Work Text:
Lestrade had been concerned about Sherlock’s new flatmate. He was an impossible person to live with, and there was something about the doctor of strength and darkness; and the matter of the mystery shooter.
Entering without knocking, he walked into the middle of a row. Sherlock was expounding on Watson’s flaws: prose style, typing speed, lack of lateral imagination and general focus on the mundane details of daily life. Unlike most people, when Sherlock had concluded his impeccably phrased insults, Watson fixed him with a stare and calmly but firmly reiterated his own argument. He covered appropriate use of refrigerators, shared shopping responsibilities, and Sherlock’s general uselessness as a housekeeper, before he registered Lestrade’s presence, and stopped mid-flow to offer him a cup of tea.
Not that someone shouting at Sherlock was remarkable: it was expected. But Sherlock did not respond with a cutting retort about a closely guarded secret of Watson’s. He simply turned on Lestrade to demand the case.
When Watson returned with three mugs of tea, Lestrade noticed the glints of almost mischievous smiles that passed between the two men. As if, knowing arguments to be inevitable, they had made them a sport, not a barrier to their friendship.
Of all the ways he had seen people try to handle Sherlock, this had to be the very best.