When Caroline Lestrade opened the door, Greg noticed that as the warmth from inside the house blew over Sherlock, his features lit up slightly, and his body slightly unfurled and became less tense. Lestrade realised just how cold Sherlock must have been feeling, and reflected with a shudder what winter nights must be like in Sherlock's garage. The metal and concrete room would just make the room even more frigid, and he remembered the crack in the door, which would let in a nasty draught. Caroline beamed at their new houseguest.
"And you must be Sherlock Holmes! Yes, Greg's told me lots about you, do come in! My name's Caroline," she shook his hand, which Sherlock had warily extended, scanning her from head to toe. Then he shrugged, and deeming her trustworthy enough, shook her hand with slightly more vigour, and swept inside.
"Hey darling," Greg greeted her. "Listen, um, whatever he says, don't get upset. It's nothing personal against you, and he wouldn't be trying to offend you – he's not great socially. Doesn't know the right and wrong things to say."
Through the relatively short time of knowing him, Greg had had enough experience with Sherlock's quick and acerbic tongue during his verbal battles with the rest of the police officers. Caroline nodded, unfazed. The Lestrades followed Sherlock in through to the living room, where his calculating eyes swept every surface.
"I'm sorry to hear that your friend is in hospital Sherlock. How are you feeling?" Caroline asked.
"Well you'd know from experience," Sherlock muttered.
The Lestrades exchanged glances; Caroline confused and Greg worried.
"What do you mean?" Caroline wondered.
Greg tried to interject to stop the ensuing explanation that he could see coming, but Sherlock had already started.
"Experience with the death of a best friend quite young."
"Sherlock," Greg interrupted loudly, "how about I take you to your room?"
"But –"
"Now, sunshine. Come on."
Greg dragged Sherlock from the company of a stunned Caroline and into the guest room. After Sherlock gave his sleeping area an inspection, Greg looked at him sternly.
"Listen now. Please, try not to make any deductions for a while on Caroline. Please?"
"It's part of my nature. I don't try to make deductions, it just happens."
"Well, how about you make deductions, but try to keep them in your head, all right?"
Sherlock scowled, but agreed. It was something about Greg that made Sherlock agree to things. Greg knew that Mycroft desperately wanted tips.
Later as Lestrade watched telly and Caroline cooked, Sherlock stretched on the couch eagerly reading case files Lestrade had given him that were lying around the house, and tried to wave off dinner.
"Stop devouring those case files and devour this instead please."
"I'm fine thank you Lestrade," he told Greg.
"Seriously Sherlock, you look more like a skeleton than is normal. While you're here you eat."
"Is that the reason I came here? Not hospital proximity, but for shoving food into my mouth?" Sherlock asked disdainfully.
"Yes."
"What day is it?"
"Monday."
"I'm fine then, I don't need dinner. But thank you for the offer."
"When was the last time you ate dear?" Caroline asked, concerned by Sherlock's question.
Greg caught on, and looked shocked that Sherlock possibly hadn't eaten for days.
"Sunday morning. Like I said, I won't need anything until Wednesday, and since it's Monday that's plenty of time."
"Sherlock!" Caroline cried, scandalised.
"Don't worry, I'm used to it. It's fine."
"It is very much not fine! How could you not let him eat Greg? Come here!"
She placed her hand on his back, in between his shoulder blades, and with the unexpected touch from a near stranger, every muscle in Sherlock's body froze. She noticed his tension.
"Oh, sorry dear!" she retracted her hand as quickly as if it had been burning and Sherlock relaxed. She extended her arm. "Take my hand?" she asked.
Sherlock eyed it, thought, and gingerly placed his hand in hers. He was impressed. She'd worked out that Sherlock liked to be in control of who he touched. He loathed any contact. But he needed to please society, so he would let others touch him, but only with his consent and if he made the first move. He hated people rubbing shoulders with him, placing their hands on him – arm, shoulder, back, anywhere – and Sherlock couldn't stand them doing it without asking him first. That way he could steer clear of unwanted contact. Caroline led Sherlock to the table, guided him into the chair forcefully but gently, and piled extra onto his plate.
"Eat," she ordered.
She and Greg joined him at their places, and started to eat. Sherlock delicately nibbled one bite of his food, and by Jove, it was good. He had another, and another, and very soon he was cleaning the plate that had had two servings piled onto it. He hadn't realised how excellent a proper hearty dinner was when you had only eaten three small meals in the last week. Caroline and Greg looked at each other, and grinned. Sherlock asked for seconds.
Caroline opened her eyes into darkness. She wondered briefly why she'd awoken, and then realised. There was a gorgeous sound floating from the guest room below them and coming up into the master bedroom. She glanced to Greg, breathing deeply in rest, put to sleep by the violin. Caroline listened to the song. It was mournful, downhearted, but there was something delicate and beautiful about it.
As the music swept over her, her mind turned to thoughts about Sherlock: thin, not eating, homeless, probably cold continuously in winter, sunken eyes, a drug-user – but he was a genius, a detective prodigy and a beautiful virtuoso violin player. He had talent abound. She knew he could get himself a job easily, and wondered what had driven him to the streets. She supposed she would never know, but the music told her everything about him. Sherlock was excellent at deducing people's lives from observing them, but Caroline was excellent at deducing people's emotional lives. She lay, her eyelids drooping. The music was so soft and gentle. A solitary tear rolled slowly down her cheek for Sherlock, and she drifted off into a deep slumber again.
When she next opened her eyes, bright light filtered through the curtains and, to her great disappointment, she found, the music had stopped. There was only a silent stillness that had settled over the house. She waited for Greg to wake up.
"Morning darling," she chirped.
"Morning," he smiled.
"Did you hear the music last night?" she asked.
"Yeah – timed well. I couldn't get to sleep, so it was a relief when it started up around 1:30."
"It was – sad…what do you know of Sherlock's past? Is he – OK?"
"I don't know anything. He's not the reminiscent type, you know? And likewise," Greg sighed heavily, rolling onto his stomach, "I really don't know if he's OK."
She thought of what he'd said, knew Greg worried, and the pair sat in silent contemplation for a while. Then she threw off the covers of the bed.
"Fry-up?" she asked.
"Yes please! Ta love, that would be wonderful," Greg answered, rolling back onto his back and studying the ceiling.
Sherlock was sat on the couch, sinking into the soft, red cushions. His eyes flicked from photo to photo on the wall. He clasped his hands together in a ball on his lap, then let them go of each other, then clasped them, then let go. His foot tapped. He drummed his fingers in a tattoo on the oval coffee table. It took all his will to not scream. Greg could plainly see his agitation, so stood and threw a packet of cigarettes to Sherlock along with a lighter. Sherlock picked one up, and threw it away distastefully.
"Try it. It might take away the coke craving."
Sherlock glared at the white box, now spilling thin white sticks.
"Ever smoked?" Greg asked him.
"Once. Other things were more interesting than cigarettes."
"Well, I don't like to make you addicted to cigarettes, but it's a damn sight better than being a coke addict."
Sherlock picked one up, caught Lestrade's lighter, and lit the cigarette. He scrunched his face up slightly when breathing in, but it seemed to relieve his tension. Greg tried to move the violin that was lying, out of its case, next to Sherlock on the couch to sit there as well. Sherlock's arm shot out to whack Greg's.
"Don't touch the violin," Sherlock voice was sharp.
"Sorry," Greg quickly brought his hands away from it. There was a pause. "It's a very handsome violin. Very nice."
"Yes; it's a Stradivarius," Greg whistled, impressed. "And that's why you do not touch it."
Greg sat on the armchair facing the couch instead and lit his own cigarette.
"We're going to have to somehow get the smell out of the house before Caroline gets home from work; she hates smoking in the house."
"You do realise," Sherlock said, blowing out, "that now you're going to have to wean me off two deadly addictions? Yes, I know about your little meetings with Mycroft. And yes, I know what you talk about. I'm not stupid. Well, I'm certainly not stupid."
"Let's take it one at a time, hey?"
Sherlock snorted.
"Sherlock, I'm serious."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in mocking agreement, and flicked the stick coming out of his mouth. He put out the cigarette and threw the butt across the room, getting it right in the bin. Greg nodded in approval.
"I'm not addicted you know," he told Lestrade. "I just like it."
Well, Greg conceded, his withdrawal symptoms are certainly less pronounced than usual. Even though Sherlock had started trying to avoid Caroline because of the slight anxiety and paranoia, and he was now often more brooding than usual, Sherlock was handling the situation well, Greg thought. He supposed it was the constant mental stimulation Sherlock was being provided with. Lestrade was unaware that every two or three days he was creeping out in the dead of night for an hour to have a hit.
"Your hair looks like it needs a wash," Greg commented.
Sherlock stood and strode into the bathroom, making Lestrade stop. Was he actually going to go and have a shower and wash his hair because Lestrade had told him to? That couldn't possibly be true. No, it wasn't true, because a few moments later Sherlock appeared back in the living room.
"Sorry Lestrade, you don't have the right shampoo."
"Huh?"
"I use nothing except my special one."
Greg tried not to snort: "Well how about we go looking for it tomorrow?" Sherlock shrugged.
Greg sat on the stool at the island bench of the kitchen attentively. Caroline hurried through the kitchen, looking, as Greg noted, utterly gorgeous in the sequinned red dress and her black hair brought up loosely around her head. She put her gold clutch on the bench to take out the pasta.
"Now Greg," he nodded, "this is the pasta. First pour some water into this pot up to here," she indicated halfway up the inside of the metal. "Then put it on the stove –"
"Wait, I'm going to take notes."
"You really don't need to – just listen. Put water in the pot up to here. Put the pot on the stove. Turn the gas flame to high, that's hard clockwise, and wait until you can hear it boiling vigorously. If you want, you can put the lid on to speed up the cooking. Then pour three handfuls of pasta in once it's boiling, and without the lid let it cook and taste it after ten minutes. Once it's done, drain it into this colander. Have you got that, dear?"
"Yes," Greg confirmed confidently.
"Water in the pot. Put the pot on the stove, which is on high. Boil and put in pasta. Cook for ten minutes."
"Yes. Got it! Definitely."
"Good. When it's in the colander you can mix in this pesto. All right, you two enjoy yourselves tonight, I won't be too late," she pecked Greg on the cheek and, knowing better than to touch Sherlock, gave him a friendly wave.
"Have a good night out with the girls!" Greg smiled.
She grinned, and left.
"So Sherlock," Greg asked, collapsing next to the detective on the couch, "did you get anywhere with the Leeds case?"
"Of course," he scoffed. "The mother had been having an affair and when the son found out he felt scandalised, so killed her. The mother's lover knew that it was the son who'd killed her, and so avenged her death."
Sherlock was devouring cold cases while at Greg's; when his mind was distracted working on a problem, he was distracted form the cocaine cravings and withdrawal symptoms.
Greg nodded, "Duly noted. I'll file the report tomorrow and bring you in. You hungry yet? I can put on the pasta now."
"Is it safe?" Sherlock smirked.
"Of course! It sounds easy enough, and I've had strict instructions."
Greg moved to the kitchen while Sherlock seated himself on the island bench stool, paper in hand, to watch the impending spectacle better. Sherlock peered over at Greg, slightly amused, and stayed silent. He was so often bored here, and this would break the monotony a bit. After pouring in water and pasta into the pot, Lestrade placed the lid on the saucepan and noted the time.
A while later Greg was chattering on, so Sherlock gave him a reminder: "Fifteen minutes gone, Chef."
Lestrade comically jumped, perked up and checked the time. He hurried over to the saucepan and gave a strangled yell. Sherlock sauntered over, and glancing into the pot started chuckling a deep rumbling laugh. Greg looked at him – this was the first time he'd heard the consulting detective properly laugh.
The water in the pot had turned from normal water – thin and clear – to thick, gluggy and yellow. It even stuck to the sides of the pot. The pasta resembled less pasta and more a lump of plasticine that kept breaking into small pieces whenever a fork was dipped in and brought up again to be futilely tasted by a very stressed Greg. Sherlock had never seen anything funnier.
"It was pasta, Jamie Oliver. That's all – you just had to cook some pasta!"
Greg was ripping open cupboards: "What am I going to do now? There's no ready-made food here, only ingredients for cooking, that was all the pasta, and it's pouring with rain outside and Caroline's got the car so I can't go to bleeding Tesco's!"
"You put too little water in, didn't let it boil, cooked it with the lid on and left it too long."
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Thoroughly."
"OK, I suppose I'll grab my mackintosh – Sherlock? What are you doing?"
Sherlock was pulling ingredients out of the cupboards, and half an hour was pulling a steaming beef stew off the stovetop. Greg had watched, dumfounded, as Sherlock had commandeered the kitchen like a professional.
"Well, I would never have picked you for the budding chef Sherlock! You? Cooking? If I weren't pinching myself I would be certain this was a dream."
Sherlock placed the dish on the table that Greg had managed to set without major disaster, and they sat to eat.
"Ta very much Sherlock!"
Sherlock shrugged, and started eating.
"I don't understand your surprise – cooking's just science, and chemistry and biology are some of my strongest points. Among many other things."
Greg thought it was reasonable. Though that was why he was a DI and not in forensics. Then he remembered something Sherlock had said before.
"Sherlock, how do you know who Jamie Oliver is? That doesn't seem like you."
"You should hear William, he doesn't shut up about that chef. William wants to be a chef himself. When he gets off the streets he wants to work in an apprenticeship," Sherlock's voice was marginally softer, and Greg didn't press it. It wasn't right seeing Sherlock anything other than completely emotionless.
"Where'd you learn to cook?"
"My mother. Whenever my father was on a business trip; if he knew that a Holmes son was being taught to soufflé he would have probably committed a filicide."
Greg didn't know whether Sherlock was making a joke or being serious about his father; his tone was flat and nonchalant, not joking but not quite earnest. Sherlock suddenly felt uncomfortable when he had let slip the last part of his sentence, and changed the topic quickly.
"I found somewhere I think I'll rent. It's only a fifty quid a week," Sherlock told Greg, watching his food.
"Oh, all right! That's good! Do you want me to check it out with you or –"
"No, it's all right Lestrade, I've decided," Sherlock knew Lestrade wouldn't approve of the place. "I found it a few days ago and I signed the lease then. They give me the keys tomorrow."
Greg nodded. Sherlock did want to have his own place as being at Greg's could sometimes be dull, and most of all he was desperate to be able to use without anyone hassling him about it, but something inside him didn't want to leave here. It was warm, full of food, and most of all, it was safe. Sherlock had loved it for the past week; even the boring moments were more bearable when in the Lestrade's house than when Sherlock was on his own. But he didn't want to let Greg know his feelings about going to yet another ramshackle and dingy flat that was without heating and scraping for food. So he quietly nodded back.
A/N: So what happened to Lestrade with the pasta actually happened to my sister about a week ago – all the adults went out for the night and, being the eldest, put my sister in charge of cooking the pasta. Well, you know what happened next! So that's how my cousin and I ended up trekking to the nearest Tesco (50 mins round trip, thank you!) in the dead of winter night to get another few boxes of pasta.