Here's another little ficlet for you! I hardly ever write Lestrade, but I enjoy it! This began as a joke someone made about Lestrade being left behind in TGG...
IN THE DARK:
Looking at Greg Lestrade it was easy to tell who he was. His voice had the edge of a man used to giving orders, with the balance of diplomacy of a fair leader. His stance spoke of having to he on his feet for hours on end.
But there were things that merely looking at him couldn't reveal. Like the fact that he would laugh hardest at Carry On films. Or that his favourite flavour ice cream was mint choc-chip. Or that he had scars on his conscience from a drunken mistake at the age of 19.
But there was something about Greg Lestrade that no one knew. Something that he refused to reveal to any amount of colleagues, friends or lovers. Something that he was deeply, deeply ashamed of.
Greg Lestrade is afraid of the dark.
He had been since he was small, and had been forgotten about in a game of hide-and-seek. He was trapped in that cupboard, having stupidly shut the door behind him, for four hours. In pitch black. He cried more then than he would ever admit to.
No one knew about this crippling fear. He had been alone with his shame for as long as he could remember. Until he found himself shut in a freezer with John Watson.
The lights had gone off about two minutes ago, and John's reaction had been little more than groan of
"Perfect. Flipping perfect."
"John." Lestrade said calmly, only John would have noticed the slight tremor in his voice. He had been fine moments ago. "The lights John. Why have the lights gone?"
Panic had now fully bloomed in Lestrade's chest, and he flung an arm out to find the doctors warm hand. A small reminder that he was not alone.
The darkness swamped them.
"They must be on a timer Greg. They don't usually leave people in here for too long."
"Then why are they off now."
His hand clenched. John squeezed back comfortingly.
"Because the time is close. And we need to be in here when Sherlock gives the signal."
Lestrade's mind went blank. He couldn't remember a signal. His breathing began to quicken. The blindness was playing tricks with his mind. He thought he could see things moving in the pitch black, could feel things writhing around his ankles, could feel a brush across his lower back. All he knew was real was the warm touch of John's hand.
"John?" he whispered, barely able to work up enough breath
"I'm here." he said evenly.
"I-I can't-"
"You have to." John cut across him, "Not long now. I promise."
The writhing around his ankles began to speed up, Greg swore he could hear noises, could hear clicking and slithering in the cold darkness around him. The brushing along his back had become a pressing, breathing coming from over his shoulder. His heart was pounding in his ears as the darkness became like a cloying cloth, clinging to his throat and face, stopping his breathing. His face had become slick with sweat, and he imagined that John's hand would slip away from his. He would end up alone. Alone in the dark.
It was so dark that Lestrade hadn't realised he'd passed out until he woke up outside, with a glaring orange street lamp blinding him.
A bored sounding voice rose above the din of shouts and traffic, and Sherlock's face swam into view.
"Fear of the dark. Originates from childhood. Boring." He then skulked off again.
Lestrade heard a softer, familiar voice scolding Sherlock until-
"Hello Greg, feeling better?" John had come back with a smile on his face. For a moment Greg hated that smile. It meant that John felt sorry for him, pitied him. He didn't need that from someone who shouldn't even be *near* a crime scene thank-you-very-much.
"I'm fine, John." He said. It didn't come out as harshly as he's intended. John smiled a little more, helping Lestrade sit upright.
"Don't mind him. He's being a git because the thief had differently coloured hair to what he expected."
John rolled his eye dramatically, offering Lestrade a bottle of water.
He took it gratefully.
He did like the doctor. He didn't really begrudge him being there with Sherlock. Hell most of the time he cleaned up Sherlock's social messes without anyone being any the wiser.
"So you're afraid of the dark, eh?"
Lestrade stiffened under John's scrutiny. "You might want to talk to someone about that."
He fished a pen and piece of paper out of his jacket pockets and scribbled two hasty phone numbers before handing the crumpled paper to Lestrade.
"The first one is a therapist. No pressure-" He added, aware that he might be offending Lestrade, "just someone to talk to."
"And the second?" Greg hazarded.
"My mobile." John returned "Should you need me."
John smiled warmly again and stood, leaving Greg to get up at his own pace.
Yes, Lestrade liked John very much. He could use "just someone to talk to."