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It wasn’t the first time Lestrade had woken in the middle of the night to find Sherlock bleeding all over his kitchen.
He doubted it would be the last.
“What the hell happened to you?" he asked when he switched on the lights to better see the mess.
Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing only trousers and a tattered shirt. His shoes and socks were missing, and he had left bloody footprints behind when he traipsed into the kitchen. His Belstaff was also absent, though he probably hadn't been wearing it tonight at all, given the state of his shirt. He was petting Baxter, who was wagging his tail and dutifully licking Sherlock’s face with abandon.
“Nothing of consequence. Do you have some iodine?”
“Nothing of consequence, my arse. You look like you got caught in a bomb blast.”
Sherlock shifted so that he could scratch Baxter’s back, and he winced at the movement. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“So you were caught in a bomb blast? Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” Lestrade went over to a nearby drawer and pulled out a container of medical supplies he kept on hand for nights such as these. He hadn't needed them in almost a year, not since Sherlock had vowed to look after John, Mary, and their unborn baby. The infant was now three months old, and Sherlock had been very selective about the cases he had taken on in the past several months. He was doing his level best to keep out of trouble and out of danger. Well, had been, at least.
“It’s not what you think,” Sherlock said.
“Were you in the vicinity of an explosion tonight?”
“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said in some exasperation, gesturing at the wounds on his face and unprotected forearms.
“Then it’s exactly what I think. Baxter, enough, that’s disgusting,” Lestrade added, wrinkling his nose. The dog had been licking the open wounds on Sherlock’s face, and Lestrade could only imagine all the bacteria that were now having a field day. “Come on, up, I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m not getting down on hands and knees for you.”
“Pity,” Sherlock drawled, and a beat later Lestrade flushed when the implication finally registered.
“Shut up,” he muttered. He gripped Sherlock under one armpit and pulled him to his feet. Sherlock swore under his breath as his injuries were aggravated, and Lestrade steered him into a chair. Baxter immediately went up on his hind legs and put his front legs on Sherlock’s thighs, nuzzling his face with his nose, and Sherlock wrapped an arm around the dog, enjoying the affection. Lestrade had often wondered over the years why Sherlock had never bothered to get a dog of his own, as he clearly adored them.
“Baxter,” Lestrade scolded again, pulling the dog away. “Not now. Go to your spot.”
Baxter looked like he sorely wanted to disobey, but his training overrode his desires and he walked over to the mat in the corner of the kitchen. He sat down on it and watched them expectantly.
“Good boy,” Lestrade said absently. He then turned his attention to Sherlock’s injuries, trying to properly assess all of them.
There was dried blood on Sherlock’s face from several cuts, one of which sliced through his right eyebrow. It appeared as though a piece of flying debris had come dangerously close to cutting his eye. The skin around his left eye was starting to bruise, his lip had been split, and his forearms were scraped raw, probably from him having thrown up his arms to protect his face.
Lestrade surmised that when the explosion happened, Sherlock had been initially facing the blast, and then he had twisted his body around so that his back would take the brunt of it. The back of his shirt was ripped to shreds, and there were pieces of glass that had torn through the fabric and embedded in his skin. Sherlock’s fingers were stiff and clumsy - several of his knuckles were bruised from God only knew what - and so Lestrade made quick work of the buttons on his shirt and then peeled it off Sherlock’s shoulders.
Sherlock bit his lip and grunted as the shirt was removed. It took some of the glass with it, and several shards clinked against the floor. Lestrade let the shirt fall to the ground, and then picked up a pair of tweezers from the container of medical supplies.
“Working a case at the moment?” he asked. It was more to give Sherlock something to think about other than the pain. He started to lightly brush the edge of the tweezers against Sherlock’s torn-up back, working them back and forth across the skin in long swipes, loosening the smaller shards of glass and working them out from the wounds.
“In a way,” Sherlock said tightly.
“In a way?” Lestrade repeated flatly, giving him a look.
“It’s preliminary legwork,” Sherlock allowed finally. “I’m working on something that has the potential to be a case, but I’m not sure yet.”
“Getting yourself blown up wasn’t enough of an indication?”
“I admit, I am strongly inclined to take this case on now,” Sherlock said. “It’s proving to be quite intriguing.”
Lestrade had to use the tweezers to get the largest bits of glass out of Sherlock’s back. He pulled them without warning, causing Sherlock to curse under his breath at him, and then he set to work disinfecting all the wounds. When Lestrade finished with Sherlock’s back, he moved to Sherlock’s face. It didn't appear as though there were any foreign objects embedded in the wounds, so all Lestrade needed to do was clean him up and patch up the cuts to the best of his ability.
“Have you been to see the baby recently?”
“Last week.”
“How’s she doing?”
A small smile crossed Sherlock’s face, the kind of gentle look he only got when he was thinking about his goddaughter. “She looks more like Mary every day.”
Lestrade chuckled. “Good thing, too, eh?”
Sherlock snorted in amusement. He closed his eyes so that Lestrade could take care of the cuts around them, and Lestrade attached a butterfly bandage to the largest cut on his forehead, one that was just above his eye and which would likely scar once it healed. He smoothed his thumb over the bandage, and Sherlock blinked up at him.
“Are you going to tell me what tonight was really about?” Lestrade asked in a low voice.
Sherlock considered him a moment. “Perhaps.”
It was the best he was going to get. Lestrade squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock laid a hand on top of his for a brief moment.
“Dad?”
Sherlock and Lestrade both looked around.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Did we wake you?” Lestrade asked as his daughter came into the kitchen. Amelia was dressed in a t-shirt that was too large for her and purple pyjama bottoms, and she had pulled her blonde hair into a messy ponytail. She rubbed a fist across her eyes, and then she peered at Sherlock properly. Her eyes widened as she took in his wounds.
“Uncle Sherlock - !”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Sherlock said, waving a hand and cutting her off. “Your father’s already said everything you’re thinking.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have made a sarcastic crack about how observant they were. Instead, he nodded solemnly and said, “Yes, I know. That’s why I have your father. To take care of me.”
“He’s going to be fine, Amelia,” Lestrade said. He set to work on Sherlock’s arms, by far the easiest part of him to clean up. He had stopped bleeding for the most part, so all Lestrade needed to do was wash away the dried blood and disinfect the cuts before covering them up with white strips of bandages. Amelia came over to the table and sat in the chair next to Sherlock so that she could watch Lestrade work. When he was done and putting away the medical supplies, she turned to Sherlock.
“Why don’t you come over anymore?” she demanded.
“I do.” Sherlock tapped her on the nose. “But you’re often at your mother’s.”
“You weren’t here for my birthday,” Amelia pressed. She was now beginning to pout, which she hadn’t done since she was five. Lestrade smiled to himself. She knew how to play Sherlock like a fiddle. “You’re always working.”
“Ah,” Sherlock said, beginning to flounder. “Well, I’m sure I was working on a very important case -”
“More important than my birthday?”
Lestrade turned away to wash his hands in the sink so that he could stifle his laugh. Amelia’s voice had wavered perfectly. Damn, but she was good.
“I - well, no, of course not,” Sherlock said in defeat. “I suppose I ought to make it up to you.”
“How?”
“Er -”
“How about you stay the night?” Lestrade asked. He turned around to look at them again, drying his hands on a towel. “You and Amelia could do something tomorrow.”
Amelia brightened instantly. “Please, Uncle Sherlock?”
“You still have some clothes in the spare bedroom,” Lestrade pointed out. “And there’s no way I’m letting you go back to your flat tonight in that state anyway.”
Sherlock acquiesced with a small nod. Amelia threw her arms around him and gave him a tight hug, and then she bounded away into the living room. Sherlock sighed and pushed himself to his feet.
“I didn’t realize you had her this weekend,” he said quietly.
“Is that going to be a problem?” Lestrade asked, suddenly wary. “Are you in danger, Sherlock?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No. But I would have preferred that she not see me like this.”
“She was at your funeral. How can it ever be worse than that?” Lestrade pushed a hand through Sherlock’s hair, dislodging some more pieces of glass, and sighed. “I need to clean this floor. Go get changed. You’re a right mess.”
Sherlock went into the spare bedroom and changed, emerging a few minutes later dressed in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that was slightly too tight on him.
“You’re actually going to have to update your wardrobe a bit. This is the first time I’ve seen you put on weight in, what, ten years?” Lestrade patted Sherlock’s stomach, which had remained taut, the lucky bastard. He had filled out more in the shoulders and chest, and was certainly a sight to behold. “It’s all those dinners Mary makes you eat, I’d wager. Good for her.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually complaining about the fact that my shirt is too tight,” Sherlock said in a low voice, his lips curving into a smirk.
“Not complaining,” Lestrade said. He pushed his hand up Sherlock’s hard chest and cupped the side of his face. He ran his thumb across the bow of Sherlock’s upper lip. Sherlock flicked his tongue across the pad of his thumb, and Lestrade shivered. “Just observing.”
“Dad, are you guys coming?” a voice interrupted, and they both startled. They went out into the living room to discover that Amelia was still there, sitting on the sofa and flipping through different television programmes.
“Amelia, it’s almost midnight. You need to go back to bed,” Lestrade scolded lightly. She looked up at him with wide eyes.
“But we always watch a movie when Uncle Sherlock comes over,” she said plaintively. “And there’s no school tomorrow.”
“And Uncle Sherlock did miss her ninth birthday,” Sherlock said. He sat down gingerly on the sofa, and Amelia sat on his lap. Baxter came bounding out of the kitchen and leaped up next to Sherlock before settling down and resting his head on Sherlock’s knee. Lestrade sat on Sherlock’s other side without further protest. He knew when he was beaten.
Amelia fell asleep first, her face buried in Sherlock’s neck and one hand gripping his shirt. Sherlock rested his head against Lestrade’s shoulder, and Lestrade wrapped an arm around him.
“You’re going to be next,” he said softly, noticing Sherlock’s half-lidded eyes. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”
“But we don’t know who the traitor is yet,” Sherlock said around a yawn. He nodded at the television.
“What, you haven’t deduced it?”
“It doesn’t work like that when it comes to films, and you know it,” Sherlock muttered. “Arse.”
Lestrade knew he was going to regret giving in, but he let the movie play on. Sherlock followed Amelia swiftly into sleep, and Lestrade didn’t have the heart to wake either of them up, not even after the movie ended.