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.
“Not a sound,” a man whispered in his ear as Lestrade jerked awake, trying and failing to gasp for air. There was another hand planted in the center of his chest, pinning him to the bed as he struggled. But--
The voice was familiar enough to make him think a second before going for his assailant's throat, and in the dim light from the clock the profile was familiar, too--
Lestrade stopped straining against the hand, his heart racing, and made himself breathe through his nose.
“There are three assassins outside your flat,” Sherlock breathed. He took his hand away and dropped something on Lestrade's legs-- Lestrade recognized his coat. “We need to go, now.” He took his other hand away.
Lestrade slithered out of bed, staying low, and shrugged into his coat. So many questions-- most of them extraneous. He settled for, “Where?”
“One at the front door. One at the living room window. One at the W. C. window. Come on!”
Lestrade shoved his hand under his pillow, came up with the knife of dubious legality that he kept there, and followed Sherlock to the door, walking awkwardly as they crouched low. Something metallic gleamed in Sherlock's hand; when they straightened up in the hall, which wasn't in line with the front door or any windows, he saw a pistol. “Where did you get that?”
“The fourth assassin.”
From further back in the flat came the sound of breaking glass: the W. C. window. At the same time, Lestrade heard the faint click of the front door lock disengaging. Sherlock nodded towards the front door; Lestrade eased along the wall, feeling like each footstep was giving away his position in bright lights. A squeak as the door eased open, and he was suddenly glad he'd been too busy to oil it; the squeak stopped, abruptly, and he pictured the assassin squeezing through sideways to avoid further noise. Lestrade shrugged out of his coat, wincing at the rustle of fabric, huddled low against the wall, and waited...
When he saw the muzzle of the gun poke around the corner, he exploded out of the crouch, bringing his coat up with one hand as he lunged under the sweep of the gun. The assassin brought the barrel down, but Lestrade threw the coat up over his head and tackled him, grabbing his wrist; the shot went wide as they fell through the doorway into the kitchen. Lestrade put his knee in the man's stomach and wrenched the gun from his grasp; the man clawed for his eyes, and Lestrade dropped the gun as he instinctively threw up a hand to protect himself. He had the presence of mind to kick the gun backwards, away from the assassin-- with one hand free, the man punched him in the solar plexus and Lestrade toppled off of him, gasping for air-- he rolled as a long blade passed through the space where his throat had just been, scrambled in an ungainly fashion to his knees, and thrust his own knife into the man's shin. The assassin screamed, Lestrade tried to grab the knife away but got his forearm opened up for his pains-- he got to his feet and backed into the kitchen, hands searching for a weapon with a longer range, his butcher's knives were around here somewhere-- and then--
Lestrade grabbed his frying pan from its hook on the wall and smashed it into his attacker's head. The man dropped as if he were boneless. Lestrade had heard a scream, not Sherlock's, which meant Sherlock was still alive to make the assassin scream, but even fighting for their lives they would have noticed the noise from the kitchen. But the living room was silent. Lestrade crouched low, then ducked around the corner in case--
He stopped, and stood in the doorway, frying pan in one hand, pistol in the other.
Sherlock lowered the gun that had been pointing in his direction. There were two bodies on the floor.
“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked, looking him up and down.
“Fine. I texted Bradstreet as soon as I realized what was going on,” he said, and brushed at the shoulders of his jacket.
Lestrade looked at the bodies, trying to recreate what had happened. He hadn't heard any shots, but one of the men was bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. The other looked slightly... wrong. Lestrade couldn't tell if that one was still alive. He shook his head. “And what was that?” He knelt by the bodies and put his weapons down so he could go through pockets and look for identification. When he didn't find any, he wasn't surprised. He took a towel off of the stack of his folded laundry and pressed it to the shoulder wound, wrapping another towel around his forearm. It was a shallow cut, but he'd want to get it stitched.
“I was examining last week's accomplice in the morgue and found clear signs of long-term khat use, which, along with his last three bank statements, suggested ties to a particular gang. I checked the case files; the last two officers to make an arrest from the same gang ended up hospitalized. I was on my way to warn you when I noticed the assassins.”
Lestrade sat back on his heels, questions fighting for precedence on the tip of his tongue. How'd you get into the morgue at midnight? No; he'd never known locked doors to stop Sherlock. How'd you take down two armed men without firing a shot? What happened to the fourth assassin? Are there more of them coming? A breeze blew through the living room, and he realized the window was shattered. He shivered, and settled for saying, “Going to get a shirt.”
When he returned, Sherlock had turned the lights on and was examining the would-be assassins. “Not part of the gang,” he said without looking up. “Hired. Fits with the pattern-- the last two attacks were beatings, not killings. For assassinations they hired out, but not very well. They didn't bring oil for the hinges.”
“I only merit second-rate assassins.” Lestrade shrugged. “That's good to know.”
“They won't come after you again. After tonight, the price of a hit on you will go up considerably. The Hoxton boss will continue to hold a grudge, but won't want to spend the money.”
After tonight, the price of a hit on you will go up considerably. Looking round the living room, it wasn't hard to see why. Sherlock had not only saved his life, but made it considerably less complicated for the foreseeable future. Lestrade opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again.
Sherlock picked up the gun, though he'd undoubtedly noticed Lestrade's attempt to speak. “Four men, but no silencers. Very clumsy, not professional assassins. The Hoxton boss would have known the difference-- may have just wanted to scare you, more likely hoped they wouldn't realize they'd certainly go to prison for it.” He gestured vaguely with the gun, and Lestrade leaned away from the barrel. “The khat connection indicates--”
“Drop the gun, hands in the air, back away from the DI now!” Suddenly the living room was full of people, and there was a gun trained on Sherlock, who dropped the gun and slowly put his hands up, face completely blank. Before Lestrade had realized what was going on, two constables had hauled Sherlock to his feet and shoved him against the wall.
Lestrade found his voice quickly. “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?” His bellow was much better than the sergeant's-- who was it, anyway? That damn pup Gregson-- and the constables froze. He bodily removed one of them from Sherlock's proximity; the other one took the hint. “Dammit, Gregson! This is the man who called in the attack and saved my life! You idiot, did you leave your brains in bed?”
Glancing over, he saw Sherlock put his hands down and straighten his cuffs, expression more unreadable than ever, but Lestrade had five years' worth of experience with him to draw on; he turned back to Gregson, who had a faint flush along his cheekbones.
“He was pointing a gun in your direction,” he said stiffly.
“Yeah, he took it off one of the assassins. Who are right under your nose, by the way, so if you're done harassing the best consultant the Yard has ever had, maybe you could get to them sometime this morning?”
Gregson looked down, then over to Sherlock. He cleared his throat. “Mr Holmes,” he said. “We've never met. My sincere apologies.” He extended his hand.
Sherlock ignored it. “You'll find the fourth assassin on the terrace,” he said. “He may still be breathing. Oh, and...” He looked Gregson up and down. “Don't forget to wash off the lipstick before you go home to your girlfriend, it's not her shade.”
The faint flush had turned into distinct patches of pink. Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the man.
“Terrace,” he said, rather indistinctly, and vanished in that direction.
“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.
“I've been frisked by worse than London's finest,” Sherlock said. He reached behind Lestrade's favorite armchair, retrieved his long black coat, and put it on. “I'll come round in the afternoon to give you the evidence from the accomplice. Need to go look at a flat.”
“You're leaving Montague Street?”
“Little disagreement with my landlord... he's so wearisome about smoke.”
Lestrade took a step forward. “Sherlock. Thank you. For all this.”
Sherlock studied him for a moment. “Breaking in a new DI would have been so tiresome,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk. His coat swirled around him as he turned and left.
A/N: The majority of the London police are not armed with handguns; they would have had to call an ARV to get someone with a gun. I'm not sure Gregson would be in charge of police from an ARV, but I'm using creative license.
Sherlock is such a BAMF here (and Lestrade's not short on the BAMF department, either). I love how Lestrade instantly trusts Sherlock (and has a healthy awe for what he's just done for him, and rightly so), how Lestrade defends Sherlock to Gregson and company, and, most especially, Sherlock's parting comment (which speaks volumes and volumes). I held my breath throughout this adrenaline-pumping sequence. It's a joy to see Sherlock in action like this.
This entire fic is absolutely wonderful. So very far above my highest hopes. Your characterizations are stunning, and I'm going to be haunted by this story (in the very best way) for a long, long time. Thank you, dear Anon.
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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“Not a sound,” a man whispered in his ear as Lestrade jerked awake, trying and failing to gasp for air. There was another hand planted in the center of his chest, pinning him to the bed as he struggled. But--
The voice was familiar enough to make him think a second before going for his assailant's throat, and in the dim light from the clock the profile was familiar, too--
Lestrade stopped straining against the hand, his heart racing, and made himself breathe through his nose.
“There are three assassins outside your flat,” Sherlock breathed. He took his hand away and dropped something on Lestrade's legs-- Lestrade recognized his coat. “We need to go, now.” He took his other hand away.
Lestrade slithered out of bed, staying low, and shrugged into his coat. So many questions-- most of them extraneous. He settled for, “Where?”
“One at the front door. One at the living room window. One at the W. C. window. Come on!”
Lestrade shoved his hand under his pillow, came up with the knife of dubious legality that he kept there, and followed Sherlock to the door, walking awkwardly as they crouched low. Something metallic gleamed in Sherlock's hand; when they straightened up in the hall, which wasn't in line with the front door or any windows, he saw a pistol. “Where did you get that?”
“The fourth assassin.”
From further back in the flat came the sound of breaking glass: the W. C. window. At the same time, Lestrade heard the faint click of the front door lock disengaging. Sherlock nodded towards the front door; Lestrade eased along the wall, feeling like each footstep was giving away his position in bright lights. A squeak as the door eased open, and he was suddenly glad he'd been too busy to oil it; the squeak stopped, abruptly, and he pictured the assassin squeezing through sideways to avoid further noise. Lestrade shrugged out of his coat, wincing at the rustle of fabric, huddled low against the wall, and waited...
When he saw the muzzle of the gun poke around the corner, he exploded out of the crouch, bringing his coat up with one hand as he lunged under the sweep of the gun. The assassin brought the barrel down, but Lestrade threw the coat up over his head and tackled him, grabbing his wrist; the shot went wide as they fell through the doorway into the kitchen. Lestrade put his knee in the man's stomach and wrenched the gun from his grasp; the man clawed for his eyes, and Lestrade dropped the gun as he instinctively threw up a hand to protect himself. He had the presence of mind to kick the gun backwards, away from the assassin-- with one hand free, the man punched him in the solar plexus and Lestrade toppled off of him, gasping for air-- he rolled as a long blade passed through the space where his throat had just been, scrambled in an ungainly fashion to his knees, and thrust his own knife into the man's shin. The assassin screamed, Lestrade tried to grab the knife away but got his forearm opened up for his pains-- he got to his feet and backed into the kitchen, hands searching for a weapon with a longer range, his butcher's knives were around here somewhere-- and then--
Lestrade grabbed his frying pan from its hook on the wall and smashed it into his attacker's head. The man dropped as if he were boneless. Lestrade had heard a scream, not Sherlock's, which meant Sherlock was still alive to make the assassin scream, but even fighting for their lives they would have noticed the noise from the kitchen. But the living room was silent. Lestrade crouched low, then ducked around the corner in case--
He stopped, and stood in the doorway, frying pan in one hand, pistol in the other.
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“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked, looking him up and down.
“Fine. I texted Bradstreet as soon as I realized what was going on,” he said, and brushed at the shoulders of his jacket.
Lestrade looked at the bodies, trying to recreate what had happened. He hadn't heard any shots, but one of the men was bleeding from a wound in his shoulder. The other looked slightly... wrong. Lestrade couldn't tell if that one was still alive. He shook his head. “And what was that?” He knelt by the bodies and put his weapons down so he could go through pockets and look for identification. When he didn't find any, he wasn't surprised. He took a towel off of the stack of his folded laundry and pressed it to the shoulder wound, wrapping another towel around his forearm. It was a shallow cut, but he'd want to get it stitched.
“I was examining last week's accomplice in the morgue and found clear signs of long-term khat use, which, along with his last three bank statements, suggested ties to a particular gang. I checked the case files; the last two officers to make an arrest from the same gang ended up hospitalized. I was on my way to warn you when I noticed the assassins.”
Lestrade sat back on his heels, questions fighting for precedence on the tip of his tongue. How'd you get into the morgue at midnight? No; he'd never known locked doors to stop Sherlock. How'd you take down two armed men without firing a shot? What happened to the fourth assassin? Are there more of them coming? A breeze blew through the living room, and he realized the window was shattered. He shivered, and settled for saying, “Going to get a shirt.”
When he returned, Sherlock had turned the lights on and was examining the would-be assassins. “Not part of the gang,” he said without looking up. “Hired. Fits with the pattern-- the last two attacks were beatings, not killings. For assassinations they hired out, but not very well. They didn't bring oil for the hinges.”
“I only merit second-rate assassins.” Lestrade shrugged. “That's good to know.”
“They won't come after you again. After tonight, the price of a hit on you will go up considerably. The Hoxton boss will continue to hold a grudge, but won't want to spend the money.”
After tonight, the price of a hit on you will go up considerably. Looking round the living room, it wasn't hard to see why. Sherlock had not only saved his life, but made it considerably less complicated for the foreseeable future. Lestrade opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again.
Sherlock picked up the gun, though he'd undoubtedly noticed Lestrade's attempt to speak. “Four men, but no silencers. Very clumsy, not professional assassins. The Hoxton boss would have known the difference-- may have just wanted to scare you, more likely hoped they wouldn't realize they'd certainly go to prison for it.” He gestured vaguely with the gun, and Lestrade leaned away from the barrel. “The khat connection indicates--”
“Drop the gun, hands in the air, back away from the DI now!” Suddenly the living room was full of people, and there was a gun trained on Sherlock, who dropped the gun and slowly put his hands up, face completely blank. Before Lestrade had realized what was going on, two constables had hauled Sherlock to his feet and shoved him against the wall.
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Glancing over, he saw Sherlock put his hands down and straighten his cuffs, expression more unreadable than ever, but Lestrade had five years' worth of experience with him to draw on; he turned back to Gregson, who had a faint flush along his cheekbones.
“He was pointing a gun in your direction,” he said stiffly.
“Yeah, he took it off one of the assassins. Who are right under your nose, by the way, so if you're done harassing the best consultant the Yard has ever had, maybe you could get to them sometime this morning?”
Gregson looked down, then over to Sherlock. He cleared his throat. “Mr Holmes,” he said. “We've never met. My sincere apologies.” He extended his hand.
Sherlock ignored it. “You'll find the fourth assassin on the terrace,” he said. “He may still be breathing. Oh, and...” He looked Gregson up and down. “Don't forget to wash off the lipstick before you go home to your girlfriend, it's not her shade.”
The faint flush had turned into distinct patches of pink. Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the man.
“Terrace,” he said, rather indistinctly, and vanished in that direction.
“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.
“I've been frisked by worse than London's finest,” Sherlock said. He reached behind Lestrade's favorite armchair, retrieved his long black coat, and put it on. “I'll come round in the afternoon to give you the evidence from the accomplice. Need to go look at a flat.”
“You're leaving Montague Street?”
“Little disagreement with my landlord... he's so wearisome about smoke.”
Lestrade took a step forward. “Sherlock. Thank you. For all this.”
Sherlock studied him for a moment. “Breaking in a new DI would have been so tiresome,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk. His coat swirled around him as he turned and left.
A/N: The majority of the London police are not armed with handguns; they would have had to call an ARV to get someone with a gun. I'm not sure Gregson would be in charge of police from an ARV, but I'm using creative license.
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What a fantastic BAMF!Sherlock ending! Word would definitely get out not to mess with Lestrade...
I liked this whole thing!
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*flails*
This is so gorgeous, I can't even...
Sherlock is such a BAMF here (and Lestrade's not short on the BAMF department, either). I love how Lestrade instantly trusts Sherlock (and has a healthy awe for what he's just done for him, and rightly so), how Lestrade defends Sherlock to Gregson and company, and, most especially, Sherlock's parting comment (which speaks volumes and volumes). I held my breath throughout this adrenaline-pumping sequence. It's a joy to see Sherlock in action like this.
This entire fic is absolutely wonderful. So very far above my highest hopes. Your characterizations are stunning, and I'm going to be haunted by this story (in the very best way) for a long, long time. Thank you, dear Anon.
*huge, grateful hugs*
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I can't even recite a particular part back to you, it's all seamless. Thank you for writing this <3
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