The body lay at an awkward angle, unnatural and disturbingly wrong. Lestrade sighed, his gut clenching at the rare sight. Rare, but certainly not the last he'd ever see. The thought pained him greatly as he gazed down at the tiny body, strewn across the cement floor like nothing more than yesterday's forgotten rubbish. He inclined his head at Anderson.
"Well?"
"She's been here three, four days at least. Various injuries. Broken neck, both legs, bruising along her jawline, hands clearly bound at some point. Still working on any fingerprints, hair traces on the body." Lestrade nodded and heaved another sigh.
"Sir!" Donovan bellowed from the entryway. "Freak's here, says you called him," she trailed off with a deep scowl. Lestrade nodded, waving her away. "Let him through!" She pursed her lips but stepped aside to let Sherlock pass without so much as a glance in her direction. He approached with purpose but steadily, as if taking in his surroundings before taking stock of what lay on the floor. Sure enough, Lestrade watched the eyes flicker to the roof, the walls, the various debris. He sniffed at the air, eyes closed as he approached Lestrade, hands in pockets.
"Bout time, Sherlock. I called an hour ago, you know," murmured Lestrade with mild annoyance.
Sherlock ignored him, finally turning his attention to the body near his feet. He stilled completely, just stared at the form in mild curiosity, eyes roaming. Anderson sighed next to them and Sherlock's eyes flickered over to him with a look of disdain. "Go away, Anderson, you're contaminating the crime scene."
Anderson sputtered. "Look here, freak, I'm the forensics expert here, got it?" Sherlock scoffed, amused at the word expert, but turned instead to Lestrade. "You know how I work by now, I assume, Detective?"
Lestrade sighed, not really in the mood for a pissing contest. "Anderson, go wait with Donovan." The other man gave Lestrade an indignant look before marching away.
Sherlock kneeled down. With gloved hands he carefully lifted the dead girl's hair, inspecting the scalp, sniffing at the strands. He felt her neck, picked up her limp arms, checked in between the webbing of her fingers before moving on to her fingernails. He continued his inspection on the rest of her body before standing.
"Well?" asked Lestrade.
"Need more data," Sherlock simply replied. "Bring her to Bart's. I need to look around some more," and he swept away, leaving Lestrade irritated and exhausted. He called his team in and told them to bring the gurney. Then he went to find Sherlock, who was inspecting the doorframe with interest.
"Couldn't be more than six or seven," he said morosely. He would never, ever understand how someone could be so fucked in the head to ever harm a child. Sherlock blinked at him. "Oh her, yes, probably. I'd say six judging from her bone structure. Also, a foreigner. Or more precisely her parents are. Eastern European descent most likely. The lighting in here is terrible though and I really would need to analyze the corpse further at Barts." Lestrade cringed.
"Sherlock, Jesus..." he sighed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What?" asked Sherlock, genuinely bewildered.
"A child is dead, Sherlock. A bit less enthusiasm would be appreciated right now."
Sherlock scoffed. "Yes a child is dead, that's why you called me is it not? Nothing I say or do will change her death but I can certainly do something about her killer. Really Lestrade, I'm not even sure why you chose to become a detective," he finished with a puzzled air. He started walking away, clearly finished, when Lestrade called after him.
"Where were you when I first called?" And if Sherlock detected the slight accusing tone he didn't comment or turn back. "Cardiff. Looking for a missing nanny."
Lestrade, confused, didn't bother to ask to elaborate.
At Bart's, they met a mousy, young lab tech named Molly Hooper, on the job for close to a month now. She was very helpful and knowledgeable, and instantly gravitated towards Sherlock, making eyes and failing miserably to hide it. At least to Lestrade. Sherlock was oblivious and more annoyed with her interfering. She ran over her facts regarding the body and spoke intelligently and matter of fact until Sherlock berated her for being an idiot. Then he stormed out of the morgue, leaving Lestrade to thank Molly for her help and to apologize for Sherlock. She waved him off and told him if she found anything further she'd let them know.
In the end, Sherlock figured out that the brother of the dead girl's father, kidnapped and toyed with the girl before breaking her neck and removing her to an isolated location and dumping her body. He listed in precise detail everything that transpired, including timestamps, leaving Lestrade impressed and reeling. They had their suspect in custody less than a week later. Lestrade went to Sherlock's flat to deliver the news himself.
Sherlock shrugged. "Pedestrian really. Something more clever might do for next time."
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock! You're mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days. And I might not be around to stop it." Sherlock smirked.
"I don't think you actually would do anything to stop it," and an impish grin settled on his face, disarming Lestrade.
"You're insane. Oh, and Happy Birthday you git."
Sherlock frowned, reaching into his mind. "Ah, yes. No wonder my mother keep calling. I should probably pick up the phone next time..."
Lestrade laughed. Leave it to Sherlock to forget his own birthday. "Listen, I've got the rest of the day off. You wanna grab a pint? To celebrate?"
Sherlock looked up from his current experiment, laid out over the kitchen table. "Ah, no I don't think so. I'm much too busy here."
Lestrade nodded, already having anticipated his answer. Sherlock always said no. Still, he always tried to asked. "Right then, leave you to it." He turned to leave.
"Lestrade. Thank you, though."
The smile spread from nothing, and he tipped his head towards Sherlock. "Cheers!"
"What do you mean he's off solving cases? What cases?" Lestrade was standing in his kitchen in front of Mycroft the following week. He was trying to get down some coffee and a scone, while fixing his tie and combing his hair when the doorbell rang. He visibly groaned when he saw the older Holmes. It was almost never a good sign when one met up with Mycroft Holmes.
"Oh god, I don't even wanna know," grumbled Lestrade when he opened the door. Mycroft walked in, imperious and impervious to Lestrade's glare.
"He's still clean, I'll swear by it," Lestrade said off the bat. Mycroft blinked.
"I'm aware, Inspector. No, I have an entirely different matter to discuss with you." Lestrade sighed, checking his watch. And then Mycroft proceeded to tell Lestrade that Sherlock had apparently been out all over England solving mysteries for different people. "Months now, Inspector. I'm surprised he hasn't boasted of it to you yet. I've counted at least twelve cases since last August."
Lestrade frowned, caught off guard by this information. "I don't understand, how did he even- and when could he-" Mycroft seemed to understand his rambling as he chimed in. "My brother has launched a website, offering his...services. People actually reach out to him, Inspector."
"Right...so you're telling me this why?" Mycroft visibly stifled a sigh as if dealing with Lestrade pained him. "It's one thing for Sherlock to tag along whenever you need his assistance. It's quite another to open up a side business and actually deal with various individuals. I don't need to tell you how much of a nightmare dealing with Sherlock is on a daily basis. I have enough trouble keeping an eye on him in London. When he goes off without a word I'm not always able to...keep track. Approaching him of this matter will only infuriate him further and since you see him often I thought-"
"Ah, you thought I'd keep you posted on his doings?" A slight incline of Mycroft's head confirmed his suspicion. He sighed. "Sherlock's a big boy. I'm not sure it's really any of our business to interfere with his work life." Mycroft smiled, a thin, quirk of the lip that disturbed Lestrade. "Sherlock may be off drugs, but that doesn't mean he's safe from himself. He will always look for the next fix, Inspector." Lestrade suddenly didn't have time for any of this. He grabbed his jacket and keys, a clear indication to Mycroft.
"You know I always try to look out for him. Now it's been over a year since he's been clean and I think doing anything other than what he's used to is a step in the right direction. I'll talk to him, but I won't interfere. Not if I have cause not to," he finished resolutely, leveling a stare. Mycroft gathered his umbrella and briefcase, nodding solemnly before departing. Lestrade waited another minute and then left himself, already late for work.
As soon as he got there, he closed himself in his office and logged onto the internet. In the web search he typed in 'Sherlock Holmes' and examined the results. He didn't have to search long. The second entry down was a URL titled The Science of Deduction. He clicked it, almost terrified of what he'd find. In the end it wasn't anything surprising or shocking. But sure enough, it looked like Sherlock had gone and got himself a little side business. He didn't have time to go through the whole site, but vowed he'd at least bring it up to Sherlock later on.
You home?
Yes…SH
Coming by.
Why? SH
Lestrade smirked and snapped his phone shut. He told the cabbie to drop him off at the Indian place Sherlock liked and after picking up dinner, he walked the two blocks to Sherlock's flat. He knocked and waited a beat before the door was thrown open. Sherlock regarded him warily. Lestrade held up the takeaway bag and watched as an interested brow rose. He walked inside, depositing the food on the nearest clean surface, which he eventually found to be the coffee table.
"What's this about then? I'm far too busy to entertain you this evening, Lestrade," he said with a superior tone. Lestrade grinned. "That's not very nice, Sherlock. I bought you dinner and everything." He plopped on the sofa and rummaged through the containers until he found what he ordered for himself. Sherlock appeared disinterested for a moment before giving in. He grabbed the other container, already deducing what was inside, and sat down in the leather armchair, staring pointedly at Lestrade.
The older man finished chewing, relishing Sherlock's curiosity. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back against the cushions. "So... 'The Science of Deduction', heh?" Sherlock's glare was instantaneous, though it wasn't actually directed at Lestrade. "Mycroft," he growled under his breath. He forked a large chunk of mango chicken and stuffed it in his mouth.
"How'd you know Mycroft told me?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock threw him a look he recognized all too well. "Because he's the only one who would meddle in my affairs. And you're the only one he'd come to to do his bidding," he said accusingly.
"Hey, I'm not doing anything, Sherlock. Merely inquiring. Why haven't you told me about this before?"
"What for?"
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Cause that's what friends do, yea?" He took another bite. "So people really call you for help?"
"Yes, obviously. I don't understand your line of questioning, Lestrade. Yes. People call me for help. I solve their case. They pay me."
"Thought the money didn't interest you," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Money means nothing to me, but it is a necessity. Unfortunately I can't exactly live in London and not pay rent or eat."
"Or spend thousands of pounds on designer clothing. Honestly Sherlock, I never thought you'd go in for something so irrelevant as vanity."
Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please, as if I care how I look. However, one quickly learns how people perceive others. When I walk into a room a client turns to me with interest and respect, not with disdain."
Lestrade snickered. "They turn to you because you're a good-looking bloke. Course then you gotta do something stupid like open your mouth and all that's forgotten," he grinned. Sherlock shot him a strange look, almost as if he wasn't quite sure whether Lestrade had complimented him or insulted him. "Beauty is irrelevant, I don't understand why some people put so much emphasis on something so unimportant. The work is all that should matter. Why are people so utterly useless?" he drawled, rhetorically. Lestrade shrugged. "People can't help but notice. You notice everything."
Sherlock looked bored. "People are idiots," he simply said, as if that answered everything. Lestrade mentally rolled his eyes. "Look, just be careful, okay? Finding granny's missing jewels is one thing, but chasing down a possible murderer is quite another. You're not a vigilante, Sherlock and I don't want to see you getting up to anything illegal." He scarfed down the last of his meal, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Is that why you came here tonight? To warn me off?" Sherlock asked, lazily staring up at the ceiling.
"No. I'm not your mother, or your keeper. You're nearly thirty years oldand I'd like to think you can keep yourself out of trouble." Sherlock's lip quirked slightly, earning another eye roll from Lestrade. "Alright, I'm off. For god's sake eat the rest of your food, Sherlock," he admonished, swatting the younger man's knees before standing to leave.
"Lestrade. I hope you don't think that you can cease calling me for help whenever a proper case comes up," he said in all seriousness. Lestrade huffed a laugh. "God forbid I keep you away."
Lestrade tucked the folder under his arm and took a sip of his Starbucks with his free hand as he walked up to the building where Sherlock lived. The warm June sun energized Lestrade as he bounded up the three flights of stairs. He knocked and waited a surprising while before the door finally opened, revealing a very perplexed Sherlock.
"Was I expecting you?" he said by way of greeting. Lestrade stepped inside the flat. "No, but I come bearing gifts. He lifted the folder to show Sherlock. "Got some photos I'd like for you to look at and- what are you wearing?" he asked, finally noticing Sherlock's attire. The normally impeccably-dressed man was currently clothed in very loose-fitting lounge pants, and a very tight tank top that for some reason made his stomach flip pleasantly. His fingers were taped up.
"Sherlock..."
"I haven't the time for this, Lestrade, I was just heading out. I will see to your photos when I return."
"Hold up. Where exactly are you going like that?" Sherlock stormed past him. "Out."
Lestrade blocked the doorway. "Out where?" he insisted, curious and just a tad apprehensive. As if Sherlock could sense it, he dramatically rolled his eyes and grabbed Lestrade by the shoulder, budging him out of the way. "I'm going to spar. There. Satisfied? Now kindly move before you make me tardy." Lestrade's eyes went wide as he took in that sentence.
"Spar? As in sparring? As in, fighting?" Sherlock grabbed a zip-up hoodie off the wall hook (Lestrade had to do a double take at that image as well) and hurriedly threw it on. "Yes, Lestrade. As in jiu jitsu. Now get out of my flat already."
The older man had already backed out into the corridor without realizing it, staring at Sherlock as he hastily locked his door and swept downstairs without waiting for Lestrade to decide what to do. Blinking away the haze, Lestrade followed him.
"Since when do you do jiu jitsu?" he asked as Sherlock walked down the street, not bothering to hail a cab.
"Since I was thirteen," he called over his shoulder, a long suffering sigh following that (obvious) statement. Lestrade continued to stare at the retreating figure, shaking his head in befuddlement and just a hint of amusement. Sherlock Holmes knew martial arts. You learn something new every year...
The following day Sherlock stormed into Lestrade's office, throwing the file he'd brought on his desk. "Boring. Obvious. Some type of poison, though I'd have to go to Bart's to find out precisely what sort." Lestrade frowned at the sudden barrage of Sherlock and moved his meager lunch of a muffin and coffee out of the way. Sherlock flounced in the chair across from Lestrade's desk, legs crossed, hair a jumble of wind-swept curls. Lestrade looked him over casually, and immediately noticed his hands.
"Jesus, Sherlock, your hands..." He got up and walked around his desk to where Sherlock sat, sprawled in the chair. He reached over and was actually surprised Sherlock didn't pull away from him as he examined the battered and split knuckles on one hand, then the other. Sherlock looked around the office, indifferent.
"Hope you won," Lestrade muttered, stepping back and leaning against the edge of his desk. Sherlock turned his eyes to the older man, a wicked smile slowly spreading on his face. "I always win." Lestrade shook his head. "I don't doubt it." He continued to stare at the younger man sitting in his office like he belonged there, liked he'd always been there.
"Do you want to grab some lunch?" he suddenly asked him. Sherlock's eyes darted to the desk and the remnants of Lestrade's meal.
"A proper lunch," Lestrade emphasized. "I know you don't have a case on," he ventured as Sherlock stayed silent, contemplating. Finally Sherlock relaxed his shoulders and heaved a long sigh. "Fine. I suppose I could eat. Though I pick the place." He briskly stood up, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and waited for Lestrade to close his surprised yap.
"Oh! Right, great yeah. Course you can choose the place." He followed Sherlock out of the Yard, still shocked that Sherlock had agreed to that at all. In the end Sherlock settled on Thai, not normally something Lestrade would go for, but didn't utter a word of complaint against. All in all, it was a good day.
Lestrade learned early on that there were far more bad days with Sherlock than good ones. Conversation not related to a case was rare and down time was almost nonexistent. Sherlock was constantly moving, doing, solving. If he went a day without some sort of activity, he made Lestrade's life a nightmare.
His petulance was astounding, childlike in its immaturity. Texts came in droves throughout his workday, to the point that he had to shut his phone off. Simply put, if Sherlock was not busy with something, he was catatonic with boredom. Boredom led to trouble and Lestrade really didn't want to think of what that entailed. A year might seem like a long time, but Lestrade could recall with perfect clarity every miserable day Sherlock spent in his flat, detoxing. It was an experience Lestrade had no desire to repeat. He would absolutely kill Sherlock if he started using again.
He tried to stave off Sherlock's boredom with invites out to pubs, cafes, the park, anywhere of interest for that matter. Ninety percent of the time Sherlock rebuffed his offers, mostly without reason. Lestrade soon learned that Sherlock didn't care for being anywhere public for long bouts of time. He couldn't think properly, he had said. Too many inane idiots around. Too much noise, too much everything. Too much...
There were always clues, Lestrade supposed, but he thought it was just that he didn't want to spend any actual time with him. So he switched tactics, and started inviting him over to his own flat (other than for case-related matters). The first couple of times Sherlock declined, always citing a reason. Then one day after Lestrade finished his shift, Sherlock sitting opposite him 'bored', he got up and said, "Coming?" And Sherlock more or less followed him home.
It was an odd sort of arrangement. Sherlock never drank anything Lestrade offered, and barely ate. Or talked. He would sit or lay on the sofa, texting or typing away on Lestrade's laptop while Lestrade watched telly. Sometimes they would discuss a case. Mostly Lestrade did the talking, but not about cases. Sometimes Sherlock would grunt a response back if asked something moderately interesting.
He wasn't sure how this helped Sherlock with his boredom, but the company was nice. Even with his wife gone, he never noticed the silence until Sherlock was there to fill it. Lestrade never remarked on it, not wanting to spoil things.
Sometimes they yelled at each other and Sherlock would storm out, banging the door shut. The very rare times, Sherlock would bring his violin and play something Lestrade knew, making a game of it. Lestrade would try to guess whatever the younger man played, almost always losing. And then Lestrade would ask him if he knew a particular piece and Sherlock would play it. There was hardly anything Sherlock couldn't play. His eidetic memory was astounding, and he'd sit silently, content just to watch him play.
Depending on the night, he'd pass out on the couch and Sherlock would be gone by morning. Once or twice, he woke to Sherlock passed out next to him. He liked those mornings; it reminded him that Sherlock was indeed human.
One early winter day Sherlock walked into the Met and deposited a business card onto Lestrade's desk. The man picked it up, squinting at the writing. 'Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective.' He looked up from his chair. "Is this for real?" he asked, incredulous. Sherlock glared down at him, shoving his hands inside his coat pockets. "Don't be dense, Lestrade. Of course it's real. I thought it might be a good idea to get my own business card, with all the cases I've been getting lately," he explained in a derivative tone. Lestrade didn't know what to say. He could tell Sherlock was waiting for him to say something, anything. "Well, wow, Sherlock. So you...you're a..." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stormed out of his office, leaving a very flabbergasted Detective Inspector staring in his wake.
Sherlock didn't bring it up again and neither did Lestrade. The next time they met up at a crime scene they spoke only of work matters and theories. Lestrade tried to discern whether this new venture of Sherlock's had reformed the man, whether for the better or would he be even more of an impossible twit.
So far he noted nothing different. So his success had not gone to his head-yet. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of all that. Was that what Sherlock did to stave off the boredom? He could bet his life savings Sherlock didn't give a rat's arse about the human element involved in all this. Nothing phased the man. Dead bodies and burnt corpses. Not even the little ones. He never witnessed a reaction, nor heard a mournful word pass from his lips. None of those lives mattered to Sherlock. He only found intrigue in their death. Lestrade secretly hated that thought. How could someone be so unfeeling?
Living this life daily for over a decade now, even he had days where he didn't want to crawl out of bed, or check out a gruesome murder scene. Whereas Sherlock gravitated towards it. The more macabre, the more gleeful Sherlock was. He kept his thoughts to himself, mostly. But on those days Lestrade just wants to scream at the stoic man, beat some sense of apathy into him. And the rare times he spoke up only earned him a scathing rebuke, leaving him angry and agitated.
He wondered about Sherlock's clients. Were they decent people? Did they appreciate Sherlock's help, or wish they'd never made the call? Did he insult them or degrade them? Show them exactly how idiotic and small-minded they were? It would be just like Sherlock to do so. And yet. Word of mouth was key and Sherlock's little side venture was certainly growing. People were apparently perfectly willing to put up with the likes of Sherlock Holmes to achieve their goal.
Lestrade should've been fine with that. It wasn't his business. So why was he still thinking about it? He liked to think that nothing dangerous accompanied any of Sherlock's cases, but he also knew that Sherlock gravitated towards anything dark and intriguing. The man was reckless and cocky and Lestrade feared nothing good would come of it. Later that week, at his flat, he finally decided to bring it up.
"Sherlock, I hope you're not getting up to anything dangerous with your clients." Sherlock had his head in a case file and didn't even bother to indicate he'd heard the older man.
"Sherlock..."
The younger man sighed, slamming shut the file. "What I choose to do is my own business, Lestrade."
Lestrade stilled, as a defensive Sherlock was never a good sign of things to come. "It can be made my business, Sherlock. If you're getting into anything where the police should legally be involved then I really ought to know about it."
"Oh please. Spare me your false platitudes and stay out of my affairs. I don't tell you how to do your job," he spat.
"Actually, you do. Constantly. And don't get smart with me, Sherlock. I just don't want you doing anything stupid."
Sherlock stood to full height. "Well it's a good thing I'm not you then, is it?"
Lestrade was properly angry now. "You're one to talk about stupidity! At least I never resorted to sticking needles in my arm to fend off my demons!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his body going unnaturally still. Lestrade knew he'd gone to far. In fact he hated bringing up Sherlock's drug use against him, knowing it wasn't entirely fair. He knew he should apologize. This wasn't him talking, he just loathed how Sherlock got under his skin so.
"Demons, Inspector?" Sherlock said, low pitched and ice cold. A flicker of his brow. "Your own wife can't even stand to be with you for more than a month before moving onto the next great love of her life. The situation suits you just fine, of course, since divorces can get fairly pricey. This flat is in your name but you know the moment the divorce is finalized-and it will be- you'll have to sell and pay marital support as her job doesn't afford her the benefits you currently receive at your work. She'll keep returning to you if only for stability and financial gains and while she wanted children, you did not...or could not..." he trailed off with a knowing glint. "Don't talk to me of demons, Inspector. You might live in your own little perfect oblivious fantasy world at work, but don't forget who you are dealing with here and now." He now stood a foot from Lestrade, who could barely breathe from the cold cruelty dripping from Sherlock's mouth. His arm reached out, grabbing Sherlock by his shirt front. He pulled him closer, until they were sharing the same breath. Sherlock's lips were parted in surprise, his eyes stormy and calculating.
"You fucking prick," Lestrade hissed, voice low. "You dare come to my home and presume to know my life? You dare judge me? After everything-" he snarled- "everything I did for you? Tell me something, Sherlock. If you dropped dead tomorrow, would anyone weep for you? Would anyone care? Now get the fuck out of my house." He roughly pushed Sherlock away and stormed off towards his bedroom, slamming the door. He braced his back against the hard surface and tried to regulate his breathing. His head was pounding and his hands shook severely. After a moment he heard the tell-tale click of a door closing shut and he exhaled, sinking to the floor, cursing-not for the first time-the day he ever met Sherlock Holmes.
A week later and migraine at full force he was rummaging through tedious piles of paperwork at his desk when he got the call of double homicide. Sighing, he assembled his team and drove out to the location. As if by reflex he reached for his mobile to text Sherlock the info. Then he cursed himself halfway through the message, slamming shut his phone, earning him a strange look from Donovan.
Thinking Sherlock had some sixth sense he was almost waiting for him to materialize at some point during his time at the crime scene. It would be right up his alley. Two murders, no weapon, one partially cleaved off head. He'd have loved it. But Sherlock never showed up. Tense the whole evening, Lestrade didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He hadn't spoken to the younger man since the cringe worthy event at his flat a week prior.
Not a peep from Sherlock, not even via text. Guilt creeped up on Lestrade during random times of the day and night and he hated himself for giving in to it. He shouldn't feel guilt or remorse. Sherlock had it coming. He was practically baiting him and they both knew it. Still, the nagging little flicker of self-doubt rattled around in his mind, oozing down to his chest, settling there for a while before dissipating as it almost always did. And still no word from Sherlock.
He wasn't being childish he told himself. He didn't need to call Sherlock for every case he got. He was a detective for Christ's sake and could handle his own lot without constantly deferring to Sherlock's expertise. So his phone stayed shut and Sherlock stayed away. Of course after two weeks of radio silence, Lestrade's nerves started to fray. By that point though, pride kept him from checking up at Sherlock's flat, or sending a quick text. Or even getting a hold of Mycroft to see if he'd heard from his brother. Sherlock was a grown man and it wasn't Lestrade's responsibility to keep tabs on him. Still, every time his phone pinged his heart would stammer in his chest while he stared at the screen. It was never Sherlock.
Three weeks into the double homicide case-without a solid lead- he knew he could use Sherlock's help. With trepidation, he typed in his message.
Would like your input, if you have a minute.
He waited nervously for some reply. Any reply. He'd even take a 'fuck off' at this point. Instead he got a:
Twenty minutes. SH
Relief coursed through him like a cool stream on a hot day. He just about collapsed in his chair when he got a call of assault and attempted murder. Cursing, he grabbed his coat and texted Sherlock the new location to meet up.
When he got to the scene the victim was wrapped up in a blanket, sobbing into someone's arms. Donovan led the way, cutting through the crowd of medics and other officers. Before Lestrade could start asking questions he saw Sherlock step out of a cab. He hurried over to him instead, raising his collar against the evening chill. Sherlock was already walking in his direction and they met up halfway. Sherlock stood tall, his shoulders straight and back, chin conspicuously lifted slightly.
Lestrade sighed, not really in the mood for attitude. "Thanks for coming," he said gruffly and he was about to turn back towards the scene of the crime when he froze, mouth open. With a disbelieving glare, he whirled on Sherlock, grabbing him by the wrist.
Looking straight into his face he found his lip curling in disgust. Bloodshot eyes stared straight through him, pupils blown. Forehead gleaming with a dampness not normally found during the middle of winter. He held on tighter, a sardonic huff blowing past his lips.
"Unbelievable. Fucking unreal you are, Holmes. Marcus!" He yelled at the nearest copper he saw. Said officer hurried up to them, glancing between them quizzically.
"Put him under arrest."
Wide, scandalous eyes stared back at him.
"What the hell, Lestrade!" The Inspector clenched the wrist tighter, yanking him towards officer Marcus. "How dare you show your face here. Marcus. Search him and bag him. I think a night in lockup is precisely what Mr. Holmes needs." Officer Marcus grabbed Sherlock by the crook of his arm and procured his cuffs. Sherlock didn't put up a fight, just continued to glare at Lestrade's retreating figure.
Donovan was giving him a questioning look when he got back to the crime scene but he ignored her in favour of the terrified victim. He mostly had Sally communicating with the poor girl as he listlessly followed along. He nodded at the proper moments and eventually escaped halfway through the interview. He knew he could rely on Donovan so he went home. He needed to crash and just forget this night ever happened. He took a boiling shower, his muscles aching fiercely. Then he sank into his sofa, putting the telly to something mindless. He reached for his mobile, sending a text he really didn't want to.
Sure you've heard by now. Don't even think of yanking him out of there. One night won't kill him.
Less than thirty seconds later he got a response.
Indeed. Do give my brother my regards.
Lestrade shucked his phone away and tried to concentrate on what was on the telly and not on the betrayal he had glimpsed on Sherlock's face.
Come morning he was in a foul disposition, really not in the mood to deal with anything or anyone. He walked into the Met and didn't even bother to head to his office first, choosing instead to get the unpleasantries over with as soon as possible. Heading over to the holding cells, he approached one of the officers.
"How'd he do?" he asked with trepidation.
"Nothing on him. No marks either. Didn't say much. Don't think he slept at all neither." Lestrade nodded, feeling empty. "Open it."
The officer did as bade and Lestrade strolled in, arms crossed. Sherlock sat up on his cot, back against the concrete wall. One leg hung over the side while the other was propped up to his chest. He looked predictably bored, the gleam from his eyes faded. He looked odd without his big coat; smaller, more vulnerable. His head didn't move as Lestrade came in, but his eyes lazily flickered to Lestrade's.
"You are so unbelievably lucky there wasn't anything on you. Cause this time I doubt even your dear brother would want to have that dropped from your record." No response was forthcoming, as if he couldn't even be bothered to come up with one. Lestrade shook his head, dropping his arms.
"As much as I'd love to make it two nights, your stay I'm afraid is at an end. Go to the end of the hall to pick up your belongings. Though I'm sure you remember what to do since the last time you've been here," he finished, his tone too brittle to be mocking.
Sherlock's tongue flicked over his lower lip, almost contemplating a response. In the end, he settled for rising from his uncomfortable perch and following Lestrade out of the cell. Lestrade chatted with one of the officers while Sherlock gathered his things. He saw him don his coat, stuff his phone and wallet in his pockets, and after the smallest of pauses, he walked out of view. Lestrade didn't go after him.
A dark mood had settled inside of him, gnawing at him wherever he went. Work offered no reprieve and at home was worse because he just had more time to think. It was almost enough to start him smoking again and his self control was getting worse by the day. He hated feeling out of control and as much as he tried to restrain himself at work, people surely noticed. He could see the side glances, mostly from Donovan, as well as nervous babble floating randomly around the Met. Those close to him knew what had caused their Inspector to nearly have a nervous breakdown. But Lestrade just gave them the eye and everything quieted down.
No word from Sherlock since his stint in lockup nearly a fortnight later. He stopped by Bart's to have a look at a body and ran into Molly Hooper. They got to talking and Lestrade casually asked if Sherlock had been around.
"Not for a few days. Came here on Wednesday asking for spare eyeballs." She giggled and blushed. Lestrade smiled sympathetically. Poor girl was smitten and that was a train wreck waiting to happen. He thanked her and went on his way. He stepped out to the kerb and was about to hail a cab when he suddenly changed his mind.
He was two minutes from Sherlock's flat, and suddenly that seemed to be the best idea in the world. He walked down the road towards Montague Street. He stared up in foreboding at Sherlock's building, not knowing why he had come or what he would say. Still, this heavy feeling in his chest pressed him forward and then he was at Sherlock's door, knocking. The door clicked open with a cautious sound. Sherlock stood on the threshold, looking impeccable and properly surprised.
"Lestrade," he said with a befuddled quirk of his brow.
"Sherlock...yea, hi." He looked down, raking a hand through his hair. "Can I come in?" Quietly, Sherlock stepped aside, eyes on the older man. As soon as he was inside though he suddenly thought this was the worst mistake ever. He had no idea what he was even doing there and he didn't know what to say. Sherlock stood very straight, hands clasped behind his back. Clearly he was waiting for Lestrade to say something judging by his aloof composure. The Inspector took a step away from the younger man, feeling suddenly overwhelmed in his presence. He took a deep breath, finally able to look him in the eye.
Clearly no explanation or apology was forthcoming from Sherlock, and that didn't surprise him- Sherlock didn't do apologies. But guilt wracked Lestrade's brain and he could no longer keep silent, no matter how much Sherlock irritated or disappointed him.
"Look...now I'm not excusing anything you did. And you did some stupid things, Sherlock. I'm not gonna pretend I'm still not completely furious with you." Sherlock's expression didn't change, almost like he was waiting for the shoe to drop. Lestrade rolled his shoulders, looking down, before meeting Sherlock's eyes again. "But I still shouldn't have said what I said to you. Before. I didn't mean to imply-" he cut off, because it hurt to remember the heat of his words, said out of spite and anger, retribution for Sherlock's own barbs. And Lestrade had retaliated cruelly and unfairly, throwing Sherlock's past right in his face.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, his heart a tornado in his chest. Sherlock blinked, clearly not anticipating any of that. He momentarily looked away and Lestrade took it as his cue to leave. He was already at the door when Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Lestrade." The gravelly sound paired with the impossible blues of his eyes froze Lestrade where he stood, waiting for whatever he had to say. For Sherlock didn't waste words or participate in idle chatter. A slow blink, followed by a quirk of his lip, mirthless and dreary.
"You were right, of course. If I died, no one would miss me, and no one would care."
Lestrade's heart shuddered, pain blasting from the tips of his fingers to his very marrow. "Don't say that," he said hoarsely. "Don't you dare say that. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have dragged your ass to the hospital, or invited a practical stranger to stay with me for weeks," he said firmly.
"You're the only one," Sherlock said quietly, matter of fact.
Lestrade wanted to deny it, but deep down he knew it was probably true. Sherlock offended everyone he met and his brain couldn't come up with a single person-and he was including Mycroft in this query- that would do for Sherlock what he himself had done. He was both despondent and strangely touched. The look on Sherlock's face as he stared at Lestrade pretty much confirmed his previous statement.
"That may be, though God only knows why I bother." And that didn't come out quite right judging by Sherlock's sudden tensing.
"Jesus, I'm mucking this up. Look, what I'm saying is, I wanted to do all those things. It wasn't out of any obligation and it wasn't just so you could help me out with cases- don't you dare stand there and think it, Holmes, because I can practically hear you thinking it. You don't have to believe me, but I'm kinda standing out on a limb for you. I vouched for you and I will continue to do so. Don't make me a liar, Sherlock."
Sherlock stood silent and still, contemplating Lestrade's words. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, a nervous gesture Lestrade had come to recognize.
"Listen, I gotta get going. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were keeping out of trouble," he said with a half-hearted grin. Sherlock nodded with a tired air, and Lestrade turned away, heading for the stairs. He heard the slow click of the door closing behind him as he descended, cold air blasting him as he stepped outside. Before he even stepped onto the pavement, his phone pinged, a text waiting.
I too regret my previous choice of words. SH
Lestrade stared at the words on screen with a pained expression, his heart clenching. It was more than he ever expected and more than he'll probably ever get. And still so very unexpected. He didn't know what to do or how to respond. So he snapped his phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted an acknowledgement anyway.
tbc...