SiS Day 28 (Post 2/6): "The Other Guy" by cathouse_mary
Name: cathouse_mary
Type of work: Ficlet
Category: Gen.
Title: The Other Guy
Prompt(s) used: Lestrade licks his wounds (figuratively) after a brawl.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence. Blood. Injuries
Notes/Acknowledgments: Please do not repost, link to fic only. With thanks to my beta, and her innate comma sense. :)
Consider this work for voting?: Yes
“Fuck all. I think I broke a finger.”
He said it to himself in the glaring fluorescent light of an institutional white hostel bathroom, sitting on the closed loo. He had not exactly checked in using legal methods - he’d used the fire escape and gone in a window. This time of night and in this neighborhood it was unlikely anyone’d be checking in. The white Formica was spattered with his blood, and crimson-stained white towels lay scattered about. Shit, there was even blood on the shower curtain and smeared across the mirror.
There was a gouge from a ring with a big stone in it that ran from mid-forehead up into his hairline. The greenish-yellow bruise around his left eye was slowly swelling it shut, and his nose - if not broken - looked as if it stopped a fist. Come to think of it, so did his right cheekbone. It took a few tries to get his shirt off, then his undershirt, and my weren’t those lovely colours coming up on his ribs? Just the colours of an Ibiza sunset.
“The other guy looks worse.”
The phrase took him by surprise, even coming from his own mouth. The other guy should look worse, especially as he suspected the other guy was actually, possibly, very likely dead. It was not Other Guy’s fault. Nor, perhaps, was it Geoff’s. His training had kicked in and that was that.
Furthermore, he had no idea who Other Guy was - even if he had a damned good idea who’d sent him.
“Moriarty, I swear that I’ll see you choke to death on your own prick.”
Geoff rested his head on the counter before he realised that it hurt when he did that because there were lumps on his head. He could feel pain. The pain meant he was coming down from the cocktail of adrenalin and endorphins. The pain meant he was crashing.
Fumbling his mobile from his pocket, he wondered if he was concussed as well. This could be going from really bad to incredibly bad, and he needed backup. The number he needed was right there.
> HOLMES
>> Here, Lestrade. Don’t shout.
What the fuck. He wasn’t shouting.
> MORIARTY
>> I know. Sgt Donovan called us in when they found your car on fire.
Was there another Sergeant Donovan? Sally wouldn’t piss on Sherlock if he caught fire and would piss on him if he were drowning.
> SALLY DONOVAN?
Wait.
> MY CAR?
>> It exploded. There was a body in it. I knew it wasn’t you, of course. Turn on your GPS tracker.
How the hell did he text so fast?
> MY WHAT?
>> The GPS tracker I installed on your phone.
Just one fucking minute here.
> WHEN D
>> Go to menu, go to programs, select
> ID YOU GET
>> ‘Trackmate’ and activate it
> SHERLOCK
>> What? Did you find it?
Going to throttle him.
> WHNE DID YOU GET YOUR HANDS ON MY MOBILE
>> I was bored.
“Of course you were.”
He scrolled through the menu, found the icon and tapped it.
>> We’re five minutes away.
> DON’T COME IN VIA LOBBY
>> What room?
Good question. He’d not been paying attention to that. Geoff staggered to his feet and, with one hand on the wall (concussed, definitely concussed) made his way to the bed and the telephone. Which was bolted to the bedside table. Which was bolted to the floor. The St. James it wasn’t.
> 9D
>> Are you all right?
Sometimes Geoff felt truly warm toward Sherlock. Admittedly not often, and it was generally brief, but sometimes.
> NO. BAD.
>> John says don’t lie down. Sally says we’re here. Hold on.
His hand was starting to throb in time with his head and nose, and it really hurt to smile.
> THANKS SHERLOCK
~ End
Type of work: Ficlet
Category: Gen.
Title: The Other Guy
Prompt(s) used: Lestrade licks his wounds (figuratively) after a brawl.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence. Blood. Injuries
Notes/Acknowledgments: Please do not repost, link to fic only. With thanks to my beta, and her innate comma sense. :)
Consider this work for voting?: Yes
“Fuck all. I think I broke a finger.”
He said it to himself in the glaring fluorescent light of an institutional white hostel bathroom, sitting on the closed loo. He had not exactly checked in using legal methods - he’d used the fire escape and gone in a window. This time of night and in this neighborhood it was unlikely anyone’d be checking in. The white Formica was spattered with his blood, and crimson-stained white towels lay scattered about. Shit, there was even blood on the shower curtain and smeared across the mirror.
There was a gouge from a ring with a big stone in it that ran from mid-forehead up into his hairline. The greenish-yellow bruise around his left eye was slowly swelling it shut, and his nose - if not broken - looked as if it stopped a fist. Come to think of it, so did his right cheekbone. It took a few tries to get his shirt off, then his undershirt, and my weren’t those lovely colours coming up on his ribs? Just the colours of an Ibiza sunset.
“The other guy looks worse.”
The phrase took him by surprise, even coming from his own mouth. The other guy should look worse, especially as he suspected the other guy was actually, possibly, very likely dead. It was not Other Guy’s fault. Nor, perhaps, was it Geoff’s. His training had kicked in and that was that.
Furthermore, he had no idea who Other Guy was - even if he had a damned good idea who’d sent him.
“Moriarty, I swear that I’ll see you choke to death on your own prick.”
Geoff rested his head on the counter before he realised that it hurt when he did that because there were lumps on his head. He could feel pain. The pain meant he was coming down from the cocktail of adrenalin and endorphins. The pain meant he was crashing.
Fumbling his mobile from his pocket, he wondered if he was concussed as well. This could be going from really bad to incredibly bad, and he needed backup. The number he needed was right there.
> HOLMES
>> Here, Lestrade. Don’t shout.
What the fuck. He wasn’t shouting.
> MORIARTY
>> I know. Sgt Donovan called us in when they found your car on fire.
Was there another Sergeant Donovan? Sally wouldn’t piss on Sherlock if he caught fire and would piss on him if he were drowning.
> SALLY DONOVAN?
Wait.
> MY CAR?
>> It exploded. There was a body in it. I knew it wasn’t you, of course. Turn on your GPS tracker.
How the hell did he text so fast?
> MY WHAT?
>> The GPS tracker I installed on your phone.
Just one fucking minute here.
> WHEN D
>> Go to menu, go to programs, select
> ID YOU GET
>> ‘Trackmate’ and activate it
> SHERLOCK
>> What? Did you find it?
Going to throttle him.
> WHNE DID YOU GET YOUR HANDS ON MY MOBILE
>> I was bored.
“Of course you were.”
He scrolled through the menu, found the icon and tapped it.
>> We’re five minutes away.
> DON’T COME IN VIA LOBBY
>> What room?
Good question. He’d not been paying attention to that. Geoff staggered to his feet and, with one hand on the wall (concussed, definitely concussed) made his way to the bed and the telephone. Which was bolted to the bedside table. Which was bolted to the floor. The St. James it wasn’t.
> 9D
>> Are you all right?
Sometimes Geoff felt truly warm toward Sherlock. Admittedly not often, and it was generally brief, but sometimes.
> NO. BAD.
>> John says don’t lie down. Sally says we’re here. Hold on.
His hand was starting to throb in time with his head and nose, and it really hurt to smile.
> THANKS SHERLOCK
~ End