John lets Lestrade into the flat, and no sooner does he enter the doorway then Sherlock bolts up from his chair and grabs his coat.
"I was just stopping in to say that it wasn't necessary for you to..."
"Why wouldn't I want to make my statement, Lestrade?" His eyes narrow as he meets the DI's contrite expression with a look of scornful distaste. "Are you implying I should be ashamed to speak of it?"
"God, no, of course not," he replies hastily, shooting a quick look of sympathy at John. Sherlock follows the direction of his gaze, and adds "Yes, but to be honest, Grant, living with me before was no picnic either, was it?"
Lestrade waits a few seconds too long before correcting him. "It's Greg," he says softly.
They head to the station and Sherlock dispassionately recounts the particulars of the assault to the clerk on duty, who faithfully copies down the description of the chain of events in Sherlock's own words, from his "decision to provide a distraction", "physical obstruction of the aisle", and "incendiary word choice", to his "gunpoint-induced fellatio... interrupted by a readily visible blood splatter which indicated the incapacitation and probable death of the assailant". He fills out a few forms and leaves. John's statement will have to wait until their legal team has been consulted. Lestrade will see to it John does not need to face any unnecessary legal scrutiny.
When he and John return to 221B, Sherlock goes back to his chair and perches like a bird of prey.
John considers, and nearly immediately rejects, suggesting Sherlock talk things over with a professional. He considers offering himself as someone willing to listen for a slightly longer time, before rejecting that as well. He's here if Sherlock needs him, and Sherlock knows it. Reminding him would serve no positive purpose. Instead, he does what he always does when there are no words... silently makes the tea and waits.
He places a cup on the small table beside his chair, then goes to his laptop and stares at his blog.
Headed up north to figure out how in the hell a sapphire ended up inside a goose. Will update later. Right now we've got entirely too much packing to do, as the private jet takes off within the hour.
Three sentences. Only one comment in reply from Mrs Hudson: "Have a safe trip! See you when I get back. Remember to check that Sherlock hasn't left any equipment running, since I won't be there to smell anything burning this time."
He manages a grin. The last time they had left in a hurry for an out-of-town case, a burner was left on low and the heated tube of God-knows-what had omitted a foul odor. Sherlock insisted leaving it on had not been hazardous, and that keeping it at a steady temperature had been vital for the experiment, but Mrs Hudson claimed to have smelled it all the way down hallway and turned the blasted thing off.
He had been planning on titling it "The Wild Goose Chase". Now the entry stared back at him. He could delete the whole thing. Hell, he could even tell Mrs Hudson they never went on that trip. Had never been on that plane.
He looked over at Sherlock, who hadn't moved a muscle since he first sat down over an hour ago. Maybe he would be deleting this, too.
FILL 3/? Above the Clouds
"I was just stopping in to say that it wasn't necessary for you to..."
"Why wouldn't I want to make my statement, Lestrade?" His eyes narrow as he meets the DI's contrite expression with a look of scornful distaste. "Are you implying I should be ashamed to speak of it?"
"God, no, of course not," he replies hastily, shooting a quick look of sympathy at John. Sherlock follows the direction of his gaze, and adds "Yes, but to be honest, Grant, living with me before was no picnic either, was it?"
Lestrade waits a few seconds too long before correcting him. "It's Greg," he says softly.
They head to the station and Sherlock dispassionately recounts the particulars of the assault to the clerk on duty, who faithfully copies down the description of the chain of events in Sherlock's own words, from his "decision to provide a distraction", "physical obstruction of the aisle", and "incendiary word choice", to his "gunpoint-induced fellatio... interrupted by a readily visible blood splatter which indicated the incapacitation and probable death of the assailant". He fills out a few forms and leaves. John's statement will have to wait until their legal team has been consulted. Lestrade will see to it John does not need to face any unnecessary legal scrutiny.
When he and John return to 221B, Sherlock goes back to his chair and perches like a bird of prey.
John considers, and nearly immediately rejects, suggesting Sherlock talk things over with a professional. He considers offering himself as someone willing to listen for a slightly longer time, before rejecting that as well. He's here if Sherlock needs him, and Sherlock knows it. Reminding him would serve no positive purpose. Instead, he does what he always does when there are no words... silently makes the tea and waits.
He places a cup on the small table beside his chair, then goes to his laptop and stares at his blog.
Headed up north to figure out how in the hell a sapphire ended up inside a goose. Will update later. Right now we've got entirely too much packing to do, as the private jet takes off within the hour.
Three sentences. Only one comment in reply from Mrs Hudson: "Have a safe trip! See you when I get back. Remember to check that Sherlock hasn't left any equipment running, since I won't be there to smell anything burning this time."
He manages a grin. The last time they had left in a hurry for an out-of-town case, a burner was left on low and the heated tube of God-knows-what had omitted a foul odor. Sherlock insisted leaving it on had not been hazardous, and that keeping it at a steady temperature had been vital for the experiment, but Mrs Hudson claimed to have smelled it all the way down hallway and turned the blasted thing off.
He had been planning on titling it "The Wild Goose Chase". Now the entry stared back at him. He could delete the whole thing. Hell, he could even tell Mrs Hudson they never went on that trip. Had never been on that plane.
He looked over at Sherlock, who hadn't moved a muscle since he first sat down over an hour ago. Maybe he would be deleting this, too.