Chapter Sixty One Painful Truths (Part Two)


"Hold still."

Sherlock flinched. "Thath hurths."

"Yes, I imagine it does. Maybe you shouldn't have pissed him off so much. The pain just might make you remember that even Lestrade's patience has its limits."

"Wasthn't like thath."

John was trying to clean off the caked blood from Sherlock's lip, but his patient was not being patient. In fact, he was squirming worse than most kids who John patched up in the GP surgery. He had packed the gap between Sherlock's top lip and his teeth with some gauze to try to stop the bleeding. As he debrided the gash in his lower lip, he thought about the seven year old Sikh boy who last week had sat like a rock while he stitched the nasty cut he had received in his mouth when coming off his skateboard at great speed. He'd finished that session by giving the boy a lollipop for bravery and his parents a talking to about the virtue of mouth guards. That made him smirk; a mouth guard might have stopped Sherlock from saying whatever it was that got Lestrade so pissed off he punched him.

"Whath tho funny?"

John tried not to giggle. Sherlock's fat lip and John's own hand trying to keep the skin taut was making his speech into something extremely childish.

Unfortunately, Sherlock could read John like a book, and he pulled back, his eyes stormy with anger. "Itth not funny. Itth hurths."

"Sherlock, if you don't stop trying to talk, then I swear I will turn my phone on and record your conversation, and then send it to Mycroft."

"Thath too cwool."

The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled the phone out and found the recorder app, turning it on. "Want to do a sound test for me?"

That shut up the brunet. In blissful silence, John surveyed the damage. The DI's fist had clearly connected at speed with Sherlock's mouth, catching his lower lip against his teeth and ripping it open. The upper lip was swollen as well, and the whole side of his mouth was now turning a nasty blue. The trouble with skin as fair as Sherlock's is that it showed every bit of damage in its full technicolour glory. And the cupid bow symmetry was definitely out of shape, blown up and swollen like a clown's on the left side.

It made him think of the time that he'd punched Sherlock. And that, unfortunately, recalled to mind Irene Adler's comment about how someone must have loved Sherlock, because if she'd had to do it, she would have avoided his nose and teeth, too. By The Woman's definition then, Lestrade definitely did not love Sherlock.

"OK, Sherlock, open wide and let the doctor see inside."

That got his a glare. John pursed his own lips. "I need to see if there's any damage to your teeth, idiot."

Sherlock tried, but his lips were so swollen that it was hard to see, so John gingerly lifted the top lip up, and pulled the gauze wadding free. Underneath, the gum was bright red, but when John touched the teeth, at least he couldn't detect anything had been knocked loose. The tip of his tongue seemed to have caught a bit of the impact,too. Not bloody, but bruised enough to be affecting his speech- probably been right up against his teeth when the blow landed.

"Hmmm. You need to see a dentist. When was the last time you had x-rays?"

Sherlock glowered, and shook his head.

"I'm not just talking about the possible dental damage caused by one irate detective inspector. Have you actually had your teeth cleaned in the past year? Your taste for black coffee and recently-given-up smoking habits mean your teeth need to be cleaned."

Sherlock pulled back completely from John's touch and crossed his arms defensively. If looks could kill, John knew he would be in need of a resus unit.

"Fixth ith."

"I can only suture the cut, Sherlock; I don't do dental work."

He now reached for the syringe of local anaesthetic, tapping the needle. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes while John injected. The doctor could feel the tightness in the lean body as the brunet tensed when the needle went in.

"When you can talk properly again, you and I are going to have to chat about what is socially acceptable to say to a detective inspector."

That got him the second death-ray glare. John decided he was rather enjoying this.

oOo

Several hours later, Sherlock was now lying on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. John had dug the icepack out of the freezer, and it was now affixed to the side of the brunet's face. Every so often, John came by to lift if off and keep an eye on how things were developing.

"The bruising is starting to come out now around your eye. I've always thought Greg Lestrade would pack a mean punch if you finally stepped over the boundaries. You must have really pissed him off."

Sherlock huffed. The swelling of his top lip and tongue had gone down to the point where he didn't sound like a lisping child anymore, but talking was still obviously painful.

John did feel a pang of guilt. At the time, he had wondered whether it was wise to leave Sherlock with the DI, given that Greg was so obviously on edge. But, he never anticipated that Sherlock would provoke him to the point of physical violence. John was aware that the two men had been working together for years before he'd appeared on the scene, but he'd always thought that the DI had a soft spot for Sherlock. He worried that Sherlock had crossed a line, and that it would be hard to repair the damage in their relationship.

He knew from first-hand experience that his flatmate and friend had the capacity to well and truly get up someone's nose, but he'd always walked away to get some air before his temper got the better of him. And in the time that John had known him, Sherlock seemed to know exactly how close to the edge he could go with the DI.

"You know, I still can't decide which I am more surprised about- Greg losing it enough to actually hit you, or the look on Anderson's face, when you came down the stairs with blood streaming down your face. I wonder if he gave Lestrade a round of applause when he went back up to process the scene."

John reached over to lift the icepack off the side of Sherlock's face, to look at the skin underneath. "Yeah, definitely going to have a real shiner, too. I hope we don't get any cases that require you going to Scotland Yard for at least a week."

The younger man did not respond, just lay there on the sofa with his eyes closed.

"What the hell did you say to him Sherlock?"

Sherlock said quietly. "It's none of your business, John."

The doctor stood up, frustrated. No matter how many times John had asked him what was going on with Lestrade, Sherlock had not been willing to say. "If he holds this against you and keeps you off cases as some kind of punishment, you will go bonkers. And you'll make my life hell. I think I might have a word with him over a pint, try to smooth things over a bit.

"Do not interfere, John; just leave him alone. Promise me you won't raise the issue with him."

When John didn't answer, Sherlock repeated it. "I mean it, John. Just let it go, it's OK."

John was halfway back to the kitchen when he digested that last comment. It's as if Sherlock's protecting Lestrade. He was still trying to figure out what that meant when he got up the next morning.