Chapter 2

With a couple of towels in his arms, Lestrade makes his way back into the living room, where he expects Sherlock to have wandered into by now, but its empty, so he makes his way back over to the entryway where he does find him, still standing there hunched over in the alcove, still in his Belstaff, and he doesn't seem to have moved at all, except to allow his arms to drop to his sides, where they hang limply now, droplets of water making their way slowly down to his fingertips where they fall to the now-sizable puddle on his tiled floor.

He stands there for a moment, brow furrowed, trying to make heads or tales of whatever is going on with the lanky detective, until he settles on quietly offering-

"Let me help you with that." And he's put down the towels to help Sherlock in removing his great coat. Its waterproof, he knows, as he hangs it up on the stand next to them, but he's still managed to soak himself through to the bone. Greg proceeds to carefully unwrap the omnipresent scarf, which is heavy and stiff now with icy rainwater, from around his neck, and drapes a towel over his shoulders. Sherlock makes no effort to assist in any of this. Hardly seems to be aware of anything at all.

Suddenly it occurs to him, and he could've kicked himself for not realizing it sooner, as it sends an icicle through his own core:

"Sherlock, are you injured? Has something happened?" He asks urgently, adding, "Do you know where John is?" (Because you hardly ever see one without the other, do you? So if something's happened to the one, it's a good bet the other's been involved as well.) He tries to catch his gaze, but he remains unresponsive, except to incline his head almost imperceptibly toward him, teeth chattering. Its a good bet (because marriage changes things, doesn't it? For some people, anyway.) that John Watson is safe at home with his lovely new wife (or perhaps still on their honeymoon? Italy, I think it was?), but there's still the matter of Sherlock himself, showing up at his doorstep, late in the evening, apparently having spent quite some time in this nasty downpour happening outside, shivering and semi-catatonic (which, its not unusual for the eccentric genius to go semi-catatonic when deep in thought during a tough case, not acknowledging anyone or anything around him for hours at a go, he's seen that more than a couple of times, but this is somehow... different. There's something disturbing (and not in the usual, 'could he actually be a psychopath?' sort of way) in the shadows of his face that Lestrade can't quite put his finger on.).

"Sherlock? Sherlock? I really need to know this. Are you injured?" He's clearly enunciating each word now, the way he would to a trauma victim on the job (and its disconcerting to find himself having to speak to his friend this way at all), and finally, finally, Sherlock jerks his head in the negative. Greg lets out the breathe he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Okay. I'm just going to check you over anyway, just to be sure, alright?" Sherlock blinks torpidly in his direction.

He flips a nearby switch to turn on the floodlight in the high ceiling above them, so he can see what he needs to see, and is immediately struck by how bad the younger detective (who is wincing in the sudden light, and lowers his head even more) looks. He's shivering violently, breathes coming in short bursts and his lips have taken on a bluish hue. (Need to get you dry and warmed up sooner rather than later, He realizes grimly. This was not a night to be out enjoying the weather with a leisurely stroll. First thing's first, however.)

Taking a quick, fortifying breathe, he begins by carefully examining his head for any sign of injury, fully expecting to find something, anything which would explain all of this. But there's no sign of any bumps or bleeding in the wet locks, or on his forehead. No cuts or bruising or anything of the sort on what he can see of his face to indicate he'd been in an accident or altercation of some kind, either.

"Let's get this off, yeah?" and without waiting for Sherlock to make a movement, he begins peeling off his sopping wet suit jacket and sets it aside. "Shirt too, alright?" He's relieved to see Sherlock begin to make some effort now at undoing the buttons himself, but his trembling hands are slow and clumsy, so Greg bats them away after a moment to quickly unbutton and peel that off as well.

Finding no sign of injury to his now bare (except for the towel still draped over his shoulders) torso either (So damned skinny, though, you could count all his ribs. Is he even eating?), Lestrade reaches for another towel and- "Sorry 'bout this." rubs it vigorously over Sherlock's head, getting most of the wet out of his hair, leaving the curls sticking out wildly every which way. Lestrade allows himself a smirk at the somewhat shell-shocked look on Sherlock's face when he's done.

It falls away quickly, however, as he watches Sherlock sway where he stands. "Right. You're half frozen. So it'll be off with the rest of that and I'll go find something dry for you to put on." He picks up one of Sherlock's arms and and places the towel in a limp hand. "Dry yourself off some more." He waits until, very slowly, the command seems to reach the consultant's brain, and he begins to drag the towel along his chest and arms.

Sherlock looks at him out of the corner of his eyes and Greg, still not knowing what to make of everything he sees in them, gives his arm a steadying squeeze, before heading back down the hall. He grabs his phone off of the kitchen counter as he passes it, and, after a quick search through his contacts, texts John Watson:

'Have u seen Sherlock today? Everything alright? -GL'.

TBC