A/N: Finally, I'm updating this fic. It's not finished yet. Hopefully I'll update again within a reasonable amount of time. This chapter isn't a spectacular update but I wanted to get something new down.

Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade (queerplatonic relationships or romantic friendship)

Part VII

Lestrade wakes up first in the morning, with Sherlock still pressed against his side and breathing softly on his shoulder. John, as far as Lestrade can tell, continues to sleep soundly with his face in Sherlock's back. Lestrade peers over at the digital clock on the night table near him: 9:46. He finds Sherlock's hand on his chest, at the bottom of his ribs on his left side, and takes it in his own hand. He runs his thumb over a spot on the top, feeling the thin, dry skin. Sherlock's hands tend to be dry because of his scientific experiments and the number of times he washes them and wears surgical gloves. He's not the kind of man to use hand cream; thus, Lestrade finds Sherlock's hands dry whenever he touches them.

Sherlock hums in his sleep, shifts his body a little between Lestrade and John, and cracks his eyes open a sliver. Lestrade continues to rub Sherlock's hand with his thumb, watching his face. Sherlock looks at him briefly and closes his eyes again, head rolling against Lestrade's shoulder. "It's almost ten," the DI whispers.

Sherlock doesn't respond. Lestrade rests his cheek on the top of Sherlock's head and thinks. He and John will have to spend the day looking after Sherlock. The younger man may have slept through the worst of his comedown but he's always low for at least a day afterward. He was in a mood before he got high, and now it'll be worse. Lestrade dreads the first twenty-four hours following Sherlock's highs. He's been through enough of them to know what to expect, but they never get easier. He hasn't been with Sherlock through a comedown in several months, perhaps over a year. He's never talked to John about the drugs. He doesn't know how familiar the doctor is with Sherlock's use, but judging by John's outrage last night, he was under the impression Sherlock was clean.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock mumbles, his voice thick and his eyes still closed.

"You're an idiot."

"Mmmm."

Lestrade lets go of Sherlock's hand and pushes his own hand over Sherlock's forehead, pressing the dark curls back. He kisses Sherlock's hairline. "You scare me sometimes."

"This scared you?"

"No. But it scared John. I'm only afraid of next time."

"I'm too smart and experienced for an overdose."

"If you believe that, you really are an idiot. How do you feel? You hungry? I'll make you and John something to eat."

"I don't want food. Just stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere," Lestrade says softly. "Neither is John."

Sherlock presses his body into Lestrade, fisting his hand into the older man's shirt. "My head feels empty."

Lestrade rubs his thumb over a spot of Sherlock's forehead.

"I can't stand it," Sherlock says.

John stirs at Sherlock's back, rolling away and rubbing his eyes before propping himself up on one elbow and turning his body toward the other two men. "Sherlock." He reaches out and rubs Sherlock's arm. "Did you sleep well?"

Lestrade looks at John over the top of Sherlock's head, and John looks back.

"You're still angry," says Sherlock, keeping his back to John and the left side of his face on Lestrade's chest.

John pauses for a beat. Softly, he says, "Yeah. I'm angry. But I'm more concerned."

"I'll be fine."

"But you're not fine. That's the point, Sherlock. You do this to yourself because you're not fine to begin with."

"I use because I'm bored."

"Oh, sod off. You weren't bored last night, you were feeling like shit."

"Same difference."

"If you were bored, you could've come along with us. You were—sad."

"I do not get sad," says Sherlock, raising his voice above a weary murmur. "Don't be ridiculous."

John gives Lestrade a look, and Lestrade remains neutral in expression. The older man knows enough to skip wasting his time on arguments with Sherlock. John's eyes narrow onto Sherlock's back. "Look, I know you may not have any idea why you have these moods. There doesn't have to be a reason. I'm not asking you to explain. I'm just asking you to come to me instead of going to your damn needles. That's why I'm here: to take care of you. Maybe I can't fix it but I can be there for you, if you let me."

Sherlock is silent. Lestrade curls his arm around him. John waits.

After a minute or two, Sherlock says, "You already do enough. Both of you. I'm a grown man, I can handle my weaknesses without your help. Trying to console me through irrational melancholy would quickly grow tedious for you anyway."

John's eyes widen a bit. "Is that what you're afraid of? That we'll get sick of dealing with you because you aren't a well-adjusted ray of sunshine twenty-four hours a day?"

Sherlock says nothing.

"Christ," says John. "What sort of bastards do you think we are?"

"John," says Lestrade gently. He looks at Sherlock's curls. "Sherlock—your feelings were hurt when I didn't tell you I was sick. This is no different. You want me and John to trust you when we need a hand. We want you to trust us. And we'd appreciate not having to worry about you killing yourself for a high."

"I'm not going to change, Lestrade," says Sherlock, sounding tired again. "You of all people should know that."

Lestrade pauses. "I don't expect you to give up the coke. Not completely. That's hard for John to hear. But I don't think you can. Sometimes, it is about boredom. I just don't want you to self-medicate, Sherlock. That's what John's saying. There are other ways to feel better, you know."

"Like what?"

"Talking."

Sherlock snorts.

"Going for a walk," Lestrade continues. "Work, when I can get you something. Sometimes, all it takes is a cuppa tea and attention." He glances at John, who meets his gaze. "Doesn't this help?"

"Yes," Sherlock says quietly.

"Well. You can ask for it whenever you want. You don't need to explain anything to me."

"Or me," says John.

"All you have to do is say, 'Oy, feeling bad, mind a cuddle?'"

"I wouldn't say no, Sherlock."

"I wouldn't either," says Lestrade.

Sherlock sighs heavily against Lestrade's side. He is so different in moments like this one from the man John and Lestrade grew accustomed to knowing before, dramatically unlike the man he is in front of everyone else. Sherlock Holmes as the world knows him is cold, aloof, impervious, sometimes even vicious. Here and now, he's vulnerable and weak, wanting no more than to stay in someone's arms. John and Lestrade often forget this Sherlock when they're talking to the other, even after the last six months.

"I want to check you over," says John. "Make sure you've returned to normal."

"I'm fine," says Sherlock.

"Indulge the doctor," says Lestrade, finally sliding out from under the consulting detective and leaving bed. "I'll make breakfast."

John retrieves his portable medical kit from the bathroom and sits with legs folded on the bed, next to Sherlock. He uses his stethoscope to listen to Sherlock's heart, which is what concerns him more than anything. He listens for several of Sherlock's breaths, afraid of palpitations or irregularity or a pulse too fast. To his great relief, the heart sounds normal. Satisfied, he puts the stethoscope away. He checks Sherlock's pupils with his light and takes his temperature. Sherlock really is fine. Physically.

"You're not in any pain?" John asks.

"No," says Sherlock, slouching against the pillows and the headboard. "Why would I be?"

Lestrade brings them both tea and drinks coffee himself.

When Sherlock has drained his mug, he says suddenly, "I want a massage."

Lestrade and John blink at him, then look at each other.

"Okay," says John. "Don't suppose you care which one of us gives it?"

Sherlock shakes his head and stretches his arm out to set his mug on the night table. He lies down on his stomach, one arm beneath his head and the other at his side, and waits. John climbs on top of him, straddling his waist, and starts on Sherlock's shoulders. The younger man tenses before relaxing into the doctor's hands. Lestrade watches for a bit as he finishes his coffee, then puts his mug on the table nearest him and settles on his side of the bed with the pulp novel he's been reading over the last several days in stolen moments.

John slowly works his way down Sherlock's back, eliciting periodic groans and purrs from Sherlock. Once or twice, Sherlock hisses when John kneads a painful knot.

"You need to eat," says John eventually. "You're too thin."

Sherlock doesn't answer.

John rubs Sherlock's shoulders again for a while and then the massage devolves into him stroking Sherlock's back up and down just for the hell of it, almost petting sometimes. He pushes his hands underneath Sherlock's shirt to touch his bare skin, and Sherlock shudders at that and makes a muffled noise. His skin is warm to John's touch.

John bends down and plants a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck. Lestrade glances at him as he gives another and another, John's hands still pressed to Sherlock's lower back. John pauses with his face hovering over Sherlock's hair and breathes in, smelling expensive shampoo and chemicals and the laundry detergent used to wash the bedclothes. He rests his body over Sherlock's, pushing his arms beneath Sherlock's chest and tucking his head into the other man's neck.

Lestrade curls one corner of his mouth in a smile. John stays where he is for a while.