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Sherlock would never admit that it was John’s influence that made him notice it.
With John by his side, he had realised how often sentiment was an important factor in crime solving and how helpful it could be to understand it. So he had started to analyse the many shades of it, its expressions, its origins. Naturally, he started his study by analysing the people around him – people whose usual habits he knew, so that it would be easier to find deviation and trace it back to a source. There was so much of it: Mrs Hudson’s usual signs of affection and how they were affected by distress, John’s anger and his calm, both easy to trigger, Molly’s infatuation and nerves.
After a couple of months of research he had a satisfactory database that made a significant difference to his interactions. He could pin down and file people’s emotions more easily, and John didn’t have to restrain him from rudeness that often anymore. People seemed to find him more likeable, which had surprisingly pleasant side effects. At a crime scene, detectives were less likely to rush him, and John was more inclined to let him pick the channel when he hadn’t spent the afternoon trying to smooth the waters with idiots because Sherlock had accidentally (or wilfully) said a truth that had insulted them.
As was always the case with knowledge, there were also things he wished to have remained ignorant about. With a bit of practice, he could easily detect the signs of attraction in Lestrade’s behaviour on seeing Mycroft at crime scenes. The way his gaze lingered on him for longer than average, how he laughed a bit louder than usual, or how his mood improved sustainably after exchanging a few words with him. It became blatantly obvious at the last Christmas party, when Lestrade – surely encouraged by several glasses of wine – pulled Mycroft into a conversation and didn’t leave him for the rest of the evening. Once or twice, he noticed Lestrade call Mycroft out on his elusions and lies, or courageously enquiring about personal details.
Sherlock could not be sure, but he thought it possible that those advances were not entirely unwelcome to Mycroft. Instead of giving Lestrade a thin smile and a cool reproach, he seemed to be enjoying the other man’s nerve.
Obviously, it was foolish – even if Lestrade’s wife was cheating on him, Lestrade himself was way too loyal and faithful in the restoration of the marriage to ever go further than shooting smiles and cheeky remarks.
The whole thing was so unimportant that he deleted it, until the news of Lestrade’s divorce brought it up from the depths of his memory. It seemed only a logical consequence that he would attempt to enter some kind of relationship with Mycroft. It surprised him very much therefore when at John’s birthday, Lestrade kept to himself and to John.
He continued watching Lestrade throughout the evening. He seemed to stay away from the wine. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, his gaze kept crossing the room to where Mycroft was sitting. Why didn’t he talk to him? Still not over his divorce? Sherlock had noted a change in Lestrade’s usual behaviour, although the main consequence was that Lestrade seemed to interfere less with Sherlock’s work, so he hadn’t bothered to think about it.
But the divorce couldn’t be the reason. There had been nothing binding him to his wife except for his own sense of duty and he had deduced recent sexual activity only a few weeks ago. If it was not the marriage holding him back, what else could it be?
Mycroft left early. It was only twelve minutes later that Lestrade started making up excuses to leave as well. Why? He had not bothered to talk to Mycroft, anyway.
And why not?
He watched Lestrade being held back by John and Molly for another fifteen minutes, at which point Lestrade had finished his beer. He had fought his way to the door, eluding the negotiation tactics of his friends, took his coat and left. Why?
Why?
Sherlock pressed his lips together, making the decision in a split second. He jumped up from his armchair, where he had pretended to listen to the conversation between Mike Stamford and another work colleague. He grabbed his coat and caught up with Lestrade at the front door.
Lestrade turned to find the source of the blustering on the steps and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t care where you’re going, I’m calling dips on the first taxi that drives by.”
“What makes you think I was leaving?” Sherlock put on his coat and stepped past Lestrade into the night, breathing in the cool air. “I was just going to ask you for a smoke.”
“You know I quit,” Lestrade said.
“Oh, please. We both know you’ve been on and off since the separation. You were walking around in shirtsleeves all night, no nicotine patch. Now, don’t be greedy, sharing is caring.” Sherlock said off-handedly, extending his empty hand.
He found Lestrade’s expression to be quite unreadable, but the older man fumbled for the pack in his pocket. He gave a cigarette to Sherlock, then took one himself, lit it and handed over the lighter.
“Don’t tell John,” said Lestrade.
Sherlock shrugged. “He’ll smell it, anyway. Some pleasures are worth their price.”
Lestrade said nothing. They smoked in silence for a while, but Sherlock was impatient.
“Why did you not talk to Mycroft tonight?”, Sherlock asked, turning to watch Lestrade’s reaction. Ah, yes. He knew that guilty expression.
“What do you mean? I did talk to him.”
Dull. Why did they always play stupid?
“You’re sexually attracted to him. You are recently divorced, unattached. Yet when he approached you, you didn’t take the opportunity. Why not?”
Lestrade opened his mouth in indignation, clearly about to deny the truth of the deduction, but then seemed to decide there was no use to it. He sighed deeply, shaking his head.
“Come on, mate. Your brother is way out of my league. I’m not sure if he plays in any league, really, but even if he did-…”
“Oh, he’s definitely playing,” Sherlock clarified, raising an eyebrow. Could the uncertainty about Mycroft's sexuality be the explanation for Lestrade's reserve? “There must be more. I need to know, Lestrade. It’s for science.”
“Science?”
“Yes, science. I am researching sentiment. Explanations are crucial for sound deductions. I need to know.”
Lestrade looked down and watched as the ash fell from the cigarette at a tap of his finger. There was a moment of hesitation, then amusement crossed his face before it vanished with a sigh. “I already told you. He’s the most powerful man in the whole of-… well, certainly the most powerful man I know, and the most intelligent. He’s busy, and he’s high class, and he’s… he’s bloody gorgeous. He could have anyone. There’s no reason why he would want to spend his time with a scruffy East End boy like me.“
Sherlock stared at him, forgetting his cigarette. “So you don’t want to disclose your attraction because you think he’s too good for you?”
“Well, obviously!”
“And you won’t even try? What if the attraction is mutual?”
Lestrade sighed deeply, trying to stay calm. “Look, you need to understand. I’ve just been through a divorce. I’ve spent years chasing something impossible… please don’t put ideas in my head. I’m…” He dropped his head, looking at the ground, resigned. “I'm just too tired of it all.”
“You’ve had intercourse at least twice in the last six months. You didn’t seem so tired then.”
Lestrade looked like he was deciding whether to feel provoked by that or not. When he spoke, his voice was explanatory, but he kept looking down at his cigarette. “That’s different, mate. That’s not… that’s not what I would want with your brother. And the thought of that… chase… trying your hardest and keeping yourself together purely by faith, only to be rejected… I’ve been through all this before. I don’t think I could do it again.”
Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. “Really? That’s your explanation? So you’d rather pine after him? Oh, Lestrade, how disappointing.” He closed his eyes, feeling frustration boil up in him. “Idiots! The world is full of idiots! I can’t believe I spent all night watching you. Oh, this whole sentiment thing is absolutely useless…” He threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out.
What a waste of time. How absolutely dull.
“Wait- what?”, Lestrade shouted as Sherlock turned to walk back in. “You’re asking me to pour my heart out to- oh, never mind. My fault. I’m just a bloody experiment…”
Sherlock watched him stomp his cigarette out as well, with a lot more aggression than necessary. Although he was angry with Lestrade for being so incredibly boring, he also felt something other than that. Mhm… pity? John’s influence again, surely. He sighed deeply and rolled his eyes.
“My brother wore a new suit today. Did you not notice?” From the puzzled look on Lestrade’s face, Sherlock took that he needed to elaborate. “Tight fit. Not due to weight gain, he’s on another diet. New, then. Burgundy is not suitable for work, but what other occasion would he wear it to? My brother doesn’t usually mingle. Conclusion: he bought it for this evening specifically. Tight fit, bold colour: he was dressing to impress. I wonder, Lestrade, who would he want to impress?”
He gave one last disappointed headshake, then turned back. “Thanks for the cigarette!”