A Strange and Abundant Love -- Part 3
Title: A Strange and Abundant Love
Author: CagedWriter61
Rated: PG 13
Part: 3/?
Pairing: Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade
Summary: In which Sherlock, John, and Lestrade have a three-person nonsexual relationship of an ambiguous nature.
Disclaimer: Sadly, no incarnation of the Holmes stories are mine.
Notes: I hope there's enough in this chapter! I'm doing my best to be mindful of keeping all the individual relationships in the triangle equal, and it's a challenge but a good one.
Links for Part 1 and Part 2.
Part III
Lestrade starts keeping a journal. He decides his relationship endeavors with Sherlock and John require some concentrated introspection on his part, not to mention the working out of details and problems on paper. He doesn't mention this journal to anyone, nor does he suggest Sherlock and John keep their own. He simply stops by the bookshop nearest his flat on his way home one evening and buys himself a large moleskine with ruled paper and begins to write in it, not every day but whenever he feels compelled to record an important feeling or change in the relationships or when he's trying to make sense of his own experience.
I never thought I'd be here.
But it isn't a bad place to be.
He keeps the notebook in his briefcase, which is the only way Sherlock won't notice it, and writes in it when he's at work or in his flat.
I started out thinking-didn't know I was thinking it but I was-that I'd be a kind of third wheel to Sherlock and John. I didn't see a problem with that. Better third wheel than nothing at all, yeah? It's remarkable that John thought to include me in all this; he and I weren't exactly best mates at the time, after all. I guess it was more for Sherlock than anything, which is fine. Sherlock was my primary reason for getting on board with this too.
He writes with relatively cheap, black ink gel pens: smooth and dark without bleeding through the paper. His handwriting is blocky and legible, refined years ago in service of his job.
It may be too early in the game to tell, but I don't think that's where this is going. Sherlock and John do have their own relationship apart from me, it's inevitable, since they're flat mates and Sherlock brings John along on cases whenever he can. It's a very deep relationship, in its own right. I'm a little bit astounded really, by how much is there between them.
I think Sherlock's proving me wrong about my status, though. I don't see him as much as John, but I do see him a hell of a lot more often than before. I'm always tempted to ask him, whenever he seeks out attention or affection, why he doesn't just go to John-but I guess I shouldn't shortchange myself.
He needs me. I have to wrap my head around that. Sherlock Holmes needs me. I don't want to be too presumptuous and say he loves me…Too soon for that. But he cares. That alone is unbelievable.
I'm trying to figure out if I love him. I know if I don't now, I'm going to later.
He stops and thinks for a moment, sitting at his desk in the sitting room, the desk lamp putting out the only light in the whole flat. He has the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows and the nicotine patch on the inside of his right arm shows.
I wonder what will become of my relationship with John. We're closer than we were. Friends now, apart from Sherlock, even though Sherlock was the thing that brought us together. What do I want from him? What does he want from me? We never really negotiated where we stood with each other.
I'm open to building things with him, the same way I am with Sherlock. If there's three of us, we might as well make full use of each other.
On that note, he closes the moleskine and goes to bed.
The bomb was in fact a dud.
This pisses off Sherlock to no end-and intrigues him too.
"Apparently, the bomb was never set to go off," says Lestrade, two mornings after the delivery. He meets Sherlock in Bart's lab again, where the consulting detective has been trying to do more research on the possible origins of the ball. The SO19 explosives specialists dismantled the ball and found it fully functional and capable of perturbingly immeasurable damage, but it was never "turned on." Lestrade watches as an angry Sherlock paces, mumbling to himself. "You're lucky. We all are."
Sherlock sneers at him, and if Lestrade were less accustomed to his antics or more sensitive, it might've hurt his feelings. Instead, he regards Sherlock coolly, his arms crossed.
"There's going to be another," says Sherlock. "That's the only thing this could mean. It was a warning."
"Possible," says Lestrade, nodding. "Or maybe he was just screwing with your head."
"Don't make light of the man capable of constructing or procuring such a bomb."
"You'd like it if he sent you another one, wouldn't you? Regardless of the fact, by your own theory, a second one would result in an actual explosion."
"It's not a matter of what I would enjoy, Lestrade. It's logic. You have any idea what that bomb is worth? Someone wouldn't just drop it off without detonating it, for no reason. There will be another."
Lestrade lowers his head, choosing not to argue.
"I want you to leave," says Sherlock.
Lestrade looks up. "Excuse me?"
"You and John, I want you out of London."
The detective inspector scoffs. "Oh, sure, I'll just go on holiday right away."
"I'm serious, Greg."
And Sherlock is very serious. He wouldn't use Lestrade's first name, otherwise. The two men hold eye contact, and Sherlock's blue irises the color of pale glass are full of intensity.
"I don't care where you go, just get out. And don't come back until I've handled this."
"Sherlock, besides the fact that I'm a detective inspector with pressing duties who can't afford to be away from my work, why the hell would you think I'd leave you here to handle another bomb threat on your own? Are you mad? Of course, you are, but really-be reasonable about this."
"What could be more reasonable? Two days ago, you and John were down my throat about staying in harm's way, now you want to knowingly put yourself in it? This has nothing to do with you or him. It's my challenge. Your presence will only create more unnecessary obstacles for me. I can't afford to worry about you, I need to focus."
"Well, too bloody bad," says Lestrade, calm and light. "John and I have jobs too. And more importantly, we don't run and leave one of our own behind. You should know better than that about us."
Sherlock's nostrils flare, he turns away, turns back, and slams his hand down on the nearest countertop. "Damn you, why do you insist on making my life difficult?"
Lestrade uncrosses his arms and steps up to Sherlock. He takes the other man's face in both his hands, feels the pale skin cold in his palms, and looks at Sherlock firmly.
"What you're feeling right now is fear. It's what John felt when he yelled at you. You're afraid he and I will come to harm, and that is a reasonable fear. But we're not leaving. Even if we could, we wouldn't. You don't abandon someone you love."
Sherlock's looking at him with an openly bewildered expression, his eyes glassy and his mouth slanted down at the corners. Lestrade has hardly ever seen him afraid before, and considering what kind of life Sherlock Holmes has led, the rarity of fear is remarkable. And now that Sherlock is afraid, it isn't for himself-but for John and Lestrade. So much for all that sociopath rubbish.
"Lestrade." Sherlock wraps his hands around Lestrade's wrists. "Please."
"No."
"I can't protect you."
"When I want protecting, I'll ask for it. I think I can say the same for John."
Sherlock pulls away from him, defeated, walking away down the length of the room and stopping at the end. He rests both hands on his hips and hangs his head, his back to the detective inspector, and Lestrade watches him for a moment before turning and letting himself out.
Lestrade had no intention of going to Baker Street in the evening, but John texts him and insists he come. I could use your help with Sherlock, the doctor says. When Lestrade arrives at 221, Mrs. Hudson lets him in and warns him Sherlock's in a state. The door to 221B is halfway open, Lestrade sees as he ascends the stairs. When he reaches the doorway and looks inside, he finds the sitting room in extra disarray and no sign of anybody.
John appears from the kitchen. "Oh, good, you're here. He came home before I did and tore up the whole damn place. Said he needed to make sure the bomber hadn't already planted a second one. I've been trying to straighten up."
"Where is he?"
"He said he needed air. Went out for a walk, I guess."
Lestrade and John both look around them at the room, and the detective inspector asks if Sherlock updated John on the situation. John nods and says he knows the bomb delivered was never activated and Sherlock believes a second is on the way.
"Do you think he's right?" says Lestrade
"He usually is. I'd love to think he's just being paranoid this time but-we can't afford to assume the best."
"When I briefed him this morning, he wanted us to leave London."
John looks genuinely surprised. "What?"
"Yeah. Got rather upset at me when I told him he was out of his mind."
"He thinks he's going to get another bomb and he wanted us to leave?"
Lestrade nods, hands in his jacket pockets. John throws his hands up and turns around into the kitchen. Lestrade slowly moves into the threshold between kitchen and sitting room, watching John clear things up in the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink and some of Sherlock's lab equipment. John's upset: Lestrade can tell by the way his face is set as he moves around with a quickness of anger, the downturn of his mouth and the draw of his eyebrows. Lestrade leans against the separating wall, arms crossed, and watches him until John stops moving and looks up at him.
"How could he ask that?"
Lestrade shakes his head. "He's scared. Scared we'll be caught in the middle. Why else would he ransack your flat while you were out? It's not like he cares about his own life."
John looks at him darkly, then scrubs at his face with both hands and sighs. "That's why I can't feel good knowing he's scared for us, Lestrade. Aside from the fact that I'm not a bloody coward, he doesn't care about his own life. He never has. He'll kill himself for the answer to a question, and I just can't-"
Lestrade steps forward and rounds the table to where John stands, taking him by the shoulders and looking at him.
"I can't stand by and watch him die," John says, shaking his head and meeting Lestrade's eyes with his own.
Lestrade pulls him into a hug, both arms wrapped snugly around him, and John doesn't hesitate to return the gesture, his face half-hid in Lestrade's shoulder. Lestrade's left hand finds its way to the base of John's neck, and they are both solid against each other.
"He's safer with us around," the detective inspector says quietly. "If he doesn't care about himself, we'll care enough for him."
Lestrade's mobile begins to chirp, sounding like a little bird and he stalls for two rings before pulling out of the hug and answering.
It's Donovan. Sherlock's met the bomber.
When John and Lestrade arrive at the scene, the area's already blocked off with police cars and yellow tape and policemen keeping the surrounding crowd from getting too close. Sherlock and the bomber struggle on the flat rooftop of a twelve story building; Lestrade and John can see them as they push through the crowd and coppers and crane their necks up to see.
John clutches at Lestrade's coat sleeve as they watch and says the detective inspector's name softly. Do something, he means. What are we going to do?
Donovan makes it to Lestrade's right side and he looks at her, asking if the bomber's armed.
"We have reason to believe he's got explosives. Sherlock texted."
"He didn't say anything to us," Lestrade says.
"SO19 should be here any minute, but without them, the rest of us didn't know what to except block off the area. We don't know how powerful the explosives are."
Lestrade nods several times. "I get it, you don't have to defend yourself." He looks back up at the roof and sees Sherlock's curls flapping around in the wind as he wrestles with the unidentified man. John lets go and heads toward the building.
"John!"
"We have to help him!"
"Wait for the squad!"
John ignores him, running into the building, and it doesn't take Lestrade more than a few seconds to follow. John's a few long strides ahead of him and pushing the elevator button too many times and shuffling back and forth on his feet and the elevator doors open with a ding! And Lestrade slides in after him and the ride takes too long, twelve stories, any moment, they could go up in flames and force, they might be too late, but the doors open and they're rushing up the stairs to the roof and Lestrade can hear John breathing fast and his own breathing and the door opens and light floods into the stairwell and they can see London and Sherlock and the bomber with his bomb in hand flung high above his head, another silver ball, and Sherlock's white hand grasping for it but out of reach and the bomber's got his free hand in Sherlock's coat and they're going to fall together, except John throws himself at the two men, wraps his arms around Sherlock from behind and wrenches him free and Lestrade's on the bomber without knowing how he got there and throwing him down onto the roof and wrestling for that silver ball and Sherlock's yelling his name and then he has it, cool and smooth in his hand, and he pulls and rolls away free from the bomber and stops still, lying on his back with the bomb held against his chest. His eyes are shut as he catches his breath and when he opens them again, the sky above is overcast, the clouds metallic gold and gray.
"Don't move!" John shouts, sounding every bit a soldier. Lestrade can't see him from where he lies, staring straight up, but soon Sherlock's at his side, looking flustered and asking him if he's all right. Lestrade just stares at him for a bit, takes in the white face and blue eyes and dark hair and the way Sherlock's breathing fast, and he can't think of anything.
The SO19 squad pour onto the roof from somewhere behind Sherlock with their masks and their suits and their big guns and Sherlock helps Lestrade up into a sitting position with the bomb still at his chest. John's pointing his gun at the bomber, staring him down with the face of an army dog. One of the officers swoops down onto Lestrade's right side and takes the bomb from him, and Lestrade suddenly feels like he might pass out. He sags against Sherlock, who takes him in both arms and inside his coat against his chest. They stay like that for a few moments, Sherlock murmuring to him words he can't decipher, until the officers start to usher them up. Sherlock pulls him to his feet and Lestrade leans heavy against him, arm still snaked around Sherlock's torso inside of his coat.
Now, John's next to him, taking him by the arm with a strong grip and pulling him along with Sherlock, back inside the building with the SO19 officers surrounding them and letting them through first.
Inside the elevator, the three of them breathe hard and lean against the rails and the walls as they are slowly lowered to the ground floor.
"Christ," John says, the first one to speak.
And Sherlock breaks into an open-mouthed grin.
"This is going to give me a heart attack one day," says Lestrade, sagging against the center rail with both hands. Sherlock hooks his arm around Lestrade's neck and touches his forehead to Lestrade's temple, other hand sweeping up to rest on Lestrade's chest.
Lestrade skips work the next day.
When we got home, I watched as Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's forehead, his hands gripping the doctor's jacket lapels, then wrapped his arms around John's neck and the two of them hugged each other for a long, intense moment. Sherlock keeps surprising me with his emotions. I suppose I'm surprised at all of us.
When he let go of John, he came to me and hugged me with equal intensity and whispered my name as he did. And I found myself shutting my eyes and trying to feel that hug with everything in me and I think I must've.
I think I love him.
About time.
He is surprised, as he wakes up late in the morning, to find Sherlock getting back into bed with him and wrapping arms and legs around him pressed against his back. He feels Sherlock's warm breath on his neck and sees the sunlight coming in through the window across from him.
"Never do that again," says Sherlock.
"What?"
"Put yourself in harm's way for me."
Lestrade lies there in the warmth and security of Sherlock's arms, in John's bed, and he knows he can't go back.
"When you stop being you, I'll stop being me," he says.
Author: CagedWriter61
Rated: PG 13
Part: 3/?
Pairing: Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade
Summary: In which Sherlock, John, and Lestrade have a three-person nonsexual relationship of an ambiguous nature.
Disclaimer: Sadly, no incarnation of the Holmes stories are mine.
Notes: I hope there's enough in this chapter! I'm doing my best to be mindful of keeping all the individual relationships in the triangle equal, and it's a challenge but a good one.
Links for Part 1 and Part 2.
Part III
Lestrade starts keeping a journal. He decides his relationship endeavors with Sherlock and John require some concentrated introspection on his part, not to mention the working out of details and problems on paper. He doesn't mention this journal to anyone, nor does he suggest Sherlock and John keep their own. He simply stops by the bookshop nearest his flat on his way home one evening and buys himself a large moleskine with ruled paper and begins to write in it, not every day but whenever he feels compelled to record an important feeling or change in the relationships or when he's trying to make sense of his own experience.
I never thought I'd be here.
But it isn't a bad place to be.
He keeps the notebook in his briefcase, which is the only way Sherlock won't notice it, and writes in it when he's at work or in his flat.
I started out thinking-didn't know I was thinking it but I was-that I'd be a kind of third wheel to Sherlock and John. I didn't see a problem with that. Better third wheel than nothing at all, yeah? It's remarkable that John thought to include me in all this; he and I weren't exactly best mates at the time, after all. I guess it was more for Sherlock than anything, which is fine. Sherlock was my primary reason for getting on board with this too.
He writes with relatively cheap, black ink gel pens: smooth and dark without bleeding through the paper. His handwriting is blocky and legible, refined years ago in service of his job.
It may be too early in the game to tell, but I don't think that's where this is going. Sherlock and John do have their own relationship apart from me, it's inevitable, since they're flat mates and Sherlock brings John along on cases whenever he can. It's a very deep relationship, in its own right. I'm a little bit astounded really, by how much is there between them.
I think Sherlock's proving me wrong about my status, though. I don't see him as much as John, but I do see him a hell of a lot more often than before. I'm always tempted to ask him, whenever he seeks out attention or affection, why he doesn't just go to John-but I guess I shouldn't shortchange myself.
He needs me. I have to wrap my head around that. Sherlock Holmes needs me. I don't want to be too presumptuous and say he loves me…Too soon for that. But he cares. That alone is unbelievable.
I'm trying to figure out if I love him. I know if I don't now, I'm going to later.
He stops and thinks for a moment, sitting at his desk in the sitting room, the desk lamp putting out the only light in the whole flat. He has the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows and the nicotine patch on the inside of his right arm shows.
I wonder what will become of my relationship with John. We're closer than we were. Friends now, apart from Sherlock, even though Sherlock was the thing that brought us together. What do I want from him? What does he want from me? We never really negotiated where we stood with each other.
I'm open to building things with him, the same way I am with Sherlock. If there's three of us, we might as well make full use of each other.
On that note, he closes the moleskine and goes to bed.
The bomb was in fact a dud.
This pisses off Sherlock to no end-and intrigues him too.
"Apparently, the bomb was never set to go off," says Lestrade, two mornings after the delivery. He meets Sherlock in Bart's lab again, where the consulting detective has been trying to do more research on the possible origins of the ball. The SO19 explosives specialists dismantled the ball and found it fully functional and capable of perturbingly immeasurable damage, but it was never "turned on." Lestrade watches as an angry Sherlock paces, mumbling to himself. "You're lucky. We all are."
Sherlock sneers at him, and if Lestrade were less accustomed to his antics or more sensitive, it might've hurt his feelings. Instead, he regards Sherlock coolly, his arms crossed.
"There's going to be another," says Sherlock. "That's the only thing this could mean. It was a warning."
"Possible," says Lestrade, nodding. "Or maybe he was just screwing with your head."
"Don't make light of the man capable of constructing or procuring such a bomb."
"You'd like it if he sent you another one, wouldn't you? Regardless of the fact, by your own theory, a second one would result in an actual explosion."
"It's not a matter of what I would enjoy, Lestrade. It's logic. You have any idea what that bomb is worth? Someone wouldn't just drop it off without detonating it, for no reason. There will be another."
Lestrade lowers his head, choosing not to argue.
"I want you to leave," says Sherlock.
Lestrade looks up. "Excuse me?"
"You and John, I want you out of London."
The detective inspector scoffs. "Oh, sure, I'll just go on holiday right away."
"I'm serious, Greg."
And Sherlock is very serious. He wouldn't use Lestrade's first name, otherwise. The two men hold eye contact, and Sherlock's blue irises the color of pale glass are full of intensity.
"I don't care where you go, just get out. And don't come back until I've handled this."
"Sherlock, besides the fact that I'm a detective inspector with pressing duties who can't afford to be away from my work, why the hell would you think I'd leave you here to handle another bomb threat on your own? Are you mad? Of course, you are, but really-be reasonable about this."
"What could be more reasonable? Two days ago, you and John were down my throat about staying in harm's way, now you want to knowingly put yourself in it? This has nothing to do with you or him. It's my challenge. Your presence will only create more unnecessary obstacles for me. I can't afford to worry about you, I need to focus."
"Well, too bloody bad," says Lestrade, calm and light. "John and I have jobs too. And more importantly, we don't run and leave one of our own behind. You should know better than that about us."
Sherlock's nostrils flare, he turns away, turns back, and slams his hand down on the nearest countertop. "Damn you, why do you insist on making my life difficult?"
Lestrade uncrosses his arms and steps up to Sherlock. He takes the other man's face in both his hands, feels the pale skin cold in his palms, and looks at Sherlock firmly.
"What you're feeling right now is fear. It's what John felt when he yelled at you. You're afraid he and I will come to harm, and that is a reasonable fear. But we're not leaving. Even if we could, we wouldn't. You don't abandon someone you love."
Sherlock's looking at him with an openly bewildered expression, his eyes glassy and his mouth slanted down at the corners. Lestrade has hardly ever seen him afraid before, and considering what kind of life Sherlock Holmes has led, the rarity of fear is remarkable. And now that Sherlock is afraid, it isn't for himself-but for John and Lestrade. So much for all that sociopath rubbish.
"Lestrade." Sherlock wraps his hands around Lestrade's wrists. "Please."
"No."
"I can't protect you."
"When I want protecting, I'll ask for it. I think I can say the same for John."
Sherlock pulls away from him, defeated, walking away down the length of the room and stopping at the end. He rests both hands on his hips and hangs his head, his back to the detective inspector, and Lestrade watches him for a moment before turning and letting himself out.
Lestrade had no intention of going to Baker Street in the evening, but John texts him and insists he come. I could use your help with Sherlock, the doctor says. When Lestrade arrives at 221, Mrs. Hudson lets him in and warns him Sherlock's in a state. The door to 221B is halfway open, Lestrade sees as he ascends the stairs. When he reaches the doorway and looks inside, he finds the sitting room in extra disarray and no sign of anybody.
John appears from the kitchen. "Oh, good, you're here. He came home before I did and tore up the whole damn place. Said he needed to make sure the bomber hadn't already planted a second one. I've been trying to straighten up."
"Where is he?"
"He said he needed air. Went out for a walk, I guess."
Lestrade and John both look around them at the room, and the detective inspector asks if Sherlock updated John on the situation. John nods and says he knows the bomb delivered was never activated and Sherlock believes a second is on the way.
"Do you think he's right?" says Lestrade
"He usually is. I'd love to think he's just being paranoid this time but-we can't afford to assume the best."
"When I briefed him this morning, he wanted us to leave London."
John looks genuinely surprised. "What?"
"Yeah. Got rather upset at me when I told him he was out of his mind."
"He thinks he's going to get another bomb and he wanted us to leave?"
Lestrade nods, hands in his jacket pockets. John throws his hands up and turns around into the kitchen. Lestrade slowly moves into the threshold between kitchen and sitting room, watching John clear things up in the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink and some of Sherlock's lab equipment. John's upset: Lestrade can tell by the way his face is set as he moves around with a quickness of anger, the downturn of his mouth and the draw of his eyebrows. Lestrade leans against the separating wall, arms crossed, and watches him until John stops moving and looks up at him.
"How could he ask that?"
Lestrade shakes his head. "He's scared. Scared we'll be caught in the middle. Why else would he ransack your flat while you were out? It's not like he cares about his own life."
John looks at him darkly, then scrubs at his face with both hands and sighs. "That's why I can't feel good knowing he's scared for us, Lestrade. Aside from the fact that I'm not a bloody coward, he doesn't care about his own life. He never has. He'll kill himself for the answer to a question, and I just can't-"
Lestrade steps forward and rounds the table to where John stands, taking him by the shoulders and looking at him.
"I can't stand by and watch him die," John says, shaking his head and meeting Lestrade's eyes with his own.
Lestrade pulls him into a hug, both arms wrapped snugly around him, and John doesn't hesitate to return the gesture, his face half-hid in Lestrade's shoulder. Lestrade's left hand finds its way to the base of John's neck, and they are both solid against each other.
"He's safer with us around," the detective inspector says quietly. "If he doesn't care about himself, we'll care enough for him."
Lestrade's mobile begins to chirp, sounding like a little bird and he stalls for two rings before pulling out of the hug and answering.
It's Donovan. Sherlock's met the bomber.
When John and Lestrade arrive at the scene, the area's already blocked off with police cars and yellow tape and policemen keeping the surrounding crowd from getting too close. Sherlock and the bomber struggle on the flat rooftop of a twelve story building; Lestrade and John can see them as they push through the crowd and coppers and crane their necks up to see.
John clutches at Lestrade's coat sleeve as they watch and says the detective inspector's name softly. Do something, he means. What are we going to do?
Donovan makes it to Lestrade's right side and he looks at her, asking if the bomber's armed.
"We have reason to believe he's got explosives. Sherlock texted."
"He didn't say anything to us," Lestrade says.
"SO19 should be here any minute, but without them, the rest of us didn't know what to except block off the area. We don't know how powerful the explosives are."
Lestrade nods several times. "I get it, you don't have to defend yourself." He looks back up at the roof and sees Sherlock's curls flapping around in the wind as he wrestles with the unidentified man. John lets go and heads toward the building.
"John!"
"We have to help him!"
"Wait for the squad!"
John ignores him, running into the building, and it doesn't take Lestrade more than a few seconds to follow. John's a few long strides ahead of him and pushing the elevator button too many times and shuffling back and forth on his feet and the elevator doors open with a ding! And Lestrade slides in after him and the ride takes too long, twelve stories, any moment, they could go up in flames and force, they might be too late, but the doors open and they're rushing up the stairs to the roof and Lestrade can hear John breathing fast and his own breathing and the door opens and light floods into the stairwell and they can see London and Sherlock and the bomber with his bomb in hand flung high above his head, another silver ball, and Sherlock's white hand grasping for it but out of reach and the bomber's got his free hand in Sherlock's coat and they're going to fall together, except John throws himself at the two men, wraps his arms around Sherlock from behind and wrenches him free and Lestrade's on the bomber without knowing how he got there and throwing him down onto the roof and wrestling for that silver ball and Sherlock's yelling his name and then he has it, cool and smooth in his hand, and he pulls and rolls away free from the bomber and stops still, lying on his back with the bomb held against his chest. His eyes are shut as he catches his breath and when he opens them again, the sky above is overcast, the clouds metallic gold and gray.
"Don't move!" John shouts, sounding every bit a soldier. Lestrade can't see him from where he lies, staring straight up, but soon Sherlock's at his side, looking flustered and asking him if he's all right. Lestrade just stares at him for a bit, takes in the white face and blue eyes and dark hair and the way Sherlock's breathing fast, and he can't think of anything.
The SO19 squad pour onto the roof from somewhere behind Sherlock with their masks and their suits and their big guns and Sherlock helps Lestrade up into a sitting position with the bomb still at his chest. John's pointing his gun at the bomber, staring him down with the face of an army dog. One of the officers swoops down onto Lestrade's right side and takes the bomb from him, and Lestrade suddenly feels like he might pass out. He sags against Sherlock, who takes him in both arms and inside his coat against his chest. They stay like that for a few moments, Sherlock murmuring to him words he can't decipher, until the officers start to usher them up. Sherlock pulls him to his feet and Lestrade leans heavy against him, arm still snaked around Sherlock's torso inside of his coat.
Now, John's next to him, taking him by the arm with a strong grip and pulling him along with Sherlock, back inside the building with the SO19 officers surrounding them and letting them through first.
Inside the elevator, the three of them breathe hard and lean against the rails and the walls as they are slowly lowered to the ground floor.
"Christ," John says, the first one to speak.
And Sherlock breaks into an open-mouthed grin.
"This is going to give me a heart attack one day," says Lestrade, sagging against the center rail with both hands. Sherlock hooks his arm around Lestrade's neck and touches his forehead to Lestrade's temple, other hand sweeping up to rest on Lestrade's chest.
Lestrade skips work the next day.
When we got home, I watched as Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's forehead, his hands gripping the doctor's jacket lapels, then wrapped his arms around John's neck and the two of them hugged each other for a long, intense moment. Sherlock keeps surprising me with his emotions. I suppose I'm surprised at all of us.
When he let go of John, he came to me and hugged me with equal intensity and whispered my name as he did. And I found myself shutting my eyes and trying to feel that hug with everything in me and I think I must've.
I think I love him.
About time.
He is surprised, as he wakes up late in the morning, to find Sherlock getting back into bed with him and wrapping arms and legs around him pressed against his back. He feels Sherlock's warm breath on his neck and sees the sunlight coming in through the window across from him.
"Never do that again," says Sherlock.
"What?"
"Put yourself in harm's way for me."
Lestrade lies there in the warmth and security of Sherlock's arms, in John's bed, and he knows he can't go back.
"When you stop being you, I'll stop being me," he says.