Desperate (4/9)
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: When Greg gets a lungful of some weird gas during the Baskerville case it's not surprising that things get out of control...
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
It had been asking for trouble for Greg to say he was enjoying himself at The Cross Keys; one of those rash statements that just encouraged Fate to come and knee him in the groin. But it was true all the same. It was a hell of a lot better than sitting on his own on a beach on the Costa del Sol.
He'd gone for something cheap at the last minute. Ten days in Marbella, to distract him from the fact that he wasn't on a camp site in Norfolk with his family, where he had should have been. But his hotel was full of families: Emily look-alikes, an overheard argument that was Ruth and Rob to a T, a silly sign that Katy would have loved. He photographed it and e-mailed it to her anyway, but it wasn't the same.
It wouldn't have been hard for Mycroft to find him, but had he realised how easy it would be to persuade Greg to go to Devon? A mysterious case, the prospect of being with friends again - he's count John as a friend, now, at least - how could he resist? He'd made token complaints about his holiday being spoiled, but he'd given in embarrassingly easily. Mycroft had probably expected that; but not even Mycroft Holmes could have expected what would happen down in Devon.
***
It seemed obvious enough to Greg what was going on, once he'd talked to the couple running The Cross Keys. Their dog might be dead, but someone else had had the same bright idea of a publicity stunt. Only this time, they'd nicked an animal from Baskerville. It'd doubtless turn out to have rabies, he thought, or three heads. Still, Sherlock would work out what it was and how to catch it. Once he'd done that and Greg had explained to the local police that they couldn't charge Sherlock with anything, they could all have a cream tea and head home.
Even when Sherlock told him to bring his gun along to Dewar's Hollow, Greg presumed it was just to warn people off. Mycroft might have had him armed, but both the Holmeses knew that Greg wasn't an expert shot. He hadn't realised he was going to be expected to shoot monsters. Well, maybe Sherlock hadn't wanted him to do that, but someone yelled at him to kill the dog, and he'd tried to. And if that wasn't what he was supposed to do, then why the hell hadn't somebody explained to him what was going on? And fuck it, some guy they were chasing then got himself blown up, but that was just bloody Dartmoor for you, clearly. If the poison gas didn't get you, the minefields did. He wanted to be back home in nice, safe London.
***
By the time the patrol car turned up, Sherlock and John and Henry had all buggered off, and he was leaning against a tree trying to work out if it was safe to move. He showed the constables his warrant card and the gun permit - thank God Sherlock hadn't pinched those - and they took him along to Oakhampton nick. There they gave him hot, sweet tea and shone a light in his eyes and eventually decided he wasn't concussed or drunk, just a bit muddled.
"Come back tomorrow and give us a statement," the duty sergeant said soothingly. "You might make a bit more sense after a night's sleep. Not like it's gonna make any difference, mind you. We're not allowed to touch the Baskerville lot, it's MOD police only up there."
"OK," Greg said. "See you tomorrow." He stood up and told himself he could work out how to get back to the inn if he really concentrated.
"Where you staying, then?" the sergeant asked.
"Cross Keys."
"Oh, them mad buggers with the vegetables. Andy can give you a lift back there, you shouldn't be driving in your state. Hope your friends didn't crash into anything."
***
When they dropped Greg off at the inn, he hurried off to find Sherlock and John's room. He banged on the door for a bit and Sherlock emerged in grey pyjamas.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, leaning on the door and looking slightly bewildered.
"You OK?" Greg demanded, and his hand went out to grab Sherlock's bicep, make sure it was really him. "The fog, it does something to you, it screws up your brain."
"Yes, I know. An aerosol hallucinogenic. We all inhaled it, but it'll be excreted from our systems soon."
"Are you sure you're OK? I came down here to look after you. I can't go back to bloody Mycroft and say I let you lose your mind."
"Lestrade, I'm fine. Go to bed."
His weary brain couldn't work out why Sherlock didn't understand that there was something wrong. He knew it now. There was something wrong with Sherlock, but he couldn't work out what.
"I need to make sure you're OK," he said.
Sherlock's brow was creasing now, as if he'd finally realised that there something odd.
"Oh, I see," he said, slowly. "I suppose I should have foreseen this. All right, but I don't want John disturbed. Where's your room?"
"Number five, upstairs, at the end of the corridor," he said. Sherlock was unpeeling Greg's fingers from where they were curled round his arm.
"Don't do that," Greg protested. "I might lose you."
"Take my hand," Sherlock said, and there was an unusual note of patience in his voice. "Follow me, we're going to find your room."
He wasn't sure what was going on any more, but Sherlock seemed to know, so he followed him. And there was nothing scary in his room, which was good.
"Sit down on the bed," Sherlock said, and Greg did what he was told. Sherlock was looking down at him now, reading his mind, the way he always could.
"You've been drugged," Sherlock said. "You know that." Greg nodded. "And you know that the drug creates extreme suggestibility and fear." Greg nodded again. "There was a dog, but it was an ordinary dog. Not some mutant freak."
"I know. I'm not...I'm not seeing things."
"No," Sherlock said, "but you're still in an emotionally heightened state. The drug exacerbates hidden fears: Henry's feelings of inadequacy, my own worries about my mind rotting. John..." He paused, and when he spoke again, there was an odd roughness about his voice. "John is exceptionally brave when he can fight back. When the dog attacked, he had a gun in his hand and he was steady as a rock. But put him in a position where he can't fight, and he feels as vulnerable as the rest of us."
"Is John OK?" Greg asked. He'd always reckoned that if John could cope with Sherlock, he could cope with anything.
"That's the first time you've asked about him," Sherlock said softly, and then he strode across the room to stand by the bed, and his hand reached down to rest on Greg's chin, tilt up his head, so his eyes met Sherlock's. "Revealing, isn't it, of your priorities? It's me you worry about, it's me you want to protect."
"I don't..." he said, and he didn't know what else to say, because his thoughts were jumbling together. Sherlock's cool fingers on him, Sherlock's eyes gazing into his. This wasn't what was supposed to happen, was it? Or was this what he'd dreamt about, had nightmares about? He started to get up from the bed. He had to explain to Sherlock, he had to tell him the truth, except he wasn't sure what the truth was...
"Sherlock," he breathed, "I mean, what I want is-"
"-What you want is me," Sherlock said abruptly, and his hand pulled back from Greg as if he was on fire. Sherlock's breathing was too fast, as well, as if he was the one who'd seen something alarming. "The drug just reveals impulses that are already there. But you have to realise, Greg, that friendship's not on offer. No room at the inn; no heart in me."
"That's not true," he protested. There were tears on his cheeks. Maybe the fog was making him cry. Because if there was fog it would explain why he couldn't see Sherlock clearly. "I've seen-"
"You've seen things that aren't there," Sherlock said, "and it's time to stop. Your mind's full of chaos, and you're liable to wreck everything. We have to work together, Lestrade, we are colleagues and nothing more. So you lie down, and sleep, and in the morning, the mists will have gone from your mind."
"I can't...how can I sleep?" he asked. He looked up at Sherlock and he watched a patient smile appear on Sherlock's face, Sherlock becoming, just for an instant, a good man.
"Lie down and wait," Sherlock said, and there was a warmth in his voice Greg didn't often hear. "If I need you, I'll text you and you must be sure to come at once. There are still dangerous men out there. I'm the bait for them; I'm relying on you to spring the trap. But you mustn't come back to my room, or you'll scare them off." He walked out, closing the door behind him.
Greg sat on the bed. He couldn't remember now who the men were that they were after. He was so tired, but he wouldn't let Sherlock down, not when he'd asked for his help. He'd just close his eyes for a moment, because maybe then his head wouldn't ache so much...
***
He couldn't find Sherlock in the fog of the hollow - he reached out for a figure in a long black coat and it turned to fog itself, dissolving in his fingers.
"Sherlock?" he croaked, and there Sherlock was at last, his hand reaching out to Greg's cheek as if to check he was real. Greg's arms went round the man's thin body and his mouth fastened on Sherlock's warm, full lips, because if they stayed together the fog couldn't get them. But when Greg's hand went up to brush the black curls, what he felt was the coarse fur of a huge dog, and Sherlock's mouth broke away from his, widened into a snarl...
Greg woke up shuddering at that point, and decided that going back to sleep ever again was probably a bad move. Besides it was half-seven, time to get up. He went into the bathroom for a shower, washing away the sweat of last night, before he shaved. Christ, he thought, seeing himself in the mirror, he still looked rough, didn't he? And why the hell had he dreamt that stuff? Not surprising he was still having nightmares about the dog, but how had his imagination come up with kissing Sherlock? Why could he still feel Sherlock's touch on his skin?
Oh fuck. That had happened, hadn't it? Not all of it had been a dream. Sherlock's hand on his face, just for a moment. You saw a dog and imagined a monster. You felt a touch and imagined... what?
He shook his head. He needed breakfast, he needed fresh air, he needed someone normal to talk to. He'd go downstairs and the world would be the same as yesterday, and he'd be fine. He dressed hurriedly, trying to ignore the knot of worry in his stomach. The dog would be a dog today - a dead one, but that wasn't his fault - and the moor would be beautiful, and there was nothing to worry about.
And then he opened the curtains and realised that there was something. Sherlock in his fancy coat was walking out to the outside tables carrying a couple of mugs, and Greg just stood there and watched the arrogant sweep of his body. Sherlock handed one of the mugs to someone in a purple shirt - it must be John, he realised - and then they sat and had their drinks and talked, and Greg couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock. The crease in his brows - were John and him having an argument? Followed by an unexpected grin that told you that Sherlock wasn't just a thinking machine after all. Flesh and blood there, Greg thought, wishing that he could bring that grin to Sherlock's face. That Sherlock would right now walk into The Cross Keys and up the stairs and knock on the door of his room. And when Greg opened the door, those grey eyes would look into his and they'd smile at each other, because they both knew what they wanted at last...
God, he was going insane, wasn't he? He was imagining...he was fantasising about Sherlock. What had the bloody drug done to him? He tried to remember what Sherlock had said last night to Henry. Something about fear and stimulus, what our drugged minds wanted us to see. You imagine what you fear, but maybe also sometimes what you want. Sherlock. Sherlock undressing him, using him, consuming him. Their bodies fusing together till the pain in their heads stopped for once...
He turned away from the window, closed his eyes and stood still. Tried to breathe, to think, because the gas wasn't there now, was it? No excuse for confusion. Start from the facts. Gregory Simon Lestrade, police officer aged 48, recently separated from his wife. Clearly having some kind of mid-life crisis as a result, so subconsciously falls for someone unobtainable - most beautiful bloke of his acquaintance. Even though he always reckoned he was straight. Then he gets a lungful of some weird gas and starts fantasizing that this is actually going to happen.
He'd had cases like that. Well, not exactly like that, but people who'd been through messy break-ups did sometimes do ridiculous things, especially if drugs were involved. He had to come to his senses before someone got hurt.
Too late for that, wasn't it? Sherlock must have realised what was happening last night. Though Sherlock had been behaving weirdly himself- strung out on the fog, as well, no doubt. Best for them both to pretend nothing had happened, delete it from their memories. But he couldn't face Sherlock just yet, not until he was sure he'd got it - whatever it was - out of his system.
He counted to ten, opened his eyes. He still had a job to do, clearing up this mess. He needed to go back up to Okehampton and reassure the local force this wasn't the start of a major crime wave. But the first thing he had to do was talk to Mycroft, who was doubtlessly going to be royally pissed off about last night's events.
***
Mycroft was unavailable, so Greg told the whole story to Anthea, who managed to sound unimpressed even by deadly minefields and night attacks by giant dogs. She cheerfully forbade him to tell the Devon and Cornwall police anything, but he didn't pay much attention. Much better to have the boys on the ground know what was happening, rather than just letting them hear the rumours. And sure enough, when he got to the police station, one of the constables was already dealing with a member of the public insisting that there were killer werewolves on the moor, and surely that should be more of a policing priority than speeding in South Zeal? Greg wondered if he should ask if the werewolf in human form was tall and dark and beautiful and wore the collar of his coat up. He wasn't the only one haunted by Sherlock, was he?
It took until the end of the afternoon to get everything sorted with the police and the MoD, including ensuring Mycroft's lot would pay for decontaminating Dewar's Hollow. Greg headed back to Grimpen, but it seemed to have been invaded by even more hound-hunting tourists. He couldn't face that, he decided, he needed to get away. Go somewhere where he could forget all this, forget Sherlock. Otherwise he'd end up sitting in his room all evening, remembering last night. Wishing that he'd told Sherlock how much he meant to him. Or just grabbed the man and found out what was underneath that fancy coat...
Oh, god. Maybe the problem was that he was sex-starved. Three months separated from Ruth and he'd not thought of looking for someone else. And now he was going haywire, fantasising about some bloke. What he needed, he decided, was a night out. Remind himself how things worked. He might even get lucky, he supposed, and get to remember how everything worked.
Grimpen was hardly a good place to pull, though. Besides, the moor was starting to give him the creeps again; his body tensed every time he heard a noise, straining to hear a distant howl. Get out of the place for the moment, he thought. He headed downstairs and one of the owners promptly came up to him: the big Scottish one. Gary, wasn't it?
"You OK, sir? Anything we can do for you?" The man was obviously still worried that he was going to get it in the neck for the stunt with the dog.
"I'm fine," Greg replied promptly, and then remembered. "Well, actually there is something. If I was looking for some nightlife, where's the best place to go?"
"If it's bars or clubs you're after," Gary replied more happily, "then Plymouth's your best bet. There's a big club called Oceana up at the Barbican, or there's lots of places down Union Street. Though down there can get a wee bit rough at times, so you need to mind yourself. Was there anything particular you were looking for?"
Some woman I can make out with and forget about Ruth and...everyone else. But I can hardly say that. "Just...maybe somewhere not too busy, where I could meet someone," he said awkwardly.
Gary smiled reassuringly. "Try The Salty Dog at the top of Union Street. They're a friendly bunch there, they'll look after you."
"Thanks," he said and went down to his car, thinking that if he was having a mid-life crisis, Plymouth was probably not a bad place to have it.
***
One look at Oceana and Greg decided he was thirty years too old for it. What was the other place Gary had suggested? Somewhere on Union Street? He soon got lost, as he walked past half of Plymouth out on a spree. By the time he got to Union Street and found The Salty Dog, he was happy just to hurry in - they didn't seem to worry about dress codes, thank God - and grab a seat at the bar.
Wasn't bad music, he thought after a bit; eighties disco, and it wasn't just kids on the floor, either; some older blokes. Mostly blokes here, in fact, and then it finally dawned on him. Gary had presumed he was looking for a gay club, hadn't he? Well, no he wasn't, but his feet still hurt, so he was going to sit here and finish his drink and then leave. Coz he wasn't embarrassed about this at all.
He found himself watching one of the dancers, a floppy-haired teenager who seemed oblivious to everyone else. He looked poor, somehow: the pinched face that came from not quite enough food, clothes that looked worn rather than deliberately shabby. Greg remembered abruptly what it was like when you couldn't afford what the rest of your friends took for granted. The kid wasn't even a particularly good dancer, but he had a smile on his face now like he was the star of his own personal movie, and Greg suddenly, ridiculously, envied him. That feeling that anything was possible - when had he lost that, why couldn't he just enjoy himself for once?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone sit down beside him, and then a soft Devon accent said: "He's eighteen. No underage drinking or sex here."
Greg looked round to see a brown-haired man in a tight blue T-shirt looking at him warily. He was sure he'd seen him somewhere before, but where? The man's grey eyes stared into Greg's defiantly, as he went on: "Anyhow, ain't you got enough poofs in London to persecute, Inspector, without coming down here?"
How did he know he was a police officer? And then his brain caught up. It was the man who ran the tours at Grimpen, wasn't it?
"I'm not on duty," he told him hurriedly.
The man blinked and then smiled.
"Oh, I see," he said, "That's OK then." He held out his hand and Greg shook it. "I'm Fletch Robinson. Well, it's Alec, really. Alec Fletcher Robinson."
"Greg Lestrade."
Alec's smile broadened into a grin. "I thought you were here to cause trouble, see. I forgot they let poofs into the police in London."
Greg opened his mouth to say: I'm not gay and then shut it again, because frankly he wasn't sure what was going on anymore. Fortunately, Alec didn't seem to mind doing the talking.
"What you looking for?" he asked. "I can tell you about most of the lads in here. So if there is anyone you like the look of, like young Charlie over there..."
"I'm not-" Greg began and stopped. Because if he said: I'm not interested, what the hell was he doing here? He should walk out of The Salty Dog right this minute...
And do what? Go back to The Cross Keys and mope about Ruth and Sherlock? Wander round Plymouth staring at the sea and wish that his life hadn't turned out like this? He didn't want to be alone tonight and he was near the stage of not caring who he shared a bed with. God, he was a mess.
Alec had fallen silent, staring at him, as if wondering what he was playing at. And then he said with a sudden smile: "You haven't done this before, have you? Gone to a bar, picked up a bloke?"
Greg shook his head, feeling like the world's oldest teenager. But there was something oddly kind about Alec's smile now, as he reached out and placed a hand on Greg's thigh.
"You could come back to my place," he said softly. "I'll look after you. Give you a good time, I will. You want someone who knows what they're doing."
Alec's hand felt warm, solid. He seemed to know what he wanted, even if Greg didn't. Why not just let this happen?
"OK," he said, "My car's parked down near the Hoe." He swigged down the last of his drink and followed Alec out of the bar.
Part 5
Rating 15 (explicit slash, swearing)
Summary: When Greg gets a lungful of some weird gas during the Baskerville case it's not surprising that things get out of control...
Many thanks to The Small Hobbit for betaing.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
It had been asking for trouble for Greg to say he was enjoying himself at The Cross Keys; one of those rash statements that just encouraged Fate to come and knee him in the groin. But it was true all the same. It was a hell of a lot better than sitting on his own on a beach on the Costa del Sol.
He'd gone for something cheap at the last minute. Ten days in Marbella, to distract him from the fact that he wasn't on a camp site in Norfolk with his family, where he had should have been. But his hotel was full of families: Emily look-alikes, an overheard argument that was Ruth and Rob to a T, a silly sign that Katy would have loved. He photographed it and e-mailed it to her anyway, but it wasn't the same.
It wouldn't have been hard for Mycroft to find him, but had he realised how easy it would be to persuade Greg to go to Devon? A mysterious case, the prospect of being with friends again - he's count John as a friend, now, at least - how could he resist? He'd made token complaints about his holiday being spoiled, but he'd given in embarrassingly easily. Mycroft had probably expected that; but not even Mycroft Holmes could have expected what would happen down in Devon.
***
It seemed obvious enough to Greg what was going on, once he'd talked to the couple running The Cross Keys. Their dog might be dead, but someone else had had the same bright idea of a publicity stunt. Only this time, they'd nicked an animal from Baskerville. It'd doubtless turn out to have rabies, he thought, or three heads. Still, Sherlock would work out what it was and how to catch it. Once he'd done that and Greg had explained to the local police that they couldn't charge Sherlock with anything, they could all have a cream tea and head home.
Even when Sherlock told him to bring his gun along to Dewar's Hollow, Greg presumed it was just to warn people off. Mycroft might have had him armed, but both the Holmeses knew that Greg wasn't an expert shot. He hadn't realised he was going to be expected to shoot monsters. Well, maybe Sherlock hadn't wanted him to do that, but someone yelled at him to kill the dog, and he'd tried to. And if that wasn't what he was supposed to do, then why the hell hadn't somebody explained to him what was going on? And fuck it, some guy they were chasing then got himself blown up, but that was just bloody Dartmoor for you, clearly. If the poison gas didn't get you, the minefields did. He wanted to be back home in nice, safe London.
***
By the time the patrol car turned up, Sherlock and John and Henry had all buggered off, and he was leaning against a tree trying to work out if it was safe to move. He showed the constables his warrant card and the gun permit - thank God Sherlock hadn't pinched those - and they took him along to Oakhampton nick. There they gave him hot, sweet tea and shone a light in his eyes and eventually decided he wasn't concussed or drunk, just a bit muddled.
"Come back tomorrow and give us a statement," the duty sergeant said soothingly. "You might make a bit more sense after a night's sleep. Not like it's gonna make any difference, mind you. We're not allowed to touch the Baskerville lot, it's MOD police only up there."
"OK," Greg said. "See you tomorrow." He stood up and told himself he could work out how to get back to the inn if he really concentrated.
"Where you staying, then?" the sergeant asked.
"Cross Keys."
"Oh, them mad buggers with the vegetables. Andy can give you a lift back there, you shouldn't be driving in your state. Hope your friends didn't crash into anything."
***
When they dropped Greg off at the inn, he hurried off to find Sherlock and John's room. He banged on the door for a bit and Sherlock emerged in grey pyjamas.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, leaning on the door and looking slightly bewildered.
"You OK?" Greg demanded, and his hand went out to grab Sherlock's bicep, make sure it was really him. "The fog, it does something to you, it screws up your brain."
"Yes, I know. An aerosol hallucinogenic. We all inhaled it, but it'll be excreted from our systems soon."
"Are you sure you're OK? I came down here to look after you. I can't go back to bloody Mycroft and say I let you lose your mind."
"Lestrade, I'm fine. Go to bed."
His weary brain couldn't work out why Sherlock didn't understand that there was something wrong. He knew it now. There was something wrong with Sherlock, but he couldn't work out what.
"I need to make sure you're OK," he said.
Sherlock's brow was creasing now, as if he'd finally realised that there something odd.
"Oh, I see," he said, slowly. "I suppose I should have foreseen this. All right, but I don't want John disturbed. Where's your room?"
"Number five, upstairs, at the end of the corridor," he said. Sherlock was unpeeling Greg's fingers from where they were curled round his arm.
"Don't do that," Greg protested. "I might lose you."
"Take my hand," Sherlock said, and there was an unusual note of patience in his voice. "Follow me, we're going to find your room."
He wasn't sure what was going on any more, but Sherlock seemed to know, so he followed him. And there was nothing scary in his room, which was good.
"Sit down on the bed," Sherlock said, and Greg did what he was told. Sherlock was looking down at him now, reading his mind, the way he always could.
"You've been drugged," Sherlock said. "You know that." Greg nodded. "And you know that the drug creates extreme suggestibility and fear." Greg nodded again. "There was a dog, but it was an ordinary dog. Not some mutant freak."
"I know. I'm not...I'm not seeing things."
"No," Sherlock said, "but you're still in an emotionally heightened state. The drug exacerbates hidden fears: Henry's feelings of inadequacy, my own worries about my mind rotting. John..." He paused, and when he spoke again, there was an odd roughness about his voice. "John is exceptionally brave when he can fight back. When the dog attacked, he had a gun in his hand and he was steady as a rock. But put him in a position where he can't fight, and he feels as vulnerable as the rest of us."
"Is John OK?" Greg asked. He'd always reckoned that if John could cope with Sherlock, he could cope with anything.
"That's the first time you've asked about him," Sherlock said softly, and then he strode across the room to stand by the bed, and his hand reached down to rest on Greg's chin, tilt up his head, so his eyes met Sherlock's. "Revealing, isn't it, of your priorities? It's me you worry about, it's me you want to protect."
"I don't..." he said, and he didn't know what else to say, because his thoughts were jumbling together. Sherlock's cool fingers on him, Sherlock's eyes gazing into his. This wasn't what was supposed to happen, was it? Or was this what he'd dreamt about, had nightmares about? He started to get up from the bed. He had to explain to Sherlock, he had to tell him the truth, except he wasn't sure what the truth was...
"Sherlock," he breathed, "I mean, what I want is-"
"-What you want is me," Sherlock said abruptly, and his hand pulled back from Greg as if he was on fire. Sherlock's breathing was too fast, as well, as if he was the one who'd seen something alarming. "The drug just reveals impulses that are already there. But you have to realise, Greg, that friendship's not on offer. No room at the inn; no heart in me."
"That's not true," he protested. There were tears on his cheeks. Maybe the fog was making him cry. Because if there was fog it would explain why he couldn't see Sherlock clearly. "I've seen-"
"You've seen things that aren't there," Sherlock said, "and it's time to stop. Your mind's full of chaos, and you're liable to wreck everything. We have to work together, Lestrade, we are colleagues and nothing more. So you lie down, and sleep, and in the morning, the mists will have gone from your mind."
"I can't...how can I sleep?" he asked. He looked up at Sherlock and he watched a patient smile appear on Sherlock's face, Sherlock becoming, just for an instant, a good man.
"Lie down and wait," Sherlock said, and there was a warmth in his voice Greg didn't often hear. "If I need you, I'll text you and you must be sure to come at once. There are still dangerous men out there. I'm the bait for them; I'm relying on you to spring the trap. But you mustn't come back to my room, or you'll scare them off." He walked out, closing the door behind him.
Greg sat on the bed. He couldn't remember now who the men were that they were after. He was so tired, but he wouldn't let Sherlock down, not when he'd asked for his help. He'd just close his eyes for a moment, because maybe then his head wouldn't ache so much...
***
He couldn't find Sherlock in the fog of the hollow - he reached out for a figure in a long black coat and it turned to fog itself, dissolving in his fingers.
"Sherlock?" he croaked, and there Sherlock was at last, his hand reaching out to Greg's cheek as if to check he was real. Greg's arms went round the man's thin body and his mouth fastened on Sherlock's warm, full lips, because if they stayed together the fog couldn't get them. But when Greg's hand went up to brush the black curls, what he felt was the coarse fur of a huge dog, and Sherlock's mouth broke away from his, widened into a snarl...
Greg woke up shuddering at that point, and decided that going back to sleep ever again was probably a bad move. Besides it was half-seven, time to get up. He went into the bathroom for a shower, washing away the sweat of last night, before he shaved. Christ, he thought, seeing himself in the mirror, he still looked rough, didn't he? And why the hell had he dreamt that stuff? Not surprising he was still having nightmares about the dog, but how had his imagination come up with kissing Sherlock? Why could he still feel Sherlock's touch on his skin?
Oh fuck. That had happened, hadn't it? Not all of it had been a dream. Sherlock's hand on his face, just for a moment. You saw a dog and imagined a monster. You felt a touch and imagined... what?
He shook his head. He needed breakfast, he needed fresh air, he needed someone normal to talk to. He'd go downstairs and the world would be the same as yesterday, and he'd be fine. He dressed hurriedly, trying to ignore the knot of worry in his stomach. The dog would be a dog today - a dead one, but that wasn't his fault - and the moor would be beautiful, and there was nothing to worry about.
And then he opened the curtains and realised that there was something. Sherlock in his fancy coat was walking out to the outside tables carrying a couple of mugs, and Greg just stood there and watched the arrogant sweep of his body. Sherlock handed one of the mugs to someone in a purple shirt - it must be John, he realised - and then they sat and had their drinks and talked, and Greg couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock. The crease in his brows - were John and him having an argument? Followed by an unexpected grin that told you that Sherlock wasn't just a thinking machine after all. Flesh and blood there, Greg thought, wishing that he could bring that grin to Sherlock's face. That Sherlock would right now walk into The Cross Keys and up the stairs and knock on the door of his room. And when Greg opened the door, those grey eyes would look into his and they'd smile at each other, because they both knew what they wanted at last...
God, he was going insane, wasn't he? He was imagining...he was fantasising about Sherlock. What had the bloody drug done to him? He tried to remember what Sherlock had said last night to Henry. Something about fear and stimulus, what our drugged minds wanted us to see. You imagine what you fear, but maybe also sometimes what you want. Sherlock. Sherlock undressing him, using him, consuming him. Their bodies fusing together till the pain in their heads stopped for once...
He turned away from the window, closed his eyes and stood still. Tried to breathe, to think, because the gas wasn't there now, was it? No excuse for confusion. Start from the facts. Gregory Simon Lestrade, police officer aged 48, recently separated from his wife. Clearly having some kind of mid-life crisis as a result, so subconsciously falls for someone unobtainable - most beautiful bloke of his acquaintance. Even though he always reckoned he was straight. Then he gets a lungful of some weird gas and starts fantasizing that this is actually going to happen.
He'd had cases like that. Well, not exactly like that, but people who'd been through messy break-ups did sometimes do ridiculous things, especially if drugs were involved. He had to come to his senses before someone got hurt.
Too late for that, wasn't it? Sherlock must have realised what was happening last night. Though Sherlock had been behaving weirdly himself- strung out on the fog, as well, no doubt. Best for them both to pretend nothing had happened, delete it from their memories. But he couldn't face Sherlock just yet, not until he was sure he'd got it - whatever it was - out of his system.
He counted to ten, opened his eyes. He still had a job to do, clearing up this mess. He needed to go back up to Okehampton and reassure the local force this wasn't the start of a major crime wave. But the first thing he had to do was talk to Mycroft, who was doubtlessly going to be royally pissed off about last night's events.
***
Mycroft was unavailable, so Greg told the whole story to Anthea, who managed to sound unimpressed even by deadly minefields and night attacks by giant dogs. She cheerfully forbade him to tell the Devon and Cornwall police anything, but he didn't pay much attention. Much better to have the boys on the ground know what was happening, rather than just letting them hear the rumours. And sure enough, when he got to the police station, one of the constables was already dealing with a member of the public insisting that there were killer werewolves on the moor, and surely that should be more of a policing priority than speeding in South Zeal? Greg wondered if he should ask if the werewolf in human form was tall and dark and beautiful and wore the collar of his coat up. He wasn't the only one haunted by Sherlock, was he?
It took until the end of the afternoon to get everything sorted with the police and the MoD, including ensuring Mycroft's lot would pay for decontaminating Dewar's Hollow. Greg headed back to Grimpen, but it seemed to have been invaded by even more hound-hunting tourists. He couldn't face that, he decided, he needed to get away. Go somewhere where he could forget all this, forget Sherlock. Otherwise he'd end up sitting in his room all evening, remembering last night. Wishing that he'd told Sherlock how much he meant to him. Or just grabbed the man and found out what was underneath that fancy coat...
Oh, god. Maybe the problem was that he was sex-starved. Three months separated from Ruth and he'd not thought of looking for someone else. And now he was going haywire, fantasising about some bloke. What he needed, he decided, was a night out. Remind himself how things worked. He might even get lucky, he supposed, and get to remember how everything worked.
Grimpen was hardly a good place to pull, though. Besides, the moor was starting to give him the creeps again; his body tensed every time he heard a noise, straining to hear a distant howl. Get out of the place for the moment, he thought. He headed downstairs and one of the owners promptly came up to him: the big Scottish one. Gary, wasn't it?
"You OK, sir? Anything we can do for you?" The man was obviously still worried that he was going to get it in the neck for the stunt with the dog.
"I'm fine," Greg replied promptly, and then remembered. "Well, actually there is something. If I was looking for some nightlife, where's the best place to go?"
"If it's bars or clubs you're after," Gary replied more happily, "then Plymouth's your best bet. There's a big club called Oceana up at the Barbican, or there's lots of places down Union Street. Though down there can get a wee bit rough at times, so you need to mind yourself. Was there anything particular you were looking for?"
Some woman I can make out with and forget about Ruth and...everyone else. But I can hardly say that. "Just...maybe somewhere not too busy, where I could meet someone," he said awkwardly.
Gary smiled reassuringly. "Try The Salty Dog at the top of Union Street. They're a friendly bunch there, they'll look after you."
"Thanks," he said and went down to his car, thinking that if he was having a mid-life crisis, Plymouth was probably not a bad place to have it.
***
One look at Oceana and Greg decided he was thirty years too old for it. What was the other place Gary had suggested? Somewhere on Union Street? He soon got lost, as he walked past half of Plymouth out on a spree. By the time he got to Union Street and found The Salty Dog, he was happy just to hurry in - they didn't seem to worry about dress codes, thank God - and grab a seat at the bar.
Wasn't bad music, he thought after a bit; eighties disco, and it wasn't just kids on the floor, either; some older blokes. Mostly blokes here, in fact, and then it finally dawned on him. Gary had presumed he was looking for a gay club, hadn't he? Well, no he wasn't, but his feet still hurt, so he was going to sit here and finish his drink and then leave. Coz he wasn't embarrassed about this at all.
He found himself watching one of the dancers, a floppy-haired teenager who seemed oblivious to everyone else. He looked poor, somehow: the pinched face that came from not quite enough food, clothes that looked worn rather than deliberately shabby. Greg remembered abruptly what it was like when you couldn't afford what the rest of your friends took for granted. The kid wasn't even a particularly good dancer, but he had a smile on his face now like he was the star of his own personal movie, and Greg suddenly, ridiculously, envied him. That feeling that anything was possible - when had he lost that, why couldn't he just enjoy himself for once?
Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone sit down beside him, and then a soft Devon accent said: "He's eighteen. No underage drinking or sex here."
Greg looked round to see a brown-haired man in a tight blue T-shirt looking at him warily. He was sure he'd seen him somewhere before, but where? The man's grey eyes stared into Greg's defiantly, as he went on: "Anyhow, ain't you got enough poofs in London to persecute, Inspector, without coming down here?"
How did he know he was a police officer? And then his brain caught up. It was the man who ran the tours at Grimpen, wasn't it?
"I'm not on duty," he told him hurriedly.
The man blinked and then smiled.
"Oh, I see," he said, "That's OK then." He held out his hand and Greg shook it. "I'm Fletch Robinson. Well, it's Alec, really. Alec Fletcher Robinson."
"Greg Lestrade."
Alec's smile broadened into a grin. "I thought you were here to cause trouble, see. I forgot they let poofs into the police in London."
Greg opened his mouth to say: I'm not gay and then shut it again, because frankly he wasn't sure what was going on anymore. Fortunately, Alec didn't seem to mind doing the talking.
"What you looking for?" he asked. "I can tell you about most of the lads in here. So if there is anyone you like the look of, like young Charlie over there..."
"I'm not-" Greg began and stopped. Because if he said: I'm not interested, what the hell was he doing here? He should walk out of The Salty Dog right this minute...
And do what? Go back to The Cross Keys and mope about Ruth and Sherlock? Wander round Plymouth staring at the sea and wish that his life hadn't turned out like this? He didn't want to be alone tonight and he was near the stage of not caring who he shared a bed with. God, he was a mess.
Alec had fallen silent, staring at him, as if wondering what he was playing at. And then he said with a sudden smile: "You haven't done this before, have you? Gone to a bar, picked up a bloke?"
Greg shook his head, feeling like the world's oldest teenager. But there was something oddly kind about Alec's smile now, as he reached out and placed a hand on Greg's thigh.
"You could come back to my place," he said softly. "I'll look after you. Give you a good time, I will. You want someone who knows what they're doing."
Alec's hand felt warm, solid. He seemed to know what he wanted, even if Greg didn't. Why not just let this happen?
"OK," he said, "My car's parked down near the Hoe." He swigged down the last of his drink and followed Alec out of the bar.
Part 5