Sherlock was in a pub. The world had clearly gone mad.

Lestrade appeared and set a pint of lager on the table in front of him. Sherlock stared at it. Lestrade plopped onto the barstool across from him and took a long pull of his drink before fixing Sherlock with an unhurried, even look.

Sherlock frowned.

'I'm sorry, what exactly is going on here?'

'We're having a pint and a chat.'

'And what is the purpose of this activity?'

He shrugged. 'Thought you might need it.'

His brow furrowed. 'You thought I might need a pint and a chat?'

'Yes.'

'Me.'

'Yes, you.'

'Do I strike you as a pint-and-chat kind of man?'

He sighed and took another drink. 'Sherlock, you've been moping around for weeks.'

'"Mope"? What do you mean, "mope"? I don't mope.'

'You absolutely mope,' he chuffed. 'You are a champion moper. Winner of the gold medal in the moping Olympics.' Sherlock scowled. 'Hey, don't be sore at me. I'm just observing. I thought you liked that sort of thing.'

'Alright, fine, two can play at that game. What, pray tell, do you deduce to be the cause of this supposed moping?'

'John's getting married.'

Sherlock felt his jaw set. He refused to acknowledge it. 'And why should that matter to me?'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Maybe because you're still in love with him?'

Sherlock hoped his cheeks weren't as red as he thought they might be. 'Who's saying that? And what do you mean, "still"? Who would possibly suggest that in the first place? I mean, yes; I feel affection for John in a sort of platonic, gentlemanly way. He's my friend-best friend-and colleague and I hold him in the highest regard; of course I do. Anything further than that though is-it's preposterous is what it is. Who would ever think that I'm in love with-with John?' He swallowed. 'In that way. Romantically speaking, I presume.'

'Are you done?'

'Yes.'

'And that rambling speech, was that supposed to be evidence to the contrary? Jesus, Sherlock, everybody knows.' His face burned. He pulled his pint toward him, wondering if there might be something to the concept of one finding solace in alcohol. Lestrade offered a companionable smile. 'We all knew what was going on as soon as it happened; you know that. Sherlock Holmes doesn't suddenly start acting agreeable without having something really good to be happy about.' His flush crept up to his ears. He took a drink and grimaced at the bitterness. Lestrade waited for him to recover before continuing. 'Look, I know things have been a bit…different since you got back. I know that's been hard for you.'

'I'm perfectly capable of handling my own problems, thank you.'

'And I never said you weren't.' He leaned against the table, the picture of experience and fatherly advice. Sherlock felt ill. 'I just wanted to remind you that, well. I'm here if you want to talk.'

'You think I want to talk.'

'I think you should talk.'

'There's nothing for me to say.'

'And I'm supposed to believe that?'

He sighed. 'Lestrade, it's not that I don't appreciate…' He waved between them. '…whatever it is you're trying to accomplish. But it is a bit needless. John and Mary are very happy together, I'm sure.' He licked his lips, pitching his voice into indifference. 'Anyway. He's always wanted to get married. I say well done him for getting what he wants.'

Lestrade smirked. It was extremely irritating. 'And it didn't occur to you that the person he wanted to marry might be you?'

Sherlock forced down another swallow. 'I'm not the marrying kind.'

'I don't believe for a second that you wouldn't be for him.' Sherlock rolled his eyes, praying that London's criminal underground might be so kind as to begin a killing spree on the street outside the pub and save him from this mortifying conversation. 'He knows, Sherlock. He's got to know.'

'Current events would suggest that to be inconsequential information.'

'You weren't here. You don't know what it was like. He was devastated, mate. We almost lost him. After you left, he didn't want to live anymore.'

'And then he met Mary and all was right with the world. I have figured this out already, you know. It's not an arduous conclusion to cultivate.'

'You know, for being a genius and all, you're incredibly stupid. Do you really think she replaced you? Don't be daft; he loves you.'

'Oh, for God's sake!' The table wobbled under the force of his fist, tiny splashes of foam flecking his hand as his lager settled. The pub went quiet, all eyes on their table. Lestrade's gaze hadn't faltered. He waited for the mundane conversations to pick back up and lowered his voice. 'You are swiftly entering territory into which you are not welcome. My relationship with John is my own affair: mine and his and no one else's. I can assure you he is more than content where he is. Mary is the most suitable candidate for the post of his partner that I have yet to encounter. Yes, that includes me. I'm not about to muck that up for him just because you seem fixated on true love finding us in the end. What's done is done and I'm not jeopardizing his future for my gain. There's been quite enough of that already, wouldn't you say?'

'So you don't deny it.'

'Deny what?'

'That you're in love with him.'

He growled and knocked his head against the table. 'It's not important, Lestrade.'

'It's not important that you're in love with your best mate and he's in love with you and he's planning to get married to someone else in three days' time?'

'Nope.' He sat up again, his lips popping on the plosive. 'As I said, your concern is appreciated. But the fact of the matter is that my leaving is what set this whole farce in motion. I'm in no position to question his motives or tell him what to do.'

'And the fact that you only left to protect him is, what? Just window dressing?'

'More or less, yes.'

Lestrade gaped at him. 'I can't believe I'm hearing this.'

He sighed. 'Don't.'

'You're going to let the best thing that ever happened to you walk out of your life because you're too scared to fight for him?'

'You're being absurd. John is not "walking out of my life". He's not dying; he's getting married.'

'To someone else.'

'To Mary, yes. Lovely woman. I believe you've met her.'

'But he's your match!'

'He's my friend.' His eyes narrowed. 'Honestly, you sound like one of those ridiculous novels Mrs Hudson goes on about. Why do you care?'

'I care about you. Both of you.'

'Then leave it alone.'

'No.' Sherlock arched an eyebrow at him. 'You need each other.'

'I am at John's disposal in whatever capacity he requires me.'

'Shut it.' Lestrade glared, an accusing finger aimed at Sherlock's chest. 'You're a coward.'

He scoffed on a laugh. 'I'm what?'

'You are. You're a bloody coward.'

Sherlock sputtered. 'I am respecting John's position!'

'No, you aren't. You're backing down because you don't want to face up to how much you hurt him.'

'Really, Lestrade, tone down the dramatics-'

'He nearly jumped into traffic because of you, and instead of spending the rest of your life making it up to him, you're throwing in the towel and letting someone else clean up your mess.'

Sherlock drained his glass. 'I don't have time for this.'

'He loves you. He's a good man and he deserves to get whatever he wants. But that's too much to ask, isn't it?'

'I'm leaving.' He stood and tugged on his coat.

'It's just too much to ask that John Watson actually gets to be happy, even if it is with an arse like you.'

Sherlock tapped the table and forced a cold, polite smile. 'Good evening.' He grabbed his scarf and headed for the door.

'You owe me five quid, you tosser!'

'It's closer to twenty now, actually. Do keep up.' He shoved open the door and stepped into the warm London night.

His pulse was racing. That wouldn't do. He flipped up his collar and walked back to the empty flat, attempting to silence the ringing in his ears.