(no subject)
Title: "Threshold"
Characters/Pairings: established Sherlock/Lestrade
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Spoilers: Major ones for "Hounds;" hints of "Reichenbach"
Word Count: c. 2,000
Warnings: None
Summary: It didn’t occur to Lestrade, not until the moor, that maybe there was a reason why he had kept wearing that ring.
Notes: This is a heavily revised version of a silly little fic I put on Tumblr back in January.
Timeline: I stumbled across this post this morning, which effectively destroyed the headcanon timeline I've been working with for writing series 2 fic. I've been working under the impression that "Hounds" takes place post-"Scandal," or at least, post- the scene on the plane. So, for the purposes of this fic, "Hounds" takes place some months after "Scandal."
Lestrade sat down heavily on the bed, the torch still clutched in his left hand. The gun Sherlock had him bring to the moor had been safely stowed away, and Lestrade prayed he wouldn’t have to set eyes on it again for a good long while. He paused for just a moment, breathing deeply and swiftly through his nose. He had left his shoes on, and the smell of wet earth and damp grass permeated the room, along with slowly-ebbing adrenaline and, he hated to admit, fear.
Drugs in the fog, Sherlock had said, but that bloody hound had felt real enough. Lestrade’s senses were all he had when he lacked the power of Sherlock’s mind, and knowing that even those had been useless against the fog...
There was a sudden scraping at the door before he could completely gather his thoughts and he was muttering, “Sherlock,” in exasperation even before the other man had entered the room.
“It’s not enough to pick my locks at home - you’ve got to do it abroad, too?” Lestrade sighed, standing up and shedding his jacket.
“Well, how else was I supposed to get in?” Sherlock asked, a frown cutting through his features as he pocketed his tools.
“I dunno - you couldn’t just knock?”
“Ah, dull.”
Lestrade started to fumble with the buttons on his shirt. He ached now, suddenly and everywhere, and wanted nothing more than a blistering shower and to sleep for twelve hours. His shoulders burned, and he got as far as unbuttoning his shirt fully before the evening’s exertions finally caught up with him and he found that he couldn’t muster the energy to pull it off.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Lestrade muttered, resting his hands on his hips. Sherlock crossed to the small window and peeled aside the curtain to look out at the darkened grounds. “Thought you’d be spending the night with John.”
Sherlock snorted. “With you here? Hardly.”
“Thanks. I think.” Lestrade toed off his shoes, using the wall for balance, and once his feet were free he curled his toes into the carpet, trying to relax. “But take into account for a moment my age and the night I’ve had. Sorry, lad, but about the only thing I’m up for right now is falling unconscious.”
“Do you really think that’s all I come to you for?” Sherlock asked disdainfully, finally turning from the window and crossing the room to stand behind Lestrade. He tugged at the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt and, with uncharacteristic gentleness, helped him out of it.
“I don’t know anymore, Sherlock,” Lestrade muttered wearily, taking the shirt from his lover and tossing it into his overnight bag. The scene here had been played out countless times over the years, to the point of it becoming as routine as brushing one’s teeth or putting on socks in the morning. Lestrade had long ago given up on changing his locks at home, and no longer even woke to the sound of his flat being broken into, it had happened so often. That sound was more natural to him than a knock on the door. Sherlock had come to him when the nightmares were overwhelming; when Mycroft was being a prat; when the tedium threatened to consume him. He was the one constant in Lestrade’s life as his own marriage fell apart; as the job threatened to be too much; as the bottle became too enticing.
And as they careened from deadly pills to bomb vests to John Watson to Moriarty, Sherlock had found his way from Lestrade’s sofa to Lestrade’s bed, a progression that was as inevitable as going from one breath to the next. Sherlock had melded himself to Lestrade’s life, slipping into all the cracks and open spaces, filling them in a way no one else had in a very long time. But that realization served to only heighten the fear - terror at losing Sherlock, whether it be to a beast like they had encountered tonight or to the detective’s own fickle nature. He was easily bored; it wouldn’t take long, Lestrade supposed, for Sherlock to begin to find him tedious.
He hasn’t yet, a small voice reminded Lestrade. A stronger one recalled the earlier conversation he had had with John, who recounted Sherlock’s breakdown and their subsequent argument - including the words that had been playing on a loop in Lestrade’s mind ever since.
“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked, an edge to his voice.
“Come off it, Sherlock. You know very well what I mean. Can’t tell anymore what it is you want of me. You did tell John you only had one friend,” Lestrade muttered carelessly, not caring that he had given John away in his moment of frustration. He sat on the bed and contemplated his ability to bend over and tug off his socks, steadfastly avoiding Sherlock’s expression.
“I do have only one friend.”
“Well, what’m I, then?” Lestrade said irritably. “And if you say ‘handler,’ I will punch you.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock snapped. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He slipped out of his coat, draping it over the back of a chair before sitting down next to Lestrade on the bed.
“I have only the one friend,” he said slowly, enunciating each word as though he was speaking to a small child, “because you’re my partner.”
“I’m - what?”
Sherlock nodded to Lestrade’s hands. “You’ve stopped wearing the ring.”
“Ah... yeah, I did,” Lestrade said. “And?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Think, Lestrade.”
“I am thinking.” Lestrade ran a finger absently along the band of white where his ring used to sit. He had been separated from Diane for close to five years before they finally dropped the facade of working things out, a tale that they told others even though they both knew that the point of reconciliation had passed years before. The divorce had only gone through earlier that year, but the marriage had ended long before.
“Not very well,” Sherlock scoffed. “Honestly, how do you manage when I’m not around?”
“Sherlock!”
“You’ve spent all this time concerned that boredom would draw me away,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Did you truly never stop to consider the possibility that maybe you were the one who was unsure about... this?” Sherlock swept a hand vaguely through the air between them.
“Me?” Lestrade said in disbelief. “I’m not the one who resorts to shooting walls or cocaine the moment the world becomes too dull for him!’
“And I’m not the one who wears a wedding ring even though he hasn’t thought of himself as taken for close three years now,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. He then added, “Well... wore a wedding ring.”
Lestrade blinked. He had worn the band throughout the separation and for a while after the divorce, telling himself that it was out of habit more than sentiment. And it was Lestrade who insisted that he and Sherlock spend their infrequent nights together at Baker Street, even though he was the one without the flatmate. He also made a habit, on those particular mornings, of slipping out before John woke, and the only comment he would make when asked about his private life was that he was occupied with the work - a phrase that Sherlock had appropriated for his own, though Lestrade was certain that he had modified it so that he was married to said work.
But then came this most recent holiday, and somewhere between the sunshine and the tides and the hours spent with his niece and nephew, Lestrade forgot about the ring entirely. He’d stood on the beach on their last night, a half-moon dimly lighting his way, and hurled the tiny piece of gold into the churning waves. It glinted once, twice, as it sailed through the air; he lost track of it long before it went to its watery resting place.
“You’ve stopped wearing the ring,” Sherlock repeated, his voice soft.
“I didn’t realize...” Lestrade trailed off.
“Of course you didn’t,” Sherlock said, and if Lestrade wasn’t busy feeling utterly bewildered he might have been indignant. He leaned over to brush his lips lightly against Lestrade’s. “It hardly matters, because I did.”
“Partner,” Lestrade mused to himself. He felt Sherlock grin.
“If you’ll have me.”
Lestrade shot him a disbelieving look. Sherlock’s grin morphed into a smug smirk. “Foolish question?”
“Absurd,” Lestrade said, and kissed him again.
“Mmm. And I don’t get to say this too often, but John was right.”
“What?” Lestrade blinked, mortified, as a dozen imagined conversations popped into his head - Sherlock going to John for advice, laying the intimate workings of their relationship bare before the seasoned blogger... no, that was just not on.
“John,” Sherlock repeated, bending to take off his shoes and then plucking at the buttons on his shirt. “He was right. I was pleased to see you today. It was... unexpected. But not unwelcome.”
“Could’ve had me fooled,” Lestrade said through his sudden relief. “Really, did you have to pretend not to know my name?”
Sherlock smirked. “As I said, it was unexpected. You should have known better than to interfere in my case. Call it retaliation.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still glad your brother called me, though he could have done it sooner. It sounded like you’d had a hell of a time before I arrived,” Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock’s lithe form emerged from the confines of his clothes. Sherlock stood to shed his trousers, his face quickly becoming blank.
“I’m sure John’s filled you in, seeing as you knew about the friend conversation,” he said woodenly. “You two have since had time to check in with one another and compare notes; there’s little point in you hearing the story from me.”
Lestrade sighed, refusing to be dragged into the well-worn argument tonight. “Yeah, John told me about - well, he’d said you’d had a bit of a fright. You were in quite a state; terrified like he’d never seen before.”
“Remind me to have a word with Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said stiffly.
“He was just concerned about you.” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t say he was the only one. It was good to see you were your usual irritating self when I arrived.”
“Was it?” Sherlock said dryly.
“Yeah,” Lestrade said earnestly, reaching out to lay a hand on Sherlock’s elbow. “It was good to see you were all right, lad.”
“You worry far too much, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, his voice carefully neutral.
“Because you still felt that fear,” Lestrade pressed, recalling John’s bewildered face as he had recounted the story earlier. “Brought on by the drugs or not, that was still real.”
“I’d rather not be reminded of that.”
“Hey.” Lestrade stood and took Sherlock by the shoulders. “S’all right. It happens to everyone. I’m just... sorry I wasn’t here for you.”
“Do I look like everyone?” Sherlock snapped, suddenly angry. “It doesn’t happen to me, Greg.”
“You were drugged.”
“What’s your point?” Sherlock growled.
“That like it or not, you are human, Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade said, folding his arms across his chest, preparing for the argument he wasn’t sure he had the energy to pursue.
But the oft-used words didn’t come. Sherlock shrugged, shoulders slumping as though all the fight had drained from his limbs. He stepped out of his trousers and kicked them away before saying, “You were on holiday.”
Lestrade arched an eyebrow at the abrupt subject change but simply said, “Yeah,” because the sight of Sherlock Holmes backing down from a fight - and letting Lestrade have the last word - was an odd one, and he didn’t know what to do with it. One thing was clear, though - something out on the moor had affected Sherlock more deeply than he was admitting.
“Not with your ex-wife, I imagine.”
“What, can’t deduce it for yourself?” Lestrade said with a smirk. He shed the rest of his clothes and climbed into bed; Sherlock followed. “No, with my sister and her kids. It’s been a rough year for them since their dad left; thought the time away might help. You should see ‘em now, though, Sherlock. They’ve grown so much. Kept asking after you. When was the last time we were all together?”
“January, I believe.”
“Ah, that’s right.” Lestrade turned out the light, and suppressed a smile as Sherlock settled against his side. He looped an arm around the detective, tugging him closer. “We’ll have to remedy that soon. Take them out.”
“Or have dinner at your place.”
“You think I’m an idiot, do you?” Lestrade said playfully, tweaking Sherlock’s ear. “Last time we tried that, you and Anna set the stove on fire. No, we’ll go out somewhere you can only cause a minimum amount of mayhem.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said, moving to capture Lestrade’s lips in a slow kiss. “I can be very creative.”
“I know you can,” Lestrade murmured against the warm mouth, curling a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck while his other one dipped lower. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“The fact that you came here,” Sherlock said some time later, “that was... good.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It was also foolish.” Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Lestrade.
“Well, what do you expect me to do when the daft git I’m rather fond of keeps getting himself into mad situations?” Lestrade said in exasperation, brushing a strand of sweat-slick hair from Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock stared back, his gaze dark and suddenly grave. “You know I’ll always follow you.”
“Yes. But you can’t always...” Sherlock debated his next words for a moment before settling on, “help me.”
“I can sure as hell try.”
“Someday, that might not be enough.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Lestrade asked sharply.
“I’m not sure yet myself,” Sherlock said absently, distracted already with tracing the line of Lestrade’s jaw, fingers rasping along the stubble. “I doubt we will be kept in anticipation for very much longer, however.”
“You’re a bit strange, you know that?” Lestrade said lightly, trying to ignore the twinge of foreboding in his gut.
“So I’ve been told.”
Lestrade didn’t anticipate falling asleep that night, the lingering adrenaline overriding the calm stupor he normally felt after a thorough shag, and though their conversation lapsed he knew that Sherlock was awake as well - alert, as ever, even though the perceived danger had passed. Lestrade knew he must have drifted, though, for he found himself looking at a steel-grey horizon one moment and, in the next, a morning sky shot through with vibrant yellow and gold. The bed was empty, too, and Sherlock’s side had gone cold in his absence.
But there was a note on the bedside table, Lestrade saw as he reached for his mobile, written in a tight scrawl that took him a moment to decipher. He read it, snorted, and then tucked it away in his wallet.
Lestrade didn’t think of it again for three months, not until a fall on a cool morning in June caused his world to start coming apart at the seams. It was only then that he pulled out the piece of paper, worn nearly through from having spent three months in his back pocket, and brushed his fingers over the words.
Took an early train back to London with John.
You know where to find me, Greg.
-SH