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A/N: Mature content in this chapter. Also SPOILERS for The Sign of Three.
He had just placed the shopping on the counter when his mobile rang. Blindly, he reached for his pocket to grab for it, hitting Talk automatically.
"Yeah, Lestrade."
"He said yes."
Lestrade blinked, then briefly looked down at the caller ID.
"Oh, hey John. Sorry, who said yes?"
"Sherlock. I asked him to be best man. And he said yes."
Lestrade paused. "Course he did. Was there ever any doubt on that account?"
"I honestly wasn't sure how he'd take it." There was a long stretch of silence before John spoke again.
"Greg, I hope you don't think… I mean, Sherlock is- I've known him-"
"John, stop. You don't have to explain anything. I get it. Of course he's your best man. And I'm glad he agreed, really I am." He was. He would have absolutely killed Sherlock if he refused. John would have been devastated. Maybe once upon a time John would have asked Greg, if things were different. But he wouldn't change the fact that Sherlock was back. Not for anything.
The days were warming up, bit by bit. Of course, no matter what he did, he couldn't thaw the frost from inside 221B Baker St. He stopped by whenever he could, with case files or Sherlock's favourite takeaway. Peace offerings, all politely spurned. Sherlock never refused his admittance, but his lack of enthusiasm was blatant and regrettable. Lestrade didn't know how to reach him.
"I'm busy," declared Sherlock after Lestrade showed him the latest file. The detective suppressed the sigh as he watched Sherlock flip through a medical periodical whilst chewing on a microwaved burrito.
"Gregson pulled this himself. Told me this one had you stumped a few years back. Looks like new evidence surfaced."
Sherlock didn't look up from his reading. "Then why isn't Gregson here now?"
"Had a funeral to go to. Family member I think. Asked me to talk to you. Will you look it over?" He glanced at the half-massacred burrito- or what passed for one. "I know you don't have a private case on," he ventured, given Sherlock's meal.
"Leave it. Though I don't know when I'll get to it. I'm occupied currently."
Lestrade left the file on the table, a million retorts on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said, "Thank you, Sherlock."
"Thought it wasn't for you," Sherlock returned.
Lestrade frowned. "Still, I know Gregson would appreciate it. And he's a friend, so, thanks."
Nothing further was forthcoming so Lestrade left, disappointment brimming underneath the surface. Sherlock was unreachable, the lack of interest infuriating. He'd thrown cases at him without a spark of curiosity. Only John could get him to come out of his shell. Whatever rapport he'd ever had with the younger man was gone.
He'd been at it for a month without much success. Sherlock didn't explicitly tell him to stay away, nor did he invite his company, but Lestrade had been persistent. Words of apology felt wrong- Sherlock didn't like to mince words. Action always spoke louder. So he brought him things. Files, and photos, and Indian food. His favourite tea from the shops, and freshly-baked scones because he knew Sherlock loved them but would starve before he decided to actually go out and buy something to eat for himself.
Sherlock allowed all of it, but his wall never came down. It's almost as if he was indifferent to Lestrade- neither inviting nor rebuffing conversation. It was all very formal and Lestrade was starting to go mental. Something had to give.
Despite all that, Lestrade's heart clenched every time he saw Sherlock. Watched as he stalked, cat-like around his flat, always moving, always doing. Sometimes he found him fully dressed; suit, dress shirt, shoes. Other times he would be in a tee and lounge pants, dress robe haphazardly thrown on, feet, pale and bare. Hair an absolute disaster. It made Lestrade's heart twinge longingly.
Two days later, he came back, empty-handed. Sherlock noticed with a casual glance but let him in all the same. Lestrade stood in the middle of the room for two whole minutes before coming to a decision.
"Why did you never tell me?" He didn't need to elaborate; Sherlock took one look at his face and guessed right away. The younger man looked away briefly, body straight and tense.
"When? Before or after you put me under arrest?"
Lestrade barely refrained from flinching. "That wasn't my idea," he murmured.
Sherlock's lip quirked slightly, as if the information wasn't news to him. He turned away and went to check out something under his microscope.
"I couldn't risk it," he said, head down. "Same as with John. I couldn't- I didn't dare try to hint that anything was amiss. Essentially, that plan wasn't supposed to come to pass. I hadn't anticipated Moriarty blowing his brains to bits. I had about ten seconds to make the decision." He sighed, looking up from his microscope.
Lestrade stood, hands in pockets. "So you allowed us to grieve for three years instead."
Sherlock exhaled as he rubbed at his eyes wearily. "I didn't expect to be gone that long." He frowned and shut his eyes. "I am sorry."
It was the most straightforward, yet genuine apology to have crossed Sherlock's lips. He should have stopped right there but there were far too many unanswered questions.
"But you could risk Molly."
Sherlock blinked. "Molly was essential to my plan. None of this would have worked if not for her. And the only reason I involved her at all was because Moriarty didn't think I cared for her. He dismissed her"
Lestrade shrugged. "You treated that girl like shit for years and now all of a sudden she's helping you fake your own death?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, stepping away from the table and closer to Lestrade. "Molly knows who and what I am. It was her own decision to assist me. And in case you're wondering, yes, I've already spoke with her and thanked her. Now, is this inquisition finished yet?"
Lestrade looked down, shame filling his core. He hated how he couldn't control the rage swirling inside him. But every time he looked at Sherlock he either wanted to kiss him or punch him. He rubbed at his brow.
"Sorry.
"Anything else, then?"
Lestrade shook his head, but remained where he stood. Sherlock arched a brow. Lestrade lost his nerve and muttered a goodbye instead. He stood outside a moment later, fingers itching for a cigarette. The weather was slowly warming up, the sun shining more often than not. Still, it did nothing to brighten his bleak mood. He'd exhausted all his plays. There was nothing further he could accomplish with Sherlock and as depressing a prospect as it seemed, there was nothing he could think of to alleviate the hurt he felt within.
He was just making himself more anxious and sick with all the attempts to reach Sherlock. The younger man clearly wasn't having it, so the smart thing would be to walk away. That's what his brain told him anyway.
The truth was, he was in love with a man who didn't love him back. Or more precisely, a man who refused to acknowledge his existence. That hurt more than anything. Sherlock used to trust him and talk to him. He used to be there for him. The sudden grief that surged through him nearly tore him apart as he acknowledged to himself that Sherlock was probably lost to him forever.
His chest felt constricted and heavy as he took a cab into work, lamenting his loss.
May arrived as it always did, a beautiful spectacle of blooming flowers and budding trees, and rain showers that weren't quite as annoying as they normally would be. London was bursting with renewed spirit, even as Lestrade's was permanently dampened.
The morning of John and Mary's wedding dawned bright and cheery, the sun filtering through every crack of Lestrade's window shades. He groaned into his pillow as he was assaulted by the damning rays, hating every second of it.
He had the whole day off so he took his time getting ready. Shower, breakfast, suit and new tie. Shine the shoes. He brushed his teeth and stared at his reflection. At the grey in his hair that only seemed to be getting worse with each passing month. He sighed to himself as he wiped his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair instead of a comb.
John had wrote 'plus one' on the invitation but that didn't happen. He didn't even attempt to find a plus one. Still, he vowed to put on a happy face and have a good time, for John's sake.
All that changed however, the moment he spotted Sherlock. Stepping out of the cab he noticed John near the entrance of the church, greeting guests, shaking hands. Lestrade started walking forward, a genuine smile plastered on his face, when Sherlock appeared from inside the church to whisper something in John's ear. Lestrade froze as he stared up at the spectacle that was Sherlock.
In all the years he'd known him, he'd never seen him look the way he looked that day. He was head to toe polished and perfect. The longtailed tuxedo he wore fit like a glove, the pale shirt and vest striking against the dark fabric of the coat. He stood tall and handsome, a vision next to the ordinary folk around him.
Lestrade made sure his mouth had properly closed before getting any closer. John spotted him and waved.
"Greg! Good to see you."
He shook John's hand, pulling him into a quick hug. "Pretty classy," he indicted to their choice of attire. John smiled.
"It was Mary's idea. I told her I'd look ridiculous in tails and a top hat but she insisted. I can't pull off this look, not at my height. However, some of us don't seem to be having that issue today," he pointedly turned to Sherlock with a mocking grin.
Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing. Lestrade shook his head. "Trust me, John, you more than pull it off. Mary will be thrilled. Well I'd better get inside and find a good seat." He walked into the church, his heart beating a million miles a minute. He sat down in a pew near the front and briefly closed his eyes.
He hadn't seen Sherlock in a while since he purposefully stopped visiting. He didn't feel the need to torture himself further, so he stayed away. Futile, really. Just being in his presence again turned his brain to mush and his heart racing. Aside from the fact the man looked fetching and lethally gorgeous, he made Lestrade ache with longing.
Thankfully, he was saved from further depressing musing as Mrs. Hudson made it inside, a big smile on her face when she saw him. They conversed for a while until they were joined by Molly and Tom, and then the ceremony began.
It was short, but nicely done. John and Mary genuinely looked happy and in love. They practically glowed with it. But Lestrade's gaze kept wandering to the tall, solemn figure standing near the happy couple.
Sherlock's face remained blank and deceptively indifferent throughout the entire ceremony, as he occasionally brought his hand up to wipe at his damp brow. His hands remained otherwise clasped in front, the slight twitches of his thumbs the only thing belying his calm exterior.
For some reason, Lestrade felt inexplicably sad for Sherlock. Here was a man whose closest friend was essentially moving on with a life away from him. Things would be different and John wouldn't be at Sherlock's beck and call any more. He had a different life now. A wife, possibly children. And Sherlock would remain at Baker Street, like a spectre haunting the empty hallways.
He watched as Sherlock, on cue, reached inside his suit jacket to retrieve the small box with the wedding bands, handing them gingerly to John who practically beamed back at him. And then a moment later, it was over. Cheering commenced, Mrs. Hudson sobbed by his side and he clenched her hand tightly in his, more for his own sake he found, as he swallowed around an uncomfortable lump.
He grabbed a cocktail the moment he entered the reception hall, as the wedding party was busy with photographs. He casually watched Sherlock from afar as the taller figure looked positively uncomfortable with the excess of flashes going off in his face. Molly and Tom joined Lestrade a few moments later, drinks in hand.
"What a beautiful wedding," mused Molly with a wistful smile as she stared at the happy couple in the distance. Lestrade watched her as her eyes shifted to Sherlock. A furrow appeared between her brow as she sighed slightly, and took a sip of her drink.
"Yeah," he said. "Short and sweet, just how I like it," teased Lestrade. She smiled back at him and they got to talking a bit, before Molly dragged Tom away to mingle further. Lestrade got another drink from the bar and perused the crowd.
He would bet his life savings that John didn't know ninety percent of the people at his own wedding. He never spoke much about his family or other friends, aside from those he met in the military. So he guessed most of the people in attendance were Mary's acquaintances, or long-lost relatives.
He walked around the bright hall and his eyes once again found Sherlock's tall silhouette towards the back. He was pacing back and forth and talking on his mobile. Even from where he stood he could see the frown marring the pale face as the call ended. And then as if he could feel eyes on him, Sherlock slowly turned his head and met Lestrade's eyes from across the room.
Lestrade stopped breathing as the beautiful blues arrested him on the spot. Slowly he lifted his glass to Sherlock and watched, transfixed, as the tiniest of smiles appeared- and then it was gone as swiftly, as John approached Sherlock, laying a hand on his shoulder and whispering something to him. Lestrade saw Sherlock nod, reaching for his tie, almost as if it was too tight. And then he stalked away, out of the hall.
Lestrade debated for all of two seconds before he followed. He was suddenly intercepted by John who offered an apology for nearly bumping into him.
"Where you heading, Greg?"
"Loo. Be back in a minute. Oh, and congrats by the way!"
John beamed. "Thanks!" He laughed. "Why do I feel more nervous about Sherlock's speech than saying my wedding vows?"
Lestrade paused with a tight smile. "He'll do fine, I'm sure."
John took a deep breath. "Yeah, you're probably right. Well, hurry back, dinner's about to start."
Lestrade nodded and turned away, determined to find Sherlock. He checked the loo but Sherlock wasn't there, nor did he see him re-enter the hall. He ended up asking one of the servers milling about.
"You seen the best man?"
"Yeah, think so. Went out the back a few minutes ago."
He thanked her and followed the corridor to the back exit door. The mid-day sun was mild and bright as he stepped outside, eyes immediately glancing around for Sherlock. He found him a few seconds later, near the corner of the building, a cigarette in hand and another half-crunched under his shoe.
The younger man didn't turn his head as Lestrade approached.
"I don't require a babysitter."
Lestrade stuffed his hands inside his pockets as he stopped a few feet away. "I know. Got another?"
Sherlock glanced over at him, eyes inscrutable. He stuck his cigarette between his lips and reached inside his jacket to retrieve the packet. He pulled one out and offered it to Lestrade.
The older man took a step and reached forward, carefully retrieving the proffered cigarette from Sherlock's trembling fingers. Then Sherlock handed him the lighter and they ended up smoking side by side in silence.
"Sherlock."
"I'm fine."
Lestrade sighed. "You're turning green."
"I'm fine."
Lestrade stomped out his cigarette and turned to Sherlock. The shallow breathing and shaky hands were a dead giveaway, and he didn't even want to know what his pulse-rate was.
"God, did you see those people?"
Lestrade turned, surprised that Sherlock was speaking to him. "Yeah, bit of an odd group."
Sherlock scoffed, flicking what was left of his cigarette away. "No wonder Mycroft refused to come."
Ah, so that was what had him in such a state. He felt he had no one to ground him. Not here, not in such a place amongst strangers and other plebian duties. He was out of his comfort zone, miles outside of it, and Sherlock was a nervous wreck, one cigarette away from a full blown panic attack.
He was suddenly in front of Sherlock, inches away from his impossibly pale face, as the younger man's breath hitched at the sudden intrusion, brows down in question.
He reached forward and grabbed Sherlock's wrists. Unbelievably, Sherlock let him. He turned the shaking hands upwards and grazed his thumb over the pulse-point, noting right away the erratic throbbing.
"What are you doing," came the tight whisper. Beads of sweat had formed on Sherlock's brow as his hands shook underneath Lestrade's grip.
"Breathe, Sherlock. Breathe properly. You know the anatomy of a panic attack. You know it doesn't have to overcome you. Breathe, and think, Sherlock. Big breaths, come on. Big breaths, and then it'll be done with." He rubbed circles with his thumbs across Sherlock's wrists, keeping him in place and grounded.
"Breathe," he whispered, and miraculously enough, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "There's nothing here that you can't handle. Nothing. It's just a wedding. Just a bunch of stupid people who you'll never see again. Just think of John. You planned all this for him, and Mary."
"John's leaving."
Lestrade's grip tightened. "No. John's here and he'll always be here. He chose you, Sherlock. You're his best friend. He's not going anywhere. Breathe, good, keep going."
Sherlock's head leaned back, flush against the cool stone of the building. His eyes remained shut as he continued to take deep, laborious breaths, until his pulse evened out and his colour came back. Lestrade held tight to the pale wrists, slowly drawing circles against the warm skin under the layers of fabric.
Eventually, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, dilated and startled as he stared at Lestrade with a look that was both mortified and curious.
"How did you do that?" he whispered through parched lips.
Ever so slowly, Lestrade let go of his arms and took a small step back. "My mother used to get them when I was younger. Quite frequently for a while." Embarrassed suddenly, he looked away towards the entryway and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "It would be good if you drank something cool too. Ice water preferably." He took another step back.
Sherlock stood rigidly, arms limp by his sides. He nodded at Lestrade and ran his hand across his moist brow. "Yes. Thank you for…" he trailed off, looking down at the ground.
"Of course," Lestrade said. "Can't have the best man passing out before giving the speech," he joked with a broad smile. Sherlock sniffed and shook his head in obvious bemusement.
"Come on then," he said. "Dinner time, I think."
They walked back inside in companionable silence, Lestrade finding his seat next to Mrs. Hudson and Molly, while Sherlock marched confidently to the head table.
Never in a million years could he have guessed that when he woke up that day, ready to attend John's wedding, that he'd also be embroiled in some insane murder mystery, concluding in the arrest of the wedding photographer. In hindsight however...it did involve Sherlock so then again, anything was possible.
He dragged the suspect away, calling for a squad car to pick him up at the reception hall. He waited outside in the cooling air, mentally shaking his head at the events that just transpired. He hadn't even had the chance to have his meal properly digest.
When the doors of the car closed with the suspect angrily glaring out of it, Lestrade took a deep breath and went back inside, the sky dark and calm behind him. The dance hall was dimly lit and a bit warm as he made his way towards Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Suddenly, the DJ was announcing the arrival of the new Mr. and Mrs. John Watson and the happy couple entered the hall and glided towards the center of the dance floor.
Everyone clapped, Lestrade joining in, but his heart stuttered painfully when the first note of haunting music pierced the room. His eyes dove to the platform and saw only Sherlock who stood proud and majestic, playing his priceless Stradivarius as John and Mary commenced their first dance as husband and wife.
As all eyes were glued to the happy couple, Mrs Hudson leaned in and whispered in Lestrade's ear. "Sherlock composed this for them. Spent forever on it. I should know. Kept me up til all hours of the night perfecting it." She sighed. "It was worth it. Look at them, Greg."
He looked. He looked at Sherlock. Oblivious to the gaze, Sherlock played, swaying slightly to the melodious cries which he created from nothing. It was beautiful. And he wasn't the only one who noticed. Molly couldn't tear her eyes away from the man on the platform, even as her fiance stood touching shoulders with her. It was an interesting sight.
He felt a sudden lump in his throat and no matter how hard he tried to will it away, it was lodged tight and Sherlock continued to play, his long fingers effortlessly moving note to note. Sherlock used to play for him. The sudden thought made him dizzy with envy and he stared wistfully at John and Mary, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He needed another drink, or three.
The beautiful waltz ended with thunderous applause as John and Mary shared a delighted kiss. Next to him, Molly had tears in her eyes as she clapped not only for the married couple, but for Sherlock's beautiful playing. Lestrade followed suit as he raised his arms a bit higher for Sherlock. He noticed the maid of honor enthusiastically cheering for Sherlock near him and a second later she had caught the flower Sherlock tossed to her with a wide grin.
Lestrade frowned. What in the hell…
Sherlock made another short speech of apology for the earlier affair during dinner and then the DJ started doing his thing. Music blared from the giant speakers all around the hall and people started to dance. It was upbeat, and lively and fun, and for a moment, Lestrade joined in, grabbing Mrs. Hudson's hand and pulling her along for the ride. It was a beautifully carefree moment, suspended in time.
And as his head swayed to the beat, he happened to glance over to his side and noticed a solitary figure, all in dark, making his way out of the dance hall.
Sherlock.
Lestrade frowned and searched the room for John who he found dancing ecstatically with Mary. No one noticed Sherlock's departure. Well, he thought no one did, until he felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned and saw Molly, her eyes troubled and a bit sad. And he understood why.
He sighed and gave her a small smile, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "Don't worry, I'll make sure he's alright." Her grateful nod and tight smile made him want to run away and tackle Sherlock. He silently slipped away, actually forgetting to say a word to John or Mary. He briskly walked, trying not to get in the way of people and he glanced out the floor length windows and spotted Sherlock outside, coat on, hands stuffed inside, walking down the path away from them all.
He swore.
He was right next to the bar and without thought he approached, and asked to purchase an entire bottle of Merlot. The bartender looked at him dubiously and it wasn't until he pulled out his wallet and slapped fifty quid down was he taken seriously. He grabbed the bottle and stormed out.
Finding a cab proved difficult at first and nearly ten minutes later he was finally sitting, barking out "Baker Street", even though he wasn't certain Sherlock would be there. Still, he had to start somewhere.
The night was dark, yet bustling as the cab pulled up to Baker Street, with people getting on with their busy weekend plans. Lestrade looked up and noticed the faint glow behind the curtains and breathed a sigh of relief. He grabbed his wine and reached inside his pocket. He found the spare key that John had given him, to Baker Street. With the couple leaving on their honeymoon, John wanted some assurance that Sherlock would be looked after, so to speak. He was never so glad for John as he was at that moment.
He used the key and walked inside the quiet building. Mrs. Hudson was still at the reception, so it was just him and Sherlock. The thought sent his mind to places it really ought not to have gone. He put the key back in his pocket and trudged upstairs.
Sherlock's door was closed so he quietly knocked, hoping his nerves didn't show on his face. The door swung open and Sherlock was there, blinking back his surprise.
"Greg," he breathed and Lestrade melted. "What are you doing here?"
Lestrade found it hard to form words so he simply raised the bottle. "I've come bearing gifts."
Sherlock's brow rose and he stepped to the side to let Lestrade through. "You know I don't drink."
"Ah but I know that's not entirely true. Plus, I think tonight you can make an exception. After all, we are celebrating."
Sherlock's face closed off. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie, leaving only the unbuttoned vest, which, paired with the form-fitting trousers and tight shirt made Lestrade's stomach do flips.
Lestrade ignored the look and went to the kitchen, searching for a corkscrew. "Now, I'm not so big into weddings either, you know. Can't remember the last time I even went to one." He finally found it buried in the back of a drawer. "But I actually sort of had fun tonight." His back turned to Sherlock, he placed the screw over the cork and pushed.
"Then why are you still not there, having fun?" quipped Sherlock with a low drawl. A quiet pop sounded.
"Well," said Lestrade as he reached for a clean glass he managed to find in the cupboard, "gets a tad old after a while. Having fun by yourself." He filled it three quarters full and turned around, offering the glass to Sherlock.
After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock reached for it, wrapping his long fingers around the clear globe. Lestrade filled his own wine glass and turned back, lifting it high.
"To John and Mary." Sherlock's eyes didn't leave his as he copied the movement and clinked his glass to Lestrade's. They took a healthy gulpful and lowered their glasses. Lestrade momentarily set his back down only to take off his suit jacket, as it was progressively becoming warmer in the flat. Then he grabbed his wine glass and swallowed half of it down before following Sherlock into the living room.
Sherlock meanwhile was removing his vest, dropping it haphazardly over the sofa and unbuttoning his cuffs. Lestrade took another sip as he covertly watched, eyes hooded and intense.
"Well I think my duty was officially fulfilled," Sherlock suddenly declared. "No need to continue with the charade." He sank down in his beaten up leather chair, his lips to his glass. Lestrade made a sound of dissent.
"You did good, Sherlock. And I'm not patronizing you. That was one hell of an experience."
Sherlock looked down at the swirling red liquid. "Yes, well. It was simple enough once I was able to completely zone everybody out. I couldn't focus." He frowned, and swallowed the rest of the wine. Lestrade blinked and went to fetch the bottle. He refilled his own glass and Sherlock's.
Sherlock wasn't asking him why he had come. Did he want him to? He licked his lips, the wine slowly seeping into his brain, pleasantly. He drank some more. The flat was quiet and warm. Sherlock stared off, contemplative, his eyes relaxed, yet focused. That spark was always there. It was amazing to witness, and a bit startling.
"This is actually not revolting," Sherlock remarked as he took another sip. Lestrade smiled. "It had better not be, for the price I paid." It wasn't bad, actually. He downed his second glass and refilled. Sherlock was watching him pointedly.
"I don't have to work tomorrow," he stated, not quite defensively. "Sunday."
Sherlock quirked a brow. "Yes, I'm aware."
Oh god, he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this. Luckily, Sherlock was still drinking his own wine, the red temporarily staining his thick lips before a pink tongue darted out to clear any droplets off. Lestrade felt warm. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves to his elbows. His tie too came off. The wine in the bottle was nearly gone, he saw with remorse. Still, the haziness was growing, turning his limbs to dough, and he relaxed into the sofa, gaze on Sherlock's quiet form. Seconds ticked by.
"So that maid of honor, or whoever she was. Took quite an interest in you," Lestrade said, breaking the silence. Sherlock took a deep breath and another big swallow of wine.
"Yep."
Lestrade pursed his lips. "Did you tell her she was wasting her time?"
Sherlock frowned at that, glancing over to him curiously. "No. Didn't get the chance. Well that, and she wasn't completely tiresome. She was certainly a bit more interested than I anticipated."
Lestrade couldn't help his deepening scowl. Sherlock noticed, placing his empty glass down on the floor. He leaned back and steepled his fingers together as his elbows rested on the arms of the chair. "Are you so surprised that someone of the opposite sex would actually take an interest in me?" he asked with genuine curiosity.
Lestrade had to laugh. "No. I'm more surprised by the fact that the interest appeared mutual," and he couldn't quite mask the note of jealousy he knew Sherlock would pick up on. And indeed, that pompous smirk made its way to that piercing face, and Lestrade ducked his head and played with the rim of his glass.
"I've been back for nearly six months, Greg," Sherlock stated, and Lestrade didn't even want to pretend to interpret that the way he really hoped it meant. His pulse suddenly sped up, the sound like a bass drum throbbing in his ears.
He shrugged and grabbed what was left of the wine, not even bothering with the glass. Sherlock watched him with hooded eyes, perfectly aware of the tremors in Lestrade's hands as he raised the bottle to his mouth.
"Haven't thought about it," he ventured.
Sherlock lowered his arms. "Liar."
Lestrade lashed out. "Don't talk to me of lies, Sherlock. I can't sweep things away so neatly like some people can." His pleasant buzz had evaporated, replaced by addled rage. "Nor can I just tuck it away in my mind palace and pretend everything's fine."
Sherlock frowned. "That's not how it works. There's no getting away from what I've done. I can't just simply forget certain aspects of my life."
"You know, at this point, I don't even care what you've done. It's really none of my business and I don't need the extra guilt swimming around in my conscious. My imagination is fine, thank you." He scowled into the empty bottle and he placed it back down on the floor with a sigh.
Sherlock regarded him for a moment before standing and walking off towards the kitchen. Lestrade watched as he reached with his long arms towards the back of a cupboard and retrieved a clear bottle of something. More alcohol by the looks of things. Lestrade's brows rose to his hairline.
Sherlock found two tumblers and poured a liberal amount in both. He returned and handed one off to Lestrade. It smelled divine. And pricey.
"Trying to get me drunk, Sherlock?"
The younger man took his seat, lifting his glass. "Mycroft gave this to me nearly four years ago for Christmas. Twenty-three years old, apparently."
Lestrade took a swig, eyes widening in appreciation. "Wow. This is the best scotch I've ever had. And I don't even feel guilty drinking it." They both drank in the quiet of the flat. It was nice, comfortable.
"Your new flat is much nicer than your old one," Sherlock segued after he set his tumbler down. Lestrade blinked.
"Well, yea, bit bigger too, though I don't technically need the extra space. It's just me. I don't exactly get many visitors. The combined flavours of liquor were loosening his tongue and he wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not.
Sherlock hummed. "Except John, of course."
Lestrade shrugged. "John's my friend."
"Ah," said Sherlock, swiping his glass for another sip. "You meant the other sort of visitor."
Lestrade looked down into his glass, stomach churning. "It doesn't matter. Not like I have much time for any of that anyway." He sighed and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. He wasn't sure what they would reveal.
"No, that's not it," Sherlock remarked after a moment. "You choose to be celibate, and have been for quite some time. It's quite obvious from the state of your flat, you know."
"Sherlock…" A warning. Choppy waters ahead. "Really none of your business. You don't see me scrounging around in your personal affairs."
Sherlock scoffed with derision. "No, your methods include implying whatever is most convenient for you."
Lestrade flinched. "I've already said I'm sorry. I meant it, all one million times. I'm an arse, I get it. There's no excuse for it. But this...fishing is just low. Coming from you of all people."
A shrug. "Mere curiosity. A man like you, highly respected, attractive and single, and choosing to forgo-"
"Not a choice I made lightly," he said tersely. "I couldn't see myself as the husband of anyone. It's not me. I've tried marriage once, thanks very much. I refuse to put myself in that position again." He drank his scotch, the burn soothing the turmoil in his mind. "I'm just not interested. Is that so wrong?" he asked bitterly.
Sherlock watched him with dark, lidded eyes, his lips wrapping around the rim of his glass methodically. "That is your prerogative, of course." He leaned his head back against his chair, and suddenly changed subjects. "I used to get annoyed whenever John had nightmares. I found it so odd and baffling. How can you not master control of your own mind? How do you allow your fears to overcome you? I never said a word to him about it, but John was always so strong and sure. Why was he so helpless when he closed his eyes?"
Lestrade stared, entranced, as Sherlock continued to speak.
"It wasn't until I was gone that I realized how unreasonable I was. I can't even remember the last time I slept uninterrupted the whole night. It's a strange feeling, to know you really can't control your mind at all times."
Lestrade frowned somberly. "Talking helps. Can't be good suppressing all those memories all the time. How do you stand it?"
Sherlock finished his glass and sighed. "When I'm awake, it's not as bad. I can forget things, for a while. Shelve them for another time."
"I'm sorry," Lestrade said in earnest. Sherlock didn't acknowledge him.
"Please tell me. Talk to me."
"Why?" Sherlock lazily cocked his head at Lestrade, his eyes cloudy from the drink. Lestrade's bitterness grew as he stared across at the younger man, cheeks flushed from the alcohol.
"Why?" he repeated. "You're seriously asking me this? How long have I known you, Sherlock? How many hours did we spend together? And you're asking me why? Good god, has it at all occurred to you that I actually gave a shit about what happened to you? For years, no matter what you did to yourself, or the hell you put me through? Do you think for one second I don't care about what you went through for three years? What you're going through now? Christ," he spat, anger brimming dangerously below the surface. Sherlock stared impassively.
"I can see that you've changed, Sherlock. I'm not blind or deaf. Whatever you went through affected you and it fucking kills that you still don't trust me enough to talk to me. You supposedly died for me. You jumped off a fucking building and pretended to be dead and you're asking me why I would deign to feel concern over you?" His voice rose with every word but he hardly noticed because Sherlock was still staring at him stone-faced and blank and he was about to take the rest of the (probably) three hundred quid scotch and smash it across Sherlock's face.
He swallowed what was left in his glass and clanked it loudly against the side table. Then he rose-unsteadily- to his feet, glaring down at Sherlock in resignation.
"I loved you, you know." His voice had left him as every syllable echoed with bitterness. He refused to avert his eyes because he was near drunk and foolish and not as brave as his stance would suggest but unfortunately it was out in the open now, and he'd be damned if he took it back. He'd had enough of the vise constantly squeezing his heart to death.
Sherlock blinked slowly, licking his lips as a weary sigh passed through.
"I know."
Lestrade didn't dare move, nor could he have if he wanted to. His feet were like lead and his insides burned as the words flashed through him red hot and blinding. He shook his head, once, because he wasn't completely aware of what just happened.
"I'm not an idiot, Lestrade." But the words were far from a rebuke. They were accepting and perfectly cognizant. "Don't you realize why I couldn't tell you?" he asked, beseeching. "If you had known, you would have done everything you could to stop it. And that would have meant your death. And then what would have been the point? Moriarty's threats were very real, I assure you.
"So I jumped,"-he sighed- "and Molly helped me and pumped me with Tetrodotoxin so by the time you saw me on the slab my body temperature had fallen and my pulse was so low you'd never notice unless you actually checked my vitals. You saw what I wanted you to see. And you had to believe it or it would have been me staring down at your own corpse. Or John's."
Lestrade's breathing had escalated with every word, his eyes wide and tortured as he listened to Sherlock recount that awful day, filling in the little gaps that had torn away at Lestrade for years.
"When you came back," he whispered, his voice scratchy and wrecked, "I wanted to hate you. I think I actually made myself believe that I hated you. That I wanted nothing to do with you."
Sherlock looked up and sluggishly nodded like it wasn't news to him. He looked down into his lap silently. "And I lashed out at you in the worst possible way. I used your past against you even though I swore to myself I'd never do that again. What I told Mycroft was true. I wanted to hurt you for leaving like that, for the lie you'd led us all to believe. But it was all bullshit. Because injuring you just made it worse. I was a miserable cock."
Sherlock shrugged it away. "I don't care about that. I just-" and his eyes drooped with the energy of it all. The alcohol was clearly settling in, dampening his senses. "John left. And you...I just want to know," he swallowed thickly, a frown settling on his brow.
Lestrade's jaw dropped as Sherlock's wobbly words hit home, his body suddenly inflamed. "Thirty-five years old and you still can't ask me."
He marched the five steps to where Sherlock sat and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. Sherlock's face was flushed with surprise, his eyes dilated and dark. He smelled like cloves and honeysuckle and expensive scotch.
"No, I'm not fucking going anywhere."
He slammed his mouth against Sherlock's, keeping them both upright by sheer will alone. The moan that Sherlock let slip reverberated down Lestrade's body until he was saturated by need. He released Sherlock's shirt when he realized he wouldn't be tumbling backwards and grabbed the sides of his warm face. He sucked on Sherlock's tongue, tasting the mingling of flavours, devoured his lips until they swelled underneath him and lapped up the scent that was Sherlock.
He harshly grazed his fingers against Sherlock's scalp, threading through his dark hair until it was painful enough to elicit a sharp gasp from Sherlock, effectively releasing his hold on his mouth. Sherlock was busy too, his long fingers tugging and curling at the waistband of Lestrade's trousers until they were flush. Lestrade wanted to die as he felt Sherlock's hard cock pressed against him, scorching hot through the layers of fabric.
Sherlock's hands suddenly disappeared and he groaned in disappointment until he realized Sherlock was unbuttoning his own shirt. He regretfully leaned back and attempted to do the same with his trembling hands. Sherlock was wonderfully adept at the task, his shirt dropping behind him with ease as his fingers reached for Lestrade, briskly untucking his shirt from his trousers, practically ripping the buttons in the process. Warm hands assisted in the removal of the offending shirt and once again Sherlock was all over him.
Too fucking long. It had been too damn long since he'd done this and he wasn't going to make it if Sherlock kept at it with such vigor. He blindly located Sherlock's trouser zip and yanked it down, button popping next. Warmth was surrounding him before he even dug his hand inside. Sherlock was breathing erratically across his skin, warmth tickling his neck, his jaw, tongue grazing across his stubble. He was going to burst before they even did anything.
He pressed his hand against Sherlock's chest, applying pressure. Sherlock leaned back, eyes questioning, and Lestrade was about to reassure him by telling him he needed a moment to breathe before things ended rather quickly-when he saw them. He found himself stepping back, mouth parted in disbelief. He'd seen the photos of course, but this was different.
"Oh, my god." He looked up in horror at Sherlock's eyes, then skimmed back down to his bare torso. His eyes took in every jagged scar and imperfection, marks that had faded and some that never would. It was heart-wrenching and horrifying to witness, to realize that Sherlock had gone through hell and had still lived.
Sherlock must have misinterpreted his unhinged expression, for he saw the younger man stiffen, eyes closing off, and started to back away. Lestrade grabbed his arm right away, pulling him back to him.
"God, no. No...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't-"he shook his head in dismay and buried his face under Sherlock's chin, arms surrounding Sherlock desperately. It was a lengthy moment before he felt Sherlock's hands on him once more. He felt soothing fingers along his nape, idly massaging the back of his head.
"It doesn't matter," he heard Sherlock say. And Lestrade didn't know what he meant. It didn't matter that he got hurt? It didn't matter that he was scarred? His breath hitched.
"Oh god, I don't care about all this." And his hand found a dimpled scar on Sherlock's shoulder and caressed it. "I'm just so sorry you had to do it all alone. I wasn't there...Three years and you could have been killed," his voice hissed, breaking, and Sherlock leaned back, eyes dark and fierce.
"I'm only here today because I refused to give in. Being home was the only thought that kept me sane all that time. Having a reason to come home to."
Lestrade kissed him. He didn't want to hear any more. Not now. It was too painful and that wasn't what they both needed right now. To think that there was even the smallest of doubts in Sherlock's head all that time...it made him ache.
Sherlock reciprocated gladly, tugging on Lestrade's trousers. Somehow they managed to remove both sets, along with their shoes, without tripping or falling. Sherlock nipped on his ear.
"Bathroom, cabinet." And that was all that Lestrade apparently needed to hear to understand. He hated to break apart even for a moment but he nodded and scurried off. He tore into the cabinet and found the lube and stormed out before a whole minute had passed.
He found Sherlock completely nude, his erection jutting out, swollen and ready. Lestrade nearly fell to his knees at the offering. He hurried over and grabbed Sherlock by the neck and pulled him close once more. He'd never get enough of devouring him, ever. Sherlock was his, even now, after everything. The thought was paralyzing.
Sherlock guided them to his chair-not the bedroom. Not that Lestrade particularly cared at the moment, but it was curious all the same. He sat down and Sherlock, practically glued to him, straddled his lap.
Heat coursed through him, above him, surrounding him. Sherlock suddenly jumped off and was tearing off Lestrade's boxers before the older man knew what was going on. Both finally naked, Sherlock settled back down on Lestrade.
Lestrade tilted his head back to worship the sight of Sherlock above him. Dark hair and startling eyes that looked right into him, stealing away all his innermost thoughts and desires. Already slick with perspiration Sherlock arched into him as Lestrade's mouth fell open in a wordless gasp. He closed his eyes against the onslaught and his heart clenched again from all the torture, beautiful as it was.
"Sherlock," he gasped grabbing hard onto both shoulders and pulling Sherlock against him as hard as he could. Sherlock's head fell back, exposing long, pale neck, pulsating with life.
Oh god, Sherlock was alive and they were actually doing this. Even now his mind failed to catch up to the truth before him. It made breathing a bit harder as he leaned forward, pressing his cheek to Sherlock's chest, simply to feel his beating heart against his ear-the final, definitive proof.
Sherlock must have sensed something, for he shushed Lestrade with the barest of kisses against his forehead, gently easing his face upwards.
"Touch me," came the low growl, and Lestrade's fears melted sharply away as his libido took a front seat. Without averting his eyes he reached downwards and grabbed the column of hot flesh and watched, enraptured as Sherlock's eyes fluttered close and his nostrils flared with restraint. He squeezed harder and the moan that he so wanted to hear tore past Sherlock's lungs and into the stillness of the room.
Lestrade grabbed Sherlock around the neck with his free hand and bit him, just enough. He felt the shudder above him and lapped around the wound, nipping, sucking, until Sherlock was a mess above him.
He knew he had all the time in the word but his body didn't want to hear that. He regretfully released his hold of Sherlock and reached to grab the tube of lube. He squeezed a fair amount and creeped under and blindly fondled Sherlock until he was able to slip a finger in. This went on for a few minutes as Sherlock panted above him, their mouths pressed together until the need for breath became imperative.
When he was satisfied(and when he sensed Sherlock growing antsy) he was able to add a second finger. He felt Sherlock clench and stiffen and he idly wondered if Lestrade was the last partner he had. He didn't dare ask and he knew without a doubt if there were any concerns, Sherlock would have asked to use a condom. He trusted Sherlock with this, so he let all thought slip away.
"Tell me if I'm hurting you," he was able to whisper as he carefully added a third finger.
"Shut up," Sherlock snarled, face pinched in clear discomfort. He froze, but Sherlock urged him on.
"Don't stop." The younger man squeezed Lestrade's shoulders for bearing, eyes shut tight in concentration-or pain. Lestrade bit his lip in worry. If this was the first time in three years then it must be hurting like hell. But Sherlock was a grown man and knew his limits. He took a deep breath and willed Sherlock to relax.
"Breathe, Sher. Open your eyes and look at me." For a second, nothing happened, but then, clear blue eyes peeled open and found Lestrade's and froze there, jaw clenched with tension.
"Breathe. I can do this all night if I have to. I'm not gonna hurt you."
"I won't...break," bit back Sherlock, forehead gleaming with sweat. To prove his point he pushed against Lestrade's hand, eliciting a moan from them both.
"Fuck, don't rush me, Sherlock," Lestrade groaned, sweat dripping down his face as well. Sherlock's erection, which had wilted slightly during some of the more strain-filled moments came back full force, stretched out and boiling against Lestrade's. He grabbed it then and pumped from hilt to tip, relishing in the shuddering going on above his body.
"I'm ready," grunted Sherlock close to Lestrade's ear and Lestrade shivered, breath caught in his throat. He was about to argue but realized it was futile as Sherlock was practically riding his fingers, so he released a shaky oath and carefully removed his digits. He reached for more lube and coated his prick liberally as Sherlock raised himself up a bit off Lestrade's lap.
He nearly choked as his tip easily slipped inside, his fingers clenching Sherlock's forearm as his other hand guided the way in. For a moment, no one drew breath as Sherlock was fully breached. He looked up to find Sherlock flushed scarlet, eyes clenched tight against the sensation. When he knew he didn't need his hand anymore he reached up and grabbed Sherlock by the neck, thumb pressing against the carotid artery. Sherlock growled low in his throat and his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. He stared down Lestrade as he was filled to the hilt, and only then did their overworked lungs release the breaths they were holding in.
Lestrade moaned as the delicious and impossible heat enveloped him, and he was certain he wouldn't last. That was the last coherent thought he had when Sherlock began to move, lifting off of Lestrade and plummeting back down. Harsh gasps and ragged breaths filled the room as they moved as one, mouth to mouth, hands all over.
Hair dripping, Sherlock's forehead stuck to Lestrade's as his back arched away from Lestrade's damp body. The older man grabbed him underneath, fingers groping at his arse, lifting him off his cock and slamming him back down. Sherlock's arms were wrapped around Lestrade's neck like a permanent embrace and Lestrade moved a hand from his arse to his weeping cock.
He held tight and stroked, the sweat mixed with pre-come making it simple to glide his fingers up and down Sherlock's swollen cock, thumb circling the silky tip. Sherlock jerked in his grip and was suddenly coming, jaw clenched, fingers squeezing Lestrade's shoulders, face obscured by soaking hair. The hot liquid trailing down Lestrade's chest, combined with Sherlock's arse clenching around his own cock undid him and he joined Sherlock in release seconds later.
Bones turned to rubber, there was no possibility of moving as he panted, gasping for breath and suddenly, unbearably hot. He was surrounded by body heat, sweat and spunk and he could hardly breath with the dead weight above him.
Sherlock tore his head from Lestrade's shoulders and leaned back, mouth parted and shaky. Lestrade was about to open his mouth to say...something, but words died before they even had a chance when he looked at Sherlock's face. He froze, heart stuttering.
"Sherlock," he breathed, hardly more than a whisper. He reached up with his thumb and caressingly wiped away the trail of liquid seeping from Sherlock's clenched eye. "Oh god, Sher, did I hurt you, are you-"
"Fine," came the low tenor, voice weak and shaky. "I'm fine." He hastily reached up and swiped at his face, sniffing once before taking a deep breath.
Lestrade sat perfectly still. This was so...out of place he didn't know what to do. In all the years he'd known Sherlock he never saw him shed a tear, save for his overly dramatic stage tears he exhibited for interviews. This was...troubling and heartbreaking.
And yet he didn't want to draw attention to it, knowing how Sherlock was. He pulled him closer instead, arms tight and supportive around Sherlock's damp body.
"You're amazing, Sherlock," he whispered, because he needed to tell him. He needed him to know how much he was missed and how much Lestrade cared for him. He felt Sherlock sigh as fingers ran through his short hair pleasantly. "Shower, I think," he added, now that he was fully aware exactly how disgustingly sticky they both were. Sherlock leaned back and nodded lazily.
He slowly eased off Lestrade, unable to control the wince or hiss of pain. Lestrade frowned apologetically, but didn't say a word. True enough, they were both a mess, as was the chair.
Thank goodness for leather.
They showered under a boiling spray, the water washing away their earlier adventure. It started innocent enough, but Lestrade couldn't keep his hands off Sherlock for long. So he turned Sherlock towards the wall and reached around and found his hardening cock and jerked him slowly off, while his body leaned over Sherlock's back, one arm braced against the wall for support.
Sherlock's forehead rested on the wet tile, hands splayed against the smooth wall. Even in the warmth of the shower he saw the patches of red across Sherlock's back as he approached climax. Lestrade ground into him from behind, lavishing his back and neck with hungry kisses as his tongue grazed across a random scar. His own cock was hard and needy against Sherlock's skin but he ignored it in favour of pleasuring Sherlock. His free hand found Sherlock's against the tile and intertwined their fingers as Sherlock stiffened with release, nearly dropping to his knees.
After a moment of harsh, ragged breathing the younger man turned, face red and debauched and kissed Lestrade almost reverently before crouching down.
"No, you don't have to do-"
"Shut up," Sherlock simply said, and swallowed Lestrade's cock.
The heat was making him dizzy by the time his orgasm rocked him, his hands glued to Sherlock's scalp probably painfully. He huffed for a bit before reclining back against the tiled wall, out of energy and breath.
Then they really did finish their shower, Lestrade massaging Sherlock's scalp with the overpriced shampoo he found, leaving his dark hair smelling clean and almost minty. It was late by the time they toweled off, too exhausted to do much of anything.
They lay in Sherlock's bed, in the dark, naked and relaxed. Lestrade's mind was a pleasant hum of thoughts, all good for once. Sherlock was quiet next to him, idly toying with the older detective's greying locks.
"Greg."
Lestrade was actually startled by the quiet sound, so close to his ear.
"Yea, Sher."
The younger man was silent a bit longer, still running his fingers mindlessly through the short hair, never faltering.
"I had a woman visit me two nights ago. A potential client."
Lestrade murmured that he was following. There was almost a cautious tone to Sherlock's voice that was troubling him, but he stayed quiet and waited for Sherlock to continue.
"She has brought to light an...intriguing proposition. And she's asked for my help."
"Who is she?"
"It's not important," Sherlock easily dismissed. "But she is being harassed, in a manner of speaking. By someone with influence. This man, he holds power over people. And he knows how to use it. She's asked for my help."
Lestrade leaned up on his elbows, effectively stopping Sherlock's ministrations on his scalp.
"Sher...this isn't anything dangerous, is it? Or illegal?"
In the dark of the room it was hard to make anything out, but he heard Sherlock swallow and sigh.
"Do you trust me?" Sherlock pointedly asked, and Lestrade froze. Because the old Sherlock wouldn't be asking this and his stomach churned unpleasantly at the implication that Sherlock had to question the fact.
"Yes," he said solemnly. "But now you're scaring me, Sherlock. What's going on?"
Sherlock sank further into the cushions with a deep sigh. "Nothing. Yet. I just wanted to tell you."
"Tell me what." His heart was hammering behind his ribcage and he reached his hand out, grabbing Sherlock's. He felt the slight squeeze in response, and he relaxed marginally.
"To trust me. No matter what you may hear down the line."
Lestrade sat up, reaching for the nightstand to turn on the lamp. Dim yellow light, obscured by the pale shade enveloped the room. He turned to properly look down at Sherlock.
"You can't say that to me and not expect questions. What's going on?"
"Nothing I can't handle. I just wanted you to be aware. In case I don't see you for a while." His pale face, illuminated by the light appeared fragile and harsh, angles and dark eyes and expressionless. But Lestrade knew better.
"You're really not going to tell me," he started grimly, "after everything...after tonight?"
Sherlock turned to him, lips pursed. "You said you trusted me."
Lestrade turned his head. He did. He did trust Sherlock. He meant what he said. But he couldn't shake the dread he felt from listening to this conversation. It was like Sherlock was preparing him for something. He was at a loss as to what, and Sherlock wasn't spilling. And he knew if he pressed the issue, he'd backslide with Sherlock and that wasn't what he wanted.
He released a regrettable sigh. "I trust you, Sher. He turned back and leaned over, pressing a firm kiss to Sherlock's lips. He felt the man shift next to him, felt warm hands along his bare skin. There wasn't anything erotic or wanting in the gesture. It was just...nice, soothing. He reached back and turned the light off, allowing the darkness to settle once more.
He laid his head on Sherlock's chest, felt the warm fingers continue their caress, and allowed the tranquil sound of the beating heart beneath to lull him to sleep.