New Fic: The Great Git 1/1
Title: The Great Git
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 1100 words.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: An additional scene to A Study in Winning, from Lestrade’s pov.
Warnings: Swearing, angst.
Spoilers: None for S2.
Author’s Notes: This won’t make any sense unless you’ve read A Study in Winning.
It turns out that the two things readers really want to know that isn’t answered in A Study in Winning are; what did Moriarty say to Sherlock that caused Sherlock to lose, and what went through Sherlock’s mind from the moment John punch Moriarty to the moment Sherlock turned up during the final? Well, unfortunately I can’t tell you those because those would most probably give away things that crop up in the sequel(s). So I’ve done a bit of a compromise (and I suppose a bit of a teaser). This is a short scene from Lestrade’s pov, set during the breakup scene following the semi-finals. It’s not Sherlock’s mind but there might be hints at some things still to come. ;)
*-*-*
The Great Git
*-*-*
“People have fallen in love before.”
“I don’t.”
Shit. Closing his eyes, Lestrade pressed his forehead into the wall as the argument continued on the other side and through the shut door. The worst thing is that he should have seen, he should have known. He didn’t know John Watson very well, but he didn’t seem to be the sort of person to wear his heart on his sleeve, and yet it had obvious even to him that there was more in it than just shagging. A lot more. God, he had been a bloody god sent angel in the way he had made Sherlock just that little bit easier to deal with, even if it had been just for a short time.
And Sherlock, well, he had hoped that maybe this time it would be different. Sherlock was different, much different with John than with anyone else. They had shared a bed for Christ’s sake. Sherlock never shared a bed with anyone. Ever. He never sought someone out for anything other than a quick shag. He never spent time researching someone else’s opponents just so he could pass the information on. And he never, never brought anyone back to Baker Street.
It was supposed to be different. It should have been different.
He had warned John that this would happen.
“They all fucking warned me not to get involved with you. Lestrade, Donovan, Sarah, your brother, even Victor bloody Trevor.
No don’t mention Victor, he thought desperately. Not a good time for that.
“Oh god, I should have listened to him, shouldn’t I? Because he knew didn’t he? He knew exactly what you’re like. No wonder you have a reputation for being cold. I thought they were just wrong, or mistaken, that they didn’t know the real you, the you that I was getting to know, the you that I thought might actually…”
John’s voice seemed to crack then and there was a pause before the softer, “I thought you might actually have a heart.”
Shit.
“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”
Sherlock’s voice was beyond cold.
So that was it then. No coming back from that one. This is so what he was hoping not to have to deal with today, but that was his job, to look after Sherlock Holmes. Glorified babysitter he had joked. Mycroft had merely offered a polite smile in response which he had taken to mean that he had knocked the nail directly on the head.
“Love and tennis don’t mix, John. In tennis love means you lose.”
Oh Sherlock.
John didn’t even notice him as he strode out of the room and down the stairs, controlling himself admirably well when he met Mrs Hudson who was just coming in the front door. Ah, Mrs Hudson, probably best that she didn’t come across Sherlock right now. The last thing they needed was for Sherlock to try and alienate every person who dared to like him.
“Ooh, is he alright?” Mrs Hudson asked as he met her on the stairs. “Nothing’s happened has it? It’s just I know what Sherlock’s like and John didn’t look like someone celebrating such a wonderful win.”
“Sherlock’s not taking his loss very well,” he said tactfully. “Best not disturb him at the moment.”
“Ooh,” Mrs Hudson said. “He’s taking it out on John, isn’t he?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Silly boy. He should go and apologise. It’s not right shouting at someone you love just because you’re angry about something else. You tell him that from me.”
“I will do.”
“And tell him I expect to see him at the final cheering John on.”
He nodded but didn’t say that he didn’t think that was particularly likely. With the state Sherlock was in they would be lucky to still be in the country when the final happened.
Mrs Hudson leaving him to go and find some special home baked snack to cheer Sherlock up with, he sighed and steeled himself before going back to face his charge.
Sherlock was by the window staring out, eyes fixed on where John would have crossed the road to make his way back to the Dorchester. It was a painful sight, of a man in pain, but too stubborn to do something about it.
“He’s in love with you, you know. Christ knows why or what he sees in you, because most people can’t bear to spend more than five minutes with you outside of a shag, but he does. Surely that’s got to mean something.”
“It means nothing.” Sherlock’s tone was hard and cold, every word sharp and precise. “He likes the idea, nothing more. He’s elated because he’s winning, and he’s been celebrating by getting high from endorphins and oxytocin, his brain is just trying to foolishly connect the two. Ridiculous.”
Yes, ridiculous.
“So what about you?” he asked.
Sherlock turned to face him, his expression as closed off as he had ever seen it. “What about me? I’m a rationalist. I’ve always know what this was about.”
“Really?” he said, striding over to the nearest sofa to grab the notebook lie face down on it. “Then what’s this then?” he asked waving it, the words John Watson clear to be seen.
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “Don’t touch that.”
Then Sherlock was in front of him and the notebook was wrenched from his fingers.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he breathed out as Sherlock moved away again. “Look at yourself. Really, just look. Yes, you lost a match. Yes, you lost to goddamn Moriarty.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Just don’t throw away the best thing that has happened to you just because you’re angry.”
“Angry? You think I’m angry?”
“Yes, angry. At Moriarty, at yourself, for losing the match, and you’re taking it out on John. It’s not his fault he’s through to the final and you’re not.”
“He’s a distraction and a liability I can’t afford, just one more thing Moriarty can use against me. So forgive me if I’m angry. I should have known better than to have gotten involved in the first place. I won’t be making that mistake again.”
“So you’re just going to walk away then?”
“I think you’ll find he did the walking away.”
“Only after you forced him out of the door. Christ, Sherlock,” he lowered his voice, “you can’t just keep running.”
There was no response; just a brick wall of silence and a man huddled alone in the prison of his own making.
*
End of Scene
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 1100 words.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: An additional scene to A Study in Winning, from Lestrade’s pov.
Warnings: Swearing, angst.
Spoilers: None for S2.
Author’s Notes: This won’t make any sense unless you’ve read A Study in Winning.
It turns out that the two things readers really want to know that isn’t answered in A Study in Winning are; what did Moriarty say to Sherlock that caused Sherlock to lose, and what went through Sherlock’s mind from the moment John punch Moriarty to the moment Sherlock turned up during the final? Well, unfortunately I can’t tell you those because those would most probably give away things that crop up in the sequel(s). So I’ve done a bit of a compromise (and I suppose a bit of a teaser). This is a short scene from Lestrade’s pov, set during the breakup scene following the semi-finals. It’s not Sherlock’s mind but there might be hints at some things still to come. ;)
*-*-*
The Great Git
*-*-*
“People have fallen in love before.”
“I don’t.”
Shit. Closing his eyes, Lestrade pressed his forehead into the wall as the argument continued on the other side and through the shut door. The worst thing is that he should have seen, he should have known. He didn’t know John Watson very well, but he didn’t seem to be the sort of person to wear his heart on his sleeve, and yet it had obvious even to him that there was more in it than just shagging. A lot more. God, he had been a bloody god sent angel in the way he had made Sherlock just that little bit easier to deal with, even if it had been just for a short time.
And Sherlock, well, he had hoped that maybe this time it would be different. Sherlock was different, much different with John than with anyone else. They had shared a bed for Christ’s sake. Sherlock never shared a bed with anyone. Ever. He never sought someone out for anything other than a quick shag. He never spent time researching someone else’s opponents just so he could pass the information on. And he never, never brought anyone back to Baker Street.
It was supposed to be different. It should have been different.
He had warned John that this would happen.
“They all fucking warned me not to get involved with you. Lestrade, Donovan, Sarah, your brother, even Victor bloody Trevor.
No don’t mention Victor, he thought desperately. Not a good time for that.
“Oh god, I should have listened to him, shouldn’t I? Because he knew didn’t he? He knew exactly what you’re like. No wonder you have a reputation for being cold. I thought they were just wrong, or mistaken, that they didn’t know the real you, the you that I was getting to know, the you that I thought might actually…”
John’s voice seemed to crack then and there was a pause before the softer, “I thought you might actually have a heart.”
Shit.
“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”
Sherlock’s voice was beyond cold.
So that was it then. No coming back from that one. This is so what he was hoping not to have to deal with today, but that was his job, to look after Sherlock Holmes. Glorified babysitter he had joked. Mycroft had merely offered a polite smile in response which he had taken to mean that he had knocked the nail directly on the head.
“Love and tennis don’t mix, John. In tennis love means you lose.”
Oh Sherlock.
John didn’t even notice him as he strode out of the room and down the stairs, controlling himself admirably well when he met Mrs Hudson who was just coming in the front door. Ah, Mrs Hudson, probably best that she didn’t come across Sherlock right now. The last thing they needed was for Sherlock to try and alienate every person who dared to like him.
“Ooh, is he alright?” Mrs Hudson asked as he met her on the stairs. “Nothing’s happened has it? It’s just I know what Sherlock’s like and John didn’t look like someone celebrating such a wonderful win.”
“Sherlock’s not taking his loss very well,” he said tactfully. “Best not disturb him at the moment.”
“Ooh,” Mrs Hudson said. “He’s taking it out on John, isn’t he?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Silly boy. He should go and apologise. It’s not right shouting at someone you love just because you’re angry about something else. You tell him that from me.”
“I will do.”
“And tell him I expect to see him at the final cheering John on.”
He nodded but didn’t say that he didn’t think that was particularly likely. With the state Sherlock was in they would be lucky to still be in the country when the final happened.
Mrs Hudson leaving him to go and find some special home baked snack to cheer Sherlock up with, he sighed and steeled himself before going back to face his charge.
Sherlock was by the window staring out, eyes fixed on where John would have crossed the road to make his way back to the Dorchester. It was a painful sight, of a man in pain, but too stubborn to do something about it.
“He’s in love with you, you know. Christ knows why or what he sees in you, because most people can’t bear to spend more than five minutes with you outside of a shag, but he does. Surely that’s got to mean something.”
“It means nothing.” Sherlock’s tone was hard and cold, every word sharp and precise. “He likes the idea, nothing more. He’s elated because he’s winning, and he’s been celebrating by getting high from endorphins and oxytocin, his brain is just trying to foolishly connect the two. Ridiculous.”
Yes, ridiculous.
“So what about you?” he asked.
Sherlock turned to face him, his expression as closed off as he had ever seen it. “What about me? I’m a rationalist. I’ve always know what this was about.”
“Really?” he said, striding over to the nearest sofa to grab the notebook lie face down on it. “Then what’s this then?” he asked waving it, the words John Watson clear to be seen.
Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “Don’t touch that.”
Then Sherlock was in front of him and the notebook was wrenched from his fingers.
“Christ, Sherlock,” he breathed out as Sherlock moved away again. “Look at yourself. Really, just look. Yes, you lost a match. Yes, you lost to goddamn Moriarty.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Just don’t throw away the best thing that has happened to you just because you’re angry.”
“Angry? You think I’m angry?”
“Yes, angry. At Moriarty, at yourself, for losing the match, and you’re taking it out on John. It’s not his fault he’s through to the final and you’re not.”
“He’s a distraction and a liability I can’t afford, just one more thing Moriarty can use against me. So forgive me if I’m angry. I should have known better than to have gotten involved in the first place. I won’t be making that mistake again.”
“So you’re just going to walk away then?”
“I think you’ll find he did the walking away.”
“Only after you forced him out of the door. Christ, Sherlock,” he lowered his voice, “you can’t just keep running.”
There was no response; just a brick wall of silence and a man huddled alone in the prison of his own making.
*
End of Scene