shoulders, screaming about a corpse. That man must have come in and found the body, then he found me. Thought I was dead too at first."
Not ignorant of Sherlock's shame and distress, Lestrade let him have few seconds to compose himself and dedicated himself to writing the conversation down. Not that there was much to write to begin with.
"Well", he put the pen down, "I believe we're finished here. Unless you want to add something?"
Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight line. Lestrade suspected that even if he had miraculously cracked the case this very moment he wouldn't share a single observation with him. He actually looked ready to never talk to him again in his life.
"Please take a look at the protocol", Lestrade decided to simply follow the procedures and be done with it, "If you find it true to your words, please sign it."
Sherlock grabbed the paper from his hand and put down his signature without sparing it a glance.
"Can I leave now?", he was already standing up straightening his shirt.
"I don't see any hindrance", Lestrade opened the door and Sherlock dashed out, avoiding crashing into Chief Inspector Dowell by a millimetre.
"Done, Lestrade?", Dowell asked in what was suspiciously pleasant tone while both he and Burton assumed such positions that it was impossible for Sherlock to go past them without bumping into anyone.
"Yes", not wishing to be dragged into something without a specific name, Lestrade reduced his involvement to handing the protocol to Dowell.
Dowell scanned in more quickly than Sherlock would read two pages and Lestrade had to physically refrain himself from rolling his eyes. It was clear that the Chief Inspector couldn't be bothered less with the result of the interrogation and this theory was confirmed when he passed the paper to Burton.
"What do you think about it?", Dowell tried to sound conversational and while Lestrade had to keep his face straight, Sherlock had no such obligations. He openly rolled his grey-blue orbs at the man.
"I haven't seen or read anything yet, sir", Lestrade hastily provided, drawing attention away from the offender.
Dowell accepted it with a serious nod, but Burton was already blurting out.
"McKenzie was believed to have an access to top secret files of the government.
Lestrade was desperately looking for a place to focus his eyes because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to mask his amusement at Burton's excitement. Sherlock's eyes seemed to be the right spot, at least for a second, before the young man reminded himself that he was supposed to be sulking, offended by Lestrade's interrogation.
So Lestrade had no other choice but to look at Burton, who assumed a pose of an eager puppy.
"Is that a verified information?", he asked carefully.
Burton didn't seem to have thought of that, but Dowell came to his rescue.
"As much as such information can be verified. No one is too helpful when you ask who can touch the country's best-guarded secrets."
Lestrade had to agree with that. Burton visibly relaxed.
But a moment of such tranquillity can only last this long before you start to feel that something is amiss. And that it's mostly about you, judging by how your companions are staring at you.
"That, Lestrade", Dowell took it upon himself to break the news – he was the boss here, after all, "Is where you're coming into this."
Lestrade wasn't particularly happy about being put on a case with Burton. Experience had taught him that being called an idiot by Sherlock was a blessing compared to working with Burton. He really did wish the man well, only there always came that moment in everyone's life when they started to value peace and competence.
"This young man", Dowell suddenly turned to Sherlock, startling him, "Got himself into a pretty dangerous situation. Being the sole witness to a murder, committed for such obscure reasons… He's become a threat to the murderer."
Lestrade blinked. Then again. He looked to Sherlock, but the man's face was unreadable.
"Sir", Lestrade began sheepishly, "I don't want to contradict you, but please take under consideration that the 'reasons' are merely a rumour and that our witness didn't in fact witness anything."
'The murderer doesn't have to know that, does he?", Burton sounded smug.
"No, he doesn't", Lestrade relented, "But he doesn't have to know there was anyone here in the office other than McKenzie too. After all, he or she did leave him unscratched."
The murder's motives and knowledge must have been the last thing on Dowell's mind, because he stopped the discussion that was bound to take place.
"Anyway", he drawled, "We can't risk our witness's wellbeing", he announced, sending Sherlock a reassuring smile.
Which Sherlock not so politely ignored, moving his eyes from Dowell to Lestrade.
Apparently unaffected by this blatant show of disrespect, which even made Burton scowl, the Chief Inspector continued.
"We have to keep our witness safe."
Realisation hit Lestrade like a well-aimed rock.
"You want to put him on a witness protection programme?", after a though he added, "Sir?"
Saying this aloud had probably enhanced the ridiculousness of this idea, because Dowell shifted. He maintained a serious expression of a man who knows what he's doing, though.
"Not exactly a witness protection", he began and both Lestrade and Sherlock huffed simultaneously. Then, Sherlock glared at the DI, who on his part remained stoic like any dignified grown-up, "We simply decided to assign an officer who would look after him, to be colloquial."
"I believe that's the only way you're capable of being", Sherlock sneered and Lestrade felt excused to roll his eyes. He's so not helping him when he insults his boss, "Besides, I do not need a babysitter."
They could say all they wanted, but Sherlock had some issues. A child complex to start with.
"He doesn't need a babysitter", Lestrade found himself supporting Sherlock bloody Holmes, "And I'm certainly not one!"
Dowell looked surprised confronted with such rebellion. He had anticipated a protest from Holmes, but not much from Lestrade. Definitely not such a coordinated protest.
"Lestrade", he growled to re-assert his authority, "You're the man I'm putting on this job. My best man."
When it came to Sherlock, Lestrade would gladly accept the title of the worst man. However, he needed to be diplomatic about it.
"Sir", he schooled his features into a face of a trustworthy veteran, "I appreciate your trust but I'm afraid I don't have the experience necessary to do this job."
Dowell didn't buy.
"What kind of experience do you mean? All you have to do is follow him with a gun!"
Sherlock smirked and Lestrade would bet his arm that they thought about the same thing: that Lestrade couldn't be trusted with a gun in Sherlock's presence, certainly not behind his back.
"I'm a DI", Lestrade tried to rationalise, "I have my team which I have to lead. We've just got a new case and…"
"I'm positive that Sergeant Donovan is capable of solving a case. Your men are all more than capable."
Lestrade almost prayed that Sherlock would pop up with some insult under Sally's address. Anything. Call her an idiot, a slacker, anything. He would forgive him. Just something to make Dowell doubt his team's competence.
Nothing came. Sherlock was inspecting the ceiling.
Traitor.
"Thank you on their behalf, sir", Lestrade grunted, "But maybe you should re-consider this. There are a lot of men willing to protect a witness. Not that I'm not willing", he clarified, "I just think that Mr Holmes may prefer someone closer to his age", he made it up as he was talking.
It not only brought a stupid slack-jawed expression on Dowell's face but also an incredulous look from Sherlock. Lestrade felt a blush creeping on his cheeks.
"I can't fathom what my age has to do with it", Sherlock cleared his throat, "Anyway", he turned to Dowell, "I understand you may appreciate being informed that I'm going to dismiss a 'protection' from any officer other than Lestrade."
Little shit.
If Dowell had been surprised at the commanding tone of the sickly pale witness, he hid it well. Maybe because he was busy beaming at Lestrade.
"See, Lestrade? I think it solves everything."
"Sir, surely you're not going to just bend to some… Kid's will", last desperate attempt.
"Lestrade", Dowell grabbed his shoulder, whispering urgently, "There's been pressure from up here", he pointed his finger upwards, "He seems to have some influential friends. I'm sorry, but you must understand that there are some suggestions you can't simply discard…"
"So I'm going to get stuck with him just because Mycroft called you?"
"Who?", Dowell was searching his face.
"Never mind who, sir", he replied rather rudely but was too furious to care, "Why can't those concerned citizens grant him protection on their own?", he had a good idea why.
"You can't seriously believe they told me", Dowell scowled, "All I know is that we have to protect him, and you're the only man I trust to do that. I don't want to involve anyone else. You already know about the murder, you interrogated him, he wants it to be you…"
To drive me up the wall in the absence of his brother.
"Please, Lestrade, you have to understand my hands are tied. It has to be done."
"Sure, boss. You can count on me", he turned to Sherlock with a face of the man who's death warrant had just been issued.
...
"I don't like it as much as you do", Sherlock informed him when they were on their way to Lestrade's office.
"You weren't overly vocal about it", the DI reminded him sourly retrieving his bag.
Sherlock shrugged. He really appeared pale in his clothes. And Lestrade wasn't really looking towards the withdrawal. Too much of a déjà vu.
"Do you have a coat?", he asked already walking towards a hanger with his spare jacket.
"No."
"Try this", Lestrade threw him a short jacket, "It has to do for now. I'm not dealing with a cold on a top of all of that", he gave Sherlock a stern glare, but the young man only put the jacket on, buttoning it up all the way to his neck.
"Warm", he stated with his trademark cheeky grin when Lestrade was locking the door.
"Good. Just don't get any ideas, I'm no Kevin Costner."
...
A/N First off, I don't have much knowledge about drugs and their effects. Sherlock is experiencing headache and other things I wrote about because he mixed two kind of drugs with alcohol. That's way the effects may differ from what drugs (e.g. cocaine) tend to cause.