Guilt can be an ugly, debilitating thing. It can gnaw on your very soul, turning every moment of your life to agony, until you simply can't take it anymore and do something drastic.

Lestrade had gotten to that point long ago, but he wasn't quite sure what to do about it. The fact that Sherlock was acting completely indifferent to...everything, did nothing to assuage his churning feelings. Every time they were in the same room together, his hands would shake and he could barely concentrate, regularly blaming his lack of focus on migraines.

Sherlock sat in his office, hands steepled in contemplation, his eyes focused on something only he could see. Lestrade rifled through files, notes, photos. A murder case had them both perplexed and while it should have given him a respite from his constant guilt, his proximity to Sherlock had quite the opposite effect.

He couldn't concentrate. Not on the case anyway. His mind refused to work properly, everything was a jumble of nonsense. He delayed with answering almost every question Sherlock had for him, not for lack of insight, but because he was so preoccupied he had to remember what Sherlock had just asked him. He was starting to get looks. Sidelong glances. Next would come the questions.

But two weeks of Sherlock pretending Lestrade hadn't (basically) assaulted him in the shower was starting to hinder his daily routine. His job, his personal life, they were starting to suffer and everyone else was noticing. Well, almost everyone.

"Did the dental records reveal anything significant?" Sherlock suddenly asked, throwing Lestrade out of his depressing reverie.

He blinked owlishly at the question. "Um, no, nothing to indicate poisoning anyway."

Sherlock stared at him a beat longer. Then, "Hmm." He turned his head away, his eyes losing focus once more. Lestrade's phone chimed. Thinking it might be about the case, he went to check it out.

I want a divorce. I'm sorry.

He stared down at the screen, at the words that managed to make him forget all about his Sherlock problems, if only for a moment. His heart pounded as his thumb hovered over the screen.

"What is it?"

Lestrade sucked in a breath, glancing up at Sherlock. Then he stormed out. He marched past colleagues sending him puzzled glances, to the nearest loo, then shut himself inside. He looked down at his phone again, as if the words might mean something different the second time around.

I want a divorce. I'm sorry.

Christ. "Fuck." He stuffed the phone inside his pocket and turned on the tap, spraying his face, and half his shirt with water. His heart was battering around in his chest, his hands shaking as he wiped his face dry.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of his feelings. He wasn't quite sure why he had reacted the way he had to the news. It wasn't as if it was truly a surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he was in the same room with Deb. She didn't even really call anymore. He had spurred all requests for reconciliation, and now his wife was asking for a divorce.

He asked for this. Deep down, he knew ignoring the situation would result in exactly this. He didn't love her. Not anymore. Not for a very long time. He couldn't even remember a time when he did find her attractive as a person, as a partner. That wasn't why this was upsetting him so.

It was because he had failed at something. His marriage had floundered, just another all too common statistic. Could he have stopped it? Maybe. Maybe if he tried really hard to give a shit. But no, that would have required too much effort. Subconsciously, he thought things would remain as they were without further complications.

And now he was going to be served with divorce papers. It was humiliating. This failure.

More humiliating than your own wife cheating on you for years?

He stared into the mirror as if searching for an answer. Finding none, he sighed and at least made sure he looked presentable. Then he went back to his office.

He stepped inside and shut his door. Sherlock still sat in the chair, though not in the state Lestrade left him. He narrowed his eyes and glanced up and down at Lestrade, scrounging for clues. Fuck if Lestrade cared. He went back around to his desk and picked up the pile of papers he was previously looking through.

Silence reigned and thankfully Sherlock didn't comment on anything. After a few more minutes of pointless searching, Sherlock announced that he needed to go. Lestrade merely nodded in farewell, missing the pointed look Sherlock threw him.

Donovan came in after that, a concerned expression on her face.

"Everything alright, sir?"

"Fine," he responded automatically, not bothering to glance up at her.

She stood silently a moment longer before departing. Lestrade closed his eyes and prayed for the day to end already.

He told the cabbie to wait for him as he bounded out and straight into the liquor store. It was a mistake, he knew. He cursed himself as he paid for the bourbon and the Stoli, holding them tightly in his grip as he got back inside the cab. He found he didn't care. He was going to get positively pissed, actually glad to have a later shift tomorrow.

Darkness greeted him as he stepped onto the kerb. He paid his fare and practically dashed inside. He rounded the corner, making his way up the stairs to his landing. The stairwell was dimly lit, and his heart all but seized as he was nearly frightened out of his wits. Stopping short, he paused to stare at the figure sitting serenely at the top of the stairs.

"Are you kidding me?" He literally pushed Sherlock aside as he climbed the last couple of steps to reach his door. He put his key in.

"I'm really not in the mood for this tonight, Sherlock." He swung the door open, not bothering to slam it shut as he knew Sherlock was directly behind him. He placed his purchases on the kitchen table, shrugging off his jacket. He wanted Sherlock to leave so he could crack open a bottle. He wanted to be alone so he could-.

"Lestrade."

He sighed, clearly not going to get anything he wanted tonight. He turned around, a resigned, if not annoyed sigh falling from his lips.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?" He watched as Sherlock's eyes glanced right over to the alcohol bottles, lips pursing in clear displeasure. Lestrade glared, turning around to reach for one.

"Don't," Sherlock's voice dared to interject. Lestrade ignored him, grabbing the bourbon.

"Go away, Sherlock. I told you I wasn't in the mood."

"She's not worth this."

Lestrade paused, not entirely surprised Sherlock had it all figured out. God, Mycroft probably told him himself after hacking into Lestrade's mobile. It wasn't beneath either of them.

"Stay out of it, Sherlock. I'm telling you nicely."

Sherlock stood straighter, hands forever in his coat pockets. Cheeks flushed, hair mussed. God, he'd almost forgotten his Sherlock problem. He glanced down at the bottle in his hand. He could take care of all his problems, at least for tonight.

"Is this your plan then? To drink yourself into a stupor?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, mouth going thin. "You're one to talk" he said with venom.

Sherlock's eyes turned cool, his arrogance showing through. Perfect. This, Lestrade could deal with.

"Now kindly leave," he said with impatience. Then he paused, contemplating. "Or, you can join me. It's always more fun with a partner."

Sherlock looked on in distaste. "I don't drink."

Lestrade scoffed. "Oh I'd forgotten. You prefer poisoning your body through other methods. Sorry, you'll have to go downtown for that, I'm afraid. But I'm sure it's not too late if you hurry on over there," he finished, his attempt to remove Sherlock from the premises going horribly wrong as Sherlock's face turned ashen with disbelief.

Lestrade's body chilled as his mind finally caught up with what he'd just said, his gut roiling in disgust. He rubbed at his eyes, aghast at the fact that he basically just told Sherlock to go out and get drugs, just so he could finally be alone to get drunk.

The sigh that resonated was the only sound in the flat. He put down the bottle and looked at Sherlock. The indifferent demeanor could fool anyone, even Lestrade- If this was three years ago. But he knew him too damn well.

"Sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean a word of that. I'm fucking fuming and-" He blew out his breath through his teeth, shaking his head in anger. "I'm just fucking tired of everything. I'm really trying not to take it out on you. It's just you're here and I can't even look at you without remembering-" and he really did not want to start that up now of all times, but he couldn't ignore that Sherlock was a constant reminder of what he did.

And it appeared Sherlock remembered that night too, for a sudden dark gleam lit up his eyes, transforming his entire face. It stopped Lestrade's heart because the look was not one of a tormented man, haunted by the memory. It was one of a man reveling in that memory. Re-living every second with a slow-forming, lascivious smirk, turning Lestrade's blood to a boil.

Oh my god. He was so terribly wrong.

"You...you enjoyed it," he said in wide-eyed wonderment.

"I enjoy a great many things," Sherlock said with a casual tilt of his head, but his eyes never changed. They narrowed subtly with each passing second, as if waiting for Lestrade. To do what? It couldn't be what Lestrade was thinking. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"For God's sake," he exclaimed with an exasperated whisper. Then he proceeded to remove his coat, chucking it towards the nearest chair. Then he actually placed his hands on his hips, his brows arching.

Lestrade's mouth dropped open. "Sherlock," he choked on the name. "I can't," he ground out, shaking his head. Sherlock's eyes grew cold.

"Self-pity doesn't suit you, Inspector." He advanced on Lestrade, stopping within a few inches of the older man, eyes gleaming with a purpose.

Lestrade withered under that gaze, his resolve nearly gone. "This is insane," he said. "We can't just keep-"

"It's a simple question, Lestrade," Sherlock interjected, his breath ghosting across Lestrade's face. He swallowed, his breathing getting shallow.

"Then the answer will always be yes."

Sherlock's lashes fluttered, his eyes darkening. Lestrade reached up, his fingers resting on Sherlock's long neck, running them along the pale skin, feeling the slightest hint of stubble as his fingertips almost touched his jaw. Then he pressed his palm forward and squeezed, his whole hand wrapping around the column of flesh. He watched as Sherlock's eyes grew nearly black with desire.

He squeezed tighter, tendons flexing under his grip, pulse erratic where his fingers pressed. And still Sherlock wasn't stopping him, his arms limp against his sides. With his free hand he reached down and pressed against Sherlock's trousers, watched as those eyes closed shut against the light touch.

His whole body ached for this. And how could he refuse when Sherlock was so blatantly throwing himself at him? It seemed impossible and more so improbable that Sherlock would be so willing to let Lestrade do...whatever. What was in it for Sherlock? He didn't need this. He'd made that plain for as long as Lestrade had known him. Sex was nothing to him, in fact it was more of a hinderance than anything. So despite the thundering of his heart and the achiness he felt below his belt he was still questioning motives.

He forced himself to think. Not an easy task when thrust into a situation he currently found himself in. Also, he was sure Sherlock would notice and get annoyed. He tried to slow his pulse and use his brain.

Twice now Sherlock had come to him of his own accord. Once when Lestrade's mother died and now again because...oh. Oh. Jesus, Sherlock knew what he wanted even before he did. He was depressed over his mum, and Sherlock was there, making him forget, allowing Lestrade to consume him, to obliterate him because he knew it was what he needed. And now here he was again, trying in his own way, to help Lestrade.

Sherlock knew he wasn't taking the news of the divorce well, and he knew what Lestrade would do. Go straight for the booz. It should infuriate him, how well the young detective could read him. But his heart was deeply touched. Sherlock cared. On some level that the younger man would probably never admit to, he cared for Lestrade. Cared enough to offer himself just so Lestrade would bypass the bottle.

He let go of his neck, his breathing ragged. He held onto Sherlock's arm, almost afraid to let go. Four times now Sherlock had come to him. Twice, because he was about to fall hard and needed Lestrade to help him. And twice because he knew it was Lestrade that needed a cushion for the fall.

He swallowed hard, lowering his head so Sherlock wouldn't see what he knew was plain to see. He didn't want to bring emotion into this. Caring did not automatically equate to a deeper level of feeling. Sherlock was not here for that. He had to keep telling himself that.

He brought his arms up, running his fingers through Sherlock's long inky hair, fingers snarling through soft curls. He tugged, eliciting a faint hiss from the other man.

"I'm not feeling rather gentle tonight, Sher," he warned, his eyes locking with Sherlock's.

He saw a ghost of a smile on those full lips and that was all he needed or wanted to see. He tugged a bit harder, essentially closing the gap between them. He attacked Sherlock's mouth, his hands never stopping their ministrations. He knew Sherlock loved getting his scalp massaged. A delicious flush was forming on the pale skin and he moved from his mouth to the nape of his neck, inhaling Sherlock like a drug. And for the next hour he was thrown into oblivion, a peaceful calm settling over him.

He watched Sherlock get dressed, hiding his disappointment behind a lit cigarette. It shouldn't come as a surprise, and it didn't, but that didn't mean he couldn't be somewhat disappointed. He inhaled deeply, his eyes on Sherlock's lean back, watching the muscles flex as he leisurely dressed. A finally tuss of his hair and he turned around, hands now on fixing his belt.

Lestrade was in no rush to get dressed himself, seeing as he was at home, and already in bed. It wasn't terribly late but aside from a shower, he had nothing on. He offered the fag to Sherlock, who took it, inhaling once before passing it back.

He could ask, he knew. Stay the night? He could just ask him and be done with it. But he was too much of a coward to hear the answer. So he stayed put as Sherlock tied his laces and found his scattered possessions on the floor, stuffing them into his pockets.

He tried to think of something to say that wasn't awkward or obvious, but nothing came to mind. Sherlock grimaced as he knelt down low to pick up his fallen pen and an apology was on the tip of his tongue but he didn't really think Sherlock would appreciate it.

"Alright?" he said instead.

"Of course," Sherlock replied with his customary derisive tone. He finished primping himself, looking remarkably put together and obscenely attractive. It made Lestrade want to throw him back down and go for round two. Instead, he finished smoking, snuffing the burnt out cigarette on the ashtray next to his bed, and snuggled deeper into the pillows.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What time is your shift tomorrow?"

Lestrade sighed. "Was planning on getting there for two. Might come in earlier to work on that case file."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll see you then."

Lestrade nodded. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he said softly. Sherlock paused, eyeing Lestrade warily for a moment. Then he jerked his head once, and sauntered out.

"Goodnight."

Despite his departure, Lestrade felt a smile tugging on his lip.

Their arrangement- for that was what Lestrade referred to it as- went on thus for months. When Lestrade was having a particularly rough day-or week- he'd seek out Sherlock and the younger man always knew what he needed without having to utter a word. And when Sherlock got into one of his funks he would break into his flat and wait for him, eyes bright with need, and Lestrade would take care of him in the only way Sherlock allowed.

Their coupling was almost always harried, like their lives depended on it, bursting with volatile energy. Sherlock would claw and cling to him in a fevered pitch, his body burning with repressed need. It was simple, carnal desire that bound them. Lestrade topped every single time. It was blissful and he wasn't sure if he was being selfish but Sherlock never complained nor indicated that he wished for a change.

Most of those situations were spur of the moment and never planned so each time felt raw and sublime, Lestrade burning the imagery into his mind to reminisce later. And since it was quite common for them to go months before falling into bed once more, each time was a unique experience, one he hoped continued, but secretly wished to further along.

Their professional relationship also went on, but in a more routine fashion. Word was spreading about Sherlock's skills and so he was often out and about solving crimes in various countries and settings. But nothing held his interest like London and all its lecherous goings on. Lestrade secretly revelled in the moments when he was stumped and had to call in Sherlock, annoying his entire team.

Sherlock was still contemptuous, and arrogant and positively rude and obnoxious. He cut down everyone he met to pieces and treated people generally like rubbish. It irked Lestrade to no end, no matter what their past. Sherlock would always be Sherlock. It was a nice sort of routine, one he was loathed to admit he was accustomed to.

That is, until the day that routine was broken by one John Watson.