A/N: SPOILERS here on out for Seasons 1-3
Lestrade was many things when it came to Sherlock. Patient, accepting, complacent, even understanding-to a point. But one thing he was not, has never been and never wants to feel again, is jealous.
John Watson was not particularly an interesting man, at first glance. He was somewhat short, very plain in appearance, with an agreeable face, if you admired that sort of thing. He seemed cordial enough, even friendly, and there was nothing that bespoke of mystery or intrigue. So for the life of him, Lestrade had no fucking clue what he was doing with Sherlock.
The first time he spotted them together was at a crime scene. A most peculiar case had the entire Yard flummoxed, leading Lestrade as usual to accept Sherlock's insight. What he did not expect was his companion that evening. His assistant, he called him. He'd known Sherlock for years and not once did he ever hint at the idea of needing-let alone wanting- an assistant.
It curdled his insides when he found out later that John was in fact living with Sherlock, recently as such, and that he was suddenly privileged enough to accompany Sherlock to crime scenes. Lestrade almost didn't allow it, save for the thought of the impending argument he would certainly be privy to the next day. Even Lestrade could see that there was something about John that intrigued Sherlock. And the thought destroyed him.
As nice as it was to see Sherlock branching out into friendship, he was jealous of this newfound...whatever, and he hated that feeling. Thinking back, he realized he wasn't even jealous when he found out his wife was cheating on him-numerous times. He was livid, yes, and confused, but he never felt that deep pain of rejection that sits in your gut, growing with each passing day.
He tried to ignore it, telling himself he was overreacting, telling himself that maybe John was a good friend to Sherlock, telling himself that John really was simply assisting him. Telling himself that it didn't bother him. And finally, when none of that worked, he told himself that it didn't even matter because it wasn't like he and Sherlock were in a relationship. They didn't have an understanding; they didn't really have anything. They were two grown men that sometimes fell into bed together. And that was it.
It made him feel worse. To think that in the end, he really did mean nothing to Sherlock. Well maybe not nothing, but close enough that it didn't bother Sherlock to move on to something better. Something right under his nose.
He blamed himself entirely. It was him that suggested Sherlock find a flatmate after hearing the constant complaints regarding having to utilize Mycroft's assistance to pay the rent when he had a lull between cases. At first Sherlock had scoffed at the notion of living with another individual, but in the end he agreed that the benefits might make it tolerable-if someone were willing to cohabit with him. In the end it was apparently a match made in heaven thanks to Mike Stamford, one of the doctors at Bart's that Sherlock could actually stand to speak a few words to.
Lestrade had both Sherlock and John to thank for solving the murder/suicide case, even after the odd conclusion that included poisoned pills and a dead suspect. And the rush of euphoria that they usually got after a case ended well was shared between Sherlock and John, much to Lestrade's disappointment. He tapped it down well though, threatening Sherlock will all sorts of nonsense to get his detailed report, and watched them both walk off into the distance. He'd never felt more alone.
It was preposterous, he knew. He was a grown man, not some love-sick teenager pining for a boy he couldn't have. It was juvenile, and ridiculous and depressing.
He didn't talk to Sherlock about John. When they met up, he didn't utter a word, wondering if Sherlock would say something himself. But aside from one time when he mentioned how nice it was that someone was around to do the shopping and hoovering, he never let on what was going on at Baker Street. He wasn't sure if he should feel glad or anxious about that.
"You could have been killed."
They were sitting in Lestrade's office, sharing some fish and chips and (finally) going over Sherlock's report of the events from the cabbie murder case. He watched as Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I'm serious, Sherlock. I'm not quite sure you wouldn't have taken that pill if that shot didn't go through that window."
"I'm not an idiot, Lestrade. I do know a thing or two about chemistry. I knew what I was doing."
Lestrade narrowed his eyes.
"And I'm not an idiot either, Sherlock." He put down his lunch. "I know it was John Watson that fired that shot."
Sherlock didn't even bat a lash. Lestrade sighed. "Look, if I wanted to prosecute, I would have done so already. It's been almost three weeks, and I'm not going to do anything. As far as I can tell he saved your life that night so I should be eternally grateful for it," he finished.
"Was that sarcasm?" Sherlock said with a raised brow and the smallest twinge of his lip.
"Shut it." He picked up a chip. "I'm going to pretend I don't know John has an unregistered firearm. Just as long as I don't have to see it, got it?"
"I will be sure to pass along the message to John," Sherlock replied acerbically. Lestrade pursed his lips and sighed.
"So Deb's taking her sweet time getting those divorce papers over to me," He suddenly stated, not even knowing why he was telling Sherlock.
The younger man blinked as if not sure what to do with that information.
"Oh?" he finally uttered as Lestrade rolled his eyes.
"Nevermind. Just making conversation." He smirked. "I know how much you love chatting."
Sherlock followed suit with a wry smirk of his own and for a moment Lestrade could pretend that nothing had changed.
They finished their lunch in companionable silence, and the name John Watson never passed Sherlock's lips again, leaving Lestrade feeling like it was just like any other day, pre-John.
As the weeks progressed, and the seasons changed, so did Sherlock. John accompanied him on nearly every case that Lestrade called them on and the older detective pretty much gave up hope that their duo was just a passing experiment.
In truth, they complimented each other. Whilst Sherlock was rude and arrogant, John was congenial and understanding. When Sherlock got out of line, John merely had to send him a look his way. John was actually helpful as well when it came to medical knowledge, and given his background, it was with a reluctant air that Lestrade allowed the both of them into his crime scenes.
Sherlock listened to John. He actually looked for his opinion, his insight. He let John deal with the mundane, boring things like talking to people, and gathering information. John did not seem to mind playing errand boy, even after he got a job at a local clinic. He accompanied Sherlock whenever he got a free moment and more than once Sherlock actually refused to proceed without John's assistance. It seemed that John had more influence over Sherlock than Lestrade initially thought. It was a frightening concept.
Sherlock's visits to Lestrade's flat became few in between. Lestrade would almost welcome a random break-in, hopeful for a few moments of alone time with Sherlock. It wasn't just the sex. He actually missed Sherlock. He missed what John Watson was privy to every day.
He missed the complaining, and the random ramblings late into the night. He missed the violin playing and the click click of his laptop keys going at lightening speed. He missed the steel of those eyes piercing his soul, pinning him in place. He missed the idea of Sherlock as much as he missed Sherlock himself. And as the months passed, the thought of actually losing Sherlock forever turned him to ice.
He tried to hate John. He was ashamed to admit it but the thought had some appeal. It would be easier to deal with him if he despised his guts. But the idea proved futile, for John was impossible to ignore. He made every effort to converse with Lestrade, not out of need but genuine curiosity. He threw Lestrade apologetic looks when Sherlock was being particularly impossible and they even had a laugh about Mycroft one random day.
In the end, Lestrade could no more hate John than he could Sherlock. They complimented each other too much. They were meant to meet. Lestrade was resigned to fade away into the deep recesses of Sherlock's mind, and that was being hopeful. He was being melodramatic, and he knew it.
In the end it took a nutter and a bomb strapped to John Watson for Lestrade to come to terms with everything. The event had jarred Sherlock, his eyes glancing over at John when he thought no one would notice during his initial report with Lestrade. He was a bundle of nervous energy and it was quite obvious he was loath to leave John's side.
"He's fine, Sherlock," Lestrade whispered.
Sherlock blinked at him like he was stupid. "I know he's fine. Of course he's fine."
Lestrade sighed. "Let's go over it again. So you actually met Moriarty?"
A sneer crossed Sherlock's face, a flicker of self-doubt. "Yes," he spat."And not for the first time."
He proceeded to ramble on about their initial meeting at Bart's when Jim Moriarty was moonlighting as Molly's boyfriend. "I should have realized…" he trailed off, his eyes far away and stony.
Lestrade halted his inquisitions. "We'll discuss this further. For now, why don't you take John home since he's refusing to go to the hospital."
Sherlock nodded mutely, his eyes strained and exhausted. And once again Lestrade had to watch them walk away together. But this time it wasn't resentment he was feeling. This time, something had changed. Something was stirring. Whoever this Moriarty character claimed to be, it was serious shit, and for once Lestrade was glad Sherlock had someone at his back day and night.
While Lestrade was left to deal with the aftermath of the madman Moriarty, Sherlock was apparently busy with other endeavors. It wasn't until much later that he discovered what exactly was keeping Sherlock's interest.
Irene Adler. The name alone reduced men to whimpering idiots, rumour had it. Everyone at the Yard had heard that name. Seen that face. But never did Lestrade suspect that Sherlock would get embroiled with that. It was preposterous.
Even after finding out that she was part of a private case, Lestrade couldn't really imagine it. It wasn't just jealousy, not that time. Sherlock would never go for that. True, the man never actually admitted he was exclusively gay, but Lestrade could never picture Sherlock as the type of person that would be willing to submit to anyone. Least of all her.
It wasn't until he got a call from John did his heart go plummeting.
"What do you mean he's in mourning? he asked incredulously over his morning coffee. He heard John sigh on the other end.
"I've never seen him like this, Greg. He's being...odd. He's more quiet, he's forever playing depressing music on that damned violin of his. He won't even talk about her. He's just...lost."
Lestrade sat upright in his chair. Two things crossed his mind simultaneously. One, John was talking about Sherlock as if he were looking after his heartbroken friend, not as a jealous lover griping about some mistress. And two, the fact that Sherlock was actually heartbroken. The man usually went out of his way to deny the fact that he even had a heart. There was nothing more boring to him than talking of love, or feelings of any kind. There had to be another explanation. Before he could figure anything out, John started up again.
"I thought, maybe you could talk to him."
Lestrade froze. "Me? Why would Sherlock talk to me?" he said, not quite sure he mastered his quizzical voice.
"Because he respects you. He'll listen to you. You've known him much longer than I have. Surely you've got some insight that everyone else has missed."
Lestrade's heart clenched uncomfortably. "I don't know, John. Sherlock's very private. Maybe he just needs some time."
Another sigh. "Maybe you're right. It's just...so unlike him. I mean, you know what he's like? It's times like this I realize I barely know the guy. He won't talk about his past. And Mycroft even eluded he's never-" He broke off, inhaling, like he never meant to go on that far.
"What did Mycroft say about him?" He was on guard now, ready for anything. After a moment's hesitation, John went on, albeit warily.
"He just said that...he basically implied that- Sherlock's never been with anyone. Intimately."
Lestrade held his breath. "Oh," he said, just a flutter of air. "Well, it um isn't really any of Mycroft's business what goes on in Sherlock's private life."
"Yeah, oh I know it. But you know Mycroft. So I dunno, maybe he's right. I mean, not like Sherlock's revealed anything to me about...any of that. It's so hard to place him. I couldn't tell you if he prefered women or men, or both. Or neither. Sherlock doesn't really think like that. He doesn't concern himself with the physical, he said so as much first day I met him. At first I found it...odd. But now, after all this time, I wouldn't be surprised if it were true. I mean, I'm a doctor and shouldn't be surprised by anything. I guess I've just never met a man who didn't want to...you know."
Lestrade gaped as he stared ahead, hand clamped tightly to his phone. He swallowed, unable to form words.
"Greg?"
He started, his mouth gone dry. "Oh sorry, I'm here, just busy with files. Sorry, I'm listening. I hear you. I- yea, it's Sherlock, what can you say?"
He heard a soft laugh. "Yeah. Hey, I'm sorry to be calling you up like this at work. I was just worried is all."
"No, it's fine, really. I appreciate the call. I can talk to Sherlock, next time I see him."
"Thanks, Greg. You're a good friend to him."
They hung up, Lestrade's hand shaking as he placed his mobile on his desk. He felt a bit ill and a migraine was creeping up on him. He sat forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
He could not believe that conversation just transpired. John all but admitted there was nothing going on between him and Sherlock. He could have been lying but to what end? That was not the purpose of his call. He called because he was disconcerted and he thought Lestrade could help. But even he was out of his depth here, for if Sherlock really was mourning the Adler woman, how could he be expected to comfort him when jealousy was slowly creeping back up?
The horrible fact that she was dead did nothing to staunch that feeling. Right now, Sherlock was hurting and Lestrade hated knowing that. Helping Sherlock was always his objective, this deep rooted need to fix whatever was ailing the younger man. He was a horrible person if he sat by and watched Sherlock fall apart.
He didn't know what he could do to help or what words to say to someone like Sherlock who loathed sentiment in any form, but he vowed to speak with him.
He never got that chance because just after New Year's he got a text from John.
She's alive. Adler. I don't even have the words to express my anger right now. She faked her death! Who the hell does that?!
Lestrade stared and stared at the strange words until his lungs protested from lack of breathing. He gulped in some air and responded.
I'm confused. Irene Adler is alive?
Yes. I've seen her. Maybe 3 hours ago. I still haven't had time to process it.
How did Sherlock take the news?
Hard to say. I haven't talked to him since. But he saw her. He knows. I'm aimlessly walking because I don't know what to do or say to him.
Right. Thanks for info.
Less than an hour later he got a phone call from Sherlock himself, calmly explaining about some break in at their flat and an injured American.
He didn't get a chance to talk with Sherlock, as he was attending to a petrified Mrs. Hudson and an incredulous John. He wasn't about to bring Adler up at a time like that so he promised to follow up with everyone, and went home.
Lestrade's gaze was unfocused as he stared out his darkened window, London twinkling in the distance. He couldn't sleep. His body felt tired and sore but his mind wouldn't shut down. He vaguely wondered if that was how Sherlock's mind operated every day. He shuddered at the thought, not wishing that on anyone.
It was too cold for a late night walk but he was going restless doing absolutely nothing. He glanced over at the thick, unopened envelope on his table, addressed from his wife's lawyer. Sighing, he looked away. Making up his mind, he picked up his mobile and dialed Sherlock. He was going to text instead but it wasn't nearly personal enough for what he wanted to discuss.
Surprisingly, Sherlock picked up.
"Lestrade."
"Hey, Sher," he replied, the nickname automatically passing his lips, making him inwardly cringe. "I hope I'm not calling too late."
"No. I wasn't sleeping," the detached voice said, making Lestrade frown at the lack of personality behind it.
"How is Mrs. Hudson? She looked really upset before."
A huff of breath. A smile perhaps? "She's fine. She's always fine."
"Good. That's good." He paused and the quiet resumed.
"Lestrade?"
"Yea?"
A sigh, this time exasperated. "You called for a reason. One I can guess, so kindly get it over with."
This time Lestrade sighed. "Look, I know you got a bit of a shock today. I just wanted to find out...how you were…"
"Does John keep you apprised of things now?" There was no rebuke in his tone, just a quiet acceptance.
"He's worried, is all. He's not used to seeing you like this."
"Like what?" A pause. "Oh god… he honestly thinks- and you! How could you think-" he broke off, clearly agitated.
Lestrade didn't say a word, hoping Sherlock might continue and hoping he'd be proven wrong.
"Irene Adler was nothing more than a pleasant diversion to pass the time. She wasn't boring. But if you think I trust her for even a second, then you don't know me quite as well as I thought you did."
The line went silent then, leaving Lestrade to curse at the device in his hand. He heaved a sigh, dropping his mobile on the nearest surface and went to bed. Despite the constant stream of insecurities, he soon fell asleep.
He didn't see Sherlock again until almost a week later. Turned out something big had happened that even he didn't care to discuss. He sat solemnly in his customary leather chair as Lestrade sipped on the tea that John made him. He had brought over a new file he wanted Sherlock to look over but the man was showing no interest in it.
John kept throwing Lestrade looks that he was apparently meant to interpret but was at a loss to their meaning. He shrugged at John, not knowing what was going on. He was just about to ask when Sherlock decided to make his appearance known.
"New cologne, Lestrade?"
The older man frowned at the odd segue, then remembered it was Sherlock after all.
"Uh yea. Old one ran out, figured I'd give this a go. Armani, I think."
"It's terrible," Sherlock said with a sniff in the air. "The Hugo Boss was better."
Lestrade blinked, not knowing how to respond to that with John in the room. He should be flattered that Sherlock even knew which brand of cologne he used, but again, it was Sherlock and his nose was keener than a bloodhound's.
"Um, right, thanks I s'pose. But like I said, I ran out and figured I'd try something new." He picked up the file, opening it up on his lap.
"There was nothing wrong with the old one," Sherlock stated quietly, not looking at him, and Lestrade realized he had no idea if Sherlock was talking of cologne anymore. He blinked, suddenly feeling warm and uncomfortable.
"Sherlock, honestly. Not everyone has the same tastes as you," replied John with a slight shake of his head. Lestrade coughed and, shutting the file, threw it at Sherlock. It landed in his lap and after a heavy sigh, the younger man opened it.
"Looks boring," he announced after five seconds.
"It's not, I promise. Hey, I have to go but I'll give you a call later. Tell me what you think?"
"I just did."
"See you, John," Lestrade said, ignoring Sherlock.
"Yeah, see you! Thanks for dropping that off, Greg."
He texted John as soon as he got to work.
What's going on? What happened with Adler?
She's gone. Sherlock cracked her code. He beat her game and she left.
Is he upset by it?
No. He seemed...vindicated. I wasn't there when it happened but when I asked he just mumbled something about love and foolish and nonsense. I didn't ask further. He still thinks about her though. I can tell. Still I think it's best she's gone.
Lestrade sighed, and tried to think of a response. John added more to his message.
Sorry he was so aloof today. He gets like that. He goes through these stages sometimes.
Lestrade wanted to say, I know. He knew things about Sherlock that most did not, and never will. He's seen Sherlock at his lowest, and he's seen him soar with wonder. But all that felt forever ago, and suddenly he wondered if John saw him in a different light. Did they joke together? Dine together? Did Sherlock pour his deepest fears and desires to John?
He didn't think so, but just the possibility of it sent him reeling. It wasn't right to feel this envious. Sherlock and John were friends. They had every right to do as they pleased. They lived together. They saw each other every day. They had to be close and Lestrade had to be okay with that. His mind agreed readily, but his heart clenched painfully.
So he responded: It's fine. I get it. Thanks for the info.
He felt like shit after chatting with John. The simple fact was, Sherlock and John were what he once thought he and Sherlock were. Maybe closer. What was he to Sherlock now? The thought constantly raced around in his head, consuming him. It was childish to think like that but he couldn't help it, not when he saw how chummy John was with Sherlock. How easily their friendship evolved.
And what would their future hold? Sherlock already said he had no interest in Adler, which could mean nothing, or it could mean everything. He saw right through her. She meant nothing to him, at least nothing that could tempt Sherlock into a relationship. He scoffed at the thought.
But John. John was different. On the outside he presented himself as plain, and level-headed. A good guy to have around. But what Sherlock saw in him ran deeper. Soldier, doctor, friend, partner. He already assisted Sherlock with all his cases. How much longer before their relationship progressed further? He didn't want to dwell on that.
He had to remind himself that the stolen moments he had with Sherlock were just that- moments in time that amounted to nothing, really. In the grand scheme of things, what they had did not compare to what Sherlock and John could have in the future. Deep down he knew it was true and that particular thought sent him straight for the liquor cabinet, loathing himself with every sip he took, but reveling in the sweet burn down his throat and the haziness of his mind. It was bliss, if only temporarily.