Chapter 4

Mystery Dance

Two nights after the mystery voice gave him five days to solve the case, Lestrade is ragged from lack of sleep. He's no closer to a solution and feels he is going quietly crazy. It has to be quietly, because there's no-one he can talk to about it. Doesn't know how he got himself into this stupid fucking mess. Wishes he'd never met Maurice Hall. Wishes he was dead. Thinks he probably will be, soon, if he goes on not sleeping, not eating, barely remembering to have the odd cup of coffee. The only thing he's managed to cling on to is the nicotine patches: he hasn't cracked and started smoking again. But he's on a knife-edge with that one, and he knows it.

At this rate, his career, and Hall's, and Durham's, not that he cares about that, will be dead too, in about three days' time.

His mind goes round and round, no way out. The Cambridge leads were no fucking use at all. Maurice was only ever on the fringe of that society anyway, not really part of it. Typical Maurice. Drifting about vaguely while bloody dangerous things happen around him. Might as well fall asleep in a fireworks factory with a still-lit cigarette dangling from your lips -

Lestrade is not going to think about cigarettes. Not even in connection with fatal explosions.

He still can't understand why the blackmailer is picking on Maurice Hall rather than on Durham. Why would you threaten a stockbroker if you could go for a Cabinet Minister? He gets that Durham will go down as well, but still. Durham had insisted the blackmailer hadn't been in touch with him: no letters, no calls, nothing. Not even anything faintly odd, never mind obviously criminal.

Could be lying, of course. Lestrade wouldn't put it past the fucker. But he's not sure what Durham would have to gain from lying about it.

It's weird that the anonymous letters to Maurice were so vicious, too. Especially given what Donovan turned up in Cambridge. Maurice was easily led, got into a few minor scrapes, but nothing to what Durham and friends went in for. Even at the parties – which are, frankly, starting to feel like the stuff of myth – he didn't inhale. So to speak. Doesn't seem to have done drugs himself, even if he was in the vicinity when drugs were being done. Doesn't seem to have been part of the orgies, either, such as they were. Just mooned about after Durham and got his heart broken, the poor sap. An innocent bystander.

Lestrade thinks briefly how much he would like to wring the innocent bystander's neck. Decides it's best not to continue thinking about that.

He knows he's starting to fall apart, and it scares him. Donovan's noticed something's wrong, which is not surprising – she's sharp enough for that. But normally she'd keep it to herself or just be snarky about it. Not today.

Never thought he'd live to see the day when she told him he ought to call in Sherlock. Even if she did refer to Sherlock as that fucking psychopath.

Never thought he'd turn down that particular piece of advice, either. Doesn't really know why he did.

He's always turned to Sherlock before when he's desperate. Which, let's face it, has been pretty often. And Sherlock's always come up with a solution. Even when it's seemed completely impossible. Especially then.

Case like this, five day deadline with two days gone already oh sweet Jesus, ought to be right up Sherlock's street. So why hasn't Lestrade called him?

He does know, really, if he thinks about it. Just doesn't want to think about it.

Hasn't called Sherlock because he's ashamed. Ashamed of his own stupidity in relation to Maurice Hall, ashamed of having crossed the line over and over again between the professional and the personal. And ashamed, painfully so, of the reason why he did it in the first place.

Because Maurice Hall was the only person who'd made him stop thinking about Sherlock for long enough. About Sherlock and John Watson and all of that.

Not a thing he could ever tell Sherlock. He's dying of shame here as it is. Doesn't need to rip out his guts and put them on the table for Sherlock to play cat's-cradle with.

So he doesn't call him, tells Donovan she's not to either. Just goes on banging his head against a brick wall and getting more and more ragged and stupid from lack of sleep, and from the nightmare torments of trying to make his exhausted brain work on this intolerable bloody mess he's got himself into.

He's in the flat, lying awake, knowing another sleepless night lies ahead. Knows he ought to get undressed and go to bed properly, but can't seem to get the energy to do it. He's almost drifting off when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone breaking into the flat. Skilfully, not clumsily. But still, breaking in.

Lestrade is in a cold sweat. The mystery voice has got fed up with waiting, obviously, and decided to come round and kill him now. That will save time, he thinks, and realizes he's light-headed because he hasn't eaten for the last 48 hours. Which is not going to help if it comes to a scrap.

His mind runs through possible weapons within easy reach. Is not pleased with the results. If he gets out of this alive he will definitely do something to remedy the lack of hardware in the bedroom. Meanwhile, he tries to get off the bed without making the springs creak. Knew he should have replaced that fucking mattress. Which isn't what you want your last thought in this world to be. Looks as if even dying with dignity is off the menu.

He can hear the person moving around, quietly, confidently, not bumping into anything. Which is, if possible, even more alarming. And his police radio is on the other side of the room. Christ, he is really slipping. Another stupid reason to die -

At which point the bedroom door opens and Sherlock comes in.

"You're in the dark with your clothes on. Why?" Sherlock says, switching the light on. Stating the obvious. Not like him.

Lestrade thinks he may just have fallen asleep after all because this can't really be happening. It feels like a joke in really bad taste by a particularly sadistic Deity.

"Sherlock," he says, exhausted. "What are you doing here?"

Normally that would be What the fuck are you doing here?, but Lestrade just doesn't have the energy.

Sherlock looks a bit surprised. "Are you all right?" he says.

Never asked Lestrade that before, and it catches him off guard, gets him somewhere in the throat. He struggles to speak.

"No of course I'm not," he says.

Sherlock looks surprised by the of course. Fair enough.

Lestrade tries again: "Please. Go. Away. Can't keep. Doing this."

Hasn't done it recently, of course. Not since he and Watson -

"You never minded before," Sherlock says, sounding a bit hurt and indignant.

"I always minded before," Lestrade says, briefly energized. "You just ignored me every time I told you not to break into my fucking flat."

Sherlock looks faintly relieved, as if to say That's more like it.

"Why are you here?" Lestrade asks. His energy seems to be deserting him as quickly as it had flared up.

"I was bored," Sherlock says. "John's gone out - "

"Sarah?" Lestrade would have been hopeful about this once, but even that reflex doesn't seem to be working tonight.

"No, Clara. Ex-sister-in-law. They've gone to a film that lasts six hours or something. About Parisian theatre in the nineteenth century. Bound to be dull. Can't think why he wanted to go."

Lestrade may be dying by inches but he has some pride left. And he is not acting as fill-in for bloody Watson.

"Sherlock, I know you're bored, but please, will you just – just go home. Go home and wait for him. Then you can have a nice game of Doctors and -" He can't think of anything. Settles for "...whatever it is the two of you usually play."

Sherlock looks pained by the poor quality of Lestrade's insult. Lestrade thinks it would be a bloody sight easier to produce good quality insults if it wasn't roughly 500 years since he last had any bloody sleep.

"He's going to be out for ages," Sherlock says.

"Really not my problem," Lestrade says wearily. "Do go away, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks as if he's about to go into a major sulk, which Lestrade really does not have the will or the energy to deal with.

"I thought I could stay here," Sherlock says.

Lestrade looks at Sherlock. Thinks about pinching himself. Not happening, he tells himself. Seriously not happening. Going to wake up any minute.

"I thought you might like it," Sherlock says. "After last time."

This is all making no fucking sense whatsoever. If Lestrade had the energy he would start banging his head rhythmically against the wall. But he doesn't.

"Haven't got time for this," Lestrade says flatly.

Sherlock looks taken aback. Admittedly it's unusual. Well, unprecedented, really. Five years of giving in to Sherlock, always doing what he wanted in the end. Five years of being jerked around, played with, teased and insulted. Five years of aching with lust and making a fool of himself, and Sherlock always knowing, always, what makes him tick. Never been here before, Sherlock being surprised by anything Lestrade could do.

First time for everything. Lestrade just wishes he had the energy to enjoy it. Though if he had that, it probably wouldn't be happening in the first place.

"Why are you being like this?" Sherlock asks. An unusual question – well, an unusual form of question. Almost like something you'd say if you were actually interested in people. Which, God knows, Sherlock is not, unless they're part of a case.

Right now, of course, Lestrade is part of one. His best chance in years for getting Sherlock's undivided attention. Just can't bring himself to do it.

Sherlock takes a step towards him. Looks surprisingly tentative. Lestrade doesn't know what his own face is giving out, but it's unlikely to be particularly bloody encouraging, given that he is willing Sherlock to bugger off and let him get some sleep.

"Go home," he says again.

Sherlock ignores him, crosses the distance between them, puts his arms around Lestrade – no, definitely asleep now, seriously not happening, none of it. Christ.

If this is a dream it's too bloody warm and solid by half.

Lestrade is panicking. Not the reaction he'd ever thought he'd have at being embraced by Sherlock. But in the state he's in he literally can't bear the thought of more teasing and mind-fucking and humiliation. Been round this one too many times before, and he's just so tired.

He pushes Sherlock away, as hard as he can, so that Sherlock staggers and falls against the wardrobe. Nasty cracking sound as Sherlock hits his elbow on the edge of it. Then quite a lot of swearing. Sort of thing that would be funny in other circumstances. Probably.

Doesn't seem to have stopped Sherlock, though. Quite the reverse.

Lestrade is not in bad shape, normally. Well, not really. But the strain and the lack of sleep have weakened him, so he's not best equipped to deal with being jumped by Sherlock, which is what happens next. There's a fair bit of staggering around, more swearing, and then the two of them are on the bed, kicking and scratching and biting and – Christ, what is this?

Sherlock seems to be intent on ripping Lestrade's clothes off. Lots of shirt buttons flying about, and that was definitely a tearing sound. OK, no shirt, shit, what the fuck is he doing? Lestrade is still struggling, though without much hope or conviction. Can't for the life of him work out why Sherlock is doing this – annoyed with Watson for going to long boring French film doesn't seem enough of a motive, though with Sherlock anything is possible. But he's past trying to work it out. Too busy fighting off Sherlock, who is now trying to get Lestrade's trousers off. Trying, and succeeding.

Any minute now there'll be nothing between Lestrade's pitiful nakedness and Sherlock's scorn. It's not even as if he's got anything to show for it, which normally... Oh well. Never mind. Lestrade knows he is going to die anyway soon from lack of sleep and not eating, shortly after being thrown out of the Force and pilloried in the tabloids, not necessarily in that order. So what does it matter what Sherlock does to him, or why? Lestrade gives up the struggle and lies still.

They lie on the bed, Lestrade naked except for his nicotine patch, Sherlock still wearing all his clothes including The Coat, which must be hot. Wearing, too, a rather puzzled look, because this is not the state he's used to seeing Lestrade in. He touches Lestrade's body cautiously, curiously, apparently bewildered by the lack of response. If Lestrade had the energy for it he'd be bewildered too, but he doesn't.

Sherlock looks a bit like a kid who doesn't know why his favourite toy has suddenly stopped working. Even when he takes Lestrade's cock in his hand nothing happens. He frowns. Makes an impatient sort of noise, and moves abruptly down the bed to take Lestrade in his mouth.

The shock of it is quite something in itself, even before the sensation takes hold. It wouldn't be true to say Lestrade couldn't have imagined this. Sometimes, imagining this is the only thing that's ensured him a good night's sleep. But even that hasn't been working recently. And in any case it's not how he imagined it. Not that he can really remember any more how that was. Or remember anything much else, come to that, because this is working, working rather too well in fact, and it's all about to get quite embarrassing and he wants Sherlock to suck harder and move faster and he wants to hold on to him right there and stop him moving at all. And then he doesn't know anything any more, bloody hell, that really is a lot of noise somebody is making, oh Christ it's him, and he can't hold on and he isn't, he doesn't. Gone.

It's quite a while before his head stops spinning and his vision returns to normal. He can still hear his heart whumping, like a washing machine going through the rinse cycle.

Sherlock is up off the bed, out of the room, back again with a glass of something he seems to be using to take the taste away. Helps the medicine go down, Lestrade thinks woozily. He still feels exhausted and confused but at least it's not actually hurting any more the way it was earlier. Maybe he can finally get a decent night's sleep, which would really help.

"So," Sherlock says briskly, "this blackmail case. You need to give me the details. Now. All of them."

Spoke too soon.