Fic: First, Do No Harm
Title: First, Do No Harm
Author: Erin Giles
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied Rape/Non-con
Characters/Pairings: Lestrade, John, Sherlock
Words: 5500
Summary: John Watson took an oath to do no harm. Shame that no one ever took an oath to do no harm to John Watson.
Lestrade has just sat down, pint of beer in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other, a repeat of The Thin Blue Line on his telly, when the doorbell chimes. He hopes it’s not Sherlock, he prays to God it’s not Sherlock as he sets his beer down beside the TV remote and leans the crisps against them, wiping his hands on his trousers.
He thinks it might be his neighbour, come to talk to him about the neighbourhood watch scheme again when he sees the figure at the door through the frosted glass is of much smaller stature than the consulting detective. He briefly wonders if he can make it back into the safety of the living room again, but Reg has probably already seen him through the glass. Lestrade takes a breath, tries to stop his face looking so damn exhausted, and pulls the door open.
Canned laughter comes from the living room as Lestrade takes in the state of John Watson, trembling on his doorstep.
‘John?’
‘I’m sorry, I-‘ He draws in a long shuddering breath, wraps his arms further round himself before he turns as if he’s going to run back down the garden path. Instead he vomits, splattering the tub of dead flowers beside Lestrade’s front door with undigested tea and bile.
‘Jesus.’ Lestrade reaches out for him once he’s done, socked feet careful of the splatter radius, a hand grabbing onto John’s bicep. He realises his mistake when John flinches, pulls back, huddles further into his coat, trying to hide the bruises on his face.
‘John, you need to come inside. Come on. We need to get you sorted out.’
He tries to herd John like a sheep into the hallway and closes the door behind them. John just stands in the middle of the hallway, staring blankly at the foot of the stairs. The hall light casts shadows across John’s face in all the wrong places. Blood is trailing down his chin from his nose, smeared where John’s tried to wipe it away. His left eye is puffy and swollen, already black and blue, and from the way John is holding himself that’s the least of his injuries.
‘God, John. What happened?’ Lestrade tries to herd him into the living room now, reaching for the remote and indicating the sofa as he switches off the canned laughter. John just stands swaying in the middle of the living room, not talking.
‘Is this something to do with one of Sherlock’s cases?’
It takes a moment but John shakes his head. The fingers of his left hand are curled tightly around his right bicep now. Lestrade has never seen John Watson like this, and it scares him. He’s used to John taking everything in his stride, being an army doctor and flatmate to one Sherlock Holmes.
‘Mugged?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Just attacked for no reason, for-‘ Lestrade stops himself and he lets out a mournful sigh, berating himself for being so stupid. For not noticing the signs, the tells of far too many cases he’s seen cross his desk over the years he was working his way up through the ranks.
‘John, were you- Did they-‘ John’s eyes are brimming with tears and Lestrade feels his own eyes filling up.
‘John, I need to report this.’
‘No.’ It is the first word he’s uttered since he’s entered Lestrade’s flat. His voice is brittle, but he says it with authority.
‘Then let me call Sherlock.’
‘No.’ The second ‘no’ is less sure, less commanding and Lestrade wonders if he should call Sherlock anyway, because John clearly needs the support of someone right now.
‘Can I-‘ John swallows, grimacing slightly, no doubt at the taste of bile that lingers. ‘Can I use your shower?’
‘If you shower now it’ll wash all evidence away.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
Lestrade hesitates for a moment, eyes watching John carefully. Blood is flaking on John’s right earlobe now. The policeman in him doesn’t want the bastards to get away with this, the friend him in feels the same way, but it’s outweighed by the need to support John in his choices. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t agree with them.
Lestrade nods. ‘I’ll get you some clean clothes.’
John seems to sag at those words, quite literally. He flinches when Lestrade grabs him to stop him in his slump towards the floor, but he soon regains his footing, and tries to gather his dignity enough to make it to the bathroom under his own steam.
John just stands with his back to the wall as Lestrade turns on the shower, leaves a pile of clean clothes on the closed toilet seat and hangs a large clean bath sheet over the towel rail.
He leaves the bathroom reluctantly, because John is still stood there, staring at his feet like he doesn’t know what to do. Lestrade isn’t sure what to do himself. He stares at the closed bathroom door for a while, listening rather perversely to see if John is actually getting into the shower. It takes a while, but eventually he hears the change in pitch as the water starts hitting skin instead of porcelain.
He goes into the living room, picks up his untouched pint, but before it gets to his lips he decides it’s a bad idea. He takes it into the kitchen and leaves it on the work surface while he switches the kettle on. He watches it boil but he doesn’t do anything with it. He keeps glancing at his mobile. He wants to phone Sherlock, but he can’t. John doesn’t want him to, and it’s not just because Sherlock can be monstrously remiss when it comes to emotions. It’s the same reason John came to Lestrade. John and Lestrade barely know each other.
It’s half an hour later when the water has been shut off in the shower for fifteen minutes that Lestrade starts to worry. He knocks on the bathroom door, and when he doesn’t get an immediate reply he presses his ear against the wood.
‘John?’ He knocks again. ‘John, can you let me know you’re alright.’ Still nothing. ‘John, I’m going to come in, okay?’
Lestrade turns the door handle, half expecting it to be locked. The door sticks a bit, but that’s usual after the shower’s been on. He worries that he’s going to find John unconscious on the floor, but he’s grateful to find John upright, staring at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror. He’s dressed himself in the clean clothes Lestrade left out for him, and with a quick glance, Lestrade can see that John’s dumped all his clothes, including the towel he used to dry himself with, in the bath. There’s vaguely pink water still trickling down the plughole.
‘John?’
‘First aid kit?’ John asks. He doesn’t look at Lestrade, just continues to stare at the fuzzy image of himself in the mirror.
‘Underneath the sink.’
Lestrade watches as he bends to retrieve the green bag, grimacing as he does so. He rises slowly, carefully.
‘You should really have a doctor check you out.’
John ignores him. His hands are shaking so much he can barely unzip the bag. He drops it in the sink, and Lestrade can see he’s trying not to cry in frustration.
‘May I?’ Lestrade asks, indicating the first aid kit. It takes John a moment, eyes darting to door of the bathroom. He nods.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
John looks at the toilet seat and shakes his head.
‘Why don’t we go sit down in the living room then?’
Lestrade’s worried about how much John is shaking. Lestrade’s first aid is minimal at best, but he knows shock when he sees it. John doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t flinch this time when Lestrade clutches his bicep and starts leading him out of the bathroom. He manoeuvres John onto the sofa and then heads back to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit, taking a detour via the airing cupboard to find a blanket.
‘I don’t need a blanket,’ John says when Lestrade places it round his shoulders.
‘John, you’re shaking.’
John looks down at his hands as if he’s seeing them for the first time. He turns them over so he can see his bloody and scraped knuckles where he no doubt fought to get free from his attackers. He clenches them into fists but it just makes the shaking worse.
‘Living with Sherlock has gone to my head.’
Lestrade sits himself down on the coffee table so he’s facing John.
‘I don’t think twice about taking short cuts in the rougher parts of town.’ John’s voice is a pitch higher than usual, but he forms each word carefully.
‘People shouldn’t have to, but unfortunately that’s the world we inhabit.’
Lestrade has the first aid kit open on his lap now and he honestly has no idea what he’s doing. John’s the doctor. Lestrade is a police officer and he can see that John is in no fit state to take care of himself.
‘I just took it because it’s a quicker way to get home. I walked Sarah home so that I knew she’d be safe, I never even thought.’
Lestrade doesn’t say anything when John stumbles over his words, he tries not to look at eyes that he knows to be watering as he starts to disinfect the cut on John’s forehead, washing out dirt that John has missed.
‘I kissed her goodnight and she said be careful and-‘
John’s stomach is heaving again and Lestrade reaches for the nearest receptacle to hand which happens to the rubbish bin under his desk that is already full to bursting. He tips it upside down onto the floor before thrusting it into John’s lap. There isn’t much left in his stomach, but he keeps retching, spitting bile until there are tears of effort and pain running down his cheeks.
Lestrade grips John’s shoulder to steady him as he starts to cough, sniffing and wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. Lestrade makes his way to the kitchen, retrieves a clean tea towel and flicks the kettle on again, this time with the intention of making something. He hands John the towel as he takes the bin away. He rinses it and brings it back with a bin bag, which he collects the dumped rubbish into. Allowing John the minimal privacy he can afford to compose himself.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘No. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have inflicted this on you. I should have just-‘
‘John,’ Lestrade interrupts, looking up at him from the living room floor. ‘It’s fine. You can stay here as long as you like, okay?’
John’s mouth twitches before he bites the corner of his lip and nods once. Lestrade picks up the first aid kit again when he’s done and sits himself back down on the coffee table. He looks down at the contents of the green bag for a moment and back up at John’s bruised and battered face.
‘I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.’
John chokes out a laugh at that and reaches for a plaster as the kettle boils.
‘Some tea would be good and some painkillers.’
‘I’d worry less if you let me take you to a hospital.’
‘I’ll be fine, there wasn’t enough blood for me to worry about internal damage.’
It shocks Lestrade slightly that John is so clinical in his assessment of himself. He doesn’t know what to say for a second, but then John is shakily trying to apply a plaster to his forehead so he gets up to go and make tea, putting far more sugar in each cup than is healthy.
John doesn’t comment on the sweetness of it though when Lestrade returns. He sits beside John on the settee now, leaving a noticeable gap between them. Lestrade tries to bite back his own yawn as John yawns into his mug that he’s only just managing to hold steady with two hands.
‘You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.’
‘I can’t kick you out of your bed.’
‘You’re not. I’m offering you my bed.
‘I-‘ John’s voice breaks. He looks away, trying to turn his whole body away from Lestrade.
‘John?’
There’s a muffled cry and John’s left hand goes to his mouth, as if trying to stuff the sobs back down his throat. The mug he’s holding is in danger of spilling everywhere so Lestrade grabs it and sets it down on the coffee table next to his own. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder and turns him slightly. John’s face is a harrowing picture to behold.
Tears that have been forming at the corners of his eyes all evening are spilling over as John tries to blink them away. He tries to pull away from Lestrade, but when he realises that’s not working he stuffs a hand over his eyes, the left fist still shoved in his mouth.
Lestrade grips John’s shoulder a little tighter, and that seems to pitch him over the edge. Lestrade doesn’t do well with crying. It’s not as pretty as the films make out. There aren’t a few tears dabbed away by delicate handkerchiefs. Half strangled cries gurgle up from John’s throat, shoulders heaving as both his eyes and nose leak. John has both hands over his mouth now trying to quieten himself, his fingernails biting into his cheek and Lestrade is out of his depth. He’s used to handing sobbing people off to constables with sweet warm tea and blankets. He’s got rusty dealing with people.
He tries to pry John’s hands from his face gently because his fingers are digging into already bruised flesh. Salty tears are running over cuts, no doubt stinging dully as they go.
‘John, come on.’
John seems to stop fighting all at once. His hands drop away from his face and he lets out a choked hiccupping sob as he curls into himself, and because Lestrade is in the way, ends up with his head in Lestrade’s lap. Lestrade lets him cry, watching the top of John’s head, blonde hair greying slightly. Lestrade can feel rage bubbling up inside him as he listens to John Watson, ex-army doctor, crying. He wants to go out now and pound the streets until he finds the dirty little shits that did this, not just for John’s sake, but also for the sake of humanity. He wants to beat them until their faces are almost as unrecognisable as John’s.
He realises his hands are shaking with repressed anger so he places fingers in John’s still damp hair to calm himself. He can feel John’s head rising and falling as he struggles to draw breath past the achingly pitiful sobs. Lestrade’s hand slowly moves down to John’s neck and finally his shoulder. John’s breath hitches and he groans in pain at the contact. Lestrade immediately pulls back, hand hovering over the shoulder.
‘John?’
John sits up and turns immediately away to hide his face, scrubbing at it with his hands in a way which must hurt. He uses the back of the sleeve of the long t-shirt he’s wearing to dry his eyes, sniffing a few times. He rubs a hand through his hair as if trying to flatten it, but doesn’t succeed.
He glances back at Lestrade, and he looks mortified to have shown so much emotion to a complete stranger.
‘It’s okay.’ Lestrade gestures at the shoulder he touched that seems to have caused John pain. ‘Is your shoulder alright?’
The fingers of John’s left hand reach out to touch his shoulder, as if only just remembering the phantom pain.
‘I was shot.’ He digs his thumb into the muscle next to his clavicle. ‘They’re not supposed to shoot at medics, but my red cross was ripped off.’
Lestrade watches the neck of the t-shirt stretching as John rubs at his abused shoulder with battered knuckles.
‘Jesus, you can’t catch a break, can you?’
John looks up at him sharply, and Lestrade realises too late he’s said it out loud. John’s smiling. And then he’s laughing. He’s giggling like a teenage girl, clutching at his abused stomach muscles as he does so, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Lestrade thinks he’s having some kind of hysterical fit. Crying to laughing in a matter of seconds is not a sane reaction, but then this isn’t really a sane situation. It’s not long before John’s giggling descends into coughing though, followed by harsh breathing. He takes a moment to get his breathing under control before he speaks.
‘I’m starting to wonder what I did wrong.’
‘Nothing.’ Lestrade says it without even thinking. It wipes the amused smile off John’s face immediately. His jaw clenches like he’s trying not to cry again.
‘No one ever deserves that kind of control taken away from them.’ Lestrade scratches his bottom lip with his thumbnail. ‘Please, don’t ever think what happened is your fault, John.’
‘I just meant, everything that keeps happening to me, it must be some kind of karma?’
‘For what?’
John shrugs and thinks for a moment. ‘For shooting people in Afghanistan?’
John’s trying to smile again, but Lestrade is frowning, looking at John in worry.
‘It was a joke,’ John says to try and relieve the tension.
‘Was it?’
John shrugs again and looks down at his hands that are gripping his knees. He tries to straighten them out, one finger at a time. It takes an infinite amount of concentration to do both that and stop them from shaking too. His palms are sweaty and the ends of his fingers are cold, tingling slightly. Another hand eclipses one of his own.
‘Whatever happened tonight, none of it was your fault. No matter what you’ve done.’ Lestrade takes a big breath and lets it out shakily. ‘Rape is the most traumatising thing that can happen to a person after murder.’
It’s the first time that evening they’ve used the word and it churns uncomfortably in both their stomachs. John looks away at the wastepaper bin still sat on the floor, pursing his lips slightly.
‘At least if you’ve been murdered you don’t care.’ John lets out a huff of a laugh and watches as Lestrade’s hand tightens slightly round his fingers. ‘Sorry, that was inappropriate. Heads in fridges and fingers in tea caddy’s desensitizes you a bit.’
‘Fingers in… No, I really don’t want to know. Not after the eyeballs in the microwave. Sally still goes on about it.’
John pulls his hand out from underneath Lestrade’s to scrub at his face, trying to cover up a yawn. He feels shaky not just with shock, but with exhaustion now. He shudders and looks about for the blanket Lestrade brought him. He feels like he wants another shower, but he doesn’t want to use up all Lestrade’s hot water. He tries to swallow a yawn as Lestrade stands.
‘Come on, I’ll show you where the bedroom is.’
John stands, arms hugging himself as he follows Lestrade. John stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to look at the front door.
‘Did you lock it?’
Lestrade knows he locked the door, has done his usual evening routine of checking if it’s locked, but he does it again for John’s sake. He pulls on the front door a couple of extra times just in case. John seems satisfied as he starts tramping up the stairs.
He stands with his back to the wall, facing the bedroom door as Lestrade fusses with the bed, clearing away piles of dirty clothes into the wardrobe and retrieving clothes for himself to sleep in.
‘You know where the bathroom is, and help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen if you get hungry or thirsty in the night.’
John nods. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be on the sofa if you need me.’ Lestrade grabs at one of the pillows on the bed as an after thought before he leaves the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t listen to see if John gets into bed, he assumes the man will collapse in there as soon as possible.
He leaves the living room door open when he’s done getting changed and setting up a makeshift bed for himself on the sofa. He turns the telly on but mute’s it, watching the news with the subtitles so that he can hear if John needs him.
He prays that John sleeps through the night, but he knows that if any traumatic event were to incur nightmares, it would be this one.
~
John can’t sleep. He stares at the closed bedroom door barely daring to breathe. He jumps slightly when he hears the pipes settling overhead. He sucks in a breath and holds it when a dog barks outside the window. He keeps jerking his eyes awake every time he feels them closing, but he’s so exhausted he’s truly struggling. Every noise makes his heart palpitate in a way that isn’t healthy. He tries to remind himself of the simple facts. The front door is locked, he saw Lestrade do it. Lestrade himself is downstairs on the sofa, within earshot of both the front and backdoor. There are no drainpipes near the bedroom window for people to shimmy up - he knows, he checked. The bedroom window is closed and locked even though it’s stiflingly warm in the room.
He feels like he can’t breathe. He kicks the duvet off and tries to school his breathing into something more regular, but then he hears the creak of the stairs and he stops breathing altogether. He’s terrified. He feels like he’s six years old again and he and Harry are staying at a friends house because mum’s in hospital and dad’s… They watched a scary film and spent the rest of the night huddled under the same duvet together. But there’s no one huddled under the duvet with John now, holding his hand to keep him safe; he’s completely alone.
A car backfires on the street outside and John lets out a muffled scream, because for a moment he can smell the acrid desert tinged with the metallic smell of blood. He’s hyperventilating now, and he feels like he’s going to pass out. Actually pass out. Something he hasn’t done in a long time.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and his name being called as he tries to fumble for the bedside light, because he feels like if he can shed some light on the situation everything will be a lot less scary and he will stop having such an adverse affect. He ends up knocking the bedside lamp to the floor and the door opens at that and he wants to hide under the duvet again.
Lestrade is standing there in boxers and a t-shirt. He looks genuinely worried and John lets out a breath in relief, because even though it’s still dark in the room, it somehow seems less intimidating in Lestrade’s presence.
‘John, breathe.’ The bed dips slightly and John realises his vision is spotty at the edges and he feels sick again. ‘John, look at me. Breathe. In and out.’
John becomes more aware of each shaky breath he’s taking, every exhale rattling out of him making his lips tremble. He licks the moisture from them and tastes salt. He tries to raise a shaking hand to scrub at his cheeks, but calloused thumbs are already wiping the tears away for him.
‘Okay?’
Lestrade is looking at him, hands on either side of his face, worry creasing his brow. John manages a tired nod and Lestrade’s hands fall away. John feels awful, not only because he’s so scared he can’t sleep and so tired he can think of doing nothing else, but because he’s invaded Lestrade’s house and his bed, and quite probably ruined his evening.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine, John.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ John’s voice cracks, and he shakes his head, screwing up his face as he tries to hold back the tears.
‘John, it’s fine.’
John swallows. ‘In the army, fine is an acronym.’ He clears his throat to keep his voice from breaking. ‘Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional.’
‘In that case, it’s definitely fine.’
John gives a rather grim smile which Lestrade returns before he pulls himself to his feet. A hand catches hold of his wrist before he can turn away from the bed and he looks down to find John staring up at him with panicked eyes. Lestrade doesn’t try to pull away and John lets go very quickly, his cheeks flushing.
Lestrade walks round the bed and sits down on the free side, shoving half of the duvet back over John before sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest.
‘Got anymore army anecdotes?’
~
John awakes in the morning to some fuzzy half remembered tale about Sherlock handcuffed to the wing mirror of a police car. He isn’t sure if he dreamt it or not, but the sound of Lestrade’s low humoured laughing accompanies it.
He forgets where he is for a moment as he blinks at blue striped sheets that are not his own. The walls of his room are not supposed to be white. As he registers the door being on the wrong side of the room he remembers. He remembers everything.
The bed beside him is empty, but as he stretches out his protesting shoulder, his fingers find warmth still sticking to the covers. He throws back the covers and tries to climb out of the bed, but everything in him protests. He lets a mumbled ‘ow’ pass his lips as he hauls himself to his feet. He catches sight of his bruised face in the mirror. He feels dirty. He needs another shower.
He stands on the bathmat shivering. He hasn’t thought this through. He has no towel and no clean clothes to change into. He looks round the bathroom and thinks about shaking himself dry like a dog. His eyes fall on a green dressing gown made of towelling. It’s either that or wander around naked.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the black bin bag by the front door. The arm of his shirt is hanging out the top like it’s trying to claw it’s way back to him. John pushes it back into the bag with the end of his toe. His jacket is hung on a hanger above the radiator in the hallway, dripping slightly. His fingers tug at one of the frayed cuffs, straightening it out slightly.
Lestrade looks up at him as he enters the kitchen. He’s buttering a couple of slices of toast, licking the butter from his fingers absentmindedly as he takes in John’s attire.
‘I’ll find you some clothes that you can be seen in public with in a minute.’ Lestrade puts the toast onto a plate and plonks it down on the breakfast bar. ‘Have some breakfast first.’
John wants to say that’s he’s not hungry, that he still feels vaguely nauseous, but then he reasons that’s maybe because he’s not eaten in a while, and everything he did eat yesterday evening, well. He sits down gingerly on one of the kitchen stools and looks down at the toast. A mug joins the plate, full of steaming tea. The smell soothes him slightly as he instinctively reaches out, clutching it between his palms.
His eyes roam to a post-it note that’s lying next to the phone further down the work surface as Lestrade puts another couple of slices of bread in the toaster. It has a number on it and the name of someone. A name John recognises.
‘I already have a therapist.’
Lestrade stops digging around in his own mug for the elusive teabag and turns to look at John. His gaze follows John’s to the post-it note.
‘She specialises in these kinds of cases.’ Lestrade looks at John hunched over himself. ‘I didn’t make you an appointment. I just got you the number. Just in case.’
John nods and starts sipping on his tea. Cringing slightly as it burns against his split lip. Lestrade finishes buttering his toast and then comes to perch next to John at the breakfast bar.
‘What are you going to tell Sherlock?’
‘Nothing.’
‘John, he’d want to know.’
‘He will know. He’ll take one look at me, and,’ John sighs. ‘My phone and my wallet are gone. If anyone asks I was mugged. I was just mugged.’
‘What about Sherlock?’
‘Sherlock won’t ask. He won’t say anything unless I do, and-‘
‘You can’t deny this didn’t happen.’
‘I’m not denying it. I’m very aware of the fact it happened, I just don’t want to talk about it with Sherlock. Alright?’
John’s breathing is ragged and he’s looking anywhere apart from Lestrade.
‘He’ll know. He’ll believe you.’
John’s shoulders slump forward at those words and Lestrade places a hand on his shoulder before getting to his feet.
‘Try and eat a slice of toast and I’ll go get you some painkillers from the cabinet upstairs.’
~
Lestrade drives John back to Baker St eventually. Sherlock is waiting for them in the living room, violin in one hand, and hair like a mad scientist. Lestrade is no Sherlock Holmes, but he can tell by the creases in his shirt that Sherlock is wearing yesterday’s clothes still. Lestrade watches as Sherlock’s eyes roam over John’s face, his lips pressing together a little tighter and the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly.
John takes one look around at the flat, which frankly looks no worse that usual in Lestrade’s eyes, and turns a vicious glare on his flatmate.
‘Sherlock, you said you’d tidy up.’ John opens the fridge. ‘And there’s still no milk!’
‘They don’t take cards for anything under five pounds and I didn’t require anything else so I thought it could wait.’
‘It’s alright for you drinking coffee without milk, but tea doesn’t quite taste the same.’ John huffs before he makes his way towards the stairs. ‘I’ll get changed and then get some from the corner shop.’
Lestrade watches John disappear upstairs before turning his gaze back to Sherlock who has yet to acknowledge him. He’s putting rosin on the bow of his violin in long smooth strokes, ignoring Lestrade completely. He wants to say something, to warn Sherlock to look after John or remind him how valuable he is, but he can’t say anything without betraying John’s trust. Lestrade sighs and turns away to exit Baker St.
‘Lestrade.’ Sherlock makes a long low mournful note on the violin. ‘Thank you.’
Lestrade turns back, a hand on the doorframe. Sherlock’s not looking at him, his gaze is still intent on the note he is making. It follows a second note into the start of a tune Lestrade vaguely recognises, but couldn’t for the life of him name.
‘You know?’
Sherlock looks up then, and Lestrade sees for the first time the worry creasing at the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. He puts together the state of the flat and yesterdays clothes and he knows that Sherlock has spent the night worrying about his flatmate. He knows that Sherlock himself has put together the fact Lestrade brought John back this morning, is wearing Lestrade’s clothes, is walking gingerly, his knuckles are bruised and his face is only vaguely recognisable beneath the bruises and has come up with the entire story of the previous evening’s events. But Sherlock doesn’t bother with a reply.
‘Don’t you have unsolved crimes to be getting back to?’
‘Shouldn’t you be tidying the flat and fetching milk?’
‘I don’t think John could handle a heart attack this morning, do you?’
Lestrade laughs at that and nods. He can hear the shower running upstairs which makes him frown slightly.
‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade pauses. He doesn’t want to patronise Sherlock by suggesting any number of things concerning John’s well being, because he can see by the look in Sherlock’s eye that the detective has already thought of them.
‘Wouldn’t mind popping the kettle on, on your way out, Inspector?’
Sherlock’s caught up playing the violin again. Lestrade’s at the front door of 221B Baker St when the name of the piece comes to him. Danse Macabre. The dance of death.
As he gets into his car he considers the statistic he gave John the previous evening about rape being the most traumatising experience. Maybe murder was the kinder option.
His radio buzzes into life as he looks up at the windows of Baker St.
‘Dispatch requesting all personnel in the area to 17 Oak Tree Road. Suspected homicide.’
Lestrade sighs and starts the engine as his phone beeps. He thinks it's Donovan wondering where he is, or instructing him to the crime scene. It's a text, however. From John.
Thank you.
Author: Erin Giles
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied Rape/Non-con
Characters/Pairings: Lestrade, John, Sherlock
Words: 5500
Summary: John Watson took an oath to do no harm. Shame that no one ever took an oath to do no harm to John Watson.
Lestrade has just sat down, pint of beer in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other, a repeat of The Thin Blue Line on his telly, when the doorbell chimes. He hopes it’s not Sherlock, he prays to God it’s not Sherlock as he sets his beer down beside the TV remote and leans the crisps against them, wiping his hands on his trousers.
He thinks it might be his neighbour, come to talk to him about the neighbourhood watch scheme again when he sees the figure at the door through the frosted glass is of much smaller stature than the consulting detective. He briefly wonders if he can make it back into the safety of the living room again, but Reg has probably already seen him through the glass. Lestrade takes a breath, tries to stop his face looking so damn exhausted, and pulls the door open.
Canned laughter comes from the living room as Lestrade takes in the state of John Watson, trembling on his doorstep.
‘John?’
‘I’m sorry, I-‘ He draws in a long shuddering breath, wraps his arms further round himself before he turns as if he’s going to run back down the garden path. Instead he vomits, splattering the tub of dead flowers beside Lestrade’s front door with undigested tea and bile.
‘Jesus.’ Lestrade reaches out for him once he’s done, socked feet careful of the splatter radius, a hand grabbing onto John’s bicep. He realises his mistake when John flinches, pulls back, huddles further into his coat, trying to hide the bruises on his face.
‘John, you need to come inside. Come on. We need to get you sorted out.’
He tries to herd John like a sheep into the hallway and closes the door behind them. John just stands in the middle of the hallway, staring blankly at the foot of the stairs. The hall light casts shadows across John’s face in all the wrong places. Blood is trailing down his chin from his nose, smeared where John’s tried to wipe it away. His left eye is puffy and swollen, already black and blue, and from the way John is holding himself that’s the least of his injuries.
‘God, John. What happened?’ Lestrade tries to herd him into the living room now, reaching for the remote and indicating the sofa as he switches off the canned laughter. John just stands swaying in the middle of the living room, not talking.
‘Is this something to do with one of Sherlock’s cases?’
It takes a moment but John shakes his head. The fingers of his left hand are curled tightly around his right bicep now. Lestrade has never seen John Watson like this, and it scares him. He’s used to John taking everything in his stride, being an army doctor and flatmate to one Sherlock Holmes.
‘Mugged?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Just attacked for no reason, for-‘ Lestrade stops himself and he lets out a mournful sigh, berating himself for being so stupid. For not noticing the signs, the tells of far too many cases he’s seen cross his desk over the years he was working his way up through the ranks.
‘John, were you- Did they-‘ John’s eyes are brimming with tears and Lestrade feels his own eyes filling up.
‘John, I need to report this.’
‘No.’ It is the first word he’s uttered since he’s entered Lestrade’s flat. His voice is brittle, but he says it with authority.
‘Then let me call Sherlock.’
‘No.’ The second ‘no’ is less sure, less commanding and Lestrade wonders if he should call Sherlock anyway, because John clearly needs the support of someone right now.
‘Can I-‘ John swallows, grimacing slightly, no doubt at the taste of bile that lingers. ‘Can I use your shower?’
‘If you shower now it’ll wash all evidence away.’
‘That’s what I’m hoping.’
Lestrade hesitates for a moment, eyes watching John carefully. Blood is flaking on John’s right earlobe now. The policeman in him doesn’t want the bastards to get away with this, the friend him in feels the same way, but it’s outweighed by the need to support John in his choices. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t agree with them.
Lestrade nods. ‘I’ll get you some clean clothes.’
John seems to sag at those words, quite literally. He flinches when Lestrade grabs him to stop him in his slump towards the floor, but he soon regains his footing, and tries to gather his dignity enough to make it to the bathroom under his own steam.
John just stands with his back to the wall as Lestrade turns on the shower, leaves a pile of clean clothes on the closed toilet seat and hangs a large clean bath sheet over the towel rail.
He leaves the bathroom reluctantly, because John is still stood there, staring at his feet like he doesn’t know what to do. Lestrade isn’t sure what to do himself. He stares at the closed bathroom door for a while, listening rather perversely to see if John is actually getting into the shower. It takes a while, but eventually he hears the change in pitch as the water starts hitting skin instead of porcelain.
He goes into the living room, picks up his untouched pint, but before it gets to his lips he decides it’s a bad idea. He takes it into the kitchen and leaves it on the work surface while he switches the kettle on. He watches it boil but he doesn’t do anything with it. He keeps glancing at his mobile. He wants to phone Sherlock, but he can’t. John doesn’t want him to, and it’s not just because Sherlock can be monstrously remiss when it comes to emotions. It’s the same reason John came to Lestrade. John and Lestrade barely know each other.
It’s half an hour later when the water has been shut off in the shower for fifteen minutes that Lestrade starts to worry. He knocks on the bathroom door, and when he doesn’t get an immediate reply he presses his ear against the wood.
‘John?’ He knocks again. ‘John, can you let me know you’re alright.’ Still nothing. ‘John, I’m going to come in, okay?’
Lestrade turns the door handle, half expecting it to be locked. The door sticks a bit, but that’s usual after the shower’s been on. He worries that he’s going to find John unconscious on the floor, but he’s grateful to find John upright, staring at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror. He’s dressed himself in the clean clothes Lestrade left out for him, and with a quick glance, Lestrade can see that John’s dumped all his clothes, including the towel he used to dry himself with, in the bath. There’s vaguely pink water still trickling down the plughole.
‘John?’
‘First aid kit?’ John asks. He doesn’t look at Lestrade, just continues to stare at the fuzzy image of himself in the mirror.
‘Underneath the sink.’
Lestrade watches as he bends to retrieve the green bag, grimacing as he does so. He rises slowly, carefully.
‘You should really have a doctor check you out.’
John ignores him. His hands are shaking so much he can barely unzip the bag. He drops it in the sink, and Lestrade can see he’s trying not to cry in frustration.
‘May I?’ Lestrade asks, indicating the first aid kit. It takes John a moment, eyes darting to door of the bathroom. He nods.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
John looks at the toilet seat and shakes his head.
‘Why don’t we go sit down in the living room then?’
Lestrade’s worried about how much John is shaking. Lestrade’s first aid is minimal at best, but he knows shock when he sees it. John doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t flinch this time when Lestrade clutches his bicep and starts leading him out of the bathroom. He manoeuvres John onto the sofa and then heads back to the bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit, taking a detour via the airing cupboard to find a blanket.
‘I don’t need a blanket,’ John says when Lestrade places it round his shoulders.
‘John, you’re shaking.’
John looks down at his hands as if he’s seeing them for the first time. He turns them over so he can see his bloody and scraped knuckles where he no doubt fought to get free from his attackers. He clenches them into fists but it just makes the shaking worse.
‘Living with Sherlock has gone to my head.’
Lestrade sits himself down on the coffee table so he’s facing John.
‘I don’t think twice about taking short cuts in the rougher parts of town.’ John’s voice is a pitch higher than usual, but he forms each word carefully.
‘People shouldn’t have to, but unfortunately that’s the world we inhabit.’
Lestrade has the first aid kit open on his lap now and he honestly has no idea what he’s doing. John’s the doctor. Lestrade is a police officer and he can see that John is in no fit state to take care of himself.
‘I just took it because it’s a quicker way to get home. I walked Sarah home so that I knew she’d be safe, I never even thought.’
Lestrade doesn’t say anything when John stumbles over his words, he tries not to look at eyes that he knows to be watering as he starts to disinfect the cut on John’s forehead, washing out dirt that John has missed.
‘I kissed her goodnight and she said be careful and-‘
John’s stomach is heaving again and Lestrade reaches for the nearest receptacle to hand which happens to the rubbish bin under his desk that is already full to bursting. He tips it upside down onto the floor before thrusting it into John’s lap. There isn’t much left in his stomach, but he keeps retching, spitting bile until there are tears of effort and pain running down his cheeks.
Lestrade grips John’s shoulder to steady him as he starts to cough, sniffing and wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. Lestrade makes his way to the kitchen, retrieves a clean tea towel and flicks the kettle on again, this time with the intention of making something. He hands John the towel as he takes the bin away. He rinses it and brings it back with a bin bag, which he collects the dumped rubbish into. Allowing John the minimal privacy he can afford to compose himself.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘No. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have inflicted this on you. I should have just-‘
‘John,’ Lestrade interrupts, looking up at him from the living room floor. ‘It’s fine. You can stay here as long as you like, okay?’
John’s mouth twitches before he bites the corner of his lip and nods once. Lestrade picks up the first aid kit again when he’s done and sits himself back down on the coffee table. He looks down at the contents of the green bag for a moment and back up at John’s bruised and battered face.
‘I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.’
John chokes out a laugh at that and reaches for a plaster as the kettle boils.
‘Some tea would be good and some painkillers.’
‘I’d worry less if you let me take you to a hospital.’
‘I’ll be fine, there wasn’t enough blood for me to worry about internal damage.’
It shocks Lestrade slightly that John is so clinical in his assessment of himself. He doesn’t know what to say for a second, but then John is shakily trying to apply a plaster to his forehead so he gets up to go and make tea, putting far more sugar in each cup than is healthy.
John doesn’t comment on the sweetness of it though when Lestrade returns. He sits beside John on the settee now, leaving a noticeable gap between them. Lestrade tries to bite back his own yawn as John yawns into his mug that he’s only just managing to hold steady with two hands.
‘You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.’
‘I can’t kick you out of your bed.’
‘You’re not. I’m offering you my bed.
‘I-‘ John’s voice breaks. He looks away, trying to turn his whole body away from Lestrade.
‘John?’
There’s a muffled cry and John’s left hand goes to his mouth, as if trying to stuff the sobs back down his throat. The mug he’s holding is in danger of spilling everywhere so Lestrade grabs it and sets it down on the coffee table next to his own. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder and turns him slightly. John’s face is a harrowing picture to behold.
Tears that have been forming at the corners of his eyes all evening are spilling over as John tries to blink them away. He tries to pull away from Lestrade, but when he realises that’s not working he stuffs a hand over his eyes, the left fist still shoved in his mouth.
Lestrade grips John’s shoulder a little tighter, and that seems to pitch him over the edge. Lestrade doesn’t do well with crying. It’s not as pretty as the films make out. There aren’t a few tears dabbed away by delicate handkerchiefs. Half strangled cries gurgle up from John’s throat, shoulders heaving as both his eyes and nose leak. John has both hands over his mouth now trying to quieten himself, his fingernails biting into his cheek and Lestrade is out of his depth. He’s used to handing sobbing people off to constables with sweet warm tea and blankets. He’s got rusty dealing with people.
He tries to pry John’s hands from his face gently because his fingers are digging into already bruised flesh. Salty tears are running over cuts, no doubt stinging dully as they go.
‘John, come on.’
John seems to stop fighting all at once. His hands drop away from his face and he lets out a choked hiccupping sob as he curls into himself, and because Lestrade is in the way, ends up with his head in Lestrade’s lap. Lestrade lets him cry, watching the top of John’s head, blonde hair greying slightly. Lestrade can feel rage bubbling up inside him as he listens to John Watson, ex-army doctor, crying. He wants to go out now and pound the streets until he finds the dirty little shits that did this, not just for John’s sake, but also for the sake of humanity. He wants to beat them until their faces are almost as unrecognisable as John’s.
He realises his hands are shaking with repressed anger so he places fingers in John’s still damp hair to calm himself. He can feel John’s head rising and falling as he struggles to draw breath past the achingly pitiful sobs. Lestrade’s hand slowly moves down to John’s neck and finally his shoulder. John’s breath hitches and he groans in pain at the contact. Lestrade immediately pulls back, hand hovering over the shoulder.
‘John?’
John sits up and turns immediately away to hide his face, scrubbing at it with his hands in a way which must hurt. He uses the back of the sleeve of the long t-shirt he’s wearing to dry his eyes, sniffing a few times. He rubs a hand through his hair as if trying to flatten it, but doesn’t succeed.
He glances back at Lestrade, and he looks mortified to have shown so much emotion to a complete stranger.
‘It’s okay.’ Lestrade gestures at the shoulder he touched that seems to have caused John pain. ‘Is your shoulder alright?’
The fingers of John’s left hand reach out to touch his shoulder, as if only just remembering the phantom pain.
‘I was shot.’ He digs his thumb into the muscle next to his clavicle. ‘They’re not supposed to shoot at medics, but my red cross was ripped off.’
Lestrade watches the neck of the t-shirt stretching as John rubs at his abused shoulder with battered knuckles.
‘Jesus, you can’t catch a break, can you?’
John looks up at him sharply, and Lestrade realises too late he’s said it out loud. John’s smiling. And then he’s laughing. He’s giggling like a teenage girl, clutching at his abused stomach muscles as he does so, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Lestrade thinks he’s having some kind of hysterical fit. Crying to laughing in a matter of seconds is not a sane reaction, but then this isn’t really a sane situation. It’s not long before John’s giggling descends into coughing though, followed by harsh breathing. He takes a moment to get his breathing under control before he speaks.
‘I’m starting to wonder what I did wrong.’
‘Nothing.’ Lestrade says it without even thinking. It wipes the amused smile off John’s face immediately. His jaw clenches like he’s trying not to cry again.
‘No one ever deserves that kind of control taken away from them.’ Lestrade scratches his bottom lip with his thumbnail. ‘Please, don’t ever think what happened is your fault, John.’
‘I just meant, everything that keeps happening to me, it must be some kind of karma?’
‘For what?’
John shrugs and thinks for a moment. ‘For shooting people in Afghanistan?’
John’s trying to smile again, but Lestrade is frowning, looking at John in worry.
‘It was a joke,’ John says to try and relieve the tension.
‘Was it?’
John shrugs again and looks down at his hands that are gripping his knees. He tries to straighten them out, one finger at a time. It takes an infinite amount of concentration to do both that and stop them from shaking too. His palms are sweaty and the ends of his fingers are cold, tingling slightly. Another hand eclipses one of his own.
‘Whatever happened tonight, none of it was your fault. No matter what you’ve done.’ Lestrade takes a big breath and lets it out shakily. ‘Rape is the most traumatising thing that can happen to a person after murder.’
It’s the first time that evening they’ve used the word and it churns uncomfortably in both their stomachs. John looks away at the wastepaper bin still sat on the floor, pursing his lips slightly.
‘At least if you’ve been murdered you don’t care.’ John lets out a huff of a laugh and watches as Lestrade’s hand tightens slightly round his fingers. ‘Sorry, that was inappropriate. Heads in fridges and fingers in tea caddy’s desensitizes you a bit.’
‘Fingers in… No, I really don’t want to know. Not after the eyeballs in the microwave. Sally still goes on about it.’
John pulls his hand out from underneath Lestrade’s to scrub at his face, trying to cover up a yawn. He feels shaky not just with shock, but with exhaustion now. He shudders and looks about for the blanket Lestrade brought him. He feels like he wants another shower, but he doesn’t want to use up all Lestrade’s hot water. He tries to swallow a yawn as Lestrade stands.
‘Come on, I’ll show you where the bedroom is.’
John stands, arms hugging himself as he follows Lestrade. John stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to look at the front door.
‘Did you lock it?’
Lestrade knows he locked the door, has done his usual evening routine of checking if it’s locked, but he does it again for John’s sake. He pulls on the front door a couple of extra times just in case. John seems satisfied as he starts tramping up the stairs.
He stands with his back to the wall, facing the bedroom door as Lestrade fusses with the bed, clearing away piles of dirty clothes into the wardrobe and retrieving clothes for himself to sleep in.
‘You know where the bathroom is, and help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen if you get hungry or thirsty in the night.’
John nods. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll be on the sofa if you need me.’ Lestrade grabs at one of the pillows on the bed as an after thought before he leaves the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t listen to see if John gets into bed, he assumes the man will collapse in there as soon as possible.
He leaves the living room door open when he’s done getting changed and setting up a makeshift bed for himself on the sofa. He turns the telly on but mute’s it, watching the news with the subtitles so that he can hear if John needs him.
He prays that John sleeps through the night, but he knows that if any traumatic event were to incur nightmares, it would be this one.
~
John can’t sleep. He stares at the closed bedroom door barely daring to breathe. He jumps slightly when he hears the pipes settling overhead. He sucks in a breath and holds it when a dog barks outside the window. He keeps jerking his eyes awake every time he feels them closing, but he’s so exhausted he’s truly struggling. Every noise makes his heart palpitate in a way that isn’t healthy. He tries to remind himself of the simple facts. The front door is locked, he saw Lestrade do it. Lestrade himself is downstairs on the sofa, within earshot of both the front and backdoor. There are no drainpipes near the bedroom window for people to shimmy up - he knows, he checked. The bedroom window is closed and locked even though it’s stiflingly warm in the room.
He feels like he can’t breathe. He kicks the duvet off and tries to school his breathing into something more regular, but then he hears the creak of the stairs and he stops breathing altogether. He’s terrified. He feels like he’s six years old again and he and Harry are staying at a friends house because mum’s in hospital and dad’s… They watched a scary film and spent the rest of the night huddled under the same duvet together. But there’s no one huddled under the duvet with John now, holding his hand to keep him safe; he’s completely alone.
A car backfires on the street outside and John lets out a muffled scream, because for a moment he can smell the acrid desert tinged with the metallic smell of blood. He’s hyperventilating now, and he feels like he’s going to pass out. Actually pass out. Something he hasn’t done in a long time.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and his name being called as he tries to fumble for the bedside light, because he feels like if he can shed some light on the situation everything will be a lot less scary and he will stop having such an adverse affect. He ends up knocking the bedside lamp to the floor and the door opens at that and he wants to hide under the duvet again.
Lestrade is standing there in boxers and a t-shirt. He looks genuinely worried and John lets out a breath in relief, because even though it’s still dark in the room, it somehow seems less intimidating in Lestrade’s presence.
‘John, breathe.’ The bed dips slightly and John realises his vision is spotty at the edges and he feels sick again. ‘John, look at me. Breathe. In and out.’
John becomes more aware of each shaky breath he’s taking, every exhale rattling out of him making his lips tremble. He licks the moisture from them and tastes salt. He tries to raise a shaking hand to scrub at his cheeks, but calloused thumbs are already wiping the tears away for him.
‘Okay?’
Lestrade is looking at him, hands on either side of his face, worry creasing his brow. John manages a tired nod and Lestrade’s hands fall away. John feels awful, not only because he’s so scared he can’t sleep and so tired he can think of doing nothing else, but because he’s invaded Lestrade’s house and his bed, and quite probably ruined his evening.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine, John.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ John’s voice cracks, and he shakes his head, screwing up his face as he tries to hold back the tears.
‘John, it’s fine.’
John swallows. ‘In the army, fine is an acronym.’ He clears his throat to keep his voice from breaking. ‘Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional.’
‘In that case, it’s definitely fine.’
John gives a rather grim smile which Lestrade returns before he pulls himself to his feet. A hand catches hold of his wrist before he can turn away from the bed and he looks down to find John staring up at him with panicked eyes. Lestrade doesn’t try to pull away and John lets go very quickly, his cheeks flushing.
Lestrade walks round the bed and sits down on the free side, shoving half of the duvet back over John before sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest.
‘Got anymore army anecdotes?’
~
John awakes in the morning to some fuzzy half remembered tale about Sherlock handcuffed to the wing mirror of a police car. He isn’t sure if he dreamt it or not, but the sound of Lestrade’s low humoured laughing accompanies it.
He forgets where he is for a moment as he blinks at blue striped sheets that are not his own. The walls of his room are not supposed to be white. As he registers the door being on the wrong side of the room he remembers. He remembers everything.
The bed beside him is empty, but as he stretches out his protesting shoulder, his fingers find warmth still sticking to the covers. He throws back the covers and tries to climb out of the bed, but everything in him protests. He lets a mumbled ‘ow’ pass his lips as he hauls himself to his feet. He catches sight of his bruised face in the mirror. He feels dirty. He needs another shower.
He stands on the bathmat shivering. He hasn’t thought this through. He has no towel and no clean clothes to change into. He looks round the bathroom and thinks about shaking himself dry like a dog. His eyes fall on a green dressing gown made of towelling. It’s either that or wander around naked.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the black bin bag by the front door. The arm of his shirt is hanging out the top like it’s trying to claw it’s way back to him. John pushes it back into the bag with the end of his toe. His jacket is hung on a hanger above the radiator in the hallway, dripping slightly. His fingers tug at one of the frayed cuffs, straightening it out slightly.
Lestrade looks up at him as he enters the kitchen. He’s buttering a couple of slices of toast, licking the butter from his fingers absentmindedly as he takes in John’s attire.
‘I’ll find you some clothes that you can be seen in public with in a minute.’ Lestrade puts the toast onto a plate and plonks it down on the breakfast bar. ‘Have some breakfast first.’
John wants to say that’s he’s not hungry, that he still feels vaguely nauseous, but then he reasons that’s maybe because he’s not eaten in a while, and everything he did eat yesterday evening, well. He sits down gingerly on one of the kitchen stools and looks down at the toast. A mug joins the plate, full of steaming tea. The smell soothes him slightly as he instinctively reaches out, clutching it between his palms.
His eyes roam to a post-it note that’s lying next to the phone further down the work surface as Lestrade puts another couple of slices of bread in the toaster. It has a number on it and the name of someone. A name John recognises.
‘I already have a therapist.’
Lestrade stops digging around in his own mug for the elusive teabag and turns to look at John. His gaze follows John’s to the post-it note.
‘She specialises in these kinds of cases.’ Lestrade looks at John hunched over himself. ‘I didn’t make you an appointment. I just got you the number. Just in case.’
John nods and starts sipping on his tea. Cringing slightly as it burns against his split lip. Lestrade finishes buttering his toast and then comes to perch next to John at the breakfast bar.
‘What are you going to tell Sherlock?’
‘Nothing.’
‘John, he’d want to know.’
‘He will know. He’ll take one look at me, and,’ John sighs. ‘My phone and my wallet are gone. If anyone asks I was mugged. I was just mugged.’
‘What about Sherlock?’
‘Sherlock won’t ask. He won’t say anything unless I do, and-‘
‘You can’t deny this didn’t happen.’
‘I’m not denying it. I’m very aware of the fact it happened, I just don’t want to talk about it with Sherlock. Alright?’
John’s breathing is ragged and he’s looking anywhere apart from Lestrade.
‘He’ll know. He’ll believe you.’
John’s shoulders slump forward at those words and Lestrade places a hand on his shoulder before getting to his feet.
‘Try and eat a slice of toast and I’ll go get you some painkillers from the cabinet upstairs.’
~
Lestrade drives John back to Baker St eventually. Sherlock is waiting for them in the living room, violin in one hand, and hair like a mad scientist. Lestrade is no Sherlock Holmes, but he can tell by the creases in his shirt that Sherlock is wearing yesterday’s clothes still. Lestrade watches as Sherlock’s eyes roam over John’s face, his lips pressing together a little tighter and the muscle in his jaw flexing slightly.
John takes one look around at the flat, which frankly looks no worse that usual in Lestrade’s eyes, and turns a vicious glare on his flatmate.
‘Sherlock, you said you’d tidy up.’ John opens the fridge. ‘And there’s still no milk!’
‘They don’t take cards for anything under five pounds and I didn’t require anything else so I thought it could wait.’
‘It’s alright for you drinking coffee without milk, but tea doesn’t quite taste the same.’ John huffs before he makes his way towards the stairs. ‘I’ll get changed and then get some from the corner shop.’
Lestrade watches John disappear upstairs before turning his gaze back to Sherlock who has yet to acknowledge him. He’s putting rosin on the bow of his violin in long smooth strokes, ignoring Lestrade completely. He wants to say something, to warn Sherlock to look after John or remind him how valuable he is, but he can’t say anything without betraying John’s trust. Lestrade sighs and turns away to exit Baker St.
‘Lestrade.’ Sherlock makes a long low mournful note on the violin. ‘Thank you.’
Lestrade turns back, a hand on the doorframe. Sherlock’s not looking at him, his gaze is still intent on the note he is making. It follows a second note into the start of a tune Lestrade vaguely recognises, but couldn’t for the life of him name.
‘You know?’
Sherlock looks up then, and Lestrade sees for the first time the worry creasing at the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. He puts together the state of the flat and yesterdays clothes and he knows that Sherlock has spent the night worrying about his flatmate. He knows that Sherlock himself has put together the fact Lestrade brought John back this morning, is wearing Lestrade’s clothes, is walking gingerly, his knuckles are bruised and his face is only vaguely recognisable beneath the bruises and has come up with the entire story of the previous evening’s events. But Sherlock doesn’t bother with a reply.
‘Don’t you have unsolved crimes to be getting back to?’
‘Shouldn’t you be tidying the flat and fetching milk?’
‘I don’t think John could handle a heart attack this morning, do you?’
Lestrade laughs at that and nods. He can hear the shower running upstairs which makes him frown slightly.
‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade pauses. He doesn’t want to patronise Sherlock by suggesting any number of things concerning John’s well being, because he can see by the look in Sherlock’s eye that the detective has already thought of them.
‘Wouldn’t mind popping the kettle on, on your way out, Inspector?’
Sherlock’s caught up playing the violin again. Lestrade’s at the front door of 221B Baker St when the name of the piece comes to him. Danse Macabre. The dance of death.
As he gets into his car he considers the statistic he gave John the previous evening about rape being the most traumatising experience. Maybe murder was the kinder option.
His radio buzzes into life as he looks up at the windows of Baker St.
‘Dispatch requesting all personnel in the area to 17 Oak Tree Road. Suspected homicide.’
Lestrade sighs and starts the engine as his phone beeps. He thinks it's Donovan wondering where he is, or instructing him to the crime scene. It's a text, however. From John.
Thank you.