"A woman is dead because of him, Sherlock!"
"She killed her own children."
"She was tried in court and found innocent!"
"Because of a flaw in the judicial system. She wasn't innocent, John. She was lucky."
There's silence that stretches to fill one minute. Two minutes. A third minute — long enough that Greg is wondering if John's quietly left the flat, if he's on his mobile right now, calling this in.
"I need to go take care of this."
"'Take care'? Dispose of a body, you mean!"
"John..." The protest comes soft and sweet, not harsh and demanding. It's Sherlock asking for John's understanding in a way that Greg had never pictured. God, John really had tamed the untamable.
"I can't believe this." The words are full of resignation, but John's a realist. Greg had been banking on that even more than he'd gambled on capturing Sherlock's interest.
He knows that John thinks it's just one murder, but he also knows that somewhere inside, John is fully aware that it isn't. Because for years, Greg Lestrade has been facing the same system that John is only now beginning to experience — a judicial system that tries its best, but is designed to err on the side of caution. Yes, there are innocent people that Greg's arrested and helped put away, and that thought eats at him. But worse is the thought of the criminals who weasel out of court and go free — the murderers, the rapists, the ones who destroy lives.
He hears the door open, but he doesn't know who leaves. He gets that answer after another five minutes, when John enters the bedroom, holding a steaming mug in his right hand. His left is at his side, fingers curled enough to be the beginnings of a fist without quite making it there.
"John?"
"You understand I have probably a thousand questions," John says. He puts the tea down on the nightstand within reach. Greg's finally learned that he's been convalescing in Sherlock's bedroom — as in, the one the two men probably share, these days, given the size of the bed. He's surprised at how neat and clean it is. Probably John's influence. The last time Greg had searched the room (another tiresome drugs bust) it had been a disaster.
The time for deception has passed. His life is in their hands now. But at heart, Greg Lestrade believes he is a good person, no matter what he does. He's always had a natural talent — an instinct for trouble, a desire to make the world a better place, a willingness to serve the public good — and this is part of it. If it's a darker facet, one that most people wouldn't accept, he can live with that.
"Ask. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
But John doesn't ask. He perches lightly on the very edge of the bed, looking everywhere but into Greg's eyes. When he does speak, he asks the one question that Lestrade should have anticipated, but didn't: "Will Sherlock be safe? He's gone to... to do as you asked."
Sherlock doesn't know how lucky he is, Greg thinks jealously, not for the first time. Being around these two, he's gotten used to hiding it, so he's not afraid that John will pick up on his thoughts. Greg's pretty sure that after six years, Sherlock's never caught a whiff of Greg's interest, and John isn't nearly as perceptive.
"Yeah, should be all right. I scouted the location carefully."
John's expression tightens subtly. His gaze goes distant and thoughtful. "This wasn't an impulse thing. You didn't just happen upon her and decide..."
"To get some revenge? No," Greg says, careful to keep his tone calm and easy. He's not going to risk snarking at John the way he probably would with Sherlock. "Been planning this since they threw out her confession, once the crown prosecutor said she'd walk."
Though it hadn't been a case John and Sherlock had worked, it had been the buzz of the station for weeks. Greg had been far from the most vocal in protesting the abuse of the judicial system or the idiocy of the judge who'd disregarded perfectly good evidence. It hadn't been Greg's case, either — he never goes after his own, no matter how tempted. Too much risk.
Finally, John exhales and nods. "Right. How many others?"
For one moment, Greg considers dissembling. But then he meets John's gaze and realizes he's not dealing with Doctor Watson anymore, but with Captain Watson.
"Five. She was the sixth."
"God." John closes his eyes and presses the heels of his hands into the lids. "You've killed — you've murdered six people, and yet you work to catch them every day!"
Greg bites his tongue, holding back the excuses that spring to mind. They'd been shouted by his conscience in the beginning, but with each death, the excuses grew quieter and more distant until he'd finally come to accept that he enjoyed this. He truly liked being the vigilante, watching the life bleed from the eyes of the scum he hunted.
Sally has been saying it for years, that a psychopath like Sherlock would cross the line one day. She might well be right — Greg is careful not to look too closely at Sherlock. But she'd never imagined that Greg had crossed that line long ago.
When John finally turns back to him, his expression is masked. "Are you in pain? I've given you morphine, but I'd rather not give too much. It's too easy to become addicted."
Greg can't hide the reaction that flickers across his face.
John gives him a wry smile. "I don't know about all the rest of this, but I am a doctor. If it hurts too much, you don't get a prize for bearing it, and I'm not about to withhold medication because of all this."
Surprised that John had come out and said it so bluntly, Greg nods. "Yeah. I mean, it hurts, but not too bad."
John rolls his eyes, a flicker of his old humor returning. "God, you're a terrible liar," he said, turning to the nightstand. It's been cleared off and covered with a towel. Greg reaches for the mug at the edge, but John slaps his hand down. "Do you need help sitting up?"
He does, but he's not going to ask for it — not from John, since he's asking for so much already. He shakes his head and pulls himself about half-upright. John considerately piles the pillows at Greg's back. "When can I walk?"
"Oh." John understands, glancing in the direction of the bathroom. "If I get you my old cane, will you use it? Or do I need to find something to use as a bedpan?"
"God, no. I'll take the cane," Greg says at once, mortified. Bad enough they've both seen him stripped and unconscious and bleeding out in their entryway. A man can only take so much humiliation in one day.
John gives him a stern look, silently warning him to stay in bed, and leaves. Greg sits and drinks his tea, though that's not helping the situation. His body is recovering from the shock now, reminding him that normal processes are still running in the background. He still has to eat and piss and go to work and call his ex-wife about the kids' visit next weekend and do a thousand other things, but none of them will mean a damned thing if Sherlock doesn't make it to the body in time to hide the evidence, to say nothing of what will happen if John decides to turn him in.
Sure, Greg's been shot, but it's not like he took a chest wound. He feels better after he relieves himself, washes his face, and puts on a dressing gown that he suspects belongs to John. He doesn't want to closely examine his reaction to that, so he carefully limps out into the living room. Things will look brighter with tea or coffee and maybe that soup John had promised earlier.
In fact, he can smell it cooking, and lets himself be lured into the kitchen. John's there, looking down into the sink. The water's running, but he's not washing anything that Greg can see.
"John?"
The other man jumps, spinning to look back at Greg, and for one moment, Greg's facing the soldier and not the doctor, and it's terrifying. Then the threat vanishes as John scolds, "You shouldn't be up. Go sit down, at least. God, you're worse —"
He cuts off, expression twisting into something like pain, and Greg can follow the train of thought well enough. Comparing Sherlock to a — (Let's be honest here, Greg thinks) — to a serial killer is probably going to hit a little too close to home for John.
Greg hadn't wanted to make any excuses, but he was speaking before he even realized it: "Look, mate. I know this is awkward. I hadn't wanted to involve you two, but I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."
"Awkward." John's tone of voice warns Greg that he'd definitely said the wrong thing. "Awkward? You're a detective! You're supposed to save lives, not take them!"
Greg bites back the retort that comes to his lips — the one about John having been a soldier — and simply takes a seat at the only clean spot on the kitchen table, a foot and a half square island of tranquility in the midst of Sherlock's experiments and lab space.
John fusses, making two cups of tea and pouring soup into a bowl. Physically, Greg's feeling much better now that his body's processed the morphine, and he thinks he could hold down something more substantial, but he's not about to ask for anything else.
"Thanks," he says when John brings over a mug, bowl, and spoon.
John takes another seat at the table, holding his mug in his hands, rather than trying to clear more space for it. He's looking everywhere but at Greg, his expression still hard, and when he speaks, his voice is very carefully controlled. "It's daytime. Is Sherlock going to be in any danger?"
Greg shouldn't be surprised at how John's thinking first of Sherlock even now, but he is. Then he realizes it's not surprise; it's jealousy all over again, because Sherlock's mad and antisocial and a complete git half the time, but he's got someone unconditionally devoted to him. Greg's always been a 'good catch' and 'that nice boy' and 'handsome, especially with that grey hair of his, looking so distinguished' and what's he got to show for it? An ex-wife who hates his job, kids he never sees because of his crazy hours, and the usual copper's cocktail of antacids, nicotine patches, and blood pressure meds. Oh, let's not forget the bodies.
"Inspector?"
Last night, he'd been 'Greg'. Now, the title just served to emphasize the distance that had opened up between them. So much for friends, he thinks bitterly as he gives John a shrug. "Sorry. He'll be fine. He knows how to go unnoticed, and... well, I'd thought it all out beforehand."
The reminder makes the frown line between John's eyes grow a bit deeper. Greg gets through most of his soup before John says anything else. "I never saw it in him, you know. Sherlock's not a killer. Not that he couldn't, but he just... I suppose he wouldn't bother. A waste of his time."
It sounds almost like a peace offering. Greg puts his spoon down, sending ripples through the little puddle of chicken broth in the bottom of the bowl. When he can finally bring himself to meet John's eyes again, he sees some of the harshness is gone.
"The couch will be more comfortable for you," he says, getting to his feet. "Is the pain any worse? I can get you something."
Greg lets John fuss and be a doctor again, and soon he's settled on the couch with a blanket to help preserve what modesty he has left. John's typing on his laptop at the table under the cow skull (And why is it wearing headphones? Greg's always wanted to know, but he's never quite gotten up the courage to ask.)
The next time John looks over at him, Greg says carefully, "I'm not doing this for sport. These are bad people, John. People I don't want walking the streets with my kids out there."
Somehow, in his determination to be at least a little honest, he's struck the right chord. John's expression clears, and if what appears in his eyes isn't understanding, at least it's not anger or disappointment or disgust anymore.
Greg can't help but smile a little bit in relief. John goes back to his two-fingered typing while Greg picks up a two-day-old newspaper from the coffee table and starts to read. He needs the distraction, because what he'd said hadn't been quite true at all.
The six people he's killed outside the line of duty have each been, to the best of his knowledge, absolutely guilty. It's almost been an extension of his job, the way he's been thinking of it, and he's been careful to keep himself on that path. Because, God help him, he's good at it.
Not just good at it. He's enjoyed it.
