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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

January

More worried than he'd like to admit (and hiding from the attentions of an older policewoman who cannot accept that he has a wife, dammit), Lestrade texts Sherlock Happy New Year, hope you're alive just after midnight at the Yard's New Year's Eve party.

He's shocked when he gets a reply just a few minutes later saying Cheers mate! HNY to u 2!

Who is this? Lestrade sends immediately, heart in his throat. He wonders if this is the closest he's going to come to saying goodbye - messaging with the person who nicked the phone off Sherlock's body.

He never gets a response, but two weeks later Sherlock Holmes swoops into the middle of a crime scene, undeniably alive and blazingly annoying, insisting that they've arrested the wrong man. He points out the one they do need to arrest, insults their collective intelligence, and laughs at McKinley's shoes before Lestrade grabs him and drags him away.

"Where the hell have you been, and why didn't you tell me you were alive?" Lestrade hisses at him. Sherlock blinks and shakes off his hand.

"I believe you were the one who told me to stop assisting you," he says coolly.

"That doesn't make it okay for you to just ignore me. I thought you were dead, Sherlock. Dead!"

"So?" Sherlock stares him down. They stand in silence for a moment. It's the closest to apologizing that either of them can come.

"Who was it that texted me?" Lestrade finally says, searching for something to break the silence.

Sherlock's eyes widen fractionally, the tension in his jaw relaxes slightly, and Lestrade realizes that he's seeing Sherlock Holmes look something close to pleased.

"Oh, that was... that was John."

"John?" Lestrade searches through his brain for some point of reference, but finds nothing - he doesn't know any policemen named John (which is surprising now that he thinks about it) and Sherlock hasn't mentioned anyone else, wouldn't expect him to know... "Oh! The - your friend?"

"Well," Sherlock shakes his head, but doesn't outright deny it. "We - I - we ended up at an, er, function attended by many of his peers. When my phone went off and I ignored it,  John became involved."

"You went to an army boy's party, got pissed, and John answered your phone since you weren't going to," Lestrade translates fluently. Sherlock quirks up the corner of his mouth.

"I had mentioned my lack of friends. He was surprised to see somebody wishing me well in the new year. He thought I should be appreciative for some inexplicable reason."

Christ, this John bloke actually sounded normal. Actively choosing to hang out with Sherlock Holmes - Lestrade had a difficult time imagining it. How did he deal with the constant confusion and insults? Was he a saint? Or maybe a masochist. "So... How did that end up happening, then? You two going to a party together, I mean."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at Lestrade like he knows exactly what's going through his mind, but answers anyway.

"After a subtle reminder, Stamford invited me along to another meeting. Apparently John had actually inquired as to whether I might be present. Possibly to avoid me," Sherlock says with a wry smile that Lestrade can't remember ever seeing before. "But I went along to the same bar again to meet them, and -" He stops short, expression suddenly unsure.

"Yes?" Lestrade asks, wondering what John could possibly have done.

"He was very similar to the last time," Sherlock says cautiously. Lestrade realizes that this is Sherlock's way of saying he was nice to me, or possibly even he seemed to like me.

"Well hey, that's great, Sherlock. I'm glad you -"

"And he helped me to track down and apprehend a mugger," Sherlock adds. Lestrade blinks.

"Sherlock! You can't just go vigilante, I've told you about this before. You really shouldn’t drag people into your lunacy. It's illegal. And impolite."

"He liked it, I think," Sherlock says, sounding damn near cheerful. “Afterwards, he invited me to the… function.”

“Party, Sherlock. It was a party. I wasn’t even there and I know it was basically a kegger. Doesn’t really seem like your scene, unless…” Lestrade’s thoughts suddenly trail off into suspicion.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. John wouldn’t… I’m clean.”

“Right. Right, okay. Good.” Lestrade isn’t sure if he believes Sherlock, or if he just wishes he believed him.

“Truly.” Sherlock almost smiles. “It was a unique situation. I wanted to be able to observe properly.”

That certainly sounded like Sherlock. Treating a potential friend like a data point. Lestrade wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “So, you seeing him again?”

“I, well… he asked for my mobile number,” Sherlock said cautiously. “But likely no, I would think not. Based on previous experience, it doesn’t seem likely.”

“Oh.” Sherlock seems to have had a pretty good time for someone who doesn’t think their friend will want to see them again, but what does Lestrade know? Maybe it all really is data for him; just zeros and ones. “Well, I – that’s – Guess I’d better get back to my paperwork.”

Sherlock gives him a quick nod and leaves.

February

Lestrade hires a woman named Sally Donovan who is whip-smart, keen, and has the backbone of a blue whale. He’s enormously pleased with her.

“Oh, and how are you at dealing with lunatic geniuses?” Lestrade asks her half-jokingly at the end of her interview. “We have one that sort of hangs about sometimes and helps, when he isn't shouting at us. He’s a bit difficult to explain – imagine if somebody combined Isaac Newton with, er, the devil.”

Donovan laughs. “I’ve lived in London my whole life, so I’ve seen my fair share of nutters. I’m sure I can handle him.” She’s so sharp and competent that Lestrade almost lets himself believe that there’s someone, anyone, who can actually handle Sherlock Holmes.

March

It emerges that Sally Donovan is not, in fact, very good at dealing with lunatic geniuses. Not that Lestrade blames her; that would be a bit hypocritical. But he does wish she would stop yelling.

“You absolute freak of nature! How the hell could you tell that about my mother? You couldn’t! You’ve looked me up – must’ve looked us all up. You’re a stalking lunatic, is what you are!”

“I assure you that I could not be less interested in the details of your pathetic lives,” Sherlock drawls. “I merely told you what I observed.”

“You are a… you are just wrong,” Sally says, voice shaking slightly. “You get off on this, don’t you? Humiliating people; looking at bodies. You’re not even human.”

Lestrade shifts uncomfortably. “Right Sally, think that’s enough,” he says, shooting a quick glance at Sherlock, who is staring off at nothing. “We all know what he’s like, he can’t help it.” That comes out differently than he meant it to.

Sherlock walks away.

April

“John called me the other day,” Sherlock announces out of absolutely nowhere, overtop a dead body.

“Okay, that’s great, I – wait, what?” Lestrade jerks his head up from his fruitless sixth observation and tries to remember if he missed a segue somewhere. He didn’t.

“He is only able to make a phone call once every couple of weeks. His sister was indisposed.”

“Sherlock, there’s – there’s a body here.”

Sherlock focuses those piercing gray eyes on him for a second and then goes back to peeling off the man’s socks. Absurdly, Lestrade starts to feel guilty.  He coughs into his fist and reminds himself that this is a crime scene, not Sherlock’s happy hour. Even though sometimes it feels like it.

Hours later, he’s about to get into the squad car when he remembers and spins around.

“Hey, Sherlock!” Sherlock stops short of the curb and looks around questioningly. “So, um, what did John have to say?”

A hesitation and a few footsteps later, Lestrade finds both himself and Sherlock leaning against the doors of the car, staring up at the sky so they can talk to each other without having to make eye contact. It’s weirdly intimate.

“Normally I don’t answer phone calls, but I saw that it was an international number, which naturally piqued my interest.”

“Naturally.” Sometimes it seems like Sherlock knows literally everything – Lestrade wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had picked it up because he could tell the call was coming from Afghanistan.

“He was rather quiet at first. More quiet than he is in person.”

Lestrade leans his head back against the door. Not comfortable, but he’s tired. The long days and frequent nighttime interruptions catch up with him from time to time. He wonders how well he’ll be holding up five, ten years from now. “Probably a bit nervous, right? Wondering if you’d think it was odd that he called you.”

“Why would it be odd?” Sherlock says, sounding half outraged and half curious. Lestrade is tempted to look over, but he can’t really be bothered, and he thinks vaguely that it would probably burst this weird bubble of conversation.

“You’ve only met him twice, right?”

“Three times.”

“Ah right, the party. Yeah well, tell the truth, it is a bit odd that he’d call you, out of everyone he knows, after only meeting you three times. Guess you must’ve had a bit of a connection, eh?”

“Connection?” Sherlock sounds totally lost now.

“You know. You meet someone, and for no good reason they just get you. You understand each other. Feel close, even if you’ve barely met.” Talking about it makes Lestrade think fondly on his uni days, back when he had the time and energy to have proper friends and not just a wife. Then it occurs to him that hell, Sherlock is barely past his uni days – for all his genius, the man can’t be past his mid twenties. He should still be going out to pubs with mates from English 1001. But Lestrade somehow doubts that Sherlock went out with anyone at uni, let alone now.

“I see.” Lestrade has no idea if Sherlock really does see or not, but he sounds thoughtful, anyway.

“Did he say why he’d called?”

There’s a definite tinge of laughter in Sherlocks voice as he says, “John said that the only place more dangerous than Afghanistan had to be my immediate vicinity, so he thought he should call to check in.”

Some days that’s more true than others, Lestrade thinks grimly, and shuts his eyes.

May

Lestrade hates that by now he knows Sherlock well enough to tell when he’s been using. Sherlock is very good at hiding it, but there’s a certain gray shade to his face and twitching in the tips of his fingers that Lestrade wants to ignore, but can’t.

“What did I tell you about coming to crime scenes high?” Lestrade hisses at him, when they’re alone in the alley.

“I’m fine, Lestrade.” Sherlock sounds bored, which means he’s irritated.

“You’re not bloody well fine if you’re shooting up and stumbling around messing with evidence!”

Sherlock shuts his eyes and leans his head against the filthy wall behind him. “Does it bother you that I’m able to solve all your cases ten times quicker than your incompetent rabble even while under the influence?”

Lestrade rubs his hand over his face. “This has to stop, Sherlock. You can’t keep doing this.”

June

Sherlock seems oddly antsy, but this time it isn’t in a drugged sort of way – his color is actually decent, for once, and his hair looks washed. He just seems oddly nervous, and he keeps checking his phone.

The sixth time Sherlock pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, and puts it back, Lestrade gives in to curiosity. “What the hell are you waiting on?”

Sherlock looks startled for a second. He glances around at Donovan, who is glaring at him from a few feet behind Lestrade, and says slowly, “John has been emailing me, sometimes. I thought… I was wondering if he might have replied to me yet.”

Lestrade smiles a tiny bit and is about to tell Sherlock that waiting fifteen minutes to read an email won’t kill him when Donovan walks up next to him.

“John? Who’s this then, your parole officer? Or any imaginary friend? Because that’s the only kind of friend you’ll ever have.” Her angry sneer is somewhat justified, given that a half hour ago Sherlock announced that she was having an affair with a married banker.

Sherlock’s face goes blank, like he can’t decide whether he wants to lie or not. Lestrade decides to try to give him a break for once.

“John is Sherlock’s friend, Sally. He’s in the army.”

“Oh really?” Donovan lifts an eyebrow, still smirking at Sherlock. “Greg, have you ever met John?”

“What, me? Well, no, he’s not my friend.” Lestrade feels oddly anxious. Sherlock certainly never takes more than he gives, but still, he knows that this whole “friend” thing is something raw and new.

And deep down, Lestrade is a little bit worried that Donovan may be right. So he says nothing more, and tries to pretend like he doesn’t see comprehension dawn on Sherlock’s face.

July

“Where the hell is Sherlock?” Lestrade grumbles into his cup of coffee, staring bleary-eyed at the clock on his computer. It’s only four in the afternoon, but he was at a crime scene for almost the entirety of last night. He called Sherlock over an hour ago asking that the man deliver on his promise to go over the case, and he’s not used to having to wait when it comes to crime and Sherlock Holmes together.

“Sherlock is right here,” a familiar baritone drawls from his doorway. “You interrupted him in the middle of something.”

Lestrade looks up in relief – finally, he can finish his paperwork – and sloshes coffee over his hand in surprise.

Sherlock isn’t alone. There’s a man standing next to him; a short but powerful looking man with tanned skin, sun-bleached hair, and an easygoing expression. He's wearing jeans that wrap tight around his legs, like he's gained muscle since he bought them, and what is almost certainly a military issue t-shirt.

Unbelievably, he nudges Sherlock’s shoulder with his own. “We were just having coffee,” he says, laughing. “It’s no big deal.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No, but it is irritating. And boring.” He hurls himself into the only chair in the room with a dramatic flourish. “Ask your inane questions, Lestrade, so that I can get on with my life.”

Lestrade refrains from saying “You have a life?” and instead says, “That’s the only chair. You’re being rude.”

Sherlock flaps a dismissive hand. “John’s a soldier. He’s used to standing.”

“Arse.” John laughs and leans against the wall. He grins at Lestrade. “John Watson, pleased to meet you.”

“Greg Lestrade. Likewise.” There are million things he could say – so you’re the one he’s been talking about; how the hell do you put up with him; what’s so bloody special about you, then – but luckily for Sherlock, Lestrade is generally a decent human being, so he just nods and asks for the information he needs.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he studies John surreptitiously. The man is clearly a few years older than Sherlock, but he has that puppyish, boisterous good nature that Lestrade recognizes from some of his own mates who went into the services and found their niche there. His posture is upright but relaxed, comfortable in his own skin. He’s clearly a man who knows and likes his place in the world.

What confuses Lestrade is why Sherlock Holmes knows and likes such a normal, apparently well-balanced man.

“Alright.” Sherlock flings himself to his feet, somehow managing to look graceful doing it. “Are we finished here?” It isn’t really a question.

“Time for food?” John says hopefully. Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

“We ate this morning.”

“Right. This morning. Which was… eight hours ago? Definitely time for food.”

“Digestion slows down the processes of the brain.”

John grins. “Lucky I’m just dumb muscle, huh?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re a dumb something.” They walk out of the room together, still bantering, Lestrade’s existence completely forgotten.

Lestrade finds himself smiling as he shuts down his computer and mops spilled coffee off his desk.

August

Lestrade is not smiling when Sherlock verbally rips them all to pieces over a missing link in the King’s Cross case. Honestly, it isn’t Lestrade’s fault he doesn’t have a 170 IQ.

“John back in Iraq?” he mutters. He sees Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly.

“Afghanistan,” Sherlock says quietly, and leaves.

September

Lestrade is not smiling when he answers a call from a blocked number and ends up dragging Sherlock’s prone body out of a gutter.

October

“You’re better now, but for how long, Sherlock? You can’t keep doing this. I’ve told you before.” Except he can keep doing it, because Lestrade needs him. The Yard needs him. London needs him.

“Yes I can,” Sherlock says, and Lestrade wishes desperately that Sherlock were just a little bit dumber, or a little bit smarter.

November

Sherlock is sober for the first case in November, high for the second, truly epically high for the third, and sober again for the fourth. Lestrade is stressed to the point of spontaneous combustion just at sight of him. He’s so close to that D.I. badge, but Sherlock is so close to the edge, and Lestrade can’t tell if he’s helping or hurting anymore.

“Heard from John lately?” he asks as they stand around waiting to be checked over by the EMTs. His voice is dull and hollow, and he’s only asking because the other alternative is to scream at Sherlock, and maybe punch him a little.

“Yes, actually.” Sherlock’s expression softens fractionally. “I’ll see him again when he comes home, I believe.”

“Oh? Gonna take him out for a nice bender? Introduce him to all the best dealers?” Lestrade’s tone is downright nasty, and he’s too tired of this to care.

“No. John’s a doctor,” Sherlock says stiffly, and Lestrade laughs and laughs until they tuck a blanket around his shoulders and tell him it’s for the shock.

December

Sherlock bolts through the mansion door and onto the case, trailing a grinning John Watson at his heels. The two run with the police and then pull ahead, and three days later John is panting over the unconscious body of an armed robber while Sherlock merrily berates Lestrade for not realizing sooner that he was Ukrainian, not Russian.

“Nice to see you again,” Lestrade tells John when he gets the chance.

“Likewise,” John says, and sticks out his hand. They shake hands firmly, neither testing the other but both very much aware of their respective strengths. It’s the kind of men they are.

It’s like the past few months never happened; Sherlock is clear-eyed and flushed with success, swaggering around the crime scene like he owns it. His genius is a fiery blaze so intense it’s almost tangible, and John is basking happily in its glow, whispering, “Brilliant,” when he thinks no one can hear him.

Lestrade can remember all too well what Sherlock looks like when he’s shaking and vomiting uncontrollably; knows too well why he never pushes those long silk sleeves up his arms, even after sprinting across half of London. He knows that he should pull John Watson aside and tell him these things, beg him to try to do something, confess that John might be the only one who can make the slightest bit of difference.

But the two are smiling at each other, shining bright in the pale winter sunlight, and Lestrade never says a word.

Chapter Text

January  

"So you fly back tomorrow?" Lestrade asks John as they watch Sherlock poke at a dog's carcass.

"Yep." John's face is amiable, but his gaze is trained on Sherlock. When Sherlock glances up at him, they smile at each other briefly. 

"Your last day in London, and you don't have anything better to do than follow around the freak? God, that's tragic." Donovan has not entirely forgiven John for being amused at Sherlock's comments about the state of her knees.

John shifts slightly so that his body is blocking Sherlock's, standing in front of him like a bodyguard. Lestrade doesn't think he's aware that he's doing it. John glares at Donovan.

"Hanging out with my best mate seemed like a good way to wrap things up. Even if it is over a dog's body. So sorry you disapprove."

John's back is turned to Sherlock so he can't see Sherlock's expression, but Lestrade can. Sherlock seems to have completely forgotten the corpse at his feet, and is staring up at John's back with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. It's very funny and not a little pathetic. Seeing the shock on Sherlock's face and the fierceness in John's, and the humming tension of awareness between the two of them, Lestrade can almost believe that everything is going to turn out okay.

February

Okay is a very relative term, but Lestrade does not think that it stretches to "literally stumbling over Sherlock out of his mind in a back alley".

March

Lestrade doesn't text Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't text Lestrade. Lestrade tells himself that Sherlock will probably (maybe) be alright, and that there's nothing he can do anyway.

April

"No, Sherlock. Go away. You can't come in here."

"Don't be ridiculous. I am functioning perfectly adequately. You are well aware that - "

"Does John know about your drug habit?" Lestrade knows it's a cheap shot. He also knows that he should've used it much, much earlier.

Sherlock's eyes narrow and he flips up the collar of his coat. "I don't see how that has any relevance to anything."

"Yes you do, Sherlock, and you bloody well know it. You think he wouldn't like you if he knew, so you haven't told him. Hell, you're probably right."

Sherlock's mouth straightens into a hard line, and his jaw clenches. He spins around and walks away.

"So stop doing it!" Lestrade yells after him.

May

Lestrade rubs a tired hand through his prematurely graying hair, listening to the shuffle of feet outside and the beep of monitors, and feels nothing but a slight surprise that it took so long for this to happen.

Sherlock stares at him, defiant and angry even with IVs hooked into his veins. "You can go," he spits.

According to the doctors, Sherlock is no longer in any immediate danger, at least until he gets back on his feet and starts using again. But seeing Sherlock's sweaty black curls plastered to his ghost-pale face, the bruised shadows under his eyes, and his shaking thin wrists, Lestrade can't help but feel like he's saying goodbye. He wants to leave, but his feet won't move.

"If you'd just..."

"I said GO!"

Lestrade's phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, glad for the distraction, and checks the screen. Blocked number. Those always seem to be important these days.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end isn't immediately familiar. "Hi - hello? Is this Gre - Is this Inspector Lestrade?"

"Speaking, who's this?"

The person on the other end lets out a whooshing sigh. "Okay, great. Hey Greg, it's John Watson."

"Oh! John. Er, hi." Lestrade ignores Sherlock, whose eyes widen as he tries to sit up. "What can I - how did you get my number?" It's not very friendly, but it seems like a better greeting than, "by the way, your friend is a drug addict and last night he almost died of a particularly spectacular OD".

"Well, it's been really weird. I was in the canteen when they got me, said I had a phone call. I thought - I have a sister who drinks and - well, anyway." Ah, so that's the reason Sherlock won't tell John about his problem. "There was this woman I've never spoken to on the phone. She gave me your number and said I should call, that it was about Sherlock." His voice has gotten higher, and it's hard to tell over the lightly crackling connection, but Lestrade thinks he hears traces of panic in it. "Is he - I know he does a lot of stupid stuff, he's not - is he okay?"

Lestrade coughs and shuffles his feet, deliberately not looking at Sherlock's hand, which is clenched tightly around the railing of the hospital bed. "I don't think I can say he's alright, but he is alive."

"Oh thank Christ." John exhales. "Wait. He's not alright - then what - "

"Look, how about you talk to him yourself? I'll put you on speakerphone." Sherlock looks horrified and shakes his head frantically.

"You're with him? Yeah, yeah, that'd be great! Thanks, Greg." John sounds so happy and relieved that Lestrade feels guilty. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it again. He swallows. But whatever else Sherlock is (and he has a list of bad traits so long and varied that it probably needs to be indexed), he isn't a coward. Lestrade sees the words choke in his throat, but he manages a hoarse, "Hello, John."

"Sherlock? You sound terrible." Lestrade can almost hear his worried frown over the phone. "What happened? Did you get shot? Or pushed into the Thames again? Knifed?"

"I..." Sherlock's eyes flick over to Lestrade, and Lestrade realizes that the amoral bastard is thinking about lying. Lestrade scowls and shakes his head emphatically. Sherlock sighs. "No, John. I - I accidentally overdosed on a drug."

"What? How?" His innocent belief in Sherlock is almost physically painful. Lestrade certainly sees Sherlock wince.

"How do you think, John?" Sherlock says sharply. "With a needle and heroin."

There's a short, stunned silence before John struggles to speak. "No - what? You? You never said; I couldn't... But - why, Sherlock? Surely you of all people don't need - "

"I of all people do need it!" Sherlock shouts, his eyes blazing in his alarmingly pale face. "I need something to keep me from going mad when the world is boring boring BORING!"

John sounds like he's struggling to stay calm. "And with all of your genius intellect, you couldn't think of one single thing to do to entertain yourself that didn't involve getting addicted to something that will kill you?"

"No."

"Well that's great then. That's just wonderful. Don't bother worrying about your family or friends."

"I don't have friends," Sherlock snarls.

There's a long silence, and then John quietly says, "You're right."

John hangs up the phone.

June

At this point, Sherlock is the last person that Lestrade ever wants to see. But he's also Sherlock's emergency contact. The fact that he, who barely knows and doesn't like Sherlock, is the only person the man has to turn to - it sticks in his throat. So on a warm afternoon in mid June, he picks Sherlock up from the hospital and drives him home.

"This place is a wreck, Sherlock." Lestrade no longer has the will or energy to be polite. It doesn't seem to bother Sherlock; in fact, Sherlock barely seems to notice his presence as Lestrade trails up the stairs behind him. He does feel a little sorry for Sherlock, withdrawal can't be fun and this one seems worse than the other times. Sherlock is panting by the time he reaches the third floor, unlocks a battered door, and stumbles inside.

He stops so fast that Lestrade runs into him.

"Oof - sorry Sherlock, know you're still a bit fragile, but really, why the hell did you stop in the middle of the - " Lestrade abruptly stops too when he looks up.

John Watson is standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed over his chest and looking pissed. Lestrade takes an involuntary step back.

"Got another phone call as soon as the plane touched down," John says, voice tight with controlled anger. "Told me this address, and that I should come make myself useful. I'd really like to know where all these helpful little hints are coming from."

"My brother," Sherlock whispers, sounding shocked and a bit sick. "I didn't want - didn't ask him to. I don't talk to him."

That clears up a few things for Lestrade, too.

"If you came here to shriek in my ear," Sherlock says, pulling himself a little more upright and making a brave attempt at sounding nonchalant, "then by all means, please go ahead, so you can hurry up and leave."

"I bet you'd like that," John says, his normally calm blue eyes blazing. "You'd just love it if I'd yell at you and storm off, so you could feel all self righteous when you dig out your hidden stash and go right back to killing yourself."

Sherlock is silent. Lestrade can tell it's because he's confused, because Lestrade is confused too. He also thinks that yelling at Sherlock sounds like an excellent idea, but his voice is still hoarse from the car ride over.

"Well," John takes a step forward, dropping his arms so they hang, fists clenched, by his sides, "that's not going to happen. I'm staying here - by the way, your flat sucks - and if you give me any grief at all, so help me God."

Lestrade's mouth drops open. He can't help saying something, though he knows he's intruding on a moment that isn't his at all. "So you're... you're staying, then?"

John's eyes flick briefly over to him, and he nods. "Yeah. I'm staying. Whether he likes it or not. He is going to detox, at least while I'm here to make him."

"I... but... you said that..." Sherlock is clearly lost. He sets his bag on the floor and stumbles. John's eyes flash.

John walks forward quickly, and for a second Lestrade thinks John's going to take a swing at Sherlock.

Then John's arms go up around Sherlock's shoulders, tugging him down into a crushing hug, pressing Sherlock's face into his neck and resting his cheek against Sherlock's hair.

"You're never doing that again," John says gruffly. Sherlock grabs onto him with both hands and clings.

Chapter Text

July

"It was so peaceful for a few months there," Donovan says mournfully. Lestrade suppresses a smile.

Sherlock vaults back onto the scene in mid July, immediately becoming ensnared in a particularly nasty set of triple murders. There's a burglar who looks to be a likely suspect, but Sherlock swears up one side and down the other that they've got the wrong man, and eventually proves it. Lestrade doesn't really mind being wrong.

In a quiet moment, Lestrade sidles over to Sherlock.

"So you've been alright, then?" Lestrade doesn't really have to ask. Sherlock looks vivid and alive again, and he's filled out a little, so that he no longer looks skeletal. He nods. "And did you and John... get along okay?" He struggles with the question, but in the end, there's really no nice way of asking whether or not you managed to drive away your only friend.

Sherlock doesn't smile, but his eyes soften in a way that they've only ever done for John. "Yes. He was... helpful."

Unbelievable. Lestrade shakes his head. "You're a bloody lucky git, let me tell you. The man gave up his leave to cater to your sick arse, and the best you can say is that he was helpful? I hope you were a bit more appreciative to him, at least."

Sherlock suddenly becomes fascinated with the ground. Lestrade groans.

August

"I'm bored, I'm bored, I'm bored," Sherlock chants.

"Yes, I get that you're bored. But why are you being bored in my flat? And get off my coffee table."

Sherlock gives him a dismissive look. "Your wife is at her mother's house with your children. You have nothing better to do than give me a skull to talk to."

Lestrade gapes. "I... Right, okay. Since when do you want to talk to anybody? You've never done this before." Sherlock blinks and it all becomes horribly clear. "John. That bastard. He told you to come bug me when you get too antsy, didn't he?"

Sherlock turns his head away and Lestrade spends the rest of the evening alternately coaxing Sherlock off the furniture and inventing myriad bloody demises for a certain John Watson.

September

Lestrade hires a bloke named Anderson onto the forensics team. He's not in love with the man, but Anderson's background is impeccable, and a weasely face is not a reason not to hire someone.

Homocide is, though, so he claps a firm hand over Anderson's trembling shoulder and tells Sherlock, "Think it's time for you to leave before I end up with another crime scene on my hands."

Sherlock sneers at them. "Forensic investigators are a dime a dozen. You could spare him."

"So are mad wankers, and yet I keep letting you hang about."

Anderson, momentarily forgotten, tugs against Lestrade's grasp. "I cannot imagine how a freak like you ever managed to find a bloke who'd have you. I bet he's a psycopath too." The other thing about Anderson - he gets along well with Donovan.

Lestrade and Sherlock turn to stare at Anderson simultaneously.

"John isn't a psyco - I don't have a boyfriend," Sherlock says, stumbling slightly over the words.

Anderson raises an eyebrow and does a creditable impression of Sherlock's sneer. "Oh really? Odd, how you knew exactly who I was talking about."

"John's his friend," Lestrade says, rolling his eyes and - is Sherlock blushing? Surely not.

October

"Christ, Sherlock, you'd been doing so well."

"And now I am not. Thank you for your stunning observations," Sherlock grits out, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his living room, staring out the window with slightly unfocused eyes.

Lestrade sighs. Sherlock isn't high enough to really be a danger to himself, and certainly not high enough to OD, so there isn't much he can do. Except turn him into the police, of course, and when exactly did that stop being an option? Lestrade sighs again.

"Right, well, anything I can do for you, other than take the rest of it away?" Thankfully Lestrade doesn't have to worry about being arrested even if he is found with the bag in his pocket, but its presence eats at his nerves anyway.

Sherlock closes his eyes, looking for a second like a very thin, strung out Buddhist monk. "Email John."

"Sorry, what?"

The muscles in Sherlock's shoulders tense. "Email. John. Tell him what - tell him. I promised him that I would let him know if it happened again."

Lestrade stands stunned for a moment. It's not that Sherlock's shy about his own faults, far from it. But willfully putting himself at any kind of disadvantage is... surprising. Shocking, even. Maybe...

"Sherlock?" he asks hesitantly. "When John was here, did anything... happen?"

"Yes, frequent lectures. Why?"

"Not really what I meant. I mean, like - Ah, hell. Did the two of you, um, you know." This is not working. "Shag?"

Sherlock's eyes fly open and he gapes up at Lestrade.

"Oh. Whoops. So that'd be a no, then?"

Sherlock manages about half a sneer, though he still looks shell-shocked. "Honestly, Lestrade, I think I might not be the one with the drug problem here. John was furious with me. I was sick. And he isn't gay." His voice rises a little at the end, almost a whine. "Our little friendship is quite enough of an oddity, don't you agree? I don't think John Watson would be particularly interested in a sociopathic addict."

Holy shit. "You're in love with him," Lestrade blurts, and immediately regrets it.

Sherlock simultaneously looks disgusted, incredulous, and like somebody's kicked his dog. "You're insane. I'm not even capable of love."

"I - okay," Lestrade says, and leaves before he can do any more damage. That night, he sends an email.

This is what he sends:

Hi John, it's Greg. Sherlock wants me to tell you that he relapsed yesterday. Not bad, he's not hurt or anything. He called me over after awhile and I got the rest of the stuff, I think. He seems pretty down about it. I think he's trying. Take care of yourself, I’ll keep an eye on him. 

This is what he does not send:

Did you know that he's in love with you?

Sherlock doesn't think he's capable of love. I think he's probably right, but you might be the exception.

Wish you weren't in the army so you could keep him off my hands.

Unfortunately, I doubt you're very interested in having him in your hands. And Christ, there is a visual I did not need.

Even if you were interested, he's still Sherlock.

This can't end well, can it?

November

Sherlock turns up to several crime scenes, looking tired and mussed but sober. Lestrade resists the temptation to meddle for the first two crimes, but succumbs to it by the third. His eagerness to help is vastly amplified by the fact that Sherlock’s recent spate of sobriety just earned him a raise.

“You could tell him, you know.”

Sherlock doesn’t look up from the shattered cabinet he’s examining. “I already informed Anderson this morning that his wife is having an affair with a postal worker.”

“No, that’s not what I – Christ, really? Anyway, not the point. I mean John.”

“We’ve already discussed my indiscretion, Lestrade,” Sherlock snaps. “For God’s sake, I asked you to send the email because looking at a computer screen would make me vomit. If I’d known it was such a large favor to ask – ”

“I mean that you’re in love with him.”

“Don’t be ludicrous, Lestrade.” The fact that Sherlock deigned to use his name tells Lestrade that this is quite serious indeed. Sherlock still doesn’t look up, but his neck and back are tense.

“I’m not. Look, John’s your friend, right? Your only friend, to be honest. Take it from somebody who’s had quite a few friends – if you feel like that and you never tell them, it just eats at you and never goes away. You have to let them know, get it out of your system, or stop talking to them for a little while and give yourself some space to get over it.”

“I’m not going to stop talking to John,” Sherlock says quietly. Lestrade nods.

“I know. That’s why I’m saying you should tell him.” He thinks about giving Sherlock a quick pat on the shoulder, and then thinks the better of it.

“Absurd,” Sherlock grumbles.

December

"You're a bloody saint," Lestrade tells John, shaking his hand at the door. John laughs.

"I'm really, really not," he says. He's dressed up a bit for the Yard's Christmas party, wearing a dark blue button-down and khakis. "You have no idea how often I lose my temper with him."

“I just can’t believe you got him to come,” Lestrade says in an undertone. Sherlock is skulking behind John with a scowl on his face and his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing his usual, an expensive suit.

“Can’t believe he got an invitation,” John counters, and Lestrade grins.

"Can't argue with that." He walks them over to the food table and the three of them settle against it. There's a good view of the dance floor. Watching his bosses do something that looks less like dancing and more like blackmail fodder, Lestrade is privately grateful that his wife couldn't make it tonight.

He sees John turn to Sherlock and smile wickedly. "Want to dance?" John asks.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "I don't dance. And neither do you."

"I dance sometimes."

"With women."

"Or with friends that are horrified by it. Come on, it'll be funny."

"No."

Lestrade hasn't even bothered to watch the exchange, mildly amused but knowing it's never going to happen. An undignified shriek takes him by surprise and he turns to look.

John has leaned down and thrown Sherlock over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Sherlock, for once, seems shocked beyond words. John laughs and carries him off onto the dance floor.

"Never thought I'd see that," Donovan says, appearing by Lestrade's side. She doesn't seem too bitter; either time or beer has taken the edge off.

"Isn't that the truth," Lestrade agrees. He watches as John deposits Sherlock on his feet and immediately grabs his hands, moving in front of him in some combination of the twist and the two-step. John is laughing, and after a moment Sherlock is laughing too. Lestrade shakes his head, smiling, and turns his attention to the cheese platter.

"Woah," Donovan says a couple minutes later, just as Lestrade's finished scavenging. "Hey Greg, look at this. Seriously, look."

Lestrade turns and tries to focus on the spot that she's pointing to on the dance floor. Then he sees them, Sherlock and John, and Donovan wasn't bloody well wrong about the woah.

Their hands aren't clasped together anymore; now their arms are resting on each other's shoulders. They're still dancing, but instead of the hopping nonsense they were doing before, they're swaying rhythmically, hips slotting together, faces close and turned down. Lestrade isn't sure if this is just how things these days work, but it doesn't look like something he'd be comfortable doing with his best friend.

"I'm, uh... I think I'm gonna go find a refresher on my beer," he tells Donovan, who nods distractedly, far more interested in the dance floor than she is in him. Lestrade rolls his eyes and walks off. It emerges that his favorite beer is out at the makeshift bar, but the sergeant on duty as bartender thinks there might be a case lurking in the kitchenette.

The light in the kitchen isn't working, but frankly Lestrade is quite glad to have an excuse to waste time burrowing around blindly in the walk-in pantry for a few minutes. Parties aren't really his thing. He's good at being friendly and competent, because he comes by both of those honestly. Cozying up to his superiors by fetching glasses of cheap wine and flattering their dates has never sat comfortably on him.

He’s just squatted down on his knees and pulled out his phone, about to use it as a light, when he hears something.

“What is it, Sherlock?” a bemused voice says, echoing into the pantry from a spot near the kitchen door. It’s John Watson.

“I have to – have to ask you something,” Sherlock murmurs, so low that it’s almost a growl. Lestrade has a brief moment of panic as he realizes that Sherlock is actually taking his advice, in the most inconvenient way possible. Lestrade desperately wants to burst out of the pantry before things get awkward, but his shriveled vestiges of a conscience keep him quiet. He knows that this is difficult to the point of near-impossibility for Sherlock; if Lestrade interrupts him now, he’ll never get the words out.

So Lestrade stays quiet, hears a rustle of clothing and a bitten-off gasp, and is in the unfortunate position to know that Sherlock Holmes has decided to show, rather than tell, John Watson how he feels about him.

More time than Lestrade expected passes, and then John pants, “Wait, Sherlock. What are you – we can’t.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, sounding out of breath and almost as miserable as Lestrade feels. “It’s… I know it was a bit… not good. You’re straight. I know. I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause, and Lestrade can picture John rubbing a callused hand over his face. “Unbelievably, that’s not the biggest problem here,” John says.

Another pause. “What do you mean?” Sherlock asks. He’s trying to sound calm, but there are threads of hope in his voice.

“I mean that you’re a – the drugs, Sherlock! I can’t deal with that. I can’t – my sister, my dad… I can’t cope with another addict. I just can’t.”

“But you’re straight.” Sherlock seems very fixated on this.

John groans (thankfully not the happy kind. Not that Lestrade doesn’t wish this was going better, but…).

“Yeah, that too. I mean, well… I don’t know, Sherlock. You’re – I mean – you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met. If it was really what you – that kiss was – but look. It doesn’t matter. I did the thing where you relive your family trauma through dating, and it didn’t go well. She dragged me down with her and I absolutely hated my life for a year. I never want to do that again. Things were always getting better, always turning around, but she never actually got better. She couldn’t.”

Lestrade is trying not to think about any of this very hard (he’s jamming his fingers in his ears, but it’s not working worth a damn), but somehow it doesn’t surprise him that John would be willing to put Sherlock in a class above the rest of the human race. There’s gay, straight, and Sherlock. John has always accepted that Sherlock is just different, so it makes sense that this would be different too.

Lestrade wonders if it would be possible for John to give a bigger gift to someone who would appreciate it less.

“What if I was clean?” Sherlock says abruptly. “What if I could stop completely?”

“You can’t. You just relapsed, for God’s sake!”

“You know I can, though,” Sherlock says, his baritone turning silky and persuasive. “If you didn’t think I could, you never would have bothered to stay and help.”

“Yes I would’ve.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re extraordinary.” It’s a simple statement of fact, an irrefutable truth in John Watson’s mind, and all the more sincere for it. It rings through the air like a declaration of something much deeper, filling the dark air with tension and longing. Lestrade kind of wishes they’d go back to kissing.

“Give me a deadline.” Sherlock’s voice is breathy with excitement. “Tell me how long I need to stay clean to prove it to you. Give me a chance, and I swear, I’ll never touch any of it again.”

“No. I remember how it felt, waiting like that. I won’t do it again.”

“Please,” Sherlock begs. There’s a dull thud, someone’s shoulder or back being shoved against a wall, and Lestrade takes back wishing for them to kiss again. The almost-silence stretches out, and Lestrade really takes it back.

“I…” John stutters hoarsely, “I can’t… I don’t…”

“One chance,” Sherlock promises. “That’s all I need.” He does something that makes John moan, and Lestrade seriously contemplates suicide.

“One chance,” John finally agrees. It sounds like the words hurt his throat. Sherlock makes a happy whining noise, and Lestrade is delighted to hear John say, “But look, we have to stop. I won’t do anything with you until you’re clean for at least, um… six months?”

“Just in time for your next leave,” Sherlock purrs.

“Shut up,” John says, sounding guilty, and Sherlock laughs. “C’mon, let’s go back before everyone assumes we’re already dating.”

“I would have no problem with that,” Sherlock says in his usual direct way, and then his feet stumble slightly, like he’s been pushed.

“Christ,” John says after a moment, his voice fading out of Lestrade’s hearing as they walk away.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks. Lestrade flips his phone open and uses the light to start searching for his beer in earnest. He’s earned it, dammit.

John’s laugh – giggle, really – drifts back toward the pantry. "It's just that... I'm 5'7" with rugby shoulders and you're part giraffe. If we - we're going to look ridiculous."

Chapter Text

January

“I am going to check in with you every month to confirm that I am clean of all drugs,” Sherlock announces without preamble, elbow-deep in a cadaver’s stomach.

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Lestrade mumbles. He has far too good of an idea why Sherlock wants to do this. “That’s – yeah, no problem. Now, can you please tell me why this poor sod was clapped over the head?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him for a long moment, but eventually turns away and gives Lestrade a method, a motivation, and a name.

February

“You are the most incompetent fool I can ever recall having the misfortune to encounter,” Sherlock seethes.

Lestrade throws his hands up in the air. “What the bloody hell do you expect, Sherlock? How was I supposed to know the murderer had a sister!”

“It was obvious!” Sherlock yells. “All you have to do is look at the kitchen table!”

“I don’t…”

“Oh, of course you didn’t observe. You don’t think. I’m amazed that you are capable of the hand-foot coordination necessary to walk into the room.” Sherlock continues to rant, and Lestrade grits his teeth and tells himself that it’s okay, it’s just how Sherlock is. It doesn’t work, so he moves on to reminding himself that homicide is illegal even when it isn’t amoral.

March

“Things going alright with John?” Lestrade asks over doughnuts, paperwork, and death threats. The doughnuts are necessary; the case took three days to solve and involved chasing Sherlock all over greater London. The paperwork is necessary because the government requires it, and Lestrade is inching closer and closer to that D.I. badge. The death threats were necessary in order to get Sherlock to help him fill out the paperwork.

The question became necessary when Lestrade realized that if he heard one more disparaging remark about his intelligence in a five minute timespan, he was going to have to fill out the paperwork for his own battery charge.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns his head away. Anyone else would have assumed that Sherlock was going to ignore them, but Lestrade knows by now that Sherlock actually does like to talk when it involves something he’s interested in.

Finally Sherlock says, “In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh? What manner of speaking’s that?”

“I… made a suggestion that John was displeased by.” Sherlock crosses one leg over the other, crosses his arms, and leans back into his seat until it looks uncomfortable. “John is generally quite understanding of my failings, but apparently being selfish on this occasion is worse than being selfish at other times.”

“Oh no. Sherlock, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

Sherlock bites his lip and scowls. “It makes no sense for him to be getting shot at in Afghanistan when he could be getting shot at in London, with me.”

Lestrade groans and shoves his fingers through his hair. “John’s happy in the army, Sherlock. You can tell just looking at him. You can’t ask him to give that up for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s his life! He needs something that’s his, know what I’m saying?”

Sherlock just stares at him. Lestrade sighs. He lifts his hand to his hair; puts it down again when he realizes that he just did that.

“Look. John’s one of those blokes who was born to be a soldier. It’s what he’s built to do. Take that away from him, and he’ll be miserable.”

“He can’t serve in the military forever,” Sherlock observes. His expression is intent now, all of his considerable attention focused entirely on Lestrade, and Lestrade has to admit that it’s a bit, well, flattering. He can see how this might appeal to John (until Sherlock opened his mouth, anyway).

“Yeah, course not, but hopefully by that point he’ll have mellowed out some, you know? Right now, he’s in a place where he fits and he’s happy. Don’t push it.”

Sherlock huffs out a tiny breath, all spoilt frustration and well-heeled petulance. Oddly enough, it’s only the times Lestrade sees him like this that Lestrade genuinely hates him. Lestrade hates Sherlock’s accent and breeding and privilege, and the way that Sherlock thinks he doesn’t use it. He hates that he only thing Sherlock struggles with is a drug addiction he picked up because he was bored and wealthy.

It’s not how he’s in some ways reliant on Sherlock that Lestrade resents. It’s that Sherlock doesn’t even care enough to use it. He doesn’t need any connections or favors or money. Sherlock gets to be above it all. From his untouchable heights of genius and privilege he sneers down and throws lightening bolts of cruelty with unerring aim, and he will never ever have to pay for any of it.

“I’m serious,” Lestrade growls. “He is so much better than you in every way that matters, and if you try to change him to suit your petty self, you deserve to lose him.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and his mouth opens slightly. A tense moment passes. Sherlock silently stands and walks out the door.

Lestrade spends three hours inventing dates and procedures instead of texting Sherlock to come back.

April

“John is still upset with me,” Sherlock says on a rainy night at the end of April. Sirens wail and blue lights flash across their faces. There might be fewer ambulances here if Lestrade had called him earlier, but Lestrade waited a long time before he gave in and texted Sherlock. The regret is a dull ache that’s sickeningly easy to ignore.

Lestrade pushes his hands into his pockets and grunts.

“You’re upset with me too, though I can’t tell precisely why,” Sherlock says, sparing a glance at Lestrade. “You became angry during a conversation about John, who you are not close to.”

“Maybe I feel a sense of despairing kinship with the poor bastard,” Lestrade mutters at the ground. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Sherlock is rolling his eyes and sneering.

“Or you’re both just idiots. I told John that I was retracting my request, though I failed to understand the appeal of fighting in a war that both sides would inevitably lose.”

Lestrade snorts mirthlessly. “That’s rich. You’re gonna lose him, you know. You’re gonna lose him, and you’re gonna deserve it.”

This time he walks away, and can’t tell if he wants to be right or wrong.

May

By the second week in May, Lestrade’s anger at Sherlock being Sherlock has mostly dissipated, and when he catches sight of the man there’s an unpleasant sensation in his gut that feels uncomfortably like guilt.

He doesn’t apologize, but he does ask how John’s doing. It seems close enough.

Sherlock gives him a cautious look and says, “Alright,” like a question. It’s not an apology either, but it’s close enough.

“He still upset?”

“Perhaps a bit.” Sherlock looks up at the sky, staring straight at the sun and barely blinking. “I hope he will have gotten over this entirely by the time his leave starts.”

“He will,” Lestrade says, thinking of being younger and believing that a good shag could solve most ills. That was before he realized that while it might, the ill that it solved could be your own marriage, and your wife could be shagging someone else. “Just try not to, you know.”

“Be myself?”

Lestrade wants very, very badly to say yes.

Instead he says, “Don’t be the worst version of yourself. You can be almost nearly a human being when you try.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Sherlock says softly, and Lestrade doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t really know either.

June

Lestrade calls Sherlock about a crime, not really expecting him to pick up. But he does, and even agrees to come. In the background Lestrade can hear John saying, “Christ, Sherlock, right now – yeah, okay, fine,” in an amused, resigned sort of way.

When the two of them show up and examine the evidence, Lestrade has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. They are studiously barely speaking, keeping at least two feet apart at all times, and not staring into each other’s eyes.

However, since for the past two years all they’ve done is hold private conversations in front of the Yard while gazing at each other before Sherlock grabs John’s wrist and hauls him away, it’s only slightly less noticeable than a backlit neon sign.

Donovan strolls up, clearly choking back laughter and intent on joining in the fun.

“You two doing alright?” she asks them, voice thick with faked concern. “Seems a little… tense over here.”

Both Sherlock and John go to look at each other, and then jerk their heads away. Sherlock scowls. John says, “Fine. We’re – everything’s good.” The tips of his ears go red.

Lestrade can’t resist.

“Everything’s good?” he says seriously. “You sure? You guys know that you can talk to us if you need to. We’re here for you.”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock explodes, “please stem this sudden outpouring of interest in our well-beings.” He goes to flip up his collar, and stops with his hands hovering around his neck when he realizes that it’s June and 30 degrees out.

Donovan shoots Lestrade a wicked smile and kneels down next to John. She lays a hand on his shoulder.

“If you want to talk about anything, we could maybe get dinner later.” She tilts her head to one side, smiles, and actually bats her eyelashes.

“I… uh…” John’s face is blank and bewildered, clearly trying to think if he’s overlooked something. “Um… can’t?”

Sherlock looks like he wants to make some remark that will earn him a lengthy stay in A&E, but Lestrade catches his eye and mouths, “Human being.” Amazingly, Sherlock closes his eyes and bites his lip.

“John is unavailable tonight,” he says after a moment.

Donovan grins and stands up. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she coos.

“John is unavailable every night,” Sherlock says, glaring at her. By this time, John is looking up at Lestrade and Donovan with dawning comprehension on his face. His mouth tugs, like he can’t decide whether to laugh or shout.

“We are detectives, after all,” Lestrade says by way of explanation, though really, anyone could have seen this coming.

But it would have taken a better detective than him to realize that there’s a chance it might actually work.

Maybe even, say, a consulting detective – the only one in the world.

Chapter Text

July

“Can’t go to the airport with you. Sorry,” Sherlock mumbles, staring at the body like he’s afraid to look up at John. Possibly because he is.

John laughs and hefts a tan canvas bag over one shoulder. “It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine. You’ve got work to do. Go on, be brilliant.”

Sherlock stands fluidly, gives John an impossibly quick and embarrassed kiss on the lips, and folds back down again. John smiles fondly, runs his fingers across the back of Sherlock’s neck, and then gets in a cab headed for Heathrow.

Lestrade can see what Sherlock maybe can’t; that it is, in fact, all fine with John. His quiet confidence and sense of duty are uniquely suited to coming second to corpses and crime scenes. What would drive another person away immediately is barely an inconvenience to him.

Lestrade can also see what John definitely can’t; that after John leaves, Sherlock stares at the victim’s hipbone for fifteen minutes. Only he isn’t staring at all, because his eyes are closed.

“Hey.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t say anything.

“You know, the second time you brought John to a crime scene, I was surprised,” Lestrade continues conversationally. “I sort of thought he’d have had enough after the first go. But there he was again, so while you were prancing around getting walloped by a jewelry thief, I asked him if he was enjoying himself. Guess he’d been getting that question a lot, because he frowned and said, ‘I think Sherlock’s fantastic, actually’. And then he went haring off after you before I could say anything else.”

There’s no reply, but Lestrade keeps his mouth shut. He’s said what he had to say.

A minute passes, and then Sherlock lets out a long breath, stands, and starts to examine blood smears by the victim’s head.

Sherlock and John won’t always be able to see each other properly, because that isn’t how relationships work, but Lestrade thinks he sees them both pretty well.

August

“So the weirdo – is he really getting shagged by that army bloke?” Anderson asks over a pint, in the amused tones of a good office gossip.

Lestrade winces. He doesn’t particularly want to think about that image. Doesn’t want to think about anybody shagging, actually; doesn’t want to think about his wife and the music teacher she swears she doesn’t love, like it matters. “Something like that, I guess.”

“Hmm. Wouldn’t have guessed him for a pillow biter.” Anderson shrugs. “The soldier, I mean. The freak – yeah, definitely. Though honestly, I’m shocked he deigns to have sex with another human being.” His nose twitches.

Lestrade feels uncomfortable, like he should be more offended than he is. Dealing with truly terrible people on a regular basis has rid him of most of his unfounded prejudices, but he can’t pretend that he’s completely comfortable with thinking about gay men. A childhood in council housing and four years in the uni rugby team can’t entirely be ignored.

So instead of saying something sharp, he hums noncommittally around the neck of his beer.

“Actually,” Anderson says with the intent thoughtfulness of the borderline drunk, “the shagging isn’t weird so much as that the freak actually seems to like him. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agrees. “I don’t know that I get it myself.” He doesn’t understand why the air between the Sherlock and John hums with almost visible tension; doesn’t recall when he stopped having that with his own wife. Can’t remember if he ever really had it.

“I mean,” Anderson continues, and Lestrade wishes earnestly that they could stop having this conversation, “me’n Sally tell him what he’s like, and he doesn’t even care, cos he knows we’re right. Not like other people, he’s not hiding it, he’s just not bothered.”

Lestrade knows this is true, though on exceptionally sentimental days he wonders if maybe there was a time, long before they met, when Sherlock could feel the words.

“So what’s it about the army boy? What makes him so special? Why him – hell, why not you?”

Anderson raises a slightly mocking eyebrow like he thinks Lestrade is going to be jealous, but nothing could be further from the truth.

It makes him a bit guilty to admit it even in his own head, but Lestrade will always be a little disturbed by Sherlock. Well, that part doesn’t make him guilty. It is normal to be alarmed by Sherlock’s joy in what he terms “a lovely murder”; normal to be unnerved by Sherlock’s pale, expressionless face; normal to confused by his seeming lack of any desire to be close to another person (until John, anyway).

The more sensationalist parts of his brain do make him feel guilty. Because occasionally he has brief flashes of fear, where horror movies he watched when he was ten combine with Sherlock’s icy glare, and Lestrade wonders if Sherlock is capable of cutting someone open just to measure the way they scream.

It’s nonsense, of course. Lestrade knows that. Except for when he doesn’t. And the worst part is, it’s Sherlock’s fault. Everyone feels like that about him. Everyone except John.

John Watson trusts Sherlock Holmes without reservation, without needing to ask for reassurances. Lestrade just doesn’t know why.

September

Donovan says hello to Sherlock and doesn’t bother to add “freak” at the end.

“Hello, Sally,” Sherlock says absently, and then continues to wedge himself bodily into a sewer line.

Lestrade and Donovan glance at each other, but say nothing.

October

“Still clean, then?”

One of Sherlock’s hands comes up to brush convulsively at his temple, like he’s remembering sweat there. “Yes. Of course.”

Lestrade has had to struggle for everything he’s ever gotten, and mostly once he’s gotten it, he’s realized that whatever it is isn’t so great after all. There was uni, which turned out to be a lot of debt for a relatively small piece of paper. There was his wife, which also turned out to be a lot of debt for a small piece of paper. And there was this job, which turned out to be a lot of sleep deprivation only to get told to fill out many small bits of paper.

Now he wonders if it would be better or worse to be like Sherlock, to see fifteen steps ahead of everything and to realize that you don’t want those things before you even start to try.

Because that would mean that when you want something, you absolutely know how much you want it.

Whatever the case, Sherlock Holmes wants John Watson.

Lestrade sees it in the obvious things: staying off the drugs, running laughing through crime scenes with him, staring at John like he’s the only person whose existence matters.

But there are less obvious tells, too, like the way that Sherlock has relaxed minutely now that John and him are apparently a couple. He doesn’t look quite as tense all the time, and his answers aren’t quite as sharp. There’s a relative calm about him that wasn’t there before.

For the first time it occurs to Lestrade to worry about Sherlock getting hurt.

November

“John’s coming home soon, isn’t he?” Donovan asks Sherlock tentatively. Lestrade and Anderson both jerk their heads around to blink at her.

Sherlock stares at her too, and for a second Lestrade is sure he’s just going to ignore the question. Then he slowly says, “Yes. December.” He stops and shifts his weight from foot to foot.

Donovan’s tiny smile grows wider, more earnest. “Right, well that’s nice. What do you have planned?”

“Planned?” Sherlock looks blank and Lestrade gets a horrible, sneaking suspicion.

“Sherlock?” he says. “When John comes home, do you just flop about the house until you get a case, and then drag him around after you?”

“Er. I.” Sherlock looks shifty, in the way people get when they know that their answer is the wrong one. “We eat frequently, because John demands an unreasonable amount of food.”

Donovan’s mouth twitches. “Maybe you should try taking him somewhere that doesn’t involve dead people,” she suggests. “You know, someplace without crime that interests you both, where you can hang out and enjoy each other’s company.” She sounds like an elementary school teacher, coaxing and mildly exasperated.

Sherlock furrows his forehead in a thoughtful frown. “I suppose I could see if the morgue has any interesting specimens for us to examine.”

“What did I say about dead bodies?”

“John’s a doctor!”

“That doesn’t mean he likes internal organs better than the cinema!”

“But I don’t like the cinema,” Sherlock points out. “You said it should interest us both.”

“Yeah, actually, ignore that bit. What I mean is, you should take him somewhere that he’ll enjoy.”

“Boring,” Sherlock grouses. Inexplicably, Donovan smiles again.

“It won’t really be boring if you’re with John though, will it?” she says, and Sherlock looks at her like he’s just noticed she exists for the first time.

December

Christmas Eve should consist of petty family bickering and stale fruitcake. It should not consist of chasing after an armed serial killer down London’s back alleys. But Lestrade made his bed, which is why now he isn’t lying in it.

John’s laughing his head off, like this is the best game in the world, as Sherlock giggles and attempts to yank the knife out of his coat – or more specifically, out of the post his coat is pinned to.

“It would be just lovely if you two would leave confronting murderers to the professionals.” Lestrade rubs a hand over his face.

“I am a professional,” John says reasonably, though the effect is somewhat spoiled by the grin on his face.

“Not here, you’re not,” Lestrade tells him. “In Afghanistan, you can have tea parties with the Taliban if that’s your fancy. Here, we do it my way.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and finally manages to work the knife out. “Lestrade, if we did things your way, the Met’s capture ratio would be even more abysmal than it already is. That’s the reason you call me.”

“Rethinking that strategy,” Lestrade mutters.

John gives him a friendly punch to the shoulder. “You know we didn’t do it on purpose, Greg. Just happened like that. He was there; what could we do?”

That’s the worst of it; the fact that John is right and that yeah, half the time this is the only way these criminals get apprehended; Sherlock chasing them down on a mad, barely legal rush through the night. It’s not an excuse and it’s not a good solution, but all three of them wordlessly agree that it’s better than the alternative.

They all have their reasons. Lestrade knows with rueful certainty that his is an unyielding idealism that makes him a generally decent person, but not a happy one. Sherlock lives for the puzzle, for solving the things that no one else can, and Lestrade hopes more than believes that he remembers there are victims of these crimes. John is somewhere in the middle; he leaps into the fray with cheerful abandon, but his eyes darken with fury when he sees crying wives and children.

Sherlock sniffs. “I have no intention of operating any differently. I hope that’s clear.” John looks over and starts to roll his eyes at Sherlock, but their gazes lock and instead they just stare at each other for a long moment.

Christmas always makes Lestrade wonder about forgiveness and hope and doing the right thing. It makes him look at people a little longer, trying to see the good in mankind. It makes him watch these two men, both heartless bastards in their own ways, and wonder at a world where they somehow managed to find and love each other.

A flash of movement catches his eye.

“This way, John!” Lestrade hears Sherlock shout. Lestrade follows too, blood and fear pumping through his veins in equal measure as he grasps clumsily at his gun.

He bursts out of the alley just in time to see the killer turn, swinging his arm out wildly towards John.

And there’s a second, just a second where Lestrade’s gut screams no me it should be me, because that second of the killer’s indecisive panic would have been enough for Lestrade to shoot.

But though it’s legal for soldiers to shoot the enemy in war zones, they don’t carry their guns with them when they come home. John can only watch as the killer hesitates, and then pulls the trigger. Someone cries out; Lestrade can’t tell who. It might be him.

John’s body jerks and crumples to the ground.

Chapter Text

January

The thing Lestrade hates about hospitals is that they're always the same, no matter who's dying inside.

Not that John is going to die - well, he's reasonably sure that John isn't going to die.

Christ though, it was awful waiting in the alley, John half-delirious with pain, slipping in and out of consciousness, and them not knowing if John going under again might mean him being gone for good. Sherlock ran to John's side and dropped to his knees, reaching his hands out but not touching. Neither of them knew if moving John could hurt or help. Lestrade called an ambulance immediately, yelling down the phone while Sherlock chanted John's name over and over like a broken prayer.

Then there was a long night of flourescent lights and rickety plastic chairs. Stale coffee reminded Lestrade of stale fruitcake; and he had remembered the date. Merry Christmas, baby.

He stayed for six hours, feeling uncomfortably like an intruder but his conscience forcing him to stay by Sherlock's side until a doctor came out to them and announced that John had stabilized. The doctor spoke to Lestrade, not Sherlock; Sherlock was neither family nor spouse and therefore had no rights to information. Lestrade had never felt better about abusing his privileges as a cop.

The first time he sees John in person and awake it's before visiting hours have been implemented. Sherlock is already sitting quietly in the room, as unaffected by rules as ever, his chair oddly far from John's bed.

"How you feeling?" Lestrade says awkwardly. Probably he should have brought a gift or at least decent conversation, but he's fresh out of both.

"Hey." John attempts a smile that doesn't come anywhere close to reaching his eyes. "Thanks for, you know, calling the ambulance and all."

"Yeah, right, no problem. My job, isn't it? Not that I wouldn't have... Er, anyway. The shoulder going to be, you know, alright?"

John goes to shrug and then winces. His mouth twists. He looks away, at an empty corner of the room. "It - yeah, sure. It's... fine. Fine."

Lestrade wasn't expecting a party, but he feels like he's walked in on somebody's funeral. He's missing something, and he doesn't know what.

"Hey Sherlock," he says easily, "mind if I have a word outside about that case the other day, the one with the dog?"

John looks blank, as well he should, because he wasn't around for that case. Sherlock also looks blank, because he wasn't around for it either. This is mostly because the case doesn't actually exist.

Without waiting for a reply Lestrade grabs Sherlock's arm and drags him out of the room, down to a bit of hallway reasonably far from the room.

"What's going on?" he demands. "He's alive, and he didn't lose his arm. I know getting shot can't be much of a good time, but John doesn't strike me as the moping sort. Not sure what he's got to mope about, really."

Sherlock's eyes meet his, and Lestrade almost shivers. They're pale and icy and inhuman; void of any identifiable feeling or expression. It makes Lestrade realize that Sherlock hasn't looked like this in months. Maybe years.

"There is permanent nerve damage in his left arm; his dominant hand." His voice is cold, barely inflected.

Lestrade fights down the urge to back away. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says politely, but he still doesn't understand. Surely a bit of damage is to be expected, and much better than dying anyway.

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "John is an army surgeon." He turns his back on Lestarde and starts to go back, then pauses.

"He was an army surgeon," Sherlock says, and walks away.

February

"It's not your fault, you know," Lestrade tells Sherlock after his fourth visit where John pretends to be cheerful, Sherlock pretends to be mute, and both of them pretend not to be in the same room.

"I know it's not my fault," Sherlock says irritably. "I do wish people would stop saying that."

"Has, er... has John said it?" Lestrade asks. Thankfully, subtlety isn’t an art appreciated by Sherlock anyway.

"No."

"He hasn't?" Lestrade's eyes widen. He knows that John’s struggling, but that seems uncharacteristically cruel. Sherlock looks away.

"Possibly because I haven't apologized."

"You WHAT?"

Sherlock crosses his arms and scowls. "I do believe you were the one just telling me it wasn’t my fault."

"It's not the same thing, Sherlock!"

Lestrade understands that hurt and blame can do strange things to people, but dammit, he had been so sure. He’s angry until he looks at Sherlock’s face; at his clenched jaw and lifted chin and wary eyes.

“I’m not sorry,” Sherlock hisses, mouth twisting into something desperately unhappy. “And he knows it. It would be a lie. This is what I wanted, even if it isn’t quite what I – If I try to tell him I’m sorry, he’ll just hate me more.”

“Jesus. How selfish can you possibly… Look, never mind. Tell him – at least tell him you’re sorry that he’s upset, alright?” Lestrade almost pleads. He doesn’t know why he cares so much; just that it’s painful to watch these two men together, not healed enough to forgive but unable to be apart.

March

"Sometimes I wish we could just be mates again, you know," John says wistfully. He’s finally out of hospital, and out with Lestrade for a celebratory drink. "It wouldn't be so complicated then. We could rent a flat together, bicker about the washing up, have a laugh."

"Could you have done that? I mean… were you ever really just mates?" Lestrade asks skeptically, thinking back to the way the two of them always looked at each other, like the world's fallen away beneath their feet, leaving just the two of them. It hasn't changed, even these past few months; now they just look at each other less.

"I don't know," John says. He looks down at his left hand shaking on the bar and frowns a little. "Maybe? I thought so, anyway."

April

“It’s, um… nice,” Lestrade says, looking around at the postage-sized flat.

“Yeah, well,” John quirks his mouth into something like a smile, “Teddy needed a flatmate pronto, so it was ideal, really. Even if we can’t both fit in the place at one time.” John looks like he’s thinking about winking, but he doesn’t.

Then he looks like he’s thinking about crying, but he doesn’t do that either.

May

They’re out for another drink, but this time John gets drunk. Lestrade thinks it might have something to do with the fact that Sherlock has consulted on seven cases this month (with clinical efficiency and surgery-grade insults), and John hasn’t shown up beside him once.

"When this all started, I thought... I thought I'd do anything for him," John admits and Lestrade wonders when exactly he became the emotional touchstone for John and Sherlock's relationship. He's not sure he can think of anyone less suited for the task than himself, a beer n' rugby bloke who can barely choke out "I love you"s to his kids. Unfortunately, there are no other volunteers, and his conscience has an exceptionally shrill voice.

"You wouldn't?" Lestrade asks, a little surprised. John's mouth flattens into a straight line. He rubs compulsively at his shoulder.

"No, I would," he says. "But now I know I would." He goes to take another drink, but his left hand shakes and he accidentally knocks his beer off the bar. Lestrade decides that now would be a good time to leave.

"It's weird, you know," John says sadly, resting his head on Lestrade's shoulder as they slump on a bench outside. Lestrade wonders if this is what it will be like to have teenagers. "If anyone had ever asked, I'd've thought it would be getting together with him that would be the hard part, not being with him. I mean, he's a bloke. A bloke! I never... But it's not like that, with him. He's different."

That's the problem, Lestrade suspects. Sherlock is different. So while Lestrade can probably go out and find another perfectly nice woman if he ever musters up the will to leave his wife, John cannot go and find another lunatic crime-solving genius. For better or worse (mostly better), Sherlock is the only one in the world.

Lestrade thinks about putting an arm around John, but decides that he's at his limits on male bonding. He stares up at the sky instead, and is struck by an odd sense of déjà vu.

"Different isn't always good, no matter what those damn Shrek movies say.”

John nods against his shoulder. "Bloody awful right now. He won’t - and I can't - "

"I know," Lestrade says, though he doesn't.

June

“Why don’t you text John and ask him to come round?” Lestrade suggests quietly during some extremely boring reconnaissance, otherwise known as waiting behind a lorry.

Sherlock glares at the side of the lorry. “I’m sure John is busy rediscovering his proclivity for women and developing his latent alcoholic tendencies.”

“Oh.” Lestrade takes a moment to digest that. “So you’ve… you’ve broken up, then?” It’s weird how that never really occurred to him as a possibility, even though they haven’t really been talking for months.

If possible, Sherlock’s face goes even paler. “I… I don’t… we…” For the second time in Lestrade’s life, and the first when someone hasn’t been in mortal peril, Sherlock looks genuinely distressed.

“Hey, hey, sorry.” Lestrade pats Sherlock’s arm awkwardly. “Look, for what it’s worth, I don’t think he wants to be broken up either. I think you two are just monumentally stubborn idiots who went through something rough and refused to rely on each other after.”

Sherlock doesn’t get a chance to reply, as their perp chooses that minute to run out of the building and start threatening all and sundry with a long and nastily rusty knife.

When it’s all done, and Sherlock has bitten Donovan’s head off for the third time this week, Lestrade shoves the gun back on his belt and thinks, this has gone on long enough. He takes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Sherlock. He says, “Call him.”

And, impossibly, Sherlock listens. He calls John and he gives him an address and says, “Please come.”

There’s a click and a dial tone; Lestrade can hear it from where he stands.

He waits with Sherlock, waits a half hour and then and hour and then two, and then with no warning a cab pulls up and John is getting out of it, eyes watchful and wary. He walks over to them; reaches out to Sherlock but doesn’t touch him.

“You came,” Sherlock says. His hands clench convulsively at his sides. He looks down at the pavement, off to the side, and back at John. Hints of expression, quivering at his lips and narrowing at his eyes, flicker across his face, but never fully resolve.

“Realized I didn’t have a choice,” John replies, and suddenly he smiles, wide and honest and close to laughter, the way he used to smile when it was only those two weeks he had on leave. “You called me.”

"Dangerous way to think.” Sherlock's face is impossible to read.

"Exactly," John says, and kisses him.

Chapter Text

July

Lestrade's month is very quiet; no serial killers or diamond smugglers in sight. It's a good thing, too, because this is the month that his wife finally packs up her things and walks out. She takes the children, the TV, and Lestrade's last desperate hopes that their vows meant something. Not that it's entirely his wife's fault - he knows that being any copper's wife is hard, and he's been so focused on his career... That D.I. badge has never been closer, or interested him less.

After a week of not allowing himself to drink in his flat, Lestrade finally decides to call in a karmic favor and texts John. He's somewhat impressed when John actually shows up and drags him out to the pub that, depressingly enough, he recognizes as "their" pub.

For several hours, John sits patiently as Lestrade talks, nodding in the right places, ordering more drinks, and ignoring the phone that Lestrade can see buzzing in his front pocket. John says, "That's just not on," and "Christ, mate," about a hundred times, and Lestrade loves him a little bit for not saying anything more meaningful.

John stays and stays, until eventually Lestrade realizes that he's run out of words. He never would have had this much to stay in the first place, but he doesn't really have anyone else to talk to. Nobody that isn't a relation, or a subordinate, or someone that he's ashamed to fall to pieces in front of.

"Thanks," he says, slurring slightly. "Really, I don't know how to..." He trails off as John frowns and shakes his head vehemently.

"Greg, do you have any idea how much you've - what you've - dammit, Greg, I owe you. Owe you a lot, actually. Way more than I'm comfortable with. If you ever need anything..." John swings out a hand and gestures at nothing. He hasn’t said one word about Sherlock all evening, and Lestrade can’t ask. Not right now. Not yet. "Just say the word. Anything."

John tries to hide the depth of the gratitude in his eyes, but Lestrade sees it anyway, and honestly it only hurts a little.

August

“Did all the freaks come out this month, or what?” John wonders, leaning back against the hood of Lestrade’s police car and rubbing at the rope burns on his wrists.

“That one stepped out of the house, didn’t he?” Donovan shoots at Sherlock, who glances at her disdainfully but doesn’t reply. John studies the two of them for a moment with slightly narrowed eyes before shrugging and looking over at Lestrade.

Lestrade coughs into his hand – he should probably cut back on the cigarettes, but there’s nobody around to tell him not to now – and shrugs. “Dunno, but that’s the fourth arrest we’ve made in two weeks. Good work, you lot.”

“See?” Sherlock says, and everyone turns to look at him. Everyone but John, which is unfortunate, because Sherlock is only looking at John. “You lot is inclusive. It includes you.”

“Not the time, Sherlock,” John says, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. He would look relaxed but for the tense lines of muscles standing out along his arms and neck.

Sherlock glances around like he’s just remembered that Lestrade and Donovan exist, and is rather annoyed by the fact. Lestrade remembers forcibly just how much of a git he really can be to anyone other than John.

To John too, actually. But at least he tries with John. You know, sometimes.

“You’re necessary, John,” Sherlock says, frowning with concentration that’s usually reserved for smashed-in windows and dead bodies.

“No, I’m not,” John says, in the reluctant tones of someone who can’t help getting drawn into a familiar argument. “I’m just along for the ride. You don’t need me to solve crimes. I have to – I’m going to have to get a job, alright, so just… leave it.”

Lestrade glances over at Donovan, who bites her lip. He isn’t sure if this is a conversation he’s invited to or not; whether or not it’s appropriate to speak up. He should have seen it coming, he supposes… He has a brief flashback to The Time Before John and suddenly decides that yes, this is definitely a conversation that he needs to participate in.

“Look, John.” Sherlock and John swing their heads around to look at him, clearly surprised by his input. “I know that Sherlock’s got his… own thing… I mean, he runs circles around the rest of us. But you really are, you know, you do… Look, you’re quite… Alright, what I’m trying to say is…”

“Please keep helping him, we’re begging you,” Donovan’s wry voice says. She flashes a smile at Lestrade, who grins back gratefully. “God knows the freak needs a handler, and it’s not like you don’t keep up, and bag a perp once in awhile. Just be another one of the thing that he made up, alright?”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock says automatically.

John looks torn between being pleased and harassed.

“It’s nice of you two, really it is, but I’m not…”

“You are,” Lestrade cuts in, shaking his head. “Trust me. We need you. Sherlock needs you. Don’t you, Sherlock?” He stares daggers at Sherlock and hopes that for once in his life Sherlock will take the hint.

Sherlock sounds like he’s swallowing glass, but he gulps and manages to say, “I do. Need – er, you. To help.” He doesn’t look at John while he says it, but John boggles at him anyway.

Lestrade steps forward and rests a hand on John’s shoulder. John looks up at him, eyes wide and confused, and Lestrade remembers that after all John is really quite a bit younger than him – still a young man, really, trying to find his way a second time around. Lestrade smiles down at him.

“Welcome to the team, detective,” Lestrade says.

September

“Greg, you leaving any time this decade?” Donovan wanders into his office and plunks herself down on the corner of his desk with a smile. Lestrade smiles back wanly and runs a hand through his hair.

“Guess so. Sorry, had paperwork, and John texted me.”

“Oh?” Donovan cocks her head to one side. She looks young and pretty, sitting there on the edge of his desk in her tight skirt, and it makes Lestrade feel old and tired. He brushes a strand of hair off his jacket. It’s silver. Figures.

“Yeah, Sherlock had a bit of a relapse.”

“Oh.” Her eyes fly open wide and, to her credit, she looks genuinely worried. “Is John handling it okay? God, what bloody awful timing the freak has.”

Lestrad rolls his eyes in agreement. “I think he can’t help himself. And yeah actually, better than I thought he would, though he did say if Sherlock didn’t stop apologizing he was gonna need to detect himself as a murderer.”

Donovan stares into space, brow slightly furrowed. “It’s incredible. A wanker like him, and he’s got someone that cares about him that much. Doesn’t seem fair, you know?” She looks back over and her gaze softens; Lestrade catches a glimpse of pity, and maybe something else. He swallows.

“No. Suppose it doesn’t,” he says quietly.

“Still,” Donovan says thoughtfully, “can’t be easy, living like that. Everything’s life or death with those two. It’s kind of intense, you know?”

“Too right,” Lestrade says fervently. Donovan crosses her legs and smiles at him, the faintest hint of a blush rising on her dark cheeks.

“Normal people, well… we move on,” she says softly, and holds his gaze for a long moment.

Abruptly Lestrade’s brain jams and he isn’t able to do anything but stare wide-eyed. He isn’t sputtering, but only because he never opened his mouth.

Donovan’s warm brown eyes are gentle and her skirt covers her knees; Lestrade realizes that this isn’t really a pass at him. Not exactly. It’s more… letting him know that the option’s there. It’s somewhere between a friendly gesture and honest attraction, and something that feels suspiciously like gratitude wells up in the back of his throat.

“Thanks,” he says, just as softly, not trusting himself to say more. Donovan dips her head and nods, and slides off his desk.

“Later,” she says, and smiles.

October

Lestrade clambers up the stairs of Sherlock's dingy flat, really hoping the bastard is in. This case really can't wait – it’s his first case as D.I., and even if the label doesn’t mean as much to him as it used to, that doesn’t mean that he’s not grabbing the opportunity with both hands. It’s sort of the only thing he has to grab at the moment.

It occurs to him a half second before he barges in that maybe he should knock, but by then he's already pushed the unlocked door open and is standing inside.

He's taken aback by what he sees, though in retrospect he doesn't know why.

Sherlock's lanky frame is sprawled over his long sofa. John is sitting at one end of the sofa, and Sherlock's head is in John’s lap, tipped back to look at the mobile phone he's holding in one hand. John is holding what looks like some kind of academic journal above Sherlock's head with one hand, and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair with the other. Sherlock is muttering crossly, and there's a small unconscious smile on John's face.

It's a startling scene of domesticity (mainly because it's two complete nutters who are sitting there calmly on the sofa – Lestrade didn’t even know they came with an off setting), perfect in its quiet simplicity, and envy hits Lestrade hard in the gut. 

He coughs, harder than he meant to. Needs to quit smoking, really this time. John whips his head around, eyes wide with surprise. Sherlock doesn't so much as twitch.

"Need your help with that sommelier case," Lestrade says, hoping his voice is friendly and even. John gives him a long look and then, without hesitating, shoves Sherlock right off his lap and onto the floor. Sherlock squawks and shoots John an irritated look, but after a glance at Lestrade's face, rolls his eyes and follows them to the door.

It shouldn't help. It's childish, really - as if pushing Sherlock away somehow negates the fact that the two of them are inexplicably happy together. But maybe Lestrade is childish too, because he can't help grinning at John on the way back down the stairs.

John grins back, Sherlock huffs behind them, and the clutching tension in his gut eases just a little bit.

November

"How exactly did I get roped into this again?" Lestrade asks, hefting a cardboard box over his shoulder and grunting. He's not sure what's in it; possibly bricks.

John gives him the wide smile of a person who can afford to be nice because they've gotten exactly what they wanted. "Because you're my friend. And you're being friendly, friend."

"Yeah, sure, but it's Sherlock's crap I'm carrying."

"That's because I own all of a bookshelf and a laptop," John says reasonably.

"Don't forget the jumpers," Donovan calls as she walks by, hoisting a garbage bag full of something soft and squishy. "John has like forty jumpers. Sheep in Scotland hear his name and tremble."

John mock glares at her. "Hey, you leave my jumpers alone. They are works of woolly art, and I pull them off."

"If only you would," Sherlock drawls, digging through his pockets. "Ah, here's the key!" He walks up to the door, bangs on it it, and bellows, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"What the hell was the point of the key?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock tosses it behind him. John jumps instinctively, reaching out with his left hand to snatch it from the air. "Not my key," Sherlock says, and looks over his shoulder to flash a fleeting grin at John.

An elderly woman answers the door, and actually hugs Sherlock. "It's so lovely to see you boys!" she coos. "And girl," she adds, catching sight of Donovan, who smiles. "Come in, come in."

The four of them troop up a short flight of stairs and Mrs. Hudson opens the door to what must be Sherlock and John's new flat. They all stand in silence for a moment.

"How is it possible for you to have MORE stuff?!" Donovan explodes. Sherlock sniffs.

"I am a scientist," he says, his upper-crust accent coming out in a way that's too noticeable to be accidental. "I require a great deal of equipment and reference, not to mention all the necessary recordings..."

John slings an arm around Sherlock's waist and squeezes him, clearly more to shut him up than anything. "You're mad as a hatter," he says affably. "And the stuff on the tables has got to go."

Sherlock eyes him. "There's the kitchen table and the living room table. Pick one."

Lestrade shoulders his way into the room and drops his box onto a leather sofa. He looks around. "Damn sight nicer than your old place," he says.

Sherlock is looking at John when he replies, "Yes, I rather think it will be."

December

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Lestrade tells John, and bites back a grin when John cuffs him around the back of the head.

"At least you waited to bust out that line here, rather than at a crime scene," John sighs. "If you'd done it there, I would've had to add you to it."

The two of them turn and stand, shoulder to shoulder, to look over the Yard's Christmas party.

"Bit different this year," John says softly, echoing the thoughts in Lestrade's head. He nods.

"We moving forward or moving back?" It's supposed to be a joke, but it comes out all wrong, his voice too quiet and slightly strangled. Then he kicks himself – really, the final nail in the coffin of a relationship that died years ago is nothing compared to losing your whole life in one go. Army surgeon John Watson. Now consulting detective John Watson. Lestrade still doesn’t know, doesn’t know if John knows, how much of that is a choice and how much is just lack of options.

There's a considering pause, and then John says, "Forward, I think." His voice is thoughtful, and there's the bare hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. He stares out at the crowd, eyes calm and steady.

Lestrade follows his gaze and sees Sherlock on the edge of the dance floor, blinking down at Donovan, whose face is determinedly pleasant.

Lestrade feels John's gaze turn to him.

"So. Plan on manning up sometime this century?" John inquires, his smile more pronounced this time.

Lestrade narrows his eyes and takes off before he can think about what he's doing. He strides up to Donovan, completely ignores Sherlock, and squares his shoulders.

"Want to – I mean – want to dance?" Lestrade asks. Christ but she looks pretty tonight; hair pulled back in some kind of swirling bun, and wearing a tight silver dress that catches the light when she moves.

Donovan shakes her head, though she's smiling at him, too brightly for it to be a rejection.

"I don't dance," she says.

"Excellent," Lestrade grins. "Neither do I."

His triumph is short-lived; they start talking and keep talking and lean closer together and the thought I think I can do this again flits across Lestrade's mind, and then his mobile goes. Donovan's does too, and Sherlock bounds over with John in tow.

"It's the smuggling ring, I know it is," Sherlock almost beams. John looks resignedly amused, Donovan rolls her eyes, and Lestrade just fishes his car keys out of his pocket.

Twenty minutes later the four of them are hovering over several bodies, shivering slightly in their party clothes. Lestrade debates giving Donovan his jacket, and decides against it. They're on the clock now, sort of. Which means he's kind of the boss. He sighs. Maybe life will get more simple one day. Maybe life will get more simple someday.

And God help him, he’ll probably miss this when it does.

"Happy Christmas," John laughs. "This is just typical, isn't it?" He slouches against the squad car, and Lestrade props himself up alongside. He watches Donovan follow Sherlock around, reciting regulations into his ear. Sherlock ignores her completely, alternating between laser-intense examinations of objects that look completely meaningless and throwing exhilarated glances back at John.

“Typical now,” Lestrade says, remembering a warmer but far more anxious Christmas years ago. “Didn’t used to be. For him, I mean. You – well. Dunno what would've happened if you two hadn't met when you did.” He watches Sherlock flit around the crime scene with unholy glee; surreptitiously glances at John, who is smiling fondly and clearly waiting on his imminent summons. "Doesn't bear thinking about."

"Oh, I'm sure we would have found each other eventually," John says, voice light but certain. His eyes are trained on Sherlock, who spares a moment to look over at John and smile before diving elbow-deep into a bucket full of something better left unidentified.

"Yeah," Lestrade agrees after a moment. "I suppose you would've."

FIN.