Sherlock: Caring is not an advantage, gen
Title: Caring is not an advantage
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft
Rating: gen
Warnings: concerns child abuse although there are no specifics
Word Count: Around 1600
Summary: Lestrade won't let Sherlock work on a child abuse case. For once Sherlock refuses to recognize the evidence he uncovers.
"This is ridiculous, Inspector. Your case is stalled and your investigation is beyond inept. You desperately need my help. Why aren't you letting me in on this?"
Lestrade took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head, still staring at the case file he had been studying. At last he looked up. "The main suspect is in custody, Sherlock, and that'll do for the moment. We'll work our way through the others, we are actually detectives in case you'd forgotten."
"Doubtless you found your qualifications in a cereal box. You haven't worked out what happened or why. You've got witnesses, I must talk them."
Lestrade strode across his office and slammed the door shut, trapping Sherlock, John and himself in the small space. He turned on Sherlock. "There is no fucking must about it. This is a child abuse case and you are not getting anywhere near the victims."
"But there may others. We need to know what happened."
"They are just kids," protested Lestrade. "I don't just track down criminals, I protect the innocent - or I try to. You just see everything - whether it's victims or bodies or footprints - as something to be dissected so you can hunt down your conclusions. We'll track down the others, but not at the expense of further traumatizing the children. I've seen you interrogate witnesses. It's not pretty."
Sherlock stared at him mutinously, clearly decided Lestrade was not going to be persuaded and changed tack. "At least let me look at the cold cases you've had sent up to London. See what your bumbling colleagues have missed. All those victims are adults now, they don't need protecting."
"And the adults can't hurt any longer? You are such a fucking arse. I'm not letting you anywhere near child abuse cases, Sherlock, not now, not ever." He pulled open his door again and turned on John. "Get him the fuck out of here and don't come back!"
He watched Sherlock storm off in a dramatic swirl of black coat, a sheepish John trailing on his heels, his team watching the scene with wary curiosity. He closed the door again and leaned against it, shutting his eyes and taking several deep breaths.
Finally he walked back to his desk, to the stack of cold cases sent up from Sussex, from where some of his sex abuse ring might have originated. He was looking for one in particular, the one he had been reading when Sherlock had swept in with his high-handed demands.
After only a moment of searching the desk, he had grabbed his coat and was running down the corridor. "Sherlock! Sherlock, get back here."
* * *
Mrs Hudson opened the door that he'd been hammering against and stumbled back in alarm as he pushed past her and took the stairs two a time.
"Ah Lestrade, must you resemble of a herd of--"
Lestrade grabbed the file out of Sherlock's hands. "You do not get to steal files from my office, you complete bastard."
"You have no reason to have that file, it is not an open case, and it has nothing to do with child abuse."
"It was an open verdict, and you know it. And as for child--"
"There was no abuse," shouted Sherlock, drowning out Lestrade. "I was the only child there. I should bloody well know!"
"You were the only child," exclaimed Lestrade, incredulous. "You were what? Seven. So Mycroft doesn't count?"
"Mycroft has been going on fifty ever since he was seven," proclaimed Sherlock dismissively. "Anyway, it's not as if he had any reason for complaint, he was always Daddy's favourite."
"Daddy's favourite?" said Lestrade softly, dangerously. "And why not you?"
"Daddy said children only got interesting when they were old enough to hold a proper conversation," said Sherlock, sounding sulky. "I could, though, but he'd never listen to me. Too busy spending his time with Mycroft. And then when it was about to be my turn--" Sherlock bit off the sentence, still clearly furious over old injustice.
"Listen to yourself, you prat. About to be your turn. Suddenly you're old enough to be interesting and Mycroft's about to be sent off to boarding school, and Daddy accidentally shoots himself while cleaning his shotgun. With Mycroft as the only witness. Christ, Sherlock, think about what you're saying. You're the bloody consulting detective. You can deduce the impossible from three grains of dust and a ketchup stain. How can you be so blind about this?"
There was a long silence, a horrified John standing awkwardly in the kitchen staring at both of them. "The coroner said it was accident," protested Sherlock eventually.
"The coroner left an open verdict. And is it any surprise that twenty years ago in a sleepy Sussex village everyone was pretty keen to hush up the awkward death of the Right Honourable Leighton Holmes? Somebody on the force had heard enough to slip notes about possible abuse into the file, even if they had been ordered to shut down the case. Follow the bleeding evidence, isn't that what you're always telling me?"
Lestrade stalked across to the door, file in hand, and then turned back to look at Sherlock once more. "We may solve crimes but the living matter as much as the dead. You might want to take a break from blaming Mycroft for every bloody thing."
* * *
Lestrade was back in his office. He'd always found impotent anger a very useful driving force for churning through backlogged paperwork. In a few more hours he'd be almost up-to-date. When Sherlock burst in, he doggedly continued to work.
"I went to see Mycroft." Sherlock delivered this information like an accusation.
That did get Lestrade's attention. "And?"
"He refused to talk about any of it." Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the floor, agitation evident in the way his long thin fingers fluttered. "Said it all happened a long time ago and none of it matters now. Reminded me that caring is not an advantage." He turned on Lestrade. "What am I supposed to do?"
Lestrade stared back at him in surprise. "How should I know?"
"You're the one who's always being concerned about the victims. What do I do?"
"What does John think?" prevaricated Lestrade.
"He suggests family therapy," muttered Sherlock.
To his own surprise, Lestrade found himself beginning to laugh helplessly. "Oh my God. Has he ever met either of you?"
Sherlock eventually allowed out a rueful smile. "He means well. He thinks his own therapy is helping him."
"It really would be a crime to inflict the two of you on some hapless therapist."
"Exactly. So what do I do? I'm serious Lestrade."
Lestrade examined Sherlock's pale face, with its uncharacteristic look of helplessness. Lestrade thought about a man who advised against caring while trying to protect his little brother any way he could and being punished for it at every turn.
"You can't change the past, Sherlock. Sometimes - no matter how a case is closed - there is no justice. There is no redress. But you can change the future. Let him back into your life. Take him out to dinner. Do something normal."
"It'll be a disaster. We'll just repeat the same old behaviours."
"Take John with you. Let him act as no man's land."
"He's never going to agree to get between the two of us, not on his own. Come with us."
"Me? Into the Holmes war zone? Do you think I'm stark raving crazy?"
"I think you want to help."
Lestrade sighed. He had no answer to that.
* * *
A text arrived from Sherlock.
Friday 19.30 The Ivy
Lestrade hesitated for a long time before finally dialling the number he had for Mycroft. He didn't know whether to be flattered or alarmed to find that his name carried enough weight to be put straight through to such a powerful man. And now that he had Sherlock's brother on the phone he didn't know what to say.
"So you've accepted Sherlock's dinner invitation?"
Lestrade waited, suddenly aware that he was holding his breath. He doubted Mycroft Holmes would be pleased to be reminded that a mere policeman knew. He wondered if he was putting himself in line to lose his job or possibly even be eliminated.
"Yes." There was a lengthy pause. "It will end badly. It always does."
"He means well. It was my suggestion. And John and I will be there for reinforcements."
"Yes. Sherlock's family." Mycroft sounded resigned. "Once when I questioned the suitability of John Watson Sherlock explained to me the concept of a family of choice versus family of blood."
"I'm surprised to be included," Lestrade said. "But family is still family and if we're stuck with him, that means you're also stuck with us. I've not been fighting his corner in this one."
"So I have come to realise. That is.... intriguing." Mycroft hesitated. "Detective Inspector, would you be prepared to join me for drinks before the dinner? I suspect I may require a little liquid courage."
He sounded oddly vulnerable. Lestrade rolled his eyes at himself, knowing what he was going to say. Sherlock might be utterly committed to ferreting out the truth about the dead, but Lestrade had spent his entire career trying to balance that requirement with protecting those who were left to go on living.
"Sure, let's do that."
- THE END -
Author's Note: I have no idea if this works. It was partly inspired by getting annoyed with the trope that has Sherlock abused as a child and Mycroft wracked with guilt for failing to protect him. I was wondering how to turn that round.
I also wondered if I could find a rationale for Mycroft's taunting of Sherlock about his possible virginity. That idea underlay this although I didn't find a way to work it in explictly.
Fandom & Pairing: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft
Rating: gen
Warnings: concerns child abuse although there are no specifics
Word Count: Around 1600
Summary: Lestrade won't let Sherlock work on a child abuse case. For once Sherlock refuses to recognize the evidence he uncovers.
"This is ridiculous, Inspector. Your case is stalled and your investigation is beyond inept. You desperately need my help. Why aren't you letting me in on this?"
Lestrade took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head, still staring at the case file he had been studying. At last he looked up. "The main suspect is in custody, Sherlock, and that'll do for the moment. We'll work our way through the others, we are actually detectives in case you'd forgotten."
"Doubtless you found your qualifications in a cereal box. You haven't worked out what happened or why. You've got witnesses, I must talk them."
Lestrade strode across his office and slammed the door shut, trapping Sherlock, John and himself in the small space. He turned on Sherlock. "There is no fucking must about it. This is a child abuse case and you are not getting anywhere near the victims."
"But there may others. We need to know what happened."
"They are just kids," protested Lestrade. "I don't just track down criminals, I protect the innocent - or I try to. You just see everything - whether it's victims or bodies or footprints - as something to be dissected so you can hunt down your conclusions. We'll track down the others, but not at the expense of further traumatizing the children. I've seen you interrogate witnesses. It's not pretty."
Sherlock stared at him mutinously, clearly decided Lestrade was not going to be persuaded and changed tack. "At least let me look at the cold cases you've had sent up to London. See what your bumbling colleagues have missed. All those victims are adults now, they don't need protecting."
"And the adults can't hurt any longer? You are such a fucking arse. I'm not letting you anywhere near child abuse cases, Sherlock, not now, not ever." He pulled open his door again and turned on John. "Get him the fuck out of here and don't come back!"
He watched Sherlock storm off in a dramatic swirl of black coat, a sheepish John trailing on his heels, his team watching the scene with wary curiosity. He closed the door again and leaned against it, shutting his eyes and taking several deep breaths.
Finally he walked back to his desk, to the stack of cold cases sent up from Sussex, from where some of his sex abuse ring might have originated. He was looking for one in particular, the one he had been reading when Sherlock had swept in with his high-handed demands.
After only a moment of searching the desk, he had grabbed his coat and was running down the corridor. "Sherlock! Sherlock, get back here."
* * *
Mrs Hudson opened the door that he'd been hammering against and stumbled back in alarm as he pushed past her and took the stairs two a time.
"Ah Lestrade, must you resemble of a herd of--"
Lestrade grabbed the file out of Sherlock's hands. "You do not get to steal files from my office, you complete bastard."
"You have no reason to have that file, it is not an open case, and it has nothing to do with child abuse."
"It was an open verdict, and you know it. And as for child--"
"There was no abuse," shouted Sherlock, drowning out Lestrade. "I was the only child there. I should bloody well know!"
"You were the only child," exclaimed Lestrade, incredulous. "You were what? Seven. So Mycroft doesn't count?"
"Mycroft has been going on fifty ever since he was seven," proclaimed Sherlock dismissively. "Anyway, it's not as if he had any reason for complaint, he was always Daddy's favourite."
"Daddy's favourite?" said Lestrade softly, dangerously. "And why not you?"
"Daddy said children only got interesting when they were old enough to hold a proper conversation," said Sherlock, sounding sulky. "I could, though, but he'd never listen to me. Too busy spending his time with Mycroft. And then when it was about to be my turn--" Sherlock bit off the sentence, still clearly furious over old injustice.
"Listen to yourself, you prat. About to be your turn. Suddenly you're old enough to be interesting and Mycroft's about to be sent off to boarding school, and Daddy accidentally shoots himself while cleaning his shotgun. With Mycroft as the only witness. Christ, Sherlock, think about what you're saying. You're the bloody consulting detective. You can deduce the impossible from three grains of dust and a ketchup stain. How can you be so blind about this?"
There was a long silence, a horrified John standing awkwardly in the kitchen staring at both of them. "The coroner said it was accident," protested Sherlock eventually.
"The coroner left an open verdict. And is it any surprise that twenty years ago in a sleepy Sussex village everyone was pretty keen to hush up the awkward death of the Right Honourable Leighton Holmes? Somebody on the force had heard enough to slip notes about possible abuse into the file, even if they had been ordered to shut down the case. Follow the bleeding evidence, isn't that what you're always telling me?"
Lestrade stalked across to the door, file in hand, and then turned back to look at Sherlock once more. "We may solve crimes but the living matter as much as the dead. You might want to take a break from blaming Mycroft for every bloody thing."
* * *
Lestrade was back in his office. He'd always found impotent anger a very useful driving force for churning through backlogged paperwork. In a few more hours he'd be almost up-to-date. When Sherlock burst in, he doggedly continued to work.
"I went to see Mycroft." Sherlock delivered this information like an accusation.
That did get Lestrade's attention. "And?"
"He refused to talk about any of it." Sherlock was pacing back and forth across the floor, agitation evident in the way his long thin fingers fluttered. "Said it all happened a long time ago and none of it matters now. Reminded me that caring is not an advantage." He turned on Lestrade. "What am I supposed to do?"
Lestrade stared back at him in surprise. "How should I know?"
"You're the one who's always being concerned about the victims. What do I do?"
"What does John think?" prevaricated Lestrade.
"He suggests family therapy," muttered Sherlock.
To his own surprise, Lestrade found himself beginning to laugh helplessly. "Oh my God. Has he ever met either of you?"
Sherlock eventually allowed out a rueful smile. "He means well. He thinks his own therapy is helping him."
"It really would be a crime to inflict the two of you on some hapless therapist."
"Exactly. So what do I do? I'm serious Lestrade."
Lestrade examined Sherlock's pale face, with its uncharacteristic look of helplessness. Lestrade thought about a man who advised against caring while trying to protect his little brother any way he could and being punished for it at every turn.
"You can't change the past, Sherlock. Sometimes - no matter how a case is closed - there is no justice. There is no redress. But you can change the future. Let him back into your life. Take him out to dinner. Do something normal."
"It'll be a disaster. We'll just repeat the same old behaviours."
"Take John with you. Let him act as no man's land."
"He's never going to agree to get between the two of us, not on his own. Come with us."
"Me? Into the Holmes war zone? Do you think I'm stark raving crazy?"
"I think you want to help."
Lestrade sighed. He had no answer to that.
* * *
A text arrived from Sherlock.
Friday 19.30 The Ivy
Lestrade hesitated for a long time before finally dialling the number he had for Mycroft. He didn't know whether to be flattered or alarmed to find that his name carried enough weight to be put straight through to such a powerful man. And now that he had Sherlock's brother on the phone he didn't know what to say.
"So you've accepted Sherlock's dinner invitation?"
Lestrade waited, suddenly aware that he was holding his breath. He doubted Mycroft Holmes would be pleased to be reminded that a mere policeman knew. He wondered if he was putting himself in line to lose his job or possibly even be eliminated.
"Yes." There was a lengthy pause. "It will end badly. It always does."
"He means well. It was my suggestion. And John and I will be there for reinforcements."
"Yes. Sherlock's family." Mycroft sounded resigned. "Once when I questioned the suitability of John Watson Sherlock explained to me the concept of a family of choice versus family of blood."
"I'm surprised to be included," Lestrade said. "But family is still family and if we're stuck with him, that means you're also stuck with us. I've not been fighting his corner in this one."
"So I have come to realise. That is.... intriguing." Mycroft hesitated. "Detective Inspector, would you be prepared to join me for drinks before the dinner? I suspect I may require a little liquid courage."
He sounded oddly vulnerable. Lestrade rolled his eyes at himself, knowing what he was going to say. Sherlock might be utterly committed to ferreting out the truth about the dead, but Lestrade had spent his entire career trying to balance that requirement with protecting those who were left to go on living.
"Sure, let's do that."
- THE END -
Author's Note: I have no idea if this works. It was partly inspired by getting annoyed with the trope that has Sherlock abused as a child and Mycroft wracked with guilt for failing to protect him. I was wondering how to turn that round.
I also wondered if I could find a rationale for Mycroft's taunting of Sherlock about his possible virginity. That idea underlay this although I didn't find a way to work it in explictly.