Sherlock let out a strangled yell as he let go of Robert Whitehall. As Whitehall fell to the ground, screaming in pain at Lestrade's well-placed bullet lodged in his leg, Sherlock ran to the sandy-haired youth. He lay completely still on the ground. Lestrade watched, feeling sick, as he saw the always cold, distant Sherlock crouch by the boy's side. A pool of blood was forming.
Greg ran over to see if he could help, and was relieved to find that the wound, though in the chest, had just avoided any vital organs and blood vessels and wasn't a fatal shot. Sherlock's hands shook, dithering over the boy. Greg dialled 999 as he listened to Sherlock trying to wake the boy up and apply pressure to the wound. He could have had professional medical training. Greg thought that it was good his voice at least sounded calm.
"Sherlock, it's all right," Greg knelt down next to him, hanging up the phone. "Ambulance will be here in five minutes; it was very nearby, luckily. And the wound position –"
"I know, I know Lestrade, non-fatal below the heart and lungs and missing any major blood vessels. Heaven knows I'm not an idiot," Sherlock turned his full attention back to the kid, and Lestrade could hear him talking soothingly to him. "Don't worry William, hang on, the ambulance will be here soon."
Lestrade went over to Robert Whitehall, who was being tended to by Donovan and MacPherson.
"Donovan, that's our man."
"Pardon, sir?" she muttered distractedly, creating a tourniquet to wrap around Whitehall's leg.
"I know this isn't the best time, but that's our killer for the Thames south bank murders."
Her head whipped around, eyebrows raised.
"Can you ride with him to keep him in police custody?" he asked Donovan. "I need to sort out Sherlock, I'll be in contact once you're there."
"Yeah, of course sir."
At that moment the ambulances screamed around the corner and stopped at the head of the alley. Paramedics rushed out and collected William and Robert Whitehall. Sherlock watched William being taken away. Other medics were attempting to sit Sherlock and down and drape a shock blanket over him.
"I'm fine! Let me go!" he threw the blanket off himself and pushed away the clamouring people.
Sherlock's usual mask on his face was creased with worry, and he tried to follow into the back of the ambulance. The paramedic argued exasperatedly with him.
"I'm sorry sir, you're just simply not allowed to come in here."
"His family wouldn't be bothered with knowing he's in hospital!"
"Please sir," the paramedic barred him from the ambulance as the doors were closed on William.
Greg rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and lightly led him off to one side. Sherlock looked murderous, and then quickly wrenched away from Lestrade and spun to flee into one of the open garages. The door slammed shut with a metallic clang, and something in Lestrade's brain clicked. Sherlock was living in one of those garages? He remembered Sherlock's answer to whether or not he lived with anyone: yes and no.
Lestrade trod towards the dark red door with small, careful steps, and reaching the one Sherlock had disappeared behind, he knocked. There was no answer. So he tried again, while noticing the grey lever towards the bottom of the metal sheet. He knelt down to wrench it open. But just he was reaching for the lever, he heard a loud click! from the inside, and he knew that Sherlock had padlocked the door. So he stood up and called softly through the metal.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, could you let me in? Please? It's Lestrade. Please open the door."
He sighed when he was met with a stony silence from inside the garage. But he knew it was to be expected. After checking if his fingers could fit through the crack that was made between the faulty door and the hard concrete ground, he whipped out a phone and fired off a text.
For some reason Greg found it slightly amusing when he heard the received message tone ding one foot away from him. Let me in and I'll get you in to see William with police favours. Success: there was a loud click and the door swung open. Greg jumped back just in time to not be whacked in the face by a large sheet of metal.
"Thank you," he sighed.
He was slightly taken aback at Sherlock's appearance; though he had looked distraught before, his face was now so woodenly blank one would think he was a painting. The breeze ruffled his long coat, and he stood, watching Lestrade like a hawk waiting for his prey to make the first move. So followed by Sherlock's fixed gaze, Greg stepped in.
It was a small garage, and it was certainly not your typical makeshift house. On the right side was a couch with a blanket draped over it for sleeping and a table and pot for making tea. Spanning the entire left wall was a long wooden bench with colourful test tubes, retorts, chemicals, old microscopes, glass slides and specimens. Lestrade's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair.
"Courtesy of Mycroft. I only let him give me them because staying alive was becoming so boring without distractions to the point of being a complete waste of time. And if I let him do that, he would stop trying to abduct me and lock me in his house."
"So…you live here?"
"Only when I'm kicked out of my real flat because I didn't pay the rent. Or, the landlord kicks me out because he finds out about the experiments. I don't really care though."
Indeed, Sherlock's manner was very nonchalant and casual about it. He genuinely didn't seem to care, which astonished Lestrade. Suddenly, something caught Greg's eye, and his heart sunk slightly. It was a small black box next to a tourniquet. Lestrade knew what was in there; a syringe, and a small bag of white powder. Sherlock noticed Lestrade's face droop slightly, and followed Greg's gaze toward the box.
"Forget that," Sherlock swiftly swiped it up and deftly deposited it behind the couch.
"Sherlock, why do you take cocaine?" Lestrade's voice was quiet, and gentler.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, noticed this.
"Because I have to! I'm bored. There's nothing else to do!"
Lestrade eyed him. Greg had a feeling he was telling the truth, but he also had a feeling that Sherlock wasn't telling the whole truth. There was something else. Though determined to find out, he decided to leave it for later. Sherlock marched to the doorway and looked at Lestrade expectantly.
"Well? You said you'd get me in to see William. I let you in, now you have to uphold your end of the deal."
"Yeah, I need to talk to you about that. Who is that kid?"
"William."
"I worked out as much for myself, thanks. No, who is he? How do you know him?"
"He lives in the next garage. Fifteen, ran away from home. He's…we made closer acquaintance than I usually make with people – he didn't seem to mind me the way other people do."
"So his family's still out there?" Sherlock nodded. "In London?" Sherlock nodded again. "Can you give me his last name? We'll need to notify his parents."
"I don't know it; he wouldn't give it to me himself so he couldn't be tracked."
Lestrade would have to get around this. But for now, Sherlock was raising his eyebrows impatiently at Lestrade, nodding to the door, so Lestrade took DS Cook aside and instructed him to find William's family. He jogged over to the cruiser at Sherlock's impatient cry of "Inspector! Now!" and hit the gas.
Lestrade was hanging up the phone when Sherlock came out.
"Visiting hours over?" Lestrade asked, to which Sherlock jerked his head, looking slightly disgruntled at being thrown out of William's room.
"He'll make a full recovery, they expect."
Sherlock started striding off without another word. Lestrade jogged to catch him as Sherlock's legs and strides were very long.
"Hey Sherlock, listen. I want you to come and stay with me for a while; I've called Caroline and she's said it's fine. Just for a very short time," he added, seeing Sherlock's face crinkle distastefully, "only until you get on your feet with a new flat. We've got a massive spare bedroom for guests, and plus, my place is much closer to the hospital than your…garage is."
Sherlock saw the undeniable logic of the arrangement. "What did happen to your last place anyway?"
"Couldn't pay the rent. Refused Mycroft's help. He usually helps with payments – against my will. When I go to the landlord to pay, apparently by some happy coincidence it's always already been paid. Bloody Mycroft," he added in a venomous undertone.
"Well we could get you another place pretty quickly. It's only a temporary arrangement. I just simply can't let you live in a disused garage. It would be dereliction of duty as a police officer if I let you go on how you are."
Sherlock thought about it quietly as they approached the car. He still didn't answer the whole time they got in and drove off.
"I won't let you help with cases," Greg threatened.
"Fine! I'll do it. Only for a couple of days though," Greg smirked at the wonderful blackmail material and made a note to use it in future.
"Where did all your money go?" Lestrade asked, but he knew the answer fully well.
"Other, more worthy expenses."
Greg knew what that meant. He sighed again as they started driving to Lestrade's home. He was going to get Sherlock on track if it killed him. And he was certain that his previously salt-and-pepper hair had started going steel grey much faster in the last month. Lestrade was sure it had nothing to do with natural ageing. But he would do it. He would stick by the consulting detective; there was just something about Sherlock that made Greg want to protect and help him in every way.
"Oh, but Sherlock?" Sherlock looked up. "No drugs in my house."
Sherlock scowled heavily: "And if you refuse to come back with me, remember what I said about no cases?"
Knotting his arms so tightly across his chest that Lestrade doubted they'd ever unwrap, Sherlock slid down the car seat and glowered even more.
"Careful sunshine, the wind might change and your face'll be stuck like that forever!"
Greg looked out of the corner of his eye, and was thoroughly surprised to see Sherlock's mouth twitch, almost cracking a smile. Greg then noticed that there had been no protest when he called Sherlock "sunshine". Realising that made him grin. He thought it was a curious thing for Sherlock to not be annoyed about, but wasn't going to complain.
"And you wouldn't want to be stuck looking like you've just stepped in something awful for the rest of your life. It'll deter the girls," Greg snickered.
"Girlfriends are not really my area," Sherlock muttered delicately.
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. Head staying still his eyes slid sideways to glance at Sherlock.
"Er…are boyfriends 'your area' then?"
"Nope."
"So, nothing's really your area? You're just not interested."
"Pretty much."
Greg nodded, having nothing to say to that. Luckily for Greg, Sherlock broke the silence.
"We're stopping by to pick up my violin."
Lestrade agreed, noticing it was a statement and not a question. But then he suddenly became wary of Sherlock slipping into his garage and locking the door, or picking up the black leather box as well.
"And," Sherlock added, as if reading his mind, "I won't lock myself into the garage again, I'll just come straight out. Nor will I get the black box."
Lestrade was astounded how Sherlock had seemed to read his mind, but chalked it down to his being a Holmes – a weird family they must be – and drove on to Sherlock's garage.