Finally, Sherlock let him slip out and sat back on his heels, looking wrecked, mouth unnaturally red in his pale face. Lestrade felt drained. He couldn’t tell if he were more relieved or horrified that he had pulled this off—that they had pulled it off, he corrected, suddenly sure that Sherlock had been helping, there at the end. He heard his own breath ragged in his ears as if it belonged to somebody else.
“That’s the spirit, Lou,” Hawk said, coming over and slapping him on the back. He looked a little flushed and glassy-eyed himself. “It’s like you popped your cherry today, mate. Zip up and let me buy you a pint.”
Hawk raised his foot again, and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder until he toppled over, an untidy pile of limbs, unnervingly still. “And you. Don’t think this means you don’t still owe us money. This is just a taste of what’s going to happen to you if you don’t pay up. Come on, Lou—stop gaping.”
“Yeah,” said Lestrade, “just a minute.” He crouched over Sherlock—near enough to whisper and devil take the consequences. “Are you alright? Do you need a hospital?”
“Mmmn.” Sherlock’s voice was very faint, but steady. He didn’t lift his head from the floor. “No. I’m fine. It’s only transport, after all.”
Lestrade had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling shamed and ridiculous. “Thank you.”
+++
Lestrade’s undercover work wrapped up pretty quickly after that. He was reasonably sure that the events in Lambeth were what led Joe Wren to bring him into his inner circle, to finally introduce him to the big suppliers who had been the target all along. But it made him hot and sick to think about it, so he tried not to, most of the time.
Once he was back in his own clothes, hair newly shorn and tattoo safely hidden away, he made a trip to that shabby block in Lambeth, trudged up the stairs to the third floor bed-sit, heart in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do if he found Sherlock. Apologize? That seemed laughably inadequate. Maybe just reassure himself that he still existed.
The flat was deserted. No one had bothered to fix the door, and he could see that the whole place had been swept clean, as if no one had ever lived there at all. He banged on all the other doors on the floor, showing his badge, but no one knew anything. One day he was here, the next day he was gone. No one knew anything.
Lestrade tried Houghton next.
“Ever hear from that bright young thing of yours?” he asked, trying to sound offhand. “The consultant?”
“It’s the damnedest thing,” Houghton said, and Lestrade tensed. Sherlock’s name had never appeared in any of the depositions, he’d made sure of that, but there were other, much worse things, that might have befallen him.
“What is?”
“Seems our boy was better connected than I thought. Friends—family—very high up. One day a very quiet gentleman indeed came along and told me to forget all about him. Swept him off for a long rest in the country. Very posh. Very private.” Houghton touched a finger to the side of his nose. “Can’t say he didn’t need it, though.”
Lestrade let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. So not dead, then. Not in a gutter someplace. Well looked after. “I hope it does him good,” he said, with more feeling than he’d meant to.
“So do I, mate, so do I. London could use a mind like that.”
Re: Certain Events in Lambeth, Lestrade/Sherlock, non-con, (nc-17), 5/5
“That’s the spirit, Lou,” Hawk said, coming over and slapping him on the back. He looked a little flushed and glassy-eyed himself. “It’s like you popped your cherry today, mate. Zip up and let me buy you a pint.”
Hawk raised his foot again, and pushed at Sherlock’s shoulder until he toppled over, an untidy pile of limbs, unnervingly still. “And you. Don’t think this means you don’t still owe us money. This is just a taste of what’s going to happen to you if you don’t pay up. Come on, Lou—stop gaping.”
“Yeah,” said Lestrade, “just a minute.” He crouched over Sherlock—near enough to whisper and devil take the consequences. “Are you alright? Do you need a hospital?”
“Mmmn.” Sherlock’s voice was very faint, but steady. He didn’t lift his head from the floor. “No. I’m fine. It’s only transport, after all.”
Lestrade had no idea what he meant. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling shamed and ridiculous. “Thank you.”
+++
Lestrade’s undercover work wrapped up pretty quickly after that. He was reasonably sure that the events in Lambeth were what led Joe Wren to bring him into his inner circle, to finally introduce him to the big suppliers who had been the target all along. But it made him hot and sick to think about it, so he tried not to, most of the time.
Once he was back in his own clothes, hair newly shorn and tattoo safely hidden away, he made a trip to that shabby block in Lambeth, trudged up the stairs to the third floor bed-sit, heart in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do if he found Sherlock. Apologize? That seemed laughably inadequate. Maybe just reassure himself that he still existed.
The flat was deserted. No one had bothered to fix the door, and he could see that the whole place had been swept clean, as if no one had ever lived there at all. He banged on all the other doors on the floor, showing his badge, but no one knew anything. One day he was here, the next day he was gone. No one knew anything.
Lestrade tried Houghton next.
“Ever hear from that bright young thing of yours?” he asked, trying to sound offhand. “The consultant?”
“It’s the damnedest thing,” Houghton said, and Lestrade tensed. Sherlock’s name had never appeared in any of the depositions, he’d made sure of that, but there were other, much worse things, that might have befallen him.
“What is?”
“Seems our boy was better connected than I thought. Friends—family—very high up. One day a very quiet gentleman indeed came along and told me to forget all about him. Swept him off for a long rest in the country. Very posh. Very private.” Houghton touched a finger to the side of his nose. “Can’t say he didn’t need it, though.”
Lestrade let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. So not dead, then. Not in a gutter someplace. Well looked after. “I hope it does him good,” he said, with more feeling than he’d meant to.
“So do I, mate, so do I. London could use a mind like that.”
end