Disclaimer: don't own, do love to write about them :)
Bait
He knew Sherlock knew the drink was drugged, so he knew he hadn't been drinking it, not really. But somehow, the man was such a convincing actor that Lestrade found his stomach turning upon hearing the confused and slightly slurred voice coming from his earpiece. He just sounded so bloody weak. Not at all like Sherlock, and very much like the easy prey their killer was looking for.
It made Lestrade shudder.
It was, he decided, a good thing John wasn't here. The man would explode when he saw this. Lestrade himself bit back a white-hot wave of anger that was threatening to escape from his lips and burst out into the dimly-lit pub in the form of an outraged roar, when he saw the man trail Sherlock's jaw line with one finger, a hungry, wolf-like grin plastered on his face, before practically dragging the detective outside.
Lestrade followed, signaling the rest of the team to move along, ready to jump in.
He didn't have to wait long.
He snapped into action the moment his suspect made the wrong move (because yes, slamming his Sherlock into a wall and telling him exactly what he had planned for him was a very wrong move as far as Lestrade was concerned. Not to mention a very nice piece of evidence).
By the time Lestrade reached the two figures, Sherlock was already telling the killer exactly how much of an idiot he was (honestly, didn't he notice him spilling the drink instead of drinking it?), ducking the man's outraged punches with an ease that was almost elegance.
Lestrade tackled and handcuffed the now defeated man with maybe a tad more force than necessary, and shoved him into the police car, not a bit too kindly either.
He glanced over at the now smiling detective, checking for injuries, and relieved to find none. He moved over to the other man. "Are you all right?" Sherlock looked confused for a second, then simply stared at Lestrade and nodded, a glint of something flashing in his piercing grey eyes.
Back at the Yard, Lestrade found himself still high on a strange mix of anger and adrenaline - which wasn't very convenient, given the huge amount of paperwork this case had brought him. After thirty long minutes of trying to explain how they had caught his latest serial killer (official reports weren't supposed to include words such as bait…) he decided this could wait, as could everything else.
He turned around in his chair and faced the consulting detective, lounging in a very uncomfortable chair at the other side of the room (a chair no one but Sherlock Holmes could use to actually lounge in), as a flash of the unidentified anger seared through him once again.
"Ok, off you go, statements tomorrow, get some sleep." Lestrade rubbed his forehead and looked up at the lanky man, dark curls still messed up, a grin on his face.
"What's so funny?" he demanded, leaning slightly back in his chair.
"You are," came the lazy reply, "going all protective on me, it's highly amusing to watch, you know that?"
"Oh shut up," Lestrade growled. Sherlock just smiled and headed for the door, ducking the paper cup thrown at his head, leaving the sound of the DI's muttering (impossibly reckless no-good piece of-) mixed with his own low chuckles, floating down the hall of Scotland Yard.