The events in this story are set after "The Hounds of Baskerville" and inspired by John referring Lestrade as 'my (?) scary inspector from Scotland Yard'.
Beta: Pilikia18
All in all, it was Sherlock bloody Holmes' fault.
"John, this is hilarious! Mycroft says that Lestrade..," abrupt silence. "Oh."
John Watson slowly blinked his eyes open, becoming aware of three things.
His head was splitting with a mother of all headaches.
There were two Holmes brothers in the room, standing less than a meter away from the foot of the bed.
He was lying on said bed, nestled in somebody's embrace with somebody's head pillowed on his shoulder.
He dared to shift his gaze to the right, noticed the oh-so-familiar shock of silver hair near his face and groaned inwardly.
"Greg!" he whispered, shifting slightly and eliciting a murmur of protest from the DI. "Greg, wake up."
Lestrade stirred, inhaled deeply and opened his bleary eyes.
"Morning, John," he said hoarsely, letting the blond man go and pulling away. "Slept well?"
"Greg, we're not alone!" the ex-army medic hissed warningly, throwing a pointed glance towards their unexpected guests.
"What?"
Frowning, Lestrade turned his head, and his eyes widened.
"Good morning, Gregory," the older Holmes greeted, his voice calm and his face unreadable.
"Mycroft!" the DI was off the bed in a blink of an eye, and John mentally thanked God that they both remained fully clothed. "This is not what you think…"
"Not what he thinks, Lestrade?" Sherlock's sarcastic voice cut off the DI's attempt at explanation. "So you weren't hugging John in bed just a moment ago?"
"This is hardly an appropriate time and place, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said firmly, paying no attention to his brother's attempt of humiliation. "Would you be so kind to follow me?"
Lestrade immediately took a step forward, nodding briefly. "Mycroft, I…"
A small smile curved the politician's lips. "I know, Gregory. There's no need to explain."
Lestrade stopped, confusion seen clearly on his face. "You do? But how?"
Mycroft tilted his head to the right and raised his eyebrows, still smiling and keeping silent.
Greg's eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. "You didn't!"
Not answering, Mycroft turned around and took a step towards the door; but his attempt to leave the room was immediately thwarted by Sherlock, who resolutely planted himself on his brother's path. The dark-haired man's eyebrows were drawn together, and his grey-blue eyes were searching his sibling's face intently.
"What is Lestrade talking about?" Sherlock demanded in irritation. "Mycroft, what's going on?"
"It's none of your concern, dear brother," the politician answered coldly. "If you're unable to see things that happen right in front of you, there's no point in me explaining. Now be so kind to get out of my way. Gregory, follow me, please."
The younger Holmes' frown deepened, and he crossed his arms on his chest. "No."
Mycroft huffed in irritation, hooked the handle of his trademark umbrella over the crook of his elbow, stepped forward, took a hold of his brother's arms and bodily moved him out of the way. Sherlock, spluttering in indignation, reached out to grab the sleeve of his brother's coat, but right at that moment Lestrade's fingers closed around his wrist.
"Don't, Sherlock," the silver-haired man said softly, unperturbed by Sherlock's piercing glare in his direction. "You have a lot of things to discuss with John, and I need to talk to your brother. So, a bit of advice: just let it go. You can always do it later – if, of course, you consider it necessary."
The taller man fixed his steely gaze on the DI's face, opened his mouth, then frowned, closed it, and, tugging his wrist free, clasped his hands together behind his back, nodding curtly.
"Good," Lestrade said approvingly, following Mycroft who headed out of the room. "See you later, guys!"
"Good luck, Greg!" John called out, and Lestrade answered with a brief wave on his way out, leaving the room and carefully closing the door behind him.
As soon as they were alone, Sherlock strolled towards the bed and flopped down beside John unceremoniously, shifting to prop himself up against the headboard. Finally getting comfortable, the tall man turned his head and fixed his pale eyes on his friend.
"Is there something you want to tell me about, John?" the thin genius enquired, quirking up an eyebrow.
John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Um, Sherlock..."
His strange companion tilted his head to the right. John shifted uneasily and then pulled himself up into a sitting position. Sherlock just kept looking at him, clear grey-blue eyes shining brightly and a slight smile curving his lips.
Reassured, John relaxed slightly and closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his mind to flash back to the events of the previous evening...
John noticed Greg as soon as came into the inn. The DI sat in front of the fireplace, from time to time taking a swig from his glass of whisky and watching the flickering flames thoughtfully.
Humming softly, the ex-army medic headed towards the counter to order his own glass of whisky. Pouring the golden liquid, the bartender flashed him a friendly smile and John smiled back, grabbing his glass and making his way to the fireplace.
"Mind if I join you, Greg?" the blond doctor asked, stopping near the opposite armchair, and Lestrade, startled, swiftly turned in his chair to look at him.
"John?" he asked in confusion. "What are you doing here?"
"Henry's throwing a party at his house, don't you remember? Sherlock sent me to search for you and bring you there," John explained. "Will you come?"
Lestrade snorted and took another sip, rolling the drink around in his mouth before swallowing. "Thank you, but I think I'll pass."
John looked at him closely and then gestured towards the other armchair, raising his eyebrow. Greg nodded wordlessly, and John lowered himself into the armchair, leaning back and getting comfortable.
"You lied to Sherlock, didn't you?" the blond man said quietly, still watching the DI intently. "It was Mycroft who sent you here, wasn't it?"
Lestrade emitted a bitter chuckle. "It's bloody impossible to refuse him, you know?" the silver-haired man looked at his vis-à-vis. "He cares about Sherlock, really..."
John frowned with concern. "Greg, are you okay?"
Lestrade smiled crookedly. "Do I look okay, John?"
"Um," the doctor hesitated. "No."
"Damn right," Greg confirmed shortly, taking another mouthful. "You know what their main problem is, John?"
"Whose?" John asked, already knowing the answer to his question.
Lestrade blinked at him, bleary-eyed. "The Holmeses," he spat bitterly. "Never able to tell you the whole truth. 'You need to take care of them, be of assistance. I trust you, Gregory,'" he mimicked. "Rubbish."
He downed the rest of the whisky and waved his empty glass in the air, signalling to the bartender. The owner of the inn himself immediately appeared near them, refilled the DI's glass and slipped away quietly.
John frowned again. "Greg, I think it's too much for you."
Lestrade took another sip, gave John a lopsided grin and, reaching out, touched his glass to John's with a tinkling sound. "Nah, I'm good. Can take more, actually. Or rather, NEED to take more," another sip. "So how's Sherlock treating you? Has he clued in already?"
"Clued in to what?"
Greg squinted, obviously trying to see John more clearly, and then, noticing his confused expression, waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind. And your glass is still full, by the way."
"I know, Greg, and I prefer it to stay like this," John said firmly, causing Lestrade to wriggle his finger with a disapproving expression on his face.
"Wrong answer," the DI slurred, leaning forward. "Bottoms up, John!"
The ex-army medic shook his head, exasperated, and then, deciding to throw all caution to the wind, drained his glass in a few gulps, accompanied by Lestrade's impressed whistle.
"Good one, Doctor Watson," Greg praised, hiccupping and waving for another refill. "Care to repeat?"
John squeezed his eyes shut, willing the room to stop spinning, and then opened them cautiously.
No use – the rollercoaster was still going on, and his glass was again full to the brim.
"Greg..," John heard himself whimper, looking at the DI pleadingly.
"I intend to drink the night away, John," Lestrade announced. "Tomorrow we both need to get back to them, so let's make the most of it."
It took a few moments for John's whisky-addled brain to realise what Greg had just said, and then the blond man's eyes widened.
"You mean you and Mycroft..."
Lestrade nodded empathically. "That's what I'm trying to tell you."
Dumbfounded, John knocked back a half of his whisky and shook his head in disbelief.
Greg squinted at him again. "So you and Sherlock..."
"No," John interrupted, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.
"Too bad," Lestrade declared, beckoning for the next refill. "Mycroft is convinced that you're perfect for each other."
John chocked on his drink. "He's WHAT?"
Greg cringed slightly. "Not so loud, John, and you heard me perfectly. You're..."
"Okay," the blond man said hurriedly. "I get it. Let's just... relax, shall we?"
Lestrade saluted him with the refilled glass, and a few moments later the world around John slipped away, taking the helpless doctor along for the ride...
The trip down memory lane obviously took longer than John expected, because when Sherlock's voice pulled him back to reality, the blond doctor discovered that his friend relocated into a chair, and a tray with breakfast was placed on the bed.
John made an eye contact with Sherlock and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I... got carried away a little, I guess."
The dark-haired man dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. "Irrelevant, John. I found a means to occupy myself, so don't be concerned about it. Eat your breakfast; we're leaving in an hour."
"We are?" John frowned, reaching for the plate with bacon and eggs.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, steepling his fingers. "Case solved, secret revealed, there's no point in staying any longer."
"Really? That's good," the smaller man nodded for emphasis. "Fine, then."
Both men fell silent for a while; one quietly enjoying his breakfast, and the other deep in his thoughts, if the slight frown on his face was anything to go by. The silence stretched on, and several minutes later Sherlock, desperate to share his thoughts, jerkily leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair.
"Aren't you going to ask?" he demanded with irritation, fixing John with a piercing stare.
"Ask what?" John bit into his toast, feigning incomprehension. "I have no idea what are you talking about."
Sherlock snorted. "Nice try, Doctor Watson, but you definitely do. So?"
John took his time to finish his breakfast, and then carefully put the tray away. "Well, if you insist..."
"I don't," the detective countered immediately. "But we know that we both need it."
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock raised his eyebrow.
"Okay," the ex-army medic said patiently. "What have you found out?"
Sherlock took a deep breath, leaned back in his armchair and steepled his hands again. "Mycroft asked Lestrade to drug your whisky, John, that's why you blacked out and have no recollection of how you and our scary inspector from Scotland Yard ended up in your bed."
Sherlock took a pause, watching a kaleidoscope of emotions playing on his blogger's face and waiting for a reaction. Nothing came, though, so he narrowed his eyes and plunged ahead.
"I incidentally witnessed a quite disturbing sight of my brother... trying to snog the living breath out of Lestrade..," the thin genius cringed at this image. "And then I eavesdropped... a little."
Sherlock paused again, and John shook his head, seemingly managing to take control of himself.
"I'm sorry... Did you just say that Greg drugged me?"
The younger man grinned. "Ah, John, I see you're finally getting the message."
The ex-army medic frowned. "But why? I mean, he told me that he and Mycroft are together..."
Sherlock took another deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. "My brother wanted to make me... jealous, John. To make me realise what I should have realised a long time ago."
Shocked, John held his breath, waiting for his friend to continue, but the detective fell silent again, biting his lower lip in clear display of uneasiness.
The blond man pursed his lips, then knitted his brow, and finally decided to voice it. "Did he succeed?"
Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "John..."
The blond man held his arms up in a placating gesture. "Sorry. Wrong thing to ask. Feelings and emotions are not your forte, I remember."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's not..," he cut himself short. "I just can't... I need more time, John."
The blond doctor smiled warmly, getting up from the bed and wandering over to the armchair in which his friend was sitting. Stopping in front of it, John crouched down and carefully took Sherlock's hands in his, entwining their fingers. The younger man frowned, looking at their hands, then slowly raised his head and locked his eyes with John.
"All the time in the world, Sherlock," John murmured. "All the time in the world."
The dark-haired man looked at him intently for the few moments, then tugged his hands free and carefully urged his companion to stand up with him. John obediently followed his gentle ministrations and stood up, his posture relaxed and his dark grey eyes watching Sherlock with clear admiration. The detective hesitated a little, then carefully slid his arms around his faithful blogger.
"First step down the road, John," he whispered, tucking the older man's head under his chin. "First among the many, I promise."
John smiled and hugged Sherlock back. "With you as my life's companion? That's the best offer in all my life, Sherlock."
The world's only consulting detective sniffed quietly and tightened his embrace. Soon they will be back to London, back to crime-solving and living on the edge; but from now on, Sherlock had a reason to live and a partner in life to care about.
And besides, the best thing about having the person you love?
It cuts both ways.