A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Spoilers for His Last Vow. Adult Content.
Sherlock was restless. Lestrade could see it with every frown marring his brow and every clasp of his fingers, tightening across knuckles, or clenched around a mug, lips hovering over the rim, and forgetting to take a sip. He saw it with every blank look out the window, eyes unseeing, or seeing too much, lost in his mind for hours. Inquiries were met with half-hearted rebuffs, insults dying on lips, body shuddering from a deep sigh.
Lestrade let it go. He let it all go, because no good would come of anything else. Sherlock healed, his wound closing over, leaving nothing but a soft dimple, flesh slightly puckered and off-colour. Sherlock liked to examine it, fingers pressing, probing, breath hissing at his limitations. Lestrade would grit his teeth and shake his head as Sherlock's lip quirked with mischief. Those were the good days.
John was ignoring him. Calls, texts, visits. When pressed, Sherlock would tell him it was nothing. Nothing to worry about. Nothing significant. John was fine. Or would be. Lestrade wasn't an idiot, and mentioned this to Sherlock before walking out of Baker Street, fists clenched.
Sherlock had called him, voice low and weary. Sherlock never called him. It was hardly an apology and more of a half-hearted attempt to alleviate his worries. It didn't work, but he appreciated Sherlock's intent.
He watched Sherlock closely. As the summer dragged and the weather and humidity rose, he'd walk into Baker Street and find Sherlock outstretched on the sofa, reading in nothing by loose trousers and a tee, feet bare and pale. His eyes would flicker over to those wiry arms of his, taking note of anything...off. So far, Sherlock had been true to his word. No signs or symptoms of anything. It was a small blessing.
Sherlock didn't speak of anything relating to what had happened. Aside from toying with his new scar, he didn't utter a word about his case with Magnussen, nor of the person who shot him. It was infuriating. More so because Lestrade knew the man was hiding something. And he'd known Sherlock long enough to realize when he was being lied to, or at least diverted.
Lestrade wasn't exactly subtle in his need to know, but Sherlock wouldn't budge. Much later on, as the days passed and he'd had time to process everything, he came to the inevitable conclusion. It was so simple, he wondered why it didn't occur to him straight off.
Sherlock was protecting someone.
He set down the takeaway, immediately tearing his suit jacket off in the stifling heat of the flat.
"Christ, Sherlock, you have air conditioners," he grumbled as he removed the cartons from the greasy bags. Sherlock padded into the kitchen from his room, feet bare and tacky against the wood. His hair was a mess, badly in need of a trim, and his eyes were hooded and dull.
"Did you just wake up? It's nearly six. When are you planning to sleep tonight?"
"I sleep when I need to. I don't have to sleep at night," Sherlock responded, matter of factly. Lestrade sighed but didn't dignify that with a rebuttal. They sat at the small table that doubled as a lab station and dove into their Thai.
After his second helping of pad thai, Lestrade leaned back in the creaky chair and regarded Sherlock, wolfishly scarfing his glass noodles. He dropped his hands to his lap, fingers pinching at his damp palm methodically. He took a measured breath.
"I know the person who shot you is someone you know. And I can safely say that there aren't too many people you'd choose to protect if the situation called for it."
Sherlock grew still, eyes down to his plate. Lestrade continued.
"You can either tell me or I can guess, and I know you think me a rubbish detective but I can tell you it wouldn't be so hard once I actually take a moment to think about it-or look into people's whereabouts that night."
Sherlock's hand gripped his chopsticks, knuckles as white as his face.
"Sherlock."
"Stop this." It was a warning, and a plea. Lestrade's heart grew heavy as his suspicions were painfully confirmed. He swallowed thickly, insides turning to ice.
"Who was it?"
Sherlock dropped the sticks, leaning back rigidly in his chair. His face was stone, eyes impenetrable and dark. Lestrade sensed what was about to happen, as the formula was the same for years. He refused to rise to the bait this time.
"You asked me to trust you, Sherlock. Look around. I'm still here. I'm sitting right in front of you, trusting you. Because I know deep down you're a good person, and no matter what you do, my opinion won't change. So I'm asking you. I'm asking you to trust me. Forget that I'm a detective for a minute. Forget all of that because right now I'm asking you to put your trust in me, as someone who cares for you."
Sherlock's jaw clenched. "Don't ask this of me, Greg."
Lestrade stared, disappointment brimming underneath. He glanced away, gathering his thoughts.
"This isn't a matter of trust," Sherlock told him. "It never has been. You have to... know that," he said, not quite a question. Still, Lestrade felt himself nodding, slowly. "I know that, Sher. But someone tried to kill you and-"
"No. If they wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead."
Lestrade gaped. "You did die. Your heart stopped and you died."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be so melodramatic. My heart may have given out, momentarily, but I assure you, my mind was fully functional and capable of doing what it needed to do. As I said, I'm still here." He leaned forward, picking up his forgotten chopsticks. He pushed them inside his noodles. Lestrade's stomach soured.
He moved his plate away and went to stand. Sherlock sighed, irate. "Stay?"
Lestrade stilled, looking down at the younger man, so casual in his languid appearance. "I don't know. I have to be at work at five." Sherlock nodded without looking up, bringing the chopsticks to his mouth.
Lestrade's heart clenched. In truth, he hadn't spent a night with Sherlock since John's wedding night. He stopped by, and chatted, and dined with the younger man, but he never stayed over. He wasn't quite over the Janine debacle. He didn't bring it up and neither did Sherlock, but this was the first time Sherlock had actually asked him to stay the night.
He swallowed, walked around the table, and brought his arms up, smoothing his hands over Sherlock's head, fingers threading through dark locks. Sherlock didn't move or say a word, but Lestrade saw as his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. He would have smiled if he wasn't so morose.
After a minute he eased back and dropped his hands to his sides. "Night, Sherlock" he whispered. He grabbed his jacket and departed, not bothering to wait for a response.
There were cases, and depending on his mood, Sherlock would accompany him, his arrogance shining through, more often than not. He rebuffed anyone who got near him, tearing them down to size with that acerbic tongue of his, eyes chilly and aloof. It grated on Lestrade's nerves, more so because of the headaches he received afterwards from Donovan and the rest of his team.
No matter his personal issues, Sherlock proved invaluable and on top of his game. He clearly was capable of turning off whatever was stressing him out and properly concentrate on the job. It was both admirable and crazy how his mind worked, something he shared with Sherlock one balmy August evening.
"You really are able to compartmentalize, aren't you?" They walked side by side along the pavement, sky darkening above them.
"Of course. Can't you?"
Lestrade gave him a sidelong glance, wondering if he was mocking him or not. "Depends, I guess. I usually like to focus on one thing at a time, or I'll go mental." Their heels clacked along the pavement and the soft breeze stirred their clothes as they leisurely strolled, looking for a place to eat. They'd just left the Yard, latest suspect arrested and placed behind bars.
Sherlock's mercurial disposition left something to be desired, chafing the nerves of everyone in his vicinity. Lestrade had practically dragged him out of the Met, though his attitude had not improved much in the fresh air.
"How about Nobu? I feel like celebrating," he declared after they've passed a dozen or so places. Sherlock's stride didn't change as he cast a glance over.
"Seems a bit ostentatious for you."
"What? I'm not allowed to have a nice, expensive and relaxing dinner out for once? Just once would be nice, you know," he said, his skin prickling with restlessness. He didn't catch Sherlock's expression as he was suddenly yanked off to the side.
Sherlock's grip on his arm was lead as he guided him to the alleyway, pinning him against the wall. Lestrade's brows drew down as he silently questioned Sherlock's next move.
The young detective was less than a foot away from his face as he looked at Lestrade, eyes searching, bright in the darkness of the alleyway. His lips parted slightly, throat working past whatever it is he wanted to say. His heart rate spiked at the closeness; the scent of him was intoxicating and so familiar. He ached to reach out.
"I'm sorry," breathed Sherlock, fingers curling into Lestrade's arm. The older man stared, mouth gone dry. He watched Sherlock's jaw work and tighten, skin pale and dewy. Eyes still glued to his.
"For what." He didn't dare breathe.
"Everything," sighed Sherlock, and he leaned forward, forehead lowered, warm skin flush against Lestrade's. They stayed like that, frozen in time, until Lestrade could manage to move. He reached up, unglued Sherlock's forehead from his, brought his face close as his hands shook. Sherlock's eyes were startled, unhinged, and Lestrade couldn't bear it. He swiped his thumb across Sherlock's lips before leaning in.
He pressed his lips against the warm mouth, felt the quivering breath leave Sherlock before lips locked with his own. Sherlock released his hold on Lestrade's arm and settled his hands on his hips, fingers curling around the inspector's belt, effectively pulling him towards him. He grew dizzy from the kiss, so unexpected and so piercing.
He relinquished his hold as his lips broke away, damp and infected with Sherlock. Their breaths mixed as they held each other upright. Lestrade wanted to run his tongue along the insides of his mouth, lap up every droplet of Sherlock's essence, devour him, consume him and then do it all over again. Sherlock watched him, mouth parted, pupils impossibly large.
"Maybe...I'm not so hungry after all," he whispered, eyes roaming carefully over Sherlock's face.
"There's always tomorrow," Sherlock agreed, hands suddenly pressing against Lestrade's trousers, index finger slowly grazing the lengthening hardness that was impossible to contain or hide. Lestrade hissed, breath catching. His hand rested firmly on Sherlock's left shoulder and he watched with lowered lids as Sherlock methodically teased him. When he felt a firm, hot hand grab and squeeze him he nearly collapsed against Sherlock, eyes slamming shut.
"Oh god. Not here, Sherlock. Not here."
"Why not?" came the impish reply.
Because they were in a fucking alleyway, ten feet from the main street and both their faces were well known. But in truth, those were the least irritating thoughts running through his mind. He wanted to get Sherlock underneath him, preferably in a bed, but the couch/floor/table were acceptable alternatives.
Part of him wanted to forget it all, let Sherlock do whatever the hell he wanted to do to him. Another part was surprised Sherlock would even entertain the notion of getting Lestrade off in the middle of London with passers-by strolling mere feet away. It sent a thrilling spike of desire through him as Sherlock continued to tease him through his clothing.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Sherlock eased off him and grabbed hold of his hand. He marched them back out to the street, only letting go to hail an approaching cab. Lestrade thanked God it was nearly dark as he eased into the cab with a minor grimace at his uncomfortable state down below.
"Baker Street," Sherlock barked, and took out his mobile, essentially ignoring Lestrade the entire drive. By the time they reached the flat, Lestrade's erection had evaporated but not his state of arousal. He practically threw the money at the cabbie as he jumped out to the kerb, impatiently waiting for Sherlock to unlock the door, even though he too had a key.
They barely made it inside before Lestrade pounced, flattening Sherlock against the gaudy wallpapered hallway. He prayed Mrs. Hudson was currently occupied as he assaulted the pliant mouth underneath him, thrusting his leg in between Sherlock's, thigh pressing up against Sherlock's growing erection.
Sherlock broke away, head slamming back against the wall. It was practically an invitation for Lestrade to assault his neck, which he did, lapping and nipping, hands roaming everywhere.
"Only you," he growled, mind obliterated. "Only you would dare to be so presumptuous. After everything," he ground his hip against Sherlock, not caring in the least how uncomfortable the position must be for the younger man. He was long past coherent thought.
"You should be on your fucking knees, begging me for this. You should be on your knees every fucking day, thanking me for even looking in your direction after everything-" he jerked Sherlock forward, pulling on his lapels. His head lolled back from the sudden movement even as his chest slammed against Lestrade's. He let him go just as sudden, fingers raw from grasping so hard.
He breathed out, ragged and on fire. Sherlock looked no better, debauched and flushed to the roots of his hair. He ran a shaky hand through his own damp locks, his mind in chaos. It was always going to be this way, he realized. He harboured no illusions, not with Sherlock. It was impossible. There was too much passion and bottled rage for it to go any other way. It would never change, no matter how much they change themselves.
But the thought of living without Sherlock was unacceptable. He had wormed his screwed-up self into Lestrade's brain over the years and refused to leave. What's worse is he also wormed his way into his heart.
He closed his eyes briefly and wondered how his life had become so fucked up. He should never have taken him home with him. All those years ago. He should have left him there in the hospital. Or sent him off with Mycroft. This was his own fault. His insides rebelled at the wrongness of it all, the constant conflict. He'd never win, so why not stop fighting it? If this was all he could get…
His eyes opened to Sherlock staring at him, a million unspoken words floating around somewhere there behind the fathomless blues, a thousand disputes in dozens of languages. He'd never fully understand him. He'd never been allowed to because Sherlock never let anyone in.
And that was the crux of it. For a man who alleged that his body was mainly transport he surely exhibited all the signs, countering his ridiculous claim . Why did he allow this? Why Lestrade? There had to be something. Some connection or Sherlock would never have gone this far. He'd never get a real answer if he asked. Because behind those eyes that knew all truths, those same eyes lied and lied.
Though not now. Sherlock's gaze was open and lustful, and slightly hesitant. He swallowed but didn't move, and that's when Sherlock went down on his knees. Heart skipping a beat, Lestrade waited, with bated breath.
Sherlock hung his head, breath flowing uneasily from his lips. Lestrade didn't budge, too shocked at the sight, at the wrongness of it. An acrid taste filled his mouth, and whatever erection he'd had wilted to nothing.
"What are you doing?" he finally managed, voice hardly a whisper, fists clenched.
"What you wanted," came the stoic reply, dead and submissive. Lestrade felt ill and dizzy. He stared down at the impossible sight and felt sick, tormented and ashamed. This was what he wanted. Retribution. Sherlock on his knees, silently asking forgiveness for the unforgivable sins he'd committed from the one man who would be stupid enough to forgive him.
His heart shattered, the pain prickling, taking over, enveloping him until he couldn't take it any more. He grabbed onto Sherlock's shoulders and yanked him up, not even knowing where he got the strength to do so.
"You bloody fool." He wrapped his arms around the slighter figure, fingers curling against fabric, digging into Sherlock's back. "Don't you know me by now?" he growled softly. "Do you honestly think I'd still be here if I didn't love you? Stop this nonsense and quit it with the fucking apologies, or you're gonna give me a bloody aneurism." He leaned back to find confounded, bright eyes gaping back at him.
"Now please tell me you have some sort of alcohol upstairs."
Sherlock slowly nodded, straightening up, smoothing his hands over his rumpled clothing. Lestrade took a step back, inclining his head towards the stairwell. "Well, lead on then." Sherlock, looking remarkably put together, did just that.
The room was damp and humid when he awoke, mouth parched and tasting of ashtray and of Sherlock's distinct flavour. He leaned up on his elbows, briefly glanced at the clock and flopped back down. A dull throb was starting to grow near the back of his head so he carefully maneuvered away from the tangle of blankets and limbs, padding over to his discarded jacket to retrieve some pills. Swallowing them dry he glanced over at the bed and at Sherlock, obliviously sleeping away.
He looked down at his rumpled clothing distastefully so he found one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, throwing it on before lazily strolling outside for some coffee. He had the day off for once, and wasn't going to rush things, not this morning.
Sun blazed through the open drapes as he waited for the coffee maker to finish up. He ran fingers through his short, but lopsided hair and desperately wished for a shower. In the meantime, he really just wanted to enjoy a warm cup of caffeine. The wood was cool and comfortable beneath his bare feet as he poked around the kitchen to see if there was anything edible for breakfast.
Finding nothing but stale biscuits in the cupboard, he frowned in disappointment and went about pouring his coffee. There was a sudden bang and he frowned before realizing it had come from downstairs. And not from Mrs. Hudson's door either. He had zero time to do anything but stand there stupidly with a hot mug in his hands before John came dashing through the door.
Both parties froze. Lestrade, because it was all he could do without spilling boiling coffee on his hand, and John because he was clearly not expecting to find the DI in Sherlock's kitchen at eight in the morning. Not to mention, he was wearing Sherlock's navy dressing gown, a fact that did not go unnoticed as John's gaze roamed across the article of clothing, before rapid blinking commenced.
"Um, hey, John. Good morning." He brought the mug to his lips, effectively scalding the sensitive tissue, as well as the tip of his tongue.
"What...are you doing here, Greg?" More blinking, more judging. Lestrade swallowed the small sip he took and shrugged. "Having coffee."
The silence was total and humiliatingly uncomfortable. John slowly moved his hand from the door knob, pursed his lips, and softly clicked the door close. His fingers wriggled and stretched, a habitual tick of John's, when he was overly nervous or anxious about something. Lestrade took another careful sip. He hardly tasted the coffee.
"Oh thank god. I hope you made the decent stuff, Lestrade. Not the swill Mrs. Hudson purchased for me last week."
Lestrade's-and John's- head whipped as Sherlock breezed through the room, heading straight for the coffee, tan dress robe swirling around his bare feet. Lestrade's stomach plummeted as he took in the disarray of his hair, and the fresh, incriminating marks on his neck and clavicle. He swiftly turned away, placing his mug on the countertop.
"Well, I'm off to shower." He marched across the room, eyes fixed on the bathroom door at all times, and enclosed himself as soon as he got inside. He immediately turned on the taps because he really did not want to hear anything that was being said at the moment.
His heart beat madly in his chest as he lathered and shampooed, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. He mentally cringed as he tried to envision the conversation with John.
"Oh, you didn't know Sherlock and I've been fucking for years? Well, now you do!"
He groaned, pressing his head to the tile. He allowed a few extra minutes, just in case the explosion outside wasn't over with, and then he turned off the water and pulled back the curtain.
Sherlock was in the doorway, casually leaning against the frame. His face was mostly unreadable, save for the smallest of crinkles around his mouth.
"I'm sorry," Lestrade blurted, angrily grabbing for the towel Sherlock was offering him.
"What for?" sighed Sherlock.
He wrapped the towel around his waist, too wired and jittery to towel off. Plus the cool air felt nice on his damp skin.
"That was careless of me. I didn't expect that-" he closed his eyes and shook his head, barely stifling a helpless groan. Sherlock took a few steps forward. He shrugged. "It's only John," he said, as if it meant nothing.
"Yeah. Only John. John your best friend who clearly just found out about us." He sighed, his body coiled with annoyance and frustration.
"I didn't mean for him to find out this way, Sherlock. I'm sorry if it changes anything, between you two."
Sherlock frowned. "Why should it? I don't care that he knows, if that's what you're all worried about."
"And you're not?" he countered.
"Why should I be? I do as I please. John knows this." Sherlock swallowed, sensing his unease. "John doesn't care. He was more surprised than anything. It's fine. He's fine. It doesn't matter. To him, or myself."
Lestrade looked him over, and found him truthful. There was a perplexed air about Sherlock, as if he wasn't sure why this was upsetting Lestrade so. His unease lessened and he stepped out of the tub, nodding once to Sherlock in assent. Sherlock quirked his lip and left him to dry off.
Mrs. Hudson popped in an hour later, fresh muffins and scones in hand. Fully dressed in his own trousers and one of Sherlock's tees, he heartily thanked her and scarfed right in. She busied herself in Sherlock's kitchen, making tea, wiping down the counters, humming to herself.
"Going to the shops for cigarettes," Sherlock announced, stuffing his wallet into his pocket. He didn't bother to ask if Lestrade needed or wanted anything before he bounced out the door. Lestrade shook his head, flipping the newspaper over and wiping muffin crumbs off his shirt.
"He's in a good mood today," Mrs. Hudson chirped with a smile. She continued her humming as she took stock of Sherlock's fridge.
"Oh yeah?" he said. "I guess he is, for Sherlock anyway."
"About time too. I really was in a state with the whole Mary business."
Lestrade stilled, eyes stuck to the paper. He swallowed. "What Mary business?"
She sighed and turned around, rag in hand. "Surely he's told you by now? It was quite the scene here, let me tell you! Sherlock, as pale as a corpse...the night he escaped from hospital." She tutted, shaking her head. "Came back here with John and Mary, asking me for morphine, of all things. And poor John was so angry, and not with Sherlock for once! Yelling and snarling, and Mary just standing there pale and anxious. I've never seen John like that."
Lestrade dropped the paper and turned round in his chair, his heart thumping madly. "John was angry with Mary? What did he say she did?"
Mrs. Hudson bit her lip, a deep frown marring her brow. "She wasn't who he thought she was. Something about her past. Something she never told John about."
Lestrade's mouth parted as her words struck his brain. "Oh my god." His eyes flashed over to her. "Did Sherlock name her as the shooter?" He was standing now, and Mrs. Hudson looked pale and concerned.
"I... he's never said. I don't know what else they talked about after I left. Didn't want to be in the middle of that domestic, let me tell you."
He stared, mouth working. His expression softened as he took in hers. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Would you please tell Sherlock I had to take off? I left some of my work back at my flat." He was already moving towards the door, grabbing his jacket and keys.
"Course, dear. Muffin to go?"
"No thanks!"
He grabbed a cab, nausea building, rolling around in his stomach with every turn and bump. He wiped at his brow, and chewed on his thumbnail as London whisked by his window. He saw none of it. A deep, lurking pain was gnawing its way through his core, settling in his chest. He shut his eyes, pressing his palm against his sternum, so certain he was having a heart attack.
After he got inside his flat, he sat down heavily on his sofa, the silence only magnifying the racing of his pulse. He looked down. He was still wearing Sherlock's t-shirt, the cloth pulling at his chest slightly. He fingered the worn edge of the pale shirt-one of Sherlock's favourites, given the amount of times Lestrade had come over to see it on him, dressing gown usually falling from his shoulders.
A wet plop landed on his hand. He looked down again but found his vision blurred. Frowning, he reached up and wiped at his eyes, his hand glistening with moisture. He sniffed, his head noisy and throbbing.
He felt physically and mentally exhausted, his world thrown off balance. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to handle this news. Could it really be true? Is that why Sherlock refused to talk about it? Because of what it could mean for everyone involved.
Mary shot Sherlock.
His fingers curled and his eyes filled again as the onslaught of disbelief and rage coursed through him. Mary shock Sherlock. His Sherlock. She shot him and Sherlock knew it and John knew it and- he was going to be sick.
He got off the sofa and went to get a glass of cold water, drinking it all in one go. He stared down at the empty glass and had the overwhelming desire to hurl it. To watch it shatter into a million pieces. Similar to what his heart was doing right now.
Instead he carefully placed it back down and sat at the kitchen table. He folded his hands together in prayer and sat for a while, thinking everything though. Every detail he could recall, every instance of doubt regarding Mary. He remembered nothing. Nothing but pure joy and happiness when he witnessed her and John together.
John.
Oh god… He knew, but apparently not until much later. Not until Sherlock disappeared from hospital and...and then they all went to Baker Street and that's how Mrs. Hudson found out. He brought his entwined hands to his face, pressing his knuckles against his forehead.
Who the fuck was this Mary Morstan? She shot Sherlock cleanly, with intent. To harm, not to kill. Sherlock had mumbled something about that before. That the shooter wasn't actually trying to kill him. He closed his eyes. It was all bullshit. Sherlock had nearly died at the hospital. Scratch that. Sherlock's heart stopped and he died. For a few torturous seconds, Sherlock lay dead, and Mary Morstan had killed him.
That explained John's text to him afterwards. John had been destroyed by the news. His wife was a total stranger to him and nearly got his best friend killed. That also explained why John refused to talk to him now. He didn't want to answer any questions about that night. He didn't want to re-live it. To face the truth all over again.
He felt pained for John. He couldn't even imagine what the man must be going through. His own wife… But every time Lestrade remembered Sherlock's face, pale and feverish from blood loss, the rage surfaced anew and all he could do is wish pain and death on the one who did this.
He was also angry with Sherlock for keeping this from him. He knew why he did it, of course. Knowing what he knows now. He was trying to protect someone, but it certainly wasn't Mary. It was John. If the police and everybody found out what Mary did, John's life would be forever altered. His reputation, over. Befriending Sherlock after his fake suicide debacle would be nothing compared to this.
He sighed, his head practically on fire. He glanced over to his liquor cabinet, but didn't make a move. As much as he would love to lose himself in the always-faithful bottom of a glass, he couldn't bring himself to do so. Nothing could right this.
You stopping by later? If yes, fish and chips would do nicely. SH
I'm not sure yet. Busy with work.
He could have barged into Baker Street, accusations flying, threatening all manner of things. Demanded Sherlock to tell him everything. It may have even worked. But for once this wasn't Sherlock's fault and so it didn't feel right. Nevermind the fact that he was a Detective Inspector with knowledge useful to an unsolved attempted murder. Withholding evidence certainly didn't sit right with him either. He just needed some time to think, but Sherlock was making it very difficult.
Twenty four hours later and his phone wouldn't stay silent. It was almost as if Sherlock knew something had happened. Suspected something was not quite right. Of course making idle chit chat wasn't Sherlock's method of going about getting information, but it was making Lestrade nervous every time his phone made a sound.
Avoiding Sherlock would be next to impossible, especially if Sherlock wanted the opposite. So far he had invited Lestrade over four times, using four different means of influence. He knew he couldn't stay away forever, but it hadn't even been a full day.
He had lain awake nearly the whole night reevaluating everything, disassembling the various pieces of the plot. Mary and Magnussen and Sherlock and even John. Trying to fit all the pieces back together into some semblance of order. He wasn't having any luck. He needed Sherlock to fill in what he knew and the only way would be to actually talk with the man. But every time he thought about the conversation he went numb with fear.
What if Sherlock refused to talk? It got him thinking. How much does Sherlock value what they have? He kept Mary from him and he can sort of understand why. But now that he knows, would Sherlock open up to him? Forget the fact that he was a DI for the Scotland Yard. Was there trust enough to reveal everything? He honestly wasn't sure and he was terrified to find out for fear of having his heart ripped out.
Wouldn't be the first time, his mind countered.
The situation was a precarious one and he wanted to do it right. He needed answers and he couldn't just barge in and demand them from Sherlock. His only other option was to speak with John, but that was less likely to happen since John was unreachable.
Or so he thought.
He certainly wasn't expecting the ringing at his door in the morning. Nor John's voice at the end asking to be let up. With trepidation, he hit the button, and waited.
John seemed collected when he entered the flat. Impeccably dressed, and mild mannered, he greeted Lestrade cordially and thanked him for seeing him. Lestrade indicated to the sofa and they each took a seat. And very quickly he realized exactly the way the visit would go.
"So. You and Sherlock."
He froze, eyes averted, palms tacky. He cleared his throat. A denial was completely pointless.
"Um yeah," he breathed, a half-smirk there and gone as quickly. John pursed his lips and nodded once, mouth twisting.
"How long?"
That was a more difficult question to answer. How long since he realized he was in love with a strung out genius, always looking for the next fix, or how long since he pressed his body against Sherlock's and breathed his name on the other man's lips?
"A while. Before…" Before Sherlock jumped off a building and pretended to be dead for three years. Another nod followed, eyes stormy and faraway.
Oh god, there were more questions in John's face, and they could only get more personal and more intimate. And Sherlock probably had no clue John was even here.
"Does Mycroft know?"
He blinked, mouth open. A deep frown settled as he lifted his shoulders. "There's um, a possibility that he knows. Or he certainly has his suspicions. But he's never expressly spoken of it. At least not with me." Not entirely true, but close enough.
John actually looked slightly relieved at that, as if Mycroft was such an obstacle. He had to laugh at that. As if Sherlock would ever allow it to be. Or Lestrade gave a shit as to what Mycroft thought.
"What are you getting out of it?"
"Excuse me?" He clenched his jaw at the indignation. John seemed to realize the folly of his question.
"Sorry. I meant, well...you know how Sherlock is. It's not like he hasn't expressed his complete distaste for anything remotely involving a relationship, or even anything physical-"
"Time to shut up now, John."
John stood, frantically driving his hand through his hair, then rubbing his face. "I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business and I don't even know why I'm here asking you any of this but he's my friend and in all the years I've known him, not once, ever, has he ever remotely entertained the possibility of anything…" his arms spread out, gesticulating, articulating what words could not. He finally shook his head, blinking rapidly in befuddlement, or distress.
"Sherlock means more to me than anybody I've ever known," he answered softly. John stilled, face falling, going blank. He swallowed and looked down at his feet.
"Oh my god," said John. He looked back up at Lestrade, an almost wistful expression blooming. And then it shattered and he looked positively horrified. "Oh my god, the thing with Janine…"
Lestrade paled, and stood. "There was no thing with Janine," he seethed, unable to control it, even now. He sneered but it wasn't directed at John. He knew what John meant. "Sherlock's already...explained himself." He clenched his fists, throwing an annoyed glare at John.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I really am. That was...dumb of Sherlock to even go that far. Must've been some punch in the gut." And suddenly Lestrade wasn't sure exactly who John meant as he watched him close off, eyes going dark. This was the perfect opportunity to bring up Mary. Bring up everything. But as he gazed at John he realized he couldn't do it. Not now, not here anyway.
He sighed.
"Sherlock can be obtuse, we all know this. No big secret. And yes, it hurt like hell. Still does, If I'm being honest. It's actually nice to talk about it with someone else. Someone who knows Sherlock well enough not to hold it against him forever."
John huffed a mirthless laugh. "Oh yes. I suppose that's true. Sherlock does what Sherlock wants. No changing a guy like that. But Greg," he said in all seriousness, "don't let him do that to you again."
Lestrade swallowed thickly. "Yeah."
John nodded. "Well, I need to get over to the clinic. See you later, Greg."
"Bye, John."
After he left Lestrade sank back down, suddenly realizing he was still wearing Sherlock's shirt. His first impulse was to go and change, but his hands moved over the soft fabric and he imagined Sherlock wearing it, lounging in it, sleeping in it. He kept it on. Just for a little while.
He arrived unannounced the next night, fish and chips in hand-or in bag. Sherlock took one look and rolled his eyes.
"Can't have that. I'm on a case."
Lestrade blinked. "Oh. As of when?"
"This morning." He was peering into his microscope, brows down in concentration. Lestrade set the bags down on the coffee table, since the kitchen one was covered up with...noxious smelling experiments.
There was no point arguing with Sherlock about food, so he dove into his own, not wanting to spoil a perfectly warm meal.
"What sort of case is it?" he asked between bites. Sherlock didn't look up as he answered. "Disappearance of an heiress. Her mother reported her missing after a night out with friends. But there was blood on the inside of her window pane."
"Ah." He took a few more bites in silence. "So John showed up at my flat yesterday." He watched as Sherlock's finger briefly froze in motion on the dial.
"What for?" he replied dryly. Lestrade smirked to himself. Sherlock was nervous. He took another bite.
"Just asking about...the other day."
Sherlock scrunched his lips. "Oh. Well, it really is none of John's affair."
"What's not?" He wanted to hear Sherlock say it.
"What goes on in my flat." Lestrade deflated a bit, bitterness on his tongue. He stuffed a handful of chips down his throat to prevent himself from talking.
"Aha!" cried Sherlock with glee. "Perfect. Exactly what I was looking for!" He ran into his bedroom. He emerged less than two minutes later, fully dressed, shoes on, hair slightly mussed.
"Gotta go! Shouldn't be long. Mrs. Hudson bought the tea you like." And then he was gone in a flash. Lestrade stared wide-eyed at the empty doorway, swearing under his breath.
He ended up watching telly on Sherlock's sofa, the humidity filling the flat uncomfortably. He was too lazy to turn on the AC, completely content to sit there, sunken into the cushions and watching a repeat of a show he liked. He fell asleep that way, fully seated, head lolling to the side, after Sherlock failed to return after three hours.
A warm pressure on his thighs lifted him from the pleasant haziness of slumber. Although he was already quite warm, the presence was welcome and pleasant. Hands stirred along his scalp, fingers lightly filtering through the short strands there. He sighed, eyes still closed.
The hands moved from his head, landing on his chest, the pressure there steady and contemplative, his heart thumping merrily below the warm palm. The heaviness on his thighs was becoming slightly uncomfortable; too warm and claustrophobic. He cracked open his lids with a lazy smile.
"Sherlock." God his mouth was parched.
"Quiet," demanded the voice, obscenely dark with promise. He closed his eyes once more, felt the deep coiling stirring in his belly. His arms lay limp on either side, but he knew if he touched Sherlock now, he'd annihilate him, destroying him bit by bit. And he'd like it, too. So he let Sherlock play, since moments like this were a rarity, improbable and never assured, not with the younger man.
He was completely hard. He stifled the sounds threatening to make their way out, as Sherlock torturously writhed in his lap, two long digits making their way into Lestrade's parted mouth. He lapped them up from root to fingernail, hollowing his mouth, sucking, fucking them, devouring the flavour unique to the younger man.
He couldn't resist any longer. He moved his arm, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and swallowing his fingers whole, two, then three, his tongue covering every inch, teeth raking across knuckles, pricking the delicate pads. He heard the soft gasp, and opened his eyes.
Sherlock nearly undid him. Flushed scarlet, eye colour indistinguishable in his rapture, hair nearly black with its endless array of curls, neck pulsating with desire...oh god. He was clad in a dark navy dress shirt, so soft, buttons straining against his heaving chest, shirtsleeves rolled to his wrists, sinewy and bulging with strain. Fitted trousers, scrunched and tented below his waist.
As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock lifted off his lap, onto his knees. Lestrade wasted no time in getting the zip loose, greedy fingers reaching into the heat. His eyes never left Sherlock's. He curved his fingers around the column of flesh, slick, scorching and twitching, and squeezed, grabbing the back of Sherlock's neck and pulling him towards him.
The pained gasp died in his throat as his mouth clashed with Lestrade's, who was aching below, strained and ignored. Sherlock hissed, the sound reverberating all around him, inside him, turning him to goop. He lavished Sherlock with hungry kisses-his mouth and cheeks and neck, that perfect long neck of his. He wanted him naked, he'd take him clothed. He didn't care either way, he just wanted wanted wanted.
He could never get enough. Not of this. Not from Sherlock. His damned Achilles heel. Always. He should just accept it and invite whatever Sherlock brings forth. In times like this, when nothing mattered but pleasure-giving it, taking it in- it was so easy to forget everything. He loved giving himself over to the feeling. It was nice, to be wanted, to be needed. The feeling multiplied when the person was Sherlock. Sherlock, who professed that love was a foolish fancy.
He wanted to prove him wrong so badly. How could he say such a thing, when they were bound like this? Intertwined, an endless array of limbs and sounds, threatening to overwhelm. It was utter nonsense. Surely Sherlock had to see it?
They fucked on the couch, Lestrade's hands on Sherlock's hips as the younger man rocked over him, glued to him with perspiration. Both their bodies were slick with sweat and oil, Sherlock's preferred method of lubrication, he quickly learned.
Afterwards, Sherlock's forehead rested against Lestrade's as a sticky mess of semen slowly dried, the smell of damp and sex still mingling in the air around them. He'd never felt more relaxed. Sherlock eased off him with a strained sigh, and the air cooled the wetness all over him. He watched as Sherlock padded, completely nude, to the kitchen to get a damp towel. Even in the dimly lit flat he could make out the faded scars marring Sherlock's lean body, remnants of a life he left behind not so long ago.
As Sherlock approached and knelt down, he caught sight of the newest mark, a sudden and harsh reminder of what they still had to deal with. The younger man dried him off slowly, almost reverently, not saying a word. He looked amazing, his slanted eyes and dark mane giving off a fey appearance in the hazy light.
There was a moment of pause as Sherlock looked down at him, lips worrying, eyes not quite relaxed. And then he turned around and went back to the kitchen, dropping the soiled towel in the sink. Lestrade's skin prickled and he sat a bit straighter, feeling somewhat self-conscious dressed in nothing but a damp tee.
Sherlock stood in front of the sink, hands braced on either side of him on the counter top, head straight on his shoulders.
"I know you know. About Mary."
Just like that the heat evaporated, leaving only a frigid shell, and he was shaking from head to toe. "I do know."
The tendons in Sherlock's back flexed and strained as he straightened out, running a hand through his thick hair. Lestrade wished he could see his face. "Sherlock, come here, please."
Curiously, Sherlock turned around and glided back over to the living room, completely unselfconscious of his nakedness. He plopped down next to Lestrade on the sofa, hands interweaving in his lap. "So now what," he demanded, and that could have really meant anything. Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh.
"Now nothing. I don't really know anything except for who pulled the trigger. I don't know why, I don't know any of the details and I don't know why you're covering for her."
Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on pale knees, eyes straight ahead. "Mary was being threatened by Magnussen. She was there in his office that day, the same day we were, completely unrelated to our own investigation. Wrong place, wrong time, as they say."
Lestrade shook his head, anger boiling over. "That doesn't explain, why she shot you."
"She needed to bide some time. I'm perfectly aware of how ridiculous that sounds, considering I'm the one she shot. But it's the truth. She never intended for John to find out."
"Who is she? Who is she really?"
A small shrug. "I have suspicions, but nothing concrete. I don't dare ask Mycroft, and no I don't think he knows anything about her, including any suspicions regarding the shooting. She's highly trained, that's quite obvious. And I don't actually think she's British. I haven't seen or spoken with her since that night here. And I'm assuming that's how you found out, from Mrs. Hudson. Never could stop her gossiping."
"Why could you not tell me?" he asked, bitterness lacing his voice. He couldn't help it, he was beyond disappointed.
Sherlock sighed. "I didn't know what you would do."
He gaped. "What do you think I would have done? Killed her in cold blood? For vengeance? Brought her to the Met for an interrogation?" Sherlock said nothing.
"Jesus, Sherlock, I had thought we were beyond all this." He looked away, face hard.
"I was afraid, Greg." Sherlock's voice was no more than a whisper, but loud enough to stop his heart. He whirled his head back.
"Afraid?"
Sherlock rubbed at his brow, eyes flickering anxiously. "Yes. I was completely thrown off by her. She fooled even me. My defenses had dropped and then she shot me and trying to worm my way out of that was a chore, I assure you. And then I thought of John and how he'd never know. If I died, he'd never know and I wasn't sure if he'd be in danger and I couldn't just die and allow anything horrific to happen. So I fought and I lived."
Lestrade didn't know what to say. Hearing Sherlock speak of dying like it was an inconvenience was both astonishing and morbid, and so very like him. "So then what happened?"
Sherlock took a deep intake of breath, and leaned back against the cool leather cushions. "I plotted to trap her. And I did, along with John who at first refused to believe me, naturally. I think it was only because of my exhaustive, near-death state that he agreed to go with me at all. And now...now I'm not sure what happens next. I suppose it's not really up to me. John is still mulling everything over. Of course staring at her growing belly every day isn't helping much."
Lestrade's mouth dropped and Sherlock turned towards him, his own expression changing. "Oh...you didn't know."
"Christ."
"Yes, well...I can't imagine they had many opportunities to alert everyone. I only found out incidentally, at their wedding." He shook his head as if attempting to erase that particular event.
"God, I don't even know what to say." That was a complete understatement. He was floored.
"Well, now you know everything. So, I'll repeat: now what?"
Lestrade blinked in confusion. But Sherlock's eyes were intent and questioning and realization dawned. He pursed his lips. "I'm leaving this with you," and was pleased to see the split second's worth of shock on his face. "You say the word, and I'll bring her in myself. You tell me to back off, and against every protective fibre I will do so. Nothing's changed except now I know the truth. I just wish I knew it sooner, but as long as you tell me there's nothing to fear from Mary, I'll trust you in that."
"There's nothing further."
Lestrade swallowed and nodded. "Shower, then?"
He lay awake, Sherlock's long limbs all over the place. The double wasn't nearly large enough for the both of them but he wasn't complaining. He was simply too wired to sleep. He thought he'd be completely knackered after all the revelations and physical activity, but his mind was still spinning.
Surprisingly enough, agreeing to disregard an attempted murderer and lying about it to everyone was the least of his worries. Nevermind that he could potentially lose his job and everything he'd worked for if anyone were to find out. Plus there was Mycroft. If he found out he was keeping vital information about his brother's shooter a secret... he shuddered against the cool sheets, burrowing closer to Sherlock's body heat.
No, there was still a much larger piece to this whole puzzle. The same name, coming up, over and over.
Magnussen.
Sherlock was still embroiled in this whole affair, whether he liked it or not and he had a bad feeling nothing good would come of it. He supposed there was no point thinking about it, not at this time anyway.
One thing at a time. He nestled against warm skin, slowly drifting off.
Lestrade wasn't a complete idiot. He was perfectly aware that Mycroft knew of their...association. Therefore, if Lestrade didn't continue to inquire, or pester Mycroft, suspicion would arise. So he took it upon himself to text him now and again, just simple, straightforward messages.
Did you find whoever shot your brother?
Any word on the shooter? Anything at all?
What the hell, Mycroft, it's been three months!
The queesy, nervous feeling never fully dissipated, however, but it became less intense as summer quickly turned to autumn, and Sherlock got his coat out of his closet.
The younger detective met him at a crime scene-double homicide- and Lestrade couldn't help the eye-roll. It felt nice to be back in his element, with Sherlock by his side, Sally sneering off to the other side.
"Gardener," Sherlock quickly surmised, and trotted off to find a cab, boredom setting in after he detailed the evidence. Lestrade stayed behind of course, taking care of the important details, and putting said gardener for the estate under arrest.
He was nearly inside the cab, eagerly awaiting Baker Street, when Sherlock called him, a rare occurrence. Frowning, he answered straight away.
"Yea, everything okay, Sher?"
"I'm coming over. John wants to stay at Baker Street tonight." Everything left unsaid churned Lestrade's stomach all over again. He sighed. "Right. So you don't want to be there for him, for support or whatever?"
"No. I think John wants to be left alone."
"Oh, course. Well, I'll see you in a bit then. Don't break into my flat. I dunno how you managed it last time, Sherlock, but I can give you a key, you know."
"Where's the fun in that?"
He hung up, perturbed, but too tired to stay annoyed for long. He understood the reason for calling. Texting left traces. Mycroft was good at covering ground. Of course, he could also tap into Sherlock's mobile and listen in, but that was less likely. He hoped.
He arrived home tired and cranky, his back bruised from where his idiotic suspect attempted and succeeded in kicking him as his officers were trying to put cuffs on. He said as much to Sherlock-who had once again picked his lock- and a strange look passed his face before he demanded to see the bruising.
Lestrade took off his shirt, facing away. Then he felt probing, cold fingers pressing against his back, not too gently, either. He wanted to think Sherlock felt concerned for his injury, but he was probably only curious about the magnitude and scope of the bruising. Sherlock also didn't deny this when he mentioned it.
Sherlock did surprise him however, when he whipped out his violin case from behind the sofa, and Lestrade's face grew warm with delight. He sat down to watch the magic of Sherlock's playing, speechless and enthralled.
"I can't remember the last time I watched you play," he commented afterwards. Sherlock's lip quirked downwards. "Well I hope that was up to your standards, Greg," he teased.
Lestrade smirked. "Don't spoil me, Sherlock. I could get used to this."
"I prefer a live audience, anyway," he said softly, placing his precious violin away. He took a seat next to Lestrade, head falling back. Lestrade gave him a sidelong glance, his heart a flutter. He thought, he could get used to this…
Sherlock had nightmares. At Baker Street they were rare, and Lestrade would forget. And then if by chance Sherlock spent the night at his flat, he'd wake, body going stiff, face covered in sweat. He got himself under control fairly quickly but further rest was futile. Lestrade would ask him about them, but Sherlock didn't like to dwell. Not on the nightmares, and not on his past. Whatever happened to him during his three years away was still lurking deep in the recesses of his mind, and only in sleep did he prove vulnerable. So Sherlock would work on Lestrade's laptop until dawn, and the older detective would eventually fall back to sleep, worry lines creasing his face, even in rest.
He hated seeing Sherlock like that, but he quickly learned that some things you had to deal with on your own.
"I'm heading out of town for Christmas. Going to see my aunt and other relatives, I'm sure. It's been a while, and I think she gets so lonely, after mum passed." Lestrade set the electric razor to his face, sparing a glance in the mirror to gauge Sherlock's reaction.
The younger detective murmured something unitelligent as he tucked in his shirt, hair a bird's nest on his head.
"You have any plans?" he asked over the hum of the razor. Sherlock walked into the bathroom, throwing his jacket on, looking incredibly hot and mussed. Sherlock pursed his lips as he glanced in the mirror, ruffling his hair into some order.
"I am being forced to spend Christmas with Mycroft and my parents." He made it sound like he was being led to the electric chair.
"Sounds nice. Just you four, then?"
"And John and Mary." He ducked out of the bathroom and Lestrade stilled his hand. He turned round, frowning.
"So what does that mean then? Are they...fine?"
Sherlock finished with his shoes, hands on hips. "I don't know. John is being annoyingly coy and I can't be bothered to extract his thoughts from his mind. And Mary keeps calling at random times, wondering about John, like I have any more knowledge than she does." His eyes danced, mouth turning down. "Well, I actually probably do know more than she does, but I really don't intend to get in the middle of anything."
"So why are they going to your parent's house?"
Sherlock sighed. "They wanted to meet John." His cheeks turned slightly pink and he turned away, annoyed, and Lestrade grinned.
"That's practically adorable, them wanting to meet your best bud."
"Shut up, Greg," warned an unamused Sherlock. Lestrade turned back to his task, a wide grin plastered on his face. He heard the door slam somewhere in the background but his expression didn't change.
Somerset was a nice change, but brought back unpleasant memories of his mother's funeral. His aunt Beth had greeted him at the train station, a wide smile on her face. She hugged him, and a wave of melancholy passed through him as he took her in. She looked so like his mother, it hurt to think of her dead and gone.
Her old house at Hedgend Road was all decorated for the holidays, and the lovely welcome he received from his niece and nephews brought his spirits back up. After he got comfortable, we started to wonder how Sherlock was getting on.
He thought of him often on the train ride over. Sherlock had actually seemed a bit distracted as they said their farewells, his blue eyes stormy and contemplative. Sherlock once mentioned to him he thought Christmas (and every holiday) was a complete waste of time, so he thought the reason for his cross mood was because of that, and he let it go. They shook hands as they parted outside, Sherlock in one cab, Lestrade in another.
Now, he took his phone out and texted him.
Got in about an hour ago. Everything good with you guys?
Just peachy. We are going caroling in a bit. SH
He grinned, fingers moving.
That'll be a sight. Try not to kill your brother. It is Christmas after all. Say hi to John for me. And try not to argue with your parents…
I'll try. Making no promises. SH
He laughed, shaking his head.
Happy Christmas, Sherlock
Happy Christmas, Greg… SH