Preposterous!

“I cannot THINK like this!”

Sherlock Holmes opens his fingers and almost casually drops the stack of loose papers in his hand to the floor where they land in a soon to be ignored heap. Some of the photographs paper-clipped into the mess shake out and the eyes of the people stare accusingly at the man who is supposed to be helping them. He gracefully steps down from the coffee table, bare feet carefully hover over and miss this newest pile of papers, keeping his eyes on the wall across the room so he doesn't have to see their cold expressions. Idly, he wonders why so many people try so hard to look mean and tough; the effect is certainly lost once they are shuffled into a lonely holding cell.

He reaches up and absentmindedly tugs randomly on messy, unwashed curls as he paces in a circle in front of the sofa, using the coffee table as a step on the way, and somehow missing the pile of papers and photos on the carpet. He scratches at his scalp as he clings to one very small idea that is so ridiculous, so outrageous, so preposterous, that there is no other way to say it…it is just...unacceptable. His button-down shirt is wide open and each half of the well-made garment sways with his manic movements even as he stands still for a few seconds.

Sherlock moves again, this time to twist himself into John's armchair. Always grumpy when his much more than friend isn't in his proximity, he's found himself to now be in an absolute funk. Of course, he would never tell John that, because John would surely make up thousands of reasons why he had to get as far away from Sherlock as possible. All that “I’m not gay” crap.

He chews a ragged fingernail for a moment before bouncing up again to rush into the bedroom. Sherlock quickly slips on socks and shoes, buttons his shirt and grabs his coat before rushing manically down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson calls out sharply from her own flat when he lets the outside door slam, but as always, his mind is a million miles away, searching for something to occupy at least part of it so he can continue to work on the case at hand, regardless of its ridiculousness. He strides across the road to a taxi that seems to have appeared as if he'd telepathically called it.

Of course, preying on the mental stability of his favorite DI at Scotland Yard always proves an interesting way to pass the time; and today is no different because DI Greg Lestrade jumps in his seat when Sherlock slams open the door to his office. Greg frowns at the consulting detective and holds up one finger to quite him; he's on the phone and is quickly scribbling down some notes on a yellow legal pad on his desk. When he hangs up the receiver, he just greets Sherlock with silence and a blank look.

The blank look is a mask, however, because it only takes about three seconds to really see the mess in front of him. Sherlock is fiddling with Greg's name plaque, running his fingernail under the edge of the fake gold plate glued to the wooden stand. Yeah, he thinks, he's going to have to run this train off the tracks before it gets a full head of steam and does untold damage to either its engineer or the innocent public. Again.

Greg’s phone rings once more and he snatches it from its cradle, irritated at the interruption. Though neither man has said a word yet, he’s pretty sure whatever happens next is going to at least be interesting, possibly ridiculous, and most likely will end with a cheap shot at his own intelligence. And that’s all fine because it’s all for the best in the long run. Besides, everyone in London, quite possibly the Northern Hemisphere, is probably safer that way.

As he talks on the phone with someone who claims to be calling in with a tip from a cold case from ten years ago, he keeps his eyes on Sherlock, who is now spinning his name plate like a top in the palm of one hand. Greg mumbles something about now having the person’s phone number, he’ll call them back later, slams the phone back down and snatches the name plate from Sherlock all in one movement. The thing feels different under his fingers, but he's too busy paying attention to the wild-looking creature in his office to give it a second thought.

As he settles back into his chair, Sherlock stands up, shoves his chosen chair towards the back wall and starts pacing. Greg takes a long sip of his lukewarm coffee and waits. Deciding against any further interruptions, he takes the phone off the hook then takes his mobile from his shirt pocket and silences it, too. He idly wonders if he should call Sherlock's brother, then decides to wait a little while longer. While Sherlock's looking pretty bad right now, Greg's seen him much worse off. He silently counts to ten.

“Well?” he finally gives in and asks the seemingly crazed man pacing in circles in front of his desk.

Sherlock only replies with an exasperated grunt.

Greg tries again. “What simple task do you need me to do for you that you aren’t getting done because John isn’t home for a few days?”

That worked; the pacing stops. Sherlock steps up to the desk, seems to almost be ready to step up onto the desk, then appears to change his mind and stands there looking lost.

"A few days? Is that what you think?"

Greg thinks to himself that he doesn’t like that look because it brings back bad memories. Without really considering it beforehand, he offers his coffee to the consulting detective. Sherlock wrinkles his nose and gives Greg an offended look, which strikes him as absolutely hilarious, considering how ridiculous Sherlock himself looks at the moment.

“Lestrade, I am capable of meeting my own needs.” Green eyes flash dangerously from beneath a tumble of poorly abused curls.

Greg chuckles. “Yep,” he says before taking another sip, forgetting for a moment how nasty the stuff really is.

Some of Sherlock’s manic energy seems to dissipate; he pulls a chair back up and sits down in it, primly crossing one leg over the other. His black trousers ride up enough to give Greg a great view of a bright purple sock. That gives him another idea.

“Let me see your other leg,” he orders calmly.

Sherlock frowns at him but does what he’s asked, slowly switching legs and showing off a perfectly orange sock. He glares at his own sock, looks back at Greg and then down again as if not comprehending.

“Yeah,” Greg says, “what was it you were saying?”

He silently acknowleges that it's been more than a few days, though he isn't certainly how long it's actually been. He tries to remember the last time he saw John. As he does so, a tense silence falls between them, a silence born from many years of two men being comrades in the fight for justice, the thrill of closing a case, and a friendship only one of them openly admits to having.

Sherlock opens his mouth, seems to reconsider the topic, closes it and starts again, this time in his more normal, talking-to-hear-myself talk, tone.

“I have reached a place in an ongoing case that appears to have no logical conclusion. I have turned it over, looked at it from several angles and decided that it is not as simple as yellow paint or a blue ladder. I am not asking for assistance, though I would like to possibly brainstorm with a reasonably intelligent human being for a bit. Since John is most decidedly not here,” Sherlock frowns at his socks again, “you happen to be the next best…”

Greg can’t help but interrupt him. “What about Molly? She’ll listen to you, mate?”

For a moment, Greg cannot believe the look that passes over Sherlock’s face. He watches the other man carefully for any clue as to what it means, but it’s gone as fast as it happened. “So, basically, you’re actually stuck for a change?” he changes the subject.

Sherlock considers that for a second. “I am not ‘stuck,’ Lestrade, I am merely missing a piece of the puzzle. Either someone has intentionally misled me or left out important information or combined more than one case in their notetaking; I am not, nor have I ever been stuck.”

Greg listens but at the same time thinks that the dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes prove otherwise. “Fine, whatever. I’ll be your listening John for a few minutes.”

That seems to soothe Sherlock’s feathers and he launches right into it.

And “it” turns out to be so convoluted and so slightly ridiculous that later Greg can only remember bits and pieces of the whole thing, and what he does recall he cannot believe he actually heard. he hopes fiercely that Sherlock hasn't gone backwards in his pharmaceutical habits. Later on, when he is having a drink at his own flat, he’ll sit back and try to make sense of words that seem to have no business coming out of the mouth of one Science-driven, hard facts only please, Sherlock Holmes.

He is sitting on his sofa, just before midnight, one foot resting on the coffee table, two fingers of Scotch in a glass with a single piece of ice, winding down. It is only then that he can let his mind wander and bring back some of the conversation from earlier. He is starting to think that there has to be something missing from the entire case, which turns out to be a kidnapping. There seems to be huge gaps in information and he cannot make up his mind whether that information is truly missing or maybe Sherlock left some of it out of his retelling on purpose.

He has certainly done that before, Greg thinks, however, that’s usually when he is hiding evidence or trying to keep the police out of his way for whatever grand reason he eventually admits to. Granted, most of what Sherlock talked at him about were normal things: adopted brothers, family squabbles, and so on. Getting a little deeper, Greg clearly remembers something about an adopted brother causing the death of an elder one, then something about the mother dying, and finally, the father missing.

Greg finishes his Scotch in a quick gulp and moves towards his bedroom, turning off the light in the sitting room as he does so. He brushes his teeth and gets ready for bed, the story tumbling over and over in his mind as he tries to get an idea of who these people really are. That is one of the things Sherlock completely avoided, so Greg thinks that maybe they’re Americans. Not like it matters too much at the heart of the case, but that might make it hard for him to help with it. Greg considers himself the mirror above the bathroom basin and laughs out loud. Sherlock doesn’t want his help, he just needed a sounding board. Upon his agreement with his own reflection, he nods and heads to bed.

Only after a few minutes of squishing pillows and arranging blankets just so does Greg once again let his mind travel back to those words that he cannot swear actually came out of Sherlock’s mouth as he falls into a troubled sleep: “mystic arts,” “alien beings,” and the most unusual, “I am going to New York City alone.”