Speechless

Chapter 6.4: If I Promise Boy To You

DATES are no longer relevant, so I am disposing of them now that we've entered series canon.

It had been weeks since Doctor John Watson had strode into Sherlock's life like he owned it, and Lestrade still wasn't sure how he felt about the new addition to their little group. At first, the young army doctor had seemed to respect their relationship. . . If that was the word for it. He had stood at a distance, had watched them with curious interest. . . But that was all.

"You know him better than I do."

Lestrade hadn't known how to react to that statement. It was the truth, wasn't it? But there was an edge to that simple statement, a question left unspoken but understood.

Just how well do you know each other?

He had gulped to himself, trying to figure out how to deal with that statement.

"I've known Sherlock Holmes for five years," he managed, watching the man's eyes darken. Shit. So he was interested in Sherlock. This called for a change in tactics.

"And no I don't," he added rather hastily.

No way was he going to admit his feelings to a stranger when he hadn't even told Sherlock yet. Besides, going by the way the detective had looked at this fellow. . . Perhaps his window of opportunity had already closed.

So he had come to the crime scene, had talked with Sherlock, brimming with relief that the man he would gladly trade his life for was alive and well. They had bickered, just like old times, and it was just so incredible that perhaps he'd leapt to a bad conclusion. Perhaps this was the moment when he could finally tell him. . .

And then he watched him spy John from across the police tape, had watched them walk away together, laughing like schoolgirls. And that was it.

He'd lost.

He'd never had a chance.

Yes, maybe he'd meant something to the younger man once. But really, how could he ever compete with this new interest? John was young, broken, short-tempered, fiery, and clearly wasn't afraid of risking his life for Sherlock.

Lestrade wasn't a fool. He knew who'd shot the cabbie before Sherlock had gotten a sentence in. It was something he'd never have the strength to do, taking another man's life like that. Even in the Royal Navy, he'd never been able to. Perhaps that was why he'd chosen the Navy when he'd been given the choice. Less likely to see action. He wasn't a coward. He just wanted to save lives, not end them.

Yet here was a man willing to die for Sherlock, willing to give up everything for him, and they'd only just met. No, this Doctor Watson was interesting. Lestrade was afraid that Sherlock had simply gotten bored with him, with the twisted man he could never be again.

He sighed, looking over at Donovan.

"I'm going to be gone for a while. Do keep an eye on them, will you?"

And then he was gone.

The official story was that Lestrade was working another case, and that was true, in a manner. The case he was working on was his own past, however, and the darkness he had fled.

The streets of Croydon were cleaner than he remembered. Of course, it had been a long time since the DI had found himself there. After all, a man who fears ghosts does not seek them out.

He paused briefly by a door on Wellesley Road, staring at it with a sort of broken melancholy. He traced the flaking paint on the doorframe with one hand.

His house. Mother's house.

No one appeared to be home, but that was for the best. He had no reason to see which of his siblings - if any - lived there now, nor did he want to see the squalor of his birth. There was a reason why he had always tried to get away, why the police had rounded him up and sent him to sea, why he had gone gladly.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, continuing down the street into a nearby alley.

Here. It was here. So close to his childhood home, the place where everything changed.

Where he had spilled his first blood.

But it was self defense. Self defense. He had never wanted to. . . The man was after his sister, little Ellen, just barely sixteen. . .

He had just returned from his time hunting nuclear submarines, his hair short and his shoulders suddenly so broad. His family had barely recognized him as the punk-ass delinquent he'd been when he left. He was a man, just barely a man.

Adjusting to civilian life had been hard. So he didn't. He'd joined the police almost immediately, starting as a young Constable in Croydon's safer neighborhood team, patrolling the streets where he used to lurk. It was fitting, he'd told himself. Maybe he could change a life the way his had been changed.

He'd never meant to end one instead.

The screams had drawn him to the alley, his heart pounding with adrenaline. And when he had seen the man towering over his sister, her dress torn and eyes wild with fright, he'd not been able to pull himself back. He'd tried to arrest the man, but he'd come at him with a knife. And before he'd entirely realized what had happened, the knife was in the man's throat, he was clutching a cut on his arm, and his sister was holding him, weeping.

Self defense. Then why did it haunt him? Why could he still see the blood, still smell the man's life pouring over his hands?

He sighed, sinking to his knees.

The darkness had never left. Not really. He knew that. But all he could do was to keep fighting for his city. And for him.

"Where the hell have you been?"

He stared in shock as the young army doctor nearly threw himself across his desk at him.

"Sorry?"

Watson's eyes burned with anger.

"I asked where you've been. I've been trying to reach you for weeks."

Lestrade's eyes grew wide. If the man was that desperate to find him. . .

"Is Sherlock -"

"Oh, he's fine. Just superb. I mean, we both almost died, but I suppose that whatever you were working on was important too."

"What?" Lestrade stared at him. "But I left you backup. I did. Didn't Dimmock help you at all?"

Watson sighed, sinking into a chair. The man was clearly exhausted. "You really think Sherlock got on well with him? You know he only works with you."

Lestrade's heart caught in his throat. Really? He'd never been away long enough for it to be an issue before. Sherlock really wouldn't work with anyone else?

"I suppose I should have thought of that." No he shouldn't of. How could he? He'd no way of knowing. . .

Watson smiled at him, though his eyes betrayed a burning rage. "I suppose you should have. Really, promise me you won't leave again."

"Why would I do that? Sherlock's a grown man. He can take care of himself."

"No!" Watson slammed his fist on the table. "He's right. You're an idiot. You weren't there. You didn't see the way he. . . Are you really so dense? The man's completely different when you're gone. He barely. . . He was almost slow."

"Sherlock? Slow? I know some people who'd pay good money to see that."

"You aren't taking this seriously, Detective Inspector."

"And why should I?" He was tired of it, tired of Sherlock, and tired of this new flat mate of his. "Why should I, when he has you?"

The younger man's deep blue eyes softened, and he sighed. "I knew it. Is that what this is all about? Look. If it's any consolation, it's not going to happen."

"What isn't?" But he already knew.

"Me and him. I mean, sometimes I. . . but it's him, you know? He'll never. . . Not in this lifetime."

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. I know. But what if he does?"

"Hmm?"

"Think about it. One day, what if he does? He's bound to choose one of us. Or neither of us. What do we do then?"

Watson smiled sadly at him. "I'll let you know when I figure it out. But please, Lestrade," he looked at him, his eyes filled with concern. "Don't leave again."

"Call me Greg." He smiled sadly at the doctor. "And I won't if you won't."

"Agreed. Greg," he added with a smile, easing himself out of the chair.

And may the best man win, he thought, watching the shorter man leave.

And may that man be me.

ONE MORE UPDATE! This fic ends tomorrow!