Duty and Friendship (Sherlock, Casual) (FIN)

The clothes that Lestrade were wearing were a heck of a lot more casual than usual. He was simply wearing a grey, short-sleeved V-neck and jeans. But still, it felt really, really hot out. Or, no, it was kind of cold, but… it was still hot. God, he was losing his mind, wasn’t he?

Lestrade stumbled over to Sherlock and the rented car, barely noting Sherlock’s uncharacteristically charitable action of opening the door to the passenger’s seat for him. Slipping in with very little grace, Lestrade closed the door and collapsed on the seat, dizzy. “Thanks for actually coming,” he breathed out, his words taking on a faint slur. Taking a deep breath, he briefly thanked god for not making him the sort of person who threw up when they got their blood drawn, too.

Opening his eyes, he looked at Sherlock. He blinked a few times, hard, before fumbling in his pocket to put his glasses on. That helped a little, but no, the consulting detective was still slightly blurry. “Do you…” Lestrade started, then trailed off, trying to remember the words. Oh god, he hated the aphasia… “Know where I live?” He forced himself to finish.

Lestrade watched blearily as Sherlock made a noise and a look that meant, ‘Of course I do, who do you take me for?’ Of course he did. “Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade,” the consulting detective tutted. Lestrade sighed; right, as if he could ever escape the man’s brain for one second.

He closed his eyes once more, tried not to think too much, and listened to Sherlock colorfully swear at the traffic that was stopping them from going the 100 mph that Holmes probably wanted to. Maybe someday they could go on a trip, where there were lots of long roads in the middle of nowhere. The stream of obscenities was actually a little bit calming, somehow, until Sherlock asked the inevitable question. “So, are you going to tell me or shall I work it out?”

Lestrade had thought for some time about what to say when Sherlock asked. He could lie, of course: ‘I was giving blood,’ or ‘I needed to have some tests done, it’s a police thing.’ But really, he wasn’t all that good at lying and Holmes, being Holmes, would most likely see through them in seconds. So… the truth. Yes, that would be best, wouldn’t it? Besides, it saved him from the tedious work that came with creating a convincing sounding lie. Though, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be… evasive. Or stall. And really, he wasn’t in the mood for talking, his head was positively swimming.

“I had to have some blood work done,” he murmured, opening his eyes slightly to look at Sherlock. “Testing, it’s… Something I’ve had to do yearly for a long time. I’m rather surprised you don’t know.” Lestrade would have stopped there, but even in his state he realized Holmes might take offense to that (as if he couldn’t figure it out) so he decided to just come out with it all at once. “Cancer. Not anymore, but… A long time ago. There’s not really any threat, but… As you can see I don’t do too well with… getting blood drawn.”

Lestrade was not in the mood for particularly Sherlockian gestures at the moment. This list of gestures, of course, included The Look. Lestrade had long since dubbed it “The Look” in his own head. It was usually reserved for 1) dead people, 2) parts of dead things, or 3) anything else Sherlock wanted to intimidate into being his own. Lestrade did not, on any circumstances, like it being directed towards him, nor did he like it now.

“Well, this is interesting, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, his predatory look making Lestrade want to bolt out of the car. And – Interesting? Oh, that bastard. “Why couldn’t I have borrowed your car, anyway? It would have been much more simple,” Sherlock continued, which Lestrade really should have gotten angrier about.

“Sherlock, I am not your specimen,” Lestrade snapped, then closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, trying to ignore the pulse between his eyes. “And I don’t have a car. If you mean one of the police cars – Well, you can scrap that idea, because you are never, ever driving one of those.” Lestrade was a little surprised Sherlock actually knew how to drive at all, considering he had lived in London and then New York City. Hell, the only reason Lestrade himself had a license was for his job. If Sherlock, of all people, was let to drive a police car, well... He could expect to be loosing most of his driving privileges.

“Now shut up, I’m trying to breath,” Lestrade said, a little harsher than he’d meant it, but didn’t regret how it came out. He fumbled to take his glasses off and put them back into his pocket. He ended up just sort of dropping them in his lap. Ah, well, close enough. He sighed and enjoyed the few seconds of silence he would get before Sherlock inevitably started talking again.

Lestrade was not pleased when Sherlock merely smirked at his comment that he was not something Sherlock was allowed to test. Dear god, had the man ever heard of kicking someone while they were already down? Then again, perhaps Holmes was the living embodiment of that phrase. Black and white spots hindered his vision when Sherlock rudely jerked the car – obviously purposefully – in a petty move of retaliation. “Sherlock!” Lestrade growled. He didn’t even care that his anger was just what Sherlock was trying to provoke.

“I think I have a right to question why you contacted me, though. If you didn’t want to hear me talking then you should, really, have asked somebody else,” Sherlock said, and began to tap his fingers loudly on the steering wheel. Lestrade could have killed him. The tapping was grating on his nerves terribly.

“Stop that!” Lestrade yelled at him, practically itching to hit the man. He settled into a moody silence, trying not to think too hard about Sherlock’s question. “I... Well, I bloody well should have called someone else,” Lestrade huffed, but it was of no use; Sherlock wasn’t going to let up until Lestrade told everything, and he knew it.

“I only called you because… Well, I’m not exactly part of the social scene here,” Lestrade admitted wearily. He looked out the window, trying not to let how slowly the damn traffic was inching on get to him too much. Though, being stuck in a car with one Sherlock Holmes, that was pretty hard. “You’re my… Well, it’s not my fault you’re my person.” As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Lestrade could have banged his head on the window (if it didn’t already feel like that). His person? He wasn’t sure if that was completely childish, lame, or just plain weird.

God he was stupid! He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, but… it was true. He knew a lot of people here, but he wasn’t exactly friends with them. Not that Holmes was really, well, a friend, but… He was one of the closest to that that Lestrade had. Unfortunately for Lestrade.

Lestrade, though still cringing internally from his previous comment, let out a quick little breath of relief when Sherlock stopped tapping on the steering wheel. It had really, really been grating on his nerves. Lestrade turned his face from the window to mutter some thanks, and… immediately regretted it.

Sherlock’s eyes were penetrating. More accurately, the look in Sherlock’s eyes seemed to resemble pity. Right, so Sherlock was smart enough not to make a big deal out of his being at the hospital, but was mortified at the thought of Lestrade calling him his “person.”

“Your person? Sherlock asked, stressing the word ‘person’ for all that it was worth. Lestrade was a little alarmed to see him lift both his hands from the steering wheel in order to do bunny ears in the air around the word. The traffic was slow, yes, but it wasn’t completely stopped. “And how, pray tell, did you come to that assumption?”

Lestrade didn’t know himself, really. He’d never called Sherlock that in his head before, nor had he ever called him a friend; the term had come out much more intimately than Lestrade ever would have intended it to. Damn it all.

“…Yeah,” Lestrade mumbled, trying not to add extra meaning to the words. And really, they just had been words… They hadn’t meant that much, had they? You’re my person. What did he mean by that, anyway? He certainly hadn’t meant Holmes belonged to him – Holmes would never belong to anyone – so perhaps he had meant… friends. It seemed childish, but… Well, he and Holmes were somewhat friends, weren’t they? Even if Holmes didn’t think so. Friend: A person who was attached to another through feelings of affection or support, and who saw to each other on a platonic level. Didn’t they do that? Right, not really. But they worked together, certainly supported each other there, and Lestrade, though he would probably never admit it, did like Holmes much more than he had initially, these days.

Sherlock was not a child. He could fend for himself. But people were unkind to him, never tried to understand him; never gave him a chance. And maybe he didn’t deserve one, but Lestrade had chosen to give him one. And, well, it had paid off, hadn’t it? After all, if it weren’t for Holmes, he’s not really sure who would be driving him home right now.

“You’re my person,” Lestrade repeated, sighing out the words. It wasn’t a happy truth, but that didn’t make it a lie. He didn’t care to explain anymore; Holmes would likely get the idea on his own, even if he didn’t like it. Lestrade readied himself for Sherlock’s next attack, but really, he felt so ill he wasn’t sure he would completely understand the words that would come with it; he was pretty sure he was going to pass out again. Groaning, he leaned forward and put his head between his knees. He probably looked pathetic, but he’d rather not pass out in front of Sherlock.

Though he knew it was likely that he would break this promise, Lestrade then and there vowed never to rely on Sherlock Holmes to drive him somewhere ever again. It was a bit like walking right into the arms of a murderer. Sherlock made another sharp turn and Lestrade squeezed his eyes tightly, trying not to give in to the sense of vertigo he was being hit with that was nearly comparable to being on one of those hellish, twirling rides at an amusement park.

“Curious,” Sherlock commented snidely, once again stopping the car at a bout of traffic a lot more violently than was necessary. “Though I really don’t think I am your person, Lestrade. I am honestly interested to know why you would think that, though.”

Lestrade would have ignored it, really he would have – he should’ve – but he looked up at Sherlock, and the face the man was making made Lestrade want to cry a little. It was a ‘tell me what I want and until you do we are not leaving this car,’ sort of look. Sherlock wasn’t making any attempt to disguise the expression, either.

Sighing deeply, Lestrade rubbed his fingers hard against closed eyelids. He nearly said, ‘Can we just drop this?’ but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t, so didn’t bother. “I called you for a favor. You accepted. You’re here,” Lestrade said, his tone a little more melancholic than meant to be. But still, it was depressing that the closest person he may or may not have as a friend was a sociopath who fancied toying with dead bodies.

“If you’ll excuse the wording…” Lestrade casually tried to console the consulting detective in his possibly hurt dignity. Perhaps it was simply the wording? If he’d used ‘my sniffer dog,’ maybe it wouldn’t have come to what was happening now. Lestrade had noticed in the past that Sherlock handled insults a bit better than compliments, sometimes.