I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
Written for ImpishTubist. And then posted. Because Imp made me do it.
Sherlock sniffed. "I hope you appreciate this."
The sickly fluorescent A&E lights hummed overhead as they sat in the triage room. They'd been here for hours. Lestrade checked his watch; half two in the bloody morning, and there was his whole night gone again. At least this time he hadn't sacrificed it to the Yard, though a hospital trauma centre wasn't a whole lot better.
"Sherlock, how many times has the shoe been on the other foot?"
The detective cast a distasteful glance down at Lestrade, who shifted in his seated position on the crinkling sheets of the temporary bed. They'd told him to lie down, but he'd refused – partly because he didn't need to, partly because he wasn't giving Sherlock yet another thing to hold over his head.
"Never."
"Oh, really? I've never had you into A&E before? Never needed to bring you in and you refused? Never had to patch you up in my living room because you hadn't the bloody sense to see a doctor?"
"I have never – " and Sherlock's expression grew, if possible, more offended " – been injured in such a trivial pursuit as sport."
"Oh, for God's – what does it matter how it happened?"
"Yes, you're absolutely right. An injury gained in the name of catching a dangerous criminal is exactly the same as one gained by running around pointlessly on a field with twenty-one other underdressed men all trying to kick a bag of air. And each other, apparently."
"Consider it my way of staying sane to catch the criminals of London, then. God knows my home life isn't helping me in that area." He shot Sherlock a meaningful look.
"You have a complaint about your… 'home life,' so you allow a crowd of uniformed strangers to take it out on your head."
"It wasn't a crowd, Sherlock, it was one misplaced kick. It wasn't his fault I fell."
"Deliberately."
"I was diving for the ball."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, of course."
The doctor came in at that point, greeted them far too cheerily for the middle of the night, and carefully detached the hastily-applied bandage from Lestrade's forehead. No one on the pub football team was a doctor (he'd tried to ask John before, but John preferred rugby) and the bandage – which was probably not the right thing to do in the first place, but kept the blood out of his eyes until he could wave them all off, "I'm fine," and go and get it properly sorted – was given a sort of long-suffering look by the doctor and then tossed into the bin.
"Sorry," said Lestrade. "We were just trying to, you know. Stop the bleeding."
"Right," the doctor said, more interested in checking his pupillary reflexes than in hearing his explanations. "So tell me how it happened."
"He dove headfirst into a footballer," Sherlock offered.
"Dove into a footballer?" she asked.
"I fell, and he was going for the ball. It was an accident."
"Mmm-hmm. Sports injury," she wrote on the sheet of paper on her clipboard.
"I think it's best we leave it at that."
"She's planning to propose, you know," Sherlock said to the doctor, watching her write.
"What?" Her cheeks went slightly pink, though, and Lestrade sighed.
"Leave off, Sherlock, it's too early in the morning."
"I simply thought she might want to know."
"You… Sherlock…" and Lestrade leaned back against the elevated head of the bed, laughing helplessly.
"What?" The detective looked equal parts confused and annoyed.
"You thought she… might want to know… in advance…"
"Yes."
"Sherlock, you asked me to marry you while you were hanging off a building by your fingertips. I was in the middle of a fight with an armed man!"
"And?"
The doctor was looking positively alarmed at this point, but every time Lestrade considered explaining, he thought of how he'd go about it and ended up dissolving into laughter again instead.
"My God, you are the most… clueless…"
"Hold still." She was stitching up the cut now, and he bit down on his lower lip and tried to stay as sober and motionless as he could for her sake. He couldn't help the suppressed giggle that ran through him, though, when he caught sight of the spark of mirth in Sherlock's eyes behind her. Yeah, he got the joke, even if he wouldn't admit it.
When she had finished, she cleaned up the wound, gave Lestrade one last look over, and nodded her approval for them to leave. As they went out through the open door, Sherlock said over his shoulder, "You should wear the yellow if you like it. Never mind what people think. People are idiots."
Lestrade stared at his husband as they headed down the corridor. He was a little unsteady on his feet – combination of head injury, exhaustion, and the lateness of the hour – and Sherlock offered him an arm for support, which he gratefully took.
"Sherlock, was that you actually… being nice to someone?"
"I am capable of it, you know."
"Of course I know. I've just never seen you do it without a good reason."
"I had a good reason. She was repairing my husband. Speaking of which, may I point out that, ridiculous as my proposal may have seemed to you at the time, it worked?"
"Oh… bloody hell, Sherlock, only because it was you."
"No," said Sherlock, and it might have been the fact that Lestrade had just taken a blow to the head, but he thought Sherlock looked faintly pleased, ghost of a smile on his face as they made their way back to the entrance. "Only because it was us."