Angst and booze, huzzah!

Lestrade knocked on the door to the flat twenty-five minutes after the end of their phone call. Sherlock answered the door, though reluctantly, because while he wanted help, he wasn't sure what a "man-to-man" exactly meant. The only friend he really had besides Lestrade was John and Molly (he regarded Mrs. Hudson as more of a surrogate mother), and he couldn't have a man-to-man with Molly, and any attempt at acting like "mates" with John always wound up feeling wrong.

Sherlock opened the door.

Lestrade was standing there with a friendly smile, but concerned look on his face. "Hey, Sherlock."

"Oh, for god's sake," Sherlock nearly burst out, his anxiety getting to him, "you look as if you're visiting me on my death bed. This isn't that serious."

"You called for help; it is serious," he said gravely.

Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked over to his chair, sitting down with more force than necessary.

Lestrade came in and shut the door. "You said you have whiskey?"

"Top cupboard on the left," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms. He didn't drink often, but John liked to have alcohol in the house. He drank more than he used to, but not enough for Sherlock to be worried. Yet. He had a chart documenting John's alcohol use, so he was keeping track of it.

A minute later, Lestrade walked into the sitting room with the whiskey in one hand and two glasses in the other.

"You're drinking, as well?" Sherlock asked.

"Just a little. If we're going to be talking about your feelings, I'm going to need it."

Sherlock huffed and glared at him, but he knew Lestrade was at least half-kidding.

Lestrade poured a glass and handed it to Sherlock, and then sat in John's chair with his own glass in his hand. He placed the bottle on the small table next to John's chair.

Sherlock looked at the glass in his hand and then drank half of it in a single gulp, the liquid burning his throat.

"Easy," Lestrade warned, "we both know how much of a lightweight you are."

A reminder of John's stag night was not welcomed. A part of him regretted not acting upon his feelings that night, but if he did, John would have probably reacted similarly to a few days ago.

"Tell me what brought this on," Lestrade reclined in the chair, taking a sip from his glass. "What made you call me now?"

Sherlock kept his eyes on his whiskey. "The case last weekend," he said.

"Something happened then? You two seemed fine when you left, way too pleased with yourselves as usual after a case."

"We had been," Sherlock agreed. "It was afterwards when everything went downhill."

"Okay," Sherlock saw Lestrade nod out of the corner of his eye. "So, where did you go after you left?"

"We were heading home when I challenged John to a race." Saying that out loud made him feel like the child Mycroft often accused him of being. Sherlock drank more whiskey, the event he was about to recount threatening to make his face heat. "We fell in an alleyway and since we were feeling the effects of adrenaline, we made unwise decisions and engaged in activities that John was apparently not prepared for." He kept his eyes resolutely on the glass.

"Is that Sherlock-speak for saying you shagged in an alley?"

Sherlock drank more.

"You did," Lestrade said, his tone 85% astonished and 15% amused. "All it took was a bloody alley for you to actually act on something?"

"Are you going to spend the entire conversation like this?"

"No, sorry. You said something about John not being prepared for it?"

Sherlock nodded. "We were interrupted by a passerby before we...finished." His fingers tightened around the glass. "That seemed to snap John out of it." Being forced to remember what happened made Sherlock's heart feel like stone. He drank the last of his drink. "He said we should forget about it," he said quietly. That hurt the most. He could understand being startled, but John regretted touching Sherlock enough to act like it never happened.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Lestrade swore angrily. "I can't believe that!"

Sherlock looked at him, and Lestrade did look angry. Sherlock was torn between feeling satisfied he had someone on his side, and his instinct to defend John. "He probably has his reasons."

Lestrade shook his head, mouth set in a grim line. "That's a load of shite, Sherlock. What did you say to that?"

"Nothing, really. I don't think it would have helped."

Lestrade was shocked. "You let him say that to you?"

Sherlock didn't know how to feel about that.

Lestrade just shook his head. "He's been crazy about you for years, and he just turns on you like that? It isn't right. It doesn't make sense, either."

He's been crazy about you for years. Sherlock replayed the sentence several times in his head.

"Sherlock, you with me?"

Sherlock turned his attention back to Lestrade. "Yes, sorry."

"You're not getting drunk already?"

"No." He felt the tiniest bit tipsy, but that was all. Tipsy. But talking about this situation made him need more. He stood from the chair and grabbed the bottle from the table, feeling just slightly lightheaded, but that could be attributed to getting up too quickly. He filled his glass and put the bottle back, choosing not to acknowledge Lestrade's gaze.

Sherlock drank more.

"Sherlock, be honest with me. How long have you, well…?" he waved his hand.

"What?"

Lestrade drank more. His glass still had a quarter of liquid in it. Maybe Sherlock was going too fast. "You know, felt this way?"

Sherlock swallowed. "A long time," he said simply. He couldn't exactly pinpoint when it started. It was hard to remember a time when he didn't belong to John. His chest felt odd right now, a combination of heaviness caused by sadness and a nervous fluttering caused by confessing his feelings to Lestrade, of all people. It felt very odd, indeed. He drank more.

Lestrade sighed heavily and leaned forward in the chair, looking at Sherlock directly. "I've known John for years, not as well as you, but well enough. We've gone to the pub a few times, and you know what he talked about every time we went out?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"You, you sod. He always talked about you. That says something. I'm not a consulting detective, but I am a D.I. for a reason," he joked lightly.

"I know that," Sherlock said. "You're very good at your job."

Lestrade's eyes widened and his lips formed a small grin. "Well, you must be getting drunk if you said that," he chuckled.

And maybe Sherlock was starting to feel the effects of alcohol, because instead of being moody, he allowed himself to smile.

Sherlock refilled his glass again, feeling more lightheaded when he stood up this time, and Lestrade turned down his offer for another glass.

"That's enough for me. It's early the early afternoon and I do have to stop by the Yard later."

Sherlock sat down and drank.

"Slow down," Lestrade told him.

"I'm an adult," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, but I've only been here for about ten minutes and you've drank more than you usually do in a month."

Sherlock drank more spitefully.

Lestrade sighed in exasperation. "All right, I'll get to the point. I don't know for sure why John reacted that way, but if I had to guess, I'd say it's probably got to do with Mary."

Sherlock scowled at hearing her name. "What the hell does she have to do with it?" He didn't bother to hide his contempt for her. There was no point anymore.

"He was completely betrayed by her," Lestrade said, as if Sherlock needed a reminder. "Maybe he's afraid to get in another relationship."

"I wouldn't betray him," Sherlock said at once.

Lestrade pressed his lips together and looked down at the floor. "Sherlock, you did."

"When?" he snapped.

"The whole Moriarty business?"

"That was three years ago!" he threw his arms in the air, almost spilling the whiskey in the process.

"You still hurt him badly," Lestrade said firmly, eyes shooting up to Sherlock's. "I know why you did it, but it doesn't change facts, Sherlock."

The usual guilt he felt with that whole incident filled Sherlock. "All I could do is apologize and not leave him again. I've apologized, and I won't do anything like that in the future. What more do you want?"

"I know. I'm just saying."

An uncomfortable silence descended upon them.

Mary could have had to do with it. It was always her. Even in absence, she haunted them. There could have been other things influencing John. Something Sherlock always thought presented itself. "Do you think it's because I'm male?"

Lestrade's mouth twisted into a grimace. "I mean, I don't know. He's got Harry, right? He doesn't seem to think that way."

"That doesn't mean much," Sherlock said glumly.

"It might not, but I just don't think so. You, uh, did more than kiss? I don't need the details, but a straight bloke wouldn't do-whatever that was-with another man."

That made sense. "I suppose not," he lowered his eyes.

"And he had, well, experiences."

Sherlock's eyes snapped up. "What? What are you talking about?"

Lestrade realized his error. "Forget I said anything."

"Tell me," he demanded, sitting on the edge of his seat.

"No, Sherlock," Lestrade said sternly. "John is still my friend and he told me not to."

Sherlock slumped back in the chair. "I know everything about him. What is he keeping from me? Why is he keeping it from me?"

"I don't know, ask him. Are you planning to talk to him about this?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted. "It may make things worse, but I can't imagine living with this hanging over our heads. We act like it didn't happen, but it did. It did and it's in everything we do. How could he expect me to just delete this?" He was starting to babble. "I was obsessed with finding out his bloody middle name, and he expects me to delete kissing him? He must truly be an idiot. He must know how I feel," he sat up and put his arms on his knees, rubbing his face with his hands. "He must know. I kissed back. And more. There was more."

"All right," Lestrade said gently, holding up his hands. "Don't get yourself all worked up," he took the whiskey out of Sherlock's hand. "Enough of this, okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock rolled his eyes, which made his head spin. He felt very warm. Warm and increasingly disoriented. This is why he never drank. He really was a lightweight.

Apparently he said that out loud because Lestrade laughed. "Yeah, you are. John is, too, but you're probably the worse I've ever seen."

"I've got a much higher tolerance for drugs," Sherlock said.

"I know," Lestrade said uncomfortably.

That wasn't a good thing to say. "You haven't told me what to do yet."

"Well, you definitely shouldn't drop this. Both of you will be miserable."

"Clearly."

Lestrade thought for a moment, fingers drumming on the arm of John's chair. "I think I have an idea," a smirk slowly spread across his face. "Something that'll give you a push, since you blokes are pathetic on your own."

"Well, what is it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"I have to work out the details," Lestrade said, standing. "I won't tell you until I know I can work it out. Don't want to get your hopes up."

"I need to know now," Sherlock insisted. "John's going to come home and I'll have to be around him and not act upon all this," he referred to his abhorrent emotions. "What do I do when John comes home?"

"Listen, I have to go. I'll text you one way or the other, okay? For now, keep doing what you're doing."

"What, mope around the flat like a heartbroken teen?"

"I meant keeping calm." Lestrade looked at him with true sympathy. "I know this is hard for you. You love him, yeah?"

Sherlock looked away in shame. Thank god he wasn't sober for this. Lestrade was smart when he suggested alcohol.

"No, it's okay. You haven't done anything wrong here. Just-give me a day or two, okay? You two are my friends, and like hell will I deal with you pining and all that crap around each other for the years to come."

That put a small smile on Sherlock's face. "Okay."

Lestrade mirrored his smile. "Hang in there. I'll be in touch." He grabbed the whiskey bottle. "No more of this tonight." He walked into the kitchen and put the bottle back.

That was a good idea. If he drank anymore, he might throw himself (literally) at John when he came home from work.

"That's why I put it back," Lestrade said.

Oh. He must have voiced that thought, too.

"You did," Lestrade nodded. "You really have the tolerance of an old woman."

"That's not true," Sherlock defended. "Mrs. Hudson holds her liquor admirably." That didn't help his case, did it?

Lestrade snorted. "I don't doubt that. See you later, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, Lestrade." Lestrade just came over to help. He shouldn't be ungrateful. "Thank you," he added quietly as Lestrade opened the door.

"Don't mention it," Lestrade said over his shoulder and left the flat.

Sherlock was irritated at Lestrade's cryptic plan. He got up, stumbled a little, and went over to the sofa. He threw himself on it, turned on his side, and held one of the pillows to his chest. He felt warm and tipsy. There were a few hours until John came home, so Sherlock allowed himself to close his eyes and rest.

Sherlock felt a warm hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. He groaned and kept his eyes closed, shuffling closer to the back of the sofa.

"Sherlock?"

It was John. John!

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. John was standing there, hovering over him.

"You okay?" he asked. "You don't usually nap in the afternoon."

"'m fine," Sherlock mumbled, words thick on his tongue. He was right: he had been only tipsy because he had a small headache, easily ignorable, as opposed to the blindingly painful hangover he experienced the morning after John's stag night.

John put his hand on Sherlock's forehead, brushing the damp curls away. It was the most they had touched in days. "You feel warm."

"I'm not sick," Sherlock rolled onto his back, looking up at John fully. "Just drunk. Well, I was."

"You got drunk?" John asked in alarm.

Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Relax. I was actually buzzed at most."

"It's just unusual for you," John said warily.

"Would you rather I used cocaine?"

Sherlock wished he could take back those words as soon as he said them.

As expected, John's face contorted in anger. "Don't, Sherlock," he nearly spat. "Don't fucking go there."

Making John angry wouldn't help anything. "I'm sorry." He ran his hands through his hair and ruffled his damp curls, which had been sticking to his temples.

The anger simmered down in John, though it was still there. "Why were you drinking?"

"I just felt like it," he lied.

"You never just feel like drinking."

"Why do you care?"

His temper flared up again in an instant. "Maybe I'm concerned for you?"

"Hard to believe."

"What?" he asked in indignation. "Why?"

Because you left me in a cold alley. He held that back when he thought of Lestrade's theory, that John was internally struggling. "Nothing," Sherlock sunk into the cushions. "Never mind. My head just hurts."

John heaved a sigh and shook his head. "I wish you would tell me what's wrong."

John was a smart man, but sometimes he could be so obtuse. Sherlock looked him dead in the eye. In the low light of the late winter afternoon, John's eyes were almost dark enough to be mistaken as brown. John licked his lips. Nervous tic.

"Is it really that difficult to deduce?" Sherlock asked, his tone colder than intended, not breaking eye contact.

John opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed. "I," he cleared his throat, "don't know what you mean."

Sherlock remembered Lestrade's implication about John's sexual history. What was he hiding? Sherlock couldn't deal with it now. He stood up and walked to his room, not saying a word, and went in his room.

If they just talked, their problems would be over. Ugh. I'm frustrating myself.

Also, I think we can all agree Sherlock is the biggest lightweight in the history of lightweights.