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Sherlock studied him silently for a moment. Lestrade was leaning back against the door to his flat, apparently nonchalantly, hands in pockets, coat hanging open and pushed back. But he could read the tension in his body, see the hesitant, almost nervous defiance in his eyes as he gazed back at Sherlock.
He wondered how long it had taken Lestrade to steel himself to come up here. His coat was wet, he realised, wetter than it should have been if he'd only walked from the next street, the rain wasn't that hard at the moment. He'd been outside for a while, then.
Sherlock realised a response was necessary, before the silence stretched too long.
"I like - you. Having you around," he said, finally.
Some of the tension went out of Lestrade's body and he took his hands out of his pockets, flexing his fingers unconsciously. Sherlock noted the flush of blood spreading back under white skin and realised they'd been clenched into tight fists all this time, the man must have been digging his nails into his palms.
"Honestly?" It came out as more of a shaky breath than a question.
"Yes." Sherlock stepped forward, not taking his eyes off Lestrade's for a second. "But - "
He hesitated, aware that this moment should be for healing the threatened rift between them, that he shouldn't jeopardise that, not now, not yet, - but if he wasn't honest now, then when?
Lestrade was watching him, waiting. For once not interrupting, and Sherlock found himself wishing he would. It was all so much easier when they were arguing. He didn't like this, this forced examination of his own feelings. Felt vaguely resentful towards Lestrade for making him discover he still had any in the first place.
"I'm not sure - that I can give you what you need," he said, softly. "What you want, from a - relationship."
Lestrade shook his head. "I want you," he said, simply.
"I've told you, I - "
"Not your body. Although - I do, I can hardly deny that now can I? But I want you Sherlock. To be with you. In whatever way you're happy with."
Sherlock took hold of his hands, gently, stroked a thumb across the backs of his fingers. "You say that now. But what happens in a week, a month, a year, when it's not enough any more?"
"Only one way to find out, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock looked up from his study of Lestrade's hands to find the hint of a smile in his eyes. Smiled slowly back, intrigued by the prospect.
"An experiment, then?"
Lestrade laughed. "If you like. Although most of us call it 'giving it a go'."
Sherlock nodded, considering the proposition from all angles and coming up in favour. "Alright then. Yes."
"Yes?" Laughing the question, the need for confirmation.
"Yes. Why not?" Sherlock smiled, as if a weight had suddenly lifted, and didn't resist as Lestrade pulled him carefully closer, until they were standing locked in a chaste yet fervent embrace.
--
They spent the evening talking, as had become their custom, albeit avoiding topics that might still be considered sensitive. Both relieved to find during the course of it that they could still vehemently disagree without it assuming awkwardly personal connotations.
In the small hours, when Lestrade finally shrugged his way back into his mostly dry coat and walked to the door, Sherlock came with him, leaning casually against the dresser, all long legs, bare feet and untucked shirt.
Lestrade looked sideways at him, opened his mouth, hesitated, and said "Night then."
"Ask your question," said Sherlock, quietly.
"How do you know I had one?" Lestrade objected, then conceded the issue with a roll of his eyes. Sherlock smirked, and looked expectant.
"There's no point."
"How do you know until you ask?"
"Fine. Whatever. Humiliation's good for the soul, right?" Lestrade sighed and wished the question wasn't going to make him sound so much like an idiot.
"Can I kiss you?"
Instead of answering, Sherlock half-smiled, and stepped forwards. It was he who bent to Lestrade's mouth and kissed him softly and lingeringly, yielding to the warm pressure of Lestrade's lips, to the slow, tentative invasion of his tongue.
When they broke off, Lestrade shook his head, conflicting emotions curling in his gut.
"Sorry. It's not fair of me. Not when I know you don't like it."
"I don't dislike it," Sherlock corrected. "It's perfect pleasant, although having said that a shave wouldn't kill you. Just don't expect it to make me want to tear your clothes off, that's all."
Lestrade stifled a smile, suddenly feeling lighter than he had in days.
"I'll try to reign in my expectations. Night Sherlock."
"Goodnight."
The second kiss was brief and friendly, and made them both smile.
--
It was raining.
More accurately, it was sodding well pissing it down Lestrade thought sourly, as he splashed through the widening puddles in pursuit of a rapidly disappearing flapping coat. He paused for a moment, forcing air into his burning lungs and reflecting that this was a really bad night to discover his shoes leaked.
An impatient yell from up ahead summoned him on and he growled irritably with what breath he had left. Shoved himself off the wall and ran on along the passageway.
He caught up with Sherlock at the end of the alley, finding him pressed against the crumbling bricks and peering carefully round the corner. Lestrade staggered up to him, bending double and trying not to wheeze too loudly.
"Shh," Sherlock hissed anyway, and he briefly considered kicking him in the back of the leg.
"He's gone into that house over there," Sherlock murmured, and Lestrade leaned past him to look, forcing himself to concentrate, on their surroundings, on the door with the peeling paint, on the tarnished brass numberplate.
"Isn't that - "
"Yes! The address in Fisher's diary. We have them, don't you see? It's the final link!"
Lestrade was already reaching for his phone, dialling for back-up. As he spoke quietly and rapidly to the dispatcher on the other end, he watched Sherlock intently.
He was practically bouncing on his toes with excitement, hugging his arms round his chest as if physically restraining the loud outburst of self-congratulation and exposition that Lestrade just knew was straining to break forth. Eyes were wide and excited, above a mouth that was almost more hungry snarl than the grin it was apparently supposed to be.
Clicked his phone shut, returned it to his pocket. "Donovan's right, this shit does turn you on," he declared, disbelievingly.
"Oh, come now, is the chase not thrilling?" Sherlock grabbed his arms and stared manically into his eyes.
"No," snapped Lestrade, shortly. "It's a complicated slog through mounds of evidence in the hope that we get to stop a killer before he does it again. And it doesn't end in glory and speeches, it ends in paperwork, and if we're very, very lucky, in no-one else being shot."
"No romance, that's your trouble," Sherlock muttered petulantly, which was so unbelievably unfair Lestrade just gaped at him, exasperated and speechless.
"Come on Inspector, what are you waiting for?" Sherlock turned to face the street, clearly about to dash across the road to the door they were currently watching.
Lestrade grabbed his arm, hastily.
"Specifically? I'm waiting for the armed response squad I just requested. And you are not going in there before they get here."
Sherlock positively fizzed with impatience and frustration. "But they're in there Lestrade! We need to hear what they're saying. How can you care for petty regulations when they might even now be slipping out the back?"
"Well I'm sorry to cramp your style, but I need a solid case at the end of all this, not the aftermath of a death or glory charge by some - lunatic who's only interested in the exciting parts because it's the only thing that gives him a fucking hard-on!"
Sherlock regarded him for a moment.
"You know that's not technically -"
"I was being metaphorical!" Lestrade shouted, although he wasn't entirely sure he had been.
"Right. Well. Given that you've now effectively advertised our presence - coming?" Sherlock flashed him a maddening grin and spun on his heel to run towards the building. The door, clearly unlocked, gave at his touch, and as the first wail of sirens could be heard in the distance, Lestrade watched him disappear inside.
Closed his eyes in brief resignation, then ran after him into the building.
--
The orange glow of streetlights outside filtered through the gap in the curtains and mingled with the lamplight seeping from under the dusty shade, giving the night-time room a faded but cosy air.
Sherlock was lying flat out on the sofa, head resting against Lestrade's thigh while a sleepy hand idly stroked his hair. Eyes closed, he was twirling his fingers in time to the faint strains of Saint-Saëns violins emanating from the radio in the corner.
"Do you know what today is?" Lestrade murmured, breaking a long and comfortable silence.
Sherlock stirred against his leg, but didn't open his eyes. "Tuesday. I'm not that out of touch."
"Not the weekday, you muppet."
"Well I can think of - seventeen - significant historical events on this date but no immediate relevance to any of them springs to mind?"
"London's answer to wikipedia aren't you?"
"Slightly more accurate I'd like to think." Sherlock sat up and cocked his head to one side. "Tell me?" he prompted, curious.
"It's my birthday."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Many happy returns."
Lestrade smiled, faintly and let his head fall back against the sofa. "Went for a drink with some of the lads earlier. Never go drinking with coppers. They bought me a blow up doll."
Sherlock grinned. "You should have said earlier. We could have - done - something?" he added, uncertain what it was people wanted to do on these occasions, given that he'd never paid much attention to his own.
"Oh, I'm right where I want to be," Lestrade assured him, and found to his faint surprise that he meant it. He was warm, and comfortable, and in good company, and for once didn't have any pressing demands on his time elsewhere.
Sherlock looked thoughtful. Got to his feet, and held out his hand. "Come with me."
"What? Where?" Lestrade found he was reaching out automatically to take the offered hand, and was pulled out of his seat with that surprising strength of Sherlock's that always took him unawares.
Sherlock led him, still laughing and protesting into the bedroom and spinning him round, pushed him down onto the bed. In one swift movement, he'd climbed on too, straddling Lestrade's legs and making him laugh in startled disbelief.
"What are you playing at, you git?" he asked, happy for now to lie there and look up at Sherlock's triumphant expression, and especially happy not to distract the hand that was currently stroking over his chest.
"Hmmn?" Sherlock reached out and took hold of one of Lestrade's hands, lifting it above his head. Before he knew what was happening, there was a metallic 'click' and he realised Sherlock had handcuffed him to the iron bedhead - with his own cuffs - and was even now reaching for his other hand.
He seized Sherlock's wrist tightly in startled amusement.
"Sherlock! What are you doing?"
"Do you trust me?"
Lestrade eyed him. "Not entirely, no," he muttered, but he let Sherlock cuff his other wrist without a fight nonetheless.
Sherlock grinned. "Well I don't entirely trust you either. Not to not try and touch."
He ran a hand over Lestrade's already far too interested groin and studied the reaction.
"Don't look at me like I'm some kind of sodding experiment," Lestrade protested, half-heartedly.
"Oh, but you are."
He unzipped Lestrade's flies and slid a hand beneath the warm cloth, freeing his swollen cock with gentle hands, and starting a slow rhythm of strokes.
"I mean," Sherlock continued conversationally, "if you look at it scientifically it's an intriguing question of angles, pressures - "
"Oh yeah very sexy - "
" - frictions - "
He tightened his grip. Lestrade made an incoherent noise in his throat, arms flexing in the cuffs, and Sherlock smirked.
" - velocity, force - "
Moving his hand faster and harder on Lestrade's now straining cock, somehow knowing exactly how to touch him to drive him rapidly and frantically over the edge with an expertise completely unfair in someone who professed no interest in such matters. All the time keeping up a faintly amused commentary.
" - basic anatomy - "
Lestrade finally came violently over his shirt front with a strangled gasp.
" - and - oh, I don't know - say - fluid dynamics?" Sherlock sat back and regarded the flushed and panting Lestrade with some satisfaction. Leaned over to release the cuffs, and slithered across to recline next to him.
"Happy Birthday," he murmured, smugly, sliding a proprietorial arm around Lestrade's shoulders.
"Just what I always wanted," managed Lestrade hoarsely, once he'd got most of his breath back.
"Mmmn, well, don't get used to it," warned Sherlock, wiping his hand fastidiously on the bedclothes.
Lestrade grinned, massaging his wrists.
"Does that mean I have to wait another year or do I get one at Christmas?"
They both started laughing.
--