Warning: Recreational drug use.
Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade in a nonsexual ambiguous relationship.
Part VI
John and Lestrade have been sitting together in the noisy pub for two hours, through dinner and beer, yelling along with all the other men packed around them at the football match broadcast live on the telly. They even threw their cold, leftover chips at the screen when the referee penalizes the player on their team who had just scored a gorgeous goal, not counted. They're a little drunk, if they're honest with themselves, and too warm surrounded by so many people and close to each other on their bar stools. It's cold outside: John's wearing his leather jacket and Lestrade keeps his black three-quarter overcoat folded next to him on the bar top. Originally, they were going to have dinner at their favorite Chinese, and Sherlock was supposed to go with them. But Sherlock's been a mood all day and told them he didn't feel like leaving the flat. He insisted they go without him and not to bother bringing him anything because he wouldn't eat it. John told him he bloody well was going to eat what they brought, but he and Lestrade decided to go out after all because they knew Sherlock wasn't going to snap out of his mood even if they stayed with him. Sometimes, the man needed space.
So they changed course, headed for one of Lestrade's favorite pubs where he knew the game would be on, and ordered burgers and chips and beer and became quickly engrossed in the game, giving up all other conversation topics, their voices added to every crescendo of protest or glee the whole of the pub voiced at each development or near-development of the game. When they scored their first goal, the room erupted and Lestrade banged his pint too hard on the bar top, beer sloshing out of the glass, and John hooked his arm around Lestrade's neck and popped up with his foot on the rung of his stool. It may be ridiculous for men their age, but most of the other men in the pub are their age too.
The game's come to an end, and they've lost 2 to 1. John drains the last of his beer out of the bottle, standing on his feet and brushing up against Lestrade, who has remained seated.
"I'm glad we did this," says John. "Haven't enjoyed a match properly in ages."
"Yeah, me neither," says Lestrade. "I feel like I'm behind."
"You used to play, didn't you?"
"In uni, yeah. When I was boy, it was a big thing. You?"
"Rugby! On the team in school too."
"Rugby." Lestrade considers John with a nearly bemused draw of one eyebrow. "I can see that."
"Did you know Sherlock fences? Fences, for God's sake! And he's a boxer. Scrawny little Sherlock, a boxer."
"Yeah, I've seen him—seen him do both, actually. He's quite good. You ever follow him to a match?"
"No, not yet. He doesn't seem to go very often, unless he's been sneaking off without telling me. I don't think he's gone since we all got serious, has he?"
Lestrade thinks. "Can't say I've noticed, no."
"I'm not sure he wants me watching him. It's been a long time since you did, right?"
"A few years before you met him. Two, maybe. We should ask him, if you like. It'd give us all something to do together on our downtime, which is the only reason Sherlock ever bothers with those activities anymore, I think. Stop the boredom."
Lestrade makes one last pull on his beer, as John shuffles a few bills out of his wallet onto the bar. Lestrade pays his own tab: all three men prefer to maintain independence from each other when it comes to money, both for pride and courtesy.
John claps him on the back, more firmly than he probably intended. "Ready?"
Lestrade straightens up on his feet and slips into his overcoat as he and John sidestep their way through the other patrons to the door. Only when he's mobile, does Lestrade feel how much alcohol he's had, suddenly far more intoxicated than he was moments ago. The cold air wakes him up a bit when they step outside.
"Walk?" says John, hands already in his jacket pockets. "It's not that far, yeah?"
Lestrade nods and they begin to head south on the road, side by side. Their breath turns white in front of them. A few blocks and Lestrade slips his arm into John's. John smiles.
"Have we been giving each other enough attention?" says Lestrade.
"I think so. Unless you don't?"
"I'm fine. I just thought I'd ask, while we have the privacy."
"I mean, we could always spend more time together, but it's a bit hard with your work and Sherlock and his cases and everything. We've got to sleep some time."
"Indeed we do. But if you think we ought to spend more time on our relationship—without Sherlock in the picture—we can make it happen."
John nods. "Like I said at the pub, I'm glad we did this. I enjoyed myself."
"Me too." They walk together in silence for a few minutes, before Lestrade speaks again. "You're the calm in the storm."
John chuckles deep in his throat. "The storm of Sherlock Holmes?"
"Precisely."
"Funny. I feel the same way about you."
"I guess we shouldn't be so hard on him," says Lestrade. "He's been really good. Better than he was, anyway."
"True. And if we really wanted sanity, we wouldn't be here."
Suddenly, Lestrade pulls his arm out from John's and stops in his tracks. "Can I ask you something? And I want an honest answer, John. Why do you want our relationship to be more than casual? Isn't Sherlock enough?"
"What?"
"Really, I've been wondering. I can't seem to figure it out. You've got something special with him; I see it in the both of you. You really love each other, and I'm glad. I just can't see why you'd need me for anything other than the occasional refuge from him."
John shakes his head a little. "God, this is really bothering you, isn't it?"
"It doesn't bother me. I just don't understand it. I can understand you and I being good mates, like any two blokes might be, but is there really anything more here?"
John looks at him with that expression of disbelief Lestrade's seen him give Sherlock too many times to count. "Greg—you're a good person. A bloody amazing person, actually. Most people wouldn't know it because you're all about work but there's more to you than that. Is it so hard to believe I'd want to be close to that part of you? You don't have a hard time believing your relationship with Sherlock."
"I've been taking care of Sherlock long before the three of us started all this. He's used to relying on me that way. It isn't about who I am; it's about what I do."
"You can't be serious."
Lestrade, hands in his coat pockets, lifts his shoulders. "It's true."
"Lestrade, you do what you do because of who you are. Sherlock loves you, for a whole lot more than however you cleaned up his messes years ago. Didn't you get the message after his whole crisis over you getting sick?"
"Will you answer my question?"
John steps up to him and takes him by the lapels of his coat, looking at him with steady focus. "You're one of the best men I've ever known. I feel like I can count on you. You and Sherlock are my family—and isn't family supposed to be made up of more than two people? Why should I want to narrow my whole world into one person? Wasn't that the point of this experiment? To see how much we could all give each other?"
Lestrade lowers his gaze to their feet. John lifts his hand to Lestrade's face and pushes it up so that Lestrade must look at him again.
"You can't replace Sherlock, no one ever could—but he can't replace you either. I asked you to be a part of this for his sake. But for mine too."
Lestrade nods, absorbing the sincerity in John's face, feeling the warmth of the doctor's hand on his.
"I trust you," says John. "And I can't say that of many people in the world."
"What do you want from me?"
"What do you want from me?"
Lestrade circles his arms around John's torso and pulls him into a hug, close and warm. John latches onto him. They stand there together on the pavement for a long time, holding each other, and they don't answer each other's question because it's too difficult to articulate what they want, even while it's as simple as this hug.
When they finally pull apart and continue walking, John takes Lestrade's hand in his and neither of them let go until they're standing at the front door to 221 Baker Street.
When they get home, John calls out to alert Sherlock of their return, but he receives no answer. He and Lestrade go up the stairs to 221B with loud footsteps, and John starts asking Sherlock if he's come out of his sulk—but stops once he lets himself into the flat and sees Sherlock slumped down in his favorite chair by the fireplace, arms flung out around him and a piece of rubber tied tight around his left arm above the crook of his elbow.
"Sherlock?" He takes several quick steps toward him, giving Lestrade a better view from the doorway.
"Oh, no," Lestrade says, with a deflated tone. He doesn't need to move any closer to know what's on the coffee table next to Sherlock's propped up feet: empty syringes, a spoon, a cup of water.
"Christ," says John. "You can't be serious."
Sherlock's awake and looking at him with clear eyes and a shit-eating grin, his body absolutely limp with pleasure. "Welcome back."
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John yells.
Lestrade is really not in the mood for this but there's no turning back now. Sherlock needs to be looked after properly and John will stay angry all night if Lestrade isn't here to diffuse him. Lestrade is far more familiar with Sherlock's coke habit than John, has seen it in all of its forms, in every degree of severity, and though he couldn't explain it to someone else if he tried, he does have a strangely comprehensive understanding of why Sherlock has this relationship with the drug. He's practiced caring for Sherlock in the wake of a high, through the depression that comes back after Sherlock's crash, twice as bad as it was before. He finds it ironic that after what he said of his relationship with Sherlock in the street, he gets to spend the rest of his night looking after him.
"John," he says softly. "John. Look at me."
John turns around and faces Lestrade, hands on his hips.
"He's still high right now but depending upon when he last shot up, we don't have much time before he comes down again. It goes fast. He's going to feel bad once it's worn off. We have to help him through it. Okay?"
Lestrade's aware he's turned on his DI-in-charge-of-a-crisis voice, the kind of tone he would use with a panicking police officer or an overwhelmed paramedic. He's got John's full attention and the doctor nods in seeming agreement.
"We'll leave him where he is for now and let him ride out the last of it. I think we're going to want to move him to bed. Maybe some tea is in order."
Lestrade moves past John to Sherlock, touching the consulting detective's forehead with his hand, pushing up the dark curls. He collects all of Sherlock's drug paraphernalia from the coffee table and moves it into the kitchen, throws the syringes into the bin, and fills the kettle with water.
"He probably hasn't bloody eaten all day," says John, moving to stand in the threshold between kitchen and sitting room. "Look at him."
Lestrade understands John's anger, he truly does; he's been enraged at Sherlock before himself. But he knows better than to think he can control Sherlock Holmes by being angry with him. "This is what he does when he's depressed. It's how he lived through his twenties, for God's sake."
"It's stupid! It's so bloody stupid, I can't believe it! The smartest man in London and this is what he does to himself. He could die, Lestrade. He could easily die. And he knows that, the fucking wanker."
John's murmuring, hissing certain words, and Sherlock can almost certainly hear him from where he sits. But John obviously doesn't care. The water begins to boil in the kettle, and Lestrade stands with his arms crossed over his chest, giving John the time and space to be upset. Lestrade shakes his head. "I've tried getting him to see a therapist or a psychiatrist who could prescribe him medication, but he won't hear it. Says psychology is rubbish and pills will interfere with his head."
"Oh, but it's all right to use coke to interfere with his head?"
Lestrade shrugs.
"You didn't have Chinese," Sherlock calls out. "You've been drinking. This is why you're angry, John. Your temper becomes significantly shorter after you've had alcohol."
John turns around as if he's about to shout but Lestrade says his name, warning him against it. John stays quiet. Lestrade looks past him into the sitting room and sees Sherlock closing his eyes and smiling. The DI can feel his heart sting for him, knowing the crash that's fast approaching and its after effects sure to last through to the morning.
The kettle—an electric model—switches itself off and Lestrade takes down three mugs from the cupboard above the stove. He looks at the assortment of tea bag tins gathered on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker and selects Chai, not bothering about the caffeine because he's sure it isn't strong enough for any of them. John watches him make it, not saying a word, and they both look over at Sherlock when the younger man lets out a sharp huff of a sigh, followed by a pause and then a groan.
"God," says Sherlock.
"That's our cue," Lestrade says to John. They move to Sherlock's side and see the bliss gone from his face and replaced by an expression of someone who's just had the wind knocked out of all his dreams. He squeezes his eyes shut and shades them with one hand.
"Where are my things?"
"You've had enough, Sherlock," Lestrade says softly.
"I'll decide that for myself. Where is it, it was right there on the table, and you moved it."
"No more. We're taking you to bed. You're going to have some tea and sleep and be fine again in the morning."
Lestrade and John both attempt to lift Sherlock on his feet, but Sherlock struggles against them. "Damn it, Lestrade! Don't you know well enough by now when to leave me alone?"
Lestrade stops and looks at him, and Sherlock looks back, John watching the two of them. Lestrade reaches over with his free hand and curls it into Sherlock's shirt. "You invited me in. You don't get to me throw out. Not over this."
A meaningful exchange passes between the two men, full of all the years they've known each other, every time Lestrade saw Sherlock like this, and once the moment is gone, Sherlock sags against his two partners in surrender and lets them take him away. They go to Sherlock's bedroom instead of John's because they don't want to make him brave the stairs.
They sit Sherlock down on the bed and John goes to fetch the tea. Lestrade sits next to his consulting detective and looks at him as his white face transforms with despair and exhaustion. Lestrade lays a hand on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock looks at him with those blue eyes, as if no words in any language could begin to describe what he feels. Lestrade lifts his hand up to caress Sherlock's face, pushes his hair back, and Sherlock closes his eyes at the touch, breathing heavy and labored, almost as if he might cry.
"John's angry with me," he says.
"He has a right to be," says Lestrade. "But he still loves you."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."
John comes back into the room with the three mugs on a tray and he sits on Sherlock's other side, visibly less angry. Sherlock holds his mug with both hands and drinks it in silence, deliberately not looking at John or even Lestrade. He doesn't cry but as he drinks, he shudders and takes a few gulping breaths, like he's doing everything in his power not to start, though his eyes are dry. John rests his hand on Sherlock's back and strokes up and down, until Sherlock's finished his tea and sits with the empty mug in his lap, face pale and troubled.
"Is it bad?" Lestrade says, hand on Sherlock's knee again.
Sherlock nods. "I need to sleep. Unless you're willing to go score me some heroin."
Lestrade smiles. "Sleep will do the job."
He and John tuck Sherlock into bed and John goes upstairs to his room for pajamas, while Lestrade changes in Sherlock's room, where he keeps some of his clothes in the wardrobe. Sherlock lies on his back in the middle of the bed and stares at the ceiling. "I ruined your evening."
"No," says Lestrade, pulling on an old t-shirt. "It was virtually over anyway. Don't worry about it."
"I meant my apology."
"I know you did."
But all the apologies in the world won't prevent Sherlock from getting high again in the future. Some things don't change. Lestrade knows him well enough by now not to expect "sorry" to mean a change in behavior. He hasn't been upset with him for using in a long time. Instead, it saddens him that he can't help Sherlock with whatever makes him depressed in the first place.
John returns in his pajamas, slides into bed on Sherlock's right, and Lestrade slides in on the left and turns out the lamp. He sits with his back against the headboard, so that Sherlock can lay his head on Lestrade's thigh and let the older man card fingers through his hair—an old practice they developed in the days of Sherlock's heavy addiction and withdrawal. John curls up behind him, wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist, and doesn't say anymore.
Lestrade massages Sherlock's scalp as if he might do it for the rest of time, sometimes scratching with his fingernails lightly, otherwise tangling his fingers in the younger man's curls, rubbing the top of Sherlock's forehead with his thumb. He starts humming, low and deep in his throat, some tune he doesn't remember the words for. He's hummed it to Sherlock in the past, on nights like this. He listens to Sherlock breathing, knows he's still awake though he can't see his face, moves his head to massage and caress Sherlock's neck and the base of his skull after a while. He thinks he might feel a wetness on his pant leg, beneath Sherlock's face, but he can't be sure.
The humming started because Lestrade learned quickly that there was nothing he could say to Sherlock that would be meaningful, nothing real he could promise. He didn't know why Sherlock felt the way he did, couldn't fix it, couldn't even fully fault him for the drugs. All he could do was stay with him, watch over him, let him know he wasn't alone.
He feels it when Sherlock slips into sleep, and he stays where he is for a while after, quiet and still gently moving his fingers in Sherlock's hair. When he can't think anymore, Lestrade sinks down into the bed and goes to sleep on his back, Sherlock's head on his shoulder.