ch 4
Greg, hands full with tea and sandwiches, makes his way back into the living room.
"Hope you're warmed up now, got some tea here and-" He stops short, because Sherlock isn't listening. He's lifted his feet onto the edge of the chair cushion, blanket hugged tightly around him, and his head has fallen gently to the side to rest on his shoulder. He's fast asleep.
For a moment Lestrade considers waking him, because he really could use the warm tea and a bite to eat, but he supposes he needs sleep more and, not to be soppy and still wholly confused as to what's brought him here in the first, safety and comfort.
So he sits on the couch across from him and tucks into the intended offerings himself, muted telly on a recorded football match. His gaze frequently finds its way back to his wayward guest.
That episode? earlier. What was that? Some kind of waking nightmare? As a rule, apart from anything to do with his work (because while he's on a case, he is more than happy to show you exactly what he's feeling, usually annoyance at those around him or giddiness about a particularly juicy bit of evidence), Sherlock is so reticent that it could be hard to imagine he experiences such ordinary things as nightmares at all. But he's not superhuman after all, is he? His leap off St. Bart's proved that. Even though it was faked, it revealed something about him, didn't it? Had to have...
Sherlock sighs and shifts minutely in the chair, but continues to slumber. Its like he knows, Greg shakes his head resignedly. Sherlock Holmes is one puzzle he's unlikely ever to solve.
Another hour passes, the rain has stopped now, and Greg continues to watch over him, feeling oddly reluctant to go to bed and leave his self-imposed charge unattended, and not just because he doesn't want him rummaging through his things (Not that there's any such thing as 'privacy' when it comes to someone who can tell everything about you with little more than a glance.). But Sherlock, hair mussed and youthful features entirely relaxed, is in deep and clearly won't be waking anytime soon. He's still and quiet in a way Greg has rarely seen. He's still uneasy about the whole night's events, but what can he do? And there's work in the morning...
x
The light and noises of London waking works its way through Lestrade's sleep and he opens his eyes only reluctantly. He feels as if he's only just laid down... then he remembers that he practically has. He dresses quickly, its still quite early and he has a couple of hours until he should be leaving for work but he wants to check on Sherlock and hopes to get some answers.
Entering the living room, he expects the lanky detective to still be asleep on his overstuffed chair but finds it empty, blanket tossed sloppily over one of the arms. Looking around, he sees Sherlock's coat is gone as well, and Lestrade's shoulders fall. He's gone, and not a word. What did I expect? Still, he's disappointed and worried despite himself, and decides to get on with his day with breakfast.
He's startled just then by the bathroom door swinging open down the hallway, and Sherlock striding toward him, fixing his collar as he moves. He looks as posh and put together as he ever has, full get up, even his scarf. No sign whatsoever of it all, including himself, having been sodden just hours before. How does he do that?
"Oh do stop standing there with your mouth agape, Lestrade, it makes you look duller than usual." So that's how this is going to go.
"Back to yourself then? Want some breakfast?" He makes his way into the kitchen, and Sherlock follows, keeping to the opposite side of the breakfast bar.
"Back to myself" Sherlock answers almost inaudibly, and then in a normal tone, "No, I think I should be going now, I'm sure I've worn my welcome."
"I can spare some toast and eggs." There's no point trying to force answers out of him, he's a stubborn git on the best of days, even when they're supposedly working together, but if he can get him to stick around just a while longer...
Sherlock is still definitely not entirely himself, because he accepts a plate after all, with a small, hesitant but grateful smile on his face, and keeps his eyes to his plate as they eat.
Its never really a comfortable silence with a Holmes, and definitely not this morning.
"If you're not working on anything at the moment" Greg pauses, giving his companion a chance to tell him if this all is to do with a case, "... I've got a couple of stumpers I'll let you take a look at. Funny one up in the North End. Got all the boys scratching their heads."
He recounts some details of the case, hoping to peak the consulting detective's interest and get him talking, or at least his disdain at their inability to pluck theories out of thin air as he so often seems to do. But Sherlock is still oddly silent and it isn't clear how much is getting through.
As soon as he's eaten his last bite, Sherlock is rising.
Lestrade almost doesn't say it, but this might be my only chance...
"It might help to talk to a friend. Doesn't have to be me." Sherlock stills. "But I am your friend, Sherlock." Pale eyes raise to meet his with furrowed brow. He sees in them confusion, surprise, fear, and an inexpressibly deep gratitude before the spell is broken and they shutter, familiar mask firmly in place again, and Sherlock is giving him a hard, searching look. The consultant opens his mouth once, then snaps it shut.
After a moment, "Your victim in the North End," baritone voice intones, "You'll find he was quarreling with his business partner. That's your most likely perp." So he was listening.
"But how can you know-?" Sherlock's only response is to lift an eyebrow. "Right. I'll look into it."
Sherlock smiles and turns toward the hallway. Lestrade lets him get as far as his hand on the front doorknob before-
"No matter how hard you try, Sherlock, you're not going to be able to stop being human." Sherlock turns and inclines his head but doesn't turn around. The shoulders of his Belstaff rise and fall in a shrug.
And with that, he's out the door.
FIN