Fic: Possession
TITLE: Possession
AUTHOR: elfbert
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTERS: John, Lestrade
PAIRINGS: John/Lestrade
DISCLAIMER: I neither own these characters nor make any profit from their use.
WORD COUNT: 750
DESCRIPTION: Written for thegameison_sh challenge. Picture prompts. You can see them here. (One or more image had to inspire the story.)
WARNING: Violence.
He stood for a second, back to the door, just breathing. Listening and breathing.
His head was so full of thoughts, whirling around in a cyclone, tumbling over one another, confused in the mixture, that it may as well have been empty.
Finally he moved, and even those few minutes of stillness had allowed a stiffness to creep into his body, bruised flesh swelling, muscles sticking. He staggered slightly, but caught himself, a hand on the wall, a moment to find his equilibrium.
He didn't notice the bloody smear he left on the white paintwork.
The stairs were hard work, but he needed to move, not stand waiting for the lift. He took a second to steady his hand before sliding his key into the lock, as silently as possible. He stood and listened once inside the flat, but there wasn't a sound, beside the hum of the fridge and the tick of the kitchen clock.
He walked, slowly, carefully, not needing to put the lights on to find his way through the flat, pushing the door of the bathroom open just far enough to get in, but not as far as the squeaky point of the hinge.
Once he'd swung the door closed after himself he turned on the light, squeezing his eyes closed against the harsh, inescapable brightness.
When he opened them he blinked, trying to reset reality. Trying to put together the evidence, collect his thoughts into something coherent.
He twisted the tap on, wincing at the gurgle and hiss of the pipes, the splash of water in the sink. He fumbled for the plug and pushed it home, watching the basin fill.
He didn't notice the whisper of bare feet on carpet, the slight sigh of a wide yawn as the door silently opened.
It was the voice that made him jump, hard, frozen apart from his heart beating frantically as his eyes focussed on the figure behind him, reflected in the mirror.
"You're late," John's voice was slurred with sleep, and he was wiping his hand over tired eyes. "Something…fucking hell!"
His hand had twisted the tap shut on reflex, when John had appeared. Now the silence was deafening. Until it was broken by the gentle 'plip-plip' as blood slid from his chin, falling into the white sink, spreading out in the water, swirling tendrils, like smoke.
And somehow he managed to drag in a breath, the air thick in his lungs, the shock of the interruption dissipating.
"You…what…shit." The words tumbled from John's mouth, and he stepped closer, all traces of sleep gone, eyes wide, hand reaching out. "What happened? What…"
Lestrade let out a shuddering breath, and stepped closer, not caring that the blood from his face and neck smeared against John's naked chest and cheek, just suddenly, desperately, needing to be held and safe and comforted.
John wrapped his arms gently around Lestrade, feeling the tremors running through him.
"Shhhhh, you're safe now," he murmured, fingertips stroking through the hair on the nape of Lestrade's neck. "You're safe."
After long moments of silence, John gently broke the hold, stepping backward, looking at Lestrade, cataloguing the injuries as both a lover and a doctor.
"Sit," he said, flipping the lid of the toilet down. He reached for a flannel and dipped it into the water - now tainted the palest of pinks - then gently, carefully, wiped the trails of drying blood from Lestrade's cheek, working toward the ugly cut a his eyebrow and the bruised, swollen flesh of his nose.
He worked methodically, hands deft and sure, but gentle.
Finally he could see the injuries, revealed from the mess of blood. None of them so serious as to require hospital treatment, but he reached for his first aid kit, knowing that if left un-taped, some of the cuts would scar.
"What happened?" His voice was rough after the silence. "Mugging? Should I call the station?"
Lestrade swallowed, the taste of blood still thick on his tongue.
"No," he answered. Then gave a small smile, re-opening a split in his lip. "No point."
"Nothing stolen? Didn't get a look at them?" John was prepared to trust Lestrade's judgement.
Lestrade looked up at him, knowing that he couldn't lie.
"It would seem I'm the thief," he said. "And Mycroft Holmes won't stand to see his brother lose his most precious possession."
John's eyebrow lifted in question. Then he frowned. "What does he think you stole?"
Lestrade touched his fingertips to John's stomach, stroking gently.
"You."
~Fin
AUTHOR: elfbert
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTERS: John, Lestrade
PAIRINGS: John/Lestrade
DISCLAIMER: I neither own these characters nor make any profit from their use.
WORD COUNT: 750
DESCRIPTION: Written for thegameison_sh challenge. Picture prompts. You can see them here. (One or more image had to inspire the story.)
WARNING: Violence.
He stood for a second, back to the door, just breathing. Listening and breathing.
His head was so full of thoughts, whirling around in a cyclone, tumbling over one another, confused in the mixture, that it may as well have been empty.
Finally he moved, and even those few minutes of stillness had allowed a stiffness to creep into his body, bruised flesh swelling, muscles sticking. He staggered slightly, but caught himself, a hand on the wall, a moment to find his equilibrium.
He didn't notice the bloody smear he left on the white paintwork.
The stairs were hard work, but he needed to move, not stand waiting for the lift. He took a second to steady his hand before sliding his key into the lock, as silently as possible. He stood and listened once inside the flat, but there wasn't a sound, beside the hum of the fridge and the tick of the kitchen clock.
He walked, slowly, carefully, not needing to put the lights on to find his way through the flat, pushing the door of the bathroom open just far enough to get in, but not as far as the squeaky point of the hinge.
Once he'd swung the door closed after himself he turned on the light, squeezing his eyes closed against the harsh, inescapable brightness.
When he opened them he blinked, trying to reset reality. Trying to put together the evidence, collect his thoughts into something coherent.
He twisted the tap on, wincing at the gurgle and hiss of the pipes, the splash of water in the sink. He fumbled for the plug and pushed it home, watching the basin fill.
He didn't notice the whisper of bare feet on carpet, the slight sigh of a wide yawn as the door silently opened.
It was the voice that made him jump, hard, frozen apart from his heart beating frantically as his eyes focussed on the figure behind him, reflected in the mirror.
"You're late," John's voice was slurred with sleep, and he was wiping his hand over tired eyes. "Something…fucking hell!"
His hand had twisted the tap shut on reflex, when John had appeared. Now the silence was deafening. Until it was broken by the gentle 'plip-plip' as blood slid from his chin, falling into the white sink, spreading out in the water, swirling tendrils, like smoke.
And somehow he managed to drag in a breath, the air thick in his lungs, the shock of the interruption dissipating.
"You…what…shit." The words tumbled from John's mouth, and he stepped closer, all traces of sleep gone, eyes wide, hand reaching out. "What happened? What…"
Lestrade let out a shuddering breath, and stepped closer, not caring that the blood from his face and neck smeared against John's naked chest and cheek, just suddenly, desperately, needing to be held and safe and comforted.
John wrapped his arms gently around Lestrade, feeling the tremors running through him.
"Shhhhh, you're safe now," he murmured, fingertips stroking through the hair on the nape of Lestrade's neck. "You're safe."
After long moments of silence, John gently broke the hold, stepping backward, looking at Lestrade, cataloguing the injuries as both a lover and a doctor.
"Sit," he said, flipping the lid of the toilet down. He reached for a flannel and dipped it into the water - now tainted the palest of pinks - then gently, carefully, wiped the trails of drying blood from Lestrade's cheek, working toward the ugly cut a his eyebrow and the bruised, swollen flesh of his nose.
He worked methodically, hands deft and sure, but gentle.
Finally he could see the injuries, revealed from the mess of blood. None of them so serious as to require hospital treatment, but he reached for his first aid kit, knowing that if left un-taped, some of the cuts would scar.
"What happened?" His voice was rough after the silence. "Mugging? Should I call the station?"
Lestrade swallowed, the taste of blood still thick on his tongue.
"No," he answered. Then gave a small smile, re-opening a split in his lip. "No point."
"Nothing stolen? Didn't get a look at them?" John was prepared to trust Lestrade's judgement.
Lestrade looked up at him, knowing that he couldn't lie.
"It would seem I'm the thief," he said. "And Mycroft Holmes won't stand to see his brother lose his most precious possession."
John's eyebrow lifted in question. Then he frowned. "What does he think you stole?"
Lestrade touched his fingertips to John's stomach, stroking gently.
"You."
~Fin