Work Text:
Despite having told himself on several occasions that he would stop relying so heavily on Sherlock Holmes for case assistance, it still came as no surprise to Detective Inspector Lestrade that he found himself once again standing on the consulting detective's front step, flanked by his small team consisting of Anderson and Donovan. Greg sighed, almost feeling bad for stopping by without so much as a call or text, but given the odd hours Sherlock tended to keep and the amount of grief the man had caused him in the past (and was sure to give him in the future) he decided not to pay it a second thought.
After thanking Sherlock's peculiar landlady for letting them in, the team began to make their way up towards the door of 221B. All the while, Lestrade pondered their current case. He had been working straight through the past forty-eight hours, and god if he wasn't tired. But, the Yard was his biggest priority at the moment, his wife having left him again, so he threw himself into the work. Still, some sleep might do him some good, he thought, having caught a glimpse at his reflection in the restroom earlier. Coffee only served as a substitute for sleep for so long before the body started demanding the real thing. He wondered how Sherlock managed to stay awake for days at a time without looking even the slightest bit disheveled.
A sudden, muffled shout followed by a crash that was muted by the door tore Lestrade from his thoughts, and without a single command from his absent mind, the Detective Inspector's body reacted, instantly moving into a defensive position, hand hovering near his gun just in case. Knowing Sherlock, and the number of people he pissed off on a daily basis, Lestrade had often worried for the man when it came to personal enemies. Concern grew as Sherlock fell into the media's light, making the man a common household name, and serving to make him an even bigger target in the eyes of criminal nut-jobs all over London.
Behind him, Lestrade felt Anderson and Donovon tense in response to his own posture. Holding up a hand to keep them quiet, they moved swiftly up the steps towards the door. The sounds of a scuffle and low voices were becoming more audible with every step. Several scenarios played out in Lestrade's mind, ranging from a possible experiment gone awry to some sort of hostage situation to a vision of a broken, bloodied detective dying on the floor. With Sherlock, the possibilities were seemingly endless.
When they reached the landing , Lestrade signaled for Anderson and Donovan to remain where they were and he approached the door with caution. As silently as he possibly could, Greg pressed the shell of his ear flat against the door to gauge the situation inside. The scuffling had ceased and now the only sound was a low, steady voice that he was certain was Sherlock's. That was it. No hissing of poisonous gas, no nervous pacing of a criminal holding men against their will, and no raspy, final breaths of a man being taken before his time. Just the consisent low hum of a surprisingly deep voice that belonged to Sherlock Holmes.
Though it didn't sound like the initial danger he had expected, something still felt off. Lestrade knew that Sherlock liked to hear himself talk. Hell, all of New Scotland Yard if not half of London knew that. But this... This sounded much different than the boisterous detective that paraded onto crime scenes and berated his team. Different in a way that made worry sit so deep in Lestrade's stomach that he felt weighed down, almost rooted to the spot.
But there was a reason he was the Detective Inspector and so, with a deep, centering breath through his nose, he forced his legs to work.
Usually, Greg made sure to at least knock once before walking inside, especially since Sherlock had taken on John as his flatmate. Tonight, however, his manners were forgotten and, ever so slowly, he turned the knob and pushed the door open, steeling himself for whatever was going on inside.
Lestrade blinked. This... this was not a scenario he had prepared for. Not a scenario he ever knew he needed to prepare for. He wasn't even sure if this was a scenario he recognized.
A rather rumpled looking Sherlock was kneeling by an armrest at one end of the couch, leaning over a presumably sleeping John Watson. Presumably because although his eyes were shut, his face was wrought with tension, and his body was twisting and contorting in a way that made Lestrade wince. He felt like he was watching a scene from one of those old exorcism movies that were so popular in the seventies.
Sherlock winced, too, and that was when Lestrade noticed that Sherlock wasn't just hovering over the man, but running his fingers through the doctor's hair in what was surely meant to be a soothing manner. He was also murmuring a constant stream of words in John's ear, using a gentle tone that only moments earlier, Lestrade had heard muffled through two and a half inches of wood. Now he could make out the words, a steady "John, John, John" that was no doubt meant to help ground him and bring him out of whatever strange fit he was having.
Suddenly, in a move that made everyone in the room jump and sent Sherlock reeling back, his backside hitting the floor with a muted thud, John's body lurched up into a sitting position and his eyes snapped open looking wild and glassy. He let out a loud, keening wail while clutching desperately at his left shoulder. Frantically searching eyes did not seem to recognize that anyone else was in the room with him and Lestrade shivered when the gaze from those cold, murky eyes seemed to pass straight through him.
The DI held his breath as Sherlock reached out with a shaky hand and gently touched the digits currently trying to claw through the worn fabric at John's shoulder in a subtle reminder that this should be causing pain. The contact seemed to snap John to attention, though not quite back to reality. Without warning, John began to bark out orders with all the adrenaline fueled tenacity only a soldier was capable of and suddenly Lestrade understood what was going on.
Greg knew John had served in Afghanistan, figured that he had been invalided home considering the cane he had been leaning on during their first meeting. John never talked about it much, but he assumed that the injury couldn't have been too bad since he never saw him use it again after that. Now he realized that there was a lot more to the story.
"McCully, get down! Do you want to get hit, too? Coyne, forget the med kit, I'm done for. Just leave me and get everyone out safe!" The ghosts of his imagination clearly hadn't followed his command as evidenced by John's struggle against invisible hands that were likely trying to save him from whatever mess they were in.
While John continued to battle against no one, Sherlock seemed to have regained his bearings. He scrambled forward and onto the couch behind John. The detective fought to claim both of John's wrists in his hands and then crossed his arms over the broader man's chest, effectively restraining John's arms in an attempt to prevent him from injuring himself. At a much more frenzied pace than before, Sherlock began speaking into John's ear again. Lestrade had never seen the detective's face lined with such worry, didn't even think he was capable of it.
"John. John," he said sharply. "John, you must wake up! Focus on the sound of my voice. You are not in Afghanistan, you are in London. You are in our flat on Baker Street where you are safe. John, do you hear me? You are at home and you are safe." Sherlock emphasized, pulling John even tighter against him as if he wanted to gather the shorter man up and shield him from his mind's strange projections.
That seemed to do the trick because there was a sharp gasp as if he was coming up for air after waiting far too long and then John's entire body went limp in Sherlock's skinny arms. He was trembling all over, taking in great gulps of air. It didn't take long for John's breathing to grow erratic and in a moment Sherlock had swiftly rearranged them with John seated on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, while Sherlock kneeled in front of him again, staying close but not quite touching him yet.
From behind Lestrade, Anderson cleared his throat uncomfortably, causing both Sherlock and John's attention to immediately lock on them. The detective glared up at the trio from the floor and John, for his part, had a look of pure mortification plastered over his face. Abruptly he stood and made a beeline towards the bathroom, still breathing irregularly with his face a blotchy tear streaked red.
The shutting of the door followed by the sharp click of a lock turning were the only noises distinguishable in the now silent flat. The squeaky turn of the faucet created a steady stream of water, muffling any further sounds that would have emanated from the locked room.
Any other day, Lestrade would have turned on his heel and given the pair their privacy. Unfortunately, this case was far too important to put off any longer, as the murderer had left a note in which he threatened to claim a new victim every twenty-four hours until the police left a large sum of money at a specified drop point. The second victim had been killed a little under an hour ago.
This left Lestrade with the sole option of ignoring the icy look Sherlock had fixed him with, taking a seat, and waiting. Sherlock's nostrils flared angrily at the grey haired man currently settling himself into John's favorite chair but, seeming to remember he had more important things to deal with at the moment, he picked himself up off the floor and stalked over to the bathroom. He picked the lock with a practiced ease that made Lestrade a bit nervous, and shot the Yarders one last punishing look before slipping inside, relocking the door behind him.
It was an old flat, and the walls were thin so despite the water rushing from the tap Lestrade could hear the two talking. Though the words weren't crystal clear, the tone of conversation wasn't hard to guess. The first voice was filled with panic and embarrassment, speaking so rushed that Lestrade wasn't sure he could have understood it even without all the barriers. The second voice was using the same low tones Greg had heard earlier, muttering in a way that the words themselves obviously didn't matter, just that they were being said.
Anderson and Donovan moved to stand behind Lestrade, and put their heads together to talk, keeping their voices low so as not to disturb the tenuous silence currently enveloping the flat. Lestrade ignored them in favor of reviewing the case file again. He knew they would be discussing the events that had just taken place, arguing over whether the rumours going around New Scotland Yard were true or not. They'd had this conversation several times before, with Anderson assuring Donovan that they had to be together, whereas Donovan was certain that Sherlock was incapable of having a friend let alone a boyfriend. Lestrade had always figured it could go either way. The two had a strange bond that he had never had with any of his own male friends, and never really wanted to either, but there was a time and a place for gossip and speculation. Right now, he had more important things to deal with than Sherlock and John's love life.
Ten minutes or so after John's hasty retreat to the bathroom, the faucet stopped running and the lock turned once more.
"Yeah, well don't you think the freak-" A sharp nudge from Lestrade's elbow effectively cut Donovan off mid-sentence, just as John and Sherlock reemerged from the bathroom. Sherlock's face was a mask, devoid of emotion, but John's cheeks were still a bit red. Whether it was from hyperventilating or embarrassment, Lestrade couldn't be sure.
John rubbed his hands together awkwardly and asked "How about some tea, then?" moving into the kitchen without waiting for a response. Sherlock watched him go before taking a seat on the edge of his own chair opposite Lestrade. The DI handed over the case file and quickly began filling him in on all the details. Sherlock didn't seem to be entirely paying attention though, every so often shooting a glance towards the kitchen. A look of concern would flit across his face so quickly before smoothing back into a blank expression that Lestrade almost swore he was imagining it.
However, as soon as John returned to the living room, carrying a tray loaded with mismatched mugs of tea, a tension the Detective Inspector had not recognized was there seemed to melt out of Sherlock's body as he eased back into his chair.
"Ah, not disinterested then. Just distracted." Lestrade thought.
Without interrupting the discussion, John set the tray down on the end table next to Sherlock and passed a mug to each person before taking his own and perching on the arm of the chair. This caused Sherlock's brow to furrow comically and Lestrade almost had to stifle a laugh that threatened to escape. Gracefully, Sherlock stood and all but shoved John into the seat he had occupied not ten seconds previous. John yelped at the unexpected move and almost slopped tea all down the front of his jumper. Taking a seat on the arm where John had been, Sherlock continued to work his brilliance over the case.
While he prattled on about some "obvious" detail that he couldn't understand why no one else bothered to notice, he slid an arm around the shorter man's shoulders and tugged him closer. John, seemingly accustomed to the action, leaned easily into Sherlock's hip, nuzzling slightly before sighing peacefully into his mug of tea, allowing his eyes to slip shut.
Anderson and Donovan reacted visibly to the affectionate display, eyes going wide at the shock of being proven right and wrong respectively. Lestrade, however, after dealing with Sherlock's peculiarities for years, prided himself on not reacting at all apart from a small smile hidden behind a quick sip of tea and a fleeting thought of "Good for them" before wrapping up the last few details with the consulting detective.
In the end, it had all been relatively simple (according to Sherlock, at least) and the case was solved in under forty-five minutes, entirely within the confines of Sherlock and John's sitting room. Lestrade stood and shook John's hand, thanking him for the tea. He was happy to see that the color had returned and evened out on John's face and, aside from a bit of puffiness beneath the eyes, the events from earlier were entirely unnoticeable. The doctor made to stand up and show the three to the door but before he could even lift himself from the seat, Sherlock was there, forcing him back down into the chair.
"You will do no such thing," he said sternly. "I am perfectly capable of showing them to the door myself." He dropped a kiss to John's forehead. John looked a bit incredulous, as if he didn't quite believe that statement. "Although, if Anderson weren't actively lowering the IQ of the whole street, they might be capable of showing themselves out." Sherlock added, not quite under his breath, ushering the trio to the door.
After making a few necessary phone calls, the drive back to the station was a quiet one, something for which Lestrade was extremely grateful after the flurry of activity he had dealt with tonight. He figured that despite the many colourful rumours making their way about the office, Anderson and Donovan still hadn't been entirely prepared to see Sherlock Holmes in such an uncharacteristic light. They were probably absorbing all the new information, a kind and caring Sherlock so unlike anything they had ever seen while working a crime scene.
Lestrade also contemplated the man he saw tonight, and recalled just a handful of years ago the same man who was, for all intents and purposes, a child. Convincing him to eat, sleep, and sometimes even bathe had all seemed like daunting tasks and though he still solved cases with an incredible efficiency, Lestrade had often worried for the state of the self-proclaimed detective's wellbeing.
Now, just few years later, Sherlock was eating a bit more (or at least enough to maintain a few pounds on his small frame), getting enough sleep (or at least enough to keep the dark circles at bay), and bathing every single day (or at least on the days Lestrade saw him). And, it seemed that Sherlock was not only taking care of himself, but apparently his psychologically scarred war veteran flatmate (and possibly boyfriend?) as well. The DI felt a slightly victorious smile spread across his face. He had been right all along.
"Yes," he thought. "Sherlock Holmes is definitely on his way to becoming a good man."