Ficlet
Title: "Keeper"
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Summary: Lestrade helps John get a drugged Sherlock back home after their first encounter with Irene Adler. Based partially on this captioning error in ASiP:
Further Notes: If you watch ASiP on Netflix, these are the subtitles you get for this particular scene. Now, Lestrade actually does say the full name, but the slip-up is kind of an adorable thing to think about (even if it’s rather a silly nickname). So, fic happened and originally appeared here a few weeks back. Warnings for dad!Lestrade and the inexcusable fluff that goes along with that. One name has been changed from the original fic to avoid confusion with an earlier story.
“He did what at Buckingham Palace?” Lestrade grunted as he and John wrestled a semi-conscious Sherlock into the waiting car.
“Sat there stark naked, wrapped in a sheet,” John said, unable to keep the smile fully from his voice. “Mostly to anger Mycroft; partially also because he could.”
Lestrade snorted. “And how’d Mycroft take that?”
“Honestly, I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel. No, Sherlock, your other foot - yeah, there you go.”
It took some doing, but they eventually got Sherlock settled on the seat in a relatively-upright position; he slumped immediately against the door, however, once the support of their hands left him.
“Yeah, well, he probably deserved it, the idiot,” Lestrade muttered darkly. He stood back to let John into the cab and then followed, taking a place next to Sherlock.
“You’ve had the pleasure of meeting him?”
“Kidnapped by him, more like. Needless to say, I’m not too keen on him and his power complex.”
Sherlock’s head fell onto Lestrade’s shoulder as he spoke, and Lestrade reached up automatically to run a hand through the wild curls that now tickled his chin. It was an old gesture. Sense memory. Sherlock, sweating and feverish, in the final throes of withdrawal, curled into a tight ball on the sofa while Lestrade sat next to him and tried to ease his pain. Lestrade caught the reflexive movement too late to do anything about it, and at John’s raised eyebrow he cleared his throat and turned his attention to their charge.
“How’re you doing, sunshine?”
Sherlock muttered a long string of choice words under his breath, and then mumbled something about elephants.
“He’ll be fine once the drugs are out of his system,” John said, watching as Sherlock found a very interesting thread on Lestrade’s collar and occupied himself with trying to pluck at it. “Should take about twenty-four hours or so; he’ll be able to sleep most of it off.”
“Can’t come soon enough,” Lestrade said. “You know how he hates being like this. It’s - Sher, what are you doing?”
Lestrade sighed as nimble fingers lifted his mobile from his pocket. He didn’t bother to snatch it back right away, knowing that there was nothing there for Sherlock to find, but he still held out his hand and raised an eyebrow - putting on his dad face, as Donovan sometimes called it, though he made it quite plain what would happen to her should she ever repeat the phrase within earshot of Sherlock and John.
“Who'sScott?” Sherlock demanded, struggling into a sitting position, his words slurring carelessly together as he scrolled through the contents on Lestrade’s phone.
“No one,” Lestrade said patiently. “Can I have that back now?”
Sherlock held it above his head, bracing his other hand against Lestrade’s chest as though physically holding him back. Lestrade shared an eye roll with John.
“No,” Sherlock said vehemently, blinking hard. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in a deep breath through his nose, and plunged ahead as though it took all of his strength just to remain conscious. “Who is S - um -”
“Scott?” Lestrade supplied, and Sherlock poked him in the forehead with one long finger.
“‘xactly. Sc't.”
“You’ve got my mobile. You tell me,” Lestrade said smugly. Sherlock frowned and let the hand holding Lestrade’s mobile fall into his lap. He stared at it for several moments, eyes darting as he struggled to make sense of his observations, and then he brushed his fingers across the screen.
“You’re - you’re dating,” he managed finally. Lestrade offered a small smile and removed the device from Sherlock’s limp hand.
“Yeah, well done, lad. Not too bad for being doped up out of your mind.”
“No -” Sherlock blinked at him again, his mouth hanging open comically. John gave a snort that he quickly covered with a cough. Sherlock prodded Lestrade in the chest emphatically with each of his next words. “No, you can’t.”
“What?”
But Sherlock was no longer paying attention to Lestrade and had started to frantically dig through his own pockets.
“No - no good,” he muttered under his breath as his search came up empty. “Not good. Have - have t’call M’croft.”
“Call Mycroft?” John asked. “Why?”
“Must check out Scott.” Sherlock sprang forward and, before either of them could stop him, shoved his hands into John’s jacket. “Need y’phone.”
“What - no, Sherlock, stop it! You can’t have my phone! Stop being ridiculous,” John snapped, trying to shove his flatmate away. Lestrade grabbed the bony wrists and hauled Sherlock back.
“Sh - look at - hey, c’mon, look at me,” Lestrade demanded, giving Sherlock a light shake. Bleary eyes fixed on his own and after a moment Sherlock stopped struggling. “You don’t need to have your brother run a background check on the people I date. Got it? And if I find out he has, it’ll be your head, kiddo.”
“How else -” Sherlock rasped, pausing for breath, “ - are y’supposed t’avoid what happened lasttime?”
Lestrade’s answering smile was sad. “You don’t. That’s just life.”
“He hurt you.”
“We hurt each other,” Lestrade corrected, feeling the need to say it even though he doubted Sherlock would remember any of this in the morning. He pressed Sherlock back against the seat. “Now relax for a minute. We’ll be at the flat soon.”
Sherlock’s head rolled onto Lestrade’s shoulder once again and Lestrade turned his attention to the passing buildings, feeling John’s curious gaze and doing his best to ignore it.
It took the two of them to haul a limp and nonsensical Sherlock up the seventeen steps once they got back to Baker Street, and once inside the flat it took some tricky maneuvering to get them all down the tiny corridor and into Sherlock’s room.
“Right, that’s that, then,” John sighed, straightening and cracking his spine once Sherlock had been deposited on the bed. “Sleep, Sherlock. That’s an order.”
“Sod ‘ff,” Sherlock murmured as Lestrade removed his shoes and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.
“You’re welcome, mate,” John muttered, shaking his head. He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “C’mon, Greg, I’ll get you a cup of tea before you go.”
“Thanks,” Lestrade said gratefully. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
John nodded and left them. Lestrade turned back to the bed, putting a bracing hand on the wall and leaning over Sherlock’s prone form. Sherlock groaned.
“Y’wanna talk,” he slurred disapprovingly. “G’way.”
“You know, you can be very kind, sometimes. In your own way,” Lestrade said. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder; one eye cracked open and glared at him from behind the fringe of dark hair. “Thanks, Sher.”
He leaned down swiftly and touched his lips to Sherlock’s cheek; Sherlock huffed an indignant, “Lest - no - dad,” and tried to squirm away from the stubble. Lestrade chuckled and drew back.
“Call if you need anything,” he said, even though he was certain Sherlock had fallen asleep in the time it took him to pace over to the door. “You know where to find me.”
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Summary: Lestrade helps John get a drugged Sherlock back home after their first encounter with Irene Adler. Based partially on this captioning error in ASiP:
Further Notes: If you watch ASiP on Netflix, these are the subtitles you get for this particular scene. Now, Lestrade actually does say the full name, but the slip-up is kind of an adorable thing to think about (even if it’s rather a silly nickname). So, fic happened and originally appeared here a few weeks back. Warnings for dad!Lestrade and the inexcusable fluff that goes along with that. One name has been changed from the original fic to avoid confusion with an earlier story.
“He did what at Buckingham Palace?” Lestrade grunted as he and John wrestled a semi-conscious Sherlock into the waiting car.
“Sat there stark naked, wrapped in a sheet,” John said, unable to keep the smile fully from his voice. “Mostly to anger Mycroft; partially also because he could.”
Lestrade snorted. “And how’d Mycroft take that?”
“Honestly, I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel. No, Sherlock, your other foot - yeah, there you go.”
It took some doing, but they eventually got Sherlock settled on the seat in a relatively-upright position; he slumped immediately against the door, however, once the support of their hands left him.
“Yeah, well, he probably deserved it, the idiot,” Lestrade muttered darkly. He stood back to let John into the cab and then followed, taking a place next to Sherlock.
“You’ve had the pleasure of meeting him?”
“Kidnapped by him, more like. Needless to say, I’m not too keen on him and his power complex.”
Sherlock’s head fell onto Lestrade’s shoulder as he spoke, and Lestrade reached up automatically to run a hand through the wild curls that now tickled his chin. It was an old gesture. Sense memory. Sherlock, sweating and feverish, in the final throes of withdrawal, curled into a tight ball on the sofa while Lestrade sat next to him and tried to ease his pain. Lestrade caught the reflexive movement too late to do anything about it, and at John’s raised eyebrow he cleared his throat and turned his attention to their charge.
“How’re you doing, sunshine?”
Sherlock muttered a long string of choice words under his breath, and then mumbled something about elephants.
“He’ll be fine once the drugs are out of his system,” John said, watching as Sherlock found a very interesting thread on Lestrade’s collar and occupied himself with trying to pluck at it. “Should take about twenty-four hours or so; he’ll be able to sleep most of it off.”
“Can’t come soon enough,” Lestrade said. “You know how he hates being like this. It’s - Sher, what are you doing?”
Lestrade sighed as nimble fingers lifted his mobile from his pocket. He didn’t bother to snatch it back right away, knowing that there was nothing there for Sherlock to find, but he still held out his hand and raised an eyebrow - putting on his dad face, as Donovan sometimes called it, though he made it quite plain what would happen to her should she ever repeat the phrase within earshot of Sherlock and John.
“Who'sScott?” Sherlock demanded, struggling into a sitting position, his words slurring carelessly together as he scrolled through the contents on Lestrade’s phone.
“No one,” Lestrade said patiently. “Can I have that back now?”
Sherlock held it above his head, bracing his other hand against Lestrade’s chest as though physically holding him back. Lestrade shared an eye roll with John.
“No,” Sherlock said vehemently, blinking hard. He squeezed his eyes shut, sucked in a deep breath through his nose, and plunged ahead as though it took all of his strength just to remain conscious. “Who is S - um -”
“Scott?” Lestrade supplied, and Sherlock poked him in the forehead with one long finger.
“‘xactly. Sc't.”
“You’ve got my mobile. You tell me,” Lestrade said smugly. Sherlock frowned and let the hand holding Lestrade’s mobile fall into his lap. He stared at it for several moments, eyes darting as he struggled to make sense of his observations, and then he brushed his fingers across the screen.
“You’re - you’re dating,” he managed finally. Lestrade offered a small smile and removed the device from Sherlock’s limp hand.
“Yeah, well done, lad. Not too bad for being doped up out of your mind.”
“No -” Sherlock blinked at him again, his mouth hanging open comically. John gave a snort that he quickly covered with a cough. Sherlock prodded Lestrade in the chest emphatically with each of his next words. “No, you can’t.”
“What?”
But Sherlock was no longer paying attention to Lestrade and had started to frantically dig through his own pockets.
“No - no good,” he muttered under his breath as his search came up empty. “Not good. Have - have t’call M’croft.”
“Call Mycroft?” John asked. “Why?”
“Must check out Scott.” Sherlock sprang forward and, before either of them could stop him, shoved his hands into John’s jacket. “Need y’phone.”
“What - no, Sherlock, stop it! You can’t have my phone! Stop being ridiculous,” John snapped, trying to shove his flatmate away. Lestrade grabbed the bony wrists and hauled Sherlock back.
“Sh - look at - hey, c’mon, look at me,” Lestrade demanded, giving Sherlock a light shake. Bleary eyes fixed on his own and after a moment Sherlock stopped struggling. “You don’t need to have your brother run a background check on the people I date. Got it? And if I find out he has, it’ll be your head, kiddo.”
“How else -” Sherlock rasped, pausing for breath, “ - are y’supposed t’avoid what happened lasttime?”
Lestrade’s answering smile was sad. “You don’t. That’s just life.”
“He hurt you.”
“We hurt each other,” Lestrade corrected, feeling the need to say it even though he doubted Sherlock would remember any of this in the morning. He pressed Sherlock back against the seat. “Now relax for a minute. We’ll be at the flat soon.”
Sherlock’s head rolled onto Lestrade’s shoulder once again and Lestrade turned his attention to the passing buildings, feeling John’s curious gaze and doing his best to ignore it.
It took the two of them to haul a limp and nonsensical Sherlock up the seventeen steps once they got back to Baker Street, and once inside the flat it took some tricky maneuvering to get them all down the tiny corridor and into Sherlock’s room.
“Right, that’s that, then,” John sighed, straightening and cracking his spine once Sherlock had been deposited on the bed. “Sleep, Sherlock. That’s an order.”
“Sod ‘ff,” Sherlock murmured as Lestrade removed his shoes and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.
“You’re welcome, mate,” John muttered, shaking his head. He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “C’mon, Greg, I’ll get you a cup of tea before you go.”
“Thanks,” Lestrade said gratefully. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
John nodded and left them. Lestrade turned back to the bed, putting a bracing hand on the wall and leaning over Sherlock’s prone form. Sherlock groaned.
“Y’wanna talk,” he slurred disapprovingly. “G’way.”
“You know, you can be very kind, sometimes. In your own way,” Lestrade said. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder; one eye cracked open and glared at him from behind the fringe of dark hair. “Thanks, Sher.”
He leaned down swiftly and touched his lips to Sherlock’s cheek; Sherlock huffed an indignant, “Lest - no - dad,” and tried to squirm away from the stubble. Lestrade chuckled and drew back.
“Call if you need anything,” he said, even though he was certain Sherlock had fallen asleep in the time it took him to pace over to the door. “You know where to find me.”