A/N: This is the longest fanfic I've written in a while - it's a work in progress, but I have it mostly planned out so hopefully it won't take long to get it up.

Summary: John Watson and Lestrade both lost the man they loved. They toast their friend and find comfort in each other until they both heal enough to move on. John gets married. Lestrade gets divorced. And then Sherlock returns.

Includes: Slash, bit of porn with plot. Post-Reichenbach. FWB!John/Lestrade, married!John/Mary, hinted queerplatonic!John/Sherlock and unrequited!Lestrade/Sherlock feelings.

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For two weeks, Dr. John Watson avoided booze. He'd never had any problem with alcohol personally but he knew alcoholism ran in families. His sister's experience and his own depression could easily prove fatal if he gave it the chance, so he didn't. No wine. No brandy. No rum. For two weeks.

For two weeks, Dr. John Watson avoided people. Three times a week, he texted Harry, but just one text each time. Even after all she'd done, he knew she didn't deserve to think he was dead. He was still very much alive.

And everything hurt.

But after two weeks, it hurt less. Everything would probably always hurt. The pain faded a minute bit every day, and if it were to follow that pattern, he'd never be fully over it. Depressing as hell.

A few people had tried contacting him within the first few days after it happened. Mrs. Hudson called, left him voicemails asking when he wanted to come back to get his things out of the flat on Baker Street and to tell him he was always welcome – to visit or move back in. Sarah and Jeanette both called, leaving voicemails with their condolences. Even Mycroft had called, left a voicemail just to inform John that his observation status had been raised, on the chance John was thinking about doing anything stupid. Lestrade had called, just once, the day of the funeral – he hadn't left a voicemail.

That always stuck in the back of John's mind. Why hadn't he left a voicemail? He wasn't terribly concerned, but he did find it odd.

For two weeks, Dr. John Watson didn't leave his flat. Because he barely ate, he managed to make his meager food supply last an entire week - but when it had finally been exhausted, he had dared to open the front door. On his welcome mat sat cans of vegetables, a loaf of bread, a few boxes of pastas, and a jar of spaghetti sauce. A note revealed it as a gift from Mycroft Holmes – "Take your time, John." He was still furious with Mycroft, and indeed blamed him for what had happened, but damn if he hadn't almost melted at the sight of the food. Giving John a few more days of isolation had earned Mycroft slightly less hatred and while he didn't think he'd ever fully forgive him, John found himself wondering if respect for John's grief was proof that Mycroft was hurting, too.

One day, Thai food was delivered to John's flat, already paid for.

On the fifteenth day after it happened, John's phone rang. He glanced at it, with no intention of answering it but curious to see who it was. His heart leapt to his throat when he saw it was Lestrade. He thought about answering, just to see what he had to say, but it stopped ringing before he had made up his mind. He sighed. It was better that way, really. He wasn't ready to talk to anyone just yet. Closer, yes. Much closer. But not quite there.

After twenty seconds or so, his phone beeped again and suddenly he felt inexplicably nauseous. Lestrade had left a voicemail.

He stared at the phone, his heart pounding just a bit too loudly. Why was he nervous? Lestrade didn't have Mycroft's guts – he had to know how bitter John felt towards him for what he'd done and simply lacked the nerve to make contact before. It had taken him two weeks to scrape together the courage. That seemed perfectly normal. Easily explained. Didn't take a bloody genius to deduce that.

He picked up the phone and looked at it. "3 Missed Calls. 1 New Voicemail." Both the other calls were from Mrs. Hudson, earlier in the day. Biting the bullet, he checked the message.

"Hey, John, it's Greg Lestrade. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier, but I've been worried about you and I figured you were probably getting bombarded by well-wishers. I, er, I miss him. And you. Was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime soon. Get a drink or something. Or I could meet you at your flat, or you could come here. I want to see you. I know that's asking a bit, considering the part I played the last time I saw you, but I want to talk to you. About all that. I'm sorry, John. Hope you call back."

John took a deep breath as he rung off the phone and sat back in his chair. A minute before, he couldn't spare the energy to answer a damn phone call, but he suddenly wanted little more than to see Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He typed out a text message, revised it a dozen times and ultimately decided on:

"I think I want to see you. Everything is still mostly too much. My old flat, 135 Gower St. 8pm?"

He set the phone down without sending the text and stood up. His leg hurt a little - more than it had in well over a year - but he hadn't resorted to using his cane again. He walked in a circle around the little room. Then he walked the circle again, and again. Ten rounds later, he added, "Bring booze," and sent it on its way. Then he sat down and fidgeted. He didn't have long to wait. It took less than a minute before his phone beeped.

"Thanks. See you then."

He looked hurriedly around the flat. He had three hours to clean up the place he hadn't left in fifteen days - it looked (and probably smelled) rough. He got to work, overtaken by a new sort of energy, like he'd been bottling it up for two weeks. He gathered up the dirty dishes he hadn't washed since, well, since he'd moved back. He picked up the few articles of clothing he had tried to wear before ultimately abandoning everything for his sweats, tossed them in the hamper. He stripped off his t-shirt, caught a whiff of his own smell, and almost gagged. How long had it been that bad? How could he not have noticed?

He dropped his pants and quickly got into the shower. The water hit him and he involuntarily let out a moan. Damn it felt good. He scrubbed away the grime, the dust, and stretched his arms and back in ways they hadn't been stretched in a while. He must have lost track of time - when he finally shut off the water and stepped out, an hour had passed. His jaw dropped when he saw the clock.

It took almost the full two hours for him to ready the flat and get dressed. He changed his clothes a few times, not sure why he cared so much but wanting to look nice. His face, he found, was drawn and lined. He looked like he'd aged ten years. After studying his face in the mirror for a minute, he avoided looking at it again.

He ultimately decided on jeans and a button-up shirt - decided against the jumper Sherlock used to tease him about - not ready - and stayed barefoot. As eight o'clock grew closer, he imagined not opening the door for Lestrade. Hide in a corner. Don't answer. He shook his head, no, he couldn't do that. If it turned out he couldn't open the door, which did feel like a real possibility, he would at least speak to Lestrade to explain. He had to.

Finally, too soon, finally, there was a knock on the door. It was fine. John took a deep, easy breath and opened the door.

Lestrade was holding a large brown paper bag to his chest and a take-out bag was hanging from his other hand. He lifted the take-out bag.

"Didn't know if you'd eaten," he muttered, "figured if you had, you could have this another time."

John struggled to take another breath - it felt caught in his throat. He fought the urge to close the door in his face. Instead, reluctantly, he stepped back and motioned for Lestrade to enter.

Lestrade hesitated. "You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah," said John, hoarsely. He tried to clear his throat, gone gravelly from neglect. He tried again: "Yeah, come in, please."

Lestrade nodded and stepped inside. He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He set the bags on the little table and shrugged off the jacket. He looked tired, John thought. Probably work had gotten a lot worse the past two weeks. And if he was fair, he knew Lestrade had been going through a decent bit of grief too.

Lestrade glanced casually around the flat and turned to John. He nodded a few times, awkwardly.

"You look good, John," he said. He didn't bother hiding the surprise in his voice.

"I can still take a shower," John muttered as he took Lestrade's coat to hang on his desk chair. "Things okay at work?"

"Bloody awful at work. Hungry?"

John considered himself as he turned to look at Lestrade. "Yeah," he said. "What'd you bring?"

They laid out plates and utensils and John got them both wine glasses and glasses of water. Lestrade set out pastas from a local Italian place down the street and gave John his choice of spaghetti or fettuccine alfredo. He put garlic bread on a plate in the middle of the table. Then he uncorked a bottle of wine he'd brought, a red wine from California whose smell hit John immediately. Lestrade poured them each a glass and they settled down to eat.

The food was delicious and they ate in silence for a while. They both knew what they'd be talking about later and the dread made it a little difficult for John to swallow - but the silence wasn't awkward. He was even enjoying having someone around.

About half-way through the meal, as Lestrade was pouring them each another glass of wine, he started to talk.

"This could be a ridiculous question," he said, "but how've you been?"

John almost smiled. He shrugged. "You're the first person I've seen or spoken to in two weeks. Mrs. Hudson is having to get updates on me from Harry because she doesn't text and I can't answer the phone, no matter how much I want to talk to her. Hope you didn't take it personally that I texted instead of calling back."

"Oh, no, I was glad to get a response at all. I was, y'know, worried you would reject me entirely." His eyes were pleading, with a touch of something else. It took a moment for John to realize it was heart-break.

John sighed softly. "You don't think he had anything to do with those kidnappings, do you?"

"God, no," Lestrade breathed. "I never did, not really. My job was on the line, once the superintendent got involved." He leaned forward on the table. "You have to know, John, I loved him. And I trusted him more than anyone."

He was begging for John to understand. John realized with a pang that he was using John as a way to get to Sherlock - getting forgiven by one was as close as he could get to being forgiven by the other.

"I know," he said softly. "I went on cases. I watched you two...interact. You knew how he worked. You did exactly what he said to do, you made everyone do exactly what he said to do, even when it made no sense at all."

Lestrade looked at him for a moment before saying, "I don't have to tell you he was brilliant."

John hesitated and then held up his wine glass. "To brilliance," he said. They clinked glasses and both drained them. Lestrade poured out more and held up his glass.

"To having a madness to his method."

They went back and forth this way, taking about three toasts per glass. Lestrade had to open another bottle of wine. The toasts became gradually more specific, more personal.

"To the times he insulted you but you knew it was really a compliment."

"To the way he laughed and looked at you, the few times you knew that he knew that you knew what he was talking about when no one else did."

"To the way he was never bothered by people thinking we were a couple."

"I'll just second that one," said Lestrade with a chuckle and he took another drink.

"What, people thought you were dating him?"

"Oh, yeah. Someone put up with him before you came 'round, you know. We were never like you, though. We were never as close as I would have wanted. He kept me at a distance. But you weren't the only one who noticed I followed him blindly. Thought it was weird, they did, this detective inspector taking orders from a young crackhead he found on the streets. Guess they thought it'd make more sense if we were shagging."

"Is that - really how you met?" John asked and he chewed on his lip, the wine making him incapable of hiding the pain in his eyes.

Lestrade looked like he regretted what he had said. "Yeah, it is. But you know I didn't think of him like that. That's how other people on the force thought of him, especially back then." He raised his glass again. "To second chances, for those who deserve them." They drained their glasses and Lestrade emptied the bottle, giving them each particularly large final drinks.

"To relationships that can't be labeled by conventional means."

"To happiness in utterly the weirdest places imaginable."

"To those - blasted - cheekbones."

They both dissolved into giggles at that and when they collected themselves, they noticed they only had enough wine for one more toast.

Lestrade raised his glass. "To Sherlock Holmes," he muttered softly and John repeated it. They clinked glasses and drained them. John put his glass down on the table rather harder than necessary. Lestrade lowered his glass slowly.

John ran his hands through his hair. The room was spinning nicely and he felt good, despite himself. He reached over and covered Lestrade's hand, still holding his wine glass, with his own.

"Thanks," he said. "I needed this."

"So did I. He made life so difficult, you'd think things would be..." He didn't finish the sentence but John nodded.

John sighed and then stood up, intending to put away the rest of the food, but the alcohol rushed to his head and he stumbled heavily. Lestrade's hand shot out to grab his arm but that threw him off balance even more and he fell all the way to the floor, dragging Lestrade with him. They lay on the floor next to each other for a moment before the giggling started and then they had trouble stopping.

"S-sorry," John said when he could manage it. Lestrade waved it off, still grinning broadly. He reached out and took John's hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze. Without a thought, John rolled over and rested his head on Lestrade's chest. Lestrade wrapped his arms around him.

They relaxed like that for a minute, just listening to each other breathe. Then Lestrade placed a kiss on John's forehead. It was innocent but it made John's breath catch.

John leaned up on his elbow, his face hovering inches above Lestrade's, studying his eyes and cheeks and lips. "This is a bad idea," John muttered.

"I'm married," whispered Lestrade. He looked frightened.

A beat passed before John said, "I'm in love with Sherlock."

Two beats passed and Lestrade confessed, "So am I."

That was all it took. John slowly leaned down and brushed his lips against Lestrade's. Lestrade moaned softly and deepened the kiss, his hand finding its way to the back of John's head. Their lips opened and tongues rolled together sensually.

This was just part of it, John thought as he ran his hand across Lestrade's chest. They needed to drink, to laugh, and to toast everything about their friend. They needed each other to heal. And this was just the next step.

John's wine-addled mind first got lost somewhere when the sweet kisses turned more passionate, when clothing started coming off. He was aware of crawling on top of Lestrade, of grinding their hips together, of Lestrade's short, hot gasps in his ear. He could remember Lestrade scratching his back, too hard but not hard enough; tasting Lestrade's body, his neck, nipples, naval, cock. He remembered Lestrade flipping them over and working magic with his lips, covering John's body and finally landing on his cock which ached and which Lestrade soothed. He remembered bucking against his mouth. He remembered cumming.

The last thing he remembered was begging, pulling Lestrade's ear to his mouth and begging, for Lestrade to fuck him and Lestrade getting two fingers inside him, stroking his prostate. After that, his memory failed him.