Who: Clare, Micah, Elias --> John, Lestrade, Sherlock What: Fieldtrip to London Where: Willows, Passages, 221B Baker Street When: A while back? Closer to the Masquerade than to the present. Warnings/Rating: Talk of injuries.
Clare hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Micah that it would take her a while to make it out of her apartment and down the stairs. Much like she had been since crossing back from London after they were injured at the Masquerade, she was dressed in several layers even though it made the Las Vegas weather difficult to handle. She had her usual outfit of a conservative dress, flat shoes, thick tights, button-up cardigan, but she’d also added a thick zip-up hooded sweatshirt thrown over the entire outfit. It was large enough to fall a few inches above her knees, and was zipped up as far as it could go. She looked like a tiny, fragile thing in her oversized wrappings, barely an inch of skin showing other than her face. Even her hands were pulled up into over-long sleeves.
It took her nearly fifteen minutes to make her slow way to where Micah had promised to meet her, and she was pale by the time she limped up. Her ankle was still wrapped tightly to combat the sprain, and the bandage also helped to keep the cut on the bottom of her foot cushioned. In the pocket of her hoodie rattled the medicine she’d received at the clinic, not knowing if John was also going to need them once she crossed. Between the heat, her heavy outfit, and the throbbing of her back, she was pale and sweating slightly. She’d needed to stop several times to rest, but she finally made it, focusing still on her steps and not on the figure that was waiting for her.
Micah was waiting out in front of the building, back against the wall, hand curled around his cane for balance, patient despite the anxiety that was swelling inside of him. He had no idea what Clare looked like, but he doubted that many people would be coming outside looking to meet someone, so he doubted it would be difficult to spot her. The sound of footsteps was what drew his attention, and glancing up, he caught sight of the small woman was was making her way towards him. Brows lifted for a moment at the amount of clothing she was wearing, but it was hardly his place to judge or anything. “Clare?” he asked, keeping his voice as steady as he could, pushing away from the wall and moving towards her with his own slow, hobbled steps, weight supported by the cane. “I’m Micah. We, uh, spoke on the journals.”
Clare stopped almost immediately when she heard the voice, looking up with a relieved sigh that she’d made it. She took a few more steadying breaths before she met him halfway, drawing to a stop as she frowned at the way he leaned heavily on a cane. A shiver of concern at the back of her mind matched her own, neither she nor John recalling Lestrade needing a cane last time they’d seen him. The worry was easy to read on her face as she watched his steps. She nodded at her own name, but her own question slipped out instead of a better sort of response. “Are you alright? I thought it was just your arms that got hurt at the Masquerade.” She was quiet, but sincere, moving forward half a step as if she was going to help him, but it was obvious when the movement caused a sharp line of pain along her back, causing her to freeze again, skin a sick sort of pale.
Her question took him by surprise, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what she was talking about until he followed her gaze to his cane, his own gaze lifting back to her’s moments later. “Car accident about eighteen months ago. I’m held in place with screws and pins. Doesn’t feel very good, most days.” Micah might have said more but then her movement and expression faltered, and he rushed forward, free hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. “Don’t push it. I won’t pretend to know what he did to you, but you can’t push it. Trust me on that.” Micah glanced towards the street nearby, letting out a sigh as he saw the cab approaching. “Let me help you to the cab, Clare. You really shouldn’t even be up, I’m sure.”
Being held together by metal didn’t sound like something the Clare ever wanted to think about, and she frowned again in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she managed, softer than she had been at first even. She took half a step backward when he moved forward quickly, and shied away at his touch, her startled inhale audible and then cut off quickly with a very quiet ‘no’. Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, swallowing a worried sound as his fingers on her shoulder landed closer than was comfortable to a cut that traveled high on her back. She was unaware of the taxi pulling up, but when he made no more moves and when his hand stayed far enough from her injuries to not cause new pain, she allowed herself to look toward the car. “It’s alright. I’ve been managing alright at work this week. I just have to go slow.”
Micah didn’t say anything for a while, admiring that she refused to just hide away like he had after the accident, but still holding firm to his opinion that time had to be given. “Just be careful,” he concluded, pulling his hand away to instead move to the cab, stepping close and opening the door for her. “After you.”
Clare let out a small sigh of relief when Micah’s hand fell away from her shoulder, and very carefully moved to climb into the taxi. She held herself stiffly, moving but barely bending or twisting, which made it difficult to get into the car. She managed though, with only one sudden, deep gasp and one pained sound that was almost a whimper. After each, she froze and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the wave of heat and nausea to pass before moving again. When she finally settled in the car, she sat almost sideways, the majority of her weight braced where her shoulder (not her back) pressed to the back of the seat. Her breath was quick and a bit unsteady, but she managed to glance up at Micah and offer him an awkward smile. “Alright...” she forced out before going quiet again.
Soon after Clare settled in, Micah did so as well, moving awkwardly but with a practiced shift that he had learnt over the year, cane resting on the seat between them. After giving the address of the hotel to the cab driver, he turned his attention towards her, giving her a long look. “You don’t have to say anything. We’ll be there soon enough, and perhaps get a little relief, yes? You look as though you could use it.”
The smile she gave to him was tentative and grateful, glad that she wouldn’t have to make small talk if she didn’t want to. Between still not being used to going places with strangers and the unpleasant ache of her body, she would rather not have to come up with conversation. On the other hand, distraction was helpful. A few minutes passed, but then she angled a glance back over at him. “I meant it when I said it wasn’t just John’s problem to handle. I... it’s awful. And I feel like I’m two seconds away from breaking down every minute of the day. And I know he’s a doctor and a soldier and he’s already been through things, but...” She didn’t have a good way to finish that thought, so she simply trailed off and looked down at her hands.
Micah was quiet for a while after Clare spoke, thinking on her words and seeing, at least a bit, where she was coming from. “There’s no shame in letting someone else deal with it for a while, though. Why do you think I’m going through? I don’t deal well. I don’t want to deal right now, so I’ll let him, because he just does better during stressful situations.” Micah gave a small shrug of his shoulders, looking back forward as the city swept by, reaching over towards his cane and winding his fingers around the curve of its top, finding comfort in its smooth wooden surface.
Clare nodded at Micah’s words, realizing that they were true and that she likely should have been letting John take care of things a little more often. It was also true that she felt frayed and hopeless and out of her depth. The pain itself was overwhelming, even with the medication she’d received from the clinic, and layered with the memories that refused to give her a moment’s peace. She turned her face away from Micah and watched the city passing by, but after only a few blocks the scenery started to blur with tears that threatened to spill over. She didn’t want to cry in front of a stranger, but it was the first time she’d really stopped and allowed herself to think about anything, to allow herself the option of being less than stubbornly strong.
He could sense that there was something going on with her, receptive enough to pick up on that, but he also knew that when he had been hurt, those months spent in the hospital, the last thing he wanted was people prodding and trying to pry the information out of him before he was ready to say anything. So Micah didn’t press, didn’t ask if she was alright. It wasn’t out of disinterest, or lack of caring, but simply out of respect for her.
When the cab pulled up outside of Passages Hotel, Micah was quick to cover the fare before easing out of the cab. Making sure of his footing, he reached in to offer a hand to Clare to help her out, keeping as quiet as he had been through the latter half of the ride.
Clare reached up to wipe at her face as the cab began to slow, taking a deep breath as if she was trying to pull steadiness and courage from the air. It was a losing battle though, and she still looked as if she was on the edge of losing the fingertip-grip she had on composure. It wouldn’t take much for her to completely break down, even in front of strangers. She didn’t turn down the offer of aid though, even though she knew that Micah was as bad off as she was, recovering from old injuries on top of the new ones from the Masquerade. She didn’t hold his hand long, just enough for her to pull herself out of the car, body still tense and careful not to twist herself. She murmured a soft thanks once she was standing again, and turned to the hotel, their respective paces relatively well-matched as they walked.
When they approached the front door of the hotel, Micah stepped ahead to open the door for her, holding it open until she had crossed the threshold, and then falling into step behind her. “Elias is meeting us here as well,” he said, unsure if this would be a surprise to her, but deciding to at least let her know before they encountered the other man. “A group event, crossing through the door. Strength in numbers, or something along those lines.” He could see the tension that was built up in her, the way she moved in such a careful manner, and he wondered how much of it was due to injuries and how much was simply her. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine her moving fluidly, the tension drained from muscles and posture, but that was assumption, and he wasn’t one to assume anything.
She looked up sharply at the news of Elias, but the quick move caused a deep gasp, followed by a quiet sound in reaction to the stabbing twinge of one of the cuts. It also caused her to stop moving for a long moment while she regained her bearings, both physically and mentally, sorting out her own thoughts and the hints of John’s she could feel leaking through. She fell behind for the moment she took to stop, but tried to make up the distance with a quicker step, causing a quiet grunt of pain that she mostly attempted to ignore. The stairs of the hotel loomed in the lobby, a mountain to climb, and she turned her attention to the elevator. “Did you want to take the ele...” She trailed off, looking over at Micah like she was finally seeing him, the setting and situation bringing back memories. “We’ve met before.”
Micah had made his way towards the elevator, not wanting to tackle the stairs for even a moment, when he stopped to glance back towards Clare, at both the gasp and the words that followed moments later. “We have?” The first meeting might have lingered on Clare’s thoughts, but Micah couldn’t place her. His brow furrowed down slightly, giving her a long look as he turned to face her fully, the elevator already called to the ground floor. “You’re going to have to remind me, I fear. Memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Here,” she whispered, and then a surprising, unexpected smile pushed at the corners of her lips for just a flicker of a second before it was gone again. “You didn’t want help up the stairs. It was when the hotel first opened.” She looked up those same stairs with a sigh and shook her head, more than aware of how little help she was at the moment. She crossed the lobby at her same slow pace, her finger barely on the elevator’s button before it opened for her. She looked back once she was inside, holding the door. “Coming?”
That reminder brought the moment back to him, and yes, he remembered. “I’m sorry about that,” Micah said as he followed her into the elevator, leaning back with his shoulders against one of the walls, both hands on his cane. “I’ve had a time here in town, and I’m not always in the best of moods. I hope you didn’t take it personally.” For all of his foul moods, he was certainly finding it in himself to be polite lately. Clare had been through enough, he thought, to have to suffer through his sandpaper personality on top of it all.
“No harm,” she replied, voice softer in the enclosed space. She may have been irritated at the time, but there was no reason to rehash that now. She glanced over at his easy posture with what amounted to a hint of jealousy, wishing that she could relax against the wall in the same way. She kept her same hunched-shoulder, stiff-backed pose for the short ride up to the second floor. Reaching a careful arm out to catch the door once it opened, she took careful steps forward into the hallway, already reaching into the pocket of her hoodie for the key to the door.
Elias was sitting at the end of the hallway. It was dark enough and the smoke thick enough that the resemblance to Sherlock was strong at the distance of several yards; Elias didn’t have the skintone, but he had the cheekbones and the dark hair, and sitting on the floor he had his long knees drawn up to his chest. Before he heard the elevator door open he’d been staring at the ceiling, thinking thoughts that were far away and many years before, exhaling streams of white tar that spread the stain of his lungs on the wallpaper. He turned his head a little late to fully identify them as they came out of the elevator, but like Sherlock he had no fear of whoever it was, even before the layers of sweaters worked themselves out to be the tiny Clare followed by the limping Micah.
He didn’t start to get up until they were almost at the door. The illusion vanished. Sherlock moved with grace, precision, and Elias just put his limbs where he wanted them to go while the rest caught up. He held the cigarette not with reverence but with the ignorance of a long-term, extremely American smoker, and his hair was much too short. He had on a thin white shirt with dark stains on it over new, practically steam-cleaned close cut jeans. “Hey,” he said, tipping his head sideways and looking at Clare with obvious concern that made it through his fatigue. “You okay?” He glanced at Micah for explanation of her appearance.
Clare wasn’t paying much attention to her surroundings, but the scent of the smoke drew her focus to the end of the hallway. The figure there caused her to stop and stare for a moment, and in the space of silence, she whispered. “Sherlock?” It was a word tinged with London and disbelief, John seeping in around the edges. But no, it couldn’t be him; they were still in Las Vegas, confirmed when the figure finally moved and solidified into Elias. Clare returned her attention to the key in her hand and didn’t look back up at him. Even though she remained pale in the low light of the hallway, her skin attempted its best at a blush, causing her cheeks to flush in hot spots of pink. Her awkwardness around Elias seemed even worse than her usual shyness, and she didn’t know why, though she chose to lay the blame at the feet of their Alters.
She finally stepped (so slow and carefully) nearer to the door, watching the way it resolved into the familiar woodwork of the London flat, and reached out with the key. She didn’t like having both Elias and Micah behind her, even more tension creeping into her frame at the vulnerable position she put herself into, but the sooner the door was open, the sooner she could take a break from dealing with it. “No,” she whispered in response to Elias’ question, soft but honest, in a voice that wobbled slightly before she swallowed it down. And then, before she’d even thought of saying anything more, she heard herself speaking again. “You look awful. Have you not slept at all?” The same English weight was back, combining strangely with her own voice. She’d not yet had to deal with the loss of control of John taking over, and it was worrying. Her hand shook as she lifted it to rest against her throat. “Stop that,” she whispered under her breath.
Micah gave Elias a nod of greeting as his steps slowed, coming to a stop near the door, keeping a respectable distance from Clare if only to ease the tension he could see wound around her tight like an afghan. Brows rose moments later at Clare’s quiet whisper, tilting his head for a moment as he thought about questioning who she was talking to, but it would have been a stupid inquiry considering who they were and where they were currently standing. “I think the lot of us deserve a vacation when all is said and done. Someplace cool and lacking entirely in neon.” He managed a smile, crooked and brittle, before nodding his head towards the door.
“Shall we?” Micah asked the pair, not bothering to reach for his own key, tucked in the front pocket of his trousers, since Clare had her own out and ready. “Or do we want to sit and talk a bit more before?” He hardly had designs on doing anything other than crossing over; control was waning, his locked arm shaking with how tight he held his cane, weight bearing down against it.
Elias put a hand up and scraped his palm down the roughness of his face. “I’ve slept,” he said, not defensively but with a tired little smile that added a silent addition of not much at the end of the sentence. Clare didn’t look like she was in shape to worry about him, and it was a mark of the strangeness of their lives that he didn’t comment on John’s temporary presence in her manner and voice. Instead he brought his shoulders all the way back and moved away from the wall, as if in readiness. He turned his chin sideways and brought it against his shoulder to observe Micah, who looked pretty bad himself. “We’re a fuckin’ mess, that’s for sure,” Elias grumbled. He waited for Clare to push the door open and then held it for Micah, eking out a last few seconds just to nettle Sherlock before following the three inside the door.
Clare’s only response to the men and their conversation was a soft “not much”, unknowingly mirroring Elias’ silent addition, her focus more on turning the key in the lock with the slight push she’d learned that it needed. Once unlocked, the door swung open easily under her hand, and she sighed in relief at the sight of the flat. While before it had represented some strange uncontrolled situation that seemed far beyond belief, now it was someplace she could go to escape the weight of the last few days. John hijacked her voice again as she stepped forward, and it lowered and changed as she crossed the threshold. “I don’t suppose I should hope that you’ve been back to clean at all? I recall losing a lot of blood on the kitchen floor.” Following the questions was a soft sound of pain as he reassumed the ownership of the wounds along his back, a pause in his step before he carefully straightened out of Clare’s hunched posture. It was a challenge to stand tall, but he did it with only a wince and the hint of stress around his eyes as he turned back to look at the other men coming through the door.
A few weeks prior, Micah had been reluctant to relinquish control to Lestrade, holding firmly to his place in Vegas and refusing to even consider crossing through the door. But now, with too much on his mind to process, he gladly stepped down and let the other man take the stage, and as such, there was no hesitation as he followed Clare through the door. In contrast to John, Lestrade’s posture straightened, his walk eased, for his wounds, while bothersome, did not restrict him in any visible way. Micah had taken it much worse than he had, and perhaps that could be attributed to Lestrade’s career in law enforcement, used to seeing things that others would turn away from, and even suffering a handful of injuries in his life that were far worse than the scars left behind from the Masquerade.
He glanced around the flat that belonged to Sherlock and John, fixing the cuffs of his shirt and jacket for lack of anything else better to do with his hands. “So. What are the plans?” he asked the pair, gaze sweeping from John to Sherlock, remembering the promise Micah had made to Elias that Sherlock was to be in either his or John’s sight at all times.
Sherlock had replaced his shirt, and as he stepped through the door behind Micah, he looked ten times better than Elias had; cheek smooth, eyes bright, clean and well-sorted. He glanced over his shoulder down the stairs to the landing, hopeful Mrs. Hudson might arrive with a hot cuppa just this once, but there was no sign of her. He stepped in the door, and one of his hands spread out and caught John by the elbow, steadying him for three counts before leaving him to his military adjustments in balance. He did not comment or look twice at the man, or at Lestrade, either.
The flat smelled of John’s blood, old dust, and the cologne of one of the EMT’s who pounded through carting him out. No, Sherlock had not been in to clean. Sherlock shook off his coat and dropped it on the sofa, rounding the table and planting himself on the blocky chair to the right of the fireplace. His demeanor was short, even cold. “Plans,” he echoed, as if utterly mystified. He gave Lestrade a shrewd look and picked up his violin from where he’d discarded it several days before the Masquerade. His phone (left trouser pocket) chimed a text message notification; he ignored it.
Sherlock never quite seemed to stop surprising John in ways, and the supportive hand on his elbow was one of them. It wasn’t there long, just long enough to steady himself, and he angled his eyes toward Sherlock in a silent, subtle thanks. Then he watched as the other man firmly ensconced himself in the chair. John knew that look, and there would be no pulling Sherlock out of it any time soon. With a sigh, he looked over at Lestrade. “Tea? I think we still have some.” It would mean entering the kitchen and facing the evidence of the morning after the Masquerade, but life as a soldier had made him mostly capable of handling grisly sights.
“Sit,” Lestrade said gruffly, seeing the look that John had passed towards the kitchen, and it wasn’t hard to decode it. “I can make tea. Sit down before you fall down.” He gave a look over to Sherlock, a roll of his eyes as the man occupied himself with his violin instead of anything important, and with a sigh, he retreated to the kitchen, only to stop, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. The size of the stain on the floor spoke volumes about the true extent of John Watson’s injuries, and he had to applaud the man for being as mobile as he was considering. “I’ll call someone to clean this up,” he called out as he picked his way about the kitchen, searching for cups and tea after putting the kettle on to heat.
Another default text chime from the old Blackberry. The domestic sounds from the kitchen were shut away by the first discordant note from the violin, a sawing, braying sound not at all like the rich melodies Sherlock was capable of producing. Sherlock dug the little metal canister out from one side of the cushion, where it had been hiding since before Richard Brook, and rosined the bow, his eyes along the strings, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. A final chime. More sawing sounds to grate the teeth went on for several minutes, idle, like a child banging on a pot to produce noise, before eventually things stacked up to normal and the violin started producing warm-ups that bounced from here to there.
Several more text chimes at intervals followed this, and the violin started cutting off in response before finally the sound stopped altogether, leaving a lingering silence. Sherlock was sitting with his knees up, heels digging deeply into the chair cushion, the violin pressed down into his lap and all his attention now on his phone.
Despite Lestrade’s directions otherwise, John didn’t take a seat in the living room. The rasping of bow against strings with no hint of melody only served to deepen the creases of stress around his eyes as he watched Sherlock get lost in his own thoughts. The initial ignoring of the cell phone didn’t surprise him, though the eventual fixation on it did. Either way, John was apparently far from Sherlock’s current thoughts, so he followed Lestrade into the kitchen after a long moment. Passing into the other room, John stopped, eyes fixed on the floor. It was perhaps not as bad as his shocked mind had remembered, but it was a wide enough spread to make his stomach turn. He shook himself out of his fixation after he blinked at it for a bit, turning his attention to Lestrade. “Well. Mrs. Hudson is never going to let me hear the end of that once she arrives.” A few additional slow steps brought him further into the kitchen, inching around the edge of rusty red, and he stood near the stove. “Finding everything alright, then? I wasn’t sure how much tea we had left. Haven’t been to restock in a while.” After a pause, he attempted a weak joke. “And probably best to avoid any milk we have. I don’t doubt that it’s closer to cheese at this point.”
There were a lot of things he wanted to say about Sherlock’s behaviour, but he knew very little of it would do any good. You didn’t berate him, you didn’t scold him. Sherlock simply was, and it was easier to simply tolerate his more eccentric behaviours than point out the fact that he was being an arse. So Lestrade occupied himself with tea, finally finding the box of of tea in a cupboard, thankfully enough for them each to have a cup. “I know my way around a kitchen well enough,” he said to John as he joined him, pointing towards the table. “You. Sit. You ought to be recuperating, not buzzing about the kitchen like a housewife.” He glanced towards the living room, rolled his eyes, and sat the cups out waiting for the water to boil. “And the mess will be cleaned up before your landlady knows what’s happened. We’ve crews for things like this.” Another glance towards the living room and Lestrade’s lips pursed. “Do you want a cup, or are you going to text like a teenager your entire time on this side?” he called out, his voice pitched loud enough to make a point with the sharp words.
Sherlock didn’t even look up. He had an uncanny skill for shutting out anything he didn’t want to hear, the overload of information otherwise too much for him to handle. He was staring intensely at his phone, wound up and tense like a spring waiting to pounce, utterly ignorant that there was anything else in the room. Finally, after this final chime and prompt response, there was nothing else. Silence reigned in that chair for a short period, and then finally Sherlock exploded into movement. He hadn’t even removed his shoes, he just put the phone back in his pocket and stood up straight in the center of the room. He strode away, out of sight of the kitchen door, and then backtracked. “...I’m going out,” he said, vaguely, as if just remembering to inform them. And then without further conversation he plowed out of the flat door and into Passages again.
John had pulled out a chair at Lestrade’s direction, easing himself down sideways so that one arm hooked over the chairback, keeping his own back free from painful pressure. “I would appreciate that,” he nodded at Lestrade’s offer of the cleaners, glad that he wouldn’t have to clean himself off the floor. The thought of it had made his skin crawl and his stomach turn violently. He was able to see Sherlock from where he sat, and could easily hear the text notifications as they came through and see the way Sherlock . He turned his gaze to Lestrade and shook his head, eyes rolling slightly, but his attention was stolen again at Sherlock’s quick movement off of the chair. “Sherlock?” he managed before the other man made it to the door, but the questioning tone was ignored except for a brief explanation before he was simply gone. John blinked several times and then turned back to Lestrade. “...Well.” There was no surprise in his voice though, long since accustomed to Sherlock’s strange comings and goings.
When he saw Sherlock escape back through the door, Lestrade had to let out a sigh, sinking down to sit with his fingers pressed against his forehead. “I hate when he does that,” he muttered, glancing over towards John and giving him a tired smile before rising once more and giving some peace to the squealing kettle. Cups poured, he sat once more with his hands wrapped around the warming cup. “At least it’s back there, instead of god knows where in here. The one on the other side made me promise to keep an eye on him. Bloody good job I’ve done, it seems.”
“You know, I’m almost used to it by this point?” He shook his head with a sigh. “I likely shouldn’t be, but I think there comes a point where you give up on being surprised most of the time. “The one on... Elias? The artist?” John turned a perplexed gaze on Lestrade. “Why?” He accepted the cup with a grateful curl of a smile, but simply held it as he waited for a response.
“Likely because of how Sherlock can get when he’s got his mind on something. Obsessed to the point of ridiculousness. He said that I’m to shove him back through the door if something happens, and he went back on his own, so I suppose I can’t be held to blame.” John looked about as tired as he himself felt, and Lestrade had to feel a bit of sympathy for him. “You’re a better man than I am, if you haven’t killed him already.”
John laughed into his cup and rolled his eyes a bit as he took a small sip, wincing at the heat of it. “I don’t think anyone can be held to blame for what Sherlock does or doesn’t do. He’s a law unto himself, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. ...You’ve known him longer than I have.” His expression darkened slightly at the mention of killing Sherlock though, and he took another drink to cover it. When he recovered his composure, he cleared his throat. “So are you staying on this side, even though your duty has escaped?”
Lestrade was quiet for a moment, toying with the cup as his thoughts wandered down paths he didn’t care to pay too much attention to, on how long he had known Sherlock, at the headaches and distress the man had caused, but still, their association held. It was a strange relationship, and he knew that better than anyone. At John’s question, however, he looked up, blinking for a few moments before the man’s question finally registered. “Aa, yes. For a while. Micah claims to need the break, and I’m not one to fault anyone for that. Besides, I can get a bit of work done in the meantime, and everyone at the yard will be happier for it.” He paused, taking a sip of tea before continuing. “Yourself? Will you stay here for a bit?”
“I’m thinking of doing the same. Staying. Giving Clare a chance to not have to deal with things for a while. It’s been rough on her.” He made a face at the way he sounded. “I don’t particularly like being in her head, either. I can deal with a bit of pain if it means I get to be in control for a bit.” He took another drink of the tea. “Sleeping in my own bed for a bit might be nice as well.” As his words trailed off, he looked around the kitchen again, eyes landing on the blood stain on the floor, staring at it intently.
“She doesn’t seem like the sort that handles these sort of things well. I keep thinking that if we had kept that things attention for a bit longer, she wouldn’t have had to feel the pain, nor you.” Lestrade’s brows furrowed together before he pushed the cup of tea away, catching the way John looked towards the blood stain, silent for a moment. “I’d invite you to stay with me until the mess got cleaned up, but I have a feeling you would refuse.”
John looked over at Lestrade with an annoyed expression. “Don’t borrow trouble, Greg. You have enough to deal with on your own.” He paused, setting down his cup and rubbing above one eyebrow. “You kept his attention long enough from what I saw at the hospital. I wouldn’t wish more of that on anyone.” He shuddered at the memory of that night and shook his head at the next comment. “It may sound mad, but I think I’ll stay here.” He sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. “I don’t mean to kick you out, but I’m fading fast...”
There were points he could argue, but Lestrade left it alone, recognizing when the conversation should really move on to other topics. Watching John push himself up from his chair, Lestrade rose as well, leaving the tea half-drank on the kitchen table. “It’s quite alright. No need to apologise. You need your rest, and I ought to head to the office and make sure the proverbial shit hasn’t hit the fan in my absence.” Crossing around the table, Lestrade briefly touched John’s arm. “Do call me if you need anything. You’ve got my number.” And with that, and a brief, tired smile, Lestrade saw himself out of the Baker Street flat.