Bèta: zylstra
Insert a Husband
"The brother."
Two men were standing face to face in the freezing London air, the smell of blood and disinfectant surrounding them. Around them were people running around them, some almost bumping into them, trying to waste as little time as possible getting to their indicated workplace.
"Yes, Sherlock, you said that already," the exasperated, grey-haired man - Detective Lestrade replied "What I'm asking for is some evidence to make the arrest."
"The brother," Sherlock snapped, his only reply.
Lestrade didn't know what got stuck in Sherlock's ass today, but he was awful to work with like this. Sure, he could be a pain in the ass on normal days as well, but today he was even more of an arrogant, stuck-up prick than usual.
First, he refused to come to the crime scene, claiming he had better things to do (God, he hoped Sherlock hadn't taken up drugs again.) Then, when he eventually arrived, looked around the crime scene for ten seconds, maybe less, barked "The brother!" and wanted to leave again. When Lestrade stopped him, Sherlock gave him The Deathly Glare (because a normal glare, without capitals, was way too ordinary for someone like Sherlock.)
So now they stood outside, breathing in the damp London air, bouncing the same questions and answers back and forth, over and over again.
"Why?"
"Brother."
"Why?"
(Insert another death glare)
"Brother."
"Why?" God, Lestrade was getting sick of this already.
"BROTHER."
"WHY?"
(Insert staring competition)
"B-R-O-T-H-E-R? I can't make it any clearer. Look around, do what you are paid to do and let me go home. It can't be that hard to gather evidence, unless you're a complete idiot. Well, that's nothing new."
(Insert glare from Lestrade)
Suddenly, from behind them, two new voices could be heard talking casually about the weather ("It's bloody freezing out here." "Yes, we are having a particular cold winter this year."), the neighbourhood ("It's bloody shabby out here." "I prefer not to spend any significant amount of time here either.") and the still-visible (Lestrade silently cursed Anderson for that) corpse, lying under the white sheet ("Pretty brutal, this one. Stabbed or shot?" "Both, judging by the position of the body.")
This was immediately followed by a little miracle: Sherlock shut his mouth and snapped his head in the direction of the newcomers. He turned around quickly (like a damn ballerina, Lestrade thought), before his eyes landed on the two figures approaching them. Lestrade had met (or rather, had been forced to meet) one of them before and knew him to be Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother; the other, smaller man wearing what seemed to be three jumpers against the cold and using a cane, he had never seen before.
(Insert hungry gaze from Sherlock to the smaller man.)
"Ah, there's the bloody bastard," the stranger said. "I sent you my flight schedule, hoping you'd pick me up or at least wait for me at home, but no. When I arrive, there's only one of Mycroft's private chauffeurs at the airport to pick me up and the only welcome I get at home is a bloody head in the fridge. Care to explain why I had to ring your brother to ask where the bloody hell you were?"
(Insert another glare from Sherlock in Lestrade's direction, accompanied by an accusing finger)
"I was waiting at home, but he forced me to come," Sherlock sulked. "He said he'd put me on cold cases for a month if I didn't show up."
"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I presume?" the stranger directed at him. "Sherlock's told me about you – well, more like complained, but you know he can be. I bet he's complained about me quite a lot as well." The stranger offered his hand, smiling.
"Yes, nice to meet you to, uhm..."
"John. John Watson," the stranger offered. But after taking in the non-responsive look on the DI's face, he sighed. "The bloody bastard hasn't told you anything about me, has he?"
(Insert angry glare at Sherlock, who was now engaged in a murmured conversation with his brother, occasionally directing there glances at them.)
"Sherlock," John – as Lestrade now knew - said (growled)
"Yes, John?" came the immediate, eager response.
"Why does Detective Inspector Lestrade know nothing about my existence?"
"It never came up," the detective said sheepishly. (Lestrade wondered who this stranger was to have such an influence on Sherlock's behaviour - when the stranger arrived and Sherlock looked at him, like he was the last piece of food in an otherwise starving world.)
Sherlock took a hesitant step towards John Watson, letting one hand slowly run over the other man's arm, communicating something Lestrade couldn't see, due to the way Sherlock stood with his back towards him. The redness that slowly crept up John's neck, however, was very, very visible, and John pulled his arm away.
(Insert an expression torn between anger and something much sweeter, almost endearing, on John Watson's face. Anger seemed to win for now.)
"It never came up in conversation? Between all the murders for love or out of jealousy, you forgot to mention you're married yourself?"
"Wait, what?" Lestrade intervened before Sherlock could deliver his no doubt seemingly perfect excuse. "You're married?"
"Of course I am," Sherlock snapped, looking offended. "It's obvious, isn't it?"
"Not to us normal people, it's not," Lestrade shot back. Seriously, they had worked together for five years and Sherlock just forgotten to mention he gotten married in the meanwhile? Or had he been married all along? Fucking bastard.
"Where have you been hiding him all this time? I've been around your place often enough to know nobody lived there but you."
"Afghanistan," came Sherlock's short reply.
"What?"
"That's where he has been all this time. In Afghanistan. He was getting shot at, because he demanded to be a real patriot. And now he is shot, I'd like to take him home and treat him like the hero he is. Well, 'hero' is what it said on his discharge file. I'd say he was enough of an idiot to let himself get nearly killed for some old lady."
(Insert exasperated look from John)
"Now, like I said, I've better things to do. Like my husband." Sherlock purred.
(Insert heated glance at the wounded war hero)
"If you hadn't insisted that I'd stay here to answer your stupid questions," Sherlock continued, "I would have been home in time to welcome him appropriately."
(Another heated glare was shared between the two man)
And he turned away again, grabbing his husband by the waist and dragging him to Mycroft's private car. (Not that said husband offered much resistance.)
Lestrade could barely hear the whispered, but loving conversation that the wind carried his way to where he was standing.
"Where did you get shot?" Sherlock inquired.
"Shoulder."
"So the cane is for...?"
"Post-traumatic stress disorder according to the local doctor. Not like you hadn't deduced that yourself already, you brilliant prick."
"I had, but I just wanted you to tell me everything. I remember things better when I hear them in your voice. I've also heard that it helps to talk about your problems," The reply was fond.
"You're really going to let me talk without interruptions?" the answer was teasing but equally fond.
"Don't worry, Detective Inspector," a Mycroft said right next to Lestrade's ear, making him jump a little bit, ashamed of being caught listening into the lovers' conversation. "You'll get to meet my brother-in-law properly soon enough. I don't think Sherlock could bear to leave him behind any time soon." Lestrade couldn't help his expression being a combination of exasperation, disbelief that the consulting detective would let anybody so close and, well, endearment.
"What is John doing with Sherlock?" Lestrade asked staring in disbelief at the couple. "He seems so polite and so... normal."
"He is, and yet there is obviously more to him than meets the eye, seeing how much Sherlock loves his dear army doctor. Not to mention how much Doctor Watson loves Sherlock in return."
"How can John stand to be married to Sherlock? The idea of being near Sherlock all the time, having to listen to him ramble constantly," Lestrade asked no one in particular, but the man beside him answered all the same.
"Sherlock gives John the excitement that made him go to the war in Afghanistan in the first place, and John plays the role of Sherlock's conscience. He makes Sherlock calmer and more reasonable to deal with. Trust me, Detective Inspector, you'll soon be glad to have Doctor Watson around," Mycroft assured him, "and not because of his extraordinary medical skills."
(Insert a curious glance from the DI and a fond, exasperated one from Mycroft to the couple enthusiastically snogging in the back of the black car.)
"How did they meet?" Lestrade asked the older Holmes.
"That, dear Inspector, will be a story for another time," the man said, before taking off to the car and, for maybe the first time in his life, taking the passenger seat.