(no subject)
Title: "Anchor"
Characters/Pairings: John/Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Spoilers: for “Hounds”
Word Count: c. 1,700
Warnings: None
Summary: John and Lestrade take a moment to try to regain their equilibrium after the moor.
Notes: Originally appeared on my Tumblr earlier this week. This is a revised version of that fic.
“Right,” Lestrade said when they were all back at the inn, Henry Knight having been deposited at his own house and eased to into a deep sleep by one of John’s sedatives. He pointed a finger at Sherlock. “You. Bed.”
“Excuse me?” Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow.
“You heard me perfectly well,” Lestrade said sternly. “You fancy I’m your handler, so I may as well give you reason to think so. Here.”
He strode over to Sherlock, grabbed his arm and shoved up his sleeve, and plucked the two nicotine patches from the bare flesh.
“You’re going to crash now that your stimulants are gone,” Lestrade said, a tad smug. “So I suggest you make use of that bed. Which, I’m sure, you haven’t seen much of these past few days.”
“He hasn’t,” John put in, and Sherlock glared. “Been up prowling the moor at all hours.”
“Figures.”
“I have other patches upstairs,” Sherlock said petulantly.
“You think I haven’t caught on to all your little tricks and hiding places?” Lestrade asked. “I’ll confiscate them.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Do I need to call your brother?”
“Boys, not here,” John sighed, stepping in. “Sherlock, you might as well make use of the room. I’ll be staying with Greg, and I’d rather not have to drag your sleep-deprived arse all the way back to London on the train tomorrow morning.”
Sherlock looked about to protest, but then snapped his jaw shut with an audible click and gave a tight nod. He was halfway out of the room before he paused and, half-turning, asked, “All right?”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said softly. “We’re all right. You?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Good. Get some sleep, kid.”
“God,” John muttered when Sherlock had gone, “I could use a drink.”
“Already on it,” Lestrade said, ducking behind the empty bar and rummaging around for clean glasses. John collapsed in one of the chairs by the cold fireplace; Lestrade joined him a moment later and handed him a glass of brown liquid.
“Ta,” John said wearily, clinking his glass against Lestrade’s and taking a long swallow. The drink scorched his throat and sat heavy in his stomach, a welcome distraction from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Fuck, what a night.”
“You’re telling me,” Lestrade groaned, rubbing his shoulder. “Bloody terrifying. The only time I feel like that is when I pick up my phone to see it’s Mycroft calling.”
“Oh?” John said, feeling a smirk tug at his lips. “Mycroft give you a fright?”
“No,” Lestrade said grimly, “the news he might be bringing me terrifies me. Personal phone calls from Mycroft Holmes are rarely good news. I’m just waiting for the day when I hear him tell me that you and Sherlock have gone and been killed.”
“Hey,” John said gently, “that’s not gonna -”
“Don’t, John,” Lestrade said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not in the mood for this conversation again. Especially considering that we could have nearly died out there tonight.”
“We didn’t, though.” John swirled his drink, and took another sip. “And anyway, I worry as well. Pleased as I was to see you show up here, I was also terrified and a bit furious. Still didn't know what to make of that first night on the moor, and I didn't want you dragged into it."
“But how could I let you go it alone?” Lestrade countered. “Mycroft told me about Sherlock’s episode. I’d’ve come for that alone, you know I would have, and add onto that the fact that something out here might eventually have affected you, too...”
He trailed off.
“I’m all right,” John tried to assure, though he was still jittery from the minefield and the hound. Lestrade picked up on this - of course he did - and turned to look at him, eyes sweeping over John’s body in one quick movement.
“Even with the mines?” he asked carefully. John shrugged, and dropped his gaze to his drink.
“They were unsettling,” he admitted, because Lestrade wouldn’t appreciate him saying anything else - and wouldn’t believe him, either. “But it’s not anything I can’t handle.”
“Would you tell me if it got to be something you couldn’t handle?” Lestrade asked skeptically.
“Yeah,” John said earnestly. “‘Course I would. I always do. Now, are you all right?”
“Me?” Lestrade snorted. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it,” John pressed, and Lestrade grimaced. Even with his tan John could tell that Lestrade was still pale from their fright on the moor, and his hand as he lifted his glass was not quite steady. John lowered his voice, even though the room was empty, and said, “I’m sorry about the gun. I know you don’t like them.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said, and took another swallow. After a moment, he added, “But Sherlock asked me to bring it, and I trusted - trust - him. Glad I had it in the end, I s’pose.”
“I know,” John said. “But I’m still sorry you needed to fire it at all. Really, Greg.”
Lestrade reached out and took his hand briefly, squeezing before he released it. “Thanks, John.”
He took a small swallow of his drink, considering the remains of the fire, and then said, “'Scary Inspector from Scotland Yard'?”
John snorted whilst taking a sip from his own drink, and ended up coughing for a full minute before managing to choke out, “It worked, didn’t it? Have to admit, Greg, you were pretty imposing. And furious.”
“I can’t say it was all an act.”
“What makes you think I wanted it to be?” John countered. “Piss-poor joke, if you ask me. You had a right to be angry with them.” He paused, cleared his throat, and then added, “And, you know, it was...kind of hot.”
Lestrade’s eyebrows inched toward his hairline. “What?”
“It was!” John said defensively, feeling his neck grow pink and thankful that the room was semi-dark. “‘Cause you’re not just a nice, scary Inspector from Scotland Yard, you know.”
“Oh? Then what am I?”
“You’re my nice, scary Inspector.”
The look Lestrade fixed him with was unreadable, but then he said, “Always, Johnny,” in a low voice and reached for his partner’s hand again. John laced their fingers together and reflected on the fact that he hadn’t realized just how much he had needed Lestrade out here, not until the moment he caught sight of him in the darkened entry to the inn just that morning. The night prior on the moor had been frightening; Sherlock’s subsequent breakdown, perhaps even more so. John had been helpless as every attempt at reassuring, every stab at appealing to Sherlock’s rational side, had been shot down by the increasingly erratic detective. And then the final blow had fallen - I don’t have friends - and John had been cast adrift, as lost as Sherlock was himself.
Lestrade was as much John’s anchor as he was Sherlock’s, and even though Sherlock had clumsily apologized the wounds had still been raw upon Lestrade’s arrival. But with that, it was as though John’s world had been set right again. And though Sherlock would never admit it, John knew he felt the same.
“Does Sherlock really not know your name?” John asked suddenly.
That elicited a small smile from Lestrade, the first one of the evening, and John felt the tightness in his chest ease at the sight. “No, he does, he was just being a prat. Probably upset that I crashed his case or something. Not that I did much good in the end, mind, but it was his all the same. And he hates when people interfere in his life. Don’t blame him, really, but I needed to be here with you two.”
“I am glad that you came. And I meant what I said earlier - Sherlock was pleased to see you,” John reiterated.
“Yeah, I know. I can tell.” Lestrade sucked a piece of ice from his glass into his mouth; cracked it between his teeth. “I was worried about him.”
“It was pretty disconcerting,” John said, gazing into the dead fireplace. “You should’ve seen his face. It - he looked awful. Devastated. Like his entire world had been knocked on its head.”
Lestrade let out a soft huff of laughter, and shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Lestrade said. “It’s just - we’re mad, you know. This is the first night we’ve had together in God knows how long and we’re talking about Sherlock. We always talk about Sherlock.”
John felt hot guilt settle into his stomach. “Sorry. I just - c’mon, Greg, I live with the man. You have to admit that makes for no shortage of stories, especially after this case we’ve had.” He lowered his voice. “How can you think that I would want anyone other than you?”
Lestrade offered him a tentative smile, and leaned over to capture John’s lips in a brief kiss.
“I never said that you did. Though I don’t deserve you, you know,” he said gruffly when he drew away. “And anyway, no, it’s fine to talk about Sherlock. I do the same. He’s just...so immersed in our lives, you know? It’s mad and fantastic at the same time. For better or for worse, there it is - he’s a fact of life, just like gravity. Bet he’d even follow us on the honeymoon.”
John blinked. “On the what?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.” Lestrade waved a hand, a hint of a flush coloring the tips of his ears. “I just - it was just a saying. He’d follow us anywhere.”
“And we’d follow him.”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Lestrade shook his head; finally laughed. “You know what? Neither would I.”
“Good,” John said briskly, and finished off his drink. “Honeymoon?”
“God,” Lestrade groaned. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you intend to make good on that promise, Detective Inspector,” John said, setting his glass aside and getting to his feet. He winked, and added, “I’ll see you upstairs.”
John strode away, leaving Lestrade gaping after him, his half-finished drink still in his hand.