Chapter Text

This wasn’t where Greg Lestrade wanted to be at ten o’clock at night. The coastal gale shredded through his useless windbreaker, which flapped pathetically against his body despite trying to anchor it to his frame by shoving his numb hands into his pockets. Dark turbulent clouds blocked any sort of natural light that might have been in the bleak skyline, only a hint of the storm forecasted to hit the area. Just beyond the shore, the black waters of the sea were frothing like the possessed. “I want us out of here soon, Andersen,” the inspector barked.

“Give this storm another couple of hours, and there won’t be anything left of the crime scene to investigate,” Andersen replied, his beady eyes restless from behind his forensic mask. He stood, the plastic suit rippling with bitter gusts. “Not that it’d be much of a loss—it’s pretty clear what happened here. Anyone with eyes could tell you that this was a suicide.”

Lestrade’s mouth tightened into a line as he stared down at the body. Andersen certainly wasn’t too far off—this sort of thing was common in this area. For some reason, desperate souls like this poor sap thought a quiet shore-side cabin in an isolated area like this was prime real estate to off themselves. This man had rented the cabin two days ago, set up a lawn chair facing the rocky beach, and then swallowed a bottle of prescription medication while watching the bloody sunset. His coworkers had reported him missing when he hadn’t shown up to work nearly two weeks ago; based on how the man’s $150 tie fluttered against his corpulent stomach, Lestrade guessed it had been a compulsive decision. “Then get what you need from him, and let’s get him out of here.” Lestrade lifted his eyes tersely. “The landlord’s getting testy.”

Beyond the boundaries of the garish yellow crime scene tape, the portly landlord stood with his back to the cabin, staring moodily out to sea. He was the type of man who was perfect to get a pint with at the pub, but absolutely loathsome to work with in a police investigation. A gruff man with a sandy beard and rough clothing, Lestrade had known exactly what sort of man they were dealing with when the landlord had called in the body with all the tone of a disgruntled hotel guest who had found a dirty towel on the floor.

“He must be used to this by now,” Andersen commented, stepping back from the body to allow a camera flash to engulf the crime scene. “Must be downright awful for business.”

“I highly doubt he puts this sort of thing on the brochure,” Lestrade mumbled. The inspector sighed, turning towards the darkening coast. “I’ll go see if he needs anything, besides a strong drink and some peace and quiet.”

“Don’t we all,” Andersen barked back as another bright flash covered the body. Lestrade took swift choppy strides to the crime-scene tape, ducking under the flimsy boundary. Gravel crunched under the soles of his shoes, barely audible over the gusts that whipped at his coat collar. Hopefully, this whole mess could be wrapped up soon before the storm swallowed them all. The inspector slowed only when his footsteps could be heard over the wind by the weathered landlord. “Mr. Sard?”

“Are you all just about done over there?” the man spat, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Or did you want to take pictures of the backs of the photo frames, too?”

“We’re just making sure to be thorough,” Lestrade assured him, shouting slightly over the wind. “We will be off your property as soon as we get all the evidence we need.”

Sard scowled, spitting an excess of mucus into the dirt at his feet. “Talk a walk with me,” the landlord growled in that rough voice, turning towards the coast.

Lestrade’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t think--”

“I can’t just stand around here and watch you all nitpick my property all night, and I need someone to come with me to make sure the ocean doesn’t swallow me up. Now walk with me.”

Lestrade hesitated, not sure how much he trusted this character with the sea as the only witness and a nearby storm as a perfectly good alibi for an “accident” to occur. At this point, however, Lestrade didn’t really feel like he had much choice; besides, Andersen and Donovan could manage the scene for a few minutes. Reluctantly, the inspector clenched his coat around his torso, and followed behind Sard’s ungraceful gait.

Sard led the inspector to a roughly beaten trail that wound out to the coast; the man’s broad-shouldered build seemed out of place for such an agile path. The ground beneath the men’s feet softened as they walked, slowly transcending from the coarse gravelly lot to the smooth manicured loam to finally the malleable grey sands that pebbled the patches of shoreline. Lestrade felt his feet struggle to find purchase and further hinder his stride, but ahead of him Sard marched on with perhaps greater grace, even with his bulky frame. Lestrade could practically feel the cold particulates of sand creep into the pores of his skin; it would be at least a week before the last traces of sand left his shoes. Ahead of him, Sard never turned around to check on his companion, only flashing a hard grin as he glanced side to side, nearly gleeful with the salted wind against his skin again. The muscles of his back twitched as the landlord drew a lighter and a carton of cigarettes from his pocket, striking the flame to life in his massive hand. “Care for one, inspector?” Sard barked over his shoulder.

Lestrade stumbled to Sard’s side, his frown already tasting of sand. At this point, he would have preferred to put anything in his lungs besides the salt in the gales, which were worse out here. The inspector grunted and gave a brisk nod, and with a laugh, Sard placed a cigarette into the man’s cold fingers. “I’ll take it you’re not a sailor, inspector,” Sard yelled over the gusts.

“Not exactly,” Lestrade replied, gratefully bringing the unlit cigarette to his lips. Sard lifted the lighter as if to light the inspector’s cigarette, but paused before the flame reached the tip. Lestrade glanced up at the landlord, who was staring over Lestrade’s head. “Sard...?”

Sard’s gaze remained fixated down the shore, his jaw opened slightly and tersely. Lestrade turned (with some impatience) to see what Sard found so captivating. At first, all he saw was the winding stretch of gray sand melting into the dark tongue of the sea which continuously lapped at the shoreline. Lestrade’s eyes continued to scan the coast, trying to find anything that would have caught the attention of his burly companion. His eyes narrowed against the sharp particles in the wind, blinking wildly to force sand out his sight. His eyes swept the shore furiously, nearly abandoning the task until his gaze flickered up towards the rocks where part of the nearby cliff had fallen into the sea. Lestrade dropped his cigarette.

Sard pushed past him before Lestrade had time to order him to retrieve help, the gruff man’s panicked gait still unusually graceful on the sand. Lestrade followed behind him, still struggling to make his legs cooperate on the surface of the sand; instincts, however, had forced him to forget his frustration with it at the moment. Sard would reach the rocks first, despite Lestrade’s desperate flailings—he would have to wait until he arrived at the rocks to phone in his team.

It was a wonder that Sard had seen her at all—her skin was deathly pale, blending into the bleached rocks behind her that cradled her twisted body. Her emaciated limbs clung to the rocks, anchoring her in place. Her clothes were torn and half-frozen, drenched with ocean water and worn by the harsh winds—it looked as if the sea had just spit her out. Wild blonde hair cascaded around her face, soaked into thick tangled locks around her neck. From a distance, Lestrade had feared that they had found a corpse—as he came closer, however, it became clear that the girl was visibly shaking, her flesh trembling desperately. Sard reached her first, seemingly unsure of what to do; as Lestrade neared, it became clear as to why. The girl was alive, but barely; her body quivered uncontrollably and clutched to the rocks. She was clearly hypothermic and practically half-dead; her entire frame was still saturated with ocean water, and from behind chattering lips she was speaking incoherently, her voice barely audible over the growing storm. Lestrade knelt in front of her, and found with great surprise that her eyes were even open; her face was gaunt and wild, green eyes frantic and almost inhuman. Her sentences were nonsense, a long string of random syllables and sounds that she clung to urgently as if they were of the greatest pertinence.

Lestrade stood, thrusting his hand out to Sard. “Give me your coat,” he ordered, the tone of his voice huskier and firm. Sard complied immediately, shrugging off his wool garment and placing it heavily in the inspector’s palm. Lestrade draped the fabric over the girl’s thin shoulders, lifting her to pull it fully around her. Her body was rigid in his hands, her skin cold and unforgiving as the rocks surrounding her. She didn’t respond to his touch; she didn’t seem to know anyone else was there. Lestrade gingerly knelt again, holding the girl in a sitting position in one hand while reaching into his pocket with the other to retrieve his phone.

“Has she gone mad?” Sard rasped disbelievingly, his face a scarred and weathered mixture of fear and indignation. Lestrade ignored him, fumbling furiously in his pocket. His fingertips had just grazed the cool exterior of the phone when he felt a thin hand fiercely grab the front of his coat. Lestrade’s eyes darted upwards quickly; the girl was staring into his face now, breathing violently enough that Lestrade nearly expected her fragile ribs to shatter with every inhale . Her eyes were still frantic from behind knotted tendrils of hair, but they were now transfixed on him, seemingly horrified and relieved at the real live person holding her. Her voice lowered, but as Lestrade strained to hear her, the first recognizable word from her mouth sent a cold stab down his spine.

“What did you say...?” Lestrade half-whispered, his stare eagerly searching the girl’s expression.

Her fingers tightened, mouth trembling with hypothermia and fear before she took a deeper breath and collected the first cognizant four syllables she could form:

“Moriarty.”

**********

The screen of John’s phone flashed for the twenty-second time as he flipped the device into his calloused palm. It rolled over and circled again, the edge clipping against his fingernails before the twenty-third glare came right on cue.

“Are you expecting a call back?”

John’s eyes flickered upwards, his jaw tight. The bemusement in his flatmate’s low voice did nothing to settle his nerves. “Lestrade doesn’t usually withhold information like that,” the doctor snipped through a narrow mouth. “Not from you.”

“I doubt it was his fault.” Sherlock shrugged. “The information likely never occurred to him in the first place. Such a fickle little mind, so little room for retention, it probably slipped his thoughts.”

“That’s not what it sounded like,” John retorted, frown tightening as Sherlock’s complete disinterest in the situation. “What in the world can he have to show us that he can’t describe over the phone?”

“Something fun, presumably,” Sherlock replied, eyes flickering out the cab window with the first tiny gleam of excitement since they had entered the vehicle.

“You would think it was fun,” John grumbled, turning back to his own window in distaste. Sherlock glanced over briefly.

“As do you.”

“This is not my idea of fun, Sherlock.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I am here because the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard requested I be.” John glared exasperatedly, turning back to Sherlock, who had returned to lazily watching the passing traffic outside of his window.

“I don’t believe that for a moment.”

“Why else would I be here?”

“Your beloved ‘chief inspector of Scotland Yard’ calls you spontaneously to the hospital with the greatest urgency, and you aren’t even slightly curious?”

“People might be dead, Sherlock.”

“One can hope,” Sherlock drawled, turning his face to look out the front window. The cab slowed, and John clenched his mouth shut before he could reply. He grasped the handle before the vehicle had stopped completely and silently stepped out, a gesture not missed by Sherlock who watched him with careful eyes as his flatmate huffed out of the cab. Sherlock removed the wad of cash he had tucked into his pocket and passed it quietly to the driver before departing himself, his movements a bit more smooth and genteel that John’s quick mechanical motions. Behind the tense exterior, Sherlock knew John was just as excited by the prospect of what waited for them in the hospital as Sherlock was; Sherlock just wasn’t as concerned with the ethics of it.

It only took a few long, graceful strides before Sherlock had caught up to John on the hospital stairs. Andersen was waiting for them at the doorway, and upon seeing the two men, he pushed himself off the wall on which he was leaning with a furrowed brow. “Have you and Sgt. Donovan traded guard dog shifts for the afternoon?” Sherlock commented, glancing over Andersen’s scalp to see inside. “Go on, howl and let them know that we’ve arrived. Or are you going to snarl at John first, as your coworker does?”

“Sherlock,” John warned. Andersen scowled, but turned to John rather than giving a retort.

“You came quickly,” Andersen commented shortly. “We weren’t expecting you for at least another half hour.”

“Yes, there really was no need,” Sherlock quipped, a slight smirk on his face. “Quite a surprise for you, I imagine; I’m usually only called when there has already been a crime committed. Is the situation already too complex for our finest officers to handle before the victim has stopped breathing?”

“There is no crime yet, you insolent freak of nature,” Andersen spat back.

“Then what am I doing here?” Sherlock replied lowly, barely a hint of questioning in his dark tone.

“That’s what I was asking, but Lestrade insisted.” Andersen spun on his heel. “Now are you coming, or does the great detective have more important things on his agenda?”

Sherlock have a curt nod, but said nothing further. Andersen walked quickly ahead, John tailing behind the other two as best as he could. He didn’t mind falling slightly behind; it gave him time to check the surroundings, an instinct well-learned in his military service. It also gave him time to assess the two men in front of him, in an attempt to prepare for what may be in store for them. Andersen’s behavior on the surface seemed normal, but John noticed the darkened skin under the man’s eyes, the yellow teeth from excessive amounts of nicotine and coffee, and the stressed tics and twitches; Andersen hadn’t slept for far too long, and was clearly stressed by whatever situation they had all found themselves. As for Sherlock, well, John had lived with the man long enough to at least recognize that Sherlock was a five-year-old at heart with grown-up toys; there was a new toy waiting at the end of this trip, and behind the calm expression, the detective was beaming.

Andersen led them through the lobby, where a sparse number of people sat with their heads down, eyes lowered, thoughts consuming. John always wondered what was going through their heads—it was a bitter habit he had developed ever since returning from the war. He had wondered what people were supposed to think of in their spare moments, while the sounds of mortars and the smell of blood and dirt were all that had occupied his.

Andersen roughly pushed the call button for the elevator, glaring up at the doorway as if to intimidate the contraption into moving faster. “Where is Lestrade, that he can’t greet us himself?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

“He’s finishing up a few things; I’m not exactly thrilled about being your escort either, you know.”

“What kind of things can he possibly be doing? He made it sound urgent on the phone,” John quipped.

“Trust me, you’ll see when he gets here.” With a loud ring, the elevator doors swung open, and Andersen swiftly stepped into the opening. Sherlock and John followed, turning to face the doors as the elevator began to close. “Don’t you worry, we’re going somewhere that you both should feel right at home in by now.”

“The laboratory is not for social meetings,” Sherlock growled indignantly. Andersen chuckled, a sign that Sherlock must have guessed correctly.

“No one would mistake you for social, so don’t you worry that oversized brain of yours,” Andersen replied as the doors closed. “And after Lestrade meets with you, you may appreciate having some of those chemicals within arms’ reach.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened, but he resigned himself to glaring at the elevator doors as he brooded. John glanced to his flatmate’s face, and then also rested his stare on the doors, arms crossed over his chest. Part of him had to repress a smirk—Sherlock regarded that laboratory as sacred ground, and the man’s possessive nature was a stark contrast to his usual composure. Andersen seemed more than content to stand in uncomfortable silence, stepping out noiselessly when the elevator whined and parted its doors to release its inhabitants. Sherlock and John followed their reluctant escort, although there was really no need; they had walked this hallway countless times before. The very smell of it—that cold clean aroma—had a distinct hollow promise to it, where very atoms would rearrange and transfigure to lay answers bare, if one could only read them. John could practically feel the hairs prickle on Sherlock’s arm in excitement through his thick coat—the man instinctively responded to the scent of a case. Andersen paused, unsure of the exact door, but Sherlock knew, and had started to twist his body into the doorway before Andersen had time to even confirm it was the right room.

John followed behind, still biting back the memory that the first time he had hobbled through that doorway after the war, things had been completely different. A new flat, a new leg, a new life...all had come after his first stumble through that door. He still remembered the way Sherlock had sat studying his blood sample, and John’s first thought had been a sneer at the man’s insistence to wear designer clothing around those types of chemicals. Some things didn’t change.

Lestrade’s tired frame leaned against the counter across from the main lab bench, hunched with exhaustion. His gray-lined face was tight with thought, eyes still alert with that characteristic hungry spark. Sherlock often downplayed Lestrade as a simple man, but John saw a lot of himself reflected in the inspector, and knew that Lestrade was anything but a mere fool. There was a drive to him, a rough sense of the hunt that fueled his every move; there was reason he was Sherlock’s favorite in the Yard. John had to admit it was a strange sight—he had seen Lestrade involved in many cases, but never down in the laboratory. Sherlock, evidently, shared that sentiment. “This is a bit of a commute for you to be down here, isn’t it?” Sherlock drawled, tracing his eyes over the materials on the lab bench. “Not quite your division, to my knowledge.”

“Well, I figured it’d be good to stretch my legs.” Lestrade smirked. “And you can’t tell me it wouldn’t make you happy to show off a bit.”

“Is that why I’m here? To ‘show off’?”

“Well, no, not exactly...” Lestrade rubbed the stubble under his chin, unkempt.

“Three days.”

“What?”

“It’s been three days since you’ve returned home. You’ve slept here and there—four, maybe five hours—but you’ve yet to leave. Your face in unshaven, I can smell the nicotine on your teeth from here, and there’s still crumbs from the pastry you got out of the vending machine below your lip. Now it may be the lack of sleep or the poor diet in the past seventy-two hours that has you nervously tapping your index finger on your side and switching your focus in two-second increments, or—more likely—you have a particularly distressing case that has you in over your head—again—in which case, I would highly suggest you dismiss any ideas of prattling on and get to the part where you tell me why you have called me in with such exquisite urgency.”

Lestrade frowned, turning to John. “He’s all antsy—did you not get him outside yet today?” Before Sherlock could open his mouth in protest, Lestrade rose from his leaning position on the wall and sunk into the chair beside the lab bench. “Thank you, Andersen, you can go now.”

Andersen paused, but reluctantly obliged—the tone in Lestrade’s voice was hoarse and unrelenting, not malleable for any disagreement. The door gently clicked shut, and Lestrade began to tap the fingers of his right hand on the lab bench in a smooth, rhythmic fashion. “I have a challenge for you.”

Sherlock remained quiet—he was listening, eyes dark in anticipation. “Three days ago, we responded to a suicide out near Sard’s Cabins. Everything was routine until the landlord and I found a half-dead girl on the shore. We thought maybe she was a guest in the cabins who had a swimming accident with the upcoming storm, or in the worse case scenario, someone had tried to drown her and left her for dead; but there’s no record of her staying there, and no one nearby recognized her. It was like she just washed ashore out of nowhere.”

“People don’t just waddle out of the sea,” John commented.

“She didn’t have any ID on her, so we had to get her back here to get her help before we started investigating who she was. She was half frozen to death, hadn’t eaten since God knows when, and looked like someone had brutalized her—it looked like something had clawed her arm up, and there were bruises all over her. We got her back to St.Bart’s, and then found out that she’s not a visitor—there’s not any record of her at all in England. She was a research intern on the S.S. Sayanara, a marine research ship that was travelling the Atlantic Ocean. Otherwise her background was pretty typical—twenty-two year old recent college graduate, bright-eyed and ready, spending a few years out at sea to assist some crew in marine research around the world. They were scheduled to port in London in five days, but there’s no sign of the ship—no one is answering the radio, no sign of them using sonar, and aerial flyovers didn’t see anything either. There was no distress signal, and we haven’t found anyone else—the last anyone has heard from the Sayanara was three weeks ago.”

“Did they sink in the storm?”

“There would have been some sort of contact sometime sooner than three weeks ago if that were the case.” Sherlock’s voice was low, steady—his brain was already churning the story, thoughts braiding beneath the mop of dark hair.

“We’ve had search parties scouring every inch of the eastern coast—nothing, not even pieces from the wreck. The Sayanara just disappeared, and that girl is the only thing left.”

Sherlock’s brow cast skeptical shadows under his eyes. “And what exactly are you asking of me, Inspector?”

Lestrade stared at his flickering fingers, gray eyes tense beneath their lids. “The girl might know something....she saw what happened. Right now, she won’t talk to anyone, probably for good reason—she’s just gone through something traumatic, whatever it was. People she worked with, lived with, and cared for are gone now, and she’s the only remaining link to help us figure out what happened.”

“There are professionals that would be well-equipped to aid you in that endeavor,” Sherlock quipped.

“The information that we're expecting is a little too sensitive; it's a matter of national security. Besides, it’s too soon and too touchy of a subject. Her mental state is fragile enough as it is right now—we’re afraid that too much pushing, and she’ll completely snap. We need that information from her, and we need someone clever enough to get it out of her slowly...someone who can read people and who has a strong taste for a case.”

“I’m offended, Inspector. I figured you regarded my skills in higher esteem than just a mere interrogator.”

“It’s not an interrogation,” Lestrade answered sternly. “This is a rehabilitation, nice and gradual. We need someplace for her to stay and settle, somewhere where she’s safe and we can keep an eye on her until this whole situation becomes more clear.”

There was a moment of uneasy silence. “You want me....to babysit your shipwreck survivor.”

“She’s not a child, Sherlock. She’s a perfectly capable adult.”

“Then why does she need someone to look after her?”

“She’s traumatized, Sherlock. Besides, that’s not why I asked you to do this.”

“Then why me, exactly? Whatever prompted you to believe I was a good candidate for this task?”

“Well, quite honestly, it wasn’t fully my idea.”

“Whose was it then?”

“Mycroft got involved. He asked for you by name.”

“Well now I definitely won’t do it.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade lifted his gaze. “I’m in no short supply of persuasion here...need I remind you of all the times I ‘conveniently’ forgot to mention all of your violations?”

Sherlock repressed the urge to fidget, but the worry flashed across his eyes. “You won’t find anything. I’m clean. You know that.”

“Are you? I have no doubt that you stopped using, but you mean to tell me that if I searched your flat, I wouldn’t find anything you might have kept, for nostalgia’s sake?”

Sherlock remained silent. Behind him, John’s face was crinkled in a fit of confusion. “Why is Mycroft so interested in a shipwreck?” the doctor asked harshly.

Lestrade paused, teeth scraping on the tip of his tongue as he found the words. “We suspect that something very sinister has happened to the Sayanara...and that girl is the only thing left to possibly tell us exactly what that was. We need you to help her...and help us in the process.”

Sherlock was wordless, something that Lestrade took as a hopeful sign. “If it’s money you’re worried about, don’t be—your brother has inexplicably arranged all of that for her, so she won’t be a burden. All she needs is a couch to rest her head at night, and your clever head to unravel whatever secrets she has. And you can’t tell me,” Lestrade continued with a slight grin, “that you’re not the least bit curious as to why your brother is so interested.”

“I suppose you aren’t permitted to tell me why he’s so invested into this case.”

“I’m afraid not, but I’m sure you can figure it out with enough time. Think of it as...incentive.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. John’s eyes were trained on the back of his head, waiting for him to refuse and storm from the lab. “I want it on record that I do this in protest,” Sherlock finally growled.

John and Lestrade stared in equal amazement. “You’ll do it?” Lestrade asked, almost disbelievingly.

“Well, as you so elegantly pointed out, you’re in no short supply of persuasion...and more importantly, it’s clear that you are completely over your head in this business. Who else would you turn to?” With a sigh, Sherlock tightened his scarf. “Now where do I find this charge of yours, and how soon until she is prepared to leave?”

Lestrade smiled, barely attempting to mask the smug sense of satisfaction. “She’s waiting for you upstairs,” he answered, standing from his chair. Sherlock had left before Lestrade had even finished his sentence, leaving John alone with the inspector in the dimly-lit lab. John glanced over at Lestrade with crossed arms, and Lestrade frowned almost apologetically. “I do hope all of this will be okay with you, John. I realize it’s a large inconvenience for you.”

“Not exactly,” John replied through a tense jaw. “It’s all a very bad mess, if you ask me...not that you did. I don’t like any of it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure it’s not any worse off than any other case you and Sherlock have dealt with in these past couple of months.” Lestrade laid a heavy hand on John’s shoulder, barely felt through the thick material of the jumper. “Just do me a favor....”

John’s eyes narrowed, and Lestrade sighed again. “Try to make sure he doesn’t eat her alive,” the inspector groaned, stepping out of the lab and still unsure of exactly what situation he had just thrown this girl into.