Title: Finding Good

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: An exhausted John reflects on the events of "The Great Game" and finds peace in an unexpected meeting with Lestrade.

Written: 3/30/17

Notes: It's been over a year since I wrote a Sherlock piece. The series lost me with the third season and I have no desire to watch the fourth. I've recently received several lovely reviews on my previous work, however, as well as a request to podfic one of my stories. This led to me going back and re-reading some of my Sherlock stories and deciding to try writing something in the fandom again, especially as I haven't been doing much writing at all lately. I went back to "The Great Game" in the first season and found myself making a list of everything that John dealt with, both directly and indirectly, in that episode. It was a lot, especially for someone with his medical and military experience. This piece was the result, almost a stream of consciousness from John, recalling everything that happened and dealing with the exhausted crash afterwards. Dialogue quoted from the episode does not belong to me. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your continued support. I cherish every response.

Mycroft: "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I'd imagine."

John: "I'm never bored."

Mycroft: "Good! That's good, isn't it?"

"The Great Game"

Was it good?

Running up the stairs to the sound of gunshots, ducking and protecting his ears as sound ricocheted through the small flat, grabbing his weapon from Sherlock's bored hands.

Panic gripping his chest as he ran back up those same stairs hours later, though sirens and smoke, finding blown out windows and a very much alive flatmate and flatmate's brother rather than the charred, bloodied corpses he had expected.

Pink phones, Greenwich pips, empty shoes in a moldy basement, a woman's shaking voice commandeered for a madman's game, with another madman leaping to the challenge. An innocent life weighed down by explosives while two sides of a bored coin played a game without sparing her a thought.

Puzzle solved. Bomb squad successful. Lestrade's graveled voice echoing John's inner thoughts - "what was the point? Why would anyone do this?"

Even as they both inwardly knew the answer.

Three innocent bystanders. Three forced explosive vests, culminating in an elderly blind woman spending her final hours with a psychopath's soft voice in her ear, body weighed down by Semtex, before being detonated for daring to describe the voice of the man responsible for her torment.

A detonation that triggered what the media proclaimed a gas leak. Another eleven people dead.

Gathering data for Sherlock via condolences to grieving relatives. Connie Prince's brother, crowding him on the sofa, calm voice stating, "I don't know what I'm going to do now," as his eyes looked for distraction.

Meeting with the grieving flatmate of Alex, the museum security guard. The smile in her voice as she confirmed his love of stargazing; the break as she joked about his lack of hoovering. The reminder of his death as she played the phone message: "I've had other calls since. Sympathy ones."

Lucy, Andrew West's grieving fiancée. Her tearful, righteous anger at the mere thought of treason followed by the description of their last night together, the simple domesticity of watching DVDs. The little details of a relationship - how he usually fell asleep but instead stayed awake and quiet. "He was a good man. He was my good man."

Drawing his gun on the Golem, ready to kill for Sherlock yet again.

The fake painting, the final countdown on speakerphone. Lestrade's sickened, "a kid, oh God, it's a kid!"

Barely a breath between the successful prevention of a child's murder and studying train tracks for answers to a civil servant's murder.

Studying the tracks, listening to his guide talk about "selfish bastards" throwing themselves in front of trains while memories of friends and patients who had been pushed to similar final actions flitted at the edge of his mind. The familiar, seemingly callous, but necessary, dark humor in the man's talk of "strawberry jam" on the lines, the weary anger of drivers having to live with being unwilling participants in death. Running a finger over cool, clean metal with the unenviable realization that something was off because he knew how much blood should be there with that sort of head trauma, and it simply wasn't there.

Drawing his weapon again, this time on the man who had murdered Andrew West, even though he and Sherlock were actively breaking into the man's home at the time.

And then, the grand finale of days of non-stop adrenaline, stress, and human emotion.

Chlorine in his nose and throat. Pool water lapping at tile. Heavy jackets, the old woman's description of her murderer in his ear and an explosive vest with which he had far too much history forced onto him. A chess game playing in front of him while his heart pounded in his ears and his mind reeled with things he'd rather forget. Balancing the need for action with the unpredictability of their current situation. Trying to take Moriarty down. Sniper sights on him and his friend. Sherlock ripping off the bomb, fear in his voice as he demanded to know if John was all right. Pulling the earpiece out, heart pounding louder, breathing heavy, tilting his head back to open his airway further, leg giving out, stumbling to crouch against the wall. Going for levity with a joke about clothing and darkened swimming pools, trying to cope with instinctive dark humor, like that time a colleague pretended to be shocked at an expected death, pretended to get ready to jump in with CPR, a needed diversion from all the symptom management before that, the long, protracted dying process and anticipatory grieving of family. The madman coming back, sniper sights on both of them, Sherlock looking for tacit permission to blow them all to hell and John giving it. Permission granted. He was on borrowed time anyway.

And then a phone call, a random phone call ending it all and he was supposed to go back to the flat and continue on. Like all was normal. And it was, for him. Sort of. But that didn't mean he didn't feel it.

There was a saying that war was hell. And it was, John had been there. He was also a doctor outside of combat zones, and while people often thought of medicine as healing, it too could be hell. For every healthy baby born, or cancer in remission, or last-minute surgical save, there were slow, degenerative diseases, terminal diagnoses, distressing symptoms, and prolonged dying processes. There were storms of emotions through all of these, and those at the bedside were hit hardest by the winds. Even when the storm calmed, and death was coming steadily, but peacefully, the experiences added up. Listening to stories of lives nearing their end, seeing the faces of all those they had touched, provided tissue after tissue, hugs and shoulders to cry on, reading obituary after obituary. Even though it was an honor and a privilege, even through the thanks and the grateful tears, and the feeling of meaningful work, it took its quiet toll.

John may not have acted much as a doctor during the last few days, but death had still shadowed him. The terrified voices of innocent people on a countdown to their potentially violent end. The sudden silence of an elderly woman blown up over the phone. So-called gas leaks and explosions. Dead children in Sherlock's past, dead celebrities and civil servants in the present. Dancing the line with grieving friends and relatives as he offered condolences and searched for Sherlock's data. Little details, like hoovering and DVD marathons as stark reminders of the people behind the corpses that Sherlock studied. All ending with the cruel return to Afghanistan in the form of a London pool. Sand swapped for chlorinated water, heat for damp, overcast chill. But there he was, forced into an explosive vest, caught in between two warring parties, forcing back the tremors of traumatic memory under the thick jacket, the nightmares from his eyes.

Realizing that war would still kill him, just not the war he'd thought.

Two days later, and John was inexplicably alive, Mycroft's comments on his living situation replaying in his head. They had both been right. True, John was never bored. And true, he needed those bursts of adrenaline to feel alive, to be himself. But it could also be hellish. Sherlock couldn't fully understand how depleted John's emotional reserves were after the grieving friends and family, the multiple deaths, and the spike in nightmares and threat of panic attacks from having to deal with explosions, explosive vests, and smashed heads on train tracks. Was John used to it? Sure. Would he change any of the history that led him to have experiences with all of that? No.

Had he been walking around London for the last several hours, through intermittent soaking rainstorms, torn between the need to talk with someone who would actually understand and the need to not interact with anyone at all?

Absolutely.

John sank into a park bench far from the main path as his bad leg threatened to give out. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his neck, trying to relieve the tension headache leaving his vision wobbly, clenching and unclenching his left fist, rubbing it on wet jeans. John had phoned Major Sholto the previous night, needing someone who could understand how the last few days had affected his PTSD management. And although that had been helpful, not many people, military or civilian, wanted to talk about death - about the insidious, cumulative emotional exhaustion involved in dealing with death regularly, even if it wasn't all traumatic. For some reason, the deaths during this last case not only stuck with him, but they were bringing to mind the deaths of patients and friends he hadn't thought of in years.

With one hand on the solid weight of the gun in his coat pocket, John tilted his head back, took a deep breath, and tried to find the steady center that came so easily to him in times of crisis.

And that's how Lestrade found him.

Lestrade, who had frequently echoed humanity's collective "why" during the case; who had asked Sherlock why someone would do this, who reminded Sherlock that while he was solving puzzles, that there was a real person out there somewhere, loaded down with explosives against their will, and being forced to put their lives into a stranger's problem solving hands. Lestrade, who was on his second loop around the park, restless from the disturbing implications of Sherlock's last case, and needing a break from death. His own grandmother had been blind in her final years, and despite seeing death every day as part of his job, he couldn't help but feel the elderly woman's death almost personally. He wasn't sure if he needed to talk or move, so he moved.

That's how he found John, moving away from the path to a distant park bench, obviously exhausted, tight lines of his body radiating the restless exhaustion Lestrade felt in his own. Hoping John would still be there in a few minutes, Lestrade walked to a nearby café, bought two cups of tea, and returned to the quiet corner of the park. John was there, head tilted up toward the cloudy sky, one hand absently rubbing at his thigh while the other rested on a coat pocket that Lestrade studiously ignored.

"Look like you could use this," Lestrade held out the cup from a few steps away, giving John time to adjust to his presence.

John straightened with a muted groan, bloodshot eyes sharpening in clinical assessment as he took in Lestrade's equally exhausted, damp figure. "Yeah, you too," he managed a half-grin.

"Cheers," Lestrade chuckled wearily, handing John the tea and sinking into the space made for him on the bench.

They sipped their tea in companionable silence, watching passersby from their remote post, steady breathing punctuated only by hands shifting on paper cups, following the fading warmth.

When the tea was finished, Lestrade let out a breath. "Hell of a case," he sighed, looking out toward the main path.

"Definitely not boring," John countered with a wry huff of air.

Lestrade glanced over at him. "You all right?" he asked quietly, voice low enough that John could pretend not to hear if he needed to.

"Yeah," John sighed after a brief pause. He shifted, leaning forward and rubbing at his forehead again before looking at Lestrade. "You?"

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded. "It's funny, though. I've been thinking about this kid I haven't thought of in years…"

John perked up, turning his knees toward Lestrade and giving him his full attention.

Two hours later, shared stories of death, lives lived, and overwhelming exhaustion gave way to bright barks of laughter and job specific jokes. Feeling lighter than he had in days, John stood and stretched as his mobile chirped.

"Did Sherlock finally realize you're gone?" Lestrade asked.

John turned the mobile screen for him to read.

4 hours, 38 minutes, 25 seconds. SH

Lestrade softened, recognizing the unspoken sentiment there. It was a distinctly Sherlockian way of checking in and making sure John was okay. Last time John had been gone for hours, he had been kidnapped and forced into an explosive vest. Sherlock was letting him know that while he, likely begrudgingly, was giving John space, he was quite aware of John's absence.

John smiled as he typed a quick reply. On my way. Italian?

Lestrade prefers Chinese. SH

John rolled his eyes. "Hungry?"

"Sure," Lestrade laughed, shaking his head with fond exasperation at the text. "Thanks."

John offered the DI a hand to his feet. Thank you. I needed that.

Lestrade nodded at the unspoken words in John's eyes. So did I.

As they rejoined the stream of life flowing through London's streets, John found himself returning to a sense of peace with his living arrangements. Hellish? Sometimes. Boring? Almost never – which could be good or bad, depending on the day.

But dinner at home with two men he had come to call close friends? That was good.

Definitely good.