(no subject)
Title: Immutable
Characters/Pairings: John/Lestrade, Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language; Description of injuries; Fluff
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: c. 2,100
Summary: There were some certainties to life when you were dating John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes stepping all over your carefully-laid plans was one of them.
Notes: Posting this mostly as an apology to canonisrelative, because the latest installment of WC is kicking my butt and she can’t post hers until that goes up. Soon, my dear! I promise! Until then, I’m distracting you with some old J/L I discovered.
Sherlock opened his eyes to harsh hospital lights and Mycroft’s face looming over him, filling up most of his field of vision. He cursed.
“Good to see you awake, brother,” Mycroft said, and his voice was laced with amusement. He sat back down in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, and was smiling smugly at him when Sherlock dared open his eyes again. “Needless to say, your little scheme did not quite go according to plan. You will likely be released tomorrow afternoon. Doctor Watson’s injuries were a bit more severe, and he will need to spend the majority of the week here.”
Mycroft nodded to Sherlock’s left, and Sherlock turned his head to see that John was lying in a hospital bed on the other side of the room, his face ashen and drawn. The hand that Sherlock could see was bandaged, and there were several stitches above his right eyebrow.
“He came through the surgery just fine, as you can see,” Mycroft informed Sherlock. “He will recover fully, though I’m told that there will be scarring.”
John’s eyes fluttered open briefly as Sherlock watched, and he mumbled something under his breath.
“He needs something,” Sherlock said quietly as John grew restless, stirring under the blankets.
“He’s fine,” Mycroft attempted to reassure. “He’s just delirious with the medication. He probably doesn’t know where he is right now, and he won’t remember any of this in the morning. Do stop worrying, Sherlock. He’ll settle down in a moment.”
John’s head fell to the side, and their eyes met. Sherlock could see his name poised on John’s lips. He shoved himself into a sitting position and pushed aside the blankets.
“Sherlock, stay still,” Mycroft said, reaching out for him.
Sherlock rounded on his brother, shoving away the hand that laid itself on his forearm. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
He ripped the IV line from his arm with more force than was necessary and clambered out of the bed, stumbling on shaky legs over to John’s side.
“He is fine.”
“He is not fine, Mycroft, anyone with eyes can see that,” Sherlock snapped. “Either make yourself useful and find a nurse or sit down and shut up.” Sherlock returned his attention to the man on the bed, gaze softening almost at once. He reached out and touched his flatmate’s shoulder. “John.”
John’s lips parted and he worked them soundlessly for several moments before a helpless rasp escaped them. Sherlock had to put his ear almost to John’s mouth to understand what he was saying, and when he finally caught it his face hardened.
“I take that back,” he said, raising murderous eyes to his brother. “You need to go find Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“And what good would that do, Sherlock?”
“I don’t know, Mycroft, but John’s asking for him. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to heed his wishes? After all, he did save my life.”
“And how, exactly, do you expect me to go about accomplishing this?”
“Well, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, “I expect that the easiest way would be to walk out of this room, find him, and then personally escort him back up here. Or do you require more blow-by-blow instructions?”
“Sherlock, I’m not about to go around London in search of this man just because you asked. I have far more important things to be dealing with.”
“So send one of your men to do it for you. Delegate; that’s what you’re good at. And I don’t see you doing anything of particular importance, apart from being irritating.”
John coughed wetly, interrupting their bickering for a brief moment. Sherlock’s eyes flew to his flatmate and remained fixed on him, body tense, until John’s breathing eased again.
“Besides, you don’t need to go searching through all of London,” Sherlock continued as though they hadn’t been interrupted. His eyes remained focused on John. “John’s in the hospital. You know as well as I that Lestrade won’t be anywhere else but here. Go find him.”
The other man heaved a great sigh. “Sherlock -”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed, interrupting him, “if you’ve any shred of decency left in that lumbering shell you call a body, you will go out and exercise every power you possess to bring Lestrade back here.”
“He’s not family, Sherlock. I can’t go... flaunting my position just because they won’t allow Doctor Watson a visitor.”
“You’ve never before had issues with flaunting your position. Why start now?”
“Sherlock -”
“I’ll come to Christmas dinner.”
Mycroft blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me perfectly well,” Sherlock growled. “I’ll not be repeating myself.”
His words gave Mycroft pause. Finally, the older man said, “I’ll go see what I can do,” and got to his feet.
“Do that,” Sherlock snarled as Mycroft left the room.
----
Lestrade found himself being summoned out of the hospital waiting room at eight o’clock, nearly six hours after he’d first collapsed in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his shirt stained with blood that wasn’t his and hands trembling with unfocused adrenaline and fear. Sally had brought him a clean outfit in the intervening hours and at one point might have even forced him to eat, though he was fuzzy on all the details of the afternoon.
He recognized Mycroft Holmes the moment the man sidled into the room. Their eyes met and, with a crook of his finger, Mycroft beckoned for Lestrade to follow him. The nurses who had so adamantly insisted that he stay in the waiting room said nothing as he walked past them, and once beyond the double-doors Mycroft gave him curt instructions on how to find John and Sherlock’s room. He then turned on his heel and left without an explanation of any kind.
Thankfully, Mycroft’s words somehow penetrated Lestrade’s foggy mind, and he was able to find the correct wing of the hospital within minutes.
“I apologize for my brother’s... ineptitude,” was the first thing Sherlock said when Lestrade entered the hospital room, and he sounded almost bitter. Lestrade felt a weary smile tug at his lips, and he joined Sherlock by John’s bed. John appeared to be in a restless doze, and Sherlock was standing at his side, keeping watch.
“‘S’all right,” Lestrade told him. He then added, “He was only following protocol. I’m not family," because the Holmes boys were used to having the rules bent around them, and sometimes Sherlock forgot that.
“Nevertheless -”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted, “are you supposed to be out of bed?”
That earned him a fierce glare. “That’s what you’re concerned with right now?”
“Sherlock.” Lestrade squeezed his shoulder, and Sherlock’s jaw tightened for a moment in irritation before he gave a quick nod and allowed himself to be steered back over to the other bed.
“He’s still an idiot,” Sherlock muttered finally, determined as he was to find fault with his brother, before he settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“I’m sure he is,” Lestrade said, placating. “How do you feel?”
“Oddly enough, as though I was hit by a bus,” Sherlock said acidly. “Which isn’t surprising, seeing -”
“- seeing as how you were hit by a bus, yeah, I know,” Lestrade said tiredly. “Sherlock -”
“I am fine, Lestrade.” His face softened suddenly; Lestrade was taken aback by the sudden change. “And I was not the one asking for you. Do see to my flatmate. Questions about my injuries can wait.”
Lestrade squeezed his shoulder one final time, nodded, and moved to John’s bedside.
“Right bloody mess, you are,” he said, pulling up a chair and settling himself on John’s left. John stirred at the noise. He cracked open a swollen eye and, recognizing Lestrade, gave a crooked half-smile.
“Greg.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Lestrade attempted to match the pleased smile and was certain that he failed, worn down as he was by worry and hours spent in a waiting room without any shred of news. “You all right?”
“I’ll live,” John rasped.
“I wasn’t so sure of that a few hours ago. None of us were.”
“Let it be, Greg,” John said, and Lestrade felt a stab of guilt. This was an argument they’d had far too many times in the beginning, and it had well worn out its welcome.
“How do you feel?” he asked, reaching out to gently cup a bandaged hand.
John wavered a moment, and during his brief hesitation Sherlock, who had been listening in, opened his eyes long enough to share a glance with Lestrade.
This shouldn’t have happened. Not to John.
“Hurts,” John admitted finally, because Lestrade wouldn’t have appreciated anything other than the truth and this one was hard to mask.
Lestrade ran the back of his finger down John’s cheek, once, and whispered, “I know. But you’ll feel better soon.”
“No, he won’t. It’ll take at least -”
“Sherlock!”
“What?” The detective looked stupefied, even with Lestrade glaring heavily at him. John gave a huff of laughter that turned into a broken whimper as the movement strained his abused torso.
“You two -” he wheezed even as Lestrade laid a hand on his arm and told him not to talk, “- are completely mental.”
“Says the man who follows us around on a daily basis,” Lestrade pointed out.
“He does have a point, John.”
“I have to. Where - would you be - without me?” John managed, breath hitching with the pain. Lestrade leaned forward and touched his lips to the sweaty forehead.
“Very lost, Johnny.”
“There would be more holes in the walls,” Sherlock chimed in, and it earned him a wheezing chuckle. “And no milk.”
“There’s never any milk... as it is,” John retorted, but the smile he gave was genuine, if a bit pained, and it was good to see. Lestrade started to thread thick fingers through John’s short hair.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked after a moment, feeling utterly useless now that he was at John’s side. He’d been of no use to John out there in the waiting room, and here seemed even more out of place. What John needed was sleep, and a quick recovery, and Lestrade could provide neither.
John shook his head, and said quietly, “They wouldn’t let you back here?”
“No,” Lestrade admitted. “But it’s just as well. I’d’ve only been a bother.”
“Never,” John said softly. “Never a bother. Not to me.”
“If you say so, Johnny.”
“I do,” John said earnestly. His voice was slowly regaining its strength, now, and no longer was every word punctuated with a gasp. “Maybe... maybe we should look into making you my emergency contact. If - well, if you want. Might make things a bit easier, in the future.”
“Well - you know, you could stop landing in hospital. I think that - that would probably make things the easiest, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Greg.”
Lestrade sighed. “Right, yeah. It would, at that. Make things easier, I mean.”
“Oh, tell him, Lestrade,” Sherlock griped from his bed. “Christ. It is painful to watch you fidget.”
“Tell me what?” John asked as Lestrade cursed under his breath and glared at Sherlock, who had closed his eyes once more.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Think you’re lying to me, Greg,” John murmured, medication already weighing heavily on his senses again.
“I’m not.”
“Lestrade,” Sherlock sighed, “he’s half out of his mind with painkillers and even he can see that you’re not being entirely truthful. And it would make everything dreadfully easier if you just told him right now. Get on with it, already.”
John was looking at him hard now, blue eyes intent.
“What is it you’re keeping from me?” he asked softly, voice tinged with concern.
“Good Lord - nothing, John, I swear. I was just... waiting for a better time, is all.” Lestrade sighed and shifted, his hands tightening reflexively around John’s bandaged one. He shot a quick glare at Sherlock, who ignored him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lestrade assured quickly. “I’ve... I’ve just been thinking lately that I’d like to - if you’re willing - make this a bit more... permanent.”
“Permanent,” John repeated dully.
“Enduring,” Sherlock supplied. “Or immutable, if you prefer. Long-lasting, or -”
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” Lestrade growled, and Sherlock pulled a face at him.
“Marry you, you mean,” John said after a beat, alert now. Lestrade gave a nod that was really more a jerk of his head, and didn’t realize how hard he was clutching John’s hand until the younger man winced and whispered, “Too hard, Greg.”
“Sorry,” Lestrade said hastily, loosening his grip guiltily. But when he met John’s eyes again, they were crinkled in amusement.
“Yes,” he said.
“You will?”
“I will.” John laughed as much as his ribs would allow, and though it was laced with pain his eyes were still sparkling with happiness. “Fuck, Greg, of course I will. Get over here.”
And as Lestrade bent his head to kiss John, he heard Sherlock mutter, “Finally.”
Characters/Pairings: John/Lestrade, Sherlock, Mycroft
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language; Description of injuries; Fluff
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Word Count: c. 2,100
Summary: There were some certainties to life when you were dating John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes stepping all over your carefully-laid plans was one of them.
Notes: Posting this mostly as an apology to canonisrelative, because the latest installment of WC is kicking my butt and she can’t post hers until that goes up. Soon, my dear! I promise! Until then, I’m distracting you with some old J/L I discovered.
Sherlock opened his eyes to harsh hospital lights and Mycroft’s face looming over him, filling up most of his field of vision. He cursed.
“Good to see you awake, brother,” Mycroft said, and his voice was laced with amusement. He sat back down in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed, and was smiling smugly at him when Sherlock dared open his eyes again. “Needless to say, your little scheme did not quite go according to plan. You will likely be released tomorrow afternoon. Doctor Watson’s injuries were a bit more severe, and he will need to spend the majority of the week here.”
Mycroft nodded to Sherlock’s left, and Sherlock turned his head to see that John was lying in a hospital bed on the other side of the room, his face ashen and drawn. The hand that Sherlock could see was bandaged, and there were several stitches above his right eyebrow.
“He came through the surgery just fine, as you can see,” Mycroft informed Sherlock. “He will recover fully, though I’m told that there will be scarring.”
John’s eyes fluttered open briefly as Sherlock watched, and he mumbled something under his breath.
“He needs something,” Sherlock said quietly as John grew restless, stirring under the blankets.
“He’s fine,” Mycroft attempted to reassure. “He’s just delirious with the medication. He probably doesn’t know where he is right now, and he won’t remember any of this in the morning. Do stop worrying, Sherlock. He’ll settle down in a moment.”
John’s head fell to the side, and their eyes met. Sherlock could see his name poised on John’s lips. He shoved himself into a sitting position and pushed aside the blankets.
“Sherlock, stay still,” Mycroft said, reaching out for him.
Sherlock rounded on his brother, shoving away the hand that laid itself on his forearm. “I’ll do nothing of the sort.”
He ripped the IV line from his arm with more force than was necessary and clambered out of the bed, stumbling on shaky legs over to John’s side.
“He is fine.”
“He is not fine, Mycroft, anyone with eyes can see that,” Sherlock snapped. “Either make yourself useful and find a nurse or sit down and shut up.” Sherlock returned his attention to the man on the bed, gaze softening almost at once. He reached out and touched his flatmate’s shoulder. “John.”
John’s lips parted and he worked them soundlessly for several moments before a helpless rasp escaped them. Sherlock had to put his ear almost to John’s mouth to understand what he was saying, and when he finally caught it his face hardened.
“I take that back,” he said, raising murderous eyes to his brother. “You need to go find Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“And what good would that do, Sherlock?”
“I don’t know, Mycroft, but John’s asking for him. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to heed his wishes? After all, he did save my life.”
“And how, exactly, do you expect me to go about accomplishing this?”
“Well, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, “I expect that the easiest way would be to walk out of this room, find him, and then personally escort him back up here. Or do you require more blow-by-blow instructions?”
“Sherlock, I’m not about to go around London in search of this man just because you asked. I have far more important things to be dealing with.”
“So send one of your men to do it for you. Delegate; that’s what you’re good at. And I don’t see you doing anything of particular importance, apart from being irritating.”
John coughed wetly, interrupting their bickering for a brief moment. Sherlock’s eyes flew to his flatmate and remained fixed on him, body tense, until John’s breathing eased again.
“Besides, you don’t need to go searching through all of London,” Sherlock continued as though they hadn’t been interrupted. His eyes remained focused on John. “John’s in the hospital. You know as well as I that Lestrade won’t be anywhere else but here. Go find him.”
The other man heaved a great sigh. “Sherlock -”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed, interrupting him, “if you’ve any shred of decency left in that lumbering shell you call a body, you will go out and exercise every power you possess to bring Lestrade back here.”
“He’s not family, Sherlock. I can’t go... flaunting my position just because they won’t allow Doctor Watson a visitor.”
“You’ve never before had issues with flaunting your position. Why start now?”
“Sherlock -”
“I’ll come to Christmas dinner.”
Mycroft blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me perfectly well,” Sherlock growled. “I’ll not be repeating myself.”
His words gave Mycroft pause. Finally, the older man said, “I’ll go see what I can do,” and got to his feet.
“Do that,” Sherlock snarled as Mycroft left the room.
----
Lestrade found himself being summoned out of the hospital waiting room at eight o’clock, nearly six hours after he’d first collapsed in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his shirt stained with blood that wasn’t his and hands trembling with unfocused adrenaline and fear. Sally had brought him a clean outfit in the intervening hours and at one point might have even forced him to eat, though he was fuzzy on all the details of the afternoon.
He recognized Mycroft Holmes the moment the man sidled into the room. Their eyes met and, with a crook of his finger, Mycroft beckoned for Lestrade to follow him. The nurses who had so adamantly insisted that he stay in the waiting room said nothing as he walked past them, and once beyond the double-doors Mycroft gave him curt instructions on how to find John and Sherlock’s room. He then turned on his heel and left without an explanation of any kind.
Thankfully, Mycroft’s words somehow penetrated Lestrade’s foggy mind, and he was able to find the correct wing of the hospital within minutes.
“I apologize for my brother’s... ineptitude,” was the first thing Sherlock said when Lestrade entered the hospital room, and he sounded almost bitter. Lestrade felt a weary smile tug at his lips, and he joined Sherlock by John’s bed. John appeared to be in a restless doze, and Sherlock was standing at his side, keeping watch.
“‘S’all right,” Lestrade told him. He then added, “He was only following protocol. I’m not family," because the Holmes boys were used to having the rules bent around them, and sometimes Sherlock forgot that.
“Nevertheless -”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupted, “are you supposed to be out of bed?”
That earned him a fierce glare. “That’s what you’re concerned with right now?”
“Sherlock.” Lestrade squeezed his shoulder, and Sherlock’s jaw tightened for a moment in irritation before he gave a quick nod and allowed himself to be steered back over to the other bed.
“He’s still an idiot,” Sherlock muttered finally, determined as he was to find fault with his brother, before he settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes.
“I’m sure he is,” Lestrade said, placating. “How do you feel?”
“Oddly enough, as though I was hit by a bus,” Sherlock said acidly. “Which isn’t surprising, seeing -”
“- seeing as how you were hit by a bus, yeah, I know,” Lestrade said tiredly. “Sherlock -”
“I am fine, Lestrade.” His face softened suddenly; Lestrade was taken aback by the sudden change. “And I was not the one asking for you. Do see to my flatmate. Questions about my injuries can wait.”
Lestrade squeezed his shoulder one final time, nodded, and moved to John’s bedside.
“Right bloody mess, you are,” he said, pulling up a chair and settling himself on John’s left. John stirred at the noise. He cracked open a swollen eye and, recognizing Lestrade, gave a crooked half-smile.
“Greg.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” Lestrade attempted to match the pleased smile and was certain that he failed, worn down as he was by worry and hours spent in a waiting room without any shred of news. “You all right?”
“I’ll live,” John rasped.
“I wasn’t so sure of that a few hours ago. None of us were.”
“Let it be, Greg,” John said, and Lestrade felt a stab of guilt. This was an argument they’d had far too many times in the beginning, and it had well worn out its welcome.
“How do you feel?” he asked, reaching out to gently cup a bandaged hand.
John wavered a moment, and during his brief hesitation Sherlock, who had been listening in, opened his eyes long enough to share a glance with Lestrade.
This shouldn’t have happened. Not to John.
“Hurts,” John admitted finally, because Lestrade wouldn’t have appreciated anything other than the truth and this one was hard to mask.
Lestrade ran the back of his finger down John’s cheek, once, and whispered, “I know. But you’ll feel better soon.”
“No, he won’t. It’ll take at least -”
“Sherlock!”
“What?” The detective looked stupefied, even with Lestrade glaring heavily at him. John gave a huff of laughter that turned into a broken whimper as the movement strained his abused torso.
“You two -” he wheezed even as Lestrade laid a hand on his arm and told him not to talk, “- are completely mental.”
“Says the man who follows us around on a daily basis,” Lestrade pointed out.
“He does have a point, John.”
“I have to. Where - would you be - without me?” John managed, breath hitching with the pain. Lestrade leaned forward and touched his lips to the sweaty forehead.
“Very lost, Johnny.”
“There would be more holes in the walls,” Sherlock chimed in, and it earned him a wheezing chuckle. “And no milk.”
“There’s never any milk... as it is,” John retorted, but the smile he gave was genuine, if a bit pained, and it was good to see. Lestrade started to thread thick fingers through John’s short hair.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked after a moment, feeling utterly useless now that he was at John’s side. He’d been of no use to John out there in the waiting room, and here seemed even more out of place. What John needed was sleep, and a quick recovery, and Lestrade could provide neither.
John shook his head, and said quietly, “They wouldn’t let you back here?”
“No,” Lestrade admitted. “But it’s just as well. I’d’ve only been a bother.”
“Never,” John said softly. “Never a bother. Not to me.”
“If you say so, Johnny.”
“I do,” John said earnestly. His voice was slowly regaining its strength, now, and no longer was every word punctuated with a gasp. “Maybe... maybe we should look into making you my emergency contact. If - well, if you want. Might make things a bit easier, in the future.”
“Well - you know, you could stop landing in hospital. I think that - that would probably make things the easiest, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Greg.”
Lestrade sighed. “Right, yeah. It would, at that. Make things easier, I mean.”
“Oh, tell him, Lestrade,” Sherlock griped from his bed. “Christ. It is painful to watch you fidget.”
“Tell me what?” John asked as Lestrade cursed under his breath and glared at Sherlock, who had closed his eyes once more.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Think you’re lying to me, Greg,” John murmured, medication already weighing heavily on his senses again.
“I’m not.”
“Lestrade,” Sherlock sighed, “he’s half out of his mind with painkillers and even he can see that you’re not being entirely truthful. And it would make everything dreadfully easier if you just told him right now. Get on with it, already.”
John was looking at him hard now, blue eyes intent.
“What is it you’re keeping from me?” he asked softly, voice tinged with concern.
“Good Lord - nothing, John, I swear. I was just... waiting for a better time, is all.” Lestrade sighed and shifted, his hands tightening reflexively around John’s bandaged one. He shot a quick glare at Sherlock, who ignored him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Lestrade assured quickly. “I’ve... I’ve just been thinking lately that I’d like to - if you’re willing - make this a bit more... permanent.”
“Permanent,” John repeated dully.
“Enduring,” Sherlock supplied. “Or immutable, if you prefer. Long-lasting, or -”
“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” Lestrade growled, and Sherlock pulled a face at him.
“Marry you, you mean,” John said after a beat, alert now. Lestrade gave a nod that was really more a jerk of his head, and didn’t realize how hard he was clutching John’s hand until the younger man winced and whispered, “Too hard, Greg.”
“Sorry,” Lestrade said hastily, loosening his grip guiltily. But when he met John’s eyes again, they were crinkled in amusement.
“Yes,” he said.
“You will?”
“I will.” John laughed as much as his ribs would allow, and though it was laced with pain his eyes were still sparkling with happiness. “Fuck, Greg, of course I will. Get over here.”
And as Lestrade bent his head to kiss John, he heard Sherlock mutter, “Finally.”