A/N Another on-time update! Yay!

Thanks to johnsarmylady and Fayet

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XVI. Questioning

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Sherlock decides, is awfully interfering. Of course, it is his job, being a policeman, but that doesn't change the fact that he gets on Sherlock's damn nerves. He's always been somewhat nosy, and yet this is just ridiculous.

"What exactly is the relationship between you and John?"

That's what he's asking now, and it's phrased professionally, astute, direct, as though he's questioning one of the criminals that he's so often subjected to. Hopefully this isn't nearly that official. Chances are that he'll be reporting back to Anderson and Donovan, but it shouldn't go beyond that. His posture—leaning slouched against the back of his swivel chair, hands behind his head and eyebrows half-raised—is casual enough, and the timing of his inquiry—shot towards Sherlock's back as he passes towards the door—makes it look random, impulsive. His tone is just a hint too airy, though, and Sherlock's clever enough to realize that Lestrade's been wondering this for quite a while now.

The consulting detective doesn't move, but his hand drops from the door handle. He takes a slow, deep breath, and his body stiffens. There it is again, that absurd suspicion that most of Scotland Yard seems to harbor. Everyone thinks they're a couple, in fact, not just the Yarders.

"He is my associate," Sherlock growls through his teeth, the words cold and precise. He's glaring at the door like it's committed a personal offense against him, though the actual one to do so, of course, is in the opposite direction.

"Your associate who… lives with you?"

"He's my flat mate, Lestrade. Hardly unusual—in fact, you'll find that it's rather common for two men to share housing these days."

"Share housing, sure. But…"

"What are you implying?" Sherlock snarls as though it isn't exceedingly obvious, turning around sharply to face the Detective Inspector. Lestrade just shrugs, looking remarkably unfazed.

"There's nothing to imply," he points out. "It's just that the majority of the force is more than a little curious. Thought I might do a little digging, see if there's anything you care to tell us that we didn't know about."

"Well, I'm afraid your colleagues are going to be disappointed, Inspector," Sherlock shoots back. "There's nothing going on between us that you don't know about, and if you have any idea what's good for you, you might actually want to shut up right about now and stay that way."

Lestrade sighs. "Yeah, well…" The next words are muttered just under his breath. "…Maybe you don't realize it yourself."

"Realize what?" Sherlock notices vaguely that his own breath is coming out a bit faster, and that his face seems to be radiating heat. He knows, of course, exactly what the policeman is talking about.

He also knows that he's probably right, but there's no need to admit as much.

"Nothing, nothing," Lestrade murmurs hastily. He leans forward and busies himself with a stack of papers on his desk. He shuffles it a couple of times, everything about his posture visibly communicating that Sherlock ought to leave now.

The detective feels odd, though. Uncertain, hesitating, like simply exiting the room at this point would feel wrong. His hand is back on the door handle, though, he's turning it…

"Maybe."

That's all he lets out, just those two extremely ambiguous syllables, and then he's out of there as fast as he possibly can move without looking rushed, pretending not to hear the far too entertained "What?" that comes from the office behind him.