Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warnings: er...fluff.

It had been careless; anyone could see that. Even Sherlock Holmes admitted it, albeit privately and only briefly before his mind deleted the thought and replaced it with the new information on the case. He and John had chased the suspect - murderer, he was certain, of two girls and their mother - to an abandoned warehouse. He had texted Lestrade - though technically the case was Dimmock's - but the man had been abysmally slow in arriving that evening. No doubt he had been at the pub with Donovan and Anderson and the rest of the useless Scotland Yarders. So, Sherlock did the next logical thing: he attempted to take the suspect down himself.

He had needed to see this case through to the end.

Irritatingly, this was not the end he had envisioned.

"Good, you're finally here," Sherlock said with a haughty sniff, clearly annoyed that Lestrade's response had not been instantaneous. The DI breezed down the hospital corridor, single-minded in his destination. Nurses and doctors scurried out of his way, lest he crash into them in his haste. "We tracked him down to that warehouse. He's gone by now, of course, but if you pull somewhat competent officers in you'll be able to -"

Lestrade never gave him the chance to finish. He whirled on the detective and landed a blow to his face, relishing the satisfying crack that accompanied it and the blood that sprang immediately from his nose. He savored briefly the look of shock on Sherlock's face as the detective reeled before turning on his heel and making for a nearby door.

"What the hell -"

But Lestrade was gone; disappeared into John's room without so much as a backward glance. Donovan - who Sherlock had to grudgingly give a smidgen of credit to, as she had been the first responder on the scene - did not even try to contain her amusement once her boss was out of earshot. She laughed, long and horrible, as Sherlock hastily pressed his sleeve to his face in an attempt to staunch the flow.

"You don't know, do you?" she said between laughs, eyes crinkling.

"Know what?" he said irritably. She snorted.

"The great Sherlock Holmes, able to see everything except what's right in front of him." She shook her head in disbelief. "Wait 'til the rest of the team hears."

He grabbed her by the elbow as she turned to go. "Know what, Donovan?"

"Oh, use that massive brain of yours," she snapped. "This wasn't even his case. Do you really think he came just because you're in a snit about having to work with Dimmock? He's not here for you, Holmes."

She yanked her arm from his grip and stalked off down the hall, leaving a thoroughly flabbergasted detective in her wake.

xxxx

John was pale - ashen, really, against the crisp sheets - and far too quiet. Lestrade perched on a chair next to the bed and reached out a hand, fingering the dirty-blond hair. John woke at the light touch, cracking open bruised eyes, and when recognition set in he gave a lop-sided half-smile. Lestrade tried to return it and failed quite miserably; his mouth tugged downward of its own volition and he ducked his head, feeling an ancient stinging behind his eyes. He cursed himself for it and squeezed his other hand into a painful fist, trying to regain control of himself.

But he could not control himself - never could, not when John was involved.

"I'm all right," John whispered, but his voice was wrong - all wrong - too quiet and rough and far older than his thirty-four years.

"This time," Lestrade said viciously, fixing his gaze on John. "What about the next?"

"It's not like you to worry about what may be."

"That was before I got involved with a man who obviously has a death wish."

"'m sorry," John said. "It was stupid. I wasn't paying attention; didn't notice that he'd had a gun."

"You're an idiot," Lestrade said thickly. "A bloody idiot, dragging yourself all around London after Sherlock on some wild chase..."

"Yeah," John whispered affectionately, "but I'm your idiot."

"He's going to get you killed one of these days."

"Are you asking me to stop?"

Lestrade snorted. "I'm not stupid, John."

"No." John touched the salt and pepper hair; more salt now than when they first had met, especially around the temples. "No, you're not, are you." He gave a slow, content smile. "I think I would, though. 'f you asked."

He was getting drowsy with the painkillers. Lestrade offered a weak smile.

"And I wouldn't ask, so this conversation's pointless, isn't it? I just -" He swallowed hard and shook his head. John held out his hand. Lestrade gripped it tightly in both of his own, bringing it to his lips and kissing the cracked and bloodied knuckles. "Be careful, all right? I don't know how many more of these I can stand."

John gave him a crooked grin and a faint nod. He squeezed Lestrade's hand once and then settled back against the pillows, the medication tugging at his senses. Lestrade swiped a thumb across the back of John's hand and shook his head, more to himself than anything else. He had always been a solitary man, by choice rather than chance. He'd had his share of lovers but at the end of the day he had his life; his career; his independence.

And then John Watson had come along. Then, suddenly, his mind filled itself with half-formed visions of lazy Sundays in bed and evenings on the sofa, tending to the aches and pains that inevitably accompanied his job and his age and John's lifestyle with Sherlock. He thought of sweat filled nights, kissing away the panic brought on by nightmares; he thought of John's smile and his touch and his laugh until he thought he might as well go mad.

Moments; that's all they were. Fleeting and precious and undefined. But they were his and theirs and he wanted no part of a life that did not include John.

"I thought -" He shook his head. John was drifting now, eyes fluttering as he fought the medication. There was a good chance he would not remember this after sleep; Lestrade hoped that would be the case, because he was feeling particularly sentimental for some reason and it was almost embarrassing. "It's stupid, really. I just thought that - we might grow old together. One of these days." He frowned. "Can't believe I just said that, actually."

"Hey." John roused himself. He reached out and bumped Lestrade lightly on the chin with his fist. "We will, you know. I've no intention of getting myself killed."

Lestrade squeezed the hand in his own, not trusting his voice. John went on.

"It can't last. I know that and, somewhere, so does Sherlock. But this - well, I'm not going anywhere. Not anytime soon. So stop worrying, yeah?"

Lestrade seized him then, cupping his face in both hands, and kissed him fiercely. John chuckled into the kiss, warm and low, and when they broke apart he pressed the heel of his hand to Lestrade's cheek. Lestrade had not even noticed the tear before John wiped it away.

"I worry 'bout you, too," he continued, almost sheepishly. "Y'never know. Something might happen..." he trailed off drowsily.

"Necessary risks."

"Yes. They are, aren't they?" John yawned. "And you wouldn't give it up for - all the gold in London. I wouldn't ask you to, either. Y'see? We're both mad."

Lestrade let out a genuine huff of a laugh - gods, did it feel good - and pressed a kiss to the mussed hair.

"It's fine," he whispered. "All fine."

"Greg."

"Yeah?"

"You're the most - 'mazing thing -"

Lestrade felt a flush creep up his neck, but he couldn't keep the broad smile from his face. He squeezed John's shoulder. "Hush, now; just sleep."

"Only if y'promise not t'kill my flatmate."

"I promise."

"Mmm. Good." John shuffled deeper into the bed; Lestrade pulled the thin blanket up to his shoulders. "Be a lot of paperwork."

"It would, wouldn't it?" Lestrade said with a smile, and when he was sure the man was asleep whispered, "Love you, Johnny. You bloody idiot."

xxxx