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who: Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, ...
when: Weeks after that night of indiscretion...
where: London and outlining areas
what: You're not in 221b Baker Street anymore...
It was a mistake in Sherlock's ruling personality. The calculations had come to a quick and simple decision - it was wrong and it wouldn't occur again. But the lustful, lonely, all-be-it controlled young man within wanted more, knew that he wanted it, and felt he owed the detective inspector for all the shit he had put him through in the last five and a half years.
Six weeks since Sherlock had fallen off the wagon, a sober consulting detective sat on the landing in his pajamas and robe, flipping a five-pence piece slowly between his thin fingers. Lestrade had left all flushed and embarrassed. The young man thought he would have received another slap. But their parting was hurried and without mutual attraction. The invisible waiter's door swung shut between them.
Thump, thump, thump-thump-thump, ping-ing-ing. Sherlock let the coin fall down the stairs and then spin and fall on the floor near the door leading out to Baker street.
John was out with Sarah still. The holidays were pointless to him. No Holmes Christmas dinner, no thank you. It was New Year's Eve... 11:59pm to be precise. Several blocks away crowds were gathered to ring in the new year.
10...9...8...7...6...
Sherlock slowly pushed up to stand on the landing, his bare feet half off the first step. A wave of vertigo passed over him.
5...
Blinking his eyes, he dismissed it as blood flow and lightly placed a hand on the bannister as he gaze down in the direction the five-pence piece dropped. Upstairs, Sherlock had opened both of the living area windows and the one in his bedroom. The wet chill of London was flowing through the entire flat - curling and caressing the scents of the dying fire in the hearth, the linger scents of Lestrade, and their shagging.
4...3...2...
Then Sherlock tipped and fell forward down the stairs - shoulder, head, arm, back, face.
...1
He came to rest in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, the coin dully shining. Sherlock laid motionless and bloodied. Eyes closed and still.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
----
Ambulance sirens, paramedics assessing, attending, getting the young man onto a gurney, out of 221b, and into the vehicle to rush off towards the hospital. Mycroft had already intercepted the radio traffic and had his brother put in the best care at the best private hospital in London.
Sherlock groaned, wanting to twist and turn but found tension. Restraints, stitches in his forehead, upper lip, and cheek.
"I assume you have already come to the conclusion of your mindless meanderings in that part of London." Mycroft spoke. It was a statement, rather than a question from his lips as he stood at the foot of his brother's hospital bed.
Slowly opening his eyes and seeing through pain, he could barely contain the shock of seeing a much younger and thinner version of his brother.
"Why you were in that flat and in your bed clothes, I have no idea. But as soon as the doctor releases you, a car will take you back home." Mycroft continued, his sharp gaze ready to shred any excuse or diversion from his plans. Mummy would hate for Sherlock to squander his education opportunities.
It seemed that Sherlock had only received a minor concussion and some bruising. A couple of hours after he woke up, he was in a fresh suit and longcoat (the tie folded and stuffed in the coat pocket). Looking in the mirror, he saw just had beaten up he looked and it seemed he may have been rejuvenated. As he was wheeled out of the hospital to the limo in the pre-dawn hours, Sherlock spotted some out of place sights - building missing and advertisements for things that were years old in his narrow recollection of popular culture. And nothing that seemed like the cleanup after a New Year's celebration.
Getting into the black 1984 Mercedes Benz 280e, Sherlock continued to look over the inconsistencies and details that seemed so wrong. There was a copy of The Times was lying folded on the seat beside him. Picking it up, he read the date "September 24th, 2005".
Alarms, flashes, sirens went off in his head, aggravating his still aching head. Thousands of pages of detailed memories flipped in his mind and then he looked forward to the driver. "We need to stop off somewhere. 10 Wolseley Avenue, please. Hurry, please."
He was given a nod and course was changed. It was a side trip at best. Sherlock felt a shiver come over him as panic coated his face and tension brought pain to the stitched wounds.
Minutes felt like hours as the car went through the city streets. But as soon as they turned off from Dumsford Road and onto Ashen Grove, Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. Then a right turn on Wolseley and they were faced with dozens of marked and unmarked squad cars.
The sun barely peeked over the horizon, washing the building in a light blue. An ambulance was strobing with blue and red lights with its doors opened and a dark-coloured windowless van was unloading an empty gurney.
Sherlock's driver turned his head to look at his passenger.
"Get as close as you can," Sherlock spoke in a monotone. They didn't get far and the car stopped. The young man climbed out of the car on his own, jogging hurried up along the cars. He glanced at everyone, unaware of many things. But all he was concerned about was one man.
And there that man sat on the brick half-wall that lined the sidewalk in front of the flat he had shared with his wife and son. Lestrade sat there, looking off in shock as his fellow officers were combing over the scene and not speaking to him. Dried blood was caked in his hair, making the already dark brown hair look black. He didn't have the beginnings of a gut that Sherlock had stroked only weeks ago in his own mind.
Flipping the collar of his longcoat, Sherlock stilled as he listened to one of the Lieutenants half-ask if Lestrade had anywhere he could stay. Someone he could call. In-laws perhaps?
/////
to be continued...
when: Weeks after that night of indiscretion...
where: London and outlining areas
what: You're not in 221b Baker Street anymore...
It was a mistake in Sherlock's ruling personality. The calculations had come to a quick and simple decision - it was wrong and it wouldn't occur again. But the lustful, lonely, all-be-it controlled young man within wanted more, knew that he wanted it, and felt he owed the detective inspector for all the shit he had put him through in the last five and a half years.
Six weeks since Sherlock had fallen off the wagon, a sober consulting detective sat on the landing in his pajamas and robe, flipping a five-pence piece slowly between his thin fingers. Lestrade had left all flushed and embarrassed. The young man thought he would have received another slap. But their parting was hurried and without mutual attraction. The invisible waiter's door swung shut between them.
Thump, thump, thump-thump-thump, ping-ing-ing. Sherlock let the coin fall down the stairs and then spin and fall on the floor near the door leading out to Baker street.
John was out with Sarah still. The holidays were pointless to him. No Holmes Christmas dinner, no thank you. It was New Year's Eve... 11:59pm to be precise. Several blocks away crowds were gathered to ring in the new year.
10...9...8...7...6...
Sherlock slowly pushed up to stand on the landing, his bare feet half off the first step. A wave of vertigo passed over him.
5...
Blinking his eyes, he dismissed it as blood flow and lightly placed a hand on the bannister as he gaze down in the direction the five-pence piece dropped. Upstairs, Sherlock had opened both of the living area windows and the one in his bedroom. The wet chill of London was flowing through the entire flat - curling and caressing the scents of the dying fire in the hearth, the linger scents of Lestrade, and their shagging.
4...3...2...
Then Sherlock tipped and fell forward down the stairs - shoulder, head, arm, back, face.
...1
He came to rest in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, the coin dully shining. Sherlock laid motionless and bloodied. Eyes closed and still.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
----
Ambulance sirens, paramedics assessing, attending, getting the young man onto a gurney, out of 221b, and into the vehicle to rush off towards the hospital. Mycroft had already intercepted the radio traffic and had his brother put in the best care at the best private hospital in London.
Sherlock groaned, wanting to twist and turn but found tension. Restraints, stitches in his forehead, upper lip, and cheek.
"I assume you have already come to the conclusion of your mindless meanderings in that part of London." Mycroft spoke. It was a statement, rather than a question from his lips as he stood at the foot of his brother's hospital bed.
Slowly opening his eyes and seeing through pain, he could barely contain the shock of seeing a much younger and thinner version of his brother.
"Why you were in that flat and in your bed clothes, I have no idea. But as soon as the doctor releases you, a car will take you back home." Mycroft continued, his sharp gaze ready to shred any excuse or diversion from his plans. Mummy would hate for Sherlock to squander his education opportunities.
It seemed that Sherlock had only received a minor concussion and some bruising. A couple of hours after he woke up, he was in a fresh suit and longcoat (the tie folded and stuffed in the coat pocket). Looking in the mirror, he saw just had beaten up he looked and it seemed he may have been rejuvenated. As he was wheeled out of the hospital to the limo in the pre-dawn hours, Sherlock spotted some out of place sights - building missing and advertisements for things that were years old in his narrow recollection of popular culture. And nothing that seemed like the cleanup after a New Year's celebration.
Getting into the black 1984 Mercedes Benz 280e, Sherlock continued to look over the inconsistencies and details that seemed so wrong. There was a copy of The Times was lying folded on the seat beside him. Picking it up, he read the date "September 24th, 2005".
Alarms, flashes, sirens went off in his head, aggravating his still aching head. Thousands of pages of detailed memories flipped in his mind and then he looked forward to the driver. "We need to stop off somewhere. 10 Wolseley Avenue, please. Hurry, please."
He was given a nod and course was changed. It was a side trip at best. Sherlock felt a shiver come over him as panic coated his face and tension brought pain to the stitched wounds.
Minutes felt like hours as the car went through the city streets. But as soon as they turned off from Dumsford Road and onto Ashen Grove, Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. Then a right turn on Wolseley and they were faced with dozens of marked and unmarked squad cars.
The sun barely peeked over the horizon, washing the building in a light blue. An ambulance was strobing with blue and red lights with its doors opened and a dark-coloured windowless van was unloading an empty gurney.
Sherlock's driver turned his head to look at his passenger.
"Get as close as you can," Sherlock spoke in a monotone. They didn't get far and the car stopped. The young man climbed out of the car on his own, jogging hurried up along the cars. He glanced at everyone, unaware of many things. But all he was concerned about was one man.
And there that man sat on the brick half-wall that lined the sidewalk in front of the flat he had shared with his wife and son. Lestrade sat there, looking off in shock as his fellow officers were combing over the scene and not speaking to him. Dried blood was caked in his hair, making the already dark brown hair look black. He didn't have the beginnings of a gut that Sherlock had stroked only weeks ago in his own mind.
Flipping the collar of his longcoat, Sherlock stilled as he listened to one of the Lieutenants half-ask if Lestrade had anywhere he could stay. Someone he could call. In-laws perhaps?
/////
to be continued...
