A/N: I probably should have combined this chapter with the last one, really, they're both so short. Anyway, this is NOT the last chapter - it's the end of Part 1 of the story. Part 2 (with Sherlock's return) will be coming soon. I hope you enjoy, and also, I like reviews. Hugs.

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Eight months later.

"Meet me at my office, 7pm?"

John stared sadly at the text for a few seconds. He was suspicious, thinking he probably knew what Lestrade wanted to talk about. It had been a long time coming, but...

"Yes," he texted back.

He had last seen Lestrade a week before. They'd gone out to dinner, something they'd only done a total of five times, and they hadn't even shagged afterward. They were drifting apart. Which was good – it meant they were healing – but John couldn't stop the dull ache in his chest whenever he thought about breaking the relationship off completely.

He still thought about Sherlock every day, but it wasn't nearly as painful as it had been. Sometimes, thinking about him didn't hurt at all. When Sherlock stole the ashtray from Buckingham Palace was the easiest memory, for some reason. It even made him smile, sometimes.

He left the flat just about every day. He went to work, he went to therapy, he went out with his sister who seemed to really be off the booze this time. He even went on a few dates, though none of them had turned into anything. He talked to Mrs. Hudson every day, sometimes for less than a minute and sometimes for over an hour, but he hadn't been back to Baker Street. Lestrade had gone there for him, a few months before, to get most of his things.

"You can get the rest yourself when you're ready," Lestrade had said. "Going back would probably help."

Mrs. Hudson said she didn't mind keeping the flat the way it was for a while – sometimes she liked to go up there and dust to help her relax after a long day. It comforted her.

At 6:30, John left his flat. It was a little over a mile to Lestrade's office, and it took John precisely thirty minutes to walk there. The building was almost empty, most people having left at five o'clock, but Lestrade was pulling overtime, as usual. John nodded at the few people he passed and knocked on Lestrade's door.

"Come in!"

John entered and closed the door behind him. Lestrade was straightening up the papers that covered his desk. He glanced up and gave a small smile before continuing to sort the papers into neat piles.

John sat in the chair in front of his desk and waited patiently. After a minute or so, Lestrade seemed satisfied. He walked around the desk and leaned back against it, looking at John.

"How are you, John?" he asked.

John nodded. "Good. I'm fine, you?"

"I'm alright. No use beating around the bush, then, I suppose. You know why I wanted to talk to you?"

"I could guess."

Lestrade sighed. "What do you think, then?"

They stared at each other for a moment before John looked away. "I don't know. Greg, I know this was the plan all along, but..."

"But that doesn't make it easy, I know." He sounded so somber, John looked at him again. His appearance hadn't changed much – a few more lines around his eyes, maybe, a shock of gray hair that used to be dark – but where his body used to excite John, turn him on, now it seemed fairly neutral. And realizing that hurt.

"I know it's for the best," John said softly.

"Our relationship's done what we wanted it to do," said Lestrade, a hint of resignation in his voice. "I think we've helped each other about as much as we can. We've reached our...limit. Any longer, and we'll start going backwards."

John bit his lip. "I think you're right. But bloody hell, I hate it." His eyes started to burn and he blinked rapidly a few times. He wanted to be in love with Lestrade. He wanted that exciting, passionate feeling from months ago, when they couldn't get enough of each other. He didn't want to leave the office completely single. It was a scary thought.

But they'd been headed that way for a while. It had been over two months since the last time John told Lestrade he loved him. And Lestrade, who had always immediately said it back, hadn't. That last time, he hadn't replied in kind. They had gradually gone from seeing each other four to six times a week, to twice a week, to once a week – sometimes only once every two weeks.

It was time.

A tear escaped and slid down John's face. He quickly wiped it away, but Lestrade saw it and sighed.

"Why don't we give it a week or so, yeah?" he asked. "See where we are then."

John nodded. "Okay. Sounds good. I'll talk to you in a week, then." He stood up and turned to go.

"You can call me whenever, John," Lestrade said, concerned, and John stopped. "When I say we've reached our limit, I'm just talking about shagging. I'm still your friend and I still want to know if you're going through a hard time. I want to help you in any way I can, so if you want to call before a week has passed, I hope you will."

"Thanks," John muttered. He walked back to the desk and pulled Lestrade into an embrace. It was comfortable, relaxed, familiar. Whatever else about their physical relationship had changed, he still loved being in Lestrade's arms. Without really thinking about it, John pressed his lips to Lestrade's neck.

Lestrade melted against him, his defenses falling. They held on to each other tighter than they had in weeks, rocked against each other, kissed and tore off clothing. Lestrade took him on top of the desk, not caring when a stack of papers hit the floor, just thrusting and gasping and swearing under his breath. His hand was on John's shoulder, squeezing too hard and not hard enough, his other hand pumping John's cock perfectly, practiced. After twenty minutes, they climaxed simultaneously and collapsed on the desk, panting. Lestrade kissed John's shoulder where he had gripped tightly and stood up.

Lestrade pulled his pants back on, still breathing heavily. "Want me to take you home?" he asked. John shook his head.

"I'll walk," he said. After a moment, still lying on the desk, he added, "If I can." They both chuckled and he gingerly stood up. They finished getting dressed in silence and then Lestrade walked with him to his door.

"Call or text me anytime," Lestrade said again.

John nodded and cleared his throat. "Thank you, for everything. I can't say how much this relationship has meant to me," said John, "but I think you understand."

Lestrade kissed his cheek, his lips lingering there longer than usual and John just knew it would be their last kiss.

They didn't talk at all for a week, but then John called him to say he was okay.

And he really was.