Let’s Go Home- Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade fic
Their relationship is kept ambiguous and can be interpreted as the reader pleases. Sherstrade, just friends, father figure, etc.
“Hey Molly-” Greg began before he froze, feeling the tension in the room like a slap in the face. John had a heavy scowl on his face, directed at the other man who stood across from him. Slowly and cautiously, as if walking in the middle of a war zone, Greg entered the room completely, approaching them. “What's going on here?”
John faced him with an acrimonious look, though it wasn't aimed at him. “Why don't you ask the prodigy here about what he did.”
Greg met Molly's eye, but she quickly looked at the floor. With slightly nervous steps, Greg walked forward and stepped in front of Sherlock whose chin nearly touched his chest, refusing to look up. Oh, Greg gasped, his heart stuttering and freezing in his chest. Oh, Sherlock what have you done. “Sherlock?” he asked, voice soft and gentle even though it hurt to see Sherlock like this.
Silent, hardly breathing and still, Sherlock stood there, surrounded by an air of vulnerability, unresponsive to the world. Slowly, verdigris eyes met Greg's, reluctant and filled with sorrow that didn't fit there. How long have you been suffering alone? “It was for a case,” Sherlock said, voice weak and tight, not holding the same defensive tone he had earlier with the others. Not needing to hold up masks anymore.
Greg sniffed, nodding as he looked away, trying to make sense of the entire situation. From the corner of his eye he spotted Billy who looked at him with a haunted gaze of an addict. Billy was, unfortunately, one of the men who slipped from Greg's fingers all those years ago. Greg went wrong with him. He wouldn't go wrong with Sherlock.
“Right well. Are you done here? I mean, can you... go home now?” Greg asked him, and Sherlock looked up at the others before he nodded. There was nothing there for him here, nothing but shattered dreams to stare back at him in the form of baby blue eyes that always looked either mournful or furious when he dared to meet them. Those same eyes that he'd fallen in love with for their softness and warmth were now filled with ice and bitter regret.
Am I just one of the ones you couldn't save now, John? Just one of the names you write on the list you keep in your mind of who you couldn't save? Who slipped past your fingers?
Not everything is your fault. And then:
Well, perhaps this was. After all, my love for you was what destroyed me. And you know that. You're not stupid or blind, John, I know you're aware now how I feel about you. We just don't talk about it. Because that's how we are doomed to be for eternity- forever dancing around this fire to keep from burning once again. If I fall, you fall.
Or will you?
“Sherlock!” Greg called, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie and looking at him in concern. His eyes softened when Sherlock finally looked at him, and he gave a soft smile. “Let's go home, yeah? I'm sure you're tired.” He led the young man out of the room, keeping close in case if he began swaying. Greg had no idea how much he took, and at this point in time it was best to stay on the safe side. Greg looked behind to bid the others goodbye, giving them a perfunctory nod.
John looked between the two of them, his anger dissipating slightly. “Oh you're taking him home? I mean, I could- if you're busy-”
Greg gave him a small smile. “It's not problem, John. I know what I'm doing.”
“I'll visit him later then,” John said with a sigh, and sadness filled his eyes as he stared at Sherlock's back. How sad it was that every time he had that look in his eyes it was always when Sherlock didn't see it, couldn't see it. How sad was it that they never saw the looks the other gave them when the rest of the world could see it.
“Sounds great.” And with that, Greg walked Sherlock into his car; silent. Waiting. Greg didn't speak, and Sherlock sat in the passenger's seat, buckling himself in and staring out at the buildings as they passed by. Greg waited for the inevitable break so that he could work on putting Sherlock back together.
It was 5 minutes into the car ride when it happened: a soft, stuttering breath, a ragged exhale that soon turned into a sob. Greg glanced at him, watching him unfurl, defenses crumbling like dust. You act like you're a dragon but you're always the one burning like a phoenix.
“I'm sorry,” Sherlock repeated like a mantra, like a guilty man begging for his life and Greg sighed.
I know Sherlock, you always are. “There's no reason to be sorry, Sherlock. You're fine. I've got you.”
In a state of hysterics, Sherlock kept sobbing beside him, and it was all Greg could do not to lose his focus on the road. If he hadn't been hardened by his years of being an officer, perhaps he would have lost sight of the road. Perhaps he would have crashed the car. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if he did. Instead, he drove them home- not Baker Street, Greg's- and pulled into the driveway. Stepping out of the car, he walked to the other side and helped Sherlock out. “Come on, I've got you,” he whispered equanimously, half-guiding and half-carrying Sherlock who just kept on weeping. “It's going to be alright.”
“I'm sorry.”
“You don't have to be.”
Greg guided Sherlock into the living room, sitting him down on the floor before he worked on setting up a fire. Sherlock stayed where he was placed, sniffling, rubbing at his eyes in frustration at the emotions that tore his insides up. Greg took a seat on the sofa, giving Sherlock space. “Let's talk,” he said, voice soft, though Sherlock knew that it wasn't a suggestion. “Why didn't you call me?”
Sherlock shrugged like a child being scolded. “It's for a case.”
“Try again.”
“It was! It was for a case.”
“And again.” Greg stared back at Sherlock with unyielding eyes, not believing Sherlock in the slightest. They could stay here all night and he'd probably be fine with that if it meant getting the answers he wanted. It was a daunting and touching thought, that someone would be willing to stay with him all night just to see he was okay, and yet... Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted that, wasn't sure if he wanted to let anyone get close enough to hurt him again. But maybe you've already found a way in, Sherlock mused silently.
“Alright, fine, I didn't want to bother you and John was busy and Mrs Hudson's been out of town. I didn't know what to do. It won't happen again,” Sherlock said with earnest eyes. “Please... don't tell Mycroft.” Greg let out a sigh before nodding and agreeing to keep his dirty secret.
“Fine, but if I get even the smallest hunch you're spiraling back down, I'm going to make that call and you'll probably be staying with him again for a while. Do we have an understanding?” Greg asked firmly and Sherlock nodded in relief. He could do it, He would have to do it. He had no other choice but to manage his impulses if he didn't want to move back in with Mycroft like a grounded child. Staying with Greg was more comfortable anyway.
Greg had always been there for him, ever since he was a lonely disheveled teenager on the streets. Doing weed, coke, you name it, Sherlock did it. He'd always been the one to raid drug dens and take him home, help him settle down, help him step back from the edge. Sometimes Sherlock craved his help, sometimes he cursed him. I don't want to be saved, he had told the older man many times in the past. Greg was the one who sat up with him all night in the hospital. Who peeled away every layer and mask he had-from the bourgeois posh-boy to the capricious sociopath- to get to his heart. It was a rigid dichotomy between Sherlock Holmes the quintessential genius and Sherlock Holmes the man.
“Fix it,” Sherlock said suddenly, turning his face away from Greg.
“Fix what?”
“Me.”
Greg shook his head, wincing at the words filled with despair and hopelessness. “You're not as broken as you think you are, love.”
You don't know that, Sherlock wanted to scream, you don't know what it's like inside of my mind. Instead of speaking, Sherlock reached out his hand, slow, deliberate, afraid. “Please,” he asked with desperate fervor, no longer caring that he was begging. Greg looked at the outstretched hand, the palm facing him, and he could only nod and took the hand, pulling Sherlock close.
He pulled Sherlock to his chest, wrapping his arms around the scrawny boy, shielding him from the rest of the world. Sherlock melted into his embrace, breathing in the scent of cigarette smoke, old books and Greg's cologne. The smell hadn't changed much over the years. He always felt safe here, in Greg's arms, where he could feel Greg's feet holding the both of them up. It was no longer necessary to keep up the charade of being okay when Greg could see right through it, and Sherlock could finally- finally- be himself. And he... wasn't okay.
And Greg was okay with that.
He always told Sherlock that, it's okay to not be okay. Just let help you. And Sherlock would. Even though he'd fight it at first with sneers and cold masks, eventually he would cave to Greg's persistence in his mission to unravel Sherlock and find the scared, lonely little boy underneath the mask. Eventually, Greg would be able to pierce through the darkness that surrounded Sherlock and reach out a hand, pulling him out of whatever mess he was in.
Greg was rather odd in that way. Instead of snapping at Sherlock to “grow up” or calling him a freak or anomaly, Greg saw an unorthodox genius in need of a cause and purpose and went, I could work with that. He saw something in Sherlock nobody else did; though of course, when he met Greg, Sherlock wasn't Sherlock yet, he was William. To some, he was Liam, the boy who would fill his head with smoke to drown out the pain. A lost cause, most people shrugged. He was about 19, with ragged black hair and ripped skin-tight jeans, a skeleton t-shirt the only thing keeping him from the biting chill of December.
Why don't you go home, kid? Greg had asked him, with gentle brown eyes that hadn't hardened in the following years, thankfully. He'd found him in a bar with older men flocking to him like moths drawn to a flame, and Greg asked for an ID and then walked him out when he couldn't hand one over. I can drive you home.
No! No, I'm fine, thanks.
Do you... have a play to stay?
Not currently, but thanks.
Lestrade had paused, shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide on something. At the time, Sherlock's heart had pounded, wondering if he was going to be turned in or his parents called. Terror had filled him then, and he was about to start begging before Lestrade spoke again.
Alright, well, I can't leave you here. Get into my car then, let's go home. My home, that is, since you don't have a place to stay right now. You can stay there until you have somewhere else to go.
“Home” became Gregory Lestrade's arms at some point, and Sherlock didn't even want to try and figure out how that came to be. Then John came into the picture with a bright smile and warm blue eyes and tea. And then John, the gregarious and charismatic bastard that he was, found someone else, and the flat that they'd shared suddenly felt filled with empty rooms and an even emptier person living in it. Where was home now?
Greg shifted, pulling away from Sherlock for a bit. “Let's have something to eat. I'm sure you're starving, I sure am. What would you like? We can call in some pizza or Chinese, or I can cook some pasta. Your choice.”
“Chinese sounds great,” Sherlock responded with a soft smile, and Greg nodded, fishing out his phone.
“I'll ring them now. You can go and change into more comfortable clothes. Your bedroom is the same as it was before, and I'm sure you can still fit into your old clothes,” Greg said, typing into his phone.
“You kept them?”
Greg turned and blinked at him owlishly for a few seconds. “Well yes, of course I did. In case if you ever needed a place to stay again.”
This. This is home, echoed in Sherlock's mind like waves crashing against a beach, and before he was consciously aware of it he'd crossed the room and wrapped his arms around the bewildered older man. “Thank you.”
“My home is always home to you, kid.”
@savedbyholmes
@thepapalestradecult (not sure if it’s okay to tag you)
@mischiefgoddessofloki (I always bug you lmao but Look! Greg!)
