Speechless

Chapter 6.1: I'll Never Love Again

April 8, 2008

Lestrade hummed gently to himself as he sorted the massive piles of paperwork on his desk. It was not because he had a kink for organization. Hardly. If he could have ordered one of his Constables to take care of it without risking the entire department knowing about some of the more sensitive cases he was working, he would have done so in a heartbeat.

No, his unusually good mood could be attributed to the fact that, for the first time in years, everything felt right.

This was not to say that things between him and Sherlock had been resolved. He doubted that they ever would be. But he was strangely alright with that. It didn't matter if he was never able to tell him how he felt. Just having him around, just working together again. . . That was enough.

It had hurt more than he cared to admit when Sherlock had flippantly stated that he had no interest in him. It was that simple sentence that tore him apart far more than losing Aster, or even his job. He had tried over the last year to write it off as unimportant, but every time he remembered it, it gutted him a little more.

The whole thing is ludicrous because I have no interest in you whatsoever.

It had been classic Sherlock: blunt and to the point, swift and sharp as a stiletto to the neck. It still tortured him, he mused.

And yet, while it pained him to remember, being able to spar with Sherlock again, to work together in a beautiful, tortuous partnership. . . It was worth it. Together, they were able to save so many lives, to avenge so many more. And while he knew it was all just a sick puzzle to the younger man, that he didn't give a damn about the citizens they were saving, Lestrade took comfort in the fact that at least they made a pretty good team.

And tonight, they were going to dinner to celebrate their twenty-fifth solved case together.

Sherlock had groaned with annoyance when he'd suggested it. But he had merely reminded the younger man how many favours he owed him, and that was enough.

"Fine. Dinner. You'd best be paying, though." His grey-blue eyes rolled in boredom and exasperation.

Lestrade grinned to himself as he pulled his coat off the hook and headed out the door. Yes, it was good to have things back to normal. . . Well, as close to normal as they ever could be again.

He waited at the café for nearly three hours before he finally gave up.

"Typical," he muttered. "Absolutely bloody typical."

He should have seen it coming. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't stood him up before. No, many was the time the younger man had "forgotten" or "had something more important to do". And with how positively thrilled he'd been about the prospect of dinner, Lestrade just knew the man had these excuses and many more besides.

"Stood you up?" inquired a gentle, tenor voice.

"What?"

Lestrade looked up to see a young waiter smiling sympathetically at him.

"Your date." the young man blushed. "Sorry, but it's just. . . I've seen it before. Terribly sorry for intruding."

"No, that's alright." Lestrade smiled at him warmly. "But not a date, per say. More a friend I was supposed to meet. Apparently he had other plans."

"Ah." The young man nodded, his eyes probing Lestrade's in much the same way Sherlock's always did. "Friend. Right. I can see that."

He pulled up a chair, sitting next to him, his brown eyes bright with concern.

"Only that's not exactly accurate, is it, Mr. . ."

"Lestrade," he offered. "And I don't know what you are talking about."

"Sure you do. Oh, come now, don't look so surprised. Like I said, I've seen that look before." He placed a small check pad next to him. "Why don't you settle up, and I'll buy you a drink."

"That's awfully unprofessional of you," replied Lestrade coolly. "And I'm afraid I must decline."

The young man sighed. "No matter."

He watched Lestrade leave, smiling rather subtly to himself, tongue flicking across his lips.

"Do say hello to him for me, will you?"

Lestrade climbed the steps to his flat wearily. He suddenly felt so very old. When had he gotten so old?

He stopped abruptly at his door. It was slightly ajar, and he was damn sure he'd locked it on his way out. He pushed it open gently, slowly, trying to get a bearing on what was waiting for him.

Suddenly, Sherlock's failure to appear took on a more sinister light. What if something terrible had happened? A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind: another murderer leaving him near-dead, unable to call for help. A kidnapper after both of them for a twisted revenge plot. Anderson finally snapping. . .

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when he opened the door.

Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's chair, watching the fire. He nodded slightly as the older man entered, waving an empty bottle of Baileys at him.

"Hello. Fancy a drink?"

Lestrade stared at him, his relief boiling out of him in a fit of rage. "What the hell are you doing here? You were supposed to meet me ages ago, and here you are in my flat, drinking my liquor, and acting like there's nothing remotely wrong with that! Sometimes I can't stand you! I wish . . ."

He trailed off as he noticed the look of agony in Sherlock's eyes. Shit. Something was up.

He walked over to him slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the younger man's.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head. "You're right of course. To be angry. I'm afraid I've been so disappointing."

"What are you talking about?" realization hit him like a baseball bat. "You drank that whole bottle, didn't you?"

Sherlock smiled, rolling his head to one side to get a better look at him. "It tastes nice. It'd be good in coffee."

"But. . ." Lestrade stared at him. "My god, you're pissed."

"I won't deny it."

He stood over him, eyes flashing in anger once more, this time out of genuine concern. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Sherlock gazed up at him, trying to focus on his face but consistently failing. "I was. . . I wanted to forget."

Oh dear. Lestrade pulled back, smiling gently down at him.

"Forget what, Sherlock?"

"Who I am. . . What I've done. Oh, I'm a terrible excuse for a human being."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. This old song and dance again. "Look, I've already told you I don't give a damn about your past. You're my friend, and you are a great man. I promise."

Sherlock sprung out of the chair, nearly sending them both to the floor.

"But you don't know! I'm not your friend, Lestrade! I. . . I. . ."

"What? Speak up, man!"

Sherlock's eyes glistened with guilt and self-hatred. "It was me. Greg, I. . . I'm the one who did it."

"Did what?" his brain was reeling. What was Sherlock confessing to? As the law, he would have to. . . If it was murder. . . Something worse. . . He didn't want to have to arrest him.

"I. . . I sent the folder. I destroyed your marriage. Almost destroyed your career."

Lestrade felt himself fall to the ottoman rather than actually making an effort to sit down. No. No, it had to be a lie. All the hell he'd gone through, every question, all the suspicion. . . Why?

"Did you hear me? I ruined your life!" Sherlock shouted, throwing his hands about angrily. "Aren't you going to do something about it?"

Lestrade was in shock. No. No, this couldn't be happening.

"Why did you do it." he stated rather than asked. Whatever fight was in him was silenced by the weight of his emotions. He was defeated. Now he just wanted the truth.

Sherlock collapsed to his knees, raising his eyes to level with Lestrade's.

"Because. . . Because I. . . It wasn't fair."

His lower lip quivered like that of a child who has broken his favourite toy. "I couldn't just stand by and watch you. . . I thought it was the only way."

"The only way to what?" Lestrade still wasn't sure what to make of all this. He felt simultaneously betrayed and intrigued.

"I wanted. . . I wanted you to. . . I. . ."

"Spit it out!" Anger, now. "God damn it, Sherlock! You tore my life apart! The least you can do is tell me why!"

"Because I had to!" he screamed back. His eyes fell to his chest and he picked idly at some loose strings on his shirt. "Because you were never honest with me! All I wanted was for you to tell me the truth, and you wouldn't."

"The truth?" But he knew. Oh, he already knew. It was so obvious. But he needed to hear Sherlock say it, to bring it to light.

"You need me. You do. But you'll never say how. You'll never explain. And I know. I've always known. But would it kill you to say it?"

"Say what?"

"That you want me. That you love me."

There it was. The ugly truth they had both been avoiding for so long.

"I. . .I. . ." stammered Lestrade.

Sherlock glared at him. "Oh, do I have to do everything?"

He grabbed the older detective by the back of the head and pulled him into a warm, sloppy kiss.

Lestrade's mind reeled as if he were the drunk one. He had never expected this, not even when he wanted to. It was always a fantasy, something that would never happen. But his lips were warm and moist and he tasted like Baileys and maybe thinking just didn't matter any more.

He gasped, pulling back. Sherlock gazed at him, hurt and confusion in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Why not?"

Lestrade sighed. "Look, Sherlock. You just admitted that you made my world a living hell. On purpose. You've manipulated me into a corner. And I. . . I don't want to have this conversation right now, do I?"

"No. So why are we still arguing about this?" Sherlock kissed him again, with less hesitation this time.

It took all of Lestrade's willpower to pull away again.

"Stop it. Please."

"I don't want to."

He smiled gently at the younger man. Petulant as always. "You say that now. But what about tomorrow?"

"Forget tomorrow," Sherlock growled.

Lestrade shook his head. "I can't," he whispered.

Sherlock slumped, blinking slowly. He clearly wasn't expecting much resistance.

Lestrade sighed, scooping him up and dragging him to the spare bedroom. "You need to sleep this off. I'll see you in the morning. And maybe I'll be able to face you. But I'm not promising anything."

Sherlock grabbed him by the collar as he deposited him on the bed.

"I love you," he hissed sharply in Lestrade's ear.

Lestrade pulled away, trying to hide the tears in his eyes.

"I love you too. God knows why, but I do."

He kissed the groggy man gently on the forehead.

"But I know you won't remember this in the morning."

Only a few more updates left. . . thanks to all of you who have been reading this from the beginning. It's been one hell of a ride!