fic for monkiainen: The Bonds of Government Work (1/4)
Title: The Bonds of Government Work, and worrying over a certain consulting detective
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: pippnfrodo
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Anthea, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, oc's; Mycroft & Greg friendship/pre-relationship
Rating: T
Warnings: mentioned drug-use, awkward Mycroft, injury prone Greg, smart-arse Sherlock; violence and angst consistent with Sherlock series; angst; hurt-comfort; sass; Mycroft is an excellent brother; Lestrade is a competent DI
Summary: A 5+1 in which Mycroft Holmes (minor government official) and Gregory Lestrade (Detective Inspector) first bond over worrying over Sherlock; then continue finding themselves in each others company, and realize they don't really mind.
Also on AO3: "The Bonds of Government Work, and worrying over a certain consulting detective"
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade enjoyed his job, really. Police work could be exciting.
Well, the investigating part could be. At the beginning when they arrived on a crime scene. Then using the clues they saw began piecing together what could have happened to the victim. Digging into the victims lives to find suspects and motives, with interrogations and questionings soon following to weed out the false leads.
There were always too many false leads. And too many people they did find who didn’t end up being helpful at all.
The chasing or hunting down of their final suspect was often the best. The rush of hurrying through the streets of London knowing who they were after and hoping the suspect would be where they had tracked them. The burning question of if the suspect would run or would submit to being arrested.
And finally, how long it would take before the suspect broke and confessed to the crime they had committed.
That part of police work, being a detective, Greg didn’t mind. It was exciting, and he always felt a thrill being able to put criminals away and give satisfaction to victims and their families.
The paperwork, piles of folders containing paperwork that never seemed to fully disappear from his desk, was the boring, awful part of police work. The long nights of work, the restless, sleepless nights until they found the right suspect, were almost just as awful.
The problem was, it always seemed to take too long to find their suspect and to arrest them. The clues never came together quickly enough, the answer to the puzzle took too long to reveal itself, and no one came forward or confessed early enough. Sometimes the sleepless nights Greg suffered through stacked up on each other so much that he was left running solely on caffeine dregs to make it through to the end.
But they were relying on people, human kindness, human motivation, and human suspicion. So of course it took longer. There was no way around that, or so it seemed no matter how hard Greg tried.
Until one rainy night a young brilliant junkie literally stumbled onto his crime scene. Then refused to be turned away until Greg finally came and listened to the boy as he solved the entire case right in front of him.
Greg had been shocked, confused, and… intrigued. But as brilliant as the boy was (Greg couldn’t imagine having a brain like that), he was still obviously a junkie. And Greg couldn’t take that risk.
So Greg wrote down everything he could of what the boy had told him and instructed one of the uniforms to help the boy to the nearest cab.
He also took down the boy's name, but was offered no contact information. So in case the boy was actually right and he needed to follow up, hopefully Greg could find him.
(What kind of name was Sherlock Holmes anyways? And how hard would it be to track him down?)
HIs answer to that came when a few weeks later the brilliant junkie boy appeared at his crime scene again. And tried again to tell him exactly what had happened to the victim without barely even seeing or being told anything about the scene.
This time Greg had taken Sherlock to the side, away from the other officers who were actually doing their jobs. Then he let the boy lose, taking everything Sherlock gave him about what he’d put together and jotting it down as fast as he could keep up.
The boy was obviously brilliant, that couldn’t be denied. But he spoke so quickly Greg could barely understand him; all the while depending on the wall of the building behind him to stay upright and keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat to hide his shaking. The unwashed state of his hair, red-rimmed eyes, and the skeleton-like look of him, was just the more obvious signs.
Greg didn’t know much about the boy, except that he was a junkie and brilliant. But the same character flaw of his that drove him to become an officer and want to put away criminals, also made him want to help the boy. However he was allowed to help. Since even in the little time he’d known the boy Greg was already certain Sherlock would not allow any help or pity.
So this time, after Greg wrote down everything Sherlock told him, he gave Sherlock his card- the one with his mobile number written in pen on the back of it- and made the boy promise to call him if he was ever really in trouble.
After months went by without hearing from Sherlock (which Greg hadn’t really expected) or without seeing Sherlock at scenes (which Greg had expected), Greg suspected the worst about what could have possibly happened to the boy.
Then at a ridiculously late hour on his way home from a crime scene, barely able to keep his eyes open, his mobile buzzed in the pocket of his coat.
Keeping one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road (even with the little amount of traffic), Greg fished a hand into his pocket and managed to pull out his mobile. Just then the light turned red so he came to a very abrupt stop and raised it to his eyes.
His foot nearly slipped on the brake pedal as he read the short text.
Montague Street. Emergency. Come quickly. It’s Sherlock.
Without checking if the light had changed Greg jerked the wheel sharply to turn the car around in the middle of the street. Once he was facing the right direction he pressed down on the gas pedal and pushed the car to go as quickly as it could towards Montague Street.
He hadn’t even known where Sherlock lived, or where he was hopefully keeping off the streets. But Montague Street was a surprise. It wasn’t the best or the worst area, but couldn’t Sherlock do any better? Even if caring about where he was living wasn’t exactly at the top of his priorities?
With the lack of traffic, mostly empty streets, and the traffic lights, which seemed to always turn green in time for him to rush through, Greg managed to arrive at the Montague street address more quickly than he’d planned. Taking advantage of the unofficial perk of being police to park anywhere, Greg parked right in front. He only took the time to turn off his car before he tumbled out and ran towards the building.
Curiously there was an expensive black car with tinted windows sitting on the street just ahead of where he’d left his car, but as he pushed through the unlocked front door Greg only spared a brief thought of why someone who drove that kind of car was in this neighborhood.
Then he was standing inside what could be kindly called the entrance for the building, and stopped abruptly. Even in here the lights were either dim or out completely, and at the very edge of his vision he could see one flickering weakly. The smell wasn’t doing his nose any favors either and it looked like no one had even made an attempt to tidy or clean this place in months.
And this was where Sherlock was living. Somewhere, in this building. In one of the flats.
His mystery texter hadn’t exactly included which flat Sherlock was in, and Greg wasn’t in the mood to go around knocking on doors and flashing his badge. Especially at this hour and with the kind of people he expected lived in such a building.
So Greg stood in the middle of the entryway at the bottom of the stairs up to the upper story, and yelled as loudly as he could, “Sherlock!”
“Upstairs, Detective Inspector!” A voice that was definitely not Sherlock’s but had a similar accent to it called down from what sounded like just at the top of the stairs.
Greg rushed forward, taking one step then another up the stairs. The use of his title by whoever was up there and the relief that hopefully someone had been looking after Sherlock while Greg was on his way put extra energy in his steps.
When Greg had made it nearly to the top of the stairs there was a loud crash of something not so solid meeting something else solid. As Greg froze on the step, staring upward horrified, a strangled yell from Sherlock came of, “Go away!”
The rest of his journey rushing up the stairs and through the first door he saw at the top of the stairs was mostly a blur, he was in such a hurry to get to where Sherlock was and possibly rescue or protect him.
The door to the first room had been left partially open, so Greg shouldered it open the rest of the way and stumbled inside. Then he stopped abruptly just a step inside the door at the scene he’d found.
The room, for what it was, was an absolute mess. There were books and papers stacked everywhere around the floor and near the walls. What remained of the wallpaper was clinging to the walls only still in some places but was mostly flaked off. The shades were drawn over the two windows cutting off any natural light that may have come in during the day.
The only furniture in the room was a three-shelved bookcase overflowing with books pushed into any available space holding up its own part of the wall, a battered wooden table in the center of the room that looked like it’d seen better days, and a sofa.
As soon as his gaze drifted to the sofa Greg couldn’t look away in fear something else would go wrong.
Sherlock was curled in on himself on two of the sofa cushions; barely recognizable dressed in a faded t-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. He was pressed into the back of the sofa, his bare feet pushed into the space between the two cushions.
His head was at the other end of the sofa, his face hidden from view and sweat-dampened curls clinging to his neck. The pale skin visible beyond the confines of his shirtsleeves and pajama legs looked even paler against the fabric of the cushions. And sitting next to him in the small space between Sherlock and the arm of the sofa was a man, a little younger than Greg.
Greg was sure he had never seen him before. The man had very carefully combed and maintained dark ginger hair and a sharp profile with skin almost as pale as Sherlock's. But he had Sherlock’s left arm draped over his leg and his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s left wrist near his pulse. He was wearing a waistcoat that was open with a collared shirt still buttoned to his neck but the sleeves were carefully rolled up to his elbows. If Greg had to guess he’d come to look in on Sherlock right after he finished his day at whatever government office he worked in. There was a look to all of these government types that Greg had learned to notice.
The man’s other hand was gripping at the edge of the sofa cushion next to him, and he was staring down at Sherlock with a look full of regret and worry. Not the look that a stranger would give Sherlock, or even a common acquaintance that didn’t spend much time with the boy. So someone close to him then, who’d likely seen this before.
Greg cleared his throat and took another step into the room. “Er, hello,” he offered in what he hoped was a quiet voice.
The man didn’t startle at the sound of Greg’s voice, but he also didn’t glance over at Greg or away from Sherlock. Still he greeted, “Hello, Detective Inspector.”
A loud, exasperated sigh came from somewhere near Sherlock’s head and as a full-body tremor swept over him the boy shifted slightly on the cushion.
“Why can’t you all just go away,” the boy tried to demand but the words mostly all slurred together so it was hard to understand him. “Don’t need anyone.”
“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock,” the man said firmly, readjusting his hold on Sherlock’s wrist when the boy tried to pull away from him. “No matter what you try.”
"Don't want you here, My," Sherlock insisted angrily, his entire body shaking in a way that meant he couldn’t stay still. He tried to curl more tightly in on himself, but his legs moved so slowly across the cushions towards his chest it was almost painful to watch. "Go back to running the government, that's always been more important to you."
"Not when you've decided to continue systematically poisoning yourself," the other man- My?- replied evenly, perfectly calm even in the face of Sherlock's temper.
"Like you care," Sherlock snarled, pressing his face further into the fabric of the cushion.
"You need looking after, Sherlock. Especially since you obviously aren't capable of looking after yourself," the man told Sherlock in clipped tones, his hand tightening around Sherlock's thin, bony wrist.
Even in his weakened, altered state that was apparently all the scolding Sherlock could stand. In a sudden burst of energy Sherlock pushed himself partially up off the sofa and with his free hand reached across to snatch the mobile from it’s place on the man's other knee.
He wrapped his fingers around the mobile and before the man could do more then sharply scold, "Sherlock!" He bent his arm and flung it as hard as he could away from him, shouting, "I am not a child!"
Unfortunately the direction Sherlock had chosen to fling the mobile was- unknowingly or not- exactly where Greg was standing just inside the doorway. In almost slow motion Greg watched as the mobile sailed towards him, coming closer and closer. His brain managed to get a signal to the rest of his body to duck out of the way just in time, so it flew right past his ear.
A few seconds later he heard the fragile mobile make contact with the solid wall, and following human nature Greg turned his head to look at the destruction.
“Sherlock, there was no call for such behavior,” he heard the unknown man scold from behind him, his voice sharp but resigned.
Greg had turned to look just as the mobile shattered on contact with the wall, the case and screen breaking into shards that ricocheted off the wall and back towards Greg.
He closed his eyes to protect himself and brought his hands up as a shield. But not quickly enough as he felt stinging cuts burst across his cheeks and forehead. They probably were just as dangerous as paper cuts, but god they hurt.
“Detective Inspector! Are you alright?” The man called, sounding actually worried. There was another low annoyed groan from the sofa that could only be Sherlock.
“Now will you both go away?” Sherlock questioned, his voice slightly muffled again.
Greg slowly turned around, not really thinking about what he looked like, to face the sofa again. Sherlock had curled into an even tighter ball, managing to fit on almost just one of the cushions with his face pressed into the cushion again. The other man was still holding onto his wrist, clutching at it almost, while Sherlock’s head pushed against the side of his leg.
“That wasn’t very nice, Sherlock,” Greg admonished, brushing his hand over the stinging cuts. It made them hurt more, and when Greg looked down at his hand there were small marks of bright red blood against his skin. “Look at this, I’m bleeding.”
“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock mumbled into the fabric just before another full-body tremor wracked his body.
He made a soft noise of discomfort then shuffled forward, trying to fit himself into the hairline space between the back of the sofa and the cushions. “My,” Sherlock said in what from anyone else would be called a plaintive whine. “Hurts.”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the man whispered quietly, still clutching at Sherlock’s wrist. He lifted his other hand from his leg and moved it to hover over the top of Sherlock’s head and the dark sweat-dampened curls. But he didn’t set it down.
Instead the man turned his head so his gaze could settle on the broken remnants of his phone scattered over the ground. “You will be paying for a new phone, however.”
Sherlock made an annoyed noise but didn’t put his exasperation into words this time. The only sign were the fingers of his hand currently gripped in the other man’s curled inwards until his hand was a fist.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” Greg spoke into the silence that had fallen, wiping a hand over his face again now that the stinging pain had lessened.
The other man, who Sherlock had been calling My, finally raised his head to look directly at Greg. His eyes were surprisingly light, almost as pale as Sherlock’s. And, for the first time, Greg could see a slight, very possible, family resemblance. Especially the same calculating, considering gaze.
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Detective Inspector. Especially since you were kind enough to come so rapidly at my request.”
Greg stopped rubbing at his cuts to freeze, staring at the other man. “That was you? How did you get my number?”
The man only offered a small, mysterious smile in response that only made Greg more determined for an answer.
Except just then a siren blared just outside the window, followed by the eye-searingly bright flashing lights of…
“Is that an ambulance?” Greg questioned, probably unnecessarily what with the siren and flashing lights just outside the building on the street.
“Of course,” The man confirmed pleasantly, as if this should be plainly obvious. “I rang them just after I found Sherlock in this condition.” After a long consideration ‘My’ finally lowered his hand to rest lightly on top of Sherlock’s head.
Sherlock hummed lowly under his breath, pressing into the hand and pushing his face against the man’s leg. “My.”
“Would you go meet the ambulance, Detective Inspector?” ‘My’ requested pleasantly enough even if Greg knew it was more a command. “I’m afraid I can’t move at the moment.”
“Sure, I’ll… be right back.” Greg agreed, turning around and carefully avoided the debris from the mobile as he walked back to the door. The siren from the ambulance had been silenced, but the lights were still flashing.
He was stepping through the open doorway when ‘My’ called, making Greg stop, “You may also want to request a first aid kit from one of the paramedics. To help with those cuts on your face.”
“At least they’ve stopped bleeding,” Greg replied easily, with a chuckle. “It’s not the worst injury I’ve seen on the force.”
HIs response seemed to surprise the other man, if the slight widening of his eyes and sudden twist to his mouth meant what Greg thought it did.
Before he could do anything else, Greg turned back around and walked through the door to quickly rush down the stairs to end up at the front door.
The ambulance was double-parked on the street right outside of the building; and as Greg walked outside one of the paramedics was walking up to the front door while the other stayed at the back of the ambulance.
Greg waved down the paramedic walking towards him and came to a slow stop where they met. The paramedic, the tag on his uniform said ‘Jones’ treated him to a curious but impatient to do his job look.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Greg intoned, the title rolling off his tongue easily by now. “You want the first door right at the top of the stairs. Early 30s male, suffering severe drug related withdrawal. He was mostly conscious last I saw him a few minutes ago.” Greg stopped and let the official tone drop from his voice. “He’s still not in a very good way. Someone’s up there now with him, but…”
The paramedic spoke over him before Greg could trail off into silence for too long. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll look after him and get him to hospital.” The man raised his hand and lightly patted Greg on the shoulder in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture. “No need to worry, sir.”
Then the man turned and called back to his partner by the ambulance, “Hey, Pete, come on! I’ll need your help on this one.”
“Coming!” The paramedic hovering at the back of the ambulance called. He grabbed some kind of kit from inside then swung the back doors closed on each other. The man stepped up onto the pavement then jogged over to them, waving at Greg with his free hand. “Hello, sir.”
Greg straightened his posture, shifting slightly on the pavement. Apparently he’d gotten to the point in his career where even without introducing himself he looked like a proper, senior officer. “Evening.”
“Through the front, up the stairs, first door you see. Suspected severe drug withdrawal,” Jones the senior paramedic instructed his fellow paramedic in a clipped no-nonsense tone Greg appreciated. “Get going.”
Pete the paramedic nodded to Greg then quickly went past them to rush up to the front doors and take the front steps in one leap. He pushed past the door and disappeared inside.
“Don’t worry, he’s young but he knows his job. He’ll take care of your lad,” Jones the paramedic said into the heavy silence now that they were just standing there. After a pause he gave Greg a closer look. “Are you alright, sir? Those cuts look nasty.”
Without meaning to Greg raised his hand to brush at one of the cuts on his cheeks, which was stupid because it just made it hurt again. “It’s fine, just an accident.”
The paramedic looked slightly appeased by this explanation, taking a step back from Greg. “Yes, sir. But I do have a first aid kit in the back with plasters if you need any.”
From the building behind them came the sound of a window being forcefully pushed open. Greg turned to see a window on the first story, which meant it was likely Sherlock’s. He was proved right when the younger paramedic stuck his head out through the window.
“Sir? I need your help bringing him down to the ambulance.” The man shouted down to them, voice barely controlled with tension. “He’s barely conscious anymore.”
That was not a good turn of events. “Is the other man still up there with him? They were sitting on the sofa before.”
Above them in the window the paramedic gave him a look then turned to look back inside the room. “Er, he’s on the phone with someone, sir. Can’t hear what he’s talking about.”
Greg sighed and raised a hand to knead at his forehead. Definitely a government type, probably one of the higher-ups whose work was top secret. What had happened to Sherlock being a priority?
He turned a little to address the paramedic standing next to him. “You should probably go and help your man. I don’t think the other man up there will be very helpful.”
“On my way,” the senior paramedic said then started walking away towards the front doors. In the window the other paramedic withdrew out of sight back into the room.
Greg stood on the pavement for what felt like ages as seconds, minutes, slowly ticked by. He resisted the urge to start pacing back and forth to just be doing something. He also wanted to run upstairs and into the room where Sherlock was currently unconscious and do something to help, but the more logical part of his brain told him he’d just be in the way and he should let the paramedics do their job.
So he was stuck out here on the pavement, waiting impatiently for the paramedics to come down with Sherlock. Or for any signal from upstairs that something had gone wrong. He was used to long nights of casework, and waiting for something to happen or another clue or lead to be unearthed. That was part of the job. But Sherlock was more than personal business.
Greg stayed where he was on the pavement, caught between the front door to the building and the ambulance. Trapped. And pulled in two directions.
Then finally, before he could give in and rush the doors Greg heard the front door to the building open again. He turned to see it swing open on itself, and then he took a step forward as the first paramedic, Jones, stepped out onto the front step.
It was when he saw a pale arm slung over Jones’ shoulder that Greg nearly broke into a run, especially when the arm proved to be attached to Sherlock. The two paramedics were managing to keep Sherlock upright between them, taking all of the boy’s mostly unconscious weight. Sherlock’s head had lolled forward onto his chest and his bare feet were dragging along the dirty ground.
“How is he?” Greg asked sharply, reaching out a hand to brush the curls away from Sherlock’s face to try and see him better. His bare skin was clammy and cold to the touch, and Greg would swear he looked even paler now.
Sherlock made some noise that could have been an attempt at speaking, but Jones spoke over him. “Not well, sir. We need to get him to hospital right away.”
“Right, yes,” Greg said, taking his hand away and stepped back out of their way. “Carry on.”
“Yes, sir,” said the younger paramedic. He wrapped his arm more tightly around Sherlock then shared a look with the other paramedic. It made Greg think they were more worried about Sherlock than they’d let on.
Together the two paramedics stepped away from the front step and started walking along the pavement towards the ambulance, Sherlock hanging between them.
The front door opened again behind Greg and he turned around to look, just in time to see ‘My’ step out holding another mobile in his hand. Greg wondered where he’d gotten it and also how many extras he carried with him just in case.
“Thank you for your help tonight, Detective Inspector. It is greatly appreciated.” ‘My’ told him, sounding surprisingly honest for a government worker. At least in Greg’s experience. He slid the mobile back into one of his pockets then pressed a hand over it, just to check.
The man stepped off down onto the pavement and began walking with quick steps after the paramedics. “One moment please, if you would.”
On Sherlock’s right Jones stopped first and turned to look back over Sherlock’s shoulder. “We are in a bit of a hurry,” he said, eying ‘My’s’ clothes and the jacket draped carefully over his arm.
“I’m well aware,” ‘My’ answered in a clipped voice. It was eerily similar to Sherlock’s response to statements that were, in his opinion, idiotically obvious. “However, I have some information you’ll need.”
Jones’ expression changed to one that was more politely curious. “And what would that be, sir?”
The higher-than-thou down the nose stare for common mortals was also eerily similar to what Greg had seen from Sherlock. ‘My’ slid a hand into his pocket and drew out off-white, thin, business card. “I’ve spoken to the attending A&E physician. When you arrive give her this; she’s promised to make sure Sherlock will get exactly what he needs.” ‘My’ handed over the business card to the paramedic who, to his credit, took it after only a slight hesitation.
Jones tucked it into a hidden pocket in his uniform then shifted to take more of Sherlock’s weight. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
The two paramedics managed to get Sherlock the rest of the way to the ambulance without any more delays. Even with Sherlock mostly unconscious working together they helped him up into the ambulance with no difficulties.
Greg and My followed after them to the back of the ambulance then hovered on the pavement just outside. A few sneaky glances to the side at My proved he wasn’t as calm as he seemed to be trying hard to appear. His eyes were carefully tracking the paramedics every movement.
The paramedics settled Sherlock on the stretcher inside and called out checks to each other. Then finally Jones reappeared on the back step of the ambulance and easily stepped down onto the street.
As he reached out to close and latch the door, ‘My’ spoke yet again. “One more thing, please.”
The paramedic seemed to be making an effort to keep his patience. “And what would that be, sir?” He asked, his hand still curled around the handle of the door.
Greg’s brows jumped upward when My turned to look at him. “I believe the Detective Inspector would benefit from some plasters from your first aid kit,” he suggested, pale eyes lighting on certain areas of Greg’s face. Ones that Greg realized still stung slightly now his attention was drawn to them.
“Right,” Jones the paramedic said, while looking between Greg and My in a way that was completely unnecessary.
Before Greg could call him on it, Jones pulled the door open again and reached inside. A few seconds later he fetched out a first aid kit, holding it by the handle.
Jones glanced quickly at Greg before opening the kit and taking out half dozen or so plasters. “Will these be enough?” He asked with a faint smile, holding them out to My.
“I believe so,” My answered, taking them carefully from the paramedic. “Thank you.”
Jones closed the kit and set it back inside the ambulance, swinging the door closed and latched it pointedly. “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands,” he said quietly, nodding at the ambulance.
Then Jones knocked twice on the back door and walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, got in, and a few seconds later the ambulance was driving off with the siren and lights flashing.
Greg wasn’t sure how long he and My stood there watching after the ambulance. The street was almost completely quiet, even at this late hour, and the building behind them remained quiet and dark. It felt almost strangely deserted.
My suddenly spoke into the silence, starting Greg. “We should go to your car, Detective Inspector. You’ll have to sit down while I apply these plasters.”
“I’m fine,” Greg protested, but he was so tired that there wasn’t much he could do as the other man led him over to his car. It was strange that My knew which car was his, even though there weren’t many others on the street, since Greg hadn’t pointed it out. But he’d think about that later, when his brain had gotten sleep and started working again.
Now Greg slid a hand into one of his pockets to pull out his car keys. It was simple enough to press the button to unlock the doors. When they finally stopped next to the driver's side door, Greg shuffling along, My helpfully opened the door for him. For his own respect Greg managed to more or less settle himself onto the edge of the driver's seat facing the street.
My stood in front of him on the pavement between Greg and the car door. He patiently peeled off the back to the first plaster, looking down at it with almost comical intense concentration. Then, holding the edges with just his fingertips in a way that spoke of practice, My reached out and very, very carefully pressed it to the left side of Greg’s forehead. All the while avoiding meeting Greg’s eyes.
Greg tried not to feel too embarrassed about this treatment. Especially since he told himself it would be much harder trying to do this himself; and the cut already hurt less.
Eventually the drawn out silence, and feeling like a child again, got the better of him. “You don’t have to do this you know. Pretty sure they’ll heal up on their own.” Greg offered, looking away down the street.
“I know,” My acknowledged, placing the second plaster on Greg’s cheek. “But I don’t mind. After all, it’s Sherlock’s fault you’re injured. And he is my responsibility.”
“Is he? News to me,” Greg muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes as My placed a plaster right above his right eye.
He may have accidently said that out loud, and louder than he’d meant to. Greg yawned, feeling the plaster on his cheek pull a little. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it was well past midnight.
My peeled the back off yet another plaster. Greg was sure at this rate he’d look terrible in the morning. “Sherlock refuses to admit it; and he enjoys fighting against or avoiding any protection I attempt to give him.”
He reached forward to press this plaster onto Greg’s chin, doing so very carefully. After a moment he continued, “My position offers me a certain amount of access to CCTV and security.” My shifted away from him, further back onto the safety of the pavement. “However all I can do is from behind a camera and over the phone. Sherlock, even in his current state, is more than capable of finding ways to avoid such tracking anywhere in the city.”
Greg huffed a laugh. “Now that doesn’t surprise me.” He lifted his head again with enormous effort in order to squint up at My. “Should I be worried that you have so much access to monitoring devices, and that you use it to track Sherlock of all people?”
The man finally looked down at him directly. He met Greg’s eyes, but he was frowning in such a way that even though it was faint, spoke volumes. “Of course I would be monitoring Sherlock. He of all people needs oversight.”
Greg found it difficult to argue with that. Even with My’s suspicious and questionable methods. So he said, “Well I’m grateful you were watching over him tonight. Otherwise,” Greg forced himself to look away, uncomfortable with even the idea of what he was about to say, “That ambulance would be heading somewhere else.”
My shifted on the pavement, his hand moving to rest on the pocket where he’d put his mobile. “Indeed,” he finally intoned, darkly.
That was enough of that, Greg decided. “Listen, I want to thank you for sending me here tonight. For letting me know Sherlock was in trouble.” He rubbed his hand over his leg. “I, wouldn’t have forgiven myself. If I hadn’t been here. So, thank you. For texting me to come and for watching over Sherlock. He needs someone looking after him.”
“Yes.” My replied simply. Then he cleared his throat forcefully. “There’s no need to thank me, Detective Inspector. Your being here was very helpful. And needed.”
“Glad to be helpful,” Greg said, only half-joking. He glanced at the few remaining plasters in My’s hand then rubbed a hand over his cheek. “I didn’t expect to be injured, but at least they aren’t really harmful.”
My’s eyes flickered over Greg’s face just briefly before he looked down at the plasters he was still holding. “You should take these,” he suggested, holding them out to Greg. “Those cuts may reopen, and need looking after.”
Greg lifted a hand and took the plasters from the other man without touching him. When he did My quickly drew his hand back and hid it in his pocket instead. “Thank you,” Greg said, putting the plasters in one of his pockets.
My nodded distantly, looking like his mind was already somewhere else. He straightened harshly, as if pulling on another persona. One of the powerful, haughty, government types Greg was used to butting heads with.
“I trust you’ll be able to make it home safely on your own?” My asked distantly, as if he didn’t really care about the answer. Even if Greg was sure he did. “Despite your injuries.”
“I’ll be fine, I’ve gotten home safe in much worse conditions than this,” Greg said, swinging his legs inside the car and settling back into the seat. He dug his keys out and started the engine.
My stepped back again as if to put more distance between himself and Greg. But he didn’t start walking away. So before Greg pulled the door closed and drove off, he turned to My and requested, “Keep me updated about Sherlock. I want to know how he is.”
“Of course,” My agreed with a solemn nod. “I have your number.”
“Yes, you do.” Greg decided that was all he could do and hoped the man would follow through on his agreement.
“Good night,” he said in place of good-bye and pulled the door closed.
Greg left My behind standing on the pavement and headed in the direction of his flat as fast as he dared. Strangely all the traffic lights he passed turned green, making his journey much easier and shorter than he’d expected.
Recipient: monkiainen
Author: pippnfrodo
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Anthea, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, oc's; Mycroft & Greg friendship/pre-relationship
Rating: T
Warnings: mentioned drug-use, awkward Mycroft, injury prone Greg, smart-arse Sherlock; violence and angst consistent with Sherlock series; angst; hurt-comfort; sass; Mycroft is an excellent brother; Lestrade is a competent DI
Summary: A 5+1 in which Mycroft Holmes (minor government official) and Gregory Lestrade (Detective Inspector) first bond over worrying over Sherlock; then continue finding themselves in each others company, and realize they don't really mind.
Also on AO3: "The Bonds of Government Work, and worrying over a certain consulting detective"
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade enjoyed his job, really. Police work could be exciting.
Well, the investigating part could be. At the beginning when they arrived on a crime scene. Then using the clues they saw began piecing together what could have happened to the victim. Digging into the victims lives to find suspects and motives, with interrogations and questionings soon following to weed out the false leads.
There were always too many false leads. And too many people they did find who didn’t end up being helpful at all.
The chasing or hunting down of their final suspect was often the best. The rush of hurrying through the streets of London knowing who they were after and hoping the suspect would be where they had tracked them. The burning question of if the suspect would run or would submit to being arrested.
And finally, how long it would take before the suspect broke and confessed to the crime they had committed.
That part of police work, being a detective, Greg didn’t mind. It was exciting, and he always felt a thrill being able to put criminals away and give satisfaction to victims and their families.
The paperwork, piles of folders containing paperwork that never seemed to fully disappear from his desk, was the boring, awful part of police work. The long nights of work, the restless, sleepless nights until they found the right suspect, were almost just as awful.
The problem was, it always seemed to take too long to find their suspect and to arrest them. The clues never came together quickly enough, the answer to the puzzle took too long to reveal itself, and no one came forward or confessed early enough. Sometimes the sleepless nights Greg suffered through stacked up on each other so much that he was left running solely on caffeine dregs to make it through to the end.
But they were relying on people, human kindness, human motivation, and human suspicion. So of course it took longer. There was no way around that, or so it seemed no matter how hard Greg tried.
Until one rainy night a young brilliant junkie literally stumbled onto his crime scene. Then refused to be turned away until Greg finally came and listened to the boy as he solved the entire case right in front of him.
Greg had been shocked, confused, and… intrigued. But as brilliant as the boy was (Greg couldn’t imagine having a brain like that), he was still obviously a junkie. And Greg couldn’t take that risk.
So Greg wrote down everything he could of what the boy had told him and instructed one of the uniforms to help the boy to the nearest cab.
He also took down the boy's name, but was offered no contact information. So in case the boy was actually right and he needed to follow up, hopefully Greg could find him.
(What kind of name was Sherlock Holmes anyways? And how hard would it be to track him down?)
HIs answer to that came when a few weeks later the brilliant junkie boy appeared at his crime scene again. And tried again to tell him exactly what had happened to the victim without barely even seeing or being told anything about the scene.
This time Greg had taken Sherlock to the side, away from the other officers who were actually doing their jobs. Then he let the boy lose, taking everything Sherlock gave him about what he’d put together and jotting it down as fast as he could keep up.
The boy was obviously brilliant, that couldn’t be denied. But he spoke so quickly Greg could barely understand him; all the while depending on the wall of the building behind him to stay upright and keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat to hide his shaking. The unwashed state of his hair, red-rimmed eyes, and the skeleton-like look of him, was just the more obvious signs.
Greg didn’t know much about the boy, except that he was a junkie and brilliant. But the same character flaw of his that drove him to become an officer and want to put away criminals, also made him want to help the boy. However he was allowed to help. Since even in the little time he’d known the boy Greg was already certain Sherlock would not allow any help or pity.
So this time, after Greg wrote down everything Sherlock told him, he gave Sherlock his card- the one with his mobile number written in pen on the back of it- and made the boy promise to call him if he was ever really in trouble.
After months went by without hearing from Sherlock (which Greg hadn’t really expected) or without seeing Sherlock at scenes (which Greg had expected), Greg suspected the worst about what could have possibly happened to the boy.
Then at a ridiculously late hour on his way home from a crime scene, barely able to keep his eyes open, his mobile buzzed in the pocket of his coat.
Keeping one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road (even with the little amount of traffic), Greg fished a hand into his pocket and managed to pull out his mobile. Just then the light turned red so he came to a very abrupt stop and raised it to his eyes.
His foot nearly slipped on the brake pedal as he read the short text.
Montague Street. Emergency. Come quickly. It’s Sherlock.
Without checking if the light had changed Greg jerked the wheel sharply to turn the car around in the middle of the street. Once he was facing the right direction he pressed down on the gas pedal and pushed the car to go as quickly as it could towards Montague Street.
He hadn’t even known where Sherlock lived, or where he was hopefully keeping off the streets. But Montague Street was a surprise. It wasn’t the best or the worst area, but couldn’t Sherlock do any better? Even if caring about where he was living wasn’t exactly at the top of his priorities?
With the lack of traffic, mostly empty streets, and the traffic lights, which seemed to always turn green in time for him to rush through, Greg managed to arrive at the Montague street address more quickly than he’d planned. Taking advantage of the unofficial perk of being police to park anywhere, Greg parked right in front. He only took the time to turn off his car before he tumbled out and ran towards the building.
Curiously there was an expensive black car with tinted windows sitting on the street just ahead of where he’d left his car, but as he pushed through the unlocked front door Greg only spared a brief thought of why someone who drove that kind of car was in this neighborhood.
Then he was standing inside what could be kindly called the entrance for the building, and stopped abruptly. Even in here the lights were either dim or out completely, and at the very edge of his vision he could see one flickering weakly. The smell wasn’t doing his nose any favors either and it looked like no one had even made an attempt to tidy or clean this place in months.
And this was where Sherlock was living. Somewhere, in this building. In one of the flats.
His mystery texter hadn’t exactly included which flat Sherlock was in, and Greg wasn’t in the mood to go around knocking on doors and flashing his badge. Especially at this hour and with the kind of people he expected lived in such a building.
So Greg stood in the middle of the entryway at the bottom of the stairs up to the upper story, and yelled as loudly as he could, “Sherlock!”
“Upstairs, Detective Inspector!” A voice that was definitely not Sherlock’s but had a similar accent to it called down from what sounded like just at the top of the stairs.
Greg rushed forward, taking one step then another up the stairs. The use of his title by whoever was up there and the relief that hopefully someone had been looking after Sherlock while Greg was on his way put extra energy in his steps.
When Greg had made it nearly to the top of the stairs there was a loud crash of something not so solid meeting something else solid. As Greg froze on the step, staring upward horrified, a strangled yell from Sherlock came of, “Go away!”
The rest of his journey rushing up the stairs and through the first door he saw at the top of the stairs was mostly a blur, he was in such a hurry to get to where Sherlock was and possibly rescue or protect him.
The door to the first room had been left partially open, so Greg shouldered it open the rest of the way and stumbled inside. Then he stopped abruptly just a step inside the door at the scene he’d found.
The room, for what it was, was an absolute mess. There were books and papers stacked everywhere around the floor and near the walls. What remained of the wallpaper was clinging to the walls only still in some places but was mostly flaked off. The shades were drawn over the two windows cutting off any natural light that may have come in during the day.
The only furniture in the room was a three-shelved bookcase overflowing with books pushed into any available space holding up its own part of the wall, a battered wooden table in the center of the room that looked like it’d seen better days, and a sofa.
As soon as his gaze drifted to the sofa Greg couldn’t look away in fear something else would go wrong.
Sherlock was curled in on himself on two of the sofa cushions; barely recognizable dressed in a faded t-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. He was pressed into the back of the sofa, his bare feet pushed into the space between the two cushions.
His head was at the other end of the sofa, his face hidden from view and sweat-dampened curls clinging to his neck. The pale skin visible beyond the confines of his shirtsleeves and pajama legs looked even paler against the fabric of the cushions. And sitting next to him in the small space between Sherlock and the arm of the sofa was a man, a little younger than Greg.
Greg was sure he had never seen him before. The man had very carefully combed and maintained dark ginger hair and a sharp profile with skin almost as pale as Sherlock's. But he had Sherlock’s left arm draped over his leg and his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s left wrist near his pulse. He was wearing a waistcoat that was open with a collared shirt still buttoned to his neck but the sleeves were carefully rolled up to his elbows. If Greg had to guess he’d come to look in on Sherlock right after he finished his day at whatever government office he worked in. There was a look to all of these government types that Greg had learned to notice.
The man’s other hand was gripping at the edge of the sofa cushion next to him, and he was staring down at Sherlock with a look full of regret and worry. Not the look that a stranger would give Sherlock, or even a common acquaintance that didn’t spend much time with the boy. So someone close to him then, who’d likely seen this before.
Greg cleared his throat and took another step into the room. “Er, hello,” he offered in what he hoped was a quiet voice.
The man didn’t startle at the sound of Greg’s voice, but he also didn’t glance over at Greg or away from Sherlock. Still he greeted, “Hello, Detective Inspector.”
A loud, exasperated sigh came from somewhere near Sherlock’s head and as a full-body tremor swept over him the boy shifted slightly on the cushion.
“Why can’t you all just go away,” the boy tried to demand but the words mostly all slurred together so it was hard to understand him. “Don’t need anyone.”
“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock,” the man said firmly, readjusting his hold on Sherlock’s wrist when the boy tried to pull away from him. “No matter what you try.”
"Don't want you here, My," Sherlock insisted angrily, his entire body shaking in a way that meant he couldn’t stay still. He tried to curl more tightly in on himself, but his legs moved so slowly across the cushions towards his chest it was almost painful to watch. "Go back to running the government, that's always been more important to you."
"Not when you've decided to continue systematically poisoning yourself," the other man- My?- replied evenly, perfectly calm even in the face of Sherlock's temper.
"Like you care," Sherlock snarled, pressing his face further into the fabric of the cushion.
"You need looking after, Sherlock. Especially since you obviously aren't capable of looking after yourself," the man told Sherlock in clipped tones, his hand tightening around Sherlock's thin, bony wrist.
Even in his weakened, altered state that was apparently all the scolding Sherlock could stand. In a sudden burst of energy Sherlock pushed himself partially up off the sofa and with his free hand reached across to snatch the mobile from it’s place on the man's other knee.
He wrapped his fingers around the mobile and before the man could do more then sharply scold, "Sherlock!" He bent his arm and flung it as hard as he could away from him, shouting, "I am not a child!"
Unfortunately the direction Sherlock had chosen to fling the mobile was- unknowingly or not- exactly where Greg was standing just inside the doorway. In almost slow motion Greg watched as the mobile sailed towards him, coming closer and closer. His brain managed to get a signal to the rest of his body to duck out of the way just in time, so it flew right past his ear.
A few seconds later he heard the fragile mobile make contact with the solid wall, and following human nature Greg turned his head to look at the destruction.
“Sherlock, there was no call for such behavior,” he heard the unknown man scold from behind him, his voice sharp but resigned.
Greg had turned to look just as the mobile shattered on contact with the wall, the case and screen breaking into shards that ricocheted off the wall and back towards Greg.
He closed his eyes to protect himself and brought his hands up as a shield. But not quickly enough as he felt stinging cuts burst across his cheeks and forehead. They probably were just as dangerous as paper cuts, but god they hurt.
“Detective Inspector! Are you alright?” The man called, sounding actually worried. There was another low annoyed groan from the sofa that could only be Sherlock.
“Now will you both go away?” Sherlock questioned, his voice slightly muffled again.
Greg slowly turned around, not really thinking about what he looked like, to face the sofa again. Sherlock had curled into an even tighter ball, managing to fit on almost just one of the cushions with his face pressed into the cushion again. The other man was still holding onto his wrist, clutching at it almost, while Sherlock’s head pushed against the side of his leg.
“That wasn’t very nice, Sherlock,” Greg admonished, brushing his hand over the stinging cuts. It made them hurt more, and when Greg looked down at his hand there were small marks of bright red blood against his skin. “Look at this, I’m bleeding.”
“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock mumbled into the fabric just before another full-body tremor wracked his body.
He made a soft noise of discomfort then shuffled forward, trying to fit himself into the hairline space between the back of the sofa and the cushions. “My,” Sherlock said in what from anyone else would be called a plaintive whine. “Hurts.”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the man whispered quietly, still clutching at Sherlock’s wrist. He lifted his other hand from his leg and moved it to hover over the top of Sherlock’s head and the dark sweat-dampened curls. But he didn’t set it down.
Instead the man turned his head so his gaze could settle on the broken remnants of his phone scattered over the ground. “You will be paying for a new phone, however.”
Sherlock made an annoyed noise but didn’t put his exasperation into words this time. The only sign were the fingers of his hand currently gripped in the other man’s curled inwards until his hand was a fist.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” Greg spoke into the silence that had fallen, wiping a hand over his face again now that the stinging pain had lessened.
The other man, who Sherlock had been calling My, finally raised his head to look directly at Greg. His eyes were surprisingly light, almost as pale as Sherlock’s. And, for the first time, Greg could see a slight, very possible, family resemblance. Especially the same calculating, considering gaze.
“I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Detective Inspector. Especially since you were kind enough to come so rapidly at my request.”
Greg stopped rubbing at his cuts to freeze, staring at the other man. “That was you? How did you get my number?”
The man only offered a small, mysterious smile in response that only made Greg more determined for an answer.
Except just then a siren blared just outside the window, followed by the eye-searingly bright flashing lights of…
“Is that an ambulance?” Greg questioned, probably unnecessarily what with the siren and flashing lights just outside the building on the street.
“Of course,” The man confirmed pleasantly, as if this should be plainly obvious. “I rang them just after I found Sherlock in this condition.” After a long consideration ‘My’ finally lowered his hand to rest lightly on top of Sherlock’s head.
Sherlock hummed lowly under his breath, pressing into the hand and pushing his face against the man’s leg. “My.”
“Would you go meet the ambulance, Detective Inspector?” ‘My’ requested pleasantly enough even if Greg knew it was more a command. “I’m afraid I can’t move at the moment.”
“Sure, I’ll… be right back.” Greg agreed, turning around and carefully avoided the debris from the mobile as he walked back to the door. The siren from the ambulance had been silenced, but the lights were still flashing.
He was stepping through the open doorway when ‘My’ called, making Greg stop, “You may also want to request a first aid kit from one of the paramedics. To help with those cuts on your face.”
“At least they’ve stopped bleeding,” Greg replied easily, with a chuckle. “It’s not the worst injury I’ve seen on the force.”
HIs response seemed to surprise the other man, if the slight widening of his eyes and sudden twist to his mouth meant what Greg thought it did.
Before he could do anything else, Greg turned back around and walked through the door to quickly rush down the stairs to end up at the front door.
The ambulance was double-parked on the street right outside of the building; and as Greg walked outside one of the paramedics was walking up to the front door while the other stayed at the back of the ambulance.
Greg waved down the paramedic walking towards him and came to a slow stop where they met. The paramedic, the tag on his uniform said ‘Jones’ treated him to a curious but impatient to do his job look.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Greg intoned, the title rolling off his tongue easily by now. “You want the first door right at the top of the stairs. Early 30s male, suffering severe drug related withdrawal. He was mostly conscious last I saw him a few minutes ago.” Greg stopped and let the official tone drop from his voice. “He’s still not in a very good way. Someone’s up there now with him, but…”
The paramedic spoke over him before Greg could trail off into silence for too long. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll look after him and get him to hospital.” The man raised his hand and lightly patted Greg on the shoulder in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture. “No need to worry, sir.”
Then the man turned and called back to his partner by the ambulance, “Hey, Pete, come on! I’ll need your help on this one.”
“Coming!” The paramedic hovering at the back of the ambulance called. He grabbed some kind of kit from inside then swung the back doors closed on each other. The man stepped up onto the pavement then jogged over to them, waving at Greg with his free hand. “Hello, sir.”
Greg straightened his posture, shifting slightly on the pavement. Apparently he’d gotten to the point in his career where even without introducing himself he looked like a proper, senior officer. “Evening.”
“Through the front, up the stairs, first door you see. Suspected severe drug withdrawal,” Jones the senior paramedic instructed his fellow paramedic in a clipped no-nonsense tone Greg appreciated. “Get going.”
Pete the paramedic nodded to Greg then quickly went past them to rush up to the front doors and take the front steps in one leap. He pushed past the door and disappeared inside.
“Don’t worry, he’s young but he knows his job. He’ll take care of your lad,” Jones the paramedic said into the heavy silence now that they were just standing there. After a pause he gave Greg a closer look. “Are you alright, sir? Those cuts look nasty.”
Without meaning to Greg raised his hand to brush at one of the cuts on his cheeks, which was stupid because it just made it hurt again. “It’s fine, just an accident.”
The paramedic looked slightly appeased by this explanation, taking a step back from Greg. “Yes, sir. But I do have a first aid kit in the back with plasters if you need any.”
From the building behind them came the sound of a window being forcefully pushed open. Greg turned to see a window on the first story, which meant it was likely Sherlock’s. He was proved right when the younger paramedic stuck his head out through the window.
“Sir? I need your help bringing him down to the ambulance.” The man shouted down to them, voice barely controlled with tension. “He’s barely conscious anymore.”
That was not a good turn of events. “Is the other man still up there with him? They were sitting on the sofa before.”
Above them in the window the paramedic gave him a look then turned to look back inside the room. “Er, he’s on the phone with someone, sir. Can’t hear what he’s talking about.”
Greg sighed and raised a hand to knead at his forehead. Definitely a government type, probably one of the higher-ups whose work was top secret. What had happened to Sherlock being a priority?
He turned a little to address the paramedic standing next to him. “You should probably go and help your man. I don’t think the other man up there will be very helpful.”
“On my way,” the senior paramedic said then started walking away towards the front doors. In the window the other paramedic withdrew out of sight back into the room.
Greg stood on the pavement for what felt like ages as seconds, minutes, slowly ticked by. He resisted the urge to start pacing back and forth to just be doing something. He also wanted to run upstairs and into the room where Sherlock was currently unconscious and do something to help, but the more logical part of his brain told him he’d just be in the way and he should let the paramedics do their job.
So he was stuck out here on the pavement, waiting impatiently for the paramedics to come down with Sherlock. Or for any signal from upstairs that something had gone wrong. He was used to long nights of casework, and waiting for something to happen or another clue or lead to be unearthed. That was part of the job. But Sherlock was more than personal business.
Greg stayed where he was on the pavement, caught between the front door to the building and the ambulance. Trapped. And pulled in two directions.
Then finally, before he could give in and rush the doors Greg heard the front door to the building open again. He turned to see it swing open on itself, and then he took a step forward as the first paramedic, Jones, stepped out onto the front step.
It was when he saw a pale arm slung over Jones’ shoulder that Greg nearly broke into a run, especially when the arm proved to be attached to Sherlock. The two paramedics were managing to keep Sherlock upright between them, taking all of the boy’s mostly unconscious weight. Sherlock’s head had lolled forward onto his chest and his bare feet were dragging along the dirty ground.
“How is he?” Greg asked sharply, reaching out a hand to brush the curls away from Sherlock’s face to try and see him better. His bare skin was clammy and cold to the touch, and Greg would swear he looked even paler now.
Sherlock made some noise that could have been an attempt at speaking, but Jones spoke over him. “Not well, sir. We need to get him to hospital right away.”
“Right, yes,” Greg said, taking his hand away and stepped back out of their way. “Carry on.”
“Yes, sir,” said the younger paramedic. He wrapped his arm more tightly around Sherlock then shared a look with the other paramedic. It made Greg think they were more worried about Sherlock than they’d let on.
Together the two paramedics stepped away from the front step and started walking along the pavement towards the ambulance, Sherlock hanging between them.
The front door opened again behind Greg and he turned around to look, just in time to see ‘My’ step out holding another mobile in his hand. Greg wondered where he’d gotten it and also how many extras he carried with him just in case.
“Thank you for your help tonight, Detective Inspector. It is greatly appreciated.” ‘My’ told him, sounding surprisingly honest for a government worker. At least in Greg’s experience. He slid the mobile back into one of his pockets then pressed a hand over it, just to check.
The man stepped off down onto the pavement and began walking with quick steps after the paramedics. “One moment please, if you would.”
On Sherlock’s right Jones stopped first and turned to look back over Sherlock’s shoulder. “We are in a bit of a hurry,” he said, eying ‘My’s’ clothes and the jacket draped carefully over his arm.
“I’m well aware,” ‘My’ answered in a clipped voice. It was eerily similar to Sherlock’s response to statements that were, in his opinion, idiotically obvious. “However, I have some information you’ll need.”
Jones’ expression changed to one that was more politely curious. “And what would that be, sir?”
The higher-than-thou down the nose stare for common mortals was also eerily similar to what Greg had seen from Sherlock. ‘My’ slid a hand into his pocket and drew out off-white, thin, business card. “I’ve spoken to the attending A&E physician. When you arrive give her this; she’s promised to make sure Sherlock will get exactly what he needs.” ‘My’ handed over the business card to the paramedic who, to his credit, took it after only a slight hesitation.
Jones tucked it into a hidden pocket in his uniform then shifted to take more of Sherlock’s weight. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
The two paramedics managed to get Sherlock the rest of the way to the ambulance without any more delays. Even with Sherlock mostly unconscious working together they helped him up into the ambulance with no difficulties.
Greg and My followed after them to the back of the ambulance then hovered on the pavement just outside. A few sneaky glances to the side at My proved he wasn’t as calm as he seemed to be trying hard to appear. His eyes were carefully tracking the paramedics every movement.
The paramedics settled Sherlock on the stretcher inside and called out checks to each other. Then finally Jones reappeared on the back step of the ambulance and easily stepped down onto the street.
As he reached out to close and latch the door, ‘My’ spoke yet again. “One more thing, please.”
The paramedic seemed to be making an effort to keep his patience. “And what would that be, sir?” He asked, his hand still curled around the handle of the door.
Greg’s brows jumped upward when My turned to look at him. “I believe the Detective Inspector would benefit from some plasters from your first aid kit,” he suggested, pale eyes lighting on certain areas of Greg’s face. Ones that Greg realized still stung slightly now his attention was drawn to them.
“Right,” Jones the paramedic said, while looking between Greg and My in a way that was completely unnecessary.
Before Greg could call him on it, Jones pulled the door open again and reached inside. A few seconds later he fetched out a first aid kit, holding it by the handle.
Jones glanced quickly at Greg before opening the kit and taking out half dozen or so plasters. “Will these be enough?” He asked with a faint smile, holding them out to My.
“I believe so,” My answered, taking them carefully from the paramedic. “Thank you.”
Jones closed the kit and set it back inside the ambulance, swinging the door closed and latched it pointedly. “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands,” he said quietly, nodding at the ambulance.
Then Jones knocked twice on the back door and walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, got in, and a few seconds later the ambulance was driving off with the siren and lights flashing.
Greg wasn’t sure how long he and My stood there watching after the ambulance. The street was almost completely quiet, even at this late hour, and the building behind them remained quiet and dark. It felt almost strangely deserted.
My suddenly spoke into the silence, starting Greg. “We should go to your car, Detective Inspector. You’ll have to sit down while I apply these plasters.”
“I’m fine,” Greg protested, but he was so tired that there wasn’t much he could do as the other man led him over to his car. It was strange that My knew which car was his, even though there weren’t many others on the street, since Greg hadn’t pointed it out. But he’d think about that later, when his brain had gotten sleep and started working again.
Now Greg slid a hand into one of his pockets to pull out his car keys. It was simple enough to press the button to unlock the doors. When they finally stopped next to the driver's side door, Greg shuffling along, My helpfully opened the door for him. For his own respect Greg managed to more or less settle himself onto the edge of the driver's seat facing the street.
My stood in front of him on the pavement between Greg and the car door. He patiently peeled off the back to the first plaster, looking down at it with almost comical intense concentration. Then, holding the edges with just his fingertips in a way that spoke of practice, My reached out and very, very carefully pressed it to the left side of Greg’s forehead. All the while avoiding meeting Greg’s eyes.
Greg tried not to feel too embarrassed about this treatment. Especially since he told himself it would be much harder trying to do this himself; and the cut already hurt less.
Eventually the drawn out silence, and feeling like a child again, got the better of him. “You don’t have to do this you know. Pretty sure they’ll heal up on their own.” Greg offered, looking away down the street.
“I know,” My acknowledged, placing the second plaster on Greg’s cheek. “But I don’t mind. After all, it’s Sherlock’s fault you’re injured. And he is my responsibility.”
“Is he? News to me,” Greg muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes as My placed a plaster right above his right eye.
He may have accidently said that out loud, and louder than he’d meant to. Greg yawned, feeling the plaster on his cheek pull a little. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it was well past midnight.
My peeled the back off yet another plaster. Greg was sure at this rate he’d look terrible in the morning. “Sherlock refuses to admit it; and he enjoys fighting against or avoiding any protection I attempt to give him.”
He reached forward to press this plaster onto Greg’s chin, doing so very carefully. After a moment he continued, “My position offers me a certain amount of access to CCTV and security.” My shifted away from him, further back onto the safety of the pavement. “However all I can do is from behind a camera and over the phone. Sherlock, even in his current state, is more than capable of finding ways to avoid such tracking anywhere in the city.”
Greg huffed a laugh. “Now that doesn’t surprise me.” He lifted his head again with enormous effort in order to squint up at My. “Should I be worried that you have so much access to monitoring devices, and that you use it to track Sherlock of all people?”
The man finally looked down at him directly. He met Greg’s eyes, but he was frowning in such a way that even though it was faint, spoke volumes. “Of course I would be monitoring Sherlock. He of all people needs oversight.”
Greg found it difficult to argue with that. Even with My’s suspicious and questionable methods. So he said, “Well I’m grateful you were watching over him tonight. Otherwise,” Greg forced himself to look away, uncomfortable with even the idea of what he was about to say, “That ambulance would be heading somewhere else.”
My shifted on the pavement, his hand moving to rest on the pocket where he’d put his mobile. “Indeed,” he finally intoned, darkly.
That was enough of that, Greg decided. “Listen, I want to thank you for sending me here tonight. For letting me know Sherlock was in trouble.” He rubbed his hand over his leg. “I, wouldn’t have forgiven myself. If I hadn’t been here. So, thank you. For texting me to come and for watching over Sherlock. He needs someone looking after him.”
“Yes.” My replied simply. Then he cleared his throat forcefully. “There’s no need to thank me, Detective Inspector. Your being here was very helpful. And needed.”
“Glad to be helpful,” Greg said, only half-joking. He glanced at the few remaining plasters in My’s hand then rubbed a hand over his cheek. “I didn’t expect to be injured, but at least they aren’t really harmful.”
My’s eyes flickered over Greg’s face just briefly before he looked down at the plasters he was still holding. “You should take these,” he suggested, holding them out to Greg. “Those cuts may reopen, and need looking after.”
Greg lifted a hand and took the plasters from the other man without touching him. When he did My quickly drew his hand back and hid it in his pocket instead. “Thank you,” Greg said, putting the plasters in one of his pockets.
My nodded distantly, looking like his mind was already somewhere else. He straightened harshly, as if pulling on another persona. One of the powerful, haughty, government types Greg was used to butting heads with.
“I trust you’ll be able to make it home safely on your own?” My asked distantly, as if he didn’t really care about the answer. Even if Greg was sure he did. “Despite your injuries.”
“I’ll be fine, I’ve gotten home safe in much worse conditions than this,” Greg said, swinging his legs inside the car and settling back into the seat. He dug his keys out and started the engine.
My stepped back again as if to put more distance between himself and Greg. But he didn’t start walking away. So before Greg pulled the door closed and drove off, he turned to My and requested, “Keep me updated about Sherlock. I want to know how he is.”
“Of course,” My agreed with a solemn nod. “I have your number.”
“Yes, you do.” Greg decided that was all he could do and hoped the man would follow through on his agreement.
“Good night,” he said in place of good-bye and pulled the door closed.
Greg left My behind standing on the pavement and headed in the direction of his flat as fast as he dared. Strangely all the traffic lights he passed turned green, making his journey much easier and shorter than he’d expected.