"Why are they calling me?" Lestrade demanded, rising from his chair. He retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair and pulled it on as he crossed the office floor.
"They found him in an alley somewhere." Travers said, stepping back just in time to avoid colliding with the other Detective Inspector as he darted out the door. Lestrade pulled said door closed behind him and started down the hall.
"Yeah?" Lestrade was waiting for an answer, even if he were already on his way to the hospital.
"They didn't find any ID. Just a phone." Travers called after him. Lestrade stopped, turned, and favored the other man with a look that was neither patient nor tolerant.
"It had two numbers on it." Travers said, folding his arms across his chest. "One didn't have a name to it." He raised an eyebrow suggestively. "The other was labeled Detective Inspector Lestrade. Who have you been giving your number to?" He demanded.
"No one," Lestrade replied, without even having to think about it, "not that it's any of your business."
Lips pursed. "He overdosed on something. Cocaine, maybe. Heroine." There was a note of warning in Traver's voice as he spoke; it was possible he was actually worried about Lestrade. "They hadn't done any tests yet when they called here asking if we had a Detective Inspector Lestrade working for us."
"Why did they call the Yard instead of me personally?" Lestrade wondered aloud as he started moving again; a second later he remembered that his cell was still drying out after being tossed into a puddle yesterday. Whether it would work again after it had dried out, Lestrade was not sure, but his hopes were not high-although it had survived more incidents and abuse than any piece of electronic equipment had a right to Lestrade had grown wary of counting on much of anything going right for the remainder of the week.
Travers answered anyway. "You didn't answer when they tried." He said, following his partner. "Why does an addict have your number?" He demanded.
He's my dealer. Lestrade resisted the urge to actually say it. "I don't know who has my number, let alone how or why." He admitted instead. Most of the people that had his number worked at the Yard; he could think of maybe one or two people outside of work that he would have given it to.
"Besides," he continued, "you don't know that he's an addict. You're making assumptions again."
"They said it was some sort of overdose." Travers pointed out. "I'd say addict is a pretty good guess."
"Unless someone was new to it and didn't know what they were doing." Lestrade pointed out, more because he did not care for the other man making assumptions about someone he had never met that because he had any idea whether or not the person in question actually was an addict. "You don't need to follow me to the hospital." He added, a trifled irritated, as Travers followed him into the elevator.
"Then you are going." Lestrade fixed his partner with a look.
"Of course I'm going. Why wouldn't I?" He demanded. He could not, off the top of his head, think of any threats he had received recently-death threats or otherwise-or any other reason to believe going to the hospital might be dangerous.
True, he had no idea who might have his number or how they might have gotten it, or why this person had no one better to get in touch with case of an emergency, but while Lestrade was thoroughly baffled by the event he did not find it reason to be concerned over his own safety.
Travers shrugged. "Aren't you usually the oversuspicious one?" He asked. "No such thing as a coincidence, and all that?"
"Unless there's something going on that I haven't been informed of," Lestrade replied, the edge in voice suggesting that there had better not any such thing, "there's no one out to get me right now."
Travers rolled his eyes and did not follow Lestrade out of the elevator, which was more than the latter could have hoped for.
When Lestrade entered the hospital room in which the young man lay unconscious he could not immediately place him, though he did recognize that he had seen the other somewhere before.
It hardly mattered whether Lestrade knew him or not; though Lestrade could not have said what his name was and could certainly not provide the hospital staff with any useful information about their patient, the thought that he was apparently the only person likely to show up on the young man's behalf made him reluctant to simply leave. Consequently he found himself standing awkwardly just inside the room for several minutes before an overly sympathetic nurse offered him a too-bright smile and directed him to a chair beside the bed.
He sat anyway, and thanked her. He had no idea who this young man was, though on closer inspection he seemed to Lestrade more a child than a man.
He was young, but that was only part of it. Pale and far too thin, with dark circles under his eyes and unconscious in a hospital bed, the boy looked helpless, vulnerable.
He had dark hair, and if Lestrade was any judge, stood rather tall-when he was actually standing instead of lying senseless in a hospital bed-and was naturally rather thin anyway, though the extreme leanness that was currently about him was certainly not natural.
Lestrade searched his memory as he waited, though what he was waiting for he was not entirely sure, trying to remember where he had seen this boy before.
A nurse-a different one this time-interrupted his thoughts to assure him that the boy was out of danger, though it would probably be some time before he would be up and about, and probably a least a few hours before he woke up.
Still Lestrade found himself sitting, wondering who this boy was and why there was no one else here to wait for him to wake up. He had not placed him yet, but he would sooner or later.
Hopefully it was not someone who resent his presence here.
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me.