Some shots from Rupert’s solo talk on Sunday at Sherlocked.
One of the two microphones used for audience questions was on the blink. When a lady near the front was having trouble with it Rupert said, “Do you want to use this one?”, beckoned her forward, stepped down off the stage and handed her his!
Were Not Out of Time No. 2 - A Short Sherstrade Fanfic
This is an emotional second part to my unfinished fanfic that I didn’t realize would make people so upset! I hope I redeemed myself with a happier ending! Sorry to anybody’s heart I broke. :)
Greg paced back and forth in the small waiting room of the hospital, his clothes disheveled and dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t slept, or showered, or eaten for the second day in a row. How could he while Sherlock laid on the surgical table. He could be dead for all Greg knew.
“Greg,” John said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go home, take a quick shower and eat something, I promise I’ll stay until you get back.” Greg looked at John apologetically. “I-I can’t. I need to know he’s alright.” Greg said sitting down in the chair beside John.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine, Sherlock is always fine,” John said, but Greg could hear the doubt in his voice. “I don’t know, he was looking pretty bad when I found him… I-I think the bullet could have punctured his lung.” Greg said running his fingers through his hair.
John opened his mouth to say something, but a woman in a blue medical scrub walked over to them. Greg paled, thinking the worst, but the woman looked at him and smiled lightly. “Is one of you Mr. Lestrade?” She asked looking between John and Greg.
“I am. Is Sherlock alright? Can I see him?” Greg began asking questions so quickly, the nurse didn’t have time to answer before the next one came. “He’s going to live.” She said smiling at the two of them. “Oh thank god!” Greg cried willing his tears not to fall.
The nurse looked at Greg with a small knowing smile. “You may come see him now if you like.” She said to Greg. John began to follow and the nurse gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry, he requested Mr. Lestrade only. You can come see him in a few minutes.
Greg’s heart was beating quickly as to nurse lead him to Sherlock’s room. He didn’t know what Sherlock was going to look like when he got there. “You may go in now. Just be gentle, his ribs are fragile.” She said opening the door. “Thank you,” Greg said before stepping into the room.
Greg could see Sherlock lying in the bed, a tube leading into his chest, and different needles sticking into his arm. “L-Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, his voice weak. “Oh, Sunshine…” Greg gasped, tears welling up in his eyes. It hurt him to see Sherlock like this so weak and broken. But a part of him was overjoyed to see the man he had been in love with for so long, alive and asking for him.
Greg sat down beside Sherlock’s bed and ran his hand across Sherlock’s cheek which was streaked with tears. “I didn’t think I was going to see you again,” Greg whispered, almost like if he talked too loud, it would break Sherlock’s frail frame. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, the hand that wasn’t hooked up to wires took Greg’s hand. “No love, you have nothing to be sorry about.” Greg placed a kiss in Sherlock’s curls. “God I’m just glad you’re alive.” He mumbled into his hair.
“Greg?” Sherlock asked. “Hmm?” He answered placing another kiss on his forehead. “W-when I get out of here, can we… would you…” “Anything Sherlock what is it?” “Will you be my b-boyfriend?” Sherlock asked blushing and looking away from Greg’s face.
“Of course, of course, I will Sherlock,” Greg promised and kisses him softly on the lips. They were so entangled in each other, that they didn’t realize John opening the door and stepping inside until he cleared his throat, making Greg pull away from Sherlock. “Did I… interrupt something here?” John asked a bit awkwardly.
“Oh, erm, n-no you didn’t.” Greg stammered, blushing like a fool. “Oh Lestrade, your so cute when you blush,” Sherlock said smirking at the confused John before kissing Greg again.
Sherlock is 17 in 1939. He’s a ballet dancer. He’s a drug addict. His closest connection with the army is the secret magazines he stores under his mattress, in a fancy house, far from the poor bits of London. When the war strikes, he is put in a battlefield with a gun in his hand, under the command of a certain Captain Watson.