(no subject)
Title: The Right to Bleed
Rating: PG-13
Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, cameos from Donovan and Anderson
Summary: DI Lestrade has built his credo around his teams, formal and informal.
Author's Notes: In response to a "Make Me a Monday" request here. Title from Five for Fighting's "Superman." Unbetaed, unbritpicked.
Warnings: None
It’s a hard business, seeing the results of too many people crowded into too small a space. The punishing hours; the victims and their families; the perpetrators and their families; the rigors of the legal system; the demands of superiors, the press, your conscience all combine into a perfect storm of expectation and need. It’s all too easy to fall prey to your baser instincts. Take a shortcut here, give a hint to an eyewitness there, to justify anything less than absolute adherence to procedure and policy.
Eventually, though, the shortcuts catch up with you and you’re left wondering how you ever lost your way.
There are safeguards against this, of course. Some people find a Holy Grail--a cause--that keeps them fighting to the end. Others take the job in a series of sprints. Just make it to Christmas, to the next paycheck, to the end of the week, to the end of the day, to my next meal. Those who can’t find a way to make it through don’t last long, stifled under the burden of doubt and despair.
Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has none of these things. Instead, he’s built his credo around his teams, formal and informal.
Even as a young constable, he stayed at the job for the team. For Billy Walker, the flighty one, on the next street over who never seemed to be able to find a pair of gloves on the cold night shifts. For James Phan, the funny one, who still needed someone to take him to the pub after any case involving a motorcycle accident. For Carolyn Harper, the silent one, who never talked to anyone but turned out to have a fine grasp of Polish at a critical time and who enjoyed Jammy Dodgers more than was probably healthy. Never for Greg Lestrade, the conscientious one, who plodded along on his beat and tried his best to keep his teammates walking the thin line of sanity.
In the blink of an eye, he’s made it through 24 years of service, mostly successful. Of course, there have been a couple of injuries, a few early departures. But on the whole, he counts himself lucky. He’s never lost a teammate, and that definitely counts for something in his book.
Now that he’s a Detective Inspector (as he reminds himself every morning), the responsibility weighs more heavily on his shoulders. It’s his job to keep his team organized, trained, and equipped; happy, functioning, and safe. His team’s closure rate is a testament to his effectiveness as a leader (so his superiors say), or to their innate talents, experience, and training (he says). The reality is much simpler. Greg Lestrade has some almost-magical ability to see where a person is and where they can be, and then make the two match.
He takes his responsibility very seriously, and The Team becomes his life’s mission.
So on a cloudless day in May, when Sharon Blackwell lies bleeding on the floor after a disastrous attempt to bring in three men wanted in connection with a simple burglary, Lestrade’s hands covered in red and pressing hard enough to make her whimper, the sense of failure makes him want to scream.
He is nothing, however, if not dogged in his care for his team. So he swallows his anguish and presses harder, shouting orders and trying to modulate his voice to comfort the woman beneath him. He spares a moment to thank whatever gods watch over wayward DIs for Sally Donovan, though. Without a word to him, she organizes the actual capture, restraint, transport, and processing of the three suspects.
The next hours pass in a haze of colors, sirens, and voices. When he comes back to himself, he’s sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, his wrists trapped between strong steady fingers, and a gruff yelping in his ears.
“Breathe in,” he hears and automatically complies.
“Good, and let it out. Now another.”
The yelping has mercifully stopped, curiously coinciding with his shaky breaths in. As he feels his heart begin to slow, details flood in.
A garish orange chair across the room. A spot on the tile floor that may or may not be blood. Military-issue boots. Dark denim.
Curiously, his eyes won’t travel above the other person’s collar bone, but the voice and shape and scent all point to John Watson. There are worse people to see him falling apart, he supposes, although specific examples seem to escape him at present.
The clatter of well-heeled shoes into the room, and a subtle change in the atmosphere.
Sherlock Holmes, his mind supplies. There’s an example.
“Will he be alright, John?”
The doctor gives a quick squeeze to the wrists in his hands before releasing them to stand briskly. “I think so. He does need to clean up a bit. And probably stay somewhere quiet for the time being. But you know Lestrade. He’ll bounce back quickly enough.”
A large part of Lestrade feels he should be insulted that they’re discussing him like he’s a child, like he’s not even there, but it’s drowned out by the maelstrom in his head and the heaviness in his gut.
Why the voices whisper. She wasn’t ready. I pushed her into it, told her the first one is always hardest. Brilliant. What the fuck was I thinking?
The sounds amplify, merging like streams into rivers into the ocean, until all he hears is the roaring in his ears and his heartbeat, impossibly loud.
He must make some sound of distress, because John turns back to him and lays his hand on the back of Lestrade’s head.
“Do you want to wash up? There’s a loo around the corner.”
Lestrade nods and unfolds himself from the seat, shuffling through the door. As he rounds the corner, he catches sight of Tim and Sally at the end of the hall, clearly in a heated debate. Automatically, his spine straightens and his chin lifts so that all they see when he approaches is their calm, unflappable DI. Never mind that it feels like the thin layer of ice above a raging river.
“Donovan, Anderson” he nods to them in turn.
Anderson’s face flushes a little while Donovan’s goes stony. The returned greetings come nearly in unison.
“Actually, I was just leaving,” Anderson says and scurries away.
Donovan turns her gaze to the DI. “Sir, is there anything I can do? Have you heard anything?”
Lestrade shakes his head. He’s not sure he would remember hearing anything anyway, but he bluffs his way through. “Nothing yet. I’m sure the docs will come and find us when they know something.”
Sighing, he moves to run his hand through his hair, but Sally grabs his wrist before he can complete the motion.
“Probably don’t want to do that before you find a sink, sir. I’m sure I saw one around here…” and she turns, looking for the room she’d noticed.
Lestrade feels the ice beneath him shatter.
“I’m fine, Sergeant,” he sneers. “I don’t need you looking after me. I managed to survive without your coddling long before you even thought of joining the Met. The last thing I need now is your misguided attempt to assuage your guilt by smothering me. Now I would greatly appreciate it if everyone would just LEAVE. ME. ALONE.”
He is vaguely aware he’s shouting now, his rough voice bouncing off the tile walls. Sally is looking at him with a shocked expression mingled with growing horror and anger. John and Sherlock have left their cubbyhole and are headed his way, and it’s suddenly more than he can take. He storms into the nearest toilet and slams the door shut.
Bracing his hands on the sides of the sink, he rests his forehead against the mirror for a brief moment and then turns on the water, as hot as he can stand and then a bit hotter.
It takes a surprisingly short amount of time for the blood and grime to wash off his hands, but his mind tells him he can’t possibly be done, so he scrubs longer. He’s so focused on getting every particle of grit out from under his fingernails, he doesn’t register when the water stops.
A paper towel is thrust in front of his face. He takes it and scrubs a bit more until cold, thin fingers rest on the back of his hands.
“Lestrade. Stop. Les- Greg. Stop, please.”
He’s never heard Sherlock say please before when he wasn’t faking something. Its unexpectedness gives him pause and he becomes engrossed in shredding the paper towel to tiny bits.
Sherlock retreats to the corner nearest the door and stands there silently, gazing at Lestrade.
“What do you want” the older man mumbles, tossing the shreds into the bin.
Sherlock doesn’t reply, just turns the lock on the door with a solid thunk.
Lestrade feels the embers of his anger start to spark. “Sherlock! I don’t have time for your stupid games right now. Just tell me what you want so I can be left in peace!”
Pale eyes examine him for a moment. “I’m waiting for you to stop.”
Lestrade lets out a huff. “Stop,” he asks. “Stop what? Stop being unreasonable? Stop being uninteresting? Stop what, Sherlock?”
“I am waiting,” Sherlock clarifies “for you to stop hurting my friend.”
The room must suddenly be shot into space. It’s the only explanation for why Lestrade suddenly finds it difficult to breathe, why there are pinpricks of heat behind his eyes.
“I’m not your friend,” he scoffs. “I’m just your puzzle supplier. I’m no more your friend than your dealer was. Cut from the same cloth, him and me, wouldn’t you say?”
A flash of something (sorrow?) flashes across Sherlock’s eyes, but Lestrade has to look hard to identify how Sherlock’s feeling on his brightest days, let alone when traces of the blood he just washed off his hands are still lingering around the plug hole. Sherlock merely stands there.
Suddenly, Lestrade feels the world tilt sharply. He reverses until his back hits smooth wall and then sinks to the floor, dropping his head between his knees. Sherlock takes three strides and he’s toe to toe with Lestrade. But he doesn’t move further, just stands there until Lestrade musters up every ounce of energy he has left and lifts his head. He seems suddenly stricken with the same affliction he had earlier, and his gaze settles on a different set of collar bones.
Sherlock tilts his head, a May I? gesture, and Lestrade gives a small shrug, letting his head drop again. He feels the younger man settle beside him, lean thighs pressed against his own, a bony elbow in his side. He keeps his head down.
Neither of them says anything for several long moments. Lestrade’s startled when he feels a hesitant hand on his shoulder, but remains silent. The hand flits away, landing at the crown of his head, stroking gently. The apparently doesn’t satisfy Sherlock either, and the hand disappears, this time to land solidly in the exposed gap between Lestrade’s hair and his collar. Apparently satisfied with this, Sherlock leaves his hand there.
Lestrade can feel how uncomfortable the younger man is with this new physicality. Sherlock has no problem invading someone’s space to throw them off their game or to less-than-subtly assert his dominance, but this softer, affectionate touching is an unseen facet of his personality. And Lestrade could publish a paper on his personality.
The DI’s thoughts turn to Sharon, and her family, probably waiting for news. He wonders what he’ll say to them, what they’ll say to him. What he’ll say to his team, to his supervisors, to the press.
Sherlock hums a low note and begins to rub his thumb along the nape of Lestrade’s neck. Gently at first, as if he’s still unsure, and then a bit firmer as Lestrade makes neither movement nor sound.
“Shut up,” he commands.
Lestrade gives the smallest huff of laughter. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking, and it was a stupid thought. It’s annoying and you’re wrong anyway, so shut up.”
Lestrade lifts his head a bit, but not enough to dislodge the hand.
“Well,” he asks. “What’s the answer then?”
He can practically hear Sherlock’s smirk. “Obvious. You’ll tell them about honour, and duty, and service. You’ll talk about her courage and relate some anecdote that shows an aspect of her character with which her family will be familiar but will surprise them that you are. They’ll come away thinking that you truly care for their daughter and that she’ll be safe in your care. That is, if they have two brain cells to rub together. That’s the obvious conclusion to anyone who would bother to observe your interactions with your team for any length of time.”
Lestrade is stunned nearly into silence. “And the team?” he manages to squeak out.
Sherlock cocks his head and gives an enigmatic smile. “You’ll say nothing. You will, however, wait for her for as long as it takes, and that will say enough. Donovan will forgive you. No. Donovan has already forgiven you and will never speak of it. To anyone. Unless you bring it up yourself. Which you will out of a feeling of guilt and an unnecessary desire to make right what has already been made right.”
The hand on the back of his neck squeezes very gently and then Sherlock abruptly stands up, offering a hand to the DI on the floor. Lestrade grasps the hand and the younger man hauls him to his feet, waiting until his footing is solid before letting go.
Turning, the two of them leave the room and head back towards the rest of the team. John is standing just down the hall, trying to wait without appearing to wait. No one’s fooled, least of all Lestrade.
“Alright?” the doctor asks.
Lestrade gives him a wan smile. “Better,” he replies.
John smiles back. “Sometimes, that’s all there is.”
The three men head down the hall toward the waiting room. Just before they arrive, John grabs Lestrade’s sleeve, halting his progress and turning him so they face each other.
“Lestrade.” He pauses. “Greg. I just wanted to say that you’re free to come visit. Any time you like. Doesn’t just have to be a case, you know. I need someone to watch sport with and Mrs. Hudson is always saying how she’d like to feed you more and--“
Lestrade smiles gently. “I get it, John. Thank you.”
John returns the smile and they resume their walk. Just before he enters the doors, John sees Lestrade square his shoulders and lift his chin. It seems as if an invisible cloak settles on the DI’s shoulders and Lestrade steps over the threshold.
As the doors slide closed, John turns towards Sherlock, a slightly quizzical look on his face. Sherlock shrugs.
The “Let’s go home, John” doesn’t answer any of the questions the doctor was trying to ask, which he suspects Sherlock knows. “Fine, be that way,” he laughs. “But we’re stopping for Chinese on the way, and I get the extra pot sticker this time.”
Instead of a response, Sherlock tilts his head in a curious way that either means “Why aren’t you pursuing this” or “Thank you for letting us have our secrets.” John hasn’t categorized that particular look. But he’s not sold on the idea that a look can have only one meaning anyway, so he just smiles and leads the way back home. Sherlock falls easily into step at his side, and he’s sure Lestrade will follow when he can.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, cameos from Donovan and Anderson
Summary: DI Lestrade has built his credo around his teams, formal and informal.
Author's Notes: In response to a "Make Me a Monday" request here. Title from Five for Fighting's "Superman." Unbetaed, unbritpicked.
Warnings: None
It’s a hard business, seeing the results of too many people crowded into too small a space. The punishing hours; the victims and their families; the perpetrators and their families; the rigors of the legal system; the demands of superiors, the press, your conscience all combine into a perfect storm of expectation and need. It’s all too easy to fall prey to your baser instincts. Take a shortcut here, give a hint to an eyewitness there, to justify anything less than absolute adherence to procedure and policy.
Eventually, though, the shortcuts catch up with you and you’re left wondering how you ever lost your way.
There are safeguards against this, of course. Some people find a Holy Grail--a cause--that keeps them fighting to the end. Others take the job in a series of sprints. Just make it to Christmas, to the next paycheck, to the end of the week, to the end of the day, to my next meal. Those who can’t find a way to make it through don’t last long, stifled under the burden of doubt and despair.
Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard has none of these things. Instead, he’s built his credo around his teams, formal and informal.
Even as a young constable, he stayed at the job for the team. For Billy Walker, the flighty one, on the next street over who never seemed to be able to find a pair of gloves on the cold night shifts. For James Phan, the funny one, who still needed someone to take him to the pub after any case involving a motorcycle accident. For Carolyn Harper, the silent one, who never talked to anyone but turned out to have a fine grasp of Polish at a critical time and who enjoyed Jammy Dodgers more than was probably healthy. Never for Greg Lestrade, the conscientious one, who plodded along on his beat and tried his best to keep his teammates walking the thin line of sanity.
In the blink of an eye, he’s made it through 24 years of service, mostly successful. Of course, there have been a couple of injuries, a few early departures. But on the whole, he counts himself lucky. He’s never lost a teammate, and that definitely counts for something in his book.
Now that he’s a Detective Inspector (as he reminds himself every morning), the responsibility weighs more heavily on his shoulders. It’s his job to keep his team organized, trained, and equipped; happy, functioning, and safe. His team’s closure rate is a testament to his effectiveness as a leader (so his superiors say), or to their innate talents, experience, and training (he says). The reality is much simpler. Greg Lestrade has some almost-magical ability to see where a person is and where they can be, and then make the two match.
He takes his responsibility very seriously, and The Team becomes his life’s mission.
So on a cloudless day in May, when Sharon Blackwell lies bleeding on the floor after a disastrous attempt to bring in three men wanted in connection with a simple burglary, Lestrade’s hands covered in red and pressing hard enough to make her whimper, the sense of failure makes him want to scream.
He is nothing, however, if not dogged in his care for his team. So he swallows his anguish and presses harder, shouting orders and trying to modulate his voice to comfort the woman beneath him. He spares a moment to thank whatever gods watch over wayward DIs for Sally Donovan, though. Without a word to him, she organizes the actual capture, restraint, transport, and processing of the three suspects.
The next hours pass in a haze of colors, sirens, and voices. When he comes back to himself, he’s sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, his wrists trapped between strong steady fingers, and a gruff yelping in his ears.
“Breathe in,” he hears and automatically complies.
“Good, and let it out. Now another.”
The yelping has mercifully stopped, curiously coinciding with his shaky breaths in. As he feels his heart begin to slow, details flood in.
A garish orange chair across the room. A spot on the tile floor that may or may not be blood. Military-issue boots. Dark denim.
Curiously, his eyes won’t travel above the other person’s collar bone, but the voice and shape and scent all point to John Watson. There are worse people to see him falling apart, he supposes, although specific examples seem to escape him at present.
The clatter of well-heeled shoes into the room, and a subtle change in the atmosphere.
Sherlock Holmes, his mind supplies. There’s an example.
“Will he be alright, John?”
The doctor gives a quick squeeze to the wrists in his hands before releasing them to stand briskly. “I think so. He does need to clean up a bit. And probably stay somewhere quiet for the time being. But you know Lestrade. He’ll bounce back quickly enough.”
A large part of Lestrade feels he should be insulted that they’re discussing him like he’s a child, like he’s not even there, but it’s drowned out by the maelstrom in his head and the heaviness in his gut.
Why the voices whisper. She wasn’t ready. I pushed her into it, told her the first one is always hardest. Brilliant. What the fuck was I thinking?
The sounds amplify, merging like streams into rivers into the ocean, until all he hears is the roaring in his ears and his heartbeat, impossibly loud.
He must make some sound of distress, because John turns back to him and lays his hand on the back of Lestrade’s head.
“Do you want to wash up? There’s a loo around the corner.”
Lestrade nods and unfolds himself from the seat, shuffling through the door. As he rounds the corner, he catches sight of Tim and Sally at the end of the hall, clearly in a heated debate. Automatically, his spine straightens and his chin lifts so that all they see when he approaches is their calm, unflappable DI. Never mind that it feels like the thin layer of ice above a raging river.
“Donovan, Anderson” he nods to them in turn.
Anderson’s face flushes a little while Donovan’s goes stony. The returned greetings come nearly in unison.
“Actually, I was just leaving,” Anderson says and scurries away.
Donovan turns her gaze to the DI. “Sir, is there anything I can do? Have you heard anything?”
Lestrade shakes his head. He’s not sure he would remember hearing anything anyway, but he bluffs his way through. “Nothing yet. I’m sure the docs will come and find us when they know something.”
Sighing, he moves to run his hand through his hair, but Sally grabs his wrist before he can complete the motion.
“Probably don’t want to do that before you find a sink, sir. I’m sure I saw one around here…” and she turns, looking for the room she’d noticed.
Lestrade feels the ice beneath him shatter.
“I’m fine, Sergeant,” he sneers. “I don’t need you looking after me. I managed to survive without your coddling long before you even thought of joining the Met. The last thing I need now is your misguided attempt to assuage your guilt by smothering me. Now I would greatly appreciate it if everyone would just LEAVE. ME. ALONE.”
He is vaguely aware he’s shouting now, his rough voice bouncing off the tile walls. Sally is looking at him with a shocked expression mingled with growing horror and anger. John and Sherlock have left their cubbyhole and are headed his way, and it’s suddenly more than he can take. He storms into the nearest toilet and slams the door shut.
Bracing his hands on the sides of the sink, he rests his forehead against the mirror for a brief moment and then turns on the water, as hot as he can stand and then a bit hotter.
It takes a surprisingly short amount of time for the blood and grime to wash off his hands, but his mind tells him he can’t possibly be done, so he scrubs longer. He’s so focused on getting every particle of grit out from under his fingernails, he doesn’t register when the water stops.
A paper towel is thrust in front of his face. He takes it and scrubs a bit more until cold, thin fingers rest on the back of his hands.
“Lestrade. Stop. Les- Greg. Stop, please.”
He’s never heard Sherlock say please before when he wasn’t faking something. Its unexpectedness gives him pause and he becomes engrossed in shredding the paper towel to tiny bits.
Sherlock retreats to the corner nearest the door and stands there silently, gazing at Lestrade.
“What do you want” the older man mumbles, tossing the shreds into the bin.
Sherlock doesn’t reply, just turns the lock on the door with a solid thunk.
Lestrade feels the embers of his anger start to spark. “Sherlock! I don’t have time for your stupid games right now. Just tell me what you want so I can be left in peace!”
Pale eyes examine him for a moment. “I’m waiting for you to stop.”
Lestrade lets out a huff. “Stop,” he asks. “Stop what? Stop being unreasonable? Stop being uninteresting? Stop what, Sherlock?”
“I am waiting,” Sherlock clarifies “for you to stop hurting my friend.”
The room must suddenly be shot into space. It’s the only explanation for why Lestrade suddenly finds it difficult to breathe, why there are pinpricks of heat behind his eyes.
“I’m not your friend,” he scoffs. “I’m just your puzzle supplier. I’m no more your friend than your dealer was. Cut from the same cloth, him and me, wouldn’t you say?”
A flash of something (sorrow?) flashes across Sherlock’s eyes, but Lestrade has to look hard to identify how Sherlock’s feeling on his brightest days, let alone when traces of the blood he just washed off his hands are still lingering around the plug hole. Sherlock merely stands there.
Suddenly, Lestrade feels the world tilt sharply. He reverses until his back hits smooth wall and then sinks to the floor, dropping his head between his knees. Sherlock takes three strides and he’s toe to toe with Lestrade. But he doesn’t move further, just stands there until Lestrade musters up every ounce of energy he has left and lifts his head. He seems suddenly stricken with the same affliction he had earlier, and his gaze settles on a different set of collar bones.
Sherlock tilts his head, a May I? gesture, and Lestrade gives a small shrug, letting his head drop again. He feels the younger man settle beside him, lean thighs pressed against his own, a bony elbow in his side. He keeps his head down.
Neither of them says anything for several long moments. Lestrade’s startled when he feels a hesitant hand on his shoulder, but remains silent. The hand flits away, landing at the crown of his head, stroking gently. The apparently doesn’t satisfy Sherlock either, and the hand disappears, this time to land solidly in the exposed gap between Lestrade’s hair and his collar. Apparently satisfied with this, Sherlock leaves his hand there.
Lestrade can feel how uncomfortable the younger man is with this new physicality. Sherlock has no problem invading someone’s space to throw them off their game or to less-than-subtly assert his dominance, but this softer, affectionate touching is an unseen facet of his personality. And Lestrade could publish a paper on his personality.
The DI’s thoughts turn to Sharon, and her family, probably waiting for news. He wonders what he’ll say to them, what they’ll say to him. What he’ll say to his team, to his supervisors, to the press.
Sherlock hums a low note and begins to rub his thumb along the nape of Lestrade’s neck. Gently at first, as if he’s still unsure, and then a bit firmer as Lestrade makes neither movement nor sound.
“Shut up,” he commands.
Lestrade gives the smallest huff of laughter. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking, and it was a stupid thought. It’s annoying and you’re wrong anyway, so shut up.”
Lestrade lifts his head a bit, but not enough to dislodge the hand.
“Well,” he asks. “What’s the answer then?”
He can practically hear Sherlock’s smirk. “Obvious. You’ll tell them about honour, and duty, and service. You’ll talk about her courage and relate some anecdote that shows an aspect of her character with which her family will be familiar but will surprise them that you are. They’ll come away thinking that you truly care for their daughter and that she’ll be safe in your care. That is, if they have two brain cells to rub together. That’s the obvious conclusion to anyone who would bother to observe your interactions with your team for any length of time.”
Lestrade is stunned nearly into silence. “And the team?” he manages to squeak out.
Sherlock cocks his head and gives an enigmatic smile. “You’ll say nothing. You will, however, wait for her for as long as it takes, and that will say enough. Donovan will forgive you. No. Donovan has already forgiven you and will never speak of it. To anyone. Unless you bring it up yourself. Which you will out of a feeling of guilt and an unnecessary desire to make right what has already been made right.”
The hand on the back of his neck squeezes very gently and then Sherlock abruptly stands up, offering a hand to the DI on the floor. Lestrade grasps the hand and the younger man hauls him to his feet, waiting until his footing is solid before letting go.
Turning, the two of them leave the room and head back towards the rest of the team. John is standing just down the hall, trying to wait without appearing to wait. No one’s fooled, least of all Lestrade.
“Alright?” the doctor asks.
Lestrade gives him a wan smile. “Better,” he replies.
John smiles back. “Sometimes, that’s all there is.”
The three men head down the hall toward the waiting room. Just before they arrive, John grabs Lestrade’s sleeve, halting his progress and turning him so they face each other.
“Lestrade.” He pauses. “Greg. I just wanted to say that you’re free to come visit. Any time you like. Doesn’t just have to be a case, you know. I need someone to watch sport with and Mrs. Hudson is always saying how she’d like to feed you more and--“
Lestrade smiles gently. “I get it, John. Thank you.”
John returns the smile and they resume their walk. Just before he enters the doors, John sees Lestrade square his shoulders and lift his chin. It seems as if an invisible cloak settles on the DI’s shoulders and Lestrade steps over the threshold.
As the doors slide closed, John turns towards Sherlock, a slightly quizzical look on his face. Sherlock shrugs.
The “Let’s go home, John” doesn’t answer any of the questions the doctor was trying to ask, which he suspects Sherlock knows. “Fine, be that way,” he laughs. “But we’re stopping for Chinese on the way, and I get the extra pot sticker this time.”
Instead of a response, Sherlock tilts his head in a curious way that either means “Why aren’t you pursuing this” or “Thank you for letting us have our secrets.” John hasn’t categorized that particular look. But he’s not sold on the idea that a look can have only one meaning anyway, so he just smiles and leads the way back home. Sherlock falls easily into step at his side, and he’s sure Lestrade will follow when he can.