Rebecca.
-"What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"
Somewhere along the way, they got to the point where they stopped calling or knocking, and started just walking into one another's flats at all hours. To this day, neither of them is sure when it happened, but happen it did. Lestrade often woke in the mornings to find Sherlock sprawled across his sofa. Sherlock frequently returned home in the evenings to see Lestrade in his kitchen. Sometimes they chatted. If it was about a case, Sherlock joined in eagerly. If it was about the day-to-day, mostly Lestrade talked and Sherlock listened. Other times they didn't say anything at all.
It was mid-September. The night was chilly and the wind bit icily, foretelling of an early and uncompromising winter to come. Sherlock shouldered the door to his one-bedroom on Southerby Avenue, grateful for the scant heat the radiator provided, and noticed Lestrade on his threadbare sofa as he stripped off his coat and scarf. "Evening," he greeted mildly, entirely unsurprised to see the DI there. He hung up his outdoor things and toed off his shoes, wriggling them into the carpet to work some warmth into them.
Lestrade had not said anything. This was concerning, as normally Sherlock could not get the man to shut up.
The flat was dark. It was after ten in the evening, and the streetlights outside did little to illuminate the dark recess that Sherlock called home. He flicked the switch on, frowning as his eyes scanned Lestrade in the flood of light that followed.
Being no great reader of people's emotions, Sherlock could still tell that something was not quite right. Lestrade was seated in the middle of the couch, feet planted firmly on the floor, jacket still on. His hands hung limply between his knees, and he was staring. Off into space. His expression, if it could be called that, was vacant and yet closed off. There were dark circles round his normally vibrant eyes, and he hardly reacted to either Sherlock's arrival or to the light.
Sherlock's first thought was that he was ill, but another quick sweep told him that wasn't it, either. He approached cautiously, unsure what to make of this lump that had replaced the detective-inspector. "Lestrade," he prompted quietly. No response. "Gregory."
Slowly, the DI tore his eyes away from whatever was holding his attention and dragged his gaze up the length of the detective looming before him.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked flatly.
The vacant expression crumbled into something that resembled despair, and Sherlock wanted to pluck the question out of the air and swallow it back down. Should I have known not to ask? he wondered as he watched a muscle work in Lestrade's jaw. He looked like he might have been trying to come up with an answer, an explanation for his bizarre behaviour. Whatever it was, it didn't want to be vocalised. That was something Sherlock did understand.
Without another word, Sherlock stepped around the low coffee table and sat down next to Lestrade. The tension seemed to seep out of the DI's shoulders torpidly, as though Sherlock were soaking it up but it was reluctant to go. Finally, Lestrade seemed to give in to whatever was plaguing him, and he sat back with a sigh. He leaned into the wan figure at his side, letting his head fall onto Sherlock's shoulder.
Sometimes they passed entire evenings saying nothing at all.
