I'm german, English is not my first language ^^
to be honest, I was rather bad at English in school XD
If you find mistakes, please, please, tell me! I would be very happy about corrections.

No to the fic:
BBC Sherlock
3 microsoftword pages ^^

Well, it takes place after the pool incident.
I wanted to write a little about Lestrade's and Sherlock's relationship, 'cause I think they have a very special one.
After a quarrel between John and Sherlock...
It's no slash.
Just about friendship.

I don't have friends

It was the second week the greatest detective of them all lived alone again in 221b Baker Street.
After a stupid quarrel, the stupidest doctor alive moved out, going to his even more, if this was even possible, stupid girlfriend. Well, girlfriend was too much to say, John still slept on the sofa.

Why did Sherlock know? Mycroft told him. This bastard had his eyes everywhere and after seeing John going in and out Sarah's flat for some time, he texted Sherlock. The detective could felt the sarcasm and satisfaction through the tipped words.

No cases to distract his mind, no psychopathic murder who wanted to get caught, no charming, insane bomber giving him sweet little games to solve.

Lestrade had texted him several times, asking for support on dumb, little mysteries. Sherlock knew why he was asking for unneeded support. The gray haired man heard about John's moving and this was his try to cheer the detective up. But how could something so dull cheer him up? He didn't need half of a brain cell for solving those childish secrets.

But that wasn't the reason why he ignored Lestrade. With a little thinking, this man could solve those cases by himself. He asked for the consulting detective out of pity. So that Sherlock would stop hiding in his flat. Would stop shooting the wall. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but the inspector knew him. Knew him very good. Better then most other people. Well, maybe John... but John moved out, unable to bear Sherlock as a flatmate anymore.

With a discontent moan the young man placed himself on his sofa. Of course the detective could go to John, apologizing for his behavior. But the problem was: He didn't think it was his fault. He told John from the beginning, that he had unusual habits, like playing the violin in the morning or stop talking for days. And doing his little experiments, when he was bored. Please, why did he have to explode like this, just because Sherlock hid his human -living in the microwave- eyes in some of the shoes? Well, to be explicit, he threw them in every howl he could see with a nice basketball pose. They were useless after the experiment and well... How could he knew, that John slid in his shoes without looking inside before?

"... Wha... What is in my shoe, Sherlock?"
"Some of the eyes... you don't mind, right?"

Well, he had minded.
Sighing. He had provoked this. He wanted this quarrel. He wanted John to leave him. He had his reasons.

The street lights turned on. A new day has passed without John coming back. This was good. Was it good? Why was it good?
Sherlock was sure he had fun with Sarah. Going on dates and futile stuff like this. Going out eating together... looking at each other with big, loving eyes.
Sherlock would never understand.
Never understand why everyone thought they had a soulmate somewhere out in the world. That there was someone perfect just for you. That everyone searched for someone to love. So desperately searching for love, attachment... It was stupid. It made people weak. Vulnerable. It made people do horrible things. He had seen.. He saw it every day. What love let people do. What love did to the people.

A jealousy husband killing his wife and his children. A desperate girl poisoning herself. A father going berserk over the boy who left his daughter crying all night. Brothers killing their sisters, children killing their parents... parents killing their children...
People blackmailing you. Taking the one you love. Threaten you with bombing him away if you don't stop following him... Him, in his neat Westwood.

Sherlock understood. Sadly, he understood why you wanted to be loved. Wanted attachment. Someone to talk to. Someone to follow you on your adventures, telling you, how brilliant you were and in the same breath calling you an idiot.
After meeting John, he understood, why everyone searched for someone to love you.

The bell pulled him out of those dark, confusing thoughts. Did Mrs. Hudson have a little tea party with her best friend Mrs. Turner again? He believed those two just met whenever John and he had a quarrel. Did they take bets, who would apologize first?

After a minute a knock.

"What do you want, Lestrade?" Sherlock snarled and didn't have the go to raise from his position.
"Can you look through doors?" the grey haired asked amused while coming in Sherlock's flat. The inspector was dressed in plain clothes, his face worn out, signs of a day full of work and he carried two six-packs of beer in his hands.
The detective gave him a short, blasé look.
"Yeah, yeah, my footsteps on the stair, I suppose? And my habit of knocking two times." the inspector sighed, knowing at least some of Sherlock's methods.
"No, the fact, that you could enter the frontdoor with your key."

Lestrade chuckled lightly and nodded.

"What do you want?" he mumbled again, closing his eyes and folding his hands over his chest.
The inspector entered the room with a tired smile and made himself comfortable in the armchair.
"I don't drink anymore."
"Of course not..." Lestrade took the six-pack on his lap, broke a bear can out of the plastic and threw it in Sherlock's direction. The detective caught it with a light sigh, opened his eyes, observing the can with so much gravity in his grey eyes.
"You're favorite... I thought you might-", the older man began, but Sherlock cut him off with a snort.
"I don't need you're emotional support. I'm fine."
A moment of silence.
The black haired sat up and opened the can with a loud fizzing sound, taking a big sip.
"Of course not." Greg replayed with a lifted eyebrow before he took a can for himself.
In silence they began to empty the bear cans.
Lestrade turned on the TV, watching the evening news.

"You better go now. I wanna sleep."
"No, you won't."
"Get out."
The empty cans were rolling over the floor.
"Why are you so afraid, Sherlock?" Lestrade countered, turning his eyes to the detective. He sat on the couch, his bony shoulders slumped. His, from the drinking, heavy head sunk in his hands.
"Afraid of was?" his hoarse voice was sharp, annoyed, even with all the alcohol in his body.
"Afraid of getting close to anyone."
A small pause.
"Sorry to hurt you, but I just don't want to be friends with you." The alcohol made him speak more than usual.
Lestrade gave a long, unnerved sigh. "Git. I'm not talking about me... You encapsulate yourself from the rest of the world since this incident at the pool."
"How do you-".
"Your brother told me."
"Bastard..."
"Sherlock..."
"What?" the detective was angry.

Why couldn't they let him alone? He didn't want friends, he didn't want support. He just began to accept that it was the best that John moved out. The best for both of them. Now this stupid inspector came up to annoy him with this nonsense about friends.
"Do you not want to see, that there are people who care about you?"
"I don't want them to care. I never asked for it."
"You can't tell us to stop, just because you don't want it. It's our decision to worry about you. It's our decision, that we want to be friends with-"
"I don't need friends!" the detective snapped.
"Yes, you do.", George objected with a flimsy chuckle, "You've got yourself a scull to have someone you can talk to."
"Yeah, but this scull can't be used to blackmail me. This stupid scull won't throw himself between me and the bullet..."
Lestrade sighed again, deeper than before. He stood up, just to sit down next to Sherlock on the couch.
"Sherlock. Really." he whispered, put one hand on the detectives lankly back to stroke it tentatively.
"I don't want friends." Sherlock repeated quietly. He didn't shoved the inspector away, his head still down in his pale hands, eyes on the floor.
"Yes, you do." His voice was serious, "No one likes to be alone."
"I'm not lik-", the detective began, but Lestrade interrupted him: "Not like everyone. Yes, but you are a human… and humans need friends."
Sherlock sighed and shrugged his shoulders. It was useless to tell Lestrade that he didn't want friends. Yes, he was afraid. He didn't want to be vulnerable. He didn't want to love someone. Loving someone meant losing someone. Being hurt, when this person was hurt.
"You can't shut yourself up forever just because you're afraid someone could start to like you. Or you could start to like a person. It doesn't help to play all cold and heartless to protect yourself and everyone around you, so no one tries to use them against you. And don't give me this sociopath-shit you're playing on Anderson and Sally."
Sherlock didn't answer. He stared on the floor, his eyes trembled, the long fingers pressed in this massive of dark locks.

"You know, John is visiting the police station for a while now. Showing up every day to loiter around."
The detective raised his head a bit to spy up to Lestrade through his fingers.
"Why?" he asked slowly.
The grey haired smirked. "Yeah... Why would he actually show up there in his free time looking around without a reason...?" he paused a moment, his smirk got bigger, "Why do you think I texted you for every single case I found so that you would finally show up?"
Now the gangling detective set up slowly, staring directly at the inspector.
"He is missing you, you idiot. He hopes to meet you there. He wants to know how you are."
The grey eyes narrowed for some seconds. Confusing flashing over Sherlock's face.
"Then why doesn't he come back?"
"Well, why don't you go to him?" is the answer. Sherlock pursed his lips in a miffed way.
"There you have it. Too proud to admit that he misses you. Same goes for my aspergerish detective."
The detective hissed and turned to the TV. It wasn't on. Watching the black screen, his eyes began to shine. Lestrade's lips formed a small grin.
"You know..." the inspector began again in a casually tone, "There was a murder yesterday... nothing big, but well... no sign of the culprit... two cut fingers, not from the victim and not from the criminal… no weapon… no clue of the cause of the death…"
The detective blinked, than he began to nod. "Well... sounds rather interesting."

Lestrade smiled relived and pated the detective back. "That's my boy."