The press conference was, as Sherlock predicted, a boring affair. The endless amount of questions (couldn't any of these reporters deduce what happened? It was all perfectly obvious), the continuous flashing of the cameras, the large amount of clueless people. Sherlock sat between John and Lestrade, counting the minutes and recalling the memory of his encounter with Mycroft the day before. A nice shouting match had taken place at the Diogenes Club between the two brothers: Mycroft argued the importance of national security while Sherlock demanded that Mycroft would stop involving himself into affairs that threatened the safety of everyone him and that he should get a desk job. Anthea, who had been sitting in a corner playing with her phone, lazily pointed out that Sherlock did the same. The consulting detective had given her a withering look and stated that his enemies came after him directly, save perhaps Moriarty. Mycroft did not dispute the point, and tried once again to make his brother see his point of view. Sherlock had refused to listen and left the Diogenes Club in a worse mood than the one he had been in prior entering it.
John and Lestrade didn't appear to be having the time of their lives either. Lestrade answered every question in a professional manner but Sherlock noticed the continuous surreptitious glances the detective inspector kept giving at the clock. John seemed to waver in and out of the present, staring into space for a few seconds before pulling himself out of his reverie every so often. Sherlock wondered if his friend was thinking about that date he had last week and instantly felt irritated. John never mentioned if he was planning on seeing that woman again (what was her name? John had dated so many women that even Sherlock was having a hard time keeping up with who was who) but he didn't say he wasn't meeting with her again either. The consulting detective resisted the urge to kick his friend when he saw him zone out again.
After what felt like an eternity, the press conference finally ended. As the reporters filed out of the room Sherlock watched Lestrade enter a discussion with Donovan and Anderson. All he had to do was ask the detective inspector for a quick word, that was all; it was nothing out of the ordinary. But why was it so hard this time? The consulting detective almost desired to abort the whole idea. He knew he had to go through with this, however: this could be his chance to uncover what had been happening to him all week.
"Sherlock? Shall we go?" John asked.
"You go on ahead; I'll catch up with you later," Sherlock replied, never taking his eyes off Lestrade.
John raised an eyebrow but he said nothing else. He nodded and left the room. Sherlock approached Lestrade, who was having an argument with his sergeants.
"I don't care what you think. Sherlock's the one who solved the case therefore the credit goes to him," Lestrade was saying irritably. "Trust me, I would rather have the credit go to us but this is how it is. And I'm sick of having this argument with you two every single damn time!"
"He's making us look like incompetent idiots!" Anderson hissed angrily.
"Oh, you don't need me for that, Anderson," Sherlock said, unruffled. "You give off that impression all by yourselves."
"What do you want, freak? Can't you see we're busy?" Donovan asked harshly.
"And can't you see that Lestrade is right and doesn't want to have this conversation?" Sherlock replied.
"Thank you, Sherlock," Lestrade said calmly. "Sally, Anderson, that's enough. Get back to work."
"But, Greg –" Anderson began.
"That's an order, sergeants!" Lestrade yelled, causing several heads to turn. The detective inspector sheepishly waved at the others before glaring at Donovan and Anderson until they obeyed him. They walked past Sherlock, who didn't even spare them a glance. He looked at Lestrade expectantly, who was gathering his things.
"Yes, Sherlock?" Lestrade said evenly. "Do you need anything?"
"A word, Lestrade," Sherlock replied after a brief moment of hesitation. "A private one."
"My office's open."
"I don't want to talk here. Can you excuse yourself?""
"Now?"
"Yes, now!"
"Hmm, I guess that's manageable. Let me put all this back in my office and meet me by the front doors. I shouldn't be too long."
Sherlock nodded and took his leave. Hopefully, Lestrade would not take his sweet time putting away one or two belonging.
The detective inspector was as good as his word. He joined Sherlock by the main entrance in less than ten minutes. He eyed the consulting detective wearily.
"Want to go to Hyde Park? We can sit by the Princess Diana Memorial without being disturbed," Lestrade suggested.
"That's seems to be acceptable," Sherlock concurred.
Lestrade nodded and they went outside together, where the sun was shining in the bright blue sky. Sherlock summoned a taxi and they climbed inside before being whisked away from Scotland Yard.
"What do you want to talk about?" Lestrade asked. The consulting detective thought he heard some concern in the detective inspector's voice.
"Not here," Sherlock replied stiffly. Lestrade did not pursue the subject.
They were dropped off at Hyde Park and the duo slowly made their way towards the Princess Diana Memorial. The wait was tormenting Sherlock on a variety of levels: he was torn between remaining true to his commitment and running away. But he had promised himself to see this through; he needed answers, and escaping wasn't going to provide them.
They reached the memorial and sat by the edge side by side like two statues, listening to the water running behind them. Lestrade was eyeing Sherlock curiously and the consulting detective was trying to gather the courage that suddenly left him.
"We're here, Sherlock," Lestrade said evenly. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Well…" Sherlock replied, wringing his hands a little. Damn his nerves! This was why he disliked human emotions: they always got in the way of the task at hand.
"Sherlock, I don't have all afternoon."
"I'm aware of that. It's just that I can't get the damn words out!"
"Are you nervous? This is more serious than I thought. Sherlock, I won't judge you regardless of what you tell me. You know that, right?"
"Believe me, Lestrade, if I thought otherwise I wouldn't be here."
"So what's bothering you?"
Sherlock took a deep breath. He had to go through with this, not matter how much he didn't want to.
"Remember when John called you the other day because he was concerned about me?" Sherlock asked, somewhat meekly.
"I do. He said you have been behaving a little oddly. I'm guessing that whatever you wish to tell me has something to do with that?" Lestrade replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Y-Yes. You see, Lestrade, the reason I've been acting strange all week is because I've been feeling strange," Sherlock admitted reluctantly.
"How so?" Lestrade asked with interest.
"That's just it! I can't identify it! All I am certain is that these bizarre feelings have something to do with John!" Sherlock blurted out, revealing a bit more than he had intended to.
Lestrade's eyes widened and Sherlock caught a glint of difficultly suppressed glee in them. But whatever it was that was exciting the detective inspector, he was containing it quite well.
"You've been having some peculiar experiences where John is concerned. What happened?" Lestrade pressed on.
"I… had this dream – and you can forget about me telling you what it was!" Sherlock snapped harshly as Lestrade opened his mouth. "And ever since it's just been absolute madness."
"It can't be that bad."
"Trust me, it is."
"Come now, Sherlock. You act like whatever's occurring is the worst than the apocalypse. Just slowly tell me what this dream has brought on."
The consulting detective remained silent for a few seconds before continuing.
"All I can say about the dream is that John was in it. In fact, he's been in two of them. And the following of those dreams, things out of ordinary became a part of my everyday routine," he said, staring hard at the ground.
"I've understood that. Come on, Sherlock. Spit it out!" Lestrade said a little impatiently.
The detective inspector already knew that the core of the problem was John. Sherlock was aware that he had no other choice but the come clean.
"I always want to be near him. I always want to touch him and my skin feels like it's on fire whenever he touches me. If I look him in the eye for too long I have to long away even though in the past I could stare him down. All he has to do is enter the room and my heart beats so fast it becomes hard to breathe. Damn it, Lestrade!" Sherlock curled his hands into fists. "What's happening to me?"
Lestrade stared at him for a good five seconds before letting out a victorious cry. Sherlock openly goggled at him, wondering is the detective inspector had lost his mind.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said, frowning, "what is there to celebrate?"
"I knew it!" Lestrade exclaimed cheerfully, grinning broadly. "I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!"
"Well, feel free to enlighten me any time now."
"Just let me relish this moment."
"Lestrade! What's going on with me?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Lestrade slung an arm around the consulting detective's shoulders."You, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are in love with Dr. John Watson."
"WHAT?" Sherlock yelled incredulously, springing away from Lestrade. "That's preposterous, Lestrade!"
"Keep your voice down. People are staring," Lestrade said, glancing around at the curious onlookers. "What do you mean by that? There's nothing wrong with being in love, Sherlock."
"I am NOT in love with John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It's just some madness that holds no origin whatsoever!"
"Love does not appear from out of nowhere!"
"How the bloody hell would you know?"
"You always say that I see but I do not observe. Well, I've been observing you for the last three years, Sherlock, and I've been honestly wondering when you two were going to get together. Your love for John just kept on accumulating, even if you weren't aware of it. You're almost a completely different person around John – almost. It's clear as day that he's the one you care the most about and that there's no one else you would rather spend time with. You've even soften a little, if you can believe that. I had my suspicions at first but now you've confirmed my hypothesis: you're in love with him, and I couldn't be happier for you."
"I can't be in love, Lestrade! Do you even know me?"
"I do, and maybe once I thought you were incapable of having emotions but time proved me wrong. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"Might as well." Sherlock stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. What Lestrade wanted to ask couldn't be any worse than the conversation they were having.
"Can you think clearly when he's standing too close? Do you get tongue-tied as well? Does he make you shiver out of pleasure? Does an electric current pass through you at the slightest brush of the hand? Is he the one person in your life whom you absolutely cannot imagine spending the rest of your life without?" Lestrade asked bracingly.
Sherlock widened his eyes a little and that seemed to give Lestrade his answer. The detective inspector grinned.
"It seems that I have rendered you speechless. That's a first," he said smugly.
"Shut up," Sherlock said, sitting next to Lestrade again. "Are you sure this is no mental issue?"
"Sherlock, there's nothing here that can be diagnosed by an expert. As long you keep fighting this, the more unbearable it'll be," Lestrade replied kindly. "Embrace your new feelings, and you'll be much happier."
"I can't," Sherlock whispered. "This scenario you've designed is just not plausible, Lestrade."
"I didn't expect you to accept my words straight away; you're just too damn stubborn for that." Sherlock fought down a smile despite himself. "But eventually the truth will hit you so hard that you can't ignore it. But I know you'll come around. I just hope it won't be too late by the time you do."
The consulting detective gave Lestrade a puzzled expression. What did he mean by that last sentence? Too late for what? This interview with the detective inspector was going nowhere in Sherlock's view. Lestrade seemed to forget that the consulting detective believed that something like love was a nuisance; it just got in the way of all that was important. There was no chance Sherlock had managed to let love find its way to him. Love was illogical, just like… just like everything he had been going through, Sherlock suddenly realized with a shock. He roughly shook his head. He was not going to entertain any of Lestrade's ideas; not by a long shot.
"You are out of your mind, Lestrade," Sherlock said stiffly. "Completely and severely out of your mind."
"Maybe," Lestrade replied indifferently, "but I'm right. Go calm down and revisit this conversation with a cool head. Perhaps then you'll see reason."
"Like hell I will."
"Suit yourself. I have to get back to work. I take it you'll be taking a cab by yourself?"
The consulting detective gave no reply but Lestrade appeared to take his silence as an affirmation. He wished Sherlock a good day before strolling off, humming tunelessly. Sherlock watched him go, his frustration nowhere near abated. He should have known Lestrade would have found a way to romanticize the situation; he and John had that in common. A police officer was all about dealing with facts, and not about making deductions based on fantastic ideas. That was one of the reasons why Sherlock had turned to Lestrade in the first place.
Sherlock released an exasperated sigh. He was tired of running around in circles; he was no closer to the end than before his conversation with Lestrade. One thing was for certain: Sherlock was not asking for help again. One fanciful suggestion was enough for a lifetime.