The Game Is Back On
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sherlockbbcTitle: The Game Is Back On
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 3
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock
Wordcount: 817
Summary: Lestrade realizes the game really is back on, and this time things will be different.
Author's Notes: Title shamelessly stolen from minisode newspaper front page.
Greg has just turned a corner when he spots the newspaper headline.
“The Game Is Back On!"
Greg discovers the world can suddenly stand absolutely still. He stares at the headline. Flashbacks that haven’t stopped for three years swoop in, crowd around him, before his eyes: Glossy dark curls, a sinfully arrogant swagger, a lavish swirl of expensive wool, a delicious deep baritone that made his pulse race, silver-blue eyes that rarely locked on his and thus never uncovered the secret buried in his heart, brilliant deductions rattled off at lightning speed. Bitter jealousy that tore through him of an ex-military who became the constant companion of the world’s only consulting detective. Fierce protectiveness of his eccentric, beautiful friend. Crushing agony as he helplessly watched (supervised, fucking supervised) while one of many ignorant, petty, gloating officers handcuffed slender wrists while their owner stood tall and proud. Bone-deep terror as his friend fled, joined to his constant companion at the wrist. And then... Grief, grief like he had never imagined it was possible to feel, a gaping black hole that kept sucking out his soul every day, every moment, while everyone around him stupidly thought his sorrow was over a lost job, a stalled career. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He found himself more and more frequently echoing Sherlock’s sentiment (and how he misses the withering glare he would’ve received once upon a time if he’d putSherlock and sentiment in the same sentence!). Not even John Watson had guessed. Apparently only Sherlock could have seen the real reason behind his grief. He would’ve taken one look at Greg and smirked, probably, or informed him solemnly that love was sentiment, and sentiment was useless, and it was pointless for Greg to be in love with a man who was married to his work. He didn’t know what Sherlock would have said. He would never know.
Unless…
Unless Sherlock was actually, in spite of everything that happened, in spite of what logic dictated…
Unless…
Unless Anderson was right. And isn’t that rich, Anderson of all people believing in the man he worked so hatefully and blindly to end – Greg can’t help the stab of vicious anger at the memory, and decides to dismiss Anderson as a moron, except it means Sherlock can’t still be… alive, and no, no, Greg can’t dismiss that, despite all his insisting to Anderson that it can’t be true.
He remembers the tip of Sherlock’s slender finger touching his forehead, remembers the sexy timber of his voice, remembers words he wasn’t paying attention to at the time. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home there.
No, you can’t. Sherlock was right. Sherlock… is right. As usual. And if anyone on earth could pull it off, it’s Sherlock. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. How could he not see? How could he have been so blind? How could Anderson – Anderson, of all people – manage to look, really look, and not Greg?
He’s still alive. Greg feels his heart swell with giddiness, feels himself grow taller, broader, stronger at the idea. Suddenly the sun is shining a little brighter, the air is a little crisper, and the sounds of life around him are both amplified tenfold and ten times more harmonious. This time Greg won’t stand back cowering, unable to tell Sherlock how he really feels. He doesn’t even have to tell him. As soon as he sees Sherlock, he will walk, run up to him, and crush him in an embrace, to hell with the entire Yard and John Watson (especially John Watson, who had his chance and wasted it – oh, Greg has never been happier that John is in a relationship; he saw him with his fiancée once, and while Greg may not be a master of deduction he can tell when a woman is head over heels for a man enough to overlook the glaringly obvious fact that said man is not in love with her; she’ll never let John go, and John is too decent a man to just drop her if… when, when Sherlock comes back. Right then Greg decides to get them an expensive wedding gift, something especially Mary would like, thank God, thank God for Mary!). And as soon as Sherlock pulls back horrified, plastering on his endearing anti-sentiment mask, Greg will ask Sherlock to look at him (look, really look – except Greg will be the one saying those words this time). Sherlock would take one look and know. And then…
And then… Greg smiles, as visions swirl around him of future dates, dinners, countless first times, declarations of love he will make, crime scenes he will no longer leave alone after watching Sherlock dash off with his flatmate... He shakes himself alert. Enough time wasted. Anderson said Sherlock’s getting closer, and he’s right. Greg has plans to make..
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for Season 3
Pairing: Lestrade/Sherlock
Wordcount: 817
Summary: Lestrade realizes the game really is back on, and this time things will be different.
Author's Notes: Title shamelessly stolen from minisode newspaper front page.
Greg has just turned a corner when he spots the newspaper headline.
“The Game Is Back On!"
Greg discovers the world can suddenly stand absolutely still. He stares at the headline. Flashbacks that haven’t stopped for three years swoop in, crowd around him, before his eyes: Glossy dark curls, a sinfully arrogant swagger, a lavish swirl of expensive wool, a delicious deep baritone that made his pulse race, silver-blue eyes that rarely locked on his and thus never uncovered the secret buried in his heart, brilliant deductions rattled off at lightning speed. Bitter jealousy that tore through him of an ex-military who became the constant companion of the world’s only consulting detective. Fierce protectiveness of his eccentric, beautiful friend. Crushing agony as he helplessly watched (supervised, fucking supervised) while one of many ignorant, petty, gloating officers handcuffed slender wrists while their owner stood tall and proud. Bone-deep terror as his friend fled, joined to his constant companion at the wrist. And then... Grief, grief like he had never imagined it was possible to feel, a gaping black hole that kept sucking out his soul every day, every moment, while everyone around him stupidly thought his sorrow was over a lost job, a stalled career. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He found himself more and more frequently echoing Sherlock’s sentiment (and how he misses the withering glare he would’ve received once upon a time if he’d putSherlock and sentiment in the same sentence!). Not even John Watson had guessed. Apparently only Sherlock could have seen the real reason behind his grief. He would’ve taken one look at Greg and smirked, probably, or informed him solemnly that love was sentiment, and sentiment was useless, and it was pointless for Greg to be in love with a man who was married to his work. He didn’t know what Sherlock would have said. He would never know.
Unless…
Unless Sherlock was actually, in spite of everything that happened, in spite of what logic dictated…
Unless…
Unless Anderson was right. And isn’t that rich, Anderson of all people believing in the man he worked so hatefully and blindly to end – Greg can’t help the stab of vicious anger at the memory, and decides to dismiss Anderson as a moron, except it means Sherlock can’t still be… alive, and no, no, Greg can’t dismiss that, despite all his insisting to Anderson that it can’t be true.
He remembers the tip of Sherlock’s slender finger touching his forehead, remembers the sexy timber of his voice, remembers words he wasn’t paying attention to at the time. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home there.
No, you can’t. Sherlock was right. Sherlock… is right. As usual. And if anyone on earth could pull it off, it’s Sherlock. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. How could he not see? How could he have been so blind? How could Anderson – Anderson, of all people – manage to look, really look, and not Greg?
He’s still alive. Greg feels his heart swell with giddiness, feels himself grow taller, broader, stronger at the idea. Suddenly the sun is shining a little brighter, the air is a little crisper, and the sounds of life around him are both amplified tenfold and ten times more harmonious. This time Greg won’t stand back cowering, unable to tell Sherlock how he really feels. He doesn’t even have to tell him. As soon as he sees Sherlock, he will walk, run up to him, and crush him in an embrace, to hell with the entire Yard and John Watson (especially John Watson, who had his chance and wasted it – oh, Greg has never been happier that John is in a relationship; he saw him with his fiancée once, and while Greg may not be a master of deduction he can tell when a woman is head over heels for a man enough to overlook the glaringly obvious fact that said man is not in love with her; she’ll never let John go, and John is too decent a man to just drop her if… when, when Sherlock comes back. Right then Greg decides to get them an expensive wedding gift, something especially Mary would like, thank God, thank God for Mary!). And as soon as Sherlock pulls back horrified, plastering on his endearing anti-sentiment mask, Greg will ask Sherlock to look at him (look, really look – except Greg will be the one saying those words this time). Sherlock would take one look and know. And then…
And then… Greg smiles, as visions swirl around him of future dates, dinners, countless first times, declarations of love he will make, crime scenes he will no longer leave alone after watching Sherlock dash off with his flatmate... He shakes himself alert. Enough time wasted. Anderson said Sherlock’s getting closer, and he’s right. Greg has plans to make..
no subject
Date: 2013-12-26 04:51 pm (UTC)Thanks
Date: 2013-12-26 11:08 pm (UTC)