Lestrade left his flat with a purpose that morning. He had finally slept, not well, but woke somewhat surprisingly refreshed and exuberant. With Sherlock in hospital for an undisclosed amount of time, he'd surely thought he might change his mind regarding his spur of the moment offer. He was certain Mycroft thought he already had. And this irritated him more than anything else. He wasn't going to back down or change his mind. In fact, now that his mind had made that perfectly clear for him, he was going to relish this experiment.
But first, he needed to speak with Sherlock. Because as much as he wanted to live in a perfect world, he knew this was going to be hell, and if he wanted this arrangement to work at all, he really needed Sherlock to be on board.
He made it upstairs without a fuss and knocked before turning the handle to Sherlock's private room. The younger man looked up at the entrance, a hint of surprise at seeing Lestrade there. He quickly put his mask back in place and resumed reading whatever was in his lap.
Well, at least he doesn't look like death, Lestrade thought, closing the door behind him.
"Morning," he said, bright and cheery. He walked over and sat down not on the chair by the bed, but on the narrow bed itself. He could feel Sherlock stiffen imperceptibly.
"Let's have a chat, shall we?"
A long-suffering sigh finally made its way past Sherlock, and he slammed the hardcover closed. Lestrade glanced at the cover. "Canterbury Tales?" he asked in surprise. "I didn't know you went for that sort of thing, heh," he mused.
"You don't know anything about me," Sherlock said, a hint of accusation too obvious to pass for indifference. Lestrade sighed.
"I would, if you'd let me in, Sherlock," he said softly.
"I don't want your help, Lestrade," he ground out, teeth clenched, eyes averted.
"Maybe not, but you need my help. You don't have too many options here, Sher." He blinked at the odd nickname that came from nowhere. Sherlock too noticed, throwing Lestrade a glance, but not commentating.
Lestrade stood because he was a pacer, and pacing felt right at the moment. "If you don't come home with me, Mycroft will commit you to that place. And it sure seemed you have absolutely no desire to end up there again. Your third option. I could sweep your flat, and drag you to jail the minute they release you here, and you can detox there. I'm really trying not to go for that one, Sherlock. You know what I'd prefer, but-" he ran a hand through his grey- speckled hair- "I'm not gonna drag you kicking and screaming so you can resent me for the rest of your life. I'm willing to trust you to do your damn best, but it won't work if you don't trust me."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This isn't a choice, Lestrade. Don't stand there and pretend how noble you are in giving me some semblance of choice. It's beneath you to be so transparent," he spat. "What are you trying to prove, Inspector? You think you want to save me? Perhaps it really has escaped your notice, but I am not your concern and you need not implicate yourself where you are not wanted," he finished in a deadly whisper.
Damn it to hell, the kid knew which buttons to press. Even now. He rushed forward and grabbed the front of Sherlock's hospital gown, practically lifting his back off the bed. "Listen to me, you little shit. Don't you sit there and pretend to know me. You don't give a shit about anyone or anything, not even yourself. Why did you come to me before? Why! You broke into my fucking flat and bled out on my carpet and you dare talk to me about being transparent? I'm not sure what the hell happened in your privileged little childhood to warrant such appalling behavior but I'm not having it. I meant what I said. You're done with cases, I swear it Sherlock, so help me. You either come with me or I'll call your brother up right now."
"There is no need for that, Inspector."
Lestrade let go of Sherlock to find Mycroft standing by the door, a wry expression on his face. Ignoring him for the time being, he turned back to Sherlock, who was flushed and indignant, and pointed at him. "I'm going to get a coffee. When I come back, I want your answer."
He swept passed Mycroft and out into the hallway, breathing heavy, hands shaking. He went to the vending machine, ordered the vile concoction they called coffee there and sat in a chair in the hall, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He hated not being in control. He couldn't remember the last time he lost his temper so easily. Not even at the Yard, when things got bleak did he succumb, knowing there was always something brighter just around the corner. But now he felt a bit lost and more than troubled. He felt responsible. Guilt gnawed at him like a persistent virus and he absolutely hated feeling that way.
He knew Sherlock wasn't his responsibility. Knew it wasn't his fault Sherlock did what he did. And yet, there was the constant guilt rolling around in his gut unpleasantly. He was the older one though, and he encouraged Sherlock at every turn. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring him into his world, but the thought of what Sherlock might be doing instead frightened him.
It all boiled down to the fact that he hardly knew who Sherlock was. Aside from the fact that the guy was a genius and had a bigger, scarier brother, he didn't know anything about his past. Not that he thought for a second Sherlock would indulge his curiosity. The man was more closed off than a Catholic nun. He once called himself a sociopath and Lestrade entertained that theory for all of an hour. He was a detective, as much as Sherlock loved to refute that fact, and he knew people. And he knew, deep down, Sherlock was no sociopath. He knew the guy was troubled. And right now he knew he needed help. And God help him, he was going to do his utter best to try to reach him. He finished his coffee and went back to Sherlock's room.
Sherlock was sitting upright in his bed, an untouched tray of food on his lap. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Big surprise there. He sat down by the bed in that awful uncomfortable chair again, knowing Sherlock hated people towering over him. He clasped his hands in front and regarded the pale figure in the bed, studiously ignoring him.
"You need to eat something, Sherlock. You're skin and bones."
"Thank you, mother."
Lestrade had to laugh. "So, have we made a decision then?" he asked with a false cheer.
Sherlock finally turned calculating eyes to Lestrade's. "It appears that I am now your prisoner," he said.
Lestrade blinked, sighing. "Don't say that. I don't want it to seem like that. You're my guest from now on."
Sherlock stared at Lestrade like he normally would at Anderson. And it made his skin crawl.
"Stop that," he said with all seriousness. Sherlock finally turned away from him, one hand reaching for the food tray, lifting it away from the bed and onto the bedside table. He then procured his book from somewhere within his blankets and proceeded to read it, blatantly dismissing Lestrade. He sighed, getting up. He'd let him sulk. He had some work to do anyway.
After a quick call to Mycroft, Lestrade found his way to Sherlock's flat. There, he proceeded to turn the place inside out, as carefully as he could. He didn't want to disturb any of Sherlock's experiments, or whatever they were. He started with the bedroom, flipping mattress, opening draws, looking under the bed, under the bed frame. Then the wardrobe. He was surprised to find it so impeccably organized, considering the state of the rest of the flat. He went through every trouser pocket, suit jacket, anything and everything with pockets.
After he was satisfied there he went to the bathroom. It was a tiny space so he went through it in no time, before making his way through the kitchen (disaster zone) and living area. When he was finished two hours later, he gazed down at his findings: Two hypos and a small baggie of (probably) coke. He frowned, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. He didn't know what he had imagined when coming there. He supposed it could have been worse. He surmised that Sherlock, whatever he did, did not do it at home.
Next, he went back to the bedroom and started gathering up some clothing. It felt a bit strange going through the man's personal items and he was sure he'd have words with Sherlock later, but he quickly pulled out some pants, socks, tees, comfortable lounge pants, a dressing gown, and a couple pairs of suits.
Then he went back to the bathroom to get Sherlock's toothbrush, razor, and what appeared to be very fancy and expensive shampoo. He rolled his eyes but bagged it all the same. Satisfied, he was about to take off, Sherlock's laptop tucked under his arm, when his eyes fell upon it. Sherlock's violin. He shrugged, putting down Sherlock's possessions and went to locate the case. He did eventually find it, buried under the sofa, cobwebs galore. He sighed as he carefully placed the violin inside, along with the bow which he found wedged between a throw cushion.
He went over to the violin stand to retrieve a few music sheets when he paused to stare at the paper. The notes and markings were clearly done by hand. He rifled through the five different pages and noticed the same thing. No titles on any of them, just pristinely drawn musical notes, and a few random scribbles, in what was clearly Sherlock's scrawl.
"Well, well..." Lestrade gathered the sheets as well, surprised upon discovering something he never knew before of Sherlock. When he was satisfied he got everything he came for, he went back to his flat.
Two days later, a sleek, spotless black sedan pulled up to Lestrade's flat as he waited on the kerb in front. Mycroft stepped out first followed by a very petulant-looking Sherlock. The older Holmes came up to Lestrade, shaking his hand. "Inspector, I trust you have everything you need?" Lestrade blinked. "What could I possibly need that I don't already have?"
Mycroft regarding him stoically before quirking his lip. "Yes, well, if you do require anything, do let me know and it will be provided immediately. In the meantime, here is the number for the Rehabilitation Centre. If you change your mind. Nor would I blame you if you did. The next few days will not be...pleasant."
Lestrade sighed. "Yea, got it. I'm aware. Thanks, though."
Mycroft nodded his goodbye after a beat and walked up to Sherlock, whispering something in his ear. Sherlock's response was to glare back at the retreating form.
"Come on up, Sherlock, it's bloody freezing out here." He didn't wait for the man to follow him, just went inside the building to the lift. He normally would take the stairs, as he lived on the second floor, but for Sherlock's benefit, thought it would be less strenuous. Sherlock walked in a moment later, hands stuffed in his coat as per usual. Lestrade, busy at the Yard, was not able to see Sherlock at the hospital since his last visit, so he took a moment to scan for any changes.
The bruising was still very prominent, but the colour was shifting to a greenish hue, and some of the scratches were starting to fade. His left eye was still a bit red and swollen but otherwise, he didn't look worse. Just tired. Sherlock didn't say a word as they walked into the flat, just stood there in the entryway.
Lestrade cleared his throat. "You know where everything is. No need to stand on ceremony. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and I've laid out clean sheets on the bed." Now Sherlock turned to him. "You only have the one bedroom, Inspector, the sofa is adequate for my needs."
Lestrade had been expecting this. "We can talk about it in a few week's time, when you're a bit better off. For now, I'd prefer you in the bedroom. It's more quiet and secluded. I'm fine out here, and it wouldn't be my first time sleeping on my sofa. Now come on."
He walked away from Sherlock's probing gaze to his bedroom. "I've emptied out two of the drawers here and put your folded clothes and socks here. And in the wardrobe on the left side there I've hung the suits I brought over from your flat. In the bathroom you'll find some of your other things. Good?" He stopped when he noticed Sherlock's fixed gaze. He was standing in front of the bed, looking down at the very familiar case sitting on top of the coverlet.
"You went through my flat." It wasn't a question and Lestrade didn't bother to respond as he watched Sherlock graze a finger over the worn violin case, almost lovingly. Then he sighed and shrugged off his coat, throwing it haphazardly on the bed. Lestrade swallowed as he took in the slight figure, arms bandaged over, wearing a t-shirt in the middle of winter and expensive trousers that barely fit him. He repressed the sigh.
"Breakfast, I think."
"I'd like to rest," Sherlock said, surprising him.
"I know, but you need to eat. That's not negotiable." He walked away, hating himself for the harshness in his own voice, but knowing it was what Sherlock needed, whether he knew it or not. In the kitchen he made toast with jam, and tea with sugar. He wanted something light for Sherlock this morning, and knew the man wouldn't eat more anyway. Still, one could hope. He placed everything on the table just as Sherlock plopped down in the chair.
"Eat. All of it." He made his own toast, his back to Sherlock. He heard the unmistakable sound of crunching and chewing, and had to bite back a smile. When he was done with the jam he brought his own plate and tea to the table and joined Sherlock. They ate in silence. Sherlock seemed a bit far away, his knee constantly bobbing under the table. He did look quite exhausted and it seemed to take all the effort he had to finish the toast. He barely touched his tea. Lestrade had questions, but he didn't want to press the man so soon. But he knew it would only get worse before it got better. He was not looking forward to a Sherlock in the midst of withdrawal, but he hoped it would pass quickly.
"Would you like to shower?" he asked when both their plates were empty. Sherlock merely shook his head, eyes closing minutely. "Alright, well, go on then, I'll be out here if you need anything." Sherlock stood, lethargic in his movements and went to the bedroom. closing the door behind him. He didn't come out until that evening. Lestrade wanted to wake him for lunch, but he took a peek inside and hated the thought of waking him. He was making dinner when Sherlock shuffled out, dressing gown on, and sat down at the kitchen table, head down, elbows on table and hands clasped together against his forehead.
"Alright there, Sherlock?"
The younger man squeezed his eyes shut as if the sound pained him. "Fine," he ground out.
Lestrade laid out two plates of stir fry, Sherlock eyeing his disdainfully. But he picked up his fork and ate without commenting, which actually worried Lestrade a bit.
"So, mind telling me how you got all bruised up?" was not the question he wanted to start with, but came out nonetheless. Sherlock paused mid-bite but besides the seconds' hesitation, didn't acknowledge the question. Lestrade plowed on, recalling earlier transgressions. "And ecstasy? Really, Sherlock? I would've thought that beneath you." He was riling him up and he knew it.
Sherlock met his eyes. "You did ask about my hobbies," he quipped with a slight raise of his brow. Lestrade frowned, appetite lost suddenly. "That isn't funny, Sherlock."
"Well luckily I'm not here to amuse you, Lestrade," Sherlock spat, and pushed back from the table. He stood, sparing a glare, and headed back to the bedroom with a door slam. Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his face, weary and annoyed. He cleared the table and sat down on the sofa, losing himself in the telly until he passed out.
He took two personal days away from the Yard, hoping to acclimate Sherlock with his situation. But Sherlock had spoken not twenty words to him since arriving, and Lestrade did not want to feel like his hard earned days off were going to waste.
During breakfast on the second morning, Sherlock looked horrible. It was clear he barely slept the previous night and his face looked worn and damp. His finger constantly tapped the side of his plate, whether he realized it or not and every minute or so he would wake up from his reverie and rub at his neck or face. He shifted in his chair as if it pained his back and alternated between leaning forward over the table or slouching back like a broken puppet. It took him half an hour to eat a slice of toast and any offer of an alternative meal choice resulted in a half-hearted glare.
"So I head back into work tomorrow. I don't like leaving you here alone, you know. I don't even want to talk about the repercussions if you step foot outside this flat."
Sherlock actually smirked. "You have no idea, do you." Lestrade frowned in confusion. Sherlock stood up and walked around the table to where Lestrade sat. Leaning forward, one hand resting on the table, the other behind Lestrade's chair, he whispered, "Your flat is bugged, Inspector. It has been for days. Just be lucky you still have privacy in the bathroom." Then he straightened up, and walked away to the bedroom. Lestrade sat numb for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. Then he stood up, chair screeching unpleasantly backwards, and stalked over to the bedroom, flinging the door open. Sherlock was propped up in bed, book in hand.
"What the hell are you on about, Sherlock?" What do you mean my flat is bugged?" Sherlock shot him a lazy look. Lestrade walked closer. "Sherlock...who. Bugged. My. Flat." Sherlock sighed dramatically and lifted his chin to the sky. "Who do you think, Lestrade? My dear, overprotective and untrusting brother, of course."
Lestrade stood, dumfounded. "Mycroft?"
Sherlock just looked at him. "Yep," he proclaimed with a false smirk, then ignored Lestrade in favour of his book.
Lestrade knew very little about the elder Holmes brother, but the various hints thrown by Sherlock over months led Lestrade to believe that Mycroft Holmes was most likely a very important individual, involved with the British Government on some level. He was not so comfortable knowing just how far his reach extended. At the same time though, he felt oddly relieved that someone could keep an eye on Sherlock, even when Lestrade wasn't able to. So he went to work and tried not to worry himself to death over the course of the day. He got an earful from Donovan whom he had warned in advance about the arrangement. Her response went as followed:
"Sir, that is the most ridiculous idea you've ever had! How could you just leave him in your flat alone like that? How can you even trust that junkie freak?"
"That's enough, Sally. I mean it. I don't wanna hear another word about it. It's done. I'm doing it. End of story."
"What about your wife, sir?" And that's when he nearly lost it, whirling on Donovan. "My wife is currently not living at home, thanks very much. A fact that Sherlock realized months before, so I'll ask you kindly not to refer to her again." And they had left it at that.
He practically rushed home, head pounding something fierce. Back at the flat, Sherlock was in an agitated mood; foul and impossible, more so than usual. He insulted Lestrade as soon as he walked through the door on the state of his abysmal library, the fact that the bedsheets were nowhere near the eight hundred thread count he was accustomed to, and that the shower stall was impossibly small. Lestrade ignored all of this with an eye roll, recognizing the agitation for what it really was.
"Right, help me with dinner?"
"Fuck off," said Sherlock before retreating to the silence of the bedroom. Still, he did come out when Lestrade told him to get his arse out for dinner. He sat sullenly and refused to eat, looking a bit peaky around the edges. His hair was an appalling jungle, as if it'd been tugged at and yanked.
Beads of sweat had appeared on his brow and he fitfully tried to wipe them away to no avail. Lestrade ate in silence, contemplating the younger man. He knew the signs of withdrawal and he knew how valiantly Sherlock tried to fight them. Sherlock reached over with a shaky hand for a glass of water, bringing it to his lips. The dressing gown sleeve slid up, revealing bare arms, speckled with bruises, some uglier than others. Thankfully, none of the hypo marks looked infected.
"Do you want to take anything for the pain?" he softly asked Sherlock. He knew his body ached him and he knew how hard Sherlock was trying to hide the fact.
Sherlock glared at him with cloudy eyes. "I'm going to bed," he stated with a hoarse whisper and left without waiting for a response.
That night, Lestrade jumped off the sofa in fright when the bedroom door crashed open and Sherlock made a beeline for the loo. Retching sounds were soon followed and Lestrade sighed, biting his lip. He filled a glass with water and waited by the door for Sherlock to come out. When he did he looked wretched. His hair was plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat, his loose tee clinging to him like cellophane. He handed over the glass which the younger man took with shaky fingers. He drank, and gave the glass back, wobbling back to the bedroom. Lestrade followed. Sherlock collapsed in a heap in the middle of the bed, face planted into the pillows. Lestrade made to cover him but was met with protest.
"No. Too hot." Lestrade nodded, though Sherlock didn't notice, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you need anything?"
"Dizzy."
He sighed. "I know, Sher." He raked his fingers through Sherlock's slick hair, soothing him back to sleep. It didn't last long before he was up again, and this time, Lestrade fetched an empty pitcher to keep by the bedside.
Come morning, Sherlock was shaking in bed and couldn't even move from all the aches. The soft sighs soon turned to pained moans as he fisted the pillows, clenching bony fingers around the fabric as if it helped ease his suffering.
Lestrade felt so awful he called out and stayed home with him. There was no way he could leave him like that. He sat by the bed as Sherlock alternated between being too hot, to his teeth chattering for hours. He knew what to expect when he signed up for this, but experiencing it first hand was a whole other matter. He felt utterly helpless and a bit frightened. The pain seemed excruciating, and once or twice he almost called Mycroft out of cowardliness. But then Sherlock would sleep, fitfully, but at least he rested, and he looked so young and so sad, that Lestrade hated himself for even thinking about sending him away. So he stayed, and wiped his brow, and covered him with three blankets when the chills got too much, and cleaned out the pitcher, and brought him water.
When he knew Sherlock was simply in pain and not able to sleep, he talked to him. He spoke of his cases, and amusing stories of his first year with the Met. He told Sherlock how his favourite place to visit was Brighton, and how he's always wanted to go to Egypt. He told him how he loved history, but was rubbish at math, that he loved watching football and hated baseball. He told Sherlock random things, just to keep talking, just to let Sherlock know that he was there. Sherlock never responded or seemed to be aware that Lestrade was speaking half the time. Still, Lestrade talked.
"You would hate Brighton, I'm sure. Too dull for you. Not enough crime there to keep you occupied. Still, it's nice to get some fresh air once in a while, get the hell out of London. Enjoy the silence." He looked down at Sherlock's worn out body, clearing the fringe away from his eyes. "You can't though, huh? It's never quiet for you up there is it?" he whispered, his hand resting on his damp forehead. "Is that why you do it, for a bit of peace?" He got no answer.
He woke to blue eyes and heat. At first, groggy and crusty-eyed, he had no clue what was going on. And then he remembered he must have passed out on the bed next to Sherlock. Now, fully awake, he realized he was nearly surrounded by covers and Sherlock. He squinted at the younger man, surprised to find him awake. His eyes, more alert than he'd seen them in days were inches away from his own. He pulled back slightly to get a clearer look.
"Morning," he yawned. "You been awake long?"
"A while," Sherlock replied in that low tenor of his.
"That's scary," Lestrade said with a grin. "How you feeling?"
Sherlock swallowed hard before saying anything. "Better." He looked down. "Thank you."
Lestrade stilled, breath hitching. He couldn't remember Sherlock thanking him for anything, ever. He reached over and ruffled the younger man's hair. "Glad to hear it. And, you're welcome." He rolled over on his back, stretching out his kinks before sliding out of the bed. "Gonna shower, unless you want to first?" He looked down at the rumpled man, pose serene, staring up at him with a lazy expression. He found himself grinning all the way to the bathroom. Once he was out, Sherlock was sitting up in bed, texting on his mobile.
"I'm out of cigarettes," he exclaimed when Lestrade went into the bedroom in his robe in search of clothing. He grabbed a suit and tie from the wardrobe and boxers from the dresser. "Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea at the moment." He turned back to look at the younger man, who was wearing a petulant expression.
"I'll see what I can do, okay?" he finally declared with a huff. "Though I don't approve." He returned to the living room to get dressed. He went to work that morning feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He even called Mycroft with an update on Sherlock's condition, who thanked him for wasting his time on a lost cause, was the phrase he used.
He stopped by the shops to pick up some smokes and milk before heading home. The sight that greeted him was not an entirely unpleasant one. Sherlock was on the sofa, showered and clean-shaven, actually eating something. Leftovers from the looks of it, but still. He didn't remark on it however, choosing instead to take off his jacket, loosen his tie and plop down right next to him. He reached over and chucked the packet of cigarettes onto Sherlock's lap, who threw him a look.
"You get just one, and be thankful for that. Now you'll pace yourself or be out of it, got it?" Sherlock sighed but said nothing. He did finish his plate, depositing it in the sink after a while. He fiddled with his laptop silently as Lestrade went over some case notes. By late evening, Sherlock was rubbing at his head again. He took out a cigarette, contemplating it, and went to the kitchen window, opening it up to the winter air. He smoked in silence before rejoining Lestrade on the sofa.
"I'm bored."
Lestrade laughed. "You don't say."
"Are those related to a case?"
Lestrade sighed. "Yes..."
After a beat: "May I?"
"Are you gonna answer my questions?" Lestrade asked suddenly. Sherlock immediately went on the offensive.
"Are they going to be pointless?"
"Answer my questions, and you can look at all the case files you want," he bargained. He didn't get a response so he ventured a go.
"What happened that night before you came home drugged out of your mind on X only to stick yet another needle in your arm?" he growled the last bit out. Sherlock stared unflinchingly back.
"What I do in my personal time, is my own damn business!" he hissed.
"It may be your business who you screw around with but as soon as you show up to my work or home high, or worse, near death, then it becomes my business. And are you out of your mind? Never mind the drugs, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Do you want to wind up with an STD or fucking worse?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't know you cared so much, Lestrade," he said with a sardonic curl of his lip. Lestrade fought to keep his hands to himself.
"I bloody well do care, and you know it. Or you wouldn't be here." Sherlock froze, his face gone pale.
"You don't care about me," he scoffed. "You only care what I can do for you! All you give a shit about is the work! And you know what, that's fine with me." He stood, towering over Lestrade now. "That's all I care about anyway. That's all that ever mattered to me. I don't need you to pretend anything-to beguile me with your false offers of friendship! None of that matters, don't you see!" he said in an almost hysterical fashion. Lestrade could only stare, hurt and angry over the accusations spewing from Sherlock's mouth.
"You ungrateful bastard," he breathed, and something in his tone snapped Sherlock out of his tirade. He glanced away, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes against everything. Then, after a beat, he looked up, craning his neck, and took another deep breath as if to steady himself. Finally he looked down at his feet.
"Look. I appreciate your offer to assist me with this. No one else would have-" he broke off, almost uncomfortable. "But let's not pretend, shall we? For both our sakes. It would make this whole...arrangement so much more simpler. And then we can get back to the way it was. You call me, I come and solve your case. Everybody wins."
Lestrade didn't realize he was no longer looking at Sherlock, when he finally stopped speaking. But he knew one thing. He didn't particularly want to look at him at all. Without a word, he gathered up his jacket, and left his flat.
He walked. It was bitterly cold, but for once it didn't bother him. He was completely immune to the temperature outside, while his mind was boiling over. The pounding increased with every step he took, matching the beating in his chest.
He wanted a drink, but couldn't be bothered to stop for one. Walking felt good. Therapeutic. If he kept walking, maybe he could gain some distance between himself and Sherlock's cold eyes. A brilliantly clueless man, without a soul to speak of. He stopped. No. That wasn't right. And he couldn't think that. That's what Sherlock wanted everyone to believe. He liked to keep everyone at arm's length because he believed it protected him. But from what? From anyone getting too close? Like his great big coat that he wore like a suit of armor, he also shielded his mind from anyone or anything that he deemed to be a threat. And apparently, right now that was Lestrade.
So out of sorts, he didn't even notice the dark car rolling along beside him. When the door opened, he heard his name being called and he stuttered to a halt. He inwardly groaned. He really didn't feel like dealing with Mycroft Holmes right now, but the inner glow of the vehicle beckoned him and he was soon seated on warm leather, staring impassively at the other man.
"A storm is coming, Inspector. I didn't want you to get caught, so far from home."
Lestrade was only now aware of how far he really was from his flat. Still, he wasn't in the mood for a chat. "What do you want, Mycroft?"
The older Holmes looked at Lestrade, unblinking, and for a second it reminded him of Sherlock. He pushed that thought aside. "I did try to warn you, Inspector. My brother is not an easy individual to associate with."
Annoyed now, he blurted, "What's wrong with him?"
Mycroft blinked and flicked a pretend speck off his starched trousers. "No official diagnosis has been assigned to him. When he was much younger, numerous doctors tried, and failed to properly treat him. Brain scans, aptitude tests, Rorschach, you name it. His stubbornness wasn't an easy obstacle to overcome." He stopped and peered outside as the sleet started to pound on the car. Lestrade contemplated all this.
"He said the drugs helped. To turn it off."
Mycroft turned back to Lestrade. "Yes, I imagine it's true, to a point. Imagine, if you will Inspector, a high-speed train that never stops to pick up passengers, nor has an end destination. It just keeps flying, on an endless track. That is Sherlock's mind. Opiates naturally slow down the functions of the brain. For Sherlock, I'm sure it dulls it enough to keep him coming back. He's not addicted to the drug, Inspector. He's addicted to the quiet."
Lestrade sat in silence, his heart clenching uncomfortably and his migraine working overtime.
"Home, I think?" came the soft voice.
"Home."
His movements were cautious and slow as he shut the door to his flat, depositing his keys on the kitchen table. All was quiet and dark. He stopped at the entrance to the bedroom and saw the dark figure curled up on his side on the bed.
He sighed and approached, considerate of waking up the sleeping man. He quietly sank down on the edge of the bed, tired and spent. A sudden pained moan had him glancing down. A frown creased the sweat-drenched brow as the younger man stifled another groan. He was fisting the sheets, curled up into a ball now and Lestrade did the only thing he could think of. He reached a hand out and grabbed Sherlock's clenched fist, just a small bit of pressure applied. And Sherlock latched on. Lestrade jerked his head in surprise before squeezing the shaking digits.
"I'm here, Sherlock," he cooed softly. "Just hold on."
"Stomach...hurts..." came the muffled sound, so weary and drained.
"I know," he said, his heart breaking. He felt utterly useless and helpless. He ended up falling asleep, his back against Sherlock's curled up form, his fingers woven between the other man's digits. When he woke, he was on his side and there was a warm, solid weight against his back.
He shifted and realized Sherlock's arm was pinned underneath him, his hand still clenched with Lestrade's. He froze for a moment and tried to remember how he got here. Warm breath against his neck sent goose pimples running up and down his body, despite the heat radiating from behind him. It should have felt odd, he mused. It should have felt wrong. But after wracking his brain, nothing of the sort jumped out at him. He relaxed into the sheets, and allowed a moment of blissful peace before surrendering to his day. He carefully disengaged himself from Sherlock's grasp, pleased that it didn't wake the younger man, and went to prepare for work.
The weather had cleared up nicely after Lestrade got home, with snow softly falling over London, charming and peaceful. He lugged his Tesco purchases up to his flat, and attempted to get his keys out without dropping any of the bags. He tried to buy something that might tempt Sherlock. The man never indicated what he preferred to eat, never seemed to like or dislike anything. He wanted to put at least a stone on the younger man, though preferably more. He plopped the shopping on the countertop, frowning over at Sherlock who was lazing about on the sofa, texting madly away, and studiously ignoring Lestrade's clear need for assistance.
"Yea, thanks a lot by the way," he grumbled, going about emptying the bags. He placed some random food items on the counter, hoping it might catch Sherlock's eye. After a few minutes, Sherlock chucked his phone away in a huff. "Lestrade, I'm going out of my mind here," he whinged, with an arm thrown over his face for the dramatic effect.
Lestrade finished putting everything away, then went to join Sherlock on the sofa. "Hey, budge over." He pushed Sherlock's long limbs down off the sofa and took a seat next to him. "I was thinking, if you were up to it, maybe we could take a walk, get some fresh air," he ventured, glancing sideways at Sherlock.
A deep sigh escaped Sherlock's nose, that practically screamed 'dull!'. The younger man finally inched himself to a seating position and regarded Lestrade curiously. "How would a walk help with my boredom? Plus, it's snowing."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You could do with some air, unless you wanna stay cooped up here? Plus, you can, you know, read people as we're walking, give you something to do." Sherlock mulled it over for a moment, trying and failing to hide his interest. In the end, he grudgingly agreed, changing into his customary suit ensemble, coat, and scarf.
The snow continued at a steady pace, not enough to properly coat the sidewalks, but enough to annoy Sherlock as fat snowflakes fell to his head, leaving his hair damp and white. Hands in pocket, collar up against the slight breeze he walked alongside Lestrade, and every few moments would point with his head at some person, analyzing them in a few seconds worth of time, before moving on to someone else.
Lestrade didn't know if everything Sherlock said was all true, but he laughed along anyway. They stopped by a cafe for some coffee, Sherlock's cheeks rosy and bright. They sat in a booth and slowly sipped themselves warm, numb hands surrounding steamy mugs.
"So, wanna tell me why you hate your brother so much?" Lestrade asked after a while of steady silence. Sherlock frowned into his mug, taking a deep sip.
"I don't hate my brother. I despise his constant interfering, loathe his holier than thou attitude, and abhor his not so subtle attempts of subterfuge. Since I could remember he's been on me for anything and everything. And now he's trying to recruit me," he cringed in disgust.
"Recruit you? For what?"
Sherlock blinked. "I would have thought it obvious. To work for him, of course. I'll never say yes, mind you. But it's always fun to rile him up," he smirked, his eyes gleaming wickedly. Lestrade shook his head. "You two… He took a warm sip.
"Your brother cares or he wouldn't be this attentive."
That sobered the younger man up. "Mycroft relishes putting me in my place. Always has. He loves control and will do whatever he can to achieve his means. If that's caring, than you are an even bigger simpleton than I originally imagined," he finished coldly.
"Ta," Lestrade said, raising his mug at Sherlock. "Always lovely to know how you feel, Sherlock."
They finished their drinks in silent contemplation, Sherlock's knees constantly bobbing under the table, and Lestrade was feeling a migraine coming on. He took out some bills and threw them on the table, standing up with a wince as the sharp pain in his skull escalated down to his neck. Sherlock paused a beat to stare as Lestrade waved him away.
By the time they reached his flat, Lestrade wanted to crawl in a dark hole and pretty much die. He got them, every so often, ever since he was a teenager. Acute migraines, the doctors declared, before Lestrade had replied with, "no shit." He'd go months without a twinge, but when it finally showed up, it wasn't pretty.
He went straight for his prescribed meds, which truly didn't do much aside from dull the pain moderately. Sherlock said nothing as he sprawled on the sofa, laptop in hand, glancing surreptitiously every few minutes at the older man with his head in his hands, sitting alone at the kitchen table. Finally, he got up, murmured something to Sherlock about leftovers in the fridge, and went to his bedroom. True, it was Sherlock's room for the time being but he needed a quiet place, and there he could properly draw the shades and stay in perfect darkness, until the pain ebbed at least. He fell on the bed, covering his head with a pillow. The dark helped usually but nothing truly made the pain go away. Nothing but time.
He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew it was quite late, a squint at the nightstand clock confirmed. His head continued to pound and he couldn't help the small groan that passed his lips.
It was then that he heard another sound. It might have been playing forever or it might have just started, but he strained his ears to listen and yes, it was playing. Beautiful playing, the sound familiar and tranquil. He sat up in bed and closed his eyes, listening for the direction of the music. It was coming from the living room, cresting, and falling and moving.
Sherlock was playing his violin, he knew it without even seeing it. The war in his head suspended for a moment, he slid off the bed and padded over to the door, silently turning the knob. The beautiful music flowed more freely, mournful yet pleasant. He opened the door and stood on the threshold, looking out into the living room.
There Sherlock stood, his back to him, silhouetted only by the moonlight coming through the windows, violin to his chin. And he played, the bow dancing expertly on the taut strings, bringing forth sounds Lestrade had never heard in person. It was breathtaking and he shouldn't have even been surprised and of course, of course Sherlock was superb- why wouldn't he be? And yet he was still awed, because this was not the Sherlock he knew. The Sherlock everyone knew.
This was for him. Sherlock was playing for him, performing for him. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. And there in the darkness, Sherlock shone more majestic and more bright than any star ever could, and his migraine was nothing, meant nothing because astonishment had replaced everything else.
Sherlock turned at whatever sound Lestade made, but his playing never faltered. He didn't say a word as he performed on. Lestrade didn't even recognize the music, but he knew it was exquisite and he knew Sherlock chose it for him. He watched, transfixed as the long, pale fingers reached for every note- and how he flourished the bow, almost showing off, now that he had an audience. And Lestrade didn't even realize he had finished until Sherlock was approaching him, violin and bow at rest in his hands.
"I did not intend to wake you. I apologize if it was too loud."
Sherlock was apologizing? And for what, Lestrade didn't even know, or care. He was still in a haze as he murmured, "What was that?" Sherlock looked mildly uncomfortable as he walked to the sofa and placed the violin back in its case. "Just something I've been working on," he simply said, as if composing a piece from scratch was child's play.
"That was incredible. I- thank you." Sherlock seemed to know exactly what Lestrade was thanking him for as he merely nodded and fiddled with something on the violin case, clearly unaccustomed with the praise. Lestrade decided to let the man be, and went instead for a second round of pain meds. He popped two pills in his mouth, swallowing them dry.
"That really did help, Sherlock. I can sleep out here if you want to-"
"No, thank you. I'm fine on the sofa. I am probably going to stay up a while longer, so there's really no point in you sleeping out here. Go, rest. You have that meeting with Gregson tomorrow morning."
Lestrade cocked his head. "How do you know about that?" He could see Sherlock smirk in the darkness. "Right. Forget I asked," he said with a sleepy grin. He started back to the bedroom.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Goodnight."
The alarm went off, as it did every morning, though for once Lestrade wasn't quite ready for it. He bolted upright, frightened he'd overslept. He could see the sunlight glowing from behind his blinds and he cursed as he glanced at the clock.
He hurried out of his bedroom, heading straight for the bathroom. He could hear running water and cursed the timing. He knocked, loudly. "Sherlock, bit of a rush here, hurry it up!" He went back to his room to gather some clothing. He heard the tap shut off in the next room, and he sighed in relief.
He took a moment to rub the sleep out of his eyes, noting the dull throb that still existed in his head. It was nothing compared to last night though and was grateful for that at least. He headed back to the bathroom just as Sherlock was walking out. They nearly collided in his haste and for a brief second words of apology died on his lips.
Sherlock was giving him an annoyed, bothered look, but it was the sight of him nude savefor a towel hastily wrapped around his hips that currently occupied Lestrade's interest. Still damp from the shower, hair plastered to his forehead, droplets falling from the ends, he looked so very different. Sinewy muscles flexed as he grappled with the towel, while holding onto his clothing with his other hand. Lestrade's brain stopped working for the briefest of seconds before sputtering back to life. He stuttered, "Sorry, Sherlock, but I'm late for work." And hurried past the younger man into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it, his heart doing unpleasant things in his chest.
He swore, silently but with no less conviction. No, he thought. No, no and a final hell no. He was not thinking this. Not even a little bit. He wouldn't -couldn't- even entertain that possibility. He groaned as he started the tap. Why did it have to be Sherlock? Ten years since he'd even looked twice at another man, and now, now of all times he had to resurrect all those long-forgotten memories.
And Sherlock, of all people. The one man with more problems and issues than half of London's population. The one man who could tear you down with just a look, eviscerate your very being and stomp it out with his toe. The one man who would never be interested. He paused as he shampooed his hair. That particular line of thinking was still up for debate.
He knew Sherlock had been with people. Men, certainly, women, possibly. But that was while under the influence of whatever drug struck his fancy. Apart from that, Lestrade couldn't believe that Sherlock would bother with anything as dull as a relationship. He'd made mention of it himself in passing. Not his area, he'd said. And Lestrade had left it at that, thinking nothing of it. Now though. Now it meant-. He frowned. Nothing. It meant nothing, because nothing could come of it. It was pointless, useless, ridiculous to even ponder.
So Sherlock was attractive. Lestrade knew that already, didn't he? Beneath the cold exterior, and the genius, and even the drugs, Sherlock was simply an attractive human being. The slanted eyes that saw right through you, and the cheekbones and long neck, and the smile that hardly anyone ever saw, and the thin, long fingers that produced magic with the strings of a violin, and the pale, lean chest...
"Fuck," he swore, forehead against tile. He could not think about this. He just couldn't. Sherlock was an addict. Sherlock was a nuisance. Sherlock was...off limits. He inhaled deeply, and allowed that thought to permeate his mind. Off limits. Just a friend. Yes. That's better. He finished his shower, got dressed and scurried out the door with a backwards 'bye' to Sherlock.
At work, Sally asked about his houseguest, not bothering to hide her disgust.
"He's doing alright, I'd say. Better than, even. He's even eating my cooking," he said with a laugh. She just shook her head.
"You are a saint for putting up with him, sir. Surprised you're still sane."
"Doesn't really have anyone else though, does he?" It wasn't supposed to be a question, and that made him a bit sad just thinking of Sherlock alone in his tiny flat, no one to talk with, nothing to do.
She merely looked at him like he had two heads. "Freak doesn't need anyone. More likely than not he's taking advantage of you, sir. That's what people like him do."
"People like him?" Lestrade slowly repeated.
"Junkies, sir. They'll do anything for a free ride." Lestrade was starting to get irritated from their conversation.
"Right. Back to work, I think," he declared and walked away, before his mouth got him in trouble.
Lestrade dealt with mysteries on a daily basis. He was a detective, and that's what he loved doing. Solving a puzzle, feeling that rush of euphoria after a case had been cracked, perpetrator put away. Sherlock was a puzzle too, and lately, Lestrade wished he could figure him out. But he feared he'd been going about it the wrong way.
Sherlock was an enigma, one that Lestrade feared he'd never understand. You didn't just solve a person like Sherlock. You studied them. Sherlock's mind was an extraordinary thing, almost a life-force in itself, constantly at work. To Sherlock, it was everything. It was all that mattered. Everything else was deemed unimportant. Transport, he called it.
You had to remind him to eat, to drink, to sleep even. All those inconveniences mattered little to a man like Sherlock. That's not how he functioned. Lestrade was both fascinated and horrified by it. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Sherlock's life was like on a daily basis. Nor could he just ask. The man absolutely loathed personal inquiries, not because they were intrusive, but because he hated wasting time answering unproductive, inane questions. He lived in the here and now, and what once was did not concern him. The more he saw of Sherlock, the more used to his way of life he became. It became apparent that no one could ever understand this enigma of a human being, but every once in a while, you were allowed a glimpse inside the mind of a genius. And Lestrade was thankful for even that.
tbc...