Detective Inspector Lestrade didn't mind cleaning up after his cats.
Of course he was a cat person. How else could he have kept his hands from Sherlock's throat for five years? He had practice. Daily he lived with the scorn, disdain, and snubbing that only a Siamese could mete out. Sherlock he only saw once in a while. And really, to date Sherlock Holmes had never vomited in his shoes. So it came to a question of whether one preferred to receive condescending messages by text or by bodily function.
On his way out at the end of his shift, Lestrade was irritated at being stopped by no fewer than three of his colleagues. He was eager to get home; he had a fresh pouch of catnip in his pocket, which probably only served to prove him a masochist. As soon as he arrived home, his three little monsters would try to tear through his clothing to get to it.
Something else Sherlock had never attempted, thank any God that might be listening.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, giving him an excuse to remove himself from conversation with Donovan. Even if it was from Sherlock, the diversion was welcome. Lestrade stepped away and pressed a button to display the text message.
LOVER
EXPECT ME TONIGHT.
Maybe he was the only person in the world to pale in anticipation, for Donovan asked him if he was well. Lestrade nodded as he dropped his phone back into his pocket. He hurried home before anyone else could interrupt him.