fic: Beginning To See The Light
Title: Beginning To See The Light
Author: fengirl88
Wordcount: 1900+
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Lestrade/ Maurice (updated from E.M. Forster's Maurice and the Merchant Ivory film)
Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC's Sherlock or Lestrade, or Forster's or Merchant Ivory's Maurice. Just playing.
Warnings: None in the conventional sense. Fluff.
Rating: 15 (?) but is an afterpiece to NC-17 rated fic The Old Bad Songs (warnings for sexual content, drug references, capture) and probably doesn't make sense if you haven't read that.
The Old Bad Songs (21000+ words) starts here if you want it:
fengirl88.livejournal.com/4243.html
Summary: A happy ending for the Lestrade/Maurice shippers out there (come on, I know it's not just me, kopoushka, ginbitch and calccarbonate ). With apologies to those who don't like happy endings, or who wanted one for Lestrade and Sherlock from that fic.
Beginning To See The Light
Almost a year to the day after their first meeting, Lestrade gets a text from Maurice, saying he's back from his round the world trip and would Lestrade like to come over for a drink. It's the first time Maurice's been in touch for a few months, so Lestrade's a bit surprised to hear from him. But it's nice that he's back, and nice that he wants to meet. Lestrade wasn't sure if he would, after the last time. Should be good to see him, though Lestrade hopes it's not going to be an evening of holiday snaps, which can get pretty fucking tedious if it wasn't your holiday. And there must be quite a lot of them, trip that long. He's lost track of how many months it was.
Another new concierge. They're really getting through them, Lestrade thinks. He says hello to this one, finds out the other one's on holiday, fair enough. Goes up in the glass lift, which still makes his stomach lurch and reminds him of Michael Hughes throwing himself out of a 28th-floor window. The door's open and Maurice calls to him to come in. That brings back memories too. Walking into the flat to find Maurice tied up and looking very scared. Being slugged by Hughes. And the rest.
Today Maurice is standing over by the window, looking out at his amazing river view in the spring evening light. He turns round when he hears Lestrade come in, comes over and hugs him, a careful sort of hug, not too close. Doesn't kiss him, which is probably just as well, though Lestrade feels a twinge of regret about it. Still, can't expect it, all things considered.
No sign of the boyfriend. “Where's Carl?” Lestrade asks.
“California,” Maurice says. “He decided he wanted to go back to college. It's a good idea for him.”
Lestrade tries not to look too surprised, though he is. Carl had been very much in evidence last time Lestrade saw Maurice, and pretty obviously fed up that Lestrade was there at all. Lestrade hadn't seen a face like that since the one JW pulled that time in Baker Street. Carl's Back Off, He's Mine face was if anything even fiercer than JW's. Probably comes of being twenty-something rather than JW's age. It had also been a bit bloody embarrassing being around someone who so clearly just wanted to jump all over Maurice the minute Lestrade was out of the room. Not that he could blame Carl for that. He'd have wanted it himself in the days when he and Maurice were shagging. If he hadn't been so fucked-up about Sherlock at the time, that is.
Now he wonders if the Carl thing is over or just on a break at the moment. Can't read it in Maurice's face but Maurice seems to know what he's thinking.
“We're not together any more.”
“Oh.” Lestrade tries to look neutral. Not sure if sympathy is called for. Knows looking actually pleased would be rude.
“It's all right,” Maurice says. “Just ran its course. I think he's better off being with people his own age. It was very nice while it lasted, and we didn't part on bad terms.”
Good for you, Lestrade thinks. And it is. Whoever ended it, Maurice seems in much better shape about it than Lestrade would have expected. Having an adoring much younger lover obviously did him the world of good, even if they've split up now.
He wonders if Maurice is seeing anybody, but he knows it would be a bad idea to ask. They're being a bit careful with each other, which is understandable.
Maurice's wine merchant is still coming up with the goods and no mistake. And this time the wine's already opened and breathing, so it's just perfect. He's glad he wasn't late, thought he would be for a minute there, text from Sherlock just as Lestrade was leaving the Yard, but he ignored it. Not going to spoil the first chance in ages of a nice evening like this.
Couldn't have done that this time last year.
Couldn't even have imagined it.
But one fine day you wake up and the unimaginable has happened. A day last October, he remembers it quite vividly. Waking up and feeling fine, as if finally all that fucked-up stuff had sunk to the bottom of the ocean where it belongs. Went out for breakfast to celebrate, then went for a run, which wasn't such a great idea on top of breakfast but he'd suddenly had this rush of energy he didn't know what to do with. So cheerful at work that everyone thought he'd finally got laid again and Donovan had started a sweepstake of likely candidates.
Not that it had been quite that simple. You don't just fast-forward the tape, DVD, whatever and then With one bound DI Lestrade was free, like the Saturday morning serials at the flicks when he was a kid. It had taken him a while to get to that October day, and there'd been some seriously weird shit along the way -
He doesn't let himself think about that. Never has, not since it happened. He knows that night with Sherlock is still buried somewhere far down in his mind, wakes up hot and cold all over sometimes knowing he's dreamt about it. No point in hauling it out to have a closer look. It's enough he's over all that now.
“How's Sherlock?” Maurice asks.
Lestrade winces. Maurice seems to have taken up mind-reading, which is a bit worrying and not like him. Probably just an accident, this time.
“He's fine, I think,” Lestrade says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Don't see much of him these days unless he gets involved in a case.”
Maurice looks surprised, or possibly disbelieving, Lestrade's not quite sure which.
Lestrade's phone beeps. Another text from Sherlock. Perfect bloody timing. “Sorry,” Lestrade mutters. He hits Ignore and switches his phone off.
They sit drinking the lovely wine, and they talk. Talk's quite stilted, though, to the point where Lestrade's almost ready to beg Maurice to break out the holiday snaps. He's also - he realizes uneasily - well on the way to getting drunk. Can't quite remember when he last had anything to eat.
“Have you eaten?” Maurice asks.
This is getting bloody unnerving. “Er - no,” Lestrade says.
Maurice gets up, walks over to him and gently takes the glass out of his hand. Puts it down on the coffee-table.
“Right,” Maurice says. “No more of that till you've got some food down you. Come on.”
“Bossy,” Lestrade mutters. He's actually quite relieved though.
Maurice plonks Lestrade down in a surprisingly comfortable kitchen chair and starts doing fast and efficient things with scissors and whisks and spatulas and saucepans. Lestrade stops watching because it's making him a bit dizzy, but just about manages to focus well enough to eat what Maurice puts in front of him. Scrambled eggs and ... something. He's never had them like this before. Very nice. After a while the food starts to work and he feels less fuzzy. Realizes he forgot to have lunch and didn't really have breakfast, which explains a lot.
Maurice is looking at him with a sort of exasperated affection and something else Lestrade can't quite get. Whatever it is, it's making Lestrade feel uneasy. Guilty, too. Some guest he is this evening.
“Sorry,” Lestrade says. “Should have had something before I came out, just one of those days.”
“Are you having a lot of days like this?” Maurice asks.
Lestrade thinks for a bit and says “Not really.”
“Whoever he is, he's not doing a very good job of looking after you,” Maurice says.
“That would be me, then,” Lestrade says. “Isn't anybody else.”
Bit of a surprising exchange, in the circumstances.
“Should have let me do it,” Maurice says. “I would have.”
Lestrade can't think what to say to that. Eventually he says “I know.” That sounds ambiguous so he has another go: “Wish I could have. I couldn't, though, back then.”
“Sherlock,” says Maurice, sounding defeated.
Lestrade wants to hug him, wants it so much it hurts, but he's afraid of doing the wrong thing, so he doesn't. Tries again.
“I did get over him. Truly. Have got over him. Just - the timing was wrong, you were already with Carl -”
“It's been that long?” Maurice looks like he's been slapped. Seen that look before.
Lestrade shuffles uncomfortably. “Like I said, you were with Carl, didn't really seem the right moment to say Oh by the way I got over Sherlock, fancy a shag?”
Maurice doesn't say anything. Lestrade thinks on reflection that Fancy a shag? wasn't exactly how that sentence should have ended.
“How long since you and Carl -” he begins. Grinds to a halt.
“Three months ago,” Maurice says. Matter-of-fact.
“You seeing anyone?” Lestrade asks, thinking Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Since they're already having this conversation he didn't think they were going to have. He's a bit out of his depth, to be honest.
Maurice shakes his head.
There's a silence. Lasting roughly three-quarters of a century, Lestrade reckons. Doesn't look as if Maurice is going to break it. Up to him, then:
“Would you like to go out some time?”
Sounding like a bloody teenager. Oh very smooth, Lestrade. That'll definitely work.
But apparently it does work.
Maurice looks taken aback. Then he smiles and says “OK.”
“You're not taking me to the Opera though,” Lestrade says warningly.
“Not on a first date,” Maurice says, pretending to be shocked. Then grins and says “Don't worry, we'll take it slow. We don't have to go all the way till you're ready for it.”
Lestrade snorts. He'd forgotten Maurice could be funny. Nice to be reminded of it.
Going all the way sounds quite nice too.
It's got late all of a sudden and Maurice is being rather firm about what a bad idea it is for Lestrade to try to make it back home tonight. So they argue a bit and Lestrade gives in, and Maurice says the spare bed wants making up and if Lestrade has sobered up enough he can give him a hand. Lestrade's slightly miffed about the spare room thing, because he'd thought Maurice was going to invite him to share his bed. But he knows it's probably just as well. No point in rushing things. Plus, he's still too fuzzy to be much use in bed right now.
They kiss a bit, making up the bed, and for a moment it looks like something might happen after all, but Maurice pulls away and says “See you in the morning.”
Lestrade falls asleep quickly, and if he has any bad dreams they leave no trace.
Wakes up to find it's morning. Cup of tea by his bed, still hot. He can hear Maurice singing in the shower. Sounds happy.
Nice start to the day, Lestrade thinks. And it's still early. No hangover either. Good. Need to get up soon, obviously. But just a few more minutes won't do any harm. Ages since he had a nice lie-in.
The sound of running water stops and so does the singing.
And here's Maurice, all damp from the shower, towel round his waist. Smiling and saying “Good morning.”
Lestrade's not about to argue with that.
Author: fengirl88
Wordcount: 1900+
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Lestrade/ Maurice (updated from E.M. Forster's Maurice and the Merchant Ivory film)
Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC's Sherlock or Lestrade, or Forster's or Merchant Ivory's Maurice. Just playing.
Warnings: None in the conventional sense. Fluff.
Rating: 15 (?) but is an afterpiece to NC-17 rated fic The Old Bad Songs (warnings for sexual content, drug references, capture) and probably doesn't make sense if you haven't read that.
The Old Bad Songs (21000+ words) starts here if you want it:
fengirl88.livejournal.com/4243.html
Summary: A happy ending for the Lestrade/Maurice shippers out there (come on, I know it's not just me, kopoushka, ginbitch and calccarbonate ). With apologies to those who don't like happy endings, or who wanted one for Lestrade and Sherlock from that fic.
Beginning To See The Light
Almost a year to the day after their first meeting, Lestrade gets a text from Maurice, saying he's back from his round the world trip and would Lestrade like to come over for a drink. It's the first time Maurice's been in touch for a few months, so Lestrade's a bit surprised to hear from him. But it's nice that he's back, and nice that he wants to meet. Lestrade wasn't sure if he would, after the last time. Should be good to see him, though Lestrade hopes it's not going to be an evening of holiday snaps, which can get pretty fucking tedious if it wasn't your holiday. And there must be quite a lot of them, trip that long. He's lost track of how many months it was.
Another new concierge. They're really getting through them, Lestrade thinks. He says hello to this one, finds out the other one's on holiday, fair enough. Goes up in the glass lift, which still makes his stomach lurch and reminds him of Michael Hughes throwing himself out of a 28th-floor window. The door's open and Maurice calls to him to come in. That brings back memories too. Walking into the flat to find Maurice tied up and looking very scared. Being slugged by Hughes. And the rest.
Today Maurice is standing over by the window, looking out at his amazing river view in the spring evening light. He turns round when he hears Lestrade come in, comes over and hugs him, a careful sort of hug, not too close. Doesn't kiss him, which is probably just as well, though Lestrade feels a twinge of regret about it. Still, can't expect it, all things considered.
No sign of the boyfriend. “Where's Carl?” Lestrade asks.
“California,” Maurice says. “He decided he wanted to go back to college. It's a good idea for him.”
Lestrade tries not to look too surprised, though he is. Carl had been very much in evidence last time Lestrade saw Maurice, and pretty obviously fed up that Lestrade was there at all. Lestrade hadn't seen a face like that since the one JW pulled that time in Baker Street. Carl's Back Off, He's Mine face was if anything even fiercer than JW's. Probably comes of being twenty-something rather than JW's age. It had also been a bit bloody embarrassing being around someone who so clearly just wanted to jump all over Maurice the minute Lestrade was out of the room. Not that he could blame Carl for that. He'd have wanted it himself in the days when he and Maurice were shagging. If he hadn't been so fucked-up about Sherlock at the time, that is.
Now he wonders if the Carl thing is over or just on a break at the moment. Can't read it in Maurice's face but Maurice seems to know what he's thinking.
“We're not together any more.”
“Oh.” Lestrade tries to look neutral. Not sure if sympathy is called for. Knows looking actually pleased would be rude.
“It's all right,” Maurice says. “Just ran its course. I think he's better off being with people his own age. It was very nice while it lasted, and we didn't part on bad terms.”
Good for you, Lestrade thinks. And it is. Whoever ended it, Maurice seems in much better shape about it than Lestrade would have expected. Having an adoring much younger lover obviously did him the world of good, even if they've split up now.
He wonders if Maurice is seeing anybody, but he knows it would be a bad idea to ask. They're being a bit careful with each other, which is understandable.
Maurice's wine merchant is still coming up with the goods and no mistake. And this time the wine's already opened and breathing, so it's just perfect. He's glad he wasn't late, thought he would be for a minute there, text from Sherlock just as Lestrade was leaving the Yard, but he ignored it. Not going to spoil the first chance in ages of a nice evening like this.
Couldn't have done that this time last year.
Couldn't even have imagined it.
But one fine day you wake up and the unimaginable has happened. A day last October, he remembers it quite vividly. Waking up and feeling fine, as if finally all that fucked-up stuff had sunk to the bottom of the ocean where it belongs. Went out for breakfast to celebrate, then went for a run, which wasn't such a great idea on top of breakfast but he'd suddenly had this rush of energy he didn't know what to do with. So cheerful at work that everyone thought he'd finally got laid again and Donovan had started a sweepstake of likely candidates.
Not that it had been quite that simple. You don't just fast-forward the tape, DVD, whatever and then With one bound DI Lestrade was free, like the Saturday morning serials at the flicks when he was a kid. It had taken him a while to get to that October day, and there'd been some seriously weird shit along the way -
He doesn't let himself think about that. Never has, not since it happened. He knows that night with Sherlock is still buried somewhere far down in his mind, wakes up hot and cold all over sometimes knowing he's dreamt about it. No point in hauling it out to have a closer look. It's enough he's over all that now.
“How's Sherlock?” Maurice asks.
Lestrade winces. Maurice seems to have taken up mind-reading, which is a bit worrying and not like him. Probably just an accident, this time.
“He's fine, I think,” Lestrade says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. “Don't see much of him these days unless he gets involved in a case.”
Maurice looks surprised, or possibly disbelieving, Lestrade's not quite sure which.
Lestrade's phone beeps. Another text from Sherlock. Perfect bloody timing. “Sorry,” Lestrade mutters. He hits Ignore and switches his phone off.
They sit drinking the lovely wine, and they talk. Talk's quite stilted, though, to the point where Lestrade's almost ready to beg Maurice to break out the holiday snaps. He's also - he realizes uneasily - well on the way to getting drunk. Can't quite remember when he last had anything to eat.
“Have you eaten?” Maurice asks.
This is getting bloody unnerving. “Er - no,” Lestrade says.
Maurice gets up, walks over to him and gently takes the glass out of his hand. Puts it down on the coffee-table.
“Right,” Maurice says. “No more of that till you've got some food down you. Come on.”
“Bossy,” Lestrade mutters. He's actually quite relieved though.
Maurice plonks Lestrade down in a surprisingly comfortable kitchen chair and starts doing fast and efficient things with scissors and whisks and spatulas and saucepans. Lestrade stops watching because it's making him a bit dizzy, but just about manages to focus well enough to eat what Maurice puts in front of him. Scrambled eggs and ... something. He's never had them like this before. Very nice. After a while the food starts to work and he feels less fuzzy. Realizes he forgot to have lunch and didn't really have breakfast, which explains a lot.
Maurice is looking at him with a sort of exasperated affection and something else Lestrade can't quite get. Whatever it is, it's making Lestrade feel uneasy. Guilty, too. Some guest he is this evening.
“Sorry,” Lestrade says. “Should have had something before I came out, just one of those days.”
“Are you having a lot of days like this?” Maurice asks.
Lestrade thinks for a bit and says “Not really.”
“Whoever he is, he's not doing a very good job of looking after you,” Maurice says.
“That would be me, then,” Lestrade says. “Isn't anybody else.”
Bit of a surprising exchange, in the circumstances.
“Should have let me do it,” Maurice says. “I would have.”
Lestrade can't think what to say to that. Eventually he says “I know.” That sounds ambiguous so he has another go: “Wish I could have. I couldn't, though, back then.”
“Sherlock,” says Maurice, sounding defeated.
Lestrade wants to hug him, wants it so much it hurts, but he's afraid of doing the wrong thing, so he doesn't. Tries again.
“I did get over him. Truly. Have got over him. Just - the timing was wrong, you were already with Carl -”
“It's been that long?” Maurice looks like he's been slapped. Seen that look before.
Lestrade shuffles uncomfortably. “Like I said, you were with Carl, didn't really seem the right moment to say Oh by the way I got over Sherlock, fancy a shag?”
Maurice doesn't say anything. Lestrade thinks on reflection that Fancy a shag? wasn't exactly how that sentence should have ended.
“How long since you and Carl -” he begins. Grinds to a halt.
“Three months ago,” Maurice says. Matter-of-fact.
“You seeing anyone?” Lestrade asks, thinking Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Since they're already having this conversation he didn't think they were going to have. He's a bit out of his depth, to be honest.
Maurice shakes his head.
There's a silence. Lasting roughly three-quarters of a century, Lestrade reckons. Doesn't look as if Maurice is going to break it. Up to him, then:
“Would you like to go out some time?”
Sounding like a bloody teenager. Oh very smooth, Lestrade. That'll definitely work.
But apparently it does work.
Maurice looks taken aback. Then he smiles and says “OK.”
“You're not taking me to the Opera though,” Lestrade says warningly.
“Not on a first date,” Maurice says, pretending to be shocked. Then grins and says “Don't worry, we'll take it slow. We don't have to go all the way till you're ready for it.”
Lestrade snorts. He'd forgotten Maurice could be funny. Nice to be reminded of it.
Going all the way sounds quite nice too.
It's got late all of a sudden and Maurice is being rather firm about what a bad idea it is for Lestrade to try to make it back home tonight. So they argue a bit and Lestrade gives in, and Maurice says the spare bed wants making up and if Lestrade has sobered up enough he can give him a hand. Lestrade's slightly miffed about the spare room thing, because he'd thought Maurice was going to invite him to share his bed. But he knows it's probably just as well. No point in rushing things. Plus, he's still too fuzzy to be much use in bed right now.
They kiss a bit, making up the bed, and for a moment it looks like something might happen after all, but Maurice pulls away and says “See you in the morning.”
Lestrade falls asleep quickly, and if he has any bad dreams they leave no trace.
Wakes up to find it's morning. Cup of tea by his bed, still hot. He can hear Maurice singing in the shower. Sounds happy.
Nice start to the day, Lestrade thinks. And it's still early. No hangover either. Good. Need to get up soon, obviously. But just a few more minutes won't do any harm. Ages since he had a nice lie-in.
The sound of running water stops and so does the singing.
And here's Maurice, all damp from the shower, towel round his waist. Smiling and saying “Good morning.”
Lestrade's not about to argue with that.