A Gift and A Curse

Chapter 7

Angelo's was packed, the large second generation Italian's homemade dishes were popular and if Sherlock was in the mood to sample some of the dishes, he could even understand what the fuss was about.

Waiters milled around his table at the back of the restaurant; a flickering candle was placed in the centre of his table which gave some light in the darkened corner. He scanned the crowd idly, taking no real interest in the things he deduced.

Sherlock kept his eyes glued on the door where Angelo himself was acting as the Maitre d'. He glanced at the clock on the wall, noting that Lestrade was forty seven seconds late.

Speaking – or thinking in Sherlock's case, of the devil and he appeared. Lestrade entered looking like his usual haggard self, even if there was a look of apprehension in his eyes.

He greeted Angelo who stared coldly at him. Sherlock could just about make out his name being said and Angelo's demeanour changed to a marginally less hostile one. He shouted in Italian to one of the waiters and a young girl scuttled towards Lestrade.

She led him towards the table and Lestrade sat down opposite Sherlock.

"Can I get you gentlemen any drinks?" She asked nervously.

It was then Sherlock remembered she was the waitress he deduced was having a less than strictly platonic relationship with her Geography teacher. Which, for the record, was still continuing even though she'd left school around five or six months ago.

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer but Sherlock got there before him.

"No. Thank you. Now please leave."

The waitress scrambled away. Lestrade stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared at Lestrade. The two were in complete silence until Sherlock spoke.

"Don't. Just don't."

"Don't what?" Lestrade asked calmly.

"Don't try to deduce things. You'll just fail." Sherlock informed him.

"Ah. I see." Lestrade said, realisation dawning on him. "I get it now." He nodded slowly. "Well since it looks like we're going to be here for a while." He stood up and shrugged off his black raincoat, placing over the back of the chair.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "What?" He eventually said. "What is it Lestrade –"

"Since you wanted to talk to me as your 'friend' I'd say calling me Greg would be a good idea."

Greg leant back against his chair, looking a lot more relaxed than he did when he entered the room. There was also the ghost of a smile on his face. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but Greg stopped him by holding his hand up.

"It's about Jane isn't it."

"Well…yes."

"I thought so, right. I suppose you and Jane have known each other for a long time haven't you? And instead of leaving you like any bloody sane women would do when you…left…she stayed right where she was."

"That was her choice. I had no input on that –"

"Do you or do you not want her to marry you?"

Sherlock stared at Greg dumbfounded. "Pardon?"

"Look, it's obvious that you two…" Greg shifted in his seat awkwardly. "…love…each other and it's only right that that's the next step you would like to take in your relationship."

Sherlock's expression remained blank, as if Greg was speaking an alien language. Greg suddenly became unsure of himself.

"You did want to ask advice on how to ask her to marry you didn't you?"

"No."

"Oh." Lestrade faintly blushed. "What exactly did you want on?"

"Jane's pregnant."

"Bloody hell. Urgh…well done mate." Greg smiled or tried to but when he saw the look on Sherlock's face, his smile disappeared in an instant. "Ah…I take it, the baby wasn't planned."

"Excellent deduction, Lestrade. You've out done yourself."

"I'm not a Detective Inspector for nothing." Greg smiled grimly. "Why did you ask me here? Shouldn't you be with Jane?"

At the mention of Jane's name Sherlock flinched, it was almost unnoticeable but Greg saw it.

"Ah…right…you had a fight."

"Something along those lines." Sherlock murmured.

"What happened?" Greg leaned forward, genuinely interested.

"She…told me…"

"And?"

"And I went to clear my head."

Greg stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "You ran away?"

Sherlock drew himself up, "I did not 'run away'. I never 'run away'." He protested but Lestrade was unconvinced.

"You walked out when she told she was pregnant. Jesus Mary mother of Christ I am surprised she didn't brain you with the nearest object to hand!"

"Then please enlighten, Detective Inspector, what was I suppose to have done?" There was an edge to Sherlock's voice but Lestrade completely ignored it.

"Well for a start you shouldn't have bloody pegged it. Secondly you probably should've hugged her and actually displayed a positive emotion. Alright let's try another way…how did you feel when Jane told you? Happy? Proud? Denial?"

"Lestrade, I may be a sociopath but I am not wholly ignorant of emotions. I know exactly what I felt."

"And what was that?" Greg bit the inside of his lip, it was a nervous tick he'd developed when he was a child and it stuck. He had no idea how to deal with Sherlock in the best of times but now…Jesus, he'd rather face murdering, drug dealing, bastard rapists than have to talk to Sherlock about his 'feelings'.

"I felt…" Sherlock took a deep breath. "You want the truth, Lestrade? Then fine, I felt…afraid."

Lestrade felt relief flood through him but he kept his expression as serious as possible. "Well," He began. "I should bloody well hope so. When Elle told me she was pregnant I practically shat myself. Now, since you dragged me all the way out here, you're getting in the first round, understand?"

Sherlock stood on the doorstep of 221B trying to fit the key back in the lock. He knew he was drunk. He didn't like to drink, drinking slowed down the brains receptors and killed brain cells and more importantly made him feel like complete shit the morning after.

But funnily enough, Gregory Lestrade was a hard man to say no to once his mind was set on something. And in that case his mind was set on having a drink, with Sherlock…well, more than one drink more like seven or eight. Still, Lestrade had given some fairly decent advice.

Flowers, chocolate, jewellery, perfume, a profound apology, puppy-dog eyes and him wearing the purple shirt should, apparently, do the trick.

Eventually his key slid into the lock and Sherlock pushed the door open. The only other time he'd succeeded in having such a poor sense of direction was when he'd taken a less than legal drug.

By some miracle he managed to get up the stairs without slamming him face down on one of the steps. He burst into the living room. There was no one there. Well, he didn't honestly expect her to be home.

He'd just have the wait until the morning if he wanted to rectify the mistakes he'd made. He collapsed face first onto the sofa, genuinely not bothered about the fact that his shoes, coat and scarf was still on.

Just before darkness clouded the edges of his vision, he thought of something important he needed to do when he woke up; he remembered that he'd have to shove the spare battery in the second draw down in the kitchen into his phone. He could just about imagine the amount of texts Mycroft would've sent him by now.

The thought of the British Government sat there texting his brother all night long on something trivial compared to what he dealt with brought a smile to the detective's tired lips.

He'd reply to the texts in the morning. After all, Jane wasn't the type to do something drastic.