A/N: I know I haven't updated in a while... Please don't shoot me!
I've had some stress with Drama, English and History GCSE's and such and well... It took some time.
Also, thank you for the unexpected reviews for Burning Grief. It was a very nice, unexpected little surprise that rather made my day.
I rather love Lestrade so I decided that he should be in this chapter.
Why the hell not? ;)
Let me know if you like it and I'll update mucho faster!
John sighed, pulling some medical thread and a needle from his pocket. Sherlock sent him a look.
"It was going to happen one of these days." John explained, swinging his leg up onto the chair opposite the one he was sitting in. Sherlock nodded swiftly and helped John to roll up his trouser leg.
"Damn, John. That's a nasty one." Lestrade looked over Sherlock's shoulder and cringed. John chuckled lightly.
"It stings, I'll admit." John began to thread the needle, not bothering to watch as Sherlock wiped away the blood with a handkerchief Lestrade had handed him.
"I should bloody well hope it does. If that doesn't sting, God knows what would." Lestrade replied, squinting down at the nasty, deep gash on John's leg. John rolled his eyes and moved to start the stitching.
"Are you squeamish?" He asked, pausing.
"Me? I'm a Detective Inspector, John. I see dead people every day." Lestrade protested.
"You don't like needles." Sherlock drawled, his eyes never leaving John and his hand randomly darting out to clean blood from the wound.
"I'm fine." Lestrade sent Sherlock an irritated glare. John pursed his lips and pushed the needle into his leg. He hissed, but continued. Lestrade paled considerably.
"Sit down." John ordered, wincing as the needle bit a little too deep into his leg.
"What?" Lestrade frowned.
"Sit down. You'll faint if you don't." John sighed. Lestrade sat promptly.
"John, your hands are shaking." Sherlock murmured. John nodded, dismissing the point. Sherlock gently put his hand on top of John's and guided it through the stitching. Lestrade swayed in his seat.
"Sherlock, shove his head between his knees. Breathe, Greg." John ordered. Sherlock looked as if he were about to protest, but John's level look forced him to turn. Sherlock shoved Lestrade's head- not so gently- downwards.
"Breathe." He muttered. John pulled the last stitch tight and swore gently. He quickly cut the thread and surveyed Lestrade.
"Greg, breathe." He told Lestrade softly. Lestrade looked up, grimacing.
"I am breathing, you tit. I'd be dead if I wasn't." He muttered. Sherlock thwacked him on the back of the head.
"That wasn't the best thing to do, really. Was it?" John grumbled, swinging his leg back down and lifting himself to his feet. Lestrade let out a loud sigh and sat up.
"Thanks for the babysitting, Doc, but I've got some paperwork to do." He smiled, pushing himself to his feet. John held out a hand and Lestrade took it, pulled it and shoulder- bumped the smaller man.
"What-"
"I'm ghetto." Lestrade winked. "Oh, and see you, Sherlock." And he was gone. Sherlock frowned and tugged John's trouser leg back down, clambering to his feet.
"You shouldn't have kicked Porter. You knew there was a knife." Sherlock regarded John for a moment, his stare worryingly hard.
"I wasn't going to just let him stab you, was I?" John protested. Sherlock considered this.
"I'd have been marginally happier if you had."
"I wouldn't have been." John shrugged. Sherlock pursed his lips, then reached out and tugged John forward by the collar of his shirt.
"Stop saving me." He smirked, smashing his lips down onto John's.
"Never." John muttered against Sherlock's lips, kissing back with equal force.
"Touché, for now." Sherlock grinned.
A/N: Let me know what you think!
