Fic: To Everything, There is a Season 7/8 pt 2
Title: To Everything, There is a Season- 7/8
Rating: PG 13 (just to be safe)
Characters: This chapter: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: A not quite attentive parent? Slightly dark, manipulative relationship. Drug use. Angst. Much angst.
Disclaimer: I owe none of this, sadly enough. And I beg little familiarity with the British school system, police procedure, or drugs or drug use. Also- possible Americanisms.
Summary:
Act I: This is the story of Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood together, back when Sherlock still looked up to and his world revolved around his brother. When Sherlock lived like he wanted to and only his brother understood.
Of course, it couldn't last forever; no matter how much he wanted.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from Mycroft's POV.
Act II: Having decided he doesn't need anyone and can survive perfectly well on his own, Sherlock strikes out into the world. He hits a few bumps and lows before finally finding the one person he's really been looking for all along.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from various characters' POV.
This chapter: Sherlock doesn't make the best first impression with Detective Greg Lestrade, or a second. But the third...
Sherlock walked quickly down the pavement and away from the foolish Detective with far too much pity in his eyes.
He didn’t need an overeager Detective offering him a useless job he couldn’t possibly want less. Why would he want to tie himself to an incompetent Yard when there were so many other interesting things to investigate?
No one seemed to have understood that yet; no matter how many times he insisted or explained.
While being at crime scenes and solving the two crimes for the Detective had been exhilarating, he didn’t actually need it. There were many other pursuits more worth his time.
A sudden strong cold breeze went directly through him, and not for the first time he wished he had a coat- if only for the practicality. London winters were ridiculously frigid, especially when he was so often outdoors.
Once he was several blocks away from the crime scene and the Detective, Sherlock realized a black car was following him- and had been doing so for at least a block and likely longer.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed and continued walking, but did quicken his pace slightly. There wasn’t anyone who immediately came to mind that would come after him- he’d been careful about that. But it was still best to be sure.
The person driving the car didn’t seem to be phased in the least; they easily still kept pace with him, following him to the next street.
It was extremely irritating. But Sherlock decided the best method was to ignore them until they- hopefully- went away.
~~~ * ~~~
After his brother made him drive for four streets without giving any sign of having noticed the car, Mycroft found his patience wearing thin.
Once they had stopped at yet another light, Mycroft was finished.
He raised his hand, silently insulting his brother’s single-minded stubbornness, and manipulated the control for the windows.
A quiet electronic hum accompanied the window as it rolled down, exposing him to the sounds and smells of the street. Mycroft focused on his brother, calling out in a strained voice, “Really, Sherlock; this is becoming tiresome. Come and get in the car, I want to speak with you.”
Surprisingly, Sherlock actually stopped at the sound of his voice; because of this Mycroft had to stop the car more quickly than he’d expected.
He waited, leaving the car idling. His brother didn’t turn to face him, or even reply; Sherlock just remained silent and unmoving.
It had been a long time since Mycroft had seen Sherlock so motionless and withdrawn. He found himself only worrying even more about his brother than being reassured by the evidence Sherlock was still alive. After a long pause Mycroft attempted yet again, “Sherlock-“
“Don’t,” came the clipped command. Mycroft was thrown back many, many years ago when he and Sherlock had also been at odds. The voice Sherlock had used then was exactly the same as now. “You have no right.”
Obviously it would be no use reminding Sherlock just what their relation was. So, therefore, another method was needed.
“It has been years since we last saw each other, Sherlock,” Mycroft called to his brother. “The least you could do is say hello.”
A scornful laugh escaped his brother’s throat. “Is that what would be proper?” Sherlock asked coldly, his back stiffening.
“It would be nice,” Mycroft replied, trying not to push too hard. He would also personally like it, but that was not the way to convince his brother.
Sherlock gave one of the long, overdramatic sighs he had perfected as a child. Then, after a just as long pause with only the sounds of the streets of London around them for noise, his stubborn younger brother finally turned to face him.
As he took in each detail of just how far his brother had fallen, Mycroft tried not to let his sorrow and regret show in his
expression. It was the one reaction he knew Sherlock would respond negatively to. So Mycroft opened the car door, and stepped outside.
Then he cleared his throat and said in a quiet greeting, “Hello, Sherlock.”
From the way his brother’s not completely focused eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed, Mycroft had taken too long to respond.
But instead of greeting him in return, which was likely hoping too much, Sherlock’s gaze - not as sharp as it had once been- swept over him.
“Your new position must agree with you,” Sherlock sniped bitterly. “You’ve gotten fat.”
It was a comment designed to hurt, and likely drive him away. But Mycroft had half-expected this so he let it slide off; he was just thankful Sherlock was actually speaking to him.
“It is quite enjoyable, yes,” Mycroft replied amiably, as if Sherlock was a business acquaintance and not blood. Then he took a risk and commented in turn, “I see you haven’t been taking care of yourself, as usual.”
When Sherlock’s eyes dimmed faintly and he became more of an untouchable statue, Mycroft knew he had made the wrong decision. His comment had effectively put Sherlock on the defensive.
“Despite what you or that idiot copper may think, I can look after myself,” his brother replied, voice layered with frost. “I am no longer a child.”
From the brother Mycroft remembered it was a very obvious warning to leave him alone and let Sherlock be. But since his brother was an adult now, that only made Mycroft expect more from him; expectations that did not include Sherlock poisoning his body with whatever illegal substances he had discovered access to. Mycroft expected much more from his (brilliant) younger brother.
“You can claim so all you want, Sherlock; but your appearance tells me decidedly otherwise,” Mycroft informed his brother sternly, fixing him with a firm look. “I would ask just what you have been doing, but I’m not certain I wish to know.”
Sherlock laughed; “there’s also no point in asking since you already know everything.”
Mycroft gave his brother the best version of his enigmatic smile. If Sherlock wanted to believe he was omniscient, he was perfectly comfortable with that. If anything, it was a reminder of their childhood when his brother used to look up to him.
His reaction seemed to only irritate Sherlock further. “All right,” he said, eying Mycroft carefully. “Why are you here then? Why decide to care now?”
Mycroft coughed, leaning against the side of the car. “I never stopped, Sherlock; especially worrying.” He swept his gaze over his brother. “I know you well enough to know exactly what you are capable of getting into.” Mycroft then took a deep breath and steeled himself for Sherlock’s reaction to his next suggestion. “That is why I would strongly urge you to accept the detective’s offer. He is being extremely generous, and it is quite the opportunity for you- especially given your skills.”
Sherlock seemed to have returned to ignoring him as soon as Mycroft mentioned the detective his brother had been dealing with. He barely waited for Mycroft to finish before demanding, “And you think you can control my life so easily? I refuse to let you make my decisions for me.”
As usual, Sherlock had misinterpreted his words. “That wasn’t what I-“
“And as for the Detective,” Sherlock drawled scornfully, interrupting him. “The only reason he even made an offer like that is because he pitied me and didn’t feel comfortable throwing me back on the street.” He raised his head in what was likely supposed to be defiance, but it only helped Mycroft see just how thin he was. “Besides, with my skills I have many more opportunities than just working with the police.” Sherlock scoffed; “Much more interesting ones.”
Mycroft found himself smiling thinly as he replied sarcastically, “Of course, what could be more interesting than catching criminals?”
Sherlock treated him to a look that had originated with his discovery of sarcasm. “Many things. Now, if have no more wisdom to impart,” Sherlock flung back, “I have better places to be.”
His brother had gotten several steps down the pavement when Mycroft called, “You mean destroying your body even more in that slum you call home now?”
Sherlock paused midstride. “Even if I was,” he replied coolly, barely turning his head. “It is absolutely none of your concern.”
Mycroft carefully schooled his expression so Sherlock wouldn’t know just how deeply that had hurt. He may have abandoned his brother the last few years, an action he deeply regretted, but now that Sherlock was recklessly endangering his life Mycroft refused to look away.
“I won’t go away, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned his brother coolly. But Sherlock had already resumed walking and was already a good yard or so away, pretending not to hear.
Mycroft sighed and slipped his hand into the pocket where he kept his phone. As he watched Sherlock’s retreating back Mycroft fiddled with the phone, frowning every time he saw Sherlock shudder with the cold.
Of course his idiotic brother insisted on wearing no form of outer clothing during one of London’s coldest winters. He would have given Sherlock a coat as a gift, but he knew what had happened to his last such gift. And it was doubtful Sherlock would accept any kind of gift from him; not now.
However, if it came from him indirectly… and as a reward, or an incentive…
Mind now made up, Mycroft pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed a number he had entered only hours earlier.
~~~ * ~~~
Greg had only just finished having a rather tense conversation with his commanding officer when his mobile rang again.
He had very little patience just then, causing him to bark into the phone, “Lestrade.”
A smooth voice said pleasantly, “Am I correct in assuming this is Detective Lestrade?”
It had been a long enough day that his articulate response was, “Sorry?”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” the voice replied quickly, and Greg suspected he heard some amusement. “In that case, I would like to speak privately with you… regarding a mutual acquaintance.”
Greg swept his gaze over the crime scene around him, but there wasn’t anything unusual. Instead of being reassured, he found himself a bit unnerved. “Just who is this acquaintance?”
The voice chuckled lightly in his ear. “There’s no need to act so ignorant, Inspector. I am certain you know exactly who I mean.”
There was a long pause while Greg waited for the mysterious voice to explain. His first conclusion was that this was a relative of someone he’d put away- which really didn’t make him want to go somewhere alone with them; especially since they had somehow gotten his private number.
When the voice finally spoke again, it was with the instruction, “There will be a black car pulling up at your scene, Detective. Please get inside.”
“What?” Greg asked, confused. “You expect me to just let you kidnap me off my crime scene, in front of half a dozen officers?”
“I did say please,” the voice replied, sounding entertained. Then there was a click and the dial tone beeped in his ear.
Greg muttered something unkind under his breath and ended the call. He pretended nothing had happened and flicked through his notes to look busy so the other officers wouldn’t come over.
Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw a sleek, inconspicuous black car stop just beyond the barrier of police cars.
Well, there went that hope.
Greg didn’t really want to get in the car; there wasn’t really any reason to. But the man on the other end of the line had been intimidating, and Greg was also honestly curious.
At the moment curiosity won out. He just had to hope his decision wouldn’t end in his kidnapping or something even worse.
He started towards the car, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. The other officers at the scene had everything well in hand, and they were nearly done here. Greg would have preferred to wait until they were done, but the man hadn’t left him any choice.
The black car continued to wait just beyond the police cars; with no sign of movement from inside, and no sign that whoever was inside had seen him coming over. Greg wondered if he had gotten the wrong car- maybe there was a multitude of black cars in this part of the city today.
He was quickly proven wrong when the back door of the car opened, yet no one got out.
Greg waited, wondering just what was going on.
Then the voice from the phone called from within the car. “Please come inside, Lestrade. We have quite a lot to speak about.”
Obviously whoever this man was, he had seen too many crime shows where people were kidnapped off the street. This was either going to go well, or more likely, horribly.
Greg took several more steps towards the car. “This better not take long, I still have a case to solve.”
“The more you dawdle, the longer it will take Detective,” the smooth voice told him lightly. But Greg could hear the hint of impatience. “Get in.”
Against common sense, Greg climbed into the car.
He found himself sliding onto a leather seat inside a rather expensive car. On the seat opposite sat a man Greg suspected had spoken to him on the phone. Greg glanced around, trying to do anything but look at the other man. But it was almost completely dark inside, the windows were darkened, and there was nothing else to look at.
So in the end Greg was forced to look back at the mysterious man.
“All right, what can I do for you?” Greg asked, settling on the edge of the seat and carefully not letting himself become comfortable. “What do you want to talk about?”
The man gave him a smile that was really not at all a smile. His pale hand twisted on the handle of the umbrella he was holding- even though they were inside a car. “As I said before, there is a certain person we have in common whom I wish to discuss with you.”
“Right,” Greg acknowledged, feeling like he was facing his DCI and very off-guard because of it. “But you never said exactly who that person was.” He wasn’t trying to be uncooperative, not really. But Greg didn’t take kindly to people who intimidated him, then told him to get into strange black cars.
His captors’ mouth twisted wryly. “I understand you spend many of your days with those intellectually challenged, Detective. But that does not mean you cannot show your own intellect.” The amber brows drew together. “To that end, I believe you know exactly of whom I speak.”
No one really talks that way anymore, Greg’s mind protested. They can’t. But now that he considered it, there was a very short list of people this mysterious man could mean. And one specific person was at the top of that list.
What confused him was just how this man knew him. As far as Greg could tell, the boy didn’t seem to have many friends.
“You wouldn’t happen to mean a certain young man who keeps showing up on my crime scenes and then solving them for me?” Greg asked cautiously, watching the man. “And who is almost always high on some substance?”
The man’s hand on the umbrella tightened so much his knuckles turned white. “Yes, that is the young man I wish to speak with you about. I understand it is inconvenient and messy when he, as you say, shows up on your crime scenes. However, I do appreciate that you take the time to listen to him.” Those thin lips pressed together in a firm, distressed line. “Few do anymore. Perhaps once, but not now.”
That was a blaring hint if he’d ever heard one. “You know him then; and I’d say well, too.” Greg commented, crossing his arms.
His captor sighed, the man’s expression flickering before being buried again. “I did, once; but no longer now. Sherlock and I have not seen each other in several years, and he has made it quite clear he does not welcome my presence.”
The man shifted on the seat before leaning forward. “That is why I wanted to speak to you about him,” he explained. “You are the only one with whom he seems to willingly interact.”
Greg laughed darkly; the boy may ‘willingly interact’ with him, but he couldn’t imagine him listening to anyone. “That’s only because I let him help on cases, when he shows up. Other than that I don’t know anything about him.” He paused to eye the man before adding, “I don’t think I can help you.”
“Don’t be so modest, Detective,” the man admonished, actually sounding annoyed with him. “I have seen examples of your excellent work.” He smiled. “I expect a promotion may be in your near future. You are wasted in your current position.”
Greg bristled, wrapping his arms tighter. “I’m fine just where I am, thanks. I do my work just fine.”
“Hmm, well I advise you to think it over, Detective,” the man told him in the ‘I know better than you’ tone Greg had always hated. “You could do quite an amount of good.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” Greg repeated again, his nerves set on edge. He was grateful the man thought so highly of him, but he would get there on his own, thanks. “If that’s everything, I should get back to the scene.”
“We are not finished yet,” the man proclaimed coolly, tilting his head slightly. “Since you are acquainted with Sherlock, as I’ve mentioned there is something I wish you to do for me.”
Oh, so that was what this was about?
Greg narrowed his eyes and replied, using a firm tone so the man knew he was completely serious. “I’m not spying on him, no matter how much you offer. He may be annoying and a smartarse, not to mention a junkie, but he did help us close those cases.”
The other man seemed to only be intrigued by his answer. “I made no such implication, Detective. However, I am glad to hear you would not accept such an offer if one was made to you. No, there is something else I wish you to do.”
What else could this man possibly want from him? Sadly enough, bribing police officers wasn’t all that uncommon; and the man had kidnapped him in a car just as criminals did.
“All right, what is it then?” Greg asked, glancing out the window- only to see nothing he recognized. “It had better not be anything illegal.”
“No, no. Of course not,” the man replied, sounding like he was personally offended by the idea. “Nothing of the kind, Detective. I would merely like you to look after Sherlock for me, since you are in such an ideal position to do so.”
Greg laughed at that. For all this man’s influence, he really was badly misinformed. “No, I’m not in any position like that,” Greg corrected. He tapped his fingers once, twice. “I’ve met him twice and both were at crime scenes. I don’t anything about him, except he’s some kind of genius who has been high every time I’ve seen him.”
He shifted restlessly on the seat, carefully not meeting the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry to see he’s wasting that mind of his on drugs, but there’s nothing I can do.” Greg twisted his mouth. “Even if I did want to.”
A very unnerving gleam entered the man’s eyes. “Ah, but there is a way you can help him, Inspector,” his captor informed him with an odd little smile. “You see, I- like you- do not wish to see Sherlock waste away on the horrible substances he insists on using when there is so much he could be doing. That is why I believe Sherlock may be persuaded, with incentive, to go through withdrawal and become clean.”
Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If Sherlock could be convinced to get clean and stay off drugs, there was probably a lot the boy could do. “I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. What incentive I could offer would Sherlock actually agree to?”
From the other man’s expression Greg was sure he was being laughed at. “No need to be so modest, Detective. You have access to perhaps the only thing Sherlock wants, to what could be used to convince him.”
“And that would be…” Greg said slowly, trying to coax an answer out of the other man. But before Greg let him have time to answer, he found his own. “Wait, you wouldn’t mean what I have access to as a police officer, do you? For example… cases?”
The man smiled at him again, all though this one was more pleased than the others. “Excellent Detective. That was in fact exactly what I was suggesting.”
Greg wondered if he had somehow entered an alternate universe the moment he’d climbed into this car. “So you want me to offer Sherlock cases, as a way to force him to get clean?” He spelled out just to make sure he was right. “And you think that’ll work?”
The smile slowly dimmed, until it was more of a frown than anything else. “Yes, I am certain this will succeed, Detective. Sherlock needs something to hold his interest and stop him from being bored. I believe helping you on cases will give him exactly that.”
Greg looked down at his hands, and then back up at the other man. “You’re saying he’s taking drugs because he’s bored?” Greg asked skeptically. “And solving cases is different?”
“Sherlock unfortunately suffers from the need to be constantly engaged and interested in something. This was true even when he was a child; however, now he is trying to achieve this with the drugs he favors.” The man gave another thin, disapproving smile. “Many years ago he showed an interest in solving crimes; so it is my hope that if you offer him the opportunity to help you, Sherlock will no longer need to depend on drugs to alleviate his boredom.”
Several things the man had said in the last few minutes suddenly clicked together to make sense. “You’re related to him, aren’t you?” Greg very nearly blurted. “His… brother?”
That disturbingly bright smile made a brief appearance again. The man- Sherlock’s brother- told him with almost a note of praise, “Well done, Detective. I was wondering when you’d realize. Obviously you have earned every part of your title.”
“Except,” Greg said impatiently, “you haven’t told me if I was right, or not.”
Sherlock’s supposed brother gave him an amused smile. “You are correct, Detective. I am Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft.”
Sherlock and Mycroft, what had their parents been thinking? “You really are worried about him then, aren’t you? Sherlock, I mean.”
The smile changed yet again. “Of course. Sherlock may pretend I do not exist, but I am always very aware of what he is doing.”
And they were back to speaking in riddles again. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that. Yet you’re coming to me about helping your brother kick his drug habit.” He paused before asking, a little rudely, “Shouldn’t that be your job?”
Mycroft sighed loudly, rubbing his hand over the one still gripping the umbrella handle. “As I have said, Sherlock and I no longer get along. He would not appreciate my intervention.” The man eyed him in a way Greg didn’t like. “However, if you were to intervene, I am sure he would be much more receptive; especially if you were to explain his incentive.”
“And what’s my incentive to agree to all this?” Greg asked out of curiosity. “Other than saving a young genius from whatever might happen to him while he’s on drugs?”
Another unnerving smile. “And the kindness of your own heart as well, of course. There’s no need to maintain this pretense, Detective. I’m already well aware you will agree to my suggestion.” Obviously the man thought he knew everything about Greg, which was something he‘d rather not think about. This man was more terrifying than his DCI.
Trying not to let anything show on his face, Greg sat back in his seat- pretending like he wasn’t eager to get away. “What makes you so sure I’ll agree? I might not.”
“Unlike many of your fellow officers, you care deeply for your job, and the ability it gives you to put criminals away,” Sherlock’s brother told him in a voice like he was talking about the weather. But it was the piercing stare that made Greg feel so exposed. “Some event in your early life, an encounter with crime most likely, made you want to become a police officer. You enjoy making London safer, but regret the horrendous crimes people commit.” He smirked a little, as if he knew something about this that Greg didn’t. “And you will do everything you can to succeed at your job.”
Ah, that’s what this strange man had been hinting at. “Including using Sherlock to close more cases you mean. What, you don’t think I can close enough on my own?”
His captor shook his head once, and then appeared to relax. “You do have an impressive closing rate, Detective. But I believe you could do even more with my brother’s help. Together you would be able to solve more cases, and also give him a purpose other than destroying himself.”
“I get it, that’s what you want,” Greg replied angrily. All right, so Sherlock would be a great help- especially if he could solve more cases like the others- and the boy did need to do more than just get high.
But his superiors would never let him bring on a drug addict, no matter how brilliant. It just wasn’t done.
He did really like the boy, though; for all his attitude and stubbornness.
He must have given something away, at least that the other man saw, because Sherlock’s brother had an odd gleam in his eye again. “No need to worry about your superiors, Detective. I’m certain they can be properly convinced to accept Sherlock as a consultant.”
“That’s… very reassuring,” Greg said in a tone that plainly said it really wasn’t. “But, even if they do agree, I still can’t hire a drug addict. It won’t happen.”
The man gave a long-suffering sigh, tilting his head down- the better to stare at Greg. “That is why Sherlock will get clean first, and then you will bring him in to help you on cases. As you say, hiring an ex drug addict is better than hiring an addict.”
That would be helpful; if Sherlock did successfully get clean then he could officially help with cases. It would be good to have something in his pocket, just in case.
“How do you plan on getting him clean? I doubt Sherlock will agree just because you tell him to.” Greg questioned, wondering just what power Sherlock’s older brother thought he held over Sherlock. But Greg had only seen Sherlock twice in the past month, while this man had known Sherlock his entire life. Maybe he did know something.
The man fiddled briefly with the handle of his umbrella. “It is my belief that if you are the one to push him, Detective, and offer the incentive, Sherlock will accept.” He gave a long sigh. “Hopefully he will see the opportunity to help you on cases as a better choice than his current living. He always has been rather unpredictable.”
So it was up to him then; wonderful. Because he had so much experience dealing with drug-addicted wayward genius’ who could apparently solve any crime in minutes. “And the actual plan for getting him clean?”
Sherlock’s brother cleared his throat. “I have already made arrangements at a rather inclusive clinic in a secluded area outside of London. The staff is expecting him and is ready to begin his treatment.” His lips thinned as he pressed them together. “If everything goes well and Sherlock cooperates, the process should not take long.”
“I’m sure Sherlock will appreciate all of that,” Greg commented with a brief laugh.
His kidnapper’s mouth twitched upward. “Yes, I suppose not.” After a brief lapse the man schooled his expression again. “Should I take this to mean you will help then, Detective?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Greg sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. It might be too kind of him, but he did want to help Sherlock; to see if the boys’ claim that he really was as brilliant when clean was true. Greg hoped it was. And if Sherlock didn’t pull through, and they were wrong… well then Greg would be deeply disappointed, but he would move on.
What did he have to lose?
“Alright,” Greg finally agreed, feeling an odd weight to his words. “I’ll offer this plan of yours to Sherlock the next time I find him stumbling onto my scene. But… I can’t promise anything.”
The man looked secretive, and smiled as if he’d already won. “Excellent. I wouldn’t expect anything less Detective.”
Before Greg could respond, Sherlock’s brother pretended to look at his watch. “I believe I’ve kept you long enough, Detective. I know you are eager to return to your scene.”
Greg blinked, startled by the sudden change of topic. “So I’m free to go then?”
“Yes, Detective. You can go.” He watched as Greg opened the door and began to climb out. “But I will be in touch.”
Greg had paused for a moment as the man spoke, but now leapt back into motion. “Of course you will,” he muttered, standing up just outside. He had been quiet, but Greg was fairly sure the other man heard.
“Good day, Detective,” Sherlock’s mysterious brother told him. Then the door was closed behind him, leaving Greg to quickly get out of the way for fear of getting his jacket caught as the car drove off down the street.
He must have been staring after it for a long time, because it took him a while to realize someone was calling his name.
Greg turned around to find Sally standing a few steps away, looking worried as she often did.
“You all right?” She asked, glancing down the street to where the car had disappeared.
He shook himself mentally and forced a smile. “Yeah, fine,” Greg reassured her before he started walking back towards the scene.
Sally followed him without a word, but her gaze still bored into his back.
As he ducked under the tape and then held it for her, Greg told himself he would focus on the case for now and not worry about Sherlock until the next time he saw the boy.
He didn’t want to consider how successful he may or may not be at convincing him.
~~~ * ~~~
The next time Greg saw Sherlock Holmes was, surprisingly, not at a crime scene.
He had returned to his flat at a ridiculously late hour, only to have to get up in a few hours again, to find someone sprawled directly in front of his door.
At first Greg thought it was one of his neighbors who hadn’t quite made it up to their own place. He hurried up the last stair and started towards the limp figure, his exhausted mind bristling with irritation.
“Hey! You can’t just sleep-“
But then as he got closer Greg saw the dark mop of curls and the skinny figure. “Sherlock?” He asked stunned, and rushed forward.
At the sound of his voice the person- who was almost definitely Sherlock- turned their head a little so it wasn’t all pressed against the filthy floor.
Greg got a glimpse of one grey-colored eye before the head turned away from him again.
Greg sighed tiredly and went down to his knees. Really, all he’d wanted was a few hours in front of the television and some sleep. Yet it seemed the universe was working against him, seeing as it had sent him an infuriating genius to deal with tonight.
“What have you done to yourself now, you idiot?” He asked, leaning over the boy’s too-still body. Greg reached out a hand and slid it under the boy’s curls to test his forehead.
And, just as he’d expected, it was sweaty and clammy with a fever the boy definitely had. Greg shifted his hand down to the side of the boy’s neck to thankfully feel a thready, fast pulse.
Thank god.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, I’m going to help you sit up on the count of three, alright?” Greg instructed patiently. He slid a hand under the boy’s body, being careful not to jostle him too much.
It was worrying how Sherlock didn’t even react to his touch. Greg shifted so he was sitting more or less right beside the boy. “Sherlock?” Greg called again, wondering just how conscious Sherlock was.
“Mm,” Sherlock groaned softly, managing to sound irritated in just one syllable. But it was a good sign.
“Right, on three then,” Greg announced authoritatively.
Sherlock groaned yet again, as if to argue.
“One.”
He leaned over Sherlock so he wouldn’t have to move the boy very far.
“Two.”
Greg used his other hand to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head and his neck so the genius wouldn’t do anything idiotic like choking. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn’t appreciate any of this.
“And, three.”
As gently and careful as possible, Greg shifted Sherlock up into a sitting position. Then, after a second or so, he moved Sherlock backwards to lean against him. “All right?” Greg asked quietly; he didn’t want to have made the boy’s condition even worse.
“’M fine,” Sherlock slurred, keeping his head down under Greg’s light pressure on his neck. “Don’t need-“ He suddenly stopped and attempted to push away from Greg while remaining upright under his own strength.
Greg quickly put a stop to this by pulling Sherlock back against him.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Greg chided more warmly then sharp. “I’m trying to help, Sherlock. You’re the one who came to me.” He paused. “Even if it was by collapsing on my doorstep.”
It didn’t escape his notice that while Sherlock had let him move him, the boy was unnaturally rigid in his arms- even despite how horrible he must be feeling.
“Now, what the hell did you do to yourself Sherlock?” Greg demanded in a stern voice used by paternal figures everywhere. “Even the first time I met you, you weren’t so poorly off.”
“’M fine,” Sherlock repeated a little more firmly this time. His words were thankfully also a little less slurred.
Sherlock tried to get away from him again, struggling forward. Greg didn’t try to stop Sherlock, but he did keep his arm wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist. Sherlock was weak from whatever he’d put into his system, meaning he likely would have collapsed if Greg hadn’t been holding him up.
As it was, the position the two of them were in now- with Sherlock on his hands and knees, and Greg kneeling behind him with one arm around the thin waist- wouldn’t look good if anyone happened to go by.
“Sherlock, I need you to stay awake, all right?” Greg said, feeling the boy start to shake in his arms. He wondered how long Sherlock would be able to stay conscious. What he really needed was to get a cold cloth and a glass of water, but Greg didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone and he doubted Sherlock could make it inside.
“Leave m’ alone,” Sherlock demanded weakly, back to slurring his words. Then he gasped sharply right before a severe shudder overtook his body.
This time he did collapse, the tremors still wracking his too-thin frame. Greg quickly rolled Sherlock onto his side and shifted the long legs closer to the boy’s chest. It was probably the safest position for him to be in.
“That better?” Greg asked as he pulled off his coat and draped it over Sherlock. Greg didn’t expect much of an answer, not when Sherlock’s body was currently fighting itself.
But Sherlock being Sherlock, he still found a way to respond. He opened one eye to give Greg a one-eyed glassy glare beneath the soaked curls.
He really did look horrible. The coat at least would keep him fairly warm, but it wouldn’t be enough.
“I’ll be right back, Sherlock,” Greg told the boy, who had closed his eyes again. “Don’t you dare wander off.”
A quiet huff of laughter was his answer as Greg climbed to his feet.
He slipped his keys out of his pocket, chose the one that went to his door and slid it easily into the lock. Once inside, he only took time to flip the lights on so he wouldn’t trip over anything on his way to the kitchen. His apartment was messier than usual since he’d only just finished with a case. All though Greg would never admit it to anyone, he’d half hoped Sherlock would turn up to help with the case. Yet obviously the boy had been too busy slowly killing himself.
Shaking those rather macabre thoughts from his head, Greg took a towel and soaked it in cold water from the tap. Once that was done he opened the refrigerator and took one of the bottles he kept in the door.
Hopefully, for now these would be enough.
Greg turned on his heel and went back through his living room and to the front door.
To his relief Sherlock was still where Greg had left him, and didn’t seem to have moved at all.
“Sherlock?” He called quietly, kneeling down next to the boy. If the idiot had fallen asleep…
After only a second or so Sherlock moved his head a little and opened his eyes. The glare wasn’t completely focused, but it was good to see he was still awake.
“Good,” Greg said, relieved. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and held it out towards Sherlock. “You need to sit up a bit and drink this.”
When the boy just continued to glare at him, Greg moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “On three again,” he instructed, readying himself. “One… two… three.”
On three Greg pulled Sherlock backward and into an almost sitting position. He let most of the boy’s weight settle on his arm as Sherlock fell back against him. “Good, now drink,” Greg commanded, holding the open top of the bottle to the boy’s lips.
He could feel Sherlock bristle under his arm at this treatment; but in the end the boy did take several long sips of water. He was obviously having trouble, but Greg pretended he didn’t notice.
When it became obvious Sherlock had drunken all he could, Greg withdrew the bottle and set it down on the floor. Then he picked up the damp towel and carefully placed it on Sherlock’s forehead, tipping the boys’ head back onto his shoulder.
Sherlock hissed sharply as cold, damp cloth met burning skin; but then a few seconds later he sighed softly, and his eyes slid closed again.
For a while the two of them sat in silence, with Greg listening closely to make sure Sherlock continued breathing.
During that time his mind wandered back to consider the agreement he’d made with Sherlock’s alarming older brother. Seeing Sherlock barely conscious and not even able to stay upright only made him more determined to convince the boy to get clean. Greg didn’t know how often Sherlock made himself like this, but it wasn’t at all good.
And, while confronting Sherlock with such a decision when he was barely functioning may not be Greg’s best idea, maybe it would be the extra evidence needed to make Sherlock to see the light and be convinced.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock,” Greg scolded quietly. “I refuse to believe you’re so much of an idiot that you can’t see what these drugs are doing to you.”
He listened to Sherlock’s harsh breathing, not put off at all by the boy’s lack of response.
“You’re a genius, Sherlock; an idiotic one, but still a genius. You deserve so much more of a life than trailing from high to high, and crashing my scenes.” Somehow everything he’d ever wanted to say to Sherlock was coming out now. Well, this did seem to be the time. “You could be absolutely brilliant, could really help people, and never be bored. But instead you’re letting yourself waste away.” He shook his head, careful not to jostle the boy. “I just don’t understand, Sherlock. Why would you do that?”
A tired sigh drifted up from his shoulder. “No one does,” Sherlock whispered, and the words were clearer this time. The water and cloth seemed to be helping.
Greg tilted his head to stare down at the dark curls. “Will you at least let me try?”
Sherlock didn’t give any response, other than another raspy breath.
After a few minutes’ debate with himself Greg said sternly, “I’m going to give you an offer, Sherlock. And this time, I want you to seriously consider accepting it. I want you to think it over.”
Against him Sherlock froze and seemed to stop breathing. Greg gently shook him as a reminder, causing Sherlock to gasp and suddenly burst into action.
He tore away from Greg, practically launching himself forward. Greg’s coat slipped from his thin shoulders as Sherlock snapped irritably, “I don’t need your pity-“
Yes, obviously feeling better.
“Hold on, Sherlock,” Greg cautioned, talking over him. He reached out and tried to wrestle the boy back towards him as gently as possible. “I’m not doing this out of pity. I’m doing this because I know you have potential and I’m trying to convince you of that.” Once Sherlock was still again, Greg lightly placed his hand on one of the thin shoulders. “All I want you to do is listen; will you at least do that for me?”
Sherlock weakly shrugged off his hand, but didn’t try to move away. That was an answer in itself.
Greg closed his eyes, arranged his thoughts, and took a deep breath before continuing. “I know I never said it, but you were a great help on those two cases.” A chuckle escaped his lips. “I don’t think we would have closed them nearly as fast if you hadn’t come along.”
He paused briefly, expecting Sherlock to make a comment about all officers being idiots and that was why they hadn’t been able to solve it without him.
But instead Sherlock fidgeted, almost… in discomfort, against his arm.
Greg didn’t understand why the boy would be uncomfortable. He was praising Sherlock for being able to do something an entire group of police couldn’t. Didn’t everyone like to be praised, even once in a while?
Greg filed that puzzle away in his mind for another day. Then he went on talking, now that he seemed to have Sherlock’s attention- for the moment. “Anyway, it’s because of that I’m making this offer. You’re brilliant, when you want to be, and the Yard could really use someone like you on cases,” Greg explained earnestly; he remembered all the cases it had taken them ages to solve, or ones they hadn’t even been able to solve at all. “We need someone who can bring a fresh eye to things, and someone who doesn’t think like a copper who hasn’t slept in days or lives off caffeine.”
Obviously this wasn’t as humorous as he’d thought, because this only earned him a quiet scoff from the tense body against him.
Greg sighed quietly and tried another method he hoped would hit more of a nerve with the boy. “I’ve done this for years, Sherlock. And every time there’s a case we can’t solve, or I have to tell a family even everything we did wasn’t enough-“ he heard his voice catch and quickly stopped before it happened again.
It was only after a few deep breaths that Greg managed to continue, “I regret it. And I feel guilty, because as a police officer we’re supposed to make London safer.” He looked down at the tangle of dark curls again. “You have a great talent, Sherlock; one that would be stupid to waste. So I’m asking you to come help me solve crimes, for whatever your reason; although I do hope it’s a good one. Give that brilliant mind of yours something to do instead of just letting it rot. You could make such-“
Before he was able to finish, Sherlock had slipped his grasp again and scrambled away as if Greg was on fire. The boy wasn’t able to make it very far, barely a yard or so, before he was on his knees gasping for air in-between severe coughing fits.
Greg quickly picked up the water bottle and went to Sherlock. He gently pulled on Sherlock’s shoulders to get him to sit up straighter and held the bottle to his mouth.
But Sherlock stubbornly kept his lips closed, refusing to drink.
After this standstill went on for several minutes, Greg gestured with the bottle and scolded, “Sherlock.”
That seemed to be the last straw for Sherlock because he weakly raised his arm and pushed the bottle away. It hadn’t been a very strong push, but the bottle slipped from Greg’s hand and fell to the floor where its contents started to spill out.
Just as Greg was opening his mouth to protest, Sherlock twisted away from him.
Sherlock remained crouched on the floor, his head down with the dark curls hiding his face. But his words were loud and almost clear. “I’m not some kind of pet to be paraded around, Detective,” Sherlock hissed at him, using the title mockingly. “I won’t perform tricks at your will, and especially not for any treats.”
There was scorn in the boys’ pronouncement, but more obvious was the pain. Obviously there was some history there where Sherlock had been treated exactly that way. Sadly enough Greg could see someone taking advantage of the boy and doing that to him.
“Sherlock, I wasn’t-“
“I may have a talent, and be a genius, Detective,” Sherlock continued, barely stopping for breath. “But I will choose what I want to do; no one else, and definitely not you. I will do whatever I want with my life, and not even someone like yourself will change my mind. No matter what ‘good’ I could do,” Sherlock finished dramatically, his words dripping with disdain.
Greg stared at the stiff, hostile back in front of him. What had messed up this kid so much he was so eager to be independent and not under anyone’s influence? Sherlock was so unique; he should be flourishing instead of being alone and hiding from the world. It was obvious to Greg that being on his own was not as good for him as Sherlock believed.
But it was important for Greg to be patient right now, because he was sure that if he pushed too hard Sherlock would disappear again.
When Greg spoke again, it was in a kind and patient voice. “I’m not trying to make you do anything, Sherlock. I won’t force you. All I want is to give you an option.”
Sherlock gave no sign of having heard, but Greg hoped (knew) he was listening.
“I hope you take it, Sherlock. But I’m leaving it up to you,” Greg explained, and then decided to just go for it. “I know you liked working on those cases- don’t deny it- and I want you to be able to keep working with me. So, I’m willing to bring you on as a consultant with my team.”
Silence reigned for what felt like a long time before Sherlock finally drew a rasping breath. Then he turned around to directly face Greg, looking like he was almost forcing himself to do so.
And when Sherlock slowly raised his head to meet Greg’s eyes, the embers of hope in those slightly focused eyes hurt.
“There has to be a catch, there always is,” Sherlock commented quietly, narrowing his gaze. “No one would let you hire an addict, however much a genius.”
Greg gave a reluctant nod. “True. That’s why there’s just one thing I need you to do first.”
The light eyes flickered rapidly across his face, leaving Greg to wonder just what the boy was seeing. Then suddenly they stopped, and widened. “You want me to get clean,” Sherlock breathed in realization. “I have to get clean before you’ll let me help,” he said, clearly disapproving.
“Yes.” Greg replied firmly, letting the boy know he was serious and there was no getting around this. “So you have to decide which you like more, Sherlock: the drugs you’re using to keep yourself entertained and that are destroying your body, or the crimes you seem to enjoy- and are good at- solving.”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away, not that Greg expected him to. This wasn’t a decision to be made lightly, and Greg was glad Sherlock was taking his time. Instead Greg was subjected to another of those piercing stares, even if still a little unfocused.
At least he thought so until it felt like an hour had gone by, and Sherlock still hadn’t answered. The boy wasn’t staring at him quite as strongly anymore, but he was taking a very long time to come to a decision.
Finally Greg prodded, “Sherlock-“
The boy blinked rapidly, and looked as if he’d been pulled back from somewhere. He focused on Greg again, but now there were shutters down and Greg wasn’t able to sense anything.
“Well,” Sherlock said abruptly, as if they’d just come to the end of a conversation. “I’ll let you get to bed. It must have been tiring using that brain of yours all day.”
In the moment it took Greg to catch up with what Sherlock had said, the boy had already weakly stood up and was stumbling over to the stairs.
“Sherlock, wait-“ Greg called, climbing to his feet.
But by that time Sherlock had more or less staggered to the top of the stairs. “Goodbye, Detective!” He called before disappearing down and around the corner.
“Goodbye Sherlock Holmes,” Greg replied quietly, still staring at the empty stairway.
~~~ * ~~~
Several months, many cases, and a text from ‘MH’ that merely said ‘thank you’ later, Greg was catching up on the mountain of paperwork he’d unwisely been avoiding.
He had just scrawled his signature on another piece of paper- he hadn’t really bothered to check what it was for after the tenth one- when he heard the noise of a commotion coming from nearby.
Greg looked up in time to witness a long black (expensive) coat topped with a mop of dark curls drop into the chair across the desk from him.
Just as he was wondering what the hell was going on, a certain pair of light eyes- completely clear this time- met his own tired ones.
Greg couldn’t help but stare before finally laughing. With a smile he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a folder he’d been saving especially.
He paused for barely a second before handing over the file, all the while holding the light, expectant gaze.
And finally, Greg was granted with the sight of an honest, real smile from Sherlock Holmes.
Part Eight
Rating: PG 13 (just to be safe)
Characters: This chapter: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: A not quite attentive parent? Slightly dark, manipulative relationship. Drug use. Angst. Much angst.
Disclaimer: I owe none of this, sadly enough. And I beg little familiarity with the British school system, police procedure, or drugs or drug use. Also- possible Americanisms.
Summary:
Act I: This is the story of Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood together, back when Sherlock still looked up to and his world revolved around his brother. When Sherlock lived like he wanted to and only his brother understood.
Of course, it couldn't last forever; no matter how much he wanted.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from Mycroft's POV.
Act II: Having decided he doesn't need anyone and can survive perfectly well on his own, Sherlock strikes out into the world. He hits a few bumps and lows before finally finding the one person he's really been looking for all along.
Written pre- series 2, in vignette's from various characters' POV.
This chapter: Sherlock doesn't make the best first impression with Detective Greg Lestrade, or a second. But the third...
Sherlock walked quickly down the pavement and away from the foolish Detective with far too much pity in his eyes.
He didn’t need an overeager Detective offering him a useless job he couldn’t possibly want less. Why would he want to tie himself to an incompetent Yard when there were so many other interesting things to investigate?
No one seemed to have understood that yet; no matter how many times he insisted or explained.
While being at crime scenes and solving the two crimes for the Detective had been exhilarating, he didn’t actually need it. There were many other pursuits more worth his time.
A sudden strong cold breeze went directly through him, and not for the first time he wished he had a coat- if only for the practicality. London winters were ridiculously frigid, especially when he was so often outdoors.
Once he was several blocks away from the crime scene and the Detective, Sherlock realized a black car was following him- and had been doing so for at least a block and likely longer.
He pretended he hadn’t noticed and continued walking, but did quicken his pace slightly. There wasn’t anyone who immediately came to mind that would come after him- he’d been careful about that. But it was still best to be sure.
The person driving the car didn’t seem to be phased in the least; they easily still kept pace with him, following him to the next street.
It was extremely irritating. But Sherlock decided the best method was to ignore them until they- hopefully- went away.
~~~ * ~~~
After his brother made him drive for four streets without giving any sign of having noticed the car, Mycroft found his patience wearing thin.
Once they had stopped at yet another light, Mycroft was finished.
He raised his hand, silently insulting his brother’s single-minded stubbornness, and manipulated the control for the windows.
A quiet electronic hum accompanied the window as it rolled down, exposing him to the sounds and smells of the street. Mycroft focused on his brother, calling out in a strained voice, “Really, Sherlock; this is becoming tiresome. Come and get in the car, I want to speak with you.”
Surprisingly, Sherlock actually stopped at the sound of his voice; because of this Mycroft had to stop the car more quickly than he’d expected.
He waited, leaving the car idling. His brother didn’t turn to face him, or even reply; Sherlock just remained silent and unmoving.
It had been a long time since Mycroft had seen Sherlock so motionless and withdrawn. He found himself only worrying even more about his brother than being reassured by the evidence Sherlock was still alive. After a long pause Mycroft attempted yet again, “Sherlock-“
“Don’t,” came the clipped command. Mycroft was thrown back many, many years ago when he and Sherlock had also been at odds. The voice Sherlock had used then was exactly the same as now. “You have no right.”
Obviously it would be no use reminding Sherlock just what their relation was. So, therefore, another method was needed.
“It has been years since we last saw each other, Sherlock,” Mycroft called to his brother. “The least you could do is say hello.”
A scornful laugh escaped his brother’s throat. “Is that what would be proper?” Sherlock asked coldly, his back stiffening.
“It would be nice,” Mycroft replied, trying not to push too hard. He would also personally like it, but that was not the way to convince his brother.
Sherlock gave one of the long, overdramatic sighs he had perfected as a child. Then, after a just as long pause with only the sounds of the streets of London around them for noise, his stubborn younger brother finally turned to face him.
As he took in each detail of just how far his brother had fallen, Mycroft tried not to let his sorrow and regret show in his
expression. It was the one reaction he knew Sherlock would respond negatively to. So Mycroft opened the car door, and stepped outside.
Then he cleared his throat and said in a quiet greeting, “Hello, Sherlock.”
From the way his brother’s not completely focused eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed, Mycroft had taken too long to respond.
But instead of greeting him in return, which was likely hoping too much, Sherlock’s gaze - not as sharp as it had once been- swept over him.
“Your new position must agree with you,” Sherlock sniped bitterly. “You’ve gotten fat.”
It was a comment designed to hurt, and likely drive him away. But Mycroft had half-expected this so he let it slide off; he was just thankful Sherlock was actually speaking to him.
“It is quite enjoyable, yes,” Mycroft replied amiably, as if Sherlock was a business acquaintance and not blood. Then he took a risk and commented in turn, “I see you haven’t been taking care of yourself, as usual.”
When Sherlock’s eyes dimmed faintly and he became more of an untouchable statue, Mycroft knew he had made the wrong decision. His comment had effectively put Sherlock on the defensive.
“Despite what you or that idiot copper may think, I can look after myself,” his brother replied, voice layered with frost. “I am no longer a child.”
From the brother Mycroft remembered it was a very obvious warning to leave him alone and let Sherlock be. But since his brother was an adult now, that only made Mycroft expect more from him; expectations that did not include Sherlock poisoning his body with whatever illegal substances he had discovered access to. Mycroft expected much more from his (brilliant) younger brother.
“You can claim so all you want, Sherlock; but your appearance tells me decidedly otherwise,” Mycroft informed his brother sternly, fixing him with a firm look. “I would ask just what you have been doing, but I’m not certain I wish to know.”
Sherlock laughed; “there’s also no point in asking since you already know everything.”
Mycroft gave his brother the best version of his enigmatic smile. If Sherlock wanted to believe he was omniscient, he was perfectly comfortable with that. If anything, it was a reminder of their childhood when his brother used to look up to him.
His reaction seemed to only irritate Sherlock further. “All right,” he said, eying Mycroft carefully. “Why are you here then? Why decide to care now?”
Mycroft coughed, leaning against the side of the car. “I never stopped, Sherlock; especially worrying.” He swept his gaze over his brother. “I know you well enough to know exactly what you are capable of getting into.” Mycroft then took a deep breath and steeled himself for Sherlock’s reaction to his next suggestion. “That is why I would strongly urge you to accept the detective’s offer. He is being extremely generous, and it is quite the opportunity for you- especially given your skills.”
Sherlock seemed to have returned to ignoring him as soon as Mycroft mentioned the detective his brother had been dealing with. He barely waited for Mycroft to finish before demanding, “And you think you can control my life so easily? I refuse to let you make my decisions for me.”
As usual, Sherlock had misinterpreted his words. “That wasn’t what I-“
“And as for the Detective,” Sherlock drawled scornfully, interrupting him. “The only reason he even made an offer like that is because he pitied me and didn’t feel comfortable throwing me back on the street.” He raised his head in what was likely supposed to be defiance, but it only helped Mycroft see just how thin he was. “Besides, with my skills I have many more opportunities than just working with the police.” Sherlock scoffed; “Much more interesting ones.”
Mycroft found himself smiling thinly as he replied sarcastically, “Of course, what could be more interesting than catching criminals?”
Sherlock treated him to a look that had originated with his discovery of sarcasm. “Many things. Now, if have no more wisdom to impart,” Sherlock flung back, “I have better places to be.”
His brother had gotten several steps down the pavement when Mycroft called, “You mean destroying your body even more in that slum you call home now?”
Sherlock paused midstride. “Even if I was,” he replied coolly, barely turning his head. “It is absolutely none of your concern.”
Mycroft carefully schooled his expression so Sherlock wouldn’t know just how deeply that had hurt. He may have abandoned his brother the last few years, an action he deeply regretted, but now that Sherlock was recklessly endangering his life Mycroft refused to look away.
“I won’t go away, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned his brother coolly. But Sherlock had already resumed walking and was already a good yard or so away, pretending not to hear.
Mycroft sighed and slipped his hand into the pocket where he kept his phone. As he watched Sherlock’s retreating back Mycroft fiddled with the phone, frowning every time he saw Sherlock shudder with the cold.
Of course his idiotic brother insisted on wearing no form of outer clothing during one of London’s coldest winters. He would have given Sherlock a coat as a gift, but he knew what had happened to his last such gift. And it was doubtful Sherlock would accept any kind of gift from him; not now.
However, if it came from him indirectly… and as a reward, or an incentive…
Mind now made up, Mycroft pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed a number he had entered only hours earlier.
~~~ * ~~~
Greg had only just finished having a rather tense conversation with his commanding officer when his mobile rang again.
He had very little patience just then, causing him to bark into the phone, “Lestrade.”
A smooth voice said pleasantly, “Am I correct in assuming this is Detective Lestrade?”
It had been a long enough day that his articulate response was, “Sorry?”
“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” the voice replied quickly, and Greg suspected he heard some amusement. “In that case, I would like to speak privately with you… regarding a mutual acquaintance.”
Greg swept his gaze over the crime scene around him, but there wasn’t anything unusual. Instead of being reassured, he found himself a bit unnerved. “Just who is this acquaintance?”
The voice chuckled lightly in his ear. “There’s no need to act so ignorant, Inspector. I am certain you know exactly who I mean.”
There was a long pause while Greg waited for the mysterious voice to explain. His first conclusion was that this was a relative of someone he’d put away- which really didn’t make him want to go somewhere alone with them; especially since they had somehow gotten his private number.
When the voice finally spoke again, it was with the instruction, “There will be a black car pulling up at your scene, Detective. Please get inside.”
“What?” Greg asked, confused. “You expect me to just let you kidnap me off my crime scene, in front of half a dozen officers?”
“I did say please,” the voice replied, sounding entertained. Then there was a click and the dial tone beeped in his ear.
Greg muttered something unkind under his breath and ended the call. He pretended nothing had happened and flicked through his notes to look busy so the other officers wouldn’t come over.
Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw a sleek, inconspicuous black car stop just beyond the barrier of police cars.
Well, there went that hope.
Greg didn’t really want to get in the car; there wasn’t really any reason to. But the man on the other end of the line had been intimidating, and Greg was also honestly curious.
At the moment curiosity won out. He just had to hope his decision wouldn’t end in his kidnapping or something even worse.
He started towards the car, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. The other officers at the scene had everything well in hand, and they were nearly done here. Greg would have preferred to wait until they were done, but the man hadn’t left him any choice.
The black car continued to wait just beyond the police cars; with no sign of movement from inside, and no sign that whoever was inside had seen him coming over. Greg wondered if he had gotten the wrong car- maybe there was a multitude of black cars in this part of the city today.
He was quickly proven wrong when the back door of the car opened, yet no one got out.
Greg waited, wondering just what was going on.
Then the voice from the phone called from within the car. “Please come inside, Lestrade. We have quite a lot to speak about.”
Obviously whoever this man was, he had seen too many crime shows where people were kidnapped off the street. This was either going to go well, or more likely, horribly.
Greg took several more steps towards the car. “This better not take long, I still have a case to solve.”
“The more you dawdle, the longer it will take Detective,” the smooth voice told him lightly. But Greg could hear the hint of impatience. “Get in.”
Against common sense, Greg climbed into the car.
He found himself sliding onto a leather seat inside a rather expensive car. On the seat opposite sat a man Greg suspected had spoken to him on the phone. Greg glanced around, trying to do anything but look at the other man. But it was almost completely dark inside, the windows were darkened, and there was nothing else to look at.
So in the end Greg was forced to look back at the mysterious man.
“All right, what can I do for you?” Greg asked, settling on the edge of the seat and carefully not letting himself become comfortable. “What do you want to talk about?”
The man gave him a smile that was really not at all a smile. His pale hand twisted on the handle of the umbrella he was holding- even though they were inside a car. “As I said before, there is a certain person we have in common whom I wish to discuss with you.”
“Right,” Greg acknowledged, feeling like he was facing his DCI and very off-guard because of it. “But you never said exactly who that person was.” He wasn’t trying to be uncooperative, not really. But Greg didn’t take kindly to people who intimidated him, then told him to get into strange black cars.
His captors’ mouth twisted wryly. “I understand you spend many of your days with those intellectually challenged, Detective. But that does not mean you cannot show your own intellect.” The amber brows drew together. “To that end, I believe you know exactly of whom I speak.”
No one really talks that way anymore, Greg’s mind protested. They can’t. But now that he considered it, there was a very short list of people this mysterious man could mean. And one specific person was at the top of that list.
What confused him was just how this man knew him. As far as Greg could tell, the boy didn’t seem to have many friends.
“You wouldn’t happen to mean a certain young man who keeps showing up on my crime scenes and then solving them for me?” Greg asked cautiously, watching the man. “And who is almost always high on some substance?”
The man’s hand on the umbrella tightened so much his knuckles turned white. “Yes, that is the young man I wish to speak with you about. I understand it is inconvenient and messy when he, as you say, shows up on your crime scenes. However, I do appreciate that you take the time to listen to him.” Those thin lips pressed together in a firm, distressed line. “Few do anymore. Perhaps once, but not now.”
That was a blaring hint if he’d ever heard one. “You know him then; and I’d say well, too.” Greg commented, crossing his arms.
His captor sighed, the man’s expression flickering before being buried again. “I did, once; but no longer now. Sherlock and I have not seen each other in several years, and he has made it quite clear he does not welcome my presence.”
The man shifted on the seat before leaning forward. “That is why I wanted to speak to you about him,” he explained. “You are the only one with whom he seems to willingly interact.”
Greg laughed darkly; the boy may ‘willingly interact’ with him, but he couldn’t imagine him listening to anyone. “That’s only because I let him help on cases, when he shows up. Other than that I don’t know anything about him.” He paused to eye the man before adding, “I don’t think I can help you.”
“Don’t be so modest, Detective,” the man admonished, actually sounding annoyed with him. “I have seen examples of your excellent work.” He smiled. “I expect a promotion may be in your near future. You are wasted in your current position.”
Greg bristled, wrapping his arms tighter. “I’m fine just where I am, thanks. I do my work just fine.”
“Hmm, well I advise you to think it over, Detective,” the man told him in the ‘I know better than you’ tone Greg had always hated. “You could do quite an amount of good.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” Greg repeated again, his nerves set on edge. He was grateful the man thought so highly of him, but he would get there on his own, thanks. “If that’s everything, I should get back to the scene.”
“We are not finished yet,” the man proclaimed coolly, tilting his head slightly. “Since you are acquainted with Sherlock, as I’ve mentioned there is something I wish you to do for me.”
Oh, so that was what this was about?
Greg narrowed his eyes and replied, using a firm tone so the man knew he was completely serious. “I’m not spying on him, no matter how much you offer. He may be annoying and a smartarse, not to mention a junkie, but he did help us close those cases.”
The other man seemed to only be intrigued by his answer. “I made no such implication, Detective. However, I am glad to hear you would not accept such an offer if one was made to you. No, there is something else I wish you to do.”
What else could this man possibly want from him? Sadly enough, bribing police officers wasn’t all that uncommon; and the man had kidnapped him in a car just as criminals did.
“All right, what is it then?” Greg asked, glancing out the window- only to see nothing he recognized. “It had better not be anything illegal.”
“No, no. Of course not,” the man replied, sounding like he was personally offended by the idea. “Nothing of the kind, Detective. I would merely like you to look after Sherlock for me, since you are in such an ideal position to do so.”
Greg laughed at that. For all this man’s influence, he really was badly misinformed. “No, I’m not in any position like that,” Greg corrected. He tapped his fingers once, twice. “I’ve met him twice and both were at crime scenes. I don’t anything about him, except he’s some kind of genius who has been high every time I’ve seen him.”
He shifted restlessly on the seat, carefully not meeting the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry to see he’s wasting that mind of his on drugs, but there’s nothing I can do.” Greg twisted his mouth. “Even if I did want to.”
A very unnerving gleam entered the man’s eyes. “Ah, but there is a way you can help him, Inspector,” his captor informed him with an odd little smile. “You see, I- like you- do not wish to see Sherlock waste away on the horrible substances he insists on using when there is so much he could be doing. That is why I believe Sherlock may be persuaded, with incentive, to go through withdrawal and become clean.”
Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If Sherlock could be convinced to get clean and stay off drugs, there was probably a lot the boy could do. “I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. What incentive I could offer would Sherlock actually agree to?”
From the other man’s expression Greg was sure he was being laughed at. “No need to be so modest, Detective. You have access to perhaps the only thing Sherlock wants, to what could be used to convince him.”
“And that would be…” Greg said slowly, trying to coax an answer out of the other man. But before Greg let him have time to answer, he found his own. “Wait, you wouldn’t mean what I have access to as a police officer, do you? For example… cases?”
The man smiled at him again, all though this one was more pleased than the others. “Excellent Detective. That was in fact exactly what I was suggesting.”
Greg wondered if he had somehow entered an alternate universe the moment he’d climbed into this car. “So you want me to offer Sherlock cases, as a way to force him to get clean?” He spelled out just to make sure he was right. “And you think that’ll work?”
The smile slowly dimmed, until it was more of a frown than anything else. “Yes, I am certain this will succeed, Detective. Sherlock needs something to hold his interest and stop him from being bored. I believe helping you on cases will give him exactly that.”
Greg looked down at his hands, and then back up at the other man. “You’re saying he’s taking drugs because he’s bored?” Greg asked skeptically. “And solving cases is different?”
“Sherlock unfortunately suffers from the need to be constantly engaged and interested in something. This was true even when he was a child; however, now he is trying to achieve this with the drugs he favors.” The man gave another thin, disapproving smile. “Many years ago he showed an interest in solving crimes; so it is my hope that if you offer him the opportunity to help you, Sherlock will no longer need to depend on drugs to alleviate his boredom.”
Several things the man had said in the last few minutes suddenly clicked together to make sense. “You’re related to him, aren’t you?” Greg very nearly blurted. “His… brother?”
That disturbingly bright smile made a brief appearance again. The man- Sherlock’s brother- told him with almost a note of praise, “Well done, Detective. I was wondering when you’d realize. Obviously you have earned every part of your title.”
“Except,” Greg said impatiently, “you haven’t told me if I was right, or not.”
Sherlock’s supposed brother gave him an amused smile. “You are correct, Detective. I am Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft.”
Sherlock and Mycroft, what had their parents been thinking? “You really are worried about him then, aren’t you? Sherlock, I mean.”
The smile changed yet again. “Of course. Sherlock may pretend I do not exist, but I am always very aware of what he is doing.”
And they were back to speaking in riddles again. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that. Yet you’re coming to me about helping your brother kick his drug habit.” He paused before asking, a little rudely, “Shouldn’t that be your job?”
Mycroft sighed loudly, rubbing his hand over the one still gripping the umbrella handle. “As I have said, Sherlock and I no longer get along. He would not appreciate my intervention.” The man eyed him in a way Greg didn’t like. “However, if you were to intervene, I am sure he would be much more receptive; especially if you were to explain his incentive.”
“And what’s my incentive to agree to all this?” Greg asked out of curiosity. “Other than saving a young genius from whatever might happen to him while he’s on drugs?”
Another unnerving smile. “And the kindness of your own heart as well, of course. There’s no need to maintain this pretense, Detective. I’m already well aware you will agree to my suggestion.” Obviously the man thought he knew everything about Greg, which was something he‘d rather not think about. This man was more terrifying than his DCI.
Trying not to let anything show on his face, Greg sat back in his seat- pretending like he wasn’t eager to get away. “What makes you so sure I’ll agree? I might not.”
“Unlike many of your fellow officers, you care deeply for your job, and the ability it gives you to put criminals away,” Sherlock’s brother told him in a voice like he was talking about the weather. But it was the piercing stare that made Greg feel so exposed. “Some event in your early life, an encounter with crime most likely, made you want to become a police officer. You enjoy making London safer, but regret the horrendous crimes people commit.” He smirked a little, as if he knew something about this that Greg didn’t. “And you will do everything you can to succeed at your job.”
Ah, that’s what this strange man had been hinting at. “Including using Sherlock to close more cases you mean. What, you don’t think I can close enough on my own?”
His captor shook his head once, and then appeared to relax. “You do have an impressive closing rate, Detective. But I believe you could do even more with my brother’s help. Together you would be able to solve more cases, and also give him a purpose other than destroying himself.”
“I get it, that’s what you want,” Greg replied angrily. All right, so Sherlock would be a great help- especially if he could solve more cases like the others- and the boy did need to do more than just get high.
But his superiors would never let him bring on a drug addict, no matter how brilliant. It just wasn’t done.
He did really like the boy, though; for all his attitude and stubbornness.
He must have given something away, at least that the other man saw, because Sherlock’s brother had an odd gleam in his eye again. “No need to worry about your superiors, Detective. I’m certain they can be properly convinced to accept Sherlock as a consultant.”
“That’s… very reassuring,” Greg said in a tone that plainly said it really wasn’t. “But, even if they do agree, I still can’t hire a drug addict. It won’t happen.”
The man gave a long-suffering sigh, tilting his head down- the better to stare at Greg. “That is why Sherlock will get clean first, and then you will bring him in to help you on cases. As you say, hiring an ex drug addict is better than hiring an addict.”
That would be helpful; if Sherlock did successfully get clean then he could officially help with cases. It would be good to have something in his pocket, just in case.
“How do you plan on getting him clean? I doubt Sherlock will agree just because you tell him to.” Greg questioned, wondering just what power Sherlock’s older brother thought he held over Sherlock. But Greg had only seen Sherlock twice in the past month, while this man had known Sherlock his entire life. Maybe he did know something.
The man fiddled briefly with the handle of his umbrella. “It is my belief that if you are the one to push him, Detective, and offer the incentive, Sherlock will accept.” He gave a long sigh. “Hopefully he will see the opportunity to help you on cases as a better choice than his current living. He always has been rather unpredictable.”
So it was up to him then; wonderful. Because he had so much experience dealing with drug-addicted wayward genius’ who could apparently solve any crime in minutes. “And the actual plan for getting him clean?”
Sherlock’s brother cleared his throat. “I have already made arrangements at a rather inclusive clinic in a secluded area outside of London. The staff is expecting him and is ready to begin his treatment.” His lips thinned as he pressed them together. “If everything goes well and Sherlock cooperates, the process should not take long.”
“I’m sure Sherlock will appreciate all of that,” Greg commented with a brief laugh.
His kidnapper’s mouth twitched upward. “Yes, I suppose not.” After a brief lapse the man schooled his expression again. “Should I take this to mean you will help then, Detective?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Greg sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. It might be too kind of him, but he did want to help Sherlock; to see if the boys’ claim that he really was as brilliant when clean was true. Greg hoped it was. And if Sherlock didn’t pull through, and they were wrong… well then Greg would be deeply disappointed, but he would move on.
What did he have to lose?
“Alright,” Greg finally agreed, feeling an odd weight to his words. “I’ll offer this plan of yours to Sherlock the next time I find him stumbling onto my scene. But… I can’t promise anything.”
The man looked secretive, and smiled as if he’d already won. “Excellent. I wouldn’t expect anything less Detective.”
Before Greg could respond, Sherlock’s brother pretended to look at his watch. “I believe I’ve kept you long enough, Detective. I know you are eager to return to your scene.”
Greg blinked, startled by the sudden change of topic. “So I’m free to go then?”
“Yes, Detective. You can go.” He watched as Greg opened the door and began to climb out. “But I will be in touch.”
Greg had paused for a moment as the man spoke, but now leapt back into motion. “Of course you will,” he muttered, standing up just outside. He had been quiet, but Greg was fairly sure the other man heard.
“Good day, Detective,” Sherlock’s mysterious brother told him. Then the door was closed behind him, leaving Greg to quickly get out of the way for fear of getting his jacket caught as the car drove off down the street.
He must have been staring after it for a long time, because it took him a while to realize someone was calling his name.
Greg turned around to find Sally standing a few steps away, looking worried as she often did.
“You all right?” She asked, glancing down the street to where the car had disappeared.
He shook himself mentally and forced a smile. “Yeah, fine,” Greg reassured her before he started walking back towards the scene.
Sally followed him without a word, but her gaze still bored into his back.
As he ducked under the tape and then held it for her, Greg told himself he would focus on the case for now and not worry about Sherlock until the next time he saw the boy.
He didn’t want to consider how successful he may or may not be at convincing him.
~~~ * ~~~
The next time Greg saw Sherlock Holmes was, surprisingly, not at a crime scene.
He had returned to his flat at a ridiculously late hour, only to have to get up in a few hours again, to find someone sprawled directly in front of his door.
At first Greg thought it was one of his neighbors who hadn’t quite made it up to their own place. He hurried up the last stair and started towards the limp figure, his exhausted mind bristling with irritation.
“Hey! You can’t just sleep-“
But then as he got closer Greg saw the dark mop of curls and the skinny figure. “Sherlock?” He asked stunned, and rushed forward.
At the sound of his voice the person- who was almost definitely Sherlock- turned their head a little so it wasn’t all pressed against the filthy floor.
Greg got a glimpse of one grey-colored eye before the head turned away from him again.
Greg sighed tiredly and went down to his knees. Really, all he’d wanted was a few hours in front of the television and some sleep. Yet it seemed the universe was working against him, seeing as it had sent him an infuriating genius to deal with tonight.
“What have you done to yourself now, you idiot?” He asked, leaning over the boy’s too-still body. Greg reached out a hand and slid it under the boy’s curls to test his forehead.
And, just as he’d expected, it was sweaty and clammy with a fever the boy definitely had. Greg shifted his hand down to the side of the boy’s neck to thankfully feel a thready, fast pulse.
Thank god.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, I’m going to help you sit up on the count of three, alright?” Greg instructed patiently. He slid a hand under the boy’s body, being careful not to jostle him too much.
It was worrying how Sherlock didn’t even react to his touch. Greg shifted so he was sitting more or less right beside the boy. “Sherlock?” Greg called again, wondering just how conscious Sherlock was.
“Mm,” Sherlock groaned softly, managing to sound irritated in just one syllable. But it was a good sign.
“Right, on three then,” Greg announced authoritatively.
Sherlock groaned yet again, as if to argue.
“One.”
He leaned over Sherlock so he wouldn’t have to move the boy very far.
“Two.”
Greg used his other hand to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head and his neck so the genius wouldn’t do anything idiotic like choking. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn’t appreciate any of this.
“And, three.”
As gently and careful as possible, Greg shifted Sherlock up into a sitting position. Then, after a second or so, he moved Sherlock backwards to lean against him. “All right?” Greg asked quietly; he didn’t want to have made the boy’s condition even worse.
“’M fine,” Sherlock slurred, keeping his head down under Greg’s light pressure on his neck. “Don’t need-“ He suddenly stopped and attempted to push away from Greg while remaining upright under his own strength.
Greg quickly put a stop to this by pulling Sherlock back against him.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Greg chided more warmly then sharp. “I’m trying to help, Sherlock. You’re the one who came to me.” He paused. “Even if it was by collapsing on my doorstep.”
It didn’t escape his notice that while Sherlock had let him move him, the boy was unnaturally rigid in his arms- even despite how horrible he must be feeling.
“Now, what the hell did you do to yourself Sherlock?” Greg demanded in a stern voice used by paternal figures everywhere. “Even the first time I met you, you weren’t so poorly off.”
“’M fine,” Sherlock repeated a little more firmly this time. His words were thankfully also a little less slurred.
Sherlock tried to get away from him again, struggling forward. Greg didn’t try to stop Sherlock, but he did keep his arm wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist. Sherlock was weak from whatever he’d put into his system, meaning he likely would have collapsed if Greg hadn’t been holding him up.
As it was, the position the two of them were in now- with Sherlock on his hands and knees, and Greg kneeling behind him with one arm around the thin waist- wouldn’t look good if anyone happened to go by.
“Sherlock, I need you to stay awake, all right?” Greg said, feeling the boy start to shake in his arms. He wondered how long Sherlock would be able to stay conscious. What he really needed was to get a cold cloth and a glass of water, but Greg didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone and he doubted Sherlock could make it inside.
“Leave m’ alone,” Sherlock demanded weakly, back to slurring his words. Then he gasped sharply right before a severe shudder overtook his body.
This time he did collapse, the tremors still wracking his too-thin frame. Greg quickly rolled Sherlock onto his side and shifted the long legs closer to the boy’s chest. It was probably the safest position for him to be in.
“That better?” Greg asked as he pulled off his coat and draped it over Sherlock. Greg didn’t expect much of an answer, not when Sherlock’s body was currently fighting itself.
But Sherlock being Sherlock, he still found a way to respond. He opened one eye to give Greg a one-eyed glassy glare beneath the soaked curls.
He really did look horrible. The coat at least would keep him fairly warm, but it wouldn’t be enough.
“I’ll be right back, Sherlock,” Greg told the boy, who had closed his eyes again. “Don’t you dare wander off.”
A quiet huff of laughter was his answer as Greg climbed to his feet.
He slipped his keys out of his pocket, chose the one that went to his door and slid it easily into the lock. Once inside, he only took time to flip the lights on so he wouldn’t trip over anything on his way to the kitchen. His apartment was messier than usual since he’d only just finished with a case. All though Greg would never admit it to anyone, he’d half hoped Sherlock would turn up to help with the case. Yet obviously the boy had been too busy slowly killing himself.
Shaking those rather macabre thoughts from his head, Greg took a towel and soaked it in cold water from the tap. Once that was done he opened the refrigerator and took one of the bottles he kept in the door.
Hopefully, for now these would be enough.
Greg turned on his heel and went back through his living room and to the front door.
To his relief Sherlock was still where Greg had left him, and didn’t seem to have moved at all.
“Sherlock?” He called quietly, kneeling down next to the boy. If the idiot had fallen asleep…
After only a second or so Sherlock moved his head a little and opened his eyes. The glare wasn’t completely focused, but it was good to see he was still awake.
“Good,” Greg said, relieved. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and held it out towards Sherlock. “You need to sit up a bit and drink this.”
When the boy just continued to glare at him, Greg moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “On three again,” he instructed, readying himself. “One… two… three.”
On three Greg pulled Sherlock backward and into an almost sitting position. He let most of the boy’s weight settle on his arm as Sherlock fell back against him. “Good, now drink,” Greg commanded, holding the open top of the bottle to the boy’s lips.
He could feel Sherlock bristle under his arm at this treatment; but in the end the boy did take several long sips of water. He was obviously having trouble, but Greg pretended he didn’t notice.
When it became obvious Sherlock had drunken all he could, Greg withdrew the bottle and set it down on the floor. Then he picked up the damp towel and carefully placed it on Sherlock’s forehead, tipping the boys’ head back onto his shoulder.
Sherlock hissed sharply as cold, damp cloth met burning skin; but then a few seconds later he sighed softly, and his eyes slid closed again.
For a while the two of them sat in silence, with Greg listening closely to make sure Sherlock continued breathing.
During that time his mind wandered back to consider the agreement he’d made with Sherlock’s alarming older brother. Seeing Sherlock barely conscious and not even able to stay upright only made him more determined to convince the boy to get clean. Greg didn’t know how often Sherlock made himself like this, but it wasn’t at all good.
And, while confronting Sherlock with such a decision when he was barely functioning may not be Greg’s best idea, maybe it would be the extra evidence needed to make Sherlock to see the light and be convinced.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock,” Greg scolded quietly. “I refuse to believe you’re so much of an idiot that you can’t see what these drugs are doing to you.”
He listened to Sherlock’s harsh breathing, not put off at all by the boy’s lack of response.
“You’re a genius, Sherlock; an idiotic one, but still a genius. You deserve so much more of a life than trailing from high to high, and crashing my scenes.” Somehow everything he’d ever wanted to say to Sherlock was coming out now. Well, this did seem to be the time. “You could be absolutely brilliant, could really help people, and never be bored. But instead you’re letting yourself waste away.” He shook his head, careful not to jostle the boy. “I just don’t understand, Sherlock. Why would you do that?”
A tired sigh drifted up from his shoulder. “No one does,” Sherlock whispered, and the words were clearer this time. The water and cloth seemed to be helping.
Greg tilted his head to stare down at the dark curls. “Will you at least let me try?”
Sherlock didn’t give any response, other than another raspy breath.
After a few minutes’ debate with himself Greg said sternly, “I’m going to give you an offer, Sherlock. And this time, I want you to seriously consider accepting it. I want you to think it over.”
Against him Sherlock froze and seemed to stop breathing. Greg gently shook him as a reminder, causing Sherlock to gasp and suddenly burst into action.
He tore away from Greg, practically launching himself forward. Greg’s coat slipped from his thin shoulders as Sherlock snapped irritably, “I don’t need your pity-“
Yes, obviously feeling better.
“Hold on, Sherlock,” Greg cautioned, talking over him. He reached out and tried to wrestle the boy back towards him as gently as possible. “I’m not doing this out of pity. I’m doing this because I know you have potential and I’m trying to convince you of that.” Once Sherlock was still again, Greg lightly placed his hand on one of the thin shoulders. “All I want you to do is listen; will you at least do that for me?”
Sherlock weakly shrugged off his hand, but didn’t try to move away. That was an answer in itself.
Greg closed his eyes, arranged his thoughts, and took a deep breath before continuing. “I know I never said it, but you were a great help on those two cases.” A chuckle escaped his lips. “I don’t think we would have closed them nearly as fast if you hadn’t come along.”
He paused briefly, expecting Sherlock to make a comment about all officers being idiots and that was why they hadn’t been able to solve it without him.
But instead Sherlock fidgeted, almost… in discomfort, against his arm.
Greg didn’t understand why the boy would be uncomfortable. He was praising Sherlock for being able to do something an entire group of police couldn’t. Didn’t everyone like to be praised, even once in a while?
Greg filed that puzzle away in his mind for another day. Then he went on talking, now that he seemed to have Sherlock’s attention- for the moment. “Anyway, it’s because of that I’m making this offer. You’re brilliant, when you want to be, and the Yard could really use someone like you on cases,” Greg explained earnestly; he remembered all the cases it had taken them ages to solve, or ones they hadn’t even been able to solve at all. “We need someone who can bring a fresh eye to things, and someone who doesn’t think like a copper who hasn’t slept in days or lives off caffeine.”
Obviously this wasn’t as humorous as he’d thought, because this only earned him a quiet scoff from the tense body against him.
Greg sighed quietly and tried another method he hoped would hit more of a nerve with the boy. “I’ve done this for years, Sherlock. And every time there’s a case we can’t solve, or I have to tell a family even everything we did wasn’t enough-“ he heard his voice catch and quickly stopped before it happened again.
It was only after a few deep breaths that Greg managed to continue, “I regret it. And I feel guilty, because as a police officer we’re supposed to make London safer.” He looked down at the tangle of dark curls again. “You have a great talent, Sherlock; one that would be stupid to waste. So I’m asking you to come help me solve crimes, for whatever your reason; although I do hope it’s a good one. Give that brilliant mind of yours something to do instead of just letting it rot. You could make such-“
Before he was able to finish, Sherlock had slipped his grasp again and scrambled away as if Greg was on fire. The boy wasn’t able to make it very far, barely a yard or so, before he was on his knees gasping for air in-between severe coughing fits.
Greg quickly picked up the water bottle and went to Sherlock. He gently pulled on Sherlock’s shoulders to get him to sit up straighter and held the bottle to his mouth.
But Sherlock stubbornly kept his lips closed, refusing to drink.
After this standstill went on for several minutes, Greg gestured with the bottle and scolded, “Sherlock.”
That seemed to be the last straw for Sherlock because he weakly raised his arm and pushed the bottle away. It hadn’t been a very strong push, but the bottle slipped from Greg’s hand and fell to the floor where its contents started to spill out.
Just as Greg was opening his mouth to protest, Sherlock twisted away from him.
Sherlock remained crouched on the floor, his head down with the dark curls hiding his face. But his words were loud and almost clear. “I’m not some kind of pet to be paraded around, Detective,” Sherlock hissed at him, using the title mockingly. “I won’t perform tricks at your will, and especially not for any treats.”
There was scorn in the boys’ pronouncement, but more obvious was the pain. Obviously there was some history there where Sherlock had been treated exactly that way. Sadly enough Greg could see someone taking advantage of the boy and doing that to him.
“Sherlock, I wasn’t-“
“I may have a talent, and be a genius, Detective,” Sherlock continued, barely stopping for breath. “But I will choose what I want to do; no one else, and definitely not you. I will do whatever I want with my life, and not even someone like yourself will change my mind. No matter what ‘good’ I could do,” Sherlock finished dramatically, his words dripping with disdain.
Greg stared at the stiff, hostile back in front of him. What had messed up this kid so much he was so eager to be independent and not under anyone’s influence? Sherlock was so unique; he should be flourishing instead of being alone and hiding from the world. It was obvious to Greg that being on his own was not as good for him as Sherlock believed.
But it was important for Greg to be patient right now, because he was sure that if he pushed too hard Sherlock would disappear again.
When Greg spoke again, it was in a kind and patient voice. “I’m not trying to make you do anything, Sherlock. I won’t force you. All I want is to give you an option.”
Sherlock gave no sign of having heard, but Greg hoped (knew) he was listening.
“I hope you take it, Sherlock. But I’m leaving it up to you,” Greg explained, and then decided to just go for it. “I know you liked working on those cases- don’t deny it- and I want you to be able to keep working with me. So, I’m willing to bring you on as a consultant with my team.”
Silence reigned for what felt like a long time before Sherlock finally drew a rasping breath. Then he turned around to directly face Greg, looking like he was almost forcing himself to do so.
And when Sherlock slowly raised his head to meet Greg’s eyes, the embers of hope in those slightly focused eyes hurt.
“There has to be a catch, there always is,” Sherlock commented quietly, narrowing his gaze. “No one would let you hire an addict, however much a genius.”
Greg gave a reluctant nod. “True. That’s why there’s just one thing I need you to do first.”
The light eyes flickered rapidly across his face, leaving Greg to wonder just what the boy was seeing. Then suddenly they stopped, and widened. “You want me to get clean,” Sherlock breathed in realization. “I have to get clean before you’ll let me help,” he said, clearly disapproving.
“Yes.” Greg replied firmly, letting the boy know he was serious and there was no getting around this. “So you have to decide which you like more, Sherlock: the drugs you’re using to keep yourself entertained and that are destroying your body, or the crimes you seem to enjoy- and are good at- solving.”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away, not that Greg expected him to. This wasn’t a decision to be made lightly, and Greg was glad Sherlock was taking his time. Instead Greg was subjected to another of those piercing stares, even if still a little unfocused.
At least he thought so until it felt like an hour had gone by, and Sherlock still hadn’t answered. The boy wasn’t staring at him quite as strongly anymore, but he was taking a very long time to come to a decision.
Finally Greg prodded, “Sherlock-“
The boy blinked rapidly, and looked as if he’d been pulled back from somewhere. He focused on Greg again, but now there were shutters down and Greg wasn’t able to sense anything.
“Well,” Sherlock said abruptly, as if they’d just come to the end of a conversation. “I’ll let you get to bed. It must have been tiring using that brain of yours all day.”
In the moment it took Greg to catch up with what Sherlock had said, the boy had already weakly stood up and was stumbling over to the stairs.
“Sherlock, wait-“ Greg called, climbing to his feet.
But by that time Sherlock had more or less staggered to the top of the stairs. “Goodbye, Detective!” He called before disappearing down and around the corner.
“Goodbye Sherlock Holmes,” Greg replied quietly, still staring at the empty stairway.
~~~ * ~~~
Several months, many cases, and a text from ‘MH’ that merely said ‘thank you’ later, Greg was catching up on the mountain of paperwork he’d unwisely been avoiding.
He had just scrawled his signature on another piece of paper- he hadn’t really bothered to check what it was for after the tenth one- when he heard the noise of a commotion coming from nearby.
Greg looked up in time to witness a long black (expensive) coat topped with a mop of dark curls drop into the chair across the desk from him.
Just as he was wondering what the hell was going on, a certain pair of light eyes- completely clear this time- met his own tired ones.
Greg couldn’t help but stare before finally laughing. With a smile he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a folder he’d been saving especially.
He paused for barely a second before handing over the file, all the while holding the light, expectant gaze.
And finally, Greg was granted with the sight of an honest, real smile from Sherlock Holmes.
Part Eight