HELLO! I'm back for the final time in Bed of Roses: MI6!
CHAPTER 39
0500
Royal Prince Alfred Hospital
Melbourne, VIC
Australia
Lestrade tried not to feel too agitated as he paced the corridor, the heels of his polished dress shoes clicking smartly with each step.
Almost more than year ago, he had been standing in a hospital, with two of his best friends, having survived great trauma, and now, those same two were lying in a hospital again.
At least they had the decency to wait until they were overseas, this time.
Sally, also wearing a suit, her hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, watched with a baleful stare as Lestrade kept pacing, wondering if slapping her boss was a good idea,
"Boss," she said his name with an exhale and he stilled, looking at her. The sterile white lights showed every dark circle under his green eyes brought on by what was becoming far too much stress, and Sally didn't know where to look,
"Yeah?' he rasped, slightly worried at the sound of his own voice, and annoyed that it cracked slightly,
"Sit down, please," she finally managed and much to her surprise, the stubborn man obliged, letting out a huff of air as he fell into the seat next to her.
They had been here almost four hours, waiting for admission into Sherlock's room. John had to be sedated because the medic had actually tried to unhook himself and go and see Sherlock, when the news reached them that Sherlock was alive and being brought to the hospital. Lestrade had told them it was better to wait before telling him, but at the same time realised it wasn't fair to keep John in suspense.
All through the mayhem, Mycroft had flitted in and out, bringing reports from London, one of which consisted of an ecstatic Stone, and one with a not too jubilant Police Commissioner, who found himself congratulating the controversial DI Lestrade.
Mycroft had said they were to come back immediately, Sherlock and John or not, because there was paperwork to be done, and reports to be filled and as the consulting detective and his doctor were not a part of Scotland Yard, and were already discharged from the army, they were no longer needed.
Lestrade almost kicked Mycroft out as a smug smile made its way onto the man's face.
He tried not to notice the slight hurt as what was obviously intended to be humour fell flat, because that hardly constituted a joke.
Or that is sent a little twinge of sadness through him as Mycroft left.
Or that he was still thinking about it, one hour, six minutes and, Lestrade checked his watch, fifty seconds later.
The DI looked over to Sally who was watching him with an apprehensive look on her face, "What?" he asked, the word coming out harsher than he intended, and he didn't understand when a smile broke out on her face,
"Go after him, Greg," she said and he felt like he had been jolted with a couple thousand volts of electricity,
"Pardon?" he asked and this time, his sergeant laughed out aloud, the sound ringing around the empty corridor, metal gleaming silver, paint painfully white,
"Go and get Mycroft and say sorry, and then ask him out to dinner," Lestrade threw her an incredulous look, playing with the lapels of his midnight blue suit,
"Are you mad?" he asked, trying to keep the same tone of voice,
"I will be if you don't do it because I've been watching you brood over him for the past hour," Lestrade shut his mouth and looked down at his feet.
He mumbled something and Sally raised an eyebrow,
'What was that?" she asked, and the DI looked up, now thoroughly embarrassed that he could even be thinking, let alone talking about – about – about – this when they still hadn't seen Sherlock because the Doctors wanted every precautionary measure taken and Sherlock's reputation for being almost immune to sedation followed him around. It wasn't nice. Or right. Or needed. Or - damn it.
"I'm not brooding," he finally said and it was all Sally could do to not clap her hands together in excitement,
"Oh finally!" she exclaimed, a true smile breaking through, and she noticed it was taking the DI a bit of effort to keep the smile off his face.
The worry Sherlock put them through, and then the anger that came in waves in between the worry had worn her, and this entire mission, in fact had made her feel like she had been in way over her head. Now, here was something she could deal with.
"You like him!" She squealed and Lestrade rolled his eyes, trying to maintain nonchalance but knowing that his cheeks were a fiery red,
"We're not in bloody high school," he said, still mumbling, but in the silence, he was fully aware Sally would hear,
"I don't care," she said, grabbing his arm, "Take him out tonight!" she said and Lestrade's gaze snapped back up to her, slight fear in them,
'Can we please-" before he could finish his sentence, they were interrupted,
"Excuse me," they looked up to see a pretty, young nurse with a heavy Australian accent standing in front of them, looking much more tired than she should,
"You two waiting for Mr. Holmes?"
They both stood up, "Yes, DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan," The nurse shook their hands and led them off down the corridor,
"Mr. Holmes has just woken up and hasn't stopped abusing every doctor that has walked in and tried to tell him what was wrong with him. We've more or less given up," she looked rather harassed and Lestrade empathised. That had been him, in a completely different situation not so long ago,
When my job resembled normalcy, he added and tried not to chuckle, because the nurse was still going on about Sherlock's antics to an amused Sally and the DI didn't want her anger to be taken out on him.
They rounded the corner and the nurse pulled back a curtain to a cubicle in the emergency department, before leaving them quickly.
Lestrade felt like someone had hit him over the head as he took in what was presented to him,
There, in the bed, was the untouchable Sherlock Holmes – black eye, split lip and various other lacerations to his once unmarred face, showing far too clearly in the white light, dimmed for the early hours of the morning.
"Sherlock," Sally ran up and hugged him, heedless of the doctor's cries of warning and Sherlock's look of 'come near me and face the consequences'.
To the DI's greatest shock though, Sherlock hugged back, albeit, slowly and painfully.
"I thought – you IDIOT!" Sally yelled the last word and Sherlock winced. Lestrade turned to the doctor,
"We'll look after him," he said and the doctor nodded, closing the chart gratefully,
"Thankyou," he said, and, placing it on the stand, he hurried out of the room, happy to leave the troublesome patient.
"Sherlock," Lestrade smiled and the consulting detective replied likewise, "You are in so much trouble," the DI couldn't stop smiling though and Sherlock laughed roughly, wincing as he moved his ribs, and the injured part of his leg rubbed against the blankets, smooth as they were.
"Not as much as you will be if you actually do ask my brother out tonight," Sherlock couldn't help himself, a smug smile finding a way onto his lips, even though that really hurt too.
Lestrade all but deflated. Had he made it that obvious?
"No," Sherlock answered the question and Sally laughed,
"Freak," she said, but the note of tenderness was not missed by any in the make-shift room as she patted his arm,
"Anyway," she turned to the DI, who was leaning against the side of Sherlock's bed, looking the detective over properly, "We've got a flight to catch,"
"Back to London?" Sherlock asked, the note of longing quite clear and Lestrade nodded with a sigh,
"We've been recalled, you and John get to stay here for as long as you like," Sherlock scoffed,
"I'm getting out of here," he said, and Sally laughed,
'Considering John's not allowed to fly anywhere for at least another month, I doubt it," Sherlock's eyes lit up at the mention of his doctor,
'Have you seen him?" he didn't wait for a reply, "Of course, no they wouldn't let him see me. Good. He'd only get angry,"
It was Lestrade's turn to get one over Sherlock,
'You have no idea," he said and Sherlock turned to him, "He's going to skin you alive when he so much as allowed to take a step," the consulting detective tried not to look worried, but was aware he was failing,
"Don't worry," Sally patted his arm in congenial way, "He'll keep you alive, he needs you for certain reasons," she winked and the DI would have given anything for a camera as a light blush spread across Sherlock's cheeks,
"Shut up," he muttered and received an even bigger smile for his troubles.
"But we really have to go," she said and Sherlock sighed,
'Of with you then," he waved a hand and Lestrade shook his head as he gathered himself,
'We're not your servants," he said and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and Sally took her Boss' arm,
"I'll tell you how the date goes!" she said and Lestrade rolled his eyes, but actually found himself smiling.
Now all he needed to do was call John as soon as he could and ask him, how, exactly, does one ask Mycroft Holmes out on a date.
1000
Royal Prince Alfred Hospital
Melbourne, VIC
Australia
Sherlock limped down the corridor, wondering momentarily if he was masochistic.
He was going to see John.
And, if reports from the nurses were right, the expletives from John, about him, had been going all morning. Especially after a call from London.
In fact, the doctors told him perhaps it would be better if he waited a little while before going to see John.
However, Sherlock winced as he accidentally put too much pressure on his right leg, the world's only consulting detective decided that he had waited far too long for John to be entirely his, to back out now.
If he lived through the next ten minutes, that is.
Sherlock paused in front of the ward door and, summoning up his strength and his courage, opened it.
The sun was coming in at a slanted angle, throwing a homely, warm glow around the small, private room. John was playing solitaire and the golden light bounced off his blonde hair and tanned and lightly muscled skin, the doctor's shirt off for the time being in the warm room as he sat on the bed.
Outside, through the big easterly facing windows, Sherlock could see people several stories down, in the gardens, moving around, and the sky was a clear, crisp blue, the sun bright, not a single cloud in sight.
Sherlock assessed his doctor for a moment. His breathing was still much shallower than it should be, but he was sitting up, and obviously had free movement of his hands. Also, judging by the fact that he had his legs crossed, he was recovering well.
Sherlock traced the planes of the doctor's body one more time, wondering how, for the umpteenth time, he managed to stay so fit when Sherlock was yet to see him actually workout.
"You can stop ogling me from the door and come in, Sherlock," the detective was so startled he forgot to limp as he started forward and yelped as pain raced up his leg.
Immedaitely, John's expression went from playful to worry,
'Sherlock!" he called but the detective waved him off, closing the door behind him and limping over, smiling all the way at being caught, so many emotions racing through him, he was at a loss for words.
"When did you get so observant?" he finally asked, his eyes his running over the doctor again and again, drinking him in, as if he could never get enough of seeing him. John looked up at the detective, tilting his neck and Sherlock stopped breathing. Every time, Sherlock had gotten lost in the blue eyes and found himself doing so again – until the love in them darkened to something else,
"When you decided to go and commit bloody suicide," the doctor rumbled in answer and Sherlock knew the storm was about to hit,
"What is wrong with you?" John asked, pushing the table away, staring at the detective. He was taking in the injuries he knew Sherlock had sustained and wondering why they weren't worse before hitting himself and remembering it was Sherlock.
"Nothing," Sherlock replied, sitting on the end of the bed, not looking at John.
That choice was taken away as John, with a wince, actually dragged him up the bed by grabbing his arm, forcing him to make eye contact as he was spun around slightly,
"Do you have any idea what you put me through?" the doctor asked through clenched teeth and Sherlock swallowed,
"I was-"
"Shut up," and John didn't bother with words.
Instead he pulled Sherlock into a kiss that should not, by Sherlock's calculations, have been possible, considering John's injuries.
Not that he was complaining.
By the end of it, neither of them necessarily knew which way was up anymore, but that didn't really matter to either men, so completely immersed in their world,
"If you ever," John started, making sure he kept eye contact, fear and anger and love and irritation and every bloody emotion he had felt in the last twenty four hours fighting for first spot in his mind, "and I mean ever try something so phenomenally stupid again, I will kill you myself,"
There was silence as Sherlock just let himself be with John, resting his forehead against John's collarbone.
Their situation was sometimes just so unbelievable.
The detective had never thought he would ever find another person interesting and fascinating all at the same time.
Then he met John.
He had never thought he would like a person because everyone was boring.
Then he met John.
And honest to God, he had never thought he would even want to fall in love with someone.
Then he met John.
"Yes Sir," Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing the doctor's neck, and he felt the shiver that went through him.
It was a few more minutes before either said anything, Sherlock having found himself quite comfortable and unwilling to move away.
"You know," John was threading his hands through the detective's hair, already having missed everything about him,
'What?" Sherlock asked,
"We still have a wedding to plan," Sherlock felt himself go red again, and this time, when he pulled John into a kiss, it was one filled with the promise of oh so much more to come.
Sometime later
It wasn't long before they were back in London again, John having being released from the hospital three weeks into their stay. The British Embassy had their tickets and everything waiting for them at a call from Sherlock, and then they were home.
Returning to 221b Baker Street was the best thing either had done in a long time.
They had met up with Lestrade and Mycroft, both of whom were trying to be subtle about their newfound relationship, but John really didn't class 'subtle' as snogging in the loo of the pub.
Mycroft was going to deny that for as long as he shall live, no matter how funny Greg found it.
Sarah welcomed John back with open arms and was not at all pleased to see he had been hurt again, and was still cold as ever towards Sherlock.
Sherlock went back to work with Lestrade, but this time, after his work with Moriarty, was actually on the payroll of Scotland Yard and a freelance worker, meaning that Sherlock now had a boss.
Much to the detective's chagrin and John's amusement.
They still ran out of milk every now and then, and John came home from work to find a cat, three puppies and a mouse all on his favourite chair, but he couldn't find a reason to complain, because he could truly say, even as he yelled at Sherlock and warned him he was going to throw every last experiment out, that he had found home.
He had found his Sherlock.
And that's it.
I Don't know whether to cry or laugh so I'll settle for something in between. :3
THANKYOU ALL SO MUCH! For sticking around and putting up with the ridiculous gaps between updates.
This is definitely not my last story, and we STILL HAVE A WEDDING TO PLAN remember? ;P
See you all soon!
BYE!
Aza
xx