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Were he to generalise, Scotland Yard was at its best at night. No ignorant staff making sarcastic comments, nobody getting in the way and asking stupid questions, and access to any information he wanted. Well, Lestrade would deny this; but leave him alone for five minutes, and that was exactly the case.
However, generalising was a practice Sherlock generally disapproved of. This was because generalising glossed over the interesting anomalies that were generally the most exciting aspect of whatever you were generalising, and thus by doing so you were ensuring that this subject of generalisation was as dull as possible.
Actually, in this case, the anomaly was only interesting insofar as it showed that night was not always the time at which New Scotland Yard was at its best. In all other aspects, it was negative.
Firstly, Sherlock did not appreciate spending long periods of time in Lestrade's office. It usually entailed a context of very grave circumstances, in the creation of which Sherlock had played a part. Furthermore, it normally meant he was in some sort of trouble, too – and while trouble could be brilliant, trouble which ended in long lectures could not be deemed positive by any stretch. Finally, and most importantly, Lestrade's office was probably the dullest place on Earth. The most interesting thing that had ever happened in there was when one of the now ex-policewomen had (rather ill-advisedly) attempted to seduce the Detective Inspector. He could tell by the faint heel marks, and even fainter remnants of rubber soles that remained on the carpet next to the far wall, far too close together for normal, civil conversation. She had failed, clearly – there were slight indents a bit further back as she had stumbled backwards at his rebuff.
The fact that he had bothered to deduce this far into such a mundane happening was proof of the inherent dullness of the room. There was nothing in it that could be deemed even close to 'interesting'.
Despite the blatant violation of human rights in making a person spend more than five minutes in such a room, Lestrade had taken him straight back there once John had been loaded into the ambulance, and Mr Smith taken into custody, and that was where they now sat. Apparently, Sherlock had been deemed recovered enough from his ordeal to speak, because Lestrade leans back in his chair, hands behind his head and stifling a yawn, and surveys Sherlock in preparation for speech.
"Right - Sherlock," he begins, his tone having lost the sympathy it had acquired earlier. How thoughtful. "I need to know what happened. The facts: all of them."
Sherlock's pride takes a small hit at Lestrade's suggestion that he would deliberately withhold important evidence. He only did that where it was necessary to avoid interference, or if he didn't have the time.
"Where from?" The boredom in his voice is only partly artificial.
"The beginning."
Sherlock pulls his chair back from the table a few inches, so he can rest his feet on it. They're still bare, with more than a few scrapes noticeable on the soles, from carrying John across the gravel. He leans back too, arms rested lazily by his sides. Then, with a rather pointed yawn to demonstrate his view of the futility of an exercise such as this, he finally launches into the story.
Lestrade remains silent as Sherlock talks; the only noise he makes is to acknowledge a point. It's only when Sherlock reaches the part in the story where he gets taken from 221B in the early hours of that morning that Lestrade interrupts.
"I thought you'd already sorted everything out?" he says, a little confused-sounding.
"Yes."
"So why didn't you contact me last night?"
Sherlock doesn't answer immediately. He's careful to retain his relaxed pose, but a small knot of something resembling embarrassment builds inside him, and he finds himself rather loath to answer. He had rather been hoping this point wouldn't come up.
It was because this whole fiasco, the whole John-in-hospital-having-been-poisoned-by-him fiasco was entirely and unequivocally his fault. The fact that it was his fault was made worse by the fact that he had made it happen through a mistake. A simple, mundane mistake. He never made mistakes, yet at this one critical moment, he had. It was as infuriating as it was humiliating.
After about a minute of silence, Lestrade probes him for an answer.
"Sherlock?"
"Right. I forgot."
"You…?"
Sherlock glares at him, removes his feet from the table, and sits up straight.
"I don't think there's any need to linger over the point, Inspector. It's hardly of significance."
Lestrade lets out a breath, and Sherlock can see the tiniest hint of amusement playing around his lips, masked well by years of interviewing suspects, but nonetheless discernable to the trained eye. He makes a mental note that the Detective Inspector had not been pick-pocketed in a while.
"Shall I go on?"
The other man gives a brief nod, still projecting that shred of glee. How unprofessional.
"I was taken to the location that you visited earlier this evening – at gunpoint." He gives a little sigh, and rolls his eyes. "With previous victims it seems likely that they were killed instantly: but he was interested in me, he wanted to know precisely how I came by my information, in case it meant that others were aware of Virginia's little deviation."
"I'm assuming you didn't volunteer the fact that John knew too?"
Sherlock doesn't bother answering, giving the older man a look of deep disgust before returning to the tale.
"Anyway, I was able to persuade the man of my worth to his 'cause' – explaining to him how I worked out the situation and demonstrating that I was easily capable of distinguishing those who knew about her secret relationship from those who didn't – thus preventing unnecessary killing."
"A serial killer with morals." Lestrade comments lightly, a smile ghosting his features.
"Hardly. He just wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Did you not hear the part about the branding?"
"Just tell me what happened, Sherlock."
Sherlock looks up, interested at his tone. Oh. He's exasperated at the constant belittling of his abilities. Sherlock might have felt bad about that, but if Lestrade was competent he wouldn't have work, so he doesn't.
"The man still demanded a token of my commitment before he would release me – I can assure you it is incredibly tedious to be held at gunpoint all day – and in the evening, an opening presented itself."
"I still don't understand how he found out John was in on his big 'secret' in the first place," Lestrade tells him, frowning.
"He sent a text," Sherlock explains, his voice half admiring, half despairing. "He'd clearly noticed my absence, and determined to come and get me - by being captured himself. Obviously, John realised the killer would have never allowed me to remain in possession of my phone."
He takes the mentioned object out of his pocket, showing Lestrade the text. The DI grimaces at the words, and looks at Sherlock once he's finished reading.
"He's good," Lestrade comments. "He rung me, must have been ten minutes before."
"He's reckl…wait – " Sherlock looks up at the man opposite him in disbelief. "He called you, and you didn't do anything! Why?"
"He was only asking where you were. He said everything was fine."
"And you believed him?"
"Sherlock…"
"I thought you lot were meant to protect the public."
"Stop being ridiculous, Sherlock." Lestrade tells him, a rare steely edge entering his voice that indicates to Sherlock he's crossed a line. The consulting detective scowls at him from across the desk.
"If John goes as far as to actually ask for help – of any kind – then everything is blatantly not fine."
There is a very tense silence for a few minutes. Sherlock sits on one side of the table, arms crossed and fuming, while Lestrade places both elbows on the table and leans forwards, apparently determined not to concede that the police force had any part in John Watson's harm. Stupid, stupid, incompetent…
"Do you want me to continue?" Sherlock asks eventually.
"If you can do so without criticism of the police force." Lestrade counters. They look at each other, and the tension subsides a little. "Just go on," he says, his voice slightly warmer. The sketchy companionship that they usually share has returned, to a degree.
"The killer, stubbornly, decided that the only token of commitment that he would accept was the killing of the next victim - John. I attempted to convince him that I neither knew well or cared for him, but this only encouraged Mr Smith: he told me that it would make it all the easier. The only point I managed to negotiate was the method of murder: I insisted I could not shoot a man, and he allowed the method of poisoning. As it happened, he had the required substances…"
"Handy."
"…and I was left to sort the details."
Lestrade contemplates Sherlock over the desk.
"And there was no way you could have got yourself out of it?"
"Trust me. Not only was I locked in an impenetrable room – impenetrable, at least, with what I had, which was my bare hands and a syringe – but my only other option was to have my brains blown out. A waste, I think you'd agree, and to be honest I had hoped that John would have alerted the police before sending such a text. All I could do was make sure that the concentration of the poison was low enough that he would not be killed instantly."
Lestrade has his head in his hands by this point, and Sherlock feels he looks unnecessarily despairing.
"Are you honestly telling me that Sherlock 'I-can-do-anything' Holmes could honestly not find any other way to escape the clutches of a killer than actually poisoning his flatmate?"
"It was by far the safest option."
"Safest!" Lestrade splutters, lifting his head from his hands with an expression of disbelief. "I think John would probably disagree."
Sherlock gives Lestrade a condescending look.
"Nobody has come to any lasting damage, and I've managed to catch the man responsible for the death of five people. I think that is what most people would call a result."
The DI just shakes his head, his expression reverting to the usual defeated look that he wears around Sherlock.
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If Lestrade's office was the most boring place on the planet, Sherlock reasoned, then this hospital probably had to be the second.
He disliked the whole concept of hospitals on principle – at least the concept of hospitals from the perspective of a visitor. He was not, he would like to clarify, a psychopath who didn't actually want people to recover. No, what he disliked was the obligation, every time you set foot inside one, to wait. Endless, pointless, waiting. There were countless 'waiting rooms' – rooms designed specifically for waiting, for doing nothing. The idea that someone had deemed this a good idea was too horrific to contemplate. It was akin to torture. Even as a patient, waiting was a constituent part of the experience. Also, he was generally opposed to the whole 'crying by bedsides' idea too: fruitless exercise that it was. It was acceptable to visit a friend or family member, he supposed, for initial peace of mind, but after that he was of the opinion that a phone call would suffice, unless there was an emergency. Well, preferably a text, but as mobiles were not permitted inside a hospital…ah. That was the other reason he disliked them. No texting.
However, he had allowed Lestrade to drag him into this one, primarily because he really was interested in seeing his flatmate, mainly due to the fact that he thought John had not understood his motivation in poisoning him, and he felt their relationship would benefit from an explanation.
Also, he was worried about him. A bit.
They trail along endless corridors; the slight squeak of the DI's shoes a contrast to Sherlock's near-silent tread in his bare feet. He had flatly refused a lift back to Baker Street, pointing out that if they were going to a hospital pyjamas fit right in, and as it was night time anyway, it seemed illogical to change. He'd got a resigned sigh for his pains, but the man had put up no argument, and had followed him into a cab quite willingly.
The woman at the front desk (recently divorced, from the North judging by her accent, had moved to London to move on with her life) had directed them to a ward three floors up, and as they neared their destination, Sherlock felt a slight twinge in his gut. It wasn't nervousness, absolutely not, but he would admit it might have been slight trepidation; a small amount of doubt as to how John might react to his presence.
He and Lestrade round the final corner together, and clap eyes on one of the people Sherlock least wanted to see, and most expected he would see; on the grounds that said person seemed to enjoy showing up during situations such as these.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says, nodding stiffly in greeting, but remaining unsmiling. Sherlock gives him a contemptuous look. It's not so much that he goes out of his way to be rude to his brother, but Mycroft does have a tendency to show up where Sherlock does not want him. He's particularly reluctant to discuss this particular matter with him: Mycroft will not understand, he will criticise ceaselessly, and Sherlock would rather like to straighten things out with John before having to deal with the wrath of the 'British Government'.
"Mycroft," he responds, straightening his dressing gown slightly in an attempt to look more dignified. It's challenging to appear elegant in pyjamas next to a man in a suit ironed to within an inch of its life.
Unfortunately, it is instantly apparent that this encounter can not be got over with swiftly: Mycroft and Lestrade are exchanging niceties, shaking hands and smiling. Lestrade's is rather forced, Sherlock notices, and he can't help a little bubble of amusement raising a smile on his lips. Apparently, the detective is rather unwilling to have to deal with two Holmes's. Mycroft's is harder to read: any real sentiment hidden behind the manufactured government façade.
"I assume you wanted something?" Sherlock prompts, unwilling to linger in this corridor any longer than necessary. Mycroft looks up at his voice, turning away from Lestrade, and focussing his whole attention on his little brother.
"Yes," he agrees, smiling a little, resting both hands on his umbrella in front of him. His posture, as always, is impeccable, he is every inch the perfect official, and it's so dull. Mycroft has never grasped the concept that imperfection is what makes people. "Yes I did."
Sherlock fixes him with a hard stare, making it perfectly clear he is not prepared to endure Mycroft's usual extended use of prologues.
"Very well. I merely thought it appropriate to remind you that you don't play with people's lives as if they were one of your…experiments."
"Thankyou for your suggestion." Sherlock says, making to move, but Mycroft holds up a hand.
"I realise that Dr Watson can be overly reckless, but he does not need assistance in his demise." Mycroft pauses, and were it anyone else; Sherlock would have labelled it as hesitation. "I am merely concerned about your emotional well-being."
Silence ensues at his words, and the two brothers look at each other; eyeball to eyeball. Burning ice meets storm wrought waves; it's a glare of shared intellect and feuds, memories and knowledge, insolence contrasting with severity and concern. Despite their differences, they're infinitely similar, too much so for companionship. Sherlock knows that Mycroft means well, he always means well, but they both know that Sherlock will never, ever admit it.
The stare is broken, and Mycroft departs with only a 'good day, Inspector' to Lestrade, and no further comment to his brother. The silence he leaves behind is somewhat awkward. Sherlock feels like a small child reprimanded for wrong-doing, and is very aware that his expression and stance reflect this only too well. He tries not to scowl, succeeding only when Lestrade finally speaks. The DI's eyes meet his tentatively, before flicking towards the door of the ward.
"Shall we go in, then?"