FIC: Let The Future In. 3/3, J/L & L/OMC. NC17 (BBC Sherlock)
Title: Let The Future In
Author: Elf
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,000
Pairings: Lestrade/John, Lestrade OMC
Warning: Violence against children, domestic abuse, dub-con
Summary: How Lestrade's life has shaped him into the man he is today. Title from the quote "Now is time to open the door and let the future in."
Note: Written as backstory to the NannyWatson universe, created by 
emungere . Specifically relates to these posts on the blogs (read comments): Overtime, Overworked and Over here, Dramatic Tadpoles and Dissolutions, Discord and Displeasure.
Disclaimer: NannyJohn was created by emungere , based upon characters from 'Sherlock'. I own nothing.
Part One, Part Two
The music consumed him. The sounds, the smells, the sweat and the beat. He loved it all. A million miles away from the sleepy village on the outskirts of town, where the only entertainment was barn dances and summer fetes.
Somebody moved behind him, dancing close, and he turned, smiling. The young man was attractive enough - blond, blue eyed, bare chested. Greg kept moving to the beat, letting the crowds on the dance floor push them together. And when the man leaned in for a kiss Greg responded, happily.
After a few songs the man gestured to the bar and leant close to Greg's ear. "Want one?"
Greg nodded, and took the offered hand to be led through the mass of people.
They both drank their pints too fast, eyes never leaving each other, and the sexual energy in the air meant Greg was already half hard in his jeans. He knew it hadn't gone unnoticed.
The air outside was chill, and after a quick glance up and down the road it seemed natural to push his companion into the nearby alleyway, press him back against the wall and kiss him. He wasn't surprised when a hand began pressing against his groin, fumbling for his fly and belt.
"Here?" he asked, lips barely leaving the other man's.
"Got somewhere better?"
Greg hadn't. If anyone at the section house ever found out which way his preferences ran he'd probably be forced out of the Met. He'd certainly lose a lot of friends.
There was no warning. Just a sudden blow to the side of his head. Then the two of them were descended on, punched and kicked. There was barely a chance to fight back; all he could do was try to protect his head, groin and stomach.
The gang had obviously been waiting for an opportunity. They laughed and threw homophobic abuse at the two of them. Somehow Greg's hand found his new companion and he clung on, trying to drag himself to the man, to protect him.
He didn't know what spooked the gang, but they abruptly left, and he rested his head on the cobbles, panting.
"Fuck," the man coughed.
Greg couldn't help but smile. The one expletive just about summed it up. He could taste blood, feel it running down his cheek. His lips were fat, his back aching, and he couldn't move one hand. He pushed himself to sitting, managing to lean over the other man.
"You okay? I mean…need help?"
"Fuck." He moved, finally, and Greg almost let out a sigh of relief. "We should call the fucking police. Fucking bastards."
"No," the word was out before he could stop it.
"No?"
"I mean…I don't want the police involved," he said, dropping his head forward, not wanting to meet the wide eyes of his injured companion.
"You what? After they…fucking hell, why not?"
Greg didn't answer.
"I know the police can be fucking cunts, but you can't just let people like that get away with it. What's the matter with you? Some sort of fucking coward? Huh? Jesus."
"No, it's…it's not…I just don't want to speak to the police. I don't…" there was no way he could explain it, apart from tell the truth. And there was no way he could do that.
"Right, great. Just let them fucking get away with it, and when they kill someone, I hope you realise what you've done."
He walked away, limping, leaving Greg on the floor, slumped next to a bin.
He was a coward, he knew it. Just not for the reason the man thought.
He told everyone at work that he'd been caught up in trying to stop a pub brawl. He knew his sergeant didn't believe him, and somehow he didn't care.
He wondered when it had become so easy to lie about so many aspects of his life.
***
He shrugged out of his suit jacket, knackered after a long day. Then kicked his shoes off and padded through the flat, expecting to find Bryan in the 'studio' – the tiny box room where he had set up his work. But Bryan was nowhere to be seen.
He sighed, and headed into the kitchen, stopping dead when he saw the mess. He had hoped that Bryan might have found time to clean up. That was generally the deal – he'd cook, Bryan would wash up. Well, it had been the deal once.
Finding a clean plate he made himself a sandwich and watched the news, then washed everything up, cleaning the whole kitchen, waiting, hoping, for the sound of Bryan's key in the door. When it didn't come, he finally headed to bed, knowing he had another twelve hour shift the next day, which included a court appearance.
It was the early hours before the door banged open, making him jump awake. He lay in silence, his heart pounding from the shock. He listened to the noises – the pipes gurgling, the scuff and thump as Bryan stumbled through the small flat. Then the light flicked on, blinding him.
"Bry!" he protested.
"Mmmmm," the mattress dipped behind him, and Bryan leant on him, stinking of smoke and alcohol. A sloppy kiss was planted on his ear.
"'M trying to sleep, Bry," he mumbled, closing his eyes again, trying to tug the cover over his face to cut out the light.
A hand slid under the cover, finding his waist and then his arse, fingers digging in.
"C'mon, Greg. Been out dancing all night, wanted to come home and, y'know," Bryan's hand slid around his hip to his groin.
"Bry, 'm knackered, I've got court in the morning," he said, half-heartedly, into the duvet.
"Fuck court," Bryan pushed the cover off, exposing Greg to the chill air of the flat. "What happened to you? Getting old and bloody boring, Greg."
He turned over, looking up at Bryan, and could see the wide pupils, the flushed, slightly sweaty skin.
He already knew what the outcome of any argument would be, and he really did need the sleep.
"Come here," he said, reaching for a kiss, sliding his hand over Bryan's chest.
Ten minutes later Bryan's hands were buried in his hair, his cock down Greg's throat. He let Bryan set the rhythm; let him do whatever he wanted. It was faster that way.
Half an hour later he stubbed out his second cigarette and glanced back at the snoring, drooling man in his - their - bed. The sleep he'd so desperately wanted now seemed impossible.
He told himself it was fine, he'd wanted to do it.
He hadn't said 'no'.
***
He didn't remember how it had started. It wasn't anything unusual.
Bryan yelled at him about being boring, working all the time, never spending any time together and caring more about criminals than about him - his husband.
He yelled back about not working at all, going out until all hours, being irresponsible with money and caring more about his so-called mates than about their marriage.
Somehow, despite all the signs, and the fact Bryan was drunk, he'd never expected the first blow. The wild punch that caught him on the side of the head and made his ears ring. He froze, time froze, nothing moved.
Then Bryan was on him, still trying to punch and kick.
He ended up putting him in an arm lock on the kitchen floor and sitting it out, slowly relaxing his hold until Bryan was asleep or unconscious, instead of struggling.
They didn't talk for days.
The second time Bryan threw a plate at him. It had contained his dinner. Hours ago it had been hot, now it was a congealed mess, running down the wall. A glass followed, then some cutlery. He fended them off, the heavy tumbler catching him on the wrist.
Looking back, it should have told him a lot that he was more worried about the Shepherd's Pie running down the wall than the state of his marriage.
The cycle continued. Arguments, usually when Bryan was drunk or high. Fights – one sided, always. His inevitable forgiveness, because Bryan always asked. Sex he didn't want, to re-affirm their love for one another. Lies at work about punch ups and accidents.
It wasn't domestic abuse. He'd attended hundreds of call outs when he was a PC, to abused wives and cowering kids. He'd pitied them, and he'd wondered why they didn't just do something – get out. It didn't happen to people like him. Not to police officers, not to men, not to him, God dammit. Not to him. Because he'd pitied his Mum, too, and he'd occasionally hated her for being weak. And he wasn't weak. He was strong, and he could take whatever Bryan threw at him. They were just fighting. It's what blokes did, down the pub, in the street, in their living room - it was just fighting, not abuse.
He told himself all of that, and sometimes, he almost believed it. Because he was a good liar.
He'd had a lot of practice.
***
His cheeks itched with dried tears. There was a draught coming in under the door, chilling his lower back where he was slumped back against it.
The phone in his jacket pocket beeped again.
He finally pulled it out, hands still shaking, and looked down at the too-bright screen.
'Missed calls – 9
Text messages – 5
Emails – 19'
John Watson. John Watson. John H D Watson.
His fingers missed the button the first time, but he managed to reach the screen with the blinking cursor, the empty box under the messages of worry – from John, from others. People he didn't even know, scattered around the world.
'Sorry. I'm okay.' He typed slowly. The lie was his oldest, most used. It came easily.
And it wasn't what John deserved. Wasn't what any of them deserved.
He looked at the screen. There it was, already posted for all to see. The calming salve. Surely it was all that was needed. They could all stop worrying now.
Except they wouldn't. John wouldn't. Nine calls, five messages and seven comments told him that much.
He typed again. 'I'm not okay. Bryan was here.'
It said nothing, but at the same time, it said everything.
Because John deserved more than lies. Their relationship was worth more.
He hit 'post comment'. And waited.
~Fin