Work Text:
I loved John from the first, a diagnosis I misread as friendship, brotherhood, complicity.
That first night, John called me an idiot; he was correct.
Women before Baker Street were irrelevant. Every successor was an incision. Sarah’s citrus perfume on his collar; Jeanette’s fingernail tracks across his shoulders. I deduced taxi kisses, futon sex, bodies braced against a doorframe. I knew who bored him, whose marks he wore proudly, how each occupied the space that should’ve been mine.
I stepped from a rooftop for him. I died for him. I returned flayed and stood beside him as he married Mary. Mary shot me. I killed Magnussen for them anyway. She died regardless. John made me a footnote on her headstone.
Tonight he climbed seventeen steps. His tread announced he had finally come to claim me.
Naked beside the fireplace, I dried my hair. I failed to conceal my surprise.
Lestrade emerged damp-haired from the bathroom, a towel low on his hips.
John went rigid. “Are we even now?”
Not even remotely. John sampled every alternative before settling for me. After years without him, I took one night’s consolation; he begrudged me even that.
I folded my towel over the chair.
His way, then; always his way.
“Get dressed, Lestrade,” I said. “Then leave us.”
John was right. I am an idiot.