Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been a long day ending a string of long days; DS Greg Lestrade was knackered.

The case had plodded on all afternoon, 'til he'd ended up with a choice: either run down an interview with one of the less promising witnesses, or watch the entrance to a certain dance club in hopes the main suspect or his known associate would show among the Friday night crowd. And, well, it was true he probably hadn't made the best decision. He could've just let Underhill take the long hours, gotten himself in and out of the elderly woman's flat with a notepad full of the sort of gossipy, opinionated statements one could fully expect from those sorts of biddies, and had plenty of time to get home and dressed for dinner.

He'd chosen the stakeout; call it a hunch.

Or, call it selfish. Greg wasn't thinking too hard about that side of it, to be honest.

Really, it wasn't at all out of the norm for him to take the longer, dirtier duties. Ever since he'd made Detective Sergeant, he'd been habitually prone to carrying things outside of working hours, going the extra mile to run down answers. Once Greg got the thread of something between his teeth, he hated to let it go; any reasonable advantage that might allow him to carry out justice, he'd take it, no question. The workaholic attitude had certainly been operating in his favour over the past two years—DI Harwood had already said he'd be putting in a good word for him, in advance of his retirement next year.

So the fact he was so clapped out, at this point, he'd nearly fallen asleep standing up on the Tube? It wasn't so bad, after all. Sure, it wasn't the most exciting use of his overtime, and it hadn't amounted to much in this instance; but every little bit of effort was to the good, right? Gave me time to think back over my notes, anyway. I've a good idea what I need to start with in the morning, he told himself, still firmly avoiding self-examination regarding his ulterior motives.

Greg trudged wearily up out of the station, shivering as he set out to walk the last five and a half deserted streets to his home. It was a colder night than the latter half of March usually brought, a bit of a shock after the mildness of that morning; it had dropped all the way down to three degrees of a sudden, as if winter was determined to hang on tooth and nail. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, and hunched his shoulders against the bracing chill.

He'd passed the halfway point, and was feeling undeniably more awake although his eyes were watering in the wind, when he heard the cough up ahead.

At first, he didn't give it much thought. The streets in this neighbourhood were usually empty at half past two in the morning, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that some poor sod was still getting himself home, just like he was—or had no home to get off to. And with 'flu still going around, there was bound to be someone sounding ill practically anyplace in greater London.

After a few steps, Greg heard it again, and something about the sound gave him pause. Didn't sound like a sick cough, that. There was a wetness to the edges, and a shudder in the inhale that spoke of pain. When the hacking noise ended with the undeniable noise of spitting, he got curious enough to begin watching for its source as he approached.

The third gasping round, slightly less vehement, stopped just before he passed a shadowed stand of shrubbery. Greg's hand hovered at his pocket cautiously, and his steps slowed a bit; a shock ran through him when he heard a weak voice from the darkness.

"Lestrade."

Greg stopped with a jolt. "Who's there?" he called out suspiciously.

"A pointless question," said the voice, its haughty tone shortly ruined by the slight wheeze that finished the sentence.

The hell? Suddenly sure of himself, and feeling a flash of annoyance at having been startled, Greg advanced past the bushes and confronted the figure he found waiting in the shadows. "What are you doing here, kid?"

"Again, perfectly obvious if you'd simply observe. Really, I haven't the faintest idea how the Yard manages."

The slim silhouette shifted forward into the light of a streetlamp; it was of course the edgy, mysterious young genius, wearing a thin, dirty jacket and a tight smirk on his pale and angular face. That wasn't all he wore. He'd been roughed up something fierce: blood welled sluggishly from a split lip, and he sported the beginnings of a truly magnificent shiner.

"Well, Sherlock. I'd ask what you've been up to this evening, but that's a pointless enquiry as well, isn't it?"

The kid tossed dark curls out of his face and and sniffed derisively, only to have the action set off another brief round of coughs. Greg watched him clutch his skinny arms tightly over his chest and wince.

"Kicked in the ribs, eh? You must've really set 'em off good," he commented lightly.

By rights, this should have earned him a dirty look, according to Greg's accumulated expectations of the young man; he was surprised when Sherlock failed to rise to the bait. As a matter of fact, he didn't respond much at all beyond a little stumbling sidestep.

Greg frowned. In the six months or so since this boy had first stumbled into one of DI Harwood's crime scenes, possibly high and babbling what seemed ridiculous nonsense, he'd had the dubious pleasure of multiple encounters with him. The sharp-tongued kid had been turning up more and more frequently, in fact, almost always out of sight of his colleagues; he appeared to be singling Lestrade out alone of all the Met as somehow worthy of his brief and confusing appearances.

Why me, of all people? Maybe it was something the detective sergeant had said to endear himself; maybe it was just that his team had been lucky enough over the last few months to turn up the kind of cases that perked up Holmes's ears...And maybe I'm being tested, yeh? Lord knows, it sometimes feels that way.

"So," he said, planting hands on his hips. "You're scuffed up, barely conscious, got into a fracas while you were probably high as a kite; now you've nowhere to go, am I right? This is a new one." It certainly was, at that. Greg had never seen him in this neighbourhood before.

Sherlock made a weak attempt at a sour face, and slumped to sit on the low stone wall of someone's front garden. "And you've spent the last seven-plus hours sitting in one position, alone, probably watching in vain for a suspect to show. You ate a cold sandwich for supper, and didn't find it enjoyable. You haven't spoken to another person besides me since at least eight o'clock; your voice is hoarse from disuse." The detailed observations were muttered quietly, and lacked their usual vigour and pride.

Greg shook his head slightly, rocked back on his heels and clicked his tongue. "All right, showoff. You know, I don't have to be a genius to see you're freezing your arse off out here. Come on, up you go..."

He leaned in and pushed an arm under the young man's, levering him off the wall and onto his own shoulder. He fully expected a protest against this action; when Sherlock remained silent but for a small, pained huff of breath, he found himself even more concerned.

God, he's rail-thin. When's the last time he ate something?

They began their slow progress together up the block. Briefly, Greg considered his options, but there was really nothing for it; he'd have to bring him into his home for the night. He remembered that Holmes had alluded, once, to having an older brother...Greg hadn't yet given in to his curiosity and looked the man up, nor any other relations, for that matter. He got the impression that it would do him no favours, in terms of his tentative relationship with the kid, if he were to turn him over to family without a very good reason.

Glancing over at the pale, slack face, he worriedly made plans to put in that research at his earliest opportunity.

When they made it to the modest semi-detached home at the end of the street, Greg slid his key into the lock quietly, and waited until he had the boy's attention before he turned it. "Keep it down, now, all right? Don't want to wake the missus."

He saw the look Sherlock shot his way in the foyer, but ignored it. Truth was, he really didn't want to face Tracy 'til morning, if it could be helped. She hadn't answered her phone when Greg had finally made the call to say he was working late; he'd timed the call purposely so that she'd already be at her birthday dinner, and he knew her girlfriends had chosen a loud venue. Of course, he'd been an hour and a half late for the party by that point—but she already expected him to run a bit late from work most nights.

And it's not as if I planned it out ahead, he reminded himself, flipping on the kitchen light and pulling out a chair at the dinette. He gestured for Sherlock to sit and moved to put the kettle on, all the while thinking about how easily he'd jumped at the opportunity for that stakeout when it had come up near the end of his shift. Can't blame a bloke for wanting to do the best job he can. Though he knew Tracy would.

"The décor in here is atrocious. You have awful taste."

Greg turned from the worktop, his eyes shifting from the scowling face of his guest to look around his wife's expensively mauve kitchen. He shrugged. "I didn't choose it."

"Exactly."

"Ri-ight..." He returned his attention to the business of tea, and shortly placed a mug in front of the young man.

Sherlock ignored the steaming beverage, still craning his neck to scan the room from his aggressively slumped position in the chair. "You stayed out on purpose tonight. But you didn't forget to buy a gift."

This observation froze him on his way to the pantry. What the hell clued him in to that, in the kitchen? Clearing his throat to cover his stupefaction a bit, he answered without turning, "No. I didn't forget."

Running a hand back through the longer piece of pewter-and-brown hair fallen over his forehead, he dug out a packet of chocolate biscuits. He turned and plunked them down on the table, a little roughly. "Here. Eat something, would you?"

One disconcerting eye turned to fix on him, blinking slowly. Its pupil was blown wide, and after a moment it jittered slightly to one side, then the other, as if Sherlock had trouble choosing a point of focus. The other eye had already swollen almost completely shut.

Christ, what the hell is he on anyway? wondered Greg, a hot thread of anger unwinding itself in his gut. He held back from asking, purely because he didn't trust himself not to shout.

He rummaged about in the freezer until he found a bag of frozen peas, then walked back across the room and perfunctorily placed it over Sherlock's black eye.

The young man hissed and jerked away at the contact, grabbing the bag and slapping it down onto the table. "I didn't ask for your help, Lestrade!"

"Oh, didn't you now? Showing up at the top of my street, then, to wait me out, that was a sodding coincidence?"

"What if it was?"

"Don't make me laugh, kiddo."

"Stop calling me that. I'm not a child!"

"Is that so. What are you, nineteen?" His best estimate currently rested at twenty-one, but he couldn't resist goading.

"Twenty-eight!"

Huh. Really? He kept his face hard to disguise his split-second of shock. "Well, I'm coming up on forty-two, so mind yer elders, kid. You want a warm place to kip tonight,"—he snatched up the peas and tossed them at Sherlock, who caught them with a wince—"you'll damn well do as I say!"

This commenced a staring contest, but the battle of wills lasted only a few seconds; Sherlock was in no condition to maintain eye contact. Hell, he looked like maintaining consciousness was itself a trial.

"Bag. Eye. Now," growled the older man, and after a slight petulant hesitation, the younger complied.

With a curt nod, Greg settled himself in the chair across from his guest and picked up his own tea. "So." He sipped, slowly and calmly, while he sifted through the clamouring questions in his head for some topic of discussion that might not put the boy off talking. Finally he hummed into his mug. "Go on, how'd you know about the birthday present then?"

Sherlock smirked a bit as he immediately launched into an explanation, marred only a little by occasional slurred words. "The calendar by the fridge; today's date is circled, and 'Six PM' written in. The handwriting isn't yours, Lestrade, I've seen your notepad. You show signs of minor guilt, although it's clear you took the job tonight on purpose. But you were carrying nothing home; you had time enough to buy your cold dinner in advance of your stakeout, and I saw from the napkin peeking out of your pocket that you bought it on a street rife with the sort of shops where one might easily purchase a suitably meaningless last minute gift. Therefore, it's a fair assumption that you fulfilled that obligation already, probably before you left for work."

"Huh." Greg reached absently across the table and tore open the package of biscuits, taking one and holding it still between his lips as he sat back to pull the little deli napkin out of his trouser pocket. He hadn't remembered the distinctive coloured pattern printed 'round the border; now he studied the abstract lines and dots, as he smoothed it onto the table next to his tea. The half-eaten biscuit dropped a scattering of tiny crumbs as it covered the establishment's logo in the centre.

"It wasn't really that you were avoiding your wife and her friends tonight, though, was it?" Sherlock mused next, reaching out long fingers of his free hand to rustle at the wrapper and pull out a biscuit of his own. His visible eye narrowed as it roved over Greg's tired features once more. "Ah, no, of course not just that. It's her mother you can't stand to face."

"...God." He shook his head, startled into a slight smile. "How—no, I don't care how you know. The feeling's mutual, anyway. Missing dinner can't drag my standing much lower, can it." Covering a yawn, Greg considered how strange it felt to commiserate with a strung-out kid half his age on the topic of his mother-in-law. It was true, though; Mrs Kandless still hated him, no matter he and Tracy had been married now for almost six years.

Sherlock's face twisted slightly at that, and Greg belatedly realised that he'd been meant to be insulted by the deduction. He'd taken such a variety of cutting remarks from Holmes over the last few months that he'd slowly learned to let all but the worst slide off his back. The idea of disappointing the kid, by not becoming upset with him...Greg couldn't resist a crooked little grin as he polished off the biscuit.

As entertaining as pushing Sherlock's buttons had briefly been, it shortly invited retaliation. Greg wasn't sure if this was a show of insecurity, or if basic, perverse intractability was truly the vital force that powered this kid at his core—but at Greg's mild and amused reaction, the efforts to be perfectly unpleasant immediately redoubled.

Greg had tried, over the course of the next half hour, to offer more substantial hospitality, but the young man wouldn't hear of it. He did drink the tea, after a time, and he ate three biscuits in total—a minor victory, certainly—but he flatly refused any other food, and Greg wasn't about to give paracetamol without being sure what was already in Sherlock's system. Eventually he stood, cracking a deep yawn, and declared it high time for them both to get some rest.

Why, why me? he wondered again, tiredly turning away from the younger man to set their mugs in the sink and fill a large drinking glass with water. Maybe, it's just that he's figured out how easily he can take advantage of my bloody soft spot. Unless he thinks I continue to talk to him purely out of masochism... Rolling his neck irritably on stiff shoulders, he urged his guest to stand.

Greg sighed to himself, shushing the boy for the fifth time. The insults had run their usual gamut—everything from taunts about his education and the quality of his police training, to rude and over-personal critiques of his grooming habits—but they were quite obviously losing steam and coherence. He blithely ignored the stream of slurred invective Sherlock spat, as he led the way into Tracy's potpourri-scented living room.

"Right," he grunted, turning on a small lamp next to the floral-patterned sofa. "Lemme get you a blanket..."

The mutterings of the other man subsided ominously into silence as Greg crouched to open the storage drawer built into the coffee table. He pulled out a couple fluffy crocheted afghans and tossed one behind him to the sofa, standing with the other to find Sherlock scanning the dimly-lit room, his single open eye flitting back and forth, soaking in new data.

Every time his wife took it upon herself to redo a room in their home, that room thereafter became "Tracy's room": the living room, as such, was no longer his in his own mind, for all that his mother's tall carved curio bookcases still dominated one wall. Greg generally did his best to ignore the gradual, disconcerting loss of territory; now, however, he felt himself oddly exposed under Sherlock's examination of the room. He froze where he stood, clutching the afghan to his chest, and watched the pale gaze ricochet over the telly, the chairs, the paintings on the walls—and settle over his shoulder on the curio shelves.

It held there for a moment, flicked over to Greg's face briefly, then returned to the shelf—and Greg caught his breath, struck by the feeling that he'd been suddenly laid open. He knows why I put up with him, now, if he didn't before. And God, there was no way any normal person could have even seen it, but there it was. Even Tracy didn't really know the whole story behind that pitiful, asymmetrical clay bowl he insisted they kept on display.

Greg shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Look..." he began, not sure what he wanted to say but desperately needing to break the silence, "are you going to lie down, or am I gonna have to put you down?" The words sounded thready and weak in his own ears, entirely lacking conviction.

Sherlock responded with a sharply spoken question. "How did she die?"

"Please. Don't...don't ask."

The boy opened his mouth, and Greg grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the painful comment...but it didn't come.

After a long silence, he risked a look to see that Sherlock had sat on the sofa, and was silently toeing off his shoes. His unruly curls had fallen forward to hide some of the bruises on his face, and he wore a distant, closed expression that focused intently on the carpet.

Greg let out a long breath, and allowed himself to deflate with it. He sank down to his blue recliner, perching tentatively on the edge of the seat. "Sherlock..."

Silence.

"I'm sorry. It's just...personal, yeh? It's been a long day, right, I just—well." Now he felt irrationally guilty for keeping it to himself. But if he didn't have to talk about Jo, he wouldn't. Simple as that, always had been.

Sherlock sniffed and reached a skinny arm out to retrieve the blanket he'd been given. His face remained shuttered and cold.

Greg sighed, already foreseeing that the story would be drawn out of him eventually. It might even help the kid to hear it, though given enough time he'd likely suss most of it out on his own. Hell, he probably already had. "I expect you'll want to drag it up again the next time you see me, but right now..."

"I am perfectly capable of restraint, Lestrade, whatever else you may think of me. I simply fail to see the benefit in it. Most of the time."

Greg looked up, at that, from his clasped hands and the crocheted fabric piled on his lap.

"Does that surprise you?" asked Sherlock, turning and stretching out his long legs to recline, still without meeting the eyes of his host.

"Nah, I suppose not." Already he was unsure if anything this kid could do would truly surprise him. Anger him, amaze him, annoy him, worry him, yes...mostly the worry of late, especially tonight.

There was another lengthy silence; Greg used it to sort through his thoughts. Suddenly his head seemed very crowded, indeed, with Johanna's shadowy figure pushing in on the edges of the whirlwind Sherlock's presence created. He began to suspect that there would be no further talking, but then the younger man stirred drowsily in his apparent contemplation of the ceiling.

"At any rate, it's hardly vital that I hear what is, no doubt, a pathetic tale of young love lost in some tragic accident. Trite, melodramatic sentiment...Truly, the most interesting thing about it is that your wife completely fails to understand the significance...of your little display;"—he yawned and shifted slightly onto his side—"it's apparent from the dusting patterns...and the nearby..."

Greg waited patiently a few seconds, but the observation wasn't completed. "Sherlock?" he ventured softly.

There was no response.

"Back in a tick, then," he told the sleeping boy, standing and stretching. Moving past the sofa didn't cause a twitch, and he could see that Sherlock was clearly dead to the world.

After looking silently down on his guest a few seconds more, Greg turned to leave the room with a little sigh of relief—only to find Tracy standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed, her dark bob sleep-mussed, and the thunderous look in her blue eyes was clear even in the low lamplight.

"Tracy," he murmured, startled. "Did I wake you, love?"

"Did you wake me? No, Greg, you didn't; that'd be an example of the proper thing to do, wouldn't it, when you've been out 'til all hours of the night!"

Glancing back over his shoulder, he reached out to her arm, attempting to subtly urge her out of the living room. "Sweetheart, I had to work. I'm sorry."

"Of course it was work, it's always work with you!" She shook off his touch irritably.

"Trace—"

Tracy gave no consideration to the strange man on her sofa, and didn't even seem curious about it in the slightest. Instead, she stepped up close to Greg, getting right up into his face to dig in her hooks. Loudly.

"And I can't believe you didn't bother to call me before dinner. You absolute, colossal jerk! What were you thinking?"

They were still standing within a metre of the sofa; Greg glanced over nervously, but the kid hadn't flinched at all. Thank god. He tried again, putting a hand on her back and gently pushing her ahead of him into the hall.

"Hey—hey! Don't shove me around, Greg! What's your problem?"

"Darling. Don't suppose you've noticed, we've acquired a house guest tonight?" He guided her into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. "Now, by all means, continue."

Tracy quite clearly came to the sudden realisation that she had, in fact, seen a third person in her living room. She spent a second dumbstruck, making one of her more adorable faces, and he couldn't resist leaning down to place a quick kiss on her upturned nose.

"Ooh, no you don't," she spluttered, eyes blazing. "You're not getting away from this with those sweet lips. I don't care who's in the bloody house, or why! D'you have any idea the excuses I had to make for you?"

"I've got a fair idea. The truth's good enough though, innit? I had work."

"You and that job, I swear. You know, Hannah said—"

"I don't give a flying toss what Hannah Donovan has to say! Your school pals tell you what to think, Trace, and you just let them—"

"She said, 'You keep letting that man choose work over you, one day he just won't bother coming home at all.' I have to say, I'm starting to see her point."

"Ridiculous! ...For one thing, it's bloody impossible to get any sleep at the Yard, you know."

His slight attempt at humour didn't have the desired effect. He watched with a sinking tightness in his gut as a flush crept over her cherubic face. She tightened her arms across her striped bathrobe and stalked forward, backing him up against the door and handily intimidating him with all of her petite five-foot-two frame.

"You arse. Keep treating it as a joke, go on! And don't tell me, whatever it was tonight that was so bloody important, that one of the other sergeants couldn't have done it. What about what's-his-name? DS Underhill, what about him? You couldn't have left him to—to stay out 'til three, and bring some dirty dosser to sleep on his wife's sofa?"

"Now, now! That's not—" He let out a frustrated sigh. "It's not like that, exactly. And believe me, there'd be nobody following Bert home. I'm sorry, Tracy, he's in a bad way and he trusted me just enough to let me help. It's just one night!"

"I don't care about him, Greg. It's just like you, though, isn't it. You've always got to be so damn—selfless and dedicated and principled, don't you; and you don't seem to realise how selfish that makes you!"

The complimentary words, spoken in such a bitter hiss, had his head spinning. "Wait. Lemme get this straight. Being selfless...is selfish? Sodding hell." Throwing his hands up, he brushed past her to put the table between them, and get some breathing room.

Tracy leaned in toward him as he sat, bracing her arms on the back of the other chair. "Mum spent an entire hour tonight on telling me and the girls how much better off we'd be if you'd just stayed in Traffic."

That was galling. Greg was doing his level best to stay calm, but he was so damned tired, and Tracy was pushing his buttons. "Yeah well, your Mum does tend to repeat herself when she's talking utter rot!"

"Leave off about Mother! You always do this."

"I always do this? Let her treat me like dirt? You don't do much to defend me, love. Let me just guess, I'll bet she pulled the grandchild argument on you again, too, didn't she? And you fobbed it all off on me, yet again?"

"Damn it, Greg!"

"Look, you could just tell her. Tell her it's always been your decision, our decision. You know I stand by you, Tracy! But you don't stand up for yourself. You just let her go on thinking it's all my fault, that it's my supposedly irrational hunger for a successful goddamn career that keeps us from it. You know you do it, and it's not bloody fair!"

Her lips compressed into a white line; her whole body vibrated with anger as she stood there, seething, eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of the clock over the sink.

"God." Greg was on his feet, then, back around the table in two long steps to gather her stiffly into his arms. "Trace...Tracy. I'm sorry, pet. I wasn't there for you tonight, and I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you?"

She stayed quiet, but after a moment he could feel the tension begin to drain from her shoulders; he breathed in and out, a deep pull to cleanse his thoughts, and pressed a slow kiss into the top of her head.

"Happy birthday?" he ventured, and was rewarded at last with delicate hands slipping 'round his waist. They stood together, still and silent, until he jarred their tentative peace with a large yawn.

Tracy tilted her head up to see him. She still looked terribly cross, of course; the skin around her eyes was tight, and the corners of her mouth pulled down. "You look like shit," she observed.

"Missing my wife's birthday party does that to me," he murmured, searching blue eyes for a hint of her usual sharp humour.

"Hm." She snaked one arm up inside the circle of his arms to tap her fingers one-two-three against the back of his neck. "I suppose you think I'm going to tell you it's all right to come to bed? Which I'm not, don't get any ideas."

Greg grimaced. "Couldn't, anyway. Sherlock—he's taken something. It's a risk to let him sleep it off alone."

"Sherlock? What kind of name is that?" The little crinkle in her nose, and expression of faint distaste, had him holding back a chuckle. She'd take against him right away, that's certain, with all his arrogant posturing, he mused. He supposed he was lucky she hadn't walked in while Sherlock was conscious; he'd never hear the end of it, not after Holmes gave her the once-over.

"Just this kid I've got acquainted with recently," he answered mildly. "Whip-smart, but a real knack for rebellion, seems like. I'll make sure he doesn't bother you; I'm back on at ten, just leave him to me tomorrow, yeh?"

She frowned, but nodded. "Fine. I have to be at the salon early again, Nadine needed the day off. You'll be home when?"

"By seven thirty, scout's honour." Unless we get a break on Richards' whereabouts, piped up the all-too-reasonable little voice in his head, before he squashed it ruthlessly down and put a teasing little half-smile on his face. "You didn't hate your prezzie, though?" He'd left the wrapped package by her handbag that morning.

"No, I didn't hate it," she said, pricking her fingernails at his nape. "You remembered I wanted a set of rosewood crochet hooks; the rhinestone accents on these ones are very pretty. Nice touch, love, but you're not out of the doghouse yet."

"Of course not." Encouraged, he took a chance, moving hands to her slim waist and lifting her onto her toes for a kiss. She tasted faintly of mouthwash and sleep; he explored her mouth, lazily and contentedly, until her small hands tightened in his shirt and she shook her head slightly, pulling back.

"Uh-uh. Don't tempt me, Greg, I'm still too miffed." She yawned, then, prompting a similar response from him. "Go babysit your delinquent, and I'll be seeing you for dinner tomorrow night."

Greg switched off all but the small light over the cooker, padding in sock feet back to the living room. He had an apology ready on his lips as he walked through the door—Tracy had been practically shrieking, at the rousing high point of their row—but surprisingly enough, he found that Sherlock hadn't stirred an eyelash.

The young man remained in the same position in which he'd fallen from consciousness; his breathing was deep and regular, with a tiny shuddering hitch here and there. Greg studied the deep, weary hollow of his eye—the one without the shiner—and his chapped lips, parted slightly in an exhausted slumber that the DS strongly suspected was the first he'd had in too long.

He settled himself into his favourite recliner and kicked his feet up, thanking the powers that be that Tracy had given him the small mercy of leaving his pair of comfortable chairs untouched when she'd attacked the room, and kept his focus on the dark, tousled curls as he mused over the events of the evening. It was clear to him that this night had solidified Sherlock's already too-personal knowledge of DS Gregory Lestrade, even though Tracy seemed to have got herself a lucky pass. Unfair, isn't it, that I should know so very little of him in return? But maybe I'm the lucky one, come to think. Who else is he coming to for help? Not this posh, mysterious brother he'd obliquely referred to with such withering scorn; not parents—assuming they were still living—to try and guide him away from the desperate choices he seemed determined to fling himself to; not schoolmates or other friends, or at least not ones that could be a positive or protective influence: his battered body tonight clearly demonstrated his winning way with the general populace at large. No, he'd decided to latch onto one stubborn, moderately ambitious middle-aged copper who remained a touch too trusting and idealistic for his own good—Harwood often took pains to point that out, as if it were his most notable flaw, though Greg was critical enough of himself to know better—and he seemed drawn almost against his will to erratically and repeatedly reach out for that connection, in his own stunted, arrogant, oft-incomprehensible way.

It boggled the mind, really. Greg knew he wasn't smart enough to warrant Holmes's respect. He wasn't vicious enough to wholeheartedly enjoy their games of mean verbal sparring, nor bold enough to allow the impetuous kid any of the access he craved to the crime scenes near which he kept cropping up. For all Greg's shortcomings—most of which would surely not be considered as such, to any normal, right-thinking person; and the fact that he already separated and categorised his own attributes as seen from the twisted perspective of Sherlock Holmes gave him serious pause—the questions of why me that had plagued him more and more were beginning to fade into the background, to be replaced with more pressing questions. If it's to be me, then it's to be me. Can't be helped, I suppose.

He lay back, frowning deeply at the shadows that played across the ceiling in the low light, and tried to figure out how he might attempt to frame a discussion in the morning, considering the things he really wanted to ask. Why, with all your apparent advantages, with your amazing intellect and perception, with your obvious need to help others indirectly—Greg refused to believe it was purely a morbid fascination with crime and death, he needed to hold on to the thought that there was more good in this acerbic, unpleasant young man than he let show—why, oh why do you drag yourself down? Is it help you need? And would you take it from me if I offered you more than a bag of peas and a kip on the sofa?

Whatever this was, it couldn't pass for friendship; not by a long shot, not in any normal, natural sense of the word. But for all the figurative locking of horns, and the confusing mixed signals, there was really nothing for it; come what may, as long as the younger man allowed it, Greg knew for a certainty that he'd continue to make himself available, to provide whatever help or guidance he could. What is it he sees in me? And can I possibly be worthy of it, in the end?

Greg pulled the afghan up around himself, shut his weary eyes against the silent room, and slowed his breathing to synchronise with that of the troubled genius. That endless circling spiral of worry would surely remain with him, he knew, even as he resolutely set it aside in favour of a few hours' sleep. For now, though, he could only do this: wait, and wonder, and keep watch over Sherlock. He only hoped that what little he could offer would be enough.