"And why would someone stab him if he was already dead?" Lestrade asked, doing his best to pry more information from the consulting detective who did far more smug withholding than helpful consulting. Lack of competition. That was the problem. The world (namely Scotland Yard) was suffering from an acute shortage of consulting detectives.
"The answer to that question is the reason I like this case already. Normally people endeavour to make murders look like accidents—"
"Yep, that's what normal people do," John cut in.
Sherlock went on, "Who would go out of their way to make a death look like murder?"
"You're absolutely certain he died before he was stabbed?"
Sherlock sighed. "Contrary to what I'm sure the staff at Barts believe, I don't spend time beating corpses just for the fun of it. I know postmortem bruising."
John snickered, "Not just for the fun of it, no."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and Lestrade raised his eyebrows. Really, what had gotten into John today? He was concerningly chipper.
"Give me the victim's name and address," Sherlock said. "Need to have a look at his flat."
"You can't tell me any more about what happened here?" Lestrade asked, irked by Sherlock's demanding tone. "How did he die if it wasn't the stab wound?"
"Can't say without further data. Need the autopsy report at the very least. Send it to me as soon as you get it along with photos of the body."
"Come on, you must have a theory," Lestrade pushed his luck.
Sherlock glared. "I've told you before. It's a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."
Lestrade sighed. No luck. But to be fair, Sherlock had already given him more in a few minutes than his entire forensic team had all day.
"Gallagher!" he called to one of the two police officers who were in conversation by the barricade tape. "Get Mr. Holmes here the file on Rodgers," he said as the officer approached.
The dead man's name was David Rodgers. Lestrade had spent the day back at the office acquiring the necessary information, making an extra copy of the file for Sherlock. The upper circles of Scotland Yard had been more than a little displeased to discover his cooperation with Sherlock in the past, but rather than terminate his working relationship with the consulting detective, he'd gone to considerable lengths to ensure they didn't find out about it again. Donovan and Anderson, shocked to the core after Sherlock's suicide (even despite it turning out to be fake), would not be running to any Chief Superintendents again anytime soon.
The officer returned and handed the file to Lestrade. He made to give it to Sherlock, who held out his hand, but stopped. "Let's be quick about this one, all right?"
"Fine," Sherlock said, reaching for the file. Lestrade jerked it back. He needed to make his point clear.
"No one back at headquarters is going to believe this is anything more than a routine mugging until you prove otherwise, and no one is going to be happy about a prolonged investigation on a routine mugging."
"Well," Sherlock said in his best drawl, "you know I live to make people happy."
He snatched the file and Lestrade let him take it.
Lestrade watched Sherlock and John walk away. Sherlock handed John the file, then lifted the barricade tape so John could duck under it. Lestrade shook his head. There was one person on the planet for whom Sherlock was (unconsciously? consciously?) considerate, and that person seemed to be entirely oblivious.
He rubbed the back of his neck. It was very difficult to feel sorry for Sherlock Holmes, but sometimes… Sometimes, when Sherlock stood too close to John, when his eyes lingered just a fraction of a second too long, when Mary called and he turned his head away, when he caught John's sleeve to show him something…
Granted 'hopelessly in love' would look different on Sherlock Holmes—Sociopathic Mad Scientist—than it would on anyone else. To the average observer Sherlock's behaviour toward John wouldn't appear much different than it was with anyone else, merely that he allowed John to remain in his company for far longer than he would anyone else. However, to Lestrade the evidence was overwhelming.
Sherlock may have a low opinion of his detective abilities, but Lestrade hadn't gotten to the rank of Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard by accident. His observation skills, while admittedly lacking in comparison with Sherlock's, were much sharper than the average person's. And what he saw when he watched Sherlock and John together was nothing short of incredible. Despite Sherlock's expertise in concealing, burying, locking away, tamping down with a shovel, or whatever it was he did to his emotions, they somehow managed to shine through, like the faintest filter of light through the smallest of cracks, when John was close by.
Lestrade saw it in the way Sherlock—a veritable expert in blocking people from his sensory awareness—inclined his head, even just a fraction, whenever John spoke. He saw it in the way Sherlock watched John—gaze unsettlingly intense, causing whoever was on forensics to throw uncomfortable glances at each other. He saw it in Sherlock's face whenever John complimented him. John was not the first person to tell Sherlock he was a genius, but he was the first person Sherlock had ever responded to with more than an eye roll. He heard it, internalised it, savoured it. Sherlock Holmes, who'd never given anybody the time of day, wanted John Watson's approval.
For anyone else these details wouldn't amount to much, but in the case of Sherlock Holmes it was ample evidence that the world's only consulting detective was downright smitten.
Not to mention Sherlock's unconscious expressions in those rare moments when he forgot himself and his guard dropped. When John knelt down to examine a body, when he was telling Sherlock information he'd found, when he laughed, Sherlock looked at John like John was his whole world. He probably wasn't aware he was doing it, probably wouldn't intellectually understand what it meant to look at someone like they were your whole world, but Lestrade was forty years old; he'd been around enough to know the expression when he saw it.
But even if John wasn't capable of reciprocating, and even if Sherlock didn't recognise his own feelings (Lestrade knew the cold logician considered himself above feelings, just as he did everything else), Lestrade could say without hesitation that John Watson had been, by far, the best thing that could have happened to the self-destructive genius he'd met all those years ago. John grounded him, stabilised him, humanised him, made him smile (not smirk). And Lestrade was glad to see it. As obnoxious as the consulting detective was, he truly did care about him. Certainly more than he'd ever admit to Sherlock's smug face.
Because Lestrade had realised early on that the price for Sherlock's talents was an inability to make human connections. And as much as he envied Sherlock's skill, he knew he would never choose to pay that price. Sherlock swanned around like it was nothing to him, and Lestrade would have believed it if it hadn't been for that night—the night he'd seen the evidence. The evidence that the cost of being the perfect detective—tightly wound cogs and gears, spinning out deductions as accurately as a calculator, mechanical reasoning, no place for emotion—had devastating consequences, even for someone as strong as Sherlock.
Lestrade watched Sherlock and John get into a cab and drive off.
Another murder, another investigation. He knew beyond doubt that Sherlock never would have made it this far if it wasn't for John. John had not only saved Sherlock's life, he'd also given Sherlock something to live for.
Lestrade remembered the junkie kid he'd met all those years ago: wild and haunted, an unmistakable aura of death around him. Lestrade would have guessed the unfortunate boy wouldn't make it to twenty-five. And how old was Sherlock now? Thirty-two?
Had it really been ten years ago that he'd first met Sherlock Holmes?
Lestrade was sitting at his desk when a twenty-two-year-old, skinny, strung-out uni kid burst through his office door. He was tall with dark, curly hair and alarmingly pale skin. The boy clearly had no personal skills. He strode in without introduction, imperiously shouting some mad theory about a case Lestrade had just closed the day before, accusing him of having been wrong. Hyper-intense, manic, almost frightening; he was visibly high on cocaine—nervous agitation, hands shaking—Lestrade had dismissed him as a raving mental case. He hadn't even gotten his name.
But a few weeks later the boy showed up again, and then again some time later. His name was Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade learned, and of course no one listened to him. He sounded insane and he looked like an addict. He was in those days. They even arrested him one night for making a scene at the Yard. He'd slept in a cell overnight and gone home only slightly subdued the next day.
It was more than six months before Lestrade finally caved.
He'd been getting nowhere on a murder investigation, and was feeling particularly hopeless about it when Sherlock walked through the door telling him the name of the murderer and the time and address where he would find him. With no other leads to go on Lestrade decided he may as well go off on a wild goose chase as sit banging his head against the desk in his office. He was amazed when the boy's advice turned out not only to be sound, but entirely brilliant.
The first year of their cooperation was rough, however. It was more than against policy for Lestrade to consult with an amateur detective and in the beginning he'd genuinely tried not to do it. He pushed Sherlock away time and time again, even having him thrown from the building on a few of the more memorable occasions.
Nevertheless, when he did let Sherlock in on a case, the boy's methods proved to be awe-inspiringly flawless. Lestrade couldn't help contacting him more and more often. He shrugged off any guilt he might have felt about it, figuring the trial of actually cooperating with the condescending, caustic, twenty-two-year-old was punishment enough for breaking policy.
Things went along smoothly (read: gratingly) enough for a few years until suddenly there seemed to be a crime drought in London. For more than half a year Lestrade's work was trivial enough that he didn't contact Sherlock at all. So finally, when there was a really nasty murder, he was surprised at receiving no response to his text. Sherlock was usually so (unsettlingly) enthusiastic about murders he responded within minutes. After receiving no response to three messages in a span of three hours he decided it was time to call round to Sherlock's flat.
At the time Sherlock was living in the sort of dismal, dingy building that people choose when they allocate more money to drugs than rent. Lestrade found he was anxious when he rang the bell, and when there was no response his anxiety increased to panic. He couldn't say why; of course it was possible Sherlock was simply out for the night, but looking back he thought it might have been detective's intuition. It's much easier for the average person to ignore warning signs when they haven't seen the worst that can happen, and seen it happen so many times.
One of Sherlock's neighbours, high out of his mind, hadn't minded (or possibly noticed) when Lestrade followed him into the building. He sprinted up the stairs. He pounded on the battered door of Sherlock's flat and then had little trouble breaking open the rusty lock. He knew he'd have a difficult time explaining this if Sherlock was only out at the supermarket, but Lestrade walked further into the flat and Sherlock wasn't out.
He lying on the floor, on his side, thank god—he must have known to roll himself while he was still conscious. Vomit on the floor, on his jogging bottoms, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat. Overdose. Lestrade was dialling the ambulance as he fell to his knees to check the boy's vital signs. The pulse was faint but blessedly present.
Lestrade almost choked in disbelief. Here was the same man who strode arrogantly around crime scenes, intimidatingly imperious; it was easy to forget he was only twenty-five years old when he was commanding police officers or berating a forensics team. Now, crumpled on the floor, he looked even five years younger—black hair hanging in his eyes, his body curled into itself—he was skinnier than Lestrade had ever seen him. For a man who stood six feet tall it was heartbreakingly easy to lift him in his arms. The paramedics were going to be too slow. He'd meet them down on the street.
Uncoincidentally this was the same night he met Mycroft Holmes.
In the waiting room at the hospital, Lestrade stood as the doctor approached. Relief flooded through him when she explained they had been able to stabilise Sherlock's condition. "We'll have to notify the next of kin," she was saying. "Can you tell us who that might be?"
Lestrade realised with some surprise that he had no idea who the detective's family were, or if he had any family at all. Sherlock had never seemed quite… human enough to have a family. He found himself distinctly incapable of picturing Sherlock sitting at a dinner table being asked to pass the potatoes.
He opened his mouth to respond that he had no idea when a voice behind him said, "Present."
"Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft Holmes said, stepping forward to shake the doctor's then Lestrade's hand. Lestrade took one look and estimated that the man's suit might cost more than his car. "You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please accept my apology for the trouble my little brother has caused you tonight."
"Well, of course it was no trouble—" Lestrade started.
"Nevertheless," Mycroft cut him off, "he's made a rather bad habit out of inconveniencing people." He frowned checking his Rolex and Lestrade knew he was referring to himself. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come here again tomorrow afternoon. Let's say one o'clock? I have a few words to say to Sherlock when he comes round. I'd be very much obliged if you were present to hear them too."
More than a little perplexed, Lestrade agreed.
"Excellent," Mycroft said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "If you don't mind I'll just have a word with the doctor about Sherlock's treatment."
"Right." Lestrade knew this was a polite request for him to leave. He started to turn away but stopped. "Has Sherlock ever…" he trailed off for a moment. "Is this the first time this has happened?"
Lestrade thought he saw something flash behind Mycroft's eyes, but then they were empty as he said, "I had hoped we were beyond this particular brand of Sherlock's nonsense, but I see now it was an overestimation. Good evening, Detective Inspector."
Lestrade left the hospital feeling numb. Sherlock had overdosed on heroin and that was his brother's reaction? No wonder Sherlock was… the way he was. With an older brother like that, Sherlock seemed overflowing with affection by comparison.
One o'clock found Lestrade standing by Sherlock's bedside and feeling rather like a child being reprimanded. Sherlock was awake, sitting up in the hospital bed, looking worse for the wear, and doing his best to focus on the ceiling instead of his brother.
Mycroft Holmes seemed less terrifying now in the daylight than he had been late the night before, but still not someone to be trifled with. Just the fact that Sherlock was allowing this man to scold him, uninterrupted, for such a length of time was shocking enough to keep Lestrade quiet.
"So, Sherlock," Mycroft continued his speech, "since you have proven yourself incapable of living independently, without supervision, we must implement a new system. These are your options."
Sherlock quirked a brow and Lestrade surmised that 'options' were not typically part of the elder Holmes' plans.
"You will either find a flatmate of whom I approve, or cameras will be installed."
"Cameras," Sherlock said immediately.
"Cameras which you will not tamper with," Mycroft clarified, clearly having anticipated Sherlock's answer, "under pain of my assigning you a flatmate. And you can be certain I'll choose one who won't allow for your… antics," Mycroft finished, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Keep your minions, Mycroft. You can't control me."
Mycroft sighed. "Oh Sherlock, such drama. Has it even crossed your mind that I have your best interests at heart?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft; I would never accuse you of having a heart."
Mycroft smirked with cold eyes. "The respect is mutual, brother dearest." His voice went dangerously quiet as he added, "Although my test results weren't the problem, were they? I wasn't the one who upset Mummy."
A moment passed and Lestrade felt that the glare connecting their eyes could eviscerate anything that dared pass between them. Intensely uncomfortable, he coughed to snap them out of it. It worked. The brothers slanted their eyes sideways toward him, and Mycroft continued, voice resuming its previous languid quality.
"Further to our agreement," he said, "Detective Inspector Lestrade will cease to provide you with any information about his investigations"—the elder Holmes shot Lestrade a look that nearly made him jump—"should you continue to use illegal substances."
Lestrade wanted to object to this on the grounds that he was a grown man who would do what he liked. However, something about Mycroft's demeanour, his ability to subdue Sherlock, and his umbrella, prevented Lestrade from protesting. There was also the fact, Lestrade had realised last night, that no one had contacted Mycroft about Sherlock's overdose. He'd appeared at the hospital before anyone had even discovered his connection to the boy in room thirty-four. Lestrade firmly decided against crossing him.
He looked over and saw Sherlock's eyes smouldering. Mycroft merely tilted his head back and met his brother's gaze coolly. Fire and ice, those two.
"My best wishes for a quick recovery," Mycroft said with a smile that did nothing to warm his freezing eyes. And with a swing of his umbrella, he was gone.
"What the hell was that?" Lestrade asked, dumbfounded.
"That," Sherlock flopped back against the pillows, the confrontation evidently having drained what little energy he had, "was my brother."
Sherlock looked sideways out of the corner of his eye to take in Lestrade's expression. "Don't worry about the cameras," he said. "I won't have any trouble fixing those. Technology is lost on the older generation."
"It's not the cameras I'm worried about," Lestrade said, crossing his arms.
Sherlock turned his head fully this time when he said, "Based on the timing of the texts you sent me yesterday I deduced it was you who… brought me here last night."
Lestrade coughed and said, "Yeah, well…"
"Thank you." Sherlock looked up at him.
Lestrade shrugged. "There aren't any other consulting detectives. If we lost you then who would we have to annoy us at crime scenes?"
Sherlock smiled and Lestrade wondered if it was the first real smile—not smirk—that he'd seen on the boy before.
"So, that was your brother," Lestrade said, still a bit bemused.
Sherlock caught his eye. "Oh come on. Don't tell me you're surprised."
Lestrade wished he could say his relationship with Sherlock had warmed after the incident at the hospital, but really it hadn't. The only noticeable difference afterward was that Sherlock plainly preferred to work with him, being almost completely intolerable if he had to assist another DI. Lestrade would have preferred a card. Because in the following year the conceited amateur seemed to appear at his shoulder to correct him every time he made a mistake.
Lestrade was aware that this was probably Sherlock's way of showing his gratitude, so he gritted his teeth and learned to count backward as a healthier alternative to shoving Sherlock into the Thames.