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Lestrade heaves himself up the last step and drops panting to the concrete. He shakes his head gently, trying to get the water out his eyes. A pale hand extends into view above him. ‘Stand up, you can’t just lie about gasping. It won’t do.’
Lestrade pushes himself to hands and knees and then stands, rubbing gingerly at a shoulder he’s sure is strained.
‘They caught them,’ Sherlock says dispassionately. ‘They’re going away in the first ambulance. John and some of your people are with them. I thought you’d like to watch,’ he adds, when there’s no response from the Inspector. ‘You like the bit where they put the handcuffs on, don’t you?’
Lestrade glances up at him. Sherlock isn’t shivering, though his white shirt, diaphanous from the Thames, is clinging to skin that’s a matching shade of translucent white. A lock of damp hair falls over one eyebrow. He pulls his gaze away. ‘You made it sound perverse.’
‘That’s your interpretation.’ Lestrade thinks he catches a half-smile, though. ‘I meant you like it when they catch the bad guys and drive them away with flashing lights and sirens and then they’re banged up for the good for society and you’ve made the world safer.’
‘Whereas you just like proving you’re cleverer than them and get bored once you’ve worked it out.’
Sherlock can be a difficult man to insult. ‘It’s never in much doubt. Jumping in the Thames was a pretty stupid move. They should have known you’d have police boats on standby.’
‘Didn’t stop you going in after them.’
Sherlock shrugs. ‘You can’t trust your lot to do it properly. And one of them has information about a few people in whom I’m interested. And it’s so tiresome when they die. At least I took my coat off first, rather than charging in headlong.’
Lestrade watches, fascinated, as Sherlock shakes his head vigorously before attempting to groom his wet hair with his fingers. Then Lestrade has to shift his gaze abruptly, looking back out over the water. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he mumbles. ‘We must be risking hypothermia as it is.’
Sherlock doesn’t pause, but continues to unbutton his shirt with an almost clinical lack of self-consciousness. He removes it completely and lets it fall forgotten to the floor. Reaching down, he shrugs himself into his coat, pulling it tight. ‘Now we wait for the ambulance. They’re sending another, the paramedic said. No doubt we’ll have nice blankets soon.’
Lestrade removes his own jacket, probably ruined, and wrings some of the water from it. The winter wind cuts through his sodden shirt and he shivers. ‘Are you cold?’ Sherlock asks, rescuing his scarf from a coat pocket and knotting it carefully round his neck. Lestrade eyes his jacket, weighing up the merits of putting it back on.
‘Sherlock. I’ve been swimming in the bloody Thames. In December. Of course I’m cold. How long did they say the ambulance would be?’ He glances round, searching for a familiar face or the flashing lights of either the police or paramedic’s vehicles.
‘It was only Donovan and John - all the others were with the boats,’ Sherlock points out. ‘The second one was called approximately five minutes ago. My watch has stopped.’ He shakes it, slightly manically, as though this will fix the water damage. ‘Though we were lucky, the tidal drift at this time of day, together with the currents-’ unusually, he stops mid-flow. ‘A few hours earlier and we’ve have drifted,’ he says shortly. ‘Downriver and to the other side. Might have gone a long way before we could climb out. It’ll be quicker for them to come here.’
Passers-by are starting to look at them curiously. Lestrade wonders how cold he’ll have to get before he flashes his badge and commandeers a jumper. A bit colder yet, he decides.
‘Come here.’
‘Why?’ Sherlock has a certain tone that always makes Lestrade want to refuse and out his tongue in childish defiance, whatever the suggestion.
Sherlock’s fingers are making short work of the buttons of his coat. Lestrade can only imagine what the wind is doing to the bare skin he’s revealing. ‘You’re shivering.’ Sherlock points out. ‘Your breathing is quick and shallow and I suspect your coordination is mildly impaired. Your pupils are dilated more than is usual when you’re looking at me. Your have pale cheeks, as far as I can ascertain under the stubble causing by your frankly substandard attempts at shaving, and your lips are in the early stages of cyanosis. It indicates the onset of hypothermia.’
Lestrade lets most of it wash over him and has taken a step towards Sherlock before he realises he’s moving.
‘Take off your shirt. It’s not getting any drier, and wet fabric’s no protection against the wind.’
Lestrade stares at him in frank astonishment, but obeys, slowly, fingers fumbling at the buttons. Sherlock watches, interested, as Lestrade drops the wet shirt neatly on top of his. People with any degree of natural neatness fascinate him. He holds open his coat. ‘Come here,’ he says again. Lestrade stands stock still. ‘What?’
‘You want me to share your coat?’ Lestrade asks incredulously.
‘Well I’m not going to give you my coat, I’m not wearing a shirt - I’d freeze. And it’s mine. You could borrow my scarf but it won’t help much. It’s a big coat - double breasted, lots of spare material. And I’m very thin. Mrs Hudson’s always saying so. There’s room enough until the ambulance arrives.’
‘Sherlock-’
‘It’s an emergency,’ Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘No one will think you’re gay.’
‘That’s not- ‘
‘No, sorry. Brain not quite up to speed. Must be the cold. I meant, no one will know you’re gay.’
‘Fuck off. That’s not what- no point asking how you know, I suppose.’
‘You’d probably take offence if I told you. People usually do.’ Lestrade has a strange impression that Sherlock sounds a little hurt. His copper’s brain, which has been doing an automatic replay of the conversation so far, hits dilated... more than usual. ‘Fuck,’ he says again. ‘Sherlock- I- ‘
‘Don’t be dull, Lestrade. Put your wet shirt back on and go back to dripping and shivering, or come here.’
‘You don’t like people touching you,’ Lestrade points out reasonably. ‘You jumped like a scalded cat when John touched your arm the other day.’
‘That’s John.’ Lestrade controls his breathing with difficulty and wonders why he even bothers. He doesn’t let himself think what Sherlock could mean. ‘And anyway,’ Sherlock continues, ‘I might not like people touching me, but I find I like the idea of you dying of hypothermia even less.’
Lestrade huffs a laugh and allows Sherlock to wrap the coat around them both. ‘I suppose you’d need to find someone else to let you into investigations.’
‘Oh, Mycroft would sort all that.’ Sherlock pronounces airily. ‘It’s in the interests of national security to keep my interests channelled appropriately, apparently. Patronising git.’
‘I can’t see you turning killer,’ Lestrade says, reassuring himself as much as Sherlock as he presses his back more closely against the other man’s chest. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the fact he can feel Sherlock’s ribs.
‘Oh no. So much mess.’ It’s not the denial Lestrade was hoping for, but it’ll do. ‘And I prefer discovering things to inventing them, actually. Mycroft likes inventing. Systems, mainly. Lots of systems and protocols and-’ he pauses. ‘Hmmm, interesting. I wasn’t aware increased chatter was a sign of hypothermia.’ This close, Lestrade can feel he’s started to shiver. The man has no body fat and barely eats. His energy reserves must be near zero. Lestrade’s torn between a selfish desire to stay wrapped here for a while longer, and for an ambulance to turn up and take them somewhere warm as soon as possible. ‘Anyway, no, not a killer. It’d make you feel guilty as well, I suppose.’
‘What?’
‘Being attracted to a potential killer. Perhaps not. I don’t understand guilt very well - such an arbitrary emotion. Your shoulder is very tense, did you strain it?’
Lestrade nods. He can feel Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, protected by the thick material of his coat - their strength is always a surprise, even after the years he’s known him - his hands are a faint pressure against his torso where Sherlock’s pulling the coat tight. As so often where Sherlock’s concerned, he sees no point denying the obvious. Sherlock clearly doesn’t much mind Lestrade’s attraction, if he’s sharing his coat with him. Not just the skin-to-skin contact, but even letting him touch the coat. He’s certain Sherlock’s fonder of the coat than he is of most human beings.
Sherlock rests his head gently against Lestrade’s temple. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘Tired, suddenly.’
‘When’d you last sleep?’
‘Not sure. Busy case, you know.’ He sounds almost apologetic. ‘And no,’ he adds, with a more familiar touch of exasperation, ‘I haven’t eaten either. I needed to think.’
There’s not much point debating it now, so Lestrade lets himself lean back against Sherlock. He can feel the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest (shallow, fast breathing, he thinks, and hopes the ambulance comes soon) and the huff of breath just above his ear.
There’s a wail of a siren and Sherlock, at least, catches the first blue flash as the ambulance swerves in and out of sight as it approaches.
‘Do you want to move?’ he asks.
‘Hmm, what?’
‘You shouldn’t sleep. That’s bad. You might never wake up. Not now,’ he adds hurriedly, it’ll be ok now because the ambulance is here. ‘I thought you might want to move. Away.’
‘That’s... considerate,’ Lestrade says, without thinking. He’s slightly warmer, and the shivering seems to be stopping, but his brain’s still treacle, the combination of Sherlock pressed against his back and the start of hypothermia. ‘Do you want me to move.’
There’s a pause. Sherlock could calculate the ambulance’s distance from the changing frequency of it’s siren’s wail, but decides not to. ‘I’d rather not,’ he says quietly. ‘But I don’t find this a compromising position.’
‘Sherlock-’
Sherlock unwraps his arms and steps back just as the ambulance pulls up. He gives the paramedics a crisp rundown of Lestrade’s symptoms and allows one of them to put a blanket round his shoulders. ‘Is it blue for hypothermia?’ he asks as they bundle both men into the ambulance.
Lestrade laughs until he coughs. ‘He had an orange one when he had shock,’ he explains to the baffled paramedics. Once the paramedics have assured them there isn’t a colour-coding of blankets by condition (which Sherlock declares to be inefficient and dull of them) the back of the ambulance becomes silent.
It’s a matter of routine at the hospital. Sherlock discharges himself no sooner than he’s been admitted, claiming he’s met too many doctors and medical students to submit to their care for anything less life-threatening than a bullet to somewhere really vital. Lestrade allows them to strap up his shoulder, strained either in the water or pulling himself out of it (he’d grabbed an escaping criminal at one point, which might account for the damage) and then follows suit.
--
‘You should go out with Sarah tomorrow,’ Sherlock says, swinging his legs up over the side of his armchair. ‘It’s all arranged - it’s her only day off for ages. You don’t have to stay here.’
John glanced up. ‘What- I’ve already told her I’m staying in.’
‘Well, she can come round, then. I’m going out. I might be back tonight though, so probably best if you go to hers. I think you feel inhibited if I’m here.’
‘Sherlock- I. Where are you going? It can’t be a case. And you only got out of hospital yesterday’
‘Just mild hypothermia,’ Sherlock says breezily. ‘As long as I eat lots and keep warm I will be fine, so the idiot doctor said - and even you agreed. You made me eat curry last night, so that’s ok.’
‘You didn’t each much. Fine. Fine. So where are you going?’
‘I’m going to see Lestrade.’
John’s aware his mouth is hanging open and he shuts it before Sherlock makes his inevitable comment on it. ‘Why?’ he asks gently. Sherlock looks puzzled and stops still, rubbing his fingers through his hair.
‘I want to. Isn’t that what people do? They want to see someone so they pop round and say ‘hi mate, John’s out with his bird so I thought I’d swing round and see how tidying up the case is going?’ That is what people do, I’ve seen them.’
John’s struggling to keep afloat in the stream of Sherlock’s rapid-fire speech. ‘That’s- that’s good, that you want to see Lestrade. That’s- that’ll be nice. But don’t say bird like that Sherlock. It’s- weird. Have you asked Lestrade?’
‘It’s a police station. It’s not as though I’m going straight to his house.’
John decides to ignore the fact that Sherlock totally would.
‘You should ask him, though, before you drop in. That would be a good thing to do.’
Sherlock frowns. ‘Dull.’ But he starts to tap out a message on his phone.
--
‘What have you done with Lestrade?’
Sally Donovan glances up as Sherlock whirls up to her desk, looking round the office. ‘Oh joy,’ she glares at him. ‘A visit from the Freak to liven up my day. Just what I needed.’
‘Shut up. Where’s Lestrade.’
‘Is it a case? The Super’s in, if you want to talk to him. The boss is at home, after your little dip in the Thames yesterday.’
‘Why? He was fine. Just his shoulder. Why’s he at home.’
‘I’m not sure I should tell you- fine, ok.’ She holds up placating hands. ‘God knows he seems fond enough of you. The police doctor took one look at him yesterday - got to him before the boss could sneak away - and told him to stay at home or else.’
Sherlock frowns. ‘Or else what?’
‘He’s not here, Freak. I have things to do, you came to bother him, so now you know he’s not here, you can bugger off.’ She went back to studying the papers on her desk.
‘You’ve got a mistake on line 4. Contraction of there is, not a possessive pronoun. And travelled takes two ls in British English. I sent him a text. He hasn’t replied for an hour now. It’s not like him.’
‘I didn’t write this, I’m filling it in. Well go and see him then,’ Sally snaps. Anderson smirks into view. ‘Hi, Freak. Having a nice chat? Did you enjoy your swim? Didn’t think cats liked the water.’
‘I wasn’t swimming for enjoyment. Your wife not here this weekend, Anderson? No, obviously not. You should wait until she’s actually left town before you tell Donovan about the hotel you’ve booked for the weekend. I understand that’s traditional, anyway - one out the way before you start on the other. Society’s little rules,’ he explains, smiling nastily at Sally. ‘All meaningless, but people do get upset if you get them wrong. I’ll be off,’ he adds. ‘If the Inspector calls, you might tell him I was here.’
--Lestrade ignored the first ring of the doorbell, but the second, longer peal sounds more insistent so he shuffles to his feet and heads for the door.
‘I did text before I came, but you’re not answering. They said at the station you were here. You don’t look very ill. Though you haven’t slept.’
‘Hello, Sherlock.’ Lestrade invites him in, because Sherlock is standing there tall and smiling and bouncing on the balls of his feet on his doorstep.
‘Angelo’s coming round with lunch later. John wouldn’t go unless I promised to eat something so I had to call Angelo while he watched. He’s with Sarah. I’ve told Angelo to bring it round here, when you weren’t at the station. You don’t look really dangerously ill,’ he says again.
‘I’m not. Bloody police surgeon said I had to have a rest day. Because of the shock. And I’m generally run down, apparently.’
‘Probably. You don’t sleep much and I don’t think you actually eat properly either. I should have checked before I left the hospital, yesterday. I was thinking about some information that man we caught should give us and I forgot. Anyway, it’s nice to have a day at home.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘It might be nice for you.’ Sherlock theorises, as though he can’t be expected to know what the normals might find enjoyable. ‘Obviously I can think of nothing duller.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Why does everyone ask that - why I want to see you? Do you have tea?’
Lestrade sighs and indicates that tea is in the kitchen.
‘Good. I don’t have sugar. Just a little milk. Thanks.’
Lestrade returns some moments later and places a mug in front of Sherlock. He’s settled himself lankily on Lestrade’s sofa, pulled a blanket half over him and is apparently now engrossed in daytime TV. ‘Thanks,’ he murmurs as the mug appears. ‘Aren’t you having one?’
‘Not so observant now, are we? Can only carry one thing at a time with my bloody shoulder strapped up.’ Lestrade stomps back to the kitchen and returns with his own tea.
‘Does it hurt? Lestrade? Does it hurt,’ Sherlock glances up to see Lestrade still standing, watching him with an odd expression.
‘Of course it hurts. Why are you here, Sherlock?’
‘I wanted to see you. I- I’m not sure why. I just know I did. Is that... not good? I told John I wanted to see you and he only said I should tell you first. And I did, I texted but you didn’t reply. You always reply.’
‘Phone’s upstairs.’ Lestrade doesn’t say that he’d given the station his landline and hadn’t been able to think of anyone who’d call his mobile. ‘Were you worried?’
‘There were over a hundred perfectly safe and rational reasons you might not have replied.’
‘That’s not actually what I asked, is it. Where am I supposed to sit, now?’
Sherlock looked up. ‘How do you cope? It’s perfectly simple. You can sit here, can’t you? I left space. I accurately judged how much sofa you’d require. I’ve also allocated you half the blanket.’
‘I should have more than half, as I’m bigger’n you.’
‘Don’t be dull, Lestrade. You have more than half the sofa.’
‘Greg.’ He settled himself on the sofa (the bit of his sofa bloody Sherlock's apportioned to him) careful not to jolt his shoulder. It was generally fine - just a dull ache - until he forgot and moved it and then a burst of pain would flare out.
‘What?’
‘My name. Greg. If we’re- doing this. Whatever this is, and I hope you have a bloody clue because I don’t. But if we are, then it’s Greg. Not Lestrade.’
‘I don’t. Greg,’ he tries it out, stretching his thin bloodless lips round the vowels. Lestrade tries not to shiver.
‘Don’t?’
‘Don’t have a clue. It’s- I’m unused to analysing my own feelings. I don't often have them, it's just transport. Neural pathways and the swim of hormones. They rarely make sense. I wanted to see you. I suppose I... missed you? I don’t usually do that. I get bored on my own. I want someone to pass my phone or make me tea, but I don’t usually want someone specific to be there. I don’t know why I do today. Or why it’s you. Is that- is that bad? I can go.’
‘No, you’re all right.’ Lestrade wraps his hands round his mug; he’s still inclined to feel cold. ‘We don't have to give it a name or come up with reasons right now. I’m happy you’re here.’
‘If you’re sure? If it’s not good you have to say. I don’t always know.’ Lestrade can see what the admission costs him; Sherlock grinds it out through lips pressed almost shut. Lestrade wants to kiss him.
‘Please don’t go. Stay for lunch, at least.’
Sherlock smiles, his rare genuine smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth and brings laughter lines to his cheeks.
For a while, they sit in companionable silence.
‘That’s a very imprecise diagnosis,’ Sherlock remarks after a moment, and gestures at the TV when Lestrade looks surprised. ‘You can’t just shout SCUM at people. Particularly when that’s not an appropriate diagnostic category. That young man clearly has ADD, possibly ADHD and I would wager he has dyslexia or some sort of mental retardation-’
‘Learning difficulty- ‘ Lestrade mutters.
‘- and his mother is negligent and will be negligent to her grandson, look, you can see it in the way she won’t look at him. Tracks on his arm suggest extended heroin use. I don’t think shouting SCUM at him is going to make him ‘be a man’ and treat his girlfriend kindly, is it?’
Lestrade starts to laugh. ‘Congratulations,’ he says finally. Sherlock is staring at him as though he’s gone mad. ‘You officially have more humanity than Jeremy Kyle.’
Sherlock snorts but Lestrade can see him preening. ‘Thank you, Greg,’ he replies primly. ‘You should write me out a certificate so I can show DS Donovan. Oh - that’s all right then. They get counselling for ten seconds when the cameras go away. I’m sure that’ll fix it. His girlfriend’s got a new partner anyway. She should go to him and let him buy her and the baby more things. Why don’t they tell her that?’
‘I think she’s admitting the affair after the ad break,’ Lestrade murmurs. He lets his head fall gently against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock tenses, and but stays still. ‘All right?’ Lestrade asks. ‘I might doze off, sorry. I think yesterday took more out of me than I thought.’
‘You’re run down, Greg,’ Sherlock says cheerfully, then looks at him more closely. ‘Actually, the doctor was probably right - you do look fatigued. It’s all right, I’ll look after you.’ It’s not the most comforting thing Lestrade’s ever heard.
‘You won’t be doing experiments on me in my sleep, then?’
‘Only ones that might help your treatment. Nothing harmful.’ It’s only when Sherlock grins widely that Lestrade realises it was meant to be a joke.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘I know you wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I might. But not when your shoulder’s still hurting you.’
It takes Lestrade a few false starts - Sherlock commentating on the stupidity of Jeremy Kyle is too entertaining to miss - but eventually the dull throb from his shoulder and his sleepless night overcomes everything else and his head lolls heavily against Sherlock.
Sherlock shifts infinitely carefully so he can put his arm round the slumbering Lestrade. ‘Greg,’ he mutters, quietly, trying out the sound of it. ‘Oh for God’s sake, how can these people even remember to breathe. Of course he’s not your biological father. Try googling recessive genes. Or troglodyte.’
‘Hmmmm?’
‘Go to sleep, Greg.’ Sherlock wishes he could have had a look in the bedroom when he arrived. He’s sure Greg hasn’t been sleeping properly for some time. He knows sleeping is important; Mycroft and John and Mrs Hudson are always going on about it.
‘Sherlock?’ Lestrade rouses very slightly. ‘I thought I was having some sort of tripped out dream...’
Sherlock finds it highly unlikely that Greg has ever been tripped out. No trip of Sherlock's ever produced halluncinations of watching daytime TV and falling asleep on someone's shoulder. ‘Yes, yes,’ he says, eyes only straying slightly from the TV screen. ‘It’s all a lovely dream. You should go back to sleep, then the lovely dream will come back.’
Lestrade gives up trying to work it out, and does as Sherlock tells him.