AN: For ImpishTubist.
Post-Reichenbach. Asexual!Sherlock/Gray-Asexual!Lestrade; romantic friendship.
Love Lucid
Sherlock's been dead a year and four months when he dreams of Lestrade. A twin mattress barely long enough for Sherlock's body, a drafty little room in a desperate building in Liverpool, and Sherlock's not anywhere different in the dream. The only thing new is Lestrade, lying behind Sherlock still in a work suit, socks on his feet but no shoes. Sherlock has his eyes shut and his face to the wall, but he knows it's Lestrade in bed with him. For a minute, there is only the sound and sensation of the older man's breath on the back of Sherlock's neck. Then, Lestrade starts tracing lines on Sherlock's shoulder blade with his fingertip.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks softly, with no real interest.
"You're too thin," comes Lestrade's voice. The memory of his voice. Sherlock hasn't heard it in so long, he can't be one hundred percent sure that he remembers it correctly. The light trail of Lestrade's finger feels good, the first friendly touch Sherlock's had since he left London, almost makes him shiver but not quite.
"Why are you here?"
"You miss me."
Sherlock doesn't respond for a beat. Then he says, "Yes."
"I miss you too," says Lestrade. "More than you know."
"I hope so." Sherlock is completely still and doesn't say a word, his mind blank until he wishes Lestrade would hold him.
Lestrade closes the sliver of space between them, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist, pressing his chest to Sherlock's back, his face to Sherlock's neck and curls. It leaves Sherlock breathless with surprise and relief, and he settles into the feeling without a peep. He hasn't been this physically close to Lestrade in years, not since he came off drugs in the DI's flat. He's missed it, though he would never consciously admit that to himself or anyone.
For a long time, the two men just lie there in the narrow bed, Lestrade holding onto Sherlock. Their eyes closed. Breathing slow and shallow. Sherlock feels partially detached from his body, like he might float out of it, warm and faintly tingling. "I love you," he whispers without thinking.
Lestrade kisses the back of Sherlock's neck. "Love you too," he says half-asleep.
It's the kind of thing that goes unsaid between them in reality. The kind of thing they usually forget, take for granted, lose sight of in the midst of business. Sherlock never gave proper attention to love when he was alive. He's learned that in the last sixteen months, cut off from everyone he knows, on this outrageous hunt across Europe for Moriarty's snipers and associates. He doesn't recognize himself in the mirror anymore and doubts that anyone in London would either. He secretly fears that they've all moved on for good, that he's nothing but a distant and nonessential memory. That if he gives into the ache in his chest to just dial one of his old friends and shatter the illusion of his death, they wouldn't welcome his return.
Lestrade starts to run his hand up and down Sherlock's belly, a comforting gesture the DI learned during the drug years. "If you called me now, I might bloody cry," he murmurs into Sherlock's ear. "Haven't done that since I lost you."
"Stop reading my thoughts," says Sherlock, already soothed by the belly rub.
"Stop thinking," says Lestrade.
They fall to silence again, motionless except for Lestrade's slow, lazy strokes over Sherlock's belly. Eyes still shut. The room dark except the orange glow filtering through the sheer window curtains, from the streetlamps outside. Sherlock can't help thinking: how much longer will he have to stay dead? What if he never makes it back to London? What if he dies for real, alone somewhere, and no one ever knows the truth? What if he never sees John or Lestrade again?
Lestrade hushes him, sound splitting Sherlock's train of thought. He rubs Sherlock's skinny upper arm, until Sherlock turns and lies on his back, jostling them in bed and nearly pushing Lestrade out. Once they rearrange themselves, Sherlock stares at Lestrade's face through the darkness. Lestrade looks back at him, head on the edge of the pillow and inches from Sherlock's. Sherlock's lips part, his eyes glistening, his breath almost stifled completely. "It's you," he says. "Really you." A tear slips down his cheek, invisible.
Lestrade rests his hand on Sherlock's belly and presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock's forehead. "Don't cry," he says. He brushes the back of his hand against Sherlock's face, caresses Sherlock's hair. "You'll make it. You always do."
"Lestrade," Sherlock says, almost inaudible. "This is—this is hard."
"I know. But you can finish it. I know you can."
Sherlock rolls onto his side toward Lestrade, circles his arm around Lestrade's waist, scoots his body down the bed to press his face to the top of Lestrade's chest. Lestrade returns the embrace, arm around Sherlock's back. Sherlock allows himself to weep just a little into the familiar shirt, to smell Lestrade's scent. Even after all this time, the details remain on Sherlock's hard drive. They shouldn't matter, they don't matter, but he's kept them.
"When you come back," says Lestrade, "if you want this—all you have to do is ask."
Sherlock knows he means the intimacy, the affection, the emotional involvement. Lestrade knows more or less that Sherlock's celibate, an asexual, disinterested in romance. The DI's known that for some time, without an explicit declaration from Sherlock. Sherlock deduced within the first few months of their acquaintance that Lestrade's an oblivious gray-asexual who's attracted to women. They've never spoken about that either. Nor does Lestrade—the real Lestrade—know anything of what Sherlock would like in his relationships if he could get his way. But this Lestrade seems to suggest that if Sherlock wants something, needs something from him, he's willing to give no matter how strange. Just because it's Sherlock.
"I don't know how," Sherlock says.
"Yes, you do. You're just afraid I'll misunderstand. But I know you. And it's okay."
Sherlock breathes in, out, and his whole body releases a tension he didn't know it was holding. He goes limp against Lestrade's chest.
Lestrade cradles the back of Sherlock's head in his hand. "It's going to be okay," he murmurs.
Sherlock doesn't protest. Just clutches to Lestrade, face in the other man's chest.
"Let go," Lestrade whispers.
And Sherlock blacks out.