I opened a prompt blog, on tumblr, for minor pairs. It's minorsherlockprompts dot tumblr dot com. You can basically send prompts for anything other than Johnlock or Mystrade. I've mostly been posting these on my AO3 account, but I'm going to transfer some of the longer ones over here.
Prompt: Sherstrade with Greg physically attacked when their relationship became public. It doesn't have to be the typical "someone trying to get to Sherlock" and make it someone who just doesn't like them together (ie a homophobic DI or relative of Greg's, or a street gang or ... someone, I Dunno). Or whatever takes you. :)
Greg rounded the corner and walked straight into them, four men that had been lurking earlier in the evening. "Look, it's the poof," one jeered, stubborn out a cigarette with the ball of his foot.
"Fucking faggot," another agreed. The fourth, presumably the leader, stood to the side, watching with some sort of detached amusement.
"Look, I don't want any trouble," Greg said, visibly tired. Maybe, he reflected later, if he hadn't been running on only six hours of sleep over the past three days, he would have seen the man that snuck up behind him, that knocked him down.
"Too bad," the first man chuckled. "We're going to give it to you anyway."
The next thing Greg remembered, he was in a bed, lines attached, with the soft hum of hospital equipment in the background. There were disjointed flashes, some of Sherlock, of his coat, of a warm chest and feeling protected, interspersed with jolts of pain from whatever injuries he had sustained.
John was next to his bed, asleep in the chair. "What…" Greg managed, his voice hoarse. He had not drank anything lately, then. How long had he been asleep?
"Just about fourteen, sixteen hours," John told him. "Sherlock brought you in, then...then disappeared." He forced a reassuring smile onto his face.
"Where is he?" Greg asked immediately, trying to sit up in the bed, get out, go find his partner.
"You're not going anywhere," John told him firmly. "I don't know if you remember what happened, but you got pretty banged up."
"You don't get it, John. I need to find him," Greg hissed urgently. Sherlock could be relapsing as they spoke, and it was some bloody sissy fight that kept him from helping Sherlock. Sherlock, who knew Greg had been hurt, had left. They had been dating for just a few months, but Greg thought Sherlock had learned to trust him. Apparently not. Worry dualed with frustration and hurt, a mix of emotions that only served to increase the physical pain.
"Mycroft will let us know," John insisted, carefully settling Greg back into bed. From the pallor on his face, he could guess that had crossed Greg's mind. "All we can do is wait."
It was not long before Greg slipped back into sleep, lulled by the medication.
It had taken him the better part of a week, but he had done it. He exhaled heavily as the body stumbled and then collapsed, allowing a smile to lift up the corner of his lips. Messy, but effective. Wiping the blood-stained knife off on his black trousers, he glanced around, ensuring no witnesses. That was the advantage to black clothing, even well-tailored trousers. They were so good at hiding blood.
One last thing, however. He went over to the last member, the leader, who was still twitching, slowly bleeding to death. Good. The smile was wicked now, positively deathly, and Sherlock pulled the knife out. He stabbed the one of the henchmen one last time, careful to avoid blood spatter, and then placed the knife in the leader's hands.
Standing back, he surveyed the scene, confident that the Met would see only what he wanted them to and not what actually happened. It was time for him to get out of there before a witness stumbled across the gore. They would, soon, although Sherlock wasn't certain if one of the gang members would survive. At least he could honestly say that the last time he saw them, they had all been breathing. Slipping a banknote into the hand of the nearest member of his network, he waited for a nod before he gestured for a cabbie.
Greg. He needed to find Greg, make sure he was okay. It was disorienting, momentarily, for Sherlock realized he did not even know where Greg was. Had he left the hospital? Sherlock had been certain to ascertain that the DI was okay before he left, but he had got caught up in the chase, in the hunt, and had not contacted either John or his partner.
'Where are you? SH'
'Fuck off. GL'
Sherlock stopped, and stared at his phone, confused. The cab waited for a few moments before muttering and driving off. Sherlock did not chase him, did not move. What?
'Where are you? SH'
'I'm serious, Sherlock. Piss off. GL'
Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, as his world crumbled around him. Fine, he thought, snapping his mobile shut. Fine.
Sherlock sat in his armchair, staring at nothing, moodily plucking at the strings of his violin. John was sitting in his armchair, tension radiating from his body. Not that Sherlock cared, really. There was nothing to care about. He heard John mutter, heard the laptop fall to the side before the army doctor was out the door in a swirl of fabric. Sherlock ignored him, shifting his fingering, strumming out a new set of broken chords.
The next time he looked up, Mycroft was perched in John's armchair, watching Sherlock with his lips pursed and his eyebrows raised. "Really, Sherlock?" he said.
"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped in retort. The words felt unfamiliar, for he had not spoken since he had dropped Greg off at the hospital. John had tried, had tried everything from being kind and understanding to shouting himself hoarse. Greg would not answer his texts, would not even answer when Sherlock called, and Sherlock did not understand why. He had obviously done something wrong, had violated some social norm, but he had no idea what. No matter. It was done with.
"Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock. It was only a matter of time before this little fling of yours ran its course." Mycroft's pitying, disparaging voice felt like ice. Sherlock's blood surged, adrenaline and rage mixed together, and it was a narrow thing that he did not break the neck of his violin when his grip tightened. Outwardly, however, he maintained his composure.
"Piss. Off." Sherlock's voice was terse, and he was millimetres from breaking his composure. It was ugly, and physical, but his brother had always known how to get under his skin, and it was not unusual for him to take advantage of it like this.
"Was it worth it, Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was softer, with a faint hint of curiosity. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, fingers resuming their plucking, as he thought about how to answer the question.
He could be honest. He could lie. He could ignore Mycroft. Those were all viable options. The fact that he was giving any thought to the options at al was irrational, and he scowled. Picking his favorite he turned his gaze towards the mantle and ignored his brother, fingers restless as they changed fingerings. How did one answer that question? How could he explain that Lestrade was perfect, was all he ever needed and all he ever wanted? He cared, he was genuine, he was not looking after Sherlock and expecting anything in return. He was warmth and safety, roguish charm and soft smiles, and he was Sherlock's. At least, he had been.
Eventually Mycroft sighed, and stood, apparently giving up. "I hope you at least remembered to burn the clothing." Sherlock's derisive snort was his answer, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. He left 221B, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock stopped, his fingers still on the strings, and sighed. "Yes. Yes, it was." The words felt strange in his mouth, powerful, although there was no one else to hear. He did not know how to fix it, did not know how to describe the all-consuming feeling that lived inside him when Greg was around, didn't know how to describe the utter despair at seeing Greg on the ground, broken and bloodied. Once Greg had been safe, his only thought had been to enact revenge.
Ten minutes. It had been ten minutes since he had let Greg out of his sight, and that was what had happened. It was a strange, muddying mix, of guilt and despair and sadness, and more emotions that Sherlock was not equipped to handle, could not figure out where one started and where the other began. Greg had helped, had given him something to focus on. He had been an anchor Sherlock could latch onto, a constant that did not change, was ever-present. Even when they had solely had a working relationship, Greg had watched after him, had chided him, had provided a safe place for Sherlock to stay when he was struggling. Sherlock straightened, placing the violin aside. That was it. Once a blanket statement, always a blanket statement, was it not?
It was the matter of minutes to change and flag down a cabbie. Greg would probably be home, likely still on bedrest, and Sherlock could - could make him explain what was going on, what had gone wrong so Sherlock could fix it or at least make it go away. He didn't like the uneasy, roiling feeling that he got when Greg was unhappy. It was feelings and emotions and although Sherlock never liked to admit he wasn't good at something, emotions topped that list.
The door was locked (but not for long), and Sherlock slipped the needed lockpick into the lock, waiting for the tumblrs to fall into place before he pushed it open. Greg was inside, perched on the couch, watching football. He sighed and his head rolled - rolling his eyes, then. "John, I told you to lock the door."
"It's not John." Sherlock closed the door behind him, suddenly aware of how his pulse had increased, how adrenaline was making his body tingle. Was this normal? Was he ill? He didn't want to make Greg ill, but he had been fine on the way over…
"Sherlock." Greg tensed, purposefully angling his body so that the consulting detective couldn't see him. "Leave."
"No." That was easy. Sherlock could say no. One syllable words were the best, really. One syllable and hard to mess up.
There was silence, and Sherlock's anxiety had progressed to the point it felt like ants were crawling on his skin, like he was on fire. Greg was just sitting there, doing nothing. Sherlock stepped forward, into Greg's space, grabbing the DI's hand and slipping it underneath his coat to rest on top of his rapidly beating heart. "No."
Greg's eyes flickered up to his, a question and then understanding, or at least a vague semblance of it. "Sit down," he murmured, shifting so that there was a spot on the sofa for Sherlock, grimacing as the movement jolted his injuries. Sherlock sat carefully as indicated.
"You're angry with me." He glanced at Greg and then away, wishing he had something for his hands to do other than lay on his lap.
"Yeah, I am," Greg said easily, and Sherlock could feel his eyes boring into him, intent. "You left me, Sherlock. At the hospital. And then you texted me like nothing had changed, and you just wanted me to find work for you. I worried like hell over you, you bastard. And I heard nothing."
"There were things I had to take care of." Sherlock was careful to keep his voice as neutral as possible, to prevent Greg from having any idea of what he had been up to. He rather doubted that Greg would be pleased with what he had done.
"You had things - god, Sherlock, you didn't." Greg's eyes were wide with horror, and without realizing it, one of his hands had gone to Sherlock's shoulder, turning him to face him. "Sally brought a report of some blokes matching the description who had been mugged, but I didn't - god."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied evenly, turning his face away from Greg.
"Sherlock, you can't - you can't just do that."
He turned to look at Greg. "But I did."
Greg stared at him, and Sherlock stared back. There was something oddly freeing to admit it, as if he was baring the worst part of him for examination as to whether or not he deserved to continue. "Why?" Greg asked, disbelieving.
"They hurt you." Sherlock shrugged, dismissive. Wasn't it obvious? He was rather surprised that Greg had connected the pieces that quickly.
"So you didn't - you chose not to stay because you were hunting them?" Greg's voice was small, somewhat embarrassed.
"Yes." Sherlock's answer was immediate. "Not because I desired a dissolution of our relationship."
"Sherlock, I'm still on painkillers. And I'm not you. Don't make me wrap my head around your big words."
"I want you." Carefully, gently Sherlock straddled Greg's lap, looking intently down into startled brown eyes. He pressed a cautious kiss to Greg's lips, testing to see how the DI responded. "You're mine."
"Bit possessive, aren't you?" Greg murmured against Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock kissed him again to quiet him, and then pulled back, ignoring Greg's disappointed whine. "Take your clothes off."
"What? Sherlock, the doctor said -"
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock stood. "I want to examine your injuries, compare them against what I remember from the hospital to measure the healing patterns. Not sex."
Greg sighed. "How utterly romantic." Even as he said so, he was standing with a wince, carefully pulling off his shirt and revealing the bandages.
"It's science," Sherlock said absentmindedly, already scooting closer to Greg's naked torso, fingers picking at the bandages and carefully starting to remove them. "Better than sex."
"We can argue that later," Greg retorted.
Sherlock snorted and led Greg to the bedroom. There was more light there. The fact that it would be more comfortable for Greg was an afterthought - or so Sherlock liked to tell himself.