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?”
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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