Pedestal: Sherlock fic + fanmix
Pedestal: One-shot ficlet + fanmix w/ download link
Rating: T
Word count: ~4000
Warnings: Lestrade!fic, slash, slight angst, a mild bit of h/c.
Sherlock had barged in your flat at two in the morning the night of that fateful date; woke you up by waiting until you were completely asleep and had roared in your ear. You nearly killed him.
“Should have taken her to a better restaurant. She was desperate.” And then Sherlock had peered at you intently, narrowing his eyes and raising an eyebrow. “It is more than likely that the two of you would have engaged in sexual intercourse before she’d leave you a false number in the morning and return home to beg pity from her husband.”
To download the fanmix, click here.
Think back to before you met him. Ordinary. Normal. You had the chance of getting a full night’s sleep without him knocking on your door before letting himself in and find some sort of way, occasionally painful, to wake you up. You wouldn’t like to think ‘dull’ because you’re certain that that’s the way John Watson sees it, like Sherlock did him some sort of favour, like he rescued him from living like the rest of you normal people. It’s childish but being around the two of them makes your skin itch, makes your eye twitch and your blood boil. It’s in the way that Sherlock tolerates Watson’s eyes on him for longer than considered normal, the way that Sherlock smirks and it reminds you of a night that he probably doesn’t remember, doped up and flushed like a cheap whore.
You’d say that you’re a fairly reasonable man when it comes to Sherlock; you tolerate the tantrums and minimise the insults that your staff hurl out - when you’re around, that is. You tell yourself that you’re glad that Sherlock doesn’t play the violin at three o’clock in the morning in your bathtub anymore and that your lungs are appreciating the rest from chain-smoking together all night during particularly gruelling cases. You’re even beginning to sound like him - since when did you use the word gruelling? No, as he said himself, you don’t have much in the way of brains; brute force got you where you are today.
Slap on another nicotine patch. It’s 5am and it’ll be a shame to waste your day off catching up on the sleep you know you should have had last night but you’re not like him. You can’t survive on about two hours of sleep and pick apart people, piece by piece, until all that’s left in front of them is every little detail they’ve tried to hide. You know that too well, the way he looked at you with those glittering eyes the first time you smoked with him and uttered, “First-time smoker, eager to impress, wants to go far in life.”
That was nearly six years ago. You were twenty-nine and finally getting somewhere in life when you’d discovered this snotty-nosed cokehead sitting on your battered sofa, finally inherited from your dearly departed mother. He’d taken one look at you before he’d opened his mouth and this scrawny excuse for a man, with his pipe-cleaner legs and his two-inches-too-long haircut had suddenly swept your life into total chaos.
“Twenty-nine, your mother just died. You finally stood up to your father and,” he paused, his eyes scanning you. “He attempted to hit you. You were twelve the first time he threatened you. Your mother never did anything to stop it and your brother started staying over at his friend’s house all the time. You left when you were...eighteen?”
“And a half.”
You were almost impressed before you realised that there was a complete stranger lounging on your sofa, one hand clutching a lit cigarette, the other supporting a tilted head. You recognised the signs of an addict; the sharp cheekbones, the way that he kept his back hunched and the neglected haircut - once cut in the height of fashion, now unwashed and left to grow of its own accord. You took a wary step forward, using all of your basic training to check if he had a visible weapon. Saw nothing. You weren’t sure if he was totally mentally unbalanced or just plain stupid.
“Are you stalking me?” You asked cautiously, doing your best to maintain eye contact, trying to keep your voice even.
He sniggered, if you could call it that. You’d not be fooling anyone if you said that you were particularly intelligent, but even you can tell that a man like this is from the higher end of society, given his accent and the way he holds himself. You’ve never met anyone quite like him and the sensible part of yourself that is heading for promotion even now is telling you to phone your boss right now.
“Before you do anything particularly stupid, bear in mind that the young girl you’re looking for at this very moment will die in precisely,” he checks his watch, an obviously expensive detail that you hadn’t noticed before, “eight hours and sixteen minutes. So I think it would be best to listen, don’t you?”
The sudden sharpness of his voice and the coldness in his eyes strikes something inside of you and for a split-second, this man is close to terrifying you. You swallow hard, take down the oxygen along with the pride you’ve built up over the past ten years.
“Tell me what you want.”
He narrows his eyes, but doesn’t break the contact. “Under the circumstances, that would be the wrong question.”
“Tell me what to do.”
-
It’s a month later and you’ve just solved a small case of petty crime when he drags himself onto your doorstep in the dead of night. Presses the buzzer six, seven times before you stumble blindly out of bed and go staggering down the stairs clad only in your work shirt and boxers.
“Your sofa would be appreciated right now.” He gasps out, and you can see his forehead pressed to the ground in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway.
You take great care to avoid looking at the puddle of liquid gathered next to his head and grab his arm roughly, pulling him up the flight of stairs because the lift just doesn’t seem to work for you most of the time. Inside your head you’re panicking, knowing that you’re in trouble if anyone sees you and reports it in the morning. Knowing that being the go-to guy for a druggie is essentially one of your worst ideas yet, even if the druggie seems to be some sort of genius.
Looking at him stretched out on your sofa, somehow still elegant, you’re fully aware of the consequences if you ever get caught with this man in your flat.
“Come here.” He mutters in a gravelly voice that you almost mistake for seduction before remembering that it’s the burn from whatever he’s taken. “My head hurts, Lestrade. All these people I pass, they surely cannot be quite as insignificant and unimportant as they seem.”
For a minute, you’re struck with a wave of pity before you remember that you’re kneeling next to a nameless man who could potentially ruin your life. So you prise his fingers off your shirt. Wipe away the grit and dirt from his face. Fetch him a glass of water. And finally, you settle down on the floor by his side to watch over him.
“You could be a good man,” you tell him. “You could be the best.”
His mouth twists to the side, even in a half-daze.
“I am the best.” He tells you condescendingly. “But there’s no fun in that anymore.”
-
That night, you let him use you. Let him place inexperienced, open-mouthed kisses over your neck, let him bite on your shoulder so hard that he almost draws blood, his nails digging into your back. You don’t say anything when he curls inwards next to you on the cramped sofa, his knees and elbows sticking into you.
And most of all, you certainly don’t say anything as you tip-toe back to your room at the break of dawn, remembering the feeling of burning skin and blinked-away-tears pressed against your chest.
-
For seven months, you both keep an unspoken promise. You find that crucial pieces of evidence arrive at the police station in sealed plastic bags, just in time to make or break a case. In return, you think of elaborate explanations (lies, all lies, but damn good lies) for the evidence to keep the people at the top happy. It’s almost like a twisted game of chess; you make a point by appearing in the newspapers to help open a clinic for recovering addicts. He takes your point and responds angrily; a crime scene is completely cleared of all clues before he leaves a piece of evidence minutes before a victim is killed. You are furious, but you get the hint. Don’t interfere.
Occasionally, you think you see glimpses of him around town and you get this sick sort of feeling in your stomach which switches between dread and anticipation. You hate to admit it, but you’re worried. Worried the drugs are worse than before. Worried he’ll suddenly disappear one day. And somewhere inside of you, you know that you’re worried that he’s in charge of everything.
The cases get harder and the evidence gets more cryptic and your bosses get more suspicious. Important people whose names you’re not allowed to know start appearing and disappearing around the police station. Things are changing.
You tell yourself you’re not waiting. You know you’re lying. You don’t know what you’re waiting for.
It’s a long seven months.
-
Part two can be found here.