AN: Yay for a new installment! I hope you're enjoying this story as much as I am.
Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade in a nonsexual relationship (romantic? platonic? queerplatonic? who cares.)
Major Lestrade lovin' in this chapter. And H/C.
Part V
They pass the sixth month mark, all of them feeling like their relationships are steady and solid, their significance and legitimacy undeniable now. They're no longer experimenting or trying it out; they're doing this, progressing in as clear a direction as they can have, given the circumstances. They have said it to each other as much as they could without the explicit words: they're serious about each other.
Slowly, Lestrade's wardrobe migrates to Baker Street. He has no intention of moving in: he likes having his own flat, his own space when he needs to be alone, and he suspects Sherlock and John like having their flat to themselves sometimes too, the way they did before the three of them became intimately involved. But some of his shirts and trousers and a sweatshirt hang off to one side in Sherlock's wardrobe cupboard now, and at any given moment, a few of his personal possessions lie around 221B because he knows he'll be back for them.
He notices he's begun to spend less of his free time working. His weekends used to be extremely solitary, unless he was working an active case: he usually spent them at home doing paperwork or research or at the Yard. Now, he spends half of it with Sherlock and John and the other half on his own, relaxing. They seem to work up a schedule formed out of habit rather than deliberation: Lestrade goes home to his flat on Friday evenings and leaves Sherlock and John alone. He spends Saturdays at Baker Street, usually sleeps over, stays for breakfast, and leaves before or after lunch depending on the collective mood. The number of weeknights he spends with Sherlock and John vary, based on his work schedule and Sherlock's cases and everybody's mood.
Some days, when the clinic is slow, John meets Lestrade for lunch. Other days, it's Sherlock who seeks out the detective inspector's company, whether to relieve his own boredom or out of a still-peculiar consideration for his partner. Half the time, Sherlock doesn't actually eat at these lunch meetings; he watches Lestrade eat and makes conversation. Lestrade usually doesn't bother nagging Sherlock about eating; by now, he's learned it's useless to nag.
One afternoon, Lestrade's sitting at his desk with the empty wrapper of his sandwich still in front of him, while Sherlock stands behind his chair and rubs the stress out of his shoulders. Lestrade has his eyes closed, and Sherlock's expert hands press deep and hard into his muscles.
Donovan walks in on them with a report. Lestrade sees she has her eyebrows raised far too high on her head, standing on the other side of his desk with the file in hand. Sherlock doesn't speak or acknowledge her, nor does he stop.
"Just dropping that off, then?" Lestrade says.
"Yeah." Donovan glances up to Sherlock and back at Lestrade, as if waiting for an explanation.
Instead, Lestrade thanks her and shuts his eyes again, leaning back into the pressure. He hears Donovan turn and leave without another word, and he knows Sherlock's smiling behind him without needing to see his face.
He's fascinated to watch as Sherlock reveals and develops his caring side, fascinated to watch Sherlock and John's relationship progress as if he were a complete outsider with no similar experience. Lestrade is aware he doesn't see the whole of their relationship; he's not privy to everything going on between them. But he's close enough to see it in ways no one else in the world ever could. He sees the way they look at each other when the three of them are alone together at 221B; he sees the way they touch each other when they don't have to worry about outsiders watching. He sees every emotional response possible, bouncing back and forth between them, the relationship in constant motion. Awe, frustration, affection, anger, appreciation, hurt, interdependence, splitting apart, coming back together, miscommunication, communication, analyzing each other, wrong interpretation, right interpretation, trust, care, interest. It's the most complex, detailed, mercurial dance Lestrade has ever seen. He doesn't stop to observe whether he has the same kind of relationship with each of them going on; he simply enjoys what he has.
It's been a hard week: a whirlwind kidnapping case Sherlock solved a few hours ago, which Lestrade also worked, and too much paperwork and rain every day and spilling coffee down his shirt on Tuesday and suspicious looks from some of his team he may have just imagined after Donovan walking in on his shoulder rub and everybody wanting something from him and to top it all off, by the time he steps inside his flat and toes off his shoes and sheds his coat, Lestrade has no choice but to acknowledge he's sick.
He could feel it in his body as early as Tuesday, and he's surprised it took near four days to fully hit him. Then again, he's been so busy; he may have tuned it out all week. His body aches everywhere, he's sure he has a fever, and he's so exhausted, all he can do is go to his bedroom and flop on the bed still clothed. He doesn't have the energy to make himself tea, and he's pretty sure the medicine cabinet is out of stock. He's not going back out for the pharmacy—not in this weather.
He falls asleep hoping he'll wake up better and knowing he won't.
He wakes up to someone pounding on the door.
"Lestrade! Open up!"
He recognizes Sherlock's voice though he can't hear him too well from in his bedroom. He feels worse than he did when he fell asleep, however long ago that was. He lies motionless on his back and doesn't do or say anything for a moment. He reaches into his trouser pocket for his mobile, sees he has two missed calls from Sherlock, and sends a text.
The combined activities of pressing the buttons with his thumb and focusing on the actual message feel too demanding, but he manages to send: Use your key.
He hears the front door open and Sherlock's quick footsteps approaching through the adjacent room. The lights switch on. The consulting detective towers over him at the side of his bed and rests a cool hand on his forehead.
"Just as I suspected."
He steps away and somehow, John takes his place, the skin of his palm dryer and warmer than Sherlock's.
"You should've said something," he murmurs, leaning down toward Lestrade, his hand sliding from brow to cheek.
"Are we staying or going?" says Sherlock.
For a split second, Lestrade instinctually thinks: don't go.
"It would be easier to take care of him at ours, but he probably doesn't want to make the trip," says John.
Oh. They're deciding where to stay with him. Lestrade's glad.
"It's only a cab ride," says Sherlock, standing somewhere at the foot of the bed where Lestrade can't see him.
John looks at Lestrade and touches his face again, softly. "What do you think? Can you stand a short drive? Would you rather stay here?"
"I don't want to contaminate your flat—get you sick."
"Don't be absurd," says Sherlock with that stern clip in his voice. "You're talking to a doctor and a scientist. Sanitization is not a concern."
"Where would you be more comfortable?" says John, sitting on the bed next to Lestrade's body.
Lestrade thinks, none too clearly. "We should go to yours."
"All right, then. Sherlock? Help me with him?"
Lestrade pushes himself up, his head suddenly throbbing, and John pulls him to his feet. Sherlock slides in against Lestrade's left, arm strong around his back, and John lets them go first into the hall. Lestrade leans most of his weight on Sherlock who holds him up without difficulty. John lingers somewhere behind them and when he comes out of the flat to meet them on the curb, just as Sherlock flags down a cab, Lestrade sees the doctor's gathered a few changes of clothes.
On the cab ride to Baker Street, Sherlock keeps his arm around Lestrade's shoulders and Lestrade rests his head on the other man, mumbling apologies. Sherlock tells him to hush.
Mrs. Hudson's already changed the sheets on Sherlock's bed, when the men arrive. She watches and coos over Lestrade as the three of them file into 221B, and Sherlock ignores her, taking Lestrade straight to his bedroom. He lowers him gently onto the bed, as the older man closes his eyes in relief at lying down again.
"I'll be right back," Sherlock whispers, hand on Lestrade's chest.
He leaves and returns with some of the clothes John took from Lestrade's flat, and the last thing Lestrade feels like doing is undressing and dressing again. But Sherlock's already unbuttoning his shirt for him, hauls him up into a sitting position, pulls the shirt off and helps Lestrade into a well-worn blue t-shirt with short sleeves. It does feel better. He lies back down, hand resting on the waist of his trousers where the button and zipper are, but he's so tired, he can't bother. Sherlock pushes his hand aside and does it for him, pulling off the trousers without forcing Lestrade to move again.
"You shouldn't wear pajama bottoms, you'll be too hot," Sherlock says.
John comes in the room with a glass of water and the bottle cap from a medication container.
"Greg, take these. For the fever."
Lestrade raises his head and his shoulders off the bed, takes the pills and drinks the whole glass of water.
"I'm making some tea," says John, taking the glass back from him. "Should be ready soon."
"What else can we do?" says Sherlock.
"I don't think there's much else. It's probably a common virus; he should be fine with the Nurofen and rest. If his fever doesn't break on its own, we'll take him in for tests, get him some antibiotics. Let's see how he is tomorrow."
Sherlock's looking at him; Lestrade can feel it with his eyes closed.
"Towels. Wet towels."
He gets up and disappears into the sitting room. John takes his place, and Lestrade cracks his eyes open to look at him.
"Are you hungry? You can't have eaten dinner."
Lestrade shakes his head. "I need sleep. I can barely stay awake for the tea."
"Okay. We can feed you later, then. You really should've let us know you were sick. If Sherlock hadn't noticed, you might've spent all weekend in misery. You've got to let us take care of you, Greg."
"I know. Sorry. I'm not used to being a burden."
"You're never a burden," John says softly, hand on Lestrade's cheek as he bends down and kisses him on the forehead.
Sherlock sets a small, damp towel over Lestrade's brow and sits beside him, cooling his neck with another towel. John brings a mug of tea at the perfect temperature and sits with him while he drinks it; Sherlock goes back into the kitchen and runs the towels through water again. Lestrade drinks the tea deeply, pausing only a few times. John takes the empty mug from him as Sherlock returns, and Lestrade collapses back down onto his pillow.
Sherlock doesn't move from the bed, looking at the detective inspector and frowning with concern, the damp towels in his hands and his hands in his lap. John stands nearby, watching them.
"You thought we wouldn't want to take care of you," Sherlock says, speaking in a low tone soothing to Lestrade. The older man is in no mood for a conversation, much less a disagreement, but when he thinks, Sherlock does not sound angry. Instead, Lestrade hears the slightest trace of hurt in his partner's voice. "Haven't I told you I love you? Hasn't John?"
John has indeed, the first time having been in the kitchen one evening after dinner when they were doing the dishes together. Lestrade was washing, John was drying, and John leaned close against him to whisper it, so Sherlock wouldn't hear him from the sitting room (though Sherlock probably heard anyway).
"I love you." He said it with a grin on his face, like he was telling the detective inspector a private joke.
Lestrade smiled back. "I love you too."
"Sherlock, not now," says John. "He needs to sleep."
But Sherlock ignores this and continues to look at Lestrade with the hurt more evident in those bright blue eyes. Lestrade wants to answer but his brain refuses to give him any words. Sherlock suddenly turns his head to look at John.
"What have I done wrong?"
"Nothing," says John.
"If he doesn't feel like he can come to us when he needs care, I must be loving him wrong."
"Sherlock," Lestrade says faintly. But he can't think of anything else.
"Come on," John says, quieter now. "Let him sleep and we'll have tea."
Sherlock turns his attention back to Lestrade and lays one towel on his forehead. Without warning, he lays his head on Lestrade's chest, arm around him, and even in his current condition, the detective inspector can tell it is a gesture of apology. He wants to tell Sherlock not to be sorry but he's already rushing fast toward sleep.
Nausea wakes him an hour later and sends him into the nearest bathroom. He kneels on the floor in front of the toilet and thinks he's going to throw up but doesn't. Sherlock's squatted down next to him and John's standing in the doorway and Lestrade can't help feeling a little embarrassed. But he's in too hellish a condition to bother protesting.
He dry heaves a few times, wanting something to come up, anything, just so he can feel better. Instead, he's left shaking and weaker, cool sweat beginning to dampen his skin. He sits with his back against the side of the bathtub and his arm on the seat and his head resting forward on his arm. Sherlock reaches out and lays a hand on his back, rubbing a little. Lestrade's breathing comes heavy and labored.
"He may want some privacy, Sherlock," says John.
"He's not going to vomit," Sherlock says softly. "Do we have anything to relieve the nausea?"
"I can check my medical bag."
Lestrade takes a spoonful of medicine that tastes like chalk and crawls back into bed.
When Lestrade wakes up in the morning—eleven o'clock, my God, he was worn out—he still has a fever but feels slightly better. He finds Sherlock and John in the sitting room: John's watching telly with the volume turned down and Sherlock's folded up in his favorite chair, staring into space with both his hands around his mug. They both turn their heads to look at him when he appears, feeling disoriented and weak and a little unsteady on his feet.
"Greg?" says Sherlock, his face prickled with alertness.
Lestrade touches the back of his own hand to his forehead. "Fever's still here."
Sherlock jumps out of his chair, mug set on the table, and crosses the room to where Lestrade's standing, taking him by the shoulders and looking at him. John's up too, going into the kitchen and coming back with a glass of water and more pills. Lestrade stands heavy on his feet, eyes closing and opening, tempted to lean all the way into Sherlock.
"We'll take his temperature in a bit," says John. "Take these."
Lestrade washes down the pills and as soon as John takes the glass back, Sherlock wraps his arms around Lestrade and pulls him close.
"I'll get you sick," Lestrade says faintly into Sherlock's neck.
"Nonsense."
"Take him back to bed," says John. "I'll make tea. And soup—you need to eat, inspector."
Sherlock guides Lestrade back into his bedroom and lays him down, and Lestrade doesn't understand how he could have slept for thirteen hours and still feel so tired. He hears Sherlock dragging the only chair in the room across the floorboards up to the bedside on Lestrade's right and Sherlock's cool hand rests on his forehead, thumb stroking slightly. His other hand finds Lestrade's and holds it, thumb hooked around thumb.
"I haven't been good enough to you. I know it. I'm sorry."
He's half-whispering and his voice sounds pained, almost like he's resisting the urge to cry. Lestrade makes eye contact with him and sees the pale face full of anguish so completely foreign to Sherlock. The whites of his eyes are already pink, and Lestrade finds it incomprehensible, not just because he's distracted by sickness.
"You've always been good to me," says Sherlock. "And I was too cold to return the favor. You don't trust me; you have no reason to do so. What can I do to prove you can?"
Lestrade, through sheer determination, finds his voice and the words to string together. "Sherlock. You're good. You're very good. And wrong."
Sherlock looks at him, waiting to hear more, hand so comforting in Lestrade's. Lestrade squeezes it as much as he has the strength for.
"I trust you. I'm rubbish at not being alone. That's all. You can understand."
"But it's different now. We're not supposed to be alone."
Lestrade, hearing those words in that voice, feels paternal over him. "I know. My mistake. Not yours."
Sherlock leans closer. "I want you trust to me. I want you to rely on me, the way I've always relied on you. Not for work. For this. For everything. I don't want you to be alone."
Lestrade can't help but smile. "Now, I know I'm not."
The two men look at each other close, hands still together, and Sherlock presses a kiss just above Lestrade's eyebrow, holding it there longer than he needs. When he pulls away, Lestrade looks him in the eye again, and says,
"You aren't bad at love, Sherlock. You're doing fine. Brilliant."
Sherlock's eyes fill with tears, quivering on the precipices of his lower lids, but he doesn't cry. Lestrade squeezes his hand again, smiling reassurance. Sherlock gets up from the chair when John enters the room, carrying a tray with mug and bowl, and Sherlock rushes past him out the door.
"Is he all right?" John says, bringing the tray around the bed.
"Yeah," says Lestrade. "Just need talking to."
He pushes himself up into a sitting position and John arranges the pillows behind his back, after setting the tray over Lestrade's lap. He sticks a digital thermometer in Lestrade's mouth and it reads 38.6 C. Not too bad but John would like to get him down at least a degree by the evening. Lestrade drinks his tea slowly, and John sits with him in silence.
"You should go see to Sherlock," says Lestrade. "I'll be fine here."
"What's wrong with him?"
"He's worried he's not doing this right, I guess. You heard him, last night."
"He didn't want to talk about it. We had something to eat and went to bed. To be honest, I don't quite understand where this is coming from."
"Relationships have not exactly been Sherlock's area of expertise," says Lestrade, almost finished with his tea. "I think he's grateful for us and what we've done but he's not sure he's holding up his end."
"If we were less than happy, he could observe it, for God's sake. And we would tell him."
"I know, but he'll find a way to shore up his own doubt even if it doesn't have anything to do with reason."
John sighs. "Maybe that's something we've missed: maybe he does need more reassurance. He's probably afraid if he buggers up once, we'll leave him."
John says it as if it's the most ridiculous notion in the world.
"I wouldn't be surprised if that's exactly how he thinks," says Lestrade.
"Christ, sometimes I think I'd bloody marry the man if we could all marry each other. It hasn't even been a year."
Lestrade sets his empty mug on the tray and picks up the spoon. "Everybody has an insecurity."
"All right," John says, bracing his hands on the chair's arm rests and standing up. "I'll talk to him. You finish that soup, love."
He kisses Lestrade's forehead and leaves.
Lestrade leaves the tray with empty mug and bowl on the floor next to the bed and falls asleep again, only to wake up an hour or two later when Sherlock and John get into bed with him, Sherlock sliding against his left side with a face that tells Lestrade he's been crying.
"I know you would be more comfortable sleeping alone but I need you," Sherlock says. "I need to feel close to you."
"Then you have me."
Lestrade turns onto his side so Sherlock can spoon him, feels Sherlock's cool face at the back of his neck and Sherlock's arm wrapped snugly around his chest. John's spooning Sherlock in much the same way; Lestrade can feel John's arm between his and Sherlock's body. It's warm but not unpleasantly so, not even with Lestrade's fever. He finds he likes having the comfort.
"I love you so much," says Sherlock, whispering as if still in some emotional pain. "I want this to work."
"I know you do," says Lestrade, already drifting to sleep. "I love you too. I'll always be here."
"You're the love of my life, Sherlock," John says, voice softly traveling over the breadth of the bed. "And you, Lestrade."
John strokes Sherlock's belly with his thumb; Lestrade can feel it against his back.
"Do you believe me?"
Lestrade can hear John kiss the back of Sherlock's neck.
"Yes," says Sherlock.
"We don't have to be perfect," says Lestrade and slips into unconsciousness.
Lestrade's fever doesn't break until the following day, Sunday; Sherlock and John never leave his side, the three of them cooped up in 221B all weekend except for Sherlock running to the store for supplies. John insists Lestrade stay home from work Monday at least, lest he risk the illness worsening. Sherlock promises to stay with him, while John goes to work.
Lestrade spends Sunday on the sofa, wrapped in a quilt Sherlock pulled out of the linen cupboard, and he feels much better (though still sick) than he did Friday or Saturday. Sherlock is subdued after spending much of Saturday cuddled between John and Lestrade or with each of them separately. He stays close to Lestrade on the sofa, sometimes clasping hands with the older man or letting Lestrade rest on his shoulder.
The detective inspector stares at the telly and thinks how he never could've predicted a year ago that this is where he'd be. He wouldn't have imagined. And if he considers the cold facts, he feels like it should be odd that in just six months, he and John and Sherlock have become so emotional about each other. Whether it's entirely reasonable or not, he's grateful. He does hope this lasts forever. He wants this.
He tips his head back on the sofa, John warm and settled on his left and Sherlock on his right, and decides he will never again attempt to take care of himself when something like this happens.