Lestrade didn't see Sherlock again for two weeks after that night at his flat. The young detective had texted him of his plans to travel to Brussels for a case. He'd mentioned he wasn't sure how long he'd be gone. In truth, Lestrade was somewhat glad for the reprieve.
Since that night, he had learnt a thing or two about himself in regards to Sherlock. He couldn't stop his mind from dwelling on it, constantly consumed with it. He was glad Sherlock wasn't around because one look at him and he'd be plucking every dangerous thought from Lestrade's mind, and it was the last thing he wanted. It was nothing he intended to happen and he wasn't harbouring any delusions that Sherlock would appreciate what Lestrade had to offer.
He had already decided, long ago, that his friendship with Sherlock was more important than any sexual dalliance and he intended to keep it that way. He refused to do anything that might endanger that relationship or frighten Sherlock away, no matter how enticing the prospect of further developments appealed to him.
Sherlock was not one for relationships; he'd made that very clear from the start and Lestrade had to respect that. That fact did nothing to negate the roaring flash of arousal that consumed him day and night, driving him insane. He relished the distance currently separating them, fearful of their inevitable reunion.
He'd gotten a call about a double murder, mother and child. His stomach churned unpleasantly whenever cases like that showed up. It was never what a detective wanted to hear about. And yet, there he was, standing over two bloodied-up bodies, heaving a sigh loud enough to be heard throughout London.
The fog hung heavily that evening, and as he stepped away for a quick fag his phone chimed. He was surprised to find Sherlock responding to an earlier message. He wasn't sure if the younger man was back in town but he chanced it when the case crossed his desk, almost by reflex.
Just left the cab. What is the house #? SH
Lestrade went outside and glanced both ways, rather than texting back. The street was closed off with emergency vehicles and he walked a few yards before spotting the dark figure, made indistinguishable by the gloomy fog.
Despite his current situation, his heart clenched at the sight of Sherlock again. It wouldn't do. He stuffed his hands in his suit jacket pockets, nodding towards Sherlock as he got closer. Sherlock exhibited his customary cool expression-blank with a hint of snideness- and god how Lestrade missed it.
"Sherlock," he said calmly.
Sherlock nodded his hello, no different than any other time they'd met up. Lestrade's stomach flipped pleasantly. At least he wasn't dealing with the stony Sherlock from before. The third degree was not what he needed right now.
"Thanks for coming. I wasn't even sure you were back," he said as they walked back towards the scene of the crime.
"Just last night. Or morning I should say. Either way it was some ungodly hour."
Lestrade smirked, but Sherlock was all business.
"So what is inside the home?" he asked as they bounded up the stairs of the row house.
"Nothing pretty, I'm afraid." They went through the door, passing by a number of officers and forensics experts. Donovan glowered as she saw who Lestrade was with.
They approached the body of the mother, laying face down in a pool of blood, her head bashed in."
Sherlock stared, still and silent. Then he crouched down for a closer look.
"You said there was two?"
Lestrade swallowed. "Upstairs bedroom. Her son. He was...shot. Multiple times."
Sherlock stood up. "Take me there."
Lestrade nodded and they made their way up the narrow staircase, Sherlock pausing twice, hands grazing the sides of the walls for some reason. Sherlock followed Lestrade down the hall to the last bedroom, where more people in white suits were milling about. Anderson was there, taking whatever evidence he could find. He also looked up in disbelief as they walked in.
"Inspector! I can assure you we have everything covered. We don't need amateurs mucking up the crime scene!"
"Anderson, out. Come back in ten."
The man stared and sputtered something unintelligent, then stormed past them, knocking Sherlock's shoulder in passing. Thankfully, the younger man ignored the rudeness, concentrating more on his surroundings.
His eyes landed on the small body on the bed. Careful of where he stepped he made his way over and crouched on the floor, his coat splaying around him. One of Lestrade's guys, Oliver, who'd seen Sherlock more than a few times actually came over to him, handing him a pair of rubber gloves. Almost surprised, Sherlock took them, offering a very quiet thank you. He snapped them on and proceeded to carefully examine the body.
It was over with in under five minutes, Sherlock then moving on to the blood stains on the wall behind the bed, and the streaks of red on the nearby nightstand. He sat on his haunches in silent contemplation. Then in one swift motion he stood up to full height and deftly removed both gloves.
"Was anyone else in the house at the time?"
Lestrade shook his head. "Just one other sibling, but he was at a friend's house for a sleepover.
"Where is the father?"
Lestrade sighed. "They were divorced. We're trying to locate him now."
Sherlock said nothing, choosing to exit the bedroom. He walked back down the hall, stopping by what was clearly the master bedroom. He went inside, coming out ten seconds later. Then he went back downstairs, Lestrade following behind.
"Find him if you must, but I suspect he's already dead," Sherlock announced as he passed through the living area, stepping around the dead body on the floor. Lestrade frowned in confusion as he quickly strode after the young detective.
"What makes you say that?" No response. Sherlock actually walked out the front door, hopping down the stairs. Lestrade mentally swore and followed him.
"Sherlock, wait!"
Sherlock stopped in his tracks, twirling around in clear agitation.
"Honestly, Lestrade, I don't know why you bothered calling me in, it's plain as day what transpired here and even a bumbling idiot like Anderson could figure it out."
Lestrade crossed his arms, shooting Sherlock a glare of his own. "Out with it, Sherlock. I'm in no mood right now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, heaving in irritation. "It's clear the husband wasn't too happy with whatever custody agreement was decided upon. It's your average revenge killing. Husband kills ex-wife to repay her for ruining his life, taking away the kids. Husband kills kid, because if he can't have him then nobody will. He shot him in bed, probably while the boy slept, sparing him any physical pain. The blood splatters confirm this but I'm sure you noticed the streaks, yes? He clearly expressed some grief as he knelt down, running his fingers across the boy's face in remorse, then using that same bloodied hand to steady himself on the nightstand as he tried to stand, probably finding it difficult, what with killing his own son. There are very faint streaks of blood along the stairwell walls- once again he was supporting his body as he went back downstairs.
"He killed his wife first, but he used a blunt object as a gun is too loud and not intimate enough. He wanted her to feel it, feel what she did to him. Feel his wrath. Then after she was properly dead did he go upstairs to take care of his son. If the other brother was at home he too would have met the same fate.
"Statistically, men who kill their entire family as a means of revenge usually commit suicide shortly after, either at the scene of the crime or wherever he is currently residing. If he's not already dead because of cowardness, he's certainly waiting for the police to finish the job. Either way, he's boring. Now, I have things I need to see to."
Sherlock turned back around, feet clattering over pavement as the fog suddenly swallowed him whole, disappearing from view.
Lestrade stared, oblivious to Donovan's voice calling him from the steps of the house. Cursing under his breath he retreated back to the scene, relaying Sherlock's findings to the rest of his team. When that was done he excused himself for that smoke he never got before.
He inwardly seethed as he took a long drag, annoyed with himself and with Sherlock by default. He should have noticed it. Sure, everyone suspects the dad at first, and this was no exception, but the evidence was right in front of all of them and in fifteen minutes Sherlock had deduced the whole scene, play by play.
He felt like a rubbish detective. Sherlock was right. He was so used to calling on and relying on Sherlock that he almost forgot that he was supposed to be the fucking Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard. What was the point of him?
He angrily stomped out his cigarette butt, resolve setting in. Fine. If Sherlock was so bored with all these 'simple' cases, then Lestrade would have to stop calling on him. He could take care of matters himself, damn it. He had a great team, a reliable team. He didn't need Sherlock for every little murder case, showing all of them up, sneering at their ineptitude.
If Sherlock wanted in, well too fucking bad cause now it was up to Lestrade to decide whether it was appropriate or not. He didn't need Sherlock. No, that wasn't true. That was his hurt pride talking. There would be times when he needed Sherlock by his side. And he would hope Sherlock would come. But from now on he would be extremely selective about which cases he included Sherlock on. It would mean seeing less of Sherlock, no doubt of that, but it couldn't be helped. Maybe it would be beneficial for them both. Less volatile. Less potential for disaster.
Yeah right, he thought.
August brought more heat and more sleepless nights. Lestrade didn't do well in warm weather and the humidity sometimes sent his hibernating asthma back to the forefront. He'd had it bad when he was a boy. Playing sports was nearly impossible and the warm summers didn't do him any favours. That's why he'd always preferred Brighton. The ocean breezes and cool nights provided him relief whenever his family went on holiday.
Luckily, the asthma symptoms lessened as he progressed into Uni, a development his doctors said were surprising and rare, but not unheard of. He didn't care, he was thrilled to finally be able to ride a bike or swim in the sea without using his inhaler. He passed his physical exams for the police academy without a single hiccup. It was the best day of his life.
He still kept an inhaler, for emergencies of course. He had one at work and two at home. Lately, he found himself puffing on it more times than he'd like to recall, and he loathed it with every breath he took.
And it wasn't even anything physical he did. Just standing in front of the stove cooking dinner would send him to his nightstand where his inhaler sat dormant. The humidity was torture and sleep was hard to come by, even in his air conditioned space.
He was off for the next two days; a rarity but he'd take it. He loved his job but he loved doing absolutely nothing, too. But boredom crept in quickly and soon he was going out of his mind. He thought about going for a walk but the humidity was too stifling for anything physical. He tried to read but grew tired of it after a few pages. He didn't realise what a boring existence he led until he actually tried living it.
He reached for his iPhone (Sherlock had actually purchased it for him, claiming he detested waiting for the long pauses between responses while Lestrade attempted to text on his old flip phone) and wrote out a text.
I'm bored.
There, see how Sherlock liked it… The response was instant.
Come over and help me pack. SH
Lestrade rolled his eyes and typed out a response.
I'm sure you know how to pack your own bag by now.
Idiot.
I'm moving. Will you come or do I have to suffer through this trivial activity myself? SH
If there was an emoticon for 'eye roll' Sherlock would be using it. And what? Sherlock was moving? What the hell was he talking about? Just as he thought it, the phone chimed.
I have mentioned this possibility to you. Numerous times. SH
Lestrade got that creepy feeling he always got when he thought Sherlock could read his mind, even across town. He recalled earlier conversations where Sherlock mentioned potentially moving. He got it after a minute.
Oh, right. Death Row wife on Baker Street. I suppose I have some free time. Gimme a few.
He dressed in shorts and a tee, grabbed his inhaler and wallet and left his flat.
When he got to Sherlock's the place was in disarray. There was hardly room to walk and every sitting option was covered with random items. It was chaos.
"Not my idea of a good time on my day off," muttered Lestrade as he carefully wrapped dishes and glasses, setting them gently in cardboard boxes.
Sherlock was tinkering with his microscope, hardly bothering to pack at all. Books were stacked a mile high on the kitchen table, and more still remained on the shelves. There was no rhyme or reason to anything.
"Sherlock, how are you actually getting all this over to your new place?" He found the thought of Sherlock hiring a moving company laughable and strange.
"Mycroft is sending people," he said with a crinkle in his forehead.
"Ah, that was...nice of him."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, any way to get me out of here and closer to where he lives is more like it. It's not like I owe him thanks or anything."
Lestrade blinked. "Right."
They packed in silence for the most part, the lack of airconditioning in the flat causing Lestrade to practically drip with sweat. Additionally, moving heavy boxes around the place had him winded, literally. They stopped for some tea and that's when Lestrade took out his inhaler, taking a puff. Sherlock paused in his movements, blinking in surprise.
"I didn't know you were asthmatic."
"Well you can't know everything, can you?" he replied in jest. His hand came up to his chest, an automatic reflex as he tried for a deep breath. He noticed Sherlock watching him with guarded eyes.
"It's the heat, really. Or the humidity. Whatever it is, I don't get it in the winter." He wasn't sure why he was trying to reassure Sherlock. The man couldn't be arsed about anything or anybody. But something in those steel blue eyes made him want to reach out, metaphorically speaking.
Sherlock frowned, looking lost for a second, before heading to the sink to drop his cup off.
"You don't have to stay and assist," he suddenly announced, voice low, nonchalant.
Lestrade stared at his back, his heart clenching with something he dared not name. Something he could never admit to himself and especially not to Sherlock. He plastered a grin on his face.
"If I left you to it, you'd never be moved out. You'd still be here a month later, sorting out your medical periodicals."
Sherlock turned around, a half-hearted smirk crossing his face. "You're probably right. Although I could just get Mycroft's people to pack the boring things for me," he finished with his usual snobbery.
Lestrade laughed. "You git. You'd actually do that, is the sad thing."
Sherlock merely shrugged. "They get paid either way. If they are going to babysit me, they might as well make themselves useful."
"What, you think Mycroft is actually using them to spy on you?"
"Mycroft uses everyone he can to spy on me," he said cryptically.
Lestrade frowned. "I'm not."
"Obviously," Sherlock said with customary eyeroll.
Lestrade replied with one of his own, and they got back to packing, Sherlock stopping every twenty minutes to play on his violin. It was nice, but rather distracting-and unproductive. At one point, Lestrade almost sat on it, earning him a scathing glare.
"Kindly refrain from destroying my Strad," he seethed, leaving Lestrade gawking in disbelief.
"Your Strad? This thing that you've practically abused ever since I've known you? You're telling me that is a priceless violin?" he asked, incredulous.
Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if he were an idiot. "Yes, it's a Strad, and I can't exactly procure another so try to watch where you sit," he finished severely.
"How did you even get one? I thought they were all in museums or owned by super wealthy musicians."
Sherlock shrugged. "It was a gift." He turned away with a frown, and Lestrade let it go for now, sensing Sherlock's mood change. They continued packing in companionable silence, broken only when Lestrade accidently found an old photo of Sherlock, from Primary School.
He chuckled as he showed it to Sherlock, whose eyes widened in mild shock. He promptly snatched it away, throwing Lestrade a glare.
"Careful, Lestrade, or I can get Mycroft to procure one of you in your nappies. I'm sure it won't be a bother for him," he threatened.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I was rather a cute baby, I'll have you know."
Sherlock's lip twitched as he turned away to the task at hand. Lestrade called that a victory.
It was well past midnight when they called it quits, and Lestrade hardly even minded about how utterly wasted his day off was.
Summer quickly turned to autumn, London bursting with color. Lestrade loved it. The crisp weather, the reds and yellows of falling leaves, crunching pleasantly beneath his feet. His pace quickened as he caught sight of 221B Baker Street. It really was an ideal location. There were shops and cafes and eateries all within walking distance. Not to mention it was a million times more clean and more safe than Sherlock's previous residence.
He rang the bell and was soon met with a rather short older woman, with a dazzling smile and a twinkle in her eye.
"You must be Mrs. Hudson," he said, taking her hand. "I'm Greg. Pleasure to finally meet you."
"Oh, do come in, dear! It's lovely to meet one of Sherlock's friends." She smiled again, leading him inside. "Sherlock is upstairs. Why don't you head up and I'll be up in a tick with some tea and scones."
"Oh, that's very nice, ma'am. You don't have to trouble yourself."
She waved him off. "Oh please, Sherlock is a darling and he is always so busy he sometimes forgets to stop and eat something. I don't mind, just this once!" She exclaimed with a little nod. "Now up you get!"
Lestrade smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs, rounding the corner to Sherlock's flat. First impression was favourable. Clutter everywhere you stepped, as if the movers(or Mycroft's guys) merely dumped everything where they came in. Or Sherlock really was this messy. But the place had potential. It was large, twice the size of Sherlock's old flat, and much nicer aesthetically.
"Sherlock?" he called out when he didn't see him in the living area.
"In here," came a voice from what was probably the bedroom. He stepped over various items until he made his way over to the doorway. He popped inside, finding Sherlock hanging what appeared to be a long wooden plaque with a sword attached to it. Upon closer inspection, Lestrade saw Sherlock's name on the plaque, along with a date of 1996 and 'First Place'.
"Well, you're full of surprises," he said by way of greeting. He watched for a moment as Sherlock eyed the plaque, making sure it was perfectly level. The sword- fencing sabre more like- looked untouched for years and Lestrade wondered how Sherlock even got into something like fencing.
"Didn't figure you for a sports club sort of chap."
Sherlock stood back, hands on hips as he continued his inspection. "Father insisted. It was...tolerable I suppose, as sports go. I nearly always won," he finished with a slight curve of lip, finally turning to Lestrade.
The older man huffed out a laugh. "I bet. So, nice place you got here."
Sherlock gazed around. "Yes, it will do nicely I think. Plenty of room for my experiments." He walked back to the living area, Lestrade right behind him. Sherlock threw himself into his worn leather chair, head falling back.
"Unpacking is even more tedious than packing," he complained.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You've been here nearly two weeks. I'd have figured you'd be done with all that by now." Sherlock had actually taken his sweet time moving, until Mycroft had intervened in early September.
Sherlock shut his eyes in boredom. "I had cases to attend to. I don't have time to bother with unpacking boxes," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Knock, knock!" They both turned as Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a large tray. Lestrade raced over to assist her.
"Oh thank you, dear, appreciate it. Hip's been off today," she said with a tut. He put the tray down on the first level surface he could find- a double stack of musty history tomes.
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm out of milk," Sherlock suddenly chimed in. Lestrade turned his head, incredulous to the offhand demand. He was just about to chide Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson let out a giggle.
"Oh, Sherlock, you're always out of milk! Lucky for you I'm heading off to the market in a bit. Bread and cheese too for you, dear?"
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock lazily said without so much as a glance in her direction.
"Well I'd better be off. You boys behave yourselves!" She cheerily scooted away, leaving Lestrade to stare with wide-eyed confusion at the younger man still splayed across dark leather.
"What the hell, Sherlock? Do you always make her go shopping for you?"
"Not always. She won't buy my cigarettes."
Lestrade muttered obscenities under his breath, a hand rubbing his forehead methodically.
"Oh don't be such a bore!" Sherlock suddenly roared, jumping out of the chair with renewed energy. "I assure you, she enjoys every moment." His eyes glittered with amusement and Lestrade let it go for the time being. It was rare to see Sherlock in a jovial mood and he didn't wish to spoil it.
"Well, I'm glad for you, Sherlock. Really I am." Lestrade meant it. He'd never been happier for Sherlock, and it looked like Mrs. Hudson might be a good influence on him, though he kept that part to himself.
"Yes, well, I'll be glad when you give me a case," Sherlock quipped snidely.
Lestrade stared back disapprovingly. "I've told you already, they're watching me more closely now. I can't exactly invite you over every time a murder crosses my desk. I'll call you when I need you."
He in fact had not been monitored any further than usual, and he hated lying to Sherlock about that, but it got him thinking that it could well be a possibility in the near future. One word from a disgruntled officer to the higher-ups and Lestrade's head could be on the chopping block. Sherlock had scoffed the first time Lestrade mentioned it, but Lestrade stayed firm on the matter. He was a damned Inspector and he could manage quite well on his own, thank you very much.
Still, it hadn't stopped Sherlock from nagging or cajoling Lestrade when the weeks went by with not a single invite. He really did hate not calling Sherlock, simply for the fact that the man was brilliant and more observant than his entire unit, himself included, though he'd never admit it to the younger man. His ego was large enough.
On top of everything else, Lestrade still could not stop thinking of Sherlock without imagining him naked and in bed with him. It had been weeks since that fateful and wonderful summer night, and not a word was uttered between them, by some unspoken agreement. Sherlock didn't act any different and Lestrade put on his best poker face every time they were in the same room.
And he was doing so well too. Time away from Sherlock helped; his life went on as usual. And then he'd lay eyes on him once more and his heart beat faster and louder. His brain turned to mush and he was essentially useless. Granted Sherlock didn't notice any of this, or if he did he never said a word or looked at him peculiarly.
Sometimes, it was on the tip of his tongue, just wanting to burst out and he figured, what could possibly happen? But he turned into a coward when he saw those eyes looking at him, debilitating him. It was torture. He was walking around horny half the day, cursing Sherlock with every fibre of his being. And Sherlock was always calm and collected. Lestrade loathed him.
The strange part was, he didn't even think to do anything about it. Not once did he consider going out and getting laid. Sure, sleeping with Sherlock pretty much amounted to a one night stand, but the thought of anyone's hands on him churned his stomach. His own wife didn't even cross his mind anymore. All he wanted was within reach, and yet impossible to achieve. Sherlock was untouchable. In this, Sherlock was in charge. If Sherlock came to him tomorrow and asked for Lestrade's help, then God help him he'd do it without a word of protest. But if he never came to him again, he'd have to respect that and move on with his life. But it would shatter him.
The not knowing was the worst. He never brought it up so it was partly his fault. Did Sherlock even enjoy sex? From what he could surmise: yes. He was just not overly sexual. His drive was low and he found it unnecessary and mostly pointless. Lestrade didn't understand this, but he didn't question it. Sherlock was different than most men. That's why he liked Sherlock. Despite the baggage that came with him.
He still got shivers up his spine when he recalled how Sherlock's body felt beneath him. The impossible heat, threatening to overwhelm him. Fingers clawing at flesh, the deep moan somewhere in the back of his throat, so low and so hungry. There was no forgetting that. He wondered if the agony would be less if he hadn't slept with Sherlock. But his brain refused to entertain that possibility. There was only Sherlock, and nothing and no one existed before that. Or after.
He sighed. "I promise to call you when we're stumped, kay?"
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and chose to ignore Lestrade after that. The Inspector clasped him on the shoulder as he made his way to the door. "Stay out of trouble in the meantime. We'll plan for takeaway one night soon, yea?"
"What for?" Sherlock replied with an uninterested air. Lestrade sighed once more.
"Don't get snarky with me, ya git. And don't exhaust your landlady or she'll kick you out once she really gets to know the real you."
"Doubtful," Sherlock said with a devilish smirk. "I did put her husband on Death Row. She's eternally grateful, you see."
Lestrade groaned, waving goodbye without saying another word.
Lestrade already wasn't in a good mood when he arrived at work. He got a migraine in the middle of the night and it hadn't dissipated a bit since then. The meds hardly dulled it and every step he took was torture. He barely sat down in his chair when Donovan burst in.
"Have you heard? Freak's in holding. Got picked up trespassing last night. Claimed he had a right to be there. Flashed the officer this." She threw down on his desk an ID. It was his own. He vaguely recalled displacing it, months ago.
"Damn it." He didn't even have time for coffee. Donovan almost had a skip to her step as they walked down to the holding cells. Sherlock was in the first cell, sitting upright on the hard cot. His eyes passed over him to coldly glare at Donovan.
"Stealing from a police officer is a criminal offence, freak. I think even you can see how common sense that fact is," Donovan declared with a fierce sneer. Lestrade rubbed at his eyes, his migraine intensifying, if possible.
"Donovan, I got it here. Go on upstairs." She blinked at Lestrade, her mouth turning down unpleasantly. She clearly wanted to argue, but one look at Lestrade had her huffing off. Sighing loudly, he braced his hands on his hips and turned his full attention towards the imprisoned detective.
"For fuck's sake, Sherlock." He had more to say, but his heart wasn't in it. He was thoroughly exhausted and in excruciating pain. Sherlock stared back with an unreadable, bland expression.
"What were you thinking? Trespassing on a public official's property? Stealing my ID? I don't even wanna know what you thought you were doing. Seriously, Sherlock, are you-"
"Am I what?" snarled Sherlock suddenly, getting up from the cot in one fluid motion and advancing towards the cell door. He snaked his long fingers around a bar, leaning forward so that his face nearly touched the cold metal.
"Go on," he spat with a venomous glare. "Ask me then. Am I what? On something? It's not like I can't see it plastered all over your face!"
Lestrade pursed his lips, his head protesting the loud volume. He felt momentarily chagrined because that was precisely what he was thinking. It was usually the go-to reason behind Sherlock's more disturbing antics.
"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to imply anything."
Sherlock stared back coldly, fingers clutching the bars until his knuckles turned bone-white. "You are no better than Mycroft. The both of you jump to the same conclusion."
Lestrade blanched, but Sherlock kept going. "That public official you so casually mentioned just happens to be involved in a child pornography ring spanning nine other countries. The division that is supposed to handle that is even more incompetent than your own division. I was working off a tip and felt time was of the essence. Forgive me for inconveniencing you with my sudden detainment," he finished with a bitterness that was both mocking and truthful. With a final glare he turned away from Lestrade, and settled again on the cot, laying flat on his back, eyes on the ceiling.
"Go ahead, call Mycroft. Tell him I'm going to need bail money anyway."
Lestrade slumped in exhaustion and this time he placed his own hands over the bars, leaning close.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. You're right, I jumped to conclusions. I don't know if I will ever not think that. Not with you. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. I despise myself for thinking it, but you can't expect me to sweep your past under the rug, Sherlock. It wasn't as long ago as you think that we were in this same position. I remember all too well, no matter how much I wish I didn't.
"Now I'm going to go upstairs, and tell them exactly what you just told me, and then we are going to properly get a warrant and search that fucker's home until we find what we need." He blew out a puff of air, looking at Sherlock with a resigned air. "And you're gonna stay put until I hear something back."
Sherlock didn't respond. He barely acknowledged Lestrade, choosing to stare up at the dark ceiling, eyes unblinking. Lestrade sighed, sparing one last glance before heading back upstairs to do as he promised.
Several hours later, and one ignored call from Mycroft had Lestrade standing over piles of evidence that was permanently burned into memory. It was horrid, loathsome and abhorrent beyond words. The arrest had gone smoothly with Lestrade accompanying the head of the Paedophile Unit along with other officers from the Met. The shocking amount of evidence found was mind-boggling and depressing. Sherlock had been right. Not that Lestrade had any doubts on that account.
It was just infuriating that Sherlock couldn't-wouldn't abide by the rules. It was always his way. Everything else didn't matter to him, as long as he solved the case. Lestrade had bent the rules for Sherlock in the past. It wasn't so hard to do when the guy could solve a case before tea time. But that was usually when Sherlock was actually assisting on one of Lestrade's cases. Not going off on his own like a vigilante. That's not how Lestrade operated, and if he wanted to keep his own job, he'd have to have a talk with Sherlock.
Before he even left the crime scene he sent a call over to the Met to have Sherlock released as soon as possible. Donovan was not pleased, but he really couldn't deal with any more insubordination that evening. His head was absolutely killing him. So much so that he went straight home to lie down. He ended up passing out on the couch until morning.
Since Sherlock's release, he hadn't heard a whisper from him. Lestrade wasn't sure if he should take the initiative. What did Sherlock expect of him? An apology? He'd already gotten one and he wasn't feeling all that charitable to dole out another. He was still peeved that Sherlock nicked his ID badge.
Even so, a week went by and still nothing from Sherlock. He was more annoyed than worried. Sherlock sulking was not anything Lestrade wanted to deal with, so he let him be. His migraine had finally dissipated and he was starting to feel better physically. He was wrapping up a couple of cases and generally work was going quite well.
When two weeks had passed however, he found himself staring down at his phone, contemplating a phone call. The question was, whom to call? In the end, cowardness won out.
No word from Sherlock. Assuming he's just busy.
He bit his lip as he waited for the response.
Sherlock is fine, Inspector. MH
Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. So Sherlock was just ignoring him, as usual. The thought wasn't pleasant but at least it was preferable to the alternative. He thought about texting Sherlock, trying to come up with a probable reason for doing so, but Sherlock would see through everything he tried. In the end, he decided to wait Sherlock out.
A week later he received a phone call, but it wasn't the one he thought, nor was it anything he ever wanted to hear. He sat in stunned silence in his office as he listened to the voice on the other end. The voice telling him his mother had passed away. It didn't make sense at first, the words not sinking in at all. All he heard was the tear-filled voice of his aunt, Beth, muttering something indistinguishable. But no matter how many times Beth repeated those
words, they still amounted to the same thing.
He begged off worked and sat in his flat in the dark, merely staring straight ahead, his mind a jumble. His mother had been eighty six years old and in rather good health. He always thought she would live to be a hundred. Sadly, she suffered a stroke in the night, and never woke up. It was a cold comfort to know she did not suffer. She was still too young in his mind. And he just couldn't get a grip on the fact she was now dead.
His father had died when he was still a boy and he was an only child so he had no one to share in his grief. The thought was debilitating and depressing. The funeral was to be in two day's time in Somerset, his hometown. His aunt had filled him in with all the details. He could barely remember any of them.
His phone kept going off. A constant stream of messages and condolences that he didn't care to listen to at the moment. He muted his mobile and went to pack.
The train station was absolutely packed when he touched down on the platform. Thankfully his luggage consisted only of a carryon so he didn't have to wait around. He wanted to get home and hop in the shower.
The journey back from Somerset took longer than usual, as the train had to stop for two hours for unnamed repairs. It was eight in the evening when Lestrade finally arrived back in London, nerves shot to hell. His four days off did nothing for his frame of mind. If anything, it only increased his anxiety at being home and missing his mum all over again.
The funeral was tasteful and lovely, or as tolerable as a funeral can get. His mum had many friends and admirers, and the church was positively packed. It was nice to gather with family members he hadn't seen in years, but the circumstances were not ideal.
To top it off, Sherlock had not contacted him. Not once. Not even a simple acknowledgement. He had to have known. Mycroft surely knew and he had a suspicion he informed Sherlock as well.
He felt miserable, worn down. Alone. He used to think people wanted to be left alone after the death of a loved one. To mourn in solitude without fear of embarrassment or false platitudes. He had not cried for his mother. He felt it like a punch in the gut. The pain reverberating throughout his body. But there were no tears. He felt too exhausted to cry. And his mother had looked so peaceful laid out in her casket.
He blinked away the thoughts. Tomorrow he had to go back to work and he needed to clear his head. It wouldn't do to walk around like a zombie all day. He just wanted a hot shower and his bed.
Unfortunately, nothing ever worked out for Lestrade. After the cab dropped him off at his darkened flat he entered the lift, too tired too trudge up to the second floor. He approached his door, about to use his key when a prickle of something gave him pause. With his free hand he closed on the knob and turned.
Fuck. The knob turned without issue, indicating two things. One, it was unlocked. And two, he had a visitor. He forcefully picked up his suitcase he had set down, and opened the door, nearly slamming it shut but that would've been a tad childish.
"I'm not in the mood tonight, Sherlock." He flipped on the lightswitch, eyes blinking at the sudden change. His gaze immediately fell upon Sherlock, sitting casually on his sofa, coat wrapped around him like a blanket.
"Inspector," he said by way of greeting.
The deep voice inadvertently sent shivers down Lestrade's spine. He hadn't seen the guy in over a month and now this all over again. It was just too much all at once.
"Not kidding, Sherlock. I want a shower and my bed, and I want you to leave. I've got a headache, so it's really preferable you don't speak." He walked past the living room, straight to his bedroom, dropping his luggage on the floor. He grabbed a clean pair of boxers from his drawers and went back out to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, his back planted against the hard surface, eyes squeezed shut. When his breathing returned to somewhat normal, he turned on the tap and undressed.
The scorching water was a bit too much, but he needed it after his long day. Or long week, more like. It burned right through his achy muscles, strained and tired, rinsing away his misery, if only for a few precious seconds. His forehead touched the damp tile, hands splayed on either side as the spray massaged his back, torching him deliciously.
So consumed was he by the pleasant burning that he didn't hear the door click open. Nor the sudden jerking of his shower curtain, opening and closing so quickly he barely had time to turn around.
"What the-"
Sherlock's lips slammed into his, hard and unyielding, his long fingers snaking around his head, threading through his short locks. Lestrade stilled, his eyes wide with shock at the sudden assault. He couldn't move or breathe or even think. He was about to push Sherlock away, thinking briefly how utterly inappropriate a time this was, when he realized how hard he really was.
A rush of blood, a pleasant blaze that had nothing to do with the water that time, and Lestrade had his arms around Sherlock without ever remembering doing so.
"Sherlock," he breathed, when he finally got some air. Sherlock assaulted his neck, lapping, nipping, sucking, his arms all over the place. It was too much. Lestrade would surely pass out from all the heat, surrounding him. He blindly reached back and grabbed for the tap, turning it to a slightly cooler temperature. Sherlock grabbed his cock, squeezing so tight Lestrade lost his breath.
He groaned and slammed his head back against the tile, resting his arms on Sherlock for support as the younger man went down to his knees and swallowed Lestrade's cock in one go. This was no languid, slow burning blowjob. No, this was a full on assault, his nerve endings almost protesting the severity.
There was no respite. There was just Sherlock's mouth and his tongue and his heat. His knees shook, barely able to support himself, but thankfully his body knew what he needed, and it had been too fucking long. His fingers clenched into Sherlock's hard shoulders even as he arched into his mouth, the orgasm taking him by surprise. Sherlock gripped his hips, keeping him in place as he expertly swallowed every drop, milking him until Lestrade nearly cried out.
He felt his body drooping, knees finally giving out. He sat back in the tub, breath ragged and strained, and humiliatingly close to tears. Sherlock had unleashed in him what his own mother's funeral could not. Release.
He hated Sherlock suddenly. Despised his presence. How dare he? He didn't exist for a month and now, now he decided it was time to return to Lestrade, and what? Jump him in the shower? What the fuck was he playing at? The tears were perilously close now, but he was so angry and conflicted. He did not want to cry in front of this man. He was not his friend. A friend would never have left him to mourn alone. Or ignored him. Sherlock was not his friend. He wasn't…
He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to open them lest they betray him. They burned beneath his closed lids. He wanted Sherlock to leave him alone. He wanted-.
"Greg."
His breath hitched and he felt warm fingers along his jaw, a thumb running over the long stubble on his cheeks, his chin.
"Greg," the silky voice repeated, urging him. He cracked open his eyes, his vision taken up by a very blurry Sherlock crouching down in front of him. His eyes were tinged with red, most likely from the water pouring down on him, making the blues that much more startling. His inky hair lay flat against his head, stringy strands plastered over his forehead as watery rivulets dropped from the tips, trailing down his pale face.
He looked so young it made Lestrade ache all over again. He wasn't sure what to think anymore. He felt like he didn't know Sherlock at all, looking at him now. This was not the same person that infuriated Lestrade, ignored him, left him. Not the same man purring Greg, like he said it every day, like he had a right to say it.
He clenched his fists, glaring at Sherlock past the water pouring in between them. Sherlock's brow furrowed, mouth turning down in the slightest of pouts. Lestrade clenched his jaw, breath turning ragged with each passing second.
"Don't you fucking dare," he ground out, chest heaving uncomfortably. A flash of something passed over Sherlock's face before it was gone, and his hand retreated. Lestrade snatched it, his grip tightening over the pale wrist. Sherlock barely even glanced at it, his eyes on Lestrade's.
The older man continued to glare, the blood pounding in his ears. With every heaving breath he took, he felt his body turning to molten lava, the bright blue eyes staring serenely back at him.
No matter how angry he was at Sherlock, he just couldn't constrain his own reaction to the closeness of his presence. Months of deprivation accumulating to this moment, just a few inches separating them. His erection bobbed against his leg, an interesting reminder that despite his age and previous orgasm, Sherlock still had power over him. He had no self-control against the man. One fucking look and he was rendered defenseless, the fragility of it scaring him.
Sherlock would always break his heart. He knew that, too. He knew it- and he knew that Sherlock knew it, because it couldn't be helped because that's just who Sherlock was. And it would be his own fault whatever happened from there on out.
The decision took all of two seconds. With renewed vigour and a set mind, he pounced on Sherlock, nearly knocking him down. He yanked on his wrist, inadvertently lifting him up as he got to his shaky feet. His grip firm, he turned Sherlock around, pinning him flat against the wet tiles. He got close to him, his hard prick straining against Sherlock's arse, the friction driving him mad.
Rational thought had long deserted him as he roughly trailed his hands up and down the lithe body, squeezing none too gently on a pale cheek. Sherlock's forehead touched tile, his hair obstructing Lestrade's view. He wanted Sherlock. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to own him. It was a dangerous thought, that, for Sherlock was not one to be claimed, to be tamed. And yet he kept coming back.
He had nothing in the tub to use as lubricant but soap. It was not ideal and he didn't want to pause this and move to the bedroom. He cursed, then whispered in Sherlock's ear. "Don't you dare fucking move."
In an instant, he hopped out of the shower, water dripping everywhere, and pulled open the medicine cabinet over the sink, finding the jar of Vaseline he kept there. In less than five seconds he was back inside the steamy warmth of the tub.
He uncapped the Vaseline and scooped out a liberal amount, making sure to keep his hand away from the spray of the water. He leaned against Sherlock's back, arm reaching around to splay against Sherlock's stomach, inching lower until he felt Sherlock's erect cock, scorching his hand. He heard Sherlock sigh, low and pleasure-filled.
With his free hand, he reached downward, rubbing the slippery goo down the crevice of Sherlock's arse, relishing the feel of the smooth skin under his hand. He made quick work of his preparations as Sherlock arched back into his touch. He scooped up more Vaseline, this time for himself, spreading it up and down his shaft, his hands shaking in anticipation.
He could feel Sherlock tense beneath him, his fingers clawing at the tile. It made Lestrade that much more hungry for it. There were no thoughts save for Sherlock's willing body surrendering to him. And when that blissful moment of being suddenly surrounded by Sherlock's heat occurred, then it was pure oblivion. He grabbed onto Sherlock for dear life and pummeled into him with reckless abandon, not caring whether it was what Sherlock wanted. Whether he had hurt him or humiliated him. In the end, when he finally found his release once more, his seed seeping from Sherlock's body, he slumped against his back, out of breath and energy, satisfaction oozing from every crevice.
His limbs refused to cooperate as Sherlock dried them off, first himself, then Lestrade, silently and efficiently. Lestrade barely registered the twinges of pain Sherlock elicited with every movement. He was being guided to his bed. Then warmth, covers being draped over him. Then, darkness, sleep coming instantly, his body shutting down.
Memory woke him, startling him out of oblivion, smacking him with a force he wasn't prepared for. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense out of everything. Despite the layers of blankets, he froze to the bone as he vividly recalled what just transpired. Every single moment played out in his mind with perfect clarity, the puzzles fitting into their slots.
He burrowed deeper under his covers, feeling ill. Shame and horror filled his mind at what he'd done to Sherlock, and his chest felt tight, airways restricted. He was suffocating.
"Stop that."
Lestrade flinched at the voice, so close by. He threw his blankets away as his eyes landed on the dark figure calmly sitting in the corner chair. Sherlock sat upright, but his posture was relaxed, an indication he'd been there quite some time. He was dressed in his customary dark suit, his hair dry and styled to perfection.
"Christ…" Lestrade whispered, his voice near breaking.
"I told you to stop it," Sherlock repeated once more, his eyes finding Lestrade's. The older man looked away, unable to hold the gaze for more than a second. He brought his hands to his face, roughly rubbing at his eyes.
"Oh god. Sherlock, oh god...I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry-I don't even recognize myself! What I did-oh my god…" his voice wavered, cracked. He still couldn't look at Sherlock. He was the lowest type of coward. He couldn't even look at the very person he had hurt. And 'hurt' was an understatement in his book. He used Sherlock, plain and simple. He was brutal and unapologetic and he used him just to sate his own needs, to forget everything even at Sherlock's expense.
He heard Sherlock take a deep breath, but the younger man said nothing. Maybe he was waiting for more groveling.
"Sherlock," he began, his voice thick with anxiety. "I don't even know what to say. There's nothing I can say to fix-"
"Greg." It was like a command; firm, authoritative. Lestrade glanced up through blurred eyes. Sherlock still sat where he was, his eyes unreadable.
"I'm going to say this once, because you know how I hate to repeat myself. Stop this inane chatter because if you speak one more word of apology in any other form I shall leave."
Lestrade stared back in shock, his mouth thin with disbelief. He raised his chin.
"Come here," he said softly.
After a beat Sherlock stood, and the wince he wasn't quick enough to hide destroyed Lestrade, his face crumbling. "Oh god…"
Sherlock had the audacity to roll his eyes. He stood over Lestrade, heaving a sigh.
"If it's all the same to you I'd rather not discuss this. It won't serve a purpose aside from wasting both our time, as we both have places to be this morning. I've laid out some clothes for you as I assumed you would not be in the proper frame of mind to dress yourself. I have some business myself I need to attend to so I'm going now." He paused, looking down. "I know it's pointless to tell you to stop wallowing, but I'm going to do so anyway." He stood up, back straight. "You did nothing that I could not have stopped, if I so wished it." He blinked, clearly uncomfortable talking about it. Then he gave a brisk nod and walked out. Lestrade stared after him, dread settling into the pit of his stomach as he heard his front door open and close.