A/N: My views counter has been on zero for months, but I miss posting, and it doesn't matter if my words are lost to silence. When you listen hard enough in the early hours of the morning, the silence is full of wisdom and meaning. -csf
.
On DI Lestrade's behalf: 'Sherlock, you can't just take the deadly weapon from a crime scene, even if no one else recognised the catapult contraption behind the fake wood panelling in the library, you can't just take it.'
'I already handed the Yard their killer and enough evidence, and they wouldn't appreciate the craftsmanship of the lethal weapon, why can't I ever take something to study it? They'll get it back eventually!'
.
On Mycroft's behalf: 'Sherlock, you can't just mess with MI6's security cameras at the Commonwealth just to prove it can be done…'
'You can't prove it was me. I made sure of that.'
.
On John's own behalf: 'Sherlock, you can't— Oh, never mind. Enjoy yourself.'
'That's why you're my favourite, John.'
'Your favourite… what? Sherlock? Sherlock?'
.
Who was Sherlock's moral conscience before John Watson?
DI Lestrade tried to fill that role early on in Sherlock's journey towards the incredible hero and internet sleuth of today's scene. Lestrade expected Sherlock's good choices, and set up a reward system of new cases for the wild genius, recognising this as the only currency that could ensnare Sherlock's interest, the only thing that permeated through a tumultuously lost genial mind in disarray and bad habits breaking down his "transport". Order, logic, reason and gore were to be the only solid pillars left as Sherlock's physical world recovered from addiction, lack of focus and bad habits born out of a long-lasting rebellious phase, as Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft would term it. But for the kind interest of DI Lestrade, Sherlock's glorious mind would have followed the destruction path of his body. If it just so happened that Lestrade benefitted from their secret partnership (Sherlock solved the cases and Lestrade got the merit), this was but the initial instigator of what would become a true partnership, if at times tumultuous. Lestrade would long remain hovering as a father figure, and Sherlock would never quite outgrow the need to mess with the other man in an infantile challenge to his position of authority.
And this all started long, long ago. It was under the first fairy lights and Christmas jingles of the season that Sherlock spotted the murder-suicide pact disguised as a vendetta from a former lover, destined to link an innocent third party in a love triangle in a dark outcome. Sherlock was walking past gingerly from scoring illegal substances in the nearby alley from one of his suppliers, one of the few Mycroft hadn't tracked down yet and hadn't yet mysteriously suffered a couple of broken legs and residual panic of being near any members of the Holmes family, when the shiny blue lights of a police car parked by a crime scene tape actually slowed the genius down. Sherlock would never quite be able to explain to John what made him stop, ignoring the urging for chemical relief ransacking his too thin body with tremors and itches. But Sherlock stopped dead on his tracks in front of the scene of double death in the heart of London, where all others slowed and muttered, but kept going, much too acclimatised to the anonymous violence of a bigger metropolis.
Must have been only a couple of seconds, but DI Greg Lestrade noticed the shabby lanky young men with too much interest in the bloodied scene. As a seasoned officer, something kicked in, and honed his curiosity. Could his young bloke be family? Unlikely, he'd have less compunction to stare at the body bag being whisked out of the house. Involved in the apparent double murder? Lestrade thought it highly likely. But how? The man's poise didn't betray an ordinary junkie, much in the least the old book, leather bound, under his arm.
'You know, most junkies don't read poetry, mate.'
The young man didn't react much to the official showing up next to him, all of Sherlock's attention of the blood stains seeping through the body bag.
'And most detective inspectors have not been downgraded to constables remaining at the scene while the bodies are packed up for the mortuary.'
Greg was secretly impressed, much confused and a bit suspicious.
'How did you know…?'
'The forensics idiot right there, contaminating the scene as we speak, he didn't make a pass at the blonde with him only because he saw you coming. That says position of authority, and unlikely a lowly constable.'
'My constables aren't lowly.'
'I'm sure you tell them that too.'
'What is your interest in this place?'
This time the younger man deadpanned at the older man. Deep grey eyes scanned the scratchy stubble and the speckle of coffee on the inspector's collar.
'Oh, I saw some flashing lights and thought it was Christmas.'
The inspector didn't know what to say to that. No time. Sherlock would carry on, already turning away: 'Murder-suicide pact. Clear signs of carbon monoxide poisoning under the blunt force trauma. Those blood stains on the body bag? Too red, too vibrant, clear sign of the ploy to numb the wife's pain before the husband killer her and then himself. I suspect a brain tumour, going by the method and the compassion, I would need more than a shape in a body bag to figure that one out, DI Lestrade.'
'Wait! How do you know my name? Have I seen you before?'
Sherlock would toss him his wallet back. 'No, you haven't, but figuring your name out was child's play. I feel safer in the mean streets of London already.'
'Wait, what is your name?'
'Telling would be too easy', the young man would vanish around a corner quickly. Mystery solved, mind quieted, only one thing could give him the peace he needed right now, and it was in his pocket, burning bright in his mind, the full centre of his needs.
'Wait!'
Damn it.
'Or what? You'll arrest me? For what?'
'I can detain you for 24 hours before I press charges.'
'Try, I'll be out in less than one hour. Either my brother's solicitors come in and have your fired, or I just escape on my own.'
The inspector huffed behind the stubborn young man walking away.
'If you're so sure I can't touch you, why are you running away from me?'
'I'm not your man, inspector.'
'I know that.'
'Leave me be.'
'So you can shoot up and die in some back alley?'
Sherlock turns, viciously glaring at the older man. Lestrade sees uncontained pain and vulnerability behind the façade.
'Why would you care?'
'I don't know,' Greg chooses to answer honestly. 'But if you ask me, I think it's a waste. You have a gift. And likely a penchant for death and gore that would turn others' stomachs. I'm intrigued by both.'
'Having a ball, are we?'
'I could use the help of someone like you, mate.'
'I'm not your mate.'
'I think you could be. I could give you access to cases, and you could give me your insight.'
'What is in it for me to keep your career afloat, inspector?'
Greg almost smiles, it's a temptation to smile, but too risky. The young man is hooked, his body's tremors have even lessened significantly.
'I don't know. You find out. If this is your sort of thing, you find me. You know my name and you're quite capable of making an educated guess as where to find me.'
Sherlock's eyes lost their spark at that. Immediately Greg Lestrade knew he had made a mistake. Pride. The young man would not come to him for help, not even with the reward he craved waved at him.
'Enjoy your day, inspector. I know I will,' he blatantly patted the pocket with the illegal substances, and walked on away.
Lestrade had half a mind to get Sherlock arrested, but he had a crime scene to guard like a ruddy constable and that he did in the end. After he took a sneak peek inside the body bag to ascertain the carbon monoxide euthanasia theory.
Ever since that first crime scene, where Greg saw something in Sherlock Holmes that both frightened and elated him, in the intensity with which Sherlock's wild temper had zoned in on even while in physical withdrawal, so much so that his mind healed and his mental cogs feel into place and worked flawlessly, like a musical prodigy composing great silent symphonies, as if simple child's play, he knew Sherlock was one of a kind. Definitely a weird one, for sure, but a talent going to waste.
'The wife did it, Lestrade. The ingenious way in which she did it is the only aspect that made this case in any way bearable. It's so… basic.'
'Basic? It's a locked room murder!'
'It's barely two out of ten, Lestrade, you only have to look, really look. Did you even notice the air conditioning machine's engine on reverse?'
'Wait, what? Blooming heck…'
And there it was, the first spark of public school, rich pretty boy arrogance. Probably a trace from his past, before the life on some dingy street corner or abandoned flat squatting. Lestrade didn't quite mind, as he also saw the young man standing straighter, the matted hair as wild as ever under the acidic light of the streetlamp. Lestrade handed him his own coffee thermos and greasy joint sandwich and the younger man took them distractedly, muttering between bites: 'The wife did it, not the babysitter. She was not the toddler's real mother, by the way. Easy to spot by the uninherited zygomatic arch protuberance.'
'You know a lot about medicine.'
He shrugged. 'I picked my own subjects at Uni.'
'So you have an education. Why the streets?'
'You're barking up the wrong tree, inspector. I'm not a lost case.' Handing the coffee thermos and sandwich back, both half-consumed (a victory in Greg's mind), Sherlock turned to leave.
'No, you're not. You came to find me. That means you want my help.'
Sherlock turned with a snarl. 'Unlikely, inspector. Maybe I want to help an inspector who clearly displeased his superiors to the point that he is now doing a lowly constable job around my turf. Maybe I'm investigating you.'
Damn it, that hurt with the sting a slapped truth always carries. Lestrade had, indeed, recently incurred on the wrath of his superiors, for missing a key piece of evidence in a public profile case, that investigative journalists found first.
'Go right ahead, mate, you'll find that I am boring.'
The younger man frowned. Maybe he disagreed.
'I could do with a hot shower. I have someone to visit for Christmas. Can I use your place?'
Lestrade hesitated only a moment, then remembered that the wife had just left him and taken the big TV and anything worth stealing anyway, and fished his flat key off his pocket.
'You better not trash my place.'
'I'll leave the key under the mat. The name is Sherlock, by the way.'
'Unusual name.'
'No need to tell me your address, I've figured it out by your habits, the mud on your shoes and the sedimentary life you lead. I'm sorry about the partner leaving you.'
'How – how do you know that?'
'Oh please, if there was a wife, you wouldn't just hand me the keys to both your flat without telling her, at least.'
'Oh, I guess.'
And grabbing Lestrade's sandwich again, Sherlock further added: 'That case on the news, from the river front, I think I know who did it, but I need to talk to an eyewitness before I tell you.'
'There were no eyewitnesses, Sherlock.'
'It's good that you remember my name, bad that you think there are no witnesses because you did not see the invisible people in the street. They are always present and they see everything.'
'If you're not eating my sandwich, give it back.'
'I need it as currency for my eyewitness, Lestrade. You should know by now, I don't eat on a case, it slows me down.'
'Eat that one, I can get you another sandwich.'
'See you later, Lestrade.'
'Take anything you need from my fridge too, you're far too skinny to survive this winter, mate.'
Lestrade swears he heard a chuckle as Sherlock Holmes walked off with his flat keys. Inevitably he wondered if he had bumped his head somehow and started to make awful decisions. Maybe it was during the tussle with his now ex-wife-to-be.
As a seasoned inspector and a good man, Greg Lestrade saw the pure light that was Sherlock Holmes in his element, the shining ball of potential energy – and entropy – wrapped inside a difficult, almost unpalatable exterior. And he had decided to trust this troubled young genius.
But it wouldn't be an easy smooth partnership, as John would later come to find out from both of them. The rebellious genius would only work on cases that he found compelling enough to interest him, ignoring that Manchester triple homicide that Lestrade needed to solve to be re-promoted to DI. He wasn't coming round in January like he did in December, and Greg could never ask him for help when he needed his debt paid back the most.
The flat key was never put under the front door mat; in fact, the mat went missing. Lestrade kept using his spare key, and never got round to changing his front door lock. Sherlock had vanished from the London scene, and no one seemed to have seen him for a long time, as if he had vanished overnight.
Then suddenly he returned, to find Lestrade reinstated as DI, milling about a crime scene tape, coordinating the team on the ground.
He looked a wreck. Although his clothes were clean, new and expensive, he was high as a weather balloon. So high that the constable at the scene was clearly pondering arresting Sherlock, despite Greg's discreet "stand down" gestures.
'Sherlock? What happened to you?'
'I escaped captivity from my kidnapper's evil claws!' the young man would declare between giggles. 'His mighty evilness is out there looking for me. He wants to make me go back. I will not go back. I'm not. Not going back. Except he's got my violin hostage. So I might have to go back to get it.'
Lestrade had a split-second decision to make. He used his heart's advice, finding it filled with compassion for the young man. He signalled for another to take his place, and guided Sherlock to his patrol car.
Only when he saw the younger man blanche did he realise his mistake.
'Are you kidnapping me too?'
'Mate, you're wasted. I don't know where you've been the last few weeks, but I highly doubt you have been kidnapped by a violin holding villain.'
'Near enough,' insisting, standing up straighter.
Lestrade opened the car's front door and invited the younger man to have a seat. Sherlock reluctantly did.
'I'm not buying it, mate, the kidnap story.'
'Long shotgun from the third-floor window across the street, Lestrade. The victim had hired private security, but they didn't need a bodyguard, they needed a metal detector on the front building's main door.'
'Heck, that makes sense and you only just got here, but why are you telling me this now, Sherlock?'
'So you will listen to me. Know that I still have a brain. It's just a bit… clouded at the moment.'
'What did you take, Sherlock?'
'Nothing. Only a bit of everything.'
'Jeez, I need to get you to A&E.'
Again, Sherlock looks panicky. 'I don't want to go back to rehab.'
Ah. Clearly someone else, likely a family member, still cares about Sherlock.
'It would do you good, mate.'
'It's a prison. There's nothing to stimulate my brain. The drugs, they can dull the noise. Too much noise when there is nothing going on. My brain rots.'
Dark curls shook as he looked about halfway into a panic attack already.
'Right, Sherlock, I need you to take a deep breath, you're getting yourself too worked up.'
'You're going to turn me in, aren't you?'
Something in the childish tone of the question reverberates a vulnerable string in the sir separating them. Lestrade finds himself saying: 'No, I don't think I am. But I need you to get cleaned up again. Then, every time you need it, I will find you a case. Get that brain of yours working in the right direction.'
Sherlock blinks and lets his head sag back against the back seat of the patrol car. His eyelids drop slowly. Lestrade goes to find a blanket to cover him.
It could never be as easy as to feed Sherlock Holmes the weirdest cases to keep his dangerous and self-destructive streak at bay. The rebellious genius would frequently relapse and forget to tell Lestrade the solution to the cases he had already worked. 'I solved it, Lestrade, was that not what you wanted of me? Must I tell you everything I know? Is this the Spanish Inquisition?'
Why the inspector stuck to his share of the deal when Sherlock would go astray was possibly because of the world of good that Sherlock's deductions were doing for Lestrade's career. Still a wild card, Lestrade felt compelled to help Sherlock rebuild himself and when he heard that Sherlock was looking for a flatmate for a ridiculously expensive flat in Central London, he even put a few names forward of wise young Yard officers, only to have each of those suggestions ridiculed.
It would be an unassuming short, stocky army doctor who would show up suddenly in Sherlock's life and change it entirely.
Greg Lestrade never resented it, to his credit. Where Lestrade had fought so hard for Sherlock's respect, John Watson had commanded it naturally. Simple, homely, tea making John was somehow Sherlock's new companion and obsession, and the two fit like puzzle pieces. So when John asked him about Sherlock, reminding him that Greg knew Sherlock the longest and therefore would know him better, Lestrade just admitted "I have known him for four years, and, no, I don't know him better than you do." Because Greg exposed layers in Sherlock, but John was the one who saw right through them. John was the one who never lost faith in Sherlock's greatness through that first year, whereas Lestrade had lost faith often before.
And when John invites Lestrade to the first Christmas get together at 221B Baker Street, it is almost like an anniversary in Sherlock and Greg's friendship. It is Lestrade who usually flicks on the fairy lights on the mantle every year after that, noticing how John always complains they are malfunctioning before he arrives. It's as if the genius does something to them to give Lestrade that role.
'You need those lights on, mate.'
'Oh, must I?' the detective drawls, apparently disinterested.
And Greg does that himself once more.
'There. Isn't that better?'
'Hmm.' And then he snaps to John: 'Just drop it, John.'
John always seems to have this uncanny ability to read Sherlock, and he smirking affectionately.
Greg smiles at those two, and if his smile looks fatherly, none of them seems to oppose.
.
