The first time he saw him, he missed a goal.
He had been about to kick the football right into the net, when he had noticed it out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock. Sitting in the stands, watching the game.
Watching Lestrade. Because of this revelation, his trusty leg faltered and he had kicked wide, missing the net by a mile. For the rest of the game, he was determined not to think about Sherlock.
It didn't really work.
They barely scraped by, winning by only one. When his teammates gave him looks and some asked what had happened, he shrugged and didn't answer. Reflecting on it afterwards, when he was at the Yard the next day and the day after, he was sure it couldn't have been Sherlock. Sherlock wouldn't use his precious time to watch Greg kick muddy balls around, right? There was still that split second of certainty when he had first seen the face in the crowd that it was Sherlock. He shoved it to the back of his mind. I'll worry about it later, He asserted to himself and went back to his job single-mindedly.
Halfway through the next game, he covertly scanned the stands. He was proud to say when he saw the familiar face he didn't actually fall over. (Only nearly.) For a few seconds he stared, wondering to himself why Sherlock would do this. When he turned his back to the crowd he smirked to himself. Well, if the Holmes wanted to see him play, he was going to see him play.
For the next four games, Greg was as flamboyant as he could be without injuring himself (severely). On the fifth game, Lestrade skipped out to try stop Sherlock before he left. When he looked around, he wasn't there. Greg sighed and reminded himself this was a Holmes he was dealing with. He'd have to corner him another way.
They were finishing a case. The perp was being led away and Sherlock was standing off to the side looking smug. Lestrade pulled out a cigarette and sauntered over to the other man. "Have any plans for Thursday?" Sherlock stiffened slightly. "Why do you want to know?" He asked, sounding disdainful, but Lestrade could hear the quaver of nerves on the edge of his voice. Greg gave a tiny grin around his cigarette.
"Curiosity."
There was a silence where Sherlock looked at Lestrade and Lestrade looked at Sherlock and Sherlock knew Lestrade knew and resigned himself to it. "I was actually going to watch some football." Lestrade hummed and offered the pack to him. He delicately withdrew a cigarette and Lestrade offered a lighter which he meekly used and handed back.
"I.. I love watching you play." He confessed quickly and Greg arched an eyebrow in question. "I... I love you." Greg openes his mouth to make a smart comment and slowly closed it again as the words sunk in. Finally when he was able to speak again all he could manage was a quiet "...oh." Sherlock gave him a wry smile, just waiting for Lestrade to explain how he didn't want to get involved with co-workers, so what he said next surprised him.
"Oh. Well. I guess, that, we could," Lestrade half-smiled, "do dinner?" Sherlock blinked silently and then nodded slowly.
"I guess we could."