Lestrade had gotten the text from the dreaded number right after dinner, while his wife was getting ready for yet another evening spent watching the telly, letting him nurse a glass of whiskey alone in the kitchen. “Get to Baker Street”. The simple fact that this was actually a relief was enough to let him know dreadfully sad his life was
( ... )
Wrong footsteps. More weight and height. Longer stride. Not John Watson and John Watson's annoyingly atrocious and yet perfect jumpers then. Not Mrs. Hudson either. She announced herself with a chuckle or by calling his name by the third step. Clunk. Clunk-clunk. Bit off. Gait strange. Tired. Been drinking. Weary. Not his brother, thank God. Quicker now. Afraid. Sherlock opened his pale eyes to gaze at the ceiling and the shadows there.
Lestrade. He knew it already but the shape of the shadow proved it. The outline was perfectly dejected and dismayed DI shaped. He smirked in the dark, the sliver of light from Lestrade opening the door bathing him in a stripe of gold.
The tourniquet on his arm needed loosening, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. On the floor, Sherlock just barely managed to roll over, hip curving higher than his shoulders given the oddness of his position. "Mycroft will be pleased that you've finally gotten into his gift."
Lestrade sighed in relief as Sherlock's voice broke the silence, slower than the usual but perfectly composed. “Well, it would have been a shame to waste it. I should have brought it with me, really,” he replied easily, not even questioning Sherlock's ability to read everything anymore. He pushed the door open wider, narrowing his eyes at the sight of Sherlock's body twisted on the floor
( ... )
Sherlock's jaw unhinged slightly as he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth and rolled his head back. That simply could not be comfortable, and even looking at the other man was painful in that moment. "Lestrade." He pronounced the word like a heavy bubble before he sat himself up, dishevelled and lost like a rumpled kitten teddy. He smelled faintly of tobacco. "You're a detective. A title you didn't even give yourself so come now and don't belittle me. Tell my brother I'm fine, that the dosage was painfully small and that I've not choked on my own vomit
( ... )
Lestrade looked up as Sherlock called his name, his eyes narrowing in a mix of anger and disappointment at the dismissive insults thrown his way in Sherlock's usual condescending voice. “Fact that I know you did doesn't stop me from hopping you didn't,” he ground out between clenched teeth, trying to keep himself in check. He was there to see Sherlock through danger night and the cold turkey that would follow, at least until John came back, not to lecture him about the virtues of staying sober.
He snorted self-derisively before he could catch himself. “I should know better, with you.” He watched Sherlock mildly. “I should know to always expect the worst, coming from you. What does the fact that I don't tell you about me, mn?” he pushed, knowing that perhaps, just perhaps, if Sherlock was rude enough, his heart would feel a little less broken at the sight of him basking into narcotics on the carpet.
He took his phone out, quickly typing. Didn't choke on his own vomit. Getting him to bed. “There.” He showed the screen to Sherlock,
( ... )
He watched him with all of the intensity of an animal, measuring time by the feel of his hands on his skin. He was so sensitive right now. Really, the only time Sherlock could stand contact like this for any prolonged period of time was on heroine. It made the very air taste sweet. Or maybe that was the whiskey on Lestrade's breath. Sherlock never fancied the taste of liquor, though he could manage it just fine. Sometimes his roles demanded it of him. He needed to know and understand all of the vices of humanity, at least to a point, if he hoped to pretend to have one or more at any particular time
( ... )
Lestrade unbound the tourniquet with great care, feeling Sherlock's arm twitch and shudder under his touch and not knowing what to make of it. Hypersensitivity due to his high, most likely. Or coming down with worrying speed.
He frowned, shaking his head and making a face as he could see Sherlock getting ready to launch into yet another deducing spree. He'd learnt to see these coming, seemingly randomly, whether they were working on cases or not, and he'd learnt to dread them. "That's not what I meant..." he protested weakly, because, as a matter of fact, that hadn't been what he'd meant, but the can of worms had sprung open already, Sherlock picking through them with child-like glee. Well. At least in Lestrade's head, he was. In reality he was still slouching into the couch, eyes eerily unblinking in the light coming from the door
( ... )
The moment Lestrade pulled away, Sherlock threw the rubber tourniquet at him. It missed of course, it was too light and too long to sail after him. With a pained groan, he pulled himself up onto the sofa itself and arranged himselt, long limbs and toes, as comfortably as he could. His veins burned a brilliant scarlet and he could feel the crash coming already. Bad batch. He knew it. He was getting restless. "None for me," he called after the salt-and-peppered, retreating figure. "None for me because you're literally rubbish at it! And I'm not the only one who thinks so. That's why they bring you a cuppa at work, Lestrade! It's not out of respect
( ... )
Lestrade ignored Sherlock's restless twisting and turning on the couch, filling the kettle with water and sticking it on, wisely picking two of the only mugs Sherlock possessed that didn't look like something unsavoury had been poured into them and left there to rot for too long. He snorted at the onslaught of insults thrown his way, knowing that Sherlock was just trying to hurt him. The detective did that, at times, and Lestrade had grown reluctantly accustomed to it. There was always that unpleasant nagging feeling that Sherlock was right, though, which Lestrade couldn't quite shake. The man was the master of deduction, after all
( ... )
"It's unwise to give me a stimulant if you want me to come down from this smoothly," Sherlock retorted, retreating to the doorway to watch him with cool blue eyes and pale, drawn lips. He could feel the burn more acutely now and he scratched at one of his arms before he wrapped it around his middle and swallowed. "Juice. Something with sugar. Whatever John has in there is fine. Oh, sugar Lestrade, sugar, there you are, stop looking at me
( ... )
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Lestrade. He knew it already but the shape of the shadow proved it. The outline was perfectly dejected and dismayed DI shaped. He smirked in the dark, the sliver of light from Lestrade opening the door bathing him in a stripe of gold.
The tourniquet on his arm needed loosening, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. On the floor, Sherlock just barely managed to roll over, hip curving higher than his shoulders given the oddness of his position. "Mycroft will be pleased that you've finally gotten into his gift."
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He snorted self-derisively before he could catch himself. “I should know better, with you.” He watched Sherlock mildly. “I should know to always expect the worst, coming from you. What does the fact that I don't tell you about me, mn?” he pushed, knowing that perhaps, just perhaps, if Sherlock was rude enough, his heart would feel a little less broken at the sight of him basking into narcotics on the carpet.
He took his phone out, quickly typing. Didn't choke on his own vomit. Getting him to bed. “There.” He showed the screen to Sherlock, ( ... )
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He frowned, shaking his head and making a face as he could see Sherlock getting ready to launch into yet another deducing spree. He'd learnt to see these coming, seemingly randomly, whether they were working on cases or not, and he'd learnt to dread them. "That's not what I meant..." he protested weakly, because, as a matter of fact, that hadn't been what he'd meant, but the can of worms had sprung open already, Sherlock picking through them with child-like glee. Well. At least in Lestrade's head, he was. In reality he was still slouching into the couch, eyes eerily unblinking in the light coming from the door ( ... )
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