CHAPTER 35. GOOD INTENTIONS

"What the hell?" He grabbed for it, mechanically moving to quiet the kettle. He couldn't hear the sound of Lestrade coughing, or the shuffle of feet on the newly mopped hard wood floor. Blood roared in his ears as he laid the file down opening it up, there was his life, not all of it but a big chunk of it typed out, organized imperfection all documented.

Were those his therapist notes? Pictures a pediatrician had taken to document a young boy's bruises, before the court had ordered the boy's (him) dad to rehab.

That was before John won that first scholarship a definite escape from the hell he lived at home. His stomach clinched, his fathers accident was in there, every nightmare incident of childhood, even his sisters rehab stints, her alcohol poisoning- he gulped down the anger. How did it get here, this file? Why would it be here? Just laying on the table for anyone to come by and see. To casually read through like a gossip column, his life all compiled here for someone to pass their time.

The words confidential printed across the middle of the brown folder. Pictures, so many pictures one of a house that looked like a tornado had hit, an upturned table and chairs, a broken telly, shattered pictures holes in the wall, a wrecked car, notes from several Doctors-his service record, the medals earned. More therapist notes, even his physical therapy records.

~0~

A few hours had pasted without Lestrade knowing, he heard the sound of a kettle and it roused him from his deep sleep. He sat up wondering about the blanket that someone had thrown over him, he thought even with a stuffy nose he could smell disinfectant and bleach, and something else, chicken soup?

Someone was in the kitchen, his heart did a flip thinking it his wife. But the familiar black jacket draped over the side of the blue love seat reminded him it was John, had John cleaned up? The place looked brand new, even the tissues he had thrown around his feet had been cleared out, a fresh box on the table with a half empty bottle of water. His bucket was gone, all of this so spotless.

Feeling ten times better he pulled off his robe damp from sweat and god knows what else. Hang on, when did he put a nicotine patch on? No this wasn't a nicotine patch it was something else, it was for nausea he recalled Sherlock picking at one similar to this, one that a Doctor had prescribed during a particularly nasty fever Sherlock battled due to an infection he contracted from a knife wound he neglected to properly take care of.

Good thing the consulting detective had a live in Doctor now, John Watson would definitely be useful in those types of situations. Speaking of, where was the man, his coat was still here, Lestrade moved slowly towards the kitchen, marveling at the cleanliness of his home, he hadnt meant to let it get out of hand but he didn't have the motivation to clean when he was busy, his wife was gone and then he had this damn flu.

God he needed a shower, and bad, how embarrassing to be seen like this. If anyone from the yard had stopped in, which none of his friends or colleagues had, he would have been embarrassed as all hell but somehow it didn't bother him that Doctor Watson, or John as he said to call him, had seen this.

He paused near the now neatly cleared dining room table, frowning at the files that were sitting at the end next to what looked like several prescription medications, at a glance he could read his name. When had John retrived those, how did he know what he would need? His eyes fell on the files and from where he stood he could see the younger man at the counter, his shoulders stiff, head bowed, but that wasn't what held Lestrades attention it was how tightly the younger man gripped the counter, as if hanging on for dear life, his knuckles almost white.

Lestrade knew what the young Doctor was looking over, turning back to the table he could see one of the four files was missing,

"Shit-" he hissed out loud the ex soldier's head snapped up he turned slowly his sky blue eyes and pale face almost unreadable. "John-I"

"Sit." Greg winced at the hard command, "I sad sit down Detective Inspector, you're still not well." Greg didn't have any reason to argue, he did feel light headed. Why had he kept the file, he had debated all week whether or not to read it or return it? Knowing that anything Mycroft gave freely always came with hidden strings attached.

"John-"

"Here. Take two of both of these every four hours, and that patch has another two hours left on it before you'll need to switch it out with another. They are good for four hours. I made tea drink this with your pills. Fluids are always good. Saltines will help ease your stomach, and I've heated you some chicken soup. There is enough to put away for heating up in the microwave later." Greg cringed hearing the formal tone in which John or Doctor Watson was using. "Any questions?"

"John about the-"

"I meant about the medications and the directions?" Lestrade shook his head. "Good. Now that's out of the way-" John took a deep breath, his hands now gripping the folder brown folder. "Why do you have this?"

"John I can explain-"

"No, save it! I don't care it doesn't matter. It's-Did you have fun reading it? How far did you get? It makes for a boring read I'm sure. The pictures hold your attention. Hell I thought those records were locked away. Find it real attention-grabbing those pictures? Did it say I was eight? That my father wasn't a bad man, that I just was an easy outlet for his frustration and anger, that he was a hard working man everyone loved him, it wasn't till he had a few drinks in him was he a right bastard. No I'm sure that part was left out, were the pictures of my shoulder fascinating? I kind of skipped over the childhood pictures myself, no reason to read over that. But I did notice they left out the part after my shoulder injury that the kid I was trying to help died on that battlefield.

That kid much younger than myself would never go home to his parents because they left him there his body torn apart by a bombs blast. His name was Joshua Wilson, sure they have my medals in there but they don't say how many died under my knife, how many I couldn't save but promised-all good men. Better than me, so much more to live for, fathers, sons, daughters, husbands, wives, some ones somebody. How about the bit about my father running the car into the tree? My sisters numerous incidents of alcohol poisoning because she was to dim to know how many were too many.

We Watsons just don't know how to have just ONE!" John clinched his fists, "The psychosomatic limp, the tremors and nightmares? I like to sleep, but it's not so easy when you close your eyes and can hear the dead screaming for your help. Help I was too late to provide." John tossed the folder from him allowing it to fall open in front of Lestrade. The ex soldier tried to keep the edge from the growl of his voice, a shaking hand running through his neatly cropped hair.

"It's not your business! It's mine. Had you asked me-if you would have asked I'd of eventually told you. Well not all of it but maybe some of it. But that was my choice! My choice!" John thumped his palm against his chest. "Dont I deserve that much, I mean I did serve my country. Cant I have this courtesy?"

"John I didn't-"

"Why? Just tell me why? Is it because you thought I was suspicious?"

"John. Understand after you-after you turned up out of nowhere with Sherlock, and suddenly I hear you've moved in. You have to know how he is. Of course I'm going to look into who he's allowing to live with him. You know his past, you know what he was-"

"If you would have asked-just asked. I'd of told you-we grew up together, we went to school together, I left for the army and when I was discharged I bumped back into him. I must come off worse than I first assumed, do I look that bad that you would run a back ground check?"

"John now hold on it's not like that. You took out a 25O pound Russian! With ease! Of course I'm going to worry. And not to mention that suspicious shooting of a certain cabbie that just happened to be threatening Sherlock." John stiffened now, the color draining from his face. "So I had questions."

"Let me guess" John put his hands over his eyes, rubbing his lids, a headache starting to form. "Mycroft came up with this. He's always just so helpful isnt he? Did he tell you to keep an eye on me too. Doesn't trust I wont be a danger to his little brother? "

"It wasn't like that John- he was concerned."

"Right, he always has the best of intentions!" John spat. "Well so you can put your mind and his at rest, just keep it. All the good you'll find in it!"

"John. I wasn't going to read it. I had every intention to return it to Mycroft. Or bin it." John shrugged this excuse off no longer meeting the DI's apologetic expression.

"We all have secrets we'd like to keep private. What skeletons do you have Detective Inspector? Lucky you, you're not the object of Mycroft's concern, don't forget your medication. Every four hours. If you're fever comes back and persists one more day check yourself into the clinic." John moved past the DI heading for the door. It wasn't until an hour after he'd left Lestrade wondered back into the living room, noticing that John left his jacket behind.

He thought to text Mycroft but instead decided against it, let the bastard face some of that quiet man's wrath. He sank down onto the couch rubbing his aching temples. Well that went well. And wait was John's face bruised?

After several blocks John hailed a cab, he just wanted to go home, he'd tell Mycroft off next time he had a chance but right now he needed a hot shower, a warm cup of tea and a long nap. And it had started out to be such a somewhat nice day.