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holmestice2011-06-04 01:38 pm
holmesticemods) wrote in holmestice2011-06-04 01:38 pm
Fic for Jain: I fall through the cracks until you catch me (2/2)
Part 1
Two
Greg's transition to the murder squad and his rather swift elevation to Detective Inspector was surprising to nobody except possibly Greg himself.
Greg found that he actually enjoyed the problem-solving aspects of murder investigation, if he could look past the more gut wrenching parts: the victims' families; the pain, the sorrow, the confusion, the hatred that the victims left in their wakes.
That, and the press conferences. Greg dreaded those most of all. He was perfectly comfortable pretending to be somebody he wasn't – a drugs runner, an enforcer, even a worried father—but actually sitting down in front of the press and talking about the case in terms designed specifically not to upset the British Public, giving as few details as possible and then fielding questions that he knew he couldn't and shouldn't answer, terrified him.
But it wasn't until a woman was found dead in the Temple Tube Station, her fingers and two of her toes arranged around her in the fashion of the face of a clock, that things got really interesting.
Or nightmarish, depending on how you looked at it.
"But is it safe to travel by the Underground?" A woman asked.
"Well, as long as you keep your hands inside the carriage," Greg snapped.
Beside him, Donovan put her forehead in her hands.
"That is…" God, Greg hated this.
Things were definitely taking a turn for the worse when Greg's mobile buzzed. So did all of the other mobile phones in the room.
Greg looked at his and read one word.
Wrong.
Donovan came to the party first.
"If you've all got texts," she called out. "Just ignore them."
Greg lifted his head.
"Next question?" he asked.
"What do you see as the possible motive for this heinous act?"
Oh, Christ.
"Well, at this point in time we are examining all angles and it would appear that this is obviously an act of somebody who is familiar with the victim… that…"
The mobiles chimed again:
Try a cult.
There was a stirring throughout the room. Greg stared. How did the mysterious texter with the blocked number know about Sandra Brownwell's involvement in the Cult of the Red Sun?
"Please, just ignore your texts," Greg said, his stomach rolling.
"It says, 'Try a cult'," chimed one of the reporters, a ridiculously perky woman – Greg thought she looked like Rita Skeeter from the Harry Potter movie.
"Yes, I know." Greg clung to what was left of his patience.
"Are you saying that this woman, Sandra Brownwell was involved in a cult?" asked the reporter.
"We’re not saying anything," Greg snapped, "at this time, regarding Miss Brownwell's activities."
"But is there a cult?" persisted the reporter.
"Look," Greg said, but his mobile buzzed again:
You need me. I'll meet you outside. SH
Greg bit his lip. SH? Who was SH?
His mobile buzzed.
Sherlock Holmes. DI Gregson's warned you about me.
Greg's heart sank. And then rose. A snippet of conversation floated through his mind. A half remembered murmur from a lanky boy, snagging cigarettes in his bed and pressing his body against him.
Of course. I could solve every one of your silly little problems in my sleep.
"This press conference is over," he said, rising abruptly and leaving the room, Donovan hot on his heels, and the press corps chattering behind him in disbelief.
"Sir, with all due respect, what the hell…"
"Not now, Donovan."
Outside New Scotland Yard, it was pissing down rain, and leaning up against the building beneath the overhang, smoking a cigarette directly underneath a "No Smoking on Premises" sign, was Sherlock Holmes. Greg stared at him. In place of the unearthly junkie who had vomited all over his bathroom a year ago was a handsome, well-dressed young man. Greg swallowed.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume?" Sherlock asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
****
He recognized me. He remembers. Try to save me now? No, don’t need saving. Perfectly functional. Normal. Boring. Nothing to be ashamed of, right? Shameshameshame, not a junkie. Don't remember, don't think. Focus, FOCUS. He's looking better. For being on the Murder Squad. DS is a hostile thing, not surprising. Boyfriend's cheating on her. Look at the tension, the way she examines me. Examines all of me. Doesn't trust us. Small wonder. Gregson told me, too. Nosy parker, he is. Wonder how that could be useful. Sex. So messy. Wantitneeditstopstop. Focus.
****
"What the hell are you playing at?" Greg demanded.
"Merely trying to get your attention. It was suggested to me that you might be in need of assistance."
"Yeah, you want to help me." Greg said.
"Naturally. I was given your business card, and it seems that you are, as is usual with the police, completely out of your depth. Now, shall we take a look at the body?"
Greg started.
"You're not serious."
"Oh, I think you'll find, Lestrade, that I am quite serious."
Bits of conversation from that evening filtered back into Greg's consciousness.
"Fine," he conceded. "But you follow my rules and you keep your mouth shut."
"Naturally. It will be a pleasure to work with you. D.I. Gregson had so little imagination. But you, on the other hand… I foresee a brilliant future for you and your Detective Sergeant.
"Perhaps, though, your Detective Sergeant, Donovan? I believe? Should consider finding a different boyfriend. It's such a pity that he's sleeping with your sister."
"How did you… you little freak!" Donovan exclaimed. She reached back to the back of her belt, her usual hiding place for her cuffs, only to find they were missing.
"Oi, Peterson!" she called to a uniformed officer. "Arrest him!"
Sherlock tossed away the cigarette and held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.
****
Caught you.
****
"All right, that's enough." Greg stepped between his furious D.S. and Sherlock.
"So, you are Gregory Lestrade, then," Sherlock said.
"Of course I am." Greg turned. "You knew that," he said, surprised.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and studied him for a long second. Greg's gaze flicked down to Sherlock's exposed neck and noticed there was no chain around it. He suddenly felt very cold.
"Did I? Only by reputation I'm afraid." Sherlock seemed to intercept the look. "Oh, that's very interesting," he said with a half-smile. "Very interesting indeed."
"What?" Greg blinked. What the hell…
Sherlock looked him up and down and then moved away, spun out of Donovan's reach and set off down the pavement.
"The mortuary first, I believe," he tossed over his shoulder at Donovan and Greg.
What the hell was going on?
It wasn't until Sherlock was poking at the fingers of the victim, examining and exclaiming over just how they had been taken from her – ripped off, apparently; Donovan looked sick – that it hit Greg.
Sherlock didn't remember him.
How the fuck had that happened?
Sherlock was flying about the mortuary, exclaiming and talking wildly at the tech, a mousy woman who looked as if she wished the floor would swallow her, paying no heed whatsoever to the shocked Greg.
When he finished, he strode up to Greg and said,
"I'm surprised you didn't see it. She obviously was taking an MAOI. Someone poisoned her. Her medical history indicates depression and anxiety – the killer, her cousin, Greene, was it? Yes, Greene ground up the extra tablets and put them into her drink. Probably gave her wine without her knowing it. She was obviously so distraught over her family's disowning of her, she was ready to leave the cult. Greene didn't want her to – better a make a clean break, or she'd tell them about what he knew, and what the Red Sun cult was about to do. So he arranged for her overdose, and then when she became overcome by the combination of the drug and the wine, he drowned her in her bath. And there you have it. Make your arrest." Sherlock looked around as if expecting applause. When none was forthcoming, he gathered his ridiculous greatcoat around him, winked at the mortuary tech and flounced out, the door slamming behind him.
****
Easy. Simple. Even interesting. Donovan hates me. Good. Maybe he'll start looking to me now. Paying attention
****
"What the…?" Donovan exclaimed, but before she could ask the obvious question, Greg interrupted her.
"Well, at least we can bring Greene in for questioning. He may not have been the last person to see her alive, but… it's something." He shrugged and scrubbed his hand through his hair.
"Sir, with all due respect, you're taking the word of that… freak?" Donovan demanded.
Greg sighed. "Yeah. I am."
"Any particular reason, sir?" Donovan asked
"Because he's right, Donovan, okay? You know he's right, I know he's right, and…"
"But sir, there's not a bit of evidence…"
"I know, but what else am I supposed to do? If we bring Greene in, we can question him and maybe… maybe he'll be the one we want."
Donovan looked at him like he had lost his tiny little mind. Perhaps he had. There was a long silence.
"Just bring him in, Sergeant," Greg said finally with a sigh.
Donovan shrugged.
"Yes, sir," she said, packing a world of passive-aggressive venom into the "sir."
Greg patted his pockets, looking for the crumpled packet of cigarettes he had shoved in there that morning, telling himself it would be the last morning he did so.
It turned out that Sherlock had been right. Right about everything. Greene had been the murderer, and he was trying to keep Sandra from revealing the sheer amount of money that the cult had stolen. Greg couldn't resist the surge of pride he felt as Greene was led away in handcuffs.
Sherlock had been perfect. Greg grinned to himself. Sherlock was a great man.
It turned into a pattern.
Sherlock, clean and sober, and apparently completely unaware of his previous history with Greg, would waltz into the Yard with unsolicited help on whatever case they were working on that Sherlock deemed interesting. He would be unfailingly rude to Donovan, Anderson, and everybody else, including Greg, and also be unfailingly right about everything. Then he'd solve the case, sometimes chasing down the perpetrator himself, and disappear, leaving Greg to clean up.
Occasionally the brother appeared, made a few threats, offered Greg a bribe to keep Sherlock at arm's length, and, when Greg refused, disappeared just as quickly as Sherlock had.
And then one day, of course, it all went pear-shaped.
They were at St Bart's, arguing. Sherlock had made the mortuary technician cry, and Greg… Greg was having a very, very bad day. He had agreed with the technician that the victim, a fourteen-year-old girl who'd died from a fall from the roof of her school, should be released back to her parents. Sherlock disagreed.
"No," he said to Sherlock's demand to conduct a second autopsy himself. "I'm not letting you do that. Dr Smith has released the victim's body to the family, and you're not getting it back to play your little games."
****
Idiot, doesn't he see? Why doesn't he see? It's the father, it's always the father, there's always something and in this case it's the father. Abusive. Drugs, maybe? No, not drugs. Those came from her friends. Trying to fit in. Can tell by the clothes she wore, the makeup. The music. The drugs, it circles back. Wanted to blend in. Curious impulse of the teenager. Why doesn't he believe me? What point is there to arguing with me? I'm right. Always right. Greg, listen. No, not Greg. Lestrade. Pay ATTENTION to me.
****
"They're not 'little games,' Lestrade," Sherlock sneered. "Even in your own limited way, you must be able to see that Dr Smith made a complete mess. Of course, the daughter was a drug user, but her parents were too blind to see. Probably because the father's been abusing her since she was seven. He's a user too, and if you can't see that, you were a worse member of the drugs squad than I thought."
Which was the point at which the door to the waiting room opened and the victim's parents walked in.
The mother, never far from tears every time Greg had spoken to her, burst into hysterical sobs as the father took three steps forward and punched Greg in the jaw. He staggered into Sherlock and slipped down to the floor. The father then turned to Sherlock, but before he could strike, Sherlock had launched himself at him and tackled him to the floor.
There he sat upon him and tore back the man's shirtsleeve.
"You see?" he'd crowed to Greg. "Track marks. I was right. And I'm right about the abuse, too. Aren't I, Mr Hunt?"
****
Pay attention, Greg. See it. See me. Memememe. Stop. Stop it. No, need a hit. No. You're WRONG.
****
It took Donovan and two uniformed officers to untangle the mess that erupted. Greg sustained, in addition to the blow to the jaw, several bruised ribs. Sherlock emerged with barely a scratch on him, but Mr Hunt had a broken wrist (thanks to Sherlock). It also transpired that Mr Hunt had not been abusing his daughter, and that what Sherlock had taken for track marks was, in fact scarring from an IV injection site when Mr Hunt had been undergoing cancer treatment the year before.
Greg's supervisor was, understandably, very angry, and the twenty minutes Greg spent in her office were some of the most uncomfortable in his life. He escaped with a strong warning and a note in his file and instructions to keep his "freelance cowboys" away from this work. It was a bloody miracle he hadn't lost his job.
The worst, though, was yet to come, as Greg ran into Sherlock, smoking (as usual) beneath the "No Smoking" sign at the entrance to the Yard.
"You're done," Greg said. "Finished."
"Oh, please, Lestrade," Sherlock scoffed. "You need me."
"Not at the price of my job, I don't. Go away, Sherlock. Go on, get stuffed. I'm done with you, and I'm done with your methods. You failed, Sherlock. Utterly failed, and we are finished."
Without another word, Greg turned up his collar and walked into the drizzle to the bus stand, leaving Sherlock staring after him.
****
Freak. You were wrong. I was right. No. Wrong. You lost, freak. He'll never look at you again. Freak. Loser. Idiot. Stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid. Need a hit. Clean now. Don't need the drugs. He's walking away. He's not looking at me. Why's he angry? I was right. Wrong. He doesn't care about me. He cares about Isaac. I'm not Isaac. If I were Isaac, he'd be here. He'd forgive me. I'm sorry I'm so stupid. Stupidsorrystupidstupidsorrysorrystupidsorry. Hit hit me hit me make me bleed, need a hit hit hit.
****
Furious with himself and bitterly disappointed, Greg smoked two packets of cigarettes that night and broke at least one set of crockery before he sank to the sofa in his sitting room to contemplate Sherlock's and his failure.
How the fuck had he been so blind? How had he allowed Sherlock so much access? He was an amateur – the police don't consult amateurs. He was reckless, dangerous, and … it hit Greg so hard it stole his breath.
Sherlock had been high the whole time.
Fuck. Was it not enough that he could get his kicks trailing Greg, showing off to the rest of the Force, insulting Donovan and himself? No, he had to fucking do it when he was fucking high.
Greg groaned and let his head sag back against the sofa.
How could Sherlock do that?
How?
It was very late when Greg managed to get home, a week later. The Hunt case was moving along, he was almost done with the issues surrounding the pending lawsuit that they were filing (thanks to the Yard's very competent lawyers), but still, it had been a long, long day – complete with him getting caught in the middle of the Donovan, Desiree, Martin fight and another reprimand from his supervisor.
His head hurt. He had smoked too many cigarettes in the alley behind the Yard (and been caught by said Supervisor). And now he desperately wanted a drink.
But the worst of it, the part that nearly destroyed him, was that today was Isaac's birthday. Funny how his birthday was what always hit Greg the hardest. Not the anniversary of the day he died. Or the anniversary of the day that Greg had gone to see him, after he'd been buried, but his birthday.
Wounds imperfectly healed tended to fester. Wounds healed imperfectly tended to leave scars. Wounds healed imperfectly tended to cause pain again.
It had become a bit of a ritual, actually – make sure he wasn't on rota the next morning, get drunk on Isaac's birthday, smoke too many cigarettes, stare at the wall, cry.
Which was why, three drinks in, when his mobile buzzed on the kitchen table, he almost didn't answer it.
But answer it he did.
"Greg?" The voice was tiny, soft. Greg might not have even recognized it if it hadn't been punctuated by a loud sniffle.
"Sherlock?" he asked.
"Yeah. Greg… I need you. Please."
"What? Where are you?"
A sniffle.
"I don't know… I took something and I don't…" There was a shuffling. "I'm in an alley. I'm in… I don't… I saw a sign, Opal Court."
If Greg was smart, he thought, he'd hang up now and let the little shit stew. Let him get mauled by gang members, or his ex-dealer, or an evil nana coming home from her bingo night.
"Greg… I'm sorry. Please."
"Okay, what happened?"
"I don't know… You didn't call… I… there was a man… oh, God…" The sniffle again. "Greg, just come. Please."
"Okay, Opal Court, Opal Court where?"
"South… Brixton, Lambeth…"
"Okay, hang on…" Greg grabbed for his A to Zed and started flipping through the pages. Opal Court was a little hole in the wall near the Crystal Palace tube. Greg looked at the time. Ten-thirty.
"Greg…"
"Hang on, Sunshine," Greg said. "I'm coming."
"Okay. Hurry."
Greg threw his mac on against the drizzling February rain and ran out and down the block to his car. Even with his blue police light on the dash, it took him over an hour to navigate his way down from Finsbury Park south to the river and then in the warren of streets in Lambeth and Brixton.
He missed Opal Court twice. On the third time around the corner, he saw a thin figure hunched against a low brick wall. Sherlock.
"Sherlock!" Greg braked hard in front of him and Sherlock raised his head. He was bleeding again, this time from the nose, the expensive shirt Greg had seen the week before filthy, and in the light of the streetlamp, he could see the blood and the snot running down Sherlock's nose and chin, dripping onto his shirt. "Oh, shit, shit, shit…" Greg started to curse and threw the car into park, catapulting himself out of it.
Sherlock tried to stand, but his legs buckled as Greg reached him, catching him before he hit the pavement again.
"Greg," Sherlock whispered. "You came."
****
You came for me. You remembered. You heard me. You're not angry. You said no. You meant no. But you came. Love you. Need you. Why do you think you don't need me? Isaac, isn't it? I'm wearing his chain. Do you remember? You let me keep it? No, I stole it. Thief, liar. Need it, need you. Why don't you need me? Why are you here? Do you care? Do you remember? Please, Greg. Remember me. Help me. Tell me.
****
Even in the dim light, Greg could see Sherlock was coming down from whatever high he'd been on. His hands were shaking, his body tensing and relaxing, his head lolling back, rolling on those thin shoulders as if his neck would snap.
Greg moved his hand to cradle Sherlock's neck and felt something metallic at the back of his head.
Isaac's necklace caught on his fingers. Greg caught his breath. How long had it been since that morning when Sherlock had lifted it from him? He should let the little fucker rot.
"Greg… Greg please… Take me home," Sherlock begged.
****
Take me to your home. Your bed. Make it be our bed. Need you you you you you you
****
He couldn't. Not only because Mycroft would be on him, but also… well, Greg shut down that line of thought. Better not examine too closely why against all reason and logic, he was out in Brixton in the middle of the fucking night, cuddling Sherlock Holmes.
"Okay… it's okay, Sunshine," Greg murmured. "I'm here."
Even at this hour, passers-by were beginning to gather.
"Take me home," Sherlock begged again.
"Yeah, okay, where's home?"
"No… not… roommate, party… your home."
"Oh, no," Greg started to say.
"Please."
"A&E is the place for you."
"Greg… can't… won't… call Mycroft… please."
Beneath the streetlamp, Sherlock began to go limp, his curiously light eyes going blank.
"Fuck. Sherlock, no, hang on…"
Greg heaved them both to their feet and managed to sling him towards his idling car and into it.
"Come on, Sherlock." Greg chivvied him into his seatbelt and an old blanket in the back. "Let's go home." He grabbed a handful of tissues. "Hold that to your nose," he instructed. "Tilt your head back."
"Knew you'd come," Sherlock said a loud sniffle, partially muffled by the wad of tissues.
"Yeah, you know… regular Good Samaritan, me," Greg muttered.
"No, I knew. Knew you can't stay away from me."
"Shut up," Greg growled, looking over at the blanket-wrapped Sherlock. "Or I will throw you out of this car."
Thankfully, Sherlock subsided after that, until they reached Greg's flat.
"Soup again?" Sherlock asked after Greg had cleaned him up.
"Don't have time to shop, do I? And suppose you explain to me just how you seem to remember every detail of that night now, but not when we're out in front of New Scotland Yard?"
Sherlock shrugged and spooned some of the creamy tomato soup into his mouth.
"What's that mean?" Greg demanded.
"It means…" Sherlock shrugged again. "I need a shower," he said, lurching from his chair. "Care to join me?"
****
He wants me. He still does. I want him. Thank him. Pay him back. Hate tomato soup. Hate myself. Need him. Want him. Need him to tell me. Tell me he loves me. Doesn't he care? He does care. He'd not be here. Why is he staring at me? What did I say?
****
Greg stared at him.
"No," he finally said. "I would not."
Sherlock fixed him with a steady look.
****
He does want me. He's lying
****
"You're lying," he said.
"No, as a matter of fact, I'm not. I'm not in the habit of sleeping with junkies, I'll have you know."
Sherlock sniffed.
"Feeble," he replied. "You've been half hard ever since you sponged off my face in the bathroom. You're imagining what it would be like to suck my cock. You're thinking about fucking me right now, as a matter of fact."
"Sherlock…" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation and anger welling up inside of him. "It's late. I'm tired. I'm letting you stay here as a favor. Don't push your luck."
Sherlock sniffed.
"You keep telling yourself that," he said to Greg and winked at him.
Greg flopped into a kitchen chair and grabbed for the half-empty whisky bottle and his cigarettes. Listening to the shower, in truth a bit more than half-hard, he sat at his kitchen table, feeding himself whisky with one hand and nicotine with the other until he heard the water shut off and Sherlock's steps.
He tensed, waiting for Sherlock to pass by the kitchen on the way to the sitting room sofa, where he'd laid out a pillow and the old Aston Villa blanket. Nothing.
Greg stubbed out his last cigarette and shuffled to his bedroom.
There, in the same pyjama bottoms he'd appropriated the last time, lay Sherlock across his bed, fast asleep.
Greg sighed and began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled off his shoes and socks and trousers and stumbled toward the shower.
Five minutes later, before he fell asleep under the spray, he turned off the water and used the still-damp towel Sherlock had draped over the sink. It smelled of him.
Fuck.
Greg yanked on a pair of shorts and returned to the bedroom and yanked the duvet out from under Sherlock.
Sherlock rolled over. In the half-light, Greg could see his smirk.
"It's cold in here," Greg muttered. "And don't you have somewhere else to sleep?"
"Why? When I can sleep right here?" Sherlock asked. "It's what you want, anyway."
"Stop talking about what you think I want," Greg snapped, sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring at him.
"I know what you want."
"Fuck you do."
"Of course I do." Sherlock stretched forward and Greg pretended he wasn't staring at his lean body, the muscles under the shoulders rippling as he crawled toward him. "I know exactly what you want. And you want me."
His hand was on Greg's cock.
Greg shoved it away.
"You're lying, Greg, you do want me."
"No. I … Okay, look, stop. This isn't…" Sherlock's lips were on his mouth, his tongue teasing him.
Fuck. When was the last time he'd… Isaac. With Isaac.
He would not give in to this.
The kid needed him. Needed him to say no. To set the limits. To set limits on the impossible wraith of a man who was winding himself around him.
Christ, Sherlock was practically radiating need.
Greg wasn't going to take advantage of this. He couldn't. He was a good man. A man who didn't take advantage of…
Sherlock’s hand was on Greg's cock.
Greg caught his breath as the light in the room seemed to grow dim.
"Please," murmured Sherlock. "Please."
There was a moment of stillness and then…
He shouldn’t do this. He was a good man. A good man.
A good man whose cock was suddenly enveloped by a warm, wet mouth.
Fuck, it had been ages.
And hadn't he suffered enough at the hands of this ethereal, beautiful, frustrating, maddening, sexy, gorgeous, fucked-up man?
Didn't he deserve …
And he might be high, but Sherlock could do amazing things when he was high.
And it wasn't as if Greg was a fucking saint.
Oh, that was good. A fucking saint.
He wasn't even Catholic.
Greg's hand was in his hair, pulling him up. Lips, tongue and teeth collided as he attacked Sherlock's mouth.
****
Why not? You want me. I know you do. Want me. Take me. Make me.
Please, make me make me. Kiss me. Kiss you. Lips. Thighs, stomach. Push pull away. No. Yes. Shorts. Down. Pull, pull, no. Yes. Yesyesyesyes.
Cock. Beautiful. Thick. Want it. In my hand, in my mouth, in my arse.
Cock, skin, heat. YES. Was right. Of course I'm right. I'm always right.
Tastes good. Spit. Smell. Scent. Hair. Scrotum. Thigh. Tongue. Hand. Smell. Taste. He tastes good. Sogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogood.
Hands in my hair, pull, tug, you want this. You want to fuck me. You don't care if I get off.
Pull me, push you. Hair, skin, legs, mouth, tongue, taste of whisky, cigarettes.
God, so goodgoodgoodgoodgoodgood. Right, right, right. Truth. Knew him. Knew him. Want him.
Mouth, cock… fuck… please fuck me fuck me fuck me.
Fingers. Lube. Condoms? Condoms, of course, careful. Can't be too careful, don't know where I've been.
Why isn't he saying no? Stop me. Stop him. I need him to, fuck, yes.
Burn. Pain. Hit me. Make me. Cock. Arse. Pain, pain, good. Hands. Cock. Feels right. Now, Greg, please. Oh, Godgodgodgod.
Freak. Freak. Freak. Not him. Can't be him. Won't be him. Will never be him. Want to be him. Can't be. Can't be. Can't be.
Wrong.
Freak.
Harder.
Make me.
Make me come.
Fuck me.
Please.
Watch.
Look.
See me.
Help me.
Fuck me.
Save me.
Save me.
Save me.
Greg, please.
See me.
Save me.
****
They lay for moments, bound by sweat. Sticky with semen, hot breath ghosting over bare skin.
"I'm not him," Sherlock broke the silence.
"Get out."
"I can't be him."
"Get out."
"I'll never be…"
"FUCKING LEAVE!"
The rain gritted against the windows, lashing the panes.
At least it was cool. Greg set his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, begging himself to focus.
"Sir?"
"Not now, Donovan."
"It's Gregson, sir. He's got something for you about the Hunt case."
"What?" Greg peeled himself away from the window.
"With all due respect, sir, you look like hell."
"What is it, Sergeant?"
"Apparently the father was using. The police pulled him over in Birmingham. Found cocaine in his car. Freak was right."
Greg felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.
"His name is Sherlock," he told Donovan. "Sherlock."
Donovan gave him a hard look and walked away.
The text came three weeks later.
If you check the victim's bedroom, you will find the murder weapon was her diary.
Greg ran the number and came up with a pre-paid mobile.
He did check the victim's bedroom and discovered that in fact there were traces of blood and hair on the victim's diary. As he stood in the lab, squinting at the book through the polystyrene, another text blipped onto his mobile:
So it should be obvious that you should arrest her boyfriend.
Greg sighed. The suspicion that had crept into his brain when he received the first text stood up and became a full-blown idea.
Returning to his office, he was not entirely surprised to discover Sherlock Holmes sitting in his chair, poking at his computer.
"Get off my computer," Greg snapped.
"Have you arrested her boyfriend?"
"Depends. Got any decent evidence other than your crazy suppositions?"
"They're not suppositions. They're facts. Facts you should be able to see if you weren't completely blind to the obvious."
"Tell me."
"The boyfriend came over when the parents weren't home."
"Right. Neighbor saw him."
"They had sex."
"Yes, post-mortem confirms that."
"She went to wash up and he looked in her diary."
"How…"
"Obvious. It was in her nightstand next to the condoms. Right?"
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.
"And his prints are on it, right?"
"Yes."
"So… she came back, finds him reading it, perhaps there was another lover? Or she's planning to break up with him? Or…"
"Another lover, yeah."
"YES! Right, so… argument, jealous rage, he hits at her with the diary, she falls and hits her head on the edge of the desk and then… did you check the middle pages? Ink's smudged. She was suffocated with it." Sherlock sat back and smirked at him.
"Which pages?" Greg asked, scarcely believing that he was asking.
"I'd imagine that if you look at the entries where she compares her two boyfriends, you'll find the evidence you need."
Greg stared at him. Sherlock flapped his hands.
"Go, Detective Inspector, make your arrest."
"Sir?" Donovan stuck her head in Greg's office and stopped, glaring at Sherlock. "Freak."
"Sergeant. How're the corns?"
Before Donovan could explode, Greg steered her by the shoulder out of his office.
"Come on," he said to Donovan, trying to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's stare boring into his back, "let's go back down to forensics."
****
Do you see me now? Do you hear me now?
****
It usually started with a text from an unknown number. Usually during a press conference. The stunt that he pulled with the serial suicides got on Greg's tits especially.
"He's making us look like idiots," Donovan complained.
Back in his office, Greg replied to the text with a succinct "Fuck off."
He immediately regretted it.
The answer came at once:
Fine. But you need me.
It was the sort of thing that Greg would have thought would be right up Sherlock's alley. But there wasn't a murmur.
Greg finally broke down and looked up Sherlock's arrest record.
Nothing.
In a panic, a panic that he'd never admit, Greg rang all the A&E departments in the city of London and called all of his old mates on the Drugs Squad.
Nothing.
Finally, a note appeared on his desk: Montague Street. Perhaps you can convince him to find better accommodations while you're at it?
The note was written on fine paper and with, from what Greg could determine, a fountain pen. It didn't take much for Greg to put the evidence together:
Mycroft.
Convinced he was using again, uncertain why he cared so damn much, Greg grabbed a uniformed officer and a car and, siren blaring, drove to Montague Street as fast as he could.
Sherlock's bedsit was on the top floor of an absolutely filthy building, one that probably should have been condemned in the last century. Telling the officer to stay in the car, Greg ran into the building.
In a bedsit piled high with books, papers, a skull, and other bizarre items (including a riding crop), Sherlock lounged on a mattress in pyjama pants, a t-shirt, and a silk dressing gown.
****
Did you think I had died? Overdosed? Did you miss me? Do you need me? Do you even see me? You're not sleeping. Why aren't you sleeping? Do you worry about me? About them? They're dead, they can't be hurt anymore. It's the living who are the problem. Greg, do you need me?
****
"Lestrade." Sherlock didn't look to the door, but continued his study of the peeling and moldy ceiling. "Was there something?"
"Erm…" Greg had never felt so wrong-footed in his life. "Well, you sent those texts. And… I thought…Do you really live here?"
"Boring. As to the other case, the one that's been transferred to Gregson, the brother did it. Yes. I do. It's what I can afford and, up until now, the police didn't harass me."
"I'm not harassing you. I'm checking to make sure…"
"To make sure of what, Lestrade?"
"Do you know what?" Greg snapped. "Never mind. Just… just forget it."
"Gregson's victim was beaten with a riding crop, wasn't he?" Sherlock asked, his gaze still on the ceiling.
"Yeah." Greg turned. "And the victim was… how old?"
"Sixty-two."
"Ah… And the brother?"
"Said he found him beneath the hedge at eleven forty-five. About twenty minutes after proposed time of death."
"Tricky."
"Yeah, we thought so," Greg said with a no small amount of sarcasm.
"Hmmm."
"Will you help us?"
Sherlock sighed.
"I suppose."
"You suppose?"
"Fine. Yes. Although it'll hardly be worth my time."
"Right. Of course. Because it's obvious."
"Yes, as a matter of fact it is. The first thing, of course, is to check the brother's alibi. And then… Oh, what's the point, you'll never believe me unless I prove it to you."
Sherlock rolled off the mattress and grabbed for trousers.
"Do you mind?" he asked Greg with a pointed look.
"You'll come to the Yard, then?" Greg asked. "I'll wait…"
"No, I'm going to Bart's. Have to check something first."
"Look, I don't…"
"Do you want my help or not?"
****
Because when I needed yours… No. I offered. You took what I offered. You would have been a fool not to. But now. Would you take it now?
****
"Yes. God help me."
"That's better," Sherlock said with a vulpine grin. "You need me."
"Sherlock…"
"Now go away, I'll be in touch within a few hours." Sherlock began to pace the tiny space. "Where did I put it?"
"Sherlock…"
"WHAT?"
"I… erm… nothing," Greg finished lamely, scratching the back of his head.
****
You're worried. Why? Since when did you actually CARE?
****
"I'm moving out, if that's what's concerning you. The building's condemned, anyway. I have a connection to a flat in Baker Street. 221 B, you'll want the address. As soon as I find a flat share, I'll be gone. Apparently, I'm a difficult man to live with."
"I couldn't guess." Greg immediately felt guilty as Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at him.
The moment stretched between them.
****
What did I do wrong? Is it because I'm not Isaac? Or is it because I'm Sherlock?
****
"Fine. Text me. I have work to do," Greg finally said, turning to the door. In the car, he slumped in the passenger seat and rubbed his temples. The look of surprise and hurt on Sherlock's face tore at him.
He wasn't surprised, or he shouldn't have been, he supposed, to receive a text a few hours later that read:
If brother has green ladder, arrest brother.
SH
Of course, the next day, everything went to hell.
"They've found another one. Another suicide," Donovan announced.
"Of course," Greg groaned. "Who and where?"
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. A woman. Apparently, she left a note."
"A note?" Greg stared at her.
"Yeah. Serial suicides, and now a note. Freak would love this."
"I'll get him."
"I was kidding!"
"Donovan, I don't have any leads. I need him."
"No, sir, you don't. May I speak privately with you?" Donovan steered him to his office and shut the door.
"Okay, Sergeant, gimme."
"You're in love with him, aren't you?"
"I'm not having this conversation with you, Donovan."
"Sir."
"Okay, fine. No."
"You are!"
"Sergeant…"
"You've been in love with him for the last five years, letting him tromp all over our investigations, insult you, insult Anderson, insult me – all for what?"
"He's also brilliant, Donovan. Have you forgotten that part? He's fucking brilliant and, if you haven't noticed, I'm fucking desperate. People are dying, Donovan, and if I have to use him to help stop them, then I will."
"Look. Sir. He's unreliable. He let you down over the Hunt case. He'll do it again. And one day, sir, with respect, if you're not careful, he'll hurt you, and he'll hurt all of us. He's a freak and a psychopath and…"
"I've heard your opinion, Sergeant. Thank you. Now call a car, we're going to Baker Street."
"Sir… I just don't want to see…"
"Donovan!"
She glared at him, threw open the door and shouted for Peters to get the car ready.
"…It's a drugs bust…
"…Technically they're volunteers, but they're very keen…
"…It stops being pretend if I find anything…
"…ANDERSON, turn your back."…
"…Why would he do that?… Why would he not do that? You're a fool. Donovan was right. Dammit.
"…I've known him for five years, and no…
"…Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one…" God help me, that's the truth. As if God would… Not for you, Greg. Not for you…
Am I a good man? Does it even matter anymore? Did it ever?
Then there was John – John, who called Sherlock "fascinating" and "brilliant" – John, who followed Sherlock wherever he would lead. John, who shot a man for Sherlock. John, who… No, Greg. You had your chance. Your moment.
People didn't die of broken hearts.
Fewer people actually had broken hearts.
Greg was one of those people.
And then the bombings started: The old woman; the kid; the phone and the pips…
Greg couldn't remember a time when he'd been so strung out. Tired. Worried. And then it stopped. It all stopped. And Greg thought he could finally, finally sleep.
The call came as he was just heading to bed.
"Building just went up." Donovan sounded muffled. "Acton. Public pool."
The world pitched forward and righted itself. And in that terrible instant, Greg knew he'd lost.
He would always remember the rest of the night: the rain, Donovan's worried look as he ran from the patrol car, the smell of smoke and the heat of the flames.
He would always remember the uniformed officers trying to hold him back.
He would always remember heaving the chunk of concrete to one side and catching a glimpse of a pale hand.
He would always remember Mycroft Holmes pulling him away as he collapsed against him, sobbing.
He would always remember being bundled into the car, being bandaged by Mycroft's assistant as they followed the ambulance to the hospital.
In the rain, Greg staggered from the car after Mycroft.
He would always remember standing shoulder to shoulder with the man as the doctors fought for John's life – and Sherlock's.
He would always remember the tears that tracked down Mycroft's cheeks as the doctors told them that Sherlock would live.
He would always remember Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, his posh voice warning him that if he ever hurt his brother…
He would always remember standing alone in the corridor as, supported by his assistant, Mycroft left the hospital.
Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, Sherlock looked grey. Greg took a deep breath and made himself focus. His knees were hurting. His hands. His heart.
"There is no way that he should have survived," Sherlock whispered, looking across the narrow aisle to the other bed where John slept, his breathing regulated by a respirator.
Greg closed his eyes against the sight of John Watson, pale and fragile in the bed. Rain lashed against the window. He turned and glanced at it, noticing in the reflection the scrapes on his jaw, the widening bruise on his cheek. He grasped the end of John's bed, his knuckles white. There was a gash on the back of the left hand, hurriedly bandaged.
The white of the bandage was already mottled with dirt and dust and blood from where he'd swiped the hand across his brow.
The whole room was a study in whites and hospital blue and the deep red of the IV bag that sustained John.
"Fuck," Greg said. Thunder rumbled.
"Sit down, Lestrade," Sherlock said, his voice weak, reedy. "You'll fall. I don't think we need a third casualty."
Greg ran his hand through his hair. It came away filthy: dust and ash and dirt. Christ, he stank.
"Lestrade…"
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and stumbled to the straight chair between the two beds.
"Fine," he said. "If it'll make you shut up for once."
****
Do you remember the last time you said that to me?
****
Sherlock grimaced. Or perhaps it was the light. Apparently deciding that he'd tormented Greg enough for one night, he closed his eyes, leaving Greg alone with the gentle hiss-pop of the respirator and his thoughts. The clock on the wall read four-twenty. The sun would be rising soon. He should go home and shower. No, he should go to the Yard and start trying to sort the mess that this had become. He should get some coffee. He should…
How long he'd been asleep, he didn't dare guess, but his head was pillowed on the thin hospital mattress, and his hand was grasping flesh. Beneath his hand and the hand he was holding, there was small movement.
Greg opened his eyes – they felt as if they'd been cemented together – and lifted his head.
Sherlock slept, reaching out with hand to grasp Greg's filthy, work-roughened one.
As Greg moved, so did Sherlock.
"Good morning, Sunshine," whispered Sherlock with a smile, tightening his fingers around Greg's.
Greg's face was wet.
"Are you going to throw a shoe at me again?" Sherlock asked. Greg started. No, it wasn't possible. Painkillers? No. He couldn't be… He was.
"You're high," Greg accused him. "How the fuck did you manage to get high? I thought…"
"Not high at all," Sherlock replied, across at the sleeping John. "But if you like, you can buy me cigarettes and call me 'Sunshine'. For old time's sake."
****
I remember. Do you?
****
Greg blinked. He thought that after the drugs bust, after the years of being tugged and pulled in different directions by Sherlock—high or sober, it didn't matter which,—that he'd got over it. That he couldn't be affected by this.
That he wasn't still in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes.
Sherlock's thumb brushed over Greg's torn knuckles, and Greg looked up into those ice-grey eyes.
"What…"
"I've always remembered, Gregory Simon Lestrade," Sherlock whispered.
"And?" Greg asked.
"You've always been a good man."
Two
Greg's transition to the murder squad and his rather swift elevation to Detective Inspector was surprising to nobody except possibly Greg himself.
Greg found that he actually enjoyed the problem-solving aspects of murder investigation, if he could look past the more gut wrenching parts: the victims' families; the pain, the sorrow, the confusion, the hatred that the victims left in their wakes.
That, and the press conferences. Greg dreaded those most of all. He was perfectly comfortable pretending to be somebody he wasn't – a drugs runner, an enforcer, even a worried father—but actually sitting down in front of the press and talking about the case in terms designed specifically not to upset the British Public, giving as few details as possible and then fielding questions that he knew he couldn't and shouldn't answer, terrified him.
But it wasn't until a woman was found dead in the Temple Tube Station, her fingers and two of her toes arranged around her in the fashion of the face of a clock, that things got really interesting.
Or nightmarish, depending on how you looked at it.
"But is it safe to travel by the Underground?" A woman asked.
"Well, as long as you keep your hands inside the carriage," Greg snapped.
Beside him, Donovan put her forehead in her hands.
"That is…" God, Greg hated this.
Things were definitely taking a turn for the worse when Greg's mobile buzzed. So did all of the other mobile phones in the room.
Greg looked at his and read one word.
Wrong.
Donovan came to the party first.
"If you've all got texts," she called out. "Just ignore them."
Greg lifted his head.
"Next question?" he asked.
"What do you see as the possible motive for this heinous act?"
Oh, Christ.
"Well, at this point in time we are examining all angles and it would appear that this is obviously an act of somebody who is familiar with the victim… that…"
The mobiles chimed again:
Try a cult.
There was a stirring throughout the room. Greg stared. How did the mysterious texter with the blocked number know about Sandra Brownwell's involvement in the Cult of the Red Sun?
"Please, just ignore your texts," Greg said, his stomach rolling.
"It says, 'Try a cult'," chimed one of the reporters, a ridiculously perky woman – Greg thought she looked like Rita Skeeter from the Harry Potter movie.
"Yes, I know." Greg clung to what was left of his patience.
"Are you saying that this woman, Sandra Brownwell was involved in a cult?" asked the reporter.
"We’re not saying anything," Greg snapped, "at this time, regarding Miss Brownwell's activities."
"But is there a cult?" persisted the reporter.
"Look," Greg said, but his mobile buzzed again:
You need me. I'll meet you outside. SH
Greg bit his lip. SH? Who was SH?
His mobile buzzed.
Sherlock Holmes. DI Gregson's warned you about me.
Greg's heart sank. And then rose. A snippet of conversation floated through his mind. A half remembered murmur from a lanky boy, snagging cigarettes in his bed and pressing his body against him.
Of course. I could solve every one of your silly little problems in my sleep.
"This press conference is over," he said, rising abruptly and leaving the room, Donovan hot on his heels, and the press corps chattering behind him in disbelief.
"Sir, with all due respect, what the hell…"
"Not now, Donovan."
Outside New Scotland Yard, it was pissing down rain, and leaning up against the building beneath the overhang, smoking a cigarette directly underneath a "No Smoking on Premises" sign, was Sherlock Holmes. Greg stared at him. In place of the unearthly junkie who had vomited all over his bathroom a year ago was a handsome, well-dressed young man. Greg swallowed.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume?" Sherlock asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette.
He recognized me. He remembers. Try to save me now? No, don’t need saving. Perfectly functional. Normal. Boring. Nothing to be ashamed of, right? Shameshameshame, not a junkie. Don't remember, don't think. Focus, FOCUS. He's looking better. For being on the Murder Squad. DS is a hostile thing, not surprising. Boyfriend's cheating on her. Look at the tension, the way she examines me. Examines all of me. Doesn't trust us. Small wonder. Gregson told me, too. Nosy parker, he is. Wonder how that could be useful. Sex. So messy. Wantitneeditstopstop. Focus.
"What the hell are you playing at?" Greg demanded.
"Merely trying to get your attention. It was suggested to me that you might be in need of assistance."
"Yeah, you want to help me." Greg said.
"Naturally. I was given your business card, and it seems that you are, as is usual with the police, completely out of your depth. Now, shall we take a look at the body?"
Greg started.
"You're not serious."
"Oh, I think you'll find, Lestrade, that I am quite serious."
Bits of conversation from that evening filtered back into Greg's consciousness.
"Fine," he conceded. "But you follow my rules and you keep your mouth shut."
"Naturally. It will be a pleasure to work with you. D.I. Gregson had so little imagination. But you, on the other hand… I foresee a brilliant future for you and your Detective Sergeant.
"Perhaps, though, your Detective Sergeant, Donovan? I believe? Should consider finding a different boyfriend. It's such a pity that he's sleeping with your sister."
"How did you… you little freak!" Donovan exclaimed. She reached back to the back of her belt, her usual hiding place for her cuffs, only to find they were missing.
"Oi, Peterson!" she called to a uniformed officer. "Arrest him!"
Sherlock tossed away the cigarette and held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.
Caught you.
"All right, that's enough." Greg stepped between his furious D.S. and Sherlock.
"So, you are Gregory Lestrade, then," Sherlock said.
"Of course I am." Greg turned. "You knew that," he said, surprised.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow and studied him for a long second. Greg's gaze flicked down to Sherlock's exposed neck and noticed there was no chain around it. He suddenly felt very cold.
"Did I? Only by reputation I'm afraid." Sherlock seemed to intercept the look. "Oh, that's very interesting," he said with a half-smile. "Very interesting indeed."
"What?" Greg blinked. What the hell…
Sherlock looked him up and down and then moved away, spun out of Donovan's reach and set off down the pavement.
"The mortuary first, I believe," he tossed over his shoulder at Donovan and Greg.
What the hell was going on?
It wasn't until Sherlock was poking at the fingers of the victim, examining and exclaiming over just how they had been taken from her – ripped off, apparently; Donovan looked sick – that it hit Greg.
Sherlock didn't remember him.
How the fuck had that happened?
Sherlock was flying about the mortuary, exclaiming and talking wildly at the tech, a mousy woman who looked as if she wished the floor would swallow her, paying no heed whatsoever to the shocked Greg.
When he finished, he strode up to Greg and said,
"I'm surprised you didn't see it. She obviously was taking an MAOI. Someone poisoned her. Her medical history indicates depression and anxiety – the killer, her cousin, Greene, was it? Yes, Greene ground up the extra tablets and put them into her drink. Probably gave her wine without her knowing it. She was obviously so distraught over her family's disowning of her, she was ready to leave the cult. Greene didn't want her to – better a make a clean break, or she'd tell them about what he knew, and what the Red Sun cult was about to do. So he arranged for her overdose, and then when she became overcome by the combination of the drug and the wine, he drowned her in her bath. And there you have it. Make your arrest." Sherlock looked around as if expecting applause. When none was forthcoming, he gathered his ridiculous greatcoat around him, winked at the mortuary tech and flounced out, the door slamming behind him.
Easy. Simple. Even interesting. Donovan hates me. Good. Maybe he'll start looking to me now. Paying attention
"What the…?" Donovan exclaimed, but before she could ask the obvious question, Greg interrupted her.
"Well, at least we can bring Greene in for questioning. He may not have been the last person to see her alive, but… it's something." He shrugged and scrubbed his hand through his hair.
"Sir, with all due respect, you're taking the word of that… freak?" Donovan demanded.
Greg sighed. "Yeah. I am."
"Any particular reason, sir?" Donovan asked
"Because he's right, Donovan, okay? You know he's right, I know he's right, and…"
"But sir, there's not a bit of evidence…"
"I know, but what else am I supposed to do? If we bring Greene in, we can question him and maybe… maybe he'll be the one we want."
Donovan looked at him like he had lost his tiny little mind. Perhaps he had. There was a long silence.
"Just bring him in, Sergeant," Greg said finally with a sigh.
Donovan shrugged.
"Yes, sir," she said, packing a world of passive-aggressive venom into the "sir."
Greg patted his pockets, looking for the crumpled packet of cigarettes he had shoved in there that morning, telling himself it would be the last morning he did so.
It turned out that Sherlock had been right. Right about everything. Greene had been the murderer, and he was trying to keep Sandra from revealing the sheer amount of money that the cult had stolen. Greg couldn't resist the surge of pride he felt as Greene was led away in handcuffs.
Sherlock had been perfect. Greg grinned to himself. Sherlock was a great man.
It turned into a pattern.
Sherlock, clean and sober, and apparently completely unaware of his previous history with Greg, would waltz into the Yard with unsolicited help on whatever case they were working on that Sherlock deemed interesting. He would be unfailingly rude to Donovan, Anderson, and everybody else, including Greg, and also be unfailingly right about everything. Then he'd solve the case, sometimes chasing down the perpetrator himself, and disappear, leaving Greg to clean up.
Occasionally the brother appeared, made a few threats, offered Greg a bribe to keep Sherlock at arm's length, and, when Greg refused, disappeared just as quickly as Sherlock had.
And then one day, of course, it all went pear-shaped.
They were at St Bart's, arguing. Sherlock had made the mortuary technician cry, and Greg… Greg was having a very, very bad day. He had agreed with the technician that the victim, a fourteen-year-old girl who'd died from a fall from the roof of her school, should be released back to her parents. Sherlock disagreed.
"No," he said to Sherlock's demand to conduct a second autopsy himself. "I'm not letting you do that. Dr Smith has released the victim's body to the family, and you're not getting it back to play your little games."
Idiot, doesn't he see? Why doesn't he see? It's the father, it's always the father, there's always something and in this case it's the father. Abusive. Drugs, maybe? No, not drugs. Those came from her friends. Trying to fit in. Can tell by the clothes she wore, the makeup. The music. The drugs, it circles back. Wanted to blend in. Curious impulse of the teenager. Why doesn't he believe me? What point is there to arguing with me? I'm right. Always right. Greg, listen. No, not Greg. Lestrade. Pay ATTENTION to me.
"They're not 'little games,' Lestrade," Sherlock sneered. "Even in your own limited way, you must be able to see that Dr Smith made a complete mess. Of course, the daughter was a drug user, but her parents were too blind to see. Probably because the father's been abusing her since she was seven. He's a user too, and if you can't see that, you were a worse member of the drugs squad than I thought."
Which was the point at which the door to the waiting room opened and the victim's parents walked in.
The mother, never far from tears every time Greg had spoken to her, burst into hysterical sobs as the father took three steps forward and punched Greg in the jaw. He staggered into Sherlock and slipped down to the floor. The father then turned to Sherlock, but before he could strike, Sherlock had launched himself at him and tackled him to the floor.
There he sat upon him and tore back the man's shirtsleeve.
"You see?" he'd crowed to Greg. "Track marks. I was right. And I'm right about the abuse, too. Aren't I, Mr Hunt?"
Pay attention, Greg. See it. See me. Memememe. Stop. Stop it. No, need a hit. No. You're WRONG.
It took Donovan and two uniformed officers to untangle the mess that erupted. Greg sustained, in addition to the blow to the jaw, several bruised ribs. Sherlock emerged with barely a scratch on him, but Mr Hunt had a broken wrist (thanks to Sherlock). It also transpired that Mr Hunt had not been abusing his daughter, and that what Sherlock had taken for track marks was, in fact scarring from an IV injection site when Mr Hunt had been undergoing cancer treatment the year before.
Greg's supervisor was, understandably, very angry, and the twenty minutes Greg spent in her office were some of the most uncomfortable in his life. He escaped with a strong warning and a note in his file and instructions to keep his "freelance cowboys" away from this work. It was a bloody miracle he hadn't lost his job.
The worst, though, was yet to come, as Greg ran into Sherlock, smoking (as usual) beneath the "No Smoking" sign at the entrance to the Yard.
"You're done," Greg said. "Finished."
"Oh, please, Lestrade," Sherlock scoffed. "You need me."
"Not at the price of my job, I don't. Go away, Sherlock. Go on, get stuffed. I'm done with you, and I'm done with your methods. You failed, Sherlock. Utterly failed, and we are finished."
Without another word, Greg turned up his collar and walked into the drizzle to the bus stand, leaving Sherlock staring after him.
Freak. You were wrong. I was right. No. Wrong. You lost, freak. He'll never look at you again. Freak. Loser. Idiot. Stupid, stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid stupidstupidstupidstupidstupidstupid. Need a hit. Clean now. Don't need the drugs. He's walking away. He's not looking at me. Why's he angry? I was right. Wrong. He doesn't care about me. He cares about Isaac. I'm not Isaac. If I were Isaac, he'd be here. He'd forgive me. I'm sorry I'm so stupid. Stupidsorrystupidstupidsorrysorrystupidsorry. Hit hit me hit me make me bleed, need a hit hit hit.
Furious with himself and bitterly disappointed, Greg smoked two packets of cigarettes that night and broke at least one set of crockery before he sank to the sofa in his sitting room to contemplate Sherlock's and his failure.
How the fuck had he been so blind? How had he allowed Sherlock so much access? He was an amateur – the police don't consult amateurs. He was reckless, dangerous, and … it hit Greg so hard it stole his breath.
Sherlock had been high the whole time.
Fuck. Was it not enough that he could get his kicks trailing Greg, showing off to the rest of the Force, insulting Donovan and himself? No, he had to fucking do it when he was fucking high.
Greg groaned and let his head sag back against the sofa.
How could Sherlock do that?
How?
It was very late when Greg managed to get home, a week later. The Hunt case was moving along, he was almost done with the issues surrounding the pending lawsuit that they were filing (thanks to the Yard's very competent lawyers), but still, it had been a long, long day – complete with him getting caught in the middle of the Donovan, Desiree, Martin fight and another reprimand from his supervisor.
His head hurt. He had smoked too many cigarettes in the alley behind the Yard (and been caught by said Supervisor). And now he desperately wanted a drink.
But the worst of it, the part that nearly destroyed him, was that today was Isaac's birthday. Funny how his birthday was what always hit Greg the hardest. Not the anniversary of the day he died. Or the anniversary of the day that Greg had gone to see him, after he'd been buried, but his birthday.
Wounds imperfectly healed tended to fester. Wounds healed imperfectly tended to leave scars. Wounds healed imperfectly tended to cause pain again.
It had become a bit of a ritual, actually – make sure he wasn't on rota the next morning, get drunk on Isaac's birthday, smoke too many cigarettes, stare at the wall, cry.
Which was why, three drinks in, when his mobile buzzed on the kitchen table, he almost didn't answer it.
But answer it he did.
"Greg?" The voice was tiny, soft. Greg might not have even recognized it if it hadn't been punctuated by a loud sniffle.
"Sherlock?" he asked.
"Yeah. Greg… I need you. Please."
"What? Where are you?"
A sniffle.
"I don't know… I took something and I don't…" There was a shuffling. "I'm in an alley. I'm in… I don't… I saw a sign, Opal Court."
If Greg was smart, he thought, he'd hang up now and let the little shit stew. Let him get mauled by gang members, or his ex-dealer, or an evil nana coming home from her bingo night.
"Greg… I'm sorry. Please."
"Okay, what happened?"
"I don't know… You didn't call… I… there was a man… oh, God…" The sniffle again. "Greg, just come. Please."
"Okay, Opal Court, Opal Court where?"
"South… Brixton, Lambeth…"
"Okay, hang on…" Greg grabbed for his A to Zed and started flipping through the pages. Opal Court was a little hole in the wall near the Crystal Palace tube. Greg looked at the time. Ten-thirty.
"Greg…"
"Hang on, Sunshine," Greg said. "I'm coming."
"Okay. Hurry."
Greg threw his mac on against the drizzling February rain and ran out and down the block to his car. Even with his blue police light on the dash, it took him over an hour to navigate his way down from Finsbury Park south to the river and then in the warren of streets in Lambeth and Brixton.
He missed Opal Court twice. On the third time around the corner, he saw a thin figure hunched against a low brick wall. Sherlock.
"Sherlock!" Greg braked hard in front of him and Sherlock raised his head. He was bleeding again, this time from the nose, the expensive shirt Greg had seen the week before filthy, and in the light of the streetlamp, he could see the blood and the snot running down Sherlock's nose and chin, dripping onto his shirt. "Oh, shit, shit, shit…" Greg started to curse and threw the car into park, catapulting himself out of it.
Sherlock tried to stand, but his legs buckled as Greg reached him, catching him before he hit the pavement again.
"Greg," Sherlock whispered. "You came."
You came for me. You remembered. You heard me. You're not angry. You said no. You meant no. But you came. Love you. Need you. Why do you think you don't need me? Isaac, isn't it? I'm wearing his chain. Do you remember? You let me keep it? No, I stole it. Thief, liar. Need it, need you. Why don't you need me? Why are you here? Do you care? Do you remember? Please, Greg. Remember me. Help me. Tell me.
Even in the dim light, Greg could see Sherlock was coming down from whatever high he'd been on. His hands were shaking, his body tensing and relaxing, his head lolling back, rolling on those thin shoulders as if his neck would snap.
Greg moved his hand to cradle Sherlock's neck and felt something metallic at the back of his head.
Isaac's necklace caught on his fingers. Greg caught his breath. How long had it been since that morning when Sherlock had lifted it from him? He should let the little fucker rot.
"Greg… Greg please… Take me home," Sherlock begged.
Take me to your home. Your bed. Make it be our bed. Need you you you you you you
He couldn't. Not only because Mycroft would be on him, but also… well, Greg shut down that line of thought. Better not examine too closely why against all reason and logic, he was out in Brixton in the middle of the fucking night, cuddling Sherlock Holmes.
"Okay… it's okay, Sunshine," Greg murmured. "I'm here."
Even at this hour, passers-by were beginning to gather.
"Take me home," Sherlock begged again.
"Yeah, okay, where's home?"
"No… not… roommate, party… your home."
"Oh, no," Greg started to say.
"Please."
"A&E is the place for you."
"Greg… can't… won't… call Mycroft… please."
Beneath the streetlamp, Sherlock began to go limp, his curiously light eyes going blank.
"Fuck. Sherlock, no, hang on…"
Greg heaved them both to their feet and managed to sling him towards his idling car and into it.
"Come on, Sherlock." Greg chivvied him into his seatbelt and an old blanket in the back. "Let's go home." He grabbed a handful of tissues. "Hold that to your nose," he instructed. "Tilt your head back."
"Knew you'd come," Sherlock said a loud sniffle, partially muffled by the wad of tissues.
"Yeah, you know… regular Good Samaritan, me," Greg muttered.
"No, I knew. Knew you can't stay away from me."
"Shut up," Greg growled, looking over at the blanket-wrapped Sherlock. "Or I will throw you out of this car."
Thankfully, Sherlock subsided after that, until they reached Greg's flat.
"Soup again?" Sherlock asked after Greg had cleaned him up.
"Don't have time to shop, do I? And suppose you explain to me just how you seem to remember every detail of that night now, but not when we're out in front of New Scotland Yard?"
Sherlock shrugged and spooned some of the creamy tomato soup into his mouth.
"What's that mean?" Greg demanded.
"It means…" Sherlock shrugged again. "I need a shower," he said, lurching from his chair. "Care to join me?"
He wants me. He still does. I want him. Thank him. Pay him back. Hate tomato soup. Hate myself. Need him. Want him. Need him to tell me. Tell me he loves me. Doesn't he care? He does care. He'd not be here. Why is he staring at me? What did I say?
Greg stared at him.
"No," he finally said. "I would not."
Sherlock fixed him with a steady look.
He does want me. He's lying
"You're lying," he said.
"No, as a matter of fact, I'm not. I'm not in the habit of sleeping with junkies, I'll have you know."
Sherlock sniffed.
"Feeble," he replied. "You've been half hard ever since you sponged off my face in the bathroom. You're imagining what it would be like to suck my cock. You're thinking about fucking me right now, as a matter of fact."
"Sherlock…" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, irritation and anger welling up inside of him. "It's late. I'm tired. I'm letting you stay here as a favor. Don't push your luck."
Sherlock sniffed.
"You keep telling yourself that," he said to Greg and winked at him.
Greg flopped into a kitchen chair and grabbed for the half-empty whisky bottle and his cigarettes. Listening to the shower, in truth a bit more than half-hard, he sat at his kitchen table, feeding himself whisky with one hand and nicotine with the other until he heard the water shut off and Sherlock's steps.
He tensed, waiting for Sherlock to pass by the kitchen on the way to the sitting room sofa, where he'd laid out a pillow and the old Aston Villa blanket. Nothing.
Greg stubbed out his last cigarette and shuffled to his bedroom.
There, in the same pyjama bottoms he'd appropriated the last time, lay Sherlock across his bed, fast asleep.
Greg sighed and began to unbutton his shirt. He pulled off his shoes and socks and trousers and stumbled toward the shower.
Five minutes later, before he fell asleep under the spray, he turned off the water and used the still-damp towel Sherlock had draped over the sink. It smelled of him.
Fuck.
Greg yanked on a pair of shorts and returned to the bedroom and yanked the duvet out from under Sherlock.
Sherlock rolled over. In the half-light, Greg could see his smirk.
"It's cold in here," Greg muttered. "And don't you have somewhere else to sleep?"
"Why? When I can sleep right here?" Sherlock asked. "It's what you want, anyway."
"Stop talking about what you think I want," Greg snapped, sitting on the edge of the bed and glaring at him.
"I know what you want."
"Fuck you do."
"Of course I do." Sherlock stretched forward and Greg pretended he wasn't staring at his lean body, the muscles under the shoulders rippling as he crawled toward him. "I know exactly what you want. And you want me."
His hand was on Greg's cock.
Greg shoved it away.
"You're lying, Greg, you do want me."
"No. I … Okay, look, stop. This isn't…" Sherlock's lips were on his mouth, his tongue teasing him.
Fuck. When was the last time he'd… Isaac. With Isaac.
He would not give in to this.
The kid needed him. Needed him to say no. To set the limits. To set limits on the impossible wraith of a man who was winding himself around him.
Christ, Sherlock was practically radiating need.
Greg wasn't going to take advantage of this. He couldn't. He was a good man. A man who didn't take advantage of…
Sherlock’s hand was on Greg's cock.
Greg caught his breath as the light in the room seemed to grow dim.
"Please," murmured Sherlock. "Please."
There was a moment of stillness and then…
He shouldn’t do this. He was a good man. A good man.
A good man whose cock was suddenly enveloped by a warm, wet mouth.
Fuck, it had been ages.
And hadn't he suffered enough at the hands of this ethereal, beautiful, frustrating, maddening, sexy, gorgeous, fucked-up man?
Didn't he deserve …
And he might be high, but Sherlock could do amazing things when he was high.
And it wasn't as if Greg was a fucking saint.
Oh, that was good. A fucking saint.
He wasn't even Catholic.
Greg's hand was in his hair, pulling him up. Lips, tongue and teeth collided as he attacked Sherlock's mouth.
Why not? You want me. I know you do. Want me. Take me. Make me.
Please, make me make me. Kiss me. Kiss you. Lips. Thighs, stomach. Push pull away. No. Yes. Shorts. Down. Pull, pull, no. Yes. Yesyesyesyes.
Cock. Beautiful. Thick. Want it. In my hand, in my mouth, in my arse.
Cock, skin, heat. YES. Was right. Of course I'm right. I'm always right.
Tastes good. Spit. Smell. Scent. Hair. Scrotum. Thigh. Tongue. Hand. Smell. Taste. He tastes good. Sogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogood.
Hands in my hair, pull, tug, you want this. You want to fuck me. You don't care if I get off.
Pull me, push you. Hair, skin, legs, mouth, tongue, taste of whisky, cigarettes.
God, so goodgoodgoodgoodgoodgood. Right, right, right. Truth. Knew him. Knew him. Want him.
Mouth, cock… fuck… please fuck me fuck me fuck me.
Fingers. Lube. Condoms? Condoms, of course, careful. Can't be too careful, don't know where I've been.
Why isn't he saying no? Stop me. Stop him. I need him to, fuck, yes.
Burn. Pain. Hit me. Make me. Cock. Arse. Pain, pain, good. Hands. Cock. Feels right. Now, Greg, please. Oh, Godgodgodgod.
Freak. Freak. Freak. Not him. Can't be him. Won't be him. Will never be him. Want to be him. Can't be. Can't be. Can't be.
Wrong.
Freak.
Harder.
Make me.
Make me come.
Fuck me.
Please.
Watch.
Look.
See me.
Help me.
Fuck me.
Save me.
Save me.
Save me.
Greg, please.
See me.
Save me.
They lay for moments, bound by sweat. Sticky with semen, hot breath ghosting over bare skin.
"I'm not him," Sherlock broke the silence.
"Get out."
"I can't be him."
"Get out."
"I'll never be…"
"FUCKING LEAVE!"
The rain gritted against the windows, lashing the panes.
At least it was cool. Greg set his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes, begging himself to focus.
"Sir?"
"Not now, Donovan."
"It's Gregson, sir. He's got something for you about the Hunt case."
"What?" Greg peeled himself away from the window.
"With all due respect, sir, you look like hell."
"What is it, Sergeant?"
"Apparently the father was using. The police pulled him over in Birmingham. Found cocaine in his car. Freak was right."
Greg felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach.
"His name is Sherlock," he told Donovan. "Sherlock."
Donovan gave him a hard look and walked away.
The text came three weeks later.
If you check the victim's bedroom, you will find the murder weapon was her diary.
Greg ran the number and came up with a pre-paid mobile.
He did check the victim's bedroom and discovered that in fact there were traces of blood and hair on the victim's diary. As he stood in the lab, squinting at the book through the polystyrene, another text blipped onto his mobile:
So it should be obvious that you should arrest her boyfriend.
Greg sighed. The suspicion that had crept into his brain when he received the first text stood up and became a full-blown idea.
Returning to his office, he was not entirely surprised to discover Sherlock Holmes sitting in his chair, poking at his computer.
"Get off my computer," Greg snapped.
"Have you arrested her boyfriend?"
"Depends. Got any decent evidence other than your crazy suppositions?"
"They're not suppositions. They're facts. Facts you should be able to see if you weren't completely blind to the obvious."
"Tell me."
"The boyfriend came over when the parents weren't home."
"Right. Neighbor saw him."
"They had sex."
"Yes, post-mortem confirms that."
"She went to wash up and he looked in her diary."
"How…"
"Obvious. It was in her nightstand next to the condoms. Right?"
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.
"And his prints are on it, right?"
"Yes."
"So… she came back, finds him reading it, perhaps there was another lover? Or she's planning to break up with him? Or…"
"Another lover, yeah."
"YES! Right, so… argument, jealous rage, he hits at her with the diary, she falls and hits her head on the edge of the desk and then… did you check the middle pages? Ink's smudged. She was suffocated with it." Sherlock sat back and smirked at him.
"Which pages?" Greg asked, scarcely believing that he was asking.
"I'd imagine that if you look at the entries where she compares her two boyfriends, you'll find the evidence you need."
Greg stared at him. Sherlock flapped his hands.
"Go, Detective Inspector, make your arrest."
"Sir?" Donovan stuck her head in Greg's office and stopped, glaring at Sherlock. "Freak."
"Sergeant. How're the corns?"
Before Donovan could explode, Greg steered her by the shoulder out of his office.
"Come on," he said to Donovan, trying to ignore the feeling of Sherlock's stare boring into his back, "let's go back down to forensics."
Do you see me now? Do you hear me now?
It usually started with a text from an unknown number. Usually during a press conference. The stunt that he pulled with the serial suicides got on Greg's tits especially.
"He's making us look like idiots," Donovan complained.
Back in his office, Greg replied to the text with a succinct "Fuck off."
He immediately regretted it.
The answer came at once:
Fine. But you need me.
It was the sort of thing that Greg would have thought would be right up Sherlock's alley. But there wasn't a murmur.
Greg finally broke down and looked up Sherlock's arrest record.
Nothing.
In a panic, a panic that he'd never admit, Greg rang all the A&E departments in the city of London and called all of his old mates on the Drugs Squad.
Nothing.
Finally, a note appeared on his desk: Montague Street. Perhaps you can convince him to find better accommodations while you're at it?
The note was written on fine paper and with, from what Greg could determine, a fountain pen. It didn't take much for Greg to put the evidence together:
Mycroft.
Convinced he was using again, uncertain why he cared so damn much, Greg grabbed a uniformed officer and a car and, siren blaring, drove to Montague Street as fast as he could.
Sherlock's bedsit was on the top floor of an absolutely filthy building, one that probably should have been condemned in the last century. Telling the officer to stay in the car, Greg ran into the building.
In a bedsit piled high with books, papers, a skull, and other bizarre items (including a riding crop), Sherlock lounged on a mattress in pyjama pants, a t-shirt, and a silk dressing gown.
Did you think I had died? Overdosed? Did you miss me? Do you need me? Do you even see me? You're not sleeping. Why aren't you sleeping? Do you worry about me? About them? They're dead, they can't be hurt anymore. It's the living who are the problem. Greg, do you need me?
"Lestrade." Sherlock didn't look to the door, but continued his study of the peeling and moldy ceiling. "Was there something?"
"Erm…" Greg had never felt so wrong-footed in his life. "Well, you sent those texts. And… I thought…Do you really live here?"
"Boring. As to the other case, the one that's been transferred to Gregson, the brother did it. Yes. I do. It's what I can afford and, up until now, the police didn't harass me."
"I'm not harassing you. I'm checking to make sure…"
"To make sure of what, Lestrade?"
"Do you know what?" Greg snapped. "Never mind. Just… just forget it."
"Gregson's victim was beaten with a riding crop, wasn't he?" Sherlock asked, his gaze still on the ceiling.
"Yeah." Greg turned. "And the victim was… how old?"
"Sixty-two."
"Ah… And the brother?"
"Said he found him beneath the hedge at eleven forty-five. About twenty minutes after proposed time of death."
"Tricky."
"Yeah, we thought so," Greg said with a no small amount of sarcasm.
"Hmmm."
"Will you help us?"
Sherlock sighed.
"I suppose."
"You suppose?"
"Fine. Yes. Although it'll hardly be worth my time."
"Right. Of course. Because it's obvious."
"Yes, as a matter of fact it is. The first thing, of course, is to check the brother's alibi. And then… Oh, what's the point, you'll never believe me unless I prove it to you."
Sherlock rolled off the mattress and grabbed for trousers.
"Do you mind?" he asked Greg with a pointed look.
"You'll come to the Yard, then?" Greg asked. "I'll wait…"
"No, I'm going to Bart's. Have to check something first."
"Look, I don't…"
"Do you want my help or not?"
Because when I needed yours… No. I offered. You took what I offered. You would have been a fool not to. But now. Would you take it now?
"Yes. God help me."
"That's better," Sherlock said with a vulpine grin. "You need me."
"Sherlock…"
"Now go away, I'll be in touch within a few hours." Sherlock began to pace the tiny space. "Where did I put it?"
"Sherlock…"
"WHAT?"
"I… erm… nothing," Greg finished lamely, scratching the back of his head.
You're worried. Why? Since when did you actually CARE?
"I'm moving out, if that's what's concerning you. The building's condemned, anyway. I have a connection to a flat in Baker Street. 221 B, you'll want the address. As soon as I find a flat share, I'll be gone. Apparently, I'm a difficult man to live with."
"I couldn't guess." Greg immediately felt guilty as Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at him.
The moment stretched between them.
What did I do wrong? Is it because I'm not Isaac? Or is it because I'm Sherlock?
"Fine. Text me. I have work to do," Greg finally said, turning to the door. In the car, he slumped in the passenger seat and rubbed his temples. The look of surprise and hurt on Sherlock's face tore at him.
He wasn't surprised, or he shouldn't have been, he supposed, to receive a text a few hours later that read:
If brother has green ladder, arrest brother.
SH
Of course, the next day, everything went to hell.
"They've found another one. Another suicide," Donovan announced.
"Of course," Greg groaned. "Who and where?"
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. A woman. Apparently, she left a note."
"A note?" Greg stared at her.
"Yeah. Serial suicides, and now a note. Freak would love this."
"I'll get him."
"I was kidding!"
"Donovan, I don't have any leads. I need him."
"No, sir, you don't. May I speak privately with you?" Donovan steered him to his office and shut the door.
"Okay, Sergeant, gimme."
"You're in love with him, aren't you?"
"I'm not having this conversation with you, Donovan."
"Sir."
"Okay, fine. No."
"You are!"
"Sergeant…"
"You've been in love with him for the last five years, letting him tromp all over our investigations, insult you, insult Anderson, insult me – all for what?"
"He's also brilliant, Donovan. Have you forgotten that part? He's fucking brilliant and, if you haven't noticed, I'm fucking desperate. People are dying, Donovan, and if I have to use him to help stop them, then I will."
"Look. Sir. He's unreliable. He let you down over the Hunt case. He'll do it again. And one day, sir, with respect, if you're not careful, he'll hurt you, and he'll hurt all of us. He's a freak and a psychopath and…"
"I've heard your opinion, Sergeant. Thank you. Now call a car, we're going to Baker Street."
"Sir… I just don't want to see…"
"Donovan!"
She glared at him, threw open the door and shouted for Peters to get the car ready.
"…It's a drugs bust…
"…Technically they're volunteers, but they're very keen…
"…It stops being pretend if I find anything…
"…ANDERSON, turn your back."…
"…Why would he do that?… Why would he not do that? You're a fool. Donovan was right. Dammit.
"…I've known him for five years, and no…
"…Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one…" God help me, that's the truth. As if God would… Not for you, Greg. Not for you…
Am I a good man? Does it even matter anymore? Did it ever?
Then there was John – John, who called Sherlock "fascinating" and "brilliant" – John, who followed Sherlock wherever he would lead. John, who shot a man for Sherlock. John, who… No, Greg. You had your chance. Your moment.
People didn't die of broken hearts.
Fewer people actually had broken hearts.
Greg was one of those people.
And then the bombings started: The old woman; the kid; the phone and the pips…
Greg couldn't remember a time when he'd been so strung out. Tired. Worried. And then it stopped. It all stopped. And Greg thought he could finally, finally sleep.
The call came as he was just heading to bed.
"Building just went up." Donovan sounded muffled. "Acton. Public pool."
The world pitched forward and righted itself. And in that terrible instant, Greg knew he'd lost.
He would always remember the rest of the night: the rain, Donovan's worried look as he ran from the patrol car, the smell of smoke and the heat of the flames.
He would always remember the uniformed officers trying to hold him back.
He would always remember heaving the chunk of concrete to one side and catching a glimpse of a pale hand.
He would always remember Mycroft Holmes pulling him away as he collapsed against him, sobbing.
He would always remember being bundled into the car, being bandaged by Mycroft's assistant as they followed the ambulance to the hospital.
In the rain, Greg staggered from the car after Mycroft.
He would always remember standing shoulder to shoulder with the man as the doctors fought for John's life – and Sherlock's.
He would always remember the tears that tracked down Mycroft's cheeks as the doctors told them that Sherlock would live.
He would always remember Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, his posh voice warning him that if he ever hurt his brother…
He would always remember standing alone in the corridor as, supported by his assistant, Mycroft left the hospital.
Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, Sherlock looked grey. Greg took a deep breath and made himself focus. His knees were hurting. His hands. His heart.
"There is no way that he should have survived," Sherlock whispered, looking across the narrow aisle to the other bed where John slept, his breathing regulated by a respirator.
Greg closed his eyes against the sight of John Watson, pale and fragile in the bed. Rain lashed against the window. He turned and glanced at it, noticing in the reflection the scrapes on his jaw, the widening bruise on his cheek. He grasped the end of John's bed, his knuckles white. There was a gash on the back of the left hand, hurriedly bandaged.
The white of the bandage was already mottled with dirt and dust and blood from where he'd swiped the hand across his brow.
The whole room was a study in whites and hospital blue and the deep red of the IV bag that sustained John.
"Fuck," Greg said. Thunder rumbled.
"Sit down, Lestrade," Sherlock said, his voice weak, reedy. "You'll fall. I don't think we need a third casualty."
Greg ran his hand through his hair. It came away filthy: dust and ash and dirt. Christ, he stank.
"Lestrade…"
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender and stumbled to the straight chair between the two beds.
"Fine," he said. "If it'll make you shut up for once."
Do you remember the last time you said that to me?
Sherlock grimaced. Or perhaps it was the light. Apparently deciding that he'd tormented Greg enough for one night, he closed his eyes, leaving Greg alone with the gentle hiss-pop of the respirator and his thoughts. The clock on the wall read four-twenty. The sun would be rising soon. He should go home and shower. No, he should go to the Yard and start trying to sort the mess that this had become. He should get some coffee. He should…
How long he'd been asleep, he didn't dare guess, but his head was pillowed on the thin hospital mattress, and his hand was grasping flesh. Beneath his hand and the hand he was holding, there was small movement.
Greg opened his eyes – they felt as if they'd been cemented together – and lifted his head.
Sherlock slept, reaching out with hand to grasp Greg's filthy, work-roughened one.
As Greg moved, so did Sherlock.
"Good morning, Sunshine," whispered Sherlock with a smile, tightening his fingers around Greg's.
Greg's face was wet.
"Are you going to throw a shoe at me again?" Sherlock asked. Greg started. No, it wasn't possible. Painkillers? No. He couldn't be… He was.
"You're high," Greg accused him. "How the fuck did you manage to get high? I thought…"
"Not high at all," Sherlock replied, across at the sleeping John. "But if you like, you can buy me cigarettes and call me 'Sunshine'. For old time's sake."
I remember. Do you?
Greg blinked. He thought that after the drugs bust, after the years of being tugged and pulled in different directions by Sherlock—high or sober, it didn't matter which,—that he'd got over it. That he couldn't be affected by this.
That he wasn't still in love with Sherlock bloody Holmes.
Sherlock's thumb brushed over Greg's torn knuckles, and Greg looked up into those ice-grey eyes.
"What…"
"I've always remembered, Gregory Simon Lestrade," Sherlock whispered.
"And?" Greg asked.
"You've always been a good man."