Untitled: 2b/6
anonymous
January 17 2011, 22:15:38 UTC
“Sherlock!” Lestrade crouched beside him. He was conscious and his eyes were open, but... unfocused, and that was a weird expression to see on his face. “What are you allergic to?”
“What? No. No!” His voice was still off. “Not me. The victim.”
“Then what's wrong with you?” Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade took his pulse, or tried to, before Sherlock wrenched his wrist away and sat up. “When was the last time you ate?” he demanded.
The hesitation was more than enough answer. “What day is it?”
“Oh, for-- Here.” Lestrade reached inside his jacket and handed Sherlock his emergency chocolate bar. “Hopkins!” he called.
Sherlock murmured something that sounded like “appendix.”
“Don't tell me you've got bloody appendicitis?” Lestrade attempted to feel Sherlock's forehead, only to have his hand swatted away.
It was impressive, the withering look Sherlock could produce while slumped against the wall after swooning from low blood sugar. “Don't be ridiculous.” His hand closed around the unopened chocolate bar. “Everything else is an appendix. Digesting slows me down.”
“So does fainting,” Lestrade pointed out. “You could've been examining the other body by now if you'd stayed on your feet.”
“I don't need to examine the other body.”
“What killed the man?”
“Anaphylactic shock. Peanut allergy, I suspect, but could be something else.”
“Peanut allergy? Then it was an accident.”
Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. “Hardly. The man died with his hand in his pocket, he was fumbling for an epi-pen, but it's not there. You'll find it with the woman, as well as the peanuts she ate before kissing him with her very distinctive scarlet lipstick.”
Lestrade just shook his head. Footsteps: Hopkins came onto the terrace. “Sorry, sir,” he said breathlessly. “They've found an epi-pen on the woman, forensics thinks she may have had an allergic reaction.”
Lestrade dug in his pocket and took out a fiver. “Run round to the nearest sandwich shop and bring me back something.”
“Sir?” Hopkins said, puzzled.
“Put your money away,” Sherlock said. “I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
“Obviously,” Lestrade muttered.
“I was on a case.” Sherlock sounded nettled. “I never eat when I'm working.”
“A case? One of ours?”
“No. Working for an enemy. Well...”
“An enemy,” Lestrade repeated.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up. “My arch-enemy.”
Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock was indecipherable. As far as Lestrade cared, he could talk in bloody Swahili as long as he kept clearing up cases. “Eat the chocolate. Go home. You have got food in your flat, haven't you?”
“They've got a child, or a mutual dependent. Check on their insurance policies.”
“Right, we can handle it from here.”
Sherlock's snort was uncomplimentary. He ignored Lestrade's outstretched hand and got to his feet, one hand against the door for balance.
“Get a cab, make sure he gets in it,” Lestrade told Hopkins.
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll get my own cab. Evening!” Sherlock strode off, unopened chocolate bar still in his hand, and Lestrade just shook his head again before turning back to the body.
Re: Untitled: 2b/6
anonymous
January 18 2011, 01:58:19 UTC
OP here. This just keeps getting better and better!!!
I really adore how this goes back and forth from action to mystery to gentle humor. Every time Lestrade was mistaken - thinking Sherlock was going into shock, thinking he was saying he had appendicitis - I'd drawn the exact same conclusions, so I knew just how he felt! And Sherlock was so disgusted with our "tiny minds"... LOL!
It's absolutely perfect that Sherlock can solve the case while almost fainting like this. And it's very, very poignant how Lestrade tries to meet his needs at every turn: giving him his chocolate bar (I thought I couldn't possibly love Lestrade any more, and then you went and gave him an emergency chocolate bar, and now I do), trying to arrange for a sandwich and a cab, trying to feel his pulse and his forehead, etc. Sherlock's just the right combination of indignant, scathing, and slightly vulnerable here.
My favorites: First of all, I love that Lestrade knows Sherlock well enough to understand at the gut level something's wrong in time to turn and catch Sherlock, risking his own life in the process, before Sherlock pitches over the railing. It's a very telling, as well as stunning, mental picture. Second, this sentence is going in my all-time hall of fame: "It was impressive, the withering look Sherlock could produce while slumped against the wall after swooning from low blood sugar." I can just see this. Brilliant.
You've totally captured the slightly harried, slightly paternal, and more than slightly frustrated Lestrade here, as well as his willingness to put up with a lot (including insults) to close the case.
Guh. This is just beautiful. I love it so much!!! Thank you, you wonderful author, you!
Untitled: 3b/6
anonymous
January 18 2011, 22:12:25 UTC
“Speaking of wrong,” Lestrade began.
Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance, frowning. Lestrade shook his head, and waited for Higgins to return with the gloves. A search of Barker turned up a wallet, a knife, and three wooden darts.
“This,” Donovan said, holding it up for Sherlock to see, “is tipped with a deadly neurotoxin. We took one just like it off him last week. You would have been dead in minutes.”
“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed. He stepped forward, and then his mouth turned into a pout when Donovan pulled the dart out of his reach.
“No,” she said firmly.
“You said you took one like it off him last week?”
“Yeah, you can't have that one either, it's evidence.”
The constables hauled Barker to his feet and led him out of the alley.
Lestrade retrieved his mobile, hung up, and crossed his arms. “How did you get onto that fire escape?”
“Climbed. Why did you let him go last week?”
Lestrade grimaced. “Couldn't find evidence to charge him with anything besides possession of a deadly weapon, and the magistrate let him post bail.”
“Stupid.”
“You're sure he didn't stick you with anything.”
“He didn't touch me. And he wouldn't have. But-- thank you.”
Lestrade had his own opinion of that, but he knew how much good it would do to share it. He frowned “Your hand's bloody.”
Sherlock glanced down. “Scraped it climbing. Barker's gun will match the bullet in Arthur Edham's head.”
“You're sure about that, the climbing?”
Sherlock was already walking away. “Yes,” he called over his shoulder.
Lestrade shook his head, but if Sherlock was about to drop dead from curare poisoning, there wasn't anything he could do about it. “Sherlock!” he yelled.
Sherlock half-turned. “What?”
“Back there, were you using me as bait?”
“Of course not!” Sherlock vanished around the corner of the alley.
Donovan stood at his side. “Just nearly got jabbed with a poison dart, and there he goes, striding away, cool as you please.”
“I've never seen him frightened,” Lestrade said after a moment. “Never seen him... rattled. Not sure he knows how to be afraid.”
Donovan shook her head. “He's mad,” she said with conviction.
Re: Untitled: 3b/6
anonymous
January 18 2011, 23:20:00 UTC
OP here! *squeals*
OMG, Sherlock totally was using Lestrade as bait! The smug bastard. ;)
Lestrade is such a BAMF! here. I love how he keeps a cool head the entire time, redialing the phone, disarming Barker, getting Sherlock clear of the dart. This is totally how I imagine Lestrade in action. Not showy about it, but totally taking care of business. Gorgeous.
You are spoiling me rotten with this wonderful fic! I especially appreciate the fact Sherlock actually thanks Lestrade (he obviously knows that it really was a near thing), and how protective!Lestrade asks one more time if Sherlock is sure the blood came from the climbing.
I love the way you write the banter between the two. You've caught their characters and their relationship beautifully. And Lestrade's last lines about Sherlock? Perfection. (Somewhat chilling, too, when you think about it...)
Untitled: 3/6
anonymous
January 18 2011, 22:11:40 UTC
“Sherlock--!” But Lestrade was speaking to empty space. It was like talking to a bloody brick wall, trying to make Sherlock acknowledge that he couldn't just run off on his own, tracking down the details of a case. What was unnerving was the ease with which Sherlock could collect evidence without anything so commonplace as a warrant, or an official police presence-- well, except for the badges he kept taking from Lestrade's pockets. Lestrade couldn't fathom what had made the man choose this particular hobby, but the longer he knew Sherlock, the more thankful he was that the man had come down on the right side of the law. Mostly.
The last thing he'd said had been, “He's not far off.” Lestrade jogged after him. “Sherlock!” he called. He turned the corner of the alley and-- found himself looking at a gun barrel.
“Hands up, Detective Inspector,” the man holding the gun said, and grinned. “Drop that mobile, if you please. It's always nice to meet old friends again.”
Slowly, Lestrade put his hands out, taking in his surroundings. He turned his mobile over, brushing his thumb against the pad-- the redial button, and the last person he'd called had been Donovan-- and let it fall to the alley. “Barker,” he said. “What're you doing here?”
“Well, I wasn't sure before, not with that bloke haring after me, but now I'm quite certain I'm getting away. You're going to be my ticket out of here.”
“Where?”
“Traveling with a hostage is always so difficult, but I think we can make it as far as Dover. You have a car?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is it?”
Lestrade gestured with his head. “Round the corner, in front of the house. You'll never get to it without someone seeing you, and as soon as they know you've got me hostage, you'll have the SAS down on your head.”
Barker shrugged. “Then we walk. Move.”
“Might want to have a look at that first,” Lestrade said, and nodded to his mobile.
Barker laughed. “It's not on.”
“It is.”
Barker whirled at the new voice, but Sherlock was already dropping on him-- Lestrade closed with him while the gun was pointed away, drove his elbow deep into the man's stomach, and wrenched the pistol from his hand-- then Sherlock and Barker both ended up on the ground-- Barker's free hand strayed towards his pocket-- Lestrade stomped on it, grabbed Sherlock by the coat, and dragged him away. He couldn't haul him off of Barker, but he got him clear, and pointed the gun at the criminal's head. “Freeze!”
Barker froze, left hand in his pocket.
Lestrade took three paces back, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. “Bring your hand out, empty, or you're dead.”
The fabric shifted as Barker unclenched his hand. Lestrade's finger tightened on the trigger until he saw the open palm. More footsteps, running behind him: Donovan and the constables. “Hands above your head,” he said, and Barker obeyed.
Donovan handcuffed him. “Get some heavier gloves before you search him,” Lestrade told her.
“Right.” She dispatched one of the constables back to the crime scene.
“Bloody hell,” Barker spat, rolling his eyes to look at Sherlock. “How'd you get up there? I could have sworn--”
“And you would have been wrong.” Sherlock smirked.
Untitled: 4a/6
anonymous
January 20 2011, 07:02:29 UTC
A/N: Thank you very much for the comments! I'm glad you're enjoying this fic so much.
Lestrade's radio crackled. “Freak's here, better get a surgical mask,” Donovan said.
Lestrade frowned, and depressed the talk button. “That list of the girl's friends, have you gotten anywhere with it?”
“Higgins is bringing the first one in for questioning now, sir.”
“Right,” he acknowledged, and looked up.
Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves, looked around, frowned, and examined the windowsill. He drew one finger across it. “This isn't the crime scene.”
Lestrade stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at the bed. We had a warm spell two days ago, but it turned cold last night. Pyjamas in the hamper are thin, blanket's thin too-- thermostat outside is set at fourteen, she never would have stayed warm here. Could have been sleeping in her clothes--” he made an odd choking sound-- “but look at this.” He held up a slip of paper from the desk. “It's her work schedule. The time set on the alarm would never have gotten her to work on time this morning, but it would have gotten her to school yesterday. She didn't reset it before going to sleep, because she didn't sleep here. Therefore--” the choking noise again-- “she didn't disappear from this room. So where did she spend the night?” He turned quickly, hands in his pockets, surveying the scattered papers and books on the floor.
Lestrade frowned. “Sherlock, are you all right?”
“Fine. Why not here?” He looked out the window. “Could have slept on the sofa, but wherever she was, she would have needed a heavy blanket or a duvet. Where would she have gotten it? No extra in the brothers' room, we know the mother was using hers, none in the--” he went into the hall and opened a door-- “linen cupboard. Conclusion, she never went to sleep here at all. The windowsill's been wet recently; she must have opened it to climb out.” He muffled a cough.
“But her wallet's here, and her mobile.”
Sherlock opened the cupboard, and took out his phone. “Left her galoshes, so wasn't intending to get her feet wet. She--”
Lestrade's mobile rang. “Lestrade.”
“We found her,” Bradstreet said.
“Where?”
“Dover. It was her uncle.”
“She all right?”
“Yes.”
“I'll have my team clean up here and be on my way.” He hung up. “Sherlock?”
From the hall came the sound of furious coughing, which stopped instantly. “I heard,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. “Congratulations.”
Lestrade frowned. “Where's your coat?”
“Ruined it in the Thames last night. What about that blackmailer case, is it going to trial or not? I--” he started to cough, and choked it back-- “have a bit of traveling to arrange.”
“At the beginning of February, hang on--” he crossed his arms over his chest. “You fell into the Thames last night, and now you're running round without a coat and with a cough?”
“It's just a cold. Text me if something--” He coughed again, and couldn't seem to stop. Lestrade watched with eyebrows raised, not sure whether to pound Sherlock on the back or just hit him on the head for being so stupid. “Comes up,” he gasped. “What has the uncle said so far?”
“I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did.”
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why not?”
“I'm taking you off the case-- we've nearly wrapped it up, anyway. You should be home, or better, you should be in hospital.”
Untitled: 4b/6
anonymous
January 20 2011, 07:10:43 UTC
“Ridiculous. I--” Sherlock bent over coughing, and then squatted, staring at the floor. He took out his hand lens and looked at the carpet. “Someone's been walking here in high heels. There are only trainers in that cupboard.”
Lestrade thought of the missing girl's mother, with her practical jumpers and job in retail. “A friend?”
“They have a mat down in the entryway--” He coughed again, and it took him ten seconds to stop. When he straightened up, he leaned back against the wall, looking drained. “-- with the boys' shoes,” he finished hoarsely. “The impractically light carpets are unsoiled. Visitors remove their shoes in this flat. Someone had a spare key--”
“Yeah, right, got it. Sherlock, go to the bloody A&E, or I'll arrest you for contaminating a crime scene!”
An indignant tilt of the head. “I haven't contaminated--” He coughed again, a deep, racking cough interspersed with gasps for air, and his breath wheezed going out. When he straightened up, there were tiny droplets of blood on his hand.
Lestrade brought his radio to his mouth. “Upstairs, bring handcuffs.”
Sherlock gave Lestrade a filthy look, and stalked off without a word. “Go to the A&E!” Lestrade yelled after him.
After four days of unanswered texts, Lestrade went round to Sherlock's flat, but the door was locked and no one answered when he knocked. He squatted and peered through the mail slot: no pile of mail, and no newspaper, which meant that Sherlock was still there to collect it. In a strop about being thrown out of the crime scene, then, not that Lestrade had really expected anything else. Just in case, though, he went to the nearest chemist's, and hesitated for several minutes before shaking his head, buying a bottle of cough syrup, and leaving it hanging in the bag from Sherlock's doorknob. That it disappeared by next day, when he made another unsuccessful attempt to get Sherlock to fill out paperwork, relieved his fears.
He only realized his mistake when he met Sherlock again for the first time three weeks later, and was startled to see that the man was nearly skeletal. He ignored all questions about what had happened to him, but he was breathing normally again, and he'd replaced his drowned coat with a long black one; Lestrade just shook his head, and followed him up the stairs.
Re: Untitled: 4b/6
anonymous
January 20 2011, 12:23:52 UTC
OP here!
Augh, Sherlock really has no sense of self-preservation. My chest hurt in sympathy as I read about his coughing fits. I can just imagine him, ignoring his own health, forcing out his deductions between hacking spells.
I'm grateful for his accident in the Thames, though, since it ended up leading him to wear that black coat! ;)
Once again, I adore your Lestrade. He's genuinely concerned, and he'll take only so much from Sherlock before drawing a line. (I loved his call for handcuffs. I can just see this happening.) And he also knows Sherlock well enough to expect the resulting sulk afterwards, even though the DI was trying to help Sherlock for his own good.
The idea of him hanging a bag of cough syrup on Sherlock's door, then returning to make sure it had disappeared, was incredibly poignant. So, too, was his self-recrimination when he next saw the skeletal-but-recovered Sherlock. (It is amazing that Sherlock lived to adulthood before he had Lestrade and John Watson to look after him.)
I'm growing more and more attached to your beautiful characterizations with every section you post. When this baby is completed, I'm going to recommend it everywhere. I especially admire your constraint and understatement; you can fit a page-length declaration of affection (which would never really happen) into a few gruff words (which would). You have such a great feel for the characters and their style of banter and interaction that it comes across as authentic every time. Authentic and very moving.
Thank you, anon. *hugs you and hugs this lovely fic*
Re: Untitled: 4b/6alltoseekJanuary 20 2011, 17:40:56 UTC
My theory: Sherlock stops taking care of himself when there are others around him who indicate they might care about him. 1) To find out if they do and how much - how far they will go to help him (this will indicate his value to them - when everyone calls you freak have to get affirmation somewhere :-); and 2) So he doesn't have to bother with trivia like buying his own food and medicine :-)
Untitled: 5a/6
anonymous
January 21 2011, 06:33:18 UTC
A/N: I wasn't sure about this one; I like to think of Sherlock as self-sufficient, despite his laziness on the show, and in the ACD stories he is quite self-sufficient (except for occasionally swooning from lack of food). However, given the prompt, it was logical that I would be writing stories about a vulnerable Sherlock... and the theme intrigued me. Additionally, it seems like the BBC show has ramped up the level of crime as compared to the ACD stores; I haven't read all of the latter, but I haven't found anything like Moriarty's bombings, or Jeff's serial killings. Therefore, perhaps the scenario is plausible.
Also, I've been trying to save on comments, but I really appreciate the lovely feedback! I'm sort of with alltoseek in that Sherlock's not oblivious that people are watching out for him.
Lestrade was up to his elbows in file folders, smothering a yawn, when he heard his mobile ringing in his office. Whoever it was would leave a message, and he needed to find a certain unsolved case so they could go home... His mobile stopped ringing, and then started again, but it wasn't the tone for a new voicemail; it was an incoming call. “Donovan!” he called. “Is it Bradstreet?”
“It's the freak.”
Lestrade frowned. It wasn't unheard of for Sherlock, with his complete lack of respect for other peoples' lives, to contact him in the middle of the night, but they'd just finished a case, and he usually texted. Lestrade put down the box of folders, returned to his office, and answered his mobile. “Hello?”
No response.
“Hello?” Lestrade repeated. “Sherlock?”
He heard ragged breathing on the other end. “New development... Alder case.”
Sherlock didn't sound at all like himself-- and they'd just closed the Alder case, arresting the blackmailer. “Are you all right?”
“'m fine.”
“Right,” Lestrade said, fumbling for his coat. “What's this new development?”
“New suspects.”
“What?”
“Three.”
“We just arrested the man.”
“I know... that.”
“Sherlock. What's wrong?”
A pause, a long pause. “Tired.”
Lestrade knew from personal experience that Sherlock would fall over before he admitted to bodily needs while he was on a case. “Where are you?” Silence. “Are you at your flat?”
“Yes,” Sherlock slurred. “At my flat.”
“Stay where you are. I'm coming round to discuss the new suspects, all right?”
“Mmm.” The connection ended.
“Got the keys,” Donovan said as she walked into the office. “Do we need backup?”
Lestrade hesitated. “No. You drive, I'm going to ring him back.”
Sherlock didn't answer his mobile as they drove to Montague Street. Lestrade got out while Donovan parked. The front door of the flat was unlocked... was, in fact, ajar. He pushed it open slightly, and listened. No sounds of altercation, or movement. “Sherlock?”
The sitting room was empty, as was the adjacent loo. The bedroom was empty. The kitchen was... not empty. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock was sitting on the floor, slumped against a cupboard. Slowly, he turned his head and looked up; his eyes seemed enormous in his face. “Lestrade.”
Lestrade squatted beside him. Sherlock's irises were nearly invisible, swallowed by the pupils. “What happened?”
Footsteps behind him. “He's OD'ed,” Donovan said. “Sherlock. What did you take?”
“Nal...” Sherlock whispered, and his head swayed.
“High as a kite,” she said, and took out her mobile.
He held up a hand. “Wait,” Lestrade ordered.
“What?”
Lestrade hesitated. Sherlock had said he was clean; Lestrade had believed him, and found himself reluctant to be persuaded otherwisw. “Just... wait a moment. He's not in any immediate danger. Go see if you can find out what he took.”
Donovan snorted, but returned to the sitting room. Lestrade picked up Sherlock's left arm; Sherlock didn't struggle or pull away, just stared with an unfocused gaze. There were two angry red needle marks on the vein. “Sherlock, can you tell me what happened?”
Slowly, Sherlock pulled something out from under his trousers: an empty syringe. “Naltrexone,” he said, pronouncing the word carefully.
Lestrade took his pulse. It was slower than he would have expected, nearly normal, but Sherlock was sweating and shaking. “Did you take heroin?”
Untitled: 5b/6
anonymous
January 21 2011, 06:35:41 UTC
“No. Thought...” he licked his lips. “They gave it to me.”
“Who did you think gave you heroin?”
“Alders.”
Bloody hell. “Alders,” he repeated. “Three of them? You said there were three new suspects.”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. “Came to the door.”
“Right.” He turned his head. “Donovan!” he called.
“I heard. There's nothing in the sitting room.”
Lestrade looked back at Sherlock. “You thought they gave you heroin. Was it really?”
“No. Wasn't... thinking clearly. Naltrexone... would... have helped.”
Why Sherlock had naltrexone lying around his flat was an inquiry for another time. “Do you know what they gave you, then?”
“Some... sedative.”
“How much?”
“Trying... to kill me.” His head lolled to one side; Lestrade grabbed him before he toppled over. “Couldn't... testify... that way.”
Lestrade steadied him with one hand and reached into his pocket with another. “I'm calling an ambulance.”
“No!” Sherlock grabbed his wrist; his grip was surprisingly strong, and his eyes glittered.
“Why not?”
He slumped back, as if the effort had exhausted him. “Spent enough time... high in hospital,” he whispered.
Lestrade considered. If Sherlock could carry on a semi-coherent conversation, and react quickly enough when he wanted, he was probably all right for the moment... though Lestrade wouldn't have minded the second opinion of someone a bit more qualified. On the other hand, if he called for an ambulance, and Sherlock reacted badly, things could get ugly. “How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen...” Sherlock swallowed. “minutes... starting to come out of it.” His hands were trembling in his lap. “Compounded... naltrexone effects.”
“Do you know which Alders it was?”
Sherlock closed his eyes. Lestrade waited, not sure whether to shake him by the shoulder to wake him, or avoid jarring his concentration. “The... cousin. Red hair. Sister. And nephew.”
“I'll make the call,” Donovan said behind him.
“You found anything in the flat?”
“No. They must have taken it with them.” She went into the other room, and Lestrade heard her talking; after a moment, she returned. “Bradstreet's getting a warrant.”
“Thank you. Finish checking the flat if you haven't already, then you can go.”
She came closer. “You sure, sir?”
“I'll handle this.”
“He ought to be in hospital.” She sounded concerned.
“He'll be all right, just needs someone to stay with him for a while.”
“Right,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “I've done the flat. Call me if you need help.”
“Yes. Good night... morning, Donovan.”
Pause. “This, tonight... all part of the job.”
Lestrade looked up at her, and nodded. “All right.” He knew what she was saying: she wouldn't mention this to Sherlock, not even under provocation of his usual taunts. Sherlock Holmes was a great man, Lestrade knew, his incredible mind saving lives and putting criminals away. But Sally Donovan was a good copper, and not just in the sense that she was competent. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't remember that she'd been there. He heard footsteps, and the sound of a door shutting. “Sherlock, I'm going to bolt the door in case the Alders come back. Can you sit up?”
Untitled: 5c/6
anonymous
January 21 2011, 06:38:04 UTC
Lestrade bolted the door and drew all the shades in the flat. When he returned to the kitchen, Sherlock had slumped over onto his side. “Well, that clearly wasn't a truth serum,” Lestrade muttered, and lifted him into a sitting position again. “Besides tired, what are your symptoms?”
“Shaking.” His head sagged forward, chin dropping onto his chest.
Lestrade shook his shoulder gently. “You've got to stay awake. Else I'm calling an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” Sherlock said, raising his head.
“Is there... someone I can call? A friend, your family?” Four years and he knew exactly nothing about Sherlock's personal life, if he even had something deserving of the name.
“No,” Sherlock whispered.
Lestrade picked up Sherlock's dropped mobile and looked at the contacts. It was a long list, and uninformative; nothing so clearly labeled as “father” or “girlfriend.” He switched to recent calls: his name was first, preceded by two takeaway places, someone called Trevor, and an entry simply labeled M. Nothing helpful; it had to be him, then. He could call the ambulance, and they'd come and take Sherlock to hospital, letting Lestrade go home and go to bed, but...
Sherlock had never been paid for his work, had never even asked to be reimbursed for expenses. He would show up any time of day or night for a case, if he deemed it interesting enough, and enter dirty or disturbing crime scenes without batting an eye. Lestrade was too clear-sighted to attribute this to humanitarian motives, but the fact remained that Lestrade, and the Met, owed Sherlock; owed him rather a lot. So if Sherlock didn't want to go to hospital, then Lestrade would stay with him.
“Unusual choice of weapon,” Sherlock said. “Why sedative? Quiet; quick. Counted on remaining undiscovered... needed time to get away. Couldn't hope to... get away with it forever... so leaving the country.”
“I'll text Bradstreet.” Lestrade looked up from his mobile just as Sherlock toppled over again. “You can't sleep, Sherlock. Sedative's still in your system. It could still kill you.”
“Mmm.”
“Do you have any other cases on now?”
“Mmm. No.”
“How did you get into all this? Consulting detective, and all.”
“Uni,” Sherlock said softly. “Got bit by a bulldog...” He stared at the counter, but Lestrade was pretty sure he wasn't seeing it. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up a bit, in what looked like the beginning of a genuine smile rather than a smirk.
“What does a bulldog have to do with it?” Lestrade prompted after a few moments.
In bits and pieces, with long gaps in between, he got the story out of Sherlock... or rather, he got a story, because while he thought Sherlock might regret saying so much when he was sober again, Lestrade couldn't make any sense out of it. By the time Sherlock had become alert enough to stop answering any more questions, not only did Lestrade not know what the bulldog had to do with the consulting detection, he didn't know what the bad henna tattoo or the blackmailer had to do with the bulldog. “You think you can sit up on your own?”
“Yes.” Sherlock's gaze seemed to sharpen on Lestrade's face, and when Lestrade took his hand away, Sherlock stayed upright. “Three Alders. Sister, nephew, cousin-- came by and drugged me...” His fingers brushed over the needle marks, and he made a fist. “I told you.”
“Yes,” Lestrade confirmed. “Bradstreet's team is looking for them now.”
“Not memory gap... inability to differentiate thoughts from reality? Not a symptom of many sedatives. Pass me my phone.” When Lestrade handed it over, Sherlock busied himself tapping at the screen. “Can't figure it out...” He leaned back against the cupboard, eyelids drooping, put his mobile on the floor, and groaned.
“You can't sleep, Sherlock. What class of sedatives do you think it was?”
Untitled: 5d/6
anonymous
January 21 2011, 06:41:21 UTC
“What? Oh.” Lestrade looked round the kitchen, and passed him the bin. Sherlock bent over it and vomited, first bringing up liquid and then just heaving. Lestrade had helped too many green coppers through their first brutal crime scene to be affected, to feel anything but sympathy. When Sherlock stopped coughing, put the bin down, and leaned his head back against the cupboard again, Lestrade silently handed him a mug of water.
Sherlock drained it in about four swallows and handed it back. “More,” he said without looking up.
“You all right for a moment? I can rinse that out,” Lestrade said when Sherlock had drank his fill. The sour, sharp smell of vomit was beginning to fill the room.
“Fine,” Sherlock said.
Lestrade emptied the contents of the bin into the toilet and rinsed it in the tub. Sherlock was still upright when he returned to the kitchen, which Lestrade took as a good sign. “Do you want to move?”
“No.”
“You've stopped shaking.”
“Yes, obviously.”
“What did you study at uni?”
“You're prying.”
“I'm trying to keep you awake.”
Sherlock threw up twice more within the next half hour. When he leaned back against the cupboard, he looked exhausted. “In my bedroom there's a whiteboard. Bring it to me, and a marker.”
As Lestrade was rummaging on Sherlock's desk, restraining his curiosity to what he had to handle to retrieve the whiteboard, his mobile rang. “Hello.”
“They've caught the two Alders-- just looking for the sister now,” Donovan said. “Hope they can lead us to her. You still at his flat?”
“Yes.” Lestrade frowned; he heard noise in the background. “Are you at the office? I thought I told you to go home.”
“Detective Inspector Bradstreet needed some information. I'll be on my way soon.”
“Come in late tomorrow, then.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“It's a strong suggestion. I'll be late myself, unless something comes up.”
A pause. “Everything all right?”
“Fine. Go home, Donovan.”
“Yes, sir. Call me if you need something.”
Lestrade carried the whiteboard to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged now, fiddling with his phone. He looked up quickly, and it was a relief to see someone at home in his eyes again. “Who did they catch?”
“The nephew and the cousin. What did you want the whiteboard for?”
“Excellent.” Sherlock began copying strings of numbers and letters from his phone onto the whiteboard.
Lestrade studied it upside down and frowned. “Some sort of cipher?”
Sherlock gave him a look, possibly more mild than usual. “Multivariable calculus. You wanted me to stay awake.”
He was recovering from a nearly lethal dose of sedative, and was still solving multivariable calculus problems as fast as he could copy them down. Lestrade shook his head, and leaned against the cupboard. “How do you feel now?”
“Fine,” Sherlock murmured, not looking up. “You can go.”
Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. “You've just had an unknown dose of an unknown drug in your system. You've only been coherent for the last twenty minutes.”
Sherlock didn't answer.
Lestrade took a seat at the table where he could keep an eye on Sherlock, who continued to solve calculus problems as if they were the only thing in the world at that moment-- which, for him, they probably were. He stifled a yawn, went through the messages on his phone, and tried not to think about the work waiting for him on his desk.
“My earlier statement is still applicable,” Sherlock said, frowning over his mobile. The early summer sun was just beginning to lighten the sky.
“How do you feel?”
“Alert.” But in the mild grey light, he looked unusually young, and exhausted.
“You need to see a doctor.”
“Mmm.”
“You nearly died. There could be, I don't know, long-term effects of whatever they gave you.”
“Later,” Sherlock said. “Go home, Lestrade.”
The thought of a hot shower and his own bed, even for just an hour or two, was very tempting. “The sister may try to kill you again. She has to know something's happened.”
“I'll be careful.”
Lestrade wasn't sure if Sherlock was on passing terms with the word. “If you feel any different, at all, call someone. Call me.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock didn't bother to look up from his mobile.
Re: Untitled: 5d/6
anonymous
January 21 2011, 14:55:16 UTC
OP here.
This one really is the very best yet. *extremely happy sigh* There's so much to love here. I do see what you mean about Sherlock as a self-sufficient character, on the whole, except when he runs himself down physically - really, this section I think does great justice to that, because he's quite a BAMF here, despite the fact he was attacked. After all, he's not asking for help: he's only calling to provide new information for the case. At first he even says he's fine(!). He doesn't admit to what's happened until Lestrade sees him. And even then, he's pretty damned tough.
And he wouldn't have been attacked in the first place if he didn't pose such a threat.
I love, love, love the fact that Lestrade 1) knows something's wrong and follows up on it, 2) takes Sherlock's word about being clean, and 3) doesn't force Sherlock to go to the hospital. (Sherlock's reasoning about that broke my heart a little.) And it's so poignant that Lestrade looks for contacts in Sherlock's phone, tries to think of who else might help the young man, and comes up with no options at all. If Lestrade doesn't do it, no one will. (Of course, we know Mycroft might, but Sherlock most definitely would not want that; it's quite telling that he is willing to let Lestrade stay and tend him through the worst of it.) And Lestrade, as always, once he understands what needs to be done, does it.
Special kudos for the fantastic interaction here with Sally Donovan. You do a brilliant job of showing that she's devoted to and concerned about Lestrade, and also that she's a real, true professional who sticks to her code and who puts in 110% when it's needed to get the job done. She's perfect here in every way.
I love how Sherlock changes as he starts to shake off the worst of the drug's effects, shifting from his rambling stories (great references, BTW) to saying that Lestrade's prying. It's so totally in character for him to keep himself awake and alert by doing multivariable calculus.
His dismissal of Lestrade is quite touching. Again, I really admire your restraint and your subtlety. Beautifully done.
OMG, there's only one more to go - and it's the inverse scenario. *bounces* I am ridiculously excited. You keep ratcheting this up each time, and I just love your insights and observations about these great characters. Thank you! *huge hugs*
Re: Untitled: 5d/6alltoseekJanuary 21 2011, 17:59:45 UTC
What the OP said :-) This is very well done! Gripping. Lestrade is caring, conscientious, and respectful. And professional. That's a tough line to walk with Sherlock! Very much looking forward to the next one!
Re: Untitled: 5d/6
anonymous
January 22 2011, 17:41:07 UTC
Oh, just stumbled across this and it's brilliant - I love explorations of Sherlock and Lestrade's backstory and this is so well executed. I love how you're managing to show such tiny, fiercely concealed hints of vulnerability from Sherlock without going at all overboard with it - it's just right, it feels true.
“What? No. No!” His voice was still off. “Not me. The victim.”
“Then what's wrong with you?” Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade took his pulse, or tried to, before Sherlock wrenched his wrist away and sat up. “When was the last time you ate?” he demanded.
The hesitation was more than enough answer. “What day is it?”
“Oh, for-- Here.” Lestrade reached inside his jacket and handed Sherlock his emergency chocolate bar. “Hopkins!” he called.
Sherlock murmured something that sounded like “appendix.”
“Don't tell me you've got bloody appendicitis?” Lestrade attempted to feel Sherlock's forehead, only to have his hand swatted away.
It was impressive, the withering look Sherlock could produce while slumped against the wall after swooning from low blood sugar. “Don't be ridiculous.” His hand closed around the unopened chocolate bar. “Everything else is an appendix. Digesting slows me down.”
“So does fainting,” Lestrade pointed out. “You could've been examining the other body by now if you'd stayed on your feet.”
“I don't need to examine the other body.”
“What killed the man?”
“Anaphylactic shock. Peanut allergy, I suspect, but could be something else.”
“Peanut allergy? Then it was an accident.”
Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. “Hardly. The man died with his hand in his pocket, he was fumbling for an epi-pen, but it's not there. You'll find it with the woman, as well as the peanuts she ate before kissing him with her very distinctive scarlet lipstick.”
Lestrade just shook his head. Footsteps: Hopkins came onto the terrace. “Sorry, sir,” he said breathlessly. “They've found an epi-pen on the woman, forensics thinks she may have had an allergic reaction.”
Lestrade dug in his pocket and took out a fiver. “Run round to the nearest sandwich shop and bring me back something.”
“Sir?” Hopkins said, puzzled.
“Put your money away,” Sherlock said. “I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
“Obviously,” Lestrade muttered.
“I was on a case.” Sherlock sounded nettled. “I never eat when I'm working.”
“A case? One of ours?”
“No. Working for an enemy. Well...”
“An enemy,” Lestrade repeated.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up. “My arch-enemy.”
Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock was indecipherable. As far as Lestrade cared, he could talk in bloody Swahili as long as he kept clearing up cases. “Eat the chocolate. Go home. You have got food in your flat, haven't you?”
“They've got a child, or a mutual dependent. Check on their insurance policies.”
“Right, we can handle it from here.”
Sherlock's snort was uncomplimentary. He ignored Lestrade's outstretched hand and got to his feet, one hand against the door for balance.
“Get a cab, make sure he gets in it,” Lestrade told Hopkins.
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll get my own cab. Evening!” Sherlock strode off, unopened chocolate bar still in his hand, and Lestrade just shook his head again before turning back to the body.
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I really adore how this goes back and forth from action to mystery to gentle humor. Every time Lestrade was mistaken - thinking Sherlock was going into shock, thinking he was saying he had appendicitis - I'd drawn the exact same conclusions, so I knew just how he felt! And Sherlock was so disgusted with our "tiny minds"... LOL!
It's absolutely perfect that Sherlock can solve the case while almost fainting like this. And it's very, very poignant how Lestrade tries to meet his needs at every turn: giving him his chocolate bar (I thought I couldn't possibly love Lestrade any more, and then you went and gave him an emergency chocolate bar, and now I do), trying to arrange for a sandwich and a cab, trying to feel his pulse and his forehead, etc. Sherlock's just the right combination of indignant, scathing, and slightly vulnerable here.
My favorites: First of all, I love that Lestrade knows Sherlock well enough to understand at the gut level something's wrong in time to turn and catch Sherlock, risking his own life in the process, before Sherlock pitches over the railing. It's a very telling, as well as stunning, mental picture. Second, this sentence is going in my all-time hall of fame: "It was impressive, the withering look Sherlock could produce while slumped against the wall after swooning from low blood sugar." I can just see this. Brilliant.
You've totally captured the slightly harried, slightly paternal, and more than slightly frustrated Lestrade here, as well as his willingness to put up with a lot (including insults) to close the case.
Guh. This is just beautiful. I love it so much!!! Thank you, you wonderful author, you!
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Sherlock gave him a sidelong glance, frowning. Lestrade shook his head, and waited for Higgins to return with the gloves. A search of Barker turned up a wallet, a knife, and three wooden darts.
“This,” Donovan said, holding it up for Sherlock to see, “is tipped with a deadly neurotoxin. We took one just like it off him last week. You would have been dead in minutes.”
“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed. He stepped forward, and then his mouth turned into a pout when Donovan pulled the dart out of his reach.
“No,” she said firmly.
“You said you took one like it off him last week?”
“Yeah, you can't have that one either, it's evidence.”
The constables hauled Barker to his feet and led him out of the alley.
Lestrade retrieved his mobile, hung up, and crossed his arms. “How did you get onto that fire escape?”
“Climbed. Why did you let him go last week?”
Lestrade grimaced. “Couldn't find evidence to charge him with anything besides possession of a deadly weapon, and the magistrate let him post bail.”
“Stupid.”
“You're sure he didn't stick you with anything.”
“He didn't touch me. And he wouldn't have. But-- thank you.”
Lestrade had his own opinion of that, but he knew how much good it would do to share it. He frowned “Your hand's bloody.”
Sherlock glanced down. “Scraped it climbing. Barker's gun will match the bullet in Arthur Edham's head.”
“You're sure about that, the climbing?”
Sherlock was already walking away. “Yes,” he called over his shoulder.
Lestrade shook his head, but if Sherlock was about to drop dead from curare poisoning, there wasn't anything he could do about it. “Sherlock!” he yelled.
Sherlock half-turned. “What?”
“Back there, were you using me as bait?”
“Of course not!” Sherlock vanished around the corner of the alley.
Donovan stood at his side. “Just nearly got jabbed with a poison dart, and there he goes, striding away, cool as you please.”
“I've never seen him frightened,” Lestrade said after a moment. “Never seen him... rattled. Not sure he knows how to be afraid.”
Donovan shook her head. “He's mad,” she said with conviction.
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OMG, Sherlock totally was using Lestrade as bait! The smug bastard. ;)
Lestrade is such a BAMF! here. I love how he keeps a cool head the entire time, redialing the phone, disarming Barker, getting Sherlock clear of the dart. This is totally how I imagine Lestrade in action. Not showy about it, but totally taking care of business. Gorgeous.
You are spoiling me rotten with this wonderful fic! I especially appreciate the fact Sherlock actually thanks Lestrade (he obviously knows that it really was a near thing), and how protective!Lestrade asks one more time if Sherlock is sure the blood came from the climbing.
I love the way you write the banter between the two. You've caught their characters and their relationship beautifully. And Lestrade's last lines about Sherlock? Perfection. (Somewhat chilling, too, when you think about it...)
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3
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The last thing he'd said had been, “He's not far off.” Lestrade jogged after him. “Sherlock!” he called. He turned the corner of the alley and-- found himself looking at a gun barrel.
“Hands up, Detective Inspector,” the man holding the gun said, and grinned. “Drop that mobile, if you please. It's always nice to meet old friends again.”
Slowly, Lestrade put his hands out, taking in his surroundings. He turned his mobile over, brushing his thumb against the pad-- the redial button, and the last person he'd called had been Donovan-- and let it fall to the alley. “Barker,” he said. “What're you doing here?”
“Well, I wasn't sure before, not with that bloke haring after me, but now I'm quite certain I'm getting away. You're going to be my ticket out of here.”
“Where?”
“Traveling with a hostage is always so difficult, but I think we can make it as far as Dover. You have a car?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is it?”
Lestrade gestured with his head. “Round the corner, in front of the house. You'll never get to it without someone seeing you, and as soon as they know you've got me hostage, you'll have the SAS down on your head.”
Barker shrugged. “Then we walk. Move.”
“Might want to have a look at that first,” Lestrade said, and nodded to his mobile.
Barker laughed. “It's not on.”
“It is.”
Barker whirled at the new voice, but Sherlock was already dropping on him-- Lestrade closed with him while the gun was pointed away, drove his elbow deep into the man's stomach, and wrenched the pistol from his hand-- then Sherlock and Barker both ended up on the ground-- Barker's free hand strayed towards his pocket-- Lestrade stomped on it, grabbed Sherlock by the coat, and dragged him away. He couldn't haul him off of Barker, but he got him clear, and pointed the gun at the criminal's head. “Freeze!”
Barker froze, left hand in his pocket.
Lestrade took three paces back, motioning for Sherlock to do the same. “Bring your hand out, empty, or you're dead.”
The fabric shifted as Barker unclenched his hand. Lestrade's finger tightened on the trigger until he saw the open palm. More footsteps, running behind him: Donovan and the constables. “Hands above your head,” he said, and Barker obeyed.
Donovan handcuffed him. “Get some heavier gloves before you search him,” Lestrade told her.
“Right.” She dispatched one of the constables back to the crime scene.
“Bloody hell,” Barker spat, rolling his eyes to look at Sherlock. “How'd you get up there? I could have sworn--”
“And you would have been wrong.” Sherlock smirked.
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Lestrade's radio crackled. “Freak's here, better get a surgical mask,” Donovan said.
Lestrade frowned, and depressed the talk button. “That list of the girl's friends, have you gotten anywhere with it?”
“Higgins is bringing the first one in for questioning now, sir.”
“Right,” he acknowledged, and looked up.
Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves, looked around, frowned, and examined the windowsill. He drew one finger across it. “This isn't the crime scene.”
Lestrade stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at the bed. We had a warm spell two days ago, but it turned cold last night. Pyjamas in the hamper are thin, blanket's thin too-- thermostat outside is set at fourteen, she never would have stayed warm here. Could have been sleeping in her clothes--” he made an odd choking sound-- “but look at this.” He held up a slip of paper from the desk. “It's her work schedule. The time set on the alarm would never have gotten her to work on time this morning, but it would have gotten her to school yesterday. She didn't reset it before going to sleep, because she didn't sleep here. Therefore--” the choking noise again-- “she didn't disappear from this room. So where did she spend the night?” He turned quickly, hands in his pockets, surveying the scattered papers and books on the floor.
Lestrade frowned. “Sherlock, are you all right?”
“Fine. Why not here?” He looked out the window. “Could have slept on the sofa, but wherever she was, she would have needed a heavy blanket or a duvet. Where would she have gotten it? No extra in the brothers' room, we know the mother was using hers, none in the--” he went into the hall and opened a door-- “linen cupboard. Conclusion, she never went to sleep here at all. The windowsill's been wet recently; she must have opened it to climb out.” He muffled a cough.
“But her wallet's here, and her mobile.”
Sherlock opened the cupboard, and took out his phone. “Left her galoshes, so wasn't intending to get her feet wet. She--”
Lestrade's mobile rang. “Lestrade.”
“We found her,” Bradstreet said.
“Where?”
“Dover. It was her uncle.”
“She all right?”
“Yes.”
“I'll have my team clean up here and be on my way.” He hung up. “Sherlock?”
From the hall came the sound of furious coughing, which stopped instantly. “I heard,” Sherlock said, sounding bored. “Congratulations.”
Lestrade frowned. “Where's your coat?”
“Ruined it in the Thames last night. What about that blackmailer case, is it going to trial or not? I--” he started to cough, and choked it back-- “have a bit of traveling to arrange.”
“At the beginning of February, hang on--” he crossed his arms over his chest. “You fell into the Thames last night, and now you're running round without a coat and with a cough?”
“It's just a cold. Text me if something--” He coughed again, and couldn't seem to stop. Lestrade watched with eyebrows raised, not sure whether to pound Sherlock on the back or just hit him on the head for being so stupid. “Comes up,” he gasped. “What has the uncle said so far?”
“I don't know, and I wouldn't tell you if I did.”
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. “What? Why not?”
“I'm taking you off the case-- we've nearly wrapped it up, anyway. You should be home, or better, you should be in hospital.”
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Lestrade thought of the missing girl's mother, with her practical jumpers and job in retail. “A friend?”
“They have a mat down in the entryway--” He coughed again, and it took him ten seconds to stop. When he straightened up, he leaned back against the wall, looking drained. “-- with the boys' shoes,” he finished hoarsely. “The impractically light carpets are unsoiled. Visitors remove their shoes in this flat. Someone had a spare key--”
“Yeah, right, got it. Sherlock, go to the bloody A&E, or I'll arrest you for contaminating a crime scene!”
An indignant tilt of the head. “I haven't contaminated--” He coughed again, a deep, racking cough interspersed with gasps for air, and his breath wheezed going out. When he straightened up, there were tiny droplets of blood on his hand.
Lestrade brought his radio to his mouth. “Upstairs, bring handcuffs.”
Sherlock gave Lestrade a filthy look, and stalked off without a word. “Go to the A&E!” Lestrade yelled after him.
After four days of unanswered texts, Lestrade went round to Sherlock's flat, but the door was locked and no one answered when he knocked. He squatted and peered through the mail slot: no pile of mail, and no newspaper, which meant that Sherlock was still there to collect it. In a strop about being thrown out of the crime scene, then, not that Lestrade had really expected anything else. Just in case, though, he went to the nearest chemist's, and hesitated for several minutes before shaking his head, buying a bottle of cough syrup, and leaving it hanging in the bag from Sherlock's doorknob. That it disappeared by next day, when he made another unsuccessful attempt to get Sherlock to fill out paperwork, relieved his fears.
He only realized his mistake when he met Sherlock again for the first time three weeks later, and was startled to see that the man was nearly skeletal. He ignored all questions about what had happened to him, but he was breathing normally again, and he'd replaced his drowned coat with a long black one; Lestrade just shook his head, and followed him up the stairs.
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Augh, Sherlock really has no sense of self-preservation. My chest hurt in sympathy as I read about his coughing fits. I can just imagine him, ignoring his own health, forcing out his deductions between hacking spells.
I'm grateful for his accident in the Thames, though, since it ended up leading him to wear that black coat! ;)
Once again, I adore your Lestrade. He's genuinely concerned, and he'll take only so much from Sherlock before drawing a line. (I loved his call for handcuffs. I can just see this happening.) And he also knows Sherlock well enough to expect the resulting sulk afterwards, even though the DI was trying to help Sherlock for his own good.
The idea of him hanging a bag of cough syrup on Sherlock's door, then returning to make sure it had disappeared, was incredibly poignant. So, too, was his self-recrimination when he next saw the skeletal-but-recovered Sherlock. (It is amazing that Sherlock lived to adulthood before he had Lestrade and John Watson to look after him.)
I'm growing more and more attached to your beautiful characterizations with every section you post. When this baby is completed, I'm going to recommend it everywhere. I especially admire your constraint and understatement; you can fit a page-length declaration of affection (which would never really happen) into a few gruff words (which would). You have such a great feel for the characters and their style of banter and interaction that it comes across as authentic every time. Authentic and very moving.
Thank you, anon. *hugs you and hugs this lovely fic*
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Also, I've been trying to save on comments, but I really appreciate the lovely feedback! I'm sort of with alltoseek in that Sherlock's not oblivious that people are watching out for him.
Lestrade was up to his elbows in file folders, smothering a yawn, when he heard his mobile ringing in his office. Whoever it was would leave a message, and he needed to find a certain unsolved case so they could go home... His mobile stopped ringing, and then started again, but it wasn't the tone for a new voicemail; it was an incoming call. “Donovan!” he called. “Is it Bradstreet?”
“It's the freak.”
Lestrade frowned. It wasn't unheard of for Sherlock, with his complete lack of respect for other peoples' lives, to contact him in the middle of the night, but they'd just finished a case, and he usually texted. Lestrade put down the box of folders, returned to his office, and answered his mobile. “Hello?”
No response.
“Hello?” Lestrade repeated. “Sherlock?”
He heard ragged breathing on the other end. “New development... Alder case.”
Sherlock didn't sound at all like himself-- and they'd just closed the Alder case, arresting the blackmailer. “Are you all right?”
“'m fine.”
“Right,” Lestrade said, fumbling for his coat. “What's this new development?”
“New suspects.”
“What?”
“Three.”
“We just arrested the man.”
“I know... that.”
“Sherlock. What's wrong?”
A pause, a long pause. “Tired.”
Lestrade knew from personal experience that Sherlock would fall over before he admitted to bodily needs while he was on a case. “Where are you?” Silence. “Are you at your flat?”
“Yes,” Sherlock slurred. “At my flat.”
“Stay where you are. I'm coming round to discuss the new suspects, all right?”
“Mmm.” The connection ended.
“Got the keys,” Donovan said as she walked into the office. “Do we need backup?”
Lestrade hesitated. “No. You drive, I'm going to ring him back.”
Sherlock didn't answer his mobile as they drove to Montague Street. Lestrade got out while Donovan parked. The front door of the flat was unlocked... was, in fact, ajar. He pushed it open slightly, and listened. No sounds of altercation, or movement. “Sherlock?”
The sitting room was empty, as was the adjacent loo. The bedroom was empty. The kitchen was... not empty. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock was sitting on the floor, slumped against a cupboard. Slowly, he turned his head and looked up; his eyes seemed enormous in his face. “Lestrade.”
Lestrade squatted beside him. Sherlock's irises were nearly invisible, swallowed by the pupils. “What happened?”
Footsteps behind him. “He's OD'ed,” Donovan said. “Sherlock. What did you take?”
“Nal...” Sherlock whispered, and his head swayed.
“High as a kite,” she said, and took out her mobile.
He held up a hand. “Wait,” Lestrade ordered.
“What?”
Lestrade hesitated. Sherlock had said he was clean; Lestrade had believed him, and found himself reluctant to be persuaded otherwisw. “Just... wait a moment. He's not in any immediate danger. Go see if you can find out what he took.”
Donovan snorted, but returned to the sitting room. Lestrade picked up Sherlock's left arm; Sherlock didn't struggle or pull away, just stared with an unfocused gaze. There were two angry red needle marks on the vein. “Sherlock, can you tell me what happened?”
Slowly, Sherlock pulled something out from under his trousers: an empty syringe. “Naltrexone,” he said, pronouncing the word carefully.
Lestrade took his pulse. It was slower than he would have expected, nearly normal, but Sherlock was sweating and shaking. “Did you take heroin?”
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“Who did you think gave you heroin?”
“Alders.”
Bloody hell. “Alders,” he repeated. “Three of them? You said there were three new suspects.”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. “Came to the door.”
“Right.” He turned his head. “Donovan!” he called.
“I heard. There's nothing in the sitting room.”
Lestrade looked back at Sherlock. “You thought they gave you heroin. Was it really?”
“No. Wasn't... thinking clearly. Naltrexone... would... have helped.”
Why Sherlock had naltrexone lying around his flat was an inquiry for another time. “Do you know what they gave you, then?”
“Some... sedative.”
“How much?”
“Trying... to kill me.” His head lolled to one side; Lestrade grabbed him before he toppled over. “Couldn't... testify... that way.”
Lestrade steadied him with one hand and reached into his pocket with another. “I'm calling an ambulance.”
“No!” Sherlock grabbed his wrist; his grip was surprisingly strong, and his eyes glittered.
“Why not?”
He slumped back, as if the effort had exhausted him. “Spent enough time... high in hospital,” he whispered.
Lestrade considered. If Sherlock could carry on a semi-coherent conversation, and react quickly enough when he wanted, he was probably all right for the moment... though Lestrade wouldn't have minded the second opinion of someone a bit more qualified. On the other hand, if he called for an ambulance, and Sherlock reacted badly, things could get ugly. “How long ago was this?”
“Fifteen...” Sherlock swallowed. “minutes... starting to come out of it.” His hands were trembling in his lap. “Compounded... naltrexone effects.”
“Do you know which Alders it was?”
Sherlock closed his eyes. Lestrade waited, not sure whether to shake him by the shoulder to wake him, or avoid jarring his concentration. “The... cousin. Red hair. Sister. And nephew.”
“I'll make the call,” Donovan said behind him.
“You found anything in the flat?”
“No. They must have taken it with them.” She went into the other room, and Lestrade heard her talking; after a moment, she returned. “Bradstreet's getting a warrant.”
“Thank you. Finish checking the flat if you haven't already, then you can go.”
She came closer. “You sure, sir?”
“I'll handle this.”
“He ought to be in hospital.” She sounded concerned.
“He'll be all right, just needs someone to stay with him for a while.”
“Right,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “I've done the flat. Call me if you need help.”
“Yes. Good night... morning, Donovan.”
Pause. “This, tonight... all part of the job.”
Lestrade looked up at her, and nodded. “All right.” He knew what she was saying: she wouldn't mention this to Sherlock, not even under provocation of his usual taunts. Sherlock Holmes was a great man, Lestrade knew, his incredible mind saving lives and putting criminals away. But Sally Donovan was a good copper, and not just in the sense that she was competent. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't remember that she'd been there. He heard footsteps, and the sound of a door shutting. “Sherlock, I'm going to bolt the door in case the Alders come back. Can you sit up?”
“'Course,” Sherlock slurred.
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“Shaking.” His head sagged forward, chin dropping onto his chest.
Lestrade shook his shoulder gently. “You've got to stay awake. Else I'm calling an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” Sherlock said, raising his head.
“Is there... someone I can call? A friend, your family?” Four years and he knew exactly nothing about Sherlock's personal life, if he even had something deserving of the name.
“No,” Sherlock whispered.
Lestrade picked up Sherlock's dropped mobile and looked at the contacts. It was a long list, and uninformative; nothing so clearly labeled as “father” or “girlfriend.” He switched to recent calls: his name was first, preceded by two takeaway places, someone called Trevor, and an entry simply labeled M. Nothing helpful; it had to be him, then. He could call the ambulance, and they'd come and take Sherlock to hospital, letting Lestrade go home and go to bed, but...
Sherlock had never been paid for his work, had never even asked to be reimbursed for expenses. He would show up any time of day or night for a case, if he deemed it interesting enough, and enter dirty or disturbing crime scenes without batting an eye. Lestrade was too clear-sighted to attribute this to humanitarian motives, but the fact remained that Lestrade, and the Met, owed Sherlock; owed him rather a lot. So if Sherlock didn't want to go to hospital, then Lestrade would stay with him.
“Unusual choice of weapon,” Sherlock said. “Why sedative? Quiet; quick. Counted on remaining undiscovered... needed time to get away. Couldn't hope to... get away with it forever... so leaving the country.”
“I'll text Bradstreet.” Lestrade looked up from his mobile just as Sherlock toppled over again. “You can't sleep, Sherlock. Sedative's still in your system. It could still kill you.”
“Mmm.”
“Do you have any other cases on now?”
“Mmm. No.”
“How did you get into all this? Consulting detective, and all.”
“Uni,” Sherlock said softly. “Got bit by a bulldog...” He stared at the counter, but Lestrade was pretty sure he wasn't seeing it. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up a bit, in what looked like the beginning of a genuine smile rather than a smirk.
“What does a bulldog have to do with it?” Lestrade prompted after a few moments.
In bits and pieces, with long gaps in between, he got the story out of Sherlock... or rather, he got a story, because while he thought Sherlock might regret saying so much when he was sober again, Lestrade couldn't make any sense out of it. By the time Sherlock had become alert enough to stop answering any more questions, not only did Lestrade not know what the bulldog had to do with the consulting detection, he didn't know what the bad henna tattoo or the blackmailer had to do with the bulldog. “You think you can sit up on your own?”
“Yes.” Sherlock's gaze seemed to sharpen on Lestrade's face, and when Lestrade took his hand away, Sherlock stayed upright. “Three Alders. Sister, nephew, cousin-- came by and drugged me...” His fingers brushed over the needle marks, and he made a fist. “I told you.”
“Yes,” Lestrade confirmed. “Bradstreet's team is looking for them now.”
“Not memory gap... inability to differentiate thoughts from reality? Not a symptom of many sedatives. Pass me my phone.” When Lestrade handed it over, Sherlock busied himself tapping at the screen. “Can't figure it out...” He leaned back against the cupboard, eyelids drooping, put his mobile on the floor, and groaned.
“You can't sleep, Sherlock. What class of sedatives do you think it was?”
“Bin.”
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Sherlock drained it in about four swallows and handed it back. “More,” he said without looking up.
“You all right for a moment? I can rinse that out,” Lestrade said when Sherlock had drank his fill. The sour, sharp smell of vomit was beginning to fill the room.
“Fine,” Sherlock said.
Lestrade emptied the contents of the bin into the toilet and rinsed it in the tub. Sherlock was still upright when he returned to the kitchen, which Lestrade took as a good sign. “Do you want to move?”
“No.”
“You've stopped shaking.”
“Yes, obviously.”
“What did you study at uni?”
“You're prying.”
“I'm trying to keep you awake.”
Sherlock threw up twice more within the next half hour. When he leaned back against the cupboard, he looked exhausted. “In my bedroom there's a whiteboard. Bring it to me, and a marker.”
As Lestrade was rummaging on Sherlock's desk, restraining his curiosity to what he had to handle to retrieve the whiteboard, his mobile rang. “Hello.”
“They've caught the two Alders-- just looking for the sister now,” Donovan said. “Hope they can lead us to her. You still at his flat?”
“Yes.” Lestrade frowned; he heard noise in the background. “Are you at the office? I thought I told you to go home.”
“Detective Inspector Bradstreet needed some information. I'll be on my way soon.”
“Come in late tomorrow, then.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“It's a strong suggestion. I'll be late myself, unless something comes up.”
A pause. “Everything all right?”
“Fine. Go home, Donovan.”
“Yes, sir. Call me if you need something.”
Lestrade carried the whiteboard to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged now, fiddling with his phone. He looked up quickly, and it was a relief to see someone at home in his eyes again. “Who did they catch?”
“The nephew and the cousin. What did you want the whiteboard for?”
“Excellent.” Sherlock began copying strings of numbers and letters from his phone onto the whiteboard.
Lestrade studied it upside down and frowned. “Some sort of cipher?”
Sherlock gave him a look, possibly more mild than usual. “Multivariable calculus. You wanted me to stay awake.”
He was recovering from a nearly lethal dose of sedative, and was still solving multivariable calculus problems as fast as he could copy them down. Lestrade shook his head, and leaned against the cupboard. “How do you feel now?”
“Fine,” Sherlock murmured, not looking up. “You can go.”
Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. “You've just had an unknown dose of an unknown drug in your system. You've only been coherent for the last twenty minutes.”
Sherlock didn't answer.
Lestrade took a seat at the table where he could keep an eye on Sherlock, who continued to solve calculus problems as if they were the only thing in the world at that moment-- which, for him, they probably were. He stifled a yawn, went through the messages on his phone, and tried not to think about the work waiting for him on his desk.
“My earlier statement is still applicable,” Sherlock said, frowning over his mobile. The early summer sun was just beginning to lighten the sky.
“How do you feel?”
“Alert.” But in the mild grey light, he looked unusually young, and exhausted.
“You need to see a doctor.”
“Mmm.”
“You nearly died. There could be, I don't know, long-term effects of whatever they gave you.”
“Later,” Sherlock said. “Go home, Lestrade.”
The thought of a hot shower and his own bed, even for just an hour or two, was very tempting. “The sister may try to kill you again. She has to know something's happened.”
“I'll be careful.”
Lestrade wasn't sure if Sherlock was on passing terms with the word. “If you feel any different, at all, call someone. Call me.”
“Mmm.” Sherlock didn't bother to look up from his mobile.
“Right, then. Morning.”
“Morning. Thank you.”
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This one really is the very best yet. *extremely happy sigh* There's so much to love here. I do see what you mean about Sherlock as a self-sufficient character, on the whole, except when he runs himself down physically - really, this section I think does great justice to that, because he's quite a BAMF here, despite the fact he was attacked. After all, he's not asking for help: he's only calling to provide new information for the case. At first he even says he's fine(!). He doesn't admit to what's happened until Lestrade sees him. And even then, he's pretty damned tough.
And he wouldn't have been attacked in the first place if he didn't pose such a threat.
I love, love, love the fact that Lestrade 1) knows something's wrong and follows up on it, 2) takes Sherlock's word about being clean, and 3) doesn't force Sherlock to go to the hospital. (Sherlock's reasoning about that broke my heart a little.) And it's so poignant that Lestrade looks for contacts in Sherlock's phone, tries to think of who else might help the young man, and comes up with no options at all. If Lestrade doesn't do it, no one will. (Of course, we know Mycroft might, but Sherlock most definitely would not want that; it's quite telling that he is willing to let Lestrade stay and tend him through the worst of it.) And Lestrade, as always, once he understands what needs to be done, does it.
Special kudos for the fantastic interaction here with Sally Donovan. You do a brilliant job of showing that she's devoted to and concerned about Lestrade, and also that she's a real, true professional who sticks to her code and who puts in 110% when it's needed to get the job done. She's perfect here in every way.
I love how Sherlock changes as he starts to shake off the worst of the drug's effects, shifting from his rambling stories (great references, BTW) to saying that Lestrade's prying. It's so totally in character for him to keep himself awake and alert by doing multivariable calculus.
His dismissal of Lestrade is quite touching. Again, I really admire your restraint and your subtlety. Beautifully done.
OMG, there's only one more to go - and it's the inverse scenario. *bounces* I am ridiculously excited. You keep ratcheting this up each time, and I just love your insights and observations about these great characters. Thank you! *huge hugs*
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Can't wait to read the switch-up!
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