fic: A Place You Can Go
Title: A Place You Can Go
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock (TV), crossover with Weekend (2011)
Pairing/Characters: Lestrade/Sherlock, John, Sally Donovan, Russell
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Wordcount: 1665
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: In all his years of occasional swims at the Central YMCA, Lestrade never expected to end up behind the scenes in the lifeguards' office.
A/N: written for grassle's request for Sherlock/Lestrade, and as a fill for the wild card square "grand romantic gesture" on my cottoncandy_bingo card.
In all his years of occasional swims at the Central YMCA, Lestrade never expected to end up behind the scenes in the lifeguards' office. Not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind, once or twice...
Fortunately, Sherlock isn't around to deduce what he's thinking and make a jealous scene about it.
Unfortunately, what's finally got Lestrade into the lifeguards' inner sanctum isn't a cheesy porn film scenario but a murder investigation.
Vincent Hope: an investment banker, stabbed to death in a central London alleyway on a busy Saturday night, after a row with his ex-boyfriend, David Pearson. No witnesses to the stabbing, though plenty to the row, which happened right here, at Pearson's place of work. He's a lifeguard, and so's his alibi, a very nervous young man called Russell.
Russell's new at the YMCA, apparently; moved down from Nottingham a couple of months ago. Says he didn't know Vincent well himself, but he's obviously feeling guilty and anxious about something. Just being questioned by the police takes some people that way, of course, even if they've got nothing to hide.
“It couldn't have been David,” Russell says, not for the first time. “He was with me at the club.”
“What club?” Donovan says.
“Trade,” Russell says. His chin goes up, as if he's daring her to make something of it. “It's a gay club.”
And how, Lestrade thinks. He remembers it starting up, must be at least twenty years ago now.
Lestrade's gaydar doesn't always work these days. He'd even worried about John Watson moving in with Sherlock, till John started producing girlfriends. But he thinks he'd still have guessed about this guy. Russell looks the part in his red plaid shirt, flat cap, black leather jacket, scruffy jeans. Handsome boy, with that dark hair and beard, but he carries himself like he doesn't know it, or doesn't think much of himself.
“Is David your boyfriend now, then?” Donovan asks.
There's an added edge to her voice that Lestrade doesn't like; he'll have a word with her later.
“No, we just work together,” Russell says. “My - I'm seeing someone else. He's in America at the moment.”
Something he's uncomfortable about there, though Lestrade's not sure what.
“Whereabouts in America?” he asks.
“Portland,” Russell says, and flushes up to the tips of his ears. “It's complicated.”
Things not to say to the murder squad: number twenty-five in an occasional series.
“Oh yeah?” Donovan says.
“Yeah,” Russell says, “but honestly it's got nothing to do with - with what happened to Vincent.” He glances down at the photographs on the desk and quickly away again, with a shudder. “Look,” he says desperately, “you can check the CCTV footage at the club if you don't believe me. We were there all night.”
Donovan looks at Lestrade, and he nods: best to get it out of the way, and Russell might say more if she's not there.
“DS Donovan's going to get hold of the footage,” he says. “If your story checks out, David's in the clear.”
“He's not my boyfriend,” Russell says, when Donovan's gone.
Yeah, so you keep saying, Lestrade thinks. Oh, wait - “The guy in America?”
Russell nods. “Glen,” he says, and his face lights up.
“So -” Lestrade says, not entirely sure where this is going. “You said it's got nothing to do with Saturday night.”
“It hasn't,” Russell says, fiddling with a lump of Blu-Tack. “Except - I was going to Portland next week, to see him.”
“Ah,” Lestrade says. There's nothing to suggest this man's a suspect in his own right, but obviously you can't tell him it's OK to leave the country. “So you’re wondering if you need to warn him you might be kept here as a witness?”
“I haven't told him,” Russell says uncomfortably.
“About the murder?”
“No,” Russell says, going red again. “I haven't told him I'm coming over.”
Going for the grand romantic gesture, then. Christ, talk about asking for trouble.
“OK,” Lestrade says. “Well, look on the bright side, at least you won't have to tell him you're not going after all. If you're not. But if you are -”
None of his business, he knows that, but he can't keep his mouth shut. It's like watching a train crash in slow motion.
“Don't you think you should tell him?” he says.
Russell gives him a look he recognizes: You just don't understand. Lestrade never had kids, probably a good thing really, but he knows if he had he'd have been getting that look on a regular basis.
Oh well. There's no helping some people. Can't worry about that. Concentrate on the job in hand.
“Who else from here knew Vincent?” he asks.
The list is surprisingly long, though it sounds like David's the only one who'd had a row with him. By the time Lestrade's finished taking names and contact details for the ones who aren't working today, Donovan's rung back to say the CCTV footage confirms Russell's story: he and David both have an alibi for the time of the murder.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “Well, good luck in Portland.”
“Thanks,” Russell says flatly. He hesitates, and Lestrade thinks he looks younger, vulnerable and uncertain. “Would you tell him, if it was you?”
“If it was me,” Lestrade says, “if I wanted a real chance with this guy, then yeah, I would.”
“Thanks,” Russell says again, and this time he sounds like he means it.
Lestrade goes on with the interviews and doesn't think about Russell again for the rest of the long day.
~*~*~*~
John texts to say he's making curry and does Lestrade want to come round for the evening. Which probably means Sherlock's sulking, otherwise he'd have texted Lestrade himself. Still, curry at 221b sounds a lot more appealing than whatever's lurking in the freezer at home.
Sherlock is indeed sulking visibly about not having been called in on the case, and demands all the details before Lestrade's even got his coat off.
“Look, it seemed like an open and shut case,” Lestrade says wearily, slumping on the sofa.
John hands him a beer without asking. Good man. He'll need it if Sherlock wants a complete run-down.
“So Vincent Hope's ex had an alibi,” John says, when Lestrade's finished going through the day's events.
Sherlock sighs noisily.
“Yes,” Lestrade says. “Spent the night at a gay club with one of the other lifeguards.”
John snorts. “So it's all true about the YMCA.”
Sherlock looks baffled. Another bit of pop culture that passed him by, obviously.
“I stayed at the YMCA, first few months I was in London,” Lestrade says, mopping up the last of John's excellent curry with a bit of naan bread. “Not the central one, though - the one at Barbican.”
“Did you hang out with all the boys?” John asks, with a grin.
“Mm,” Lestrade says, remembering. “Some of them, anyway. Then I found a flatshare.”
Sherlock now looks stormy as well as baffled. Doesn't like it when Lestrade talks about the past.
“It's a song,” Lestrade says hastily. “Give us your laptop, it's bound to be on YouTube.”
Sherlock's expression at being made to sit through Village People's greatest hit is so priceless Lestrade's almost tempted to get his phone out and snap him. No point actually looking for trouble, though.
“It was Simpson, by the way,” Sherlock says. “If you're still interested in the murder case rather than inferior pop music.”
“Simpson? But he -”
“The second set of keys in his locker,” Sherlock says, pointing at the list on the coffee-table. “They'll be for Hope's flat.”
“Christ!” Lestrade grabs his phone and calls Tyler, tells him to take Smith with him and check the keys.
~*~*~*
Sherlock is right, of course. Always is. Solves the whole thing while listening to terrible 70s pop music and brewing a jealous tantrum.
It's just as well John's meeting Bill Murray for a pint after dinner, because Sherlock's jealous tantrums are noisy and long, and the sex that usually follows them is noisier and longer.
“I hope Mrs Hudson's got the telly on,” Lestrade says thoughtfully, when he's got his breath back.
“Oh, she's used to it,” Sherlock says, sprawling complacently across his chest.
Lestrade pulls his hair affectionately. “You are a prat, Sherlock,” he says. “Honestly, you'd be jealous of your own shadow.”
“'M not jealous,” Sherlock says, offended.
Which is possibly the most outrageous lie Lestrade's ever heard, and so obviously ridiculous that he can't help laughing, even though he knows Sherlock doesn't like being laughed at.
“Fine, fine, you're not jealous,” he says. “Ow. Stop that!”
“Make me,” Sherlock says, with a glint in his eye. He stops pinching Lestrade's arse and starts fondling his cock again.
“Christ, Sherlock, I don't know where you get the energy,” Lestrade complains. “I'm an old man, remember?”
And that's the problem, of course: Sherlock's jealous of Lestrade's past and pretty much everyone in it. Not a lot either of them can do about that, given Sherlock was probably still in short trousers when Lestrade was staying at the YMCA.
“Old man,” Sherlock scoffs, pinning him to the mattress and rubbing his hardening cock against Lestrade's.
“Nnghh,” Lestrade says feebly.
Normally he'd flip Sherlock onto his back and have his way with him, but he's too tired for that tonight. Feeling his age. Maybe it's the way Russell looked at him, like a teenage boy looking at his father. He must be old enough to be Russell's father, thinking about it.
Lestrade hopes the silly bugger does have the sense to tell the man in America, what was his name, Glen -
“You're thinking about someone else,” Sherlock says accusingly, pushing hard against him. “In bed.”
“Is that right?” Lestrade says, though it's a fair cop.
He runs his hands down Sherlock's back and gropes his magnificent arse. Sherlock bucks against him and bites his neck, a bit harder than usual.
“I can hear you,” he says. “It's annoying. Stop thinking. ”
“Oh yeah?” Lestrade says. “Make me.”
So Sherlock does.
***
Thanks to kalypso_v for beta wisdom and invaluable suggestions. Additional thanks to kate_lear for giving me the prompt "Lestrade stayed at the YMCA when he first came to London" and to 2ndskin for suggesting a case involving Russell, the lifeguard from Andrew Haigh's gorgeous 2011 film, Weekend, and for introducing me to the film in the first place because of its connection with Rupert Graves.
Title from Village People's song YMCA.
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/95460.html with
comments.
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: Sherlock (TV), crossover with Weekend (2011)
Pairing/Characters: Lestrade/Sherlock, John, Sally Donovan, Russell
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Wordcount: 1665
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: In all his years of occasional swims at the Central YMCA, Lestrade never expected to end up behind the scenes in the lifeguards' office.
A/N: written for grassle's request for Sherlock/Lestrade, and as a fill for the wild card square "grand romantic gesture" on my cottoncandy_bingo card.
In all his years of occasional swims at the Central YMCA, Lestrade never expected to end up behind the scenes in the lifeguards' office. Not that the thought hadn't crossed his mind, once or twice...
Fortunately, Sherlock isn't around to deduce what he's thinking and make a jealous scene about it.
Unfortunately, what's finally got Lestrade into the lifeguards' inner sanctum isn't a cheesy porn film scenario but a murder investigation.
Vincent Hope: an investment banker, stabbed to death in a central London alleyway on a busy Saturday night, after a row with his ex-boyfriend, David Pearson. No witnesses to the stabbing, though plenty to the row, which happened right here, at Pearson's place of work. He's a lifeguard, and so's his alibi, a very nervous young man called Russell.
Russell's new at the YMCA, apparently; moved down from Nottingham a couple of months ago. Says he didn't know Vincent well himself, but he's obviously feeling guilty and anxious about something. Just being questioned by the police takes some people that way, of course, even if they've got nothing to hide.
“It couldn't have been David,” Russell says, not for the first time. “He was with me at the club.”
“What club?” Donovan says.
“Trade,” Russell says. His chin goes up, as if he's daring her to make something of it. “It's a gay club.”
And how, Lestrade thinks. He remembers it starting up, must be at least twenty years ago now.
Lestrade's gaydar doesn't always work these days. He'd even worried about John Watson moving in with Sherlock, till John started producing girlfriends. But he thinks he'd still have guessed about this guy. Russell looks the part in his red plaid shirt, flat cap, black leather jacket, scruffy jeans. Handsome boy, with that dark hair and beard, but he carries himself like he doesn't know it, or doesn't think much of himself.
“Is David your boyfriend now, then?” Donovan asks.
There's an added edge to her voice that Lestrade doesn't like; he'll have a word with her later.
“No, we just work together,” Russell says. “My - I'm seeing someone else. He's in America at the moment.”
Something he's uncomfortable about there, though Lestrade's not sure what.
“Whereabouts in America?” he asks.
“Portland,” Russell says, and flushes up to the tips of his ears. “It's complicated.”
Things not to say to the murder squad: number twenty-five in an occasional series.
“Oh yeah?” Donovan says.
“Yeah,” Russell says, “but honestly it's got nothing to do with - with what happened to Vincent.” He glances down at the photographs on the desk and quickly away again, with a shudder. “Look,” he says desperately, “you can check the CCTV footage at the club if you don't believe me. We were there all night.”
Donovan looks at Lestrade, and he nods: best to get it out of the way, and Russell might say more if she's not there.
“DS Donovan's going to get hold of the footage,” he says. “If your story checks out, David's in the clear.”
“He's not my boyfriend,” Russell says, when Donovan's gone.
Yeah, so you keep saying, Lestrade thinks. Oh, wait - “The guy in America?”
Russell nods. “Glen,” he says, and his face lights up.
“So -” Lestrade says, not entirely sure where this is going. “You said it's got nothing to do with Saturday night.”
“It hasn't,” Russell says, fiddling with a lump of Blu-Tack. “Except - I was going to Portland next week, to see him.”
“Ah,” Lestrade says. There's nothing to suggest this man's a suspect in his own right, but obviously you can't tell him it's OK to leave the country. “So you’re wondering if you need to warn him you might be kept here as a witness?”
“I haven't told him,” Russell says uncomfortably.
“About the murder?”
“No,” Russell says, going red again. “I haven't told him I'm coming over.”
Going for the grand romantic gesture, then. Christ, talk about asking for trouble.
“OK,” Lestrade says. “Well, look on the bright side, at least you won't have to tell him you're not going after all. If you're not. But if you are -”
None of his business, he knows that, but he can't keep his mouth shut. It's like watching a train crash in slow motion.
“Don't you think you should tell him?” he says.
Russell gives him a look he recognizes: You just don't understand. Lestrade never had kids, probably a good thing really, but he knows if he had he'd have been getting that look on a regular basis.
Oh well. There's no helping some people. Can't worry about that. Concentrate on the job in hand.
“Who else from here knew Vincent?” he asks.
The list is surprisingly long, though it sounds like David's the only one who'd had a row with him. By the time Lestrade's finished taking names and contact details for the ones who aren't working today, Donovan's rung back to say the CCTV footage confirms Russell's story: he and David both have an alibi for the time of the murder.
“Right,” Lestrade says. “Well, good luck in Portland.”
“Thanks,” Russell says flatly. He hesitates, and Lestrade thinks he looks younger, vulnerable and uncertain. “Would you tell him, if it was you?”
“If it was me,” Lestrade says, “if I wanted a real chance with this guy, then yeah, I would.”
“Thanks,” Russell says again, and this time he sounds like he means it.
Lestrade goes on with the interviews and doesn't think about Russell again for the rest of the long day.
~*~*~*~
John texts to say he's making curry and does Lestrade want to come round for the evening. Which probably means Sherlock's sulking, otherwise he'd have texted Lestrade himself. Still, curry at 221b sounds a lot more appealing than whatever's lurking in the freezer at home.
Sherlock is indeed sulking visibly about not having been called in on the case, and demands all the details before Lestrade's even got his coat off.
“Look, it seemed like an open and shut case,” Lestrade says wearily, slumping on the sofa.
John hands him a beer without asking. Good man. He'll need it if Sherlock wants a complete run-down.
“So Vincent Hope's ex had an alibi,” John says, when Lestrade's finished going through the day's events.
Sherlock sighs noisily.
“Yes,” Lestrade says. “Spent the night at a gay club with one of the other lifeguards.”
John snorts. “So it's all true about the YMCA.”
Sherlock looks baffled. Another bit of pop culture that passed him by, obviously.
“I stayed at the YMCA, first few months I was in London,” Lestrade says, mopping up the last of John's excellent curry with a bit of naan bread. “Not the central one, though - the one at Barbican.”
“Did you hang out with all the boys?” John asks, with a grin.
“Mm,” Lestrade says, remembering. “Some of them, anyway. Then I found a flatshare.”
Sherlock now looks stormy as well as baffled. Doesn't like it when Lestrade talks about the past.
“It's a song,” Lestrade says hastily. “Give us your laptop, it's bound to be on YouTube.”
Sherlock's expression at being made to sit through Village People's greatest hit is so priceless Lestrade's almost tempted to get his phone out and snap him. No point actually looking for trouble, though.
“It was Simpson, by the way,” Sherlock says. “If you're still interested in the murder case rather than inferior pop music.”
“Simpson? But he -”
“The second set of keys in his locker,” Sherlock says, pointing at the list on the coffee-table. “They'll be for Hope's flat.”
“Christ!” Lestrade grabs his phone and calls Tyler, tells him to take Smith with him and check the keys.
~*~*~*
Sherlock is right, of course. Always is. Solves the whole thing while listening to terrible 70s pop music and brewing a jealous tantrum.
It's just as well John's meeting Bill Murray for a pint after dinner, because Sherlock's jealous tantrums are noisy and long, and the sex that usually follows them is noisier and longer.
“I hope Mrs Hudson's got the telly on,” Lestrade says thoughtfully, when he's got his breath back.
“Oh, she's used to it,” Sherlock says, sprawling complacently across his chest.
Lestrade pulls his hair affectionately. “You are a prat, Sherlock,” he says. “Honestly, you'd be jealous of your own shadow.”
“'M not jealous,” Sherlock says, offended.
Which is possibly the most outrageous lie Lestrade's ever heard, and so obviously ridiculous that he can't help laughing, even though he knows Sherlock doesn't like being laughed at.
“Fine, fine, you're not jealous,” he says. “Ow. Stop that!”
“Make me,” Sherlock says, with a glint in his eye. He stops pinching Lestrade's arse and starts fondling his cock again.
“Christ, Sherlock, I don't know where you get the energy,” Lestrade complains. “I'm an old man, remember?”
And that's the problem, of course: Sherlock's jealous of Lestrade's past and pretty much everyone in it. Not a lot either of them can do about that, given Sherlock was probably still in short trousers when Lestrade was staying at the YMCA.
“Old man,” Sherlock scoffs, pinning him to the mattress and rubbing his hardening cock against Lestrade's.
“Nnghh,” Lestrade says feebly.
Normally he'd flip Sherlock onto his back and have his way with him, but he's too tired for that tonight. Feeling his age. Maybe it's the way Russell looked at him, like a teenage boy looking at his father. He must be old enough to be Russell's father, thinking about it.
Lestrade hopes the silly bugger does have the sense to tell the man in America, what was his name, Glen -
“You're thinking about someone else,” Sherlock says accusingly, pushing hard against him. “In bed.”
“Is that right?” Lestrade says, though it's a fair cop.
He runs his hands down Sherlock's back and gropes his magnificent arse. Sherlock bucks against him and bites his neck, a bit harder than usual.
“I can hear you,” he says. “It's annoying. Stop thinking. ”
“Oh yeah?” Lestrade says. “Make me.”
So Sherlock does.
***
Thanks to kalypso_v for beta wisdom and invaluable suggestions. Additional thanks to kate_lear for giving me the prompt "Lestrade stayed at the YMCA when he first came to London" and to 2ndskin for suggesting a case involving Russell, the lifeguard from Andrew Haigh's gorgeous 2011 film, Weekend, and for introducing me to the film in the first place because of its connection with Rupert Graves.
Title from Village People's song YMCA.
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/95460.html with
comments.