Fic: The Man Who Never Smiled (5/5) -- COMPLETE!
Scent. There shouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary about the way he smells. He’s showered this morning and used his own shampoo and deodorant and his usual shave cream, so no changes to note there.
Skin. Checking himself over in the mirror for bites, scratches, or other irritations, he finds no visible marks on his face or throat. He digs out a hand mirror from the medicine cabinet and carefully checks the back of his neck. When he pulls his collar back, just to be thorough, there’s the jagged red outline of a bite mark on the back of his left shoulder. Greg frowns when he sees it, but it’s covered by his shirt so that shouldn’t really matter. He sets the mirror down on the sink, and then looks over his wrists, hands, fingers…Shit, the ring! He quickly removes it and places it back on his left hand, feeling a vague twinge of regret. Nothing else amiss, though.
Clothes. Nothing seems out of place, no stains or stray hairs, nothing added or missing from his usual kit.
He considers preparing some pat answers to questions about the conference, but decides against it. Sherlock is never one for small talk, so he’s not going to ask about the conference. He’ll probably just take the files, complain about having been made to wait for them, and dismiss him like the lackey he thinks Greg is.
What else, then? What’s he missing? There’s always something. He shifts his weight and winces. Crap - he’s still really sore. It’s not surprising, though, considering the abuse he took not twenty-four hours ago. If he’s not careful, it’ll show in the way that he moves, an unconscious wince, or a sudden intake of breath. It would be slight enough that most people would miss it, but not Sherlock bloody Holmes. He could chalk it up to a bad back; there’s some history there, so it’s plausible. Maybe he should make a point of mentioning it - use a bit of misdirection and complain about the terrible hotel bed he had to sleep on that gave him back spasm.
No, best not to call attention to it at all…or mention beds. He resigns himself to keeping strict control over his movements so he doesn’t trigger any sharp pangs, and doing his best not to let anything show in his facial expressions. That’ll be hard to do, so the best plan, he decides, will be to keep Sherlock bored and disinterested, and to get out as quickly as possible without being obvious about it. He runs a hand through his hair and takes one last look in the mirror before he goes. Picking up the files from the kitchen table on his way out the door, he heads down to the street to hail a cab.
When he arrives at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson lets him in and he attempts to bound up the stairs like he always does. But a sharp pain pulls him up short, and he walks up the rest of the stairs more gingerly, cursing himself for being careless and knowing that Sherlock will likely have noted the modification.
He enters the flat, hoping no one will be in the living room or kitchen so he can just drop the files and go. But Sherlock is sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him.
“Ah, Lestrade, you can set them on the desk, please” he says, without looking up. Greg does so, and turns to leave.
“So how was the conference?” Sherlock asks.
Shit! Greg thinks and grimaces. He schools his features before turning half around, keeping his feet pointing towards the door. Sherlock’s gaze remains fixated on the screen as he types away.
“Fine. It was fine. If that’s all then I’ll just be going.” Greg replies, turning and taking a step closer to the door.
“Learn anything useful?”
Greg stops, but doesn’t turn around again. “No, you know - same old stuff.” He takes another step.
“Make any new contacts?”
“Right,” he says, whirling around. “What are you playing at?” He knows it’s the wrong response, he’s not sticking to the plan, but he can’t keep the sharp defensiveness out of his voice.
Sherlock turns to look at him, a boyish look of confusion clouding his face. “Why so suspicious, Lestrade?”
“I’m not - you’re the one acting suspicious,” Greg snaps. “Since when do you ask stupid questions about boring things, eh? You don’t give a damn about the bloody conference, so what’s your game?”
“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Sherlock replies evenly. “Take an interest in each other’s doings?”
“Oh, so we’re friends now, are we?” Greg sneers.
If Greg didn’t know better, that tiny contraction of the brow and infinitesimal narrowing of the eyes could have been a flicker of hurt crossing Sherlock’s face.
“I should like to think so,” Sherlock replies, and turns back to his computer. Greg’s well up on Eckman’s work on deception and facial expressions. He and his team have taken training to detect and recognize micro-expressions, and he’s sure Sherlock probably has too. Although he’d warrant Sherlock’s probably gone one step further and trained himself how to make them as well. Sherlock’s a master manipulator, and that leaked micro-expression was probably intentional. But then there’s that tiny voice of doubt in the back of Greg’s mind.
What if it wasn’t? What if he’s honestly trying to be a better person, and here I am giving him the back of my hand for it?
Greg sighs and allows his shoulders to sag. “Fine,” he relents. “What do you want to know?”
Sherlock smiles brightly at that and turns his full attention on him, making him feel like a bug under the microscope about to have its legs yanked off by a pair of tweezers. His grand strategy of keeping Sherlock bored and disinterested has completely gone to hell. The shark senses a bleeder; it’s honing in and starting to circle, and Greg tenses up waiting for the first exploratory bite. He needs an escape, and blesses the buzz of his mobile that interrupts Sherlock’s feeding frenzy before it can truly begin.
“Sorry, mate. Have to go - a dealer’s been knifed in King’s Cross.” Greg makes a speedy exit from the Baker Street flat, berating himself for feeling momentarily grateful that a murder had been committed.
I really have been on this job too long, he thinks.
He spends the next twelve hours working the totally pedestrian, senseless homicide case, the last three hours of which are spent in the company of the perpetrator, listening to his drug-addled and rambling confession. When he finally makes it home that night, he’s bone-tired and can’t be arsed to cook anything. He stands in the kitchen, shoveling the remnants of cold Chinese take-out into his mouth while hunched over the counter. Later, as he lies in bed watching the headlights of passing cars creep across his walls, he thinks again of Belfast. Two days away from London, Sherlock, and the criminal element weren’t enough - he needs a real holiday. He puts the ring back on his right hand and thinks Sherlock can go fuck himself.
He reaches for his mobile in the dark. Squinting as the glare of the screen lights his face, he begins to type.
So what’s Ystad like this time of year? - Greg
****
Skin. Checking himself over in the mirror for bites, scratches, or other irritations, he finds no visible marks on his face or throat. He digs out a hand mirror from the medicine cabinet and carefully checks the back of his neck. When he pulls his collar back, just to be thorough, there’s the jagged red outline of a bite mark on the back of his left shoulder. Greg frowns when he sees it, but it’s covered by his shirt so that shouldn’t really matter. He sets the mirror down on the sink, and then looks over his wrists, hands, fingers…Shit, the ring! He quickly removes it and places it back on his left hand, feeling a vague twinge of regret. Nothing else amiss, though.
Clothes. Nothing seems out of place, no stains or stray hairs, nothing added or missing from his usual kit.
He considers preparing some pat answers to questions about the conference, but decides against it. Sherlock is never one for small talk, so he’s not going to ask about the conference. He’ll probably just take the files, complain about having been made to wait for them, and dismiss him like the lackey he thinks Greg is.
What else, then? What’s he missing? There’s always something. He shifts his weight and winces. Crap - he’s still really sore. It’s not surprising, though, considering the abuse he took not twenty-four hours ago. If he’s not careful, it’ll show in the way that he moves, an unconscious wince, or a sudden intake of breath. It would be slight enough that most people would miss it, but not Sherlock bloody Holmes. He could chalk it up to a bad back; there’s some history there, so it’s plausible. Maybe he should make a point of mentioning it - use a bit of misdirection and complain about the terrible hotel bed he had to sleep on that gave him back spasm.
No, best not to call attention to it at all…or mention beds. He resigns himself to keeping strict control over his movements so he doesn’t trigger any sharp pangs, and doing his best not to let anything show in his facial expressions. That’ll be hard to do, so the best plan, he decides, will be to keep Sherlock bored and disinterested, and to get out as quickly as possible without being obvious about it. He runs a hand through his hair and takes one last look in the mirror before he goes. Picking up the files from the kitchen table on his way out the door, he heads down to the street to hail a cab.
When he arrives at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson lets him in and he attempts to bound up the stairs like he always does. But a sharp pain pulls him up short, and he walks up the rest of the stairs more gingerly, cursing himself for being careless and knowing that Sherlock will likely have noted the modification.
He enters the flat, hoping no one will be in the living room or kitchen so he can just drop the files and go. But Sherlock is sitting at his desk, laptop open in front of him.
“Ah, Lestrade, you can set them on the desk, please” he says, without looking up. Greg does so, and turns to leave.
“So how was the conference?” Sherlock asks.
Shit! Greg thinks and grimaces. He schools his features before turning half around, keeping his feet pointing towards the door. Sherlock’s gaze remains fixated on the screen as he types away.
“Fine. It was fine. If that’s all then I’ll just be going.” Greg replies, turning and taking a step closer to the door.
“Learn anything useful?”
Greg stops, but doesn’t turn around again. “No, you know - same old stuff.” He takes another step.
“Make any new contacts?”
“Right,” he says, whirling around. “What are you playing at?” He knows it’s the wrong response, he’s not sticking to the plan, but he can’t keep the sharp defensiveness out of his voice.
Sherlock turns to look at him, a boyish look of confusion clouding his face. “Why so suspicious, Lestrade?”
“I’m not - you’re the one acting suspicious,” Greg snaps. “Since when do you ask stupid questions about boring things, eh? You don’t give a damn about the bloody conference, so what’s your game?”
“That’s what friends do, isn’t it?” Sherlock replies evenly. “Take an interest in each other’s doings?”
“Oh, so we’re friends now, are we?” Greg sneers.
If Greg didn’t know better, that tiny contraction of the brow and infinitesimal narrowing of the eyes could have been a flicker of hurt crossing Sherlock’s face.
“I should like to think so,” Sherlock replies, and turns back to his computer. Greg’s well up on Eckman’s work on deception and facial expressions. He and his team have taken training to detect and recognize micro-expressions, and he’s sure Sherlock probably has too. Although he’d warrant Sherlock’s probably gone one step further and trained himself how to make them as well. Sherlock’s a master manipulator, and that leaked micro-expression was probably intentional. But then there’s that tiny voice of doubt in the back of Greg’s mind.
What if it wasn’t? What if he’s honestly trying to be a better person, and here I am giving him the back of my hand for it?
Greg sighs and allows his shoulders to sag. “Fine,” he relents. “What do you want to know?”
Sherlock smiles brightly at that and turns his full attention on him, making him feel like a bug under the microscope about to have its legs yanked off by a pair of tweezers. His grand strategy of keeping Sherlock bored and disinterested has completely gone to hell. The shark senses a bleeder; it’s honing in and starting to circle, and Greg tenses up waiting for the first exploratory bite. He needs an escape, and blesses the buzz of his mobile that interrupts Sherlock’s feeding frenzy before it can truly begin.
“Sorry, mate. Have to go - a dealer’s been knifed in King’s Cross.” Greg makes a speedy exit from the Baker Street flat, berating himself for feeling momentarily grateful that a murder had been committed.
I really have been on this job too long, he thinks.
He spends the next twelve hours working the totally pedestrian, senseless homicide case, the last three hours of which are spent in the company of the perpetrator, listening to his drug-addled and rambling confession. When he finally makes it home that night, he’s bone-tired and can’t be arsed to cook anything. He stands in the kitchen, shoveling the remnants of cold Chinese take-out into his mouth while hunched over the counter. Later, as he lies in bed watching the headlights of passing cars creep across his walls, he thinks again of Belfast. Two days away from London, Sherlock, and the criminal element weren’t enough - he needs a real holiday. He puts the ring back on his right hand and thinks Sherlock can go fuck himself.
He reaches for his mobile in the dark. Squinting as the glare of the screen lights his face, he begins to type.
So what’s Ystad like this time of year? - Greg
****