Lestrade. The name, though he's only heard it once, pulls John back to the present.
"Detective Inspector, I really do apologize for...this." John gestures ineffectually at the policeman, who's still lying on his back, trying to get some breath back in his lungs. "Just lie back, shallow, even breaths...so sorry..."
Greg waves away the apology. "Shouldn'ta come up from behind without announcing myself. One of the first rules of police." With John's help, he rises to a sitting position, then pulls out his phone to shoot off a quick text. Next thing John knows, several police officers gather around John. One introduces himself as Dimmock, the explosives expert. When he gingerly removes the vest from John's body, John has to stop himself from giving the slight man a proper snog right there. The parka and the vest are rushed away, presumably back to New Scotland Yard, but Lestrade tells John to stay put for a minute, relax. He gets his phone back out and makes a few calls.
John sits with his back against a low wall, his head in his hands, breathing deeply and with purpose. He recognizes the signs of shock coming on and wants to combat them as soon as possible. Since he'll be going in with Lestrade for questioning (he assumes), he wants to be prepared.
Soft footsteps tell him he's not alone.
Opening his eyes, he sees a pair of black-shod feet standing in front of him. He lifts his head, scanning up from the sensible shoes to well-tailored trousers to a long blue-black coat to the most aristocratic face John's seen outside of Buckingham Palace. The pale face is crowned with dark brown curls that spill over the man's high forehead. Flinty gray eyes are staring down at John with ill-disguised fascination. Full, luscious lips quirk in a half-smile when he notices John gaping up at him.
"Sherlock Holmes." It's the deep baritone from the phone call. "You must be Captain Watson."
John blinks. "Sherlock Holmes. You were more worried about how I escaped than the fact that I was covered in explosives."
"Yes."
"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Lestrade approaches cautiously, tucking his phone securely into his front jacket pocket. John's glad he's there, as he's not yet made up his mind as to whether he wants to punch Sherlock or figure out why he's so interested in the particulars of his escape.
"I wanted to meet our intrepid would-be hostage." Sherlock quips, not sparing a glance to the other man, instead keeping his gaze directly on John, who doesn't flinch.
"You could've met him back at the Yard if you'd stayed put like I told you to." Lestrade says, though his tone implies he knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say next.
"Just because you and my brother are copulating doesn't mean that you automatically become my handler." Sherlock whirls around and stalks away.
John gapes after him. "Christ, there's another one of him?" Lestrade blushes and mumbles something about his Holmes not being so tetchy. When John laughs, Lestrade looks relieved and suggests they get back to the Yard and out of open air. Sobering, John agrees - he may not be sure a sniper was on him, but he's not about to take more of a chance than necessary. Lestrade extends a hand, which John takes. After being levered to his feet, John steadies himself against the older man's shoulder for a moment before they cautiously move to the cars.
His leg twinges.
The small expanse between Lestrade's car and the door to New Scotland Yard is John's undoing. Now safe, his adrenaline has run out and his leg buckles before he's even gone halfway. Fortunately, Lestrade is there to catch him before he hits the pavement. The older man throws one of John's arms around his broad shoulders and supports him all the way to what must be the detective inspector's office. Gratefully, John sinks into a chair while Lestrade strides purposefully to the kitchen for some coffee. Closing his eyes, John rolls his head, popping a couple of neck joints. He sighs, settling, but flinches when his leg protests at being bent. The pain eases somewhat when he straightens it out in front of him, but beats dully in his head.
"It's psychosomatic, you know."
Every muscle in John's body tenses. Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't heard him approach. John clenches his jaw and curses silently. Six months ago, no one would have gotten so close without his knowing.
"I'm a doctor. Of course I know." John cringes at the note of resignation in his voice.
"Then why do you not do anything about it? There must be some form of treatment." Holmes doesn't sit in the other chair, nor does he remove his coat and scarf. Instead he stands, imperiously looming over John, just slightly too close for polite society. Probably does it on purpose, the git. John thinks. He thinks before answering, not wanting to give away too much.
"It's not that simple - " he begins, but Holmes continues unimpeded.
"You're in therapy, of course. That's obvious. She has you writing about your experiences both here and abroad. You suggested blogging even though you're a terrible typist." Holmes cocks his head, peering down his nose at John, who narrows his eyes. "You don't write often, certainly not daily as she's prescribed. Too painful to look closely at your pitiful life, obviously." John flinches.
"How could you possibly know any of that?" he snarls. Holmes looks entirely too pleased with himself. He opens his mouth again, but Lestrade finally returns with coffee for himself and John.
"Sherlock, you need to go. I have to talk to John about what happened." Lestrade carefully sets down the cups of hot liquid on his desk, then drops heavily into his chair. Holmes, entirely unruffled by the brusque treatment, fixes Lestrade with an intense look.
"Interesting." he murmurs after a moment. "Mycroft's been texting. He doesn't text when he can call. Spending more time than usual at the Diogenes Club lately, has he?" Holmes smirks when Lestrade blushes furiously.
"That's not important here, Sherlock. We need to catch this maniac before he tries something like this again." Lestrade takes a large gulp of coffee then swears loudly when he burns his tongue and lips. John catches Holmes' lips twitching in a smile and frowns.
"You're going to need me, Lestrade. This isn't just a normal criminal. The puzzle he set up earlier for me was elegant. Neat. None of you would've figured it out without me." Holmes is unabashedly arrogant and John can do nothing but stare. He waits for Lestrade's argument, but it doesn't come.
"You're right. God help me but you're right. We couldn't've solved that, much less in only a couple of hours." Lestrade sounds defeated. Holmes barely blinks. John looks between the two of them, desperately trying to figure out what's going on.
"Who are you?" he blurts out. He snaps his mouth shut - he'd not meant to say that. Suddenly he's on the receiving end of the most intense stare he's ever witnessed - and that's saying something, having served in the military. Holmes searches John's face, tracing every line and indent.
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world - I invented the job. When the police are out of their element - which is always - " Lestrade rolls his eyes - "they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs." John can't seem to stop the words from being spoken.
For a moment, Holmes is speechless. John wonders how often that happens.
After several moments of contemplation, Holmes straightens his shoulders and sniffs slightly, as if mildly offended by an odor in the office. John looks to Lestrade, whose jaw is hanging slack. No help there.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Holmes asks suddenly. John furrows his brow - he's never met any of these people in his life, so how could he know?
"Afghanistan but how did you know -"
"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. Also the way you conducted yourself on the phone and how you were able to extract yourself from the sniper situation. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad but there was no sign of it when you put Lestrade out of commission or when you were walking back to the cars so it's at least party psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."
John's jaw doesn't do anything so gauche as to drop open in amazement. Instead it clenches once or twice before he purses his lips and nods. "That was... amazing."
"You think so?" Holmes' voice is calm and collected, but John sees the spark in his eyes. A spark of... something John can't quite put his finger on.
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary." If John hadn't been studying Holmes' face right at that moment, he would've missed the slight lift of the left corner of his mouth that John took for a pleased smile.
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?" John grins, enjoying the banter with this strange man.
"Piss off."
John stares at him for a moment before bursting in the first bout of proper laughter he's had since being invalided home. Holmes looks taken aback for a moment, then the small smile is back - and this time, it stays. Lestrade chokes on his coffee when he sees it. Holmes doesn't even spare him a look. He's too intent on John.
"You were right, you know." Holmes confides quietly after John's laughter subsides somewhat.
"I - I was right? About what?"
Holmes pulls himself up to his very impressive full height, gathers his coat around him and sweeps over to the door of Lestrade's office.
"The police don't consult amateurs." And then he was gone.
This time, John's jaw does drop. He goggles at the door, then looks around at Lestrade, who shrugs. "Yeah, he's always like that."
John looks back at the door, a small smile on his face. He feels lighter than he has in weeks and all because of this Sherlock Holmes.
"Now, Dr. Watson we have some questions about what happened today." John reluctantly turns away from the door (looking for one last glimpse of the detective) to Detective Inspector Lestrade.