Coincidences
Rating: G
Warnings: Slight Drug Use, Slash
Word Count: 3 470
Summary: Five times John almost found out about Sherlock and Lestrade, and one time he did. Disclaimer: I don't ship these two, but this was fun to write! Written as a fill on the kink meme.
1 - February, 1996
The first time John Watson almost found out about Sherlock Holmes and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was a decidedly awkward occasion - awkward for Dr. Watson and Lestrade, that is. There weren’t too many situations that Sherlock Holmes considered awkward, as he was a man who regularly whipped corpses with a riding crop in the company of various morticians.
John stared across the club at Harry, his lips set in a tight line. John’s heart was pounding in time with the overload of music. She’d promised him - but he’d known better than to believe her. She stood at the bar, looking sidelong at the bartender (male), her hands curled reverently around a glass of something that looked a hell of a lot like straight whiskey.
“Excuse me.” It wasn’t a question. John glanced over at the girl beside him, noting her scowl. Bollocks. She’d seen him staring at Harry then. She looked at him, and spat in his face. Double bollocks. The girl - honestly, John couldn’t remember her name, so he supposed her exit was warranted after - swept away in a swirl of perfume and heavy bass.
John looked back at the bar, but Harry had gone. He couldn’t be arsed to deal with her tonight, not with his exams around the corner. The girl he’d come with had dragged him away from his books, and John could feel the headache nipping behind his eyes. He heard the music blasting out of the speakers, but he couldn’t be bothered to dance. He snorted at himself, standing stock still in the middle of a dance floor.
John shook his head to clear it (didn’t work, the headache worried at the back of eyes harder) and pushed through the crowd towards the men’s loo, apologizing as he went.
“Sorry, sorry, ‘scuse me, ah - sorry, oh - god, that is not - ah, god -” God, clubs were insanitary. Why’d he bothered to come tonight? He could be home, studying, and instead he was watching his sister slide down into alcoholism again and being accosted from all sides by - ah. The loo. Excellent.
John pushed open the door and walked to the mirror. He turned the tap on and splashed his face, revelling in the feel of the cold water against his eyes. He grimaced at his reflection and then stiffened and groaned. Loudly.
Reflected behind him in the dirty mirror, he could see two pairs of men’s shoes with trouser legs puddled about the ankles, moving rhythmically.
“Ah - Greg - good, excellent - are you aware that - a student, medical - just noticed our - oh, god, yes, Greg -” The movements paused suddenly. John heard a distinctly masculine sigh - Greg, he supposed - and rolled his eyes. Not that he had any problem with, with - it - it was fine, it was all fine, he had a lesbian sister for Christ’s sake - but in a club loo? That was utterly disgusting. And horridly awkward.
“Right, sorry, I’m leaving, I’m going, right, have - have a good time then -” John stuttered, backing hurriedly out of the bathroom. He heard a low chuckle. That was it, he was going home to his books.
Rushing out of the club, John didn’t pause to think it odd that the talking man had known he was a medical student.
And back in the loo, Sherlock Holmes sat on a grungy toilet seat with a lapful of Officer Greg Lestrade, utterly satisfied, his mind - for once - quiet. Lestrade, on the other hand, has his face buried in Sherlock’s collarbone, absolutely mortified at the thought of someone - a medical student, going to be a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake - walking in on him and Sherlock going at it in a grimy club loo.
2 - September, 2001
“Doctor Watson! Addict just in, OD’d earlier this evening, Yard found him out in the street. Cocaine - he’s been out for a few hours. Looks like he’ll be fine, but he’s got some kinda connections - better go check up on him. Yard brought him in - Holmes, his name is, room 218,” His earpiece crackled at him. John rubbed his hands over his face, sighing, and flipped on his microphone.
“Thanks, Dan, right on it,” he said, standing and glancing at his watch. He was supposed to have gone home hours ago, but there’d been an accident on the motorway and a slew of heart attack victims - bit odd, that, actually, weren’t usually so many in a night - and now this addict.
John rushed down the hallway to room 218, his white coat billowing out around him like a pair of bloody wings - bollocks, he hated the thing. John couldn’t wait to quit his bloody stifling Casualty job, but was waiting on the call from the Forces to let him know he had a future in the army.
He paused at the door to 218 and took a deep breath, composing his features into the compassionate detachment that had always served him well enough. John shot a look up at the florescent lights, suddenly hating every twitch in the white light that fell down onto him, hating this hospital, this job, and most of all this bloody cocaine addict who’d come in with his bloody connections just as John’d been about to go home and sleep, really sleep for the first time in days - but that wouldn’t do, John reminded himself, do the job and get it over with.
Realizing with a start how long he’d been standing at the door - not especially professional, Doctor Watson - John took a breath and pushed open the door to 218.
A young man - John guessed early twenties, though he looked younger - lay on the bed, scowling at the older man who sat in the crap chair beside him, an intense look on his face. The younger man (pale; how could anyone be so bloody pale, John thought) glanced away from the older man to look at John. John felt oddly naked, and had to remind himself not to move his hands to cover his bits.
“Ah. Hello again, doctor. As you can see I’m quite alright, we’ll be leaving now,” The younger man said, his dark chocolate voice at odds with his looks and skinny ribcage. The older man and John opened their mouths to speak.
John’s pager interrupted them both with the tone that meant 911. Another car crash - I’ve got 218, you go. Dan.
“Sorry, I’ve got to run - another doctor will be with you in a moment,” John sighed, turning out of the room and hurrying down the hallway without registering the young man’s “again”.
He couldn’t wait for that damned call.
Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief - the doctor had gone before he’d noticed Lestrade’s hand wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s in a decidedly unprofessional manner. Sherlock looked at Lestrade and decided not to bother shooting up again. Boring, being confined in the hospital by Mycroft’s “brotherly concern”.
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he wasn’t going to shoot up again, but then again, Sherlock was just as good at lying to himself as he was at lying to other people.
3 - January, 2010
“Sherlock…” Lestrade spoke quietly, knowing the detective would hear him. Sherlock glanced away from the man (John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Lestrade reminded himself) examining the pink lady - Lestrade knew he shouldn’t be giving dead bodies nicknames, but he really couldn’t help it - and glided to Lestrade’s side immediately.
“Yes?” Lestrade shifted his weight to his other foot and glanced towards the door. Sherlock, of course, understood at once and moved towards it, pausing with his hand on the knob.
“Listen, Sherlock, we’ve been… Together… A long time, and, well, I mean -” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.
“Are you insinuating a relationship - beyond flatmates - between myself and the good doctor, Lestrade?” Sherlock’s voice was low and threatening. Lestrade wished he hadn’t brought up the subject and twisted his hands together.
“No, no, of course not, Sherlock, it’s just… If you’re bored, with me, I understand - or if Jenna…” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change but for a softening around his eyes. He reached out to Lestrade, taking one of the DI’s hands in his own.
“You’re mine, Lestrade. Mine. And conversely, I am yours. Forever. The doctor is my flatmate, and possibly my - friend. Nothing more. As Jenna is your roommate, and friend.” Lestrade snorted.
“Aye, my roommate and friend. And my wife, and the mother of my children -” Sherlock shook his head, cutting Lestrade off mid sentence.
“Irrelevant,” He said. Suddenly Sherlock smiled, and leaned towards Lestrade.
“Sherlock! Not -” Lestrade was cut off by Sherlock’s lips on his own, swallowing his words. He broke away from the kiss, flushing from his neck to the tips of his ears. As he pulled away, he noticed Doctor John Watson turn and look curiously at Sherlock and the DI. Bollocks!
John saw DI Lestrade pulling away from Sherlock, his mad new - flatmate? John still wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened. He wondered a moment what on earth Sherlock had been doing that close to the DI’s face, then shook his head to clear his mind.
He doubted Sherlock Holmes had any idea what constituted a normal personal space bubble, after all.
John stood, reaching for his cane, and followed the mad detective out of the room.
4 - February, 2010
John woke with a start, the last dregs of his nightmare swirling about his mind relentlessly. He knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t sleep again that night, not with the false dawn of three am London seeping in past his curtains and sliding insidiously across his face. He’d stayed up drinking downstairs with Lestrade until midnight the night before - celebration of a case closed. Sherlock had sat in the corner, fingering his bloody violin. Already bored, John’d figured. John groaned and heaved his body out of bed, cursing the deep ache in his shoulder and the threatening twinge in his leg.
Psychosomatic, he reminded himself. Psychosomatic. Not bloody real, Doctor Watson. Knowing it didn’t make it any easier, sometimes. Sherlock had helped, with his mad cab chase - but the pain didn’t always stay gone.
It was bad after the nightmares.
John stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen, tripping over his own feet and generally making rather a lot of noise for three in the bloody morning. He fell against the wall, a low thump reverberating throughout the flat - bollocks. He’d probably wakened Sherlock with that, and the younger man needed every bit of sleep he could get.
John needn’t have worried about waking Sherlock. Sherlock always slept like the dead for at least a few hours, when Lestrade was with him. Not that John knew that, of course.
John finally made it to the kitchen, after knocking over a pile of books and stepping on something that had crunched beneath his bare feet rather unpleasantly. He’d thought about switching on a light, but a moment later decided he really didn’t want to know. Living with Sherlock Holmes, one learned a healthy appreciation for the bliss of ignorance, John thought wryly, stepping from the warm carpet of the common area onto the cold tile of the kitchen floor.
His bare feet slapped lightly against the tile in the darkness, and John froze.
Someone was in there with him.
John could barely, just barely, hear someone breathing, and the instincts of a month of living with Sherlock Holmes and four years of living as a soldier went to war immediately. John’s muscles tensed, his left hand reaching slowly behind him for the gun that he didn’t sleep with anymore, the gun that was upstairs in his bedside table. At the same moment, he breathed out a word.
“Sherlock?” John heard the figure shift.
Not Sherlock.
John reached out towards the light, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet ready to fight the person in the kitchen with him. He flicked on the light - and stared.
“Lestrade? What the bloody - what the hell are doing in my kitchen?” Lestrade shifted his weight, and it didn’t take Sherlock to tell he was exceedingly uncomfortable.
“Our kitchen, John,” said a low voice behind John’s head. John whipped around, hand raised - and slapped his flatmate across the face. He gaped.
“Shit - Sherlock, sorry - our kitchen? No, you use this kitchen for body parts - it’s my kitchen, I’m the one who uses it for food - what the bloody hell is going on?” John said, stumbling over his thoughts. He wasn’t exactly surprised - living with Sherlock sort of killed one’s receptivity to surprise, after all - but he was confused. Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, and smiled.
“Case. Lestrade’s got a case for me, John. Urgent, absolutely urgent. A… Woman, found dead, locked room, no clues - the killer’s still there, Lestrade, do you incompetants never learn?” Sherlock twisted his scarf around his neck - did he sleep in that bloody coat - and bundled Lestrade out of the kitchen and into the hallway. “No time to waste! He’ll be gone in an hour. Don’t wait up John, try the chamomile and lavender - third cupboard to the right!” And with that, the men were gone. John blinked, and sank to the floor.
He would never get used to living in this bloody flat, with this bloody madman.
Only, of course - he already had. John shook his head and stood, putting on the kettle and pulling out the tea Sherlock had suggested.
Ten minutes later, he realized what had been odd about the scene.
Lestrade had been wearing the same clothes he’d entered the flat in hours before - hadn’t he gone home? And - why had he looked so uncomfortable, running into John in John’s own kitchen? The DI had never been concerned about waking John before.
John shrugged, putting it out of his mind. Anything was possible, living with Sherlock Holmes.
5 - March, 2010
“Well - technically, of course, I did solve the case. I did win this one, but of course - Lestrade?” Sherlock blinked at the DI, slightly confused. Lestrade stared at him from behind his desk, his elbows resting on his knees. Sherlock’d not seen this look in the DI’s eyes before, and waited in order for more information - for his inner catalogue. Lestrade shook his head, and dropped his face into his palms.
Sherlock didn’t like not being able to see Lestrade’s eyes. He took a step forward, reaching out to the DI.
“Bloody hell, Sherlock. A woman - a lot of women, and men, and few fucking kids - are dead - and all you have to say is that you fucking won?” Sherlock had done something wrong. He wasn’t sure what, exactly - but Lestrade rarely swore like that, four times in a single sentence.
“There’s no use in regret, Lestrade, they’re dead. I won, but they’re still dead - she was describing Moriarty’s voice, so clearly -”
“That’s not the fucking point, Sherlock!” Lestrade stood. He was yelling now, and Sherlock took a step back.
“Clearly, I don’t - understand - what you’re referring to, Lestrade, please, by all means - enlighten me.” Sherlock’s voice was icy - too cold, he knew, but he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong, and he hated not understanding, and Lestrade was angry with him and - bollocks, nothing was right anymore.
“Enlighten - enlighten you? Christ, Sherlock, d’you even care? People died today - because of you!”
There was a silence that unbalanced both men. Sherlock stared at Lestrade across the desk, and set his features into stone.
“Caring - is an inconvenience,” Sherlock muttered. Lestrades sucked in a breath, and Sherlock knew - that was decidedly not the right thing to say.
“An - an inconvenience. Right. Well. Right, Sherlock, fine. I’ll leave you here, I’ve got bloody work to do. Not that you - care - well, Christ, Sherlock, just - bye.” Lestrade walked around his desk and out the door, slamming it behind him with his head down so Sherlock coudn’t see his eyes. He was careful not to touch Sherlock, and Sherlock stopped himself from reaching out to Lestrade.
The detective stared at the closed door and took a step towards it, arm stretched out as if he could bring Lestrade back. Surely Lestrade hadn’t thought - Sherlock hadn’t meant that caring about Lestrade - surely the DI could see that, could observe that from the way that Sherlock - Sherlock sank to the floor, his head in his hands. His eyes burned, but he couldn’t cry.
Not on the job.
John stared at Lestrade’s slammed door, his mind working furiously. The DI had pushed past John with an absolutely devastated expression in his eyes, though his mouth had been set to apathy - what had gone on in his office? John had heard a lot of indistinct shouting through the mostly soundproofed walls, and then Lestrade had come racing out like - that.
Taking a few steps towards Lestrade’s office, John saw Sherlock sitting on the floor, curled into himself. The detective looked like he was about to cry. His fist was pressed to his lips and his chest was heaving, his eyes closed tightly.
Sherlock opened his eyes and started at the sight of John staring at him through the window. Christ - not now, John. He motioned sharply - go away.
The doctor looked at his flatmate, and left.
Like they all did.
6 - March, 2010
John staggered out of the pool with Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders, supporting the taller man as they walked towards the police cars surrounding the building. John couldn’t believe - this was mad, absolutely mad, he’d just been kidnapped, covered in bloody Semtex, and then Moriarty had - just walked away?
John handed Sherlock off to Lestrade, and collapsed heavily onto the asphalt.
His life was mad.
“John?” Sally stood over him, concern written across her face. She was a decent enough sort, but the tension between her and Sherlock made it hard to like her.
“What, Sally.” It wasn’t a question. John wanted to fall asleep then and there on the road, and probably would have if he hadn’t been concerned about getting hit by a car. Or a bus. Or, the way his life had been going recently, a bloody dinosaur brought back by way of Moriarty’s genetic engineers.
“Sorry, John, but we need - we need your statements, yours and Sherlock’s, if we’re going to catch that - bastard.” John looked up at Sally and sighed.
“You won’t catch him,” He said quietly. Sally shrugged.
“Yeah, I know - but we’re bloody well going to try, John. Come on.” She stretched out a hand to John, who shrugged mentally and took it. Anything to get back to the flat sooner.
John followed Sally to her makeshift mobile office - a notebook balanced against the windshield of a squad car - and gave her his statement leaning against the side of the car. He glanced around for Lestrade - who usually took down his and Sherlock’s statements - but the DI was nowhere to be seen. Sally tapped her pen against the notebook and sighed.
“Need the freak, John, where is he?”
“Don’t call him that,” John responded automatically. He frowned, looking around the scene. He didn’t see Sherlock, actually. “Shit! Where’d that bastard - bugger!” John lurched to his feet, ignoring Sally’s pleas to stay where he was, the officers would find Sherlock - John didn’t doubt that Sherlock was quite capable of running after Moriarty on his own.
John’d kill that mad bugger twice if he got himself hurt.
John searched the area for any sign of his mad flatmate - or any sign of Lestrade, who didn’t appear to be around either.
And then, John found them. Found them both, pressed to each other against an alley wall - dirty, John thought, that’s rather insanitary, who knows what on that wall - Lestrade’s face shoved into Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock’s hands carding through Lestrade’s hair -
John’s mind stuttered and went out. His legs buckled, and he sat, heavily, in a puddle of unidentifiable liquid which John treated as anything he might find in his flat - trying his hardest not to think about it - and sighed.
Sherlock opened his eyes, and started violently, disturbing Lestrade, who turned and stared at John.
“Hello, mate,” Lestrade said cautiously.
“Hello. Are you shagging my flatmate?” John asked, thoroughly pleasantly. Lestrade shifted his weight, and Sherlock drew him closer.
“Er, yeah, mate.”
“Ah. Good. Right. Excellent. That explains a lot, actually. Sherlock, Sally needs your statement - no, Sherlock, come on, statement. Now.” Sherlock grimaced, tilting his head to press his lips to Lestrade’s hair. Lestrade looked baffled.
“Sherlock, statement. John - thanks, mate.” With that, Lestrade took Sherlock’s hand, and led him to Sally.
John stayed sitting in the alley, the puddle of unidentifiable liquid soaking through the seat of his pants, trying to process this new information. After a moment, he shook his head, and stood up.
Life with Sherlock would never be boring, he supposed.