They are always going to have their own spaces.
He knows that John understands Sherlock—tolerates him, too, and don't think that's any less heroic—in a way that Lestrade can't, and that's fine. Good, in fact.
It's because his hair wasn't grey when he met Sherlock, and when he brings it up it's ridiculous, says the consultant, who wouldn't understand a metaphor if it was wrapped in semtex; there's Lestrade's squad car, which is littered with far too many of Sherlock's cigarette cases for a man who only takes cabs, and then there's the matter of the opera.
It's not anything like neutral ground, not for Sherlock, who was practically nursed on librettos, nor for Lestrade, who still associates it with the strange and ephemeral notion of Sherlock's "people," if such unhappy specimens exist. But there it was, the ritual arisen before either of them had really taken notice, and on the third Sunday of every month they take in the latest at Covent Garden.
Of course the third Sunday of every month is really the third Sunday of every two or three months because Sherlock refuses to indulge in such childishly theatrical pastimes as German opera—this is, of course, because it has always Mycroft's favorite, and isn't that just obvious—and Lestrade isn't entirely willing to forgo the classics because they might be unfamiliar but at least they're less so.
Last month it was Zolotoi Petushok, the only Rimsky-Korsakov to be performed outside of Russia with any regularity—a relief for Lestrade; Sherlock was intrigued by the performance, but not to a degree that would order him to Russia to seek out more—and today it's Benvenuto Cellini, which hasn't been performed at the Royal Opera House since 1853.
Lestrade's relieved that it's in French, despite the title, so he can understand at least part of it, though not likely as much as Sherlock, whose understanding opens up to a level beyond linguistics and when they speak French together it's almost natural but there's that blasted public school accent poking through Sherlock's basso profundo, and Lestrade knows he does it on purpose, the bastard.
There are only two scenarios that satisfy Sherlock into deep stillness, and as one generally happens to involve disembowelment or severed fingers, Lestrade has found himself almost looking forward to their opera days. They take their seats for the overture, and within moments, Sherlock is sinking into near catatonia, his every feature a still frame.
And the Detective Inspector finds himself lulled into a state that, if not entirely similar in depth, is nonetheless quiet and appreciative. Sherlock had been anticipating this one, which had played its original debut to a chorus of boos. The orchestration was innovative, but not to the outlandish degree specific to the modern operas Sherlock held in particular contempt.
It's posh, of course it's bloody posh, but he doesn't belong here any more than Sherlock does, not really, Christ, most of the audience is over seventy, and Sherlock's always going to be different to them, anyway, even if they are his people in name.
He brushes his index finger across the ridge of Sherlock's knuckles, smiling at the twitch of acknowledgement he receives, and tonight maybe they'll listen to The Cure—Sherlock would raise an eyebrow at that—or The Magnetic Fields—cute, Sherlock would say, which was worse—and maybe he'll sleep over.
He doesn't always sleep over, even when they have sex. That's fine, too. Sherlock's not much for cuddling, at least not when he's awake. An unconscious Sherlock, on the other hand, is very likely to end up with his curls nestled against Lestrade's sternum by morning. Then there's coffee and open-ended invitations thanks to John, but Lestrade knows when Sherlock needs a break, and he's behind on some cases anyway.
But for now they're sitting on velvet and Lestrade had been right, he really doesn't understand what it's about, French or not, and he presses a kiss on Sherlock's right temple, that ridiculous poodle hair tickling his nose, and Sherlock smiles and whispers I know.