Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. It belongs to BBC.
A/N Sherlock may appear a little OOC but well, that's the point ;)
Thanks for all the reviews and favs for the first chapter ^^
Tara: Thanks, I tried my best. I hope Lestrade won't disappoint you now. I'm not overly confident writing him, even though I adore him in the show XD
NyteKit: It wasn't Lestrade but I hope you like the progress of the plot anyway ;)
...
Lost and Found (?)
...
John didn't like shopping, he never had. Sure, he tolerated that but would rather do without it. Anyway, it was unimportant as John loved Sarah and therefore was more than willing to sacrifice a day of his life looking for a suitable present for her. Honestly, he was enthusiastic to do so. For about as long as it took to get to the shops. Then he recalled clearly what was so frustrating about shopping: making choices, especially choosing things not for himself, but for Sarah. What was a right gift for the first anniversary?
He was getting desperate, having already visited more than ten shops and still empty-handed, losing his carefully built confidence with every next talk with helpful shop assistants. Rationally thinking it was hardly their fault he found every item too tacky, too small, too big, too flashy, too old-fashioned for Sarah, but it wasn't exactly what he'd call a comforting knowledge.
Resigned after yet another shop, he decided to take a different approach. Rather than walking in every shop he passed, he would choose those that would catch his attention, either with their names or colourful windows. He was scanning the street ahead of him when a figure coming out from the shop on his left made him forget all about his newest tactic.
A young man with a mop of curly hair was wrestling with several shopping bags trying to type on his mobile. Finally, after three attempts at both strolling down the street and texting he had to lean against the nearest railing.
John took advantage of that forced delay and swiftly made his way towards his ex-flatmate. He had no idea what he would say, how he should greet Sherlock after all those months but his joy at seeing him again was too strong to leave any place for planning or worrying.
"Sherlock!", he called out when there were only few steps between them.
Sherlock's head jerked up and for a moment he looked absolutely clueless about who may be calling him but then his eyes focused on John and his lips slightly twitched upwards.
At least he wasn't walking away yet.
"John", he acknowledged the doctor with a short nod, pupils still boring into the smaller man, "Nice to see you."
John was officially too happy with that. Not only Sherlock was talking to him after the Disaster but he was also trying to be actually polite.
"It's not the usual place I'd imagine meeting you", John chuckled, pointedly looking at the shops surrounding them.
"I don't fancy walking around in rags", Sherlock applied the same light tone, "What do they say? Appearances, appearances."
That made John take a short peek at his ex-flatmate's looks. Definitely not rags. Tight jeans (since when did he wear jeans?), a trademark tight shirt, short jacket…
"What happened to the coat?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It's spring. Too warm even for the sake of maintaining an image."
"You look smaller without it", John blurted out without thinking it through. Really, they should be having a different conversation…
"And I'm still over a head taller than you", Sherlock put his chin up. "So, how's the shopping going? Do you have any idea what to give her?"
Here we go again.
"How do you know I'm shopping for a gift for Sarah?", John wasn't truly surprised at the question but was rather uncomfortable discussing anything concerning Sarah with Sherlock. Wasn't that the sore spot so to speak?
Sherlock gave him an exasperated sigh.
"You'd never choose this place to shop for yourself. And as you have no children, a feud with your sister but you have a wife I'd say it's pretty obvious", the man smirked, "As obvious as the fact you have no idea what you should buy."
John felt a pang in his heart.
"So you got the invitation?"
Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.
"Invitation?"
"Yes. The invitation to the wedding you apparently ignored", John clarified a little too hotly. He'd really hoped Sherlock would come. It may have seemed a bit heartless to ask a man who had a crush on you to be your best man but Sherlock was the only person he considered close enough to him for that role. The dismissal had hurt.
Sherlock deposited his bags on the pavement.
"I didn't get any invitation", his speech was much slower than usual, "I'm sorry. I no longer live in the Baker Street."
"I sent a text too. In fact, I sent several texts", the lameness of the excuse reminded John how cruel his friend was. And how little he cared about others.
Sherlock shrugged, looking almost apologetic and fished out his mobile.
"I changed my number."
"That's not an explanation. You should have sent me the new one."
John was watching keenly how his friend seemed to slump down in front of him. Such an actor.
"I would have", Sherlock assured, "Had I not lost my old mobile. I didn't have your number written down anywhere else."
"Lestrade has my number", John wouldn't let it rest this easily. He may have hurt Sherlock with rejecting his feelings but at least he'd always been honest. Sherlock, on the other hand, was clearly playing him false.
"If he does, then you should be aware that we don't exactly keep in touch", the frost was back in the man's voice.
That was something that had been bugging John for some time now.
"I know", he admitted, "But I wonder why you no longer wish to assist with his cases."
Sherlock bent down to pick up the bag which contents were beginning to fall out.
"Is that what he told you?"
"Well, isn't that the truth?"
"It is", Sherlock straightened up, "I simply thought he'd make up something more dramatic."
A pause.
Then.
"Did he tell you anything else?"
"No, he didn't", John shook his head. The DI had never wanted to address this matter after the initial talk. "Why did you decide you no longer wanted to help him?"
Sherlock shifted, then smiled a tight smile.
"It was getting too boring. Predictable. Come to a crime scene, you have five minutes, I won't put your name into the report. And again, come here, get there, do all our work. I wanted to do something else."
"You were never bother by that before", John frowned, "Whether or not your name is recognised. You always told me it's cases that interest you, nothing more. Certainly not what others thought."
"I still don't care", Sherlock almost looked as if he'd just been caught, "It's more about the process. It was the same every time, repetitive. Crimes may be inventive, but not the Yarders' methods."
"You didn't follow their procedures", John insisted.
"But I witnessed them. And they'd always try to hamper with my own methods."
John was far from being convinced but let it go. Maybe he no longer had the right to inquire about Sherlock's motives.
"I see", he offered, "So what do you do now? Got yourself a cosy nine-to-five job as the Bart's?", he couldn't resist this small jibe. Sherlock and a regular job. Please.
The man didn't take the bait.
"I'm a private detective."
"You detest them", John reminded flatly.
"I wouldn't call it like that."
"But you did."
Another silence. Stretching into unbearable silence.
"Well", Sherlock started, "Only a cow doesn't change its mind. I realised that being a private detective gives a lot of opportunities I just couldn't miss."
Hard to believe.
"Maybe. Still, as far as I know private detectives are rarely involved in homicide cases."
Sherlock gave him a mocking look.
"John, you sound like Donovan. Unless you're careful you may become Anderson's friend soon."
"That's not what I meant", John gritted out. Christ, that was taking it a little too far. Anderson! "You said it yourself that you always wait for serial killers or innovative murders."
Sherlock dismissed it with a flicker of hand.
"Believe me, my new cases are just as exciting."
"And probably better-paid", John noted grimly.
"Why would I care about that?"
"Because it must be nice not to rely on Mycroft."
"Sure", Sherlock laughed, "It must be."
His mobile beeped. Scrolling down the text, Sherlock's frown deepened.
"I got to go now", he tossed, "My client's waiting for me."
John wondered what he was planning to do with the bags.
"Shall I wish you good luck?", he suddenly wanted to keep Sherlock by his side for a little longer.
"You can", unfortunately, Sherlock had never been the one to be stopped, "I will solve it either way. Tell Sarah I said 'hi'. And you really deserve that new job, the old clinic was an offence to your skill."
He winked and disappeared in the crowd of passer-byes.
...
It was just past seven when John left his and Sarah's flat. Wrapping a scarf tightly around his neck (it may be spring but evenings were still chilly and there's nothing worse than a doctor falling ill in a silly way) he made his way to a pub four streets away. When he came in, Lestrade was already sitting at a table, nursing a pint. John smiled. It was relaxing, having a habit. And it was a habit, them meeting here every week.
"I've met him today", he said as soon as he was within Lestrade's hearing range.
"Met who?", the DI looked up from his beer, "That knee guy?"
"He found a new surgeon", John chuckled, remembering his troublesome patient. It was probably against the accepted code of a doctor's behaviour but he was unspeakably glad he had managed to get rid of the man. "No, I've seen Sherlock."
Lestrade put his pint down.
"What is he up to?", the DI asked apprehensively and John had to grin at him. It was remarkable, how it was the first thing people worried about when Sherlock was mentioned. Never 'how's he?' or 'where did you meet him?' but 'what he's gotten himself into this time?'.
"Playing a private detective", John provided off-handily, watching for Lestrade's reaction.
"Really?", the man sounded genuinely surprised, "That's good to hear", definitely better than 'he's sleeping in the gutter, barely conscious'. That'd been a picture haunting the DI since his last encounter with Sherlock. Only…
"Are you sure he's a private detective now?"
That was what John had been waiting for.
"He said that."
"Because you know, we tend to know about such people", Lestrade continued, as much for his sake as for John's. He wanted to believe it with all his heart but he had long ago learnt to be sceptical. "We sometimes bump into them while collecting evidence or interrogating… Sometimes a witness would let it slip. We monitor their activities, more or less, as we don't want to find them destroying the evidence or alerting culprits. They can be unprofessional at times."
"And you haven't heard of Sherlock.", John finished for him.
"No. I guess I should have." It was natural to assume Sherlock would have done something to draw Lestrade's attention to him. His own way of saying 'I don't need you. I can do it all by myself'. The DI couldn't understand why he hoped for that.
But it was still very good news that Sherlock was alright and apparently hadn't let his talent go to waste. As much as Lestrade would wish to meet him himself he was trying to convince himself that having this story told by John was equally heart-warming.
"But I'm sure he has his ways of staying unnoticed", he assured John whose face had lost its spark. "How is he?", he couldn't restrain himself. He silently prayed he would hear that Sherlock was his usual self, not the staggering addict he had thrown out of the crime scene.
"OK I think", John frown in concentration, "Nothing has changed. Infuriating as ever".
Come to think of that, Sherlock hadn't been as insufferable as John would have expected him to be. He hadn't insulted him, his sarcasm had been relatively feeble and he had been strangely subdued. But that must have been because of the Disaster. John hadn't been dumped by any of his significant others (those one-night stands didn't count) so he couldn't really say from autopsy, but maybe his rejection had made Sherlock act like this. His friend must have felt uneasy in his company, as if he had expected John to address his foolish confession any moment. John had to scowl at that: he had far too much sympathy to try to remind Sherlock of his misplaced feelings. That was the very same reason for which he would not bring it up now in the presence of Lestrade.
"That's… Comforting", the DI grinned.
He couldn't really tell John about his fears. As far as he knew, John was blissfully unaware of what had followed his disappearance from the 221b and he suspected that Sherlock would prefer it to stay this way. If he had gotten himself under control and back to his usual self, Lestrade had no right to ruin the reputation he had in John's eyes. Despite what he told all witnesses in his job, he would remain silent about what he had seen.
"He's currently on a case", John carried on, "He left in a hurry."
"I hope he won't forget his head rushing onto one of his chases", Lestrade felt compelled to reply in a similar tone. He was itching to ask about Sherlock's excuse for not attending John's wedding, but again decided it's not his place to inquire. What if Sherlock had not been fit, so to speak, to turn up? What if John's abrupt urge to leave the Baker Street had been more complex than a simple desire to be with Sarah?
"He may forget his hands, but never his head", John noted imagining Sherlock forgetting about any sort of weapon while going after an armed criminal.
"If I'm unlucky enough I may soon hear about him", Lestrade made a face.
"Stealing your cases again?"
"God I hope not. I've been working for some recognition here", the DI smiled picking up his pint, "Wouldn't want the brat to steal my show."
John had known all about Lestrade's recent successes. It had turned out that even without Sherlock's help the DI was more than capable and resourceful. His team had solved several cases in the last few months and Lestrade had been starting to get more and more applause from his superiors.
"How's the investigation going?", John stole a peanut from a small bowl near Lestrade's elbow.
"Closed", Lestrade didn't look half as pleased as he should, "The suspect finally confessed after we'd collected all the data."
"Congratulations", John realised he didn't have a pint to raise.
"Thanks", Lestrade snorted.
"Something went wrong after all?"
"No, all was perfect. Too perfect. So perfect I got delegated to a banquet as 'the most promising man at the Yard'", Lestrade had been boiling with the need to get it out of his system.
"At least they're no longer pretending not to notice you and your team."
"They should have better given me a pay rise, not an invitation to a party."
"They care about your social life."
Lestrade huffed, so John continued, "People dealing with homicide tend to have terrible social skills. They worry you'll begin to yell at your witnesses."
Lestrade glared, "Sod off."
"That's exactly what you told that poor woman last time. See what I mean?"
"I thought she was from the press."
Lestrade had such a miserable face that John had to laugh.
"I'm glad to see you find me making an idiot of myself that funny", Lestrade scoffed, grinning, "You should regret you won't see me at the banquet."
"It can't be that bad. You deal with murderers, surely few local upstarts won't scare you."
"It's at the City Hall", Lestrade sounded sour, "The Mayor, the Assembly members, some politicians. All of those people who actually have some power and few sods like me invited there in acknowledgement of their 'service', who should feel grateful for being given the chance to look at the first category."
John winced.
"Do you have to go?"
"Have you tried saying 'no' to my boss?"
"No."
"Well, I have. I didn't see a day-off for a year."
...
Lestrade hadn't been lying when he had been telling John he had no wish to go to the banquet. He didn't expect to meet anyone he knew there, much less someone he knew and could talk to for longer than five minutes. He had spent three days fretting over the state of his suit (or rather had begun to fret over it after Sally had seen it), then he had grown desperate enough to offer he'd take Sally's night shift if only she would change places with him. Of course she hadn't and (the ultimate betrayal) she was even driving him to the Hall, least he cowardly ran away in the last moment.
"Enjoy yourself, boss", she waved at him after pushing him out of the car.
"I swear you're not going to see a field work for a century", he mumbled nervously playing with the buttons of his coat.
But she only smiled and drove away.
Technically, he could still run away under the pretext of a sudden attack of indigestion. It may even become true unless he stopped this trace of thought now. He was so engrossed in the idea that he almost punched a man who patted his shoulder.
"Lestrade? Gregory Lestrade? I'd never thought I'd meet you here!"
Awkwardly, Lestrade shook his hand with the Mayor's secretary. He had met the man once before, on a case and he could swear the secretary knew more gossip than all old ladies from London put together.
"I can't really say the same about you", he smiled and felt himself be led towards the entrance. So much for the sudden indigestion.
...
The man was driving him mad. Lestrade could agree with the point that it was in his job's description to gather as much information as possible but he truly didn't share Paul's need to know everything about everybody, certainly not the details about who slept with who or whose dog had cost the most. He was beginning to understand what Sherlock might have meant every time he had said he'd been bored to death. Lestrade was reaching the peak of boredom, slowly losing contact with the reality when a man who had just stepped into the lounge caught his attention.
"What is he doing here?", he blurted out before he could bite his tongue.
Paul followed his line of sight and then turned back to him with a new-found respect.
"The Mayor is one of his friends", the secretary provided in a pretty posh accent he definitely hadn't been using before. Funny how Mycroft Holmes influenced people.
"Right", Lestrade snorted, sure that the elder Holmes may have surpassed his brother in the number of his friends. Or rather the lack of them.
"You know each other?", Paul sounded like a school girl. Lestrade had to hide a grin that was forming on his lips.
"You could say that. We've met four times."
Yeah. Once when he had arrested Sherlock for possession, once when Mycroft had unsuccessfully tried to retrieve his brother from Lestrade's flat, once when Sherlock had contaminated the evidence what put his boss on a killing spree and once Mycroft had come to 'ask' for excluding one particular name from the report. Lestrade was sure he could have sent one of his minions but given it had been his brother's name he may have felt compelled to personally take care of that.
But Paul didn't have to know that his relation to Mycroft Holmes was reduced to more or less saving his wayward brother's arse. Judging by the secretary's expression the sole fact he recognised the man made him an ace of the British intelligence. He could work with that. He could certainly got used to the look of pure admiration.
Then, a new figure appeared just behind Mycroft, more scurrying than strolling after him. It took Lestrade a good minute to recognise Sherlock. The man (boy? He looked awfully small, even with his impressive height) was wearing a suit but something was wrong with the picture. His hair seemed a bit longer than he could remember but not even bordering on untidy, his complexion was white, not pale but that might be because of the dark suit… What was amiss, then? The way the first two or three buttons of Sherlock's shirt were unbuttoned? But the man never bothered with ties or bowties, surely he would have ignored Mycroft's advice to dress accordingly to the occasion. The way he appeared to be skeletal in his tight clothes? But his clothes had always been tight before.
Then it finally hit Lestrade. Of course! It was the figure, the entire posture. Sherlock was making a great effort to look unobtrusive… No wrong. It didn't seem to be a conscious act on his behalf, he was looking subdued, nothing similar to the way he would normally barge into a room as if he owned it, creating his own aura of power. He looked like a lost child now, following his older brother, basking in his glory but for nothing more than using it for protection. What was he trying to achieve? No one who had ever met Sherlock Holmes would buy this act.
Lestrade decided to risk it.
"And who's that?", he motioned to Sherlock with his head.
Unsurprisingly, Paul made a face. Sherlock always lived to expectations.
"Mr Holmes's escort for tonight", he provided reluctantly, causing Lestrade to choke on his own saliva.
"Pardon me? Escort?" That was a very unfortunate choice of words.
"Yes", Paul didn't seem to get what was wrong with that in Lestrade's opinion, "His… Partner."
"Partner", Lestrade repeated dumbly. Sherlock would have a feast hearing him now, "Partner as in…"
"As in partner. Lover. Though the term 'boy toy' is much more suitable."
"Come on", Lestrade gave Paul a long blank stare, "You must be kidding me. A boy toy?"
Sherlock Holmes, a boy toy? Of his own brother? Next thing he'd hear was that China was joining the EU.
"I trust that's the word", Paul declared, then lowered his voice, "He's been assisting Mr Holmes to most of the events recently and as far as we all know, Mr Holmes is providing him with everything…"
"Yes", that Lestrade was ready to believe. As far as *he* knew, Mycroft had been supporting Sherlock financially since before he had met him. "But that hardly means they're you know… An item. A lot of people give others an allowance." For the lack of the better word.
"But not many pay back with kisses, do they?", Paul sneered.
Kisses? That was getting ridiculous.
"What's more", Paul babbled enthusiastically, "Rumour has it they're relatives. Can you imagine that? Mycroft Holmes having an affair with his relative, now that's something worth mentioning…"
"As you said, it's a rumour", Lestrade interrupted him sternly.
Paul immediately caught up on the inclination.
"Of course, I'm sorry. I realise you and Mr Holmes are good acquaintances… No, no, don't give me that look, Detective Inspector, what I want to say is that's alright. Even if it's true, which is probably not, no one will mind Mr Holmes sleeping, to be a little vulgar, with his own cousin or brother. But you must know that Mycroft Holmes is not a person who has to abide to any social rules. He's indispensable, in the best meaning of that world, I mean…"
The secretary's stuttering voice was making Lestrade's skin crawl.
"Alright, I get it", he cut in, suddenly irritated, "Mycroft Holmes has so much power no one would dare to raise objections to his private matters. Right?"
For a fleeting moment he fantasised how would it feel to be Mycroft Holmes. But then he remembered the man's forced fake smiles and he abandoned the idea.
...
He was helping himself to refreshments when a steady, overly polite voice rang in his ear.
"Oh, Detective Inspector Lestrade, what a surprise."
Lestrade didn't spare Mycroft a glance.
"It must be a great surprise indeed, considering you must have inspected the guest list quite closely, had you not prepared it in the first place", he finally turned back to be greeted with one of Mycroft's trademark smiles.
"I can understand my brother's willingness to work with you given your sharp wits", another long, mocking drawl.
"He has a soft spot for sharp wits", Lestrade replied not losing a beat, "That must be a reason he's acting as your boy toy now. Really, Mycroft, that's a bit low, even for you", he hoped he's not signing his death warrant. He may be being paranoiac, but if he had ever been truly and deeply afraid of anyone in his life it must be the man he was facing.
To his shock, Mycroft's face fell.
"So you've heard."
"It doesn't seem to be a secret round here", Lestrade pointed to the lounge's occupants with his head.
"I guess it's not", Mycroft was resigned.
It was nagging Lestrade to shake him.
"You're not making it a secret", he scorned, unreasonably offended by the brothers' 'relationship'.
"Probably not", the man shrugged. "You look angry, Inspector. I don't blame you, I'm hating it myself."
"Oh really?", Lestrade couldn't keep a mock out of his voice.
"Yes", Mycroft affirmed emotionlessly, "But what would you have me do?"
"Well, not treat him like a kept boy, dragging him after you to banquets?"
Mycroft's features hardened.
"And what exactly makes you think it's me dragging him?"
Lestrade blinked. Surely Mycroft wasn't implying…
"Yes, my dear Inspector, it's not my idea. I resent it as much as you do."
"Please, don't try to make me believe it's Sherlock who wants to be your boy toy! He detests you!"
After Lestrade's quiet outburst, both men turned to look at the younger Holmes, now chatting with a young woman near the side entrance. Sherlock was actually smiling at her, clearly keeping the conversation entertaining and pleasant. Sherlock. Was. Keeping. A. Pleasant. Conversation.
Lestrade shook his head to get himself under control.
"Why?", he managed to choke out.
Mycroft looked grim.
"Now, 'why' is a good question. I'm afraid I can't provide you with an answer, though. I believe you've known my brother for long enough to realise his motives are highly obscure to those involved in his schemes."
"You want me to believe that he turned up on your doorstep one day and demanded you made him your lover."
Mycroft tsk-ed.
"Lestrade, try being more insightful. Apparently, he's not my lover. I'm not perverted enough to take my own brother to my bed, it's simply a ruse."
"Why would he want to act as your lover?"
"My boy toy. His words exactly", Mycroft pursed his lips, "I'm fairly certain I've already told you I don't know. I'm also positive that you're aware how difficult it is to say 'no' to my brother. He decided it's a perfect game for now. He gets to use my money freely, he's constantly destroying the harmony of my house and work, I have to take him to all the important events I attend. In return, I'm getting my reputation ruined."
"If it's so, why are you letting him?", Lestrade narrowed his eyes.
Mycroft gave him another tight smile.
"I don't wish to find out what he'd do if I turned him away."
Lestrade opened his mouth only to close it again. He took a discreet peek at Sherlock again. Yes, he could see Mycroft's point, he had witnessed several self-destructive actions on Sherlock's part. If he was set on being somebody's boy toy (why? Did he need money? What for? Drugs? No, Mycroft wouldn't allow him) it was probably for the best that Mycroft was his choice. He might have actually seduced some stranger, not that anyone other than his brother would be willing to put up with him for long. And it was very like Sherlock to be inconsiderate of what his act was costing his brother.
"It's kind of you to worry, but utterly unneeded", Mycroft's smooth voice brought him back to present, "I could probably marry my own mother and no one would call it offensive."
Lestrade could swear the man was reading his mind.
"They may not say it aloud, but they certainly think so", he noted.
"I don't like to be viewed as a victim, but call it a willing sacrifice on my part."
With that, Mycroft walked away.
...
Using the first opportunity he got, Lestrade approached Sherlock. The man hadn't been aware of his presence until they were separated by a mere step. Only then did he turn towards Lestrade. His eyes widened comically and the DI was positive he was ready to bolt.
"Nice ruse you have going there, Sherlock", he said in a way of greetings.
"You've spoken to Mycroft", Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Yes, I have. One gets curious when he learns his friend has become his own brother's lover."
Sherlock seemed to collect himself quickly.
"I may be mistaken", he started in a tone that may it clear he wasn't, "But it's none of your business. And as far as I know, friends don't kick each other out of a crime scene."
Was he still mad about that?
"You were putting us all in a pretty messy situation", he pinned Sherlock with a hard glare, "I may be willing to reconsider it if you're clean."
Sherlock chuckled, his dark curls shaking. Lestrade eyed him warily.
"I live with Mycroft, for heaven's sake, how do you imagine I could get away with drugs?", he looked genuinely amused.
"I guess you couldn't", Lestrade admitted, feeling suddenly light-hearted. So the pallor was just the effect of the black shirt.
"I couldn't, Big Brother and all of that."
They looked up, measuring each other. Brown eyes scanned the thin figure in front of him with barely hidden warmth, while the blue ones were inspecting the other man closely, surgically. Lestrade was beginning to get uncomfortable.
"You have far more grey hair than you used to."
Trust Sherlock to compliment you.
"It's called 'aging', Sherlock", Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Not something I can control."
"I've never said it's a bad thing."
"And I didn't say…"
"No, you didn't. But you thought about it. You're probably ashamed of it, but I can't really understand why. It could be so much worse", a dramatic pause, "You could look like Mycroft."
To say that Lestrade was taken aback was an understatement. He almost died of shock when Sherlock kept staring at him with something akin to apprehension until the DI felt obliged to smile. It was as close to a compliment that he would ever get from the young man. To make it even weirder, Sherlock grinned at him.
"I've talked to John", Lestrade decided that it was time to change the subject. For all he knew, he might have been reading too much into Sherlock's words. His experience told him that Sherlock rarely paid much mind to what left his lips.
"So have I."
"He's been worrying about you all that time", Lestrade wouldn't let the matter drop. John had been getting frantic without any news about Sherlock and the DI himself had had nothing to comfort him with.
Sherlock didn't grace him with a reply. He just carried on staring at him, his arms tightly crossed. The air conditioning must be bothering him, given his flimsy garment.
"You didn't reply to the wedding invitation."
"I didn't *get* it", Sherlock glared, "And I've already had this talk with John, so leave it."
Lestrade pressed his lips into a tight line, turning to a buffet next to them. He pretended to be interested in the salads, keenly aware of Sherlock's eyes locked on him. Lazily, he began to move to his left, further and further away…
Four swift steps and there was Sherlock hovering over his shoulder. Predictable, after all. Lestrade had to fight down an urge to grin.
"Have you told him about the Notting Hill case?", the young man couldn't keep nervousness out of his voice.
Oh, so that was what had been bothering Sherlock from the very beginning, his image in John Watson's eyes.
"No, I haven't", he assured, seeing no point in delaying it, "I think that it should be your decision, whether or not to inform him."
Sherlock stepped back a bit, then started to inspect the buffet himself.
"A 'thank you' would be in tow", Lestrade snapped.
Sherlock tilted his head to him, a frown marring his forehead.
"I have nothing for which I should feel grateful."
Lestrade felt his insides getting hot. What had he been expecting? Gratitude? Not with this man.
He huffed.
"I could have told John you're an incurable junkie."
Sherlock gave him a curious look.
"And why should I worry about that? You already think so."
With that, he returned to the buffet.
Lestrade's mouth twitched. Just what was that? Another failed attempt at maintaining the 'sociopath' persona or a subtle hint that Lestrade's opinion was valued more than John's?
Shrugging the matter off for a later consideration, Lestrade put some Greece salad on his plate. He was turning to find a fork when an olive was snatched from it.
He gave Sherlock a hard glare but the man only smirked.
"I like olives."
"Take the salad then."
"But I only like olives."
Recognising a fight he couldn't win when he saw one, Lestrade simply helped himself to some beverage. Then… Another olive was stolen. He ignored it. From what John had told him, disappearing food was an often occurrence in the Baker Street.
Another one.
And another.
"You shouldn't be letting me", Sherlock informed, chewing at the olive.
"What choice do I have other than punching you?", Lestrade snorted.
"Surprise me. But I'm actually being helpful, people may talk and you may not find it pleasant. After all, eating from one plate is usually considered a part of flirtation."
"You're not flirting with me", Lestrade clarified, blocking a hand reaching for his plate.
"It's irrelevant. I'm a boy toy, that's what I'm expected to do: trying to hit on everything that moves and looks relatively handsome and wealthy."
"Thanks God I'm not wealthy then", Lestrade murmured under his breath.
"But you're handsome", Sherlock took advantage of the puzzlement his words created and snatched the last remaining olive from the plate.
"Thief", Lestrade said to hide his embarrassment. Sherlock (no surprise here) didn't seem to be moved in the slightest. "Your sugar daddy may not appreciate that."
"He may want to increase my allowance to keep me at his side", Sherlock replied eagerly.
Too eagerly. And too playfully.
"Speaking about which, Sherlock", Lestrade's tone changed to serious, "I don't know what you're playing at *and* I probably don't want to find out, but maybe you should be a little bit more considerate to your brother."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed almost unnoticeably.
"He hardly deserves my consideration."
"You're using him. Without any thought about the consequences."
"I've never been good at consequences", Sherlock shot back.
"Maybe it's time to grow up."
"I'm taller than you."
"It's never been about the *height*. I mean it, Sherlock, people are bound to find out you're his bloody brother."
Lestrade doubted that would get to Sherlock but he felt compelled to try anyway.
"No one's foolish enough to try to check up Mycroft", Sherlock sounded sour, "Even if they do, no one is foolish enough to try to use it against him."
"They're already talking…"
"People do little else", Sherlock was clearly being defensive there, a bit of wavering creeping into his voice, "They need a proof."
Lestrade could only shake his head. Did Sherlock truly believe that? If so, he was even more immature than he'd thought.
"They don't need a proof. Rumour can destroy countries, an individual stands no chance against it."
Why was he so desperate to make Sherlock see reason? Was it for Mycroft's sake or Sherlock's? Why did it bother him that Sherlock was seen as nothing more than a rich man's plaything? It was his own choice, for Pete's sake!
"Mycroft *is* the government. Almost a country. I think I'll take the risk", he was ready to leave, but Lestrade quickly grabbed his arm.
"If you need a cover, find someone else."
"What? Are you offering?", Sherlock's eyes were mocking, "No, Lestrade, I *need* Mycroft", he wrenched himself free from the hold.
How can one word hold so much venom, loathing, desperation and regret?
...
A/N Comments? Feel free to inflict your opinion on the world ;)
