Inspector Gregory Lestrade moved in his sleep, he was having a crazy dream. Then, as his senses started to understand where he was, he opened his eyes slowly. His mobile phone was ringing, that wasn't part of his dream after all. He reached a clumsy hand to grab it but it stopped. It was dark outside, middle of the night. The luminous digits of the clock marked three in the morning. Who the hell was calling him so late on his day off? As he reached for the phone again, it started buzzing and ringing on his hand. A bit more awake now he read the name on the screen. Sherlock Holmes. What did that crazy bastard wanted from him at a time like that? Lestrade picked up.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other side didn't say a thing for a minute and only when Lestrade called his name did he speak.
"Lestrade…" he said. His voice was drowsy. "I don't know what to do."
For a moment there, Lestrade could swear he was crying.
"Sherlock, are you alright?"
"Yes, yes. I am. I don't know. What do I do?"
The inebriation was quite audible this time.
"Are you drunk?" the inspector asked, sitting on his bead, almost sure he would have to leave the house to help the consulting detective. In all the years they had been associated he had never seen him drunk. Drugged yes, but never drunk. "Where are you?"
"No, I am not at home." The other one answered.
"You are not at home? Where are you then?"
"No, I am at home."
He was making no sense. He was obviously drunk.
"I mean I am at home, but I am not drunk." Sherlock said, the effort in his words visible.
"Yeah, sure you aren't. Do you want me to meet you there? Where's John, are you home alone?"
It took a moment for the other to answer. Lestrade got up, picking a shirt from the closet. Sherlock seemed to have fallen asleep on the phone and he better go see what that was all about.
"No." the voice had returned. "He is not at home."
There was resentment in the way he said the words.
"He went on a date."
Date was pronounced as if it felt like poison on his mouth. Lestrade put the shirt down and sat on the bed again. He was sure he knew now what this was all about. John had gone on a date and Sherlock was now drunk. He sighed. There are things that look so obvious and yet…
"Okay, John went on a date. Then what?"
"He hasn't returned yet. I don't think he will sleep at home." Sherlock informed.
'Ah.' Lestrade though. So, that was the problem. Some people are just so stubborn. And Sherlock had never showed any kind of interest for anyone, nor would he admit it if he did. 'I consider myself married to my work' was his answer. But, a few drinks later, Sherlock was just a man, like any other.
The cry had restarted, louder this time. It was strange for Lestrade to be on the other side of the phone with the coldest man he knew, hearing him cry.
"Sherlock, I am listening. Whatever you have to say, I am here." Lestrade said. It seemed like the only thing to do in a situation like that.
The other one tried to muffle the sounds and recovered quickly.
"I love him." Sherlock whispered, sniffling. "And he doesn't see it. He just goes out and leaves me here all alone. I love him."
Then, as if that had been the last straw, Lestrade heard the phone being turned off. He placed his phone back on the nightstand and considered going to 221B Baker Street and take care of Sherlock. But, knowing him like he did, he knew that wouldn't be a wise decision. Sherlock needed to be alone right now and, to his own good, Lestrade would pretend this call had never happened. Sherlock was drunk, so with luck he would forget it as well.
Lestrade looked at both men many weeks later, in front of him now. Sherlock had apparently been withholding evidence again but this time, instead of calling his whole team to perform the search, Lestrade had come alone. He was also worried about Sherlock. The night before he had called him again, this time saying how much he missed John, who was away on a conference. None of those calls had ever been discussed, Sherlock pretending he was too drunk to remember, Lestrade too embarrassed to bring them up in conversation. The truth is that he was sort of tired of seeing the looks those two shared, but it was not his business to interfere. Maybe one day they would stop being stubborn all at once. Sherlock had never denied being in love with John, but his strange ways of showing any kind of affection didn't help, and John had always insisted in the fact that he was not gay. So Lestrade could only imagine the calls would continue.
Sherlock was mad.
"It's the second time you come here on a drug's bust. I already told you I don't take drugs anymore."
Lestrade shrugged. He didn't care. As long as he kept evidence away from him, he would get into his apartment with whatever reason he found more acceptable.
"You have something. I know you have evidence and you refuse to give it to me, Sherlock. I cannot comply with that. If a drug's bust is what I have to do to find what I want, then I will do it as many times as necessary."
"But I don't have evidence!" Sherlock shouted, hands in the air, losing his patience.
"It's true." John said. "He doesn't. I just got here this morning; he was sleeping on the couch, same clothes he wore three days ago. He hasn't been out of the apartment for three days at least."
"Then why did you tell me you had evidence?"
"I did?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes." Lestrade said, impatient now. "Yesterday, when you called me about John. You said you would present me with evidence if I heard you."
The words came out of the inspector's mouth before he could think about what he was saying. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise.
"I was… drunk."
John looked from one man to the other. Lestrade looked embarrassed, as if he regretted the words he had just said and Sherlock was taking quick glances at him, annoyed.
"You drank?" John asked. He had never seen Sherlock drunk. What if he had actually taken drugs behind his back as well? "Are you taking drugs again, Sherlock?"
"No!" Sherlock denied.
John looked at him, doubt in his face now.
"I didn't." Sherlock said again. "You have to believe me, I didn't!"
He had come closer. Too close. The expression on his face was begging for belief. John's expression didn't soften. A long time ago he had found a solution in the apartment. Cocaine. How could he be sure Sherlock wasn't taking drugs again, how could he know for sure?
Then he thought about the last three days. Going to the congress had helped sort out an awful lot of things. Why the dates never worked out, why he pretended not to understand the flirtatious words his colleague at the conference had given him, discreetly inviting him to join her in her hotel room. Deliberately he had refused. Instead, he had gone to his own room to think. Every time he went on a date with somebody lately, he ended up comparing them to Sherlock. Something wrong was happening and he had trouble dealing with it. The three days away had made him sure. It wasn't something easy to accept, but it was not as if he had a choice. The decision he had made had been probably the most difficult of his life and went against everything he had ever believed. He had missed Sherlock and it was not just the normal kind of missing a friend. It was an ache he hadn't felt for years, a longing, a need to come home and say more than hello, and do more than just set the kettle on and prepare him some tea. It was lust and passion.
And now Sherlock was looking at him like that, begging for him to believe him.
"I love you."
The words came flooding out and John didn't even know why he had said them. Sherlock was looking for belief, not love.
Lestrade saw as the look on Sherlock's face changed. It was awe and confusion and doubt. Those were the words he had probably been longing to hear for a long time, but now that he had them, he didn't know what to make of them. He had never been good with feelings and expressing them had never been a choice. Finally, after many drunken calls at three in the morning, it all had come to this. Lestrade smirked, waiting. The two men were looking at each other now, not moving and completely forgotten that he was there as well. Oh, he wouldn't miss it for the world.
"Lestrade, get out."
Sherlock's voice was demanding, with no room for retort. The inspector passed them and smiled, but they were still looking at each other, eyes locked.
Lestrade never knew exactly what happened on that night, but as he walked in the flat with Mrs. Hudson for yet another Christmas' party, he saw the two men sitting by the window, holding hands. He had never seen Sherlock embrace the Christmas spirit so well. The antlers and the happiness suited him. And so did John.