ch. 3
Lestrade starts to wonder if he isn't in over head here somehow, as he gathers some warm clothes to replace Sherlock's ruined suit, and if he shouldn't just take him straight to A&E. But he knows he would hate that (Not that I always care what Sherlock Holmes would or would not like. That'd be the day!), and besides, apart from being somewhat hypothermic, there isn't any obvious sign of injury. So no, he decides, he'll do what he can for him himself, here, and maybe after he gets a hot cuppa in him he'll be more to himself enough so he can tell him what he was doing out in the rain to begin with, and why he'd landed at his doorstep.
As he grabs the last of it, his mobile chirps to alert him to a new text message. It's John's reply:
JW: Not seen him since the wedding, just settling back in from the honeymoon. As far as I know everything is fine. What's up?
Well, that answers that.
'He's actually here with me. Nothing to bother you with. Give my love to Mary. -GL'
He heads back to the entryway to find Sherlock more or less as he'd left him, only his eyes are shut now as he clutches the towel around his shoulders, the others forgotten on the floor beside him.
"Alright, not quite up to your usual standards, and you'll be swimming in these, but they're comfortable and best of all, dry."
No response, so Greg reaches for his arm, but the instant he makes contact, Sherlock's eyes shoot open and he stumbles backward, tripping on the coat stand behind him. In his apparent panic, he resists Greg's attempts to steady him, before he falls in a heap to the floor, kicking his legs to leverage himself as far away as he can manage, until he's backed up into the corner, and all Lestrade can do is to keep the heavy stand from falling on top of him.
"Whoa, whoa. Sherlock, its me. Greg. What's got into you? I'm not going to hurt you." Sherlock is shaking his head 'no' weakly and looking at him with wide eyes (Except he's not really seeing me, is he?), and he can only just hear him muttering in a small, hitching voice but it doesn't sound like English? If he had to say, he'd guess it was something Slavic.
"Sherlock? Sherlock. Its alright. Its Lestrade. You're at my house." He watches him with a mixture of confusion and sadness. This is so far from anything that would be considered normal for the consultant detective that at the moment he thinks he'd very much rather be on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's abrasive tirades than to be listening to...this.
But the energy behind his panic is fading quickly, pleas dying down to a shivering, faint whisper, so Lestrade begins to inch nearer, talking all the while:
"It's just me, Greg. Sherlock? You're very cold right now. It's alright. Let me help you. Its Greg Lestrade. I'm going to help you."
Sherlock blinks slowly and seems to return again to his senses, if only a little. He nods his head weakly, looking even more tired and haunted.
"Cold," he breathes out.
"Yeah." He offers agreeably. "I've got some warm clothes for you right here. We need to get all those wet ones off of you."
Sherlock is nodding distantly.
With some effort (and a bit of awkwardness, which, owing not a little to his current state, Sherlock didn't seem to be much aware of), he manages to get him into some dry clothes. He was right, Greg's sweater and old tracksuit bottoms are large on the thin detective. He looks all too young in the over-sized garments.
"Come on now, up off the floor" His muscles groan as he lifts himself and reaches down to help Sherlock stand, barely (he nearly falls once, and Greg just barely manages to catch him and keep him on his feet), and cautiously guides him to the wide, overstuffed chair near the gas fireplace, which comes to life at the flick of a switch. He tosses a blanket over the still shivering man's shoulders, satisfied that he's on his way to being warmed up and heads to the kitchen to put on the kettle and make a sandwich (he's too skinny...).
While he works, he contemplates the usefulness of calling Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's shadowy and powerful older brother, but decides that might cause more problems than it solves.
At that moment he hears what he assumes to be Sherlock's mobile, which he finds still in his coat pocket in the entryway, and miraculously has survived the downpour. He only hesitates a moment in consideration of Sherlock's privacy before swiping the screen to look at his messages, hoping to get some clues as to what's happened this evening.
The new alerts are a series of pictures from a contact merely labelled 'Fifty-Three' which feature a thin, balding and bespectacled man making his way from a chauffeured black car into a well-lit building. He has no idea what use this could be.
Checking through his other messages for more clues, he comes across several between Sherlock and Mycroft, but these are old, and don't shed a lot of light (except on the level of dysfunction in their relationship):
MH: This is what sentiment gets you, Sherlock. Have I really got to remind you again of Redbeard?
SH: Shut. Up. Mycroft.
MH: Don't be so childish, little brother.
and a week or so later:
MH: Have you given it some thought?
SH: No, because the matter is entirely dependent on YOU.
MH: It is definitely NOT and if you could ever be bothered to PAY ATTENTION you should have realized that already.
SH: Oh why don't u go eat another slice of cake, dear brother, or are you still on that diet of yours? You were half a stone heavier last we saw each other.
There are also more pictures, again from contacts labelled numerically: Of a rubbish bin, of a derelict building, and of a woman with dark hair and professional attire.
There's a text from Sherlock to Lestrade himself, from 4 days ago:
SH: The Piatkowski case, in today's Guardian, pg 2. Clearly the brother-in-law, they were having an affair. Obvious because of the watch he is wearing.
He'd been right, of course, and after a little digging on Scotland Yard's part to confirm the connections, an arrest was made. It never ceased to impress him what Sherlock could do.
Finally, some texts between Sherlock and John:
SH: Bored
SH: Bored
SH: Why must everyone be so irreparably DULL?
JW: Leave me alone, I'm on my honeymoon. See you soon.
JW: And be good to Mrs. Hudson. She told me about the experiment in the cupboard.
JW: We got in last night. Expected to see you. Want to meet up? I could bring over some of Mary's curry.
JW: Sherlock?
JW: Alright, go ahead and sulk. I'll come round when you're through. Let me know.
There's no reply from Sherlock.
Greg turns off the mobile, and finishes up the tea.
TBC