Sherlock100 - 002. Middles
Follows Beginnings. John/Lestrade pre-slash. Rated PG-13 for swearing, just under 500 words. Not Beta'd nor britpicked.
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Gregory Lestrade knows it's wrong. He does, and he feels bad about it. That doesn't stop him from making a careful study of John's rear as the doctor crouches over the body. This has been going on for months now. Many things began when John met Sherlock-one of those things was Lestrade's crush on the consulting detective's flatmate, which was ridiculous because Gregory was really too old for this sort of thing.
Sherlock clears his throat and Lestrade jerks his eyes away, fighting his blush. It's too late though. Greg can tell that from the way Sherlock's eyes light up. All he can thin is oh fuck, because frankly, Sherlock is shit at keeping non-crime related things to himself. Absolute shit. And he’d really prefer it if his wildly inappropriate crush on the doctor stayed inside his own head, thank you.
Sherlock opens his mouth, unholy glee in his eyes, and Lestrade sighs. He and John have been heading out to pubs at the conclusion of cases, complaining about the criminals and all the crap Sherlock had pulled in the duration of the case. Lestrade really looks forward to those evenings, he enjoyed sharing a pint and, on ever increasing occasions, stories about life in general with John. Gregory would miss the easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them.
Instead of the proclamation of his inappropriate fantasies regarding the arse of one Doctor Watson he expects, Lestrade hears a sharp exhale of pain.
“We talked about this,” a familiar voice chastises from behind Lestrade.
Doctor Watson walks into view. He bends over (and really, how can Gregory not stare when he does it right in front of him?) and picks up the projectile he used to knock the wind out of Sherlock, even for just a minute.
It’s a pair of gloves. John Watson silenced Sherlock with a pair of gloves thrown from at least ten feet away.
“But…” Sherlock begins before he is cut off.
“No. Just because you can see everyone’s secrets written on their face doesn’t mean you can announce them in front of the entire force.”
“But you…”
“If you don’t shut it now, I will bin every experiment in the fridge. Do you hear me? Every. Single. One.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicker between the doctor and the DI before he makes an exasperated noise. “Fine! Fine. Be monumental idiots, the both of you!” he exclaims before executing a dramatic turn and leaving in a huff.
John and Lestrade say nothing for several long moments.
“I think this calls for a trip to the pub,” John said decisively.
“I think it does,” Gregory answers with a smile.
They’ve been something like friends for a couple months now, and they’ll probably continue to be something like friends for several more. And right now, that’s just fine.
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Gregory Lestrade knows it's wrong. He does, and he feels bad about it. That doesn't stop him from making a careful study of John's rear as the doctor crouches over the body. This has been going on for months now. Many things began when John met Sherlock-one of those things was Lestrade's crush on the consulting detective's flatmate, which was ridiculous because Gregory was really too old for this sort of thing.
Sherlock clears his throat and Lestrade jerks his eyes away, fighting his blush. It's too late though. Greg can tell that from the way Sherlock's eyes light up. All he can thin is oh fuck, because frankly, Sherlock is shit at keeping non-crime related things to himself. Absolute shit. And he’d really prefer it if his wildly inappropriate crush on the doctor stayed inside his own head, thank you.
Sherlock opens his mouth, unholy glee in his eyes, and Lestrade sighs. He and John have been heading out to pubs at the conclusion of cases, complaining about the criminals and all the crap Sherlock had pulled in the duration of the case. Lestrade really looks forward to those evenings, he enjoyed sharing a pint and, on ever increasing occasions, stories about life in general with John. Gregory would miss the easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them.
Instead of the proclamation of his inappropriate fantasies regarding the arse of one Doctor Watson he expects, Lestrade hears a sharp exhale of pain.
“We talked about this,” a familiar voice chastises from behind Lestrade.
Doctor Watson walks into view. He bends over (and really, how can Gregory not stare when he does it right in front of him?) and picks up the projectile he used to knock the wind out of Sherlock, even for just a minute.
It’s a pair of gloves. John Watson silenced Sherlock with a pair of gloves thrown from at least ten feet away.
“But…” Sherlock begins before he is cut off.
“No. Just because you can see everyone’s secrets written on their face doesn’t mean you can announce them in front of the entire force.”
“But you…”
“If you don’t shut it now, I will bin every experiment in the fridge. Do you hear me? Every. Single. One.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicker between the doctor and the DI before he makes an exasperated noise. “Fine! Fine. Be monumental idiots, the both of you!” he exclaims before executing a dramatic turn and leaving in a huff.
John and Lestrade say nothing for several long moments.
“I think this calls for a trip to the pub,” John said decisively.
“I think it does,” Gregory answers with a smile.
They’ve been something like friends for a couple months now, and they’ll probably continue to be something like friends for several more. And right now, that’s just fine.