Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, DI Greg Lestrade, DS Sally Donovan
Pairings: Sherlock/John (leading to S/J/L)
Rating: 15/R (this part, NC17 later)
Warnings: language, violence
Words: ~5600 this part (~26700 total)
A/N: Originally written for this prompt on the shkinkmeme asking for Lestrade whump. No beta so please point out any glaring mistakes. Concrit is always welcome.
Summary: We find out what happened to John and Lestrade...
( Part One... ) ( Part Two... )
MISSING IN ACTON
John watched carefully as Evans reached out to drop whatever was in his fist onto Lestrade's upturned palm.
He was a fraction too slow to react as Evans hand opened and seized Lestrade's wrist. Evans punched into Lestrade's stomach and fled as the D.I. doubled over and fell to the ground. Sherlock sprinted away after Evans.
John managed to catch Lestrade enough to break his fall. He quickly evaluated his options: draw his gun - no, Sherlock was in the way; chase after them - Sherlock was the faster runner anyway; check his patient - John turned his attention back to Lestrade.
The older man had curled up into a ball, clutching his stomach.
"Lestrade - are you alright? Let me see." John put his hand on Lestrade's side. It came away wet with blood. John suddenly realised Davie hadn't just punched Lestrade; he must have had a knife and he'd stabbed him.
"Sherlock!" John shouted urgently after him but Sherlock had left the building. "Damn." John rolled Lestrade to the side and ripped his shirt open. "Sherlock!"
"John..." Lestrade's brown eyes were wide and dark with pain. The blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth was alarmingly bright against the grey pallor of his face.
"It's alright, Lestrade. Don't try to talk," John ordered.
"Building's... rigged," Lestrade choked. "Get out..."
Lestrade tried to push him away. "Get out!"
"Like hell! Get up, come on - we'll get out the back." John dragged Lestrade to his feet and got his arm round him. There was a groan of timbers and masonry from the front of the building. They staggered towards the back door Sherlock had unlocked only minutes earlier.
They had just reached the door when the front wall suddenly exploded outwards. John hauled Lestrade through the door as the building reverberated with the shock. He grabbed Lestrade's right arm, ducked in front of him and let Lestrade's weight fall across his shoulders as he slipped his arm between Lestrade's legs.
This is going to hurt me about as much as it'll hurt you...
John's psychosomatic limp may have gone but his leg muscles had been atrophied by it and were still regaining strength. He felt the deep burn in his thighs as he pushed up and the damaged nerves in his shoulder screamed in protest as he took Lestrade's weight across his back. He groaned more than Lestrade did - not a good sign, it meant the D.I. was losing consciousness.
John started running in a direct line away from the building.
The roar started behind them. John glanced back to see the wall cave in away from them then the whole world was falling about their ears. John threw caution to the wind, ignored the screaming pain in his legs and shoulder and ran, low and fast, across the open ground. Bits of timber and rubble bounced past them. He made it about thirty feet away then set Lestrade down and crouched protectively over him as a cloud of dust billowed around them.
I hope Sherlock wasn't in there!
As the dust settled John turned back to Lestrade. He spoke to him in between calling for help. "SHERLOCK! Hang in there, Lestrade. An ambulance'll be here any minute... Try and stay awake... SHERLOCK!!"
Sherlock leapt to his feet. A light breeze blew swirls of dust towards him and he coughed as he tried to peer through it.
A police car skidded through the gates and slid to a halt behind him. Donovan leapt out of it. An ambulance drew up right behind her. "Where's the boss?" she demanded.
Sherlock gestured to the rubble, still coughing.
"Oh my God... And John?"
Sherlock nodded. He shoved at one of the ambulance crew who was trying to pull him away... and then he heard it.
"Quiet! Everybody shut up!" Sherlock snarled.
"It's John! Round the back! Drive round!" Sherlock made a sweeping gesture with his arm then headed off straight through the middle of the building's remains.
"You heard him!" Donovan yelled. She and the ambulance crew dashed back to their vehicles and set off in a wide semi-circle around the tarmac.
John pressed against Lestrade's side. The policeman had already lost a lot of blood from the vicious cuts across his chest and stomach and now he was bleeding freely from the small hole under his ribs. John prayed the knife had missed his vital organs but, even if it had, Lestrade was fast running out of time. John silently resolved to keep more medical supplies in his jacket from now on.
"John!" Sherlock suddenly appeared dancing across the piles of wood, glass and brick towards them. "I'm here, John!" He knelt down facing John on Lestrade's other side. "Thank God you're alright! How's Lestrade?"
Lestrade's breath was coming in rapid gasps and his skin was grey, cold and clammy.
"Not good. He's been stabbed," John explained. "We need to get him out of here. He's going into shock."
Sherlock slid one hand under Lestrade's head and held it up off the ground.
Lestrade's eyes fluttered open and fixed on Sherlock's. "Sh'rl'ck... I..."
"It's alright, Lestrade. I know," Sherlock said softly. He took Lestrade's hand and squeezed it tightly.
John looked at the way Lestrade was looking at Sherlock and suddenly he knew too. You didn't need to be a consulting detective to figure out what Lestrade hadn't said.
"Course you do." Lestrade smiled as he closed his eyes again.
"No, no, no... Come on, Lestrade. Don't do this. Stay with us." John felt for his pulse then pressed harder against the wound.
The paramedics came running over with Donovan. Her face went white when she saw Lestrade. "Is he...?"
"No," John said. "And he's not going to be either - not if I can help it." He explained what had happened to the paramedics as they got Lestrade onto the stretcher then went with them as they loaded him into the ambulance.
"Was there anyone else in there?" Donovan asked.
"No." Sherlock shook his head. "They got away."
"Clark - keep everyone out of there," Donovan shouted at a fellow officer as another car pulled up. She nodded at Sherlock, "Get in," and got back in the car. Sherlock barely hesitated before running round the other side.
"Central Middlesex A&E is two miles away. We'll be there in five minutes," she said as he closed the passenger side door. The car flew off after the ambulance in a spray of gravel and a blur of flashing lights.
John stepped back as the large double doors swung shut behind the mad scramble of the trauma team. This was as far as he could go; it was up to others now.
"Are you sure you don't need looked at yourself?" a nurse asked him.
"No, I'm fine - honestly. Thank you. Just need to sit down." Now the adrenaline was wearing off John realised his leg and his shoulder were both throbbing. He collapsed gratefully into a chair in the waiting area.
He was covered top-to-toe in fine white dust. His hands were streaked with blood and he could feel a large damp patch seeping through the back of his jacket on his shoulder. There had been several moments in the ambulance he could have sworn he was back in Afghanistan, Lestrade's shirt and suit shifting to desert DPM combat dress before his eyes. He was almost surprised he couldn't hear gunfire.
John looked up as Sherlock and Donovan strode towards him. He immediately answered the question their faces were asking. "They've taken him straight into surgery. He's lost a lot of blood."
"What happened? Did he not get out in time?" Donovan asked.
"No, it wasn't the building collapse. He was injured before that," John answered.
"Stab wound to the lower left side," Sherlock rattled off. "Too low to catch his spleen, may have damaged his intestines. Three long but not too deep incisions made with a knife or piece of glass, across here, here... and here." Sherlock motioned across his own shoulder, chest and stomach. "Several other smaller ones, all to the torso. He also has a laceration to the back of the head caused by a fall from about fifteen feet, various other lacerations and abrasions, bruising to the face and body from punches and kicks of varying intensity and a fractured left ulna, possibly also the radius. He may have done that in the fall or his captors may have done it later. Can't say for certain."
"You're talking about him like he's just another victim!" Donovan exploded. "How can you be so bloody calm about it? You... He..." She clenched her fists. "I'm going to go get him properly checked in. You don't need to hang about any more, do you, Freak? It's not as if you care," she spat at Sherlock as she turned and headed for the reception desk.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment then he looked down at John. "Are you alright?"
John nodded. "Leg hurts. Shoulder's killing me. Soon as Lestrade wakes up I'm going to tell him he needs to lose at least half a stone if he wants me to carry him anywhere else."
"So he is going to wake up?" Sherlock pounced on John's words a little too quickly and John could see him hastily putting his mask of indifference back on.
"We don't know yet. It might be a while before we do..." John watched as Sherlock shot glances towards the doors leading outside. "You want to get after them, don't you?"
Sherlock nodded. "I can't do anything here. Sitting here being concerned for Lestrade will not help him. Catching the men who did this to him, will."
"How will you find them again?"
"Please, John - I had more than enough time to study both Evans and the warehouse." Sherlock flipped open his phone and his thumbs started dancing over the keypad.
"You can't use your phone in here, Sherlock. Take it outside. I'll go tell Donovan we're leaving and join you in a minute."
Sherlock looked as if he were about to argue but John gave him his best I mean it face and he relented. "Fine." He thrust his phone back into his pocket and marched outside.
John grinned as he watched him go. From the front Sherlock was only slightly dusty but his back was almost white - good excuse to pat him down later. John gathered his thoughts for a moment then stood up with much groaning and dragged himself over towards Reception.
Donovan was leaning over the desk using the phone. "Are you sure? ...Alright, I'll tell him... Thanks." She handed the headset back to the woman behind the desk and turned to John. "I was just checking with the office for the boss's next of kin."
"Oh, yes?" John was curious. There had been no family photos at Lestrade's flat but he must have come from somewhere.
"In case of death or emergency medical decisions he asked that we contact Doctor John H. Watson."
"Yep. Changed it two months ago."
"Who was it before then?"
"Dunno. I suppose it makes sense though - having a doctor be the one that gets asked about things like switching off life support - since he's got no family."
"And it means Sherlock would find out as well," John said thoughtfully.
"Where is the Freak? Left already?"
"Sherlock is outside. He wanted to use his phone to help work out where the bastards that did this to Lestrade have gone; the same bastards who would have already buried Lestrade under that building if he hadn't found them. Sherlock's not going to sit and wring his hands waiting for news - that's not him - but don't think he doesn't care, Sally. You didn't see him when we found Lestrade."
Donovan looked a little taken aback by John's outburst. "Sorry... it's just... He's so..."
"I know - but that's just how he is."
Donovan dug into her coat pocket and pulled out a notebook. She scribbled something down, tore the sheet off and handed it to John. "Here. We were able to trace that mobile phone photo back to a phone in this name. It might be useful."
John looked at it then took it and smiled at her. "Thank you. You'll let me know the second you hear anything?"
She nodded. "Or if we need to... ask you anything."
"I'm sure it won't come to that. You know your boss - he's far too stubborn and he hates bother."
Donovan smiled at that. "Yeah. He'll probably moan about me tying up valuable resources looking for him."
John laughed and held up the piece of paper. "I better give this to Sherlock. I'll let you know what we find." He turned to leave and almost knocked over a young man in a doctor's coat who had come up behind him.
"I'm Doctor Seaford. I just heard from the OR - your friend will be fine. He'll need a lot of stitches and he'll have to stay in for a few days but he should make a full recovery. The knife missed everything vital."
"Oh, thank God," Sally breathed.
"That's great news. Thank you. What about his arm?"
The doctor checked his notes. "His arm? Oh, yes... Well if it's a clean break, he'll have a cast on for about six weeks. Some physiotherapy once that comes off and he'll be right as rain. We'll know more once we get him x-rayed."
"Brilliant." John grinned at Donovan then hurried outside.
Sherlock was standing about twenty feet from the door. He looked up at John and his face broke into smile. "He's going to be alright."
"Yes - and Donovan gave me this for you. It's the name the phone that took the photo is registered to."
Sherlock glanced at it then stuffed it into his coat pocket. "I suppose we'll have to inform Donovan when we find them now."
"You weren't going to?"
"Not if Lestrade died, no," Sherlock said calmly. He studied John's face for a few seconds. "That surprises you."
John thought for a moment. "No, on second thoughts, it doesn't. We'll bring them in because that's what Lestrade would want but you're right - if he'd died, I wouldn't be too upset if we ended up killing that little shit or his friends. Lestrade's a good bloke. I'd feel I owed him that."
They'd been walking as they talked and were now out on the main road again. Sherlock held up his hand as a cab with its light on approached.
"Then again," John added with a smirk, "I'm not certain they might not prefer me to have shot them after we hand them over to Donovan's tender mercies."
Sherlock laughed. "Indeed." He opened the cab door and gestured to John. "Shall we?"
Lestrade slipped his feet into his running shoes, leaving the laces loose, then sat back down on the bed and let out a long breath. He was wearing his baggy exercise clothes but even though they didn't have any buttons or zips it had still taken him a long time to get dressed and he was frustrated by how exhausted he was by such simple actions.
He winced, feeling stitches pull taut across his chest as he reached for his jacket.
"Let me help you on with that, Mr. Lestrade." One of the nurses appeared by his bed.
"It's fine... really - thank you."
"Nonsense. It's no trouble at all." The nurse beamed at him as she lifted his coat around his left shoulder and draped it over his sling.
"Thank you. You've all been very kind." Lestrade gave her a tired smile.
The missing wedding ring had been spotted before he even woke up from his surgery and the aroused suspicion was only confirmed by his lack of visitors. When word had got out that the handsome and heroic Mr. Lestrade was also single, he'd had more than his fair share of attention from a certain subset of the nursing staff.
Donovan had been his only visitor; she'd popped in the day after he woke up to take his statement and again yesterday to drop off some clothes. He'd told her everything he could remember, up to being ignominiously slung over John Watson's back like a sack of potatoes. He had some other, much hazier, memories after that point but they certainly weren't ones he wanted recorded anywhere.
Sherlock and John had been conspicuous by their absence. Donovan said they were trying to pick up the counterfeiting gang's trail but Lestrade wasn't surprised he hadn't heard anything since then. All he'd really been able to add about the two other men was that one of them sounded older and the other had a Geordie accent and was called Mike - not spectacularly useful information on the whole. Evans was still their best lead but Lestrade would bet he'd gone to ground and wouldn't be popping up any time soon.
"Got your tablets?" the nurse asked as she walked with him towards the lifts.
Lestrade patted his jacket pocket. "Yep."
"Somebody picking you up?"
"Umm, no. My sergeant was going to give me a lift but she got called away to something. I've arranged for a cab. Thanks."
As soon as he stepped outside Lestrade was on the phone. "Donovan."
"Hello, sir. Out of the hospital then?"
Lestrade opened the back door of the black cab and hauled himself in. "Yeah, I'm just leaving now. Listen - did you get anything from the staff in the Thai restaurant? ... What the--?" Lestrade suddenly realised someone had climbed into the cab behind him. He turned to see Sherlock settling himself in, furiously tapping away at his mobile.
John Watson opened the door on the other side. He stepped in and sat down in the other corner of the back seat.
John leaned over and lifted the phone away from Lestrade's ear as he gently pushed Lestrade to sit down between him and Sherlock. "Hello - Sergeant Donovan? Yes, it's John Watson. We're kidnapping D.I. Lestrade..." John tapped the glass to get the cabbie's attention and said, "221B Baker Street, please." He sat back as the cab pulled away and listened to the phone for a minute before chuckling. "Our demands?" John grinned and looked across at Lestrade. "We demand you deliver a large selection of Indian takeaway, to 221B Baker Street, at or around 7pm this evening."
"And the ballistics report for the Barber case," Sherlock added, without looking up.
John ignored him. "We also demand that you don't bother D.I. Lestrade with anything work related for at least the next 48 hours."
"Unless it's the ballistics report for the Barber case," Sherlock repeated.
"What?" John laughed and covered the phone with his hand. "She wants to know how much we'll accept to keep you indefinitely."
"Give me that," Lestrade growled.
John easily ducked the half-hearted swipe Lestrade made for the phone. "There isn't enough money in the world, Sally. OK... bye."
"We're going to your place," Lestrade observed.
"Nice to see that head injury had no effect, Lestrade," Sherlock said scathingly.
"Why are we going to your place?"
"Because you need looking after and it's easier for us to do that at our place than at yours," John answered.
"Us?" Lestrade looked at him in alarm.
"Yes, alright, me," John reassured him. "Don't worry - I wouldn't dream of letting Sherlock even attempt to look after you."
"I don't need looking after. I'm not four."
"No, you're forty-four, you're recovering from surgery and you've got a broken arm."
"He's forty-six," Sherlock corrected.
"Yes, thank you." Lestrade scowled at him. "So what is this? Help the Aged week?"
"Look, Lestrade," John said. "You should really have been kept in for a few more days but I persuaded them to release you early on the strict understanding you'd be closely monitored. If you like we can turn round and you can go back to that ward bed. I'm sure the nurses will be more than happy to have you in their clutches again. Either way, you're not returning to your flat on your own."
Lestrade slouched back in the seat between them. He would have dearly liked to have been able to cross his arms so he could sulk properly but the sling made that impossible. "Just a few days, right?"
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Lestrade cracked. "So are you going to tell me how you're getting on finding that mob?"
"Sherlock?" John leaned forward and reached across Lestrade to tap Sherlock's knee.
"What? Oh... yes. Donovan should be taking them into custody just about now." Sherlock gave him a very self-satisfied smile.
"We found them last night," John explained. "Well, we found Evans and then we... persuaded him to tell us where the others were."
"Persuaded?" Lestrade said sceptically. "Actually, you know what? I don't want to know."
"He's not even missing so much as a fingernail," Sherlock said. He sounded heartily disappointed that this was the case. "Although do remind me to get John to show you his William Tell impersonation some day."
"Oh God..." Lestrade covered his eyes with his free hand.
"And?" John prompted.
Lestrade felt Sherlock's long fingers prise his hand away from his face and hold it palm upwards.
Sherlock stretched out his other hand, palm down, fingers splayed wide. He twisted his wrist, showing Lestrade his hand was empty then his fingers made a snapping motion and there was a glint of gold between his thumb and middle finger. He dropped the ring onto Lestrade's palm with a flourish worthy of a practiced street magician. "And I believe this is yours."
Lestrade stared at it in surprise for a moment then held it up and looked for the curling letters of the inscription on the inner side of the ring - P&G. He slipped it back on to his left ring finger and was embarrassed to find his vision blurring slightly. "Thank you." He swallowed hard around the sudden lump in his throat.
"Very fortunate timing all things considered," Sherlock said. "Probably best if Mrs Hudson doesn't think you're a threat to the happy home. Ah - here we are." Sherlock was already in motion as the cab pulled to halt outside the familiar black door.
Lestrade wasn't sure what the hell that last comment was meant to imply. He sat dazed as John grabbed his bag and followed Sherlock... and then realised they'd both just landed him with paying the taxi fare...
The coffee table in 221B Baker Street was an explosion of the remnants of brightly coloured dishes in shiny metal trays. Lestrade, John and Sherlock sat on the sofa subconsciously stroking slightly distended stomachs and trying to work out who on earth could have told this woman she could sing.
Lestrade had never seen one of Sherlock's post-case feeding frenzies before. If the young man ever lost his talent for deduction he had a glittering career ahead as a champion speed eater. Lestrade had soon realised why John had hastily dished out two platefuls for the pair of them before letting Sherlock loose on the rest.
The phrases "Are you going to eat that?" and "Do you want the last...?" appeared to be completely missing from Sherlock's vocabulary. Lestrade had saved some Mushroom Pakora to 'fill up the corners' and had only just stopped Sherlock from swiping it straight off his plate.
The pain medication, the comfy sofa, The X Factor and most of all, the extremely rich Chicken Jalfrezi were proving to be a winning combination in terms of putting Lestrade to sleep. "I think... I think I need to go bed now," he yawned.
John instantly jumped to his feet. "Of course you do. Sorry - should have thought." He extended his hand and helped pull Lestrade upright.
Lestrade was suddenly reminded of just how strong John Watson was under that unassuming exterior. He blushed as he realised he was trying to picture what the doctor looked like under his jumper. Thankfully all their faces were still flushed from the spicy curry so John didn't notice - or gave no indication that he had.
"You're in my room. It's closer to the bathroom."
"Thanks." Lestrade leaned over to pick up his bag, trying not to think about where that meant John was sleeping.
"Let me get that." John plucked it from his grasp and headed towards the stairs. "Do you need a hand getting changed?"
"No! No, that's... quite alright. I'll have to get used to doing it, won't I?"
"Are you sure? It's no problem."
"No - thank you, John."
"OK." John bounded up the stairs. He had Lestrade's pyjamas and wash kit unpacked by the time Lestrade joined him, feeling more like eighty-six than forty-six. "If you need anything just yell - or text, that works too."
"Right. Well... good night - and... thanks again, for letting me stay."
"It's really no trouble at all, Lestrade. We're happy to help. Sleep well."
John trotted off back down the stairs as Lestrade closed the door behind him. Happy to help... Yep - that pretty much summed up John Watson.
Lestrade kicked off his shoes and tugged down his running trousers before struggling into his pyjama bottoms. He unhooked his sling and carefully pulled off his t-shirt over his head. The sleeves on his pyjama top were loose enough to fit the cast through but the buttons on the front were small and fiddly and he couldn't get them done up properly. After a few frustrating minutes he gave up and left the top hanging open.
He looked out his toothbrush and toothpaste and headed for the bathroom. It felt odd to be standing here in his pyjamas rather than his suit and not be rifling through the medicine cabinet. He opened it out of habit anyway. Nope - nothing remotely out of the ordinary. John must have had a quick tidy-up before he got here.
He swung the cabinet door shut again. A grey-haired old man with a battered face and a body like Frankenstein's monster stared back at him from the mirrored surface.
Only missing the bolts in my neck...
Lestrade sighed and turned the tap on. He waved his toothbrush under the running water and then groaned as he realised that putting the toothpaste on his toothbrush was going to be a little more tricky than usual. He eventually compromised by holding the toothbrush clamped between his teeth as he applied the paste, only dropping the lid for the paste into the sink twice. At least the rest was easy enough one-handed.
"Everything OK?" John's voice drifted up the stairs.
"Yeah, fine thanks."
Lestrade rinsed his toothbrush and patted his mouth dry on the towel John had left him.
Fine... Nearly fifty, beat to hell and relying on the pity of a sociopath and his gun-toting flatmate to help wipe the drool off my chin... Oh yeah - fucking excellent...
It was sometime in the wee hours of the morning when Lestrade's eyes snapped open and he found himself clutching at the covers around him, breathing hard and in a cold sweat. He'd been lying helpless in the darkness, unable to see, unable to move, knowing there was something out there coming to hurt him that he couldn't escape from... And no-one was coming to help him. No one cared.
He lay in the semi-light of John's room, catching his breath and listening to his heart pounding. You're alright... you're alright... it's over... you're safe... they didn't get you...
There was a gentle tap at the door. "Lestrade? Everything OK?"
"I'm... I'm fine, John. Sorry if I woke you up."
"That's alright... I brought you a glass of water. Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Let me get the light." Lestrade reached out for the switch on the small lamp on the bedside table as the door creaked open.
John padded over and perched on the side of the bed. He put the glass down beside the lamp and looked at Lestrade in concern. "Sure you're OK? You look a bit flushed. Not getting a fever, are you?"
"No, I..." Lestrade struggled for words, too embarrassed to admit the real cause of his agitation. You what? Had a bad dream? Want your Mummy? Need a hug? Fuck's sake, Greg - grow a pair, eh?
John didn't say anything but instead looked down. Lestrade's pyjama top was wide open, showing off his bare chest and its recent battle scars in all their glory.
Lestrade was surprised by the keen stare John was giving his torso until John asked, "Mind if I check your stitches?"
Of course - purely professional interest, nothing more... "Be my guest." Lestrade flopped his head back down to the pillow and stared at the ceiling as he felt John's hands clinically probing at the tender pink skin around the stitches.
"Hmmm. They're coming out day after tomorrow, yeah?"
"All seems fine. No sign of any infection... You know, I broke a finger once having a nightmare. Thought I was back in Afghanistan, stuck in a burning vehicle. Smacked my hand off the bedside table trying to get out."
Lestrade knew John was trying to be sympathetic but he couldn't help a sudden surge of bitterness. Christ - even his bloody nightmares are better than mine... "Yeah, thanks, John. I'm fine - really."
"Well, if you're sure." John stood up but turned back just as he reached the door. "Oh - you can use this dressing gown tomorrow morning if you like. It should fit." He gestured to a dark green towelling robe hanging from a hook on the back of the door. "I've got another downstairs."
"Thanks. Night, John."
Lestrade lay awake for some time after the door had closed behind John. He could imagine him sliding back into bed beside Sherlock, the pair of them snuggled together and giggling about the sad, old man upstairs, afraid of the dark. Why on Earth had he agreed to come here?
'Cause you had nowhere else to go, that's why... And Saint Watson feels sorry for you...
No, that wasn't fair. John was a good bloke. Lestrade knew John wouldn't say anything to Sherlock about Lestrade's nightmare. He wasn't that sort - and anyway he wouldn't have to. Sherlock would just know. Sherlock knew everything. Lestrade had been kidding himself that Sherlock hadn't noticed his true feelings. If it had been anybody else he'd have thought they were taking the opportunity to play Han Solo when Lestrade had tried to choke out his desperate declaration, but Sherlock had probably never even heard of Star Wars.
Shit. It was going to be damned awkward, working crime scenes with them when they both knew how he felt about Sherlock - was maybe also starting to feel about John, if he was honest. How could you not fall for a man like that - who came charging in like a pint-sized Rambo in a woolly jumper, taking down bad guys with one hand, dragging your sorry arse out and patching you up with the other?
Heck - why not fancy them both? May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and he had just as much chance with John as he did with Sherlock - bugger all. And look on the bright side, Greg - at least it wasn't your wanking hand that got broken...
Lestrade pulled his pyjama top closed and drew the covers up under his chin. Like he was going to do that with them both directly downstairs. If they heard him having a nightmare, they'd certainly hear that and he was going to cling on to what little dignity he had left.
He closed his eyes and tried hard not to think of the warmth of those strong hands on his chest... or elsewhere...
( Part 4... )