Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: I received two fic requests from Alioseven over on AO3 last month. Here is the first. This prompt asked for a paternal!Lestrade story set after the tobacco ash scene in ASiB.
This appeared in August on my Tumblr, and then at the beginning of this month on LJ and AO3.
Sherlock leaves the morgue in a huff, which isn't unusual, but he also leaves it before he's finished examining a body, which is. Lestrade lingers a moment, torn between hearing the rest of John's analysis and placating a tetchy Sherlock. It takes him less than a second to choose. He may count both men among his friends, but only one of them will he follow without question.
He finds Sherlock around the side of the building, leaning against the rough brick. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his coat and he's hunched his shoulders against the cold. In the moment before he notices Lestrade approaching, his face is unguarded, and he looks about ten years younger. He also appears pained, and Lestrade thinks that perhaps John's casual comment cut deeper than the doctor intended.
"Didn't finish your examination," Lestrade says. Sherlock shifts, his expression quickly turning to stone as he realises that he is no longer alone.
"I gathered all the relevant data."
Lestrade stands next to him and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. He takes one for himself and then offers the packet to Sherlock, who looks sorely tempted but declines with a wordless shake of his head.
"Thought you liked this kind."
"Gave it up," Sherlock says gruffly, and something in the line between his brows tells Lestrade that John may have had more to do with that decision than Sherlock.
"Yeah, so did I," Lestrade grunts. He pats down his pockets, searching for his lighter. "So, tell me, which ash is this one?" At Sherlock's surprised look, he adds, "John's blog isn't the only one I follow, you know."
"Number twenty-three," Sherlock answers stiffly, apparently unsure as to whether or not Lestrade is finding humour at his expense. But he doesn't walk away when Lestrade leans against the wall and bows his head, lighting his cigarette in the shelter of his cupped hands. "It's either the brother or the aunt who killed her. I'll need to run some tests to be certain."
"On our speckled blonde in there, you mean?" Lestrade blows out a steady stream of smoke. "Yeah, all right. Do what you have to. And I'll pull them both in for questioning. Anything else you need?"
"You read my website?"
It's obvious that's not the question Sherlock meant to ask, from the way his jaw clicks shut and a flush blooms across the small triangle of flesh visible between the open collar of his shirt and his scarf.
Lestrade nods briskly.
"Since the day it went up."
Sherlock considers him a moment, and then sniffs. "Pity. I would have thought that you might have learned something from it. Obviously reading it has done nothing to improve your detective skills."
Lestrade knows he should feel insulted, but this is so clearly Sherlock on the defensive that he can't bring himself to do so.
"I've learned some things from it, yeah. Just not quite what you were expecting, I don't think."
"Oh?" Sherlock gives him a smile that is more a baring of teeth than anything else. "Do enlighten me."
"You have a strange affinity for pirates," Lestrade says, remembering John's "The Naval Treatment." He smokes for a moment before continuing. "You're allergic to cats, because you send John to do the actual investigating when the suspect owns one. You're in love with a man named Victor, and the two of you met while at uni-oh, don't look at me like that. You've mentioned him in a couple of your case write-ups, which for you is the same as shouting it from the rooftop. But you don't get to see him all that often, though I'm not sure why. Work-related, I'd wager."
Sherlock scowls, but doesn't contradict him. Instead, he fishes in Lestrade's pockets for a cigarette and the lighter. They smoke in silence for a time before Lestrade decides to venture further into personal territory.
"Were you young when your dad died?"
Sherlock blinks, and turns to look at him. Lestrade nods to Sherlock's wrist.
"That's his watch."
Sherlock makes an unconscious movement, as though he's about to brush his fingers along the watch's band. Instead, he brings the cigarette to his lips again, and says nothing. Lestrade goes on.
"Saw it once, in the lab. You'd taken it off for an experiment. Lovely inscription, but not meant for you. Violet was your mother, yeah?"
"I was eight," Sherlock says at last.
"Were you close?"
Sherlock arches an eyebrow at him. "I was eight."
"My youngest is eight. We're inseparable." Lestrade shrugs. "And anyway, it's hard at any age."
Sherlock turns his head away to cough, and then says, "Mycroft was away at school when it happened. Just... my mother and me. She found him. Heart attack."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?" Sherlock asks sharply. "It's hardly something you had control over."
"It's called empathy, Sherlock." Lestrade takes a drag on his cigarette. "I'm sure he'd be proud of you."
He drops the cigarette to the ground and presses it into the pavement with his heel. Sherlock is looking at him, lips parted, cigarette frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Why?" he repeats blankly.
"Because I am."
Final Notes: According to a transcript of the episode, John's blog title is actually "Navel Treatment" and not "Naval." The latter one, however, is used here. Victor Trevor is a character from from ACD canon. He appears in "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott." Violet Holmes is theorized by Holmes scholar William Baring-Gould to be the name of Holmes' mother.