Lestrade had never faulted Sherlock for his asexuality. He'd learned long ago that not everyone was wired the same. Even his job showed him that over and over again. And given his own sexuality in a world where he was told he didn't even exist, that he was just ashamed to admit that he was really gay, when they couldn't accept that he liked both men and women, Lestrade really had no place to talk.

Lestrade had thought that he would be okay with their relationship because sex wasn't everything, right? And given his age, it was even less a thing than it had used to be, but he couldn't help but want more. The first time Lestrade had tried it, found another partner at Sherlock's prompting because Lestrade wasn't really comfortable having sex with someone that wasn't as into it as him, it had nearly torn him apart. Maybe because his ex-wife had done it to him again and again. Maybe Lestrade was just traditional and old-fashioned, but he couldn't stomach it. Being unfaithful to Sherlock, even with his permission, was still being unfaithful.

After that disastrous encounter, Sherlock had been understanding (in his own way), even ready to end their relationship and offer Lestrade his freedom if that was what he'd wanted. But Lestrade had denied him because he really did care, really did want the relationship to work. The next time the desire had hit him, he'd gone to Sherlock and Sherlock had agreed without even a hint of protest.

It had been a bit awkward at first, not because of anything Sherlock did—he'd been surprisingly responsive and had certainly not been inexperienced, approaching it the same way he lived his life. But Lestrade hadn't been able to let go of the guilt that he was pressuring Sherlock into this (as though Sherlock could be made to do anything he really didn't want to do), that there was a certain lack of consent in what they did.

And no matter how much Lestrade argued with himself, no matter how much he knew that Sherlock's feeling were very real, Lestrade couldn't help but feel that there was something lacking. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. Hell, it wasn't even his own fault. But maybe if he's spoken up sooner, if he'd faced the truth earlier, it might not have come to this.

That guilt grew each time, festering and forcing a wedge between them created through Lestrade's silence. He tried. God, how he tried, but he couldn't help the way he felt. It didn't matter how much he loved the infuriating man. Didn't matter that Sherlock was probably the best thing that happened to him. But, he couldn't do this. Not anymore.

221B Baker Street was strangely quiet when Lestrade entered the apartment that evening, and John was nowhere to be found, probably out on another date. Sherlock sat with his back to Lestrade at the bare kitchen table, the first time he'd seen it that way. In fact, if Lestrade was to guess, he'd say the entire place had been cleaned; it looked strangely tidy. But despite Sherlock's lack of focus, Lestrade knew he had his full attention, and hated himself more than a little for this. It wasn't selfish, he told himself, a basic human need he rationalized, but it still felt like it was.

Sitting down beside him, Lestrade winced as he saw the self-deprecating smile that Sherlock wore, the one that had he'd seen on his face far too often before Lestrade had helped Sherlock get clean.

"So it's that time then," Sherlock said, startlingly loud in the quiet of the apartment.

Lestrade couldn't help but flinch, and he accused, "You knew. From the beginning."

"Of course."

So simple, so to the point. Damn that man. "Why? Why would you even? Was this some sort of game?" Anger threatened to overtake Lestrade until he saw the twist of Sherlock's mouth, the expression he wore when he was trying to hide his hurt, pretend that nothing could hurt him. And sod it all, Lestrade hadn't meant to do this. Hadn't meant to be the bad guy, and he was bollocking it all up. He reached out, taking Sherlock's hand in his own.

"Because of hope. I could hope. People do stupid things. Sentiment." Sherlock looked away, unable to meet Lestrade's eyes.

"Hope?" Lestrade's brows wrinkled in confusion. "Hope for what?"

"That I could be enough."

The words, so soft, but so full of pain, hit Lestrade like a physical blow, and he was suddenly reminded of Sherlock's track records with relationships and that despite his age, Sherlock could be very much like a child emotionally. "Oh, Sherlock. You're enough, more than enough. I love you so damn much. It's me. It's my fault."

Sherlock laughed, or maybe it was a sob, and Lestrade was suddenly on his feet, pulling Sherlock towards him. Sherlock clung to him, fingers gripping tight at his arms through the cloth of his jacket, so hard Lestrade knew he'd have bruises after, but he couldn't bring himself to care. For a moment, Lestrade forgot why he was doing this, to himself, to them, and wondered if this was really worth it. There was no going back from this. No do-overs.

Sherlock pulled back, eyes wide, the wheels turning behind his eyes, and Lestrade's gut twisted as he could all but see the plan running through his brain.

"I could change. I could—"

Lestrade kissed him, tasting salt and wondered whose tears they were. "Don't. Don't you dare. Not for me. Not for anyone."

Resting his forehead against Sherlock's, looking into his amazing stormy eyes, this time Lestrade knew the tears were from both of them.

"It won't be the same. After this," Sherlock murmured against Lestrade's lips.

No, Lestrade shook his head sadly. No, it won't be. They'd both go on, work cases together, and maybe still be friends. But it wouldn't be the same. It couldn't be.

"I'm not sorry," Sherlock said, just the slightest bit petulant.

"I am." Sherlock jerked against him, but Lestrade continued, "I'm sorry I'm not a stronger man. So damned sorry. I love you, but sometimes…"

"…sometimes love isn't enough," Sherlock finished for him.

There were no more words needed after that, and eventually Lestrade pulled away, walked away; it was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. They, the plural, wouldn't be okay; however, they, the singular, each of them would be.

Someday.