"No, couldn’t be speaking about that - that’s stupid, Lestrade. Stupid." Sherlock spoke to him harshly, although his voice was not as hostile as he had wanted it to be. Instead, he looked at the ceiling for a few seconds as his breathing constricted, appearing to be thinking very hard. Suddenly, he lit up again, his eyes falling to Lestrade. "No, it’s — it’s brilliant! Nobody knows of illnesses from Sumatra, it’s a forgotten practice, but — I know of a man, Lestrade, a doctor. He and I haven’t always been friends, but you must convince him. You must tell him that I’m dying, Lestrade, that I may not even be alive when he comes back to the flat.”
The earnestness in his voice was palpable in that moment, and he quietly pressed both hands together. For a good five seconds, they were shaking too badly to intertwine themselves, but he eventually got it. And suddenly, the man who had never knowingly used Lestrade’s first name in his life managed to get it out, a plaintive - “Please, Greg.” His words wavered and he looked…younger.
His eyes seemed to drift away again, his hands falling to his sides. He took a deep breath, appearing to be thinking, before his eyes turned accusatory towards Lestrade. Indeed, it almost seemed as if he blamed Lestrade for all of this for a moment, and he held out one shaking hand. “Wait! Before you go, Lestrade, it’s of dire importance. How many coins do you have in your pocket — tell me how many and of what sort they are. Hurry, hurry! I haven’t much time.”
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
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turnnoffyourmind
