Chapter Text
Up until his phone rang, DI Gregory Lestrade had been looking forward to a peaceful Friday evening after what had been a very long week. His plans had extended as far as a six-pack of his favorite beer, Chinese takeaway, and going to bed at a decent hour. Instead he was standing on a street corner with his frozen hands in his pockets, wishing he’d worn a thicker jacket and trying to deal with a homicide case. And to top it all off, he had a feeling Sherlock Holmes would probably show up.
The self-styled “consulting detective” had appeared at one of Greg’s crimes scenes two months ago, called Greg and his entire team a bunch of idiots, and solved the case almost instantly. Donovan and Anderson had been furious, but Greg had been intrigued, and impressed. Despite what Sherlock said (frequently), Lestrade was a decent detective in his own right. But Sherlock Holmes was on another level entirely. The man had been sporadically showing up at Greg’s crime scenes ever since. Lestrade got the feeling he was the only DI who hadn’t immediately shown Sherlock the proverbial door when he showed up
The third time Sherlock had helped solve a case, Greg had gotten a phone call afterwards, from an unlisted number. He usually wouldn’t have bothered to pick up, would’ve let the person leave a message or give up, but after his phone rang continuously for over a minute he gave in.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” a man’s voice had said, “Your support of Sherlock Holmes is much appreciated.”
The tone of the man’s voice sent a pleasant shiver down Greg’s spine. He’d been married to a woman, sure, but his romantic attractions had always gone both ways. And then the man with the beautiful voice had hung up.
Greg had saved the number, just in case. When he’d asked Sherlock about it, the man had groaned dramatically and called the mystery man his sworn enemy. Then he’d informed Greg that he knew the identity of the murderer based on the victim’s shoelaces, and the DI had pushed all thoughts of the mysterious man with the sexy voice out of his head.
Lestrade shook his head sharply to clear it, so he could focus on the case at hand. Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes was coming up the pavement towards the crime scene. But Greg could immediately see something was wrong. The man was weaving dangerously from side to side, stumbling. His eyes didn’t look focused. Acting on instinct, Greg bolted towards Sherlock and caught him as he fell, easing the man’s dead weight to the ground. Up close, it was easy to see that the consulting detective was high out of his mind. One sleeve of his jacket had shifted, and the DI could see track marks on the arm.
“Sherlock, what the fuck!” Greg said. He twisted around to see Donovan close behind him. “Call an ambulance!”
Sally took out her phone.
Lestrade turned back to Sherlock just as he seemed to be trying to say something, but his eyes abruptly closed and his head lolled.
“Shit, shit!” Greg swore, grabbing the nearest wrist and searching for a pulse. It was there but erratic. Greg turned to Sally again.
“The ambulance will be here in five,” she said.
“We may not have that long,” Greg said, “get me the med kit from the car, and see if someone’s got an AED. His heart rate is crazy, I’m afraid we may have to jump him.”
Though she'd made her feelings on Sherlock abundantly clear, multiple times, Sally Donovan was at heart a good person. She ran off in the direction of the squad car. Greg turned back to Sherlock, unconscious on the pavement.
“What did you take, you brilliant fucking bastard? What the hell did you take?”
Checking Sherlock’s pulse one more time, Greg shifted his attention to the ridiculously long coat Sherlock always wore. If he’d been using drugs on the way to the crime scene, it was possible there would be residue on the inside of the sleeves, or even leftover pills hidden in the pockets. Lestrade always kept an extra pair of latex gloves in his back pocket at crime scenes, and he put them on to examine Sherlock’s jacket. No pills, no residue as far as he could tell, but there was a piece of paper in the left pocket. It was list. Greg didn’t even recognize all the words on it, but he knew enough to know they were the names of different drugs, legal and illegal, and beside each name was a meticulously recorded dosage. He stared in numb shock at the paper.
“Dear God, Sherlock,” his voice actually wavered a bit, “please tell me you didn’t actually take all this.”
He checked the man’s pulse again and was relieved to find it at all. There was a siren in the background. Greg startled when Donovan set the med kit down and knelt beside him.
“Couldn’t find an AED,” she said, “but the ambulance is almost here anyway,” and then, catching sight of the list, “Is that what he took? It’s a miracle he wasn’t dead the moment he hit the ground!”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed vaguely, keeping his thumb over the pulse in Sherlock’s wrist.
As soon as the ambulance pulled up, everything started to blur together for Greg. He remembered the medics coming, gently removing his grip on Sherlock, and bundling the unconscious man into the ambulance. He felt like he should go with them, but was reminded by Sally that he was still at a crime scene that needed his attention. The ambulance sped off into the distance, and Greg reluctantly stood and walked back to the crime scene.
By the time they’d bagged all the evidence and come to all the conclusions that were possible, evening had turned into night and Greg was both physically and mentally exhausted. But he still wanted to swing by the hospital and check on Sherlock if it were possible. It blew Greg’s mind that anyone could survive taking what Sherlock had taken. If he’d survived. For all Lestrade knew, Sherlock Holmes might have died on the ambulance on the way to the hospital.
********
Thanks to a minor miracle, Sherlock had not died on the way to the hospital, nor was he currently dead, though he had been revived once right after they’d moved him from the ambulance to his hospital bed. Mycroft Holmes found the consistent beeping of his brother’s heart monitor incredibly reassuring. Fortunately, Sherlock had taken the advice Mycroft had given him after his last overdose and written down everything he’d taken, which was making his condition slightly easier for the doctors to treat. Although not overdosing again would have been preferable. When he woke up, Sherlock had a long stint in rehab to look forward to, rehab that would no doubt fail just as it had last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.
Mycroft rubbed his eyes wearily. Even he, with all his brilliance, didn’t know what to do to help his little brother. Sherlock’s clever mind and complete lack of social graces made for a problematic combination. Mycroft would offer Sherlock a government position in a second if he thought there was any chance of his brother taking it. That was, after all, how he occupied his own mind.
He had hoped, once Sherlock starting solving cases for Scotland Yard, that those would be enough to keep him engaged, keep his mind busy. The older Holmes had been incredibly relieved when, after Sherlock’s attempts to help had been rebuffed by other Inspectors, DI Gregory Lestrade had allowed Sherlock to work with his team. Rather than being put out by Sherlock’s condescending manners, Lestrade seemed amused by them.
Sherlock had worked with the DI on several cases before Mycroft had contacted the man to express his thanks, however briefly. Since then, Mycroft had found himself turning the CCTV cameras towards Inspector Lestrade and his crime scenes more and more frequently, even if Sherlock wasn’t contributing to the investigation. The DI was interesting enough on his own, intelligent in his own way though clearly no genius. Mycroft had observed that Lestrade did usually end up solving his cases correctly, though it took him a good deal longer than it would have taken Sherlock.
In the privacy of his mind Mycroft could admit there was another reason he kept turning CCTV cameras to watch Gregory Lestrade. The older Holmes rarely felt attraction to other people, especially not of a romantic nature, but DI Lestrade was gorgeous. He would never hear the end of it if Sherlock figured out he liked the Inspector, had a crush on a man he’d never met. Mycroft was honestly a bit disgusted with himself over the whole thing.
However, it was fortunate that Mycroft kept CCTV cameras turned towards the DI, because that was how he’d seen what happened to Sherlock. He’d been able to meet the ambulance in the hospital and get Sherlock installed in a private room with absolutely no visitors allowed. And now Mycroft was indebted to Gregory Lestrade for not only tolerating his brother working his cases, but also for saving his brother’s life. Mycroft was deeply touched by the genuine concern the DI seemed to have for Sherlock and he had very little doubt that if the man hadn’t acted so quickly, Sherlock would have died. And as much as his little brother was a thorn in his side at times, Sherlock’s death would have been devastating to Mycroft.
A knock on the door startled Mycroft out of his contemplations.
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” said a nervous-looking nurse, “there was a gentleman who came up looking for Sherlock. He left when I told him there were no visitors allowed. But then a little while later he was back and he brought this,” the nurse set a small, shoddily-wrapped basket just inside the door. “He asked me to make sure Sherlock Holmes got it.”
“Thank you,” said Mycroft, nodding in her direction. The nurse fled the room as quickly as she’d come. As soon as the door was closed, Mycroft went over and picked up the gift. It was clearly a hastily thought-out, last minute affair. There was no doubt in Mycroft’s mind who it had come from. Seeing that the card on top of the basket had ‘Holmes’ scribbled on it instead of ‘Sherlock,’ Mycroft allowed himself to unwrap the gift and open the envelope.
The card was the type that could be found in any drugstore throughout the country, emblazoned with “Get Well Soon” and some generic flowers. Mycroft opened it and read the message.
I know exactly how you feel about sentimental drivel like this, but I wanted to say it anyway. I think I’m entitled, seeing as you almost died at my crime scene. They told me no visitors and to be honest, I don’t really think seeing me would be a huge pick-me-up anyway. So instead, here’s some stuff from the Tesco’s across the street that I don’t really think you’ll appreciate, but it made me laugh so you’ll just have to deal with it.. Get Well Soon, Sherlock. From Lestrade the Idiot (Greg).
The frank message startled a laugh out of Mycroft. He couldn’t remember the last time anything had made him really chuckle. Some of the items in the basket had notes on them in Lestrade’s handwriting, and Mycroft read them all as he unpacked the gift. The Cadbury chocolate had no note and Sherlock wouldn’t miss it, so Mycroft indulged himself and enjoyed the chocolate bar before continuing.
I can practically see you rolling your eyes about these was attached to a pack of Smarties. Several boxes of heavily caffeinated tea had the thought because caffeine is a drug too, you know, and much more socially acceptable. The Inspector had written a disclaimer on the bag of Wine Gums - yes Sherlock I know they’re not actually alcoholic; it was more about the name. Lastly there were two pocket-sized books; one was crossword puzzles and one was Sudoku.
“Who knows, maybe while you’re recovering it’ll take you a couple minutes to get through the whole book,” Mycroft read aloud, surprised to find he was chuckling again.
It seemed Inspector Lestrade was not only attractive, but he also had a sense of humor that Mycroft found incredibly appealing. He carefully repacked the basket, though Sherlock would know he had opened it. But Mycroft wanted the pleasure of watching his brother read the Inspector’s little notes. It would be a bright spot in what was bound to be a long recovery process.