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janeofcakes · 4 years

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Keep Your Friends Close..: Chapter 10

Hello, everyone! I’m coming off the shittiest week since this whole shelter in place thing started and I can’t tell you how happy I am to stumble into this world of derby and Sherlock and John today. This is a shorter chapter, but I hope you feel the same way and find quiet, happy respite like I did. Love you all!

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Sometimes a shadow wins, but I wonder what would happen if you say what you want to say and let the words fall out. Honestly, I wanna see you be brave. -- Sara Bareilles, Brave

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

“Now just calm down,” Greg Lestrade rises from the chair behind his desk. His hands are out in a placative gesture and he quickly side steps around the desk to stop in front of the furious man before him. Cold, hard grey eyes burning with fury are trained on him as he moves. If looks could kill he would be flat on the floor. Greg might have considered appealing to John to diffuse the situation, but he is just as angry.

“Greg, you can’t be serious,” John says incredulously. “Given what Molly remembers and the indications of a puncture wound on the back of her neck.”

“No, I get it, but we still can’t accuse anyone of anything on the basis of that,” he counters.

Sherlock lurches at Greg and stops inches from him. Looking down at the GM, eyes still blazing, he paints a frightening picture. In spite of it, Greg stands his ground and looks directly in the face of the taller man.

“Just what kind of evidence do we need, hm?” Sherlock growls in a deep voice. “A bottle of poison with Moriarty’s name on it? A body? Would that be enough for these incompetents?”

“God, Sherlock, really?” Greg rolls his eyes. The coach always was a drama queen, even from the beginning. He doesn’t usually get this carried away though and he clearly has John’s buy in.

“There was poison in her system, Greg. A lot of it,” John interjects. “There’s no way it could’ve gotten there without someone administering it.”

Greg is already shaking his head, looking John’s way.

“They poisoned her, Greg,” Sherlock mutters in a low voice, fury bubbling beneath.

“The timing checks out,” John continues. “It happened on the track.”

“It won’t stand,” Greg tells them, resolutely ignoring the fuming coach inches away from him. Greg wants to put a little space between himself and Sherlock, but refuses to give even the slightest impression that he is backing down. “Molly took a hard hit. She was falling fast and knocked her face right into an elbow. She could have mistaken anything for the poke of a needle. And how the hell could they get a syringe on the track? Tell me that.”

“Obviously he has conceived of some other method of delivery,” Sherlock snaps.

“Oh, of course, I’d forgotten that Moriarty is some kind of criminal genius. Come on, Sherlock.”

“Look, how else do you explain the poison?” John presses in next to Sherlock, nudging him out of Greg’s face. The GM is certain it was not done to make him more comfortable, but is glad for the distance nonetheless.

“I don’t know, John, but we can’t go hurling accusations around without concrete proof, especially with something as serious as this.”

“They tried to kill her, Greg. If John hadn’t been there, they may have succeeded and with the threat on his…” Sherlock stops suddenly, his voice full of emotion. Greg’s eye shift between the two of them as John gives the taller man an undisguised look saying ‘What the fuck’. Greg clenches his jaw and presses his lips into a thin line. This is 100 percent not on. He may not be ready to jump on the Moriarty is a killer bandwagon, but they are not keeping secrets from him. This is his team and these two idiots are part of it. He cannot manage shit if he doesn’t have all the facts.

“What is going on?” Greg’s voice is calm, but commanding and maybe a touch apprehensive. “Tell me. Now.”

The men glance at one another like two school boys who have been caught out. Sherlock’s expression is one of apology for saying too much and John’s is resignation.

“The last two nights,” John pauses and Greg’s brows dart up in expectation, his face exuding impatience, “a man in a mask has tried to kill me.”

“What?!” Greg’s jaw drops. He doesn’t know what to say. He has absolutely no idea. John has not been with the organization long and is not acquainted with all… Forget it. They don’t have enemies, save the Demons, and they are just rivals, really. And murder? No, no, no. It can’t be something from John’s past. He is squeaky clean, perhaps the most likable person on the planet, which really just leaves one thought in Greg’s mind. “What the fuck is going on?”

“When he entered his home Wednesday evening, John was attacked,” Sherlock explains, sounding significantly more calm than he had the rest of the meeting. “He managed to escape..”

“What kind of attack?” Greg interrupts, directing the question to John, but Sherlock continues speaking right over the GM.

“The same man made another attempt here last night.”

“What did you say?” Greg growls slowly. Neither one answers, only staring at Greg after his sudden change in demeanor from confounded to absolute anger. “Someone threatened John in my stadium?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies matter of factly. “Though, technically, this is not your stadium.”

“Shut it, Holmes,” Greg’s eyes flash with fury as he directs them to John. “What happened exactly?”

Greg remains silent while John tells the tales of the previous nights, including this morning when he spoke to that irritating detective again. When he is finished, Greg’s fury has not diminished, but he has reigned it in.

“Oh my god,” John mutters as he finishes. “If this is truly all connected, Molly could still be in danger!”

“She is safe, John,” Sherlock assures him. “I called in a favor long ago. Mycroft is his name. He was an officer and then chief of police in Tampa before retiring early and moving to Detroit. He does short stints as a security guard when he gets bored and spends the rest of his time as he pleases. He has been watching Molly’s room nearly the whole of her hospital stay and will continue to do so.”

“Mycroft? Why haven’t I seen him?”

“No one is meant to see him, John,” Sherlock taps the end of his nose with a single finger.

“D’you think they are connected?” Greg asks them. They look at him and then one another. Neither looks completely certain, as if each wants to say yes, but just cannot be sure. They need more data, as Sherlock would say.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock finally admits, “but it is too much to be a coincidence.”

“It is at that.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“I know,” Greg meets his eyes and then John’s with a very serious gaze. “So we keep our eyes and ears open. If something’s going on, we’ll see it. I know you have it all stored in that brain of yours. Have all the accidents in the past been against the Demons?”

“No,” Sherlock replies.

“Well, that complicates things.”

“Indeed.”

“There’s something else, Greg. Something we do think is connected,” John pauses and looks to Sherlock meaningfully.

“Well, I can’t wait to hear this,” Greg crosses his arms over his chest. John hesitates. “Oh, come on. You can’t say that and not tell me.”

“Billy Wiggins was poisoned,” John finally says. Greg’s jaw drops again and he stumbles back a step, resting his backside on the desk for balance and knocking over a pencil holder in the process. “That’s why he retired. He told Molly after he left and he told me too. About a week after I started.”

“Holy shit,” Greg says bluntly. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to wrap his head around it all.

“Now you know our suspicions. What we lack is proof,” Sherlock begins sharply.

When Greg opens his eyes, the coach is closer and wearing the same face he does in the huddle. The face that motivates every one of the ladies to kick ass on the track, and Greg feels it too. It starts down in the pit of his gut and roils up inside his body, bringing with it new focus and determination until Hell, yeah, we’re gonna find who’s behind it and we’ll make ‘em pay!

“Dig back in your files,” he turns to Sherlock.

“My what?”

“Whatever you store things in, search it all,” Greg clarifies in a stern voice. “Look for any similarities or people who were always there.”

“I already…”

“Do it again,” Greg interrupts, “and tell me what you find. In the meantime, we have to watch everyone and everything at our bouts. If they’re trying to take us out, they’ll try again.”

“Possibly sooner rather than later,” Sherlock adds. “We’re at the top of the league and will stay there, if I have anything to say about it.”

“Exactly,” Greg says emphatically, pointing a finger. He turns to John suddenly. “And we need to keep you safe.”

“Already done,” John tells him. “I’m bunking at Sherlock’s.”

Greg stops all movement and stares at John, first like he hadn’t heard him and then like he has two heads. He blinks once and leans forward slightly.

“You’re bunking at Sherlock’s,” he repeats slowly. “You’re...really?”

“Yeah,” John glances at the tall man. “Why is that so strange?”

“Uh...It’s not,” Greg backpedals, also glancing at Sherlock and receiving a death glare. “Not at all. I just… He doesn’t usually invite people over, you know?”

“Well, he didn’t really invite me,” John says with some embarrassment and a hand cupping the back of his neck.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, the conversation clearly unbearable. What Greg said is one of the lamest covers he has ever tried to pull off and John doesn’t believe a word of it. Thank god he has decided to spare Sherlock and not press the point. Instead of advancing on Greg to find out exactly what he meant, John steps away and reaches for the door.

“We’ll meet every week and compare notes, yeah?” John nods after he is given an affirmative from both men. He turns in the doorway and winks at Sherlock playfully. “See you at practice.”

He clicks his tongue and slips out the door, closing it on his way. With a small smile on his lips, Greg lets his eyes slide from the door to his coach. Sherlock is glaring back at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” his deep baritone booms while not actually raising beyond normal volume.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Greg says quickly, biting his lip. “I wasn’t expecting that. Who would expect that? You could’ve given me some warning.”

“And how was I to do that, hm?” Sherlock snaps. “We came straight from my place. I couldn’t very well ask him to give us a minute.”

“I know, I know,” Greg runs a hand through his hair. “Look, maybe he won’t bring it up again. He dropped it, didn’t he? He just thinks you’re a private person.”

Who wants to live in a cave and have no contact with anyone else. Christ, Greg.

“Because there are more important matters at hand,” Sherlock bends at the knees for emphasis with all-out annoyance on his features. “As soon as he gets home tonight, he’ll start asking questions and what am I supposed to say? Greg was surprised I’d let you live with me because I ‘like’ you? Jesus Christ!”

“Sorry,” Greg cringes. Sherlock rakes his hands through his curls and turns to the GM in abject frustration.

“It’s bad enough that you deduced it with your limited faculties…”

“Steady on.”

“...but do you have to tell everyone?”

“I haven’t told anyone,” Greg protests indignantly.

“But you nearly told the one person who absolutely cannot know!”

“Sherlock, I’ve known you for ten years, it’s hard not to pick up on...wait. Why can’t he know?”

“What??” Sherlock ceases his pacing and gesturing to stare at Greg, utterly taken aback. Greg’s lips creep up on one side, giving him a kind of crooked smile. He has the upper hand now and intends upon using it to the fullest.

“Why can’t he, Sherlock?” he asks with a sly look in his eye. Sherlock stares a moment longer and then shakes his head dismissively, resuming the pacing. “He’s a great guy.”

Greg teases and grins at Sherlock’s irritation, even as he pretends to ignore him. He watches the man he has worked with so long and has come to call a friend, trying not to chuckle at his grumblings. And then, quickly dropping all pretense and fixing Sherlock with a serious gaze, he goes for the jugular.

“Molly agrees with me, you know.”

Sherlock stops dead and stares straight ahead, every muscle in his body rock hard with tension. He turns to Greg abruptly, livid and eyes blazing.

“I visit her too,” Greg shrugs at the unasked question.

“It is none of your business,” Sherlock begins in a voice of quietly controlled fury.

“Oh, come on,” Greg barks as he stands to his full height. “How long have we worked together? Too long for this bullshit.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to fly at the GM, but does not say a word. To Greg’s surprise, he merely stands poised for battle and then lets his arms slowly drop to his sides. His shoulders sag ever so slightly as all the fight drains out of him. Greg continues in a kinder tone.

“Look, I only know what I’ve been able to piece together when it comes to Victor Trevor,” he says and Sherlock visibly bristles at the name, “but I know a hell of a lot about John Watson. If you’re worried about him changing once you’re involved, don’t.”

“What could you possibly…”

“John is genuine,” Greg talks over him and, for once, the younger man bites his tongue. In fact, it may be the first time it has ever happened. “What you see is real, not a facade. John knows who he is and has no interest in pretending otherwise. Not for anything or anyone.”

“If he’s so forthright, why has he given not even an inkling of his feelings on the matter?” Sherlock sniffs haughtily to hide his frustration.

“What do you mean?” Greg asks. When Sherlock only stares back pointedly, the smile on Greg’s face fades.

“You’re serious,” he says in disbelief. “You know everything in a glance and you can’t see that he’s into you?”

“John is different,” Sherlock mutters, straightening and avoiding eye contact.

“He must be,” Greg huffs. “Must be a damn miracle-worker.”

Sherlock looks at him with a withering expression.

“Look, if you don’t know where you stand, there’s only one way to find out.”

“I can’t, Greg.”

Greg’s eyes widen as he takes a step back, nearly running afoul of the desk again. Sherlock is unrecognizable. Gone is the confident and calculating derby coach. He looks pale and vulnerable and much younger than Greg has ever seen. The GM knows in an instant he was never meant to see this side of the coach. This side he shows only to Molly.

“I’ve given it all up,” Sherlock says fiercely, but his voice trembles. “Love, relationships. I let myself fall in love and it nearly broke me. I can’t let myself be hurt like that again. I threw myself into derby and never looked back.”

“Until now,” Greg says, filling the silence after the other man has grown quiet. He takes a step closer and meets the coach’s sad gaze. “If there’s one thing I know it’s that life is about taking risks and it’s okay to be scared, but not to let it control us.”

He raises his hand slowly and places it on Sherlock’s shoulder. Greg thinks the taller man may pull away, but he doesn’t.

“You’re happy with your life. You have Molly and derby and all of us. But think how great it could be if you’d just take a chance,” Greg pauses to let the words sink in. “You were alone when Victor hurt you, but you aren’t anymore. We’re family and it’s not just shit Mrs. Hudson touts when she’s had an herbal soother.”

Sherlock sighs and looks at him. Greg studies him and he’ll be goddamned if Sherlock doesn’t believe him. The man who would have scoffed any other time in his life and accused Greg of enacting the role of older brother in an after school special is actually listening. He is actually accepting support when he needs it instead of turning away and shutting everyone out but Molly. The man is actually growing up.

“We can help if you stumble,” Greg says quietly, “but I don’t think you will.”

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Damn, it was hard to come up with lyrics for this one. Do I try to find something to go with John and Sherlock telling Greg what’s been going on, but how hard is that? Believe me, HARD. I kept looking at songs that give you courage to into the breach, as it were, but nothing fit. At all. So I decided to go with the end of the chapter, the conversation between Sherlock and Greg When I first typed it up, I thought it was really clunky and wasn’t sure I liked it, but when I read through it again and again, it fell into place. I hope you all think so too and get my choice of song. See you again next weekend! Love, Jane

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