Daytime, Or How They Got Into This Mess In The First Place.

Sherlock/Lestrade

NC-17

At first Lestrade had watched Sherlock stalk around a body with rapt fascination, now he appreciates like he appreciates the ballet, for it truly was an art. The way Sherlock's fingers stroke the body in those gloves, the gentle touches, the way his body circles, those long legs jumping and leaping and crouching at different intervals, the way his neck curves and his hair bounces, and the way his eyes – oh those eyes – saw through everything and everybody in seconds.

Sherlock probably knew of course. Sherlock knew everything. Sherlock knew how long stomach acid took to disintegrate eyeballs and why that woman is cheating of her husband and whether or not detective inspectors have crushes on him, he just knows these things.

So when Sherlock's gaze lingered on his a little longer while Lestrade was pretending to be interested in the intestine splatter on the wall, he knew the game was up. They strode out of the crime scene together after Lestrade had divested of his blue suit, and Sherlock offered to share his cab.

Of course, it just so happened that their cabbie was a very angry minion of Moriarty's and they had to be rescued by Mycroft and shoved into a very small cottage on a cliff on the eastern sea of Greenland and by the time this was all over it was very late at night (or early morning) and both of them sort of fell into a deep sleep on the rickety bed without complaining (a first for Sherlock).

Lestrade woke at about 7pm (Greenland time) and found himself with an uncomfortable morning (evening?) wood and set off to find tea to settle it down. Sherlock joined him not long afterwards and the silence between them was deafening. Sherlock was fidgety, Lestrade had no conveniently placed body bits and they ended up just staring, silently daring the other to speak. Sherlock cracked first, surprisingly, or maybe not, he was a bit impatient.

"I know you're in love with me."

Lestrade spluttered out his tea at this and tried to sort himself out for a while after this before almost yelling, "You've got to be kidding, mate!"

It sounded thunderous in the quiet of the cottage and Sherlock gave him a reproachful look.

But really! Love? Maybe a strong kinship and a rather large amount of sexual attraction, but love? Pshhht.

"I also know you like dirty talk while rutting against… pretty much anything, that your wife found your need for urination immediately after sex thoroughly irritating and unnecessary – she's right, by the way, and that she wouldn't engage in anal sex with you because you're too well-endowed. Your last sexual encounter was a blowjob from a glory hole, you used to wear flannelettes, dye your hair black, put on makeup and go to gay bars in your first years on the force and your favourite spread is cream cheese." Sherlock rattled off facts like he was at a crime scene and Lestrade sipped at his tea.

"Sherlock," he began in a voice one might use to explain to a child that his mother had died, "just because you can observe and process facts doesn't mean you can use them to deduce a person's emotions. They are not the same thing, because facts are logical and solid, and emotions are illogical and wispy," he explained carefully, but Sherlock just looked him hard in the eye.

"I know," he said sourly, "that's the exact reason why I rid myself of them. However I can still recognise them in others."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as he stood up, "you can't choose to be a sociopath. You either are or you aren't."

"Wrong!" Sherlock called as Lestrade was tipping his tea down the drain. Instead of replying, he stepped into the bathroom for a shower, effectively ending the conversation.

They were sitting at the table consuming (well, Lestrade was consuming) cream cheese on toast when Sherlock phone rang out. He spoke a few quick words while Lestrade realised that his phone hadn't rung all day. Sherlock, as if reading his mind, explained.

"Mycroft has requested no calls be made by Scotland Yard to you for the next week, which is about how long it will take for him to locate Moriarty."

"We're going to be here for a week?" Lestrade exclaimed weakly. "I'll be right back, going to find a length of rope."

Sherlock of course didn't get the reference and Lestrade rolled his eyes as he threw his serviette in the bin.

It was going to be a long week.