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His feet were agony.
They'd taken his boots so he'd had to liberate a pair from one of the guards he'd knocked out making his escape and they were at least a size too big. Having them filled with freezing cold water as he'd waded the moat had just made the chafing even worse.
Sherlock studied the rapidly darkening sky. He only had a few hours before it was dark and the clouds which threatened more snow also guaranteed there would be no moonlight. The rag bound around his thigh was soaked through with blood where he'd cut it on a grate but he had nothing to replace it with.
He needed to get somewhere sheltered and dry so he could inspect his leg and the state of his toes. He hadn't been able to feel them for hours and he was sure most of them were already black with frostbite. If he was caught out in the open overnight in his current condition he’d almost certainly freeze to death. Unless he was literally caught in the open, in which case Sullivan and his men would kill him even quicker.
He reviewed his mental map of the area. There was a bothy in the next valley. It would be little more than four walls and a roof but Sherlock couldn’t afford to be picky.
It was just over three miles away.
It would feel much much further.
He gripped the stout branch he’d picked up to use as a staff and started his slow hobble towards the distant hut.
His head grew lighter as the sky got darker and after a while he was no longer even looking up to check he was still heading in the right direction. He was solely focussed on putting one foot in front of the other and not passing out before he reached cover.
He almost made it...
He woke up in near darkness, comfortably warm, cocooned in a sleeping bag. His leg was aching but careful fingertip inspection showed it had been properly dressed. He still couldn't feel his toes - an experimental wiggle did nothing.
Shadows danced across the rough plaster of the ceiling. Following them made his head swim so he turned his gaze to look into the room.
A bulky figure was crouched in front of the bothy’s small wood burning stove, feeding the beginnings of a decent fire. The flames were the only source of light and his companion blocked most of even that, making it tricky to pick out any details about the man.
The jacket he was wearing and the rucksack propped against the far wall both looked like Army surplus which did nothing to quell Sherlock’s suspicion he’d been found by one of Sullivan’s goons. What he couldn’t fathom was why he wasn’t already dead if that was the case. He was too tired and too disoriented to work it out.
"Stop thinking so loud - and quit staring at the back of my head. Giving me a bloody headache," the figure grumbled.
He pivoted on his toes to face Sherlock’s bunk. The grey hair and tired brown eyes were familiar - the scruffy growth of facial hair less so.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock croaked. It couldn't possibly be him but oh, how Sherlock hoped...
Lestrade - or whoever it was - grabbed a flask of water, unscrewed the cap and tipped it up to Sherlock's lips.
"Easy now - take it slow."
The gruff voice, the warm brown eyes, the large hand cradling his head and above all, a hint of familiar scent helped Sherlock relax as he convinced himself it truly was Lestrade here with him, despite the unfamiliar stubble.
He snaked one hand out from within the sleeping bag and tentatively reached up to brush his fingertips against Lestrade's cheek.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Three bloody days I’ve been tracking you, you slippery bastard. Didn't have time to shave."
"S'nice… suits you," Sherlock mumbled.
Lestrade smiled fondly. "You're definitely still loopy from the blood loss."
He put down the flask and took his turn to reach down and stroke Sherlock's cheek.
"Anyway, you're one to talk. Never seen you with so much fuzz - I always thought you were incapable of growing anything more than a bit of bum fluff."
"I can grow a very respectable beard when I want to," Sherlock huffed.
"There's nothing respectable about that beard, mate."
"Yes, I got that impression from the way you're still stroking it."
Lestrade guiltily jerked his hand away.
"Didn't say I wanted you to stop," Sherlock said sleepily.
Lestrade smiled again. "I'm not going to sit here and pet you like you're a big fluffy chinchilla. Still got stuff to do."
He turned back to the fire and built it up a bit more before he pulled his rucksack over and started rummaging through it.
"Got some rations I’ll heat for you. Don’t give me any crap about not eating - it’s to get you warm as much as fed. You've had a classic case of hypothermia."
Sherlock watched as he set up a camping stove and started cooking - or more accurately reheating.
"How are my feet?"
"Pretty bad - but not black. I don't think there's any permanent damage. They'll be sore for a good while but you should keep your twinkle toes and live to dance another day."
Sherlock let out a long sigh of relief.
"Cut to your leg was nasty but I've cleaned and dressed it. Fingers crossed there's no infection. Could have been dicey if you'd been out here much longer though."
"Yes, how did you find me?"
"Usual way - started from your last known location, worked forward based on how I thought you'd be thinking. Only advantage I had over those other pillocks after you. Trail of blood helped for the last bit but it's been a while since I had to track someone over this sort of terrain."
"Not quite forgotten all your old skills then?"
"Lucky for you. Not so lucky for the bloke that found you just before me."
"One of Sullivan’s?"
Lestrade looked away. "Yes."
"What—"
"I broke his neck," Lestrade said sharply. "Hopefully they’ll think he fell if they find him but I don't think they'll even be looking in this blizzard. We should be safe here."
Sherlock didn’t pry further. He knew how angry Lestrade would be about being forced into that position. He never spoke of his time in the Army or why he'd left and joined the Police instead but of all the people Sherlock knew, Lestrade - or at least the Lestrade he knew now - was the one who most believed in the sanctity of life.
Lestrade came back over holding a billy can with steam rising from it. "Right, let's get some of this into you."
He patiently spoon fed most of the can's contents to Sherlock before taking the last few mouthfuls himself.
Sherlock started drifting back off to sleep as Lestrade tidied away the things from their meal. He woke again as Lestrade nudged his ribs.
"Budge over a bit. My back'll never forgive me if I sleep on the floor."
Sherlock gingerly shuffled sideways then lay still while Lestrade shook out his own sleeping bag and climbed onto the cot next to him.
"Now what?" Sherlock asked.
"I already called Lossiemouth. Soon as the weather lifts there'll be a couple of choppers heading our way; a medevac out to Inverness for you and a few of the big lads from SO15 coming in for Sullivan and his mob."
"I'm sorry I'll miss that."
"I'll try and get some video on my phone for you."
Sherlock turned his head to see Lestrade grinning at him from a distance of about two inches.
"Thank you." The words on their own seemed inadequate so he followed them by leaning forward and placing a small chaste kiss on Lestrade's lips. "You always look after me when I need you."
Lestrade's wide-eyed surprise morphed into a gentle, pleased smile. "My pleasure, sunshine. Go to sleep and I'll wake you when it's time to go..."