AN: FINALLY updating this. So sorry for the long hiatus!
Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade in nonsexual love of some kind.
Part IX
Lestrade is sitting next to the bed when John wakes up. He slips his hand into John's, and John simply turns his head on the pillow and looks at Lestrade with bleary eyes. Lestrade smiles. "Hey you." He rubs his thumb against John's hand. "How are you?"
"Greg." The doctor closes his eyes and swallows. "How long have I been—"
"Since yesterday. They kept you under after surgery, so you could rest."
"Sherlock."
"He's just gone to get some tea. Are you in any pain?"
John breathes in and out through his nose. "I'm okay." He opens his eyes and looks at Lestrade. "Gave you a fright."
"Yeah." Traces of a smile remain on the older man's mouth. He strokes his thumb back and forth over a spot of John's hand. "But you're going to be fine."
"Is Sherlock—is he okay?"
"I think so. He'll feel a lot better once he sees you're awake."
John gives Lestrade's hand the smallest squeeze. "Take care of him," he says softly.
Lestrade's confusion shows on his face. That's the kind of thing a dying man would request.
"While I'm off my feet," John says. "You know how he gets."
Lestrade has no intention of mentioning the coke or his fight with Sherlock. He'd be happy to forget last night altogether.
He and John both look toward the door when Sherlock enters the room. Sherlock stops a few steps in and stares at John with bright blue eyes. "Thank God," he says.
John lifts his hand off the bed, toward Sherlock, and Sherlock moves to him as if by magnetic force. He closes both hands around John's and just stands still for a moment, exhaling in relief.
"Are you okay?" says John. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock nods, clutching John's hand. He opens his eyes and the expression on his face is indescribable. John appears more awake now, attuned to his partner's physical and emotional state.
"We should call the doctor in here," says Sherlock, almost breathless. "Have him take a look at you." He begins to pull away, but John hangs on.
"Wait, wait, wait," he murmurs. "Give us a minute. I want to see you."
Sherlock complies and stands next to the bed, across from Lestrade, his hands still folded over John's. Lestrade doesn't let go of the other. John stares at Sherlock, tired and serious, unsmiling. He's quiet for a minute or two. Then, he says, "You're safe."
Sherlock's jaw ripples. He bows his head. "Because of you."
Lestrade still doesn't know what happened. Sherlock hasn't told him anything, and he knew better than to ask his consulting detective before John's condition stabilized. He gathers that Sherlock and John were together when John got stabbed, and he assumes they were working a case. They must've been separated when John was attacked because Sherlock never would've allowed that to happen if he was present. There would've been a fight, a struggle, and Sherlock would be in the room next door at worst. Sherlock voicing guilt last night on Baker Street tells Lestrade that John was alone. Or protecting Sherlock.
"Hey," says John. "Don't."
Sherlock peers at him.
"I'm fine. We're all fine."
"We'll see what the doctor says."
"He's awake," Lestrade says to Sherlock. "That's a good sign."
"Both of you," says John, closing his eyes. "Relax."
Sherlock leans down and kisses John's hairline tenderly. John looks at him as he pulls away, surprised. Sherlock smiles with the right side of his mouth. He looks at Lestrade and cocks his head toward John. "Do you mind?"
"Not at all," Lestrade says.
Sherlock bends down again, slowly, and presses a kiss to the corner of John's mouth. It is brief and soft and when his lips disconnect, he tips his face toward John's, his nose touches John's cheek, and he lays his forehead on the doctor's. Lestrade watches the two of them as they close their eyes and stay there for a bit. He still has John's hand in his.
When Sherlock rises away from John just enough to look at him, John looks at him with a slightly awed expression. "That's new," he says.
"Not good?" says Sherlock.
"No, it's….fine." John shifts his eyes to Lestrade. "Did you?"
Lestrade nods once. "He needed the comfort."
"Don't expect a snog," says Sherlock, straightening.
"I'm not interested," says John. "But that sort of kiss might be…. nice. Makes me feel a bit like I'm in primary school again."
Sherlock smiles a bit, smoothes John's hair back with one hand and kisses John's forehead. He locks eyes with John. "I love you."
"I love you too," says John.
Sherlock squeezes his hand and looks over at Lestrade, who makes eye contact with him. Sherlock lets go of John and rounds the bed to the older man. Lestrade holds fast to John's hand on the bed but leans back into his chair. Sherlock cups his face in both hands. "Thanks," he says. And Lestrade knows exactly what he's talking about. Sherlock runs his thumbs over Lestrade's cheeks, tips smoothing the dark circles beneath his eyes. He kisses Lestrade's bottom lip with his dry, closed mouth. He drops his right hand away from the other man's face and cups his other hand over the back of Lestrade's head. He hunches over to touch his forehead against Lestrade's temple. The DI rests his free hand on Sherlock's lower back.
"I wish we could all go home. I need a recharge," says Sherlock.
"Soon," says Lestrade.
"I love you, Lestrade," Sherlock whispers. "I need you."
"I know. Forced you to stay, didn't I?"
The two detectives look at each other closely. John watches them, not knowing what Lestrade means and too tired to ask. He closes his eyes and feels the presence of the two other men in the room, the comfort in it. He listens to Sherlock leave the room for the doctor, and when he looks at Lestrade, the older man is looking back at him.
After a silent beat, Lestrade asks John, "What are you thinking?"
John swallows, his mouth dry. "It was close," he says.
Lestrade gives the slightest nod. However he might've encouraged Sherlock, he knows how close John came. Stabbings can be more fatal than gunshot wounds. Lestrade's seen more of the former than the latter in his career; he knows what sort of danger John was in, what sort he's still in. Recovery will take weeks. Painkillers, antibiotics, bed rest, leave from work, and extreme gentleness with his body. John surely knows all of this himself. So does Sherlock.
"The worst is over," Lestrade murmurs. "You're alive. That's what counts."
"Greg."
"Yes, John."
"I would die for Sherlock. No regrets. I was ready for it."
Lestrade's eyes narrow a little, and his mouth tightens. He knows how John feels. He would die for Sherlock too, without hesitation. He's glad to know that John loves Sherlock no less than this. But it's not as simple as it was a year ago, when Lestrade and John were casual friends only because of their mutual loyalty to Sherlock. Now, a part of Lestrade wonders if he should feel more selfish, if he should want John to live for him instead of dying for Sherlock. He has never wanted there to be any competition of loyalty amongst the three of them. He knows John and Sherlock feel the same way about it. But the nature of their work can easily force them to choose who they love more, who they prioritize more, whose feelings they consider more. Lestrade's certain that in the moment of the attack, John wasn't thinking of anything or anyone except Sherlock. Lestrade would've done the same. He doesn't fault John for it. But what does it mean? Does John love Sherlock more than he loves Lestrade? Does Lestrade love Sherlock more than he loves John?
And what of Sherlock? Does he have a favorite?
"I don't think he would've appreciated it," Lestrade says.
John's lips curl into a half-smile. "I'm used to this. Maybe not as much as other soldiers, who aren't doctors. But I still had to learn how to…. care less about my own life than everybody else's. Bit hard to unlearn."
Lestrade shakes his head. "You shouldn't try. It makes you a better friend. A better man."
John's hand is still in his. Lestrade glances up and back at the monitor behind him, tracking John's vitals.
"I've never been that terrified," John says.
Lestrade looks at him.
"I saw the knife, and I just—threw myself at the man, to keep him from Sherlock. Don't remember much after that."
Lestrade nods and glances toward the door, as Sherlock returns with John's doctor right behind him. The doctor stands at the foot of John's bed, while Sherlock returns to his place on John's left. The doctor smiles pleasantly at John and doesn't seem to notice Lestrade holding his hand. Neither John nor Lestrade move to let go.
"Good to see you conscious, John," the doctor says. "How do you feel?"
"Exhausted but properly drugged. Thanks for that."
"If you need any more morphine, don't hesitate to click that button." The doctor nods at the clicker lying on the bed between John's forearm and Lestrade's. "We patched up your wounds quite nicely and did a blood transfusion just to be on the safe side. You'll need to be on antibiotics for a while yet, to prevent infection, but at this point, I expect you to make a full recovery. You're a lucky man."
Sherlock touches John's shoulder with his fingertips, then settles his hand there warmly.
"When can I go home?" John says.
"I'm not sure," says the doctor. "I'd like to keep you here tonight and check on you again tomorrow, make absolutely sure you're stable. I suppose we'll see how things look."
John takes a breath, though whether he's disappointed or only tired is hard to tell.
"Hungry?"
"Not particularly."
"Well, you should try to get something down, if you can. Maybe one of your friends here can fetch you something from the cafeteria. We'll keep you on IV fluids until you're released." The doctor glances at the monitor behind Lestrade. "Everything looks good. So unless you have any questions, I think I'll leave you to get some rest."
John looks at him silently, and the doctor turns to go. At the door, John stops him and asks, "Were you my surgeon?"
The doctor looks over his shoulder. "One of them."
"Thanks."
The doctor gives him a small smile. "You're welcome."
As soon as the door shuts after him, Sherlock says, "I'm going to find the man responsible."
John and Lestrade both look up at his face, while Sherlock stares across the room as if in thought.
"He got away?" says John.
"Yes."
"The Met's already been notified," says Lestrade. "Leave it to them, Sherlock."
Sherlock turns his head and meets Lestrade's gaze with cool, deadly eyes. He doesn't say a word.
"We're not as incompetent as you think," Lestrade tells him. "If he's still in London, he'll be found."
"Since when I have entrusted my personal affairs to the police?" Sherlock says.
"John's not even out of hospital yet. You're actually going to leave him to recover without you, to go on some reckless revenge trip?"
Sherlock's face softens a little as he looks at Lestrade, then lowers his eyes to the pale teal blanket covering John. "I didn't say I was going now. Did I?"
"If you two intend to have a row, do it outside," says John, his eyes shut again and his hand limp in Lestrade's.
"I'll see if I can find you some soup," says Lestrade, after pausing to look between his two partners. He gets up from his chair and leaves Sherlock alone with John.
After midnight that evening, Lestrade settles into Sherlock's easy chair at 221B, a hot cup of tea in his hand. He hasn't had more than a few hours of proper sleep in two days; John sent him away from the hospital for the benefit of a real bed. Sherlock stubbornly refused to follow the older detective, insisting he has little need for sleep in the first place and will be perfectly comfortable in a chair.
The flat is dark and quiet, a single white light illuminated on the coffee table in front of the fireplace to Lestrade's right. Steam rises from his tea, and he slouches deep into the chair, his shoulders resting against the back and his long legs stretched out before him. Now that he's alone and in a familiar, comfortable place, Lestrade feels the exhaustion in his body and his mind. He needs to go to work tomorrow but probably won't make it to the Yard until late morning. Donovan's been keeping him posted and taking direction via text and the occasional phone call.
"Take the time you need," she told him this morning. "God knows you have enough unused vacation days."
He fishes is mobile out of his pocket to check the time and discovers a two hour-old text from Ashley, the woman he met last weekend in a pastry shop when he was snooping around on a case off hours.
Want to have a drink on Friday?
He gave her his number to be nice and because she was the first woman to approach him several months. He hasn't had sex in a year, not that he particularly misses it. Once in a while, he feels as if he should seek it out because that's the normal thing to do, but he's thought about it even less since he started getting closer to Sherlock and John.
Sherlock once deduced something about Lestrade's sexuality, three months ago over breakfast at 221B. Lowering his newspaper and glancing at Lestrade from across the table, those penetrating blue eyes bright in the sunshine from the windows to his left, he said, "You've never been particularly passionate about sex, have you, inspector?"
"Excuse me?"
"You aren't like me. But you aren't like John either. I believe there's a word for you."
"A word?"
"Gray." And Sherlock returned to reading.
Lestrade still doesn't know what the younger detective was on about. He also doesn't know if he wants to meet Ashley, now that she's asked. He's too old for casual sex, by his standards, but he isn't looking for a girlfriend either…. He doesn't think it would be feasible to have one now, even if he wanted. He doesn't have the time. Or the space. John seems to have accepted that for himself too, and he's far more interested in sex and women than Lestrade. Loving Sherlock Holmes is a full-time job. Having a second partner in addition to that is more than any sane, ordinary person could handle, and adding a third is out of the question.
Lestrade will deal with the text in the morning.
He turns his head at the click of the door when it opens but doesn't move otherwise. Sherlock's tall silhouette appears in the shadows, and Lestrade watches as he steps into the light. The older man wonders if he looks as terrible as Sherlock does.
"What changed your mind?" Lestrade asks.
"John," says Sherlock. "He doesn't think you should be alone."
Lestrade barely smiles with the right corner of his mouth and sips at his tea. "I hope you didn't put up too much of a fight."
Sherlock pulls his scarf down from his neck and stares at the floor. "Any word on the fugitive?"
"No."
Sherlock stands still for a moment, then lowers himself into John's chair across from Lestrade. He sits leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his blue scarf still in one hand. The men are silent, until Sherlock speaks. "I didn't tell him about our argument."
Lestrade nods and drinks more tea. "For the best."
Sherlock swallows and looks sad. "You are so much the better man, Lestrade. You always have been."
Lestrade lifts his eyes to Sherlock's face, but the younger detective doesn't make contact.
"You and John—my superiors in every way, except cleverness."
"Sherlock."
"It's true," Sherlock says, finally looking back at Lestrade. "And one day, you'll realize it. Both of you." He gets to his feet abruptly and disappears through the kitchen, into his bedroom.
Lestrade sighs and sets his cup down without finishing his tea. He stops in the doorway to Sherlock's room, leaning against the jamb and looking at Sherlock's back. The younger man sits at the foot of his bed, facing away from Lestrade, the shadows and moonlight casting strange shapes across his shoulders.
"Do you want me to stay?" Lestrade asks.
Sherlock doesn't answer.
Lestrade bows his head and steps into the room, hands in his trouser pockets. "Not long after John met you and moved in, do you know what I told him? I said that you were a great man…. And that I hoped one day, with luck, you would be a good one too."
"Is that your passive aggressive way of saying I've deeply disappointed you?" Sherlock says, without turning to show his face.
"You have far exceeded any expectations I had before I knew you the way I do now," says Lestrade. "You aren't perfect, but no one is, Sherlock. Christ, I failed a marriage, didn't I? John could never keep a girlfriend. I know this isn't what you want to hear but being great, being good, doesn't make you flawless. You'll never be flawless. And I'm not asking you to be."
"You've always been far too lenient with me, detective inspector."
"You were scared. And you stayed anyway. I believe they call that courage."
"I stayed because you convinced me to stay."
"You stayed because you love John. And me. You just needed to be reminded that matters more than anything."
Sherlock twists around to look over his shoulder at Lestrade. "How can you stand there and suggest that a man like me deserves to be loved by a man like John? By a man like you?"
"Because I see you more clearly than you see yourself."
Sherlock sneers at him and turns away.
Lestrade approaches Sherlock, stopping just behind him. "Can I touch you?"
"Why?"
"Because it's the only thing you can't argue with."
Sherlock doesn't look at him or speak, but Lestrade can see his lips quiver. He lays his hand on Sherlock's back, between the shoulder blades. Sherlock's breath hitches. Lestrade isn't sure whether Sherlock will cry.
"What are you doing here, Lestrade?" Sherlock says. "What are you and John doing here?"
Lestrade sits on the bed next to Sherlock and gathers him his arms. Sherlock doesn't resist.