Two Sherlock/Lestrade Fics
Title: Through the Fire
Characters/Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock, John Watson, OC (Lestrade's son)
Summary: It isn’t until after Moriarty’s death that John begins to realize what the madman has truly cost Sherlock.
Notes: De-anon from this prompt on the kinkmeme, which asked for a Sherlock/Lestrade kid!fic. This is a revised and slightly expanded version of that fill.
----
A muffled pounding at the door startled John out of his concentration, and he accidentally added an extra ‘e’ to the word he had been typing.
“Get the door, would you, John?” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “That’ll be Lestrade.”
“He has a key,” John said, somewhat irritably. Sherlock had been working non-stop for the past week, and that meant he had been working as well - in addition to his shifts at the surgery. He was beyond exhausted. “Anyway, it’s open.”
“Yes, thank you, John, I do realize that. However, he’ll have his son with him and won’t have a free hand with which to open said door.”
“His what?”
“Just answer it, John!”
Grumbling to himself, John hauled himself up off the sofa and went over to the door. He opened it to reveal Lestrade standing on the other side, a young child in his arms, his foot raised in mid-kick.
“Ah, sorry, John,” he said sheepishly, shifting the load in his arms. John stared at him.
“I didn’t - sorry - you have a kid?”
“John, invite the man in and stop badgering him! We have work to do,” Sherlock called impatiently from the kitchen.
“Right, yes, sorry,” John said quickly, stepping aside and allowing Lestrade to pass. The boy he was carrying was sprawled across his chest, fast asleep, arms wrapped loosely about the DI’s neck and face hidden in his shoulder. He looked about four or five.
“My fault. I wouldn’t have brought him along, but we were on our way back from holiday when I got Sherlock’s message. Babysitter’s off for the week, you see, and I can’t just leave him -”
“No, right, of course not,” John said quickly. “Sorry, it’s just that Sherlock never said - well - anyway, what’s his name?”
“Daniel. Sorry he’s not more lively; been a long day,” Lestrade said, shifting the boy and then wrapping his arms securely around the back of his son’s legs, holding him in place. John led him into the kitchen, where Sherlock was bent over a microscope.
“Well?” Lestrade said when the detective didn’t look up at his entrance. “You brought me all the way out here; I’m assuming it’s for a reason. And, I hope, a good one.”
Sherlock straightened. “Have a look.”
Lestrade frowned but walked over to him all the same. Sherlock held out his arms for the boy and Lestrade gladly handed him over, cracking his neck as soon as he had been relieved of the extra weight. Daniel didn’t appear to register the change of arms; he simply muttered something and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, sighing contentedly. John raised an eyebrow that no one saw and kept his burning questions to himself.
“So what exactly am I supposed to be seeing, here?”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, just come out and say it! I haven’t the patience for one of your dramatic reveals tonight.”
“These are soil samples from the suspect’s shoes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “They clearly show that he was in Brixton at the time of the murder; in fact, he was in Brixton all day. There are no other kinds of soils on his shoes, which means that he couldn’t have been anywhere near where the victim was murdered.”
“And there’s no way he changed shoes?”
Sherlock leveled a look at him. “You don’t think I’ve already considered that possibility?”
“Yeah, s’pose that was a dumb question,” Lestrade muttered. “Won’t ask how you figured that one out though; probably don’t want to know.”
At that moment, Daniel stirred in Sherlock’s arms and blinked open deep brown eyes he had clearly gotten from his father. He lifted his head to lock eyes with Sherlock, staring at him for several moments in careful contemplation. John and Lestrade were quiet, watching the silent exchange between the detective and the child.
“Hello, Daniel,” Sherlock said finally. He swiped a thumb across the Daniel’s eyes, rubbing away the sleep.
“Hi,” the boy whispered. He appeared too tired to muster much outward excitement, but John saw that the corners of his mouth had turned up the moment he recognized who was holding him. He was pleased to see Sherlock.
“Did you enjoy your holiday?”
“Yeah.” Daniel scrubbed his eye with his fist. “We went to the sea.”
“So your father had told me.”
And then Daniel wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, clinging to him, and John felt as though he was intruding on a suddenly-private moment. Sherlock swallowed hard and laid his free hand on Daniel’s back, and then glanced cautiously at Lestrade. The DI met his eyes for a moment and then looked away, passing a hand over his mouth and shifting his feet.
“Well, this certainly complicates things,” he said finally as Daniel drew back from the hug. And just like that the spell was broken; Sherlock’s mask was back in place and Lestrade was focusing again on the case.
“It more than complicates things,” Sherlock retorted. “It - Daniel, do stop pulling my hair - it means that you have the wrong man.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Lestrade sighed, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped out of the kitchen and down the stairs, retreating to the front hall so as to have a bit of privacy.
“Daniel, this is my flatmate. Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, turning sideways so that the boy could see John. Daniel gave John a cautious look.
“Would you like something to eat, Daniel?” John offered, the words out of his mouth before he remembered that they had nothing in. But Daniel shook his head, and then gave a tremendous yawn. “Ah, well...bit tired, are we?”
“It’s past his bedtime,” Sherlock pointed out. “He has reason to be tired.”
“Not tired,” Daniel said, and then undermined his protest by wrapping thin arms around Sherlock’s neck again and tucking his head under the man’s chin.
“He seems quite taken with you,” John observed in amusement.
“I am familiar to him,” Sherlock rationalized, and John wasn’t sure how he was supposed to take that. He had, admittedly, spent time puzzling over just what Sherlock and Lestrade might be to one another in the six months he had been living in Baker Street. Most days they appeared to be colleagues, though now and then John caught Lestrade casting a concerned eye over Sherlock’s too-thin frame or the bruises he sometimes acquired from his private cases. And Sherlock’s apparent easy familiarity with Daniel spoke to a deeper relationship - friends, at the least, for Lestrade to trust Sherlock so implicitly with his son. Perhaps more.
Probably more, John concluded to himself, as Daniel curled his hand into Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock began to hum a tune he had been teasing out of his violin earlier that day.
“Home,” Daniel mumbled suddenly into Sherlock’s skin, interrupting any further inquiries John might have made. Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek on top of Daniel’s hair.
“Soon,” he soothed, and John was sure his own eyebrows disappeared into his hairline out of surprise at the uncharacteristic display of tenderness. “Your father needs to finish his case first.”
“Daddy’s working?” Daniel asked, pulling back so that he could look at Sherlock again through wide eyes. Sherlock exchanged a glance with John over the boy’s head, and John got the hint. He slipped out of the kitchen and returned to his laptop, allowing them a moment alone. The door to the kitchen was still open slightly, and through it he heard the remainder of Sherlock’s quiet conversation with Daniel.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John saw from a glance into the kitchen that he was rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, swaying with Daniel on his hip. “Yes, your father is working.”
“Daddy’s always working,” Daniel muttered.
“Your father is an important man.” Sherlock threaded his fingers through the soft hair. “He must work.”
“Like you?” Daniel asked, and Sherlock’s answer was either too quiet for John to hear or never came, because the next thing he heard was Daniel mumbling an exhausted, “I miss you.”
Lestrade came back up the stairs then, his footsteps drowning out any answer Sherlock might have given to that. He nodded to John and stepped into the kitchen, looking harried. The door slid shut behind him, and their voices were reduced to soft murmurs.
----
Sherlock turned around at the sound of the door sliding shut, and Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.
“Sorry about that,” he said, pocketing his mobile. “I hope he behaved.”
“You were gone less than five minutes, Lestrade,” Sherlock admonished. “How much trouble can he get into in that amount of time?”
“You’d be surprised.” Lestrade walked over and laid a hand on Daniel’s back. He peered into his son’s face; saw that he was nearly asleep again. Sherlock shifted Daniel in his arms and grimaced.
“What have you been feeding this child?” he asked in quiet disdain. Lestrade rolled his eyes.
“Bricks and weights. Food, Sherlock; what’d you expect me to say?”
“Is it normal for him to weigh this much?”
“Yes, and it’s called growing. It’s what children do.”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally and leaned against the table, crossing one foot over the other and gazing down at Daniel while Lestrade looked on. He supported the boy with only one arm now that Daniel’s weight was distributed evenly across his chest, and with the other he brushed light fingertips through the child’s fine brown hair.
Lestrade knew that look on Sherlock’s face, the one where his eyes narrowed slightly and made quick, staccato movements over whatever they were observing, flicking back and forth rapidly. He was committing Daniel to memory; adding him to his hard drive, corroborating what he saw now with what he had stored from the last time they had been together.
“It’s been a while,” Sherlock said finally, rousing Lestrade from his thoughts. His feet brushed against Sherlock’s in the narrow space between table and counter as he shifted position, listening. “Since I’ve seen him, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said softly. “He’s grown a lot since Christmas.”
Boxing Day, really; the last time they had all been together, because the detective had rung in the New Year with a concussion from a poorly-executed jump off a rooftop and then chased out the month of January with a serial killer and a pill that almost was the death of him. February had been busy on Lestrade’s end, and in March Sherlock had taken on a stream of clients and a reckless number of risks, landing himself in hospital on two separate occasions.
And then there been the bombs, and the pool, and the phantom known as Moriarty.
“I’ve missed it,” Sherlock said softly, and if Lestrade didn’t know any better, he’d have said that Sherlock’s tone was regretful. Piercing blue eyes, swirling with accusation and perhaps a touch of hurt, met his own. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
And Lestrade could hardly deny this, and Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated it, so he simply said, “Yeah,” again. Sherlock’s face fell a fraction before he managed to hide it, and Lestrade felt a dull ache start up in his chest.
“I would’ve kept you safe; you know that, Greg,” he said angrily. “Mycroft would have seen to it, if I’d asked.”
“And would you have?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes were fierce. “For you. Both of you. Did you ever doubt it?”
“No,” Lestrade said truthfully. “But it wasn’t that. He was growing attached to you, Sherlock. And in the space of three months you nearly died at least three times, which frankly is a record for you. I couldn’t - I couldn’t do that to him. Especially after the pool.”
Lestrade rubbed his shoulder absently. “It hurt him too much.”
“And this isn’t - won’t - hurt me?” Sherlock said bitterly. “Or you?”
“He comes first,” Lestrade said. “Always.”
“But Moriarty is gone now,” Sherlock pointed out.
“I know,” Lestrade said. He’d been there at Bart’s with John and Sherlock just last month, staring dumbly at the body of the small man who had caused so much destruction. Moriarty, consulting criminal, felled by a single bullet to the temple. “But I can’t ask you to change, and you wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. Your life - your life isn’t exactly conducive to child-rearing.”
“Neither is yours,” Sherlock snapped. Daniel stirred in his arms; Sherlock stilled immediately, rubbing the back of the boy’s neck until he quieted and fell deeper into sleep.
“I can’t ask you to be something you’re not,” Lestrade said brokenly. “It’d work, for a while. But it would kill you, Sherlock. You know that.”
“It wouldn’t,” Sherlock said quietly. “It’s tedium that rots my brain, Lestrade; not domesticity. But I hardly find Daniel tedious; nor do I find him dull. He changes every moment of every day; he’s inquisitive, and poses questions I myself admit are most intriguing, if sometimes a bit perplexing and amusing. He’s a child, and he’s fascinating.”
His gaze flicked over Lestrade, and he added, “As are you.”
“I couldn’t ask you to give up the work,” Lestrade whispered, knowing full well what methods Sherlock would turn to in order to ward off the fog of boredom.
“And I don’t know that I would,” Sherlock countered. “That’s not quite the point, though, I feel. I’d not give up the work, and likely wouldn’t change - but he would always be on my mind. And as such...I believe I would take certain precautions. More so than I have in the past, at any rate. I think you’d call that a compromise.”
“You’d compromise for him?” Lestrade asked, surprised. Sherlock’s mouth quirked.
“I’d do a great many things for your son, Lestrade,” he said, and rested his cheek absently against Daniel’s head. The image made Lestrade’s breath catch in his throat.
“He misses you terribly,” Lestrade said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them - and at the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, he found that he didn’t want to stop them. He added softly, “We both do.”
“Stay,” Sherlock said, voice cracking around the word. He swallowed.
“I really should get him home.”
“You’ve stayed over with him before,” Sherlock pointed out. “The bed’s more than large enough.”
Lestrade pushed himself off the counter and closed the distance between them, bending down to press his lips against Sherlock’s. God, but he had missed this - missed the velvet lips and tender, probing tongue and the way Sherlock sank against him. An arm slid around his waist; Sherlock’s other remained firmly wrapped around Daniel. Lestrade sighed, enveloping them both in an embrace.
“I have next Wednesday off,” he said finally. “We were going to go to the museum; Daniel’s been wanting to see the dinosaurs. Come with us?”
There was a pause, and then he felt Sherlock nod against his chest.
“Good.” Lestrade dropped a kiss onto his head. “Come on, see us out.”
Sherlock drew back from the embrace and straightened. Daniel stirred in his arms for the second time that night and, realizing that he was about to be handed back over to his father, began to whine.
“Stop,” Sherlock commanded. The squirming child stilled immediately - and Lestrade never had managed to figure out how Sherlock pulled that off - and leaned back in Sherlock’s arms to consider him solemnly. Sherlock curled a hand around the back of his neck and held Daniel in place while he kissed his forehead; then, with great reluctance, he passed the child back to Lestrade.
“I’ll see you next week,” he murmured to Daniel, swiping a thumb across his cheek.
“Promise?” the boy asked plaintively. Sherlock swallowed visibly, and that alone was nearly enough to break Lestrade’s resolve right there.
Christ, how he had missed this.
“Yeah,” Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll be there.”
He ducked around Daniel to press his lips to Lestrade’s, and his insistent fingers dug into the DI’s neck.
“I promise.”
Title: Skies May Fall
Characters/Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock, OC (Lestrade's son)
Summary: Lestrade decides to take the next step in his relationship with Sherlock. Set some months after “Through the Fire," though it's not necessary to read that first. I apologize for the obnoxious amounts of fluff within.
Notes:
1) This is a de-anon from this prompt at the Sherlock Rare Pairs Fest, which (also) asked for a Lestrade/Sherlock kid!fic. This is a revised and expanded version of that fill.
2) The child’s name was altered in the original fill to preserve anonymity, but he was intended to be Daniel. I’m terribly sorry to anyone who might have been attached to ‘Adam,’ but he is the same child!
----
Any moment, big or small,
Is a moment, after all.
Seize the moment, skies may fall
Any moment.
-Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods
----
Baker Street. -SH
Can’t.
Why not? -SH
Busy.
With what? - SH
You don’t know?
This is infuriating. Where are you? I have information for your case. -SH
I’m not working this weekend.
You’re always working. -SH
I promised Daniel. Not. Working.
----
Ten minutes later, Lestrade opened his front door to Sherlock kneeling on the step, picking his locks.
“I’m home, you know. You could’ve knocked,” Lestrade grumbled.
“This was more fun.” Sherlock got to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m not working this case with you. Take your information to Dimmock.” Lestrade turned and walked back down the narrow corridor, heading for the kitchen. Sherlock followed.
“Dimmock is an idiot,” Sherlock snapped.
“He’s not an idiot. You’re just sore because you forgot I was taking this weekend off to spend time with Daniel.”
“I did not forget. The detail wasn’t important; I erased it.”
“Of course you did.” Lestrade walked over to the stove and picked up the wooden spoon he had been using to tend to dinner. “Daniel, say hello.”
The six-year-old was sitting at the table, tongue between his teeth, pencil held tightly in his hand as he worked on his homework. His legs weren’t long enough to reach the floor, and he swung them absentmindedly.
“Hello,” he said without looking up.
“Hello, Daniel.”
Daniel’s head snapped up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, and his eyes widened when they fell on the man standing in the doorway. He slid off his chair and bolted for Sherlock, nearly tripping over both his feet in his haste, and flung himself into the detective’s arms.
“Where have you been?” he exclaimed, arms going tight around Sherlock’s neck as the detective lifted him easily from the floor.
“I’ve been solving crimes,” Sherlock told him.
“Like murders?”
“Yes, like murders,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade watched Daniel’s mouth fall open.
“That’s so cool!”
“Oh, not really,” Sherlock said distastefully. “Dreadfully boring, I’m afraid. I’m much more interested in you. Have you been enjoying school?”
“No,” Daniel grumbled, frowning. “It’s boring.”
“Yes, you’re quite right about that. It is. Unfortunately, your father insists that you must attend, like normal children do.”
“He attends because he has to, Sherlock, don’t pin this one on me,” Lestrade warned.
“Well, we know better, don’t we, Daniel?” Sherlock said, smirking at Lestrade. “We know you’re much more intelligent than your unfortunate peers.”
“Yeah!” Daniel said, though Lestrade had a feeling he hadn’t understood a word Sherlock had said.
“And to show that you’re much smarter than your classmates,” Sherlock continued, lowering Daniel to the floor and putting his hands on his shoulders, “you must go finish your homework before dinner.”
“Okay,” Daniel agreed easily, and hurried back over to the table to resume his work. Sherlock walked over to the counter and grabbed the kettle off of it. He proceeded to set about heating some water for tea. Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him.
“Making tea too, are we? What’re you trying to get out of me?”
“Nothing that can be discussed in front of your son. Or at least, nothing appropriate that can be discussed in front of your son,” Sherlock returned, and placed his hand discreetly on Lestrade’s rear as he passed. Lestrade swatted him away, glaring, ignoring the fact that the tips of his ears had gone quite red.
“That’s enough outta you, thank you,” he grumbled. “Cheeky git.”
“Dad, is he staying?” Daniel piped up.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Lestrade said, smirking at his lover. Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets and scowled back at him. “What do you think?”
Daniel sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it absently.
“I s’pose,” he said finally, and Sherlock winked at him. He grinned back.
“You two can finish that experiment you started a few weeks ago,” Lestrade said, against his better judgment. God, he was only just encouraging them. But Daniel’s face lit up at his words, and he couldn’t bring himself to truly regret them.
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said with a chuckle. “If it’s all right with Sherlock, of course.”
Sherlock nodded, occupied with making tea, and Lestrade added, “Need to get the damn thing out of my bathroom, anyway. Sooner rather than later.”
“Language,” Sherlock warned in a low voice, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.
He glanced around to see that Daniel had returned to his homework, and then leaned close to Sherlock’s shoulder to murmur, “Says the man who bit down on his hand so hard he broke the skin last time he was here, ‘cause otherwise he’d’ve been screaming bloody murder as he came.”
“Now who’s being inappropriate?” Sherlock said with a smirk. Lestrade shook his head and leaned over to steal a kiss from his gangly lover, ignoring the ewww that came from the table behind them.
“Stay?”
“If you’ll have me,” Sherlock said, handing him his mug of tea as Lestrade switched off the stove and asked Daniel to go wash up for dinner.
“You already know the answer to that one, Sherlock.” Lestrade took the mug, and raised it to him before taking a sip.
----
Sherlock and Daniel holed themselves up in the bathroom after dinner to work on their experiment, leaving Lestrade a few moments of peace that he used to work a report. There was little sound from the other room over the course of the next two hours, apart from the occasional delighted giggle and, once, a slightly-worrying boom.
“Were you successful?” Lestrade asked when Sherlock emerged later that night with Daniel in his arms. The boy had his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, and was regarding the world around him through half-lidded eyes.
“I believe so.” Sherlock’s voice was pitched low so as not to disturb Daniel too much. “He’s requested that I be the one to put him to bed.”
“By all means,” Lestrade said around a smile, pleased to hear that Daniel had been the one to ask. He worried often about how his association with Sherlock affected his son - especially considering the business with the pool and Moriarty that had colored the beginnings of, well, whatever it was they now had going on between them. But Daniel had taken to Sherlock, and quickly - perhaps a bit too quickly, in fact. Lestrade had tried to back off the relationship last April, after the incident at the pool, but it had proved miserable for all involved.
His son came first, always. But Daniel wanted Sherlock, and Lestrade found he hadn’t been able to deny him that for very long.
“You’re thinking,” a voice at his shoulder accused suddenly, and Lestrade started. Sherlock was sitting next to him on the sofa, though Lestrade hadn’t heard him emerge from Daniel’s room.
“Christ,” he whispered. “Yeah, sorry, just - got lost in my thoughts.”
“What were they about?”
“What, you can’t tell me?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m a detective, not a mind-reader.”
“You,” Lestrade said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “They’re about you.”
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed dismissively, moving to close the gap between them. “I can think of better things for you to occupy your mind with.”
“I’m sure you could,” Lestrade said, breaking the kiss and sagging against the back of the couch. An arm snaked around the back of his shoulders this time, and he found himself being tugged until his head was resting against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Daniel was inordinately excited at my appearance tonight,” Sherlock commented.
“He hasn’t seen you for a while,” Lestrade pointed out. “What’s it been since we last had a night together - two weeks? Four? That’s an eternity for a kid. Probably thought -”
He cut off the awful thought before it had chance to tumble from his lips, but Sherlock finished it anyway.
“Probably thought I had left,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade grimaced.
“I’m sorry. It’s just - you know, it’s hard, with his mother leaving and then the - the separation after the pool. He latches on quickly because he can’t help it - he wants to like people. But he also knows, in the back of his mind, that it’s easy for people to leave, because it’s happened to him before. He -”
But Lestrade stopped abruptly, realizing that not only was he spilling his son’s deepest fears - he was shedding his own. And on Sherlock, no less. He immediately felt guilty for the flood of information, as though he had violated Daniel’s trust by revealing it.
“Come on,” he said gruffly after a moment of silence that Sherlock didn’t fill. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”
----
Later, Sherlock’s sharp nose nudged Lestrade’s ear and he said, “You’re going to die.”
“Hey?” Lestrade twisted his head to glance over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Yeah, I s’pose so, but so are we all.”
“Some of us sooner than others.”
“Yeah, well, let me point out that you and John have a collective death wish. I’m not the only one with one foot in the grave,” Lestrade said with a snort and then closed his eyes. But the silence that met his words was not a content one, nor a satisfied one, and he found that he couldn’t slip off again.
“I can hear you thinking,” he accused softly, looking back again towards Sherlock.
He expected a snide answer; what he got instead was Sherlock slipping an arm around his waist and pulling himself closer, until he was pressed up against Lestrade’s back.
“s’all this, then?” Lestrade asked softly.
“It’s curious,” Sherlock said. “Everyone dies, and I have always known this. It’s the one thing that binds all of humanity - all species on this planet, even. And yet...”
He trailed off, tugging Lestrade closer. Lestrade knew better than to press him to finish the sentence, and settled for never knowing how it would end. He had almost drifted off to sleep when Sherlock said, “And yet, I find that thought of your death is...intolerable. And that in itself is unbearable, because I am a scientist, Greg. Death is fact - static, fixed, real. I should embrace it, as I embrace all the laws of science that govern existence. But I find this is one I can’t accept.”
“Love you, too, Sherlock,” Lestrade murmured. He took the hand that was laid flat against his stomach and laced their fingers together.
“I would, too, you know,” Sherlock added, speaking into the back of Lestrade’s head.
“You would what?” Lestrade asked, confused.
“Have you.” Sherlock’s lips brushed against his. “I’d have you.”
Lestrade rolled over so that they were fitted together, knees to thighs to chests, and rested a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. He curled his other hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and drew him in for a languid kiss, slanting their mouths together, flicking his tongue against Sherlock’s bottom lip until he was granted entrance.
“Would you want to?” he asked eventually, breaking away from the soft lips. He felt Sherlock still.
“Are you asking?”
Lestrade licked his lips. Was he?
Fuck it. He was never going to get another chance like this.
“I think I am,” he whispered. “Yeah. Definitely...definitely asking.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“You - wait, d’you mean yes, as in you want to, or yes, as in that’s what you thought I was asking?”
He felt more than heard Sherlock’s exasperated sigh.
“I mean yes, Inspector,” he murmured, lips brushing against Lestrade’s forehead, “as in, I’ll marry you.”
----
“But what about Daniel?” Lestrade asked some days later, once the glow of the idea had worn away and was replaced by facts and planning and real life concerns.
“What about him?” Sherlock asked, lounging in his chair, feet propped on Lestrade’s desk. They were at the Yard, going over the details of one of Lestrade’s cases, and one line of conversation had led to another had led to the marriage. It seemed that every conversation with Sherlock led to that topic these days, whether Lestrade had intended it or not.
“Well...I mean.” Lestrade cleared his throat, uneasy. “Sherlock, this - whatever this is, whatever it will be...he has to come first. Always.”
Sherlock lowered his feet to the floor and sat up straight; defensive. “And you believe I’m unaware of this fact? That I have forgotten the months following the pool already?”
“No, I didn’t -” Lestrade broke off, licking his lips in uncertainty. “You’d - for all intents and purposes, you’d be just like another parent to him. You’d have to be. I can’t shortchange my son by bringing someone into his life who doesn’t want to be as involved as Daniel would like. And he adores you - you know that. I need - we need - you to be fully on board.”
A crease appeared between Sherlock’s brows. “I thought we had been over this, Lestrade. Have I led you to believe that that isn’t what I want?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” Sherlock’s tone softened suddenly, and it gave Lestrade pause. “No, I realize what you meant.”
He stood, and said, “I knew from the start that forming an attachment with you meant forming one with Daniel as well. I knew you would expect nothing less. And you gave me an out at every step of the way, Lestrade. Did I ever take you up on them? Did I ever indicate to you that I wanted to take those outs?”
“No,” Lestrade admitted, knowing full well that after the business with Moriarty had been cleared up, Sherlock had been the one to ask for him back - not the other way around.
“Believe it or not, I...” Sherlock trailed off, because words didn’t come easily for him when they weren’t deductions or insults. “I’ve...enjoyed the time you’ve allowed me with Daniel. I’ve grown quite fond of him, in fact. And I look forward to being part of his life. In whatever way you’ll allow.”
“Every way,” Lestrade said immediately. “In every way, Sherlock, if that's what you truly want. I'd love that. He'd love that.”
The detective’s face slipped then, and a shadow of a smile appeared. He nodded, sharp, and Lestrade could see that the blue eyes were swimming with pleasure.
“Sherlock?” he called suddenly, as the other man turned to leave.
Sherlock paused in the doorway.
“Clear your schedule,” Lestrade said, “for - say - early September?”
Sherlock appeared to consider it a moment. “A Saturday?”
Lestrade gave a brisk nod. “Saturdays work for me.”
“And Daniel, because he’ll be in school by then,” Sherlock said. “Yes, that would work out well all around. I’ll inform John and Mycroft.”
Lestrade grinned. “Good.”
----
Eleven months later, Lestrade was escaping from his own wedding reception after what he determined was a decent interval of time. He slipped out onto the patio that wrapped around the west side of the banquet hall, where lawn chairs had been set out on the bricks for the guests who wanted to enjoy one of the last decent evenings of the summer.
Lestrade held his drowsy niece in his arms, having relieved her from her mother some time ago. He had three nieces and two nephews between each of his siblings, and he didn’t see them as often as he would have liked. The one he held now was the youngest, and he hadn’t had a chance to see her since the day she was born.
He sat in one of the low chairs, holding the baby to his chest, and she let out a soft whine until he stilled his movements and adjusted the blanket around her tiny form. She quieted, and he turned his gaze on the sky, letting his head fall back against the chair with a sigh. He was exhausted.
The civil ceremony had been blessedly brief, and had gone off without even so much as a whimper - which, considering that Sherlock was one half of the marrying pair, had been something of a miracle in and of itself. Nothing had blown up, no murderers had come barreling through, and, more importantly, no one had forgotten the rings. They had had only witnesses in attendance - Mycroft and John - and Daniel, who had sat in a chair at the very front and swung his legs, watching the exchange of rings and signing of the papers with unusually rapt attention.
And now the reception was in full swing, and had been for some hours already. Lestrade had done quite well for the first three, he thought. He’d danced with just about everyone who had dragged him out onto the dance floor - which had been just about everyone - and there had even been one point when a lithe arm snaked itself around his waist and he had found himself being steered toward the dancing crowd by Sherlock.
“What are you doing?” he’d asked in alarm, wondering what on Earth Sherlock could want out on the dance floor and thinking with a sinking feeling that perhaps he’d deduced that one of the guests was a criminal and was trying to get Lestrade to arrest him.
Sherlock had merely arched an eyebrow at him and said, “Dancing with my husband, I should think. Unless you would prefer not to?”
“Uh - no, I just - you dance?”
Sherlock had then proceeded to show him that, oh yes, he could dance.
Damn, could he ever.
The sliding glass door directly behind Lestrade’s chair opened, breaking him from his thoughts, and he recognized the tread even before Sherlock came into view. Lestrade twisted his head around to look up at him.
“Looking for someone?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock bent to give him a kiss.
“My husband, in fact,” he said, straightening. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Lestrade said with a smile, eyes turning back to the sky. “I’m sure he’s close by, though.”
Sherlock settled in the lawn chair next to him, stretching out his long legs and reclining. The night was warm still, with the faint scent of heavy leaves - the smell of late summer, the season on the very fringe of the turn. He followed Lestrade’s gaze to the sky and said, “I don’t know if I would say that. I think he’s miles away.”
Lestrade let his head fall to the side to look at Sherlock, and then held out a hand. Sherlock took it, gripped it, twined their fingers together.
“All right?” Lestrade asked quietly, and Sherlock nodded.
“All right,” he assured, and then nodded to the bundle asleep on Lestrade’s chest. “Which one?”
“My sister’s youngest,” Lestrade said, pulling his hand away and resting it on the sleeping baby’s back. “Ruth. I haven’t seen her since she was born. Six months ago, now.”
Sherlock reached out a hand and touched the side of the baby’s face, stroking her with soft fingertips. Lestrade felt his heart catch in his throat. It was entirely one thing to see Sherlock interact with Daniel, who was curious about everything and always bursting with questions that Sherlock was only too happy to answer. But this tenderness towards the baby, who by all accounts Sherlock should find dreadfully boring and uninteresting - this was what made Lestrade’s heart ache.
He couldn’t give Sherlock this.
Daniel appeared out of nowhere at Sherlock’s elbow, and Lestrade fought back his sudden melancholy to flash him a bright smile. “Hey, sport. Have you been having fun?”
He nodded, but didn’t return his father’s wide smile - must be getting tired. Sherlock withdrew his hand from the baby and leaned back in his chair. Daniel made eye contact with him, and a silent conversation passed between the two. A moment later Sherlock was holding out an arm and Daniel was clambering into his lap. He settled against Sherlock’s chest and mumbled something that Lestrade couldn’t make out.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Sherlock said solemnly. He leaned forward carefully and slipped out of his suit jacket. He draped it over Daniel’s form, and then proceeded to wrap his arms around the child, holding him close. “And how did you know she owns two dogs?”
Lestrade shook his head in wonder and turned his gaze back to the sky, listening with one ear as Daniel outlined his deductions and Sherlock hummed along, filling in the gaps here and there and praising Daniel for his attention to detail. After several long moments his son’s voice died away, and Lestrade glanced over to see that he had fallen asleep.
“He’s yours now, you know,” Lestrade said quietly, watching as Sherlock brushed Daniel’s fine hair off his forehead.
“Ours,” Sherlock corrected, and the word appeared to startle him. His eyes went wide as soon as it left his mouth, and his gaze dropped from Lestrade’s face to Daniel’s. He considered Daniel for some moments, lips parted in wonder, and gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. And then he bowed his head, pressing his lips to Daniel’s forehead, and Lestrade’s heart began to knock hard against his ribcage.
“Yeah,” Lestrade said thickly, reaching out to thread his hand through Sherlock’s curls. Light from a flickering candle caught the new ring on his hand, making it stand out sharply against the dark locks. “Yeah, he’s ours. He always has been, though, in a way. You’ve known him practically since the day he was born.”
“I wasn’t exactly in the correct state of mind, those early years,” Sherlock said.
“Well, neither was I,” Lestrade pointed out. “What with the divorce and all. But we managed, yeah? Worked itself out in the end, I’d say.”
“There’s still...so much time lost,” Sherlock mused, staring down at Daniel. “So much I don’t remember, because it got deleted or I wasn’t in the right mindset to save it in the first place. Certain things I don’t know about him. What he wore on his third birthday. What he looked like playing in the snow at two.”
“You can’t remember it all,” Lestrade said gently. “And anyway, you have all this time now. Daniel’s future. You’ll be there for it; get to watch him grow. That counts for something, yeah? There are some things you don’t know about him, sure, but that’s nothing compared to all you still have to learn.”
“All we still have to learn,” Sherlock corrected.
Lestrade’s sister came to fetch her child fifteen minutes later, and both Lestrade and Sherlock rose from their chairs to give her their goodbyes. Most of the guests had left now and, scanning the room through the glass doors, Lestrade recognized only John from their close circle of friends. Everyone else was distant family, or friends of friends.
He turned to Sherlock and lifted Daniel from his arms, relieving him temporarily of the dead weight. Sherlock smiled down at him, and then ducked his head for a kiss.
“What was that for?” Lestrade murmured when they broke apart, brushing his knuckles against Sherlock’s jaw.
“My husband,” Sherlock said by way of answer, capturing the hand in his own and kissing Lestrade’s fingers. He then turned his attention to Daniel, sweeping his fingertips over the sleeping boy’s cheek. “And...and my child.”
He wrapped one arm around Lestrade’s shoulders and the other around Daniel’s back, embracing them both.
“Yeah,” Lestrade whispered. “Yeah, always, Sherlock. We’re yours.”
Characters/Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock, John Watson, OC (Lestrade's son)
Summary: It isn’t until after Moriarty’s death that John begins to realize what the madman has truly cost Sherlock.
Notes: De-anon from this prompt on the kinkmeme, which asked for a Sherlock/Lestrade kid!fic. This is a revised and slightly expanded version of that fill.
----
A muffled pounding at the door startled John out of his concentration, and he accidentally added an extra ‘e’ to the word he had been typing.
“Get the door, would you, John?” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “That’ll be Lestrade.”
“He has a key,” John said, somewhat irritably. Sherlock had been working non-stop for the past week, and that meant he had been working as well - in addition to his shifts at the surgery. He was beyond exhausted. “Anyway, it’s open.”
“Yes, thank you, John, I do realize that. However, he’ll have his son with him and won’t have a free hand with which to open said door.”
“His what?”
“Just answer it, John!”
Grumbling to himself, John hauled himself up off the sofa and went over to the door. He opened it to reveal Lestrade standing on the other side, a young child in his arms, his foot raised in mid-kick.
“Ah, sorry, John,” he said sheepishly, shifting the load in his arms. John stared at him.
“I didn’t - sorry - you have a kid?”
“John, invite the man in and stop badgering him! We have work to do,” Sherlock called impatiently from the kitchen.
“Right, yes, sorry,” John said quickly, stepping aside and allowing Lestrade to pass. The boy he was carrying was sprawled across his chest, fast asleep, arms wrapped loosely about the DI’s neck and face hidden in his shoulder. He looked about four or five.
“My fault. I wouldn’t have brought him along, but we were on our way back from holiday when I got Sherlock’s message. Babysitter’s off for the week, you see, and I can’t just leave him -”
“No, right, of course not,” John said quickly. “Sorry, it’s just that Sherlock never said - well - anyway, what’s his name?”
“Daniel. Sorry he’s not more lively; been a long day,” Lestrade said, shifting the boy and then wrapping his arms securely around the back of his son’s legs, holding him in place. John led him into the kitchen, where Sherlock was bent over a microscope.
“Well?” Lestrade said when the detective didn’t look up at his entrance. “You brought me all the way out here; I’m assuming it’s for a reason. And, I hope, a good one.”
Sherlock straightened. “Have a look.”
Lestrade frowned but walked over to him all the same. Sherlock held out his arms for the boy and Lestrade gladly handed him over, cracking his neck as soon as he had been relieved of the extra weight. Daniel didn’t appear to register the change of arms; he simply muttered something and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, sighing contentedly. John raised an eyebrow that no one saw and kept his burning questions to himself.
“So what exactly am I supposed to be seeing, here?”
“You don’t know?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, just come out and say it! I haven’t the patience for one of your dramatic reveals tonight.”
“These are soil samples from the suspect’s shoes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “They clearly show that he was in Brixton at the time of the murder; in fact, he was in Brixton all day. There are no other kinds of soils on his shoes, which means that he couldn’t have been anywhere near where the victim was murdered.”
“And there’s no way he changed shoes?”
Sherlock leveled a look at him. “You don’t think I’ve already considered that possibility?”
“Yeah, s’pose that was a dumb question,” Lestrade muttered. “Won’t ask how you figured that one out though; probably don’t want to know.”
At that moment, Daniel stirred in Sherlock’s arms and blinked open deep brown eyes he had clearly gotten from his father. He lifted his head to lock eyes with Sherlock, staring at him for several moments in careful contemplation. John and Lestrade were quiet, watching the silent exchange between the detective and the child.
“Hello, Daniel,” Sherlock said finally. He swiped a thumb across the Daniel’s eyes, rubbing away the sleep.
“Hi,” the boy whispered. He appeared too tired to muster much outward excitement, but John saw that the corners of his mouth had turned up the moment he recognized who was holding him. He was pleased to see Sherlock.
“Did you enjoy your holiday?”
“Yeah.” Daniel scrubbed his eye with his fist. “We went to the sea.”
“So your father had told me.”
And then Daniel wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, clinging to him, and John felt as though he was intruding on a suddenly-private moment. Sherlock swallowed hard and laid his free hand on Daniel’s back, and then glanced cautiously at Lestrade. The DI met his eyes for a moment and then looked away, passing a hand over his mouth and shifting his feet.
“Well, this certainly complicates things,” he said finally as Daniel drew back from the hug. And just like that the spell was broken; Sherlock’s mask was back in place and Lestrade was focusing again on the case.
“It more than complicates things,” Sherlock retorted. “It - Daniel, do stop pulling my hair - it means that you have the wrong man.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Lestrade sighed, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Let me make a few calls. I’ll be right back.”
He slipped out of the kitchen and down the stairs, retreating to the front hall so as to have a bit of privacy.
“Daniel, this is my flatmate. Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said, turning sideways so that the boy could see John. Daniel gave John a cautious look.
“Would you like something to eat, Daniel?” John offered, the words out of his mouth before he remembered that they had nothing in. But Daniel shook his head, and then gave a tremendous yawn. “Ah, well...bit tired, are we?”
“It’s past his bedtime,” Sherlock pointed out. “He has reason to be tired.”
“Not tired,” Daniel said, and then undermined his protest by wrapping thin arms around Sherlock’s neck again and tucking his head under the man’s chin.
“He seems quite taken with you,” John observed in amusement.
“I am familiar to him,” Sherlock rationalized, and John wasn’t sure how he was supposed to take that. He had, admittedly, spent time puzzling over just what Sherlock and Lestrade might be to one another in the six months he had been living in Baker Street. Most days they appeared to be colleagues, though now and then John caught Lestrade casting a concerned eye over Sherlock’s too-thin frame or the bruises he sometimes acquired from his private cases. And Sherlock’s apparent easy familiarity with Daniel spoke to a deeper relationship - friends, at the least, for Lestrade to trust Sherlock so implicitly with his son. Perhaps more.
Probably more, John concluded to himself, as Daniel curled his hand into Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock began to hum a tune he had been teasing out of his violin earlier that day.
“Home,” Daniel mumbled suddenly into Sherlock’s skin, interrupting any further inquiries John might have made. Sherlock tipped his head to rest his cheek on top of Daniel’s hair.
“Soon,” he soothed, and John was sure his own eyebrows disappeared into his hairline out of surprise at the uncharacteristic display of tenderness. “Your father needs to finish his case first.”
“Daddy’s working?” Daniel asked, pulling back so that he could look at Sherlock again through wide eyes. Sherlock exchanged a glance with John over the boy’s head, and John got the hint. He slipped out of the kitchen and returned to his laptop, allowing them a moment alone. The door to the kitchen was still open slightly, and through it he heard the remainder of Sherlock’s quiet conversation with Daniel.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John saw from a glance into the kitchen that he was rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, swaying with Daniel on his hip. “Yes, your father is working.”
“Daddy’s always working,” Daniel muttered.
“Your father is an important man.” Sherlock threaded his fingers through the soft hair. “He must work.”
“Like you?” Daniel asked, and Sherlock’s answer was either too quiet for John to hear or never came, because the next thing he heard was Daniel mumbling an exhausted, “I miss you.”
Lestrade came back up the stairs then, his footsteps drowning out any answer Sherlock might have given to that. He nodded to John and stepped into the kitchen, looking harried. The door slid shut behind him, and their voices were reduced to soft murmurs.
----
Sherlock turned around at the sound of the door sliding shut, and Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.
“Sorry about that,” he said, pocketing his mobile. “I hope he behaved.”
“You were gone less than five minutes, Lestrade,” Sherlock admonished. “How much trouble can he get into in that amount of time?”
“You’d be surprised.” Lestrade walked over and laid a hand on Daniel’s back. He peered into his son’s face; saw that he was nearly asleep again. Sherlock shifted Daniel in his arms and grimaced.
“What have you been feeding this child?” he asked in quiet disdain. Lestrade rolled his eyes.
“Bricks and weights. Food, Sherlock; what’d you expect me to say?”
“Is it normal for him to weigh this much?”
“Yes, and it’s called growing. It’s what children do.”
Sherlock hummed noncommittally and leaned against the table, crossing one foot over the other and gazing down at Daniel while Lestrade looked on. He supported the boy with only one arm now that Daniel’s weight was distributed evenly across his chest, and with the other he brushed light fingertips through the child’s fine brown hair.
Lestrade knew that look on Sherlock’s face, the one where his eyes narrowed slightly and made quick, staccato movements over whatever they were observing, flicking back and forth rapidly. He was committing Daniel to memory; adding him to his hard drive, corroborating what he saw now with what he had stored from the last time they had been together.
“It’s been a while,” Sherlock said finally, rousing Lestrade from his thoughts. His feet brushed against Sherlock’s in the narrow space between table and counter as he shifted position, listening. “Since I’ve seen him, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Lestrade said softly. “He’s grown a lot since Christmas.”
Boxing Day, really; the last time they had all been together, because the detective had rung in the New Year with a concussion from a poorly-executed jump off a rooftop and then chased out the month of January with a serial killer and a pill that almost was the death of him. February had been busy on Lestrade’s end, and in March Sherlock had taken on a stream of clients and a reckless number of risks, landing himself in hospital on two separate occasions.
And then there been the bombs, and the pool, and the phantom known as Moriarty.
“I’ve missed it,” Sherlock said softly, and if Lestrade didn’t know any better, he’d have said that Sherlock’s tone was regretful. Piercing blue eyes, swirling with accusation and perhaps a touch of hurt, met his own. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
And Lestrade could hardly deny this, and Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated it, so he simply said, “Yeah,” again. Sherlock’s face fell a fraction before he managed to hide it, and Lestrade felt a dull ache start up in his chest.
“I would’ve kept you safe; you know that, Greg,” he said angrily. “Mycroft would have seen to it, if I’d asked.”
“And would you have?”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes were fierce. “For you. Both of you. Did you ever doubt it?”
“No,” Lestrade said truthfully. “But it wasn’t that. He was growing attached to you, Sherlock. And in the space of three months you nearly died at least three times, which frankly is a record for you. I couldn’t - I couldn’t do that to him. Especially after the pool.”
Lestrade rubbed his shoulder absently. “It hurt him too much.”
“And this isn’t - won’t - hurt me?” Sherlock said bitterly. “Or you?”
“He comes first,” Lestrade said. “Always.”
“But Moriarty is gone now,” Sherlock pointed out.
“I know,” Lestrade said. He’d been there at Bart’s with John and Sherlock just last month, staring dumbly at the body of the small man who had caused so much destruction. Moriarty, consulting criminal, felled by a single bullet to the temple. “But I can’t ask you to change, and you wouldn’t appreciate it anyway. Your life - your life isn’t exactly conducive to child-rearing.”
“Neither is yours,” Sherlock snapped. Daniel stirred in his arms; Sherlock stilled immediately, rubbing the back of the boy’s neck until he quieted and fell deeper into sleep.
“I can’t ask you to be something you’re not,” Lestrade said brokenly. “It’d work, for a while. But it would kill you, Sherlock. You know that.”
“It wouldn’t,” Sherlock said quietly. “It’s tedium that rots my brain, Lestrade; not domesticity. But I hardly find Daniel tedious; nor do I find him dull. He changes every moment of every day; he’s inquisitive, and poses questions I myself admit are most intriguing, if sometimes a bit perplexing and amusing. He’s a child, and he’s fascinating.”
His gaze flicked over Lestrade, and he added, “As are you.”
“I couldn’t ask you to give up the work,” Lestrade whispered, knowing full well what methods Sherlock would turn to in order to ward off the fog of boredom.
“And I don’t know that I would,” Sherlock countered. “That’s not quite the point, though, I feel. I’d not give up the work, and likely wouldn’t change - but he would always be on my mind. And as such...I believe I would take certain precautions. More so than I have in the past, at any rate. I think you’d call that a compromise.”
“You’d compromise for him?” Lestrade asked, surprised. Sherlock’s mouth quirked.
“I’d do a great many things for your son, Lestrade,” he said, and rested his cheek absently against Daniel’s head. The image made Lestrade’s breath catch in his throat.
“He misses you terribly,” Lestrade said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them - and at the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, he found that he didn’t want to stop them. He added softly, “We both do.”
“Stay,” Sherlock said, voice cracking around the word. He swallowed.
“I really should get him home.”
“You’ve stayed over with him before,” Sherlock pointed out. “The bed’s more than large enough.”
Lestrade pushed himself off the counter and closed the distance between them, bending down to press his lips against Sherlock’s. God, but he had missed this - missed the velvet lips and tender, probing tongue and the way Sherlock sank against him. An arm slid around his waist; Sherlock’s other remained firmly wrapped around Daniel. Lestrade sighed, enveloping them both in an embrace.
“I have next Wednesday off,” he said finally. “We were going to go to the museum; Daniel’s been wanting to see the dinosaurs. Come with us?”
There was a pause, and then he felt Sherlock nod against his chest.
“Good.” Lestrade dropped a kiss onto his head. “Come on, see us out.”
Sherlock drew back from the embrace and straightened. Daniel stirred in his arms for the second time that night and, realizing that he was about to be handed back over to his father, began to whine.
“Stop,” Sherlock commanded. The squirming child stilled immediately - and Lestrade never had managed to figure out how Sherlock pulled that off - and leaned back in Sherlock’s arms to consider him solemnly. Sherlock curled a hand around the back of his neck and held Daniel in place while he kissed his forehead; then, with great reluctance, he passed the child back to Lestrade.
“I’ll see you next week,” he murmured to Daniel, swiping a thumb across his cheek.
“Promise?” the boy asked plaintively. Sherlock swallowed visibly, and that alone was nearly enough to break Lestrade’s resolve right there.
Christ, how he had missed this.
“Yeah,” Sherlock said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Yeah, I promise. I’ll be there.”
He ducked around Daniel to press his lips to Lestrade’s, and his insistent fingers dug into the DI’s neck.
“I promise.”
Title: Skies May Fall
Characters/Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock, OC (Lestrade's son)
Summary: Lestrade decides to take the next step in his relationship with Sherlock. Set some months after “Through the Fire," though it's not necessary to read that first. I apologize for the obnoxious amounts of fluff within.
Notes:
1) This is a de-anon from this prompt at the Sherlock Rare Pairs Fest, which (also) asked for a Lestrade/Sherlock kid!fic. This is a revised and expanded version of that fill.
2) The child’s name was altered in the original fill to preserve anonymity, but he was intended to be Daniel. I’m terribly sorry to anyone who might have been attached to ‘Adam,’ but he is the same child!
----
Any moment, big or small,
Is a moment, after all.
Seize the moment, skies may fall
Any moment.
-Stephen Sondheim, Into the Woods
----
Baker Street. -SH
Can’t.
Why not? -SH
Busy.
With what? - SH
You don’t know?
This is infuriating. Where are you? I have information for your case. -SH
I’m not working this weekend.
You’re always working. -SH
I promised Daniel. Not. Working.
----
Ten minutes later, Lestrade opened his front door to Sherlock kneeling on the step, picking his locks.
“I’m home, you know. You could’ve knocked,” Lestrade grumbled.
“This was more fun.” Sherlock got to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m not working this case with you. Take your information to Dimmock.” Lestrade turned and walked back down the narrow corridor, heading for the kitchen. Sherlock followed.
“Dimmock is an idiot,” Sherlock snapped.
“He’s not an idiot. You’re just sore because you forgot I was taking this weekend off to spend time with Daniel.”
“I did not forget. The detail wasn’t important; I erased it.”
“Of course you did.” Lestrade walked over to the stove and picked up the wooden spoon he had been using to tend to dinner. “Daniel, say hello.”
The six-year-old was sitting at the table, tongue between his teeth, pencil held tightly in his hand as he worked on his homework. His legs weren’t long enough to reach the floor, and he swung them absentmindedly.
“Hello,” he said without looking up.
“Hello, Daniel.”
Daniel’s head snapped up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, and his eyes widened when they fell on the man standing in the doorway. He slid off his chair and bolted for Sherlock, nearly tripping over both his feet in his haste, and flung himself into the detective’s arms.
“Where have you been?” he exclaimed, arms going tight around Sherlock’s neck as the detective lifted him easily from the floor.
“I’ve been solving crimes,” Sherlock told him.
“Like murders?”
“Yes, like murders,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade watched Daniel’s mouth fall open.
“That’s so cool!”
“Oh, not really,” Sherlock said distastefully. “Dreadfully boring, I’m afraid. I’m much more interested in you. Have you been enjoying school?”
“No,” Daniel grumbled, frowning. “It’s boring.”
“Yes, you’re quite right about that. It is. Unfortunately, your father insists that you must attend, like normal children do.”
“He attends because he has to, Sherlock, don’t pin this one on me,” Lestrade warned.
“Well, we know better, don’t we, Daniel?” Sherlock said, smirking at Lestrade. “We know you’re much more intelligent than your unfortunate peers.”
“Yeah!” Daniel said, though Lestrade had a feeling he hadn’t understood a word Sherlock had said.
“And to show that you’re much smarter than your classmates,” Sherlock continued, lowering Daniel to the floor and putting his hands on his shoulders, “you must go finish your homework before dinner.”
“Okay,” Daniel agreed easily, and hurried back over to the table to resume his work. Sherlock walked over to the counter and grabbed the kettle off of it. He proceeded to set about heating some water for tea. Lestrade raised his eyebrows at him.
“Making tea too, are we? What’re you trying to get out of me?”
“Nothing that can be discussed in front of your son. Or at least, nothing appropriate that can be discussed in front of your son,” Sherlock returned, and placed his hand discreetly on Lestrade’s rear as he passed. Lestrade swatted him away, glaring, ignoring the fact that the tips of his ears had gone quite red.
“That’s enough outta you, thank you,” he grumbled. “Cheeky git.”
“Dad, is he staying?” Daniel piped up.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Lestrade said, smirking at his lover. Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets and scowled back at him. “What do you think?”
Daniel sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, chewing on it absently.
“I s’pose,” he said finally, and Sherlock winked at him. He grinned back.
“You two can finish that experiment you started a few weeks ago,” Lestrade said, against his better judgment. God, he was only just encouraging them. But Daniel’s face lit up at his words, and he couldn’t bring himself to truly regret them.
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said with a chuckle. “If it’s all right with Sherlock, of course.”
Sherlock nodded, occupied with making tea, and Lestrade added, “Need to get the damn thing out of my bathroom, anyway. Sooner rather than later.”
“Language,” Sherlock warned in a low voice, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.
He glanced around to see that Daniel had returned to his homework, and then leaned close to Sherlock’s shoulder to murmur, “Says the man who bit down on his hand so hard he broke the skin last time he was here, ‘cause otherwise he’d’ve been screaming bloody murder as he came.”
“Now who’s being inappropriate?” Sherlock said with a smirk. Lestrade shook his head and leaned over to steal a kiss from his gangly lover, ignoring the ewww that came from the table behind them.
“Stay?”
“If you’ll have me,” Sherlock said, handing him his mug of tea as Lestrade switched off the stove and asked Daniel to go wash up for dinner.
“You already know the answer to that one, Sherlock.” Lestrade took the mug, and raised it to him before taking a sip.
----
Sherlock and Daniel holed themselves up in the bathroom after dinner to work on their experiment, leaving Lestrade a few moments of peace that he used to work a report. There was little sound from the other room over the course of the next two hours, apart from the occasional delighted giggle and, once, a slightly-worrying boom.
“Were you successful?” Lestrade asked when Sherlock emerged later that night with Daniel in his arms. The boy had his head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, and was regarding the world around him through half-lidded eyes.
“I believe so.” Sherlock’s voice was pitched low so as not to disturb Daniel too much. “He’s requested that I be the one to put him to bed.”
“By all means,” Lestrade said around a smile, pleased to hear that Daniel had been the one to ask. He worried often about how his association with Sherlock affected his son - especially considering the business with the pool and Moriarty that had colored the beginnings of, well, whatever it was they now had going on between them. But Daniel had taken to Sherlock, and quickly - perhaps a bit too quickly, in fact. Lestrade had tried to back off the relationship last April, after the incident at the pool, but it had proved miserable for all involved.
His son came first, always. But Daniel wanted Sherlock, and Lestrade found he hadn’t been able to deny him that for very long.
“You’re thinking,” a voice at his shoulder accused suddenly, and Lestrade started. Sherlock was sitting next to him on the sofa, though Lestrade hadn’t heard him emerge from Daniel’s room.
“Christ,” he whispered. “Yeah, sorry, just - got lost in my thoughts.”
“What were they about?”
“What, you can’t tell me?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m a detective, not a mind-reader.”
“You,” Lestrade said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “They’re about you.”
“Mm,” Sherlock hummed dismissively, moving to close the gap between them. “I can think of better things for you to occupy your mind with.”
“I’m sure you could,” Lestrade said, breaking the kiss and sagging against the back of the couch. An arm snaked around the back of his shoulders this time, and he found himself being tugged until his head was resting against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Daniel was inordinately excited at my appearance tonight,” Sherlock commented.
“He hasn’t seen you for a while,” Lestrade pointed out. “What’s it been since we last had a night together - two weeks? Four? That’s an eternity for a kid. Probably thought -”
He cut off the awful thought before it had chance to tumble from his lips, but Sherlock finished it anyway.
“Probably thought I had left,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade grimaced.
“I’m sorry. It’s just - you know, it’s hard, with his mother leaving and then the - the separation after the pool. He latches on quickly because he can’t help it - he wants to like people. But he also knows, in the back of his mind, that it’s easy for people to leave, because it’s happened to him before. He -”
But Lestrade stopped abruptly, realizing that not only was he spilling his son’s deepest fears - he was shedding his own. And on Sherlock, no less. He immediately felt guilty for the flood of information, as though he had violated Daniel’s trust by revealing it.
“Come on,” he said gruffly after a moment of silence that Sherlock didn’t fill. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”
----
Later, Sherlock’s sharp nose nudged Lestrade’s ear and he said, “You’re going to die.”
“Hey?” Lestrade twisted his head to glance over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Yeah, I s’pose so, but so are we all.”
“Some of us sooner than others.”
“Yeah, well, let me point out that you and John have a collective death wish. I’m not the only one with one foot in the grave,” Lestrade said with a snort and then closed his eyes. But the silence that met his words was not a content one, nor a satisfied one, and he found that he couldn’t slip off again.
“I can hear you thinking,” he accused softly, looking back again towards Sherlock.
He expected a snide answer; what he got instead was Sherlock slipping an arm around his waist and pulling himself closer, until he was pressed up against Lestrade’s back.
“s’all this, then?” Lestrade asked softly.
“It’s curious,” Sherlock said. “Everyone dies, and I have always known this. It’s the one thing that binds all of humanity - all species on this planet, even. And yet...”
He trailed off, tugging Lestrade closer. Lestrade knew better than to press him to finish the sentence, and settled for never knowing how it would end. He had almost drifted off to sleep when Sherlock said, “And yet, I find that thought of your death is...intolerable. And that in itself is unbearable, because I am a scientist, Greg. Death is fact - static, fixed, real. I should embrace it, as I embrace all the laws of science that govern existence. But I find this is one I can’t accept.”
“Love you, too, Sherlock,” Lestrade murmured. He took the hand that was laid flat against his stomach and laced their fingers together.
“I would, too, you know,” Sherlock added, speaking into the back of Lestrade’s head.
“You would what?” Lestrade asked, confused.
“Have you.” Sherlock’s lips brushed against his. “I’d have you.”
Lestrade rolled over so that they were fitted together, knees to thighs to chests, and rested a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back. He curled his other hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and drew him in for a languid kiss, slanting their mouths together, flicking his tongue against Sherlock’s bottom lip until he was granted entrance.
“Would you want to?” he asked eventually, breaking away from the soft lips. He felt Sherlock still.
“Are you asking?”
Lestrade licked his lips. Was he?
Fuck it. He was never going to get another chance like this.
“I think I am,” he whispered. “Yeah. Definitely...definitely asking.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“You - wait, d’you mean yes, as in you want to, or yes, as in that’s what you thought I was asking?”
He felt more than heard Sherlock’s exasperated sigh.
“I mean yes, Inspector,” he murmured, lips brushing against Lestrade’s forehead, “as in, I’ll marry you.”
----
“But what about Daniel?” Lestrade asked some days later, once the glow of the idea had worn away and was replaced by facts and planning and real life concerns.
“What about him?” Sherlock asked, lounging in his chair, feet propped on Lestrade’s desk. They were at the Yard, going over the details of one of Lestrade’s cases, and one line of conversation had led to another had led to the marriage. It seemed that every conversation with Sherlock led to that topic these days, whether Lestrade had intended it or not.
“Well...I mean.” Lestrade cleared his throat, uneasy. “Sherlock, this - whatever this is, whatever it will be...he has to come first. Always.”
Sherlock lowered his feet to the floor and sat up straight; defensive. “And you believe I’m unaware of this fact? That I have forgotten the months following the pool already?”
“No, I didn’t -” Lestrade broke off, licking his lips in uncertainty. “You’d - for all intents and purposes, you’d be just like another parent to him. You’d have to be. I can’t shortchange my son by bringing someone into his life who doesn’t want to be as involved as Daniel would like. And he adores you - you know that. I need - we need - you to be fully on board.”
A crease appeared between Sherlock’s brows. “I thought we had been over this, Lestrade. Have I led you to believe that that isn’t what I want?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No,” Sherlock’s tone softened suddenly, and it gave Lestrade pause. “No, I realize what you meant.”
He stood, and said, “I knew from the start that forming an attachment with you meant forming one with Daniel as well. I knew you would expect nothing less. And you gave me an out at every step of the way, Lestrade. Did I ever take you up on them? Did I ever indicate to you that I wanted to take those outs?”
“No,” Lestrade admitted, knowing full well that after the business with Moriarty had been cleared up, Sherlock had been the one to ask for him back - not the other way around.
“Believe it or not, I...” Sherlock trailed off, because words didn’t come easily for him when they weren’t deductions or insults. “I’ve...enjoyed the time you’ve allowed me with Daniel. I’ve grown quite fond of him, in fact. And I look forward to being part of his life. In whatever way you’ll allow.”
“Every way,” Lestrade said immediately. “In every way, Sherlock, if that's what you truly want. I'd love that. He'd love that.”
The detective’s face slipped then, and a shadow of a smile appeared. He nodded, sharp, and Lestrade could see that the blue eyes were swimming with pleasure.
“Sherlock?” he called suddenly, as the other man turned to leave.
Sherlock paused in the doorway.
“Clear your schedule,” Lestrade said, “for - say - early September?”
Sherlock appeared to consider it a moment. “A Saturday?”
Lestrade gave a brisk nod. “Saturdays work for me.”
“And Daniel, because he’ll be in school by then,” Sherlock said. “Yes, that would work out well all around. I’ll inform John and Mycroft.”
Lestrade grinned. “Good.”
----
Eleven months later, Lestrade was escaping from his own wedding reception after what he determined was a decent interval of time. He slipped out onto the patio that wrapped around the west side of the banquet hall, where lawn chairs had been set out on the bricks for the guests who wanted to enjoy one of the last decent evenings of the summer.
Lestrade held his drowsy niece in his arms, having relieved her from her mother some time ago. He had three nieces and two nephews between each of his siblings, and he didn’t see them as often as he would have liked. The one he held now was the youngest, and he hadn’t had a chance to see her since the day she was born.
He sat in one of the low chairs, holding the baby to his chest, and she let out a soft whine until he stilled his movements and adjusted the blanket around her tiny form. She quieted, and he turned his gaze on the sky, letting his head fall back against the chair with a sigh. He was exhausted.
The civil ceremony had been blessedly brief, and had gone off without even so much as a whimper - which, considering that Sherlock was one half of the marrying pair, had been something of a miracle in and of itself. Nothing had blown up, no murderers had come barreling through, and, more importantly, no one had forgotten the rings. They had had only witnesses in attendance - Mycroft and John - and Daniel, who had sat in a chair at the very front and swung his legs, watching the exchange of rings and signing of the papers with unusually rapt attention.
And now the reception was in full swing, and had been for some hours already. Lestrade had done quite well for the first three, he thought. He’d danced with just about everyone who had dragged him out onto the dance floor - which had been just about everyone - and there had even been one point when a lithe arm snaked itself around his waist and he had found himself being steered toward the dancing crowd by Sherlock.
“What are you doing?” he’d asked in alarm, wondering what on Earth Sherlock could want out on the dance floor and thinking with a sinking feeling that perhaps he’d deduced that one of the guests was a criminal and was trying to get Lestrade to arrest him.
Sherlock had merely arched an eyebrow at him and said, “Dancing with my husband, I should think. Unless you would prefer not to?”
“Uh - no, I just - you dance?”
Sherlock had then proceeded to show him that, oh yes, he could dance.
Damn, could he ever.
The sliding glass door directly behind Lestrade’s chair opened, breaking him from his thoughts, and he recognized the tread even before Sherlock came into view. Lestrade twisted his head around to look up at him.
“Looking for someone?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock bent to give him a kiss.
“My husband, in fact,” he said, straightening. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Lestrade said with a smile, eyes turning back to the sky. “I’m sure he’s close by, though.”
Sherlock settled in the lawn chair next to him, stretching out his long legs and reclining. The night was warm still, with the faint scent of heavy leaves - the smell of late summer, the season on the very fringe of the turn. He followed Lestrade’s gaze to the sky and said, “I don’t know if I would say that. I think he’s miles away.”
Lestrade let his head fall to the side to look at Sherlock, and then held out a hand. Sherlock took it, gripped it, twined their fingers together.
“All right?” Lestrade asked quietly, and Sherlock nodded.
“All right,” he assured, and then nodded to the bundle asleep on Lestrade’s chest. “Which one?”
“My sister’s youngest,” Lestrade said, pulling his hand away and resting it on the sleeping baby’s back. “Ruth. I haven’t seen her since she was born. Six months ago, now.”
Sherlock reached out a hand and touched the side of the baby’s face, stroking her with soft fingertips. Lestrade felt his heart catch in his throat. It was entirely one thing to see Sherlock interact with Daniel, who was curious about everything and always bursting with questions that Sherlock was only too happy to answer. But this tenderness towards the baby, who by all accounts Sherlock should find dreadfully boring and uninteresting - this was what made Lestrade’s heart ache.
He couldn’t give Sherlock this.
Daniel appeared out of nowhere at Sherlock’s elbow, and Lestrade fought back his sudden melancholy to flash him a bright smile. “Hey, sport. Have you been having fun?”
He nodded, but didn’t return his father’s wide smile - must be getting tired. Sherlock withdrew his hand from the baby and leaned back in his chair. Daniel made eye contact with him, and a silent conversation passed between the two. A moment later Sherlock was holding out an arm and Daniel was clambering into his lap. He settled against Sherlock’s chest and mumbled something that Lestrade couldn’t make out.
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Sherlock said solemnly. He leaned forward carefully and slipped out of his suit jacket. He draped it over Daniel’s form, and then proceeded to wrap his arms around the child, holding him close. “And how did you know she owns two dogs?”
Lestrade shook his head in wonder and turned his gaze back to the sky, listening with one ear as Daniel outlined his deductions and Sherlock hummed along, filling in the gaps here and there and praising Daniel for his attention to detail. After several long moments his son’s voice died away, and Lestrade glanced over to see that he had fallen asleep.
“He’s yours now, you know,” Lestrade said quietly, watching as Sherlock brushed Daniel’s fine hair off his forehead.
“Ours,” Sherlock corrected, and the word appeared to startle him. His eyes went wide as soon as it left his mouth, and his gaze dropped from Lestrade’s face to Daniel’s. He considered Daniel for some moments, lips parted in wonder, and gave a huff of disbelieving laughter. And then he bowed his head, pressing his lips to Daniel’s forehead, and Lestrade’s heart began to knock hard against his ribcage.
“Yeah,” Lestrade said thickly, reaching out to thread his hand through Sherlock’s curls. Light from a flickering candle caught the new ring on his hand, making it stand out sharply against the dark locks. “Yeah, he’s ours. He always has been, though, in a way. You’ve known him practically since the day he was born.”
“I wasn’t exactly in the correct state of mind, those early years,” Sherlock said.
“Well, neither was I,” Lestrade pointed out. “What with the divorce and all. But we managed, yeah? Worked itself out in the end, I’d say.”
“There’s still...so much time lost,” Sherlock mused, staring down at Daniel. “So much I don’t remember, because it got deleted or I wasn’t in the right mindset to save it in the first place. Certain things I don’t know about him. What he wore on his third birthday. What he looked like playing in the snow at two.”
“You can’t remember it all,” Lestrade said gently. “And anyway, you have all this time now. Daniel’s future. You’ll be there for it; get to watch him grow. That counts for something, yeah? There are some things you don’t know about him, sure, but that’s nothing compared to all you still have to learn.”
“All we still have to learn,” Sherlock corrected.
Lestrade’s sister came to fetch her child fifteen minutes later, and both Lestrade and Sherlock rose from their chairs to give her their goodbyes. Most of the guests had left now and, scanning the room through the glass doors, Lestrade recognized only John from their close circle of friends. Everyone else was distant family, or friends of friends.
He turned to Sherlock and lifted Daniel from his arms, relieving him temporarily of the dead weight. Sherlock smiled down at him, and then ducked his head for a kiss.
“What was that for?” Lestrade murmured when they broke apart, brushing his knuckles against Sherlock’s jaw.
“My husband,” Sherlock said by way of answer, capturing the hand in his own and kissing Lestrade’s fingers. He then turned his attention to Daniel, sweeping his fingertips over the sleeping boy’s cheek. “And...and my child.”
He wrapped one arm around Lestrade’s shoulders and the other around Daniel’s back, embracing them both.
“Yeah,” Lestrade whispered. “Yeah, always, Sherlock. We’re yours.”