smallhobbit: (Lestrade John grey)
[personal profile] smallhobbit
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John Watson, Greg Lestrade,
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 540
A/N: Written for [ profile] older_not_dead promtathon
Warnings: Stillbirth/death of premature baby

“Don’t say a word.”  Greg Lestrade glared at John Watson as he stood and dripped inside the front door of their flat.

“I’ll put the kettle on.”  John diplomatically disappeared into the kitchen.  It was the third time in as many days that Greg had arrived home soaked through.

“Why don’t you have a shower and then we can hang your suit in the bathroom to dry,” John added.

“Good idea.  Would be an even better one if the suit that’s already in there had managed to dry out.  At this rate I won’t be able to go to work tomorrow as I’ll have nothing to wear.”

John went to get wet suit number one to put it in the kitchen.  He then brought a mug of coffee to Greg who was still standing miserably in the hallway.  “Drink this whilst I take your wet clothes off.”

Greg let John remove his sodden jacket and shirt, transferring the mug of coffee from hand to hand as necessary.  He toed his shoes off and John removed his trousers.  On a different occasion John would have let his hands caress Greg’s thighs in the process, but he sensed that it wasn’t just the wet that was getting to him.

“Right, get yourself into the shower.  I’ll find you some clothes and put them on the radiator for when you’re ready.”

Greg made to protest, but John gave him his best ‘I am your senior officer and that is an order’ glare.

Whilst Greg was in the shower John had a quick look on the internet for the latest news, but there was nothing to indicate what had got to Greg.  There’d been some trouble with a local derby match but Greg wouldn’t have had any involvement there.

It was a while later that Greg came to join John on the settee.  John leaned in to kiss him and remarked “Your hair’s still wet.  I’ll get a towel and dry you off.”

He returned with the towel and gently rubbed Greg’s hair, taking the opportunity to massage his temples at the same time.  Greg gave a little sigh and John began to rub his neck.

“That’s nice,” Greg said quietly.

“Good.  Do you want to talk or would you rather hear about my scintillating time in the asthma clinic?”

“Some workmen at a building site found the body of a small baby, so we got called in.  The baby was very premature and either stillborn or died just after birth.  They’re trying to find the mother; probably some poor kid who didn’t realise she was pregnant for ages and then didn’t know what to do.  It just seems such a waste.   And all I can think of is the sodding rain falling into the hole that had been dug for the baby.”

John continued to massage Greg’s shoulders.  He could hear the rain still falling outside and his imagination conjured up a hole on a building site filling with water.  At times like this there was little he could do except be there for his partner and then later when they lay in bed listening to the rain  on the window he would hold him close until he finally fell asleep.
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