A/N: Yay for another installment! This one's all Sherlock/Lestrade.

It's angsty. Happy New Year.

Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John/Straight!Lestrade (queerplatonic love)

Part VIII

Lestrade goes as fast as he can, once he receives the call. He's so panicked that it isn't until after he talks to the surgeon about John that he realizes Sherlock is missing. He asks three different nurses if they've seen a tall man with blue eyes and a long coat, but they haven't. Lestrade stands in the middle of the shadowy corridor not knowing whether to stay or go. John made it through the operation but the doctors can't promise he'll make it. Lestrade can't bear to leave him in case John wakes up or—.

But Sherlock should be here. Where is he? What if something happened to him? What if he's gone to do something stupid? Lestrade calls him and the phone rings and rings and goes to voicemail.

He calls Donovan and begs her breathlessly, stumbling over his words, to come to the hospital and wait for news on John while he goes looking for Sherlock. She assures him she'll be there as soon as she can. The moment Lestrade ends the call, he staggers to the wall and sinks down to the floor in a squat. He holds his head in his hands and tries to breathe.

John was stabbed. Nobody can tell Lestrade what happened. Only that John was stabbed more than once and lost a lot of blood. The DI feels his chest tighten. They won't allow visitors yet. If not for the fact that Lestrade is a DI at the Yard, they wouldn't even let him in later because he's not family. Wouldn't let Sherlock in. Lestrade knows this without being told. Miraculously, this is the first time one of the three men has been in hospital since they started increasing the intimacy of their relationships, and until now, the family rule has lingered in the back of Lestrade's mind as a thorny reminder that the world isn't equipped to understand what he has with John and Sherlock. He and the two other men aren't blood, aren't married, aren't even lovers—yet they're each other's loves. They shouldn't need Lestrade's badge to be allowed access to each other.

"Inspector?"

He looks up to find Donovan eyeing him with worried eyes. "Sally. Thank God." He pushes himself to his feet. "He's out of surgery and he's resting. It's a wait and see. I need to find Sherlock. I can't imagine why he isn't here. Worried something's happened to him."

Donovan purses her lips, as if she wants to say something snide about Sherlock but knows that now is not the time. She touches her hand to Lestrade's arm, above his elbow. "Go on. I'll call you if I hear anything about Dr. Watson."

"Thank you." Lestrade strides away briskly, not waiting one moment. Donovan watches him disappear.

Anyone else would leave it off for last, but Lestrade follows his intuition when it comes to Sherlock. He drives to Baker Street, having called Sherlock's mobile twice more before he arrives. No answer either time. He parks his car on the street just outside 221 and rushes up the stairs to Sherlock and John's, afraid both of finding Sherlock and not finding him.

Sherlock's slumped back in his easy chair, chin on his chest and his arms spread out on the armrests. His sleeves are rolled up. A new rubber tube is tied tight above his left elbow. The used syringe is on the little table next to Sherlock's legs, along with a silver spoon and an empty plastic baggie. Sherlock looks totally spent. Only when Lestrade steps closer does he see that Sherlock's crying.

The younger man slides his eyes up and over to Lestrade.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade says.

"Is he dead?"

"No. Why aren't you at the hospital?"

"Was. You must've just missed me."

"Sherlock—"

"Don't, Lestrade."

The older man stands feet away from Sherlock's chair, at a diagonal from it, his arms at his sides and the door to the flat open behind him. "He's not awake yet. And you're here, getting high."

"I needed it."

Lestrade doesn't know what to say to that. "I called you."

"Phone's gone."

"Gone?"

"Upstairs. Wherever I threw it."

Lestrade stares at Sherlock, his heart rate finally reaching normal tempo. Sherlock's voice sounds gravelly and lifeless. Lestrade feels weak on his feet, both from relief and stress, and all he wants to crawl into Sherlock's arms to comfort and be comforted. But he can see now that he won't have that luxury in the immediate future. "Come on. I have Sally waiting on him for us. I told her I'd be back as soon as I found you."

"I'm not going."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Lestrade is speechless for a moment, his lips parted. "Sherlock, John's not safe yet. Anything could happen, we have to be there. Now. The only reason I left was to look for you."

"Go without me."

"You can't be serious. Why?"

Sherlock suddenly pushes himself up and crosses the room to the sofa, where he sits on the edge of the middle cushion. He hangs his head into his hands. After a long pause, he says, "It's my fault." His voice sounds strangled and tight in a way Lestrade's never heard. "He was bleeding out in the road because of me. He wasn't even conscious when I found him. If he dies—he will have spent his last waking moments alone."

"Hey," says Lestrade, crossing the space between them and crouching at Sherlock's feet. "Hey, listen to me. None of this is your fault. And he's not going to die."

"You don't know that." It comes out in a whisper. Sherlock presses his eyes into the heels of his palms and shudders.

Lestrade lays his hands over Sherlock's kneecaps, thumbs almost brushing Sherlock's elbows. He wishes he could promise. He wishes desperately that he could be sure of John's survival. But he can't. If Lestrade loses John, it will be a pain in his heart that never subsides, but he can't imagine what it would do to Sherlock.

The younger man lifts his head up and folds his hands together in front of his mouth. His face is slick with tears. When he opens his eyes, the blue of his irises stand out amidst the red whites. He sniffs and lowers his hands in front of him, pushing Lestrade's hands off his knees. Sherlock's lip quivers, and he says, "I thought—I thought—"

Another tear runs down Sherlock's cheek and Lestrade takes both his hands in his.

Sherlock trains his eyes on Lestrade's, his eyebrows drawn together and his lip shaking. When he speaks, his voice is thin and almost a whisper. "I thought we would be together forever. I wanted to believe, even though I know better."

Lestrade bows his head, heart clenching painfully in his chest.

"I guess I should be grateful," says Sherlock, tears collecting on his jaw and dripping into his lap. "Better to lose you both to an early death than have you walk out on me."

Lestrade takes his hands out of Sherlock's and stands back up, turning away from the younger man. He stretches his hand against his forehead. "God, Sherlock."

"This is all wrong." Sherlock shakes his head. "All of this was wrong."

"What are you saying?" Lestrade turns around to face him. "Are you saying you regret the last eight months?"

"If I lost one of you eight months ago, it would've been difficult. Now, it's intolerable." Sherlock looks down at the floor. "I can't handle this, Lestrade. It hasn't even been a year. The longer this goes on, the worse it'll be when it ends."

"What are you saying, Sherlock?" Lestrade says in a raised voice, blinking rapidly, suddenly afraid.

Sherlock shakes his head and closes his eyes, tears falling. When he looks at Lestrade again, the DI's stomach drops.

"This has to stop," says Sherlock. "Even if John wakes up—this can't continue. I'm sorry."

"No," says Lestrade, surprising himself. He feels his pulse quicken. "No. You aren't doing this. You aren't running away the first time it hurts."

"I recommend you respect my decision, Inspector." Sherlock says it with no real power. The words sound frail in his mouth.

"You are not doing this!" Lestrade shouts. "I love you! John loves you! You can't just walk out on us because people die, Sherlock, that's absurd!"

"It is absurd," says Sherlock, his face so pale it's almost translucent, "That I put myself in this position to start."

Lestrade pivots to the left, slides his hand under the corner of the breakfast table, and flips it toward the fireplace. Loose papers and pens and books go flying everywhere. Sherlock flinches but otherwise sits perfectly still.

"You shut your mouth!" the older man yells, glowering at Sherlock. "How dare you fucking say that to me? After all this, after John and I did this for you, after we've been happy! You're acting like a child! Like a bastard!"

"Get out," says Sherlock quietly, his eyes moving away from the DI when he blinks.

Lestrade crosses the room and fists his hands in Sherlock's shirt, pulling Sherlock toward him as he leans down and looks at Sherlock in the eye. "You are not destroying the best thing that's ever happened to you out of cowardice. I won't let you do that to yourself. I won't let you do that to John, after he wakes up from being bloody stabbed. We are not your playthings."

Sherlock looks up at him numbly. "If you don't leave, I will."

Lestrade backhands him across the face. He immediately regrets it—but only a little. "Do you think you're the only one here with something to lose? You think this doesn't scare me? I love him too. I would never give that up just so I could stand calmly at his funeral."

"I'm not you," Sherlock says. His cheek is red.

"No," says Lestrade. "But you are better than this."

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "Don't make this more difficult than it has to be."

"You're really going to walk into John's hospital room, look him in the face, and reject him? You think you can do that? Look at me and tell me you don't love me." Lestrade shakes Sherlock a little, hands still grasping the designer shirt, and Sherlock looks at him. "Go on. Tell me. I don't love you anymore, Lestrade. My life is better without you. I'll be happy with you gone. Say it."

Sherlock says nothing.

Lestrade has no words for how he feels right now, emotionally or physically. He's amazed he still has it together, still has a straight face and dry eyes and the strength to stare Sherlock down. He tries to determine how well he would take it if Sherlock said those words to him now, even as he knows that the other man wouldn't mean them.

"I love you too much," Sherlock says, his voice surprisingly steady. "Greg. Please. Go."

Lestrade lets go of Sherlock's shirt and draws himself up straight. "Not without you." He pauses. "Look, if you don't want to come along for me, then do it for John. He deserves to have you there."

"Fine."

Lestrade's about the turn and head out the door, when Sherlock grabs the left side of his coat. The DI stops. Sherlock pulls himself onto his feet by Lestrade's coat and the two men stand at almost equal height, toe to toe. Lestrade searches Sherlock's face, until Sherlock tilts forward and Lestrade instinctively wraps his arms around the slighter man.

Sherlock clutches Lestrade tight, face buried in the older man's shoulder, and he is utterly silent as his back shakes. Lestrade can feel Sherlock's legs trembling, his weight sinking a little, but he holds the younger man up. They don't speak for a few minutes. Lestrade presses his mouth shut against the front of Sherlock's shoulder. He can smell the rain in Sherlock's suit jacket. They stand holding each other for a long time.

Lestrade pulls away from Sherlock and takes the other man's face in both his hands, looking at him. Sherlock's face is wet and pale, his eyes puffy. Lestrade has hardly ever seen him so upset. "Listen. He's going to be all right. Hear me? I promise."

"You can't promise," Sherlock whispers, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I just did," says Lestrade. "John wouldn't leave you."

"It's not up to him." Sherlock's hands curls around Lestrade's wrists. He closes his eyes and hangs his head.

Lestrade leans in and rests his forehead against Sherlock's. He can smell the saltiness of Sherlock's tears. On impulse, he presses his lips to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, the lightest touch. His top lip comes away wet in a tiny spot. He kisses Sherlock's lips, centered, just a touch. When he draws his head back, Sherlock looks at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to comfort you. Sorry. I should've asked."

Sherlock blinks at him, as if in a daze. "It's all right."

"It's not about—I don't want to snog you. I'm not—"

"I know. I could tell if you were." Sherlock is still holding onto Lestrade's wrists, and Lestrade is still holding onto Sherlock's face. "You can give me another."

Lestrade moves his face forward and touches his lips to Sherlock's. The kiss is so slight, brief and yet lingering, dry and painfully tender. Lestrade rests his forehead to Sherlock's again, closes his eyes. Their two sets of feet are toe to toe. "I love you," says Lestrade. He kisses the corner of Sherlock's mouth again.

Sherlock squeezes the DI's wrists. "Lestrade." He takes a breath as if breathing is difficult. He touches his own lips to Lestrade's, tentatively, only for a second.

Lestrade wraps his arms around Sherlock and holds him close.