Lestrade nearly had a heart attack when he entered his flat after an absurdly long day's work. There, sitting on his sofa, looking as though the place belonged to him, was Sherlock Holmes. He felt his heart skip a beat and he did his level best to keep the flush he felt creeping up his neck from reaching his face.

It had been a month since he'd seen the detective last. After the "Fauxriarty case" as the rags were calling it, Sherlock was kept busy with private cases and favors for his brother, according to John's blog. Thankfully there had been no cases Lestrade and his team couldn't handle.

The DI ran a palm over this face, calluses catching on the stubble along his jaw. He did not want to deal with this tonight. He didn't want to deal with it ever. He knew why Sherlock was in his flat. He wanted an explanation for Lestrade's behavior since his return. Lestrade knew he'd treated the younger man differently but he'd been unable to keep himself from doing so. It was self-preservation really. If he avoided Sherlock or was curt during their blessedly few interactions, it was because Greg knew if he didn't behave as such, he would blurt out his feelings and he couldn't handle that ever happening. He never wanted to see Sherlock look at him with pity or disdain and so he removed himself from the other man's orbit. It had been excruciating to be apart from the man but he knew it was best for his broken, battered heart.

He decided to ignore the man siting on his sofa. He went about his usual evening rituals: washing his face, changing out of suit into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, making tea and debating what to have for dinner. That last part turned out to be unnecessary as the thought of eating anything made his stomach turn. When his tea was prepared, he wandered into his sitting room and sat in the armchair across from Sherlock. The younger man had been silent since Lestrade arrived home, tracking his movement with his damn cat-like eyes.

Lestrade sipped his tea and attempted to calm his racing heart. He put his cup down on the table by his arm and looked at the consulting detective. "So. What's all this, then? Brushing up on your lock-picking skills? Felt like giving me a heart attack?"

Sherlock arched a brow at him and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Tell me what's going on, Lestrade."

So, straight to it then. Lovely.

"I don't know what you mean. 'Going on' with what?" Greg dissembled.

Sherlock scoffed and sat back. "Please, you've been acting strangely for months. I want to know why. What happened? When I first returned, you seemed happy to seek me out on puzzling cases but then suddenly you just stopped. Stopped calling, stopped coming by. So I repeat, what happened?"

Lestrade glanced at the other man before turning to look around the room, avoiding eye contact. "Nothing. We didn't need your help. You were busy with other things and we managed just fine."

"Nonsense. I read about the Havisham case. It took you weeks to find the killer, in the past you would have come to me. But you didn't. I could've found the murderer in less than half that time! What stopped you from calling on me?" Sherlock leaned forward again, ducking his head to meet Lestrade's gaze.

Lestrade froze when bright blue-green eyes met his own brown ones. He was trapped. He could feel a strange pressure in his chest. It suddenly seemed as though there was a large elephant sitting on him, forcing the air from his lungs. Greg clutched at his shirt, tried and failed to take deep breaths. Felt himself panicking. He couldn't do this. He couldn't have this conversation. He needed to get out of there. Sherlock needed to leave. He needed to breathe, why couldn't he breathe? He wasn't aware he'd closed his eyes until he felt a warm touch on his wrist.

His eyes snapped open and he saw that Sherlock had knelt by his side and was currently taking his pulse and placing his other hand on Greg's forehead. The younger man looked… worried? That couldn't be, could it? Oh, maybe he thought if Lestrade got sick he'd have to break in a new Detective Inspector. That must be it.

"Breathe, Lestrade. Slowly. Deep breaths. Match your breathing to mine." Sherlock slowly inhaled and exhaled repeatedly, and Lestrade found himself mesmerized by the gentle rise and fall of the detective's chest. 'Is he incapable of buying shirts that fit properly? His buttons look as though they are hanging on for dear life! God he's fit. What's he saying? Focus!' Lestrade shook his head slowly, attempting to clear his scattered thoughts. He focused on Sherlock's mouth, trying to decipher what he was saying over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. 'His lips are so lovely. They look soft. I bet they're soft. I wonder what he tastes like.'

Sherlock pulled back, his brows raising. Lestrade realized with a sinking sensation that he'd said that last bit out loud. He closed his eyes and banged his head against the back of his chair 'Oh, buggering fuck. Son of cock loving whore. Fuck me sideways. Goddamn it!' His worst nightmares were literally coming true. The cat was most definitely out of the bag. 'Who puts cats in bags anyway? It seems a terribly ineffective way to transport an animal. I think I'm losing my mind. Perhaps this is all a dream or a hallucination? That would be lovely.' The grip on his wrist felt real enough though the hand that had been on his forehead was gone.

"…er." Sherlock said, eloquently.

"Yes." Greg agreed. "Indeed."