Chapter Text
“I never asked you to leave your wife.”
Sherlock’s a lot high on the pain medication being funnelled into his veins by the IV and Lestrade’s been on the receiving end of more honest conversation than he’s ever had from the man. He’s not sure he likes it so much after all.
“I know.”
Sherlock huffs and rolls his head on the pillow, turning to Lestrade with slightly glazed eyes. His lips are smiling but there’s not much that’s humorous about the expression.
“You’re an idiot.”
Lestrade huffs and shrugs his shoulders. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know. Since he and Sherlock had their talk several days before, Lestrade has come to realise how ridiculous it was for him to leave his wife for the other man. His marriage was, for all intents and purposes, perfect. He had a wife who loved him and whom he loved in return. He had a son who was all of Lestrade’s world.
And then there had been Sherlock. Sherlock who had swooped into Lestrade’s life off his face on coke for most of the time and who had blown Lestrade’s life out of the norm and into the miraculous.
He does and doesn’t regret it. He regrets losing his wife (recent encounters not withstanding) but he doesn’t regret Sherlock. He can’t.
“I know.”
Sherlock smiles and it takes an inhumane amount of effort for Lestrade not to reach out and grasp his hand; not to crawl onto the bed beside him and fall asleep for an hour (because he’s tired. He’s so tired).
“Have you seen John?” Sherlock asks after long minutes of silence (not uncomfortable, strangely) and Lestrade shakes his head.
“Have you?”
Sherlock hesitates then nods, once, quickly.
“Yes.” He looks away from Lestrade, towards the ceiling and Lestrade watches the pale stretch of neck elongate in front of him and his lips tingle with anticipation. Well, he thinks, they can keep anticipating and pulls them between his teeth to try and numb the sensation. It’s not easily defeated. “He was asleep.”
Lestrade nods again, feeling dumb and useless all of a sudden at the sound of Sherlock’s obvious worry.
“It’s probably the drugs they’ve got him on. Until some of the worst of his pain is over, he’ll probably sleep most of the day.”
Lestrade looks up and Sherlock is blinking rapidly, his head tilted back further and further with each blink and Lestrade is flabbergasted because is Sherlock…? Surely not.
“He’ll be fine.”
It’s Lestrade’s turn to pause because Sherlock sounds so utterly devastating that Lestrade feels secondary devastation for him. It’s… wrenching.
“Yes,” he manages after a few attempts to dislodge the lump in his throat. “He will be.” Sherlock nods minutely, his lips disappearing between his teeth and Lestrade can’t take his eyes away from the naked emotion on Sherlock’s face. Lestrade has to ask, now, or he never will. “Sherlock… how long…” He trails off, trying to choose his words but he doesn’t need to because Sherlock – even drugged out of his mind – is already answering it.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to, Greg.”
And the use of his name, usually reserved for intimacy or arguments, tells Lestrade all he needs to know – confirms, really, what he already knew. He clears his throat.
“You’re… a good man, Sherlock.”
Sherlock huffs and when he speaks, his voice is drowsy, his vowels long.
“No, Greg. You are.”