NOTE: Sorry again for the wait, everyone. DC and I have been working hard at our new fic together, so other stuff has been a bit delayed. Nonetheless, I bring you chapter 11. Be warned, only a few more chapters left. Also be warned, Sherlock/Lestrade bro-mance in an indecent amount. Because Lestrade deserves more credit. And he's awesome. Yeah.

Also also, I don't particularly find Mystrade very realistic, so I don't tend to write much on it unless there's actual necessity for silliness and extra fluff, but there's interaction between the two in this bit, so think of it how you will.

-NH

Emblazoned

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gregory Lestrade had never met - or known about - Sherlock's older brother. Well, until recent events, that is.

Mycroft Holmes had contacted him at the office, demanding information like an overprotective and very angry parent. Lestrade didn't even know who he was until he'd argued (and lost horribly) with him for the first thirty seconds of the phone call. After Mycroft had finally revealed himself ("Oh for Christ's sake, I'm his brother, Mycroft Holmes, which is completely irrelevant at the time, detective inspector" - the contempt with which he said Lestrade's title had given it away) Lestrade had been almost brutally questioned about the situation, and had been somewhat thrust into helping Mycroft in the investigation.

Of course, Lestrade didn't mind helping at all. He'd planned on investigating with or without help from the Yard, or anyone, really. And admittedly, he was thankful Mycroft had become involved, since governmental intelligence really helped him further along said investigation.

When he'd received the call from John that night, Lestrade knew something had happened, something very, very bad, and when he'd arrived and had seen Sherlock in that state...well...

Now, Greg Lestrade had never actually wanted to kill anyone. He'd killed people, obviously, it was part of the job. But never had he really, really wanted to kill someone.

He really, really wanted to kill Edgar Merchant.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't always an easy man to deal with, but Lestrade had known him for over five years now, and he knew that Sherlock, at heart, never truly meant any harm. Sherlock was complex, damaged, self-destructive, dangerous, but brilliant and incredible. Absolutely incredible. Lestrade loved the man, by any means. He'd helped him through much much more than a lot of people knew about, and countless times he'd put his job, his family, even his life on the line to be there for Sherlock.

He didn't have to give him cases ("I can't function without stimulation!" "I need a case, Lestrade!" "You have no idea what it's like to be me, to have my mind!" "Why don't you have any cases?" "I need a challenge!") he didn't have to come over at 4 in the morning because Sherlock had texted him ("I'm so bored, Lestrade," "I can't sleep, Lestrade," "I need you right now," "Don't be angry," "Please come, Lestrade" "Take them away from me," "Don't be angry, please," "I can't help it,"), he didn't have to keep Sherlock's secrets ("I'm not sure what to do anymore, Lestrade," "I can't stop using them, you know that," "I just want it to stop sometimes," "No one's ever really liked me," "He confuses me, Lestrade," "I'm afraid, Lestrade,"), he didn't have to deal with Sherlock's constant rebellion and bickering and difficult nature ("Why is everyone so idiotic all the time?" "It's inexcusable, how you people can't do your job," "What does it matter if I care or not? It's irrelevant!" "I wasn't aware that being honest is being 'brutal,'" "Why does it matter?" "Why is it not good?" "Your first name is Greg?").

He didn't have to do any of that.

But he did it anyway, because Greg Lestrade was Sherlock's friend. God help him.

Sitting in his office, waiting on a phone call from Mycroft, Lestrade was both silently fuming and outwardly exuberant.

He had found Edgar Merchant, and they'd retained him for questioning, which indeed made him smile. On the other hand, though, he wanted to gauge the man's eyes out with a spoon, which he obviously couldn't do.

A knock roused him from his inner conflict.

"What?" he said irritatingly. Donovan emerged from behind the door.

"Everything alright?" she asked, looking at him cautiously. He sighed heavily and ran his hands over his face.

"We got him," he said. He chuckled scornfully. "Record timing to. Something about the Holmes family and solving crimes. Must be in the water."

Donovan smirked and sat down. Lestrade looked at her.

"This will be good," he said, nodding more to himself than to her. "Sherlock will be glad to hear it." Donovan sighed.

"Lestrade..." she started. "I can't help feeling like...well I mean you didn't put this much effort into finding Merchant before this, and it just feels...well...I mean, all victims should be -"

"Sally," Lestrade said, leaning forward. "I know you don't like him, but please try to understand. I needed to help him, somehow. This is the only way I can."

"But you solved this case faster than you would have ever solved it if Sherlock Holmes hadn't been a victim!" Sally suddenly said, standing. She placed her hands flat on the desk and stared down at Lestrade.

"What happened to him was awful, yeah," she said. "But we can't drop everything for him. What about the rest of them? What about the three other victims that were killed? Did you even make any further investigation on their part? Hm?"

Lestrade swallowed and looked down. It was true, to some degree, that he had put this case on his highest priority level, simply because of what happened to Sherlock, but why not? Sherlock Holmes, despite what the others thought, was one of their own, and he would have done it for anyone else on the team.

"Is this because it's Sherlock?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Sally stood back.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you telling me this, getting yourself worked up over this because it's Sherlock, and you think he's got some kind of collar on me?"

Sally shook her head incredulously, mouth agape.

"He does, Lestrade!" she said. "How can you not see that? He's got you wrapped around his bloody finger!"

Lestrade stood and slammed his hands on the desk, causing Sally to jump.

"You listen to me," he said, low and deep and full of controlled fury. "Sherlock Holmes, whatever he is or whatever you think he is, Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant, brilliant man. He's my colleague, he's my friend, and you have absolutely no right to barge in here, all brassed off like you think you know him or how to deal with him or how to do my damn job."

Sally swallowed, sheepishly lettering her gaze fall.

"Now get the hell out of my office," Lestrade said as the phone rang. Sally turned on heel and hurried out of the office as he plucked the phone off the receiver and said gruffly.

"DI Lestrade, what do you want."

"I'll assume you didn't know you were talking to me," came Mycroft's silky voice from the other line. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Sorry, just...yeah. What'd you need?" he asked, sitting back down. He heard Mycroft sigh.

"As ever, my brother is ignoring my calls because he's insufferable that way, but whenever I get a hold of him I'll be informing him of our progress. I'll assume that he'll probably want to return from his holiday early, then. Will you be able to have that taken care of or should I send an aircraft? It can be arranged within a few minutes. I just wanted to confirm."

Lestrade felt that he was constantly being reminded of just how powerful Mycroft was each time he spoke with him.

"Well to be honest you'll probably be able to have it taken care of fast than I can coordinate it," he replied. "So I guess just let me know whenever he's headed back and I'll get things sorted out."

"Very good then," Mycroft said. Lestrade waited for further instruction, but when all he got was silence, he said tentatively.

"Is there...anything else, Mr. Holmes?"

This seemed to rouse Mycroft, for his reply was a bit distracted.

"No no, that will be all. Thank you, detective inspector," he said, and with that, he ended the call.

Lestrade sat down in his desk chair and sighed. He didn't know what the relationship between Mycroft and Sherlock was, and it wasn't really his business to begin with, but he wondered why Sherlock wouldn't answer his brother's calls. He shrugged and picked up his mobile, beginning to dial Sherlock's number, but decided it'd be best to text. He did prefer to text, after all.

SMS: Your brother wants to know if you've received his calls. We've got good news.

It took only a few minutes for Sherlock to reply.

SMS: Tell my brother he's insufferable. -SH

Lestrade sighed heavily through a smile. It seemed that Sherlock was returning to his normal self faster than he'd anticipated.

SMS: Think you might want to know about this though

SMS: I'm aware of what you've got to tell me. -SH

SMS: So? Are you coming back?

SMS: Next week. -SH

Lestrade sighed. He was about to pass into No Man's Land.

SMS: Are you avoiding this, Sherlock?

He pressed "SEND" with reluctance, and waited. The reply took a bit longer this time, and Lestrade nearly thought that the planets had aligned when his eyes beheld the tiny black letters on the screen.

SMS: Yes, I am. Very much so. And I've every right to. -SH

No snide remark, no sarcastic comment, nothing of the sort. An honest, exposed, vulnerable answer from Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade was practically floored. He wasn't exactly sure how to respond.

SMS: You're right, you do. But even so, think you should call your brother anyway.

SMS: I'm sorry you feel that way. See you next week. -SH

Lestrade sighed again, and placed his mobile on the desk. He leaned back and looked up. Without Sherlock, work was admittedly dull. Cases came and went, nothing was exciting, nothing was tangibly interesting. Nothing was new. Sherlock might always complain about the lackluster of life and the scarcity of stimuli, but it wasn't to say that Lestrade didn't understand what he meant.

Lestrade felt a tug in his heart. He considered Sherlock the closest thing to a brother he'd ever had, and he couldn't help but feel slightly jealous of John Watson at times.

John and Sherlock had become a hybrid of sorts. Sherlock-and-John, John-and-Sherlock, Holmes-and-Watson, Doctor-and-Detective. The two were attached at the hip. Lestrade was a bit surprised when Sherlock hadn't run John out of the flat after a week, and he was even more surprised when he found that John was content in staying.

The jealousy spawned only from the fact that, to be frank, Sherlock owed Lestrade a lot, and John was able to move into Sherlock's life with such ease, such acceptance, while Lestrade still felt as though he were on the fringes. Of course, he knew Sherlock cared about him. He knew that Sherlock considered him one of his only friends. But John was more. John was Sherlock's other half. John was everything Sherlock was missing. Without John, Sherlock was not complete.

The first time Sherlock had let on to Lestrade that he harboured feelings for the doctor, Lestrade didn't think much of it. It was late at night, and they were at Bart's morgue. Sherlock was pouring over paperwork sprawled on a table that was not three feet from a corpse sprawled on a slab, while Lestrade was trying very hard not to fall asleep. John was apparently visiting a friend in Picadilly, and Sherlock was being particularly irritable.

After the usual array of unnecessary insults and apparently "obvious" deductions, Lestrade was nodding off when he heard Sherlock say in a rather low voice.

"I miss him."

Lestrade roused himself and looked at Sherlock.

"Sorry?"

"I said I miss him, Lestrade. Do keep up."

Lestrade frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"Sorry, bit knackered. Miss who? John?" he asked innocently. Sherlock responded with an irritated huff.

"Who else would it be, honestly?" he said with an air of frustration. He looked up from the papers and chewed his bottom lip, glaring daggers at Lestrade. Lestrade chuckled and leaned on the table.

"Lonely at the flat?" he asked, smirking. Sherlock sighed.

"If you're going to mock me then we'll forget the whole discussion," he said, and Lestrade then realized that Sherlock wasn't being touchy, he was actually trying to convey...feelings. Immediately, he felt guilty. He raised his brow and shook his head.

"No no, sorry. Just...it's just that you -"

"I am entirely capable of human emotion, thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, looking back down at the work. Things went silent again.

The second time was a bit more obvious. The two were walking back from the lounge at the Yard, Lestrade barely living on coffee and adrenaline. Sherlock, of course, didn't make any for himself, but he did take the time to prepare a cup for John, who was waiting for them upstairs in Lestrade's office.

"Thought you took sugar in your coffee," Lestrade commented when they were about to leave. Sherlock looked at him and scoffed.

"You know I don't eat or drink on a case," he said incredulously. "Slows me -"

"I know, but you just got some coffee," Lestrade said. He was too tired to hear Sherlock go on and on tonight. Sherlock made a face.

"It's not for me," he said, as if Lestrade should have known. He probably should have.

"Oh, for John then," he said as they made their way up the stairs.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, looking down at the cup almost fondly.

"You two getting along then?" Lestrade asked, sipping the coffee and deciding it was still too hot.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Just fine."

"Really? This is a record for you, you know. I'm impressed."

There was a silence, and Lestrade thought for a minute that he might have hurt the detective's feelings, but after a beat, Sherlock replied simply.

"John is an extraordinary man, and I am very lucky to have him in my life."

Lestrade had stopped walking then, mouth agape, and regarded the back of the lanky detective with a look of incredulousness. Sherlock didn't stop.

"Come along, Lestrade. Murders to be solved and all that."

The third time Lestrade had the same inclining, it was all too justified. Sherlock had texted him at around one in the morning - something that Lestrade was a bit too used to for his liking - asking him to come to the flat as soon as possible. Lestrade had learned not to ask why, because to be honest, he'd rather not know the reasons.

And so, he'd made himself crawl out of bed, throw on a t-shirt and some sweat pants, pull on his trainers over bare feet, and head out to greet his friend in the hopes of not finding him high as a kite or drunk as a sailor.

Neither was the case when he'd arrived and Sherlock was sitting on the stoop outside the flat, head hung low. Lestrade approached with caution.

"Everything alright?" he asked a bit groggily. When Sherlock lifted his head, Lestrade was taken aback, and he stood, frozen, staring at Sherlock's face with a look of perpetual confusion.

Sherlock was on the verge of crying.

"He's going to leave me," Sherlock said, amazingly still maintaing the same even tone he spoke with normally, despite the fact that there were tears filling his eyes and his lips quivered slightly.

"What?" was all Lestrade could manage. Sherlock swallowed hard and cleared his throat, blinking rapidly and looking away.

"John. He's going to leave me. I know he will," he said quietly, his voice just beginning to shake. Lestrade sat down on the stoop next to Sherlock and looked at him curiously.

"Why do you say that?" he asked gently, putting a tentative hand on his shoulder. Sherlock sniffed, still not meeting the detective inspector's eyes.

"I'm too much for him," he said quietly. "He'll leave me. He'll leave me alone again."

Lestrade shook his head.

"I don't think John will leave you," he said. "He's a good man. He cares about you."

Sherlock stiffened as Lestrade lightly stroked his shoulder. After a long silence, Sherlock looked up at Lestrade, the tears threatening to break through.

"I don't want him to leave me," he said in a trembling whisper. "I need him. I need him so badly."

Lestrade, despite his best efforts, couldn't help but arch his eyebrows in surprise. He'd only ever seen Sherlock like this while going through withdrawal, or sometimes when he was drunk, but never fully aware. Lestrade nodded slowly.

"It's ok, Sherlock," he said. "He knows you need him. I'm sure he does."

Sherlock sniffed and looked away again, closing his eyes and gripping his knees. Lestrade allowed him to calm himself, still a bit thrown for a loop. When Sherlock brought his eyes up to meet his again, though, Lestrade smiled as best he could. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought, not contempt, slits of moist silver regarding Lestrade in the dim streetlights.

"He confuses me, Lestrade," he said cautiously, as if the words sounded odd on his lips. He blinked, regaining some of his normal composure. "He confuses me and, oddly enough, I'm...I'm alright with it."

Lestrade shrugged and said, perhaps a bit abruptly and without much thought.

"That's what love does, you know."

Sherlock had scoffed, perhaps suppressing a chuckle, and the two then decided to share a cigarette and sit in the cool silence of the night, each drag a relief to both men, each line of smoke snaking from between their lips an unspoken, mutual promise of secrecy in brotherhood, sanctity among men.

Lestrade wondered how John was dealing with this situation. He couldn't imagine the severity of his feelings, having seen his best friend -

His phone rang again, and Lestrade very nearly leapt from his chair.

"Lestrade," he said, answering haphazardly.

"They want you to come in and watch the interrogation," said Donovan. "Ready when you are."

"Thanks," he said. He hung up the receiver. He glanced at his mobile. John had texted him.

SMS: Thanks for working so hard, Greg. I really appreciate it. And even if Sherlock doesn't seem to, you know he does. He's too proud to admit it though :-P -J

Lestrade smiled.

SMS: Just keep him safe, John.

His fingertip hovered over the "SEND" button for a moment, but he thought a bit, then smirked and added.

He needs you.

SMS: Just keep him safe, John. He needs you.

John smiled and tucked his phone into his pocket. Sherlock strode along side of him, his coat billowing behind him in the wind and snow, his collar turned up. They were headed to dinner, upon John's request.

"After dinner, I would like you to call your brother," he said, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock scowled.

"He's become quite popular after all this," he said indignantly. John sighed in frustration, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he said. "But we're not coming home early."

"Sounds like a plan."

John then hooked his arm in Sherlock's, and laced his fingers between the detective's. Sherlock cocked a brow, but said nothing, accepting the gesture with a warm flare in his chest and a small smile.

And John really didn't care if people would talk. Because people did little else, anyway.