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Greg is having a hell of a week.
It had started with Monday.
Monday:
Monday starts far earlier than it should, with a homicide out in Chiswick, not strictly his area, but his phone rings anyway, and two cups of coffee and a quick shave later, he’s standing next to a dismembered body tucked away in a dirty alley, trying to blink sleep out of his eyes still and muttering, “Christ.”
The forensic team is still trying to locate some of the pieces. There are a lot of them missing. They had a collection of some of them already, but there are a disturbing number missing. They’re not even quite sure what’s missing, they’ll need an autopsy for that.
The strung-out twenty-something year old is really just icing on the cake, as far as Greg is concerned, and he doesn’t even notice the waif-thin man for a moment.
The man is looking at the body before Greg notices, not actually Greg’s finest moment, but Greg’s weekend was not a good one, either, a long, late fight with the wife, just after wrapping up a homicide (so maybe this hell-week started earlier, Greg’s not even sure anymore. Homicide detectives don’t live Monday-Friday weeks).
“Who the fuck are you?” Greg asks.
The man waves a hand like that’s the least of anyone’s concerns. “Really, Detective Sergeant?” he asks in a drawling tone, his voice a deep baritone. His voice is really pleasant, Greg thinks distantly, one that Greg would like to listen to in other circumstances. (Greg doesn’t realize now that in several years he’s going to be thoroughly sick of this voice).
It hits him a moment later that this man shouldn’t know his rank.
“The more important question is who is she, isn’t it?” the man continues. “And who killed her, of course. You won’t find the missing pieces in the alley. You’re missing the kidneys, the heart, the left thigh muscles, the right calf muscles, and the liver. It’s a cannibal,” he says with undisguised glee.
Greg stares at him. “… What?”
“Oh, do keep up,” the man says. “Body is expertly butchered, killer knew what he was doing, the pieces missing are removed with obvious care. The body parts aren’t anywhere near here, no blood trail to indicate that they’ve been taken somewhere, and those parts would bleed. Blood trail ends nearby, meaning he put them in a container and transported them. Killers do like to keep trophies, but that’s a lot of trophies to keep, and those are also all pieces that are of ones that one would eat, should one be interested in eating a human. Murdered here, that amount of blood should tell anyone that. Look for a cooler – the killer will have wanted to transport them somehow.”
And with that pronouncement, the man turns to wander back off.
Greg shakes himself out of his stupor – a cannibal, really, in London? – and cuffs the man. While the idea has some merit, especially laid out like that, wandering into an active, clearly marked crime scene is illegal (trespassing, at least), and the man is clearly high. A quick frisk shows he’s holding drugs, and Greg bundles him into the back of a cop car.
“Name?” Greg demands.
The man stays irritatingly silent – great, now he won’t speak. Greg digs around in his pockets until he finds a wallet and extracts an ID.
Sherlock Holmes.
That cannot actually be a name, he thinks to himself. Who the fuck names a kid Sherlock? He adds a charge of fake ID to the list, mainly out of pettiness, and has a PC process the strung-out kid. Because this man really is nothing more than a kid, looking at the (probably fake) ID – he’s barely 22.
Sherlock – or whatever the junkie’s name actually is – doesn’t cross Greg’s mind again for ten or so hours, until Greg sees the CCTV footage of a man leaving the alley with a cooler.
Greg groans. He had completely ignored the idea that a cannibal was responsible for this up until now. Because really, a cannibal? In London? The whole idea was preposterous, and easy to dismiss as the paranoid ravings of a junkie coming down from a high.
The idea that the kid was right is disturbing, but also – the kid was right. A strung-out, high as fuck kid had stumbled onto the crime scene, taken a look at it, and seen things that experienced detectives hadn’t.
Greg gets up and goes to see where they’re keeping Sherlock or whoever, because he figures the kid may have more insights for him. He tells himself he could get there on his own, but with a cannibal on the loose, it’s not a risk he wants to take.
He gets to the holding cells and asks for Sherlock Holmes.
And his day officially goes from bad to worse when the clerk says, “No one here by that name.”
“Someone spring him?”
“No, we’ve never had a Sherlock Holmes here.”
Fine, so the kid gave a different name. Greg describes him: “Young, in his early twenties, tall, dark curly hair, thin, blue or grey or green – hell, he had weird eyes, strung-out, uh…”
“Nope,” the clerk says. “Don’t remember anyone like that.”
Greg stares. He definitely told the PC to take Sherlock to the holding cells.
The clerk passes him the list of people they have. Greg looks it over, and there’s really been no one like Sherlock in all day.
Greg tracks down the PC he tasked with taking Sherlock to the holding cells.
The PC took Sherlock straight there and signed him in.
Sherlock’s simply vanished.
Tuesday:
Monday ticks into Tuesday without Greg really noticing, because Greg hasn’t done anything as mundane as go home and sleep. Not with a cannibal to find.
So far, they’ve identified the body – a young woman, 28, Elizabeth Greene – and are getting information on her. They’ll match the men in her life against the CCTV image they have of the man leaving the alley. There’s a preliminary file on her already. She was a nurse, affianced, working at the Royal Hope Hospital, had been there four years, no complaints against her, two brothers, a sister, a brother-in-law (so four men in her life already to check out). They’ll do interviews with her colleagues and family and whatever friends they can find starting in the morning. Greg glances at the clock. Later in the morning, at a more human time.
It’s something like 3 a.m. when his door bangs open.
The kid is back.
“What the fuck?”
“You’re easily startled, aren’t you?” the kid asks, dropping into the seat in front of Greg’s desk. He sat sideways in it, his long legs draped over the arms of the seat. “I’ve been bored and that cannibal murder you found yesterday is fascinating, so I was looking into it.”
“No, wait,” Greg says, because he’s stuck on a salient point. “The last time I saw you, I put you in a police car and had them take you to the station. From where you disappeared without a trace. They didn’t even have a record of you ever having been there.”
The kid waves his hand like that’s not important. “No, no, don’t focus on that, Detective Sergeant. There’s a cannibal on the loose!” He says that with unrestrained glee, like a child who had been told Christmas was now twice a year plus they get an unlimited shopping trip at a candy store.
It wasn’t decent at all. Greg ignores his questions for now, because dammit, he had been looking for the kid – Sherlock, fine, he’ll mentally call him Sherlock for now – specifically to pick his brain about this, so it’s not really important just why he’s not still in a cell.
That’s a question for another day.
“When you say looking into it, what do you mean?” he asks, because that is very much an important question. He can ignore Sherlock disappearing on him, but he’s (more than) a little worried Sherlock’s gone and broken into the dead woman’s flat to find something out. He doesn’t know the kid at all, but he doesn’t put it past him.
Sherlock grins at him. “It was the brother-in-law,” he says. “He got sick from it – didn’t cook it properly one of the times, got HIV, passed it on to his wife, his wife went to her sister. Sister thought he was cheating, confronted him about it. Except she never said the words ‘I know you’re cheating’ but decided to be dramatic and say ‘I know your secret’ so he killed her to shut her up.”
Greg stares. “Now how the hell do you know that?” he asks belligerently.
Sherlock’s eyes dance. “I checked myself into the Royal Hope today. Ugh, hospitals. But I chatted with some of her coworkers to determine which of them she was closest to, and once I found that one, it was child’s play to determine that she had spilled the story to her friend. Not the part about the brother-in-law being a cannibal, obviously, simply the part where he – and now her sister – are HIV positive, and that he is cheating. From there, a logical deduction. Who else would she have followed into an alleyway?”
Greg gapes.
It is so obvious laid out like that.
He has only one question left. “What’s your real name?” he asks.
“Sherlock Holmes,” the kid answers, standing up.
“No, really,” Greg says.
“Really,” the kid says. “My parents liked the name Sherlock.”
“Greg Lestrade,” Greg says finally, reaching his hand over his desk to shake Sherlock’s hand.
“I know,” Sherlock says. “I can read the sign on your door. By the way, you’ll be a Detective Inspector by the end of the month. There’s a promotion in the works for you. You should take it, you’ll be good at it.”
There had been rumblings about it. Greg had been nervous about taking it, more hours away from home, more responsibilities, and the promotion never seemed to materialize anyway.
Greg’s not sure how the kid – Sherlock – knows any of this.
He takes a look at the painfully skinny kid, who had just solved his crime for him, and reaches for his jacket. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s have dinner.”
Sherlock gives him a wary look.
“My treat as a thank you for your help,” Greg offers.
Sherlock still looks wary. Good lord, had no one been kind to him?
“I’ll only bite the food, Sherlock,” Greg says. “But you look like you could use a good meal, and I’m starved.”
“Detective Sergeant, it’s 3:30 a.m.,” Sherlock points out finally. “A bit past dinnertime.”
“I’m a cop, Sherlock. Time is meaningless to us. And I can hear your stomach from here. I know a decent all-night place nearby.”
Sherlock comes with him, finally, and Greg is surprised he actually enjoys the meal with Sherlock. The kid is still abrasive and rude, but also painfully shy at times, like he’s not quite sure how to fit in, and the rudeness covers up that it hurts he doesn’t know.
Greg ignores the rude comments tolerantly as Sherlock puts away his meal. Even when Sherlock deduces his wife’s infidelity, he doesn’t react negatively, simply telling Sherlock he had figured that out by now, too.
They finally finish, and Sherlock thanks him politely for the meal, then leaves.
It’s only five minutes later Greg wonders if Sherlock has a place to sleep. He tamps down the thought – Sherlock isn’t his problem. He can’t help everyone. But something about this kid makes him want to help so, so badly.
Wednesday:
The door to his office flies open around noon.
“BORED!”
Greg recognizes that deep voice.
“Sherlock, what the hell? The cannibal case is over! We arrested the brother-in-law. You were right.”
“Yes, but now I’m bored again,” Sherlock protests. “Don’t you have other crimes?”
Greg stares at him. “I’m not sure how you think this works,” he says slowly. “You don’t just get to look at our crimes.” He looks more closely and sighs. Sherlock is clearly high, again. “Sherlock, you’re high.”
“Wow, I can see why they’re going to make you a Detective Inspector,” Sherlock snarls. “Excellent observation. Of course I’m high, everything is so hateful.”
And Greg’s heart aches for this brilliant kid, who really truly must be bored by the world. He had solved a crime that the police were plodding through while high, had shown up and seen the answer from missing bits of the body and some chatting with nurses while posing as a patient. It’s clear he has aptitude for this and enjoys it.
It’s equally clear he would make a piss-poor police officer, Sherlock would loathe routine cases, paperwork, the monotony that defines most of what makes police work police work. No, what he would thrive on would be the kind of cases that they (he) had solved yesterday, and an idea is born.
Greg’s sometimes out of his depth. He could use Sherlock’s help sometimes, help Sherlock seems to want to give.
But he’s not going to get it from anyone who’s high.
“Sherlock Holmes, sit down and listen to me,” Greg commands. “I will make you a deal.”
Sherlock, who’s been pacing the room and muttering, snaps to attention. He searches Greg’s face and decides that whatever Greg’s got to say will be at least marginally interesting, so he sits.
“We’re going to make a deal, right now, Sherlock. You can help with our more interesting crimes – I can tell already most of the ones I deal with would be beneath you – ”
Sherlock huffs a laugh at that.
“ – if and only if you get and stay clean,” Greg continues firmly. “And that is non-negotiable. You use, you don’t get cases.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Really? I solved your cannibal case while high.”
“So think of what you could solve clean and sober,” Greg counters. “Besides, think of where I’d let you go when you didn’t look like something the cat dragged in.” He hadn’t bothered commenting on Sherlock’s appearance yet, but it bore commenting on – Sherlock is dressed… poorly. A frayed T-shirt, several days old, over that an open jacket, even dirtier, jogging pants with obvious stains, mismatched socks, dirty trainers. His curls are in disarray and while he isn’t dirty per se, he could definitely use a shower.
“Get and stay clean, and we’ll discuss cases,” Greg says.
“I will die of boredom in rehab,” Sherlock says agitatedly.
And Greg adjusts his plan on the fly, because yes, Sherlock likely will.
“I’ll give you cold cases to solve.”
“Deal.”
And Greg looks at this kid, who’s fidgeting in his chair, and stands up. “Sherlock, you need a shower. And food. Let’s go.”
Sherlock stares at him. “Go where? Rehab right now? I need to settle some things…”
“No, back to my flat. I have a shower, and extra clothes – you’re about my height – and food.”
Greg doesn’t think too hard about why he’s letting a virtual stranger, a junkie who is currently high (that’s a real sticking point for Greg, the drug use), into his flat. Somehow, deep down, he knows Sherlock won’t hurt him.
After Sherlock showers, he comes out to the living room in a pair of Greg’s jeans and an old T-shirt. They’re baggy on him – they may be the same height, but Sherlock is at least two stone lighter – but he doesn’t seem to mind. Without the jacket to cover his arms, Greg can see the dozens of needle-marks.
“Whatever you have to settle can wait until morning. When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”
“Sleep is dull.”
“And when did you last sleep anyway?”
“Sunday,” Sherlock grinds out.
The question that’s been plaguing Greg is at his mind now. “Sherlock, where do you live?”
“Dorm,” Sherlock says. “Not technically a student anymore, but they let me live there while I do independent studies. I hate it.”
“I’ll make up the couch for you,” Greg says. He doesn’t want Sherlock anywhere near the dorms – he rather suspects Sherlock would find cocaine again. Then he hesitates. He needs to go back to work. Sherlock is already settling into the couch.
And for some reason, Greg is totally okay with that. He doesn’t think about calling out for the rest of the afternoon. Somehow, he knows Sherlock won’t damage or steal anything.
He thought being a cop would make him more cynical, more suspicious, honestly.
“You’re not less cynical,” Sherlock mumbles as Greg throws a blanket over him. “You’re listening to your instincts, which, as a good cop, are well-honed. You observed dozens of little tells since you met me.”
“Like?” Greg asks. Because he’d really like to know why he’s trusting this kid.
“On the side of law and order. Helped with the case, didn’t fight the arrest – ”
“You disappeared from the holding cell!” Greg protests.
“Not illegally. I was sprung. When you let me into your flat, I gave it a cursory look and didn’t search for any valuables or linger over them. Someone planning on robbing you, especially someone who’s high – or coming down, and looking for a fix already – wouldn’t have the patience to wait until you’re not looking to case your flat. Same when you pulled out your wallet last night – I didn’t stare at it or try to figure out how much money you had with you.”
Oh. That does make sense. Greg feels better now about leaving Sherlock on his couch, now that he knows why he feels okay with it on a gut-level.
He writes down his mobile number and hands it to Sherlock. “If there’s a problem before I get back, call me. I’ll be back. Don’t leave until then, Sherlock.”
It’s only when he’s at his office that he realizes he never talked to his wife about this, nor warned Sherlock.
He really, really hopes he can get out on time to beat Shannon home. Especially since she’s the one picking up Amelia today.
***
Based on the frustrated slamming he can already hear from the hallway, Shannon was already home. Greg hesitantly opens the door and is met with a full-force glare from her.
“What the fuck,” she hisses, “is a 20-year-old junkie doing on my sofa?”
Greg glances over at Sherlock, who appears to be asleep.
“He helped with a case the other day,” Greg says carefully. “Not like that, Shannon – he was never a suspect. No, he solved it. And the kid’s got it rough. I’m taking him to rehab tomorrow, but he needed sleep. And he’s staying until tomorrow,” Greg adds firmly.
Shannon throws a vicious glare at him. “Do I get a say in this?”
“No,” Greg says.
“You’re such a naïve imbecile,” she snarls. “He’s a junkie. He’ll steal something while we’re sleeping, or hurt Amelia, or me. You can’t trust junkies!”
“He’s been here for hours without me around, and as far as I can tell, we still have all our things.”
“What if he rapes Amelia? Or me?” she hisses.
“I’m gay,” a voice rumbles from the sofa, clearly displeased. “Like that wasn’t bloody obvious. I’m more likely to sleep with your husband than you, Mrs Lestrade.”
Greg tries not to think about that – properly cleaned up, Sherlock is actually really attractive, and Greg’s always been comfortable in his bisexuality. Shannon clearly is thinking about it, and she’s not happy.
“I’ll leave,” Sherlock says, getting up.
“No, you won’t,” Greg says forcefully. “You’ll stay right there, and tomorrow I’ll make sure you get into rehab.” He levels a glare of his own at his wife.
She makes her displeasure clear all night.
Thursday:
Greg returns to his flat around 2p.m. He’d taken the day off work to get Sherlock sorted, and they’d gone to his university to clean up the experiments and sign paperwork about him leaving the dorm for some time, then for Sherlock to pack.
After that, Greg had taken him to rehab, made sure he checked in, and left half a dozen cold case files with the nurse. “Please only give these to him once he’s been here 24 hours,” he’d asked, and she hadn’t even blinked, just taken them wordlessly.
“And don’t let anyone else look – they’re confidential,” he had added.
Sherlock had been cooperative throughout – surprisingly so. Greg’s making a vague promise to himself to visit the kid beyond just bringing him cold cases.
All in all, this could actually work, he thinks to himself.
Oh, he knows addicts are deceitful, and so on, and so forth, but he thinks that with something else to focus that intellect on, Sherlock has a real chance.
But Greg likes to see the best in people.
He finishes his tea and late lunch, attempts to contact his wife (no answer, not that he was expecting one, really), and heads out the door to get some shopping done. They’re low on groceries, and he doubts Shannon will stop on her way home. Might as well make the best out of the rest of his day off.
A man is at the door of his flat.
Not about to knock.
Just waiting.
He’s tall. Taller than Greg. By several inches, and Greg is not short. He’s also incredibly muscled.
“Come with me, Detective Sergeant,” the man says flatly.
“I’ll pass, ta,” Greg says shortly, and tries to walk around him.
The man steps in front of him. “Not an option.”
Greg wishes, for the first time (but definitely not the last, and it was only after meeting Sherlock Holmes he started wishing this), that in the UK cops carried guns. “Who are you?”
“I’ll be your driver today.”
“I’ll walk.”
“Not an option.”
“Are you driving me to Tesco?”
“Eventually.”
“In that case, I’ll. Walk.”
They stare at each other, neither backing down. Finally, a phone rings. The man answers his phone, says a clipped, “Yes sir” and hands it to Greg.
“Hello, Detective Sergeant,” a voice says in his ear. It’s a creepy voice. Impersonal. Posh. Refined. Greg dislikes it immediately.
“What the hell do you want?”
“Go with the man, Detective Sergeant. You really don’t have a choice.”
“Like hell I don’t,” Greg snaps.
“He’s perfectly capable of bodily removing you, although I’d like to avoid doing that to Scotland Yard’s finest,” the man says smoothly. “Really, it would be so much more pleasant if you just went with him.”
This has really been one hell of a week, Greg thinks.
Warily, Greg follows the hulk of a man, sliding into the back of a black car. A young woman is in there, typing furiously on a phone. He stares at the phone. They don’t make phones like that, do they?
“Who are you?” he asks.
“Uh… Isabella,” she answers.
“Is that your real name?”
“No.”
The car stops in front of an abandoned warehouse.
“Well, go on,” the woman says, not bothering to look up from her phone.
Great, Greg thinks.
He storms into the warehouse. He is not happy. It’s his day off, he’s been fucking kidnapped and taken to a warehouse in God knows where, and he doesn’t even know why.
They know where he lives. The thought hits him suddenly. It hadn’t yet, but it does now. They know where he lives. He’s going to have to move, assuming he gets out alive.
The thought only makes him angrier. (Although, for a kidnapping, this is surprisingly terrible, he’s still allowed to walk.)
In the middle of the warehouse is a man. He’s a bit taller than Greg, not much, certainly not like the Incredible Hulk still sitting in the car. He’s lean, a little younger than Greg, with brown hair, bit of a reddish tinge to it, in a fucking bespoke three-piece suit, and he’s leaning on an umbrella. Fucking of course.
Greg stomps up to him.
“Why the hell did you kidnap me?” he snaps.
“Kidnap is such an unpleasant word,” the man says. “I prefer to think of it as borrowing you for a bit.”
“I don’t feel like I’ve been borrowed. I’ve been forcibly removed from my home, under threat, driven to a remote location, and you are very lucky cops in the UK aren’t armed!”
The man examines his umbrella. “Are you quite done?” he asks, as if Greg is a young child having a temper tantrum.
Greg balls his hands into fists. If nothing else, he’ll at least punch this smug, infuriating bastard. “What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” the man intones.
“Don’t know him,” Greg lies.
“Don’t lie.” The man pulls a notebook out of an inner pocket. “Monday, he shows up strung-out to one of your crime scenes. You deposit him in a cop car and wash your hands of the situation. Tuesday, he shows up in your office in the wee hours of the morning. You then take him out to eat a meal. Wednesday, you tell him to go to rehab, then allow him into your flat and leave him there for several hours unattended. Today, you took him to his dorm and then to rehab. Tell me, do you plan on honoring the deal you made with him?”
“That’s really not your business,” Greg snaps. It sits uncomfortably with him, he hadn’t even talked to his boss about this yet – he had hoped to see first if Sherlock stayed in rehab for the first 24 hours before bringing up this (probably unwise) deal with his boss.
“Oh, but it is.”
“Frankly, I don’t see how.”
“Especially since you didn’t have anyone sign off on this, did you?” the man asks. “And they’ll likely say no, won’t they?”
Yes, they will. And Greg’s not sure what he’s going to do if they do. Likely sneak Sherlock in anyway, because he knows perfectly well that if he reneges, Sherlock will not take that well.
“I can make sure they don’t say no,” the man says.
Greg raises an eyebrow. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man smiles. It’s not a pleasant smile. “Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British Government, but it is quite sufficient to make sure that Sherlock gets the access he wants.”
“Why?”
Mycroft looks down at the floor, and when he speaks, his voice is low. “Detective Sergeant – soon Detective Inspector, by the way – my brother has resisted all attempts to even enter rehab. You are the first to get him to agree to go.”
He doesn’t say thank you.
He doesn’t need to, Greg hears it anyway. It’s clear in the way he stands, the way he looks at Greg, the way he suddenly fiddles with the handle of his umbrella.
Greg nods at the unspoken words.
“Let me know how he’s doing,” Mycroft says.
“No,” Greg answers. “I’m not your brother’s keeper. He’s an adult. He’s floundering, yes, but I won’t keep tabs on him for you. I’ll help him, but on my terms, not yours.”
Mycroft stares piercingly at him. Greg stares back. He doesn’t back down.
“Take care of him?” Mycroft asks. “I worry.” He hands over a card. Greg looks at it. It’s devastatingly plain. Mycroft Holmes. A number below it. That’s all. No mention of his (minor) position. No email. Nothing but that number.
“That’s the number to reach me at, anytime, day or night, should you need help with… with Sherlock,” Mycroft says.
Greg nods. “I’ll call if I need help,” he concedes.
“Thank you,” Mycroft says. “For everything.”
Checking in: Six Months Later
Rehab had done Sherlock a world of good, Greg thinks. Sherlock was still incredibly thin, but he’d put on a bit of weight in rehab. He was also focused, intent, and had solved nearly a hundred cold cases while in rehab.
Right now, he’s flitting around a crime scene delightedly. It’s the first Greg’s been able to get him on, and Sherlock’s enthusiasm is bordering on disrespectful, but Greg can’t find it in himself to be cross about it. Sherlock’s worked hard for this chance, and Greg is so, so glad he was able to give it.
Sherlock strips off his gloves. “She wasn’t strangled. Well, she was, but that’s not the cause of death. Look.” He points to a needle mark between her toes. “No other needle marks, not a habitual drug user. I’d say she was poisoned.”
Greg doesn’t think about Sherlock’s arms, covered in (old, scarred, fading) track marks. Sherlock’s definitely improved how he dresses – suits, mainly, but without a tie – but not once has Greg seen Sherlock go short-sleeved.
“Come on, Sherlock,” Greg says amiably. “While they do the autopsy, let me buy you lunch.”
Sherlock acquiesces easily enough – although he eats very little lunch – and Greg lets a small smile onto his face.
How was his first crime scene? MH
Mycroft texted him occasionally to ask after Sherlock. Greg always answered sparsely, just enough to reassure the older Holmes that Sherlock was doing well, and gave no details.
It went very well. He was amazing. GL
Detective Inspector – congratulations on your promotion, by the way – I cannot thank you enough. But perhaps dinner would be a start? MH
Greg doesn’t read anything into the invite. Mycroft had never kidnapped him again, but they’d met a few times when rehab had been going badly for Sherlock to discuss what best to do.
Name a time and place. GL
Mycroft does, and adds, He won’t want to hear this, but I am proud of him. Let him know for me, would you? MH
Epilogue (5 years, 10 months, 3 days later):
Later, Greg finds out just how bad Sherlock’s use had been. The overdoses, that Mycroft had more than once found Sherlock half-dead, had brought him to the hospital, had watched over him withdrawing, had actually begged him to go to rehab.
Later, Greg learns that Sherlock’s use had gone on nearly four years by the point that kid had stumbled into his crime scene, and everyone in his life was on the verge of giving up on him. Not Mycroft, not yet, but even Mycroft was at the end of his wits with what to do.
John Watson may have been the one to unlock Sherlock’s heart and give him back his ability to love, but Gregory Lestrade was the one who kept him alive long enough to do so.
And for that, Sherlock – who fully recognized this, clean and sober 6 years, 4 months, 3 days and counting on the day of his wedding – makes Greg his best man. It’s a bit awkward, given that John wanted to ask Greg to be his, but Sherlock cuts him off firmly. Gives the story of how without Greg, there wouldn’t be a wedding, because Sherlock would be dead of an overdose by now, and because Sherlock wouldn’t be a consulting detective. (Sherlock even remembers Greg’s name when asking him, and Greg, with actual tears in his eyes, accepts).
(Mike is John’s best man, after all, without him, they’d never have met, so it’s thanks to these two men that this wedding is happening at all).
Mike goes first with the speech. His is short and sweet and to the point: “You know, I never thought, when I woke up that January 29th, it would be an important day for anyone I knew,” he says with a laugh. “Not even when I first ran across Sherlock that day. Not even when he says the frankly unthinkable to me. He says to me, I’m looking for a flatmate, but I can’t imagine anyone would want me as a flatmate. Then he looks at his watch and runs off, telling me he only has an hour in which to perform critical tests on a corpse in the morgue with a riding crop. Typical Sherlock. Not much later, I see John in the park, limping, looking… down. Like there’s not much left for him in the world. He’s looking for a flatshare too, and says ‘Who’d want me for a flatmate’. And honestly, it’s like someone planned that. Well, I think, I’ve got to introduce these two. And Sherlock’s his usual whirlwind, deduces John’s military history, psychosomatic limp, initial injury, within seconds, and whirls out again within seconds.
“Next I hear, they’re living together at 221B and solving crimes together. I keep up with the blog and meet John for pints every so often. The blog is the sanitized version for the masses, the real version I get during pints. It’s greatest love story ever told. They’re two puzzle pieces who finally found each other, slotting together, making each other whole. Sherlock sharpens John, makes him better, and John smooths out Sherlock’s rough edges, sweetens him, and hones his brilliance. They’re a formidable team. And I think the other best man can attest to that, having seen them in action.” Greg nods.
“The day I introduced them, energy just crackled in the room. I’m so happy I did, gents. And I’m so happy to be here today, to see you two pledge your lives to each other. To John and Sherlock!”
Greg stands next, ready to make his speech. The wedding had been beautiful. Small, private, understated. Sherlock looks happy, radiant, glowing. His hand curls possessively around John’s, his ring glinting in the late afternoon sun streaming in from the windows of the rented room.
John can’t tear his eyes away from his husband’s (and Greg still can’t believe that he is applying the word husband to Sherlock Holmes. He had applied many, many words to Sherlock, but to think that that is a word he is now going to use… well!)
Greg clears his throat. He’s got a lot more history with Sherlock than Mike has, and a different kind of history with John than Mike. He’s discussed his speech with Sherlock, worried that he’s overstepping his bounds, and Sherlock’s been firm: You saved my life, I want them to know what you saved me from. He’s not going to go into detail, but Sherlock’s right. It’s part of his past.
“I first met Sherlock 6 years ago when he stumbled across one of my crime scenes. He was not the man you see before you today, and I am very, very honored to say he has successfully beaten a horrible demon.” John’s hand tightens on Sherlock’s, and Sherlock brushes a kiss over his hand. “Sherlock was high when I first met him, and despite that, he still solved my case for me faster than any of us Yarders could get a clue.”
Sherlock smirks and a smattering of laughs ring out. Greg relaxes a bit. His speech is fine. These are Sherlock and John’s friends. Sherlock is safe here, they know Sherlock’s history. “I gave Sherlock an ultimatum – Get clean, and I’ll give you cases. Since then, I have not once since this man anything less than sober.” He pauses, maybe a little for dramatic effect. “Well, except since John has wandered into his life. Love-drunk is a very good look on Sherlock, I have to say.”
Sherlock flushes red and groans. Raucous laughter from the crowd, many of whom have seen Sherlock in action, some of whom have seen the peculiar effect John has on Sherlock. Greg waits for them to settle down and continues. “Over a year ago, Sherlock, who has never been what you might call easy to get along with, especially at a crime scene, shows up with John. His only explanation for John is ‘He’s with me’. And it’s always been that way. Where one goes, there’s the other. While that day, I had my misgivings – sorry, John – I cannot deny that John has been anything but a good influence. I once said Sherlock is a great man, and if we are very lucky, he may even be a good one. John Watson-Holmes, you are the reason I can now say this: Sherlock Watson-Holmes, you are a great and good man.”
Greg may have had more to say. Or not. He’s not sure, because Sherlock lets go of John’s hand and crushes him in a hug. “Greg,” he says fiercely. “Greg, I will never forget your name again,” he vows.
Greg’s not ashamed to admit he’s crying. Because he’s suddenly, painfully, truly aware of how much this man has grown up from when he first met him. Sherlock’s not that kid anymore, not that strung-out 22-year-old desperately looking for anything to keep him from being bored, he’s actually an adult now, not just because he’s married, not just because he finally knows Greg’s name (bastard has always known it), it’s a culmination of everything. He’s sober, he has a job, however unconventional, he’s in love and married and deeply desperately happy, he’s confident in himself in a way he’s never been, he finally understands his role in the world, and Greg’s so proud he could burst.
Because he helped get Sherlock here, to Sherlock’s wedding day. He feels fucking paternal right now – not a new emotion around Sherlock, really, but this time, it’s in a good way. He hugs Sherlock tighter and says softly, right in Sherlock’s ear, “I’m so, so proud, Sherlock.”
And Sherlock, bless him, understands.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says equally softly, “For everything. For taking a chance on a junkie. You didn’t have to. You saved my life.”
Over Sherlock’s shoulder, Greg can see Mycroft Holmes. “Thank you,” Mycroft mouths. “Thank you.”