A/N: In films, you get reaction shots. This is the coda for the last chapter.
Apologies for sporadic updating: blame postgrad.
NB: For the purposes of this chapter, Greg is a few years older than the excellent Rupert Graves (52 instead of late forties).
This is written in the third person; hopefully, the next one will be in Greg's point of view.
A/N II: The Warrenpoint Ambush is real; it was an ambush and double bombing by the Provisional IRA on 27 August 1979. Eighteen soldiers were kill and another six injured. I'm writing this on Remembrance Sunday so, despite the fact I don't really go in for all the pomp and circumstance usually associated with military events, I thought that telling their story (even if I am being terrible and using it for a fiction piece) was an appropriate way to remember them and all the other man and women who've given their lives for other people. I might not agree with war, and especially not the recent ones, but I can't disagree with Armistice Day.
As John finished his story, Sherlock took a passing glance at Greg. The DI was rapt, sitting perfectly still with his head and body-his full attention-turned towards John, despite the cold wind that cut through his summer jacket. John, as usual, ducked his head sheepishly, shooting an embarrassed glance at him and standing in one smooth manoeuvre as Sherlock followed, turning to stride away.
"So essentially you put your own life at risk to save your friend?"
"That's what I keep telling you , Sherlock. This is why I get annoyed when you rush off without telling me where you're going, because it means more likelihood of me having to do that and save your sorry arse." John spoke with exasperation tinged with fondness, and Sherlock smirked at the shake of the head that followed as he headed into his room. Turning to cross the hall to his own, John caught a glimpse of Greg's shadowed face in the half-light.
"You okay?"
"Fine, yep. Just need some sleep. Those bloody interviews wore me out."
Forehead crinkling in concern, John decided to choose his battles and headed in to bed.
He was awoken by a rap at the door-one of the nice things about staying in a hotel was that you could lock your room against unwanted flatmate invasions Padding, bleary-eyed, over to the doorway, John hauled it open to find said perfectly groomed irritant looming above him.
"What is it, Sherlock? It's three in the bloody morning."
"I got up and went for a walk-bored-and when I was walking past Lestrade's room I heard something."
"For God's sake, Sherlock, he probably talks in his sleep!"
"He wasn't talking. It sounded like he was in pain. He wasn't hurt when they arrested the son, was he?"
"Don't think so. What do you propose we do?"
Smiling, Sherlock produced a card from his pocket.
"You-you nicked his room key?!" John's growl of anger was nonverbal and his face thunderous, even as he reached for his dressing gown. They made their way over to the door, John listening carefully. Suddenly, a quiet, but gut-wrenching cry filled the air.
"Greg? Greg! If you can, come to the door. If not, I'm going to give you thirty seconds and then come in."
Thirty seconds passed. Sherlock was deathly still, a warning sign in itself. When they slid the door open, the tableau in front of them set the alarm bells ringing; they looked at each other and each began to make their way round either side of the bed. A voice rang out across the room as Greg barked,
"STAY BACK!"
Sherlock hung back as John knelt down at the right hand side of the bed, nearest the window. Leaning round, even he could see that something was seriously wrong with Greg. He was curled up beside the bedside table, grey pyjama top soaked with cold sweat. His hair was plastered to his forehead, arms around his knees. Both hands were curled as though gripping something; Sherlock was at a loss, but John could see in his mind's eye the outline of an AK-47. Greg sat, motionless but for the nervous twitching in his fingers. His eyes stared straight out into the grey light of dawn, wide and unblinking, as John crouched in front of him. He knew PTSD when he saw it. Speaking softly, he leaned towards the silver-haired man.
"Greg? Wherever you are, it doesn't matter. You're safe; Sherlock and I won't let anything happen to you. It's okay now." Seeing Greg beginning to awaken, John placed a gentle hand on his left shoulder.
"Do you want to sit back on the bed?"
A minute shake of the head.
"Okay. You're shivering like mad. Sherlock, get his comforter and put it 'round his shoulders, would you?"
As Sherlock silently complied, Greg seemed to come back to them, blushing furiously as John's carefully schooled face swam into view.
"Where were you, Greg?", John asked softly.
"Warrenpoint."
Sherlock began visibly scrolling through his memory banks like microfiche, eyes widening as he got to the record. John's eyes flicked over his shoulder, lips pursing as he took in Sherlock's shock.
"What happened at Warrenpoint, Greg?"
"I joined up when I was seventeen. I left school at the end of Year Ten; wanted to join a band, but my old man wasn't having it. He said I could get a steady job at Ford like everybody else, or I could leave the house. His roof, his rules, you know? So I said, bollocks to this, and ran off and joined the Army. I tried out for loads of things, but they saw I was good at combat and strategy, so they assigned me to 2-Para. Ended up in Northern Island, about a week after my eighteenth birthday. '79 was my second tour. I was nineteen. We were on patrol, because it was just after one of the Mountbattens had been killed; we were at Narrow Point, it's a castle, in County Down. As we came over the bridge, a bomb went off, razed the truck behind us..."
At this, Greg stopped and shuddered. John's face had turned to stone, eyes swimming with guilt at dredging up the memory.
"There were...there were body parts, all over the road, in the fucking trees. I saw one of my mates face down in the grass at the side of the road. I turned 'im over and dragged him to hard cover. I was so focused on getting him out of there that I didn't look at him until I lay him down. His legs...oh, Christ, his legs were gone, John! Nothing there, and he was screaming at me, and I was holding him, and he said 'Mum', and I looked down and he'd died."
The words had come out as a kind of strangled rush, tumbling over one another in their haste to leave the tortured throat. Greg had doubled over by this point, John supporting him with his arms around Greg's middle as his face crumpled.
"I don't know why it had to come up today! I haven't thought about it in years...I just lock it away, y'know?"
"There doesn't have to be a reason for it, Greg. Sometimes it just is."
Noticing that Sherlock was hanging back, shuffling his feet, John half-turned to him.
"John...what do I do?"
"What do you usually do when I have a nightmare?", John prompted gently.
Face clearing, Sherlock bounded along the corridor to his own room after noticing that only the flavoured teas were left in Greg's, and came back with a cup of sweet tea. The corner of Greg's mouth quirked up in thanks as he cradled it in his hands, John smiling at Sherlock as he hung back, miraculously, to give Greg some space. John stepped back, letting Lestrade get himself comfortable on the bed; both men waited until he had fallen asleep, his breathing regular and his face peaceful, before taking their own positions in the room.
When Greg woke up six hours later, he found John fast asleep on the couch and Sherlock sitting guard in the armchair at the door.
A/N III: We've seen that Greg can be surprised and unsettled by the military side of John's character; my rationale for it is that he wasn't in the army anywhere near as long as John, and therefore isn't as used to the scary stuff (though how much anyone gets used to that is a moot point). I also think of him as having grown up in a strict but loving home, whereas I always think of John as having a hard time as a kid; I reckon that little John would have to be a very tough cookie indeed. Ugh, just thinking that makes me sad...As usual, reviews are always welcome.