szm

Fic - The Effort of Being Okay 1

Apr 17, 2012 23:24

AN: Right, this is chapter one. I will be posting new chapters probably once a week. There are three, possibly four. I have written the last chapter. It will all go up on A03 probably as one story when I'm finished if you'd rather wait for that. (But this could stand on it's own)

Title: The Effort of Being Okay
Author: szm
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: John Watson, Greg Lestrade
Rating: (for now) G
Spoilers: all the way up to the end of series two

Summary: Sherlock is gone, and John is okay. Really. So is Greg.

Many thanks to aeron_lanart who did a very quick beta. Any mistakes are all mine.



First there was the funeral and John just focused on getting through that, he expected it to be small but the church was packed. Reporters, and Angelo, some members of the Homeless Network that John recognised, Sebastian Wilkes, Dimmock, Lestrade, and more that John couldn’t put names to. He didn’t see Mycroft but he must have been there. John sat with Mrs Hudson and kept his head down. He tried not to hear the comments, to let them wash over him.

”Such an amazing mind… whatever else he was,”

“Always a little… strange,”

“All I know is he never did wrong by me…”

“Such a waste,”

He felt his hand close into a fist by his side, but he kept his head down and kept quiet. Sherlock would have hated this. Nearly as much as John hated it right now; in a way that almost made it easier to bear.

Lestrade tried to catch John’s eye after the service. But John kept his head down and made his excuses to Mrs Hudson. She offered to make tea back at Baker St. But John couldn’t. Not yet, he couldn’t go back there. His excuse was weak and so was Mrs Hudson’s smile.

**

He had a flat, nicer than the bedsit he’d been in before Sherlock. Now he had a job and savings and Sherlock had left him everything in his bank accounts. It wasn’t home, but it was a place to sleep. Grey and dull, the way the world was without the chase, and the fight, and the danger. Like leaving the army all over again, the loss of Sherlock somehow worse than the limp had ever been. More scarring than a bullet wound to the shoulder. But John kept moving on, he had markers in time and he moved slowly from one to another. Shifts at the surgery, tea with Mrs Hudson on a Wednesday morning, at a coffee shop halfway between Baker St and John’s flat. Regular appointments with the therapist, Friday night a phone call to Harry, or she’d call him. They’d reassure each other that they were fine, really. Harry wasn’t drinking, and John was moving on, and they would meet up one day this week.

Or maybe the next.

Soon anyway.

John couldn’t help but wonder if his parents had meant to raise such liars.

Mycroft tried to ring once or twice but John ignored him. Occasionally he’d catch a CCTV turn to follow him, but he ignored that too. He saw more shiny, black, sedans than was probably usual. But what the hell was usual anyway.

He went to Barts once. Nearly a month after Sherlock had died. Molly was as lovely and awkward as ever. John felt like he was making her nervous for some reason. He went up onto the roof, he stood on the edge. It was strange, strange that he could come here and do this. But he couldn’t go to 221b, he could be where Sherlock had died but being where Sherlock had lived was far too difficult.

It was a few days after that when Lestrade visited. He was standing outside John’s door when he got back from work. He looked tired, washed out; John felt a pang of sympathy.

“You look terrible,” he said in way of greeting.

“Thanks,” replied Lestrade with a lopsided grin. “You’re an oil painting, mate.”

John felt himself smile, for the first time in two months it felt real. Not something forced to make other people feel better. He opened the door and let Greg in.

“You’re avoiding me,” said Greg, his voice gently accusing. “I was considering just breaking in.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Cuppa?” he asked.

“Sure,” replied Greg easily. He followed John into the tiny kitchen and propped himself up against the counter. They stood in companionable silence for a while. It was fucking amazing to be with someone who wasn’t asking if he was okay with that tone that meant they weren’t going to believe him if he said yes. He felt Greg watching him, the gaze had weight. Greg was assessing, cataloguing. Not deducing, but close enough to feel familiar. It was odd how much he missed Sherlock’s heavy stare. He passed Greg his mug and they stood side by side, leaning against the counter, drinking tea.

Eventually Greg broke the peace. “I’m on suspension right now,” he said carefully.

“I know,” John replied. “How is the investigation going?”

Greg shrugged. “I think mostly they’re just upset they can’t find anything wrong. I was pretty anal on cases that Sherlock was involved in, I backed up all the evidence independently, and there should be odes written to the perfection of the paperwork. I didn’t want any convictions to fall through. None of the appeals have stood up so far. I should be back to work soon.”

“Good,” said John, and he meant it. Greg was the best of the police force. John really didn’t have any time for any of the others. He bitterly regretted any time he’d defended them to Sherlock

Greg chuckled without humour. “The Chief Superintendent…”

“Twat,” interrupted John under his breath.

Greg just smirked. “Yeah him. He told me that I could never expect a promotion after all this. But I gave it some thought and I decided - I don’t give a shit. I was right, Sherlock was right. A lot of cases were closed because of him, people were saved.”

John just nodded. Sherlock was right, it felt good to hear that out loud. Sherlock was real.

Greg was the one to break the silence again. “You understand that for all intents and purposes I am not a police officer right now?”

“Yes, Greg what..?” replied John, unsure of what Greg was trying to say.

“Give me your gun,” said Greg bluntly.

“What the hell?” asked John, suddenly and disproportionately angry.

“I’ll give it you back, but John, you shouldn’t have a gun on hand,” said Greg. And there it was the look John hated. The one he saw on everyone’s face every day. As if everyone was just waiting for him to fall apart.

“No,” said John coldly. He was trapped, he couldn’t get out of the tiny kitchen without walking right past Lestrade who had stood up straight, putting his empty mug down on the counter top.

“Yes, I’m not leaving until you do,” he said with finality.

“Greg if you get caught with it, you’ll get fired, even arrested,” said John.

“I knew I was risking my job every time I called Sherlock in. Every time I advised another officer to work with him. What makes you think I’d do less for you?” Greg looked… like he did when he was looking at Sherlock sometimes. The ‘I know you hate this but it’s for your own good’ look. Soft eyes and open body language, but absolutely unmoveable. John stayed stubbornly quiet and Greg continued. “Molly rang me. You were on the rooftop of Barts for two hours, John. I lost Sherlock, I nearly lost my job, you are not allowed to…” Greg trailed off.

John’s anger trailed off too. “I’m okay,” he said quietly.

“John…” started Greg.

“No,” interrupted John. “I am. The effort of being okay is nearly killing me but I’m doing it. I get up, I go to work, I visit with Mrs Hudson. I smile and I go to therapy sessions. And I can’t do any more,” he said willing Greg to understand.

“John, you don’t have to be okay,” said Greg. “We’ll take care of you if you’re not.”

Greg pulled him into a hug and John tensed up at first. But Greg was warm and smelt like strange washing powder and clean sweat, and absolutely like himself. And it was okay if John wasn’t okay, just for a minute. He relaxed and hugged Greg back. It went on for longer than was proper but it didn’t matter. No-one was going to judge him for needing this.

Greg stayed on the sofa that night, he left with John’s gun in the morning.

the effort of being okay, greg lestrade, fiction, john watson, sherlock

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