Lestrade had gotten the text from the dreaded number right after dinner, while his wife was getting ready for yet another evening spent watching the telly, letting him nurse a glass of whiskey alone in the kitchen. “Get to Baker Street”. The simple fact that this was actually a relief was enough to let him know dreadfully sad his life was.
Not many people would take a 'danger' night with Sherlock Holmes over staying at home with the wife, but Lestrade did. Not that he would have had much of a choice anyway, mind you. Mycroft Holmes whistled, Lestrade came. He didn't mind it too much, the elder of the Holmes brother was usually fairly reasonable with his requests, but it rattled his pride a little all the same.
He drowned his glass, coughing a little as the expensive whiskey (courtesy of Mycroft, which had made Lestrade feel extremely awkward about drinking it but hey, it was good stuff) burnt his throat. He strode to the living room, quietly informing his wife that he had to go back to the Yard for the night, a little white lie. She didn't need to know, after all.
She made a vague hand gesture, her eyes on the TV screen. Whatever, Greg. He stood there for a few seconds, wondering when her indifference had stopped hurting him. He had been trying to mend things between the two of them, honest-to-God, but since Sherlock had revealed that she was having an affair on Christmas night (of all times) Lestrade had decided that it just wasn't worth it anymore.
He made his way to Baker Street quickly, deducing from the absence of light downstairs that Mrs Hudson was away and letting himself in with his own key, not bothering to knock. Silence hung thick and heavy in the staircase, making Lestrade swallow dryly. He knew Sherlock's moods, and as devastating as his tantrums usually were, they were much better than this worrying absence of noise.
He briefly wondered whether he should have taken his gun. “Sherlock?” he called, going up the stairs cautiously, wondering where the man was. He hoped he hadn't managed to sneak out without Mycroft noticing. Unlikely, though. “Sherlock?” he tried again.
Wrong footsteps. More weight and height. Longer stride. Not John Watson and John Watson's annoyingly atrocious and yet perfect jumpers then. Not Mrs. Hudson either. She announced herself with a chuckle or by calling his name by the third step. Clunk. Clunk-clunk. Bit off. Gait strange. Tired. Been drinking. Weary. Not his brother, thank God. Quicker now. Afraid. Sherlock opened his pale eyes to gaze at the ceiling and the shadows there.
Lestrade. He knew it already but the shape of the shadow proved it. The outline was perfectly dejected and dismayed DI shaped. He smirked in the dark, the sliver of light from Lestrade opening the door bathing him in a stripe of gold.
The tourniquet on his arm needed loosening, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. On the floor, Sherlock just barely managed to roll over, hip curving higher than his shoulders given the oddness of his position. "Mycroft will be pleased that you've finally gotten into his gift."
Not many people would take a 'danger' night with Sherlock Holmes over staying at home with the wife, but Lestrade did. Not that he would have had much of a choice anyway, mind you. Mycroft Holmes whistled, Lestrade came. He didn't mind it too much, the elder of the Holmes brother was usually fairly reasonable with his requests, but it rattled his pride a little all the same.
He drowned his glass, coughing a little as the expensive whiskey (courtesy of Mycroft, which had made Lestrade feel extremely awkward about drinking it but hey, it was good stuff) burnt his throat. He strode to the living room, quietly informing his wife that he had to go back to the Yard for the night, a little white lie. She didn't need to know, after all.
She made a vague hand gesture, her eyes on the TV screen. Whatever, Greg. He stood there for a few seconds, wondering when her indifference had stopped hurting him. He had been trying to mend things between the two of them, honest-to-God, but since Sherlock had revealed that she was having an affair on Christmas night (of all times) Lestrade had decided that it just wasn't worth it anymore.
He made his way to Baker Street quickly, deducing from the absence of light downstairs that Mrs Hudson was away and letting himself in with his own key, not bothering to knock. Silence hung thick and heavy in the staircase, making Lestrade swallow dryly. He knew Sherlock's moods, and as devastating as his tantrums usually were, they were much better than this worrying absence of noise.
He briefly wondered whether he should have taken his gun. “Sherlock?” he called, going up the stairs cautiously, wondering where the man was. He hoped he hadn't managed to sneak out without Mycroft noticing. Unlikely, though. “Sherlock?” he tried again.
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Lestrade. He knew it already but the shape of the shadow proved it. The outline was perfectly dejected and dismayed DI shaped. He smirked in the dark, the sliver of light from Lestrade opening the door bathing him in a stripe of gold.
The tourniquet on his arm needed loosening, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. On the floor, Sherlock just barely managed to roll over, hip curving higher than his shoulders given the oddness of his position. "Mycroft will be pleased that you've finally gotten into his gift."
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