Duty and Friendship (Sherlock, Casual) (FIN)

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade wasn’t really sure why it was Sherlock Holmes he had texted, because really, that had to have been a misjudge of character, hadn’t it? A weak moment, or something. He didn’t have many friends, but… Sherlock? Really? Why Sherlock? But it was done now, and so here he was, depending on Sherlock Holmes to drive him home. The man had apparently rented a car for them – he was a lot richer than Lestrade expected he was - and Lestrade completely expected that he’d be humiliated and blackmailed out of his mind after this.

He’d been dreading it for a while now, the examination. The doctors had said they hadn’t found anything obvious, had reassured him that there was most likely nothing, and yet – God, they always did have to take a blood sample, didn’t they?

Lestrade was a cop, and he was a good one. He handled gore fine. He could watch a woman bleed to death and not feel faint. He could shoot people and ignore the blood. But what he could not do was look at his own blood. It was a terribly embarrassing affliction that Lestrade had long upheld. Sitting in the chair, arm on the pillow, hooked up at the tube and machine and watching the red go up… Ugh, the thought itself made him shudder. His siblings used to tease him about it, but really, it was just so unpleasant!

He used to take something for it, some sort of narcotic afterwards that his parents had found, but he didn’t know what it was called. So… he was stuck passing out. He made sure to drink and eat a lot before hand, but… Well, he knew for a fact that it wouldn’t help, or if it did, only minimally. And it didn’t; as soon as the doctor hooked him up to the machine and the blood started going up, Lestrade felt that oh-so-familiar feeling. He’s passed out for a second just sitting there.

When it was all over, the rather concerned doctors had asked him if he had a ride home. He said he did. Hopefully.

Stumbling his way out of the hospital, he got quite a few looks from other patrons along the lines of ‘drunken fool.’ He didn’t blame them; he certainly looked that way. He was stumbling and sweating, after all. Finally he got to the exit, where he checked out and paid – were the numbers moving? – and left the building.

He looked around nervously for Sherlock. Oh god, what if he didn’t come after all? What would he do then? He could get a cab, but… Seriously, no cabbie in his right mind would take him, looking like he did. He was going into a little bit of a panic when finally he saw a familiar tall figure standing imperiously next to a car. Sherlock. Oh thank god.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock had been lightly leaning against the (rented) car as he waited for Lestrade to emerge from the hospital. He had been stood there for long enough to get bored (which, in fairness, was a rather short amount of time), and had long since given up on prematurely deducing the reason for the other detective being there in the first place.
He had started off running through a mental list of the reasons the man would need for blood to be drawn - but it turned out that was a rather extensive collection. And, of course, he wouldn't be able to accurately narrow it down until he saw the man.
Who knew, perhaps he could take the easy route and talk it out of him.

Holmes had been rather wary, at first, of driving in New York City. It wasn't that he was a bad driver (because, if he could say so himself, he was really very good), but more down to the fact that he knew the exact statistics of idiots on the road.

The lanky man crossed his arms, and tapped his fingers impatiently against them. The only reason he had agreed to this was in order to gain more information - that could, at some point, possible prove to be potentially useful - on the detective inspector.

Finally, after an age it seemed, Lestrade stumbled through the doors.
By the sight of him, Sherlock half considered walking over to help.

But no, the man had seen the car (only really noticing it by the figure standing by it, as he had refused to give a colour preference for the vehicle), and could make his own way toward it. Holmes displayed this thought by opening the passenger door, before striding around to the driver's side and sliding in.

This was, really, an exceptionally good deed on the consulting detective's part. The car wasn't even stolen - he had, as promised, rented it. Though, in all truth, he doubted whether the other man would notice that it had been unlawfully acquired anyway.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

The clothes that Lestrade were wearing were a heck of a lot more casual than usual. He was simply wearing a grey, short-sleeved V-neck and jeans. But still, it felt really, really hot out. Or, no, it was kind of cold, but… it was still hot. God, he was losing his mind, wasn’t he?

Lestrade stumbled over to Sherlock and the rented car, barely noting Sherlock’s uncharacteristically charitable action of opening the door to the passenger’s seat for him. Slipping in with very little grace, Lestrade closed the door and collapsed on the seat, dizzy. “Thanks for actually coming,” he breathed out, his words taking on a faint slur. Taking a deep breath, he briefly thanked god for not making him the sort of person who threw up when they got their blood drawn, too.

Opening his eyes, he looked at Sherlock. He blinked a few times, hard, before fumbling in his pocket to put his glasses on. That helped a little, but no, the consulting detective was still slightly blurry. “Do you…” Lestrade started, then trailed off, trying to remember the words. Oh god, he hated the aphasia… “Know where I live?” He forced himself to finish.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Do you know where I live?"

To this question, Sherlock gave the detective both a disapproving look and a disapproving noise. It seemed he wouldn't be making any exceptions on insulting the inspector's intellect - even if he was suffering from some ridiculous reaction to having blood taken.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade."
Of course he knew where he lived! There were certain benefits with knowing a member of the police oblivious enough (which really wasn't all that much - Gregory had seemed to grow a little used to the consulting detective's acts) for Holmes to be able to pick up a few things he deemed important.
Though he didn't do it extremely excessively.
And even Sherlock knew that there were certain things that even the other man would notice were missing after a while - so he had developed somewhat of a plan.

If it was likely to be forgotten, whatever it was the man had gained from pickpocketing Lestrade would join the collection of jumbled mess at 221b, probably forgotten to be forgotten about after approximately a week.
But those things he felt he really probably should return (or Lestrade would begin to suspect), Holmes had begun to drop off at the detective's home.
It really wasn't difficult to get in.

Sherlock started the car, immediately cursing every other driver in New York City for their moronic idiocy.

"So, are you going to tell me or shall I work it out?"

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade watched blearily as Sherlock made a noise and a look that meant, ‘Of course I do, who do you take me for?’ Of course he did. “Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade,” the consulting detective tutted. Lestrade sighed; right, as if he could ever escape the man’s brain for one second.

He closed his eyes once more, tried not to think too much, and listened to Sherlock colorfully swear at the traffic that was stopping them from going the 100 mph that Holmes probably wanted to. Maybe someday they could go on a trip, where there were lots of long roads in the middle of nowhere. The stream of obscenities was actually a little bit calming, somehow, until Sherlock asked the inevitable question. “So, are you going to tell me or shall I work it out?”

Lestrade had thought for some time about what to say when Sherlock asked. He could lie, of course: ‘I was giving blood,’ or ‘I needed to have some tests done, it’s a police thing.’ But really, he wasn’t all that good at lying and Holmes, being Holmes, would most likely see through them in seconds. So… the truth. Yes, that would be best, wouldn’t it? Besides, it saved him from the tedious work that came with creating a convincing sounding lie. Though, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be… evasive. Or stall. And really, he wasn’t in the mood for talking, his head was positively swimming.

“I had to have some blood work done,” he murmured, opening his eyes slightly to look at Sherlock. “Testing, it’s… Something I’ve had to do yearly for a long time. I’m rather surprised you don’t know.” Lestrade would have stopped there, but even in his state he realized Holmes might take offense to that (as if he couldn’t figure it out) so he decided to just come out with it all at once. “Cancer. Not anymore, but… A long time ago. There’s not really any threat, but… As you can see I don’t do too well with… getting blood drawn.”

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Ah, so it was cancer.
In all honesty, Sherlock hadn't really expected that.

Nevertheless, Holmes - being Holmes - took it all in his stride. It was probably fortunate that he suspected Lestrade wouldn't want sympathy for it (suspect, being naturally: 'Sherlock thought sympathy was a load of old tosh and not to be bothered with'), as the consulting detective certainly wasn't going to hand any out.

He really was very far from human at times.

Which was then ultimately proven, by the fact that Sherlock had a very inetersting idea indeed. All in the name of science, of course.
Holmes' attention was immediately turned to Lestrade (so it was rather lucky that they had reached an extremely busy set of traffic lights), whom he regarded in an all-too-familiar manner to be comfortable. And, though Gregory probably knew just what that expression meant, he found himself not caring in the least.
With one eyebrow raised, and a smirk that positively dripped with the words "well, this is interesting, isn't it?", Sherlock observed the detective inspector sat in the passenger seat with an expression he primarily reserved for his most brilliant of experiments.

"Why couldn't I have borrowed your car, anyway? It would have been much more simple," Holmes decided to draw the attention far away from his all-too-obvious display of intentions with the question he had been asking himself as he filled out the forms for the rented car. For some reason, the man was unable to conjure up any answer that seemed to fit.
Perhaps it was just that his ego was too big for Sherlock to think himself bad for anything.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade was not in the mood for particularly Sherlockian gestures at the moment. This list of gestures, of course, included The Look. Lestrade had long since dubbed it “The Look” in his own head. It was usually reserved for 1) dead people, 2) parts of dead things, or 3) anything else Sherlock wanted to intimidate into being his own. Lestrade did not, on any circumstances, like it being directed towards him, nor did he like it now.

“Well, this is interesting, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, his predatory look making Lestrade want to bolt out of the car. And – Interesting? Oh, that bastard. “Why couldn’t I have borrowed your car, anyway? It would have been much more simple,” Sherlock continued, which Lestrade really should have gotten angrier about.

“Sherlock, I am not your specimen,” Lestrade snapped, then closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, trying to ignore the pulse between his eyes. “And I don’t have a car. If you mean one of the police cars – Well, you can scrap that idea, because you are never, ever driving one of those.” Lestrade was a little surprised Sherlock actually knew how to drive at all, considering he had lived in London and then New York City. Hell, the only reason Lestrade himself had a license was for his job. If Sherlock, of all people, was let to drive a police car, well... He could expect to be loosing most of his driving privileges.

“Now shut up, I’m trying to breath,” Lestrade said, a little harsher than he’d meant it, but didn’t regret how it came out. He fumbled to take his glasses off and put them back into his pocket. He ended up just sort of dropping them in his lap. Ah, well, close enough. He sighed and enjoyed the few seconds of silence he would get before Sherlock inevitably started talking again.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

“Sherlock, I am not your specimen,”
Of course, that only made Sherlock smirk grow - honestly, if the detective inspector thought he could control what Holmes wanted to do, then he really underestimated the man.

“And I don’t have a car. If you mean one of the police cars – Well, you can scrap that idea, because you are never, ever driving one of those.”
Well that certainly wasn't a good thing. The consulting detective was, honestly, rather offended at that particular comment. After all, he suspected that he could most certainly drive better than Lestrade himself - not boasting, but just honest fact.
Nevertheless, Sherlock would never, ever pass up any sort of opportunity to torment the other man beyond belief.
And so, in response, when the light finally changed and the cars beyond began moving, the consulting detective followed suit - but not before he intentionally hit both the clutch and the accelerator at the same time - causing the vehicle to jerk a rather impressive distance.

When Gregory simply told him to 'shut up' (he supposed that 'piss off' would have been impractical, really, considering the fact that he was driving the car), Holmes responded with nothing but a partially-stifled chuckle. If it weren't for the irritating amount fo traffic that was, in fairness, typical for New York, Holmes would have the car speeding down the streets as fast as it was capable of - probably just to spite the man.

Unfortunately, that was not the case.
But Sherlock made a mental note to make sure that one day, circumstances would arise which would give him opportunity to do just that.

"I think I have a right to question why you contacted me, though. If you didn't want to hear me talking then you should, really, have asked somebody else." The consulting detective tapped out a continuous rhythm on the steering wheel as he spoke.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade was not pleased when Sherlock merely smirked at his comment that he was not something Sherlock was allowed to test. Dear god, had the man ever heard of kicking someone while they were already down? Then again, perhaps Holmes was the living embodiment of that phrase. Black and white spots hindered his vision when Sherlock rudely jerked the car – obviously purposefully – in a petty move of retaliation. “Sherlock!” Lestrade growled. He didn’t even care that his anger was just what Sherlock was trying to provoke.

“I think I have a right to question why you contacted me, though. If you didn’t want to hear me talking then you should, really, have asked somebody else,” Sherlock said, and began to tap his fingers loudly on the steering wheel. Lestrade could have killed him. The tapping was grating on his nerves terribly.

“Stop that!” Lestrade yelled at him, practically itching to hit the man. He settled into a moody silence, trying not to think too hard about Sherlock’s question. “I... Well, I bloody well should have called someone else,” Lestrade huffed, but it was of no use; Sherlock wasn’t going to let up until Lestrade told everything, and he knew it.

“I only called you because… Well, I’m not exactly part of the social scene here,” Lestrade admitted wearily. He looked out the window, trying not to let how slowly the damn traffic was inching on get to him too much. Though, being stuck in a car with one Sherlock Holmes, that was pretty hard. “You’re my… Well, it’s not my fault you’re my person.” As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Lestrade could have banged his head on the window (if it didn’t already feel like that). His person? He wasn’t sure if that was completely childish, lame, or just plain weird.

God he was stupid! He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, but… it was true. He knew a lot of people here, but he wasn’t exactly friends with them. Not that Holmes was really, well, a friend, but… He was one of the closest to that that Lestrade had. Unfortunately for Lestrade.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Doing his best to irritate his passenger certainly paid off, as Lestrade seemed to be growing more distraught by the second. The jerking of the car seemed to gain the desired effect, too, as in response to his question Gregory seemed to realise that Holmes wasn't going to settle for halves - and so told him everything.
Actually, he probably told him too much.

“You’re my… Well, it’s not my fault you’re my person.”

Sherlock's fingers immediately ceased tapping out the previously continuous pattern (despite the plan that the man had intended to carry on regardless of the fact that the detective inspector had shouted at him to stop) almost immediately.
Oh dear lord.
Lestrade didn't consider the sleuth to be a friend, did he?
The poor man.

Holmes' dark-haired head turned slowly, until he was staring straight at Greg with an face displaying clearly combined confusion (in statistics, less than 20% of this made up the final expression), and complete and utterly undisguised terror (around 80%).
Obviously he didn't take to the thought of having 'friends' very well at all.

Which was fair, really. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes. He typically regarded friends as being the sort of people who saw through every well-built barrier one tried to put in place, therefore destroying practically everything the consulting detective worked for. And, of course, there was the addition that 'friendships' were, in fact, ridiculous, and should be reserved for sentimental five-year-olds.

"Your person?" Not only was the word emphasized, but Sherlock also removed both hands from the wheel in order to accompany the word with air quotations.
"And how, pray tell, did you come to that assumption?"

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Lestrade, though still cringing internally from his previous comment, let out a quick little breath of relief when Sherlock stopped tapping on the steering wheel. It had really, really been grating on his nerves. Lestrade turned his face from the window to mutter some thanks, and… immediately regretted it.

Sherlock’s eyes were penetrating. More accurately, the look in Sherlock’s eyes seemed to resemble pity. Right, so Sherlock was smart enough not to make a big deal out of his being at the hospital, but was mortified at the thought of Lestrade calling him his “person.”

“Your person? Sherlock asked, stressing the word ‘person’ for all that it was worth. Lestrade was a little alarmed to see him lift both his hands from the steering wheel in order to do bunny ears in the air around the word. The traffic was slow, yes, but it wasn’t completely stopped. “And how, pray tell, did you come to that assumption?”

Lestrade didn’t know himself, really. He’d never called Sherlock that in his head before, nor had he ever called him a friend; the term had come out much more intimately than Lestrade ever would have intended it to. Damn it all.

“…Yeah,” Lestrade mumbled, trying not to add extra meaning to the words. And really, they just had been words… They hadn’t meant that much, had they? You’re my person. What did he mean by that, anyway? He certainly hadn’t meant Holmes belonged to him – Holmes would never belong to anyone – so perhaps he had meant… friends. It seemed childish, but… Well, he and Holmes were somewhat friends, weren’t they? Even if Holmes didn’t think so. Friend: A person who was attached to another through feelings of affection or support, and who saw to each other on a platonic level. Didn’t they do that? Right, not really. But they worked together, certainly supported each other there, and Lestrade, though he would probably never admit it, did like Holmes much more than he had initially, these days.

Sherlock was not a child. He could fend for himself. But people were unkind to him, never tried to understand him; never gave him a chance. And maybe he didn’t deserve one, but Lestrade had chosen to give him one. And, well, it had paid off, hadn’t it? After all, if it weren’t for Holmes, he’s not really sure who would be driving him home right now.

“You’re my person,” Lestrade repeated, sighing out the words. It wasn’t a happy truth, but that didn’t make it a lie. He didn’t care to explain anymore; Holmes would likely get the idea on his own, even if he didn’t like it. Lestrade readied himself for Sherlock’s next attack, but really, he felt so ill he wasn’t sure he would completely understand the words that would come with it; he was pretty sure he was going to pass out again. Groaning, he leaned forward and put his head between his knees. He probably looked pathetic, but he’d rather not pass out in front of Sherlock.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Lestrade didn't give much of a response to Sherlock's demand for an explanation (then again, he had phrased it as a question - perhaps it would have worked better if the man had downright commanded he did so). Which any other person, considering the detective inspector's state at that current time, would most certainly overlook. But, then again, Holmes wasn't an ordinary person.

Though he did know better than to pester on the matter in the same way, of course.

"Person." The consulting detective repeated. He wasn't entirely sure what was meant by that word - especially considering the fact that it had been uttered by a man who was near to passing out in the car (however much Lestrade may seem to not want to, it was fairly obvious that he was rather close to losing consciousness) - which was a thought that, once brought into existence, was obviously and undoubtedly going to consume a large amount of space in Sherlock's conscious mind.
Which definitely was a shame.
He had been saving that space for the results of his most recent experiments - which happened to involve a formaldehyde water solution, a can of spray paint, half of a goat and twelve cigarette lighters. And, well, now it was lost to the other detective's unfortunate word choice.

As if in retaliation of this off-putting fact, Holmes directed the car rather forcefully around the next corner they faced (having turned off into a much quieter street when Lestrade placed his head between his knees - thus giving him opportunity to drive at a slightly more desired pace), seeming to completely ignore the fact that there was, quite clearly, somebody else in the car. Somebody else who probably wouldn't appreciate such behaviour.

But then again, Gregory just had to regret having asked Sherlock for a favour.

"Curious," he commented simply, turning his attention back to the detective inspector when the vehicle (once again) hit a wall of traffic (really, it was completely ridiculous).

"Though I really don't think I am your 'person' - " here, again, he emphasized the word with all his might, " - Lestrade."

The man then paused, as if considering something of tremendous importance. Brow furrowed, and with a look of pure concentration that was not out of place on the younger detective's face, he spoke again.
"I am honestly interested to know why you would think that, though."
And I'm not leaving it alone until I find out.
The last part was stated clearly yet again by his expression.

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

Though he knew it was likely that he would break this promise, Lestrade then and there vowed never to rely on Sherlock Holmes to drive him somewhere ever again. It was a bit like walking right into the arms of a murderer. Sherlock made another sharp turn and Lestrade squeezed his eyes tightly, trying not to give in to the sense of vertigo he was being hit with that was nearly comparable to being on one of those hellish, twirling rides at an amusement park.

“Curious,” Sherlock commented snidely, once again stopping the car at a bout of traffic a lot more violently than was necessary. “Though I really don’t think I am your person, Lestrade. I am honestly interested to know why you would think that, though.”

Lestrade would have ignored it, really he would have – he should’ve – but he looked up at Sherlock, and the face the man was making made Lestrade want to cry a little. It was a ‘tell me what I want and until you do we are not leaving this car,’ sort of look. Sherlock wasn’t making any attempt to disguise the expression, either.

Sighing deeply, Lestrade rubbed his fingers hard against closed eyelids. He nearly said, ‘Can we just drop this?’ but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t, so didn’t bother. “I called you for a favor. You accepted. You’re here,” Lestrade said, his tone a little more melancholic than meant to be. But still, it was depressing that the closest person he may or may not have as a friend was a sociopath who fancied toying with dead bodies.

“If you’ll excuse the wording…” Lestrade casually tried to console the consulting detective in his possibly hurt dignity. Perhaps it was simply the wording? If he’d used ‘my sniffer dog,’ maybe it wouldn’t have come to what was happening now. Lestrade had noticed in the past that Sherlock handled insults a bit better than compliments, sometimes.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

“If you’ll excuse the wording…”
Of course he wouldn't. The 'wording' would obviously have already been added to Sherlock's mental library of 'ways to blackmail Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade', and would there be left until the consulting detective felt the need to either relocate or remove it. Really, it was only wording. But Holmes being Holmes would easily be able to use such an unfortunate thing to his advantage.
Obviously.

"I have told you this many times before, Lestrade, but you really should think of the words you are about to say before you allow them to leave your mouth." The edges of his lips quirked into a half-smile before he spoke the nect sentence.
"I do believe the term, in fact, is 'word vomit'."

One slight glance at Gregory told Sherlock almost all that he needed (wanted) to know. Honestly, there were very many times (this being, of course, one of those) that the other man had some sort of uncanny ability to display his very thoughts quite obviously across his face.
Or perhaps it was just that Holmes was rather good at reading him.
Either way, it didn't honestly matter.
Though, the man couldn't help but think that - by merely calling him his 'person' - it was, honestly, quite offensive in it's own way. Though equally amusing, which was enough to make up for the other fact.

The car was jerked around another corner. Fingers tapping once more against the steering wheel (though this time it was completely intentional, and the consulting detective let it be known that he was only doing so out of spite with a pointed smirk), it was growing even clearer that Sherlock was becoming increasingly restless with the irritating, sloth-like and positively slow movements of the traffic.
This was furthered when Holmes immediately (and with somewhat of a sigh, as though his actions were only occurring due to his being provoked by the rest of New York City) drove the vehicle onto the pavement, and straight into an adjoining street.

"Time for a shortcut."

[GREGORY LESTRADE]

“I have told you this many times before Lestrade, but you really should think of the words you are about to say before you allow them to leave your mouth. I do believe the term, in fact, is ‘word vomit’,” Sherlock said imperiously. Lestrade sighed. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t let it go. What was he thinking, anyway? That he’d get mercy from a man such as Sherlock Holmes? Surely he was more delusional than usual.

Lestrade looked pointedly forward at the cars in front of them – there were an awful lot of them – as Sherlock made it perfectly clear that he was reading Lestrade. He tried not to squirm, because… Well, he didn’t want to make it clear to Sherlock that he felt just like one of Sherlock’s dead bodies at the moment. Though he was sure that the man already knew that long ago, anyways.

He also unsuccessfully tried to suppress a cringe as Sherlock both made a sharp turn and began to tap his fingers against the steering wheel once again. From the corner of his eye, Lestrade could make out Sherlock giving a self-satisfied smirk. God, the man reveled far too much in making Lestrade uncomfortable.

“Time for a shortcut.”

Lestrade turned his head quickly to look at Sherlock at this sudden comment – the motion he immediately regretted – and was scared to death by the look in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Oh my god, Sherlock, don’t you dare-“ but Lestrade cut himself off; Sherlock was already driving across the sidewalk. “Sherlock!” Lestrade all but shrieked, more than a little terrified that they were going to run over some poor kid. “Get back on the road this instant, you fucking idiot!” They were bumping over the pavement, getting angry looks from everybody in surrounding cars, and Lestrade wanted to sink lower into his chair. Not that he knew any these people, but – God, the embarrassment was still there. And he was a policeman! Sherlock was blatantly breaking the law and making several safety violations while driving while he was in the car. Oh that bastard, he was just asking for it wasn’t he?