I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.
If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
ALSO: Ha, this is totally not Series-2-compliant. Because it was written before that aired. So, yeah, there's that.
Consider this my contribution to Sherstrade Day 2012 (find it on Tumblr at #sherstradeday2k12).
They've taken to sending one another texts at night. It's the medium in which Sherlock is most comfortable communicating.
Other times, Lestrade watches him stiffen at gentle touch; then, hesitantly, try to respond.
He listens intently to whispered words, then nods stiffly and looks uncertain of himself until Lestrade smiles and kisses the top of his head, his neck, his temple, so that he knows that no reply is needed.
Lestrade cooks dinner (a miracle that he can find a safe work surface at 221B) and makes him eat; Sherlock gives him looks that plainly convey "Not Pleased," but he eats anyway.
But it's the text messages that let them convey in words the things they can't say openly. Lestrade will lie awake in bed, staring into the thin covering of darkness, and tap out a message to Sherlock.
How was your day?
Always the same message, even when Sherlock has spent the whole day with Lestrade, at a crime scene or in the office or trailing around after him and trying to convince him to hand over sensitive Scotland Yard files. It doesn't make much sense, but they've long since given up the pretence that Lestrade is actually asking about Sherlock's day. It's code, really, a way for Lestrade to open conversation, to let Sherlock know, 'I'm listening.'
Sherlock usually responds with Dull or something similar, to the point where that little exchange has come to mean far more than the words it contains.
How was your day? Lestrade asks, and means, 'I'm here if you need me, Sherlock.'
Dull, Sherlock replies, and means, 'I know.'
Tonight, Sherlock is curled up in the bed beside Lestrade, one hand trapped under the pillow, the other tucked beneath his chin. He won't look this restful for long – by next morning, he'll be sprawled out over the entire mattress, limbs arranged in ways Lestrade never knew were even physically possible. Sherlock cannot sleep peacefully; he's always twitching and muttering and tossing himself about. When Lestrade wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, it's as much to gain purchase as it is a gesture, and that thought always elicits a grin, complete with answering grumble from Sherlock, who is not in on the joke.
They rarely have the chance to sleep together like this; usually, Sherlock is at Baker Street (or, equally likely, dashing about nighttime London doing things that would make Lestrade frown and bite his lip and stay up worrying). The text messages began because of that, because of midnight at a pool and John wired up with Semtex and Sherlock with a dozen sniper rifles pointed at his chest and Lestrade at his flat, oblivious until Mycroft's people knocked on his door to fetch him to the hospital where both men had been taken.
Astonishing how such a small thing as the bombing of one swimming pool (five city blocks, three fatalities, twenty-two injured) can change a life.
Lestrade hasn't been able to sleep since then without knowing that Sherlock is safe. A text message is enough.
But this time Sherlock is right here beside him and yet he's still awake. He should be calmer than he ever is when Sherlock is at Baker Street; they should be tucked around each other, enveloped in warmth and rest and half-awake murmurs in the dark, and yet they aren't.
He reaches over to the bedside table and his fingers close around his mobile phone.
How was your day?
Sherlock, of course, is immediately awake and sitting up at the buzz of his phone. He picks it up, slides it open and frowns at the faint blue glare of the screen.
For a moment, Lestrade braces himself for a snarky comment, but none comes. Instead, a small smile appears on Sherlock's face and he types rapidly for a moment.
Insipid, the answering message says. Boring. Tiresome. Uninspiring. DULL.
Apparently, just one synonym is not enough to encompass the awful ordinariness of Sherlock's day. Lestrade grins in understanding and feels a warm rush of affection for the detective by his side.
Not enough murders for you?
Why, can you provide more?
He suppresses a chuckle. He really shouldn't be amused – that is a bit Not Good.
Sherlock is typing again.
You should be asleep. You typically require roughly six hours for optimal performance.
He shakes his head. You're one to talk.
I require less.
No, he doesn't. He just permits himself less. Lestrade knows for a fact that Sherlock is quite well able to sleep for six hours or more with the right motivation; at Baker Street, after the pool, when sleeping in each other's arms was still tinged with the newness of something long wanted and yet never fully acknowledged, they managed eight hours more than once without even a hint of protest.
Liar, he types and sends it, and before Sherlock has a chance to act on his mock offence, Lestrade takes the phone out of his hands and sends it spinning into the far corner of the room where neither of them can reach it.
"Come and go to sleep," he whispers, settling Sherlock against him so that he can weave the fingers of one hand through dark curls and hold the younger man close.
With the other hand, he types out one more text, then throws his own phone into the bedside drawer. Sherlock tenses at the sound of the buzz from the corner when the message arrives, but Lestrade shakes his head and tucks his other arm around Sherlock's waist.
"It can wait 'til morning."
Normally, Sherlock would protest, but the grip around him has tightened and it's more comfortable than he'd ever admit. Lestrade can see him weighing his options, then deciding that he'd rather stay where he is than get up for his mobile and risk not having this to return to.
Sherlock relaxes, and Lestrade rests his cheek against warm skin and tousled hair, breathing in the scent of tea and ink and chemicals he doesn't want to name.
I love you, you great git, you know that?
It can wait until morning.