Title: Tuesday Night

Pairing:N/A

Rating: G

Warnings: Mentions of Drug Use

Spoilers:Study in Pink

Summary: John didn't spend most of his Tuesday nights in a pub with Lestrade. But he was glad for the company.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this. Likenesses belong to respective actors.

John Watson did not generally spend his Tuesday nights in a pub with a man he hardly knew. This particular Tuesday was not special, nor planned out to include this bit of socializing. Really, John hadn't planned for anything other than a bit of reading before bed. He certainly hadn't thought that, three hours prior, he'd be chasing— unsuccessfully— after Sherlock after offering a medical opinion at a new crime scene. When Sherlock had dashed into the maze of London alleys and side streets— where it was hard to trail after him when it was daylight and the consulting detective was not on one of his frantic hunts for evidence to support a theory— John had given up the chase. Eventually, they would meet at their Baker Street flat, Sherlock would be on to some lead the police weren't free to investigate, and John would be in desperate need for sleep.

"Can't imagine what he would have been like on drugs." It was almost muttered to the man sitting across from him.

Lestrade had spent almost eight hours at the scene of the murder-suicide (which had been the latest in a string of them, prompting investigation for links and resulting in Sherlock being called in) when John wandered back to the cruisers. The invitation to a drink seemed like a good idea at the time. "Slower. Took anything that made him stop thinking. Cocaine and nicotine were the only things he ever justified by saying that they cleared his mind enough to think properly again."

John shook his head, still nursing the same drink he had started with half an hour ago. He may not have believed that a genius and a chemist would have dabbled with drugs when he first met Sherlock, but a few weeks together really did open his eyes to just how fucked up his flatmate was.

"Why do you use him?"

"Think you asked me that before."

"Yes, but we didn't know each other very well then."

Another smirk and Lestrade paused over his answer to drink and run his eyes over the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the investment television in the corner— the sort ready and waiting for a good sports' night, but spent the rest of the off-season reciting too-familiar news. "And now you're inviting me out to drinks?"

"Just the once. Need to be around someone other than Sherlock once in a while." Truth was that John had plenty of colleagues and "buddies" around the city. Other than the few known to be around from his days in school, or those on leave from their current military service, there were a handful of people from work who he knew he could call up here and there for a night out or a drink. Only none of them really understood his frustration with his flatmate like Lestrade did. "He's a bit of a prat tonight."

"Just a bit." A nod, but Lestrade answers the question, flagging down the nearest waitress for another round. He was off the clock and it was just lab work that could be done in the morning right now. "Really, Sherlock's just faster, isn't he? Doesn't have to worry about justifying his lead to a higher office, or filling out a report every time he runs off. He gets let off to do whatever my team can't, and we just build up around what he finds out."

"And it doesn't muck up the case?"

"Not usually." A shrug from Lestrade is really the only response needed to that. Sherlock was, for all his posturing and interference, rarely selfish with the evidence he collects. "Take what he knew about Jennifer Wilson— the pink lady— would have took us longer than him to sort out that she was from Cardiff and had a family there to talk to. Never would have sussed out the bit with the phone, either, until we got the suitcase. And that would have meant the family having to tell us it was missing, and her phone was gone."

After more interaction with New Scotland Yard than he thought he'd ever had, John had learned about the 'proper channels' Sherlock tended to avoid. "So he gives you evidence."

"More than not." The smirk returns, and Lestrade sits back in his chair, taking the time to really relax with John around. "He's sort of like a pointer dog, really. He runs about, makes a fuss, and shows us what we should be seeing all along. Annoying as all hell, but he's good at it."

John had to smile— he could already picture Sherlock's indignation at being compared to a dog, but he had to admit that it was apt. "And the fake drugs busts?"

"Got to get a dog to give up his prize sometimes, right? Don't expect those too much. Sherlock knows the system well enough to not withhold evidence too often. He just finds it, and I build the cases with it."

"Symbiotic."

"Something like that. Still like to think of him as human, though. Same species."

There was something they had in common, John suspected. But it was getting late, and even if Sherlock was running himself ragged on a case, he had work in the morning. He suspected, of course, that Lestrade would be spending more time at the offices until this case was worked out. He had families and co-workers to interview, after all, while Sherlock could bypass the whole mess of procedure and pattern. Their work really did feed off each other to produce the right results. Still, a few drinks in a bar with a detective hadn't been a loss.

John was about to make his excuses when his phone buzzed in his pocket. As he pulled it out, and his attention away from Lestrade, he muttered a habitual: "Sorry."

Come at once. Need my skull.

SH

The text was a reminder that Sherlock did his best thinking when speaking, and John knew that there would be several persistent texts until he outright replied, or walked through the door to the flat. "Sorry, Lestrade. Sherlock's determined to drag me along into this."

"Keep him out of trouble."

"Right."

It wasn't a bad way to spend a Tuesday night, really. John did prefer the company of people who— as Sherlock put it— horrendously dull, and he supposed that most of his co-workers and normal friends would fall into that category. At least Lestrade wasn't likely to insist that he finds a new flatmate— one who didn't perform experiments in the kitchen and who actually slept regularly. No, Lestrade was more a brother-in-arms, down the same foxhole, when it came to dealing with Sherlock. It was reassuring in a way that John though shouldn't be as healthy as it seemed.

Maybe he'd have to invite the Detective Inspector out for drinks again, when the dust settled on a case or before it got too chaotic.