When John came downstairs the next morning, he was actually surprised Sherlock was not still sitting on the floor, back leaned against the couch, deep in his Mind Palace. The tea John had made remained untouched on the coffee table.

John turned the corner into the kitchen and noticed Sherlock's bedroom door was open. "Sherlock?"

No response.

In his slippers and robe, he wandered down the hall to the sound of silence. Sherlock's bedroom was empty, bed made. When John walked back to the sitting room, he noticed his flat mate's Belstaff was gone.

Sherlock was gone.

John felt as though his heart had taken up residence in the base of his stomach. It didn't take a sociopathic genius to guess where Sherlock had headed: to see Lestrade. Perhaps he'd made up his mind. Perhaps John had not made the cut. He fell into his chair and stared at light streaming through the window, bits of dust floating like ashy remnants of a house fire.

Then, downstairs, John heard the front door to Baker Street swing open. Heavy feet stomped up—not Sherlock; Sherlock moved like some sort of elegant panther up steps. The door to 221B swung open, and a disheveled Lestrade stood there, huffing for breath.

His brown eyes scanned the room until they rested on John, and he stood up straight and looked nervous. "Dr. Watson."

John stood up straight, too, but they didn't stare at each other like fighters sizing up an opponent. It was more like an awkward dance of the eyes as if neither man wanted to spend too much time appraising the other—wondering what Sherlock saw in him.

"Is Sherlock …" Lestrade gestured around the flat with his hand.

"I thought he was with you," John said.

Lestrade yanked at his tie, trench coat askew. "No. I need help on a case, and he's not answering his bloody phone."

Well, John knew that was highly out of character for the consulting detective.

Lestrade tilted his head and looked up at John from below his brows. Then, he sat on the couch and put his hands in his gray hair.

Oh, John thought, so we're having a conversation. He opened with the only thing he thought appropriate: "Do you love him?"

"Bloody hell," Lestrade muttered. He rubbed his forehead like his head suddenly hurt. He sighed. He sniffed. He looked toward the windows.

"It's all right if you do."

"Is it?" Lestrade said.

John felt like an idiot, standing there in his ratty robe, trying to have a serious chat with the very man whose existence could possibly destroy his only chance at happiness. "Sherlock says … your wife, she's unfaithful?"

Lestrade held his hands up as if about to be shot. "Well, we both are, aren't we?" His shoulders slumped. "First time I saw him, know what I thought?"

John could imagine several things.

"Who even has cheekbones like that? And how does a man that thin have such a plush arse?"

John snorted—couldn't help himself—which at least made Lestrade look up, his eyes a bit lighter. John sat down in his chair. "Yeah, I think I had a similar first impression."

"He can be an absolute git sometimes, right? Arrogant sod." Lestrade shook his head. "You think he has no concern for anyone but himself, but you just know he would jump in front of a bullet for you. He's ... Do you love him, John?"

So they were past formalities, past playing games. He said, "If I don't, I'm dangerously close."

Lestrade nodded. "He doesn't look at me the way he looks at you. Sure, he's all hands and passion when he's in the right mood, but he doesn't watch me—study me—like he studies you."

John leaned forward in his seat. "Sherlock studies me?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed. The whole squad has."

"Sherlock says I see but don't observe."

"Well, he might be right, mate." Lestrade wrung his fingers. "I saw you two. In the alley. It's all right if … I understand if you …" He stood and tugged a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don't even know what I'm bloody saying."

"It's Sherlock's decision," John said.

"What is?"

"I don't share." He may have gone a bit heavy on the Captain John Watson voice, but he wanted Lestrade to understand. John wasn't trying to take Sherlock away from him, but he wanted Sherlock to be his and no one else's. It was Sherlock's call.

Lestrade seemed to understand all this, because he let out a long, slow breath, interrupted only by the sound of the door opening downstairs. The two men glanced at each other over the sound of Sherlock's lithe feet climbing the steps to 221B. Of course, their silent standoff immediately ended when Sherlock crossed the threshold covered in blood.

Lestrade and John started shouting.

"Jesus!"

"What in God's name!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the haughty image was destroyed when he slumped sideways, and John caught him with a hand around his waist.

"Sherlock …" Lestrade's hands were on either side of Sherlock's face, studying his bright blue eyes, which was when John noticed the source of the blood: a deep cut near the consulting detective's hairline.

John led both his flat mate and Lestrade—who clung to Sherlock's shoulder and kept cussing—to Sherlock's chair before rushing off for the first aid kit. When he came back, Lestrade knelt in front of Sherlock, one hand on his chin, staring up at the injured crime fighter like he was giving off heavenly light. They were speaking softly to each other until Lestrade stood up and shouted, "You broke into my office?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said as John started wiping blood from his face to get a better look at the injury that was losing an alarming amount of blood. "I needed a case."

"Sherlock, I was on my way here to give you that exact case."

"I needed it sooner. And I solved it. You're welcome."

"You can't just break into my office!"

Blood staunched, John finally got a look at an impressive gash. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"My head hit a table," he responded as if that should be obvious.

John sighed and started disinfecting the wound. "You probably have a concussion."

"I'll give him a concussion," Lestrade said, hands on his hips. "Running off by yourself. Sherlock, I have begged you not to do that."

John assumed he was the only one in the room who heard the desperate tenderness in the DI's voice. He pressed gauze to Sherlock's head, and he didn't even wince. His left eye did wrinkle a bit, but that was because he seemed to be focused intently on the man yelling at him.

"Lestrade, why are you spinning?" he said. Sherlock then threw up on the floor.

Concussion diagnosis apparently confirmed, Lestrade helped John carry Sherlock to his bed. They stood above a moaning consulting detective for a moment before looking at each other.

"You should—" They said at the same time.

Yes, John was the doctor, but Lestrade had been Sherlock's lover for four years. If anyone deserved to crawl into that bed and take care of the bleeding idiot, it was Lestrade, right? Apparently, though, Lestrade had different inclinations—possibly due to John's medical training but possibly not.

They stood there, frozen, until one word fell from Sherlock's lips …

"John?"

He rested a knee on the edge of Sherlock's bed and reached for his hand. "I'm here."

"John," Sherlock sighed, eyes closed tight.

John looked up at Lestrade. The DI nodded once and tried to hide the heartbroken expression on his handsome face with a close-lipped smile. "I'll break it off with him. Just make sure he's all right, yeah?"

"Always," John said as Lestrade cast one last look at Sherlock and left the room.