A/N: So this is how I would've loved to spend MY Saturday. Since I couldn't make that happen, I gave it to these 3. Totally gratuitous physical affection chapter.

Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade in ambiguous nonsexual love.

Part IV

A few weeks after the bomb incident, the men wake up to the bluish grey light of an overcast sky and rain against the windows; the weather report, which Sherlock quickly checks on his mobile, confirms the low temperature. He doesn't have a case at the moment, having discovered all there is to know about the mysterious bomber and worked through a new and separate case afterward. Lestrade has nothing outstanding that would demand overtime, either. John leads the two of them downstairs to the sitting room in silent agreement to spend the day homebound.

Lestrade builds a fire in the fireplace, while John sets to making a late breakfast, tea for himself and Sherlock and coffee for Lestrade. Sherlock goes downstairs to fetch the papers from the doorstep, ripping off the wet plastic with his bare hands and tossing it in the bin with distaste. He settles in his favorite chair by the fire and begins to read. The coffeemaker begins to bubble, and Lestrade goes into the kitchen to pour himself a mug. By now, John knows how he likes his eggs and toast just as well as he knows Sherlock's preferences; he has no need to ask. All three of them are quiet for a long while, the only sounds in the flat coming from John's preparations and the rain and the rustle of Sherlock's newspapers.

Lestrade drinks his coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the table in the middle of the room, while John gathers three sets of toast from the toaster and butters both of Sherlock's and both of his but only one of Lestrade's and jam on the other slice and jam on both of John's and slides the eggs onto each plate and takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water into the two mugs ready with two bags of Earl Grey each.

"That looks great," Lestrade says, watching the formation of the breakfast plates over John's shoulder. John smiles.

"Christ," says Sherlock loudly, lowering the Saturday Times into his lap abruptly. "A cigarette would be perfect right now."

"You've quit, Sherlock. You can't expect to be off them properly if you sneak one every time the mood strikes," says John.

"Besides, you wouldn't want to go out in this weather just for a pack you'll only smoke one of," says Lestrade, halfway through his cup of coffee.

Sherlock lights up at that and bolts from his chair, out of the sitting room. Lestrade and John exchange looks. A few moments later, as John's setting breakfast on the sitting room table, Sherlock returns with a pack of cigarettes and his old lighter in hand. John looks outraged.

"Where did you get that?"

"Saved them. Just in case."

Sherlock sounds triumphant, standing by the window nearest the sofa and opening it, letting in the smell and sound of rain and cool air only he can feel. He lights the cigarette, takes a long draw and a deep breath and blows the smoke outside with a look of great satisfaction. John shakes his head in disapproval and Lestrade holds back a smile of affection for Sherlock.

"Your breakfast will get cold," John says, as he and Lestrade sit down to theirs.

"You don't want me smoking near you," Sherlock retorts. He looks over at the two men, sees John's displeased expression, and gives a put-upon sigh. He sucks at his cigarette once more, before squashing it in the lonely ashtray still on the coffee table in front of the sofa. "Fine," he says, sitting in his chair next to Lestrade and across from John. "I'll light another one afterward."

He starts drinking his tea and temporarily forgets all about his tobacco craving. Breakfast is good, as always. Lestrade quietly appreciates having someone around to make it for him from time to time. The three men eat without talking, their toast crunching at every bite and spilling crumbs all over their plates. Sherlock left the window cracked open, and the rain pleasantly fills their senses. Lestrade gets up and goes back into the kitchen for coffee, bringing back orange juice at Sherlock's request and a clean mug. He sits with his second mug warm in his hands and his plate empty before him, in between his two companions, and savors the moment as Sherlock begins to tell them about some story of human absurdity in the paper. John watches and listens attentively, while Lestrade stares into space or glances from one to the other.

Once John only has the last of his tea to finish, Sherlock returns to the window, lights another cigarette, and smokes it in utter peace. John and Lestrade both watch him from the table, unable to look away: it is Sherlock in one of those rare moments of calm, where he's happy and looks it. He's still in his pajamas and blue dressing gown, staring outside at the rain and breathing in the air deliberately every few moments, as he smokes the cigarette elegantly.

John gets up first, collecting the dishes, and Lestrade shifts his attention to him, insisting he do the washing since John did the cooking. John relents after protesting a little, and Lestrade doesn't take long to rinse the plates and mugs and silverware and stick them into the dishwasher. When he steps back into the sitting room, John's standing behind Sherlock with his arms wrapped around the taller man's waist, and Sherlock appears even more pleased with himself, still not done smoking. Lestrade smiles and Sherlock over his shoulder at him.

"I think this is a day to waste on affection."

"What do you have in mind?" says Lestrade.

Sherlock looks back out that window and smokes. John has the right side of his face in Sherlock's back and his eyes closed.

"Let me finish this and I'll show you," says Sherlock.

With two cigarette butts in the ashtray on the coffee table, Sherlock leads John and Lestrade back upstairs to John's bedroom—which is now effectively becoming John and Sherlock's bedroom, John and Sherlock and Lestrade's bedroom when the detective inspector stays over—and he throws off his dressing gown onto the chair in the corner and jumps back into bed. John takes his customary place on Sherlock's left, while Lestrade lies down on his right, and they pull the covers over themselves.

At first, Sherlock spoons John and Lestrade spoons Sherlock, which is often the way the more common ways the three of them fall asleep. But this is decidedly not cuddling for the purpose of sleep but for its own sake. Sherlock has John as close as he can get him, top arm wrapped tight around him with his hand over John's heart and his face in John's shoulder. Lestrade has his top arm snaked between them, around Sherlock's middle, and his cheekbone resting against Sherlock's bony shoulder. The three of them are quiet for several minutes in this position.

John rolls over onto his other side, facing Sherlock and curling against him, arm looping underneath Sherlock's top arm to hook over his back. Sherlock kisses the top of John's forehead, and Lestrade nuzzles his face into John's hand where it rests on Sherlock. John smiles into Sherlock's chest. John's legs fork with Sherlock's and Lestrade's top leg leans against Sherlock's. Lestrade moves his face into the back of Sherlock's neck and breathes in that scent, that familiar and distinctive scent: faded, posh cologne and the cleanliness of high-end shampoo and delicate skin. He noses into Sherlock's curls and pulls his arm out from in between Sherlock and John to rest it across both of them, hand on John's back curled into his striped jumper. He dares to press a kiss at the base of Sherlock's skull; the younger man's whole body shivers and he hugs John closer and purrs.

Sherlock takes John's face in his hand, looking at him closely. "I love you," he whispers.

Lestrade doesn't know if that's the first time he's said it to John's face, but when John answers, his voice is full of emotion like waves rising. Arm withdraws from around Sherlock's shoulder, then his hand pushes into Sherlock's hair, thumb on his cheek.

"I love you, Sherlock. I love you, I love you."

Lestrade feels full in his chest, not intruding on their intimacy but privileged to witness it and share in it. And after a few minutes, Sherlock moves, rolling around in between them to face Lestrade, and John slots intuitively against Sherlock's back. Lestrade sees Sherlock close his eyes in pleasure when John kisses the curve of his neck. Sherlock looks at him again and smiles, a warm and genuine smile. He raises his hand to Lestrade's face, rests it against the older man's cheek so gentle, thumb making little strokes, and now Lestrade shuts his eyes.

"Gregory Lestrade," says Sherlock, whispering still. He says the name with great satisfaction, as if the detective inspector's mere existence pleases him as much as solving cases. His thumb runs over Lestrade's eyebrow. Lestrade opens his eyes and sees Sherlock's face glowing white and eyes like clear seawater and he wants to know what he'll say next.

"I love you." He says it smiling, thumb running under Lestrade's right eye, palm pressing into cheek, like he's committing the shape of Lestrade's face to his hand's memory. "And you love me."

"Yes," says Lestrade. "Yes, I do."

And it feels like he's arrived at a destination he's been traveling toward for years, sweet and unmistakably real, and it's been so long since he loved anyone in a way he could viscerally feel and never has love felt like this and God, it's so good he can't put it to words but he can feel it, knows what it is intuitively. It doesn't scare him the way it should; it thrills him.

Lestrade touches his hand to Sherlock's face, mirroring him, and Sherlock closes his eyes at the pleasure of the other man's affection. The most brilliant man Lestrade has ever known. He stretches to kiss Sherlock's forehead, that mind—miraculous. Sherlock pulls him closer, even though they're already out of room.

"I'm glad I have you," he tells Lestrade. "I'm glad you—you agreed to this."

Lestrade looks him in the eyes and says, "Me too."

"I'm glad you have each other," says John against the back of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock smiles wide at that.

Lestrade repositions himself so he's curled into Sherlock's body with his head underneath Sherlock's chin, against the knobs of his collar bones, and Sherlock cradles the back of his head with his hand, long and slender fingers delicately spidered over Lestrade's short silver hair. Lestrade can hear Sherlock's heart beating.

Nobody moves or speaks for a while.

John makes chicken noodle soup for lunch.

Once the bowls are empty, Sherlock practically bounds back out of the sitting room to return upstairs. Lestrade and John follow without question.

"I want to—try something," says Sherlock, sitting at the foot of the bed, elbows on his thighs and hands together at his chin. John and Lestrade stand in front of him, waiting. "An experiment."

He seems to contemplate what this experiment is for a moment, until John very smartly says, "Whatever it is, you can ask. We're not going to think you're weird or something."

Sherlock glances at him, then at Lestrade. "I was wondering about…. Skin."

"Skin?" says Lestrade.

"Bare skin. Not—I don't mean—"

"We know, Sherlock," says John.

Sherlock nods. "What I mean is just touching each other's bare skin, sort of, under the shirt?"

Lestrade looks at John, who looks back.

"I'm willing to give it a try," John says to Sherlock.

"Me too," says Lestrade.

"If it feels too—erotic, we can always quit."

Sherlock nods, his shoulders tensing as if in preparation. John suggests they try hugging while on their feet for this. Lestrade moves into position directly across from him, leaving a space for Sherlock. Sherlock stands up and tentatively faces John, his back to Lestrade; John asks if he's ready and gets a nod.

John steps forward, wraps his arms around Sherlock in a normal hug, and holds it for a minute or two. Lestrade watches as Sherlock's body relaxes. John lays his head on Sherlock's shoulder as they hug and eventually asks if Sherlock is ready again. Sherlock murmurs yes. John moves his arms down and slips his hands underneath Sherlock's shirt. Lestrade's a bit surprised to hear Sherlock's sharp intake of breath and the way his shoulders rise and his arms move out and back in. He sags on his feet a little. Neither Sherlock nor John speaks or moves again for a few moments; then Sherlock's arms shift down and up, must be slipping his own hands underneath John's jumper and up his back. John hums low in his throat, almost a purr, and Lestrade smiles. Experiment a success, then.

He gives them a few minutes to enjoy this, before stepping toward them.

"Get over here," says Sherlock, as he does, sounding half-asleep and yet entirely lucid.

Lestrade wraps his arms around Sherlock's belly, sees the white skin of Sherlock's lower back where his pajama shirt has ridden up around John's arms, and he presses himself against Sherlock, chin on the younger man's free shoulder. Sherlock hums in approval. Lestrade rests with the other two men like this for a little while.

"Permission to continue experiment?" Lestrade says into Sherlock's ear.

"Yes, please."

Lestrade unwinds his arms from Sherlock, then slips underneath his shirt, hands flat on Sherlock's belly and taking it very slow. He keeps them there for a moment, his chin still on Sherlock's shoulder, listening to the rhythm of Sherlock's breathing. He slides his arms around Sherlock's middle again, skin so warm, and it feels like the only reason Sherlock's still upright is because of the men sandwiching him.

"Good?" says Lestrade.

"Brilliant," says Sherlock.

"Very, very good," says John.

They stay where they are for some unknown amount of time, and Lestrade quietly savors this new closeness to Sherlock. He's never known relationships could be this way: that it was possible to be so free and safe as to ask for anything and receive it. He's happy for Sherlock in a way he's scarcely been happy for anyone.

And he really, really does love him.

"It's not too far?" Sherlock says with no real concern. "We haven't crossed the line?"

"What line?" says John.

"The line of your heterosexuality."

A slow grin bends on Lestrade's face.

"Still don't want to shag you," John says.

"Me neither," says Lestrade. "I like this just the way it is."

What he means is: he never knew he could be this intimate with anyone unless it was a woman he shagged. This feels different. He didn't know he was allowed to do this or that he could love a man in such a way. It opens places in him he didn't know were closed. He feels full of desire but it's not desire for sex. It's more nebulous; it could go anywhere. It's desire for what he already has, self-generating and fulfilled and infinite.

They disentangle themselves, get back into bed. Lestrade lies on his back and Sherlock lies against his left side and rests his head on Lestrade's shoulder and slips his arm beneath Lestrade's t-shirt, hand pressed to Lestrade's side and thumb stroking back and forth. John spoons up behind him and holds his hand to Sherlock's belly.

Next, Lestrade's in the middle and spooning John with his face in his shoulder and his hand on the bare skin of John's chest, arm resting on John's side. Sherlock wraps around Lestrade's back, hand under his shirt on Lestrade's side, thumb stroking a little spot. He pecks at the back of Lestrade's neck, snakes his hand around to Lestrade's softer belly.

They while away the daylight hours.

Lestrade can only think: this feels so nice. It's a terrible word. But it's the only one that comes to mind.