Ha! New fanfiction for you guys, I hope you like it! Comments are LOOOOVE!

Author: Grim Spectre of Death

Beta: ...

Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock, Sherlock/John

Rating: K+

Genre: Angst/Romance

~WARNINGS: SLASH!

Lestrade had a bad feeling about the whole "I-will-catch-the-criminal-you-sit-and-watch" business that Sherlock came up with. Not that he didn't trust him. They knew each other too long to even consider a lack of mutual reliance. It came to him naturally now, trusting Sherlock Holmes, just like breathing or sleeping. And yet, he still had a feeling something was terribly wrong. Lestrade knew Sherlock would give him "The Look" if the Detective Inspector told him about it, as Holmes never believed in "feelings" or "lucky streaks", demanding a scientific explanation for everything.

They were so different. Lestrade, a good few years older than the consulting detective, was a man of a rather simple way of thinking - he got the suspect, he got enough evidence against the suspect, case closed. Sherlock, on the other hand, dragged the case on and on and on, until he was satisfied with the results. And yet they needed each other. Sherlock needed cases to kill the boredom and Lestrade was more than happy to oblige him. And the Inspector himself... well, he needed Sherlock, period.

Lestrade contacted the detective three days ago, a few minutes after the case had been presented to him, even before he had the time to think it through. That itself was odd. Lestrade only called Sherlock in a situation where he simply wasn't able to solve the case or was too busy to take care of it himself (if it was interesting enough for the great Sherlock Holmes, of course). As a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard he had a few cases going on at the same time and his body needed its well deserved rest, thankyouverymuch. He knew he should let Donovan take over some of his cases. She was a good protégé, a hard worker. But something always prevented him from doing so and he eventually ended up calling Sherlock.

On the phone, Holmes' deep, husky voice sounded almost like a purr. Lestrade liked that sound. He also liked the way Sherlock looked at him when he said something right, something of importance to the case, telling himself it was pride he saw in those big, intelligent gray eyes. The DI knew Holmes thought him to be stupid. Or maybe not stupid per say, but inferior in intellectual means. And he was right of course. Lestrade never had the ability to deduce someone's whole life from the shape of their thumbs or from the way they looked. He was... normal. And everything normal, to Sherlock Holmes was dull.

Lestrade looked at he two-storey house hidden in the shadows of the night and wondered why the hell he let Sherlock go inside alone. They were working on a case for the last three days now (or rather, Sherlock was working on it) and they should capture the criminal together. He was a dangerous man, for God's sake, a murderer. What if...

Lestrade shook his head. No. Sherlock was a professional, a strong individual, he could take care of himself. And nothing, nothing in the world could match the beauty of his face twisted in a triumphant grin, his eyes sparkling, lips smiling, deep, rich chuckle emerging from his throat when the criminal was finally arrested by him alone. Then Lestrade thought about John Watson and a small smile gracing his lips vanished. He despised the man. Not because he was unpleasant or rude. No, no, that wasn't the reason at all. John Watson was a respectable man, a war hero, polite and... well... normal. And yet, despite the fact that he was as ordinary as any man, Sherlock Holmes was fascinated by him. The detective's grey eyes were constantly glued to the shorter man. Whenever he spoke, his body would turn towards John as if he was seeking good doctor's approval. His hand slightly brushed John's at every possible opportunity. And Lestrade hated that, hated the fact that someone so... plain could capture all of Sherlock's attention to himself.

The Detective Inspector sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to fight away the tiredness. He looked out the window of his car. Anderson and Donovan, who insisted on going with him, were sitting in the other car, kissing like a pair of teenagers. Lestrade snorted. Looked like Sherlock was right about their little affair. A wave of warmth filled his chest as he thought about Holmes, the corners of his mouth rising slightly. He closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock sprawled on the bed, panting, his naked body glistening with sweat, full mouth open and begging, long legs wrapped around Lestrade's waist to pull him closer, grey eyes wide open, full of lust and love...

Sickening feeling filled his stomach and his eye-lids snapped open. Something was terribly wrong. He twisted around in his seat to glance at the innocently looking house in which Sherlock disappeared around twenty minutes ago. Nothing seemed to be out of ordinary.

And suddenly the building exploded.

Sherlock smiled slightly, climbing the stairs as quietly as he possibly could. The house was dark and unnaturally silent. There were twenty steps leading to the second floor, covered with colourless rug. The air was stale and damp, making it difficult to breathe through one's nose. There were no photographs on the walls, nothing that would tell Sherlock more about house's inhabitant.

Sherlock took out his mobile phone, his fingers moving quickly over the buttons while he typed the message: "Come to 21 Elm Street if convenient. Could be dangerous. SH" and send it to John. He knew he didn't need doctor's help tonight, but his mood always brightened when he managed to tear the man away from Sarah. He didn't like her. She was so... so stupid, too stupid for John. And Watson deserved someone who was stunningly intelligent and breathtakingly handsome. Like Sherlock. But, no time for day-dreaming. He had a job to do!

Holmes' smile widened. The man he and Lestrade chased all around London for past three days was finally within his grasp. He could hear him pacing the room, his steps heavy and loud. Then, Holmes heard talking. He stopped, trying to catch the words falling from the criminal's lips.

"No... No, please, no!"

Smile slipped from his face in an instant. The man was shouting now, desperately begging for mercy, sobbing like a child. His words were cut off abruptly and something heavy hit the floor, the sound awfully loud in the stillness of the house.

Holmes ran all the way upstairs. There was only one door and he swung them open, freezing at the sight of a tall, well-built man lying face-down on the floor, a pool of blood flowing slowly from under him. Sherlock looked around then frowned, eyes searching for any sign of the presence of another person in the room. There was no one. Or at least, not anymore. The window to his right stood open, and Holmes rushed towards it, bending over the windowsill. He saw a dark shape sliding down the side wall of the building.

"You! Stop right there!" he shouted, knowing it sounded stupid. The murderer lifted his head and cursed loudly, speeding up his movements. Sherlock chuckled quietly, feeling a rush of adrenaline spreading through his body. The man let go of the rope he was holding and allowed his body to fall a few meters down. He grunted as his feet hit the ground, then lifted his head and, seeing Sherlock still standing in the window, he saluted cheekily, turned around and disappeared into the night.

Holmes climbed onto the windowsill and stood up. And froze. He could hear a steady "tic-tock" sound coming from the room. He turned his head to the left to look at the man sprawled on the ground. The sound seemed to emerge from under him. Grey eyes widened. Holmes jumped at the same moment the bomb exploded. The wave of hot air hit him on the back with a powerful force and he was thrown forward. He was long unconscious when his body finally hit the ground with a loud thud.

Lestrade ran. He sprinted towards the house, not caring about the flames and smoke. Sherlock. Sherlock was inside and he needed to find him. His eyes watered as he got closer to the house. He could almost taste the smoke on his tongue and he coughed, not stopping. He imagined Sherlock's body lying on the floor somewhere in the house, limp and cold and dead...

"Wrong wrong wrong" he repeated to himself running even faster, not caring about the piercing pain in his legs and chest. Then there were arms around him, holding him in place, Anderson's voice shouting into his ear over the roar of the fire eating away the building. Lestrade couldn't make out the words coming from the other man's lips. His mind screamed at him to move his ass and find Sherlock, he was there, in the building, burning alive...

He could hear the distant sound of a fire trucks and ambulance. Anderson's arms were still around his shoulders to keep him in place and he hold on to them, his eyes glued to the building, searching for the tall, slim figure untouched by the fire. But there was no-one emerging from the flames.

Lestrade felt a gentle pressure on his arms and he looked up. He saw the flames reflected in Anderson's eyes and he imagined Sherlock's lifeless body again, his lovely eyes wide open, empty and burning... Breath caught in his throat. He was shaking uncontrollably, his strong body limp against Anderson's. He could tell he was led back to the police car, could feel curious eyes on him, could hear Donovan's surprised gasp as he collapsed suddenly to his knees and hid his face in his hands, and wept, wept like never before, sobs tearing his throat, wracking his body, tears burning his eyes. There was a hand on his shoulder and he shook it off. He wanted to scream, to kill someone, to rip someone's head off, to cause as much pain as he felt.

"We should call John Watson," said Donovan, her face pale, eyes wide open and staring at the burning house. At the sound of the doctor's name, Lestrade jumped to his feet and grabbed the cell phone from her hand, his face wet with tears.

"Not now" he snarled through his teeth like an angry dog, lips twisted in a furious grimace. She backed away, shocked by his reaction.

"What's going on in here?"

Lestrade turned around slowly. John Watson was standing a few steps from them, his back straight, head held up high. His eyes roamed from Lestrade's face to Donovan and finally to the building behind them.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked, his voice hard as steel.

"Inside," Donovan muttered. Lestrade felt his heart sinking in his chest. Tears ran down his face again and he turned around trying to hide them, his shoulders shaking from the effort to stop the sobs coming.

"He texted me," John said, his face pale, voice emotionless. "He told me to come here."

Lestrade wanted to rip the damned man into small, bleeding pieces. John Watson was the last person on Sherlock's mind, not him, never him...

"He is not dead," doctor continued. "He's too clever to die like this."

And then he smiled, his eyes glued to the firemen who tried to control the fire. Lestrade swallowed a lump forming in his throat and nodded. Of course Sherlock was alive. How could he even think otherwise.

They found him at the back of the house.

Sherlock was lying on the ground on his stomach. His back was a bleeding, painful mess of burned skin and pieces of black coat, and Lestrade froze at the sight of the injury. He kneeled beside the man and slowly turned him to the side, wincing as a low, filled with pain moan emerged from Sherlock's throat. One side of the consulting detective's face was covered with blood. Lestrade swallowed loudly, touching the other man's cheek as gently as he could. He wiped the blood away, his eyes filling with tears. He looked up. Grey eyes were barely open, staring at him with wonder and confusion.

"Le-Lestrade."

Hearing his name whispered by the man he loved seemed to unlock all the feelings the Detective Inspector desperately tried to hide. Careful not to cause Sherlock any pain, Lestrade wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his neck, his body shaking violently.

Sherlock's arms were lying at his sides. He was so shocked by DI's reaction, he had no idea what to do. The pain in his back was making his thoughts hazy... What the hell happened? He remembered the killed man lying on the floor and his murderer escaping through the window, and then... Ah, of course. Explosion. There was a bomb under the corpse. How on earth did he not see it?

"Sherlock."

Holmes felt Lestrade's body going rigid at the sound of John's voice. Then his arms withdrew and Inspector kneeled by his side, his eyes on the ground beside Sherlock's head.

The consulting detective tried to lift himself up on his elbow and he hissed in pain. Lestrade's arms were around his shoulders, so quickly he barely managed to see them move at all, and the gray-haired man helped him to sit up.

Sherlock looked up and smiled. John was standing in front of him, a bit pale. His blue, filled with worry eyes were searching for any other visible injuries. Satisfied with the results, the doctor scowled.

"You idiot! Why didn't you tell me sooner! Why did you go alone! You know very well that if something happened to you I'd never forgive myself, you selfish, insensitive moron!"

"Shut up, doctor," Lestrade hissed and Sherlock looked at him with surprise. The Detective Inspector was glaring at John with fury in his eyes. "Can't you see he's injured?"

Watson looked at Holmes' back and frowned.

"It's not a serious injury. I'm sure it's painful, but he can manage. Besides, I just finished lecturing him, so you may call the paramedics. I'll stay with him until you get back"

Lestrade stood up, facing the ex-army surgeon. His fists were clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.

"How dare you..."

"Lestrade, call the paramedics, will you?" Sherlock interrupted, his adoration filled eyes glued to John. Inspector didn't turn around to look at him. John, however, could see the grey-haired man's face twisting into an angry, agonized grimace, his eyes burning with pain. Suddenly, his body relaxed. His expression changed from hurt, furious mask to sad, resigned face of a man who's heart had just been crushed.

"Yes, of course, Sherlock," he replied softly, and John shuddered. Lestrade's voice sounded hollow, lifeless, a shadow of its confident, strong self.

For a second, the sight of the Detective Inspector walking away in his long, grey coat reminded John of a fictional romantic hero disappearing into the thick London fog, never to return again.

In reality, he was very much a broken man.