Lestrade tugged his coat tighter around himself as the wind began to blow even more fiercely. He bowed his head, hoping to move faster through the storm, although he wasn't sure where he was trying to get in such a hurry. He'd spent many extra hours at the Yard since everything happened, going through old case files, analyzing everything that Sherlock had done—all while being evaluated by other detectives. Granted, he'd been lucky to keep his position—the chief could have easily terminated him, and Lestrade wouldn't have been able to argue.
He'd been holding together pretty well, all things considered. Having to put up with Donovan and Anderson strutting about, being promoted, saying things about Sherlock when Lestrade was just within earshot—it was surprising that he'd kept his temper in the weeks that followed Sherlock's fall. He'd been set on not letting them get the better of him, even though they'd managed to get their wish with the dead detective.
Lestrade looked up from the pavement after what must have been at least a half an hour. He knew he'd end up at Baker Street. The apartment had been vacant since Sherlock's death—John had been staying with his sister. Lestrade had seen pictures of the flat, but he hadn't been there—hadn't been permitted, since he might have wanted to cover something up to protect himself. But he was off the clock now. This was strictly personal.
Testing the door, Lestrade found it already open. Leave it to Anderson to improperly secure the scene. He pushed it open, closing it carefully behind himself and starting up the stairs. He'd walked up those stairs countless times: holiday parties, asking for help on a case, just stopping by to make sure that Sherlock was still doing alright.
He froze in the doorway. There was someone on the couch, curled up, hidden in shadow. Lestrade felt his heart beating faster and leaned against the doorframe to steady himself. With hesitating steps, he moved closer, and dropped to his knees beside the couch. Barely able to keep his hand from shaking, he reached out and brushed his fingertips across the curve of the man's shoulder. The figure on the couch immediately sat up, and both men breathed the same name.
Sherlock.
It was John Watson looking at him, his eyes revealing the same disappointment that Lestrade felt. His lips parted, John sighed, and the two looked away. John stood, walked to the kitchen, and returned with two beers in each hand. He gestured to Sherlock's usual seat, which Lestrade usually usurped when he visited, but this time, Lestrade pulled the desk chair over instead.
They drank. John cried, and for once, Lestrade wasn't put off by another man's tears. He told Lestrade about their final phone call, how he'd left and come back too late, how he could have saved him if he'd just trusted Sherlock a little more or realized that he was in trouble sooner. When Sherlock wanted something done, it happened—Lestrade knew that there was nothing John could have done. But he should have known better—better than Anderson and Donovan, who'd never liked Sherlock anyway. He was a great man. He'd saved those kids. Lestrade should have been able to say no, that they were wrong.
He'd known Sherlock long before he was the Reichenbach Hero. He'd known him when he was a coke-addicted ghostly kid who had an odd habit of lurking in the shadows around crime scenes. Lestrade had waved him off as an ambulance chaser or whatever the police equivalent was, until Sherlock had shown up at his office and spelled out exactly how and why a waitress had managed to kill a dozen café patrons, none of whom were there when she was working, and exactly where to find her.
Once the case was closed, just as Sherlock said it would be, Lestrade went to thank him, to figure out more about how he'd managed puzzle out so much of the case with so little information. He'd found Sherlock in a cramped flat with flashing lights and people who didn't seem to notice that he on the floor, barely breathing, his temperature undeniably dangerous, his eyes flitting back and forth. Lestrade had called 999, grabbed the nearest person, tried to figure out what the young man had taken, but no one even knew his name.
In the A&E, Lestrade had waited, since the staff hadn't been able to contact any family. When Sherlock was stabilized, Lestrade sat with him, watched through windows as a man in a suit came and argued with the young man. And then the man offered Lestrade a considerable sum of money to keep an eye on Sherlock—to make sure that he didn't overdose again. One thing turned to another, and Lestrade had offered to take Sherlock to his own flat.
His wife hadn't been happy, but she had been looking for a reason to leave, and a stranger detoxing in their living room seemed as good as any. Lestrade had moved Sherlock to the vacated bedroom and done his best to ease the arduous process. He held the other when nightmares and hallucinations terrified him for hours and did his best to distract him from the insatiable craving. Sherlock's reward (and Lestrade's guarantee at continued supervision) was accompanying Lestrade to work and poring over cases with him, standing by at crime scenes and letting everyone know what they had missed. When Sherlock was finally able to promise that he wouldn't go back to using even if he moved out, Lestrade let him go, but the flat felt empty, and loneliness finally set in.
He kept calling Sherlock in for cases, mostly because he was the best, sometimes because he wanted to make sure the young man was still sober, sometimes just because he missed his company. And then Sherlock had started bringing John around. Lestrade was pleased to see Sherlock doing so well, he told himself, and his did his best to hide his jealousy.
But now Sherlock was gone, and he and John were both alone again.
Lestrade stood. It was time to leave. The room spun—how many beers had he had? He'd lost count after the fourth. He stumbled over the coffee table, catching himself on the armchair, nearly knocking over Sherlock's violin. That damned violin—Lestrade had spent many nights unable to sleep with Sherlock squeaking away in the other room. He rested his head against his knee, taking a breath before trying to stand again.
But then there were hands on his shoulders, on his face, lifting his head up. John's voice telling him to open his eyes. Lestrade looked at him, shook his head tiredly; he apologized and tried once more to stand. But John wouldn't let him, instead, he held his gaze, the look in his eyes so heartbreaking and completely comprehending that Lestrade didn't dare move.
And then John's lips were on his, tired, sad—this wasn't the kiss of a lover, this was the kiss of a man who had lost everything. Lestrade leaned into John's mouth and relaxed against his hands, giving the other complete control. The doctor shifted positions around Lestrade so that he had the detective inspector pinned against the side of the chair, safely seated on the floor. Their mouths parted, their foreheads rested against each other, and Lestrade tried to speak—only a strangled, quiet sound came out. John cupped Lestrade's cheek in his hand and kissed him again. Still sad, hesitant, as if the meeting of their lips might be enough to end it all.
They gradually stood, moving from the floor to the couch, then against the wall that still bore the bullet holes, the scars of Sherlock's boredom. Lestrade's hands found his way under John's jumper, doing his best to remove the heavy garment. John complied, casting it aside and pressing Lestrade against the doorframe, his hands above his head, pinning them back with one hand while his fingers unfastened the buttons of Lestrade's shirt.
As the trail of clothing behind them lengthened and two staggered toward the bedroom, Sherlock's shadow persisted. The dead man's presence was palpable in every touch, every kiss, every moan, grunt, sigh, eye-blink, toe-curl, and lower-back-arch. For a man who seemed so alienated from intimate moments in life, Sherlock somehow formed the link between the two men: the filament of connection, the promise of truth, the desperate hope for a way back.