Summary:

Greg Lestrade likes Sherlock Holmes. Always has. Which makes it all the harder to deal with when a troubling case makes it clear just how deep Sherlock's problems go.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Greg Lestrade liked Sherlock Holmes. Always had. Which made it easier, in the early days, to deal with what a complete, utter little prick he could be when he wanted to (and he usually wanted to). For whatever reason, Sherlock decided that Greg was someone he could let into that small world he'd built around himself, even though it had been years before Greg realized how small that world really was. When Sherlock "died", Greg was shocked, not by the fact that he grieved, but rather by the intensity of that grief.

It took him a while, again, to figure out why he felt that way—his horror at his own part in Sherlock's leap was always there, of course, but that couldn't entirely explain the days he spent staring at the walls, aching and sad. He couldn't spend time around John. Much though he really wanted to help, putting the two of them together seemed to increase, rather than diminish, their mutual pain. And eventually Greg realized that what he felt for Sherlock, over the years, had become love. In a way. Just a bit. Not romantic (God—he flinched at the very idea of being romantically involved with the great petulant train wreck that was Sherlock), but, for lack of a better word, paternal. Only a bit over fifteen years between them, granted, but Sherlock had always made him feel like Methuselah.

When Sherlock returned and cornered him in the parking garage, Greg came within a whisker of enacting an emotional scene that would have embarrassed himself and likely sent Sherlock scuttling for the exit. The hug went on much longer than the typical "manly" model called for, but Greg noticed that Sherlock didn't try to pull away until Greg was ready to release him, so he clearly wasn't the only one who was, well, moved.

The whole thing with Greg's name—Greg knew very well that Sherlock was having him on. At this point it was a gesture of affection, in Sherlock-ese, and Christ, did it feel good to hear it again. What made it all the funnier was the fact that John, who knew Sherlock better than anyone, still hadn't twigged to the joke and chastised Sherlock every damn time.

When Sherlock came back to work, Greg was almost giddy. He didn't care how rude Sherlock was (and he was rude, to everyone except Donovan, whom he refused to acknowledge in any way). Greg was just so fucking happy he grinned almost continuously. Of course the first week, without John, was rough. Sherlock reminded Greg a bit of the bad time, just before—that air of sadness. And then that peculiar bit of talking to John as if he were there. But once John came around, Sherlock was himself again, in some ways a better self than he was before the Fall — a little more mellow; still arrogant and amazing, but with a slightly more visible sense of humor. His time away, wherever he'd been, had made him grow up a little.

The incident after Sherlock's injury, though, shook Greg from the false image he'd built of Sherlock's time away. He had blithely assumed, based solely on Sherlock's outward mien, that the lost two years had been a typical Sherlock escapade: occasional madness, ongoing bursts of brilliance, and the odd flesh wound to deal with. Drama, certainly, theatrics, maybe even some true heroics here and there. In retrospect, he of all people should have known that Sherlock was always hiding something.

That horrifying episode at Sherlock's flat was the death knell for Greg's naïve belief that Sherlock's exile had been an adventure. Something Bad had clearly come to Sherlock. John's limited explanation only made Greg more uneasy, but he could do little more than urge John, repeatedly, to make sure Sherlock got some help, whatever help he would accept.

Two weeks after Sherlock's episode of hurling at the crime scene, he and John were swept up in Greg's crisis du jour, the search for a brutal but cunning murderer preying on women in the theatre district. Two dead in the past three weeks, six over the past four months, little physical evidence beyond the knife wounds and the bodies themselves. After the last death, Greg called Sherlock in, despite his misgivings about Sherlock's mental state—Greg's own people were at a loss, and he didn't want to be called to view yet another pitiful, drained girl dumped in a rubbish tip without having exhausted every resource to stop it happening.

The only thing they could say definitively was that it had something to do with the theatre. All of the women had either had tickets for a West End production, or had been a member of a cast or crew. Other than that, they had no common ground—different ages, different body types, different races. John and Sherlock spent the better part of a day chasing down every possible lead, but all were dead ends. The killings had clearly been done elsewhere and the bodies, perfectly clean, naked and bloodless, dumped in random rubbish tips for disposal in the wee hours, with no witnesses. Conveniently, all of the tips were in areas with no CCTV coverage.

Sherlock was approaching meltdown from sheer frustration, but he kept going obsessively over the same ground that had been covered 20 times before. Victims killed with a single, near-surgical knife wound to the carotid. Sexually assaulted, probably post-mortem, but cleaned thereafter so carefully that no usable biological evidence remained. Some minor bruises, probably from physical restraint. Large knife; blood drained completely, probably using some form of mortuary equipment. And nothing else. Absolutely nothing.

At 11 in the evening, just as the West End shows were ending and disgorging patrons and casts onto dark, wet streets, they suddenly hit on something. Re-interviewing family, friends and co-workers, for lack of any other useful clues, had established that three out of the six victims had mentioned that they intended to stop for food on the way home. But a review of the autopsies indicated that none of the victims had eaten recently at the time of their deaths, so it seemed that they never made it to that final snack. It was John, oddly enough, who finally asked the right question.

"Sherlock, what if they did make it to that last meal?" he asked suddenly. Sherlock's head popped up from CCTV clips he'd been watching for the third time. He made an inquisitive sound. Greg turned away from the doorway, where he'd been preparing to go for yet more awful coffee. John spoke slowly, thinking it through as he went. "We know they intended to stop. We know they didn't actually eat anything. So maybe those two facts are connected?"

Sherlock gave John one of those mad, blazing smiles very few people ever got to see. "John, that's brilliant." He spun around and grabbed his coat and scarf, John jumping up quickly to avoid being left behind. Sherlock looked expectantly at Greg. "Lestrade, are you coming? There can't be many eating establishments still open at this hour, and the radius to search is quite small. Get your least hopeless constables out with pictures of the victims and have them canvas the restaurants within a mile of the theatre district, starting right now. We need to move if we want to prevent another murder."

To her credit, Sally Donovan was already making calls and rallying PCs, handing out copies of the pictures and sorting out street assignments. Sherlock ignored her, nonetheless, as he, John and Greg swept out the door. Greg pulled rank on the way to the garage, and got a PC to drive them to the West End, lights and siren blaring. He checked in by phone with Donovan, and she gave them the names and addresses of three late-night eating spots within walking distance of the relevant theatres.

Once they got to the first location, Greg had the PC park the car and they all set off on foot. Greg sent John and PC Camden off to the closest restaurant, while he and Sherlock walked on to the second. Within fifteen minutes, both eating spots had been eliminated; John's closed at 11:30, too early for at least one of the victims to have made it there, and the second location was a gay pub, nice enough place but not what they were looking for. They took the time to show the pictures, but even if the women had made it this far it was unlikely they would have gone in; it wasn't apt to attract six straight females. The pub did have its compensation, though, and despite the grim circumstances Greg waited with a certain amount of glee for John to arrive so he could tell him all about it.

Sherlock had texted John to meet them at the last location, a fairly well-known bistro called "The Meat Locker". Greg waited out front for John and PC Camden while Sherlock strode back and forth muttering under his breath. Five minutes later John and Camden walked up, and Greg watched as John stared at Sherlock, stopped in his tracks, and looked over at Greg. Sherlock was in a massive strop, somehow managing to look simultaneously sulky and agitated.

Greg grinned. "So, we mentioned our spot was a gay pub, right?" John nodded, still watching Sherlock flit back and forth like an irritated cat. "Well, we go in, separate and start showing the pictures about. And then I turn around and see His Highness over there get propositioned and sort of groped at the same time." John is struggling not to laugh, and PC Camden doesn't know where to look. "I did manage to stop Sherlock before the bloke's arm actually broke, though, so it's all good, right?" Greg beamed over at Sherlock, who spun and made a rude gesture before jerking open the door of the restaurant and stomping inside. John rolled his eyes and followed, and Greg motioned PC Camden along, still chuckling.

The restaurant was nice. Small but not cramped, with a fairly large number of patrons despite the late hour. Mellow lighting and warm leather chairs, small intimate tables next to a tastefully antique wood bar area that was in keeping with its setting in a historic stone building. A low-key individual ('Hi-I'm-Derek-the-manager', expressed as a single word) met them, only to recoil slightly at Sherlock's "normal people" smile. John grinned to himself; it always amused him when people found that plastic smile disturbing.

Derek-the-manager quickly pointed out the few regular customers who might have seen the girls, and John and PC Camden headed over to show them the pictures. Sherlock and Lestrade started with the kitchen staff, which basically meant that Greg held out the pictures while Sherlock wandered around picking up obscure kitchen equipment. None of the staff were of any help, and Lestrade was about ready to pack it in when Sherlock turned to the chef and asked, "Who cuts your meat?"

The chef, in the midst of something complicated involving a small butane torch, didn't reply. Before Sherlock could make an issue of it, Derek-the-manager chimed in. "We have our own master butcher—it's our claim to fame, really. We let patrons select the cuts, and Albert cuts, trims, whatever's needed." Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow. It took a second before Derek realized that was actually a question. "Oh. Albert Comstock. He's in the back, though he may have already left. He goes off-duty at midnight." He made no move to show them where "in the back" Albert might be.

Sherlock had exhausted his reserve of civility for the day. "Then could you possibly take us to him, or do you require a secret handshake of some kind first?" he snapped. Derek flinched but still hesitated. "Albert's, well, he doesn't like us letting people back into the butchery. He's quite firm about it, you see, and since he owns half of the restaurant I really can't…"

Greg's reserve of civility was also gone, apparently. He held up his badge. "Think you can, actually." Derek-the-manager quailed again, then stammered, "I could…go see if he's still here?"

"Or you could take us back to the butchery and then take yourself off to another part of the building," Sherlock said rudely, giving a dismissive flap of his hand. "It's a small place, and I assume you're reasonably familiar with it. Try not to get lost on the way."

Derek flushed, swallowed, then dropped his chin and gestured towards a door in the back of the dining room. "It's left down the hall, just past the loo. Just don't… don't tell him I told you." Then he scuttled off towards the front of the restaurant. Greg raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who shrugged and headed towards the back door. Greg caught John's eye and motioned for him and PC Camden to come along.

The doorway led them to a dimly-lit corridor that took them back several centuries. This was clearly the oldest part of the building—thick stone walls and that peculiar, damp-and-stone smell of very old places. Sherlock glanced down the corridor, taking it all in silently: two plain wood doors, one marked as a unisex toilet. The second door was unmarked, and further along was an opening that was now bricked over. Sherlock started towards the unmarked door but Greg beat him to it, earning an exasperated huff from Sherlock for his trouble. "Don't need to pull you off anyone else this evening, Sherlock," Greg said mildly. Sherlock gave him an offended look but stayed silent.

The door opened into a clean, well-lit room that looked like it could serve as a hospital operating theatre in a pinch. White-painted walls, shining stainless-steel tables, and a vast quantity of surgical-quality knives and bone saws. Huge, gleaming stainless steel meat lockers along the right. The entire left-hand wall was covered with open wood shelving that was attached to very old oak paneling. At the back, a stout modern door, now open, led to what was probably old mews or an alleyway. As John and PC Camden followed them into the room, a man suddenly stepped back in through the doorway. A large man. A very large man—perhaps six and a half feet, maybe 17, 18 stone. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw them, and his brows knit. "What the hell are you doing in my place?" he snapped, and moved aggressively forward.

Before the huge man could get up a good head of steam, Greg decided to stop any unpleasantness before it started. He snapped open his badge, and spoke politely but firmly. "Scotland Yard, Mr. Comstock. We'd like to show you some photographs and ask you a couple of questions."

The man was hostile, but not stupid. He visibly controlled himself, and when he spoke it was in a deceptively mild voice. "I can look at your pictures now, but we can speak tomorrow, I assume. I'm already off duty for the night, and I want to get off home." He started to move back towards the door and seemed startled to find Sherlock suddenly in his path.

"So, what was it, then?" drawled Sherlock, wandering away from Albert and gliding around the edges of the room. Albert blinked, disconcerted. "Sorry? I thought you wanted to show me some photos…" Sherlock smirked. "Oh, I don't think there's much point to that, is there? It's clear you know exactly who you'd be looking at. The only question in my mind," and Sherlock gazed intently into Albert's eyes, while Albert flushed and clenched his fists abruptly, "is why? Misogyny? Reaction to rejection? Or just a garden-variety psychopath?"

Greg Lestrade never ceased to find people surprising. Albert Comstock seemed like your typical bully-boy at first glance: loud, aggressive and not overly bright. But this, this was unexpected. Albert looked right at Sherlock, in his full deductive mode, and smiled. Greg's hackles rose, and John apparently had a similar reaction, as he edged carefully over nearer to Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn't oblivious, but wasn't inclined to back down. "Is there something amusing? I would think that an imminent arrest for six murders would tend to dampen the mood," he said smoothly. He continued to glide in an apparently aimless way around the perimeter of the room while John frowned after him. Comstock actually laughed, a deep rumble of amusement. "Arrest? Really? I'm a pacifist- wouldn't hurt a fly. Who am I supposed to have killed?" He swept his arm around the room. "And you'd be hard-put to find anything here that would lead you to think I had. I keep a very clean shop, don't you think?" He swept his arms around at the spotless floors, the gleaming tables and knives. "You could eat off this floor."

Sherlock stopped suddenly. "Oh. Oh. You could, couldn't you?" he said, looking at the gleaming tile floors. He turned a slightly manic grin on Comstock. "You know, that really was ill-advised of you. I knew there was something wrong with this room but couldn't quite define it. But the floor—that was the key. Thank you for that." He strode confidently over to the bank of open shelving, thrusting his hands along one particular section of the wall of paneling.

"These old buildings, you know—often have sections that are closed off for one reason or another. Just like the bricked-over doorway next to this room. But it makes you wonder—in this small a venue, why would a restaurant owner not want to exploit every available bit of space?" He continued to work his way along the wall, feeling the oak panels and poking occasionally. "And then the floor—the whole of the floor is covered in these white, shining tiles. All very clean—certainly very hygienic. But isn't it interesting—there are a couple of very, very faint lines, there, in an arc, where the glaze on the tile is barely scuffed. As if something heavy was repeatedly slid across it, but clearly something that was anchored in place since the line follows only one path—no deviations or extra lines. Something like…" and he reached in one last time, pushed and turned, and a section of the shelving, still attached to the oak paneling, swung ponderously open like a huge door, "that." He spun back and moved over next to Comstock with a shark-like grin.

And then three things happened, fast enough that Greg could never say, afterward, in what order they actually occurred.

One thing: the great door swung open all the way, exposing a good-sized room equipped much like the one in which they stood—but different in the sense that one of the stainless steel tables was occupied by a young woman, gagged, tied and hooked up to some form of equipment that had tubing running into her neck, tubing with red fluid running through it.

Another thing: John ran to the young woman, reaching towards her neck and the tubing, while PC Camden radioed frantically for an ambulance and assistance.

And the last thing—well, two things together, actually: in a heartbeat, Albert Comstock snaked out his long arms, snagging a long, wicked knife with one and using the other big meaty hand to grab one side of Sherlock's head and slam it full-force into the side of the huge door. As Sherlock's knees buckled, Comstock spun, slashing the knife at Greg to clear the way, and sped out the open door to the alleyway.

Sherlock was up in seconds, blood coursing down from his hairline, but moving fast and sure out the door. Greg barked "John?" while PC Camden took off after Sherlock. John looked up briefly. "Go," he snapped. "She's alive. I want to keep her that way." Greg nodded and hurtled out the back door.

The alleyway was old, certainly as old as the building—real cobblestones underfoot, wet and filthy. Greg could hear running footsteps, splashing through standing water, and he took off, phoning Donovan as he ran. "Sally. After our suspect near Dolphin Lane—behind that last restaurant on the list. Get people moving, now—our suspect is Albert Comstock, maybe 6'5", 18 stone, brown hair, brown eyes, armed with a very big knife and strong as fuck. Bring Tasers and firearms. Sherlock and Camden are in pursuit already." As he rang off he heard Sally start to howl orders. He shoved his phone back in his coat and ran.

He thundered down two alleys and passed several narrow, dark streets before he heard shouting ahead. He came to an open, dimly-lit square where three narrow lanes intersected, and skidded to a stop at a harrowing tableau. Albert Comstock crouched over PC Camden, fingers gripping his hair and that great bloody knife held to his throat. Camden's eyes were shut, his lips in a taut line. Sherlock knelt ten feet away, head down, blood smeared down the left side of his face and coating his jacket. His hands rested on the wet pavement on either side of his knees. Lestrade couldn't tell if he had fallen, or knelt at Comstock's behest.

Comstock looked up at Greg and gave that cold, cold smile again. "Oh, good. The gang's all here." He shook PC Camden's head like a rat and nodded over at Sherlock. "Tall, dark and posh over there realizes he can't reach me before I gut this one. Do you agree?"

Greg nodded slowly, keeping Comstock's attention while watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, that's true. So where are we? What do we need to do for you to let that boy go?"

Comstock smirked. "Quite simple, really. I want you to handcuff Pretty Boy and you together, and then use Junior's cuffs, here, to handcuff the both of you to that stair railing over there behind you. Then I'm going to take your phones, and I'll take Junior with me for a bit. Maybe I won't even hurt him—haven't quite decided."

Greg started to respond, then heard a slight noise to his right, and turned his head to see Sherlock collapse on the wet pavement. "Jesus! Sherlock?" Greg snapped his head back over to Comstock, who was looking on, still amused. "Can I see to him? I won't move towards you." He edged over towards Sherlock, and Comstock allowed it, still holding firmly to Camden.

Sherlock had fallen on his right side, with his back facing Comstock. His curls were flattened to his face, and blood continued to slide sluggishly down his temple and cheek, where purplish swelling was already expanding rapidly. Greg knelt and started to peel one eyelid up, when both eyes suddenly opened. Sherlock's pale gaze slid warningly towards Comstock, and Greg forced himself to continue to check Sherlock's skull and pulse. Sherlock's gaze then moved down towards his hands, and Greg saw the loose cobblestone clenched in his right fist.

Greg thought a minute, then stood up and turned to Comstock. "He's out cold and I can't wake him. How about this—I'll pick him up and carry him to the rail, then handcuff us together, all right? And you can toss PC Camden's cuffs to us then." Comstock nodded. "Fair enough. Get on with it—my arm's getting tired, you know." He smirked again.

Greg thought furiously about the logistics of this—the best approach to give Sherlock his chance. He knew they'd only get one.

Greg moved carefully around to Sherlock's back, so that his body completely blocked Comstock's view of Sherlock's torso. He bent over and fished his right arm under Sherlock's waist, feeling Sherlock's muscles tense at the touch. He lifted with a grunt, and pulled Sherlock to an almost-standing position, then slipped under Sherlock's left arm so that it rested across Greg's shoulders, with Greg's right arm still around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's right arm, his hand clutching the cobblestone, was carefully draped in front of his body, out of Comstock's view. Greg grasped Sherlock's left hand where it draped over his shoulders and lifted a bit more to get Sherlock's feet under him, then felt Sherlock's fingers tighten briefly and release—one, two…

On "three", Greg let go of Sherlock and dropped to the ground. Sherlock spun, drew his right hand back, and launched the stone at Comstock's head with all his strength. It connected with a hollow thunk and Comstock dropped in his tracks, the knife still clutched in his hand. PC Camden scuttled quickly away, panting. Before Greg could react, Sherlock strode over to where a semi-conscious Comstock still gripped the knife and stomped down on his wrist, hard. Bones broke with an audible crack and the knife dropped to the pavement. Greg flinched but said nothing, as Sherlock walked over and helped Camden up.

Abruptly Sherlock swayed and would have fallen if Camden hadn't grabbed his arm. Greg sighed, then walked over and helped Sherlock lean against the wall of the building behind them. "Stay here, alright? I've got help on the way." "I don't need help," Sherlock muttered. "No, 'course not," Greg said, mentally rolling his eyes. "Just… stay there."

Camden was standing over Comstock uncertainly. He looked over as Greg approached. "I was going to cuff him. But his wrist's broken, and it's swelling, so…" He held the cuffs and waited. Greg nodded. "Yeah, OK. I don't think he's going anywhere. Call Donovan and tell her where we are. She can't be far now."

Greg pulled out his own phone and called John, who, not surprisingly, answered on the first ring. Greg quickly filled John in, and let him know that Sherlock would be heading to A+E. John thought that an excellent idea, especially since he was currently at A+E with their victim anyway and could meet them there. As he hung up, Greg saw Sherlock push away from the wall and come towards him—presumably to complain about the upcoming hospital trip. And then came something that featured in Greg's nightmares for a number of years to come—one of those dreams where terrible things happen that you're powerless to stop.

As Sherlock started to walk over to Greg, staggering a bit, he passed within 3 feet of the supposedly unconscious Comstock. Like something out of one of those cheap horror films, Comstock suddenly sprang up, knife in one good hand, and launched himself at Sherlock while Greg jerked forward, knowing he would be too late. And then, then-Sherlock moved. He grabbed Comstock's rising arm, wrenched, spun, dropped, and suddenly he wasn't Sherlock, but something other. It was beautiful, and feral, and fucking terrifying to watch—Sherlock's Something Bad had come out to play. Before Greg could reach him, before Greg could breathe, Sherlock had swept Comstock's legs out from under him, dislocated his shoulder, and had his hand under Comstock's chin and that god-awful knife under his throat and then he just… stopped. His arm vibrated with tension but his grip on both Comstock and the knife were rock-solid. Greg didn't dare move, for fear any action would force Sherlock over that edge, and the knife would move, and more than one life would be lost.

PC Camden, wisely, stayed dead still and silent as well. One minute, two, and Sherlock still held his position, while Comstock moaned. Greg dared to move into Sherlock's sightline, finally, and felt a queasy roll in his stomach at the lack of recognition in those ice-grey eyes. But there was definitely hesitation. He could work with that.

Very, very slowly he edged forward, hands out to each side. He spoke softly, in tones he used to reassure small, frightened children. "Sherlock? You can stop now, son—you got him. Let's put the knife down, yeah?" Sherlock gave no sign of hearing him. His pupils were blown wide and black, and Greg recognized that look—that was terror. This had nothing to do with Albert Comstock, and everything to do with wherever, whenever, Sherlock was in his head.

Greg decided to try another tactic—wait it out, and see if something of the real Sherlock seeped back in through the cracks. He carefully lowered himself to the wet pavement in front of the two men, talking softly all the while. "I'm right here. Let's put the knife down, tie this bastard up, and then you can rest a bit, OK? Bet that head hurts like a bitch, donnit?" Greg was heartened to see Sherlock's arm relax a tiny amount. Those strange eyes blinked, quite slowly, and the dark curls suddenly wobbled a bit as Sherlock gave a quick, whole-body shudder. Greg felt a moment's hope that Sherlock would simply pass out and this would be done with. Concussion he could deal with—murder, not so much.

And it might have come to that—clearly Sherlock's strength was ebbing fast. But Greg had always had piss-poor luck when it really mattered, and this was no exception. Just as Sherlock started to sag, just as the arm started to lower and the hand under Comstock's chin eased off, two panda cars came screaming up the nearby street, no doubt containing Donovan and the reinforcements. Sherlock's head snapped back up, and that hand tightened, and Sherlock reached abruptly back towards Comstock's neck with the knife, moving to strike.

Greg, in absolute desperation, reached back into their shared past. "Lock!" he bellowed, "Drop it!" even as he prepared to launch himself forward.

It may have been pain and blood loss; it might have been the use of that old, old nickname, given to a skinny posh boy, all eyes and misery and erratic brilliance. But from whatever source, Sherlock stopped, and Greg went light-headed from sheer relief. He could see reason bleed back into Sherlock's eyes. Just as Greg reached forward to take the knife from Sherlock's grasp, though, those eyes changed again—and this time they held pure horror as his gaze lowered to the knife in his hand.

Before Greg could touch him, Sherlock flinched, gasped, and threw the knife violently away to clatter across the pavement. And then he jerked himself up, spun around, and ran.

Greg didn't hesitate. He whirled to Camden. "Wait for Donovan—tell her where I went. Take off that bastard's belt and tie his hands—fuck his wrist and shoulder." Then Greg took off after Sherlock.