Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You know, there are times I wish I could just...poke around in his brain,” Lestrade said quietly so Sherlock wouldn’t hear, not really to anyone in particular, but he knew Sally would comment.

“Why?” was her simple reaction, causing him to look at her.

“I suppose I just want to know how it works,” he said. “How he pulls these deductions out of a rabbit hat, I guess.”

Sally chuckled, the sound a little derisive. “I’d like to get inside and poke around and find out what’s messed up about it that makes him the way he is.”

Lestrade frowned. That wasn’t what he had meant, not really, but he knew Sally didn’t see Sherlock the same way he did. She viewed Sherlock as nothing more than a nuisance, really. A brilliant nuisance, but he made her job and her days harder. Sherlock didn’t really help in that regard, no matter how much he tried to smooth things out between them. And he would admit, there were some...peculiarities...to Sherlock, though over the years he’d seen them fade into something more akin to quirks.

But he just wanted to get even a fraction of a glimpse into the way his mind worked. Mycroft had once said Sherlock had a beautiful, complex brain that should have been hindered by his past drug use but seemed to brush it aside as though it was merely an irritating chemical reaction, and Lestrade could see that. He had known Sherlock for a long while, since his brother had sought out his help to save the man from himself.

Sometimes he even liked to think he had helped in the matter, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Sherlock, being Sherlock, was blunt and rude, even with those he cared for, and he always wondered which side of the divide he fell on.

He was shaken out of his thoughts as Sherlock approached them, pulling off his late gloves with a snap, the only consolation he made to being on a crime scene and not contaminating the place. Not that he would do it intentionally, but Lestrade had learned long ago that asking for Sherlock’s help meant playing by Sherlock’s ground rules, even if they only made sense to Sherlock. But they got results, and to his superior’s that meant Sherlock’s quirks were to be tolerated.

Within reason.

The day Sherlock crossed the line his arse would be banned from being allowed within a quarter-mile of any crime scene NSY operated. They were all very aware that rules could only be bent so far, restrictions could only be circumvented so long, and this was a game that they all had to acknowledge could blow up in their faces at any moment if Sherlock ever changed.

But it was a game Sherlock played well, so for now, all was well.

“It was suicide,” he said, tossing the gloves at John. “An elaborate one made to look like a murder, but the gunshot wound was no doubt self-inflicted. Molly Hooper will confirm that. You can trust her to notice the minute details most would miss.”

“But not you,” Sally said.

“No,” he replied, seemingly uninterested in a game of snark with Sally. “In my opinion, he rigged the gun that fired the shot by remote so it would look like it had been fired from a distance, but I doubt it’s far away from here. That is unless he has an accomplice.”

“An accomplice?” Lestrade asked with a frown.

“He’s a shady businessman. If you don’t find the gun, look into other people he was trying to take advantage of that he would have a personal distaste for, and then see who else shared his feelings on the matter. He would only trust one person, perhaps two, with his plan, but only someone who hated Lord Drummond as much as the victim did would frame him for murder. Be wary of any evidence you find implicating Lord Drummond, by the way. Chances are it’s planted.”

“And if it’s not?” Sally asked, crossing his arms.

“Then I’ll parade around Scotland Yard in just my pants,” he said with a sneer towards hers. “Doubt the evidence, for once. It’s a ruse.” He motioned to John to move away from them and they walked around, ducking under the crime scene tape moments later.

Sally shook her head. “What a prick,” she said under her breath before uncrossing her arms and moving in the opposite direction from Holmes, walking towards the victim. Lestrade watched her for a moment and then turned back to see Sherlock and John ducking into a cab.

He would give anything to figure out how Sherlock ticked, he thought to himself. Anything at all...

Chapter Text

Something felt a bit...different...when he woke up the next morning. The first thing that surprised him was the disconnect he felt, as though there was something different with his body but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. He wondered if, perhaps, he’d fallen out of bed and concussed himself and then gotten back into bed without realizing it, but there was much to be done. He got ready, taking a shower and shaving while music played on the radio and he sang along to the good bits. He picked out a suit and shirt and almost thought of a tie for the press conference but changed his mind. Never wore one before, why would he wear one now?

And then he realized, he wasn’t living through his own life. He was…

“Hello,” he heard a voice say. “You noticed. Good.”

“I look like me,” Lestrade said, and then switched to a mental voice to match the familiar one he heard in his head. “I look like me, I’m in my flat...”

“But you’re living my life. You’re going to go about your day and everyone will assume you’re Geoff Lestrade but you’ll be living my life while I teach you a few...life lessons, I suppose.” Sherlock didn’t sound annoyed, as he had thought he would in a situation where they were sharing a brain? Body swapped? He had no bloody idea and already it was giving him a headache. “Oh, come now,” Sherlock continued. “You’ve always wondered how I tick. Consider this your chance to have a hands-on experience. You’re going to live a life in the day of Sherlock Holmes as soon as you step out the door.”

“Then what’s to stop me from staying in the flat all day?” he asked.

“Life. Your curiosity. You know...things.”

He went back to his bed and sat down, crossing his arms to think. Truthfully he didn’t want to live a day in the life of Sherlock Holmes, but then he did. Part of the reason he was a copper was the innate curiosity he could never seem to sate. Maybe not in the way that Sherlock seemed to have it, but bloody hell, there was an opportunity to learn exactly what made Sherlock tick and why would he pass it up? Slowly he got up off the bed, finished getting his clothing sorted, went for his coat and stepped out into London.

“Good job, Geoffrey,” Sherlock said. “Baby steps. We’ll make it to the leaps and bounds soon enough.”

“You promise we’ll take it slow?”

“For once, I’ll make a promise and keep my word. Baby steps and maybe someday, you’ll think similar to how I do.” The ghost in his brain let out a chuckle, which surprised him and then lapsed into silence. For a moment, he was on his own to explore what it was like in a genius’s brain.

Chapter Text

He had assumed when Sherlock said he would live his life that Sherlock had meant his life, but almost as soon as he’d made the decision to leave his flat his mobile rang with Sally on the line. “This one’s messy,” she said. “I don’t know if we want it.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock said. “The messy ones are the most interesting.”

“Define interesting,” he said.

“Pardon?” Sally said on her end.

“I meant messy,” he said, mentally berating himself for not thinking at Sherlock as he had before. “Define messy.”

“Gun violence, for one, but there seems something odd about it, like the guns weren’t...right.”

“Oooh, this will be a good chance to show what I can do through you,” he said. “Tell Donovan we’ll take her messy case.”

“Give me a location and I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Lestrade paused. “Is this one of the lose your breakfast type cases?”

“We’ve seen worse. A lot of brain matter sticking to the bodies.”

“And that’s a clue there, that it’s on the bodies and not the walls,” Sherlock crowed. “Oh, she’s dropping gems like Hansel and Gretel dropped breadcrumbs.”

Honestly, Greg didn’t like this back and forth and it was already giving him a headache. “You, hush,” he said to Sherlock. Then he turned his attention back to his mobile. “Fine. Location?” She rattled off an address and he realized it wasn’t far from the NSY offices. He could get a quick bite and then get to the scene around the time he would normally clock into his office.

“No time to eat, don’t eat on a case. Best to keep your stomach empty to keep your mind ready to absorb everything in one fell swoop,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade grit his teeth. “I’ll skip breakfast and get there quickly. Twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic.” He hung up and then said out loud, “Happy? No food for me.”

“The body is quite similar to a machine. You’ll get food soon enough, I promise. But hunger puts things in sharp contrast. You notice all the details.”

“Wonderful,” he murmured. He slipped on his coat and grabbed the keys to the vehicle he was using from Scotland Yard and then got in.

“Sirens?” Sherlock asked, his voice almost boyish with hope.

“No need,” Greg thought.

There was a long enough pause that he assumed this inner Sherlock was pouting when Sherlock said quietly, “Please?”

That alone caused him to smile. “I suppose I could, just this once,” he said with a soft chuckle. He flipped on the sirens as he pulled out of his assigned spot in the car park and then made his way to the scene, turning the sirens off just before he arrived. Sally was out there, a frown on her face.

“Did you use your sirens?”

“Prats at a light,” he said. "Have to use the perks sometimes. And it’s not like it was a personal matter. We have a messy case.” He rubbed his hands together, and action he usually didn’t do. “Show the way?”

Sally gave him a look but she lifted up the tape and they went to put the crime scene suits on. She gave him the rundown and surprisingly, Sherlock stayed quiet in his head. There were a group of five men and an abandoned poker game. No sign of a gun but no sign of money, either, and from what they had been told, this was a high stakes poker game with plenty of cash on hand. The people coming in to look at the body before deciding where it was to be sent were baffled. Greg listened and nodded, taking it in.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. “Send it to Barts. If it is what I think it is, Molly’s seen it before and can confirm.”

“Oh?” Greg thought.

“Wax bullets. Worse than blanks but they don’t do quite the same amount of damage. But she’ll know if the damage is from a wax bullet or a blank, which is the other potential cause.”

“Can people really die from blanks?” he asked, forgetting to think the question.

“Brandon Lee did,” Sally said. “On the set of ‘The Crow’? There was a malfunction and the prop gun killed him. Supposedly the scene where he died is actually in the movie.”

“That’s rather morbid, even for my taste,” Sherlock thought. “But it’s true. Though it depends on if there’s damage where the muzzle would have been pressed to the head. Prop guns are easier to obtain than unlicensed handguns.”

“Have the body sent to Barts and make sure Molly sees it,” Greg said.

“Alright,” Sally said, heading over to the bodies with Greg. Greg knelt down to examine one of the bodies and its head wound.

“Yes. Definitely a wax bullet or a blank. Hard to tell without a pocket magnifier to tell the specific damage. You should carry one.”

“When I can just call you?” Greg thought.

“But one day I might not be there,” he said. “One never knows. There’s the continued game with Moriarty. We don’t know where that will lead.”

Greg conceded the point to himself. This game, whatever it really was all about, had put everyone on edge with the bomb scare. There was no telling what else the sociopath would do, or who else he would target. And with that maudlin thought, he stood up. “Let’s get uniforms to start canvassing for witnesses while we work on identifying each of the victims and looking into their backgrounds,” he said to Sally. She nodded and went to tell the people handling the bodies to take them to Barts. “I will owe Molly for this. Five bodies with everything else on her plate?”

“She’s fond of you. And you don’t manipulate her like I do,” Sherlock said.

“So I should start doing that?” Greg thought.

“No.” The way Sherlock said it sounded as though he might murder him on the spot if he attempted to do any such thing, and seemed to place another puzzle piece in place about the type of relationship he had with the specialist registrar.

“I won’t then. But I’ll still owe her.”

“Chocolate, coffee, and lunch,” Sherlock said. “That should do the trick. Have Sally give her bubble bath and Epsom salt for tonight. Her stores of both are low.”

“And just how would you know that?” Greg asked, murmuring the question out loud. But Sherlock stayed resolutely silent at that.

Figured.

Chapter Text

Sherlock didn’t natter on in his head as he left and went about the business of IDing the dead, making arrangements for loved ones to be told after the autopsy results were in, and giving the scene another once over. Oh, he piped in when there was something of note, but he was quiet inside his head more than he spoke. He wondered briefly if John dealt with more bouts of silence like this.

“He does,” Sherlock said. “Sometimes I need noise, just to drown out all the unimportant information, but mostly there’s silence. There’s too much noise at crime scenes with the technicians and you and Donovan and Especially Anderson. The man does prattle on and on.”

“But he’s good at what he does,” Greg thought to them both.

“Yes, and a dog is good at pissing on a target,” Sherlock said sourly.

“Hey. If you’re going to be in my head you’ll respect my team,” Greg thought sternly. “Why do you and Anderson despise each other so much, anyway?”

“He’s sloppy” Sherlock said. “He may get from point A to point B in his analysis but there’s no...” Sherlock stopped, as though he was trying to capture a certain word. “Savoir-faire.”

“I’m with you on the sloppy, but he’s getting better. Give him more of a chance.”

“When he proves himself to be up to my standards, I will.”

“And you have high standards?”

“The highest. It’s why I prefer working with you.”

For a moment, Greg felt a burst of pride at that. “Thank you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Geoff.”

“Why do you do that? I know you know my name is Greg.”

“When it matters, if it ever does, I’ll use your proper name.”

“I must not be that important to you then. Just call you on cases and give your brain a chance to fine-tune itself more.” Now it was Greg’s turn to sound sour. He didn’t like to admit it but there were times he really loathed that habit of Sherlock’s to misname him.

“Then, for the time being, I’ll refer to you as Lestrade. Happy?”

“Happier,” he said. “Now then. I don’t have a reason to be at the crime scene anymore. The technicians are collecting the evidence and, well, I’m not holding it for you. What do I do now?”

“Barts. Time to mollify Molly and prepare her for a busy day.” He nodded, knowing full well anyone who might have seen him would be giving him a questioning glance, but it was out of habit and really, this was still so strange carrying on a full conversation with this specter of Sherlock in his head. He was going to slip up more times that day, he knew it, but for now, he’d have to deal with the slip-ups as they came.

Chapter Text

Sherlock recited Molly’s coffee order perfectly, which made him think that either getting Molly coffee was something he did on occasion or it was something that had stuck out in that mind palace of his. He also directed Greg to the types of chocolate he enjoyed and her “favorite meal to eat in her office.” If Greg was walking into the morgue with a knowing smirk, it was because he had finally realized Molly was more important to Sherlock than he had let on.

“Five bodies, Greg?” Molly said. She looked rather fetching today, with her hair in a tidy knot at the nape of her neck with a few strands out, and a turquoise and black striped shirt and black slacks. He could feel Sherlock stewing at the appreciation that he was showing, but if he’d ever thought he’d stand a chance with Molly that had been dashed the night of the Christmas party. There was something between them and he wasn’t about to interfere. “Take my bribe into the office and I’ll tell you what I know from the first victim. Keep in mind I’m not done with the post mortem yet.”

“Got it,” Greg said. He took the food and set it on her desk and then looked around. Sherlock seemed to be still stewing in his head but he wasn’t about to mention it to Sherlock. He grinned warmly when Molly came into the office. “I’m really sorry, but Sh—intuition told me this might have been something you’d seen before?”

“You almost slipped,” Sherlock said in a taunting voice in his head.

“Shut up.” Greg turned his attention to Molly at that point, tuning Sherlock out for the moment.

“Well, it’s definitely not a regular bullet that killed him. Not a blank, either. I would say it was a wax bullet. It reminds me of a case I worked on with Sherlock.” She paused. “I mean, one that Dimmock had called Sherlock in on and I helped with. Sherlock doesn’t actually work with me.” She looked at the clipboard in her hands. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all killed with wax bullets, but I won’t know more until I look at the other bodies and finish this one.”

“Have her run a toxicology screening for anything that would kill them fast, poison wise. I think the bullets were coated in something. I’d be more sure if someone had a pocket magnifier.”

“There’s a chance there might be poison involved,” Greg said, ignoring Sherlock’s jab. “Could you run a screen?”

“I can,” she said with a nod. Then she paused. “Why isn’t Sherlock here?”

“He’s phoning it in today,” Greg said. “He’s the one who suggested you take a look and to run the tox screen.”

“Then I’ll run a Sherlock-level one and look for the weird stuff too.” She tucked one of the hairs back behind her ear and looked at the food and coffee. “How did you know what I like?”

“A little birdie told me,” Greg said.

“Shut it,” Sherlock said in his head as Molly grinned brightly. “That smile is meant for me.”

“Well, tell the birdie thank you. Oh! And tell Sally thanks for the bubble bath she sent by earlier. I was out, and this one with Epsom salt is my favourite.” Greg made a note to remember that for her birthday, once he found out what kind she sent. “I’m going to have some of this coffee and I’ll go back to the post mortem. Do you want me to call you when I’m done?”

“Yes please, I’ll make sure Sherlock knows what you tell me.” She nodded and inhaled the steam coming from the coffee cup before taking a sip, and Greg realized it was time to leave no and let her enjoy a moment of peace before she dug back into her busy day. “Now what, Sherlock?” he asked the voice in his head.

“Now, home. Your home, not mine, unfortunately. I need to think.”

“Not going to happen.”

“What?”

“I have things to do, Sherlock, pertaining to this case as well as the three other open ones I have that you have no involvement in. I have to head back to the Yard and start working on those. But I can try and keep it quiet, at least.”

“Better yet...do you have any violin music?”

Greg grinned as he left the morgue. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Text

“Surprised Holmes isn’t sniffing around this one,” Sally said from his doorway hours later. He’d been playing every violin piece Sherlock would tell him to play and he had to admit, it was soothing. Sherlock even piped in on occasion on some of the cases that he had nothing to do with, pushing them further into the solved column as his day was winding up. Sherlock had dropped into a tense silence when Sally spoke.

“He’ll probably be involved tomorrow if we need him.”

“It'd be nice if we didn’t. Greg...I don’t like this stuff with him sometimes. Like the bomber. I get the feeling it ties more into Holmes than he’s letting on.”

“It probably does,” Greg said, noting that Sherlock was still staying silent. “Knowing him and his life, there’s a probable chance of it. But the whole thing is one of the many cases he’s juggling. We just have to wait to see what the bastard does next.”

“I suppose.” She put on her coat and then nodded towards the main floor outside of his office. “Want a pint to unwind?”

“Nah, I think I’m going to follow up some leads and then go home and get a good night’s sleep.” He gave her a grin. “I got a second wind on some of these.”

“Well, save some work for me in the morning,” Sally said with a grin of her own. “Night, Greg.”

“Night, Sally.” Sally left then and Greg leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes for a moment.

“She worries too much about my influence on or with Moriarty,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’m not saying things are going to get easier before he’s captured, but he’s playing a game, My presence...I don’t know if it matters much or if he’d move on to play with someone else if I disappeared from the board.”

“You’re not thinking suicide, are you?” Greg thought, his eyes flying wide open.

“No! But this is a dangerous hobby of mine, as you’ve told me before. Who knows what each case will bring? Or who else wants to play games, or who else may want me dead. Moriarty is my biggest enemy, but not my only one.”

“That’s more troubling than reassuring,” Greg pointed out.

“Yes, well, that’s life. John doesn’t get it, either. I’ve stopped trying to explain there may be a day when I have to leave the game to be played elsewhere.”

“It’s more than a game, though. It’s your life.”

“And yours, and John’s and everyone else’s. Anyone in my orbit is fair game at his hands. I know it isn’t encouraging, but it’s the plain truth. Now, can we get back to the cases? I need something to counter this dour mood this conversation has brought on.”

“Right, right. Mind if I toss in a cold case or two?”

“By all means. And some coffee would be good. It doesn’t keep one awake, but it suppresses exhaustion receptors. And if this is the one day we have like this, the more help I can give the more you’ll forgive the intrusion.”

“What if this isn’t the only day, though?” Greg asked in his head.

“Well, then I suppose there won’t be a need for Sherlock Holmes anymore. Now, cases?”

Greg nodded once again while he didn’t need to and then reached in his drawer for some cold cases that had an attachment from him. Sherlock went over the information, tossing out ideas and suspicions that Greg noted down, having cup after cup of coffee until he couldn’t keep the yawns from coming and his eyelids began to feel like lead. He got his blanket from the other drawer of his, leaned back in his seat, and shut his eyes as violin music lulled him to sleep and Sherlock stayed silent.

Chapter Text

The smell of coffee being waved under his nose woke him up, and the first thing he realized was his neck hurt. So did his legs. Then he remembered falling asleep in his chair after going over cases with Sherlock in his head.

“Sherlock?” he murmured, opening his eyes.

“Do I want to know the type of dreams you have about Holmes?” Sally asked, setting the cup down and giving her boss an amused look.

Dreams...it must have been a dream, he thought, but as he looked around he saw the noted he had made the day before, and the new case with the five deaths at the poker game. But he shook his head, which seemed to be empty of Sherlock’s presence, and picked up the coffee.

“No, it’s not that,” he said as pounding footsteps made his way to the door.

“The game is afoot!” Sherlock said, opening the door wide. “No time for that, we have to stop an assassin.”

“He called this morning,” Sally said, rolling his eyes. “I tried to get you coffee first but--

“I know, I know,” Greg said, and surprisingly, he and Sherlock chorused on the rest of his sentence. “The body is a machine and--” Sherlock stopped as Greg continued “I can get food later.”

“You’ll learn one of these days what makes me the prime specimen I am,” Sherlock said, and then he winked at Lestrade. “Take it to go but we need to move!”

Lestrade stared and ignored his coffee for a moment before pushing off the blanket, leaving it in a heap on the chair and standing up. “As he said, Sal, the game’s afoot.” He picked up the coffee and took a sip before following a bewildered-looking Sally and John, who were following Sherlock. Was it a dream? Maybe. But if it wasn’t, maybe he’d picked up a few things by thinking with the world-famous consulting detective.