A Study in Triplicate
In his defense, Sherlock hadn't really expected John to react the way he had. Or at least as… strongly. John had always displayed a healthy sense of humor ("Nothing. Just… welcome to London."), from the mundane warmth of their kitchen to frigid Thames-side crime scenes; surely, Sherlock reasoned, he would find the whole situation somewhat amusing. Perhaps his flatmate would be a bit ruffled, a touch annoyed, perhaps even a smidge vengeful. Nothing more terrible than a few days with no tea, or a skipped cleaning day, or – at the very worst – an experiment getting "accidentally" thrown out.
But this. This was something different altogether.
"It's not my fault he's so thick," Sherlock muttered, swinging upright abruptly from the couch and leaning his elbows on his knees to gaze across the room to his skull. "Anyone with half a brain and one eye could tell."
Even as he said it, he knew it was unfair; but the deeply-rooted knot of childishness twined into his psych rejected it, pushing it away, and he sank his fingers deeply into his curls and pulled. Why, oh why, did his flatmate have to be so stupidly, obstinately difficult? Sherlock growled under his breath, just loud enough to almost miss the electric buzz of his phone where it lay forgotten in the kitchen. He held still, breath hovering unbreathed in his lungs and throat.
Bzzt.
With a satisfied huff, Sherlock swept from the couch and into the kitchen, stalking like an elegant stork, all legs and arms and arched neck. His phone only ever buzzed twice for one person. Scooping the phone from the counter, he slid the screen from the keypad with one brisk flick of his thumb.
Is John there? He seemed a bit off when he left. L
"'A bit off'?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, fingertips already flying over the keys.
That's putting it mildly. Yes, he's here. What in God's name did you do to him? SH
The answer was almost immediate. I didn't do anything! Maybe that's the problem. L
Sherlock scowled, and resisted the urge to send the sudden explosion of unrelated letters he'd mashed onto the keypad with an errant thumb. I'm a genius consulting detective, not a fortune-teller. What. Happened. SH
Almost as soon as he'd fired off the text, his phone began to buzz steadily. LESTRADE flashed across the screen in pale bluish-white. With a sigh, Sherlock let his thumb slide across the accept, and brought the Blackberry to his ear.
"Couldn't manage to text it to me, could you?"
A sigh crackled through the line, and Sherlock could picture him perfectly: rumpled suit, phone to his ear, other hand scrubbing through short silver hair, sprawled on his couch in his flat. They'd finished the case early this morning – around four a.m. to be precise – and Sherlock could practically see his weary face in the reflective blur of the window he stood in front of, all drawn lines and dark brown eyes drooping with weariness.
"It's a bit of a long story, Sherlock. I didn't fancy wearing my thumbs down trying to type it all out."
Something warm and safe spread like a hot water bottle through Sherlock's body at the sound of Lestrade's voice, and he felt the stiff set of his shoulders ease minutely. "Fine," he said crisply, trying to hide the affection in his tone. Greg would see right through it, of course, but he had to at least make a token attempt. "Do tell."
Another sigh, with a deeper-throated groan hovering in the background. "Christ. I think it was the most awkward thing I've ever done – except for getting the 'hurt him and I'll ruin your life' talk from Mycroft. Did he say anything, before?"
"Said he was going for a beer or two with you," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "Seemed harmless enough."
"But?" The word was almost a growl, and it sent a spark down Sherlock's spine that was definitely not warm and fuzzy.
"I… had my suspicions," Sherlock admitted reluctantly, slumping against the counter.
"Suspicions? Bloody hell, Sherlock, and you didn't even say anything?"
"I didn't know he was going to actually try and pick you up," Sherlock snapped. "He's been interested – don't look like that, Lestrade, I get enough of that at crime scenes – he's had a slight crush on you for a few weeks, but John is singularly good at keeping things from me. If I'd had the tiniest doubt that he had anything in mind today other than friendship, I would have stopped him."
There was a slight pause, and Sherlock's stomach dipped abruptly with nerves before Greg's voice reasserted it. "I don't believe you. You'd keep quiet just to see what would bloody well happen. And I won't ask how you know what my expression was, I really don't want to know."
"For heaven's sake, Greg, I've known you for years," Sherlock said smoothly, choosing to ignore the first part of that statement. "Of course I can predict the expression on your face." It had started out brisk and disdainful, but somehow when Lestrade's given name slipped out, the words turned thick and syrupy with unrestrained affection. Sherlock made a face and cleared his throat. "So you went for drinks. Then what?"
"There was a match on, rugby, which we both played at uni, so we watched that for a while. Had a good discussion about the teams and the bollocks ref. Thought he might be flirting, but I didn't want to jump to conclusions – that's your area, not mine."
Sherlock gave a brief huff of derision, but didn't say anything.
"Anyway, as we were leaving, he asked if I wanted to go for coffee sometime. It seemed innocent enough, but… well, he holds his liquor well, for being so short, but I know the look on a man's face when he's blatantly interested, and John definitely was. It… gave me a bit of a turn. I wasn't expecting it, really, I thought he knew. About us. So I blurted out something about how I thought he knew I was going with you, and he turned absolutely white. I thought he was going to keel over for a second." He sighed again, and Sherlock could hear, faintly, the rasp of calloused hands on stubble – firm, strong hands, warm hands, so warm on his skin and rough in all the right places– "Then he made some weak excuse and took off. I wanted to apologize, to say something, but I had no idea what. I thought he knew, Sherlock. So then I got a cab and came home. End of story."
Sherlock closed his eyes and let his fingers drift lazily to his mouth as he turned the problem over in his head. At first he didn't realize Greg was calling his name, his musings blocking out everything else, but then SHERLOCK was shouted into his ear, and he jumped violently. The phone leaped from his hand and skittered across the counter before he managed to grab it and snatch it back from the edge.
"Greg?"
"Christ, Sherlock, you can't just drift off like that," Greg snapped, a touch shakily.
"I was thinking," Sherlock muttered rebelliously.
"Yeah, well, it's been a rough week." There was a broken pause, and then Greg spoke again, softer. "I want to see you."
Something clenched in Sherlock's chest, and he rubbed at his sternum absently. Emotions were so inconvenient. Fortunately, Greg more than made up for it. "I want to see you, too. Do you…"
"Come over. If John doesn't mind," Greg added in a stammer. "Is he…?"
"He's in his room," Sherlock replied dryly. "Apparently he's not coming down for twelve hours. I'd say we have time." He sprang upright and strode for the door, snatching up his coat. "I'm leaving now."
"Wait – what?" The alarm in Greg's voice gave Sherlock pause, and he wavered halfway down the stairs.
"Change your mind already?"
"No, it's just – the flat's a mess, I'm a mess, God, I can't remember the last time I changed my shirt…"
Sherlock barked a laugh and continued down the stairs. "Greg. Please. We've known each other for almost six years. I know what you're like after a rough case, it's hardly going to scare me off now."
"Yeah, all right. See you soon then, wanker."
A perfunctory farewell, and Sherlock was tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket and swirling out the door, leaving the staircase quiet and still behind him. But not quite empty. Two floors up, John sank to the top step and laid his head against the wall, hair still wet from his shower and the corners of his mouth pinched unhappily.
I've never heard him call Lestrade "Greg" before, he thought, and pressed a fist into the sour ball of envy sitting heavily in his stomach.
