Chapter Text
“Mr Holmes. What does her majesty’s government require at this hour?” Greg Lestrade had been at his desk for nearly fourteen hours when Holmes’ number rang through. The day had begun with a forensic report detailing minute differences between two sets of stab wounds. He’d washed down a Pret sandwich with break room tea mid afternoon while listening to Sally interview the third of four victims in a string of street beatings of gay men, and now, at an hour when most people were sitting down to a proper dinner, he was clawing his way through the administrative trivia that had piled up throughout the day. Expense reports had never seemed so tedious.
“DI Lestrade, I’m afraid I must report there has been an incident involving my brother and his flatmate.”
Mycroft’s voice sounded perfectly even, but there was something in the emphasis that put up the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck. “Right. Where do I need to send the constabulary?” It had been six or seven years since Mycroft had called regarding an incident but the familiar rhythm of the call was right there under the surface.
“I believe this incident would be best attended by yourself, Lestrade. My understanding is that it is a bit, ah, sensitive.”
Greg thought about what John had told him about the relationship at their last pub night. He didn’t exactly think Sherlock would go out of his way to hurt one of his partners, but Greg also knew just how volatile Sherlock’s temper had been in the days when he used. If he’d picked up something on the street, God only knew the consequences. “At the flat, Mr Holmes?”
“Lay your suspicions to rest, Detective Inspector. I don’t believe this to be a domestic incident. You need to attend the surgery where John works. I’ve texted the address. There is a car waiting for you in the staff parking lot. Do hurry.”
With that, the elder Holmes brother disconnected the call. “Right.” Greg muttered to his empty office. He grabbed the paperwork from his desk, shrugged into his suit jacket, and trotted down the back stairwell to find, as promised, a shiny black town car with government plates idling 3 metres from the door. A driver stepped out as Greg checked to make sure the staff door had locked behind him. “DI Lestrade, sir?”
“That’s me.” The driver held open the door for Greg.
“There’s a choice of still or mineral water in the center console, sir,” the driver said as he closed the door.
Greg tipped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. As the car made its way through central London, he ran through the possibilities. After awhile, he uncapped a bottle of still water and sipped at it thoughtfully. Something involving both Sherlock and John, at John’s place of work, not a domestic, and requiring the presence of a law enforcement officer both men knew personally. Greg was coming to some worrying conclusions when the car came to a gentle stop at the address Mycroft had texted. There was nobody to be seen and the lights were off. Greg considered the possibility that the entire thing had been an elaborate joke as he knocked on the door. As expected, nobody responded. On a whim, he tried the door, finding it unlocked, much to his relief. Greg stepped into the darkened reception room, more convinced than ever he’d gotten pulled into a prank. “Sherlock? John?,” he called. He could see light from an open office down a short corridor and made his way that direction. He hoped it was a set up. He didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.
The scene that met his eye, when Greg stepped around the doorframe, made his heart crawl into his throat. Sherlock was seated cross legged on the floor, John lying on his side with his head cradled on Sherlock’s thigh. Greg saw Sherlock carding his fingers through John’s hair before he registered that John was completely naked. As he crossed the room, Greg made further note of blood on the floor and zip ties that had been cut apart with the shears left on top of John’s desk. He reminded himself again that Mycroft had told him this wasn’t a domestic. “Hey Sherlock, your brother called. Said it’d be better if I came alone instead of sending a constable. You alright, mate?” Greg knelt before John who seemed unable or unwilling to focus on Greg’s face. He’d seen that before. The possibilities were rapidly narrowing and Greg didn’t like the conclusions he was coming to.
“Been better.” John rasped a reply and swallowed painfully. Greg nodded. Sherlock looked paler than usual, Greg thought, and had a tight look of anxiety plastered across his usually composed face. Sherlock didn’t say anything, not that Greg expected him to. The man was notoriously short of words until he got worked up about crimes committed against homeless teenagers and such. Still, his silence weighed on Greg. Whatever this was, he surmised that Sherlock was also a latecomer to the scene.
An awkward silence descended between the three men. Greg knew the other two understood what his presence here meant. Greg got up to look at the physical evidence. It was safe to deduce that someone had zip tied John across his desk, judging from where he found the bindings. The blood led to further deductions about what had been done to John. Greg circled around behind Sherlock’s back to get a good look at John, made mental note of the torn skin and bruising caused by a blunt instrument, and blood drying on John’s legs, before he came to a rest crouching in front of the injured man again. Restrained, beaten, and violated. The existence of sexual sadists in the world no longer shocked him, but he found the damage they caused revolting every time he encountered it.
“I’m sorry to have to ask, formalities and all. Do I, uh, do we need a rape kit?” Greg noticed Sherlock stiffen in response to the question. He made a mental note to follow up on that. More to the point, he wanted to know precisely how Sherlock had ended up in this room.
“No.” John replied firmly.
Again, Greg noticed Sherlock’s response (apparent relief) as much as what John himself said. “So there was no, um, no penetration?” God, he hated having to ask the question. This was his mate. Someone he had pub nights with. Someone to bitch with about the ex and shout at the televised footie. He found himself struggling to imagine a scenario in which John could be restrained and forced into this situation.
“There was. But it wasn’t his cock.”
Greg noted the emotionless delivery of John’s words and wondered if he could get away with referring the man to a therapist through Victim’s Services. That toneless voice made him worry that the man wasn’t allowing himself to feel his emotions. Greg had been down that road himself and didn’t want his mate to go through the same struggles. He also noted the way Sherlock’s hands tightened into fists. Somehow, he was going to need to get Sherlock alone for an hour and find out exactly how much the man knew about this.
“So, just fingers then?” Greg pressed on as delicately as possible, hating himself all the while. He had to be the professional. That’s why Mycroft had called him. He knew it. This was hard enough with a stranger, but ten times harder face to face with his mate.
“His gun.”
Greg tried to keep the horror off his face but he felt fairly certain the effort failed. “He fucking what? Oh my God - ” Greg immediately regretted the unprofessional slip. This is why professionals shouldn’t attend friends and family, he thought. He cleared his throat as he tried to recover his DI persona. “Is the weapon still here?”
“No. Can I go now?” John asked, finally looking up to meet Greg’s eyes. “I just want to go home and get on with it. Nothing more to be done here”
Greg weighed the pros and cons of mentioning trauma therapy again - nobody ever just went home and got on with things - and decided to keep his personal opinions to himself for the time being. He also made note to check up on John in a week or so. At the very least, knowing he could depend on his mates might help a little. “Of course. You don’t want to get checked at the hospital?”
John shook his head and indicated to Sherlock. “I’m a doctor and I’m sure he can follow instructions. I officially discharge myself from this surgery.” Greg tried not to laugh as John waved his hand around as though weaving a magic spell. “I’ll be fine. Been hurt far worse than this before.” Greg shot an accusatory look at Sherlock but John shook his head. “No, not him.”
Sherlock returned Greg’s look with a haughty head tilt and helped John to his feet, still wrapped in the coat which made him look so small.
Fine. If you want to play it that way, Greg thought. He stepped out of the way. “I’ll send a patrol car to keep watch for a few days in case he comes back. Are you going to press charges?”
John sighed and opened his mouth to answer but this time Sherlock got there first.
“Don’t bother, he’ll be at my flat and won’t be leaving the premises.”
Greg frowned and looked to John for confirmation who nodded, exhausted.
“Can’t that wait? I’m taking John home now, end of story.” Sherlock glared at Greg as though it were his fault they were still there.
“Look mate, you may get to boss him around but - ” Greg was ready to go on a tirade about Sherlock’s lifestyle choices but was silenced by John’s hoarse voice.
“Greg, stop, please. Take me home, Sherlock.”
Greg stepped back and put his hands up. He knew better than to press assault victims before they were ready to talk themselves. That’s why there were such long timelines for reporting cases of sexual assault.
Sherlock paused for a moment at Greg’s side to tell him not to worry about the paperwork, that Mycroft would take care of the rest, and swept out, John tucked under his arm looking nothing so much like a sodden chick seeking shelter under its mother’s wing.
Greg followed them out, noting that a second car had joined the one that brought him to the scene of the crime. Three men in boilersuits and pulling rolling cases passed them, stepping into the building and - from the sound of it - locking the door behind them. Mycroft’s cleaners, Greg assumed. “His” driver opened the door for him as he approached. “Thank you,” he muttered. Fourteen hours, he thought, and my best mate assaulted to top it off. He couldn’t decide if he was happy or disappointed that John’s case in no way matched the serial assault case he and Sally were working on.
“Here we are, sir.”
Greg blinked his eyes open. He didn’t remember giving the driver his address nor did he remember any of the journey to get here. Must have dropped off, he thought. He reached for the papers he remembered dropping on the other end of the seat when he got in the car the first time but his hand met the clean fabric of the upholstery. Greg frowned. He remembered picking up his paperwork when he left NSY. He was too occupied checking to see if the untidy mess had somehow slid to the floor to notice the driver opening the door.
“I was told to hand this to you on arrival, sir,” the driver said, presenting Greg with a manilla folder he didn’t remember seeing before.
“Right. Ah, I brought some documents with me. I don’t see them?”
“I believe you’ll find everything in order, sir,” the driver said, pushing the folder into Greg’s hand.
Really, he felt too fuzzy from the brief nap to fully comprehend whatever Mycroft’s driver was trying to communicate. He took the folder, shaking his head, and dug his keys out of his pocket.
Upstairs in his flat, Greg stumbled into the kitchen to set the kettle boiling before attempting to think of anything else. Frankly he wanted something stronger but it was late and he still had duty in the morning. He wrenched off his tie and tossed both it and his jacket generally towards the bedroom, kicked his shoes off next to the cabinets, and got down the tea things. While the tea steeped, he finally flipped the folder open, to find his own messy signature on each and every page requiring it. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the top sheet.
You have my personal assurance that all signed documents are in order. Further, your DCI will not give you grief about the department budget for the foreseeable future. — Regards, Mycroft