laurajv | FIC: Nine Cigarettes

Title: Nine Cigarettes
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Rating: 13+
Summary: How Sherlock Holmes acquired a number of Lestrade's cigarettes.
Other locations: AO3

Notes: Thanks to

basingstoke for the beta, and

mandragora for the Britpick & beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

One, Two (Buckle My Shoe)

Lestrade was outside having a smoke and worrying about his sister-in-law when two frowning female officers escorted a madman out of the door. "Don't come back in, now, sir," one of them said. "The Inspector said thank you for your help, but no thank you, and that's final." They turned on their heels and went back inside, and the madman yelled "Listen to me, you fools, it's not the husband, it's the brother-in-law!" after them. He straightened his coat and then turned to Lestrade. "God, I'm dying for a fag," he said, and Lestrade held out the pack wordlessly. "Thanks," the madman said, snagging one and accepting the offered lighter as well. He looked Lestrade up and down, and smiled. Lestrade raised his eyebrows, checked his phone to see if his wife had called or texted or anything, and went back to his cigarette.

The madman took a long drag and blew smoke into the air. "Detective Inspector. Married, at least five years. Something's wrong. Worried about your wife? No, not worried enough for that. Her parents, maybe, or one of her siblings. Can't work out who. Medical matter, probably, nothing for the police; if it was for the police you wouldn't be here, you'd be doing something. Nothing you can do, then." The smoke curled between them as Lestrade stared, speechless. "It must be so tiresome, to care so much about so many people." The madman smiled.

"Who are you, and how do you know all that?" Lestrade managed.

"Sherlock Holmes," replied the madman, and raised the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette; in it he had Lestrade's warrant card. "Ah. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do tell Hancock that he's an ass and it's the brother-in-law."

Lestrade's phone chimed, and he dug it out of his pocket; there was a text from Lily. "Made it thru surgery. Waiting for her to wake up. Think they got it all" it said. When he looked up, Sherlock Holmes was gone.

Lestrade texted "Thank God" back to Lily, stubbed out his cigarette, went inside and snooped through Hancock's files. Right, OK, there -- looking for it, there was something off about a few of the things the brother-in-law'd said, for sure, anything that touched on the finances. He left a note clipped to the file: "Sure it's not the brother-in-law? Cross-reference statement w credit card record. -- G. Lestrade."

The next morning, Lestrade held Lily's hand, and she held Jess's hand, amid the quiet beeping of machines. When Jess woke up around lunchtime, Lestrade kissed her on the cheek, kissed Lily on the lips, and headed in to the office. Hancock wadded up a sheet of paper and threw it at him. "You bastard," he said, "what did you do, talk to the weirdo?"

"You mean Holmes? Was he right?" asked Lestrade.

"Fuck him, and you," Hancock replied. "Yes, yes, it was the brother-in-law." He sighed, hands on his hips. "I can't stand that guy," he said. "Gives me the creeps. Every time he stands behind me I think he's going to cut my fucking throat."

"He's not that bad, surely," Lestrade said.

"Take him to a murder scene sometime," suggested Hancock. "Starts dancing around and hyperventilating, that one. Acts like if you leave him alone he might have a wank with the corpse."

Lestrade blinked. "There's an image," he said, and settled down at his desk for some nice soothing paperwork.

Five weeks later, Jess was out of the hospital and moved into the spare bedroom so Lily could keep an eye on her, and Lestrade stood over two bodies that looked for all the world like a murder-suicide except for the tiny little fact of the missing murder weapon, and the improbable lack of blood.

He frowned, stepped outside, and lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in tiny curls, and he inhaled, grateful for the moment of silence. The newly-promoted sergeant, Donovan, poked her head out the door. "Sir," she said, "it gets weirder."

"Be just a sec," he said, and when she ducked back inside, he pulled out his phone and made a directory enquiry for one Sherlock Holmes.

* * *
Three, Four (Knock at the Door)

Sherlock Holmes solved six murders for Lestrade in three years, each of them stranger than the last. So when he went to visit Holmes with another peculiar case and found him unconscious on the floor, he closed his own eyes, counted to ten, and thought "of course". Then, he checked Holmes's breathing (fine), went through Holmes's things until he found the drugs (trouser pocket, some in the desk, some more in a jam-jar on a kitchen shelf), flushed them down the toilet, checked Holmes's breathing again (still fine), called his wife, and slept on the sofa.

"Lestrade," Holmes said, the next morning. "You have work for me. Tell me."

"You tell me what the hell you thought you were doing, snorting heroin," Lestrade answered.

"I must have work," Holmes said. "Please." Something vulnerable and human flickered behind his eyes.

Lestrade pounced on that vulnerable human thing ruthlessly. "Wash first. Then breakfast. Which you will eat. Then work."

Holmes smiled and whirled away. Lestrade heard the shower start; he went to the window and lit his first smoke of the morning, his own personal contribution to the urban miasma. There was an ashtray by his elbow; it contained three butts. One of them had lipstick on it; he raised his eyebrows.

Holmes strode back into the room, looking altogether too alert and oriented for a drug-snorting idiot the day after a bender. "Work, Lestrade!" he said, clapping his hands. "Oh, and a cigarette, lovely," as he took one from the offered pack.

"You didn't find it all," Holmes said, smoke wreathing them both as they walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the street to the little caff on the next corner.

"I was afraid of that," Lestrade answered. "Why do you do it?"

"Boredom."

"It's dangerous."

Holmes blew smoke in his face. "So's this." He looked away, as if at something only he could see. "So's life, but it doesn't feel like it," he said, softly. "Don't you get bored?"

"'Course," said Lestrade, "but there's other ways to fix that than yours."

"Fucking your wife doesn't work for me," Holmes said. "Tried it; it was horrid."

"Try reading," suggested Lestrade; he looked sidelong at Holmes and saw the veneer of wellness wearing thin, the pallor and shake of the addict beneath. "And don't make jokes about fucking people's wives unless you like getting punched."

"There's a thought," Holmes said, almost to himself, and took a last drag on his cigarette before bowing Lestrade in to their breakfast.

* * *
Five, Six (Pick Up Sticks)

Lily's voice shook. "Gaz, there's a man here -- looking for you -- think he's on somethi --" -- she yelped, abruptly, and the sounds changed; she'd switched to speakerphone for some reason. "--on something, Gaz, please."

"I'll be right there. I'll send a car."

"No car!" he heard, in the background. "No! No need. Lestrade--give me the phone! Lestrade!"

Lily yelped again. Lestrade closed his eyes. "Lily! Lil, sweetheart, it's Sherlock Holmes. Tell him I'll be there. Make tea, he'll probably settle."

"Hurry," she said, and the line went dead.

He'd never driven so fast in his life, sirens or no. He took the stairs up to his flat two at a time; he could hear Holmes's voice echoing down, but nothing from Lily at all, damn, damn, damn--

Lily was on the sofa, eyes wide, arms crossed over her knees. She looked terrified but unharmed. "You OK?" he asked, anyway, and she nodded.

Holmes paced and yelled at nothing. He hadn't noticed Lestrade was there, that much was obvious.

"What happened?"

"I was asleep," she answered -- she'd worked night shift at the hospital last night -- "and woke up to him in our room, going through the dressers. Scared the life out of me. Said he was looking for you, had to tell you about the triple murder last night."

"Murder!" said Holmes, spinning on his heel. "Lestrade! Murder! Anderson was there, Anderson sees but he doesn't observe, you know that. What was under the fingernails? What was that? It wasn't normal dirt from that area. The colour, Lestrade, what about the colour?" His eyes were unfocused.

"What triple murder? And Anderson wasn't working last night."

"Nonsense. Angelo's been arrested in error--"

That triple murder; that'd been weeks ago. "Holmes, I tell you, you've got your wires crossed. You cleared Angelo, remember? He was housebreaking at the time."

Holmes ran his hands through his hair. "Nevermind that, Lestrade, tell me about the girl with the broken umbrella. She snagged it on something. Why? On what? What was she doing? Why didn't she throw it out? Does it mean something?" He turned away, gesturing, talking about something else now, some other crime, some other person.

"He's been like this," Lily murmured. "Is he always like this?"

"No," Lestrade said. "Not...like this, no." He raised his voice. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"Come on, mate, let's go have a smoke."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said, and followed him outside like a puppy.

Outside, Lestrade lit two cigarettes, not trusting Holmes to light his own. He handed one of them over, and watched as Holmes paced and smoked and shook. Then he bundled Holmes into the back of his car, drove him home, and settled him on the sofa.

"You're destroying your mind," he said, when Holmes could look him in the eye for more than a few seconds. "I don't know what you've taken this time, and I don't care. You keep doing this, and your brain won't be worth a damn. And that'll be a waste."

"I can't stand boredom," Holmes said.

"Nobody can," Lestrade answered. "That's why it's called boredom, and not a jolly good time."

Holmes took a swing at him -- Christ, he was quick. Lestrade ducked, and when he came up, Holmes had dropped into fighting stance. Lestrade blinked, and relaxed, and waited; Holmes was still on something (probably not heroin, this time, what the hell had he gone in for now?) and his eyes were glassy. When Holmes's phone chirped and his hands went to his jacket pockets, Lestrade swept Holmes's long legs out from under him and cuffed him to the table leg. "You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, low and angry in Holmes's ear. "You are crossing the line. You're not so brilliant that I won't lock you up and throw away the key. Get. Clean. Find a new hobby. And if you come anywhere near Lily again, I'll put you in the most boring jail cell I can find. I'll invent entire new levels of boredom just for you, do you hear me?"

Holmes held still underneath him. Good. The bastard was listening.

Lestrade uncuffed him, and left him there. Lily met him at home with a pot of tea and squared shoulders. "So," she said. "That was Sherlock Holmes, was it?"

"Mmf," said Lestrade, burying his face in her hair.

"Got a lot to learn about manners," she observed, her voice muffled in his shoulder.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, he has. We'll have him round to dinner sometime and you can teach him."

Bless Lily; she laughed.

* * *
Seven, Eight (Lay Them Straight)

Sherlock (and when did the bastard become "Sherlock", anyway) texted him solutions to crimes from random phones. "How does he get people to lend him their phones?" complained Sally. "I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire."

"You would," Lestrade said. "Because you're not like him. It's him that wouldn't piss on you." He took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, savoring it. There was only one left after this one and he wanted it to last forever.

His phone rang, and he dug it out of his pocket; didn't recognize the number. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Lestrade! They won't let me go home alone!" Sherlock. Of course. He mouthed the name at Sally, who rolled her eyes and waved "goodbye" at him.

He tucked the phone under his chin and leaned against the wall. He'd been not five feet from here the day he'd first met Sherlock Holmes, he thought. "Who's 'they'? Don't tell me you've been abducted by mad nannies who won't let naughty boys out of their sight."

"Very funny". Sherlock's voice was tinny from the phone, and in the background someone was crying, and there was a murmur of voices.

"Calling from hospital, then," Lestrade said. "Were you texting me from hospital a few minutes ago?"

"I worked it out, but my phone's been smashed. Then they took that patient away and I had to give it back. Lestrade. Focus. They won't let me go home alone."

Lestrade laughed. "And why not? Drugs again? Suicidal impulses?"

"Concussion. They claim. They're wrong; I would know if anything was wrong with my brain."

"How did you--strike that, how do they think you got a concussion?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

"Boxing," Sherlock answered, and Lestrade dropped his cigarette in surprise; cursed as it burned his leg through his trousers. "It was your idea!" Sherlock said.

"It was not," Lestrade said, wondering what the hell?, and then he remembered, and said "I told you to get clean, you tosser, not develop an equally dangerous hobby."

"Just come get me," Sherlock said.

Why Lestrade agreed, he was never entirely sure, but wasn't that Sherlock fucking Holmes in a nutshell?

Sherlock's knuckles were split and bloody; his face was bruised, his pupils were two different sizes, and he stumbled every few steps. "You've got a concussion," Lestrade said.

"Have not," Sherlock replied.

"Have. Come on. I'll take you home in style."

"Not in the police car," Sherlock said. "You put me in the police car last time; it smelled of feet."

"You haven't got a choice, Sherlock."

Sherlock reached into Lestrade's pocket, took out the pack with its one lonely fag, and lit it, inhaling deeply. "Don't look like that," he said. "I'll buy you a new pack." His hands had left blood on Lestrade's coat.

"No," said Lestrade. "I'm giving them up. That's the last one. Last pack. I was saving it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. The bruises on his face deepened under the angle of the streetlight. "Fascinating," he said. "You must let me know how you get on."

* * *
Nine --

Nothing but smoking rubble. No telling if anyone was in there. Sherlock's disappeared; John's disappeared. No one knows anything. No one can say.

A tall man with an unpleasant twist to his mouth watched would-be rescuers shifting rubble; Lestrade recognized him from -- Christ, from when the serial-killing cabbie was killed; he'd been hanging about then, too. He walked up to the man, not bothering to look casual about it.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said, his eyes on the people working. "How nice to meet you, at last."

"Yeh," Lestrade answered. "And who are you, then? What's your interest here?"

The man frowned. "Don't tell me you haven't worked it out."

Lestrade was sick to death of games. "You're either the bomber, or someone else obsessed with Sherlock Holmes, and I've half a mind to arrest you until I figure out which one."

"Oh, no need to arrest me, I'm sure," the man said, his eyes still focused over Lestrade's shoulder. "'Obsessed' is such a strong word, don't you think? 'Concerned' is much more accurate. Habit, I suppose; my little brother's always been the troublesome sort. Cigarette?"

He held out a pack.

Lestrade looked at the hand holding it, the elegant tapered fingers a match for the ones he'd seen a hundred times, tapping away on a phone, tracing the lines of a crime, unbuttoning a cuff to show nicotine patches against white skin. Sherlock's brother, then. He so rarely thought of Sherlock having anything as human as family.

"You don't seem very worried, for a man whose brother's just been blown up, Mr Holmes," he said, taking a cigarette and accepting the offered light.

"One must have faith, Detective Inspector," the man said, and tucked the pack back into his jacket. He walked off, twirling his black umbrella nonchalantly.

When Lestrade got home, exhausted, knowing nothing more at the end of twelve hours than he'd known at the start, Lily stirred in their bed and turned towards him. "You've been smoking," she mumbled, half-reproachful, half-asleep.

"I'll stop again in the morning," he said.

--
end.