Desperate (2/9)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: Sherlock may be off drugs, but that doesn't make him easier for Lestrade to handle...
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1
Greg hadn't planned to spend Twelfth Night in a bar with an attractive man. Though that made it sound more enjoyable than it actually was. Mycroft had phoned to announce that Sherlock was fit for duty and Greg had decided that it was time to introduce him properly to his investigation team.
It wasn't quite as stupid as it sounded. DC Noel Taylor was having a belated birthday party, and everyone was still vaguely positive at having survived the Christmas holidays. Some of his team had possibly even made New Year's resolutions about being more co-operative. Give them a brief dose of Sherlock to inoculate them, rather than introduce him during the stress of a crime scene, and they might accept him. And if Sherlock wasn't clean, Greg could simply tell Mycroft to get stuffed.
When Greg got to the bar, he spotted Sherlock sitting silently in a corner, and wondered abruptly why he'd never realised before how handsome he was. Tastes varied obviously - there were even people who thought he was good-looking, rather than just a harassed, greying plod - but the oddness of Sherlock's looks seemed to have dissolved away. Maybe it was just he was calmer off the drugs. It probably helped as well that he was wearing some kind of smart designer clothes that emphasised the lean, graceful lines of his body. He still didn't look normal, obviously, but he looked a good kind of abnormal, not "secretly a serial killer". And when Greg went over to meet him, Sherlock gave him his usual hard stare, but somehow refrained from telling him he'd put on weight over Christmas and that he'd already broken his New Year's resolution about quitting smoking. In fact, Sherlock was giving a good impression of someone tolerable.
"Have a good Christmas?" Greg asked, sipping at his scotch.
"I spent it with Mycroft," Sherlock said in a low voice, and Greg had a sudden vision of the pair of them glaring at each other over Christmas dinner. And then Sherlock added: "Detoxing. He claimed it was the only time he could spare to supervise me."
Greg's second New Year resolution had been to cut down swearing. That was obviously a lost cause.
"Oh, fucking hell," he said. "And you agreed?" He'd seen enough forced treatments to know exactly how unsuccessful they were.
"Mycroft said you wouldn't work with me unless I was clean," Sherlock said, and his tone defied sympathy.
"That's right," Greg said. "So if you're not ready, I'd understand. I mean it's hard enough getting off the coke, but it's harder staying off."
"I want this," Sherlock said, and he sounded like Rob explaining why he had to have exactly the right Doctor Who figure for Christmas and nothing else would do. Sherlock was older than he looked; Greg had worked out that he must be nearly thirty. But he was still a child in some ways. A damaged, dangerous child, and Greg shouldn't feel sorry for him.
"It's not going to be easy," he replied. Maybe if he laid things out clearly now, something would register with Sherlock. "A murder investigation's a team game, like football. One person can't do it all themself. It's not just a puzzle to solve: it's securing the evidence, proving it in court. Taking care of the paperwork, so your case doesn't unravel." He looked at Sherlock. "I don't need you to do that; but you gotta understand it has to be done."
" 'The Yard lead the world for thoroughness and method'," Sherlock murmured. "Well, that was what someone claimed back in 1924. I hardly think it's true now."
"If we're so crap, why do you want to work with us?"
"Because if I have something to entertain me, I don't need the drugs."
"Investigating murders isn't done for your bloody entertainment," Greg protested. Don't let him wind you up, he told himself.
"If you don't enjoy it, why do you do it?" Sherlock said. "Oh, I know the obvious reasons. Because you need to feed your family. Because it's a job that's useful to society, and you have a strong sense of justice. But why you really solve murders, Lestrade, is because it's more fun than arresting speeding motorists."
They were saying on the telly that the government were going to ban smoking in bars, but they hadn't done so yet, thank god. Greg lit up a fag and didn't punch Sherlock, and then he saw Sherlock's greedy eyes on the packet and gave him one as well. Couldn't break too many bad habits all at once.
"Your team are over in the corner," Sherlock said. "One depressive, one sociopath, three dolts, and DS Donovan. Oh, and a civilian with a beard and marital problems."
"Ten minutes talking to them," Greg said. "Be polite. You're the cleverest man I know. You can do that."
"I'm the second cleverest man you know," Sherlock said. "You've met Mycroft. I leave tactfulness to him."
Greg gave him a long, slow stare. You had to spell out the consequences sometimes with kids.
"I can't give you what you want unless you co-operate," he said. "You know that."
Something must have registered, because he abruptly watched Sherlock becoming nice. His upright posture relaxed into gawkiness, a shy smile appeared on his face, and somehow there was now warmth in those pale, clever eyes. A harmless young man, trailing awkwardly after Greg to be introduced.
Noel and Kath Climpson were their normal cheery selves as Greg introduced them; Bailey was gazing slightly awkwardly at them and blushing - he hoped it was Sherlock she was admiring and not him. Even Donovan managed an unconvincing smile. And then there was Anderson, with his new beard and his old prickliness.
"I looked at your website at lunchtime, Mr Holmes," he said. "The Science of Deduction, you call it, don't you?"
"And?" Sherlock asked, going very, very still beside Greg.
"You've done a lot of work on tobacco ash identification, I see."
"Yes."
"If you want us professionals to pay attention, you should submit your research to a journal. If you think it'll stand up to peer review."
Greg had a strong suspicion that was the scientific equivalent of a dog putting back its ears and snarling. He was hardly surprised when Sherlock smiled an evil smile and said: "So did your wife leave you for good over Christmas, Dr Anderson, or is she claiming it's just a trial separation?"
***
It could have been worse, Greg told himself, sitting on the tube on the way home. Anderson hadn't thumped Sherlock. He hadn't thumped Sherlock. They hadn't even got banned from the bar, not after Sherlock had pointed out to the manager the member of staff who was giving short measures. And it wasn't as if most of his team actually liked Anderson, though Sally Donovan had a soft spot for him. But he'd have to try and keep Sherlock away from Anderson in the future. Prats, both of them. He was disappointed in Sherlock, even though he knew he shouldn't be.
And he couldn't help feeling a twinge of sympathy for Anderson. No fun for anyone having your marriage disintegrate, let alone having Sherlock comment on it. He could still remember how miserable those remarks about Ruth had made him feel. Could have been him that Sherlock was deducing, not Anderson, if things had been different.
No, it wasn't going to be. Christmas had gone smoothly this year; everything was going fine. Ruth had been so organised, known precisely how to sort the kids out, keep things under control. Him and her, they made a good team.
Unfortunately, even if they were a team, he thought, as he let himself quietly into his house - everyone else tucked up in bed already - he was definitely the weakest link. If Ruth was the officer in charge of the family, he was the equivalent of the dim DC you desperately hoped would be assigned to other duties. But that was the New Year's resolution he was going to keep: pulling his weight looking after the kids.
***
The problem was he always seemed to screw up when he did try to help. His shifts were impossible to mesh neatly with the complex schedule that filled his growing children's lives. And when he was the one who took them somewhere, Rob promptly lost his football shorts, or Emily had hysterics because she'd been given the wrong sort of milk to drink at the soft play area. He seemed to be crap at looking after his own children; it was Ruth they wanted with them, not him. Easier to linger at the office, where at least he just had Sherlock rolling his eyes at his stupidity, not his own wife.
***
It turned out that having Sherlock to consult didn't save Greg much time on cases. Well, it saved time solving them, but that was counterbalanced by all the time spent smoothing over the mess that Sherlock left behind. He'd had to ask Mycroft Holmes for help several times, and one of those days the bastard was surely going to collect on those favours.
Still, he was starting to realise the true art of consulting Sherlock. Going to him only for the really tricky cases, because otherwise he'd just refuse to help. And it was funny how often just the suggestion of bringing in Sherlock got his team suddenly re-motivated and tracking down the correct culprit. They'd do anything to avoid Sherlock's maddening presence.
He didn't mind Sherlock any more, most of the time. Oh, the man had zero social skills, and he could be a complete dickhead at times. But even though Sherlock would never admit it, he needed some kind of steadying influence, a focus to prevent his life spiralling into chaos. Maybe Greg was a crap father to his own kids, but he still found himself hoping that eventually he would have some effect on Sherlock. And it was perversely satisfying meanwhile not letting Sherlock get to him, proving that he could rise above the man's provocations. DI Lestrade, after all, was surely old enough and ugly enough to cope with anything.
***
Coping with anything included the fact that he wasn't going to be promoted to DCI. Charlie Luke, his old guvnor, sitting in his retirement home, had been the one who spelt that out.
"Course not, Greg," he said, grinning. Luke's smile was still vivid, even though he was shrunken and frail now. "It's basic statistics, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"While you stay an inspector, they can stick different DCIs over you theoretically in charge of an investigation, and everyone's clear-up rate benefits. If you made it to chief inspector, you'd look brilliant, and everyone else would look shitty, and there'd be hell to pay."
"You reckon that's their plan?"
"That's the way the game works," Luke said, sketching a complex design of zig-zags with his hands. "Not saying it's right, but since when did being the best at anything get you ahead? Competent and inoffensive, that's the ticket. And your other problem, Greg, is if your pal Sherlock decides he wants to make a name for himself, showing up the police as idiots."
"He won't," Greg said. "He's not interested in publicity."
"If he sold his story to the paper, he could get thousands," Luke said. "Better watch your back, Greg, or it'll end in tears."
***
His hair was going grey and the DCs on his team were looking younger, he realised a couple of years on. Hell, everyone was looking younger: Mark Dimmock was clearly aiming to become a DI while still in nappies. But there were some constants. He still had Sally Donovan as his sergeant, and he couldn't imagine now having anyone else. Anderson's marriage was still limping along, and it was a bit like that old joke: as long as Anderson and his wife didn't split up and remarry, they only made two people unhappy, rather than four.
The other constant now was Ruth talking about Dorset. Her parents had moved down near Dorchester when they retired and to her it was everything that London wasn't: safe, clean, beautiful. A place where you could bring up children properly.
"They'd be bored out of their minds," Greg protested. "I grew up in the countryside. We sat in the bus shelter and smoked all evening, that was our idea of fun. Well, apart from the psycho kids who liked torturing small animals."
"Dorset CID are based in Winfrith," Ruth said. "They'd welcome someone with your experience. You'd get the promotion you deserve."
She didn't say: You'd be away from Sherlock Holmes. She didn't need to. To Ruth, Sherlock had become all she hated about Greg's work: the single-minded obsession, the disruption, the black humour. She thought Sherlock was a bad influence on Greg and maybe she was even right. But all three kids were at school now, and there was a gap between toddler tantrums, and the teenage angst he knew would come. It was going to be OK, he told himself, he knew it was.
Part 3
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: Sherlock may be off drugs, but that doesn't make him easier for Lestrade to handle...
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1
Greg hadn't planned to spend Twelfth Night in a bar with an attractive man. Though that made it sound more enjoyable than it actually was. Mycroft had phoned to announce that Sherlock was fit for duty and Greg had decided that it was time to introduce him properly to his investigation team.
It wasn't quite as stupid as it sounded. DC Noel Taylor was having a belated birthday party, and everyone was still vaguely positive at having survived the Christmas holidays. Some of his team had possibly even made New Year's resolutions about being more co-operative. Give them a brief dose of Sherlock to inoculate them, rather than introduce him during the stress of a crime scene, and they might accept him. And if Sherlock wasn't clean, Greg could simply tell Mycroft to get stuffed.
When Greg got to the bar, he spotted Sherlock sitting silently in a corner, and wondered abruptly why he'd never realised before how handsome he was. Tastes varied obviously - there were even people who thought he was good-looking, rather than just a harassed, greying plod - but the oddness of Sherlock's looks seemed to have dissolved away. Maybe it was just he was calmer off the drugs. It probably helped as well that he was wearing some kind of smart designer clothes that emphasised the lean, graceful lines of his body. He still didn't look normal, obviously, but he looked a good kind of abnormal, not "secretly a serial killer". And when Greg went over to meet him, Sherlock gave him his usual hard stare, but somehow refrained from telling him he'd put on weight over Christmas and that he'd already broken his New Year's resolution about quitting smoking. In fact, Sherlock was giving a good impression of someone tolerable.
"Have a good Christmas?" Greg asked, sipping at his scotch.
"I spent it with Mycroft," Sherlock said in a low voice, and Greg had a sudden vision of the pair of them glaring at each other over Christmas dinner. And then Sherlock added: "Detoxing. He claimed it was the only time he could spare to supervise me."
Greg's second New Year resolution had been to cut down swearing. That was obviously a lost cause.
"Oh, fucking hell," he said. "And you agreed?" He'd seen enough forced treatments to know exactly how unsuccessful they were.
"Mycroft said you wouldn't work with me unless I was clean," Sherlock said, and his tone defied sympathy.
"That's right," Greg said. "So if you're not ready, I'd understand. I mean it's hard enough getting off the coke, but it's harder staying off."
"I want this," Sherlock said, and he sounded like Rob explaining why he had to have exactly the right Doctor Who figure for Christmas and nothing else would do. Sherlock was older than he looked; Greg had worked out that he must be nearly thirty. But he was still a child in some ways. A damaged, dangerous child, and Greg shouldn't feel sorry for him.
"It's not going to be easy," he replied. Maybe if he laid things out clearly now, something would register with Sherlock. "A murder investigation's a team game, like football. One person can't do it all themself. It's not just a puzzle to solve: it's securing the evidence, proving it in court. Taking care of the paperwork, so your case doesn't unravel." He looked at Sherlock. "I don't need you to do that; but you gotta understand it has to be done."
" 'The Yard lead the world for thoroughness and method'," Sherlock murmured. "Well, that was what someone claimed back in 1924. I hardly think it's true now."
"If we're so crap, why do you want to work with us?"
"Because if I have something to entertain me, I don't need the drugs."
"Investigating murders isn't done for your bloody entertainment," Greg protested. Don't let him wind you up, he told himself.
"If you don't enjoy it, why do you do it?" Sherlock said. "Oh, I know the obvious reasons. Because you need to feed your family. Because it's a job that's useful to society, and you have a strong sense of justice. But why you really solve murders, Lestrade, is because it's more fun than arresting speeding motorists."
They were saying on the telly that the government were going to ban smoking in bars, but they hadn't done so yet, thank god. Greg lit up a fag and didn't punch Sherlock, and then he saw Sherlock's greedy eyes on the packet and gave him one as well. Couldn't break too many bad habits all at once.
"Your team are over in the corner," Sherlock said. "One depressive, one sociopath, three dolts, and DS Donovan. Oh, and a civilian with a beard and marital problems."
"Ten minutes talking to them," Greg said. "Be polite. You're the cleverest man I know. You can do that."
"I'm the second cleverest man you know," Sherlock said. "You've met Mycroft. I leave tactfulness to him."
Greg gave him a long, slow stare. You had to spell out the consequences sometimes with kids.
"I can't give you what you want unless you co-operate," he said. "You know that."
Something must have registered, because he abruptly watched Sherlock becoming nice. His upright posture relaxed into gawkiness, a shy smile appeared on his face, and somehow there was now warmth in those pale, clever eyes. A harmless young man, trailing awkwardly after Greg to be introduced.
Noel and Kath Climpson were their normal cheery selves as Greg introduced them; Bailey was gazing slightly awkwardly at them and blushing - he hoped it was Sherlock she was admiring and not him. Even Donovan managed an unconvincing smile. And then there was Anderson, with his new beard and his old prickliness.
"I looked at your website at lunchtime, Mr Holmes," he said. "The Science of Deduction, you call it, don't you?"
"And?" Sherlock asked, going very, very still beside Greg.
"You've done a lot of work on tobacco ash identification, I see."
"Yes."
"If you want us professionals to pay attention, you should submit your research to a journal. If you think it'll stand up to peer review."
Greg had a strong suspicion that was the scientific equivalent of a dog putting back its ears and snarling. He was hardly surprised when Sherlock smiled an evil smile and said: "So did your wife leave you for good over Christmas, Dr Anderson, or is she claiming it's just a trial separation?"
***
It could have been worse, Greg told himself, sitting on the tube on the way home. Anderson hadn't thumped Sherlock. He hadn't thumped Sherlock. They hadn't even got banned from the bar, not after Sherlock had pointed out to the manager the member of staff who was giving short measures. And it wasn't as if most of his team actually liked Anderson, though Sally Donovan had a soft spot for him. But he'd have to try and keep Sherlock away from Anderson in the future. Prats, both of them. He was disappointed in Sherlock, even though he knew he shouldn't be.
And he couldn't help feeling a twinge of sympathy for Anderson. No fun for anyone having your marriage disintegrate, let alone having Sherlock comment on it. He could still remember how miserable those remarks about Ruth had made him feel. Could have been him that Sherlock was deducing, not Anderson, if things had been different.
No, it wasn't going to be. Christmas had gone smoothly this year; everything was going fine. Ruth had been so organised, known precisely how to sort the kids out, keep things under control. Him and her, they made a good team.
Unfortunately, even if they were a team, he thought, as he let himself quietly into his house - everyone else tucked up in bed already - he was definitely the weakest link. If Ruth was the officer in charge of the family, he was the equivalent of the dim DC you desperately hoped would be assigned to other duties. But that was the New Year's resolution he was going to keep: pulling his weight looking after the kids.
***
The problem was he always seemed to screw up when he did try to help. His shifts were impossible to mesh neatly with the complex schedule that filled his growing children's lives. And when he was the one who took them somewhere, Rob promptly lost his football shorts, or Emily had hysterics because she'd been given the wrong sort of milk to drink at the soft play area. He seemed to be crap at looking after his own children; it was Ruth they wanted with them, not him. Easier to linger at the office, where at least he just had Sherlock rolling his eyes at his stupidity, not his own wife.
***
It turned out that having Sherlock to consult didn't save Greg much time on cases. Well, it saved time solving them, but that was counterbalanced by all the time spent smoothing over the mess that Sherlock left behind. He'd had to ask Mycroft Holmes for help several times, and one of those days the bastard was surely going to collect on those favours.
Still, he was starting to realise the true art of consulting Sherlock. Going to him only for the really tricky cases, because otherwise he'd just refuse to help. And it was funny how often just the suggestion of bringing in Sherlock got his team suddenly re-motivated and tracking down the correct culprit. They'd do anything to avoid Sherlock's maddening presence.
He didn't mind Sherlock any more, most of the time. Oh, the man had zero social skills, and he could be a complete dickhead at times. But even though Sherlock would never admit it, he needed some kind of steadying influence, a focus to prevent his life spiralling into chaos. Maybe Greg was a crap father to his own kids, but he still found himself hoping that eventually he would have some effect on Sherlock. And it was perversely satisfying meanwhile not letting Sherlock get to him, proving that he could rise above the man's provocations. DI Lestrade, after all, was surely old enough and ugly enough to cope with anything.
***
Coping with anything included the fact that he wasn't going to be promoted to DCI. Charlie Luke, his old guvnor, sitting in his retirement home, had been the one who spelt that out.
"Course not, Greg," he said, grinning. Luke's smile was still vivid, even though he was shrunken and frail now. "It's basic statistics, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"While you stay an inspector, they can stick different DCIs over you theoretically in charge of an investigation, and everyone's clear-up rate benefits. If you made it to chief inspector, you'd look brilliant, and everyone else would look shitty, and there'd be hell to pay."
"You reckon that's their plan?"
"That's the way the game works," Luke said, sketching a complex design of zig-zags with his hands. "Not saying it's right, but since when did being the best at anything get you ahead? Competent and inoffensive, that's the ticket. And your other problem, Greg, is if your pal Sherlock decides he wants to make a name for himself, showing up the police as idiots."
"He won't," Greg said. "He's not interested in publicity."
"If he sold his story to the paper, he could get thousands," Luke said. "Better watch your back, Greg, or it'll end in tears."
***
His hair was going grey and the DCs on his team were looking younger, he realised a couple of years on. Hell, everyone was looking younger: Mark Dimmock was clearly aiming to become a DI while still in nappies. But there were some constants. He still had Sally Donovan as his sergeant, and he couldn't imagine now having anyone else. Anderson's marriage was still limping along, and it was a bit like that old joke: as long as Anderson and his wife didn't split up and remarry, they only made two people unhappy, rather than four.
The other constant now was Ruth talking about Dorset. Her parents had moved down near Dorchester when they retired and to her it was everything that London wasn't: safe, clean, beautiful. A place where you could bring up children properly.
"They'd be bored out of their minds," Greg protested. "I grew up in the countryside. We sat in the bus shelter and smoked all evening, that was our idea of fun. Well, apart from the psycho kids who liked torturing small animals."
"Dorset CID are based in Winfrith," Ruth said. "They'd welcome someone with your experience. You'd get the promotion you deserve."
She didn't say: You'd be away from Sherlock Holmes. She didn't need to. To Ruth, Sherlock had become all she hated about Greg's work: the single-minded obsession, the disruption, the black humour. She thought Sherlock was a bad influence on Greg and maybe she was even right. But all three kids were at school now, and there was a gap between toddler tantrums, and the teenage angst he knew would come. It was going to be OK, he told himself, he knew it was.
Part 3