Greg's leg is burning, black trousers sticking to his skin from mid-thigh to ankle, and he swears he can feel moisture collecting in his shoe. The belt around his thigh is tight but hopefully not too tight. He can still walk and feel pain, which means he's not done any nerve damage — at least, he hopes not.
He rounds the corner onto Baker Street, feeling exposed, knowing just how many CCTV cameras there are in the area. Damn Sherlock's brother for being a nosy git. Greg struggles to walk normally, ignoring the fire that lances up through his hip and spine with every other step. He puts on his best casual act, as if it's perfectly normal for him to go visiting Sherlock Holmes at half two in the morning on a Tuesday. Wednesday, actually, he corrects his thoughts, since the clock's ticked over past midnight.
His mind's wandering. Not good. Very not good. Jaw clenched, he makes his way up the stairs, hoping Sherlock's brother hasn't upgraded the local surveillance cameras too much. They can do miracles with computer enhancement these days, and the last thing he needs is for some bored photo-analyst to notice that the strange shape of DI Lestrade's leg is caused by the wadded-up T-shirt he'd used as a bandage.
He knocks, feeling a stab of guilt that he'd probably end up waking nice old Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.
Then he laughs a bit crazily. What was he doing feeling guilty for anything, much less for interrupting a woman's sleep?
But it's John who answers, warily alert — a wise precaution, at this hour. You never know who's going to show up at your door, after all. Could be a murderer.
Greg laughs again, and somehow stumbles, catching himself up against John's body, though he can't remember taking a step. If his leg's buckling from just standing still, then 'not good' has passed into the bleaker territory of 'very, very bad'.
"Greg! Are you okay?" John's concern is warm in his voice. His hands are strong, catching Greg and helping to ease him inside.
"Shot," Greg blurts out, though that's not the plan. Wasn't the plan.
"God. Sherlock!" he bellows loud enough to wake the dead. "Where, Greg? Where were you shot?"
That's his doctor-voice, full of confidence and command and reassurance. "Leg," Greg answers automatically.
John's hands are at Greg's coat at once, unbuttoning it to reveal the makeshift pressure bandage. "Damn," he whispers, making no move to disturb the effort at temporary first aid.
"John. Lestrade —" Sherlock's next words cut off as he bounds down the stairs, three at a time. He's wearing only a dressing gown belted loose enough that it shows off his legs and almost shows off everything else as he moves. "What happened?"
"Gunshot wound, outer left thigh. Missed anything important. Bullet's still lodged in there," John said, one hand lightly circled around Lestrade's wrist. His eyes are unfocused as he counts the racing beats of Lestrade's heart. "Pulse is fast but not too weak. Still, call an ambulance. He —"
"No!"
Greg's interruption earns him a reproving glare from Dr. Watson and a fierce, sudden interest from Sherlock. "Bloody hell, not you, too," John says inexplicably.
"No ambulance. No one — Don't tell," Greg says, looking not to John but to Sherlock. He knows his only hope for safety lies in capturing and keeping Sherlock's interest. As long as Lestrade is interesting enough, Sherlock will keep him safe. Will make John keep him safe.
Damn his luck, though. Before he can get Sherlock to promise anything, darkness wells up inside him. The pain recedes, taking with it the two men who are his last hope, and Greg falls into unconsciousness.
A dull throbbing pain should be something distant, like being poked with a blunt stick, but this is raw agony. It's not something he can brace against. It's pain that's inside his leg, deep under skin and muscle, somewhere that nerves aren't meant to go. He can't touch it to make it feel better. For the first half-second, his effort meets with a blanket and the crinkle of tape. Then his questing fingers exert enough pressure that the dull throb explodes into pain that's on the scale of a nuclear meltdown.
He can distantly hear deep voices arguing, but it's not important. The little stab inflicted on him, in his left arm, is even less important, barely a tickle compared to the tidal wave that's sweeping up from his leg to entirely consume him.
This time, when the darkness comes, he dives into it willingly, wanting nothing more than to escape.
Greg doesn't know if this is the second or third or tenth time he's awakened. The whole world is fuzzy, at arm's length, and while he can feel the pain, it doesn't seem to bother him all that much. The agony hasn't changed; he simply doesn't give a damn about it.
"Guys?" he says, or tries to. All that comes out is a dry, rattling sound. He tastes a drop of blood at his lips, which are parched and cracked.
"Here." John leans into view, easing a straw between Greg's lips. It's an effort to suck up even a little of what proves to be cool water, but the payoff is worth it. "Not too much. You really should have an IV, you know," he reprimands, though it comes gently, not sternly. His denim blue eyes are shadowed with worry and fatigue.
"How long?" Greg asks when John takes the water away, too soon for his liking.
"It's not quite lunchtime."
Fuck. Greg was supposed to be at work. "Needta call the office," he mumbles, and is stupid enough to try to sit up, which causes a resonant sort of throbbing to explode somewhere inside his brain, stretching little tendrils of agony to scrape at the inside of his skull.
One soft, strong hand pins him back down. "Sherlock took care of it. Cracked your email and sent a note that you were out ill."
"God." Sighing, he lets himself collapse back into the warm softness of the bed, though whose bed, he's not certain. "The GSW?"
John makes a sort of noncommittal noise. "I had to remove the bullet. Twenty-five caliber, fired at close range. A holdout weapon."
"Yeah. Didn't see it." Greg closes his eyes, remembering the moment of panic when he'd seen the gun. His imagination had made it bigger than a .25, of course, and he'd thought that he'd finally met his match. He laughs, the pain ebbing back even further under the realization that hits him. "I made it. I got the bastard."
"Which bastard?" The question comes from his left, opposite John, just as the mattress buckles.
Greg turns to see Sherlock, still in his dressing gown, though now it's open over an inside-out T-shirt and pyjama pants. His light eyes are a bright, pale blue under the untidy mop of his hair, and they're entirely focused on Greg.
"Sherlock," John scolds, and there's a whole message concealed in that one word.
"You said when he's awake. He is awake," Sherlock complains.
"I said when he's able to talk," John corrects.
"He is talking."
"Boys!" The shout takes a surprising amount of Greg's energy, stealing his breath. He exhales and looks back at John. Sherlock will be Greg's protector, but John is the real power in the relationship. Greg's seen it and knows it for truth, even though everyone else thinks it's the other way around.
Immediately, John switches back into doctor-mode, and takes hold of Greg's wrist. Greg closes his eyes and relaxes as much as he can, but he's awake now, despite how tired he feels. He knows it's only a matter of time before they know everything, and he wants to get it over with, like ripping a plaster off in one go rather than bit-by-bit.
In silence, John does doctor things, taking Greg's temperature and listening to his heart and lungs. He coolly orders Sherlock away and takes over the left side of the bed, though Sherlock hovers rather than leaving the room. John lifts the blanket just enough to expose Greg's wounded thigh, leaving the rest of his body covered. It's redundant — he's already realized he's naked under the sheets, which means that it's nothing the two of them haven't seen — but he appreciates the courtesy all the same.
John changes the dressings, pronouncing him free of any sign of infection so far, and then asks, "Are you up to some tea and soup?"
He's put it in question form to be polite. Greg knows an order when he hears one. He wants to stay on John's good side, so he says, "Thanks, John. Yeah."
"Good." John gives him an approving smile and rises, fixing the blankets neatly. "Come on, Sherlock. He needs his rest."
"Actually," Greg interrupts before Sherlock can protest. "Mind if he stays? I want to talk things out."
John's dark eyes go narrow and suspicious, but not at Greg. He fixes them on Sherlock and warns, "Don't upset him. Don't disturb him. And if he tells you to bugger off, you leave at once."
"John! What do you think I'm going to do? Vivisect him?" Sherlock protests, all innocence.
They all know no one's going to fall for that, especially not John Watson. He just huffs and leaves, but not without a brief touch on Sherlock's hand. They're like that, subtle even in the privacy of their own flat, even though the whole Met knows they're shagging.
It's that discretion that gives Greg a measure of hope.
As soon as John is gone, Sherlock turns, bright-eyed and focused once more. He sits carefully on the right side of the bed, twisting to fold one long leg under himself so he can face Lestrade directly.
"What happened? Tell me everything," he says excitedly.
And Greg is suddenly there, at the edge of the cliff. He's glad John's not there to take his pulse now, though he knows that Sherlock's probably counting the beats by the shifting shadow at his throat or the way the blanket trembles over his heart.
A thousand things fly through Greg's mind, but he's practiced this conversation since the day he'd first met Sherlock. He'd always known that it would be Sherlock who learned his secret first. Well, that he'd learn the secret and live. Plenty of people had died to keep it.
Sherlock's not normal, so Greg doesn't try anything the way he would with John. There's no attempt at bargaining or explanation or excuses. Instead, he takes a breath, and says, "I killed a woman last night. I need you to get rid of the body for me, before it's found."