Fic: No Less (Sherlock, John/Greg, PG)
Title: No Less
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: John Watson/Greg Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: It all began when Lestrade joined John for a pint at the pub.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to lordhellebore for the beta.
Written for thesmallhobbit for the sherlockmas exchange.
No Less
The pub looked cosy enough. It was Friday night and he’d had a lousy day at the surgery. John wasn’t one for drinking all by himself, but he was willing to make an exception tonight. He tried not to think of the times when he’d had to pick up Harry after one of her binges. He had just settled down at the bar with a beer, when a familiar voice greeted him.
“Doctor Watson, fancy meeting you here.”
“Lestrade. Please, have a seat.”
John was glad that he wasn’t alone with his thoughts anymore. He’d only ever met the inspector when he accompanied Sherlock on his cases. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Lestrade was actually pretty good company.
On his way back to Baker Street, he debated with himself whether he should tell Sherlock. He didn’t want to, but wouldn’t he be drawing unwanted attention to the meeting if he didn’t? After all, they were just two men sharing an after-work beer at the pub. No more.
They met again the next week and the week after, and soon the Friday evenings at the pub with Lestrade became a regular feature in John’s life. And still he did not tell Sherlock. After all, they were just two acquaintances sharing a beer at the pub. No more.
~~*~~
“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked when John arrived at the flat.
“Just down at the pub, for a pint.”
“With whom?”
“What?”
“I can smell aftershave on you. Not your aftershave. You never change your aftershave.”
“Sherlock!”
“It practically clings to you, just like that man must have clung to you at the pub. Or was it a gay bar? Perhaps a woman using aftershave. Not Sarah, though. It’s not her style. What will she say when she finds out you’re meeting someone else?”
“Sherlock, stop it. There were other people at the pub. And Sarah and I are friends, just friends now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”
“Jealous,” Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I’m not. Why would I be?”
“Well, you’re certainly behaving like it. I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“I didn’t know Lestrade got off work that early.”
John stopped dead on the staircase. “You’re - oh, forget it, Sherlock!” He stomped up to his room, making sure to bang the door shut.
Sherlock was insufferable. He couldn’t really have known about their pub night, could he? Aftershave. John snorted. Sherlock had probably gone through the contacts in his mobile and found Lestrade’s number. John had no idea why he was so protective of the time he spent with Lestrade. Greg, John reminded himself. They did nothing out of the ordinary - met at the pub, had a couple of pints, talked. That was it. Nothing more.
Nothing more, John repeated quietly. And yet, the phantom of the quick hug they’d shared when they had parted ways tonight still stuck to John’s body memory, just like the aftershave that Sherlock had supposedly recognised. The scratch of Greg’s five-o-clock shadow still tingled on his cheek.
No. John shook his head. He was being stupid. They were just two acquaintances sharing a beer at the pub. No more. Or were they?
~~*~~
John ordered a beer and settled down at the table that he had come to think of his and Greg’s. He glanced out of the window at the people hurrying towards the tube station, all the while checking for Greg. He got up to get a second pint and finished it in solitude.
When he walked up the stairs at 221b, he heard voices, and stopped when he realised they were Sherlock’s and Greg’s. What was Greg doing here and why hadn’t he joined him at the pub? John had just figured that work had held him up, but now that he was here at Baker Street he couldn’t help but feel like he’d got stood up. He straightened out his jacket and his back and deliberately climbed the rest of the steps. Pausing for a moment longer on the landing, John forced himself to smile before he opened the door and called out, “I’m home. Fancy a cuppa?”
Lestrade whipped around. He had the decency to look contrite as he mouthed “Case”. Sherlock sat in his armchair and looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought.
John wanted to ask Lestrade why he hadn’t sent him a quick text, why he hadn’t come and collected him before going over to Baker Street. He felt silly, though. He went to boil some water, took three cups out of the cupboard and stood looking at the mess on the table when Sherlock said, “Well, let’s go. Show me where you found the body. You coming, John?”
~~*~~
Ever since the disaster with the intervening case, Greg always excused himself if he couldn’t make it, even if it was just one of his famous one-word texts, most likely saying Work, sometimes Wife when the divorce demanded his attention. Not so this Friday. Something about Greg’s unexcused absence made John uneasy. As he walked to the tube, he called Greg’s mobile. They’d never done that before, call each other. They knew they met on Fridays and if they couldn’t make it, they'd send a short text. John got Greg’s voicemail and hung up without leaving a message.
“You’re home early,” Sherlock greeted him from the kitchen table.
“Did Lestrade come by tonight?”
“Been stood up by your boyfriend, have you?” Sherlock teased without looking up from his microscope.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
They were friends. No more.
“And yet he didn’t show up for your date.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
Sherlock smirked and made some notes in the journal beside him. “Why don’t you call the Yard to see if he’s still at work,” he added offhandedly.
“I don’t have his office number.”
“Call 101 and have them put you through.”
John tried Greg’s mobile one more time, reaching his voicemail again. He wondered if it would make more sense to try and find out his home number rather than calling the Yard, but he didn’t want to have to explain to Greg’s soon-to-be ex-wife who he was and what he wanted. And he had to admit that Sherlock’s suggestion wasn’t all that bad.
John sat on his bed and dialled 101. A woman answered.
“Yes, hello. This is Doctor John Watson.” Always good to let people know you are a doctor when you want something from them. “I’d like to talk to DI Gregory Lestrade, please.”
“Concerning?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“I’m sorry, but DI Lestrade is no longer at the office. Have you tried his mobile?”
“I have. Can you give me his extension so I can call back tomorrow?”
“I would, but … well, he won’t be here tomorrow.”
“Oh …”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, Doctor ...?”
“Watson.”
“Doctor Watson. DI Lestrade had an accident this afternoon. He has been admitted to hospital.”
John felt his stomach clench tight, forcing his breath out in a half-moan that must have been audible on the other end of the line. His body’s reaction surprised him, perhaps more so than the realisation just how big a part of his life Gregory Lestrade had become.
“Where?” he demanded.
“UCL.”
“Thank you,” John said hurriedly before he hung up and rushed down the stairs.
“Found your boyfriend?”
“He’s not - Lestrade is in hospital.”
John was halfway down the stairs when Sherlock caught up with him.
When they'd arrived at the hospital, they walked up to the reception desk. John cleared his throat and started, “We’re here to see -“
“DI Lestrade,” Sherlock finished, flashing a police badge at the receptionist, who promptly directed them up to the third floor.
Greg was awake, watching a game show on the telly when they entered.
“Sherlock, John. Please tell me you’ve come to take me out of here.”
John moved up to the bed and scanned Greg’s body - cut on the forehead, not too deep, but he probably had a concussion; right arm in a sling; probably a couple of broken ribs as well. “You’re not going anywhere. What happened?”
“My own stupidity. Got hit by a car.”
“Hit by a car?” John heard the panic in his own voice.
“Calm down, Doctor, they are taking good care of me.” Lestrade chuckled, but stopped immediately, his face a grimace of pain.
John gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering uncertainly above Lestrade’s shoulder as he remembered Sherlock.
“Well,” Sherlock drawled, “far be it from me to disturb your intimate togetherness. Get well soon, Lestrade.”
“Will do, Sherlock. Thanks for stopping by, and for getting him past the dragon at reception,” Greg said as John blushed.
“Intimate? We’re not -“ John started, then merely shook his head in defeat. No use arguing, was there?
Greg was his friend. No more. And no less.
He heard Sherlock close the door. His fingers trailed along Greg’s good arm as he asked, “Need me to get you something? For the pain. This must hurt.”
“Like a bitch. I’m sorry I didn’t call, John.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“How did Sherlock manage to get you up here, anyway?”
“One of your badges,” John answered.
“Remind me to take it off him when I get out of here. I’m glad you’re here, though. There’s nothing on the telly.”
John smiled. “I should have brought some beers. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.”
John sat beside Greg on the bed, idly stroking his forearm as they watched the game show. It felt comfortable and, yes, intimate. It felt right. He and Greg were certainly no less than friends. And perhaps even more.
This entry was originally posted at http://nathaniel-hp.dreamwidth.org/192361.html. Comments are welcome either here or over at DW.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairing: John Watson/Greg Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Summary: It all began when Lestrade joined John for a pint at the pub.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to lordhellebore for the beta.
Written for thesmallhobbit for the sherlockmas exchange.
No Less
The pub looked cosy enough. It was Friday night and he’d had a lousy day at the surgery. John wasn’t one for drinking all by himself, but he was willing to make an exception tonight. He tried not to think of the times when he’d had to pick up Harry after one of her binges. He had just settled down at the bar with a beer, when a familiar voice greeted him.
“Doctor Watson, fancy meeting you here.”
“Lestrade. Please, have a seat.”
John was glad that he wasn’t alone with his thoughts anymore. He’d only ever met the inspector when he accompanied Sherlock on his cases. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Lestrade was actually pretty good company.
On his way back to Baker Street, he debated with himself whether he should tell Sherlock. He didn’t want to, but wouldn’t he be drawing unwanted attention to the meeting if he didn’t? After all, they were just two men sharing an after-work beer at the pub. No more.
They met again the next week and the week after, and soon the Friday evenings at the pub with Lestrade became a regular feature in John’s life. And still he did not tell Sherlock. After all, they were just two acquaintances sharing a beer at the pub. No more.
~~*~~
“Where have you been?” Sherlock asked when John arrived at the flat.
“Just down at the pub, for a pint.”
“With whom?”
“What?”
“I can smell aftershave on you. Not your aftershave. You never change your aftershave.”
“Sherlock!”
“It practically clings to you, just like that man must have clung to you at the pub. Or was it a gay bar? Perhaps a woman using aftershave. Not Sarah, though. It’s not her style. What will she say when she finds out you’re meeting someone else?”
“Sherlock, stop it. There were other people at the pub. And Sarah and I are friends, just friends now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”
“Jealous,” Sherlock scoffed. “Of course I’m not. Why would I be?”
“Well, you’re certainly behaving like it. I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“I didn’t know Lestrade got off work that early.”
John stopped dead on the staircase. “You’re - oh, forget it, Sherlock!” He stomped up to his room, making sure to bang the door shut.
Sherlock was insufferable. He couldn’t really have known about their pub night, could he? Aftershave. John snorted. Sherlock had probably gone through the contacts in his mobile and found Lestrade’s number. John had no idea why he was so protective of the time he spent with Lestrade. Greg, John reminded himself. They did nothing out of the ordinary - met at the pub, had a couple of pints, talked. That was it. Nothing more.
Nothing more, John repeated quietly. And yet, the phantom of the quick hug they’d shared when they had parted ways tonight still stuck to John’s body memory, just like the aftershave that Sherlock had supposedly recognised. The scratch of Greg’s five-o-clock shadow still tingled on his cheek.
No. John shook his head. He was being stupid. They were just two acquaintances sharing a beer at the pub. No more. Or were they?
~~*~~
John ordered a beer and settled down at the table that he had come to think of his and Greg’s. He glanced out of the window at the people hurrying towards the tube station, all the while checking for Greg. He got up to get a second pint and finished it in solitude.
When he walked up the stairs at 221b, he heard voices, and stopped when he realised they were Sherlock’s and Greg’s. What was Greg doing here and why hadn’t he joined him at the pub? John had just figured that work had held him up, but now that he was here at Baker Street he couldn’t help but feel like he’d got stood up. He straightened out his jacket and his back and deliberately climbed the rest of the steps. Pausing for a moment longer on the landing, John forced himself to smile before he opened the door and called out, “I’m home. Fancy a cuppa?”
Lestrade whipped around. He had the decency to look contrite as he mouthed “Case”. Sherlock sat in his armchair and looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought.
John wanted to ask Lestrade why he hadn’t sent him a quick text, why he hadn’t come and collected him before going over to Baker Street. He felt silly, though. He went to boil some water, took three cups out of the cupboard and stood looking at the mess on the table when Sherlock said, “Well, let’s go. Show me where you found the body. You coming, John?”
~~*~~
Ever since the disaster with the intervening case, Greg always excused himself if he couldn’t make it, even if it was just one of his famous one-word texts, most likely saying Work, sometimes Wife when the divorce demanded his attention. Not so this Friday. Something about Greg’s unexcused absence made John uneasy. As he walked to the tube, he called Greg’s mobile. They’d never done that before, call each other. They knew they met on Fridays and if they couldn’t make it, they'd send a short text. John got Greg’s voicemail and hung up without leaving a message.
“You’re home early,” Sherlock greeted him from the kitchen table.
“Did Lestrade come by tonight?”
“Been stood up by your boyfriend, have you?” Sherlock teased without looking up from his microscope.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
They were friends. No more.
“And yet he didn’t show up for your date.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
Sherlock smirked and made some notes in the journal beside him. “Why don’t you call the Yard to see if he’s still at work,” he added offhandedly.
“I don’t have his office number.”
“Call 101 and have them put you through.”
John tried Greg’s mobile one more time, reaching his voicemail again. He wondered if it would make more sense to try and find out his home number rather than calling the Yard, but he didn’t want to have to explain to Greg’s soon-to-be ex-wife who he was and what he wanted. And he had to admit that Sherlock’s suggestion wasn’t all that bad.
John sat on his bed and dialled 101. A woman answered.
“Yes, hello. This is Doctor John Watson.” Always good to let people know you are a doctor when you want something from them. “I’d like to talk to DI Gregory Lestrade, please.”
“Concerning?”
“It’s a private matter.”
“I’m sorry, but DI Lestrade is no longer at the office. Have you tried his mobile?”
“I have. Can you give me his extension so I can call back tomorrow?”
“I would, but … well, he won’t be here tomorrow.”
“Oh …”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, Doctor ...?”
“Watson.”
“Doctor Watson. DI Lestrade had an accident this afternoon. He has been admitted to hospital.”
John felt his stomach clench tight, forcing his breath out in a half-moan that must have been audible on the other end of the line. His body’s reaction surprised him, perhaps more so than the realisation just how big a part of his life Gregory Lestrade had become.
“Where?” he demanded.
“UCL.”
“Thank you,” John said hurriedly before he hung up and rushed down the stairs.
“Found your boyfriend?”
“He’s not - Lestrade is in hospital.”
John was halfway down the stairs when Sherlock caught up with him.
When they'd arrived at the hospital, they walked up to the reception desk. John cleared his throat and started, “We’re here to see -“
“DI Lestrade,” Sherlock finished, flashing a police badge at the receptionist, who promptly directed them up to the third floor.
Greg was awake, watching a game show on the telly when they entered.
“Sherlock, John. Please tell me you’ve come to take me out of here.”
John moved up to the bed and scanned Greg’s body - cut on the forehead, not too deep, but he probably had a concussion; right arm in a sling; probably a couple of broken ribs as well. “You’re not going anywhere. What happened?”
“My own stupidity. Got hit by a car.”
“Hit by a car?” John heard the panic in his own voice.
“Calm down, Doctor, they are taking good care of me.” Lestrade chuckled, but stopped immediately, his face a grimace of pain.
John gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering uncertainly above Lestrade’s shoulder as he remembered Sherlock.
“Well,” Sherlock drawled, “far be it from me to disturb your intimate togetherness. Get well soon, Lestrade.”
“Will do, Sherlock. Thanks for stopping by, and for getting him past the dragon at reception,” Greg said as John blushed.
“Intimate? We’re not -“ John started, then merely shook his head in defeat. No use arguing, was there?
Greg was his friend. No more. And no less.
He heard Sherlock close the door. His fingers trailed along Greg’s good arm as he asked, “Need me to get you something? For the pain. This must hurt.”
“Like a bitch. I’m sorry I didn’t call, John.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“How did Sherlock manage to get you up here, anyway?”
“One of your badges,” John answered.
“Remind me to take it off him when I get out of here. I’m glad you’re here, though. There’s nothing on the telly.”
John smiled. “I should have brought some beers. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.”
John sat beside Greg on the bed, idly stroking his forearm as they watched the game show. It felt comfortable and, yes, intimate. It felt right. He and Greg were certainly no less than friends. And perhaps even more.
This entry was originally posted at http://nathaniel-hp.dreamwidth.org/192361.html. Comments are welcome either here or over at DW.