I opened a prompt blog, on tumblr, for minor pairs. It's minorsherlockprompts dot tumblr dot com. You can basically send prompts for anything other than Johnlock or Mystrade. I've mostly been posting these on my AO3 account, but I'm going to transfer some of the longer ones over here.
This is written for the prompt: You want angst? You got angst! Lestrade arouses from a coma and doesn't remember his relationship with John.
John unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Greg opening his eyes, seeing John and smiling. "Sherlock let you come and sit here, eh?" he said jovially. John closed the door behind him, setting his keys on the table. He didn't remember. Didn't remember Sherlock killing himself, leaving John behind. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, cleared out his jeans, face tight. John walked into the kitchen, turned on the kettle. "What do you mean, we live together?" Greg's face was warm, confused. John stared, and then forced a smile on his face.
"It was just a temporary thing," he replied. "After - Greg, Sherlock's dead."
The confusion on Greg's face had nearly broken John. It had been six months since Sherlock's death, and that one expression shattered months of healing. Years of training kept John from breaking. Instead he hardened his armour. "What do you mean?"
"Sherlock jumped off the roof of Barts, about six months ago." John's tone was even, kind. Greg looked lost, and John could not save him, could not help him, for he was fighting battles of his own. Talking about it was like reliving it, like seeing Sherlock jump off that roof all over again. Greg had - Greg had supported him, they had roughed it out together. John had seen Greg through a rough investigation and a re-promotion to DI, albeit with more supervision. Greg had seen John through finding a solid job at a surgery, a regular job.
He shoved a teabag into his favourite, chipped mug. Staring at the counter for a few moments, he turned and walked to the front door, flicking on the light that would illuminate the inside of the door. The key was still under the mat, where he had left it.
"I don't - I don't understand." Greg looked confused, and John smiled his broken smile and carefully patted Greg's hand. The way a friend would, not a lover, not what they had become, but what they had been.
The kettle beeped, and John poured the water into his mug, eyes unseeing. Food. He needed to eat something.
"The articles are at -" John had to stop himself from saying home. It was their home, their home together. But it wasn't a home anymore. "They're at the flat." It was just a place that they shared now, convenience, nothing more. It wasn't theirs. It was Greg and John's, separate entities. "You'll be in here for a while. I can bring them by later, if you want?"
"Nah, I don't want to be a bother," Greg replied. "I'm sure you have better things to do than check in on an old copper like me, eh?"
John had managed a weary smile, a faint chuckle. "It's no problem."
He pulled the tea bag out of his mug and tossed it in the trash. Without thinking he added his sugar and milk, robotic. It was then that he realized he had poured two cups of tea. He blinked at it, had not remembered making it, pouring the water in, throwing the tea bag away. But it was there. Unconsciously he ran a hand through his hair, surprised to find his arm wet when he blinked at the limb. Tears? He was crying.
"So - if Sherlock's - gone, what have you been up to?" Greg attempted to sound casual, attempted to sound light. John tried, tried his hardest. He kept the smile on his face, hoped that Greg couldn't see how much he wanted to run.
"Working as a proper GP now," he said, not sure if the words came out like he wanted. I met someone, he wanted to say. I fell in love. But he couldn't.
The tears came harder and faster, and John's vision swam. He drank the tea, but did not remember what it tasted like. He drank Greg's too, felt the liquid flow down his throat, but did not remember it. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
"You did alright for yourself, then?" Greg's face broke into a tired smile, a weary one. "Least the berk didn't run you to death." No, John wanted to say. He tried, but you saved me. Greg must have seen something, for he reached out and patted John's hand awkwardly. "You look right done in," he told John. "You should go home, get some sleep."
No, he thought, even as his body said "Yeah, I should." John smiled at Greg, patted his hand, tried to not let his fingers linger, tried to keep his eyes from memorising every last detail. "Mind if I come by later? I can bring you those articles, answer any questions you have." I took time off from work, he didn't say. I love you, he didn't add. So much was left unspoken.
John placed the mugs in the sink. He needed to do the dishes, but he could do them tomorrow. Maybe things would look better, then. He stood in the kitchen, staring at nothing, hands on the counter. They wouldn't, and he knew it. He had lost count of how many times he had been left with the ache in his chest, left behind, hurting, with nothing to look forward to.
"Sure." Greg half-smiled at him, and there was an uncomfortable quality to it that John didn't like. He wanted his Greg back, wanted the soft kisses, the hard kisses, all of it. He wanted Greg.
And he wasn't going to get it. "Alright, then," John said awkwardly. He stood, nodded to Greg with a smile that he hoped didn't reveal too much, and walked out of the door.
The tears wouldn't stop. His vision was bleary, he could barely see. It was by feeling he made it to the bedroom, the empty bedroom, the double bed that they had picked together looking so forlorn. John made his side of the bed, neat with its military corners, but Greg never bothered, and John left it, had liked it that way.
The taxi ride by himself. The empty space next to him, an empty space that had only recently been filled by Greg. Sherlock's space. Now it was no one's. John couldn't help but wonder if he was destined to walk the rest of his life alone.
John changed into a pair of Greg's pyjamas, not caring that they were a bit loose about him. Greg would probably want his clothes back. He wouldn't notice a few pairs missing, not if he didn't remember them in the first place. John crawled into the bed, onto Greg's side, pressing his face deep into the pillow, into the bed. It was like he could smell him, like Greg was still there with him, loving him, twined around him.
He had gone back to Greg later that day, brought the articles. Greg had assured him not to bother, that he could stay in a hotel until he had got everything sorted out. John had felt his heart break, felt it shatter into a million pieces. The world had gone gray, had lost all colour. But he had smiled, had agreed to what Greg wanted, because it made Greg happy.
He nuzzled the pillow, his eyes closing.
That was what mattered. No matter what it took. If their time together was reduced to a pint or two once a week, he would take it. Anything to see his lover again, even if - even if they were reduced to single entities, no longer a pair. It was better than the constant ache in his chest. He was patient. He could wait.
John would leave the key under the mat. The light would be on, in the hallway, when he was home. The kettle would be on. There would always be a place for Greg in John's life, if he wanted it. No matter what, John would wait.
They never talked about it, what it was, what it wasn't. Greg had stayed in the hotel for a week, and John was vaguely glad. It saved him having to explain why there was only one bedroom in their flat, one bed in the bedroom. Soft kisses, gentle words, as they twined together, eyes closing, falling asleep, safe and protected. Then Greg had moved into his own flat, a dingy one, but a flat nonetheless, and John had been left alone.
He went to work. He went home. Drank tea. Ate food. Mostly takeout, although he never could remember exactly what it was. Just tossed the empty containers in the rubbish. Sitting together on the couch, eating takeout, laughing over Greg's story about Sally slapping Anderson for hitting on her. "Good for her," John had choked out. Greg had grinned, and they had erupted into laughter again. John had never felt so carefree, never been with someone who had seemed to care so much.
Sometimes Greg would text him. He wasn't Sherlock, no, but he was the next best thing. Living with the consulting detective meant he had learned to notice things. It hurt, doing Sherlock's job, or his impersonation of it. But in a way, he could remember his flatmate, honour his memory through it. The first time Greg went to a crime scene after Sherlock's death, John in tow. The pain on his face, the way he tried to speak and couldn't, how he moved closer to John, unable to show his affection but craving John's touch nonetheless. They had gone home that night and just held each other. No words were needed. Love and support were shown in soft touches, gentle caresses that quickly turned into something heated and passionate.
He shoved the thoughts out of his head as his legs pounded the pavement, hot in pursuit of a rapist that Greg's team had been after. Greg had brought him in, pleading a favour. John had never been able to resist him, not with his eyes. The way Greg watched him, hungry and intense, as he sank into John's body. How his chocolate eyes grew darker with arousal, with want. John stared back, allowing himself to be claimed, taken. Greg was all he had ever wanted and all he would ever need.
John was not far behind Greg, although Greg's team was maybe a half city block behind both of them. They ran together easily, practiced, and as John took each step, his heart hurt. The easy camaraderie between them always reminded him of what he had lost. He had said goodbye, had accepted the inevitable, just a few months before. Greg hadn't started dating, but he was still recovering, still patching back his career. It was just a matter of time. John would always watch, would always wait, but he was a realistic lad. He knew that what he wanted, he would never -
With a burst of speed, he slammed Greg to the floor, both men tensing as they heard the crack of gunfire. John had pinned Greg to the ground, shielding his body with his own. They were pressed close together, hearts beating wildly. Greg stared up at John, and John stared down at Greg, separated by mere centimetres. It was too much and not enough. Pressed together, just like that, hips rolling and friction growing before John moaned and came, Greg following, moaning John's name before sagging underneath him.
It was not a conscious decision on John's part. He would never know exactly what possessed him, although later someone would argue that it was simply common sense that decided to take control. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to Greg's, once, twice, thrice. Gentle, soft touches. He parted his lips, the pressure a bit more firm. Greg had tensed underneath him, surprised, before he loosened up, and John felt the hint of tongue against his lips. The first time had been after they had gotten home from a case Greg had worked on as a detective sergeant, before his re-promotion, and John had thrown him against a wall, had kissed him, hard and fierce and passionate, all his pent-up lust showing itself in a kiss.
Then the sound of feet running close had drawn their attention, and John had thrown himself up, a hand going to his waist to make sure the concealed gun was still there. It was a shame he hadn't gotten to use it. Greg had quickly stood, shouting orders. It wasn't long before they had the rapist in custody, and John and Greg were sharing grins over their triumph, casual and easy, no hint of what had transpired. It had been awkward, at first, neither man wanting to look at the other. Did they regret it? Would it happen again? Greg had later told John that he had been worried that John would be embarrassed - he was Not Gay, after all, and kissing another man certainly fell in that department. It had all been okay.
"Go," Greg told him, squeezing his arm. "I'll be by later." John hadn't thought to question what he said, instead nodding and taking off at a trot. Greg was extra careful, with Sherlock gone. Sally and the others accepted John far easier than they had Sherlock. He was kind and respectful, polite and indirect. He didn't interfere, didn't insult them. It was such a marked change in the team's dynamics that sometimes John wondered how they survived, with Sherlock gone. The friction between Sally and Anderson had come to a head, resulting in Anderson being transferred to another team and a new, more competent forensics officer brought in.
He stopped and bought takeout on the way home. Enough for two, just in case. The light was on, the kettle heating water, two mugs with teabags in the dry insides, waiting. He wasn't aware he had dozed off on the sofa until there was a knock on the door, and he stirred, starting to get up. Strong arms pulling him down, murmuring 'just five more minutes', not wanting to let go. John would smile, agree, and life would be bearable for just a bit longer.
There was a click - the key. John sat and stared as the door opened, as Greg walked in, an overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He was still dressed in his work clothes, and there were fatigue lines on his face. Absently John pondered when he had last slept. At least a day ago. Sometimes John thought that Sherlock had competition for being the person who was worst at taking care of himself, but Greg didn't neglect eating, even if it was a donut and coffee scarfed down on the run from one pile of paperwork to another. John would bring food sometimes, visiting the office. Takeout, most of the time, but it was quick and easy, something Greg could scarf down between paperwork. Greg would grin, and roll his eyes, pretending to be annoyed while adoring every bit of the attention.
John sat on the sofa, watching with wide eyes as Greg shut the door and locked it. The silver-haired man turned to look at John. There was an almost shy quality to his features, as if he was sure of what he was doing but hesitant about how John would take it. He sat the bag down on the floor. John stood, reminded of his host duties, and quickly walked into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and pulling out the takeout boxes to warm up. Sometimes John cooked, sometimes he didn't. He had more time than Greg, now that he wasn't chasing after him on a regular basis. On the nights that he did, he went to their favourite place, brought it home, kept it warm.
"I remember," Greg said softly, his faint words cutting through John's thoughts. John mechanically put the boxes in the microwave, heating them up. The memories, the little pieces that had kept him comforted, evaporated, leaving him alone with stark reality. He was afraid to get his hopes up, afraid to believe that what he wanted might be coming true.
"How much?" John asked, afraid to look at Greg. He had been a coward, not saying anything. Or had he? Even now, John wasn't completely sure why he had not told Greg of their relationship when he had awoken. Was it cowardice? Fear? Had he assumed that because Greg had not remembered, that he had not mattered?
Greg stepped into John's space, gently turning him around, eyes kind. "All of it."
"Every last bit?" John met his eyes defiantly. daring Greg to comment, to defy him.
"I've missed you." Greg leaned down and kissed John, gentle, and John's knees nearly buckled as the emotions flooded him. It was like Sherlock's death, except this time the emotions were returning instead of leaving, the relief and love and warmth of Greg being with him, of loving him. John could barely handle it, and wordlessly he slipped his arms around Greg, clinging to him for support. He had missed the taller man, more that he had admitted to anyone, more than he had been willing to admit to anyone, even himself.
"I love you," John whispered against Greg's lips, and the two kissed for long, lazy minutes, nothing urgent, but the kiss of lovers who had time to spare.
"I love you too," Greg murmured back.
The timer went off, and Greg's stomach grumbled. John let out a laugh. "Food first."
"My lease is up at the end of the month," Greg said absently once they were settled on the sofa, chopsticks in hand. John's movements stilled, and he stared at the food, then at Greg. "Looking for a flatmate?"
John felt lighter than he had in months, and he allowed a soft chuckle to escape him. "I could use one, yeah. You offering?"
"If you'll have me. Could start tonight." Greg jerked his head towards the overnight bag, slurping some noodles.
John grinned. "I think that could be arranged." Greg laughed, and John nudged him, reaching out to turn on the telly and settling just a little bit closer.
Greg had come back.