Untitled: 1/6
anonymous
January 17 2011, 06:41:42 UTC
Warnings for talk of suicide, brief mention of drug use.
Lestrade held the folder in one hand and knocked impatiently at the door with the other. Holmes hadn't told him where he lived, of course, but despite the other man's opinion, Scotland Yard was actually pretty competent. No one answered, and he knocked again. “Holmes, I know you're in there, every light in the place is on!”
The only response he got was a faint strain of orchestral music.
Lestrade tried the door, just in case, because if the man was gone he'd left in a hurry and would probably be back soon-- well, maybe. Either way, if Lestrade could wait where it was warm-- but he was still surprised when the knob turned in his hand. “Holmes?” he called again, stepping inside into an old, shabby kitchen. No answer, no movement, but the ring was lit and water was boiling, so where--
“Holmes!” Lestrade dropped to his knees beside the man sprawled across the floor, and shook his shoulder. “Holmes! Sherlock!” Lestrade swore, turned off the gas, picked the other man up
( ... )
Re: Untitled: 1/6
anonymous
January 17 2011, 12:47:35 UTC
OP here.
So. Much. Love. For this.
I love Lestrade showing up at Sherlock's place, even though Sherlock never gave him his address. I love that Sherlock suggests that he's clean, and that's why he was actually bored enough to show up at the crime scene, even though I suspect he actually got clean in order to be allowed at crime scenes. I love Sherlock grinning and saying, "Course I was right." Smug bastard
( ... )
Untitled: 2a/6
anonymous
January 17 2011, 22:14:49 UTC
It had been a month since Lestrade had last seen Holmes-- Sherlock-- but he'd heard from Bradstreet and Jones that the man had been helping them on their cases. Well, Jones hadn't called it helping, she'd called it “damned interfering,” and had gritted her teeth the next day when Lestrade had congratulated her, rather blandly, on solving the double homicide. “Holmes helped,” Jones had muttered.
Lestrade still wasn't sure what Sherlock did when he wasn't hanging around Scotland Yard, wasn't sure how much time the man devoted to what Lestrade could only describe as a bizarre hobby. Lestrade couldn't figure it out, couldn't figure him out, but as long as he kept solving the cases, Lestrade didn't care how inexplicable the man was-- or how insulting. Which was good, because Sherlock never ran out of new ways to belittle his intelligence
( ... )
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
( ... )
Re: Untitled: 2b/6
anonymous
January 18 2011, 01:58:19 UTC
OP here. This just keeps getting better and betterI 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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
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
( ... )
Lestrade held the folder in one hand and knocked impatiently at the door with the other. Holmes hadn't told him where he lived, of course, but despite the other man's opinion, Scotland Yard was actually pretty competent. No one answered, and he knocked again. “Holmes, I know you're in there, every light in the place is on!”
The only response he got was a faint strain of orchestral music.
Lestrade tried the door, just in case, because if the man was gone he'd left in a hurry and would probably be back soon-- well, maybe. Either way, if Lestrade could wait where it was warm-- but he was still surprised when the knob turned in his hand. “Holmes?” he called again, stepping inside into an old, shabby kitchen. No answer, no movement, but the ring was lit and water was boiling, so where--
“Holmes!” Lestrade dropped to his knees beside the man sprawled across the floor, and shook his shoulder. “Holmes! Sherlock!” Lestrade swore, turned off the gas, picked the other man up ( ... )
Reply
So. Much. Love. For this.
I love Lestrade showing up at Sherlock's place, even though Sherlock never gave him his address. I love that Sherlock suggests that he's clean, and that's why he was actually bored enough to show up at the crime scene, even though I suspect he actually got clean in order to be allowed at crime scenes. I love Sherlock grinning and saying, "Course I was right." Smug bastard ( ... )
Reply
Lestrade still wasn't sure what Sherlock did when he wasn't hanging around Scotland Yard, wasn't sure how much time the man devoted to what Lestrade could only describe as a bizarre hobby. Lestrade couldn't figure it out, couldn't figure him out, but as long as he kept solving the cases, Lestrade didn't care how inexplicable the man was-- or how insulting. Which was good, because Sherlock never ran out of new ways to belittle his intelligence ( ... )
Reply
“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 ( ... )
Reply
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
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
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
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 ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Reply
“Who did you think gave you heroin?”
“Alders.”
Bloody hell. “Alders,” he repeated. “Three of them? You said there were three new suspects ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Reply
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