Three John/Lestrade ficlets
Title: “Grounded”
Characters/Pairing: John/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John keeps Lestrade grounded when the horrors of his job threaten to overwhelm him. Written for this prompt over at the Sherlock Rare Pairs Fest. This is a slightly revised version of that fill.
Warnings: somewhat-detailed depictions of a murder victim; mentions of sexuality.
“Oh, hello.”
“Mmph.”
“What time did you get in last night?”
“....dunno.”
“You’re still dressed, you know.”
“...up.”
“And mumbling into my pillow.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you gonna start giving me anything more than monosyllabic answers?”
“No.”
“Right. Let you sleep then, shall I?”
“...anks.”
----
John hid his smile behind his cup as he looked up from his laptop to see a disheveled Lestrade wander into the kitchen, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light.
“Morning,” he murmured, scrubbing at his eyes and making for the coffee.
“Afternoon,” John returned, amused. Lestrade frowned.
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s one, now. You’ve been in bed since at least six; that’s when I woke up. What time did you get in last night?”
“I think - three?” Lestrade said distractedly, more concerned with finding a mug. He rummaged through the cupboards, and John would have helped except he was too amused by his lover’s disorientation. It wasn’t often he got to see Lestrade like this - actually, it was almost a nonexistent occurrence.
“Need help?” he said finally.
“No, I - Christ.” Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at John, and then around the kitchen as though he was truly seeing it for the first time. “I’m at Baker Street.”
Now it was John’s turned to be confused. “You didn’t know that?”
“I thought -” Lestrade scratched his head. “Honestly, I thought I was going back to my place last night.”
“Well, I was surprised to wake up with you in my bed. Not that it was unwelcome, mind.”
Lestrade shook his head and snorted. “I can’t believe - I must have been more out of it than I thought. Jesus.”
John got up from his seat and walked over to Lestrade, slipping his arms around the man’s waist from behind and resting his head against Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade leaned into the touch.
“I’m glad you came,” he murmured. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you, too,” Lestrade said softly. “It’s been hell, these past few days. This entire case, really.”
“I know.” John pressed his lips against the back of Lestrade’s neck. He hadn’t been as involved with this case as he usually was, what with it being flu season at the surgery, but it was one that even had Sherlock somewhat rattled. They were up to four young women murdered, as of three nights ago - all university age; all with so much promise. John couldn’t imagine what the case was doing to Lestrade, if even Sherlock was bothered by it.
Lestrade turned around and wrapped him in a loose hug, and John added, “I wish I could help.”
“You already do, Johnny,” Lestrade murmured, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.
John tilted his head up and captured Lestrade’s lips in a languid kiss. When they broke apart, Lestrade took John’s face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across the stubbled cheeks.
“Don’t deserve you, you know,” he said gruffly.
“Oh, shut it,” John muttered, drawing him in for another kiss. He could feel Lestrade stirring under his touch, waking further, and the kiss slowly grew from lazy to insistent. Lestrade’s hands drifted lower, dipping under John’s waistband, and he began to rock their hips together. John mentally counted back the days with what minuscule portion of his mind wasn’t focused on the feel of Lestrade’s stubble against his jaw or the thigh that pushed between his legs and realized that it’d been nearly two weeks since they’d last been here, wrapped in one another’s arms and thrumming with the slow burn of arousal. There hadn’t been time in recent days for much more than kisses stolen in corridors or meals eaten on the go.
Lestrade’s tongue skirted around the hollow of his throat, teasing, and John drew a ragged breath. “Greg.”
“Mm?”
“Ah...nothing...oh.”
Lestrade’s mouth found his own again, and John’s lips parted under his, allowing him entrance. He pressed closer to Lestrade, wrapping his arms around the broad shoulders and digging his fingers into the short hair at the nape of his partner’s neck -
- but then suddenly Lestrade broke away, drawing sharp breaths through his nose, and pressed his forehead to John’s. His eyes were clamped shut, and John froze in confusion for a moment.
“What -”
And then his mind registered, through the fog of arousal, that Lestrade was murmuring under his breath.
“Sorry...so sorry, John...”
“Don’t be,” John said as realization dawned, shifting so that Lestrade could bury his face in his shoulder. He tightened his grip on the man, feeling the pressure of Lestrade’s hardness against his thigh rapidly fade. This happened only very occasionally, and there was no telling really what crime would affect him or why. But sometimes the images were too much - broken bodies, dead children, victims getting younger all the time - and, while Lestrade was normally able to detach, sometimes there wasn’t a thing he could do about it and the horror of it all simply overwhelmed him.
“s’not supposed to happen. Not today,” Lestrade muttered into his shoulder, hands curling into fists in John’s shirt. “Dammit.”
“What makes you think,” John murmured into the silvering hair, “I want anything to do with a man who isn’t affected by all that you see?”
He nudged Lestrade until he lifted his face from his shoulder. The man looked stricken.
“It’s been two weeks...” Lestrade tried weakly.
“And it’s going to be a little longer. I can wait,” John said firmly. “You’re more important, and we’re not doing anything until you feel up to it again. Got it?”
Lestrade snorted and shook his head. “My day off, too. Who knows when I’ll get another. God, Johnny, I’m so -”
“No,” John said, cutting him off. “I won’t have you apologizing for this. Now, come on. Let’s get you some coffee.”
“Um...all right,” Lestrade said slowly, hesitantly, as John moved away, pulling out a clean mug from the cupboards and pouring him a cup. He pressed the mug into Lestrade’s hands and stood there, patient, waiting for the silence to break.
“He cut her throat,” Lestrade said finally. He held his mug but didn’t drink; John recognized the beginnings of nausea in his pallor and in the lines around his eyes. “And then gutted her. Same as the others. Christ, John, I’ve been living with this case for weeks. Why now?”
“I don’t know, love,” John said softly. “Sometimes that’s just the way it works. Sneaks up on you. What else?”
“She - had a necklace on. Gold. Soaked in blood by the time we found her. Everything was, really. She’d been there so long, it had leeched into the soil, at least four centimeters down.” Lestrade swallowed hard. “John -”
“Just keep talking,” John murmured, rubbing Lestrade’s shoulder.
“She was blonde, same as the others; early-twenties. Too young.”
“They always are.”
Lestrade nodded distantly. “Yeah.”
He took a drink from the mug, finally, and after a moment it was clear he was going to keep the liquid down. His story resumed.
“Most of her internal organs had spilled onto the ground; been torn away by scavengers. But just looking at her face - God, you’d think she was just sleeping.”
“Yeah, I know.” John moved his hand from Lestrade’s shoulder to the small of his back. “Anything else?”
There was a pause where Lestrade stood very still. And then he slowly shook his head and said, “No. Not now.”
“All right, then.”
John didn’t know for sure, but he liked to think that sharing the burden of the images helped Lestrade, so that he alone didn’t have to be the one to remember. He alone didn’t have to go to bed with the vivid images swirling in his mind. And John knew the pain he was going through. He’d seen it abroad; Lestrade saw it here. Theirs was a shared horror.
John looked up at Lestrade. “Feeling any better?”
Lestrade looked away, and hid the tightening at the corner of his mouth behind the rim of the mug.
“Not really,” he admitted, taking a sip of coffee.
“You will,” John said, sliding his fingers between Lestrade’s and lacing their hands together. “I promise. We’ll get you through this, like we have before.”
Lestrade squeezed his hand in thanks, and they slipped into a companionable silence.
It wasn’t all right, not just yet.
But it would be.
----
Title: “First”
Characters/Pairings: John/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John will always come first for Lestrade.
Warnings: minor character death
The flat was dark and silent when Lestrade returned from the Yard that evening; not that he had been expecting anything less, of course, but when he entered he noticed a worn jacket hanging next to his raincoat on the hooks by the door, and a pair of shoes some sizes too small for him sitting neatly next to his trainers.
John was here, then, which was unusual because Tuesdays weren’t their nights. Tuesdays John spent with Sherlock, doing whatever it was the two of them got up to when there wasn’t a case on. Wednesdays belonged to John and Lestrade, whenever they could both spare a moment from the work.
Lestrade shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, toed off his shoes, and then turned on the lights in the main part of the flat. He frowned. John wasn’t in the living room, nor in the kitchen. He supposed it was entirely possible that John was in bed and asleep already, but it was still early.
He checked the bedroom anyway, but it was empty. Lestrade rubbed a hand across the back of his head, and was about to pull out his mobile when he noticed something move out of the corner of his eye.
“John?”
Lestrade walked over to the adjoining bathroom and peered inside. There was an unfamiliar shadow huddled in the corner, and he reached for the light switch.
“Leave the light off, please,” John’s voice said from the darkness. It sounded flat; dulled.
“All right.” Lestrade hesitated in the doorway, considering whether he should go and leave John in peace. He felt already as though he were intruding upon the shell of privacy that John constructed around himself. There were many things they talked about; there were some they didn’t, and it worked that way. Neither of them was good with words; actions always served them better.
But the silence was wrong; it wasn’t the silence that had accompanied John after Sherlock landed himself in hospital with pneumonia or the one that hung heavily between them last summer, when Lestrade had suffered a gunshot wound to the leg and one far too close to the femoral artery for John’s liking.
No, this silence was defeated; empty.
Lestrade crossed the small room and sank to his knees by John’s side, facing him. He laid a hand on John’s knee and whispered, “What’s happened?”
He heard the soft smack of John’s mouth opening, but no words emerged. He shut it, and Lestrade heard him drag his tongue across dry lips.
“Got a call this afternoon at the surgery. From home.” John gave a huff of breath. “Never get a call from home during the day, and certainly not there. Should’ve known then.”
“Your sister,” Lestrade ventured. John’s parents were older, but in good health still, much more so than their daughter. A parent’s death is expected, especially to an ordered mind like John’s. This - his lover huddled on the floor of the bathroom, unusually quiet - this was a sign of something unexpected.
“Yeah.” John said finally. “She - uh - well, she started drinking again, but she hit it hard this time around. She went out, alone, got drunk, and wandered into traffic on the way home. Smart enough not to drive herself, thank God, but managed to get killed by a car just the same. Didn’t stand a chance. She was dead before she hit the street.”
“Oh, God.” Lestrade moved to sit next to John, both of them with their backs pressed against the tub. They were fitted together in the confined space, shoulders to hips to knees, and Lestrade could feel even through the fabric of their clothing that John was cold. “Johnny, I’m so sorry.”
John just shook his head. Lestrade slipped an arm around his waist and tugged him close, pulling until John acquiesced and sank against his side. Lestrade rubbed a hand over John’s upper arm, trying to infuse some warmth into the smaller man, trying to figure out where to go from here.
First things first.
“Do you have your mobile on you?”
John’s head turned toward him in the dark, perplexed, but he pulled the device out of his pocket and handed it over nonetheless. Lestrade opened it with one hand, saw that John had missed several calls and texts, and knew he had been right. He found the appropriate contact (listed under “Git” today) and dialed.
“Sherlock, it’s Lestrade. Yeah, I’ve got him. He’s -” Lestrade glanced at John, who shook his head. “No, he doesn’t want to talk right now, but he’s all right. Safe, at least. He’ll be staying here tonight, so don’t w - he did? All right, I’ll tell him. Thanks. G’night, Sherlock.”
Lestrade closed the mobile, set it to silent, and then said, “He...says he’s sorry for your loss and he hopes that you’ll tell him if there’s any way he can assist in your healing process. His words, not mine.”
John let out a huff of breath. “Sweet of him.”
“He means it, John. He’s concerned. You...just sort of left without saying anything to him.”
“Yeah, I know he means it,” John sighed. “I just - I just couldn’t take his nervous attempts at comforting. You know what he’s like. He did the same thing last year when your mum died - trying to make tea and go to the shops and all that rubbish, only he’s awful at it and never knows what to buy, so he comes back with celery and beans and cans of cat food because he gets an idea for a wild experiment while he’s out. And his tea’s too damn weak anyway.”
John pressed his face into Lestrade’s shoulder. “I just wanted to see you. I’m sorry. I know you’re busy -”
“Not too busy for you,” Lestrade cut in firmly. “Never, Johnny.”
John said nothing to that, and the awful silence returned. Lestrade knew that John wouldn’t appreciate further platitudes, and they felt like ash on his tongue anyway. Empty sentiments and oft-used phrases - no, they would be of no use to John.
“What happens now?” Lestrade asked finally. John appreciated planning. He appreciated order, and lists, and protocol.
“I need to go identify the body,” John murmured. “They found her with identification, but we still need to be sure. The body - her body’s at Bart’s. I need to do it soon, and then start planning the funeral. I don’t want all of that resting on my parents’ shoulders; they’re torn up about it enough as it is.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lestrade said promptly, and felt John tense.
“You’ve got the case, though,” he said.
“I have a person I care very much about who is in pain,” Lestrade said softly, and leaned over to press his lips to John’s forehead. “No. I’m going with you, if you’ll allow it. You come first, Johnny.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Definitely. Were you planning on going tonight or in the morning?”
“I hadn’t -” John swallowed. “I hadn’t thought much beyond the fact that I have to, to be honest.”
“Would you rather put it off for a few hours and get some rest, or get it out of the way so that you know for sure it’s her?” Lestrade asked instead. He knew what he would want, of course, but John should have the option of living in limbo for a while longer, if he found it comforting. A few more hours of peace, before a lifetime without his sister.
But here they were too much alike, and he felt John’s spine straighten; steeling himself. “I didn’t think of that. I’d - I’d like to know. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep not knowing.”
“All right.” Lestrade cupped John’s jaw, pressing his head into his shoulder and stroking his thumb across the stubbled skin. John sighed, and Lestrade felt his eyes flutter and then close. “We’ll go. In a little bit.”
“You’re too kind sometimes, you know that?”
Lestrade ducked his head; pressed his lips to John’s forehead. “I’ll take a couple of days off; help you get the arrangements sorted.”
“Sherlock’ll have a fit,” John muttered, and Lestrade gave a small shake of his head. Somehow, he didn’t think Sherlock would truly mind. He might get in a snit about it, but Lestrade had come to realize that there were many things Sherlock was able to overlook where John was concerned.
“Come on,” Lestrade said after a moment, disentangling himself from John and getting to his feet. He brushed his palms over his trousers and then held out a hand to John. “We should go.”
“I hate her, I think,” John said when he was standing, and in the darkness Lestrade couldn’t make out his expression. His voice sounded more perplexed than bitter. “I shouldn’t, but I do. A little bit, at least. Is that wrong of me?”
“I don’t think any less of you for it,” Lestrade answered. “And I don’t think it’ll last. She’s your sister.”
“Was,” John corrected in a soft voice, and Lestrade reached out to brush light fingertips along his jaw.
“No, is, Johnny. She always will be.” Lestrade reached for his hand, and John gave it gladly. “Let’s go say goodbye.”
And at that point all John could do was squeeze his hand, but Lestrade understood all the same.
I don’t understand why you would do this for me, but thank you.
Lestrade adjusted his grip, sliding his fingers between John’s response as he tugged him gently out of the bathroom.
Because this is your place, before anyone else’s. You come first.
----
Final Notes: Part of the last line is paraphrased from Mary Reanult’s The Charioteer.
-----
----
Title: “Voice of Reason”
Characters/Pairings: John/Lestrade
Summary: John is Lestrade’s voice of reason when cases don’t end the way that they should. Written for this prompt over at the Sherlock Rare Pairs Fest. This is a slightly revised version of that fill.
Warnings: mentions of the death of a child.
London was slowly starting to wake again by the time Lestrade finally left the Yard, having first started his shift nearly twenty-four hours previous. He’d caught a nap in his office around nine the night before, not that it had helped. The horror they had all been living with for the past three weeks had burned itself into his mind, and followed him even in sleep.
He went to Baker Street, letting himself in with a key Sherlock had given him less than a year ago because it saved him the trouble of having to get the door every time Lestrade came to call, lazy bugger that he was. Didn’t want to interrupt potential experiments, he’d said.
Sherlock, unsurprisingly, was already awake and sitting at the makeshift desk by the window when Lestrade entered, clad in his dressing gown and pajamas with John’s laptop open in front of him.
“He’s gonna kill you for that, you know,” Lestrade murmured, shutting the door and leaning against it. Christ, he ached. The seventeen steps just up to the flat had burned, and at the end he was dragging. He didn’t know how he was going to manage going further, but he needed water and some paracetamol and God, he just needed to sleep. Sighing, he pushed himself off the door and wandered on shaking legs to the kitchen.
“His passwords are so easy to crack, it’s practically an invitation to use it.”
Lestrade came back out into the living room, glass of water in hand. He downed half of it in one go; Sherlock’s eyes flicked to him before returning to the laptop.
“Another victim,” he said. Lestrade nodded.
“Yeah. Eight-year-old boy, same as the others. We’ll be officially calling you in on it in the morning.”
“It is morning,” Sherlock pointed out, and Lestrade felt a little of his resolve crack.
“Sherlock,” he said warningly. His hand tightened painfully on the glass; he couldn’t handle this right now. Sherlock’s eyes met his, for a beat longer this time.
“He’s upstairs,” he said at last, turning back to the computer. Lestrade drew a deep breath through his nose and shut his eyes briefly, relieved. He’d been afraid he’d missed John, thinking that perhaps the doctor had had an early morning shift at the surgery.
“Thank you,” he breathed, setting the glass on a nearby table and moving to the door. He paused on the threshold, and added over his shoulder, “While you won’t be officially investigating until tomorrow, that doesn’t mean you can’t...get a head start.”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “Was he killed in the same manner as the others?”
“Yes.”
“No differences?”
“Not a one. Does that help?”
“Immensely.” Sherlock gave him a quick nod. “I’ll begin immediately.”
Lestrade inclined his head in thanks, and all but fled up the stairs to John’s room.
John was asleep on one side of the bed, passed out on his stomach with the blankets twisted around his waist and his cotton tee riding halfway up his back. Lestrade debated undressing, and got as far as kicking his shoes off before he realized that if he attempted anything further, he was simply going to fall over. He stumbled onto the bed and sat there for a moment, leaning against the headboard, simply watching John sleep. He tugged down John’s shirt and rearranged the blankets around him; John didn’t stir.
“I love you, Johnny,” he murmured. “I don’t tell you that enough. I should.”
He sighed, loosened his tie, and finally tugged it off. “I should tell you that all the time, honestly. ‘Cause I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
Lestrade twisted the tie in his hands, staring down at his lap. “We found Todd Miller today - s’never good when someone says it like that, is it? Yeah. He - uh - well, he’d been dead a while. About...forty-eight hours, they think. So while his parents were alerting police and searched teams were being amassed, he was already lying in a ditch with his throat slashed open. And - Jesus, I don’t need to be telling you this, do I? You’ve seen enough of stuff like that. I’m sorry.”
He reached out and placed a hand on John’s back; felt the man’s ribs expand and contract with each unconscious breath.
“He was so tiny, John. So little. Like Andy - you haven’t met Andy yet, though, have you? He’s my sister’s youngest. I haven’t seen him in almost two years, what with one thing and another. I’ve missed too many holidays; too many birthdays. Missed yours, didn’t I, just last week? Not that you’ve ever cared much for that, but it means something to me. I - I want to be there, John. Same way you’ve been there for me. And for Sherlock. How do you do it?”
Lestrade leaned over and pressed his lips to John’s fabric-clad shoulder. “And how did I get lucky enough to have you in my life?”
----
John woke to Lestrade wrapped around him, still fully dressed and breathing deeply - apparently asleep. He shifted, adjusting his arm so that it was draped across his partner’s shoulders and Lestrade’s head rested comfortably on his chest. The other man stirred, and John whispered, “Morning,” into the top of his head.
“Morning,” Lestrade murmured, but his tone was wrong. John frowned, and smoothed down a patch of the unruly hair.
“They found him, didn’t they?” At Lestrade’s slow nod, he added brokenly, “I’m sorry.”
Lestrade lifted his head and pressed a light kiss to the corner of John’s mouth. “Thank you, Johnny.”
“What can I do?”
Lestrade stared at him for a moment, and John could see the fight behind his eyes. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he looked away. John pressed a hand to the side of Lestrade’s face, wiping away the single tear with a sweep of his thumb.
“Come here,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around Lestrade’s shoulders and pressing a hand to the back of his head, pulling him back to his chest. “I love you.”
Lestrade gave a shaky laugh. “S’posed to be telling you that.”
“I already know,” John whispered. “It doesn’t need to be said. You are the absolute best thing that’s ever happened to me, Greg. And I just - I’m here. I’m here.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade whispered. The word wavered dangerously, and John started rubbing circles into his back. “Yeah, I know.”
“It isn’t your fault, you know.”
“We weren’t fast enough,” Lestrade countered, lifting his head off John’s chest. He gave a bitter huff of breath. “Should’ve come to Sherlock sooner.”
“Listen to me,” John said firmly, tipping Lestrade’s head up so their eyes met. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Wish I could believe that, Johnny,” Lestrade said sadly. “But there’s a little boy lying dead in the morgue tonight because we didn’t think to consult Sherlock from the first.”
“What makes you think he wasn’t already working on this?”
Lestrade’s face went slack. “What?”
“Like he was going to pass up a case like this just because you hadn’t asked him for help yet,” John said softly. He attempted to smooth down a patch of the unkempt hair again, and failed. “He’s been working on it from the start. And he’s been as baffled as everyone else.”
“Well, that’s hopeful. Jesus.” Lestrade rested his forehead against John’s chest and John carded his fingers through the silvering hair, reading his partner’s thoughts. Sherlock had been his last shred of hope, the final trick up his sleeve - and knowing that had been exhausted, Lestrade felt as though he was left with nothing.
“That boy’s death isn’t on you, Greg. Or on anyone, except for the sick bastard who killed him,” John murmured, fingers trailing to the back of Lestrade’s neck and squeezing. “Sherlock’s been on this all along, and even he couldn’t save him. I know...I know it’s hard to hear, but that boy was dead from the moment he was taken. You did the best you could with what you had. And Sherlock’s...he’s been obsessing over this one. Maybe not quite for the same reasons as you, but he’s determined. He’s not about to give up, and I know you aren’t. We’ll get him yet.”
Lestrade sighed into John’s shirt. “And how many more have to die before that happens?”
John didn’t give him an answer; Lestrade wasn’t expecting one.
“Go to sleep,” John whispered. “You’re exhausted.”
He felt Lestrade swallow hard. “How can I?”
“Because there’s a whole city of children out there who need you, but you’ll be little good to them if you’re so tired you can’t even think straight.” John dropped his head until his lips were resting against Lestrade’s hair, and he added, “Because there’s an entire city out there that needs you. Because there’s a mad genius downstairs who needs you.”
He dropped a kiss onto his partner’s graying head. “And because I need you.”
There was a long pause, and then finally Lestrade nodded against his chest. His fingers twitched against John’s side, pressing gently into the dips between his ribs, and John understood the subconscious movement.
“I’ll stay,” John assured him. He wasn’t due at the surgery until mid-morning. “For as long as I can.”
He felt the thank you more than he heard it, as Lestrade breathed it into his chest.
“Anytime, love.”