AN: Blame Omegle for this not being uploaded sooner. I got distracted roleplaying.
Lestrade chuckled down the phone, "You've just got to leave him to it, John."
John scoffed, "He won't tell me anything, Greg. The only thing I know about his migraines is what I've seen. He's too stubborn to tell me anything."
Lestrade rubbed a hand against his face as he sat down in the armchair, "John, you're a doctor; the only thing you can do is watch him closely. I've been handling Sherlock with his migraines for five years and I still have trouble recognising the signs."
"How did you learn of them then?" John asked, "I can't imagine Sherlock coming straight out and telling you. I didn't find out until he was curled up on the floor two months after moving in."
"You found out sooner than me. Try five months later while chasing a suspect." That was a moment in Greg's life he knew he would never forget.
"You were chasing a suspect?" John repeated in disbelief.
"Sherlock won't let a migraine stop him from a case." Lestrade replied remembering a time Sherlock had a particularly nasty one and still refused to rest. "I've had to drag him home to get him to rest and even then he still wouldn't." Not until I had to hold him down and stroke his hair until he passed out, fell asleep or got better. Whichever one came first. He added mentally, he wasn't going to tell John that.
They had been on the case for three days, and they still weren't any close to catching him as when it had started. It was a string of murders, one in the morning and one in the evening, a female murder in the evening and a male murder in the morning. All of them were found with a gunshot wound just above their abdomen. Sherlock had more or less snuck in on the first one and from what he knows, hasn't rested since; he was running on caffeine and adrenaline. Sherlock was sitting in his office, refusing to leave, trying to predict where the next murder would occur.
"Think about it, Lestrade." Sherlock said pointing at the pictures, "The first female victim was found at Paddington Green, the second was found at Regent Park and the third at Winfield House Grounds. He's attacking women that go through the park on their ways home. Where are the other parks?" Sherlock asked, mostly to himself.
Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face and looked at Sherlock, "I don't know, Sherlock."
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he paced around the DI's office, clearly growing frustrated.
Lestrade watched him with growing concern, he could tell there was something off about the young man, something just wasn't right, but what? He seemed paler than before, but three nights without sleeping and eating would do that to a person, his pacing was slower than his normal speed, again, Lestrade chalked this up to the fact of that Sherlock could simply be exhausted.
"Are you okay, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, voicing his concern.
Sherlock paused in his pacing momentarily before waving a hand dismissively, "I'm fine."
Had it not been winter and had the windows not been smashed as well as the Yard heating failing to work, he would have found it rather concerning that Sherlock's hand was trembling slightly. Though, it was extremely cold in his office, he knew that he was going to start shivering if it got any colder. And Sherlock was only wearing his suit and a rather thin coat. Despite his concern for his… friend? Could he consider Sherlock a friend? It was far too soon to tell. Lestrade forced himself to focus on the case, Sherlock was simply exhausted, nothing more.
Lestrade looked down at the evidence. If they could find out the other place tonight, they may not be able to prevent another murder but they might catch the person committing this crime. First, Paddington Green, then Regent Park and finally Winfield House Grounds, the only other park Lestrade could think of was Kensington Gardens and that isn't even close to the other three. He knew there was another one; it was sitting in the back of his mind. If only his computer was working, he could probably load up a map of London. Lestrade groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his dark hair.
He looked up to find Sherlock had stopped pacing, Sherlock was waving his hands about and muttering to himself, Lestrade just about caught the final word – Primrose Hill, before Sherlock then dashed out of his office, a little slower than normal.
Lestrade sighed, he'd need to gather his team up first before rushing to Primrose Hill, but the problem is that he doesn't even know if that's where the killer will be. He can't simply go on Sherlock's word, it was far more complicated. Regardless of this, Lestrade gathered up his team and quickly took off to Primrose Hill. Once arriving, he ordered his team to be very careful and to spread put, look around everywhere. If this was the next location then they will need to be very careful. It was roughly 9pm and very dark; Lestrade had pulled a small torch from his coat pocket and turned it on to help him see. The last three murders at a park had all been called in at roughly 10pm; the victim had been lying on the ground for no more than an hour. They were going to be very close to catching the criminal, under the assumption this was the place.
Lestrade treaded carefully around the park, it was all mostly dead grass and trees without leaves. He had a gun in one hand and a torch in the other. Pointing his torch ahead but at the ground, it was too risky to point it higher up, not with the chance of a serial killer arriving. Lestrade wasn't too sure how long he had been wandering around for, he had checked the hill, looked through several trees and was now searching the flat part near the path when he saw some feet. Putting himself on high alert, he slowly raised his torch until it was pointing at the figures face.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed angrily, watching as Sherlock closed his eyes and shielded his face with his arm.
"Lower your torch, Lestrade!" Sherlock hissed back.
Lestrade kept his torch on Sherlock's face for a second longer before lowering it. "What are you doing here, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked angrily, keeping his voice down in case the killer is around.
"Finding your killer." Sherlock hissed turning his back to Lestrade.
Lestrade walked ahead of Sherlock and turned to face him. "Sherlock, I've told you that you are not to go off on your own! It's too dangerous!"
"You'll never find your criminals if I didn't do this." Sherlock protested turning away from Lestrade and walking away.
Lestrade was about to walk after Sherlock, he'd need to keep the younger man close, it wasn't safe for him to be wandering around on his own, when an arm wrapped around his neck and a gun was cocked and put against the side of his head.
"Well, Inspector, I've been wondering how long it would take you to find me." A voice whispered in his ear. "Now throw your weapon down and I won't shoot you."
Lestrade forced himself to remain calm as he tossed his gun forward, making sure it landed near Sherlock who had turned to face them when he heard the gun cock.
"Now who's going to stop me from shooting you?" The voice whispered again.
Lestrade didn't talk; he watched Sherlock closely as the younger man knelt down and pointed the gun towards the killer. From what Lestrade could see, Sherlock's hand was trembling but he could tell it wasn't because of the cold, something else was making Sherlock tremble. Fear? Lestrade would need Sherlock to calm down first, if Sherlock were to fire the gun, with his hand trembling the way it is, then it'll be likely the bullet would get him instead of the killer. Lestrade's gaze lowered from Sherlock to the torch in his hand, the killer only told him to lower his weapon not his torch. When he looked back up at Sherlock he realised Sherlock had glanced down at the torch, when their eyes met, Lestrade winked at Sherlock, hoping Sherlock's trembling hand would stop soon if this was going to work properly.
Lestrade turned his torch off and started to talk to the killer, "Do you know one of the biggest mistakes you've just made?"
He felt the man pull back, "What mistake?" He was clearly confused; the grip around his neck had loosened slightly.
"This." Lestrade replied, within rapid succession he then turned his torch back on and threw it upwards, the torch flew upwards spinning slightly.
Lestrade felt the killer's head move to follow it, with the arm around his neck now looser than before, he was then able to fling his head back and break the man's nose. The man stumbled back, raising his free hand to cover his nose, the torch hitting the ground with a heavy thud. When the man regained his bearings, which was far sooner than expected, he lunged at Lestrade. Lestrade grunted as he hit the ground, unable to reach his radio to call for help, he had to rely on Sherlock, whose hand was still trembling far too much as he watched Lestrade with his eyes wide.
"Do it, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted trying to kick the man off him. "Take a shot, Sherlock!"
After a slight struggle, Lestrade soon heard the gun go off and the man on top of him go limp. Lestrade rolled out from underneath the man and stood up, looking at the man (a shoulder wound coming in from behind, not a kill shot.) and then up at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he stared at the man, the gun was still trembling in his hand until he dropped it, his mouth was open slightly in shock, and were those tears in his eyes?
Lestrade sat up and it dawned on him. Sherlock Holmes has never shot a person before, that's why he looks so shocked, he's chased suspects, he's been around murder victims, and he's had to knock suspects out. But he's never had to shoot one before. This reaction was expected from him, but not the next.
As Lestrade stood up, Sherlock gripped the side of his head and sat down. Fell down seemed far more suitable, but Sherlock had swayed slightly before sitting down on the ground. Lestrade went over to him and knelt down beside him, placing his hands on Sherlock's arms.
"Sherlock, look at me." Lestrade said quietly and calmly.
When Sherlock didn't move, Lestrade repeated himself.
"Sherlock, look at me."
As Sherlock raised his head, Lestrade looked around, hearing the footsteps of his team. He would need to leave Sherlock alone, his team were here, this was now a crime scene and he had a job to do. Lestrade stood up and started bellowing out orders.
"Sergeant Schofield, that man is our serial killer, you will need to arrest him and ring for an ambulance. We can interrogate him once the bullet has been removed."
"Sergeant Grayson, this is now a crime scene, you will need to ring the Yard to get all the supplies required in order to process the scene."
Lestrade then knelt down beside Sherlock, holding his arm and hauled him up. He could feel Sherlock trembling and knew it wasn't from the cold or the adrenaline rush wearing off.
"Sergeant Schofield, you are in charge of this. I need to get Sherlock home." Even though he knew that it was going against the rules to leave a crime scene without proper authority being in charge, tonight was a night Sherlock could not be left alone. Schofield is likely to be promoted to soon anyway; this will just help him get the experience.
Lestrade helped Sherlock walk away from the scene. He frowned, Sherlock had seemed to be in complete control when he saw him at the park before the killer, but now he seemed to have trouble walking on his own two feet. The shock was expected, Lestrade was trembling a lot after making his first shot years ago, but Sherlock's just seems far worse.
"Sherlock," He whispered into the younger man's ear, "Are you feeling okay?"
The only response he got was a groan. It sounded a lot like a groan of pain. Was Sherlock hurt? Lestrade turned to look at him.
"Sherlock, we're nearly by my car."
The walk was a slow one, but when they made it to the car Lestrade opened the door and helped Sherlock in before entering in on his side. He looked towards Sherlock and felt his concern grow. Sherlock had a hand over his eyes, he was paler than he was when they were in his office and he was still trembling. Lestrade couldn't blame this on shock, this was something different, it was obvious.
"Sherlock, what is going on?!" Lestrade demanded.
The only response he got was a slight groan and a small mumble, "Shush, 'Strade. Got a headache."
Lestrade gave Sherlock an odd look as he turned on the car but he still lowered his voice, "Slight overreaction for a headache, Sherlock."
Lestrade turned on the car, watching Sherlock warily from the corner of his eye, his concern growing ever so slightly when he saw Sherlock shift in his seat or groan. When the car stopped outside Sherlock's flat, Lestrade turned to face Sherlock.
"Sherlock, this is more than a headache."
Sherlock turned to look towards Lestrade. It was then he noticed the tear stains on Sherlock's face, something he hadn't seen since Sherlock's drug withdrawal when he was in a lot of pain.
"Migraine, 'Strade." Sherlock muttered, cheeks flushing from embarrassment.
Lestrade nodded slightly taken aback. It was the thought of Sherlock getting something so… normal. He may have only known him for five months; Sherlock would act as if he was so above that, despite helping him go through the drug withdrawal.
"Think you can walk in?" Lestrade asked looking towards Sherlock's flat.
"Yes." Sherlock replied distastefully, climbing out of the car.
Lestrade watched Sherlock walk to his flat and followed him, Sherlock was trembling and he was walking slower than normal, but he had managed to stop the trembling in his hands long enough to insert the key, turn it and then open the door. Sherlock was being stubborn, he was in pain and his legs were trembling but he was too proud to simply ask for help. Lestrade followed closely behind Sherlock as they walked up the stairs, just in case Sherlock did fall over, it wouldn't be good to have a moody Sherlock in pain from a migraine and injured.
Once in Sherlock's flat, Lestrade watched as Sherlock threw his keys onto the table, and then proceed to remove both his coat and his suit jacket, to then roll his sleeves of his shirt up. The only light provided was from the street lamps outside. Lestrade looked around Sherlock's flat, to say it was a mess was an understatement, his niece and nephew bedrooms weren't nearly as messy as Sherlock's flat and they were teenagers! Papers, books, equipment, things he wasn't too sure he wanted to go near were lying across the table, on the chairs, scattered across the floor.
Lestrade took his attention away from the mess and brought it back to the man in pain. Sherlock's eyes were scarcely open, his form was trembling and he was slowly making his way through the living room and into, what could possibly be his bedroom. Lestrade followed him into the room.
It was rather clean compared to the other room. A few books and paper and equipment lying around the floor and on top of the desk of drawers, but nothing much compared to the state of the living room. Lestrade barely had time to react when he suddenly had his arms full of a rather thick duvet. Sherlock had all but thrown the duvet at him as he urgently kicked off his shoes (socks with them), pulled off his trousers, leaving him in just a shirt and underwear and climbed onto the bed and under a sizeable blue blanket, closing his eyes and going to hide under it. Lestrade looked down at the duvet and then at Sherlock.
"What do you want me to do with this?" He asked, keeping his voice low.
Lestrade had to lean in close to hear Sherlock's response, "Use it as you sleep on the sofa. It's obvious you're going to stay."
Lestrade wanted to know why Sherlock thought he was staying, but Sherlock's reply was whispered and in pain. He didn't want to give Sherlock even more pain by making him answer another question. He's had his experience with migraines, he knows how much they hurt, it wouldn't be any different just because it's Sherlock experiencing them. Though, most of his were only stress related.
"Sherlock," Lestrade whispered, "Have you taken anything to help the pain?" God knows he always needed something for his migraines.
"Yes." Sherlock murmured, "Don't need it again; it's only a minor one."
Lestrade nodded, "I'll be on the couch, call if you need anything."
"Might need a bin, haven't vomited yet, always vomit when I have one." Sherlock mumbled.
Lestrade nodded once more, looking around the room and bringing the small bin next to Sherlock's wardrobe and putting it beside Sherlock's bed, the side in which Lestrade believed he was facing. It was slightly harder considering he could only see the top of Sherlock's head, and that only revealed his messy curls. Lestrade sighed, picked up the duvet Sherlock had thrown at him and walked back into the living room, it would be a long time until he could sleep and Lestrade chose to spend that time looking around at Sherlock's "experiments" and thinking about what Sherlock had meant by "minor". If minor meant trembling, letting out barely audible groans and small moans, nausea, clearly being sensitive to light and sound, as well as tears from pain, he'd hate to imagine what Sherlock classed as "major". After what may possibly have been an hour or two, Lestrade walked back into Sherlock's room, smiling softly when he saw that Sherlock's head had come out from the blanket and that the younger man was clearly asleep. Closing the door quietly, Lestrade then walked away from Sherlock's bedroom and out of the flat. He can check on Sherlock in the morning, after he had gotten some sleep himself.
"So he treats his migraines the same way he treats eating and sleeping when he's on a case?" John asked.
"Not the same way." Lestrade corrected, "But it is similar, he will take something to help him deal with the pain, but he won't rest."
John sighed, "Not only do I have to make sure he eats and sleeps, but I also have to watch him for migraines." He then whispered, "The bloody idiot."
Lestrade chuckled, "You've just got to watch him, John, and make sure he takes something before the pain becomes too much. He'll try to solve the case regardless of how much pain he is in and how he's reacting to the migraine."
There was silence on the other end for a while, but soon there was a crash followed quickly by a shout. "John!"
"I need to hang up now, Greg. I think Sherlock's just got himself hurt because of an experiment. Again."
There was another shout for John, followed by the unmistakeable sound of glass smashing. Lestrade could barely make out John saying bye as he just laughed softly, snapping his phone shut and putting it down on the coffee table in front of him. He wondered briefly what Sherlock had managed to do this time.
AN: If any of the places are incorrect for any reason whatsoever, it's because I Google Mapped it like I did with the previous chapter. I live in Chatham, not London, though it may only be an hour away from London by train, I've never been to it.
That thing Lestrade did with his torch, I did that a few years ago when I was getting bullied, I figured if it could work on four bullies then it could work on a serial killer.
I can feel Mycroft getting involved soon. Hmm… That'll be interesting.
I hope you enjoyed it, have a nice day :)
~Steffii