Title: That’s a Crack Shot You’re Looking For
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Teen
Length: 3654
Content Notes: Also for the Shot and Five Things challenges.  John & Lestrade building friendship, John & Sherlock (or maybe John/Sherlock, seen through Greg's goggles).  BAMF!John, oh yeah.
Warnings: Violence, inexplicit references to sexual slavery with respect to a case.
Summary: Five times Greg Lestrade didn’t find out who shot the cabbie, plus once he couldn't deny it anymore.


1: Probably with a history of military service

Greg stared across the crowded bar at the jumper-clad enigma at the bar, who had apparently set up house with Sherlock Holmes—and didn’t that just do his head in—and had then continued to live with him for six weeks, all the while staring up at him like he could do now wrong like a dewy-eyed maiden with a crush.

At the conclusion of the latest case, Greg had tentatively suggested getting a celebratory beer to scope the man out, and John had accepted in kind.  They’d been warily polite to one another before now, punctuated with the occasional moment of shared disbelief at Sherlock.  Despite his ostensible refusal to be included, Greg wouldn’t be the least surprised to see the man himself turn up to keep an eye on them at some point, so it was best to get certain things out of the way.

“I just wanted to say first,” said Greg, once John had returned with his round and seated himself on the stool opposite, “that I’m really glad to see Sherlock find someone.  I hope you’ll be happy together.  But whatever he thinks of himself, he’s not without friends, and if you hurt him…”

He let it trail off ominously, holding eye contact.

John closed his eyes in resignation.  “God, I need to get myself a girlfriend,” he muttered, then met Greg’s eyes tiredly.  “I’m not gay.  We’re flatmates.  Flatmates.  As in: two people who live in the same house because they can’t afford the rent on their own.”

Greg buried his reaction in his beer.  This man looked like he understood monetary struggle as much as the next working class bastard, but Sherlock?  The suits he wore, that gorgeous violin, the expensive drugs he favoured?  The way he ostentatiously turned down reward money or even the registration as a confidential informant that would allow Scotland Yard to pay him for his help?  Not to mention the brother who’d kidnapped Greg, offered him a sum of money so large that it would apparently be impolite to name the exact figure, and then merely smirked quietly when Greg had threatened to have him charged with attempted bribery of a police officer.  If Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a trust fund the size of a small country, then Greg missed his guess by a long way.

No, fair enough that an out of work doctor might have need of a flatmate.  Medical school could rack up the debts, and if he hadn’t been good enough to land a solid job since, he probably hadn’t cleared them.

But Sherlock?  Whatever he was getting out of rooming with John, it wasn’t financial.  And apparently, given John didn’t know that, whatever John was getting out of Sherlock wasn’t financial either.  That was good to know.  Greg couldn’t imagine anyone truly getting an ulterior motive past Sherlock, but then again… he wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to completely fail to care about that kind of thing.

Still, whatever they were getting out of each other was none of his business.  John seemed like a nice guy, and seemed to genuinely like Sherlock, even when Sherlock was being particularly… Sherlock.  And Sherlock appeared to like him back, appeared to put up with being mildly bullied into eating and using proper manners and explaining his deductions, and even his cutting remarks towards John seemed to lack the usual sting.  And all that, apparently, without the benefit of what the folks at the Yard had been assuming had to be fabulous sex to make up for having to deal with the personality that came along with Sherlock’s extraordinary brain before your first cup of coffee in the morning.  And the folks at the Yard had, unfortunately, been doing a lot of theorising along the lines of how fabulous said sex would have had to be.  Greg had been forced to have a stern word with Anderson when some of the water-cooler talk had got too far out of hand and moved into stalker level.  The man was an idiot, really.  Did he honestly think Sherlock wouldn’t trace that kind of gossip back to him?

“Mm,” said Greg noncommittally.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… assume.”

“It’s all fine,” shrugged John.  “Not the first time I’ve got the ‘hurt her and you’ll die’ talk.”  He looked suddenly disconcerted, struck by some thought.  “Possibly, it’s not even the first time I’ve got the ‘hurt him and you’ll die’ talk.  Wish I knew why everyone seems to think that, though, because I don’t think I’d ever tripped a gaydar in my life before I moved into Baker Street.  Even had a bit of a reputation in the Army.”

“You were in the Army?” asked Greg, confusion overriding the urge to tell John that if he didn’t want everyone to be convinced that he and Sherlock were doing the dirty regularly and with great enthusiasm, then he should probably try to keep his doe eyes to himself at crime scenes.  Probably wouldn’t make any difference anyway, what with the way Sherlock fluffed and preened and explained every last deduction to him with only minimal pauses for insults.  Christ, if Greg had realised all it would take was a bit of flattery and some fluttered eyelashes to make Sherlock slow down and explain things at a speed mere mortals could follow, he would have tried it himself, years ago.

“Oh,” said John, looking surprised.  “Sorry, yeah, sometimes I forget, being around Sherlock so much now, that not everyone just looks at me and knows.  I was with the RAMC.  I’m just recently back from Afghanistan.  Still finding my feet back in London.”

“Huh,” said Greg carefully.  “Sherlock didn’t mention.”

“Why would he?” shrugged John, and then tipped his head to the TV in the corner.  “So, who are you supporting?”



2: Clearly he’s acclimatised to violence

By the time Greg arrived at the scene, the ambulances were arriving, too, and John was pulling back from the young woman who’d ended up in the Thames and letting the paramedics take over.

“You’re going to get sick if you don’t get out of those clothes,” Sherlock warned him, fluttering a pilfered shock blanket at the short, shivering man like a toreador with a cape, and John sighed and nodded.  He stripped off his sodden layers quickly and unceremoniously, body-consciousness obviously trained out of him in the armed forces.  The op-shop coat, cardigan, shirt, and no less than three undervests landed in a pile on the ground, revealing a compact-muscled form without a tenth of the plumpness implied by his bulky jumpers—and on his shoulder…

Greg tried not to stare at the ropey scar that spread over John’s left shoulder and the top half of his chest, but became aware when Sherlock’s gaze fell on him like a burning laser beam that he was failing dismally.  The thing was massive, clearly an exit wound from being shot in the back with a substantial bullet; a grievous, most-likely-fatal wound.

Not something found on the shoulder of a garden-variety RAMC doctor who’d spent all his time safely tucked away inside an army base.  No wonder the man usually kept his shirts buttoned right up to the top.

“Statements tomorrow,” said Sherlock repressively.  “John needs to get home and warm.”  He flipped the blanket around his companion’s shoulders, intensifying his glare at Lestrade and in the process apparently missing the utterly charmed smile John was directing up at him at his mother henning.

“You can both come in the squad car,” said Greg, pulling his eyes away from John’s now blanket-wrapped scar, “and give me the basics on the way back to Baker Street.  I’ll crank the heater.”



3: A kill shot over that distance

“This better be worth the trouble, Lestrade,” grumbled Sherlock as he came into the bathroom.  John and Donovan were right behind him, one looking significantly more happy to be following Sherlock onto a crime scene than the other.

“As I told you,” said Greg, ignoring the certain knowledge that Sherlock had been leaping for joy at his call, “it’s a genuine locked room puzzle.  Right up your alley.  Victim’s Ronald Adair, last seen Monday night.  Shot in the head with a handgun—apparently missed the first time—two bullets pulled from the wall over there, but no sign of the weapon.  Uniforms broke down the door to get in, and then called us when they found the body.”

Sherlock examined the splintered doorframe first, then barely glanced at the body before crossing to the window.

“The shot was fired from out there,” he said, and climbed up on the toilet lid to look closely at the tiny window’s latch.  He leaned close to the wall for a moment, peering behind the mouldy-looking sink cabinet from his high perch.  “Obviously.”

“Sightlines match, but the window was closed.  And locked,” said Greg.  “Don’t worry, we’ve already dusted it for prints; not a one.  It’s a sheer drop out there, so unless he came equipped with window-washer’s equipment, it’s no way in or out.  And why go to the trouble, anyway?  If you’re in the building anyway, why not just go out through the door?”

Sherlock unlatched and opened the window, glanced back at the nick in the wall where the bullet had been pulled from.  “That building,” he said, as though Greg hadn't spoken, and pointed.  “The killer was here earlier, at the victim’s invitation—remains of a card game spread out on the table in there.  He went to the bathroom at some point, and took the opportunity to prop the window open with a piece of wood wedged under the latch right… here.”  He held the pane of glass up with one finger to demonstrate.  “First shot killed the victim; second knocked out the support, erasing his tracks.”  Abruptly, he withdrew his finger, letting it slam shut.  The latch clicked into place.  “It fell behind the cabinet,” he said, pointing, “piece of luck for him.  I expect he’s wiped the prints off that, too, but it’s safest to check.”

“Brilliant,” said John, his eyes shining up at Sherlock, and they shared a long look of mutual delight in Sherlock’s deductions.  “Budge over,” he said, and climbed up on the toilet lid beside Sherlock to look out of the window, resting one hand on the wall and his other on Sherlock’s opposite shoulder for balance.

Greg shook his head in disbelief.  The man honestly couldn’t see why people assumed they were a couple?

“But it wouldn’t have been that building.”  John's gaze was narrow as he looked out of the window, and glanced back at the bullet-holes in the tiles on the opposite wall.  He pointed to a block of flats behind the one Sherlock had indicated.  “The one behind, there.  Better angle, the line still works allowing for ricochet, and it has an unobstructed view of this building.”

“Mmm, okay,” agreed Sherlock without protest, making Greg’s jaw drop.  Sherlock didn’t accept correction at a crime scene!  Certainly not without puffing up like an angry cat and insulting everyone’s intelligence and sexual habits, then storming off in a huffy (and usually successful) attempt to prove himself right.  “Probably… fifth floor, far right end of the building, do you think?  Security is non-existent in this part of town; all he would have had to do was wait around and follow someone in.”

They climbed down from the toilet, so wrapped up in each other that they apparently barely remembered there were two other people and a dead body in the cramped bathroom with them.

“There’s no way anyone could make that shot with a handgun,” scoffed Donovan, and both of them looked at her sharply, shoulder-to-shoulder.  Sherlock’s face turned abruptly blank.  “Not through that little window, it’s too far!”

John tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, and smiled at her, mild as milk.

“You’re probably right,” he shrugged.  “It was just a feeling.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, with obviously false politeness.  “You lot have fun searching the building across the way—we’re off to check out a ‘feeling’.  Come on, John!”

John gave them an apologetic look and trailed out in the wake of Sherlock’s dramatic exit.

“So,” said Greg after a moment.  “Which shall we check first?”

“I hate him.”  Donovan’s voice was vicious and bitter.  “Nothing makes the kind of sense it should when the freak’s around.”

“I know,” said Greg.  “So.  The building behind?”

“Yeah,” she said in resignation.  “Might as well.”



4: His hands couldn’t have shaken at all

“Let me,” said John, taking the beer mat out of Greg’s shaking hand and stacking it carefully.

“How are you not a nervous wreck?” demanded Greg, handing him another one when he was ready.  “Those bastards from Table 4 have been heckling us all night, and they’ve managed two levels!”

John grinned.  “I live with Sherlock,” he said.  “Even a tiebreaker this bizarre doesn’t come close to being the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

He eyed the structural integrity of their creation for a moment, and gave a satisfied nod just as the announcer started counting down the end of their time limit.

Carefully, without a ripple in the surface of the beer—apparently without even registering the drunkenly chanted countdown echoing around them—John raised his glass, placed it onto the top of the three-story tower, and slowly drew his hand away.

The pub went wild.  Obviously, they won the quiz.



5: Strong moral principle

“No, Sherlock.”

The voice was low, but vehement, and Greg froze in place, his hand barely touching the door into the men’s toilets.

“But John—”

“Absolutely not! It’s more than not good, it’s completely out of the question.  Think of another way in.”

There was a long pause, and then finally…  “All right,” huffed Sherlock.

Quietly, Greg took himself back to his office without interrupting the argument.  It seemed that John had things well in hand—and Greg’s business could wait until he wasn’t interrupting anything.

Very early the following morning, Greg woke up to a call from Sherlock: apparently he had found a John-approved way to pinpoint the operational centre of the sex trafficking ring they’d been tracing, although as usual he refused to say what it was.

After the smoke cleared on the arrests, Greg found Sherlock standing protectively over one of the liberated victims of the forced brothel.  It was only as he drew closer that he realised that there was something off about the only white woman among them—it was John.  John ‘Not Gay’ Watson, seated calmly in the midst of the group, dressed in surprisingly convincing women’s clothing, makeup and wig—Sherlock had obviously had a hand in that—and the beginnings of a black eye that matched the bruised knuckles on one of the perpetrators.

As he watched, John looked up from the woman he’d been speaking to and asked Sherlock something brief, holding out his hand.  Looking confused, Sherlock unlooped his scarf and handed it over.  John immediately passed it on to the woman.

“Manana,” she sobbed gratefully, taking it and looping it roughly around her head, covering her hair and neck.  “Khair Yosay.”

“Heela kawoom,” returned John, apparently passably.

Keeping his movements slow and his eyes carefully averted from the group of traumatised women, Greg walked over to join them, stripping his own scarf as he went.

“If anyone else needs one,” he said quietly, handing it to John.  “The interpreter’ll be here within half an hour.  If you can, tell them they’re none of them in trouble,  They’ve probably been threatened with police in the past.”

“Thanks, Greg,” said John.

There was a brief exchange of unintelligible words as his scarf passed to another grateful woman, who darted Greg a nervous nod.

John glanced at Greg sideways through khol-rimmed lashes, rubbing the back of his neck with evident self-consciousness.  “I’ve told them you’re a friend, here to help: it's the best I can do.” he said, valiantly ignoring the elephant in the room.  “I’m a bit lost beyond pleasantries and ‘where does it hurt?’ to be honest.  We did public clinic days, trying to win hearts and minds, but…”  He made a helpless gesture, and shrugged.

“Mmm,” said Greg.  “I’d say you’re doing well enough.  Good work.”

When forensics turned up to process the scene an hour later, the only woman left there was John.  His charges were on the way to the station, accompanied by female interpreters, and he'd finally got the chance to show Greg around what he'd seen of the brothel’s interior.

It took approximately a second for Anderson's camera phone to come out, when he recognised John.

It was less than that before Greg confiscated it.



+1: And Nerves Of Steel

Greg was well and truly fucked now.

There hadn't been that many police on the scene in the first place, mostly forensics, but the man who’d dropped out of a manhole on top of him, taken him hostage and dragged him out of the building, had demanded those that were there put down their guns immediately.  And he'd demanded it with the poison-tipped dart that had made Sherlock freak out and shout for everyone to obey pressed next to to Greg’s throat convincingly enough that they'd all listened.  Despite his archaic weaponry, the man was holding Greg properly: no chance of a quick duck and grab to get himself away safely.

No, he was fucked, and getting more fucked the further he got from the police perimeter, with the man walking him slowly backwards away from the crime scene, because as soon as he was out of direct sight he was going to become a liability rather than a shield.  Perhaps it would be better to...

The man holding him went abruptly limp, and the dart fell away harmlessly in his hand.  It was only half a second later that Lestrade registered the report of the gun, the whistle of white-hot metal an inch from his face, the spray of warm mist landing on his cheek as a bullet went through the man’s upper lip and exploded out the back of his head.   A perfect shot to the apricot from—he looked over, trying to work out who’d had managed to reach a weapon, only to find his eyes drawn to an unassuming civilian, whom not even the police had noticed stepping out of cover with the gun no one had looked for.

John dropped it immediately, his eyes downcast and his breathing even as he took two steps away from Sherlock and spread his hands out to the side.  He stood there as still as a statue, waiting demurely without comment as the confused eyes of the police converged on him.  Sherlock didn’t move, just staring at him with bright, savage eyes, as though he wanted to eat him on the spot.

“What the actual FUCK!” yelled Anderson, getting over his initial shock of confusion and entering what appeared to be the shock of absolute denial of the facts.  He was looking at John as though the foundations of his very existence had been shaken by this man being anything other than precisely what he seemed at first glance.  God, hopefully he wasn’t about to go off the rails again and start a John Watson fan club, because he was still on probation after the whole Sherlock Lives fiasco.

Donovan looked similarly rattled, but merely returned Greg’s nod of reassurance with a look of stunned disbelief before she headed over to join the circle forming around John.

Apparently Greg was the only one who seemed to be finding the whole thing singularly inevitable.  He rubbed at the sticky spray of blood on his cheek with one shaking hand, and sighed.  He gave the dead body beside him one last glance, before walking over to join the others.  There’d be time enough to have a breakdown later.

“At bloody ease, John,” he said, breaking through the circle of gawkers and earning a quick smile from the other man.  John relaxed from the rigidly unthreatening posture into an apprehensive approximation of his more usual unthreatening posture.  “It was clearly necessary defence.  Any one of us would have taken that shot if we could have.  You’ll have to leave us the weapon,” he admitted, “and a statement.  Maybe several statements.  Obviously I’m going to have to excuse myself from the investigation.  But no one here wants to take you in for saving my life, do they?  Do they?”

Various murmurs of reluctant assent echoed around the circle of gawkers.

Oh, there was going to be so much paperwork over this.  Once they’d answered all the questions over whether John had taken the right action, they were all going to have to answer for why it had been a civilian rather than one of the police on the scene who’d taken it.  There were going to be hostage negotiation courses, and threat management courses, and bystander management courses.  Greg’s division was going to be in for so much remedial training after this fiasco that they were going to be lucky if they had any time left to police actual crimes in the next year, not to mention being the laughingstock of the entire Yard.

Hopefully Sherlock’s guardian brother had buried the ballistics report on Jefferson Hope deep, because even without anyone making that connection, this was going to be an absolute shit storm.

“All right,” said Donovan, abruptly brisk and on the ball again.  “Anderson, bag up that gun, please.  John, if you’ll come with me over here, we’ll go straight back to the station for your statement.”

“I’ll be accompanying him,” said Sherlock.

Donovan conceded with a nod of her head, obviously having expected nothing less.

“John?” asked Greg, before they moved out of earshot and he got the chance to go and have a seat in his car and let the shakes thoroughly take over.

The other man turned back from his conference with Donovan and looked over at him.  “Hmm?”

“Thanks, mate.”

John smiled back.  “Any time,” he said.


A/N: Some elements from The Empty House, some from The Sign of the Four