Fill Without a Clever Name P1
anonymous
December 22 2010, 15:34:39 UTC
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had seen and done many things in his time in Scotland Yard. He had thwarted countless murders, found numerous kidnapped citizens, dead and alive, and had jailed an impressive number of criminals. Hell, he had even dealt with rape victims, and that was not a job for an amateur. Every victim’s face was seared into his mind; their finger-shaped bruises, their betrayed, untrusting eyes.
“Shit.” Lestrade hissed under his breath, shaking his head as if the memories could be thrown away. This was no time to think of those things, not when he was already in pain.
Yes, Lestrade had done many things, but he so often felt as if he was a lackey instead of an esteemed Detective Inspector. He absolutely hated feeling like his sole purpose was chasing ghosts for one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The detective had always treated Lestrade as a tool or game of sorts, ordering him to obtain information for a case, insulting his intelligence, reveling in his humiliation when he was forced to ask for assistance. Lestrade wished that Sherlock could respect him as much as he respected Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was not heartless, that a good man was buried somewhere under the arrogance and indifference and may even emerge one day.
For now, however, it was business as usual, only this time Lestrade had been caught in the line of fire. Sprinting relentlessly after a suspected serial killer was painful enough, but having said killer slam into you with his get-away car was something else entirely. He supposed he should be thankful that the car had not been going very fast, but he still ached all over, his hip hurt like hell, and he thought he might have cracked a few ribs. He had called Donovan from where he was sprawled out on the cold pavement and she had given him a ride back to the station. She had not left his side since, fussing over him in her customary manner
“Really sir we should get you to a hospital, you were just hit by a bloody car for God’s sake!” Donovan reprimanded with unmistakable affection in her voice.
Lestrade forced down a shudder; he hated hospitals, always had since he was a child. The white walls were foreboding, and the pungent scent of cleaner could not completely cover the subtle odor of death.
No, he would avoid hospitals if he could help it, there must be an alternative. His thoughts immediately went to Sherlock’s flat mate, the blond army doctor with the kind eyes and the creased forehead. Yes, maybe he could get John Watson to take a look at him, and since the doctor was most likely off duty at this time of night, Lestrade would not have to step foot in a hospital or a doctor’s office. It was perfect, except…
“Sally, where is Sherlock right now?” Lestrade asked, sitting up in his chair and wincing at the resulting pain in his hip. Donovan started, surprised at finally being addressed, then frowned at the mention of Sherlock.
“Freak-Holmes,” she corrected after meeting Lestrade’s tired glare, “is still out investigating I believe.”
“Great, then he’ll probably be sniffing around for the rest of the night, and Dr. Watson has most likely gotten tired of him and gone home.” Lestrade sighed in relief, the last thing he needed was Sherlock pacing around hounding him about his clumsiness and his silly fear of hospitals (which he no doubt deduced years ago).
“Well, I guess Dr. Watson is better than nothing,” Donovan said, running an exasperated hand over her face, “I’d still rather you go to the hospital though.”
“I know Sally, but I’m sure John will do a fine job.” Lestrade answered kindly, “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, we’ve all been through hell today.”
Fill Without a Clever Name P2
anonymous
December 22 2010, 15:41:01 UTC
Donovan smiled and moved closer, allowing Lestrade to hold onto her arms for support as he lifted himself painfully from the chair. He threw his arm around Donavan’s shoulders and allowed her to guide him to the street to hail a cab, every step causing his ribs to ache and a sharp pain to stab through his injured hip. He was breathing heavily by the time he was seated in a cab, but threw Sally a forced smile through the window when saw the concern in her face.
“221 Baker Street.” He gasped to the driver, who nodded and set off. Lestrade dug the back of his head into the seat, pressing a hand into his injured side and hissing through his teeth. He hoped he was not making a mistake.
John Watson was a patient man, not quick to anger, but he had his limits. He preferred to keep the confident, strong demeanor characteristic of a soldier, but still knew when it was appropriate to appear vulnerable and understanding. That ability has granted him success in the field of medicine and in the hearts of countless women.
‘Ladies’ Man’ was certainly not the first thought that came to mind when one laid eyes on John, but if one were to take the time to converse with the former soldier they would understand why so many became taken with him. A boyish smile, a well-placed laugh, a heartfelt compliment, and John would unfailingly walk home that night with a beautiful woman on his arm.
Indeed, John was a charming, tolerant man, but somehow Sherlock knew exactly how to get under his skin and drive him to let loose his fiery temper in less than 1/8 of the time it took the average person. Tonight had been no different, and John had been dragged around what he swore was the entirety of London to find absolutely nothing. Sherlock would not admit defeat and vowed to keep searching until he found something and, of course, he ordered John to stay and accompany him. John had been on his last string for the past 4 hours and was seeing red, so he proceeded to chew Sherlock out in the harshest manner he could manage.
Now he was sitting in the flat in a better mood than he had been in all week, reveling in his victory over Sherlock in their heated argument. He planned to spend the rest of the night nursing a beer and watching crap telly, not completely ideal but pleasant enough. John was downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s rooms, searching for the only bottle opener in the building (which was always in a different place, Sherlock’s doing, though John would be damned if he knew why) when he heard a pounding at the front door. That could not be Sherlock, he would be out for the rest of the night and wouldn’t knock anyways, nor Mrs. Hudson who was on holiday visiting family.
John frowned, his exploits with Sherlock had left him paranoid and he wished he hadn’t left his gun upstairs. He instead opted for one of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen knives, and with the cool, comforting weight of the metal in his hand, cautiously approached the front door and looked through the peep hole.
Ah, Lestrade, an unexpected visitor but a welcome one. John and Lestrade were not exactly good friends, but they had conversed over coffee on a few occasions and were comfortable enough with each other. John supposed the company would be welcome; he had never liked sitting around alone, a remnant of his time in the army where one could never find the time for privacy. He slid the latch open and unlocked the door, putting on a friendly smile that immediately dropped when he saw the state of the Detective Inspector.
Lestrade was leaning against the doorway, face pale and forehead shining with sweat. His hand was clutched over his right hip and he looked to be in quite a bit of pain, but that did not stop him from nodding to John and smiling politely.
“H-Hullo John, I hope I’m not i-intruding.”
John hesitated for only a second before the doctor in him took over. He grabbed Lestrade’s arm and draped it over his shoulders then wrapped his own arm around the DI’s waist, supporting ribs he immediately deduced were in pain. Taking the brunt of Lestrade’s weight, John led him into Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room and set him down on a garish pink couch.
Fill Without a Clever Name P3
anonymous
December 22 2010, 15:46:18 UTC
“Lie down,” John ordered, and Lestrade obediently settled onto his back, wincing at the twinge sent through his hip, “what happened, you look like you were hit by a car.”
“Well, actually…”
“Christ, you’re serious aren’t you?” John said, worried now but still maintaining a calm demeanor, “Will you please remove your clothes so I can see the extent of your injuries.”
Lestrade nodded and sat up to painfully remove his brown leather jacket. John stepped in when Lestrade’s numb fingers could not quite grasp the buttons of his white button down shirt, then asked Lestrade to raise his arms so his undershirt could be removed. Lestrade did so, happily surprised when his ribs gave nothing more than a slight prick of pain.
John gasped silently when the last of Lestrade’s clothing was removed and he was left in only his boxers. The torso was covered in bruises and small scrapes, which caught John’s attention first. Then he observed the sturdy musculature, with a little bit of flab along the belly, and he could not help but trace the line of salt and pepper hair from the light covering on Lestrade’s chest down to the waistband of his shorts. John clenched his jaw and left the room momentarily to catch his breath. What was wrong with him?
He cleared the thoughts from his head and forced his doctor persona. When he returned it was with a first aid kit in hand, and he dragged a nearby chair next to the couch and sat, placing the kit on the ground next to him.
“I was hoping you would help me, I was going to go to the hospital but hospitals and I don’t exactly….get on.” Lestrade explained, avoiding John’ s eye contact and hoping the pink on his cheeks was not too conspicuous.
“Oh, well all right, let’s have a look then.” John stated professionally.
He cracked his knuckles before gently prodding at Lestrade’s lightly muscled stomach, on which a large purple bruise stretched along the right side. There did not seem to be any internal bleeding, thankfully, Lestrade did not seem to be in any unusual pain when John ground his fingers deep into his stomach.
“So what exactly happened, it’s not every day one gets hit by a car.” John spoke, hoping to fill the silence with some conversation.
He actually was curious though; Lestrade was a careful man who always looked before he leaped. He never ran headfirst into danger, and that made him a foil for Sherlock, who rushed into every problem like a man possessed. It was uncharacteristic for Lestrade to be so careless.
“Sherlock happened.” Lestrade replied gruffly, “Had me out chasing that damn killer, said he was too busy collecting evidence to do it himself. He decided it was a good idea to text me that the suspect was nearby when I didn’t have any back up, brilliant sod that he is.”
“I’m guessing that taking off on your own after a suspect that’s a professional track runner was a little too much to handle.” John said, inspecting a bruise under Lestrade’s ribs and shaking his head at Sherlock’s thoughtlessness, “I suppose that, given the circumstances, you could be a lot worse off.”
“True,” Lestrade sighed, “I swear that man will be the death of me one of these days. Thinks he’s so damn brilliant. Brilliantly idiotic more like.”
John laughed at the cheesy insult and began disinfecting and bandaging the small lacerations on Lestrade’s arms and torso, trying to ignore the feeling of Lestrade’s shiver at the cold swipe of the disinfectant covered cotton ball.
“Well don’t worry, I’ll have a strongly worded conversation with him, whenever he decides to come back. I won our argument today, you know."
Fill Without a Clever Name P4
anonymous
December 22 2010, 15:51:26 UTC
“Really?” Lestrade asked, genuinely surprised. No one ever bested Sherlock in an argument, except for his strange older brother, Mycroft, who seemed to run circles around everybody, “Well you’ll have to give me a few pointers then, I would love to take him down a peg or…AHH!”
John immediately lightened his touch on Lestrade’s severely bruised hip, “Sorry sorry! Your hip might be fractured, unfortunately.”
John let out the breath he was holding when Lestrade relaxed again and started muttering something about irritating detectives. He bandaged the last of the cuts and began inspecting the DI’s bruised ribcage, carefully prodding at the ribs with the darkest skin. Lestrade exhaled but remained still, allowing the doctor to continue his work uninterrupted.
“The 8th and 9th ribs on the left side are badly bruised but don’t feel broken or cracked,” John muttered more to himself than to Lestrade, “I am quite certain there are no fractures on the rib cage, but an x-ray is needed to confirm.”
Lestrade sighed; he was hoping John wouldn’t say that. A trip to the hospital was unavoidable, he supposed. He would go in the morning.
John continued his inspection of Lestrade’s ribs, finding a couple more that felt damaged on his right side. He’s lucky this wasn’t much more severe, John thought bitterly, Sherlock had better feel at least a little guilty about this. He ran his fingers lightly over the ribs on Lestrade’s left side, smiling when the stomach muscles twitched and he heard a quiet gasp.
“Sorry, am I tickling you?” John asked lightly.
“NO…no, I’m fine, just get this over with.” Lestrade growled, opening his eyes into slits. He felt his face flush slightly and fought the urge to bring his hands down to protect his ribs from the light touch.
John grinned mischievously when Lestrade’s eyes were closed once again; this was too much fun to pass up. He waited for a few seconds, and then dug his fingers gently into Lestrade’s ribs, carefully avoiding the injured ones.
Lestrade’s eyes shot open and his arms flailed for a second before one hand reached down to frantically grab at John’s wrist and the other grasped the back of the couch. John chuckled as he reduced Lestrade to desperate, wheezing laughter; this was actually a good way to gauge the extent of the DI’s injuries. Lestrade didn’t appear to be in pain and that was a good sign. His ribs definitely weren’t broken then, probably just bruised. His hip seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact, slightly cracked based on the fact that Lestrade was in pain but could still walk. There were no injuries John could wrap, so he would just give Lestrade some ibuprofen for the pain later.
“STOP!” Lestrade finally managed to gasp out, and John ceased immediately.
John knew he should be embarrassed by this breach in professionalism, but could not bring himself to do anything but smile. He had no idea why he had done that, none at all, but when he thought of Lestrade writhing around beneath him, he found he really did not regret it.
“Sorry, but at least we know that your ribs aren’t badly injured now.” John said, smiling apologetically as Lestrade glared up at him, still gasping for breath.
“You know, the hospital is sounding rather good right now.” Lestrade snapped, embarrassed by his loss of control but not angry. No one had done that to him since he was a kid and it had been sort of fun, although he ached a bit now.
Fill Without a Clever Name P5
anonymous
December 22 2010, 15:59:15 UTC
“Well, I can’t see any more injuries, do you hurt anywhere else?” John asked.
“My back is aching, but that’s all.”
John frowned; he had not seen any injuries on the back, which meant that Lestrade was just tense. He wondered how much of that was because of the pain and how much was because of Sherlock. Sherlock was brilliant, Lord knows he was brilliant, but he had trouble seeing anything past what he deemed “important”. The feelings of others, in the detective’s astute opinion, were not important. John was not fond of the way Sherlock often treated those around him, especially Lestrade, who was the most deserving of Sherlock’s respect out of any of Sherlock’s few associates. He could tell that Lestrade was frustrated by the insults and the apathy, John couldn’t stand it either and he hadn’t known Sherlock for as long. He admired the Detective Inspector’s tolerance; Lestrade dealt with much more on a normal day than anyone John had ever met, and yet he still managed to retain some semblance of balance in his life.
“You’re just tense. I’ll take care of that, relaxed muscles will alleviate the pain. Then we should be finished. I suggest you go for x-rays tomorrow, to make sure your injuries aren’t more severe.” John stated, rising from his chair and sitting on the couch.
John shifted as much of his body as he could into the space between Lestrade and the back of the couch, normally he would ask Lestrade to lay down on his stomach but that was obviously not a feasible option at the moment. After a few seconds of adjustment, John was comfortably seated behind the DI and had access to the entire expanse of his back. Without hesitation, John dug his thumbs into the strong muscle, massaging away the long-built tension.
Lestrade closed his eyes and bit back a hiss of pain, then a groan of pleasure. John Watson was a good man, the kind of man that Sherlock usually drove away. He wondered how John put up with the detective on a daily basis without going absolutely mad. Lestrade was no fool though, he knew there was something different about John, knew from the moment he realized John was responsible for that cabbie’s death. Lestrade was much more observant than Sherlock gave him credit for, and it had not taken long to deduce, but Lestrade was loathe to expose the doctor; John had done exactly what Lestrade would have in the same position.
Lestrade found himself respecting the good doctor over time; John had more than aptly proved his aptitude and tenacity in the face of danger, and even against the unpredictable storm that is Sherlock Holmes. John was good for Sherlock, was the grounding influence the detective had always needed, the one that Lestrade could never completely become. As Lestrade spent more time with John, during a case or over coffee, he began to find the doctor’s presence to be reassuring and very much welcome.
His thoughts fell apart when John plowed his thumb into a particularly sore muscle, forcing a groan from Lestrade’s clenched teeth.
John flushed at the noises he was evoking from the Detective Inspector. Of course he had noticed how attractive Lestrade was; he wasn’t blind to that strong jaw, those intelligent eyes, and the all around handsome features. He not only noticed, he appreciated, and that confused him. Perhaps spending so much time around such striking men (and Sherlock was nothing if not striking), was starting to take a toll on the doctor’s sexuality? He was still attracted to women though, so…
Never mind. This train of thought was much too complex to consider at the moment. Instead John poured himself into his work, pressing thumbs down the spine and digging his fingers into the muscles of the shoulders, feeling the knots unwind under his practiced touch.
By the time John was finished, the other man had become a boneless pile of jelly. Lestrade had not felt this relaxed in God knew how long, and it felt so much nicer than he remembered. He sat up straight, ignoring the heat of a not-so-relaxed part of his anatomy. That was a normal reaction…right?
John had been affected as well. He tried to avert his eyes from Lestrade’s crotch, and crossed his legs to hide his own erection.
Fill Without a Clever Name Ending P6
anonymous
December 22 2010, 16:06:38 UTC
The two men sat for a few seconds in a silence that was half companionable and half awkward.
“Well that’s it then,” John said quickly, hopping up from the couch and handing Lestrade his discarded clothes, “I’ll go get you some ibuprofen, and then you’ll be good to go. Just make sure you set up an appointment for x-rays tomorrow.”
“Will do.” Lestrade answered, and John nodded before heading upstairs for the pills and to quickly deal with his…problem.
When he returned to the top of the staircase he saw Lestrade leaning against the front door, fully dressed and erection (thankfully) gone. He looked, to John’s pleasure, as if he was in a lot less pain than when he was first standing there only an hour or so ago.
“Right, well, here are the pain pills, take no more than four a day and make sure you relax.” John said, holding out the small orange bottle which Lestrade took and shoved into his coat pocket, “You shouldn’t be running around London for quite a while, so make sure your men know that and I’ll try to make sure Sherlock keeps his distance.”
“Sounds good.” Lestrade replied, turning the knob and opening the door. He then turned around and flashed John a grateful grin, “Thank you for your help John, I knew I could count on you.”
“No problem Lestrade.” John said warmly, feeling the corners of his lips lift in a genuine smile, “Take care of yourself now, and don’t forget to go to that hospital, because if I find out you haven’t I’ll hunt you down and drag you there myself.”
Lestrade chuckled sheepishly and headed out into the night. He hailed a cab and was gone within a few minutes.
John sighed, there went his company. He shut the door, locked it tightly, and then trudged upstairs to his flat to once again become acquainted with the telly and his now warm beer. He sat down on the couch then groaned, he still had not found that damned bottle opener, was interrupted before he could. He thought of a certain Detective Inspector, and found that he really did not mind. That beer tasted like piss water anyways.
He had just gotten comfortable when his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message. Sherlock. John reached into his pocket and procured the phone, reading the message and preparing himself for the inevitable annoyance.
Found evidence to close the case. Be back soon. Make tea.
SH
John rolled his eyes, like hell he was making tea.
He typed his reply quickly, then threw the phone across the room and snuggled into the couch, lost in the comforting buzz of the telly and his own thoughts.
Re: Fill Without a Clever Name Ending P6 bwblackDecember 29 2010, 03:58:52 UTC
I like that Lestrade is all, "eh... hospitals." I buy that he would totally pop over to the good doctor for medical help. Nice to see them both appreciating that Sherlock is both brilliant and reckless and it's hard on the people around them.
“Shit.” Lestrade hissed under his breath, shaking his head as if the memories could be thrown away. This was no time to think of those things, not when he was already in pain.
Yes, Lestrade had done many things, but he so often felt as if he was a lackey instead of an esteemed Detective Inspector. He absolutely hated feeling like his sole purpose was chasing ghosts for one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The detective had always treated Lestrade as a tool or game of sorts, ordering him to obtain information for a case, insulting his intelligence, reveling in his humiliation when he was forced to ask for assistance. Lestrade wished that Sherlock could respect him as much as he respected Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was not heartless, that a good man was buried somewhere under the arrogance and indifference and may even emerge one day.
For now, however, it was business as usual, only this time Lestrade had been caught in the line of fire. Sprinting relentlessly after a suspected serial killer was painful enough, but having said killer slam into you with his get-away car was something else entirely. He supposed he should be thankful that the car had not been going very fast, but he still ached all over, his hip hurt like hell, and he thought he might have cracked a few ribs. He had called Donovan from where he was sprawled out on the cold pavement and she had given him a ride back to the station. She had not left his side since, fussing over him in her customary manner
“Really sir we should get you to a hospital, you were just hit by a bloody car for God’s sake!” Donovan reprimanded with unmistakable affection in her voice.
Lestrade forced down a shudder; he hated hospitals, always had since he was a child. The white walls were foreboding, and the pungent scent of cleaner could not completely cover the subtle odor of death.
No, he would avoid hospitals if he could help it, there must be an alternative. His thoughts immediately went to Sherlock’s flat mate, the blond army doctor with the kind eyes and the creased forehead. Yes, maybe he could get John Watson to take a look at him, and since the doctor was most likely off duty at this time of night, Lestrade would not have to step foot in a hospital or a doctor’s office. It was perfect, except…
“Sally, where is Sherlock right now?” Lestrade asked, sitting up in his chair and wincing at the resulting pain in his hip. Donovan started, surprised at finally being addressed, then frowned at the mention of Sherlock.
“Freak-Holmes,” she corrected after meeting Lestrade’s tired glare, “is still out investigating I believe.”
“Great, then he’ll probably be sniffing around for the rest of the night, and Dr. Watson has most likely gotten tired of him and gone home.” Lestrade sighed in relief, the last thing he needed was Sherlock pacing around hounding him about his clumsiness and his silly fear of hospitals (which he no doubt deduced years ago).
“Well, I guess Dr. Watson is better than nothing,” Donovan said, running an exasperated hand over her face, “I’d still rather you go to the hospital though.”
“I know Sally, but I’m sure John will do a fine job.” Lestrade answered kindly, “Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, we’ve all been through hell today.”
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“221 Baker Street.” He gasped to the driver, who nodded and set off. Lestrade dug the back of his head into the seat, pressing a hand into his injured side and hissing through his teeth. He hoped he was not making a mistake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John Watson was a patient man, not quick to anger, but he had his limits. He preferred to keep the confident, strong demeanor characteristic of a soldier, but still knew when it was appropriate to appear vulnerable and understanding. That ability has granted him success in the field of medicine and in the hearts of countless women.
‘Ladies’ Man’ was certainly not the first thought that came to mind when one laid eyes on John, but if one were to take the time to converse with the former soldier they would understand why so many became taken with him. A boyish smile, a well-placed laugh, a heartfelt compliment, and John would unfailingly walk home that night with a beautiful woman on his arm.
Indeed, John was a charming, tolerant man, but somehow Sherlock knew exactly how to get under his skin and drive him to let loose his fiery temper in less than 1/8 of the time it took the average person. Tonight had been no different, and John had been dragged around what he swore was the entirety of London to find absolutely nothing. Sherlock would not admit defeat and vowed to keep searching until he found something and, of course, he ordered John to stay and accompany him. John had been on his last string for the past 4 hours and was seeing red, so he proceeded to chew Sherlock out in the harshest manner he could manage.
Now he was sitting in the flat in a better mood than he had been in all week, reveling in his victory over Sherlock in their heated argument. He planned to spend the rest of the night nursing a beer and watching crap telly, not completely ideal but pleasant enough.
John was downstairs in Mrs. Hudson’s rooms, searching for the only bottle opener in the building (which was always in a different place, Sherlock’s doing, though John would be damned if he knew why) when he heard a pounding at the front door. That could not be Sherlock, he would be out for the rest of the night and wouldn’t knock anyways, nor Mrs. Hudson who was on holiday visiting family.
John frowned, his exploits with Sherlock had left him paranoid and he wished he hadn’t left his gun upstairs. He instead opted for one of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen knives, and with the cool, comforting weight of the metal in his hand, cautiously approached the front door and looked through the peep hole.
Ah, Lestrade, an unexpected visitor but a welcome one. John and Lestrade were not exactly good friends, but they had conversed over coffee on a few occasions and were comfortable enough with each other. John supposed the company would be welcome; he had never liked sitting around alone, a remnant of his time in the army where one could never find the time for privacy. He slid the latch open and unlocked the door, putting on a friendly smile that immediately dropped when he saw the state of the Detective Inspector.
Lestrade was leaning against the doorway, face pale and forehead shining with sweat. His hand was clutched over his right hip and he looked to be in quite a bit of pain, but that did not stop him from nodding to John and smiling politely.
“H-Hullo John, I hope I’m not i-intruding.”
John hesitated for only a second before the doctor in him took over. He grabbed Lestrade’s arm and draped it over his shoulders then wrapped his own arm around the DI’s waist, supporting ribs he immediately deduced were in pain. Taking the brunt of Lestrade’s weight, John led him into Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room and set him down on a garish pink couch.
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“Well, actually…”
“Christ, you’re serious aren’t you?” John said, worried now but still maintaining a calm demeanor, “Will you please remove your clothes so I can see the extent of your injuries.”
Lestrade nodded and sat up to painfully remove his brown leather jacket. John stepped in when Lestrade’s numb fingers could not quite grasp the buttons of his white button down shirt, then asked Lestrade to raise his arms so his undershirt could be removed. Lestrade did so, happily surprised when his ribs gave nothing more than a slight prick of pain.
John gasped silently when the last of Lestrade’s clothing was removed and he was left in only his boxers. The torso was covered in bruises and small scrapes, which caught John’s attention first. Then he observed the sturdy musculature, with a little bit of flab along the belly, and he could not help but trace the line of salt and pepper hair from the light covering on Lestrade’s chest down to the waistband of his shorts. John clenched his jaw and left the room momentarily to catch his breath. What was wrong with him?
He cleared the thoughts from his head and forced his doctor persona. When he returned it was with a first aid kit in hand, and he dragged a nearby chair next to the couch and sat, placing the kit on the ground next to him.
“I was hoping you would help me, I was going to go to the hospital but hospitals and I don’t exactly….get on.” Lestrade explained, avoiding John’ s eye contact and hoping the pink on his cheeks was not too conspicuous.
“Oh, well all right, let’s have a look then.” John stated professionally.
He cracked his knuckles before gently prodding at Lestrade’s lightly muscled stomach, on which a large purple bruise stretched along the right side. There did not seem to be any internal bleeding, thankfully, Lestrade did not seem to be in any unusual pain when John ground his fingers deep into his stomach.
“So what exactly happened, it’s not every day one gets hit by a car.” John spoke, hoping to fill the silence with some conversation.
He actually was curious though; Lestrade was a careful man who always looked before he leaped. He never ran headfirst into danger, and that made him a foil for Sherlock, who rushed into every problem like a man possessed. It was uncharacteristic for Lestrade to be so careless.
“Sherlock happened.” Lestrade replied gruffly, “Had me out chasing that damn killer, said he was too busy collecting evidence to do it himself. He decided it was a good idea to text me that the suspect was nearby when I didn’t have any back up, brilliant sod that he is.”
“I’m guessing that taking off on your own after a suspect that’s a professional track runner was a little too much to handle.” John said, inspecting a bruise under Lestrade’s ribs and shaking his head at Sherlock’s thoughtlessness, “I suppose that, given the circumstances, you could be a lot worse off.”
“True,” Lestrade sighed, “I swear that man will be the death of me one of these days. Thinks he’s so damn brilliant. Brilliantly idiotic more like.”
John laughed at the cheesy insult and began disinfecting and bandaging the small lacerations on Lestrade’s arms and torso, trying to ignore the feeling of Lestrade’s shiver at the cold swipe of the disinfectant covered cotton ball.
“Well don’t worry, I’ll have a strongly worded conversation with him, whenever he decides to come back. I won our argument today, you know."
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John immediately lightened his touch on Lestrade’s severely bruised hip, “Sorry sorry! Your hip might be fractured, unfortunately.”
John let out the breath he was holding when Lestrade relaxed again and started muttering something about irritating detectives. He bandaged the last of the cuts and began inspecting the DI’s bruised ribcage, carefully prodding at the ribs with the darkest skin. Lestrade exhaled but remained still, allowing the doctor to continue his work uninterrupted.
“The 8th and 9th ribs on the left side are badly bruised but don’t feel broken or cracked,” John muttered more to himself than to Lestrade, “I am quite certain there are no fractures on the rib cage, but an x-ray is needed to confirm.”
Lestrade sighed; he was hoping John wouldn’t say that. A trip to the hospital was unavoidable, he supposed. He would go in the morning.
John continued his inspection of Lestrade’s ribs, finding a couple more that felt damaged on his right side. He’s lucky this wasn’t much more severe, John thought bitterly, Sherlock had better feel at least a little guilty about this. He ran his fingers lightly over the ribs on Lestrade’s left side, smiling when the stomach muscles twitched and he heard a quiet gasp.
“Sorry, am I tickling you?” John asked lightly.
“NO…no, I’m fine, just get this over with.” Lestrade growled, opening his eyes into slits. He felt his face flush slightly and fought the urge to bring his hands down to protect his ribs from the light touch.
John grinned mischievously when Lestrade’s eyes were closed once again; this was too much fun to pass up. He waited for a few seconds, and then dug his fingers gently into Lestrade’s ribs, carefully avoiding the injured ones.
Lestrade’s eyes shot open and his arms flailed for a second before one hand reached down to frantically grab at John’s wrist and the other grasped the back of the couch. John chuckled as he reduced Lestrade to desperate, wheezing laughter; this was actually a good way to gauge the extent of the DI’s injuries. Lestrade didn’t appear to be in pain and that was a good sign. His ribs definitely weren’t broken then, probably just bruised. His hip seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact, slightly cracked based on the fact that Lestrade was in pain but could still walk. There were no injuries John could wrap, so he would just give Lestrade some ibuprofen for the pain later.
“STOP!” Lestrade finally managed to gasp out, and John ceased immediately.
John knew he should be embarrassed by this breach in professionalism, but could not bring himself to do anything but smile. He had no idea why he had done that, none at all, but when he thought of Lestrade writhing around beneath him, he found he really did not regret it.
“Sorry, but at least we know that your ribs aren’t badly injured now.” John said, smiling apologetically as Lestrade glared up at him, still gasping for breath.
“You know, the hospital is sounding rather good right now.” Lestrade snapped, embarrassed by his loss of control but not angry. No one had done that to him since he was a kid and it had been sort of fun, although he ached a bit now.
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“My back is aching, but that’s all.”
John frowned; he had not seen any injuries on the back, which meant that Lestrade was just tense. He wondered how much of that was because of the pain and how much was because of Sherlock. Sherlock was brilliant, Lord knows he was brilliant, but he had trouble seeing anything past what he deemed “important”. The feelings of others, in the detective’s astute opinion, were not important. John was not fond of the way Sherlock often treated those around him, especially Lestrade, who was the most deserving of Sherlock’s respect out of any of Sherlock’s few associates. He could tell that Lestrade was frustrated by the insults and the apathy, John couldn’t stand it either and he hadn’t known Sherlock for as long. He admired the Detective Inspector’s tolerance; Lestrade dealt with much more on a normal day than anyone John had ever met, and yet he still managed to retain some semblance of balance in his life.
“You’re just tense. I’ll take care of that, relaxed muscles will alleviate the pain. Then we should be finished. I suggest you go for x-rays tomorrow, to make sure your injuries aren’t more severe.” John stated, rising from his chair and sitting on the couch.
John shifted as much of his body as he could into the space between Lestrade and the back of the couch, normally he would ask Lestrade to lay down on his stomach but that was obviously not a feasible option at the moment. After a few seconds of adjustment, John was comfortably seated behind the DI and had access to the entire expanse of his back. Without hesitation, John dug his thumbs into the strong muscle, massaging away the long-built tension.
Lestrade closed his eyes and bit back a hiss of pain, then a groan of pleasure. John Watson was a good man, the kind of man that Sherlock usually drove away. He wondered how John put up with the detective on a daily basis without going absolutely mad. Lestrade was no fool though, he knew there was something different about John, knew from the moment he realized John was responsible for that cabbie’s death. Lestrade was much more observant than Sherlock gave him credit for, and it had not taken long to deduce, but Lestrade was loathe to expose the doctor; John had done exactly what Lestrade would have in the same position.
Lestrade found himself respecting the good doctor over time; John had more than aptly proved his aptitude and tenacity in the face of danger, and even against the unpredictable storm that is Sherlock Holmes. John was good for Sherlock, was the grounding influence the detective had always needed, the one that Lestrade could never completely become. As Lestrade spent more time with John, during a case or over coffee, he began to find the doctor’s presence to be reassuring and very much welcome.
His thoughts fell apart when John plowed his thumb into a particularly sore muscle, forcing a groan from Lestrade’s clenched teeth.
John flushed at the noises he was evoking from the Detective Inspector. Of course he had noticed how attractive Lestrade was; he wasn’t blind to that strong jaw, those intelligent eyes, and the all around handsome features. He not only noticed, he appreciated, and that confused him. Perhaps spending so much time around such striking men (and Sherlock was nothing if not striking), was starting to take a toll on the doctor’s sexuality? He was still attracted to women though, so…
Never mind. This train of thought was much too complex to consider at the moment. Instead John poured himself into his work, pressing thumbs down the spine and digging his fingers into the muscles of the shoulders, feeling the knots unwind under his practiced touch.
By the time John was finished, the other man had become a boneless pile of jelly. Lestrade had not felt this relaxed in God knew how long, and it felt so much nicer than he remembered. He sat up straight, ignoring the heat of a not-so-relaxed part of his anatomy. That was a normal reaction…right?
John had been affected as well. He tried to avert his eyes from Lestrade’s crotch, and crossed his legs to hide his own erection.
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“Well that’s it then,” John said quickly, hopping up from the couch and handing Lestrade his discarded clothes, “I’ll go get you some ibuprofen, and then you’ll be good to go. Just make sure you set up an appointment for x-rays tomorrow.”
“Will do.” Lestrade answered, and John nodded before heading upstairs for the pills and to quickly deal with his…problem.
When he returned to the top of the staircase he saw Lestrade leaning against the front door, fully dressed and erection (thankfully) gone. He looked, to John’s pleasure, as if he was in a lot less pain than when he was first standing there only an hour or so ago.
“Right, well, here are the pain pills, take no more than four a day and make sure you relax.” John said, holding out the small orange bottle which Lestrade took and shoved into his coat pocket, “You shouldn’t be running around London for quite a while, so make sure your men know that and I’ll try to make sure Sherlock keeps his distance.”
“Sounds good.” Lestrade replied, turning the knob and opening the door. He then turned around and flashed John a grateful grin, “Thank you for your help John, I knew I could count on you.”
“No problem Lestrade.” John said warmly, feeling the corners of his lips lift in a genuine smile, “Take care of yourself now, and don’t forget to go to that hospital, because if I find out you haven’t I’ll hunt you down and drag you there myself.”
Lestrade chuckled sheepishly and headed out into the night. He hailed a cab and was gone within a few minutes.
John sighed, there went his company. He shut the door, locked it tightly, and then trudged upstairs to his flat to once again become acquainted with the telly and his now warm beer. He sat down on the couch then groaned, he still had not found that damned bottle opener, was interrupted before he could. He thought of a certain Detective Inspector, and found that he really did not mind. That beer tasted like piss water anyways.
He had just gotten comfortable when his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message. Sherlock. John reached into his pocket and procured the phone, reading the message and preparing himself for the inevitable annoyance.
Found evidence to close the case. Be back soon. Make tea.
SH
John rolled his eyes, like hell he was making tea.
He typed his reply quickly, then threw the phone across the room and snuggled into the couch, lost in the comforting buzz of the telly and his own thoughts.
Take your time.
JW
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