Chapter Text
22nd February 2000
12.47am
Why Greg had agreed to do this, he had no idea. He wasn’t even scheduled to be on duty right now, but being the absolute fucking saint he was, had volunteered to go and follow up on a lead that one of his co-workers had found and had conveniently gone and gotten ill before he’d had chance to sort it. But Greg liked the constable, and volunteered. Not like he had anything better to do with his night. Working in narcotics was a hassle most of the time, and Greg wanted nothing more than to be transferred to the homicide division. It sounded far more interesting, and more of what he’d had in mind since he was a kid, growing up with dreams of being a police officer solving murders, saving people, making London a better place. Following in the footsteps of his father.
But right now he was trudging through the rain at nearly one in the morning, on his way to infiltrate a drug den. His partner Donovan had refused to go out in the rain and had stayed in the car, telling Greg to call her for backup if he needed it. He was lucky enough she’d agreed to come with him anyway. He hoped that if (when) he transferred to homicide, she would come with him. She was a good partner, and he appreciated her humour most of the time.
But he didn’t appreciate her right now, leaving him all on his own to go and bust this place. He’d handle it though, he always did. Even in shoes that squelched, an uncomfortable hat, and his heavy overcoat. God, he couldn’t wait to get home for a hot shower. Wandering down the alley beside the address of the den, he kept a careful eye out for anyone, he wasn’t exactly undercover and if any junkies saw him, he didn’t think they’d go easy on him. He found a side door, kicking it down with a little force. He took the torch off his belt, immediately switching it on as he stepped inside. The hall he was in was empty, he couldn’t hear any movement in the whole place. He knew he had to scope it all out though, check for any dealers or particularly threatening junkies that they’d have to take in. He quickly took a look in all the rooms downstairs, poking his head around each door, finding nothing but the remnants of life. Dirty syringes, sleeping bags, odd socks, bottles. Seemed like the place had been evacuated. Probably knew that the police were coming.
He kicked an empty can in frustration, the noise echoing through the empty rooms. Greg headed back out into the hall, ready to leave, irritated that he’d found absolutely bloody nothing when he heard movement from upstairs. He froze, listening for a moment until he heard a faint croak of, “Hello?”
Greg bounded up the stairs in a second, going to the source of the voice. The upstairs seemed empty too, apart from one skinny body curled up on a mattress. He walked forward slowly, crouching down beside the mattress. “Hey, hey, easy,” he murmured as the boy seemed to tense up, sitting up from his fetal position. “Easy, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m with the police.”
The boy wasn’t satisfied with that answer, trying to scramble away from him. “Get away from me,” he said, looking around, brow furrowing. “Where’s everyone else?”
Greg snorted. He obviously didn’t know anything. “Good question,” he muttered. “Listen, can you stand? I’ll take you to a cell for the night, give you some food, you can go in the morning, I promise.”
An even worse thing to say, apparently. The boy looked scared shitless at the thought of being locked up. “No, no, you can’t. He’ll find me. I don’t want him to find me again.”
Greg cocked his head. The kid was on the run, then. From who? “Who? Maybe I can help you.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “You can’t help me. No one can.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. Come on, get up.” Greg grasped his arm, helping him up. He was a skinny thing, his clothes hanging off him. His curly hair was matted, there were dark circles under his eyes, it was obvious he’d been out here for a while. “What’s your name?”
“Sherlock.” Jesus, Greg couldn’t help but laugh.
“Sherlock? What sort of name is that? Is it your actual name?”
Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Yes, actually. My middle name, but I go by it. We’ve established that I’m not going to a cell for the night, so what are you actually going to do with me?” He spoke quickly, erratically. He wasn’t high, Greg could see that, probably craving it.
This was a bad idea, but he said it anyway. “Why don’t you come and kip on my couch for the night? You can have a shower, I’ll make you something hot to eat. No catch, I promise. One night, yeah? Just to help you out.”
Sherlock looked wary, his eyes narrowed. But he was obviously exhausted and hungry, and Greg hoped he would give in. Eventually he did, giving a reluctant nod. “Fine, one night. But no other police, no jail. You obviously don’t live in an expensive house so I doubt there are security cameras outside.” Sherlock moved over to pick up his backpack.
Greg frowned, looking a bit affronted. “Obviously? Thanks mate,” he said sarcastically. “But no. No security cameras. Why?”
Sherlock straightened up, looking Greg in the eye. “The man who’s after me has access to those things. Pesky way to find me, I have to stay out of sight.”
Greg stared at him, a small frown creasing his brow. This kid actually believed someone was after him, then? Or was it just paranoia caused by drugs? Greg highly suspected the latter. “Right. Noted. We’ll stay out of the way of any cameras. Come on then, my partner’s out in the car, we’ll drop her off before going home.”
With the boy’s frail arm over his shoulders, Greg helped him back out of the building, down the alley, out to where they’d parked the car. From outside, he could feel Sally’s gaze on them. He helped Sherlock into the back before getting into the driver’s seat, meeting Sally’s expectant gaze. “I’m taking him home,” he told her as he started the engine.
She looked at him like he’d gone mental, and to be honest, he probably had. “Taking him home? To your house? Your wife’ll love that, taking in strays.” She looked back at Sherlock with a vague expression of distaste which Sherlock returned in kind.
“Stop it, the both of you,” Greg sighed, looking back at Sherlock in the rear view mirror. “I’m just letting him stay the night, Sally. He’s got nothing on him. I can’t arrest him. Right?” He made eye contact with Sherlock in the mirror. He better bloody not have anything on him.
The kid shook his head quickly. “I don’t have anything. I’d be in a much better mood if I did,” he rolled his eyes.
Greg nodded. “Good.” He quickly explained to Sally the lack they’d found in the den, while he drove her back to her flat. As he pulled up outside, he glanced over at her as she spoke.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” the woman said to him.
Greg just gave her a lopsided smile. “I never do. Now piss off, we’re in early tomorrow.”
She stuck her middle finger up at him and got out of the car, and Greg watched her rush inside. There was a beat of silence before Sherlock spoke. “I don’t like her.”
Greg chuckled as he pulled off and drove back to his house. “Not many do. She’s alright, you’ve just gotta make her like you. Doughnuts and coffee are a good method.”
Sherlock scoffed in response, looking out of the window. “Your wife won’t mind you bringing me home then? Or your two children? Both daughters, I presume.”
Greg’s brow furrowed. “How’d you know that?”
“I deduced it. Don’t bother asking how, I’m far too tired to explain it to you right now.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “Alright, sorry. Just impressed, that’s all. Dunno how you could have worked it out. You’ll have to tell me later.” Sherlock gave him a non-committal hum in return and they lapsed into silence for the rest of the drive.
When Greg pulled into the driveway, he heard a soft scoff from behind him. “Shut up, you,” he said before Sherlock could even comment. “I just pulled you out of a drug den, be grateful.”
That did get him to shut up, and Greg helped him up to the house. He unlocked the door and told Sherlock to be quiet, his family were probably sleeping. Greg took him into the living room, sitting him down. “Right, I’ll go put you something on, want a cuppa?”
Sherlock nodded, looking around the room, seeming to be taking everything in. “Milk, two sugars.”
Greg nodded and went through into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and putting some bread into the toaster. He stifled a yawn, glancing round as his wife came in through the other door, sighing because he was far too tired to deal with her right now.
“Who the hell is that?” Caroline hissed at him, arms folded over her dressing gown.
Greg rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Just some kid I picked up. Calm down, alright? Please? I just said he could stay the night, I’d give him something hot to eat, and a shower. He’s homeless, love, you won’t even see him in the morning, I’ll take him back out with me when I go to work. Just go back to bed, I’ll be there soon.”
She didn’t look happy, giving him quite the glare before she turned round and went back upstairs. Greg rolled his eyes, glad she didn’t actually go and confront Sherlock. Greg didn’t want to scare him off. He felt weirdly protective over the spindly twenty-something, he thought as he buttered the boy’s toast, and made his tea.
He carried it back out and sat beside him on the sofa, drinking his own brew. Sherlock nibbled on his toast for a moment, before looking at Greg. “Your wife isn’t happy I’m here.”
“Yeah, well,” he chuckled dryly. “She’s not happy about much these days.”
Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his lips firmly shut, and Greg didn’t think to press it. “You can shower now, or in the morning. Whichever.”
“You go to bed,” Sherlock waved him off. “I’ve kept you up long enough. Thank you…for this,” he nodded once, like he wasn’t used to being polite.
Greg smiled and patted his leg, before getting up. “Cheers, Sherlock. And honestly, it’s no trouble. I’m glad to help.” He passed him some blankets from the basket and headed upstairs, poking his head into the girls’ room to check they were alright. Not a word was said between him and his wife as he got into bed, and despite the late hour, he lay awake for a while.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock, downstairs. He’d known so much, he seemed bright, from a good background judging by his accent. But someone seemed to be looking for him, someone Sherlock wanted to avoid. Greg would help, if Sherlock let him. He didn’t want him back out on the streets, shooting up. He felt some sort of duty over him, he wanted to protect him, make sure he was alright. God, when did he become such a sap?
Eventually Greg fell asleep, and in the morning, his first thought was Sherlock. Caroline was still asleep and he pulled on his dressing gown, stifling a yawn as he headed downstairs. “Morning, Sherl-“ He stopped with a frown, the sofa was empty, blankets neatly folded on the corner of the sofa. He did a quick survey of the rooms downstairs, coming to a conclusion that he wasn’t there. A note, however, had been left on the counter by the door. In spidery handwriting, Sherlock had written:
Thanks for the sofa, best night’s sleep I’ve had in a while. Adam Johnson is the dealer you’re looking for, the head of the drug ring.
-SH
Having a hunch that it was right to trust Sherlock, he grinned while folding the note neatly in his pocket, texting Sally to see what they had on a certain Adam Johnson.