Bleeding From The Soul

221b Baker Street, London: 13 December 2011

Al sat on the edge of the couch, watching Lestrade sleep. It was funny, she mused, how much younger he looked when he was unconscious. It was as if there was an innocence that enveloped him when he thought no one was watching him, a sense of safe. It calmed her just to watch.

She shook her head. No, she had no business getting involved here. None at all. The man was old enough to be her father, and clearly she wasn't the only one who recognized his worth.

But perhaps he didn't know that. Perhaps that was what drove him to this breaking point.

She sighed, reaching out a hand to brush his cheek.

"I wouldn't."

The voice startled her. She had forgotten about the young officer who had brought her here. What was his name again? Oh, yes. Anderson.

She looked at him cryptically. "I'm just taking his temperature. Relax."

He glared at her like a guard dog. "Right. And I'm the Queen of Sheba." His eyes softened, and he sighed. "Look, luv, with the Detective Inspector. . . It's better to let him find his own way."

"How can you say that?" she cried, her eyes wide with surprise. "Don't you care about him at all?"

He rolled his eyes. "He's. . . he's just sloshed. Happens sometimes." His voice was shaking.

"Mr. Anderson, please." She looked at him sympathetically. "I know you care about him. And you and I both know that this is more than a drinking session. Now are you going to make me some tea to help sober him up before the others get back, or do I have to do everything myself?"

Anderson started to snark back, but stopped, sighed, and went to the kitchen. "Bloody Americans."

Lestrade moaned softly, muttering to himself in his sleep. Al could only pick up snatches of it, and what she heard didn't make much sense.

"Flowers. . .buy flowers. . .fire. . . no. . .John. . ."

John? She stared at him. Wasn't that the name of the blond one? Oh, yes. The one he'd gone drinking with. But he wasn't. . .

She stared at him, her heart tight in her throat. He couldn't possibly be involved with both of them, could he?

"Good Goddess, Detective Inspector. You're more interesting than I thought."

"Greg," he muttered, snorting slightly.

"Oh, another one? Parties must be fun at your house."

He opened his eyes slightly, looking at her with a sleepy smile.

"My name. My name is Greg."

"Ah."

She suddenly felt extremely awkward sitting so close to him. It was all well and good when he didn't know she was there, but now. . . They'd only just met, and she hadn't been at her best.

As she moved away, however, his arm snaked out and he caught her gently by the wrist.

"No, 'salright. Please stay. And can you. . ." He gestured awkwardly, his motor skills still affected. She sighed. He must have had a lot of scotch.

She grabbed him securely by the shoulders and helped him sit up. He smiled at her gratefully, if a little shyly.

"Thanks. Sorry about all this." his voice was shaky, though he did his best to hold it steady. "Your day's prolly been worse than mine."

She smiled gently back at him. "I doubt it. It's been pretty lousy, but I wasn't out singing Katy Perry with my boyfriend. I mean, boyfriend's one thing, but geez."

He stared at her, muttering a thanks as Anderson returned with tea and placed a large coffee mug of it in his hands.

"Boyfriend?" he sighed. "Who." It was a statement, not a question.

"Can't remember which?" She smiled demurely. " The blond one."

He stared at her in confusion. "John?"

She nodded.

He laughed so hard he just about fell over.

"Oh, no. What? Oh. . . Well, that would solve a few things, but no. I can't, oh, that's just. . .." he dissolved into laughter.

She pouted, a little annoyed that she'd gotten it wrong, but secretly a little pleased. "Well, it's not that funny."

"Yes it is. You have no idea."

He looked over at Anderson, who was watching him with concern. "Anderson, could you keep Donovan company guarding the entrance? It's bound to be a little cold out there."

He nodded, eyeing Al with a look that begged her to try anything and see what happens. She gulped.

As they sat in silence, sipping on tea and watching the clock move, Lestrade suddenly turned to the young woman.

"Thank you."

She smiled. "For what? All I did was sit with you. Mr. Anderson made the tea."

He patted her on the shoulder. "It was just what I needed. Just knowing that someone was worried about me, even a stranger."

She stared at him, shocked. "What the hell are you talking about? Everyone's been worried about you. Are you that blind? Mr. Anderson practically murdered me for sitting so close to you. Sherlock too. He left in a huff." She paused, trying to work up the courage to ask him. . . "What happened between you and him, anyway?"

"Sorry, that's personal," he snapped, his dark eyes suddenly shot through with bitterness and pain.

She sighed. "Greg. Who am I going to tell? You clearly need to get something off your chest."

He rolled his eyes. "You're as bad as my priest. Fine."

She listened intently as he laid out the rough details of his history with Sherlock Holmes: the days of carrying him through drug withdrawal, the fights, the awkward drunken night when they had kissed. . .

"Hold up," she said. "He kissed you? And you still don't know if he has feelings for you or not?"

"He was drunk."

"You're an idiot."

He chuckled at this. "Not the first time I've been called that. Doubt it'll be the last."

He stared at her, watching the way she moved, the way she half-smiled at him as she listened to his story. He gulped.

"What's wrong?"

He sighed. "You just. . . The way you. . . You remind me of my wife."

She stared. He hadn't mentioned a wife. Now she felt stupid.

"Wife?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't crack.

"Ex wife. Late wife," he added, looking away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Perhaps I've asked you too much."

"No," he muttered. "No, I haven't talked to anyone about any of this in a long time. Aster was the last, you see. She could always get me to tell her anything. Just like you."

She was speechless for a second. Then she grinned, trying desperately to lighten the mood.

"Well, aren't you just a delightful mountain of combustible baggage!"

Lestrade snorted. "I'm not sure about combustible." He smiled strangely at her, his eyes scanning her face.

"And what about you, Al? There's something. . . You've got your own share of baggage, haven't you? How old are you even?"

"Nineteen." She stared at him, praying he wouldn't ask her to elaborate on the baggage bit.

He sighed. "Damn."

"What?"

He smirked, blushing slightly "I was sort of hoping you just looked young for your age."

She snorted in amusement. "Oh, really? And why's that?"

"No reason. Forget I said anything." He looked away, and she saw the sadness creeping back into his eyes. No. No, she wasn't going to let this happen.

"Greg. Look at me."

He complied reluctantly. She reached out, touching his cheek gently, hesitatingly.

"I know you're in love with him. It's fine. And I know none of this makes any sense to you. You want to protect me. But when I left home. . . I. . . I had my reasons. And I'm not as naïve as you think I am. So stop it."

"I. . ." he started. She shushed him with a finger to his lips.

"I know. I know what you're going to say. And I told you, it's fine. I don't care. As long as you need me, however you need me. I'll be here."

He leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She sighed. Well, it was good enough for government work.